#triple frontier

[msanonny]

Charlie Hunnam as William "Ironhead" Miller in Triple Frontier (2019)

directed by: J.C. Chandor

[yuckyguyliker]

Oscar Isaac as Santiago "Pope" Garcia in Triple Frontier (2019)

[superhoeva]

all my fics, blurbs, and other thoughts! reader is written as a black woman, woc, or poc, but all are welcome to enjoy <3 | (18+/minors dni)

(SECOND MASTERLIST) (THIRD MASTERLIST)

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐔𝐓𝐘

CAPT. JOHN PRICE ⋆｡°✩

⋆ sleep tight, love – john helps you fall asleep. (+18)

SGT. KYLE GAZ GARRICK ⋆｡°✩

⋆ suck – kyle asks a favor. (+18)

⋆ eat out – kyle doesn't understand. (18+)

SGT./CAPT. JOHNNY SOAP MACTAVISH ⋆｡°✩

⋆ making out – you and soap make out on simon. (+18; feat. soap)

⋆ moping – you help soap feel better (18+; feat. tf 141)

⋆ snacks – soap misunderstands you. (+18)

⋆ first date – you kiss soap on your first date.

⋆ sudoku – soap plays dumb.

L.T. SIMON GHOST RILEY ⋆｡°✩

⋆ THE RILEY FAMILY (1) (2) (3) – they're creepy and they're moody. mysterious and spooky. they're all together ooky. the riley family! (the addams family inspired au)

⋆ pillow – simon catches you in the act. (+18)

⋆ making out – you and soap make out on simon. (+18; feat. soap)

⋆ movie star (1) (2) (3) – you're simon's personal movie star. (18+)

⋆ 69ing – you have a competition with simon. (18+)

⋆ the pharmacy (1) – simon embarrasses himself. (+18)

POLY!141/EXTRAS/ETC. ⋆｡°✩

⋆ THE ESCAPE – your small sleepy town has never been enough for you. maybe that’s what makes it so easy for inmate soap, his cellmate ghost, ad their friends on the outside to convince you to help sneak them out of prison. (CONTINUED ON AO3)

⋆ casual dominance – the boys try to figure out dinner. (roomates!au)

⋆ nails – you take the boys to get their nails done. (roomates!au)

⋆ undies – soap is reprimanded for stealing your underwear. (18+)

⋆ tears – how the 141 would comfort you when you're crying.

⋆ sailor tats – the 141 "rescue" you.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐑

CARMEN CARMY BERZATTO ⋆｡°✩

⋆ deep – carmen goes down on you. (+18)

⋆ v-lines – you show carmen a little appreciation. (+18)

⋆ dance – you and carmen try a some new things. (+18)

⋆ no work, all play – carmen distracts you from work. (+18)

⋆ roommate!carmen – life with carmen berzatto as your roommate. (+18)

⋆ after work – you help carmen after a hard day at the bear. (+18)

⋆ phone one in – carmen calls you with a throbbing dilemma. (+18)

⋆ frankenstein's bride – carmen loves your halloween costume. (+18)

THE BUNNY AND THE BEAR – the life of bunny and her boyfriend bear

⋆ hair - carmen helps bunny with her hair.

⋆ couch - carmen comes home to find bunny on his couch.

⋆ gentleman - carmen shows off his manners.

⋆ FRIENDSHIP ⇁ crying | first kiss | ladder | nickname | first sight

⋆ DATING ⇁ hot girl bunny | how long have they been together? | hand creams | carmen's hot gf | nervous!carmen | bunny and richie | carmen's tattoos | bunny's favorite spot | bunny's tattoos | birthaversary | favorite things | grizzly bear | why the tears? | nurse!carmen | come home pt. 1 | sick!bunny | easter eggs | sidewalk rule | punch | pretty boy | sleepy!bunny | tickets | smoking | hobbyist!bunny | 5 in 1 | short circuit

𝐗-𝐌𝐄𝐍

LOGAN WOLVERINE HOWLETT ⋆｡°✩

⋆ on his six – logan can't get enough of the xavier's school for the gifted youngesters' newest hire–you. (+18)

⋆ fridays – your fuck buddy makes his weekly visit. (+18)

⋆ busy signal – a phone call interrupts a relaxing logan. (+18)

⋆ rooftops – logan can't live without you. (+18)

OLDER BF!LOGAN ⋆｡°✩

⋆ older bf!logan sees how many times he can make you come

⋆ older bf!logan finds your vibrator

⋆ older bf!logan manhandling you

⋆ going down on (mean) older bf!logan

⋆ older bf!logan squeezing your soft parts

⋆ older bf!logan letting you take the lead

⋆ wearing a sundress around older bf!logan

⋆ older bf!logan being rough with you

⋆ older bf!logan helping you de-stress

⋆ older bf!logan walks in on you touching yourself

⋆ prone bone with older bf!logan

⋆ older bf!logan saying "fuck, i missed you"

⋆ older bf!logan being handsy

⋆ oiled massages with older bf!logan

⋆ older bf!logan fucking you right after a mission

⋆ you and older bf!logan welcome a new family member

⋆ "daddy, can you pass me the pepper?"

⋆ you and older bf!logan welcome a new arrival

⋆ older bf!logan is addicted to you

BOUNCER!LOGAN HOWLETT ⋆｡°✩

⋆ you make a deal with bouncer!logan

⋆ you bring bouncer!logan dinner at work

⋆ you clean bouncer!logan up after he fights in your honor.

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒

⋆ slow – you're fiona's best friend. and the reason for lip's headaches. (lip gallagher/shameless; +18)

[millermouth]

divinize 🪽

each vertebra reveals a mystery / pray on my spine, it's a rosary

reader x frankie morales

summary: You pray that God will keep you on the path of righteousness: to guard your heart, discipline your desire, and keep your mind free from wandering. But after a year away, Frankie isn't willing to be apart for much longer.

|| smut MDNI 18+, angst, please heed the warnings it's not a dark fic but it has dark themes, catholic!reader, devout!reader, virgin!reader, innocent!reader, kidnapping, obsessed!frankie! exbf!frankie, love bombing, toxic relationships, catholic guilt!!!!!, forced proximity, proposal, virginity loss, pinv, oral, praiseeeeeee kink, loving smut, religious imagery, canon to triple frontier 2019 except everything works out, frankie is a manipulative love bomber you've been warned (I do not condone, but if anyone was gonna be obsessed w me….anyway), beach smut || a/n: this is my submission for @tateypots's naughty or nice writing challenge with the naughty theme for both frankie & grand gesture! a/n II: I use some spanish in this, what little I know from working with people who are fluent and from colombia. one of the cutest things was when my boss would call his wife 'mor' like short for mi amor, so that is in this fic. also, I must add im the least religious person ever, I didn't even have to go to church as a kid. please excuse any mishaps and mistakes. references & inspired by: Rosalia's LUX (specifically divinize, magnolias, la yugular, and la perla) / That One Scene in A Walk to Remember

Forehead.

Chest.

Shoulder.

Shoulder.

It’s like memory, like breathing. It lives in you so intimately it barely feels chosen, more reflex than thought, something your body learned before language. It moves through you, closer than anything else, closer than your own blood, than the dark rivers that pulse in your neck, the jugular carrying life itself. Even that is not as near as the Spirit.

You slide into a pew and kneel against the rough wood pressing through your skirt, welcoming the familiar ache of your worship. It echoes the ache of it in your bones. It feels earned, deserved. You let it bloom in your knees and stay there, a small penance.

You want to feel your faith like this, the only physical proof you have of your conviction. It is the choice you make again and again to be good. To feel as if you belong to something higher than your own desire. It keeps your heart pointed upward, not outward. It burns in your knees.

Above you, Christ hangs in His stillness, ribs pulled taut beneath skin, head bowed under the weight of mercy made flesh. His eyes are cast downward, simply watching. He's not accusatory but He still lacks a gentleness. He bears a violent witness. You think of how much blood there must have been. How slow.

Your throat tightens as you close your eyes. You know you have been careless with memory. You know you have lingered where you should not let your thoughts linger, allowed your mind to drift back into a time when things like love and desire clouded your mind. You stop yourself again, now, before your mind's eye takes his shape again.

You reach into your bag and draw out your rosary, the beads cool at first, then warming as they settle into your palms. You wrap them around your fingers, letting the string pull snug until it presses into your skin. You tighten it. The pressure feels good. Corrective. You like the way it demands your attention. It keeps you present, anchored in the here and now instead of drifting back into longing.

You bow your head.

Thank you. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for the path you laid out when I could not see my way through it myself. Thank you for discipline when comfort would have ruined me.

You think of your savior again, His final surrender. You think of how good He was, how He gave everything so you could be forgiven when you wandered into sin. Weakness in the form of nostalgia, desire that insists on resurfacing for a man you nearly gave everything to before he left. The awareness of Christ's eyes on you presses down on the back of your neck, making you feel small. Exposed and unworthy.

Please.

Please keep me faithful, even when my thoughts start to wander. Please guard me and my family from harm, from the things seen and unseen. Keep my heart turned away from what is evil, from sin and predilection. Show me discipline where I am weak, and clarity when I am confused. For now I know that all I want is to be with you, in the kingdom of heaven.

Amen.

After evening Mass, you stop at the doors of St. Anthony’s as the last of the parishioners say their farewells. It's quiet outside now, evening like a blanket of stars over the quietening chapel.

Father Paul takes your hand, thanks you again for your help this weekend, asks after your family with the same gentle attentiveness he always does. You answer quietly, promise to return in the morning for the food pantry, assuring him you’ll bring coffee, and step aside into the night.

You descend the steps and pull your coat tighter around yourself, breath fogging faintly in the cold. The street is mostly empty, the chapel behind you dark now except for a single light near the sacristy. You start toward home, your footsteps the only sound accompanying you in the dark.

Tomorrow will be the food pantry, and how much there always seems to do even when the night gives you the reprieve of silence. You hear the crickets, a lone car passing by once. You'll need to get to church early to set up, make sure all the boxes are in order. Father is always so sweet and you'll stop for his favorite coffee to wake him like you always do.

Your rosary beads knock softly against the zipper of your bag as you walk—a faint, familiar sound that keeps time with your steps. A car passes again, then the street returns to stillness. The quiet settles around you, deep and expansive, and you feel how easily it opens space inside your head.

Sometimes the quiet of night is welcome, but sometimes it allows for too much time to think. About things, about…about times before. About… him.

You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag and begin to pray again, the words rising instinctively, protective, filling you.

Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name.

Whenever you feel your mind straying from you, from good, you say it again. You let the words occupy your mouth, your tongue, the soft hollow behind your teeth.

Thy Kingdom come. Thy Will be done, on earth, as it is in Heaven.

The night feels very still around you, the sidewalk stretched long and empty ahead, your breath a fog in front of you, steadying with the cadence of prayer. You are halfway through the next line when something changes. The sound of the passing car lingers longer than before, tires not moving away. There's an engine idling too close.

Give us this day our daily bread and —

There is the sharp scrape of metal, a sliding door pulled open with no hesitation, and then light explodes across the sidewalk, headlights washing over you so suddenly it steals your vision. You turn instinctively, already stepping backward, heart leaping hard into your throat. A figure moves out of the glare, tall and broad, its outline sharpening too quickly, too near for your mind to catch up.

Your arms pull in tight to your chest, shoulders hunching, fear driving straight down your spine like a nail hammered down. You feel it everywhere at once, white and electric, every nerve lit.

“What do you want?” you hear yourself say, shocked that your voice works at all.

The shape does not slow. Footsteps eat the distance between you, purposeful, unhurried. A hand reaches for you.

Then you remember how to scream.

It tears out of you raw and loud as you kick and thrash, hands striking at anything you can reach. It does nothing. You are lifted easily, hauled up and over a broad shoulder, the world tilting as your stomach lurches violently. Your fists pound against the man's back, but he's so solid, and your blows get absorbed without reaction. His arm clamps around your legs, locking your knees together so your feet can’t swing free.

“Let me go!” you scream, the words breaking apart in your mouth.

Your wishes are granted, but only to be thrown into the dark van, where there are three more men in all black with ski masks waiting. You scream again, but the door slides shut, making you blind to their reaching hands, which clasp around your wrists, a thin harsh plastic wrapping around you. This isn't like the rosary, a calming pressure of worship and devotion, this is a zip tie.

You are still fighting when rough fabric is dragged down over your eyes, smothering and close, stealing what little light remains. Your breath turns frantic inside it, the air hot and stale. They catch your ankles next, cinching them tight, stealing your balance completely, your body reduced to something contained and helpless.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” a voice curses beside you as they struggle to finish restraining you.

“Mind your tongue,” you spit back, the reprimand tearing free before you can stop it. For a fleeting second, anger steadies you, gives you something solid to hold. Hearing the Lord’s name said in vain snaps you back into yourself, into who you are, into what you belong to.

"Haven't changed much, has she, boys?"

There's something about the voices that piques a curiosity in you. If the blood wasn't pounding so loudly in your ears, if your skin wasn't buzzing with adrenaline, maybe you'd have recognized them.

But the voices overlap now, a laugh to your left, a chortle to your right from the front seat, "There's no way this is gonna work if—"

"Shut up," another one of them cuts in.

The buzzing in your ears is too loud to place any of it, drowning out all logical thought and the ability to think. Whatever recognition tries to surface slips away again under the fear.

You curl inward as much as the restraints allow, folding yourself small, clasping your bound hands together. You draw your knees up, pressing your forehead against them, turning inward, then downward, the way you were taught. The way you have always done when the world feels dangerous and out of your control. You begin to pray.

Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name.

The time passes without meaning.

The van, and time, seem to move and stop, then move again. You can feel every turn in your stomach as you pray, every brake against your spine. At some point your throat is hoarse from whispering your orisons, your hands clenched so hard together they lose their feeling. No one else speaks, the silence stretches. You're not sure for how long, whether it's twenty minutes or twenty hours. It feels a bit like forever.

Then there's another sound, distant. A vibration more than noise at first, something you feel through the floor of the van, like the tires beneath are on a fault line. The van is slowing, you're sure of it, and the sound is louder, thick and filling the space. A mechanical thrum that presses against your chest and hums behind your covered eyes.

Your heart stutters when the van door slides open.

No.

No, no no.

Air rushes in hard and cold, whipping across your skin, carrying the sharp bite of fuel and night. It feels violent after the sealed quiet of the van, too much all at once. Someone reaches for you, and you let them. You do not resist this time. Your body moves because it is moved, pliant and strange, as your mind is seized by a sudden, terrible certainty.

“Careful,” a voice says close to your ear as your feet are positioned outside the door and the zip ties are cut from your ankles.

Your feet are positioned at the edge, then lowered, the ground solid beneath you. The zip ties around your ankles are cut away, the release abrupt and disorienting. Hands grip your arms, lifting you upright, keeping you steady. Your wrists remain bound. The blindfold stays in place.

They guide you forward.

The sound swells into a roar that consumes everything. It vibrates through your ribs, your skull, your teeth. You can barely hear your own breathing over it, shallow and uneven inside your chest. You can't see. You can't hear clearly. But you know.

You know that sound.

It brings back memories, flooding you. Your body reacts as your mind swims with them, dread pouring through you, cold and absolute. And threaded through it like a warm current in the turn of two oceans meeting, is something else. Something you refuse to name, that you've prayed to extinguish for the past year. It feels as if the hands at your sides and the sound ahead is submerging you into those memories, like being held under and lifted out again. A baptism.

Your stomach flips and your knees threaten to give out as the person beside you tightens their grip and says something you can't make out over the noise. You stumble forward a bit, guided step by step, until you're being lifted again and strapped into a seat.

And finally, when you're no longer being pinned or guided or restrained by hands, you bow your head and begin to cry in the passenger seat of the helicopter.

You’re only half aware of the trip through the sky.

It’s too dark to make sense of anything, the strip of fabric around your eyes starting to itch, sweat collecting beneath it as you try, uselessly, to peer through the narrow gap it leaves against your cheekbone. There’s nothing to see anyway. Just darkness. No lights or landmarks below, no sense of height or distance. The helicopter vibrates through the bench seat and into your bones, rattling your skin, turning your stomach over and over until you can’t tell if you’re afraid or just sick.

Maybe you’re over the ocean.

The thought comes unbidden, but it sticks, makes sense. Endless black water beneath you, nothing solid for miles. You swallow hard, throat tight, and curl your shoulders in against the cold that seeps through the metal.

Eventually, the vibration changes, the pitch dropping and movement shifting, and the descent throws your belly into your throat with sudden pressure. When you touch down, the rotors kick the air into a frenzy, wind and grit blasting through the open door as it’s wrenched wide. You turn your face away, tucking your chin down, bracing.

"What the fuck did you do to her?"

The shout cuts through the mechanical roar like a blade.

Oh god.

No, no no no.

Some part of you had prayed you were wrong, desperately hoping. Somewhere between the van and the sky, you had begged to be mistaken. You wish you still had your rosary. You don’t know where your bag is. You wish you could have knelt, pressed your forehead to the floor, prayed harder, prayed better.

Hands grab at your wrists, wrenching the ties free, and relief comes quickly but painful, pins and needles racing through your fingers as blood rushes back. The hands move to fumble at your head, and you flinch, jerking away, keeping your eyes squeezed shut as the fabric comes away. If you don’t look, you don’t have to see who it is. Who you know it is. You feel like you knew all along, from the first words uttered in the van. From the broad expanse of the shoulders you were hauled over when they took you.

But then the two broad hands are back to your face even without restraints. Thumbs brush along your temples, gentle, reverent, moving your hair back like he’s done a hundred times before. Your breath stutters. You turn your head away, squeezing your eyes shut so hard your vision sparks, blood pounding so loud in your ears it feels like a scream. The hands leave your face and close gently around your wrists instead, steadying you, lifting you from the seat.

Your feet hit the ground and you gasp.

The earth beneath is…soft. Not the jolt of blacktop or cement you expect. Your shoes sink slightly, the surface shifting under your weight. You open your eyes without meaning to, a curse of human curiosity, and look down.

Sand.

You make sure to advert your eyes again, away from…him, because you can't yet. You need to occupy your vision with something else, anything else. You turn to see the helicopter crouched on the beach just behind you, rotors still churning, the ocean stretched out behind it, black and endless, moonlight breaking across its surface in silver ripples. You raise a hand to shield your eyes as grit lashes past your face.

Then the helicopter lifts.

Someone in the cockpit raises a hand in a quick, casual wave, their face hidden by the glare of the moon, and then it’s gone, rising into the dark until it disappears completely, black against black sky. The wind settles to a gentle breeze as the sound of waves crashing against the shore fill your ears.

You can't turn around. You think maybe you were looking for more in the blanket of stars, looking for someone to come and rescue from what you know was waiting behind you. Praying to God or the archangel Michael to save you from this fate.

A hand touches yours, and you flinch away as if burned. Your hands lift to cover your face, hiding your eyes as you realize no one is coming.

"Look at me, 'mor,"

'Mor. That nickname. Mi amor. My love. And that voice. It throws you back into your minds eye, so hard you have to force your eyes to open so the back of your eyelids won’t paint your vision in memories.

"What have you done, Frankie?"

Frankie

You wouldn't look at him—why wouldn't you look at him?

"'mor, please," he says gently, staring at your back. Your pretty blouse flutters, fabric tugging against your waist, your hair lifting and falling in the sea wind like it used to when you’d walk ahead of him down the street and he’d reach out just to feel it. His fingers twitch uselessly at his sides now at the memory of it. You’re here. You’re actually here. In front of him. Real, alive, beautiful.

If only you'd turn around.

He opens his mouth again, already full of everything he wants to tell you, but he stops when you drop your hands from your face.

The red marks on your wrist glow in the light of the candles he'd set up, the burns angry against your skin, and the sight of them twists something hot and violent in his gut. His jaw locks, his hands curl into tight fists, he thinks he might kill his friends for one fleeting moment. The candlesticks stretch ahead of you in a soft path along the sand, petals scattered out of place from the helicopter, the arch waiting at the edge of the beach like a promise that’s suddenly gone wrong.

He wants to take your hands, kiss the redness away and swear it never happened.

"I told them to be careful," he began, softly, his voice thick with apology, "I didn't know Ben would…and Redfly, I didn't think—"

"Take me home." you whispered.

"Baby—"

"Take. Me. Home." you still wouldn't look at him. But he could see your shoulders shaking.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, panic changing his tone. “You wouldn’t answer my calls. You wouldn’t see me. I had to— I had to do something, just to see you.”

"So you kidnapped me."

He shakes his head. This is not what he pictured. He'd pictured you coming off his fellow pilot's helicopter, eyes lighting up like they once did for him and jumping into his arms. He pictured your lips against his, soft and warm and all the memories of before washing away in a beautiful twilight proposal on the beach.

"I fixed everything, 'mor," he insists, and his words start to tumble over one another, "I'm clean, I have money now to take care of you. I bought—" his hands shoot out around him. He wishes you'd just fucking turn around and look at him. "this entire place, baby, it's ours."

"I don't want this." you whisper, "I don't want any of this."

The words are sharp and cruel, even in your sweet voice.

"Look at me, 'mor," he pleads, stepping closer, "por favor,"

"Stop calling me that."

"Please."

You let out a shaky sigh, and finally oblige.

You turn, and god, your face, it's like seeing god. An angel, carved from every dream he'd ever had. All the sleepless nights he'd thought of you over the past year did nothing to compare to you, now, bathed in the moonlight, the wind from the sea blowing your hair around. The cross at your throat flashes silver when you move, and something tightens painfully in his chest at the sight of it, something aching and possessive all tangled together.

"Marry me," he says. His voice is barely loud enough over the water crashing at the shore.

It isn't how he meant to say it. He should’ve taken you to the arch first. Gotten down on one knee. Why did he let it go on this long? Why didn’t he just take your hands and walk you down the candlelit path, show you everything he built for you? He glances at it now, distant and waiting, but his eyes come right back to your face. He can’t look away, he never wants to look away.

"This was supposed to be perfect—I wanted it to be—"

"No."

He freezes, his eyes search your face, your pretty eyes, your sweet plump lips he remembers like the back of his hand, the feeling, the taste. The way they felt that night when you'd…

He shakes his head.

"What?"

“No, Frankie.” Your voice is steadier now, even as tears build in your eyes. “I’m not going to marry you.”

Something like the devil on his shoulder makes him laugh.

“You don’t mean that,” he says. “We—we're always meant to be together, 'mor.”

"I mean it," you snap, your tone sharp and serious, though your voice is shaky and wet. He can't help but think how absolutely adorable you are, even when you're angry with him.

"I don't want to be with you, Frankie."

"You're scared," he cuts in, stepping closer, shaking his head harder, his hands wanting so badly to come up and touch you. He hears your breath hitch, your body leaning away. He pushes down the anger that boils in him.

"You're scared, baby, I know. I know I scared you." he tries to force a calmness over himself, over the situation. Forcing reason. "The guys were never supposed treat you like that, I wanted them to talk to you about coming, about seeing me. They were meant to only pick you up and tell you there was a surprise, I'm sorry. I know you're scared, but that's over now. It's just us."

“I can't,” you say suddenly, brows furrowing, a hand coming up to clutch your cross necklace, and the words hit him sideways. “God has made me realize this is wrong.”

His stomach clenches.

“Don’t,” he pleads. “Don’t do that.”

“I can't be with you,” you continue, tears spilling now, your hands clasped tight. “I’ve prayed about it every day. I’ve prayed so much. This—it isn’t right.”

The only thing he hears is that you thought of him every day. In your most intimate time, between you and Christ.

"So that's it?" he asks, "You and God have decided, huh? Don't I get a say?"

"Frankie, please," you sob, "I don't want to fight you. I don't want to be punished for picking the wrong thing."

"You think I'm the wrong thing." he echoes, flat and wounded.

You don't answer, and it feels like confirmation.

"I got clean for you," he says, louder now, stepping even closer, chests nearly brushing, and your breath stops. You close your eyes tightly.

"I left all that behind—the coke, the partying, the bullshit." you wince at his curse, "I'm sorry, baby. I know." he lifts his hands so they hover over your arms, wanting, so badly, to touch. "I lost my license and my career, but here I am. I fixed it. All of it."

"I never asked—" you shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut before glaring at him glassy eyed, "I told you to not come back."

"I love you," he says, desperate, shaking from fingers to his toes, "I love you so much, I'm trying to show you—I'm ready to give you everything. I have the money, I bought this island for us, I have this ring." he reaches into his pocket, pulling out the box.

You take a step back, "You're scaring me, Francisco."

“I would never hurt you,” he says fiercely. “Never. I would die before I let anything happen to you.”

“You already did,” you say, voice barely there. “You left for Colombia with your friends on a suicide mission. I had to live with the fact that I thought you died.”

He stares at you, chest heaving, the candles flickering wildly behind you, the ocean roaring like it’s listening.

“We're supposed to be happy,” he says, almost to himself. “This was supposed to make you happy. I didn't die, 'mor, I'm back, I'm clean, I can take care of you.”

You shake your head again, helpless. “Take me home.”

The word home hits him like a betrayal again and again.

“We can make this home,” he says, voice shaking as he reaches into his pocket, “We can make a life here. Or anyway, I don't care. Just—just let me show you. Please.”

"Don't—" your voice cracks, "I don't want a reason to be angry at God. Please, Frankie, stop—I've m-moved on."

That stops him cold like he'd just been plunged into the ocean.

There's a silence between you, thick and ringing in his ears. Frankie's hands fall uselessly to his sides with the velvet box clenched tight in his fist.

His chest constricts around his heart, something sour crawling up his throat.

“Who?” he asks.

Your shoulders tense, hesitating just a fraction too long.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “That’s not—this isn’t about that.”

“It matters to me,” he snaps, the edge in his voice cutting through the night before he can soften it. He sees you flinch again and it only makes everything inside him feel louder. “Who is he?”

"I don't want to do this. Take me home."

But he's already there, already doing this, his thoughts spinning, green and fevered. Santiago said no one ever saw you with anyone. The days he'd been going insane and sent his friends to check on you at the church, at your house without being seen. Were you lying?

"Tell me the truth."

You look up at him, a glare on your sweet face, "I am. I went on a few dates with a man from church. Stop being mean. I only wanted to—I was trying to not…"

Your face pinched, and you shook your head, as if willing the thoughts away. Your cheeks glistened wet in the moonlight.

"Say it." Frankie demanded, his eyes trying to bend to find your gaze now that you'd looked away again. It was so close—your confession. He was your confessional, you, his little sinner wanting to do right. Always.

You took a few breaths, and Frankie, not for the first time, but maybe more desperately than ever before, prayed that you'd just say it.

"I've been praying…" you breathe out slowly, and tears were rolling down your face as you looked up, "I've been trying anything just to stop thinking of you, Frankie."

He rushes towards you now, velvet box shoved back in his pocket, forgotten, and he's pulling you into him. You squawk in protest, pushing your hands up, but they only fold in between your chests.

"Frankie," you whine, a rush of breath leaving your body as he squeezes you to himself, "stop it, Frankie, please,"

"Did you let that man touch you, baby?" he coos, "tell me you didn't give him what's mine, hermosa, por favor mi amor, amor amor amor," he's kissing your face, babbling away, and his kisses—they're wet. He'd do anything to make you stop crying, he's never wanted to make you sad. It cleaves his chest in two to think he created them.

"I'd never—I'd only ever wanted—but Francisco, I can't—not—"

"Let's get married," he pleads, arms tightening around you, bringing you even closer, "'mor, please, it's what I'm tryna tell you, then you'll never have to worry, you'll never be apart from me," he kisses your face harder, your breasts push up into him, "kiss me back, say yes, 'mor, por favor, ángel mía, hermosa,"

"Frankie," you sob, gripping his shirt. You look up at him, finally, you're taking him in, drinking in his closeness, he can see it. And your eyes, they're glassy, full of something— and then he knows.

And he kisses you.

He doesn’t give you time to second guess him, to recover from the shock of his mouth smothering yours. If anything, you pull him closer, nails biting into his shoulders where you cling to him, dragging him in like instinct has finally won. The moment your resistance softens, though, he takes it as permission, as proof. Silly thing, always fighting him, his sweet angel, trying so hard to be good for your god.

His hand comes up into your hair, threading through the locks to hold you tight, pressing you even closer to him. Your gasp breaks loose as he clenches his fingers harder, as if the breath was knocked from your lungs. He feels it immediately, the give of your wet lips, and something both feral and relieved floods him at once. He leans into you more, plunging his tongue into your waiting mouth, claiming the opening without hesitation. The kiss deepens until it’s nothing but heat and breath and want, until he feels a little unhinged, pouring himself into you like there’s no end to his need.

“Frankie—” you breathe when he finally breaks away, his mouth trailing over your jaw, down the soft curve of your neck.

"—Frankie, we shouldn't—"

“I’ve waited so long for you, ’mor,” he murmurs, his tongue flattening against your pulse. You tilt your head back without meaning to, exposing yourself, and he feels like if he could unhinge his jaw he’d swallow you whole. The red apple of Eden, offered straight into his mouth.

"Not here, Frankie, oh please, I can't—"

"I don't give a fuck," he demands.

You cry out when he tugs your blouse aside, teeth grazing the place where your neck meets your shoulder, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“I just love you so much,” he corrects softly. “Will you marry me, baby? Make me the happiest man alive.”

He says it between kisses as he lowers himself in front of you, hands everywhere, strong and sure as they grip and pull you close. His palms are broad, and you fit into them so perfectly, like he'd never forgotten the map of you, even as your knees threaten to give out.

You're looking down at him, chest heaving, blouse askew.

He's never thought you more beautiful in his life.

He kisses your stomach, lifting the hem of your top so his mouth can touch your hot skin. You shiver as he moans against you, nuzzling into your navel. He wants every sound you make, and you give them to him, soft and breathy, whining little noises as his hands tighten. His hands come down to your ass, groping and spreading even through your skirt.

“I’m gonna fall, Frankie,” you whimper, clutching his shoulders. “This is wrong. We shouldn’t. It’s a sin.”

He groans as he looks up, fists full of you. He must look a little unmoored, half-mad, because your eyes widen, your tongue slipping out to wet your lips. You swallow around the feeling climbing your throat. The moon above you halos your head as he kneels.

“Mi ángel,” he whispers, “I’d never let Lucifer take you. God loves you, but he’ll never save you from me.”

You frown deeply at that.

“Admit it,” he murmurs. “You’ve been angry with him for a long time.”

“No,” you whimper, pushing at him now, but he holds you fast, mouth returning to your stomach.

“You’re angry because you want me just as much as I want you,” he says quietly. “Because he made you fall in love with me. Because you want my cock just as badly as I want your sweet little—”

“Frankie!” you cry out, covering your face.

He raises to his feet, cupping your face over your hands.

“Look at me, ’mor.”

You peek through your fingers. Your eyes are shining again.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Wanting’s natural, baby.”

You shake your head.

“Tell me,” he whispers, “are you wet right now?”

You hide again, like you might disappear, like God himself might be watching.

“If I reached down between your legs,” he murmurs, “would I feel you soaked for me? You remember that night, baby? When you let me touch her?”

Your head dips lower, the tips of your fingers brushing his chest.

“Remember how good it felt, hermosa,” he whispers, arms wrapping around you, holding you close, kissing the crown of your head. “When you let me taste you. How bad you wanted me, but told yourself you couldn’t. Not until we were married. But I let you taste me too, didn’t I?”

“I’m going to hell, Francisco.” you whisper.

“Never,” he says, kissing your head again, squeezing you harder. “You’re too good. Too perfect.”

He pulls your hands down so he can see your face, memorizing you again. Those eyes, they bring all the memories back, burned into him. The day he met you. The day he told you he loved you. The day he left, how you cried. He’ll never forget those eyes.

"I've missed you." he says finally.

“I miss you,” you confess back, a secret carried out to sea. “It hurts just to think about you.”

"I know, 'mor," he says, kissing your top lip so carefully, gently. Your eyes close, lashes fluttering against your cheekbone.

"I love you, Frankie," you say finally.

Finally.

He leans down, wraps his arms around your body, and lifts you against him.

“I love you so much,” he says, carrying you toward the archway, where everything should’ve begun.

And finally, finally, you're smiling down at him. Enough of the secrets, of trying to stay away, of trying to fight this. Finally, he had you.

Your hands move to his hair, petting and pulling, his curls a little unruly from the wind and sweat.

He sets you down gently, only taking his hands away to reach into his pocket again, and gets down on one knee.

"Marry me, 'mor?"

Your hand flies to your mouth as you stare at the ring. Ten carats, blazing in a halo of diamonds. He never cared about the price. It was you the moment he saw it.

“Oh, Frankie,” you breathe, offering him your hand.

“That a yes?”

You nod, laughing through tears. “Yes. Of course.”

He slides the ring onto your finger, already pulling you close again, kissing you like restraint was never part of him. He draws you down to kneel with him on the red rug beneath the arch, candlelight warming your skin, the night pressing close.

He eases you back onto the ground.

"Frankie—" you whisper. "What're you doing?"

"Want you," he moans, "now."

"What? Here? Frankie—" you gasp as your back hits the red rug on the sand, "Not here—anyone can see us—"

"Didn't you hear me, hermosa?" he smiles, "I bought this entire island. For you. It's just us."

You turn your head to look around, left and right, as if testing if he was right, before looking back at him and smiling. Your cross necklace is askew on your chest, bathed in candlelight and the brush of the moon. You're beautiful.

Frankie kisses you again, no longer waiting, pushing his tongue into your mouth. He sits between your legs, your skirt bunching up higher and higher as your knees fall open and let him in.

He doesn’t waste a second before shoving the fabric up around your hips, moaning softly at the feel of your skin under his palms. He kneads you, grips you hard enough to pull a whimper from your throat, the last of your tears still drying on your cheeks, catching silver in the moonlight.

When his hands reach the apex of your thighs, you’re shaking. Trembling. Nervous, but fuck—

"You're wet, mi amor, just like I knew—"

“Don’t make me feel bad,” you whisper.

“Never,” he says immediately, shaking his head. He kisses your chin carefully, before lowering himself again.

You watch him, holding your breath. His eyes stay on yours until he can’t help it anymore, until he’s kneeling between your legs, staring openly at the way your cotton underwear clings to you, darkened where it presses against your folds.

"Ohhh," he breathes. He nudges your skirt even higher, guiding your knees over his shoulders, locking you there. He presses a kiss to your covered mound, slow and sweet, inhaling, and you gasp, your hands flying into his hair.

The sound he makes startles him, slipping out before he realizes it’s his own. His tongue presses flat through the fabric, and he groans again, helpless. Nectar. The nectar of the gods. His own ambrosia. He thinks, with sudden certainty, that he could die here and know heaven could never come close.

“Fuck,” he breathes, mind gone, undone by the feeling of you, by the sounds you make for him. He hooks a finger into the gusset of your panties, tugging them aside just enough, and finally lets his tongue have what it’s been begging for.

Your back arches immediately, a broken moan tearing free into the night. Frankie devours you, eating, licking, taking his fill.

To be fair, dear reader, he had done this before. He remembers it now better than ever. The taste, the smell of your honey invading his memory.

It was Santiago’s birthday. You’d loosened up with a little help from his friends, wine poured generously, laughter spilling from you easier than usual. By the time midnight crept close, you were giggly, flushed, your hands restless in a way they never were when you were being good. Your devout Catholic hands, always folded, always careful. That night they weren’t careful at all.

When the party thinned out and it was just the guys left, you’d slipped away with him, quiet as a secret, into Santiago’s bathroom of all places. You’d tasted like Malbec and something unreal, warm and plush in his arms as he kissed you against the door the second it closed behind you. You’d begged then, he can hear your voice in his memory now, sweet and breathless, asking to be touched like it was a confession you couldn’t keep anymore. And Frankie—God—he hadn’t stood a chance.

With one word, and he was on his knees at the altar of your hips, worshipping you the same way he is now, mouth full, mind gone. Afterward, you’d wanted to try more, curiosity shining in your eyes when you whispered it. He nearly came just hearing you say it. He let you taste him, just a little, guiding you with a steady hand, petting your hair, letting you cradle what god had given him. That was all, though. He’d drawn the line there.

Not because he couldn’t have taken more.

Because he decided he wouldn’t. He couldn't risk the fallout of your penance.

And then a few days later, Santiago had told him and the guys about his plans. To take down Lorea for once and for all. And when Frankie told you he'd said yes, he'd never seen you so angry. Almost as angry as tonight when you'd touched down and finally looked at him.

But he’d known then, the same way he knows now.

You would forgive him.

No matter what he did—whether he stayed up all night coked out of his mind, or came to you with beer on his tongue, slurring his words as he kissed you—you always forgave him. You forgave him the day he told you god wasn’t real, though even now he isn’t sure he meant it. He’d just been angry and hungover. He remembers shaking with the early ache of trying to quit the snow.

All it ever took was reminding you how much he loved you. Telling you he was the only one for you. That his devotion was sacred, set apart, something god himself would have to understand. He liked that part best—the moment your resistance gave way, the instant your certainty cracked and you looked at him like he was both the wound and the cure.

His tongue flattens against your clit now, swollen and pulsing beneath him, and he snaps back into the present as you gush around his mouth, hands locked tight in his hair. He hadn’t even realized he’d been grinding a hollow into the sand, his cock dragging against the ground beneath him, desperate for friction.

Frankie, Frankie, Frankie you chant. He groans, lifting his head to look at you, reaching up to tear your blouse down your chest, freeing your breasts so he can watch them rise and fall as you gulp in the night air. Your nipples pebble instantly in the cool ocean breeze, and he crawls back over you, taking one into his warm, wet mouth. His lips tingle where he’s tasted your orgasm, like a constellation bursting across his tongue. Heaven.

Your hands never leave his hair as he circles his tongue around you, greedy, unwilling to choose just one. He squeezes your breasts together, nuzzling between them, shaking his head, burying himself in the valley of your warmth.

“Hermosa,” he moans, his covered cock grinding up into your wet, open cunt.

“Frankie, please,” you cry after a particularly rough thrust of his hips. He knows his jeans are too rough for you, knows you’re sensitive there, but he wants to see your eyes when he pushes just a little harder.

“You’re so beautiful, ’mor,” he murmurs. “Let me have her. Please. Let me give you everything.”

You pause, watching him, your forehead dappled with cold sweat in your hairline. You're still breathing hard, coming down from your high.

"You're just so perfect, 'mor," he says, "so perfect, it's only going to be you and me, forever. You know that. Me and you. Always. I love you."

"I love you, Frankie," you whisper, "yes, okay, just please—be gentle—please,"

You sound so soft and sweet he could eat you alive, he might, he wants to. His mouth opens wider, taking your breast fully this time, wondering dimly if he could bite hard enough to see your heart, the way it swells for him, the way it hammers faster and faster as he convinces himself he’s giving you everything.

A high buzz fills his ears as he lifts back onto his knees, fumbling with his belt. He frees himself and rests against your hip, forcing himself to pause, to ground his mind back into his body. Your hand is already reaching for him. You say something sweet, something whispered, half-lost to the sound of the waves—something about remembering him, about how he once felt like velvet in your mouth. He wishes you wouldn't say such things, because one more minute he'll combust then and there.

You’re a mess beneath him. Clothes torn and shifted, blouse pulled away, skirt hiked up. Blasphemous. He can’t do it like this.

"Baby," he whispers.

"Yes, Francisco?"

"Let me—let's get these things off of you, I wanna see you—"

You nod, beginning to pull your top over your head.

"Can I see you too, 'mor?" you ask quietly. His heart swells in his chest, his skin warming, finally, finally, finally.

“Of course, mi ángel,” he says, pulling his shirt free. Your hands roam him immediately—hands he’s watched clutch a rosary, fold in prayer, open for the Spirit—now holding him like treasure.

“Ohhh,” you whisper as he slides your skirt down your legs. “You're so warm.”

“I know,” he murmurs, folding over you, arms slipping beneath your body to hold you tight. “I’ve got you. Let me love you. Let me have you.”

"You already do," you say, kissing his nose, kissing the bend of his cupid's bow. You watch him, your eyes, so pretty, god how he ever went a year without them, he's not sure. Your hands cradle his face. “Make love to me, Francisco.”

He guides himself to your weeping entrance, and pushes in.

Your brows shoot up quickly before pulling together. He mimics the look on your face, his brows pulling tight at the feeling of your velvet keep—so tight it's almost resisting his intrusion.

"S'alright," he slurs, drunk on the feeling, "s'gonna feel funny, 'mor, s'okay, s'okay," he chants, kissing your frowning lips.

You whine softly, almost feline as you mewl, discomfort threading through the sound, but your arms fold around his neck, pulling him close. He can’t move, only his hips are free to push in.

"Oh, oh, oh," you whisper, "oh God,"

It's the first time he's ever heard you say the name in vain. He thinks he might go insane for it. He wants to hear it again.

"Fuck," he swears, he can't help it.

"Oh, God, Frankie, oh—"

Yes yes yes.

He pushes deeper. Your pussy grips him like a fist, and his vision flashes white. He can feel the head of his cock brushing your womb, pressing there, claiming it, whispering promises to it only he believes. You pulse around him, fluttering, and he stays still, pressed hip to hip, closer than he’s ever been to you. It's like nothing he's ever felt. This is the kingdom of heaven, he realizes. On this beach. In your tight keep, and god is looking back at him through your eyes.

"¿Cómo te sientes?" he whispers, kissing your open mouth, "Cuéntame."

"So—" you sigh out, a breath held too long, "it's so—"

He kisses your gasping lips again.

"So good, b-but funny—"

He nods, gently urging you on as he holds you.

"Feels, so—like I'm being split in half. So full in my belly. I feel like…like God is…"

Frankie feels a rush of nerves, will you tell him this is a mistake now? Not save him with grace and tell him after?

"This is what God created, this…this feeling, and oh, it's wonderful."

Frankie pulls his cock out as his mouth covers your in urgency, eating your whines, as he begins fucking you—no—how did you put it? Makes love to you. You moan now, louder, unable to hold his kiss, your head is thrown back, and you're gasping, sobbing now in earnest, and he watches you like you’re a vision, fucking you into the sand, into the rug beneath you, your bodies carving a hollow the tide will erase by morning.

"You are so perfect, 'mor," he breathes, skin slapping skin, his cock growing and tightening. He can feel you fluttering around him.

"I've only ever wanted you," he says, "you're the only thing that's ever fucking mattered, my girl, mi amor, I love you,"

"I love you Frankie," and he realizes you're crying again, hands tight around his neck, "I love you so much—oh, I think I'm gonna—oh! Say it again, 'mor, por favor,"

"I love you, I love you, my sweet baby, you're everything, come on my cock, let me feel her, let me feel you, I need it, give it to me." his lips curl and he's baring his teeth, he can't help it, he's so close it's making him animal, "give it to me,"

Your eyes are wide, and he doesn't think it's fear, but maybe awe, because your body is tightening, your pussy latching onto him so hard he's barely able to move, and your back bends, he feels it under his hands. And your breasts, now slick with sweat, push into him and bear your neck to him as you come.

He follows, a raw sound tearing from his chest as he spills into you without hesitation. If it’s god’s will, he’ll give you children, ten more if you ask. The sensation stretches on endlessly, too much, too full, stars bursting behind his eyes as your body holds him.

He thinks he sees God.

Or maybe it’s just the way you look at him in the moonlight as you take everything he gives.

The world eventually comes back to him, the crashing sound of waves filling his ears, steady and eternal. The candles flicker low now, dripping down into the sand. He's breathing hard over you, still inside the circle of your body, but he's quiet, and you're quiet, both of you soaking in the moment. It's like the stillness after prayer, when you don't move, the silence almost holy.

Your chest rises and falls beneath his, uneven, your fingers slack in his hair now, petting lazy shapes against his scalp. He can feel your heartbeat everywhere—against his mouth, his neck, the place where your bodies are still joined.

He presses his forehead to yours.

For a long moment neither of you speak. There’s nothing urgent left to say, everything feels already decided.

"Frankie," you finally whisper.

"Yes?" he murmurs immediately, softly.

You swallow, your hand comes up to his cheek, thumb brushing along his mouth, slow and loving.

"If God…" you swallow again, "if He was watching…do you think He's angry with me?"

The question settles between you, fragile as breath.

Frankie’s chest tightens. He kisses your temple first, then your cheek, the corner of your mouth, gentle where his lips brush.

“No,” he says, low and sure. “No, mi ángel.”

You search his face, still unsure, your eyes still wet with question.

“I just—” Your voice trembles. “I don’t feel ruined. I feel…” You trail off, embarrassed by the honesty of it.

“Loved,” he supplies gently.

You nod, relief breaking across your face.

“Yes,” you whisper,

"Loved."

[berryispunk]

no matter the distance

husband!Frankie Morales x wife!reader

-`♡´- tags: papi!Frankie, domestic chaos, implied phone sex, Frankie is soft, healed and down bad for his wife in this, fluff galore summary: Three states away, five kids deep, and still magnetic. word count: ~ 1,1 k

You don’t remember the last time you had five uninterrupted minutes alone with your husband Frankie.

Not in the kitchen.

Not in the shower.

Not even in your own damn thoughts.

The twins are teething. Mateo needed help with homework. Ava cried because someone at school said something mean and Solana demanded the exact pink unicorn pyjamas that were in the wash. The laundry is multiplying like it’s sentient. There are sippy cups in places that defy physics.

And Frankie is three states away for work.

You’re sitting on the edge of your bed when he calls, it’s late. The house is finally quiet in that sacred, fragile kind of quiet that makes you afraid to breathe too loudly. 

“Hey,” he says.

And it’s ridiculous how just that one word softens something in your chest.

“Hi,” you murmur, voice tired, small around the edges. “Are you done for today?”

“Yeah. Hotel room’s ugly. Bed’s too big.” A pause. Then, lower, honest. “I hate this.”

You close your eyes, rubbing your temple.

“Yeah?”

“I hate being away from you.” His voice roughens. Not dramatic. Not poetic. Just real. “I miss you. I miss the chaos. I miss you stealing the blankets. I miss the way you sigh when you’re half-asleep.”

You swallow.

“You’re the one who starfishes,” you whisper.

“Don’t deflect.”

You can hear him shifting, probably sitting on the edge of that lonely hotel bed, rubbing his hand over his face like he does when he’s holding too much in. Which he does a lot lately, but you see through the act anyway. 

“It feels wrong,” he says quietly. “Like I left something important behind.”

“You did,” you breathe. “Me.”

What follows is silence, the heavy meaningful kind.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You hesitate. You don’t want to add to the weight he’s already carrying, but he knows you too well. He always has. Frankie has always been sharp like that—quietly observant, reading a room the way other people skim headlines. Maybe it’s something the military carved into him. Maybe it’s simply the way he’s built. 

“I’m just tired,” you admit. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. “I don’t remember the last time we were just… us. Not Mom and Dad. Not crisis managers. Just magnets, like we used to be.”

He exhales. Slow and controlled.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “God. Yeah, I know.”

You can hear the smile in his voice when he says it.

“We used to not be able to keep our hands off each other.”

“Still can’t,” he mutters before he adds. “At least not if I have any saying in that.”

That lands. Heat creeps into your spine despite the exhaustion. Even after five children Frankie’s still hungry for you, no matter how much your body changed shapes and sizes. 

“Oh?” you say lightly. “Mr. Morales struggling over there in your shitty hotel room?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. Low, dangerous. The one that always lures you in.

“You have no idea.”

You shift on the bed, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your shirt has ridden up on your thighs. You gently trace along the exposed soft skin. Soothing, not arousing.

“You miss me that bad?”

He goes quiet again but this time it’s different. Thicker.

“Mi amor,” he says softly, like a warning and a confession all at once. “I miss your body too.”

The air changes, tightens and your stomach flips.

“You do?” you tease, though your voice betrays you in its softer and breathier tilt. “Are you trying to seduce me over the phone now?”

“Maybe.”

You grin into the dark.

“That so?”

“I’m alone,” he says. “You’re alone. No one’s crying. No one’s knocking. Feels like a missed opportunity, if you ask me.”

You laugh under your breath. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Tell me what you’re wearing.”

“Francisco—”

“Just tell me.” A beat. ”Please.“

You hesitate for effect.

“Your old t-shirt,” you say finally. “The one that barely reaches my thighs, the pale blue one.”

The inhale on the other end is immediate. Sharp.

“Dios.”

You smile. Victory.

“Do you sleep in it when I’m home too ?”

“No,” you admit. “Because you usually take it off me when I do.”

There’s a low sound in his throat. Not loud, but you feel it everywhere you wish his hands would be instead.

“You’re evil,” he mutters.

“Me?” You laugh softly. “You’re the one who started this.”

“You started it the second you said you miss being like magnets.”

His voice drops another octave.

“I keep thinking about how you feel under my hands,” he says quietly. “How you melt. How you look at me like I hung the moon when I haven’t done anything but kiss your neck. How you moan when I reach that spot—”

Your breath stutters.

“That’s not fair,” you whisper.

“I know.”

Silence again but this one is pulsing.

“Do you touch yourself when I’m gone?” he asks, low and careful.

You bite your lip.

“Maybe.”

“Baby,” he growls.

You let him sit in it before you say: “I think you have to come home to find out.”

He groans softly — half frustration, half longing.

“I swear to God, when I get back—”

“You’ll what?” you challenge.

“I’ll remind you,” he says. “Exactly what being magnets feels like.”

Your thighs press together without permission.

“You’re all talk, Morales.”

“Oh yeah?” His voice is velvet and steel. “You’re the one who’s breathing heavier and I am alone in that fucking hotel room, hard as a rock—”

You freeze.

“…shut up.”

He laughs. Soft. Intimate. There’s this flutter in your chest that never quite died down.

“I miss you,” he says again, but this time it’s threaded through with heat and ache and something deeper than either. “Not just like this. All of you.”

Your chest tightens.

“I miss you too. A lot, actually. Not just as the best dad in the world but as my partner. My lover. Just— you.”

Another long pause on his end. The kind that feels like lying together in the dark. Which you desperately wish you’d do now instead.

“I’m counting down the days,” he says. “As soon as I’m home, we’re locking the bedroom door. Let the kids watch a movie. I don’t care. I need five minutes alone with my wife.”

You smile, eyes stinging as you blink the residue of tears away.

“Five?”

He scoffs. “Minimum.”

You laugh quietly.

“Come back to me,” you whisper.

“Always,” he answers immediately.

“I love you,” you say, already moving the phone a little away from your face to hang up. 

“I love you more, always more. Talk soon, yeah?”

“Talk soon,” you hum and hang up, placing the phone face down on the nightstand and let the ache settle as a reminder that no matter the distance, some hearts still beat in sync.

thanks for reading 💌

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[mcthsman]

*LOVE AFFAIR: a frankie morales x reader story.

Frankie's addiction turned your first Valentine's Day together into a nightmare. This year, you think he just might redeem himself.

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warnings: established relationship, reader is afab and goes by she/her, valentine's day special, post-triple frontier movie (but you don't need to have seen it to understand the fic), hurt/comfort, fluff, frankie is the pssy eating king, smut (oral f receiving, fingering, outdoor sex, panty kink sort of, face sitting, frankie has a huge praise kink, lowkey sub!frankie, coming untouched, crying after sex), mentions of drug use, real depictions of addiction, no use of y/n, mention of overdosing, frankie is clean now but it's been rough, brief benny cameo, pet names galore for the both of them, descriptions of food/eating, reader is traumatized by frankie's addiction, mentions of anxiety.

rating: +18.

word count: 4.7k.

fox says: hello friends, thank you so much for reading! this is my first time posting for frankie (i've written for him before but very briefly and nothing that has ever seen the light of day) and i'm a little nervous but i hope you guys enjoy my version of him. this ended up being a little more personal than i wanted it to be and i poured a lot of myself into it but hm yeah it is what it is lol as always, pls let me know what we think!

entry for the second week of frankie february hosted by @grogusmum! my prompts were: dinner date + “I don’t need a perfect moment, I just need you.”

also available on archiveofourown.

This is your second Valentine's Day with Frankie, but it is the first one he'll be sober for— He's been clean for two hundred and twelve days, and while he is an entirely different man, there is still a part of you that is afraid: Afraid he'll relapse, afraid one bad day might make your entire relationship crumble, afraid that everything will go back to the nightmare it once ones.

Your first Valentine's Day with him was probably the worst one you've ever had. You've always been a romantic at heart, and the idea of a whole day to celebrate your love feels special even if you know it's mostly a marketing ploy. You love the heart candy, and the flowers and getting to spend a special night with the man you want to stay with for the rest of your life.

Frankie didn't seem to care much. He wasn't at the lowest point of his addiction yet — That would come months later, on the anniversary of Tom's death when you almost lost him for good — but it was already at the point where there was no hiding it. He'd been drinking more often than not, ghosting you for days at a time before he'd call you in tears, begging you to come pick him up at a shady part of town after too many days hiding out inside a filthy crack house. You'd begged him for one night only, the one night of the year where you hoped he'd make you feel like he did when the two of you first started dating.

He'd promised you he'd be there, swore on his life that he'd show up for dinner and that he'd take the entire weekend to give you all the attention and love you deserve— He'd been about two days sober when he made the promise, almost seeming like the man you loved despite how sickly thin and jittery he was.

Frankie went missing on February 12th. He texted you in the evening, saying he was swamped at work and that he'd be home late, only then to turn off his phone before you could even text back. He didn't come home until the 18th, after you called his dealer and threatened to call the police if he didn't kick Frankie out of whatever back-alley motel they were hiding in.

Frankie didn't apologize when he came home, simply stared blank-faced at the Valentine's Day cards on the coffee table before he went to bed and slept for fourteen hours straight.

Now, a year later, you're still a little apprehensive. You've been dropping hints all week about how you'd like to do something different for the holiday but Frankie seemed oblivious to it, humming and nodding but not bringing up any date ideas or saying anything to make it clear he, too, expected a special night.

You wake up on the morning of February 14th to an empty apartment and a card on your pillow. It's a cheesy one that Frankie probably got from Target— The card is cheeky, a pale pink background with a tater tot in white underwear peppered with red hearts drawn on the cover. 'You're a real hottie tottie' reads in metallic red on the front and 'Happy Valentine's Day to a total spud' on the inside in a black, bulky font. Underneath the printed text, you read Frankie's chicken scratch of a handwriting in the strawberry scented gel pen he most likely stole from your large stationary collection:

Don't come home before 8pm ;-) Yours, Frankie.

It's such a cute, simple gesture that some people would find to be the lowest of efforts but you're riding that high all day, wondering why you're not supposed to come home before such a late hour, and what he could possibly be planning— You take an overnight bag to work with a cuter outfit, planning on showering at Benny's gym before switching from your work clothes to your date night outfit.

You try to focus on your work, but Frankie is constantly on the back of your mind— You keep running several different scenarios in your head trying to figure out what he could possibly be up to. He's always been the quiet type, your Frankie, the sort of man that loves you in the small details of everyday life rather than with grandiose romantic gestures. Frankie's love is a ticket to a movie you've been dying to see, your favorite take out waiting for you after a hard day of work, switching the radio to a different station when a song you don't like comes up. It's the type of love that holds your hand everywhere and that makes sure you're walking on the innermost part of the sidewalk, not exactly the flowers and balloons kind.

You don't mind the quiet. You welcome it, really— You're a hopeless romantic and, to you, there is nothing more romantic than knowing your partner inside and out.

Still, the idea that he's been working hard to make something out of tonight just for you has you giddy in ways you haven't felt in a long time.

You hit Benny's gym around six-thirty; it is located just three blocks away from your work, and it's the place where you first met Frankie about two and a half years ago: He hadn't been working out, just leaning by the counter and chatting with his old friend but he'd come back every week after that, eyeing you from the counter or the water cooler until he finally gathered the courage to introduce himself. Tonight, your workout is half of your usual routine— It helps to ground you a little, distracting you from the anxiety bubbling up. You tell yourself that it's not a big deal, that you have no reason to be so worked up over something that doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things but your mind keeps going back to that fateful night a year ago, how heartbroken and lonely and abandoned you felt.

Frankie hasn't texted you all day, which happens sometimes when his work gets too busy — not like he could stop flying a helicopter to text you, after all — but it still leaves a bad feeling on the pit of your stomach. The entire day feels too much like the last one, like you're going to get home expecting a doting boyfriend only to be met with an empty house.

The outfit you choose for the night is simple, but still more effort than you usually put into it: A green dress you know Frankie likes, the one that cinches your waist and makes your chest a whole lot more enticing, and the only pair of heels you own. Benny grins when you walk out of the communal shower, wolf whistling loud enough to make you blush.

"Fish's a damn lucky bastard." He tells you, but you know he doesn't mean anything by it— Benny's a flirt through and through and, while it'd made you fluttery at first, you're so used to it it only makes you laugh now.

"And he knows it, too." You've never been one to think too highly of yourself, but even though you'd never admit it, you know it's true— Frankie is a complicated man that is lucky to have such an understanding, loving girlfriend.

You like to think you're lucky to have him, too. Even with all his faults, Frankie loves you ferociously when sober.

"Have fun tonight." Benny winks as you wave him goodbye. "Don't bring more kids into the planet tonight! We don't need any more Scorpios running around!"

You give him the finger as you walk away, feeling a lot lighter than you did all day.

You get home a quarter til eight and, although your curiosity is killing you, you do as Frankie asked and stay in the car until eight pm; in your rush to get to the apartment on time you almost miss the flowers jutting from your mailbox on the main lobby. It's the deep red that attracts your eyes and make you backtrack, triple checking that they are, indeed, shoved in the mailbox to your apartment before plucking them from it. The red tulips are fresh, and can't have been there for too long— You have an eighty-seven year old neighbor that is known for stealing people's mail and you're sure she would've swiped them immediately. You take the flowers with shaky hands, checking the mailbox to make sure there's nothing else inside before you make your way to the elevators, your fingers brushing the soft petals; you don't think you've ever even seen tulips in real life, which is a small fact you told Frankie one evening, almost four months ago, while the two of you were watching a documentary on the Dutch Tulip Mania. It was just an offhand comment but now it feels like it's much more, knowing that the chances of it being a coincidence are practically non-existent.

It feels like a lifetime has passed between standing in front of the elevator and standing in front of your apartment door, and it makes you feel just a little silly for how tense you are— Telling yourself that this is nothing in the grand scheme of things, that it's just another dinner date and some flowers, you step through the door's threshold at exactly 8:05pm.

The first thing that hits you is the smell. It smells awful, like something had burnt and Frankie had tried to cover it up with air freshener— You hear tinkering in the kitchen along with the soft hum of a Gloria Estefan song coming from the Echo Dot he swore he didn't need.

The second thing that hits you is the decoration. The apartment is covered in red, pink and white, looking very much like the holiday section of Target. There are love hearts glued to every furniture, with balloons and satin bows hanging from the ceiling; your purse hits a small pool of heart-shaped confetti on the hallway table, and your heels crunch rose petals on the ground. There are candles lit in every surface, the shades varying between red and pink, casting the room with a soft orange glow.

It's the cheesiest thing you've ever seen. It's the cutest fucking thing anyone has ever done for you.

"Frank?" You call out, and it's only a matter of seconds before his head pops into the hallway.

"You're early." He says, and you don't miss the way he looks back nervously into the kitchen.

"No I'm not." You can't wipe the smile off your face.

"Stay there." Frankie points his finger at you before he vanishes.

Your face falls when you see him come out of the kitchen with two cocktails in hand. He's not supposed to be drinking— Alcohol is a big trigger for him, has always been. 'I'm just a tequila shot away from a crack pipe'. is what he always told you; you stopped drinking when he did, not wanting to bring any sort of alcoholic beverage near him and yet here he is, two of your favorite vintage champaign glasses in hand.

"It's non-alcoholic." He says, a bashful smile on his lips. "Pink lemonade with ginger ale and grenadine. The lil' hearts are edible."

You stare down at the pink concoction he hands you, little paper hearts floating on top, and you're speechless.

"Frankie, this is—" You take a sip of the drink, trying not to choke on the heart confetti. It melts as it slides down your throat. A small part of you expects to taste the telltale burn of liquor, as if you can't trust his word, but there is none. "This is incredible. You need me to order us something to eat? How can I help?"

"About that… I tried to cook?" He cringes, his free hand scratching his stubbly cheek. "Something went wrong and I dunno what."

Frankie has always been a terrible cook; you're not certain how he survived before you, really, considering most of the things he make are downright inedible. He leads you to the kitchen, and you can see how embarrassed he is by the way he keeps running his hand over his hair as you approach the pans. It's a lemon and shrimp risotto, as far as you can tell, but you still haven't managed to figure out where the burnt smell comes from.

"It's real fucking bitter." He says. "I'm so sorry, mi amor, I really blundered it."

It can't be that bad, you think. And then you taste it.

It's real fucking bitter, alright. Frankie watches you with his puppy dog eyes, and you force yourself to swallow down the mouthful of rice before washing it down with your drink.

"It's alright." You say. The drink does nothing to erase the awful taste from your mouth, and you dread going back to the pan for a second taste test. "You can barely taste the bitterness. Did you use the lemon pith?"

Frankie blinks at you, clearly unsure of what you're saying, so you correct yourself. "The white bits? That's what makes it bitter."

"Oh. I did. Thought it would make it more lemon-y."

"It's… Edible." You concede, though that's far from the truth. "Thank you, baby. The apartment looks beautiful."

"Stop lying." He snorts, and you're unsure if he's trying not to laugh or not to cry. "I fucked it up again. I just… I really needed to make up to you. Y'know, after last year. I wanted this moment to be perfect, and now we're having cake for dinner because I can't even cook my girl something nice."

You set your empty glass on the counter, approaching him slowly. You wrap your arms around his middle, tilting your head backwards to look at him.

"I don’t need a perfect moment, I just need you." You press a kiss to the middle of his chest. "You're here. That's all that matters to me."

Frankie presses his lips to the top of your head, his own arms wrapping around you, holding you close.

"I just wanted to do something that could erase the memory of last year." Frankie admits in a small voice. He's been getting better at voicing his feelings, the weekly therapy sessions doing wonders for a man that used to swallow it all down and carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. "Making amends is part of my recovery. Fixing past mistakes I made because I was too high to know better."

"Oh, it'll definitely be memorable." You smile against his shirt. "We'll be picking heart confetti from the living room all the way to Christmas."

"The confetti was Mari's idea. She wanted glitter, actually, but I was able to compromise." He laughs, fingers flexing into your skin, his voice adopting the soft cadence it always held when speaking about his daughter. It warms your heart to know that she helped with his little plan, always a relief whenever the little girl made it obvious you were welcome in her little family— Marimar's approval was something you were always afraid of losing, knowing that the eight year old held more power over Frankie than he would ever admit but, time and time again, she treated you with the sort of love and kindness you never expected. "It's all over the bedroom, too— Though that was all on me."

It makes you snort, the idea of Frankie scattering confetti all over your bed and, even though you know it'll be a pain to clean it up, there is no part of you that is annoyed by it.

"You said we'd be eating cake for dinner?" You ask, pulling back slightly so Frankie can see the teasing grin on your face. "You didn't bake it yourself, did you?"

"No, pendeja, I got it from that bakery near Mari's school." He gives your ass a slap before pulling away, the shyness back to his face. "Let's go for a ride first. We can grab some burgers, eat in the back of the truck someplace nice."

"And the cake?"

The look Frankie gives you is so full of love you can barely stand to look him in the face.

"We'll bring the cake with us, hermosa."

Usually, the 'someplace nice' where you and Frankie stop to eat would be the parking lot of whatever fast food joint you go to— It's more private than eating inside the restaurant, and you don't have to wait a long drive to get where you want to go. It became sort of a joke between the two of you, saying you'll find a romantic spot to have your burgers and then not even making out of the parking lot before you start to unwrap it. Tonight, Frankie actually drives somewhere: An empty lot on the outskirts of town where you can properly see the stars, and the only sounds are from the crickets and one far away owl. Frankie's pick up truck is clean, for once, but he lays a blanket on the flatbed anyway, resting the food on the tailgate as he helps you climb inside.

The two of you eat in a comfortable silence, with Frankie stealing your fries when he thinks you're not looking and with you stealing gulps of his milkshake with defiance in your eyes as you hold his gaze; he laughs as he snatches it from your hands, but still sets it down next to you. The cake — chocolate with red buttermilk frosting in the shape of a love heart — is the best you've ever had, even if you have to eat with your hands because neither of you considered bringing the necessary cutlery for it.

It's the perfect night, better than any grand romantic gesture Frankie could've made for you: He's here, present and sober, with his solid chest underneath your head. You lay there for as long as you can, counting the beats of his heart as he plays with your hair. You can't erase the image from your head, of coming home all those months ago to find him slumped on the living room floor, white power dusting the entirety of your coffee table; Frankie had been blue in the face, eyes closed, his fingertips turning purple as you followed the instructions of the 911 operator to get him to breathe again.

It had taken you months to forgive him for that: For putting you through it, for making you watch as life evaded him.

"I love you." You tell him now, one of your hands sneaking underneath his shirt, needing to feel the warmth of his skin underneath your fingertips. His stomach twitches as you trail from his happy trail to his sternum. "Thank you for this."

"I love you too. More than you know." His fingers trace lazy patterns on your shoulder. "Wish I could've done more for you."

"You're here. Sober and healthy." You shift positions, still leaning half across him but now with your face close to his. "That's all that matters to me."

Frankie’s hand finds the nape of your neck, pulling you down until your lips touch; he kisses you deep, passionately, and you can feel the pour of his love as his tongue meets with yours. He tastes sickly sweet, of chocolate cake and vanilla milkshake, and you throw a leg over his lap when he groans into your mouth. The hand not on your neck skirts up your side, sneaking underneath your dress; you kiss until you're out of breath, Frankie's fingers toying with the band of your underwear and you can feel him grow hard beneath you.

"I need to taste you." He mumbles against your lips, voice low with desire and it flies straight to your core. You pull back, you try to climb out of his lap but Frankie holds you in place, pupils blown wide as he stares up at you. "No, on top of me. Ride my face."

You nod, biting down on your lip as you crawl upwards— You don't take off your underwear, knowing that Frankie likes it when you keep it on. He groans at the sight, the bright red lace between your legs already dampening as you hold yourself above him; Frankie starts low, teeth nipping at the fabric, his large hands kneading your ass. You don't sit down, not yet, steadying yourself on the back window of the truck and making him raise his head to reach you. He runs his tongue over your panties, suckling on it before his lips dart out to bite on the junction of your thighs.

"Frankie." You whine, legs trembling with the effort of holding yourself up. "Be good for me and don't tease."

The groan that leaves his throat reverberates through you, and Frankie barely has time to pull your underwear to the side before you're putting all of your weight on him. Frankie makes our filthily with your cunt, moaning as if he was the one being pleasured, his blunt fingernails digging into the fat of your ass. You start moving slowly, grinding against his face with care— Frankie never cared how hard you rode his face, but you were always worried of hurting him. The tip of his tongue catches on your entrance, teeth scraping against your skin and you throw your head back, pushing down harder than you mean to; the pasture is entirely empty but you're so lost in pleasure that you don't even care if someone sees it. The panties dig into your ass when Frankie pulls at it, bunching the fabric on his hand so hard you think he might rip it; the index finger of the hand not holding onto the underwear toys with your entrance, circling without pushing in. You grip your hair tightly, and Frankie whines against you.

"No teasing." You say again, your voice a little more stern than before— You don't mind the teasing, usually, but after a day of anxiety bubbling in your chest all you need is to come as fast as you can.

Frankie obeys, plunging his finger inside as he suckles on your clit; you raise your hips just a little, giving him time to gasp for air before you sit down again, essentially fucking yourself on his finger.

"Another one." You order, your hips moving in lazy circles above him. "Give me another one, Frankie."

Frankie pushes another of his thick fingers inside of you, crooking his digits as they move in and out of you and you see stars, riding his face a little faster, his teeth and nose catching against your clit as you move.

"Fuck, you're so good at this." You mumble, fingers still tight on his hair. "So good for me, Frankie, such a good lil' boy—"

Your body spasms as you come, your cunt gushing around his fingers and trembling as Frankie moans against you. He doesn't stop, though, his fingers slowing down but never stopping, the flat of his tongue holding still against your clit as your hips twitch above him. Frankie follows you when you fall to the side, his broad shoulders pushing your knees apart and then his mouth is on you again, barely giving you a moment to lay on your back. Your thighs smack against his ears, toes curling as you stare up at the night sky, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. His hands hold you hips to the bed of the truck as he leaves kitten licks all over your cunt, knowing you get too sensitive after an orgasm to be able to handle anything more. Frankie finally pulls down your underwear, tugging it all the way to your ankles; he stares at your wet, swollen cunt for a moment before nuzzling the tip of his nose to your mound. You can hear the way he inhales your scent, a fresh wave of slick pooling out of you at it.

"Gonna spend the rest of my life making up to you." He vows, tongue darting out to circle the soft skin of your inner thigh before he sucks your skin hard enough to leave a hickey.

"Is that your way of proposing to me?" You joke, breathless, unsure if you'd rather look down at the man between your legs or the beautiful sky above. "Because I don't think I'll say yes unless you get me a really pretty ring."

Frankie chuckles, pressing a kiss to your mound before he answers. "Not yet. My therapist says I shouldn't do that until I'm at least a year sober. More stable like that."

"You told your therapist you want to marry me?" The joking tone is gone, leaving behind just wonder and giddiness. His teeth scrape your clit, a little mean, and sparks fly to your core.

"Will you shut up? 'M trying to make you come again."

"You're the one that brought up the marriage thi—" Your sentence is cut short as Frankie sucks hard on your clit, his prickly beard digging into your sensitive skin. Your hands fly to his hair, pushing his face as close to your cunt as you can, holding him there. "Yes yes yes yes just like that, pretty boy, just like that—"

You second orgasm hits faster and harder, eyes rolling to the back of your head as Frankie licks you through it. He doesn't stop this time either, doubling down on the circle motion with his tongue and your stomach drops when you realize he's going for a third one; tears prickle on the corner of your eyes and your hips try to push away but he holds you close, his mustache wet with your slick as it rubs into your mound, his darkened eyes glued to you, searching for any signs that you might need to tap out.

"I can't, Frankie, I don't—" Your words are cut out by overwhelmed sobs, but you still don't ask him to stop, too lost in the pleasure that is bordering on pain.

"Yes you can." He says against you, his breath prickling your skin. "I know you can, mi diosa, I wan' you to soak my face." Frankie slurps against you, the wet noise making your entire body flush. "Just wanna please you, show you how good I can be."

"You are." The words are barely audible, your limbs feeling like they're on fire. "You are, Frankie. You're so good for me, such a good boy, always listening, always making me come. My pretty boy, eating me out like you were made for it."

The high pitched mewling noise that comes out of Frankie's lips is enough to tell you he has just come in his pants, and it's the thought of him being so painfully desperate to please you that send your hurdling over the edge of a third orgasm; you can't even make a sound this time, your breath cutting off midway through a gasp, your body locking tight before dissolving into a puddle of loose twitching limbs.

The tears come even as you try to swallow them, and Frankie climbs slowly over your body, his face sopping wet as he presses small kisses to your collarbone and neck.

"Are you alright?" He asks, and you know it's more of a formality than anything else. It's common for you to feel overwhelmed after coming so many times, but it still warms you that Frankie checks in.

"Yes." You nod, your fingers running through his hair. "I'm perfect. You?"

Frankie leaves a loud kiss to your jawline, making you giggle.

"Never better."

"Can I ask you something?" You ask after a brief silence, and Frankie hums lazily, almost asleep on top of you. "What did you burn? The entire apartment smelled burnt."

Frankie groans, shoving his face into the crook of your neck but you can feel his chest shake with laughter. "The curtain. Set it on fire with a candle."

"Frankie!"

"I'll buy you a new one, mi diosa, I swear."

"You're a mess, Francisco."

"Your mess, I hope?"

You kiss the top of his head. "Always."

general taglist: @itsafullmoon @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @hopecomesbacktolife @amourflores @rosharanfiction

[capuccinodoll]

— THE BOYFRIEND ACT ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (Frankie Morales, f!reader)

capuccinodoll's masterlist | ao3 | capuccinodollupdates

— Story summary: All you wanted was to get to Austin, but instead of your brother, it's Frankie (Santi's best friend, the one you can barely stan) who shows up in Dallas. He's just doing your brother a favor, but the trip takes an unexpected turn when a stop puts you face to face with your ex; the guy who broke your heart three months ago and is now about to get married.

Out of pride, you blurt out a lie: Frankie is your boyfriend. And surprised but willing to play along, he agrees, but just with one condition; you must accompany him to his mother's birthday. His plan? Dodge his family's meddling and their endless matchmaking schemes.

— Warnings: 18+ / MDNI / No Y/N use / story based on Triple Frontier, but with creative liberties taken ofc.

Fic content below the cut

PART ONE: "The one with the proposal"

PART TWO: "The one with the purring traitor"

PART THREE: "The one with the birthday party"

PART FOUR: "The one with bruises and blue excuses"

PART FIVE: "The one with the Red lights"

PART SIX: "The one with the late night talk"

PART SEVEN: "The one with the unexpected visit"

PART EIGHT: "The one with Dante and Beatrice"

PART NINE I: "The one with the wedding"

PART NINE II: "The one with the wedding"

PART TEN: "The one with the skydiving"

PART ELEVEN: "The one with the things we shouldn’t talk about"

PART TWELVE: "The one when nothing happens"

PART THIRTEEN: "The one with the day after"

PART FOURTEEN: "The one with the nightly calls"

PART FIFTEEN: "The one with the cabin and the river"

PART SIXTEEN: "The one with the unnamed surprise"

PART SEVENTEEN: "The one with the vampire girl"

PART EIGHTEEN: "The one with the Halloween party"

PART NINETEEN: "The one where Frankie Says Relax"

PART TWENTY: "The one where they don't know that we know and bla, bla, bla!"

PART TWENTY ONE: "The one with the guilt"

PART TWENTY TWO: "The one with Benny’s date"

PART TWENTY THREE: "The one when Frankie pays"

PART TWENTY FOUR: "The one with the Boston trip, part one"

PART TWENTY FIVE: "The one with the Boston trip, part two"

PART TWENTY SIX: "The one with the New Year's kiss"

PART TWENTY SEVEN: "The one with the Talk"

PART TWENTY EIGHT: "The one when the World Keeps Moving"

PART TWENTY EIGHT II: "The one when the World Keeps Moving, part two"

PART TWENTY NINE: "The one with the Movie Nights"

PART THIRTY I: "The one in Blue Waters, part one"

PART THIRTY II: "The one in Blue Waters, part two"

PART THIRTY ONE: "The one where everyone is in love"

PART THIRTY TWO I: "The one where time passes, part one"

More parts soon soon soon!

EXTRAS:

The Boyfriend Act timeline

The Boyfriend Act moodboards

Frankie's playlist

TBA playlist by Lev! @dontlookatme121

"A Divine Comedy", a TBA playlist by Saige! @dreamsunwind ‐> Apple Music - Spotify

Frankie life in Boston moodboard - snippet

Dieter's art studio; The Boyfriend Act: art by @pedges-world <3 and this too!

Dieter's art studio; The Boyfriend Act: art and blurb by @pedges-world

The Boyfriend Act art by @inkypaperghosts <3

[sceletaflores]

OH HONEY, HONEY, I COULD BE YOUR KEVLAR || FRANKIE MORALES

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

｡𖦹°‧￫ PAIR: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧￫ WC: 4.6k

｡𖦹°‧￫ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, drinking, smoking, some spanish dialogue cutely sprinkled in, reader is ex-special forces, established relationship, implied age gap, insecurity, semi-jealous frankie mmmh, oral sex (fem!receiving), fingering, finger sucking, more brief allusions to a foot fetish whoopsies, p in v, public sex (bar bathroom RAAAHHH), creampie, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧￫ NAT'S NOTE: finally got off my ass watched triple frontier and i’m a changed woman. i mean it was kind of a snooze fest but pedro pascal in a slutty little baseball hat saying “come on, baby” for like three minutes? that’s pure cinema. i’m praying that my spanish isn’t absolute dog shit, i’m still not a hundred percent fluent and dirty talk is such a struggle so please give me some grace if it’s ass and maybe some pointers! that would be very very helpful thank you love you. title from beyonce's 'BODYGUARD' because it's a beyonce summer in this house. hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune! extra special shoutout to angel @daydreamingmiller for the wonderful gif!

you and the boys go out...

The bar is buzzing, alive with easy laughter and the sharp crack of billiard balls meeting in the center of pool tables.

It's a dive in every sense of the word, a real shithole. The kind of place where you can smoke indoors because the owner doesn't give a damn. The walls are littered in old road signs and vintage rock band posters.

The floor is sticky and all the booths have tears in the bright red leather cushions. Neon signs are hung sporadically, each one lit up with a phrase more vulgar than the last, drowning everything in different hues of red and blue.

It’s perfect.

It’s familiar, safe in the only way a shithole can be when you’re surrounded by people who’d take a bullet for you. Who’ve taken bullets for you, just like you have for them.

You’re not drunk. You’re not even tipsy.

You’re a couple drinks in and resting on the perfect knife's edge of pleasantly buzzed. You’re warm, a tingly kind of warmth that seeps into your skin all the way down to your bones and loosens your limbs.

The cigarette you bummed from Will only adds to it, smoke flooding your lungs and curling in wispy grey loops around your head like a halo on every exhale.

Music floats in the space all around you, a beat up jukebox is shoved in the corner spitting out song after song. 

Lynyrd Skynyrd. The Rolling Stones. The Who. Guns N’ Roses. The Doors. Aerosmith.

Fleetwood Mac when that quarter you spent thirty minutes ago finally gets put to good use.

You’re standing near the same booth the five of you always pack yourselves in, sleeves rolled up to the elbow and some beat up darts in your hand. Benny goaded you into a game of 501 after his third beer made him feel cocky enough.

You’re sitting at 113. Ben’s only at 326.

He’s at the throw line, one eye squeezed shut as he lines up his aims for what feels like the hundredth time. Going Mobile kicks on as you wait for your turn with dwindling patience. 

"You gonna hit the board or just warm up your wrist for later tonight?" you say over the music.

“Fuck you.” Ben doesn’t let his gaze stray from the board, flipping you off with his free hand. He finally takes his shot, but his dart hits wide—buried in cork about four inches from the bullseye. ”Damn!”

You laugh, a low, warm sound, pulled from the back of your throat. “Alright hotshot shove over, my turn.”

“Come on, Sniper.” Santiago’s voice calls from behind you. “Make it three in a row.”

Your laughter doesn’t fade as you step up to the throw line, rolling the darts in your hand to feel the weight of them. Your fingers curl around them, metal cool against your skin, the sharpness of the tips familiar. You take your stance without even thinking—weight balanced, eyes narrowed, limbs loose. It’s second nature.

The first dart hits just inside the treble thirteen. Sharp thunk. Clean.

The boys heckle you from the table, ranging from supportive—Santi and Will—to whining about the board being rigged—Ben. You don’t turn around, but you can’t fight the smug smile on your lips.

Another flick. Another hit—just right of the center. Double twelve.

“Bullshit,” Ben groans. “You said you were rusty, you goddamn liar.”

“I am rusty,” you say over your shoulder, spinning the last dart between your fingers. “If I wasn’t I would’ve beat your ass three rounds ago.”

You line up your last shot. 

“Call it,” you say to no one in particular.

“Bullseye,” Will says.

You exhale slowly, wrist held high and right foot forward. You throw.

Bullseye.

The table behind you erupts. When you turn around, Ben’s groaning from where he’s leaning against Santi’s shoulder, who just gives a few approving slow claps. Will’s got that quiet, impressed smirk on his face.

You catch Frankie’s eye, he’s grinning behind the rim of his Modelo. All spread out on the left side of the booth, one leg kicked up over where you were sitting. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, showing off the dark hair scattered along his chest and the chain he bought from a street vendor in Ciudad Juárez when he was there on an assignment. 

The very same one hangs around your neck, just under your collar.

You smile, a real one—small and just for him in the way it tugs your lips up. Frankie winks at you from under the brim of his hat, a look you’ve seen hundreds of times swirling through the chocolate brown of his eyes. 

Later, it says. A promise. 

You can't wait.

“Loser buys shots.” You make your way to the table, leaning your hip against the edge. “Next round’s on Benny.”

Ben rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “Kiss my ass.”

You smile down at him like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. “Not with aim like that, Miller.”

The laughter that surrounds the table is easy. That’s how it’s come to be with them. Even on days like this, when you all feel like ghosts, carrying sand in your shoes and shrapnel in your lungs.

It started a long time ago. You met Santi first, back in Kandahar. You weren’t officially on the books with the same unit as him back in the day—your ops were blacker than theirs—but you'd cross paths on enough shared missions to get familiar. He was cocky. You were mean. He liked that.

You pulled him out of a burning Humvee with a busted comms rig and a bullet in his thigh. He paid you back when one of your jobs got blown wide open in Girardot and saved you from bleeding out in a ditch after he dragged you two klicks to a medevac sight.

Through him came Frankie. He was quieter than you expected after all the stories, and thoughtful in a way that made you curious. It didn’t take long for something to shift there—some gravity between the two of you that pulled you closer before either of you had a chance to name it.

You still aren't sure when exactly it had changed. There hadn’t been one single moment. Just a hundred small ones. Quieter nights. Warmer looks. Shared smokes in the silence. And eventually, one drunken night back in Bogotá when he kissed you outside a safehouse, the rain dripping off his cap and into your collar.

Neither of you looked back.

Will and Benny came much later. A package deal, good on their own but great together. One couldn’t exist without the other. Ben brought the noise and a young, unshakable enthusiasm. Will brought the strategy and experience.

They all introduced you to Tom when you were back stateside. He was calculated and quiet, the only man you’ve ever seen clear a building with a heartbeat under sixty. 

It all seems like a lifetime ago.

When you think back to it, it’s the smell of gunpowder and the phantom ache in your shoulder from the viscous recoil on your Barrett M82. It’s kevlar squeezed around your ribs tight enough to leave angry red lines of remembrance branded in your skin long after you took it off and the sound of bullets piercing flesh.

The six of you were never an official unit. You were all off-books more often than not. Contracts, black bag jobs, unofficial recon. Nothing that would stick. But when it went bad you called each other. Always. No matter the time zone. No matter the cost.

You’ve seen the best and worst of each other—on dirt roads, jungle trails, blacked out hallways. In safehouses and active war zones and cheap motels.

They’re your people. Your family, even if the word is slick with blood and drenched in ash. 

It’s family nonetheless.

So when Santiago called about recon work in Colombia, you didn’t even let him finish the pitch.

You were in.

Now, months after everything went down—the heist, the Andes, the loss and anguish you all carried home—you’re here. In a shitty bar with your family. With Frankie.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

“Alright, alright.” Ben stands from the booth, carrying five empty shot glasses. “Nobody ever said I wasn’t a man of my word, what are we drinking?”

“Surprise me,” Santi says, already on his feet. “I gotta hit the head.” 

Ben nods as he walks off, turning his attention back to the table. “Surprises all around?”

You shrug, stealing a sip of Frankie’s Modelo. “Works for me.”

Will shakes his head, sliding out of the booth. “Hell no, I’m coming with. This isn't spring break, I’m not knocking back any damn tequila shots.”

You watch them go, disappearing deeper into the crowd until you can’t make out their silhouettes anymore. You turn to Frankie, resting your palms flat on the table. “You up for a game, Morales? I’ll let you win if you promise to make it worth my while back home.”

Frankie laughs. “Only if you throw it just bad enough I don’t notice,” he says, chin dipped low, voice just rough enough to make your skin prickle. His eyes are fixed on yours—warm, focused, like he’s already replaying whatever making it worth your while might look like. Probably more than once.

You smirk, pushing off the table. “No promises.”

You make your way over to the board, plucking the darts out one by one. You’re alone for the first time all night, almost.

“Are you always this good, or is tonight just for show?”

The voice is unfamiliar—low and a little too close. 

You glance over your shoulder. Young, younger than you–early to mid-twenties if you had to guess. He’s tall, lean and muscular in a way that screams college wrestling. Sharp jawline, white teeth. 

You give him a polite smile. Nothing that invites, but nothing too rude either. You’re good at being nice. Trained for it. There’s strength in it, control.

“Used to be better,” you say, turning back to the dartboard and yanking out the last one. “But I’ll take the compliment.”

“Wasn’t just a compliment,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve been watching you. You’ve got a great arm.”

He’s not the only one.

Frankie’s watching you. You can feel it before you see it. Like a hum under your skin. A pressure point at the base of your neck.

“Thanks.” It’s as dismissive as you can make it, a clear send off.

The guy doesn’t take the hint. “Let me buy you a drink, maybe we could play a round? I’d love some pointers, I’ve never seen a girl throw like that before.”

A girl. You don’t even flinch.

“I don’t think you could keep up.”

He chuckles. “Oh, I don’t know.” His eyes rake up and down your body with all the subtlety of a car crash. “I’m a fast learner.”

You keep your posture relaxed, but your hand tightens a little around the dart. “Maybe, but I’m already here with someone.”

His eyes follow the way yours flick to Frankie out of habit, sizing him up unashamedly. He snorts, turning back to you with a cocky grin. “Is that your dad, or something?”

You don’t even blink, just cock your head and smile—sharp as a blade this time. “Careful,” you say, voice overly sweet and saccharine. “This girl might just lay you on your ass for that.”

It takes him a beat too long to realize you’re not joking. Your tone is calm, flat, with that old edge you haven’t used in years. When it sinks in, his eyes narrow, mouth working like he’s deciding whether to double down or cut his losses.

Smart boy chooses the latter. “Didn’t mean to cause trouble,” he mutters, taking a step back.

You toss the darts on a nearby table. “Then don’t,” you say, and turn your back on him.

Frankie’s standing by the time you reach the booth, he’s already got that look in his eyes. Quiet, a little withdrawn. His mouth twitches like he’s going to say something but doesn’t. You close the space between you, laying your hand on his chest.

“You mad?” It’s soft, quiet enough so only he can hear it.

He shakes his head, brows pinching together. “Of course not.”

His arm slides around your waist, big hand spreading out possessively over your stomach. He’s not lying, you know he isn't. It’s not you he’s mad at, it’s not even the jackass slinking his way back to his buddies he’s mad at.

He’s angry at himself.

You can see it still simmering under the surface, and it’s not real anger. Not entirely. It’s something else entirely—the insecurity he carries. The one that creeps in late at night when he’s lying behind you in bed, one arm slung heavy over your waist. 

The kind that whispers in his ear that he’s not good enough when he sees someone younger—someone who hasn’t been through what he has, who doesn’t have a road-map of scars or night terrors or hands that still shake sometimes when they’re too still for too long. Someone without graying hair or creaking joints or the softer gut that comes with love and recovery.

Frankie still doubts himself, even after all this time. He doubts that he’s really what you want, that you’re not just stuck with him out of guilt or some fucked up version of shared trauma that ties you together. 

“Hey,” you say gently, reaching up to hold the side of his face. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” His voice is gruffer now, lower. The furrow of his brow makes the skin in-between crease, you rub your thumb over it a few times until he relaxes his face.

You’re always struck by how handsome he is, even in the shitty neon lights bathing you both. His round, chocolate brown eyes stare down at you with so much care and love that it makes your chest ache. 

“Get in your own head. You really think I’d be out here flirting with some college guy when you’re sittin’ twenty feet away looking like this?”

Frankie shakes his head, embarrassed. “I’m fine, baby. Just didn’t like the way he was looking at you, that’s all.”

You lean into him, pressing your chest to his so there isn't an inch of space between you. “You’re the only one I want. You’re it for me, Frankie.”

He doesn’t speak, his lips pressed into a thin line as he holds your unwavering gaze. You hope he can see the look on your face, that he can hear the truth and the weight of your words. 

He wraps his arms around you and he breathes you in, pressing his nose into your hair. The tension in his shoulders eases the way it always does when you’re close. 

It’s nice, a step in the right direction, but it’s not enough. Not yet. You can still feel the stiffness lingering in his body, the way he’s holding you more out of possessive worry than relief—like he’s still scared you’ll bolt at the last second. 

You bite your lip, an idea sparking to life in your mind. It’s a risk, especially when Frankie’s feeling like this—but it also has an undeniable warmth flaring up in your stomach, phantom flames licking their way up your legs.

Besides, you’ve never been one to back down from risky situations. You made a career out of it.

You pull back, only slightly, just far enough to catch his eye. You notice the second he sees your pupils, blown out and dark as an oil spill. His brows furrow again, but it’s different than before. It’s curious, a silent question you’re more than happy to answer.

“If you want…” Your hand trails down his chest languidly until you’re toying with his belt buckle, hooking your pointer finger under the band of his jeans and tugging gently. “I could show you just how much I want you.”

Frankie’s eyes darken, his lips parting on a shocked breath. His arms twitch around you, fingertips digging into the fabric of your shirt. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

You don’t even wait for him to respond, your patience fizzling out into pure, blinding need.

You grab his hand and pull him behind you, slipping into the crowd without a backward glance. You lead him down the narrow hall past the pool tables, past the jukebox playing Dream On, until you reach the dingy single-stall bathroom.

The door’s not even all the way closed before Frankie’s on you. He backs you up against the graffiti covered wall, mouth already on yours—hungry, possessive, a little desperate. You love it when he kisses you like this, like he’s staking a claim.

His tongue licks a dirty stripe over the seam of your lips, fucking into your mouth when you moan. He tastes like beer, like lime and salt and something under it all that’s just him. It’s addicting, you can’t get enough—you never can.

Your hands are greedy—yanking his hat off and letting it topple to the ground carelessly, your fingers tangle in his curls, nails scratching along his scalp.

“You’re mine,” you murmur against his lips, breathless.

“Yeah?” he pants, kissing you again, hands skimming down your body.

He presses you into the wall harder, his hips grinding against yours, and you can feel him already. Hard, thick and aching through his jeans. Your pussy leaks wet and sticky into your panties, impatient and wanting.

“You really think I’d want anyone else?” you whisper against his jaw, licking the stubble, biting it. “You think anyone could fuck me the way you do?”

Frankie groans, hips jerking forward. His hands dig into the meat of your hips, hard enough to ache in the best way. You hope that it takes, that your skin is bruised come morning.

You rut against each other like you’re still overseas, like there’s mortar fire behind you and you’re stealing time you don’t have.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” you breathe, arching up against him. “Tell me how to make you feel better.”

“Wanna taste you,” he says roughly, voice thick. “Muero por saborearte, princesa.”

Heat rushes through you like an electric shock, lighting up every inch of your body. “Fuck, yes–”

Frankie drops to his knees before the words leave your mouth, hurried hands not even bothering to unbutton your jeans before he’s yanking them down your hips. He groans when he sees your panties—damp and clinging to your folds, soft cotton pulled tight. 

“Que cosita linda...” It whispered, soft and almost secretive—like he’s saying it to himself more than to you.

You brace yourself against the wall, one hand gripping the chipped edge of the sink, the other in his hair when he mouths you over the fabric. He presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to your pussy, the hot drag of his tongue through the soaked material making your knees threaten to buckle.

“Frankie,” you gasp, hips twitching toward him. “Don’t tease—”

He hums like he likes hearing you beg, like he needs it, and then hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs in one swift, greedy motion.

The moment you’re bare to him, he’s buried between your legs.

He licks up your slit, slow and obscene, tasting everything you’ve made for him. He groans like it hurts, like your pussy’s a salvation and a punishment all at once. He spreads you open with thick fingers and dives in, eating you like he’s starved.

“Fuck—Frankie,” you gasp, knees almost giving, fingers fisting tight in his curls. He only groans, the vibration making your hands twist his hair tight in your grip as his nose bumps against your clit. 

It’s loud, the way he devours you. He’s always been messy with it—and soon the filthy sounds of his mouth fills the bathroom, dirty slurps and sucks bouncing off the walls. Your head thunks against the hard brick behind you when you toss it back on a broken moan, you hardly notice.

You lift your foot off the ground, not hesitating as you press it against the thick line of his cock still tenting the front of his jeans. Frankie shudders, his eyes screwing shut as he bucks up into it, chasing the pressure.

“Shit, Frankie, I—” You whimper, dizzy, aching. “Need more—need your fingers—please—”

His eyes flick up to yours, dark and molten. “Show me,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to kiss your inner thigh, teeth scraping along the delicate skin there. “Show me what you want, hermosa.”

Your hand trembles as you reach down, slipping two fingers through the wet mess of your pussy. Slick and saliva coats your skin, eases the way as you circle your clit—once, twice—before you push them into yourself with a soft moan.

Frankie watches, eyes wide and rapt with attention. His hands knead the muscle of your thighs, his hips jerking up against the sole of your boot like he can’t help himself. “Mierda…look at you. So fuckin’ perfect.”

You fuck yourself slow, wrist twisting—and just as your thighs start to shake, you slip your soaked fingers out of yourself, strings of slick catching in the air, and bring them to his mouth. You don’t say anything, but there’s an unspoken order that fills the air between you.

Frankie’s a good soldier, he’d never disobey a direct order.

He looks up at you, gaze dark as he slowly parts his lips—his hot breath fans over your skin. Eyes locked on yours, he takes them in, sucks them deep, tongue curling around them lewdly. He moans at the taste, hand closing around your ankle to keep you in place as he grinds up against your foot harder.

You press your fingers against his tongue, rubbing the taste of yourself over his taste buds. Your pussy clenches weakly, pulsing with pleasure and emptiness.

Frankie pulls back, your fingers falling from between his lips with a soft pop. “Sabe como cielo.”

He doesn't give you a second to recover before he’s on his feet again, surging up like a man possessed. His hands grab your thighs, lifting you with ease, you wrap your legs around his waist instinctively. Your boots clatter against the stall wall with the motion, the dull thud-thud-thud drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears.

"You're gonna let me fuck you right here?" he pants, rutting against your slick heat through his jeans, the zipper catching on your swollen clit. "Right here, in this filthy fucking bathroom where anyone could hear us?"

You nod frantically, arms looping around his neck. "Yes—yes, fuck, Frankie, please—"

"Say it again," he growls, teeth scraping over your jaw. “Say my name like that again.”

"Please, Frankie," you whimper, biting his earlobe. "I need you to fuck me. Right now. Right here.”

That’s all it takes.

Frankie fumbles with his belt, one-handed, the other arm bracing your ass, keeping you pinned to the wall like you weigh nothing. The second his cock springs free, it slaps hot against your thigh, smearing precome across your skin. Thick and flushed, angry red at the tip.

You glance down and moan, already slick for him, already open.

He fists the base of his cock, running the head through your folds once, twice—and then he’s pushing in, slow and deep.

The stretch makes you cry out, back arching off the wall as he sinks in slow, his hips flexing forward inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt. You’re soaked and open from his tongue, but he’s still thick enough to sting just right. You feel all of him—every vein, every twitch.

Your nails dig into the muscle of his shoulders, your thighs tightening around his waist to drag him as close as you can. 

"Mierda…tan apretadita," Frankie groans, forehead pressing to yours, sweat already dotting his temple. “Siempre tan buena pa’ mí.”

You whimper, heels digging into his back as your pussy flutters around him. He holds still for a moment, letting you adjust, his breath hot and erratic against your cheek.

“You feel that?” he pants, grinding up into you slow and deep. “Nobody else gets to feel this. Nobody else gets to fuck this pussy.”

“Only you,” you manage, voice thick. “Just you, Frankie—fuck, please—”

He starts to thrust, hips snapping into you with filthy, wet smacks, the obscene sound echoing in the tiny stall. The sink creaks beside you, the mirror rattling in time with every thrust. You’re soaked, dripping, cock-drunk already.

Frankie captures your lips in another dirty kiss, all tongue and teeth and stealing the breath from each others mouth. “¿Que sucia, te gusta eso, eh?” He whispers against your mouth, nipping at your swollen bottom lip. “You like taking it like this, with all those people out there? Anybody could walk by and hear us, baby. They could hear how good you're taking my cock.” 

You whine into his mouth, nails dragging down his back, you can feel the thin material of his shirt straining under the force. The silk is so delicate, so fragile. That much more strength and you’d tear it clean down the middle. It makes your stomach clench, the idea of Frankie walking back out into the bar with his shirt in tatters, the angry red welts your surely leaving on his skin on full display.

“Tell me,” he pants wetly against your cheek. “Dime la verdad.”

“Yes,” you whine. “I love it. Fuck—I want everyone to know. Want them to know how good you fuck me, how good you make me feel.”

Frankie groans, a deep, almost animalistic sound. He grips your thighs harder, burying his face in the sweaty column of your throat. 

Your whole body jolts when he pounds into you deeper than before, the angle filthy, punishing. The dark hair around the base of his cock scrapes meanly against your sensitive clit with every thrust, teetering just on the edge of too much and just perfect.

You’re gonna come—you can feel it already coiling inside you, white-hot and snapping.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna come, Frankie—” you cry, clutching his curls.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.

"That’s it, baby," he pants against your throat, licking the sweat from your skin. “Dámelo. Come for me. Let me feel you soak my cock.”

Your orgasm rips through you like a gunshot—fast, brutal, and all-consuming. Your thighs tremble around his hips, your boots slam into the wall, and you clamp down around him so tight that Frankie lets out a raw, strangled groan.

“Dios,” he groans, the rhythm of his hips stuttering. “You gonna let me fill you up?” His voice is a snarl now, hips slamming forward. “Gonna let me come inside you, baby? Gonna walk out of here dripping with it?”

“Yes,” you beg, drunk on it. “Come in me—fill me up, Frankie—want you to come inside—wanna feel it—”

“Fuck.” He slams into you one last time and stills, every muscle in his body drawn tight as he spills inside you with a rough groan. You can feel it—thick and warm, leaking down your thighs even before he pulls out.

You stay like that for a long moment—both of you panting, trembling, stuck together with sweat and come and something sticky-sweet that lingers in the silence.

When Frankie finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are soft again. Warm and full.

You reach up, brushing a sweaty curl off his forehead. “Feel better?”

He nods. Kisses you slow this time. “I love you,” he says against your lips, almost shy.

“I know,” you smile, cupping his face. “Now help me clean up before someone breaks the door down.”

“…I’m not pulling out yet.”

“Francisco—”

“I just got in a good mood, bebita. Don’t ruin it.”

You laugh into his mouth, still full of him, still dripping down your thighs, and it feels like the first time all over again.

mini nat's note: thank you so much for reading! i had a lot of fun with this one love you chickens <3