In your arms (Frankie Morales x masc!GN!reader)
Summary: Frankie tends to self-sabotage, so, when he is drawn to you at a party, he’s convinced it’s over before it’s begun. Will he keep his distance, or is there a chance he could end up in your (rather appealing) arms after all?
Genre / tropes: getting together fic. falling fast for one another, light-hearted, mild angst then fluff, Frankie’s POV.
Word count: 7.8k, somehow.
Author’s note: This made me H A P P Y. I wanted something which affirmed a masc!presenting (non-cis!) reader. The other day I was having my own gender feels and some wonderful people responded in an affirming way. This fic would not exist without them, the wonderful creations they responded with (which very much inspired this), or their support. So, thank you to @justrunamok@phoenixhalliwell @witchyavenger @zoriis @meri47 (and a lovely Anon!) <3
As for the fic itself, it’s not my best or anything, but I hope you enjoy it! It’s meaningful for me, as it’s a personal exploration in one sense, and a celebration / love letter to masc! readers (with a range of gender identities) in another sense: I see you and you are valid! Hi! :D Also, they’re a pretty adorable pair to be honest. I’m a little bit in love <3
(Also, yes, millions of caveats apply. This is one specific version of masculinity out of infinite possibilities. I made some choices about what masc means to reader, so not everyone may be able to relate! Also, I did specifiy some reader attributes- see below for deets- so sorry if this is less inclusive than my GN fics.)
Finally, let’s just not even question how Frankie has such good long-range eyesight, okay? Okay.
Reader’s gender: this is Frankie x masc! presenting “gender neutral” reader. This covers SO MANY potential identities, so won’t be a perfect fit for everyone. As a guide: masc!AFAB! reader; masc!NB reader; masc!GNC reader, trans!masc! reader. Maybe masc!AMAB reader, or androgynous!reader - I tried to keep it fairly neutral, but did want some nods to reader presenting outside of their gender assigned at birth.
Pronouns + terminology: they / them. Range of gendered descriptors used (pretty / handsome, some commentary that you have both “masc” / “fem” attributes but fairly non-specific).
Physical attributes specified: reader has somewhat muscular arms (interpret that how you will), and crow’s feet, lol. Also “soft” voice described. Very subtle mention of reader having some “undulating” / “soft” contours (could be read as feminine-coded). One allusion to reader having altered their body, but non-specific + open to broad interpretation.
Warnings: see notes on gender / pronouns / reader attributes above. Also: frequent alcohol mentions / consumption (no drunkeness, feasibly could be non-alcoholic); drug references (canon-aligned mentions of past coke use, brief); making-out and a few subtle allusions to erections (Frankie). One very brief reference to an ex boyfriend- not explicit but can be inferred they caused reader some sadness about their appearance. Swearing. Divorced!reader (one mention). Single dad!Frankie (brief mention). TYPOS???!!
Rating: (M) 18+ for very light, non-explicit steam.
Now, without further ado, here’s the fucking story :P
Frankie is mesmerised by you.
By every aspect of you. It seems like the more he finds out about you, the more he likes.
He can’t help but steal furtive glances at you from the other side of the younger Miller brother’s yard. By now, the bustle and large-scale camaraderie of the daytime BBQ has given way to smaller huddles of deeper, more involved conversation as dusk falls like a blanket - only the stragglers remaining.
And, there you sit, conversing with Benny in the soft firelight, and stealing Frankie’s heart piece by piece without even knowing it.
He can’t look away.
In fact, it is all he can do to shelter himself behind his tugged down baseball cap and the palm of his hand -neatly folded across his chin- as his brown eyes find you again and again. It is as though you have your own gravity.
Holy shit. Your arms are a fucking dream.
Now there’s a sentence Frankie’s not sure he’s ever thought before in his life - and he’s had plenty of years for it to occur to him. You know, since he’s... older than he used to be.
He doesn’t know if he’s ever been so enthralled by a person’s arms before but, fuck, yours are certainly doing something for him.
Frankie finds himself enraptured by the way your bicep curls subtly every time you lift the beer to your plush lips for a swig. The way your shoulders fill out your navy tee, the cut of it emphasising the subtly cultivated broadness of your shoulders and upper back as you lean forward in your camp chair, feet spread wide apart, and elbows resting atop your robust thighs as you cradle your drink
Your body language is innately familiar to him. It’s not unlike his army buddies - he could swear you sit like Pope does- and yet, their way of being could never. Only on you could these simple gestures and mannerisms generate the steadily building throb between his legs.
Your movements make you look tough and purposeful, and yet the way this hardness contrasts with the softness and subtle swell of other areas of your body is not lost on Frankie. Your shirt and your jeans tug tight over other, more undulating contours of your figure too, more subtly framed but no less appealing to him.
You look at once delicate and rugged. Soft and hard. Quiet but steely. And it confounds him. And it pulls him in.
These glances were at first unconscious, his eyes finding you in his casual surveyance of the scene; but now? Now, they are nothing short of deliberate. Now, he can barely look away, his eyes continually seeking you out, his “glances” growing in duration with each peek from beneath the rim of his cap.
Look, don’t get him wrong.
It’s not only your appearance which has him quietly enthralled, as he sips his beer by the grill, acting as a self-appointed sentinel so that no drunk partygoers fall into the still cooling coals (AKA, Frankie will take even the thinnest excuse he can find to be a wallflower, goddammit). No, it is not only how you look -pleasing as that is- which causes him to steal surreptitious glances over at you where he can get them.
It is all of you.
At least, everything he knows so far. And everything he wants to.
You’ve mingled a little during the party, of course, at which points Frankie has witnessed your unobtrusive confidence and assured amiability, as you’ve dipped in to engage with the wider throng. He’s witnessed your kindness and your humour, as mostly, you’ve been anchored to Benny’s side, taking care of him and keeping him laughing like a hyena all day. The youngest Miller -your old friend and poor bastard- is pinned to his camp chair, nursing injuries and aches from his most recent pummelling at fight night. Indeed, you are his self-appointed guardian. That, or you hate parties just as much as Frankie and you’ve chosen to be a wallflower too.
You’re not doing such a good job of blending into the background, however, as you’ve certainly caught Frankie’s attention - even if you did little to actively invite his ardent focus. Other people at the party have objectively been more attention-grabbing, in their respective ways, whether through dressing to the nines to draw appreciative stares, undertaking boisterous antics to be declared the “life and soul” of the party (or Pope just being himself). But you? You’re just... being. Just being you, and yet you effortlessly draw Frankie’s gaze all the same.
Christ, am I being creepy? he wonders suddenly, as you chat away. Oblivious to his existence and his admiring stares.
He hasn’t been looking for that long; honestly. But he does wonder exactly how long he can use the excuse that you’re conveniently in his eyeline before he has to admonish himself for very bad behaviour. After all, if his attentions were unwelcome, he would hate to make you uncomfortable.
Frankie’s eyes sweep cautiously over you though, as you stand and bend, lifting a fresh beer from out of the cooler, jeans tight on your hips - god those hips- and, with a flare of heat blazing a trail to the junction of his thighs, he finally tears his eyes away. That’s the final straw. He may be drawn to you but he’s not without limits. He aims to look respectfully only.
His eyes wander back though, when he feels it’s safe enough to do so, his gaze focussing on neutral areas (then again, he thought he was safe with arms but, holy shit, he was not okay).
He pays a little more attention to your outfit this time. You are dressed practically, with combat boots and simple jeans and tee. Frankie hasn’t given much thought to how he prefers a potential partner to dress -it’s all the same to him provided the person is comfortable, and it’s what’s on the inside that counts anyway (and sometimes what’s underneath, wink wink) - but he finds that he actively appreciates your style. It’s a loose riff on something he would wear himself- even if he has opted for one of his more flamboyant, bird-adorned shirts for this special occasion. (Maybe he wouldn’t be averse to a little attention himself, truth be told; even if he would be loath to admit it - and maybe, even if he wouldn’t necessarily know what to do with it if he got it.)
It’s not as though your clothing is especially masculine in and of itself- clothing can mean different things on different people, in different contexts- but on you this simple outfit has an... intentionality to it, like you selected this look to match your... masculine energy.
Until this moment, Frankie hadn’t given much thought at all to what a “masculine energy” might look like, or all the variations and nuances and possibilities of it; but to him, in this moment, you certainly embody exactly that. You seem in control and confident and relaxed and Frankie likes that about you. He likes it a hell of a lot.
It was this comfort in yourself that first drew him to you, he realises. The easy way you carried yourself through the crowd. And, although he knows this assured nature does not exist for his consumption or benefit, he can’t help but feel like you would be a comfort to him too, if only you would wrap him in your embrace.
Maybe wrap me in those strong arms of yours.
Fuck.
Yes, Frankie started looking because of your energy; this quiet charisma and unassuming strength which radiates off of you, even as you appear entirely unaware of it. And he can’t stop looking for every other reason. Indeed, mere hours after you rocked-up with zero fanfare, Frankie is in some deep shit. He has talked himself a goner before he’s even ever talked to you.
Of course, he couldn’t possibly pluck up the courage to do that.
You’re likely the most attractive person he’s ever seen, and, even if you’re single, and even if you’re into men (one can’t assume), and even if you’re into dating, and even if the stars align and you’re into him -and a million other “ifs”- there’s no way he could take a chance.
In Frankie’s head, it’s over before it’s begun. He’s fucked it up before it has even happened. And because of that, he resigns himself to the fact that it never will. So, here he is. Resident wallflower, staring dreamily at you from a distance, where he feels he belongs.
So, with a long, sad exhale of breath, Frankie briefly tilts his head to the side as another figure joins him, plopping themself into the camp chair to his right. He doesn’t need to look all the way around to know that figure is Pope, even before the man has spoken.
“Getting too old for this shit, man,” he grumbles. “Need to take the weight off my fucking knees.”
Frankie merely grunts dolefully in response, as Santi pops another beer open with a clink of the bottle cap. He vaguely registers a frothing noise to his side as the beverage erupts, half-spilling over Santi’s person. “Fuck, be right back.”
Frankie grunts again, still not looking over at his friend, who presumably has gone to fetch something to mop the mess up.
Meanwhile, there you are, across the way. The dancing firelight licking your features and contours like a tender lover, and causing Frankie’s eyes to pool with longing.
Before he can feel too down on himself, though, you laugh uproariously at one of Benny’s jokes, the sound at one with the dancing flames - warm and diverting. Frankie thinks your laugh must be the most beautiful sound he’s heard. It’s infectious, in fact, causing Frankie’s eyes to gently crease at the corners in turn, as the sound washes over him across this distance.
For all your hard edges -of which you do have some, it appears- your voice is rich and soft and your eyes kind; although your gaze soon gives way to a spark of mischief, and your laugh merges into a dirty chuckle as Benny tosses another crude joke into the space between you. You bring your arm up to your mouth to save you from spitting out your swig of beer and, fuck, the brown leather of the watch strap at your wrist has him thinking about your arms again, for a moment.
He loves the way your face crinkles as you chat with Benny. Gentle crow’s feet -which he got a closer look at earlier- radiating out from the side of your eyes, and your head tipping back in mirth as you add some well-timed riposte which has Benny howling. Finally, it’s all too much for the fighter, and he holds a bandaged hand up in surrender, your assault of humour apparently making his busted ribs ache too hard for him to stand it any longer.
Watching the two of you, Frankie expels a small, vicarious chuckle of his own.
“You might want to pick your jaw up off the floor, hermano,” Pope says softly, experimentally, as he slips back into the camp chair by his buddy and follows his line of sight, making some deductions.
Frankie clears his throat, voice tightly strung when he speaks. “Whatever do you mean, Santiago?” he asks, the question muffled behind a defensive hand drawn up over his mouth.
Shit.
Frankie looks at Pope now, alright, fixing his own expression as though butter-wouldn’t-melt. Pope simply nods his head towards where you and Benny are sat; hitting the nail on the head with a single beat.
“I wouldn’t have pegged them as your type,” Pope says with good-natured intrigue.
Frankie opens his mouth to protest, but Pope’s heavy-lidded brown eyes are blazing; almost daring Frankie to voraciously counter either of his statements, and in doing so, proving the motherfucker’s point. So, instead, Frankie foregoes his protest, which causes Santi’s eyes to glow with a less than subtle pride.
He knows he’s right now anyway - the smug fuck.
“Sophia didn’t work out for you?” Pope adds casually.
Frankie grunts. Sophia. The woman Pope was determined to fix him up with tonight.
“It’s going fine,” Frankie insists nonchalantly, taking a massive swig of his beer.
Pope huffs out air in indignant amusement. “Oh yeah?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“She left an hour ago, Cat.”
“Shit,” Frankie curses, though his disappointment is transparently due to being found out, rather than the lack of her presence. “Didn’t notice.”
Sophia was perfectly fine. Perfectly pretty. Perfectly nice. Perfectly interesting. Perfectly into Frankie, by all accounts (if Santi’s opinion was to be trusted).
Sophia was probably everything Frankie thought he was looking for in a... Well, in a person, he guesses, updating and reconfiguring the terminology in his internal monologue.
But, it turns out, Frankie didn’t know himself all that well at all before he set his eyes on you today.
You’re not quite like anyone else here. Not like anyone else he’s met. You’re just effortlessly you, and Frankie admires that. It’s not any one thing about you that he can put his finger on. It’s all of you. Everything together. It suits you. More than that; it becomes you.
“Why don’t you go talk to them?” Pope asks, leaning forward in his chair and smacking Frankie on the thigh encouragingly.
“They’re thick as thieves over there. How would I even -?”
Frankie has barely gotten his full question out, but as soon as he even vaguely implies his desire Pope is all action.
Of course. As per usual.
“Hey, pendejos! Can we join you?” he announces loudly, already striding across the yard, and Frankie forced to follow as he is practically dragged by his shirt, a firm hand scrunched in his back and guiding him forward.
“What did we say about self-sabotaging, hermano?” Pope whispers as an aside as he clocks his buddy’s panicked expression and irate mumblings, but Frankie is already submitting to his fate. He has to figure it’s less humiliating to walk over willingly than to be dragged over kicking and screaming, right?
“To... not?” Frankie responds, causing Pope to grin and slap him on the back encouragingly.
Frankie laboriously attempts to paint a smile on to his face, quickly taking his hat off and ruffling his flattened hair for good measure.
Christ, I hope they like the shirt.
“Sure, pull up a chair,” you smile, batting your eyes a little at Santi as you introduce yourself, extending a polite hand to be shaken in your firm grip. Frankie tenses up as he imagines a spark flash between the two of you.
Please no. Don’t steal them, hijo de puta.
“I’m Pope,” he grins in return, in his effortlessly charming manner.
The bastard.
After a prolonged silence, in which Frankie realises he was meant to speak only after all eyes have converged on him expectantly, Pope fills in the gaps on his behalf. “This upstanding gentleman is Frankie,” he announces, reaching behind him and patting his chest with the back of his hand. Then, he drags a couple of stray camp chairs over to form a closer circle, generously leaving the one closest to you vacant.
Frankie throws a helpless, sidelong glance at Pope, and his buddy’s eyes needle the seat emphatically, silently prompting the pilot to sit the fuck down - instead of standing around like a total clown.
“I’m a pilot,” Frankie pushes out, before groaning inaudibly and wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.
Good one, Francisco. Why don’t you rattle through your entire resume? Quickly now.
“Yeah. Or he was, until the coke rap,” Benny announces - free from malice, just stating facts- but certainly not doing him any favours.
Frankie feels a stone sink through his chest.
“Thanks for that, Benjamin,” he says through his teeth, his warm brown eyes becoming momentarily cold.
“It was bogus. I get my license back next month,” Frankie says emphatically, and he doesn’t have time to think twice about the fact that his explanation is directed entirely at you, at if it is owed.
“Okay... Frankie?” you nod, your gorgeous lips curling with a quirk of good-natured amusement, and bending around his name as you experiment with the feel of it in your mouth - matching it to the person you see before you. “That’s great.” You nod encouragingly, earnestly, your gaze unwavering and steady, your eyes meeting his. You almost cause Frankie to shrink back from your beauty. This is the first time he has experienced the full force of you, focussed solely on him. You meet his eyes with confidence and a curiosity that he in equal parts welcomes and fears.
Okay. Mainly fears.
He can’t do this. What was he thinking?!
His throat starts to feel like it’s closing up. He feels a cold sweat developing.
Especially when Benny chimes in again.
“‘Fish, I haven’t seen you all day, brother. How’s the custody stuff going with Luci? Are you getting your Sundays back?”
“Jesus Christ, Ben,” Santi chides as Frankie’s face instantly falls, his gaze dropping to the ground, allowing the rim of his hat to obscure his face.
It’s not Benny’s fault. He says whatever comes to mind from one second to the next and Frankie knows this. He doesn’t mean anything by it. The man simply doesn’t know how keen Frankie is to make a good impression with you. He doesn’t know how raw Frankie is still feeling underneath, after things ended with his girl’s mother, and all the shit that went down with his job. With Tom. There’s no malice in it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting.
So, even as Pope kindly and hurriedly shifts the focus back to Benny and his numerous badges of honour from his latest bout, the damage is already done.
In Frankie’s head it’s over before it’s even begun.
You are out of reach.
You’re a sun too bright for a wallflower like him.
“Would you excuse me?” Frankie says gruffly, despondently stuffing his hands in his pockets and beginning to retreat towards the relative shelter of the house. “It was nice to meet you,” he says to you, apologetically, his eyes honest and soft, and you hurriedly nod and smile in polite agreement.
It is all you can do before he turns.
For what it’s worth, Pope jumps up after him, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him to one side for a minute - even if it is less than subtle. “You okay, man?”
I fucked it up.
“I’m fine. Now go sit down,” he hisses. “It’s weird as shit if we both leave, cabrón.” Pope searches his eyes, until Frankie squeezes his arm and insists more firmly. “Stay! I’m okay.” Then, in the face of his buddy’s concern, he softens a little. “Thank you.”
Santi reluctantly obliges, giving Frankie’s shoulder a squeeze for good measure before he heads back inside, leaving nothing but polite goodbyes in his wake.
At least, leaving nothing behind which he is aware of - not realising that your eyes follow him with interest, your curiosity evidently piqued, and your gaze drawn to him.
****
“Okay. What’s his deal? Hmm? The cute one,” you say to Benny the moment the two of you are alone once again, ticking up an eyebrow.
“Fuck. Which one?” Benny says, shaking his head and sucking in air through his teeth as if you’re about to make a cursed decision.
“The pilot. Sexy porn ‘stache man,” you elaborate, biting your lip to stifle a cheeky smile, mischief sparking in your eyes. “Though... I wouldn’t kick your other friend out of bed either, as a second option,” you add with a dirty chuckle.
“Gross, by the way,” Benny chides. “But for real though? Frankie? I didn’t think he would be your type.”
“Why? Is he not an asshole?”
You await an inevitable scathing remark – some juvenile insult; however, surprising you, Benny becomes wistful - which is enough of a rarity in itself that you lean forward in your chair, curiosity piqued even further.
“Naw, hell no. Frankie’s the real deal. He’s... like the big brother I never had,” Benny states with a warm laugh; as usual, determined to tease Will even when he’s out of earshot. His grin is hyena-wide, even as it tugs at his bust lip.
You puff out a small laugh, but then you become contemplative, as if mulling something over yourself.
“Want a beer, Benj? I’ll get it,” you offer generously, even if yours is still half full.
“Thanks, baby,” Benny says affectionately, continuing to languish in place like a king in his camp chair throne. You’re starting to think he’s enjoying this treatment a little too much.
With a fond smile, you ruffle his hair affectionately on your way inside.
It seems that you have a mission. A pilot to track down.
Sure, he had seemed a little... awkward - and maybe a little sullen- but there was a certain sweetness and earnestness in his deep brown eyes. Something you want more of.
Whatever he did, he left you feeling some kind of way.
In fact, he left you sort of mesmerized.
****
You steal Frankie’s breath as you enter the kitchen, even as you find him slouched dejectedly over the kitchen island. He is perched on a breakfast stool and cradling his empty bottle, the label shorn off by his fingers and scraps littering the countertop.
Besides him, the room is otherwise deserted. Pope eventually left him to his moping.
He sits up a little straighter when you enter, the birds on his blue shirt animating with him.
You, meanwhile, saunter in, cocking your head when you spot him there. You pause momentarily in the doorway, one arm lifted and resting against the frame as your piercing eyes survey him. He observes that now familiar curl of your lips, as a flicker of mild amusement passes over your face.
The question is: are you trying to kill him? Your arm flexed above you, muscles popping. Your tee riding up just a little over your stomach, and baring your gorgeous skin to him.
Holy shit. Look at you.
Look at how you carry yourself.
Frankie’s eyes can’t help but sweep the full length of you as you stand before him.
You carry yourself like someone comfortable in their skin - albeit a comfort that Frankie suspects may have been hard-won. You have a sense of being battle-hardened, in a way that - he would suggest- goes beyond your army training (yes, he may have asked the older Miller brother about you -less than subtly- after he fled the scene, so help him).
You stand and move with an efficiency and a grace; as though your body has settled into itself and you have settled into it, becoming one and the same. Maybe you have gone to lengths to achieve this comfort - made it fit you in some ways. Frankie can deduce you work-out, for example, cultivating a particular hardness. And yet, you still you exude a softness and vulnerability about you too. Quite literally, in some of the rounded, more filled-out parts of you. But also in other ways, he perceives. In the openness of your smile. The kindness shining in your eyes. Kindness shrouded with a pleasing mischief, Frankie notes all over again.
Oh boy, you’re trouble, aren’t you?
He gulps.
Yes, Frankie contemplates. Maybe it has taken effort for you to become who he sees before him. Few people are without their trials and tribulations, after all. But when Frankie looks at you, he understands why you might go to such lengths; why you might fight so hard for that hard-won comfort.
Because you were worth the fight. And you seem like someone who knows that too, to your depths.
Holy shit.
Look at you.
Every aspect of you.
Yes. It’s still true. Every time Frankie sees you, he finds more to like.
Frankie finds himself enthralled by you.
He feels as though he’s seeing you exactly how you wish to be seen. He’s met some brave souls in his time, but he can’t think of anything braver than that, in a world that is overwhelmingly keen to make everybody someone they’re not, or to stop people being who they are.
“Hi,” you offer, with an effortless, lopsided grin which has his heart skipping a beat.
“Hey,” he replies tentatively, a little frog in his throat, and he looks up at you with soft, hopeful brown eyes.
“Beers?” you ask coolly, and he nods towards the fridge.
“Running low.”
You pad to the fridge to Frankie’s rear as he mentally fumbles for something - hell anything to say. Your scuffed boots sound out quiet percussive thuds on the tiled floor, halting only when you reach inside the fridge to grab the remaining bottles.
“Only one left,” you state, neutrally.
When you emerge again into Frankie’s view, you have a soft smile on your face.
You don’t seem to mind his silence. Though, if anything, he respects that you do not feel the need to fill the silence with worthless chat. Here you are, standing strong in this quiet. Just being. You do that so well. Just being you.
There’s more of this intentionality from you that he already likes so much.
And yet, as much as Frankie likes silence himself, he reaches to fill it, as you wordlessly scooch up a matching barstool and settle yourself opposite him. Perhaps, it is your demonstration that you are content with his silence that finally allows him the space and time to speak - in contrast to a world that sometimes won’t shut up (especially considering the company he often keeps - no offense). It eases the pressure. It lets the words come to him in their own time. When they’re ready.
“It wasn’t bogus,” he says softly, as you pop off the cap and take the first swig. You let out a gentle sigh as it refreshes you, and you squeeze a slice of lime into the tight rim.
“Sorry?” you say kindly, looking to understand more.
“The coke thing,” Frankie admits in a monotone, scratching self-consciously at the scruff on his chin. “I fucked up. But I’m getting things back on track.”
You look at him quizzically again. Your eyes dancing around his face for a moment. Then, your brows knit together as you nod slowly in understanding.
He doesn’t have to explain anything to you - you didn’t ask him to.
Maybe that’s precisely why he feels comfortable sharing it.
“Beer?” you offer, tilting the mouth of the bottle towards him.
“What about his Highness?”
Benny. He must be getting thirsty.
“Fuck him,” you say, with a delicious, wicked glint in your eye, pushing the base of the beer across the surface of the table with a scrape, until it reaches a spot close to Frankie’s hand.
The pilot lets out an equally wicked, much throatier chuckle - a low and rich sound which fills the room. Your tongue skims along your lower lip in response, and your eyes glow like embers. Frankie feels the heat of them on his skin, wherever they touch. His face, his neck, his chest. His arms. It causes a hard swallow to bob down his corded neck.
Frankie doesn’t know where to go from here, aside from absent-mindedly picking at the label on the bottle with his thumb in his nervousness. It’s probably an urban myth, but they used to say that habit was a symptom of sexual frustration. Well... maybe in his case...
Regardless, if Frankie is floundering, he’s lucky. Lucky because you are firmly in control of the situation, even if it’s progressing entirely contrary to how he may have expected.
“I just finalised my divorce,” you offer, trading a secret in return. Your eyes downcast, not giving much away.
Frankie is the one to nod slowly in understanding now, his lips pinching together into a thin line, his intelligent and perceptive gaze trailing over you. He can’t quite decipher whether the look on your face is relief or regret, exactly, but either way it merits a drink, he thinks. And so, he leans forward, resting his elbows on the countertop. With another scrape, Frankie extends his arm, pushing the beer back towards you with the heel of his hand, condensation trailing in its wake.
Noting his action, there is a beat. You suppress a full grin; until you don’t.
“When they say alcohol is a social lubricant this is what they mean, right?” you say sardonically. Then, you raise your eyebrows, indicating it is Frankie’s turn to share now, while you drink.
“I have a little girl- she’s four,” Frankie reveals, his own smile tentatively blooming now at the mere thought of her, his love for his daughter shining through.
He notes -with gratitude- that he’s relaxing into the conversation. You seem engaged also, unconsciously leaning forward, and your elbows resting on the table now, mirroring his posture.
Frankie has no idea why he finds you so easy to talk to (in relative terms), but he’s pretty sure it isn’t all down to the beer.
“That’s cute,” you respond genuinely, your eyes dancing lights. Interested. Happy.
Maybe... Just maybe, Frankie isn’t fucking this up, after all?
“Got pictures?” you ask, raising your eyebrows once more.
Frankie hesitates for a moment, searching your face for any hint that your interest is a veneer for politeness’ sake.
“For real,” you confirm with an assured nod. “I’m giving you a free pass to do the overzealous, proud parent thing.”
Well, in that case... Frankie doesn’t turn down an opportunity to do the besotted dad schtick. It comes naturally. So, he reaches into his jeans pocket and fiddles with his cell, opening up his camera roll.
“Okay. Check out this one. From her karate exam. Look at her little face,” he gushes, and his smile is entirely infectious, even before you’ve seen the photo.
He passes you the phone, uninhibited pride glowing in his eyes - and, also, he’s not an idiot. He chose a photo where he looks pretty good too. At least, he hopes you might think so.
You look down at the screen, and your smile widens even more when you see the photo of his little princess, full of attitude and entirely adorable. Frankie’s stomach flips involuntarily as your face crinkles, those gorgeous lines radiating from around your eyes like sunbeams.
“Fucking adorable,” you say, before passing the cell back into his hand, your warm fingers brushing his and sending a pleasant shiver up his arm. “And your kid’s cute too.”
Fuck, are you flirting with him?
He’s an idiot when it comes to these things -he needs an independent adjudicator- but he thinks you actually, more than likely are? And so, all of his words become suddenly strangled in his throat at the prospect you might be... interested in him? As you look up at him from beneath your lashes, a gentle, steady heat undeniably brewing there.
In fact, Frankie is not sure if he will ever be able to muster words again. That is, until you push the beer towards him with the back of your hand, and he takes a grateful swig, the prompt shaking him from his stupor.
He can do this. He can ask you a question. You haven’t fled yet, and it can’t only be because this is the last beer in the house, right?
“What do you do? Do you work? Or... how do you spend your time right now?”
You tilt your head to the side. “I was in the army. Mechanical engineering - you get it, repairing tanks and all that shit, right? Welding parts and slapping them on cockpits?” he nods, even more enthralled by you every time you open your mouth. “When I got out, I retrained at a fine arts community college. These days, I work as an artist and blacksmith, and part-time tutor, would you believe?” You bite your lip and look up at him bashfully, expectantly, as if assessing what he might make of all that.
Fuck, Frankie can barely stop smiling just from looking at you. Makes a fucking change from lately.
“Blacksmithing? That explains your arms.” Frankie says it without missing a beat, before emphatically wishing he hadn’t said anything at all, a heat spreading through his face and a crimson undertone igniting his light brown skin.
Christ. This is why you stay quiet until your brain has had a chance to kick-in, Francisco.
There’s that amusement again, though, lifting the corners of your lips in the way that is quickly making Frankie fall in love with you. “My arms?” you ask, your eyebrows raised up in surprise, and a musical, delighted chuckle falling from your lips.
“I mean. You look... strong,” he backtracks, his eyes closing momentarily and a pained expression settling on his face. He should have asked about your art, not talked about you like a piece of meat. Fuck.
But, thankfully, when he tentatively peels his eyes open to risk a glance at you, you don’t seem offended. On the contrary. You seem to have responded well to the compliment.
In fact, you are giving Frankie some of your finest bedroom eyes. “All the better to hold you with,” you say in a flirtatious voice yet humourful manner, pumping your eyebrows. When you smile lopsidedly and you wink at him though, Frankie thinks he might pass out at the mere thought of you wrapped around him.
Even so, Frankie’s expression becomes earnest. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to... you’re obviously attractive, but I didn’t mean to-”
“-Relax, flyboy,” you soothe. It’s not what he’s expecting, in response, admittedly, but your eyes then mist over a little, your expression becoming wistful as you nod slowly, cutting him off “Honestly, it’s nice to hear that. I...” you wrap your arms around yourself. “My ex - he said that I...” your face grows pinched, and as you recollect whatever springs to mind, your voice trails off. Evidently you can’t quite bring yourself to finish that thought out loud.
It breaks Frankie’s heart. For the first time since meeting you, you look uncomfortable - trying to shrink yourself. When you’re talking about him. Frankie doesn’t know the man, but he’s adamant that no-one should have ever made you feel badly like this. On his watch, no-one will again, if he can help it. You should only be taking up space. You should only ever be proud of who you are.
On instinct, Frankie reaches his hand across the table and brushes your fingers with his. Your touch feels like electricity, thrumming under his skin. “With respect,” Frankie begins, after making a few deductive leaps. “It doesn’t fucking matter what that pendejo said.” His tone is robust and fiery, his eyes steel, his resolve appearing stronger than any metal you have shaped before. “Fuck him.”
You are caught off-guard by his intensity, and your lips part in surprise, forming a neat, shocked “o” before tipping into a cautious, fragile smile; one which Frankie only wishes to stoke.
As something unspoken passes between you, the two of you get lost in each other’s eyes for a moment, transmitting layer upon layer of intention through this faint yet lingering contact at your fingertips, like a circuit suddenly completed.
You are in such a bubble that you don’t even notice Will enter the kitchen. At least, you don’t notice him almost enter. The two of you have already created such a powerfully intimate atmosphere without realising, that when Will approaches the open door, your togetherness acts as a forcefield of sorts, repelling him from entering or from even saying a word. He is compelled to halt in the doorway and his words die on his lips, transforming into a mere exhale of breath.
His eyes flit between the two of you, one eyebrow quirking as he clocks your mutual heart eyes. His head shakes from side to side to express his wonder at this happy, unexpected occurrence, and his chiselled face cracks open with a soft, knowing smile. Then, like a good friend does, he ducks out wordlessly so as to spare you the interruption.
You and Frankie continue in this manner for a while - a long while, in your little bubble, the conversation beginning to flow freely even without your trusty beer bottle, long after it has been drained.
Frankie finds you so easy to talk to, and after only a short time in your comforting presence, he feels able to open up to you in a way that would usually take him months. He finds that you’re smart and sharp and just a little less cynical than him; that nothing as of yet has managed to blunt your kindness and your empathy - a quality all too rare these days. You don’t approach him with judgement, but with openness and pragmatism. You make him laugh while his whole chest. You make him feel like a furnace has been lit in his rib cage and is being gently stoked, warming him from the inside out until he is burning with a steady desire for you.
He doesn’t want the night to end, but eventually, to Frankie’s disdain, Benny begins a hobbled patrol around the house, eager to kick out the last remaining stragglers. It’s not a very elegant request, but it gets the message across nevertheless. “Get out of my house, mother fuckers!”
You and Frankie share a chuckle... but it trails off, as you both realise, in the same moment, that sadly, your bubble is burst.
“Can I... walk you home? Do people still do that?” Frankie asks bashfully, his moustache animating as his mouth widens in a gentle smile, his arms folded around himself for comfort.
You bite your lip in contemplation, your eyes narrowing - as if you’re weighing things up.
Frankie hopes. He hopes he didn’t fuck it up, somehow.
Your lips quirk in amusement. “I’m crashing here at Benny’s,” you respond, and there’s a note of regret in it, he thinks. Hopes. “He needs someone to nurse him back to health and I’m it for the weekend.”
Frankie tries to mask it, but he’s sure he must look visibly crestfallen.
“But...” you begin, and his heart flutters in hope. “Do you want some air? You could walk me around the block and drop me off again?”
Frankie perks up. He’ll take that. And so, he nods, bashfully fluttering his eyes at you, and you both head towards the door. You fish up your coat from the hook and sling it over your shoulders, before following Frankie out into the crisp, still night.
The two of you parade around the block, at a snail’s pace, both dragging your feet and trying desperately to extend your time together. And, even though you’re tired and have already talked for hours, still very much enjoying each other’s company.
Frankie’s hand is practically burning a hole in his jeans pocket as he desperately tries to work up the courage to hold your hand, or to reach out and wrap his arm around you before you complete your loop.
He fails to, however; but he does at least ask you the question he’s been dying to since he met you. “Can I see you again?” he asks with conviction as you face him, stood on the top porch step so that his face tilts up towards you. His brown eyes are hopeful and full of sweetness, yet a determination too. Both hard and soft all at once.
Frankie is not entirely sure where this burst of confidence has come from, but he is sure that you make him feel good. You make him feel at ease. Like he’s always known you. He is sure that he can’t not ask you.
Everything he has found out about you, he likes. But there is so much more to know.
You bat him playfully on the arm, however, and he feels like his hopes may soon be cruelly dashed. “You don’t want to get involved with me, Francisco,” you state, your voice thin, though you try to fill the cracks with humour. “I’ll steal your clothes; fair warning.”
Fuck, I’m in some deep shit, Frankie realises, as the mere thought of you in his clothes send a surge of blood to the area now straining against his jeans.
“Starting with this shirt,” you state, your voice altogether more breathy than last time you spoke, and your hand reaching to stroke the silky lapel of the garment lightly, between your thumb and forefinger. As you do so, your thumb lightly grazes the bare “v” of his chest, sending a delightful shiver down Frankie’s spine and spreading a suffusing heat; everywhere.
“Fuck, you’re cute,” he rasps, in his deep timbre, looking up at you with doe eyes. He doesn’t care that he’s playing his hand rather than playing it cool. He no longer cares that the heat brewing in his eyes must be blatantly obvious.
“And you’re cold,” you say in response to his shiver, confirming your assessment as your fingers brush over his goose-pimpled forearm, his hairs standing on end. He hadn’t noticed. He was captivated by you. It could be snowing or hailing and he could care less.
Still, you appear to care, as, all of a sudden, you’re shrugging off your coat, and in the next moment, you’re shuffling closer to him to affectionately toss it around his shoulders, using the motion to pull him just a little closer.
Holy shit.
With that romantic gesture, Frankie can’t decide whether to melt into a puddle or become hard as a rod. You’re a blacksmith, right? Maybe he can settle for both. He can be like the metal you master and command. He can be whatever form you demand of him.
However, when you tug the jacket around him, your expression looks sad. Your body language reticent. “Look. Frankie?” you say, your voice brittle.
No. Please no, Frankie pleads inwardly. Don’t tell me I fucked this up.
You reach your palm up to his face, your hand warm against his cheek, smoothing over his scruff.
“I’m... honestly... still figuring a lot of stuff out. I’ve had a great time. I like you. But I don’t know if I can....”
You can’t finish your sentiment. Your arms drop dejectedly to your sides.
It is as if you’re giving up before this has even started.
Frankie recognises that feeling all too well. The emotion in your voice, your face, your body. He knows it all too well. And, courtesy of one very particular, wise, idiot friend of his, he has the perfect advice for that.
He knows what to do.
He won’t fuck this up.
Instinctively, then, Frankie reaches for your hand, your fingers twining delicately together, yours rough and his soft.
He tips his shapely chin up towards you. His eyes made of steel again.
Your eyes shine in return, in response to his quiet determination. And, you are silent once more, allowing him the space to speak. You have already established, over the course of the evening, that Frankie is thoughtful in when he chooses to speak. His words are rarely wasted. And so, he has you undivided attention for whatever is coming.
Frankie’s brow furrows as he begins, his fingers still lightly gripping yours in his hand. “You know. I have a buddy who tells me I shouldn’t self-sabotage. I dunno. But I figure that advice might be applicable here?”
His eyes flit over your face, and slowly, ever so slowly, a disbelieving smile gathers in your eyes. They crease at the corners, in that way Frankie likes so damn much already. He wants to stoke your smile for always.
If he has his way, you’ll never feel anything but happy again.
As your smile levels off, it becomes something else. Something reforged. A hard swallow bobs down your throat, and your gaze becomes heavy, dropping to Frankie’s lips. Frankie’s tongue darts out in anticipation, fleeting along his lower lip, his breath quickening as you shuffle your feet just a little closer to him.
In a moment of bravery -or stupidity - he isn’t sure yet- Frankie takes a single step up, bringing your faces level on the porch stairs.
“Frankie,” you breathe, your tone almost incredulous, your hands pawing haphazardly at his chest and smoothing over his bird-emblazoned shirt.
Feeling even braver now, Frankie grabs hold of the thick brown belt at your waist and pulls your hips into him - holding your heat up against him, even as he knows he is a straining mess beneath his jeans already.
And then, as a small moan falls from his parted lips with this ghost of contact, you do the single hottest thing Frankie could imagine in this moment. You take control. But not only that. You grab the lapels of your own jacket, and use them to tug him to your lips.
Your mouth sinks on to his, the brush of your lips vanishingly soft at first, giving him an opportunity to pull away should he want to. He doesn’t want to. Your kiss is tentative, until you expel a small, disbelieving moan of your own, a sound he eagerly drinks down from your lips as he opens up for you. Then, setting the pace, you grow the kiss, your strong arms wrapping at his back so that you can press a more forceful crush of your lips against him. Frankie responds keenly, his hands wrapping around your waist and reaching up to your shoulders as you twist one hand into his hair, holding him securely as your molten, delicious tongue delves into his mouth.
Frankie blisses out, with your strong arms finally holding him steady, feeling safe in your sturdy circumference. He melts as your supple tongue claims his mouth. Frankie is positively ignited, a molten heat bleeding like a trail of fire right down to the pit of him, and he becomes at once liquid and steel, ready and willing for you to shape him. To mould him to you.
The kiss grows, your breaths becoming ragged in the crush between your bodies, until eventually you must break for air, panting heavily into the space between you.
Holy shit, that was one hell of a kiss.
You’re beautiful. You’re handsome. You’re pretty.
You’re hot as hell.
You’re fucking perfect.
You stifle your smile, until you can’t; and Frankie matches it.
Christ, he wants more. He could take you back home with him right now, if you wanted. But, he doesn’t mind waiting. Not at all.
He’s in no rush.
He’s waited all his life for you so far, and you were worth every second of that waiting.
And so, Frankie pulls your jacket more tightly around him, slotting his arms in properly now, and, with more soft, small kisses against his lips, you make him promise to return it. You make him promise to text you that he gets home safe.
“Good night, cariño,” he says softly, his voice deep and rich, his eyes shining with adoration. “See you in the morning?”
He’s in no rush, and yet he can hardly wait.
You nod emphatically, that beautiful smile curling your kiss-plumped lips. Frankie steals another moan from your mouth -then another- before he prizes himself away from you and skips off down the street, his heart hammering and a cacophony of butterflies in his belly.
He thinks of you, and he doesn’t have all the words yet. He doesn’t know what to call this thing. He doesn’t even have all the words to describe you right at his fingertips. But he does have an overwhelming feeling that you’re... his person. So, as long as he has you at his fingertips, he thinks everything will be alright from here on out.
This time -for once, thank god- he has an overwhelming feeling that he won’t fuck it up.
It seems you whole-heartedly agree too, since you evidently think better of this parting, darting out of Benny’s driveway to chase Frankie down a portion of the street. With glee, he hears you yell out his name, stopping him in his tracks.
“Frankie!” you call hesitantly, wringing your hands in front of you. “Technically, it’s already morning. Do you... want to come in for a coffee?”
He turns, his eyes bright. Turning towards you like a wallflower towards its sun. But you see him. You see him just as he is.
He smiles at you, and you smile right back, as he surges forward into your embrace
It might be wild to think so, after such a short time; but now that he’s in your arms, he doesn’t ever want you to let him go.