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oncasette · 2 years

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𝗖𝗢𝗨𝗚𝗛 𝗗𝗥𝗢𝗣𝗦 & 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗠𝗢𝗠𝗜𝗟𝗘

frankie morales x fem!reader (aka ‘fox’)

summary: 2.1k.

You almost didn’t believe your eyes at first. Of course he was here. Of course he was here, on the first vacation you’d managed to drag yourself into after he left. Of-fucking-course. In that stupid hat, nonetheless. You tipped the last two sips back in a huff.

or the one where frankie finds himself on a two-week cruise with his ex-fiancé barely a year after their breakup.

warnings: not beta’d, implied smut

notes: hi, my loves. this was initially written as part of a series i planned out but i have no inspo or motivation to really continue it. please enjoy this fic as a one-off. <3

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The first time you saw Frankie Morales was not the first time he saw you.

The first time you saw Frankie Morales was in the dingy, probably mold-infested stands of Benny’s first fight, courtesy of one aforementioned Benjamin Miller. You hadn’t known Benny for long, probably a month if you were pushing it, but you’d become fast friends thanks to your moonlighting as a bartender and his affinity for being The Beer Garden’s resident pickup artist.

Somehow the oversized child you’d quickly warmed up to had managed to convince you to come to his fight. He made sure to promise he was a real good fighter and that he wouldn’t be back at your place later that night, bleeding on your couch cushions. Well, that and free beer.

He’d even gone as far as driving you to the run-down arena. He’d parked his jeep in the closest spot possible and had led you into the building with his gym bag thrown over one of his shoulders and his free hand hovering on your lower back.

“It’ll be fine. And if it’s not, I’ll owe you one,” he’d said once you’d reached the glass door and the point of not being able to leave.

“Woah, Benny-“

Benny’s groupies had spotted you before you’d spotted them. A blonde guy that you knew was a Miller boy, both from familial resemblance and the picture you’d been shown by a drunk Benny two weeks ago at the bar, and another guy with his back to you.

“Hey, there he is!” Will had said, clapping a hand over his brother’s shoulder. It hadn’t been more than a few seconds of hellos and pleasantries before the brothers were venturing off the locker room and leaving you with the man you’d just met.

Frankie was taller than you’d pictured. From everything Benny had told you, at least. Softer, warmer maybe. He looked like he could probably heat your whole apartment from just standing in the doorway. He had a patchy beard that barely matched the ‘macho-man’ run-down Benny had given you on the drive over and his ball cap seemed entirely too worn–but cute, you’d thought.

He’d been entirely too charming that night, with that smile and those big brown eyes. The way his hair was just barely long enough to curl around the edges of that hat and the fact that he smelled like cinnamon and sex on legs. And the fact that he’d managed to make you blush in under ten minutes with the spanish rolling off his tongue.

“So what did that pendejo tell you about me, huh?” he’d asked about a half-hour into the event.

“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?”

You found out Benny won the fight that night through Benny, if that says anything.

The first time Frankie saw you, though, was… also through Benny. He’d kept a photo of you in his wallet totally, completely on accident and not totally, un-completely not to show Frankie his new hot bartender best friend. Because Benny would never do something like that, don’t be silly.

But, nevertheless, the photo booth strand had fallen out of his wallet a solid second-and-a-half after Frankie had flipped the leather open to grab enough money out to tip the pizza man, and he probably would’ve thought nothing of it had your phone number not been scrawled across the back of it.

“New friend?” He’d asked on his trip back to the living room, picture pinched between his thumb and the two large boxes in his hands.

“She works at that bar I’ve been hanging at recently. The one I’ve been telling you about?” Benny said, eyeing the planted picture. His wallet was handed back to him picture-less as Frankie studied the four images. You seemed comfortable with the blond, friendly enough, but there had been nothing particularly romantic about the poses.

“Seems like she likes you,” Frankie chuffed, thumbing the sharpie digits. Benny hummed in response and he didn’t know whether to take that as an agreement or not as he flipped open one of the pizza boxes.

“I’m thinking about inviting her to the match on Friday,” Benny had said. He hadn’t been thinking about it. He’d already asked you three days prior.

“Oh, yeah?” Frankie had exhaled as he reclined in the Miller’s Lazy Boy. The pictures never made it back into Benny’s wallet, though. They’d served their purpose.

…

It had always been easy with Frankie. Like you knew exactly what your next step was going to be. Like he was leading you in this incredibly complex waltz that only he knew the steps to and somehow you’d managed to follow along perfectly without stepping on a single one of his toes.

Nevertheless, it took Frankie about six months after meeting you to ask you out. On a date, a real one. Not another Friday night sprawled out on opposite ends of your couch watching whatever movie you’d picked out that week. No, a real date this time. With flowers and that cute sundress you’ve been dying for an excuse to wear and, still, his ball cap. It was tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, but it was still there.

He’d showed up your front door right on time, partially because he’d been circling the block for the last twenty minutes, with a bouquet of chamomiles and baby’s breath because he thought he’d remembered you saying something that one time about liking chamomile tea and he knew it wasn’t the same thing but. You kissed him before his thoughts could wander too far away from him.

He’d taken you somewhere small, nowhere fancy. A diner just off the nearest highway that served everything in 50s costumes and roller skates, but somewhere perfect nonetheless. Perfect, not because the “restaurant” was anything to call home about, but because he’d actually managed to ask you out without screwing it all up, for once.

Though, he’d asked you more on accident than on purpose. It’d been at Pope’s place, on a Saturday because Friday’s were specifically carved out of his schedules for you now. There’d been a fire in the pit out back, but the two of you were sitting probably closer than you’d ever sat on Pope’s front porch swing, watching as the sky melted into a lavender color. If he had a say in anything, Frankie would’ve slipped his arm over your shoulder from where they were itching beside his leg.

He hadn’t noticed your fingers prodding at his lap until he felt the pounding in his chest. Like his heart knew your touch before he did.

And he was about to ask what you were doing, or lean in to kiss you if that’s where this was headed, or really both, when he saw you unwrapping the cough drop that had previously been in his pocket.

“You bitch, I thought this was candy,” you’d sputtered after allowing the disc to swirl over your tongue for a moment.

It hadn’t taken him long to kiss you after that, cough drop in mouth and all. He’d pressed forward without a second thought, before his brain could tell him to stop, and he’d allowed himself to kiss you with all the love-sick infatuation he’d accumulated over the course of the time he’d spent with you. And somehow, miraculously, he’d been met with you kissing him back with just as much fervor.

“Would you let me take you out sometime?” he’d asked as he pulled away, far enough to breathe but close enough to still be breathing in you.

It hadn’t taken him long to kiss you and it hadn’t taken him long to ask you to move in, either.

“Are you serious?” you’d asked, fully pulled back from Frankie’s chest and sat upright. A stark contrast to where you’d been when the words ‘Why don’t you move in?’ had quite literally fallen out of his mouth.

“Cariño, of course I’m serious,” he’d said, pushing the sleep out of his limbs as he sat up to lean against the headboard.

“You want me to live here? Like, with you? Sleep in this bed every night?” your fingers smoothed over the sheets. His laughter vibrated through his chest as he watched your hands twitch at your sides, close enough to feel but not touch you.

“Yeah, sweetheart, with me.” He’d leaned forward. “In this bed.” You could feel his breath fanning across your jaw. “Every night.”

His lips were always softer in the morning. They said softer things, pulled softer noises from you.

His fingers had found your hips, thumbing the hemline of the Fleetwood Mac t-shirt you’d stolen from him. Large palms had pulled you closer, resting you on his thighs while his mouth slanted over yours.

“Do I get half the closet?” You’d pulled away and you swear Francisco actually whined as he chased your lips.

“Whatever you want,” he’d said.

“And a key?” His hands had trailed up your torso, pushing the fabric further as he went.

“And a key, and the bed, and the whole damn house, if you want it, hermosa,” he’d whispered, gesturing for you to lift your arms so that he could pull the shirt off your shoulders entirely.

You’d had your first fight the night you officially moved in. Over something stupid and entirely too mundane to remember what started it, but you remembered how it’d ended. Not the fight, but the night. With Frankie wrapped around you in your now shared bed. With his nose tucked against your hairline as his thumb stroked the base of your spine.

“It’s all for you. Everything’s for you, cariño,” he’d said.

He’d proposed on your living room floor seven months later. With your legs wrapped around his waist and some cheesy rom-com he’d put on barely ten minutes ago playing on the television and a fireplace warming your skin from where you were sprawled on the shag rug. He’d pulled the ring out of his pants that were thrown to the side of him and he’d asked you to marry him with probably the biggest smile he’d ever graced you with.

And you’d stayed engaged for about a year when he’d left. Or had asked you to leave. Dreaming of a white wedding, only to end up shredding your wedding magazines at your mother’s house a week later.

…

The wait to get on the actual ship was long and boring and entirely too drawn out for your taste. By the time you’d finally stepped off dry land, your feet hurt, your bag was about ten pounds too heavy, and you were probably sporting a mild case of heat exhaustion–if the family of seven that had been waiting in line behind you had anything else to say about it. At the very least, you hadn’t been forced to carry your two duffel bags much further than the edge of the boat, at which point about three different crew members relieved you of your belongings and shoved a drink in your hand. A bay breeze with a purple umbrella, you hum.

It hadn’t taken you long to begin sipping on the drink and it’d taken you even less time to find yourself pressed against one of the handrails of the ship. It hadn’t left the port, yet, but the view facing the water was still nice.

You were excited, not that you would admit that to anyone but your notes app, but you were excited. To get some decent sun, at the least. It was almost like a fresh start, your first vacation in over a year, your first cruise really ever. Just you, the ocean, and about a thousand other strangers for two weeks.

Benny caught your eye before Frankie did. He still had that insanely boisterous disposition you never thought you’d learn to miss as the four of them huddled around one of the welcome brochures.

You thought you’d averted your gaze in time to avoid him—you could even hear yourself saying “surely this commercial cruise line is big enough for the two of us!” in the back of your head—but you had no idea exactly how wrong you were. You needed a drink.

He’d straightened up from where you’d spotted him leaned over the railing. God, you were beautiful. Taller—no, harder maybe. You held yourself a little tighter than he remembered. Even in that sundress, you’d lost that soft edge he’d always loved. He almost allowed himself to hope he hadn’t caused that, but he knew better.

“Fox?” he calls after you, after your silhouette. You pretended not to hear him, or maybe you really hadn’t heard him, back fully turned as you began your walk towards the residential half of the boat before the boys you used to call family could even look up at you.

#frankie morales series #frankie morales imagine #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader #triple frontier series #triple frontier x reader #sun bummin

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