#friday the catfish

[ilovepedro]

just married | frankie morales x f!reader

Main masterlist

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word count: ~2k

Summary: You and Frankie just tied the knot. Half way through the reception, your insatiable husband whisks you away for some much needed privacy.

Warnings: fluff, oral (f receiving), fingering, exhibitionism (sex in a private bathroom), unprotected PIV (wrap it up y’all), creampie, reader is female, no mention of hair type/skin color/body type, NO USE OF Y/N.

A/N: happy frankie friday! this is based off this post, i could not for the life of me shake this from my head. literally wrote this in an hour, i’m telling y’all i’m actually going insane. the brain rot is actually concerning. FRANKIE NATION RISE! 🫡 anyway, i hope y’all enjoy! 🫶🏼 i loveeee me some frankie 🫠 not beta’d, all mistakes are my own. 🏃‍♀️

Divider by @saradika

“Come on, hermosa,” Frankie rasps in your ear, moving his hands from your hips and grabbing your hand, a small smirk playing on his lips. Music booms from the DJ’s speakers, the dance floor lively and vibrant.

“Where are we going, baby?” You ask, your gown flowing freely as your new husband swiftly maneuvers you through the crowd. “You’ll see,” he shouts over the thrumming music. Your body buzzing with excitement and a smile, so big it hurts, adorns your face.

Leading you out into the hall and racing up the stairs, giggling like a couple of school children. Frankie drags you to the bathroom at the end of the hall, flinging the door open and guiding you inside.

He grips your hips and crashes his lips onto yours, swallowing your dissipating giggles as he presses you up against the door and locks it. You whimper softly as his hands begin to roam your body.

His hands roam your backside, making his way down to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze. “Frankie!” You squeal, breathlessly, laughter bubbling over your lips as you pull back for a bit of air.

A toothy grin breaks out into his face. “I’ve missed you, hermosa,” he pants, the both of you breathless from running and desperately kissing each other.

“I’ve missed you too, baby.” Not having had a moment to yourselves this whole day, you two bask in this brief moment of privacy.

He brings you in for another insatiable kiss. Your hands tug at the hair at the nape of his neck, making him groan into you. Snaking his hands down your waist, he cups your mound in one hand. You moan into him as your brows scrunch in pleasure, grinding against his hand.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all day, baby,” he groans, guiding you to the sink, pressing your backside up against it as he peppers kisses to the column of your throat. “You look so fucking gorgeous, baby, this goddamn dress is driving me crazy,” he whispers, nipping your neck. 

“You’re driving me crazy, Frankie,” you gasp. “Look so fucking sexy in that tux, baby.” He smiles into your skin, working his way back up to draw you in for another kiss. You moan into his mouth as he slips his tongue inside, arousal pooling in your panties and sticking to your sex. Swallowing every moan that pours into his mouth, he pulls back, your lipgloss staining his lips. 

Crouching to his knees, he bunches your gown up over his head and moans at the sight of your lacy panties paired with your garter. 

“Fuck, baby. So fucking wet for me all fucking the time,” he whispers huskily as his large, warm hands run along your thighs. He slides your garter down your leg, tucking it into his back pocket. 

Propping you up onto the sink, he spreads your legs and presses a kiss to your sex. You moan at the feeling, aching for more. One of his thick fingers prods at your entrance, parting your lips and allowing your husband a view of your glistening pussy.

“Please, Frankie,” you plead breathlessly, tossing your head back. 

“Yeah? My pretty little wife wants me to eat her pussy? Huh, mi esposa?” You moan, eagerly nodding as you clench around nothing. Frankie doesn’t miss the way your thighs squeeze together.

“What my wife wants, my wife gets.”

Without warning, Frankie dives in and licks broad stripes up your folds, gasping as you bite back a moan with your eyes rolling to the back of your head, attempting to be quiet. 

“No no, baby. I wanna hear you. They can’t even hear us with the music, it’s just us, baby - just me and you,” he says before diving back in and licking through your folds, his strong nose nudging your clit and your eyes flying open.

“Oh fuck, Frankie!” You moan loudly, eyes squeezed shut as you toss your head back, caution blown to the wind. You snake a hand into Frankie’s curls, tugging at them and eliciting a groan from your husband. The vibrations against your cunt send a new wave of arousal seeping from you, Frankie lapping up every drop as he drowns in your slick.

His tongue prods your entrance, fucking into you. He groans at the way you clench around him, chest rumbling in satisfaction. 

It’s sloppy, and hungry the way he laves at your weeping cunt. His tongue circles your clit relentlessly, your cries filling the air. His lips wrap around your swollen bud as his grip on your thighs tightens. Your hips involuntarily buck up into his face. He snakes his left hand up to your stomach, ring-adorned hand pushing you down and holding you in place. 

“So f-fucking good, F-Frankie, oh my god,” you keen above him, legs wrapping around his back as you try to brace yourself for your impending orgasm. His relentless pace creates a cloud of stars in your eyes. 

“I’m close, Frankie! So close, don’t stop! Please don’t stop, baby,” you yelp, tears of pleasure stinging the corners of your eyes as the coil in your belly tightens.

A sudden intrusion pulls a sharp gasp from you. Two of his thick, long fingers crook into that spongy spot with every stroke as he sucks on your clit. 

His fingers, his mouth, the ring on the hand which pins you down overwhelms you - he’s all-consuming. 

Your vision flashes hot white as the coil in your belly snaps, cumming all over your husband’s face and his fingers. Frankie laps at your juices as you grind your cunt into his face, thighs trembling while riding out your high. He groans as he slurps you up like the sweetest nectar, not wasting a single drop. Your whines fill the air along with a squelching sound as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you. 

He pulls back and rises to his feet, his patchy beard glistening with your slick. Slamming his lips onto yours, the two of you moan into each other. The taste of yourself on his tongue makes your head spin.

Frankie ruts his hips into yours, his clothed cock brushing against your exposed cunt and a loud cry pouring from your lips at the sensitivity. Wrapping your arms around his neck to draw him closer, you buck your hips against his, seeking more stimulation.

“Lean back for me, baby.” he rasps as he pulls back, gently pushing you back against the mirror. He makes quick work unbuckling his belt and shoving his pants to his ankles. You suck your bottom lip in between your teeth, mouth watering at the sight of your husband’s angry, leaking cock. Unable to resist, you palm him in your hands, smearing the dribbles of precum along his throbbing length. Frankie stifles a moan, moving your hand away and lines up his cock at your dripping hole.

Swirling small circles around your entrance, gathering the new wave slick that pours from your cunt on his length.

“Frankieeee,” you keen. “No teasing, please, amor,” you huff, on the verge of tears as your desperation grows.

“I got you, amor, don’t worry,” he whispers in your ear. He slides in slowly, but smoothly in one go, your slippery folds allowing him easy access. Both of you moan in tandem, Frankie’s brows pinched together and your lips parted.

You’re so full, relishing in the dull sting as he stuffs your wet heat to the brim. “Move, baby. Please move, mi amor,” you plead, breathless and desperate, seeking some relief.

“Shh shh, it’s okay, baby. I’m gonna take care of you, I always will,”  He says, voice hushed and husky, placing a kiss to your forehead. 

You know his words run deeper than just the matter at hand, having promised to love you eternally just hours ago.

He slowly drags out of you ever so slightly before snapping his hips into yours, his tip punching your g-spot. His hands rest on your waist as he picks up his pace. The room sounds pornographic - filled with the sounds of your squelching pussy, skin-on-skin, moans, and pants.

“I’m the lu-luckiest man ever. Got the prettiest girl ever to m-marry me. Knew you’d make a beautiful bride, hermosa. Most beautiful f-fuckin’ bride in the world, my pretty little wife. Get to, shit, get to love you and fuck this tight little pussy every goddamn day for the rest of our lives. Fuck,” he rambles, hips canting into yours.

Clenching around him at his words, more slick drips from your weeping cunt and onto the counter. An endless string of moans tumble from you and into the air.

“S-so fucking good to m-me, baby. So l-lucky to be your wife,” you keen, pressing your forehead against his. He hungrily captures your lips in a ferocious kiss, teeth clashing together as neither of you care how messy you two will look after.

“My wife. You’re mine, baby, you’re mine forever,” he moans as his tip kisses your cervix. Your walls flutter around him, your second orgasm rapidly approaching.

“Come on, baby, come on, baby. Let go, hermosa. I know you’re close. Let me feel you, I got you, baby,” he babbles almost incoherently. You wail as your orgasm washes over you, convulsing under his grasp, twitching uncontrollably as slick endlessly streams from your cunt. “There we go, baby. Good girl. So fucking good, hermosa. Always feel so fucking good,” Frankie groans against your lips, his thrust growing sloppy as your slippery cunt sucks him in.

“Love you so much, Frankie,” you gasp. “Love you too, hermosa,” he grunts. You can feel him throb inside of you.

“Cum, Frankie. Fill me up, please, baby,” you beg, still riding out the high of your climax.

“Yeah baby? Want my cum? Want me to stuff you full and walk around our wedding with my cum dripping out of your tight little pussy?" 

A high-pitched moan escaping your lips, you squeeze tightly around him. “Yes, Frankie! Wanna feel it dripping down my legs under my dress,” you squeal, overstimulation starting to sink in.

"My dirty fucking girl,” he rasps, punctuating his words with every thrust as he shoots warm ropes of cum into your cunt, coating your walls with his seed. A guttural groan rumbles from deep within his chest. Slowing his pace, you whimper as he fucks his cum into your used hole.

He rests his clammy forehead against yours, breath fanning each other's faces. Post-coital bliss settling amongst you two, the faint humming of the music from the reception rings in the air.

“Do you think they’ve noticed we’re gone?” You ask, panting. A deep chuckle rattles his chest, making you laugh. “I’m pretty sure they have, hermosa.” You pull him in by his tie, kissing him languidly. He pulls back and presses a playful tap to your thigh.

“Come on, baby. Let’s go before the guys start talking shit,” he says, helping you to your feet, and wiping his spend from your mound and in between your legs. He settles your gown into place as you fix your makeup in the mirror. He fixes his hair while you adjust his suit and tie back into place. You beam as you lock eyes with his, love shimmering in the corners of them. He entwines his fingers with yours as he leads you out the door and back downstairs to the reception.

It seems nobody has noticed you two were gone, or just don’t question your absence, as you two mingle your way back into the crowd.

“Hey! Where the hell were you two?! It’s time for the bouquet toss!" You best friend, and maid-of-honor, screeches.

"And the garter toss!” Santiago, the best man, chimes in. They drag you both to the dance floor. Women crowd the dance floor as you toss your bouquet over your shoulder, your best friend catching it and eyeing her partner. 

Music blares as Frankie leads you to a chair in the middle of the dance floor. He teasingly lifts your dress to remove your garter, to be met with nothing. Your eyes bug out of your head, heat coursing through your veins.

“Where’s my garter?” You ask him. Santiago appears behind Frankie, taking something out of his back pocket and holding it out to Frankie. “Here it is!”

Laughter erupts amongst your guests as you hide your face in your hands, an embarrassed smile plastered on Frankie’s lips, meekly waving to the crowd. He pries your hands from your face, playfully rolling his eyes as he brushes off the embarrassment while helping you to your feet. Cheering and whooping fills the hall as you smile apologetically to the crowd as they roar, Frankie cupping your face and pressing a lingering kiss to your lips.

Frankie is rotting my brain today obvi. this one's for all my Frankie girlies out there, shout out to y’all 🩷

thank you for reading! 🫶🏼

tag list: @undrthelights @gracieheartspedro @jenispunk @amanitacowboy @bastardmandennis @nostalxgic @tinygarbage @party-hearses @mandoisapunk @harriedandharassed

#happy frankie friday #frankie morales #frankie morales smut #frankie morales fluff #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x female reader #francisco morales #francisco morales x reader #frankie catfish morales #francisco catfish morales

[softiedingo]

#jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal #pedropascal #triple frontier #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales #whatever you say pretty boy #i mean look at those eyes #so damn pretty #happy frankie friday for y'all #softiedingo

[undercoverpena]

imagine taking yourself to the cinema. it's busy, the new release dragging everyone out of their homes, but you've booked a single seat in a random aisle, grabbed your popcorn, oversized drink (because, self-care) and manage to take your seat just as the lights go down.

you spot the faint outline of your seat buddy when the adverts and trailers begin. the way his smile rises up at a pun, how he has curls spewing out of his hat and fingers keep massaging the end of the armrest.

it's also hard to ignore how nice he smells—to the point, that it’s quite distracting, intoxicating, burying itself in your nose as you just admire, silently.

doing so well until a jump scare makes you grab the arm of the seat. heart pounding, popcorn spewed across your lap, not realising for an embarrassing amount of time that you accidentally grabbed his arm—until you felt eyes on you. strangers eyes. nice ones lit up by a brighter scene, finding them all wide and dark as the movie continues flickering random, bright white across his face.

you whisper an apology, removing your fingers and palm from him before he moves closer, “S’okay, you alright?” and you smile, nodding—because somehow, his voice cuts over loud bangs and shouting; his voice all nice, calming, so much so it makes your stomach flutter.

the rest of the movie is a blur. it becoming difficult to pretend you aren’t thinking about the way he sounds, over and over again. doing so when the credits begin rolling, and your body goes into auto-pilot, rising from your seat and leaving, just thinking over and over and over—

and then you halt, stop. pause.

turning on the spot in the crowded bustle of people exiting—eyes scanning, searching, elongating your neck to help as your heart does a steady hammer against your rib cage.

then, you lock eyes with him.

see that same mess of unruly curls, the other side of him hidden by angles, and watch his smile eclipse the rest of his face as he slowly walks towards you with a nervous twitch of his hands.

the moment crystalising, becoming clear. everything else becomes mute, quiet and nothing as he moves through the last people between you both.

“I don’t normally—” you begin, but he cuts you off.

“I’m frankie.”

your lips rolling together before you hand him your name.

and that’s how you met frankie morales at the movies.

[an: this was literally my dream and i wanted to bless you all with it for frankie friday]

#happy frankie friday #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales #frankie morales x you #francisco morales x you #catfish morales x reader #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier x reader

[honeyedmiller]

Anniversary | Frankie Morales

frankie morales x f!reader

synopsis: frankie takes you out to a nice restaurant on your first wedding anniversary, but with a little twist.

rating: explicit – 18+, minors dni.

warnings: established relationship, canon divergent tf one shot, smut (f & m oral receiving, fingering, unintentional edging, teasing, unprotected piv), small endearments of spanish are sprinkled throughout, frankie is a simp for you in this (as he should be), no use of y/n.

word count: 3.1k

a/n: happy frankie friday y’all

“You almost ready, amor?” 

You were putting your favorite earrings in before giving yourself one last look-over in the mirror. Once you felt satisfied with your appearance, you turned to walk back into the master bedroom to see your husband buttoning up a crisp white long sleeve tucked into some black slacks. 

Frankie whistles when he sees you in your floor-length red dress with a high slit on the side. “Goddamn querida, you’re giving me a run for my money tonight. Gonna have to fend off all the fuckers that are gonna check you out.” He laughs, holding his hand out to twirl you once to get a 360 degree view of you before pulling your body into his. 

You can’t help but laugh at his words, knowing damn well you’ll only be focused on the man in front of you.  

“Too bad for them,” You offer him a smirk, holding up your left hand toward him, wiggling your fingers. Your wedding ring glinted in the soft bedroom light—a reminder that you’re his and he’s yours forever. “I’m already taken.” 

“And I’m the luckiest son of a bitch alive.” Frankie says, grabbing your hand before laying a gentle kiss onto your ring. 

“That you are, Mr. Morales.” You shoot him a wink before giving his cheek a kiss. You separate from him to retrieve your black heels from the walk-in closet, sitting down on the bed to put them on. 

Frankie knelt in front of you with a soft smile settled onto his lips, the crinkle lines around his eyes deepening. 

“May I?” His voice is soft, lulling you into a brief blissful state. You hand him your heels, playfully nudging his chest back with your foot, pushing him back on his haunches. He takes your leg in one of his hands, tracing a featherlight finger up your calf and to your thigh. Goosebumps rise on your skin as you watch him carefully. He slips the heel onto your foot, kissing the inside of your knee before giving the same attention to your other foot. His lips meet the inside of your other thigh, but instead of pulling away, he starts to trail his lips up toward the apex of your thigh. 

A ghost of a moan slips past your lips before you thread your fingers through his curls, giving them a soft tug as your head lolls back. Your husband continued nipping, licking and kissing his way up your thigh until he reached the lace of your panties. 

His face was buried underneath your dress at this point, teasingly poking his tongue out to run over the lace. 

Your moan was louder this time and you could practically feel Frankie’s shit-eating grin. 

“I think you should wear different panties tonight.” He starts, and he pulls his face back from underneath the chiffon fabric. 

“I thought you liked these ones?” Your lips form into a slight pout that drives him absolutely crazy. It takes all of his willpower to not say fuck it and skip your dinner reservations just to keep you in bed and eat you out all night long. 

“I do, bebita, but I have other ones for you to wear,” His infamous sly smirk appears, and you furrow your brows in confusion. He stands up to full height, trudging over to the dresser before pulling out some white panties. He hands them to you and you look down at them in confusion, wondering why there was a bit of added weight pressing between your palms. “They go with this.” He says, pulling out a small remote. 

Your jaw drops in shock, looking up at your husband in disbelief. 

“Frankie—”

“Let’s try something new, hm?” His words were tender with plea, but his eyes pooled dark with desire. 

“Okay.” You agree, slipping off your panties you had on before slipping on the white ones. You knew he was going to have fun with this one, and truth be told, you couldn’t ignore the thrill that settled in your bones at the thought of Frankie using vibrating panties on you in public—let alone the fancy restaurant he was taking you to for your one year wedding anniversary. 

You knew you were completely fucked tonight. 

-

You were admiring the general romantic atmosphere of the restaurant as you and Frankie stood behind a couple that was checking in with the host. The soft orange glow the lights emitted left a romantic feeling lingering in the air. 

Your hand was wrapped around Frankie’s bicep, too distracted to even see him dig into the pocket of his slacks. You felt a low vibration against your clit, and you quietly gasped as you gripped onto his arm a little tighter. You already had an agonizingly dull ache heavy in your core before you left your house due to his incessant teasing, and this was only making matters much worse. 

The hostess returned to the stand with a smile on her face, coaxing you and Frankie to walk forward. Frankie upped the vibration with one click and you had to bite down on your lip from moaning, trying to act as nonchalant as possible. 

“Hi, how can I help you folks?” The hostess asked, and Frankie gave her a polite smile before telling her the last name under the reservation. 

“I have reservations for Morales, party for two at six.” 

“Ah yes, I have you right here. Go ahead and follow me this way.” She leads you two through the restaurant, Frankie’s broad palm splayed over your lower back as he guides you in front of him. 

She sets the menus down on a booth tucked in the corner, practically away from prying eyes. You quietly thank her as you scoot in, Frankie sliding in right next to you. 

“Your server will be with you shortly.” She turns away and you’re left sitting next to Frankie in agony. 

“Baby, please.” You beg, shutting your eyes as you practically force yourself not to rut your hips into the vibrations. 

“Oh,” Frankie coos, “Does my poor wife need me to stop?” He teases, nosing at the shell of your ear. 

“No, Francisco, I need you to fucking touch me.” 

He pulls back from your ear, a lust-filled gaze searching your own. “Yeah?” He quirks a brow, checking over his shoulder. The server walks up a few moments later and greets you both with a bottle of wine, pouring you both a glass. 

You could barely even think straight when the server asked what you guys wanted to eat, and you gripped the leather of the booth as you forced a smile and told them what you wanted. As soon as the server walked away, Frankie took a casual sip of his wine before leaning into you again. 

“Bet she’s so fucking wet for me, hm querida?” 

“You know—” Your breath hitched in your throat, squeezing your eyes shut as you swallowed harshly. “—Damn well, Frankie.” 

“Bet she’s gonna taste so fuckin’ good when I get my mouth on her, hm?” 

“You’re not playing fair, Francisco.” 

“And how should I be playing, baby?” He coos, kissing your cheek. The unfathomable ache that was once a low flame in your core has now been ramped up to a point of desperation, release impending very soon. 

You grip onto his thigh and squeeze your eyes shut, concentrating on staying quiet. You both know if you were at home right now, you’d be anything but. 

The server comes back with both of your plates, unsuspecting of your little escapades with your husband. You thank the server as graciously as you possibly can before they disappear again. 

“Frankie, baby please. I’m gonna come.” Your whisper is strained, nails digging into the meat of his thigh. 

“Make a mess for me. Can’t wait to clean it up after dinner.” 

“Baby please, I—” And right when the coil was about to snap, the vibrations stopped completely. Tears pooled in your eyes as you sat completely still, not expecting to be edged like that. 

“Did you turn it off?” You whisper, hands starting to shake. You took your hand off of Frankie’s thigh and clasped both of them together, looking at him with a desperate stare. 

“No baby, I swear I didn’t. I think the battery might’ve died.” 

Of course it did. 

You nod and swallow hard, trying to focus on the meal before you. It was hard to have an actual appetite when all you really wanted was your husband. 

Frankie felt bad, and he really wasn’t one to deny you of your needs. He got the server’s attention and asked for to-go boxes and the check, and within the next few minutes, you were both leaving. 

“We didn’t need to leave, Frankie. This was such a nice place and I didn’t mean—” 

“Uh uh. I’d rather be at home where it’s just us. Somewhere I can take care of you properly and not get arrested for public indecency.” 

You laugh at his words as he opens the truck door for you, kissing your temple as he offers you his hand to hoist yourself up into the cab. Once he settles into his seat, the truck roars to life and you’re on your way home. 

The throb in your core was so unbearable that you were gripping onto the handle of the door, steadying your breathing. Your eyes snapped up to the road and noticed an abandoned dirt road that no one ever went down coming up. 

You glance at Frankie and contemplate for two microseconds before your hand lands on his thigh. Fuck it. 

“Pull over,” You say, nodding your head to the dirt road. Frankie looks at you in confusion, but it suddenly clicks when he sees the pure desperation in your eyes. “Please.” You whisper. 

He pulls over onto the side of the road, turning off the headlights and the truck. You were both surrounded by the darkness of the night, with only a sliver of moonlight peaking through. 

“Cariño—” 

“I can’t wait anymore, Frankie. I fucking need you.” You cry, pawing at the buttons of his shirt. Frankie jerks his head to the back. 

“C’mon princesa, more room back there.” 

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You clamber into the backseat first, thankful that it was roomy back here, leaving little to no room to be cramped. Frankie sits on his haunches as he stares up at you, licking his lips. 

He doesn’t waste any time. He pushes your dress up and hooks his fingers into both sides, pulling the skimpy white material down your legs. He’s amazed at the string of arousal that was attached to the panties, eyes flicking to your core. 

You were absolutely soaked. 

Frankie smacks his tongue against his teeth, “Pobrecita. You’re really soaked, honey.” 

Frankie doesn’t say another word as he tosses your legs over his shoulders, kissing and nipping his way up your thighs. He starts to lick up your arousal at the apex of your thighs, hot tongue making you gush even more. 

You whine in desperation, a string of pleasepleaseplease evading your lips. 

“Love it when you’re so needy for me, baby. You and this pretty little pussy of yours.” He says, and finally, he licks a long stripe up through your folds and to your clit. 

You inhale sharply, threading your fingers through his thick brown locks before shoving his face closer to your cunt. He groans, and your eyes roll to the back of your head as your husband’s skillful tongue laps up every last drop of your arousal. 

Frankie plunges his tongue into you unexpectedly and fucks you with the muscle, nose bumping your clit with every thrust. 

“Frankie, fuck, please—” You pant, and he removes his mouth from you for a second to look up at you and smirk. The whole bottom half of his face was coated in your slick. 

Staring back at you was a man who loves to eat his wife’s pussy like it was the last meal he’d ever have, and fuck was he always starving. 

“You need my fingers too, baby?” He asks, moving to suck on your clit. A loud moan escapes you, and you grip onto the back door handle for dear life. 

“P-Please.” Your voice is a desperate cry, the coil building up so quickly it nearly gave you whiplash. 

He eases two fingers into your sopping heat, the warmth of you contracting around his fingers. He moans at the feeling of you, the sensation going straight to his already impossibly hard cock. 

He needs you to come first. That’s his rule. 

“She’s so needy for me, hm?” Frankie asks, and you can’t even begin to form a coherent thought as he scissors his thick fingers in and out of you. He picks up his pace and curls them, the squelching sound obscene as it reverberates through the cab of the truck. 

“Don’t stop Frankie, please,” You beg, the coil about the snap. He brings his mouth down onto you once more, licking through your folds, flicking his tongue once he gets to your clit. 

Your whole body stills as your eyes roll to the back of your skull, orgasm washing over your body like a wave crashing down onto shore. 

“There you go baby, that’s it. That’s it.” Frankie’s voice is smooth; calming. It’s almost dream-like with the way he sounds and the euphoric bliss that pumps through your veins. 

Your body slumps against the seat as you try to catch your breath. Frankie takes a seat next to you on the bench and pulls you into him, tipping your jaw up so your lips meet his. Your tangy-sweet taste dances on your tongue as he slips his into your mouth, groping at your body desperately. 

Your hands make their way down to the bulge in his slacks and you rub your hand over him. A groan rumbles from deep within his sturdy chest, and that’s when you’re quick to get to work. You fumble with his belt buckle but eventually get it undone, unbuttoning and unzipping his slacks. 

You tap his hips and he raises them so you can take off his slacks and boxers simultaneously. His hard cock springs free, and Frankie’s shoulders slump at the slight relief from restraint. 

You maneuver yourself onto your knees in front of him, placing both of your hands on his thick thighs before rubbing your hands up and down. You move a hand to gently grasp his cock, thumbing the pre-come off and popping your thumb into your mouth. You moan at the taste, moving your head down to lick a long stripe up the underside of his cock.

 Frankie’s hand cradles the back of your head as he closes his eyes in pure bliss. You love seeing him like this, falling apart under your touch—or rather, your mouth. 

You wrap your lips around the head of his cock, swirling your tongue around him before taking him as far down as you can go. You swallow around him when you feel the urge to gag, easing yourself all the way down until your nose meets the wiry hairs at the base of his cock. 

“Fuck, honey, your mouth feels so fucking good.” Frankie praises, peeling his eyes open to see you taking him so well. Your gaze locks on his and he inhales sharply, the sultry look in your eyes nearly sending him over the edge. You move your head up to feel and taste his silky flesh onto your tongue as it glides upward. 

You keep a consistent pace, moaning around him as he pants and grunts above you. Pleasing him like this only added to your arousal further, a deep need lighting aflame in your core once again. 

Frankie’s panting was getting louder, and he had to abruptly yank you off of him. 

“I don’t wanna come yet,” He pants, “I wanna be buried in you.” 

You whine softly at his words as he pulls you up to straddle his lap, teasing the head of his cock through your slick folds. You gasp when it catches your clit, slumping forward onto him. 

“Look at me, querida.” He instructs softly, and you move your head back so your gaze meets his. His eyes are full of carnal desire for you, muscle in his jaw ticking furiously as he concentrates on your gaze. 

He notches his tip at your entrance, and your eyes briefly shut before opening once more as you sink down onto him. Your jaw hangs open and your brows furrow, Frankie’s expression mirroring yours. 

You buck your hips forward, loving the feeling of his cock buried in you as he stretches you so deliciously. You thread your fingers through his locks once more, grinding your hips down onto him. His hands bring themselves to your hips, keeping your pace steady as you rock yourself against him. 

Your lips meet his once more, the kiss so passionate and hungry and full of a primal need that you can never seem to satiate. 

“So fucking lucky you’re my wife. I love you so much, honey.” 

“I love you too, Francisco. I always will.” You pant against his lips, enveloping his in yours once more. He stills your hips and fucks up into you as you trail your kisses down his throat and suck on his pulse point. 

Frankie slots a hand between you both and finds your clit, rubbing furiously at it as you both brace yourselves for impending release. 

Before you can even clock it, your cunt convulses around Frankie’s cock as you gush around him, head thrown back between your shoulders as you hold onto him. He leans forward and noses at your neck, kissing and nibbling the spots he knows drive you wild before his own hips still and he comes undone, spilling everything he has into your warmth. 

He groans repeatedly into your neck, both of you panting furiously as you try to catch your breaths. 

You huff a laugh and slump into his body, enjoying the post-coital bliss as you inhale the earthy musk and salt your husband smells of. 

“Did I take care of you well enough, bebita?” He asks breathlessly with a smug grin plastered against his lips, not-charged-enough-vibrating-panties completely forgotten. 

Your nails lightly scrape the exposed skin of his chest, and you’re so fucked out that you can only hum in approval. 

He kisses your forehead and admires the glow you always have after you two have sex. It’s the little things like this that he truly never thought he’d have in life, and then you walked into it all those years ago and made him an honest, loving man—and he truly wouldn’t want it any other way. 

“Happy anniversary, baby.” 

tags: @endlessthxxghts @ilovepedro @nostalxgic @punkshort @party-hearses

divider by @saradika-graphics

#frankie morales smut #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie friday #frankie morales #frankie morales fluff #pedro pascal characters #frankie morales x f!reader

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Grays II

Frankie Morales x f!reader

{ Grays - Part I | Grays Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: Leaning in close, you hiss in his ear, ‘You’re getting laid tonight if it kills me, Morales.’

Warnings: Insecure Frankie in need of self-love comes with his own warning, Reader is a hairstylist and has a related nickname, matchmaking elements, meddlesome mother, lots of teasing, not-quite-friends to lovers dynamics, mentions of hair, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, oral sex (F and M receiving), protected sex, dirty talk.

Word count: 8.5k

Notes: It's here - 4 months later! First of all, thank you so much for the love for Grays Part I. I still can't quite believe the reaction to Frankie and Shiv, you guys sure know how to make a writer feel special 🥰 This one was so much fun to write, and nervous as I am posting this follow-up, I'm telling myself to let go of my insecurities and just enjoy it because that's what it's all about. I hope y'all will have a good time at this wedding with the gang 😘

Francisco Morales likes to think of himself as a reasonably competent man. 

He can pilot a helicopter under intense enemy fire. He can take out a target from miles away in the tightest of spots. 

But he can’t do his fucking hair.

He glares at himself in the mirror. He can’t put his finger on it, it just doesn’t look like how you did it. He’s already washed it out and started over twice, and for a second, he considers driving to your salon. A quick glance at his watch tells him it’s far too late for that now.

Leaning over the sink, he says to his reflection, ‘Focus, pendejo. You can do it.’

He’s a pilot for fuck’s sake. He’s a man of procedure, he can follow steps. He just needs to break it down.

Hair half-dry - check.

Hair mousse applied - check.

Now he just needs to dry his hair all the way and style it - but the how is where it gets hazy. 

Frankie closes his eyes and casts his mind back to your salon. He’s sitting in the chair and you’re standing behind him. He wills himself to recall what you were doing with your hands, but all he remembers is the scrape of your of your fingertips on his scalp, the ghost of your breath on the back of his neck, and then -

Don’t be gentle, Francisco. C’mon, harder, deeper - don’t hold back.

He scrubs a frustrated palm down his face when his cock twitches in his haphazardly ironed dress pants, not for the first time… hell, not even the fourth time since he left your salon on Wednesday afternoon.

‘Goddamnit,’ he bites out, dropping the hairdryer with a clunk and grips the porcelain sink. He needs to calm the fuck down. 

He didn’t ask for - this, whatever this is. You’re you. You’re Shiv. The loudmouth with the wild hair he’s known since fifth grade. The fourth wheel at guys’ drinks when Will can’t make it. A relentless tease on a good day, and downright insufferable when you get enough tequila in you.

And quite possibly, the only person who’s ever driven him to the brink of unconsciousness with just the touch of their bare hands.

Frankie pinches the bridge of his nose. Maybe you’re right. It has been a while since he’s been with a woman. He just needs to get laid at the wedding, get this weird tension out of his system. And then hopefully, he’ll be able to go to sleep without being kept up by you telling him to go harder, deeper -

By the time he gets his head out of his ass, it’s too late for second-guessing. He rakes his fingers through his hair, sets it with hairspray, and quickly rubs the beard oil he bought in town yesterday into his whiskers. He takes a moment to look himself over while he clumsily does up the tie he borrowed from Pope.

This is as good as it’s gonna get.

He’s the designated driver tonight. By some miracle, he’s only five minutes late when he cruises into Pope’s driveway, where all three of the boys are waiting and sipping on beers.

‘Damn Fish, you look good,’ crows Santi as he climbs into the passenger seat, patting him on the shoulder. ‘You should get your hair cut at Shiv’s from now on.’

‘Only if you keep paying for it,’ retorts Frankie while he backs out of the driveway. He pauses as he changes gears, and adds in a grumble. ‘She’s making me use shampoo and conditioner.’

Pope barks in laughter, twisting in his seat to give Benny a knowing grin. ‘Someone had to, you caveman.’

The younger Miller brother ribs good-naturedly, ‘You ready for some action tonight, Fish? I brought some extra rubbers just in case.’

Meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror, Frankie rips into him mercilessly. ‘You know your small ass condoms don’t fit me, Benjamin.’ 

The car erupts with playful jeers, and the corner of his mouth lifts into a crooked smile as he palms the steering wheel.

‘That’s some fighting talk, Fish!’ goads Santi, punching him on the arm.

Will joins in the banter. ‘You better watch out, little bro. Big Dick Morales came out swinging tonight.’

Benny grins. ‘Ok, I see how it is. Let’s make it interesting, Fish. Whoever picks up a one night stand first wins a hundred bucks.’

Frankie shrugs in mock nonchalance and quips, ‘I mean, I can use the cash. Shampoo ain’t cheap.’

Benny chuckles and clasps his shoulder. ‘You’re on, man.’

It’s eight on the dot when you lock up the salon. While you did RSVP for wedding drinks - opting out of the sit-down dinner earlier in the evening - you hadn’t planned on actually going. But it seems like the whole town did, you’ve barely had two customers walk through the door all afternoon. 

So you let Ashton go home early, and after a quick snack, you take your time getting ready. Might as well have a Saturday night out - your first in many months.

The hotel is just a short Uber ride away. When you climb out of the car, you bite your bottom lip at the unfamiliar tension humming under your skin.

Nerves.

You’re nervous.

And worse, you know exactly what you’re nervous about. 

Or more precisely - who.

‘Pull it together, Shiv,’ you mutter under your breath. Steeling yourself, you stride into the hotel.

From his vantage point at the bar, Benny watches in amusement as Frankie glances towards the doors of the reception hall yet again. He doubts the pilot even knows he’s doing it, or at the very least, he doesn’t think that anyone would notice.

Grabbing his beer, Benny sidles up to his friend. ‘Looking for something, Fish?’

Frankie takes a sip of his Coke and feigns nonchalance. ‘Yeah, looking to win that hundred bucks from you.’

‘Dunno ‘bout that. I don’t see you trying very hard.’

‘Biding my time, Miller. Just make sure you have enough cash to -’ 

When Frankie breaks off in the middle of his sentence, Benny doesn’t need to look to wager a guess what caught his attention.

Turning around as you approach, he flings his arms out to give you a hug, eyeing you up and down appreciatively. ‘Babe, look at you all dressed up! Doesn’t she look nice, Fish?’

In lieu of an answer, Frankie stares intently at some invisible spot over your shoulder until Benny elbows him right in his stomach, jerking him out of his trance. ‘Fish?’

Frankie clears his throat and stutters. ‘Um. I - I don’t know.’

You arch an eyebrow at him. ‘You don’t know if I look nice?’

Benny has to stopper his mouth with beer so he doesn’t laugh out loud at the panic on Frankie’s face as he fumbles for a response. ‘I mean. Um, nice… pants?’

‘It’s a jumpsuit, Morales. Try to keep up,’ you reply and take two steps towards him, which has him backpedalling so fast that he upsets the table behind him, sending half-empty glasses spilling wine all over the white tablecloth.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he growls at you like a cornered stray.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you pull him upright by his tie. ‘Is he ok, Ben? He’s even jumpier than usual.’

‘Well, it’s a funny night for him. Watching his ex get married and all.’

‘I swear to God, Benjamin Miller, if you don’t shut the fuck up -’ 

‘Pipe down, Morales, we’re just messing with you,’ you shush him, tugging on his slightly skewed shirt collar to set it straight. ‘Can’t believe you own a tie.’

‘Borrowed it from Pope,’ he grunts without making eye contact.

Smoothing the lapels of his slightly crumpled suit jacket, you probe, ‘You’ve been using shampoo and conditioner like I asked?’

Frankie huffs a dry laugh. ‘I don’t remember you asking.’

‘Someone’s mouthy tonight,’ you tease. ‘And the beard oil?’

He concedes with a sigh. ‘Yes, Shiv.’

‘You look good, Francisco,’ you grin and reach up to push his curls back from his eyes.

He looks away as he admits, ‘Took three fucking tries.’

At least he holds still when you make small adjustments to his hair, shoulders stiff with hands stuffed deep into his pockets. You catch yourself missing the way he leaned into your touch in your salon, and you have to forcefully push that thought away as you push your fingers through the roots to boost the volume. His curls feel softer already than you remember them, with a noticeably healthier sheen. 

After a final rustle to loosen up his fringe, you wink at him. ‘Mark my words, the bride will rue the day she dumped your ass when she sees you.’

A voice from behind you interrupts. ‘It’s a bit too late for that now, isn’t it?’

Trading a look with Frankie, who gives you a sarcastic thumbs up, you put on a smile and turn on your heels. ‘Mrs. Morales, it’s been too long!’

‘I see you haven’t dyed my son’s hair like I requested,’ she says by way of a greeting, drawing you into an embrace.

Frankie’s taunt is so quiet that you nearly miss it. ‘Told you she’d come after you.’

Without skipping a beat, you elbow him in the ribs, ignoring his pained oomph from behind you. ‘You look wonderful tonight, ma’am.’ 

‘You can’t sweet talk your way out of my question, young lady.’

You cross your arms with a sigh. ‘I didn’t dye it because he looks good with the grays.’ 

‘Well, I don’t think so.’

‘In my professional opinion, he does,’ you retort pointedly.

‘If he looks so good, why is he still single?’

Frankie throws his hands up in exasperation. ‘Gee, thanks a lot ma.’

You turn to Benny, who has been silently watching you two spar. ‘What do you think, Miller?’

He dithers, eyes darting around in desperation until he spots Santi and his older brother coming back from the bar. ‘Look! Here are the guys, let’s ask them!’

‘Ask us what?’ asks Santi, giving you a kiss on the cheek and a glass of bubbly.

‘Do you think my son looks good with the grays?’

Your eyebrow twitches when Mrs. Morales carelessly ruffles his hair to emphasise her point. To your surprise, Frankie bats her away with an irritated ma!, before hastily rearranging it.

‘Your honest opinion, if you please,’ you add.

The boys hum and haw, sipping their beers and shooting uncertain looks between you and Mrs. Morales, clearly uncomfortable being caught in the middle. Upping the heat, you narrow your eyes at them, and Will folds first. 

‘Yeah, I mean - he looks good,’ he mumbles, avoiding the Morales matriarch's glare.

‘Pope?’ you prompt.

‘Cabrón rocking those grays,’ he nods supportively.

‘Ben?’

‘Uh huh,’ he replies vaguely, but at your menacing glare, clarifies, ‘Yes, I meant - yes, ma’am.’

Mrs. Morales scoffs. ‘They’re men, what do they know! I don’t see him catching any girls’ attention.’

Ah, that’s the easy part. You look around, scanning the crowds - and bingo, you see a brunette staring openly from across the dance floor. You hold up a finger for dramatic effect. ‘Excuse me for one second.’

Frankie looks ready for the earth to swallow him whole by the time you return with the said woman in tow. Pointing straight at him, you ask, ‘Lucy, this is Frankie. Do you think he’s hot with the grays?’

To her credit, she’s a good sport, and plays along with a cheeky wink. ‘Yeah, he is. You wanna dance, handsome?’

‘Yes, he absolutely does!’ you answer quickly before he can get a word in.

‘What the fuck, Shiv?’ Frankie seethes through clenched teeth, literally digging his heels in, but to his despair, his shoes skid uselessly on the tiled surface as you push him towards the dancefloor with this complete stranger. 

Leaning in close, you hiss in his ear, ‘You’re getting laid tonight if it kills me, Morales.’

‘Have fun, Fish!’ calls out Pope impishly, which earns him an emphatic middle finger. 

You beam at Mrs. Morales smugly. ‘And that’s how it’s done.’

‘You better keep it up, young lady,’ she says over her shoulder as she turns to leave.

You raise your drink. ‘Don’t you worry, Mrs M. I promise you - he’ll be leaving with his future wife tonight!’

Santi is minding his own business, sipping on his beer as he stakes out the ladies, when a hand shoots out from nowhere and snatches the bottle from him.

‘What the fuck, man?!’ he bristles indignantly.

Frankie polishes off the drink in one mouthful, before slamming it onto the table and demanding, ‘Where’s Shiv? I’m done. I’m not fucking dancing with anyone else.’

Pope jerks his thumb to the other side of the room. ‘She’s arguing with your mother.’

Frankie flops into a chair, the dress shoes that he never wears are pinching his feet and he fights the urge to kick them off. He folds his arms across his chest petulantly, one palm over his mouth as his eyes wander across the hall to you, where you’re gesturing madly at his ma, embroiled in an impassioned discussion, probably still about his damn hair.

You’re all dressed up tonight, which is new to him - he’s only ever seen you in jeans when you go out drinking with them, and he’s certainly never seen so much of you. The ‘jumpsuit’ (he learns something new every day) is black and cut low both front and back, and fuck, all he sees is soft skin and the dip of your curves and red lipstick -

Pope must have nipped to the bar while he wasn’t looking, and a fresh bottle of beer appears under his nose. Glancing up at his best friend, Frankie mutters, ‘Thanks.’

‘You can’t marry her, Fish.’

He chokes violently at the casual non-sequitur, spraying beer everywhere. ‘What the fuck, Pope.’

Santi beams. ‘You got that look on your face, man. I’ve seen that look before.’

‘I don’t have a look on my face.’

He chuckles, mostly to himself. 'Damn, I really should've seen this coming.'

‘What are you even on about -’ Looking up, Frankie spots you making your way over and panics. ‘Shut the fuck up, pendejo.’

‘Why aren’t you dancing, my little debutante?’ you ask when you come within earshot.

Santi chortles and takes his leave, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Good luck, Fish.’

You sink into the empty seat next to him and he deliberately twists his body away from you, drinking deeply from his bottle to drown out Santi’s words ringing in his ears. 

‘So, I heard you have a bet going on with Benny. I want splitsies if you win.’

Frankie rolls his eyes, staring resolutely anywhere but at the swell of your cleavage. ‘No.’

‘40/60.’

‘Fuck off, Shiv.’

‘30/70?’ you counter-offer.

He sighs. ‘You’re impossible.’

Ignoring him, you jump up with a happy squeak when someone Frankie vaguely recognises as a girl who used to be in your class approaches with a shy smile. You pull her close by the crook of her arm and ask, ‘Morales, you remember Sadie?’

He tries not to scowl too openly as he too gets on his feet. ‘Sure, hi Sadie.’

Herding them towards the dancefloor, you grin, ‘Go dance, get reacquainted.’

As he passes by you, Frankie grits his teeth and curls his fingers into the meat of his palms to crush the urge to reach out and touch you. 

But it’s easier to fall into your well-rehearsed roles, to toe the line that has been drawn in the sand since you were teenagers. And easier is certainly the safer option when it comes to you.

So he throws you a deliberate glare over his shoulder, with a deadpanned, ‘I hate you.’

You blow him a kiss and grin wider.

Frankie can’t hold back a relieved sigh when the interminably long song finally ends, and the woman he’s dancing with - he won’t even pretend he remembers her name - tucks his phone back into the pocket of his jacket after tapping in her number. ‘Call me, gorgeous.’

He stopped counting after the eighth woman you shepherded his way. This is it. He’s not above hiding in the toilets if that’s what it takes to make this stop.

Except he’s not quick enough. He spots you out of the corner of his eye, marching straight towards him with a fresh glass of water and a look of purpose on your face.

He doesn’t exactly know what came over him. He could probably blame it on the one and a half beers that he downed, or being pushed to the end of his tether. Whatever it is, there’s something he has to say to you, and it can’t wait.

You push the glass into his grasp. ‘Here, hydrate.’

‘Shiv -’

You’ve already swivelled around, your focus somewhere else. ‘Where is she? She was literally just behind me -’

‘Shiv -’

‘Mind you, she’s a sweet girl, but clearly not the brightest tool in the -’

His patience snaps, and he barks, ‘Shiv!’

You spin around, brow furrowed in confusion, and snarl back, ‘What?’

Frankie pauses, and you blink as his warm eyes hold yours. On an exhale, he says, ‘You look nice tonight.’

You’re vaguely aware that your jaw has gone slack, but only because his eyes follow the movement, dropping to your mouth. He considers you for a moment, head tipping just slightly to the side as he watches you. Then, satisfied that he has your attention, he brings the glass of water to his lips, throwing his head back as he drinks. 

Your breath catches in your throat when his Adam’s apple bobs with his swallow, before he leisurely swipes his lips with the back of his hand.

Except in your mind, it’s not water that he’s wiping from his mouth.

In a perfectly mirrored imitation of what transpired between you earlier in the evening, he takes two measured steps forward, prompting you to back up against the table behind you. The tinkle of glasses falling over hardly registers in the back of your mind. 

The fabric of his suit is cool on your skin, brushing your bare arm as he looms over you, so broad and warm. Though his front barely makes contact, your peripheral vision gives and all you can see is him.

‘What are you doing?’ you croak the same words back at him, hating the way your voice shakes.

Frankie smiles - really smiles at you, with no colour of the usual irony or sarcasm. Warmth settles into the creases in the corners of his eyes as he holds up the empty glass. ‘Just putting my glass away,’ he says coolly, an edge of cockiness at your tragically obvious reaction to him.

You feel your cheeks heat up as he does just that - the back of his hand bumping into your forearm as he moves, the breadth of him pinning you against the table. He doesn’t pull away, clearly basking in the way the tables have well and truly turned -

‘Hi! You must be Frankie, I’m Jan.’

Frankie squeezes his eyes shut in irritation at the voice behind him, nostrils flaring as he collects himself. A resigned smile tugs at his lips, and he tips forward, his words grazing your ear. ‘Catch you later, Shiv.’

You only let your knees buckle when he’s safely out of sight.

You’ve barely stepped back into the reception hall from a much needed bathroom break to clear your head when someone grabs you by the arm, tugging you onto the dancefloor.

‘Benny!’ You reprimand, stumbling over your feet. ‘I’m busy.’

‘Relax, Shiv. Frankie can survive on his own for a second.’

‘You’re just jealous that he’s hogging all the ladies’ attention.’

He scoffs, palms on your waist as he sways to the music. ‘He has an unfair advantage, ok? How do I compete with the bride’s ex?’

Clasping your hands around Benny’s neck, you catch Frankie’s eye over his shoulder. You wink at him casually, having somewhat recovered your bravado - it’s easier to pretend from a distance anyway. He rolls his eyes at you over Jan’s head, but he doesn’t look away, watching you with a hint of something you can’t quite make out.

Glancing up at Benny, you ask a tad bashfully, ‘I know we give Frankie a hard time about all this, but is he - ok?’

‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

You hesitate. ‘Well, we’re not exactly that kind of friends.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know, the kind who sit around having heart-to-hearts and painting their nails.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘What kind of friends are you, then?’ 

‘I don’t know, he probably doesn’t even count me as one,’ you admit. ‘He barely tolerates me on a good day.’

Benny shoots you a cryptic look, but before you can quiz him on it, he changes the subject abruptly. ‘Can I swing by the salon tomorrow morning? I have a promotional shoot at half past eleven.’

‘As long as you bring donuts and coffee.’

He twirls you around. ‘Deal.’

Frankie slinks out of the hotel, somehow managing to dodge both you and his mother on his way out, which he takes as a win.

It’s cold outside. He inhales deeply and feels it burn down his throat. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he watches his breath mist in front of his face, savouring the quiet.

‘Hey.’

His shoulders stiffen. He knows he should’ve been the bigger man. Should’ve sought her out first, to congratulate her.

Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.

When he turns around eventually, she smiles brightly at him, her engagement ring catching the lights.

Closing the space between them, he presses a kiss to her cheek. ‘Congratulations. You look beautiful.’

‘Thank you,’ she replies. ‘I’m glad you came. Your mum too - it was a long way to travel.’

His gaze falls to his shoes. ‘Yeah, well. You know she loves you.’

‘How are you?’ she presses on, always one for polite conversation. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’

Frankie shrugs but doesn’t answer.

‘Just because it didn’t work between us doesn’t mean I want you to be happy.’

He nods slowly. ‘I appreciate that.’

She points behind her. ‘Well, I should go back inside.’

‘Of course. I’m happy for you,’ he says. And he means it.

The hotel doors swing open, and Frankie looks up at the sharp clack of heels on the concrete. You pause at the sight of them by the curb.

‘Are you leaving, Shiv?’ the bride laments as you walk over to give her a hug.

‘I am, I’m afraid, gotta open up shop early tomorrow,’ you pull back. ‘Come by the salon any time, my treat.’

Once the bride is out of earshot, you turn to Frankie, hands on hips. ‘Alright, no more shirking, Morales. Get your ass back in there, your mother is on my case again.’

He folds his arms across his chest. ‘Oh no, I’m not going back in there without you.’

You sigh dramatically. ‘Am I the only one in this town who’s not scared of your mother?’

‘You should be,’ he snorts, then nods towards the parking lot. ‘C’mon, I’ll give you a lift.’

Taken aback by his offer, you hesitate. ‘Um - I thought you were the designated driver for the guys tonight.’

He brushes off your concerns with an easy shrug. ‘I’ll come back to get them after I drop you off.’ 

Typical Frankie - he walks off without even glancing back to see if you’re coming with him.

You smile to yourself and follow.

You must be drunker than you realised, because you’re staring. Again. For what must be the fifth time in the ten-minute drive.

It’s a lot of staring, even for you.

His jacket lies abandoned in the backseat, his tie jostled loose and the top two buttons of his shirt unfastened, sleeves bunched up to his elbows. You watch from the corner of your eye as his left hand grips the top of the steering wheel steady, fingers flexing every now and then on straight stretches of road.

As if you’re not already discreetly squeezing your thighs together, he’s also rubbing his right palm idly on his leg, the innocent rustle of fabric against skin getting you far too hot and bothered under the metaphorical collar. 

And then - your eyes trail higher - settling on the heavy bulge at the top of his spread thighs.

Fuck. You’re definitely drunk.

You mull silently to yourself that you actually prefer him in his beat-up jeans and threadbare t-shirts before catching yourself. You weren’t aware you had any preferences when it comes to Frankie Morales. And you have no business doing so.

Clearing your throat, you break the tense silence. Well, tense for you, anyway. He seems completely oblivious to your inner strife.

‘I’m sorry you didn’t win the bet.’

His lips quirk, but he keeps his eyes on the road.

‘I had another five girls lined up for you, you know.’

He scoffs. ‘No, thank you.’

You reach over to punch him on the arm playfully. ‘C’mon, you know you enjoyed the attention, Morales.’

‘You don’t know me very well, do you?’ he peers at you.

You make a face of disbelief. ‘If you hated it that much, why did you go along with it?’

Cruising into your street, his truck rolls to a smooth stop outside your salon. Frankie kills the ignition, then turns towards you. His answer is simple, and hits you right between the ribs. 

‘Because you wanted me to.’

You force a chuckle in a weak attempt to lighten the mood. ‘Since when did you care about what I wanted?’

He smooths his palm over the steering wheel and holds your gaze. ‘Sometime when I wasn’t looking.’

It would be simpler to pretend you didn’t understand what he means. To brush off this pull between you as a champagne-induced episode that you could sleep off. If you did, you could still show up at Tuesday nights drinks next week as if nothing has changed, and carry on.

It would be simpler. So you ask -

‘Do you want to come in for a nightcap?’

Frankie follows two steps behind you as you grapple with the keys on the doorstep. Once inside, the salon is quiet, and you strategically turn on the lights by the backwash, the semi-darkness making it more homey than it would have been if fully lit up. 

‘I would invite you upstairs -’ you pause and add hastily, ‘I don’t mean upstairs like, upstairs in that way - it’s just that my apartment is tiny, and the backwash is the closest thing I have to a couch. Are you okay with beer?’

‘Beer’s good, thanks,’ he answers. ‘Need a hand?’

You shake your head vehemently. ‘Oh god, please no - it’s a disaster upstairs. I’ll be right back.’

The rickety stairs creak loudly under your heels, and once you let yourself into your studio, you fall back heavily on the door, taking a second to catch your breath.

You invited him inside. 

He said yes.

You leap into action, shoving all your dirty laundry into the already full hamper. You try not to think too hard about why you’re cleaning up, you just hope you’re not making too much of a ruckus while you’re at it - because you have a boy waiting for you downstairs. 

Francisco Morales, of all people.

Despite having been in each other’s lives since high school, you’re pretty sure you’ve never been alone with him. Not even once. There’s always a buffer with Pope on his side, Benny on yours, and Will in the middle. And while some find Frankie hard to read, you’ve always known exactly how to act around him. You have an unwritten playbook - you bait him with cheap jokes, more often than not joining forces with Benny to gang up on him. He rolls his eyes and snaps at you to shut up. It’s the longest running show in town.

But this? Alone, after his ex’s wedding, in your salon? You’re going off-script and off-piste. Dangerous enough on a good day; outright stupid after a night of drinking.

Frankie is quick to help when you reappear, armed with beer and a bag of ice, using the backwash sink as a makeshift cooler. Your shoes clatter onto the floor as you settle in the chair next to his. Hugging your knees, you hold out your bottle, which he clinks with his.

‘Did you have fun tonight?’ you ask, rather mundanely.

‘As much fun as one is expected to have at an ex’s wedding,’ he answers with a sardonic smile. Taking a sip of beer, he adds, ‘Gotta admit, you winding up my ma pretty much made up for it.’

‘That never gets old,’ you smirk. ‘Although, I promised your mother you’d leave with your future wife tonight - so that’s a bust.’

You startle when Frankie chokes on his beer, his eyes visibly watering as he thumps a fist on his chest. When you ask if he’s ok, he won’t meet your gaze, downing more of his beer.

Not thinking anything of it, you move on. ‘You know, she sent a bunch of customers my way when I first opened up the salon.’

His voice is still a bit tight from his coughing fit. ‘And I’m sure she’ll deny it till the day she dies.’

‘I can’t figure her out,’ you admit. ‘I can’t decide if she hates me or not.’

‘She doesn’t hate you. She just doesn’t understand you.’

You hum, unconvinced.

He nudges your knee with his. ‘She was really proud of you when you opened the salon, you know.’

You toss him a sidelong glance. ‘You talk to your mum about me?’

He’s ambiguous in his answer. ‘She asks after you sometimes.’

‘And how would you have anything to say to her? We’re not exactly bosom buddies.’

Frankie concedes with a wry smile, ‘Benny talks.’

‘Ha!’ you laugh, echoing his words from a few days ago back at him. ‘Benjamin fucking Miller.’

He goes quiet for a second, looking around your salon as if taking stock. ‘It’s pretty amazing that you’ve built all this.’

The unexpected compliment catches you blindsided. You reply diplomatically, ‘Ashton helps me loads.’

Frankie’s eyes widen in feigned surprise. ‘Are you going humble on me now? What have you done to Shiv?’

‘Shut up,’ you grumble good-naturedly, adding, ‘Ben tells me you’re doing really well yourself.’

‘Yeah. I got promoted at work last month, and I’m saving up for a house,’ he replies, a hint of pride in his voice. ‘Things are looking up.’

‘You’re actually acknowledging your achievements?’ you gasp in mock outrage. ‘What have you done to Francisco Morales?’

With a shrug, he leans forward to put his empty beer bottle in the sink, but he doesn’t sit back. Instead, he sways even closer, one palm landing on the leather of your seat next to your knee, eyes darting to your lips. His voice is deep as he rasps, ‘Can I kiss you?’

It would be so easy to say yes, but when have you ever made things easy for yourself? 

Instead, you blurt out, ‘Why?’

Frankie looks amused, like he expected this from you. Slowly, not wanting to spook you, he gently plucks the beer that you’ve barely drunk from your grasp.

‘Because all fucking night, while you were throwing woman after woman at me, I just wanted to have a drink with you.’

He leans in close. 

You stop breathing.

‘Because since Wednesday, every time I wash my hair, I get hard thinking of you touching me.’

Closer still.

Your lungs ache.

‘And because when you told me to go harder, deeper - I nearly lost my fucking mind.’

He’s hovering over you now, and you can almost taste the bitter sweetness of the beer on his breath. He smirks at you, but there’s only warmth and mischief in it when he teases, ‘Speechless for once?’

‘Shut up, Morales,’ you breathe and grab him by the collar of his shirt.

And then you’re kissing him. You’re kissing Frankie, and he’s kissing you back.

It’s messy, and disorientating, and you clumsily fumble over each other until he’s sitting up in one of the chairs, with your thighs on either side of his narrow hips as you straddle him. He’s licking up into your mouth, sucking on your bottom lip, his hands gripping your sides almost painfully hard.

‘Is this really happening?’ you garble into his lips, ripping off his tie and undoing his shirt buttons as fast as your shaking fingers allow you to.

‘If you want it,’ he mumbles back, loath to pull back from you even for a second to shuck off his shirt. ‘If you want me.’

He kisses you wet and insistent, but he doesn’t push you, waiting for you to make up your mind. Reaching behind you, you tug on the tie that holds your jumpsuit together with a decisive pull, letting the fabric ripple down your bare front and pool around your waist.

Frankie bites his bottom lip so hard it goes white. ‘Fuck,’ he cusses, his grip on your hips twitching as he stares at your tits. ‘Can I, please -?’

‘Touch me, Francisco.’

Your poor second-hand Ikea bed that Benny helped set up when you moved in was not made for this.

This being the way Frankie effortlessly tosses you onto the mattress, his arms flexing with an easy strength that goes straight to your head, as you stare giddily up at him.

His hair - your handiwork - has been well and truly undone, errant strands falling over his eyes as he watches you, his broad frame looming over the foot of the bed. He pulls at his belt, which falls open with a careless clink, and he makes quick work of his now crumpled trousers, kicking them off impatiently.

Your head is swimming, yet somehow, you muster the strength to shuffle towards the edge of the bed, rearranging yourself to sit on your haunches, knees folded neatly beneath you. Boldly, you reach out to slide his dark boxers down his hips, and they fall around his knees and onto the floor. His cock springs free, half-hard and heavy, and Frankie swallows thickly as you tilt your face towards him.

‘I want to suck your cock.’

His eyes close as if he’s in pain, nostrils flaring at your words. Taking advantage of his distraction, you wrap one careful hand around his length, and he jerks violently at the first velvety slide of your palm against him. 

‘Fuck, Shiv -’ he chokes, eyes flying open at the contact, pupils completely blown. He protests weakly, ‘No, stop, need to get you off first -’

You shoot him a lopsided smile, pumping him slowly, your pulse racing at the way you feel him swell in your grasp. ‘Can we not argue this one time?’

You lean forward and, holding his gaze, flatten your tongue and lick your way up the underside of his cock. His breath stutters, one big hand moving to cradle the back of your head, his eyes wide and almost frantic as you press open-mouthed kisses on his sensitive flesh.

With an insolent grin, you tease, ‘You’re a big boy, aren’t you, Morales?’

He whimpers, and you know you have him.

His size is obvious by sight, but you really feel it in the pressure bearing down on the hinge of your jaw as you sink down on his cock, fighting to squeeze the girth of him into your mouth. The guttural groan from Frankie makes your pussy clench, and he tastes like he looks - clean, and all man. 

There’s no way you can take all of him, but you’ll be damned if you don’t try. He’s hot under your touch, muscles pulled taut with tension that you can feel thrumming under his skin as you take your time with him. Focusing on your breathing and relaxing your throat, you bob patiently up and down on him, slicking up his length with your spit, working him slightly deeper with every stroke - until you’re so full of him that you gag, hard.

Frankie is slack-jawed when you release him with an obscenely wet pop, spit trailing from your lips to the swollen tip of his cock, eyes wild as swipes his thumb across your puffy bottom lip. 

‘You’re beautiful,’ he declares, almost solemnly.

Slinking down his front, one hand securely around the base of his cock, you take him between your lips again, moaning at the salty taste of his precum, which makes him quake above you. As you swallow his length and pump your fist in tandem, your spit wetting your fingers, you peer up at him through your lashes - nothing could’ve prepared you for the utter wreckage that you find on his face. 

His lips are pulled back, baring his tidy teeth into a snarl as he very clearly struggles to hold himself back from fucking your mouth. You feel every bump and vein in his cock with each descent, the wet squelches filling in the gaps of his low grunts and moans. His grip in your hair stings as he starts panting in earnest above you, and somehow he gets even harder on your tongue, making it harder to breathe - 

‘Stop, stop,’ he wheezes suddenly, pulling back in a hasty retreat that has you whining at the sudden loss of him. ‘C’mere.’

He practically hauls you up against him, kissing you deeply, delving into your mouth to taste the bitterness of himself on your tongue. The world tilts on its axis when he tips you back onto the bed, and holding himself above you, he peels the jumpsuit off, leaving you in just your panties.

‘Gonna eat you out, baby,’ he drawls by your ear, trailing one palm up your body, which stops at your tits and squeezes. ‘Get you good and ready to take my big cock. How does that sound?’

‘Fuck, yes, Frankie, please,’ you beg.

There’s no shyness when he pushes your legs up and apart, and instead of taking your panties off, he hooks a finger under the thin fabric and pulls it to the side, his eyes darkening as he stares down at you.

‘So pretty,’ he praises you lowly. Holding your breath as he sinks onto his front, you breathe heavily in anticipation as his shoulders slot neatly underneath your legs. ‘Look at how wet you are for me. All this from sucking my cock?’

You nod frantically. ‘Frankie -’

Straight to the point as always, he ducks his dark head and drags the broad of his tongue over your clit - and you’re gone.

Admittedly, you have not had the best experiences with your exes. There was always too much gratuitous moaning and too little finesse, and afterwards, they always act like they deserve a medal for failing to get you off. But even if your past lovers had been more adequate in the field, you’re sure it still wouldn’t have prepared you for this. 

Frankie goes about it with a quiet focus that veers on reverential, the intensity in his dark eyes watching you makes your knees weak. He’s obviously picking up signs and reactions from you and adjusting his game plan accordingly, the pilot in him clearly in the driver’s seat. 

Not that he’s silent - far from it, you feel the reverberation in your core with every satisfied  hum deep in his chest, and the occasional, muttered fuck, so wet, want more in between licks and groans. But there’s nothing performative or showy about it, just a forthright competency that has you hurtling towards a toe-curling orgasm.

‘Frankie,’ you whine when you feel it about to hit. ‘Frankie Frankie Frankie -’

‘Eyes on me,’ he slurs against your sopping folds, and you listen - for once - watching him watch you fall apart on his tongue, thrashing in his hold as he grips you harder to keep you in place while he laps you up, until the burn of his patchy beard on your inner thighs makes you arch away from him from overstimulation.

Your pussy is still fluttering when he sinks two thick fingers into you, and he hisses at the way it clenches around him as he fucks you, leaving his digits slicked and slippery.

‘So tight, baby,’ he declares through gritted teeth, working you open for him. ‘Gonna feel so fucking good on my cock.’

You point towards the nightstand. ‘First drawer,’ you pant.

Needing no further prompting, Frankie yanks your panties off and flings the soaked scrap of fabric over his shoulder, then lunges at the cupboard where the condoms are. You scrape your nails over his thighs as he kneels over you, his usually steady hands visibly trembling as he tears into the wrapper and rolls the rubber over his heavy cock. He watches you with hooded eyes and settles between your legs, kissing you desperately as the swollen tip of him nudges at your entrance.

‘Ready?’ he asks, nose skimming yours sweetly.

You wind your arms around his neck, holding him close. ‘Fuck me, Frankie.’

The first push is a tight squeeze, and you can’t help the wince at the slight pinch as he sinks into you slowly. With a grunt of effort, he buries face into the slope of your neck and breathes, ‘Fuuuuck. You ok?’

‘Give me a second,’ you gasp, feeling your walls throb tightly around his length. ‘You’re so big, Frankie.’

He tangles his tongue with yours lazily in a deep kiss, before brushing his way down your throat and sucking on one nipple, making you cry out. He murmurs against your skin, ‘I know, but you’re doing so well for me, baby.’

Shifting your hips, Frankie groans when you slide him in deeper, the friction making you quiver beneath him. ‘Move, Frankie, please.’

He starts carefully, his strokes measured and deliberate, making sure you feel every inch of him as he draws back then sinks back in, exhaling shakily. ‘You feel so fucking good.’

‘Harder,’ you demand when you feel your pussy relax around him. ‘Fuck me harder.’

‘Shit,’ he growls and snaps his hips, drawing a squeal from you as he hits somewhere deep inside. You wrap your legs around his waist, bracing yourself as he drives into you again and again and again, the bedframe hitting the wall with each thrust.

‘So good, Frankie,’ you plead in between hard pants. ‘Keep going. Don’t stop -’

Looking up at him, you admire the way his hair falls over his eyes, swaying with his movement. Absent-mindedly, your fingers wander into his curls and his reaction is instant - he cries out, arching into your touch, his hips faltering as he seems to lose his rhythm. ‘Oh fuck, baby, been thinking about those hands all fucking week, just wanted to feel you touch me again -’

As wrecked as you are on his cock, you smile at his confession and slide your hands languidly in his locks, dragging your nails on his scalp, your chest swelling with pride when you watch his face - dazed and completely wrecked - fucking you so hard that you’re sure the bed is about to break.

When he finds his voice again, it’s your real name that slips past his lips. ‘Gonna cum so hard, oh fuck - I’m gonna -’

Frankie’s thrusting frantically into you, eyes screwed shut until his hips stutter and then - after one perfect moment of stillness suspended in time - shudder after shudder thunder through his body, your name a broken record as he spills into the condom, his scratchy baritone moaning into your neck as the frenzied energy bleeds out of him.

His weight pins you to the bed as he catches his breath, and you play with his curls gently, basking in the rumbling purr in his chest as you run the strands between your fingers. Eventually, gathering himself, he rolls off you to let you breathe, tying the condom neatly and tossing it into the trash can.

For a second, Frankie lies on his side, watching you quietly. You watch him back, casting your gaze over the curls stuck to his sweaty forehead and his broad outline backlit by your nightstand light. Before self-consciousness can settle into the small distance between you, he cracks a smile and quips, ‘You did say I’d get laid even if it killed you.’

You laugh, which makes him grin. One strong arm reaches out to tuck you into his side, securely beneath the duvet. You hum at the tickle of his beard on the back of your neck and the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you.

Right on the cusp of sleep, you sass, ‘Guess you’ll have to split the winnings with me after all.’

Any other day, you would’ve woken up if you heard someone on the stairwell. Hell, you’d hear if they were knocking on the salon door downstairs.

When you’re rudely shaken awake by frantic knocking on the studio door, you realise it’s because your hearing has been impaired by the side of a very warm body smooshed into your ear.

‘Shiv! Open up! I need to leave in fifteen minutes for my photoshoot!’

‘Shit,’ you croak, throat dry, limbs flailing as you try to sit up. ‘I forgot about Benny.’

‘Fuck him’, grouses Frankie, pulling you back into his arms, eyes still closed.

‘I can’t, I promised to help him with his hair. Fuck, do we need to hide you, or -’

‘The door’s thin, Shiv, I can hear him. And we put two and two together when you guys disappeared last night. We're pretty, but we ain't dumb!’

Frankie lets you go with a grumbled Benjamin fucking Miller under his breath, but he visibly perks up when you stumble out of bed naked.

You half-jokingly shield your boobs from his view. ‘Are you perving on me, Morales?’

He smirks, leaning back into the pillows with his hands folded behind his head while he eyes you appreciatively. It’s not fair how his triceps flex deliciously with the movement. ‘Why bother covering up? I’ve seen everything already.’

Trying - and failing - to shoot him a stern scowl, you pull on a robe and yank the door open, nearly careening backwards at the sight of Benny’s grinning face right in the doorway. 

‘Since when did you bang paying customers?’ he demands in lieu of a good morning.

You roll your eyes and usher him downstairs. ‘He’s not a paying customer. He’s on Pope’s tab.’

Benny flops into his usual chair, making it squeak, one eyebrow up as he does the air quotes. ‘Well, I guess we now know what kind of friends you guys are.’

‘Shut up, Miller,’ you gripe, but your mouth twists into a grin, giving you away as you set up.

‘Damn, that good, huh?’ he laughs. ‘I mean, Fish does have a rep, but I've never had insider confirmation.’

You point your styling scissors at him menacingly. ‘Shut up, or I won’t be held responsible if my hands slip by accident.’

Benny feeds you a sugar donut while you work quickly, trimming the ends before styling it, going for a tousled bed head look. You hear the water pipes run upstairs and the carpeted floors creak when Frankie gets up. Trying to play it cool, you only briefly glance up, catching a glimpse of him in the mirror as he makes his way down the stairs in his rumpled shirt and trousers, zipping up the fly when he reaches the bottom.

‘Morning, stud,’ sing-songs Benny, which earns him a slap on the head. ‘Ow! What the fuck, Shiv!’

Frankie loiters behind you for a second, scratching the back of his neck, before pulling you to one side. Not that it affords you much privacy anyway, with Benny wriggling his eyebrows impertinently at the two of you in the mirror.

‘I - uh -,’ he starts haltingly, one hand rubbing at the silver patch in his beard sheepishly. ‘I had a really good time last night.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ you smile.

His voice dipping lower, he asks, ‘Can I take you out to dinner sometime?’

Benny, being the shithead that he is, interjects loudly. ‘Hey lovebirds, I’m kind of on the clock here, if you don’t mind -’

‘She’ll get to you when she gets to you, Benjamin,’ snaps Frankie, one hand on his hip and the other pointing a stern finger at him.

Something about him being so assertive sends heat running up and down your spine. Stepping into his space - beaming when he doesn’t back away - you smooth a palm over the front of his shirt, unintentionally catching the rabbiting of his heart underneath.

‘I don’t know,’ you shrug nonchalantly. ‘Do you intend to come back as a cash-paying customer?’

His eyes flash with want, one hand closing around your hip and he leans down to let his heated words brush by your ear. ‘Not if I can keep paying in other ways.’

Reaching up, you run a hand through his curls, preening at the way he closes his eyes at your touch. ‘Alright then, take me to dinner, Francisco.’

Peering around you, Frankie barks, ‘Miller, I’m cashing in on our bet.’

‘Fuck’s sake. I was hoping you’d forgotten about that,’ he gripes, digging into his wallet reluctantly.

Swiping the bill from Benny, Frankie winks at you before pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth - chaste, but charged with meaning. ‘Looks like you paid for your own dinner, Shiv.’

With a roll of your eyes, you shake your head and playfully push him towards the door. ‘Get outta here before I change my mind!’

‘Yeah right - as if you would now that you know what you’ll be missing.’

You’re not sure which makes your jaw drop - his cocksure declaration or the roguish confidence with which he walks out the door. In either case, Benny howls with laughter as you struggle to stay on your feet, your kneecaps having been rendered completely useless.

Just as Frankie climbs into his truck, Ashton whistles to a stop outside the salon on his wheels. Jaw dropping at the sight of the disheveled pilot nodding at him through the windscreen, he abandons his bike right on the curb and dashes into the salon, the door banging against the wall as he rushes in.

‘Excuse me - what the fuck did I just miss?’ he demands frantically.

You roll your eyes. ‘Calm down, Ashton, it’s not what it looks like -’

‘It’s exactly what it looks like,’ interrupts Benny as he starts singing. ‘Shiv and Frankie sitting in a tree, F-U-C-K-I-’

He breaks off with a yelp when you stuff a donut into his mouth to shut him up, sugar flying everywhere as Ashton picks you up and spins you around, squealing like a banshee the entire time.

‘You guys are the fucking worst,’ you laugh, out of breath by the time Ashton lets you go.

Glancing outside, where Frankie is still parked watching the whole embarrassing episode, he gives you one last wink and an amused grin before he pulls away from the curb.

In an almost exact repeat of the scene from a few days ago, Ashton joins you at the window, and the two of you watch, shoulder to shoulder, as Frankie smoothly steers his truck out of your street.

‘He even drives sexy,’ sighs Ashton dreamily. Nudging you in the side, he adds slyly, ‘You’re in so much trouble, Shiv.’

You grin. You know you are - and luckily, it’s not a spot of bother that you’ll be in a hurry getting out of anytime soon.

Notes: I'm so excited to have finally completed this little two-shot. The two of them have been hanging out in my head all these months, it feels amazing to finally yeet this part into the world! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you had as much fun as I did with these two 🥰 Reblogs and comments are always greatly appreciated ❤️

Now that I've got you here, if you want more of Shiv, I wrote some silly little drabbles of her hair appointments with our handsome Pedro boys for a recent milestone celebration. There are also some fun thoughts that came out of an impromptu Grays sleepover we had last week 🤍

I'm sure we'll see more of Shiv and Frankie somewhere down the line. For now, thank you again, I love you all so much ❤️

#fuckyeahgrays2 #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x female reader #frankie morales smut #frankie morales twoshot #frankie catfish morales fanfic #triple frontier fanfiction #francisco morales #frankie friday

[survivingandenduring]

It’s Frankie. He’s wet. The cap survives.

#frankie friday #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales #pedro pascal #pedro pascal edit

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, prologue

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. 

This is the beginning of what you wished had no end.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, orange besties 🧡 See series masterlist for extensive a/n blurb and especially for trigger warnings. Tread carefully. Ily 🧡 Please be gentle, I'm terrified 🫣

Word count: 5.1k

[series masterlist] * [next]

Prologue: In The Beginning

He comes to you every Friday. 

He gets in after dark. He is gone before dawn. 

In this shady motel on the outskirts of town, where no one will recognise your car. The curtains are yellow, and the carpet is brown. There’s a dollar store painting of the Appalachian above the bed, and the tap runs either trickling and scalding or high pressure and cold. 

You hated that in particular, in the beginning. Now you don’t care. You don’t wash him off your skin anymore. Not until you’ve got no other choice. 

Because he can’t mark you, you’d been firm on that point, he likes to come on your skin. 

When he’d finally spoke, that very first time, he’d told you he was Frankie, but you assume it’s not his real name. Which is fine, you didn’t give him your real name either. 

“Frankie” had been far subtler than you, regretful, perhaps, you like to entertain the delusion, when he’d hinted that you couldn’t leave any trace on his body. 

And, in the beginning, you couldn’t imagine that it would ever matter. 

You were wrong. 

You were wrong about a lot of things, in the beginning. 

—

Friday night. Again. 

The swinging door creaks on its hinges to let in the regulars at random intervals. Mostly men, mostly middle-aged, mostly unshaven. Mostly clad in the working-class uniform of jeans, boots and t-shirt. Few of them sit around the round wooden tables. The bar isn’t large, there’s only four of those.  

When they come in small parties, the men favour the two pools on the right. They’re lined with blue felt. The casing is made of plywood. No one ever plays darts, no one ever feeds the jukebox. Its electric cord lays unplugged on the floor, coiled like a sad sagging tail. 

If they walk in alone, they tend to sit at the bar. Head turned toward the giant television screen hung on the wall to their left, where younger men in more colourful uniforms fight, run, kick or throw balls in all shapes and sizes. Its noise is at the forefront, the middle-aged men’s conversations a low humming sound that falls into the background. 

The long and angled bar itself takes up most of the rectangular room’s space. The counter is stripped-down to the bare minimum. Stainless steel, easy to clean, practical. Four beer taps and a gambling machine and beyond the counter, a large mirror with three rows of dusty liquor bottles. 

Food is served, occasionally, as evidenced by the paper napkins dispensers and the two yellow and red plastic condiment bottles on each table. 

The barman runs the place on his own. You drink here every Friday evening, and you’ve never seen more than six customers at once, you included. Admittedly, you might not be very observant. 

Being observant requires endurance, far more than you possess and are willing to deploy and direct towards others. You’re not selfish, not in the least. But you’re tired. You’ve been tired for years. There’s no rational explanation for your exhaustion. No honourable, awe-inspiring, valid ground. You don’t even know what wears you out. It might be sadness, disappointment, or boredom. Or all three in equal parts. All you know is that, come Friday night, your head needs the support of the gray wall behind you.

The creaking noise on your left signals the arrival of another customer, stomping in with a sure gait. Your eyes stay shut. You don’t come to the very aptly named Hole in The Wall seeking the company of other people, whoever they may be. 

You come here to hide for a few hours, between the styrofoam ceiling and the dusty carpeted floor. To drink your week away in peace, but not in nerve-racking silence. Alcohol, you found out at a young age, has interesting properties: it blurs out the sharp edges of your dark thoughts in just the right amount. 

Back in spring, when you stepped in here for the very first time, you looked comically out of place in your corporate attire, and you did raise quite a few eyebrows from the other patrons. Five months later, they must have learned to see past the charade of your overpriced clothes, because none of them pays you any mind anymore. It’s better than anonymity: it’s casual indifference.

You loosen your grip around your tall cocktail glass and let the condensation drip down onto the cardboard coaster. Reluctantly, you lift your weary eyelids to locate the square napkin lying somewhere on the table and dry your fingertips on it.

That’s when you see him taking a seat at the counter, directly across from your small table. 

Years from now, you will still remember the precise circumstances of your first, brief encounter, even though you’re not fully paying attention yet. Nothing indicates tonight will be any different. Nothing suggests you are about to live through a pivotal moment in your existence.

Details will stand out, however. Mostly visual, surprisingly, given the dim lighting of the place. The back of his trucker hat, midnight blue plastic mesh, flattening the dark curls on his nape. The washed out denim of his shirt, worked-in, greenish in the diffuse artificial light, pulled taut across his back, as he sits facing away from you. 

The square shape of his shoulders is backlit against the bar’s mirror. Your empty gaze finds the solid slope of his broad silhouette, and you let it rest there, lazily following his movements whenever he picks up his glass. It’s the same comfort you find when you rest your empty head against the hard wall. It’s aimless, inconsequential.

Later, on different kinds of Friday nights, the sight of his muscles bunching as he tugs off his shirt will bring you back to this very moment. The thought will reshape into a sharp, wistful ache deep inside your heart. What would have happened, to you, to him, if he had chosen to stop for a drink at another bar, somewhere further down the road? What if you had done the same, back in April? 

For now, your mind is blessedly blank.

Does he catch your reflection in the mirror? Does he feel your gaze on the back of his head? 

After a while, how long, you cannot tell, he pivots slowly on his stool, grounded and dense. Slowly, like a mountain would if a mountain came to life and decided to walk into the ocean. He doesn’t turn around completely, just enough to look at you, one of his arms still propped on top of the counter. 

The right side of his face is darkened by the shadow from the brim of his hat, but you can make out the pronounced crease in his brow. His eyes are black, and unfathomable, like the ocean at night, but alight with a bright glimmer. They find yours instantly. 

Something shifts inside your rib cage, something close to the heart, close to pain. 

You feel exposed, entirely bare. Your breathing subsides, you cannot move, trapped in a nightmare-like stretch of time as he glares down at you, immobile, impressive, gigantic. Dark eyes boring into yours. You’re drowning in them. 

You don’t want it to end. 

Inevitably, he breaks eye-contact, and swivels back toward the mirror. He sits still for a few seconds, before grabbing his glass to finish his beer in long gulps. 

You watch him lift his hat and brush his hair to the side with a large hand, and he’s out the door less than a minute later, without so much as a glance in your direction, a conscious choice, given the minute proportions of the place. 

He leaves you sitting there, with your brow pinched and your empty drink, struggling to understand the rippling effects of his massive presence on your body and your brain.

You bring your fingers to your chest and rub them over your sternum, where the shifting sensation continues to prickle. 

Neither a second drink nor a third helps dull the feeling, but a fourth one is not an option if you want to get home without a DUI. 

It follows you into the darkness of the deserted parking lot, on the drive home and into the glass prison of your clinically clean apartment. It’s there when you get into bed, when you lie wide awake at 3am next to your sleeping fiancé, and it’s still there when you wake up, hungover and sore, four hours later. 

Nestled between your lungs. The memory of his cold hard stare. Of his soft sad eyes. 

It bypasses your most foolproof diversions of painful pleasure and pleasurable pain. Your attempts at hard work and your compulsive distractions. It robs you of your appetite, of your lucidity, of your ability to rest. It corners you in the first floor toilet of your office building on a Thursday morning, on the verge of a panic attack, until you consider calling your sister for help. 

Ava would figure it out. She’d get you out of that loop in which you’ve locked yourself up, she’d know what to say. With her crude words and her unforgiving formulations, she’d admonish your silly overreaction and dismissively rebuke your daydreams over a mundane interaction, probably throwing in something about your heteronormative fantasies. 

Dude, you’re all worked up because of a staring contest with a rando in a dive bar? she’d say. She’d toss the rhetorical question at your face, you can hear her as if you’ve already sweated through the conversation. 

She’s often harsh but she’s always right. 

And normally, you’d be seeking that out. For your little sister to bully some good sense back into your nebulous brain. 

But something has shifted. 

Dark curls, thick fingers, flexing shoulders. Solid arms. Cold, hard stare. 

He abraded something on the surface of your skin, and you don’t think you’re capable of withstanding Ava’s sarcasm in your current state. 

By the following Friday, you feel so vulnerable you consider going to another place, or not going out at all. 

Only, the alternative is worse. 

You walk into The Hole in The Wall convinced that your unsteady gait is betraying your apprehension, squinting to adjust to the dim light of the place. The bar is nearly empty, as always, save for a couple of bearded graying men you vaguely recall having seen here before. They all look the same to you, anyway. Another thing you hate about yourself.

The barman tells you to sit while he prepares your drink. The gesture is kind but uncustomary, and it only serves to increase your uneasy feeling. 

Within an hour of waiting, because that's what you've been doing, you register with an icy trickle of shame dripping down your sides, you realise he won’t be coming. 

That man’s presence here last week is the very definition of sheer happenstance. Nothing more. Nothing else. If anything, you’ve been a nuisance to him, ogling him while he was simply trying to unwind with an afterwork drink. 

You’ll never see him again. 

And it’s fine. You’ll move on, drift back into drifting, avoiding at all costs to process what happened to you when you met his gaze. The tree hiding the forest. 

When you walk up to the counter to order your second drink, the question slips away from you. 

“Can I have the same thing the man in the trucker hat had last Friday, please?”

The barman looks up at you from the tray of clean dishes he's pulling out of the dishwasher and he huffs. He’s handsome, by most standards, you notice for the very first time. Very tall, and broad, green-eyed with a three-day stubble. He’s probably a couple of years above forty. His head is shaved bald. He’s manly in a burly, albeit fatherly way. 

“Oh sweetheart, d’you know how many guys with a trucker hat I see here every day?”

It’s not meant to make you feel small, his tone is gentle. It’s a straightforward, factual answer. 

“What do you wanna drink?” he asks when you don’t answer. “Tired of that G&T yet? Cos I got good beer. This is a beer place, you know? Wanna try a light blonde, to start? Something stronger? An IPA?”

What do you want. You’ve been drinking gin all your life because that’s what your mother always has. Starting at 5pm in the afternoon. Would you, indeed, like to try a light blonde? Something stronger? An IPA, to start? 

It’s a brand-new world unfurling in front of you, a yellow brick road paved with what-do-you-wants.

“Sure,” you nod, “I can try an IPA.”

—

The barman goes by the name of Mark. He’s also the owner of The Hole in The Wall, you learn. Bought the place two years ago, after a painful divorce. A cliché, he adds, with a charming, self-deprecating smile.

The interaction’s short and altogether not unpleasant, and the beer, to your surprise, is fresh and enjoyable. It’s much tastier, in fact, than the cheap, tepid gin you’ve been sipping so far. It gets you drunk just as fast, but this time when you leave the bar, your mind is quiet, if not at ease. 

The following week, a heatwave hits the Tampa Bay. The melting asphalt sticks to your leather soles, like your sweaty clothes to your clammy skin, like your brooding mood to your dampened dreams. In a couple of days eventually, August will draw to an end, but the summer won’t end with it. It never truly does. It taunts you all year round, a sweltering reminder of how much you hate living here.

And if it wasn’t for the humidity, you’d be jogging the short distance between your car and the cool haven of the air-conditioned bar. 

You push the swinging door forward, eyes shut in anticipation of the blinding darkness and you stand in the entrance for a few seconds. The familiar and comforting smell of moldy dust mixed with beer yeast greets your senses as you take in the chill air grazing your naked arms. 

And then you reopen your eyes. 

He’s here. 

Trucker hat, blue jeans, gray T-shirt. Different clothes, same silhouette. He’s sitting at your table, his position a magnified echo of yours two weeks ago, hand loosely wrapped around his pint, seemingly asleep with his head propped against the wall. 

Mark looks at you and tilts his head in his direction, wiggling an eyebrow with a silent question of “Is this the guy you were asking about?”

Your breathing’s so loud you think everyone must hear it over the droning television. Mark’s brow furrows with incomprehension at the alarm widening your eyes, and you anchor yourself to his face, walking toward him in slow motion, climbing on the first high stool you reach.

“Hey. You ok?”

You stretch your lips in a wince of a smile.

“So? What will it be today? Wanna try a Free Dive? It’s local.”

You nod in silence, but then he grabs a large glass, and you ask tentatively, “Can I have only half a pint?”

Fuck, your mouth is so dry.

Behind you, to your right, you feel more than you hear the man shift in his chair.

Mark sighs, his left hand paused on the tap handle. 

“I don’t have beer glasses this small, sweetheart. Get a pint, the first one’s on me, okay?”

You reiterate your silent nod. He places the beer in front of you, and you swallow the first swigs too quickly. The back of your throat throbs with the fast flowing intake of the cold liquid, or perhaps it’s because of the frantic beating of your heart.

He’s getting up now, you can tell by the friction sound of the chair dragging on the carpeted floor, and your frightened expression turns downright pleading as you hear him close the distance between you.  

He’s at your back, sliding his thick naked arm past yours to return his empty glass to the counter. His movements are slow, deliberate. You get a whiff of his scent, a masculine musk, with a faint smell of laundry detergent, it’s wholesome, safety, comfort. You turn your head. He’s looking at you. Looking at you with intent.

He’s so tall you have to lift your chin to hold his gaze. Hard cold stare, soft sad eyes, it’s swirling violently inside your exhausted chest and he’s leaving again already, walking toward the door like nothing just happened.

He pulls it inward and you watch him exit the bar into the dusk light.

Did he come back for you? Are you going insane? 

Sixty-seven seconds. Sixty-seven seconds is the time it takes you to decide your next move. The one that’s going to forever change your life. The one that could be everything or turn out meaningless. 

“I’ll be right back,” you tell Mark, sliding your handbag on the counter and you stand up to follow him outside.

The sunset sky is a pink shade of orange. Shadows are stretching long onto the asphalt, drawing a distorted world upside-down. 

He’s not here anymore, you waited too fucking long. You quickly scan the parked vehicles on the other side of the road to your right, and the parking lot in front of you, but it’s empty, save for your anthracite sedan, a black truck and what you assume must be Mark’s old SUV, because you see it every week. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out, pressing your fingers to your sternum. 

You look to your left, where the parking ends. There’s a white utility vehicle advertising a plumbing service and a dark blue city car. Beyond them, the lot extends into a narrow stretch of gravel behind the small rectangular building. There’s a pile of junk, and the tailgate of a red truck.

Your hand drops to your side and you start walking toward it, going around the white van. 

He’s there. He’s waiting for you by the front of the red truck, behind the building. His hands propped on his waist, head down, hidden under his cap. 

You keep walking toward him, the sound of your shoes on the dirty ground grating your ears, but you stop short when he raises his head, fuck he looks even taller at this distance, with his elbows spread.

It’s like he senses your apprehension, or perhaps he shares it, because he folds his arms over his chest, hugging himself. 

For the very first time, you can fully make out his face. Strong features, a strong curvy nose, a patchy beard peppering a sharp jaw, and plush lips. Your gaze follows the solid column of his neck down to his suprasternal point peeking above the V-collar of his worn-out t-shirt, before it’s drawn back to his eyes.

He stands there perfectly still for you to detail.

Above you, the sky has turned a rusty blue. The humidity is stifling. It’s Friday the 30th, 2019, 8.17pm.

“What do you want?”

His voice is deep, and low, barely louder than a murmur yet intense, his words full and round. 

The question, however legitimate, hits you square in the solar plexus, right under your aching sternum. You fear that if you don’t speak fast enough, he’ll leave you again, alone with the memory of his soft sad eyes and his hard cold stare. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper, and god, if it’s true, what are you doing here? 

He huffs, and it’s the very sound of disillusion. His eyes grow dimmer, you think you’re not the one darkening them. Unfolding his arms, he removes his hat and takes a step closer, then another. You could touch him, if you reached out with your arm stretched. 

He looks at you like he’s already seen how your story ends. 

You could back away. You don’t. 

He moves slowly, thick body thrumming with undiluted strength and unreleased tension, eyes searching yours, giving you the time to leave, should leaving be what you choose, should you turn around and run before the hanging threat breaks like dark stormy clouds and drench you soaked. 

He slowly moves forward until he’s towering over you, until his chest touches your breasts, until the pilled cotton of his t-shirt catches at the satin material of your blouse. His scent floods your senses, he leans down into the curve of your neck and inhales you there, long, deep, unhurried. You hold your breath, still, in turn, for his exploration, nails digging into your palms, heart tripping.  

And then, he touches you. With his lips, a feather-like caress over the soft skin under your ear. Your eyes flutter shut, your thoughts are suspended.

“This what you want?” he murmurs.

His words sink under your skin, they harden your nipples, raise goosebumps on your nape in the muggy evening heat.  

“Yes.”

The cap falls onto the gravel. His hands go to your hips. Clutching you there with a rough grip and he’s tugging you closer, flush to his chest. He licks up a broad stripe along the line of your throat, pivots with you in his arms and backs you into the side of the truck, you have to grab his forearms to keep your balance. 

A guttural sound catches in his throat, like a grunt he tries to hold back, for your touch, for the taste of your skin, for your pliant docility.

Your head rolls back, you’ve gone weeks without a skin on skin contact, and now this man is hunched over you, his body swallowing yours, this stranger who’s infected your dreams with his cold hard stare and his soft sad eyes, his mouth roaming the expanse of your throat, short beard prickling your skin, and the shifting sensation inside your chest drops to your core where it catches fire.

His kisses are lips, teeth and tongue, rough and scraping at you raw in all the right ways, they trail up along your neck, under your jaw, and when they find your lips, he presses you harder into him. He tastes like beer, unfamiliar, you want to get used to it. 

The seams of your blouse strain when he pulls it out of your skirt with an impatient tug. His hands slither under the hem and find the naked skin of your back. His palms are strong, rugged and scalding and his fingertips calloused, they make your skin sizzle underneath their pressing, crackle like snapping wood, like fireworks at a summer county fair, like sweet candy wrapping. 

You're leaking hot and sticky between your hips, responding with your entire body, opening up for him, letting his tongue in past your lips with pathetic grateful little moans, winding your arms around his shoulders, over the cording muscles of his back, musky sweat dampening his t-shirt. The thick, solid shape of him, that got etched behind your eyelids.

You’re a want and a need and an empty flutter, entangled with him, whoever he may be, his tongue swirling inside your mouth, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip, his splayed hands covering your back, his knee spreading your legs open. 

He’s voracious, harsh in his own need, snatching from you what you’re already willing to give, angling your head with a sharp pull on your hair to deepen his kiss, grunting his approval when you moan at the sting. 

Arousal keeps dripping down your fold where his thigh prods firm and brawny against the black material of your skirt that hinders the pressure. 

He growls, frustration rumbling low and menacing inside his throat. He grabs your ass and squeezes, thick middle finger pushing against the fabric of your clothes into the cleft between your cheeks and you jolt, leaping forward further into him. His belt buckle bites into the soft flesh of your belly, right where you're burning empty and wanting and shameless for him. You feel him hot and hard against your hip, and he tightens his hold, cages you within him. 

He’s big all over, larger than life proportions, you surrender to the fact with your lust-drunk mind, from the height of his frame to the girth of his sex, from his grip on your senses to the sorrow in his eyes. 

It blooms inside you like pain, blossoms of mahogany red spreading along your limbs in relentless waves, the power he already wields over you and you don’t even know his name.  

You buck between his arms, a first and very last attempt at freeing yourself, unconvincing with the scrap of your fingernails along the pebbled skin of his neck, and you press back into him again, squirming against his throbbing length, offering him some friction.  

He pulls out all of sudden, breaking the kiss, and you're left panting, ankles swaying, you’d drop to the gravel without the support of the truck, still sun-warm in the early evening, yet colder than his feverish body. 

He shakes his head with a silent no, his shoulders heaving, a wordless warning hissed through his clenched bared teeth. The simmering anger under the surface only makes you want him more, the unyielding restraint shining dark in his eyes.  

But it’s over. You know it. He gave you this, and took it back. With shaky hands, you smooth down the wrinkles of your blouse where he’s bunched it in his fists. You lick his taste off your trembling lip. You will not cry. 

He shakes his head again, you watch him through welling tears, confused, eyes flickering between his. 

Behind him, the city car’s engine revs up to a start, aggressive headlights backlighting him. His throat bobs up and down in chiaroscuro as he swallows hard. You know what you must look like in the crude white light. Supplicant, dependent, awaiting. Disheveled by his hand. Tires grate on the gravel as the car reverses away from you into the night, and with it the headlights, leaving you standing in the brown city night, urban semi darkness, and you see him shut his eyes. 

He smiles, a puzzling, sorrowful lift of his plush lips, and a new sort of ache washes over you. You raise forward on your tiptoes to peck a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth. His entire frame quivers for you. A muscle clenches in his jaw, the deepening crease in his brow redefines his traits in shadows. 

He leans into you, like he wants you but he doesn’t want to want you, like he’s giving in but not entirely, because giving in would be the end of him, of you.

The flat of his palm to the swell of your breast, and he kneads your soft flesh, slowly at first, growing urgent. The back of your head hits the truck’s window when he pinches your nipple, hard, with two fingers, and you bite down a moan. 

He’s engulfing you again, lips latched around your other nipple, tongue swirling and licking through your blouse and your thin bra and you hold on to him, you cling to his frame when he bunches up your skirt around your waist, leather boot nudging your foot to the side, cock throbbing on your hip, slick dripping down your walls. 

“Stop me,” his mouth brushes the shell of your ear. It’s not a dare, it’s not a plea, it’s your last chance to back down before the free fall. 

Your pulse stutters, you arch into him without hesitation, but he pins you back against the truck with his chest, cupping you through your underwear and he curses into your neck at the sticky leaking mess he finds there.

Your naked leg hitches up rigid and tense against his leg, curled fingers, curled toes, and he hooks his index into the cotton of your panties. 

A brief stroke of his knuckles into the soft, smooth dip between your sex and your inner thigh, unexpectedly tender, before he parts your soaked lips with his two middle fingers, coating them in your sticky slick desire, and he sinks them inside your empty cunt. 

You crumble around the intrusion, forehead hitting his collarbone, slack-mouthed, a short exhale of a silent “oh.” He brings his left hand to the crown of your head and cradles you there, while his fingers pump in and out of your heat fast and rough. His thumb glides through your folds and starts rubbing at your clit, deft and precise, and you shudder between his arms, you slump into his hold. 

He keeps stroking your hair, gentle soothing sounds murmured into your ear as he fucks you raw with his hand, attuned to your moans and your every reaction, gauging what you can take before his fingers curl deeper inside your cunt, merciless, thumb pressing tight circles on your bud at an increasing pace.  

Your breathing comes in ragged and short while his intensifies. It’s pouring into your ear hot and overwhelming and you’re dissolving. Sweat beading at your temples, heat raising from his exerted muscles. 

You focus on the sensation of his flexing muscles under your clawing hands to stave off your building orgasm, it’s growing bright and blinding, searing and violent but it’s inevitable, and soon, too soon, your release flows hot and sticky into his hand. Your whines resound inside his chest but he keeps going, low husks of shhh, come on now, that’s it, until your trapped body trashes with the overstimulation.  

It’s like he can’t let go, pressing his nose heavily to the side of your face, and you struggle to resurface, blood thrumming in your veins, his angry cock pulsating against your hip. 

You let out a dry sob when he slides out of you and the rubber band of your panties slaps your sensitive skin. You don’t miss the flat drag of his tongue licking your taste off his palm, you furrow your fingers deeper into his arm with a short clench of your eyes. 

“Fuck,” your hear him quietly groan, and his fingers disappear into his mouth. 

You want to stay tucked up against him, curled up into his hold. You could live the rest of your life there, you think, between his hands and his scent, between his chest and his truck. 

You lock your ankles and your knees, hoping they will not fail you and you stand, pushing away from him and into the side of the truck. You readjust your skirt, slide it down, palm it smooth. Brush the damp hair from your forehead with the back of your trembling hand.

In your peripheral, he’s leaning down, picking up his hat from the ground and combing his fingers through his hair before he sets the cap back on his head.

You look up dazed and heavy-lidded and you brace yourself before meeting his gaze, cold hard stare, soft sad eyes, and he says,

“I’m Frankie.”

****

Bonus (having déjà vu? that's normal 😝 Gonna use this gif at the end of every first chapter I manage to yank out of my crazy in love brain):

Taglist (thank you 🧡 if you don't wish to be tagged anymore, just drop me a DM 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @nicolethered @littleone65 @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts @mylostloversbookmarks @its-nebuleuse @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @all-the-way-down-here

#tonight you belong to me #happy frankie friday #tybtm #Francisco Catfish Morales #frankie morales #the pilot™️ #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x ofc #frankie morales / fem!reader #frankie morales / you #frankie morales / ofc #triple frontier fic #triple frontier #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fic #frankie friday #will miller #benny miller #santiago pope garcia #william ironhead miller #triple frontier fanfiction

[theywhowriteandknowthings]

Vi's Fic Recs Week One

First up, thank you all for your submissions, self or otherwise! It was really nice to share y'alls work and I can't wait to do the same next week!

In order of posting:

Something in the Shadows | Joel Miller x Reader (dubcon read the warnings) | @jksp10writes / @jksprincess10

Just You & Me, Darlin’ | joel miller x f!reader | @pedroslittlelady

Favorite Bounty | Din Djarin x afab!bounty!reader | @pedroshotwifey

Sunshine | Dark!Joel Miller x Reader (read the warnings DDDNE) | @kewwrites

Endurance | Frankie Morales x Reader | @schnarfer

The Slip Up | Javier Peña x F!Virgin!Reader | @pascalssbabyy

when we begin again | Joel Miller x F!Reader | @covetyou

Somewhere To Run |Sherrif!Joel Miller x Reader | @punkshort

Chubby!Frankie Morales x F!reader Masterlist | @beefrobeefcal

The Melting Point | Frankie Morales x Baker!Reader | @penvisions

Fuse | Din Djarin x Reader/Ezra x Reader/ Din x Reader x Ezra | @marisferasiop

Foolish | Joel Miller x F!Reader | @lady-bess

well, tough luck... | Young!Dieter Bravo x Reader | @sin-djarin

Nothing That I Didn't Know | Frankie 'Catfish' Morales x reader x Santiago 'Pope' Garcia | @for-a-longlongtime

Homecoming | Frankie 'Catfish' Morales x reader x Santiago 'Pope' Garcia | @astroboots

The things I do for you | Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader x Frankie “Catfish” Morales | @writefightandflightclub

Honor and Obey | Frankie Morales x Santiago Garcia x Santi’s wife! Reader | @magpiepills

To Be Explored Later | Francisco "Catfish" Morales x Santiago "Pope" Garcia x female reader | @legendary-pink-dot

Love Spell | Joel Miller x F!Reader | @strang3lov3

Able | Joel Miller x disabled F!Reader | @ladamedusoif

Party Trick | Dieter Bravo x pornstar!Ezra x f!reader | @tightjeansjavi

Devotion | Cult Leader!Joel Miller x F!Reader | @noxturnalpascal

Was it All A Dream? | Din Djarin x F!Reader | @beskarandblasters

Trust | Din Djarin x gn!Reader | @wannab-urs

Wings. Fire. Magic. | Dragon Trainer Joel x Female Reader | @mountainsandmayhem

Untrustworthy | Boba Fett x f!Reader | @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin

Roads | Joel Miller x fem reader | @milla-frenchy

27! That's an amazing amount of fics for one day!! Amazing stuff folks!

Get your submissions in next week - drop me an ask! I'll start scheduling them on Thursday!

#fic rec friday #fic rec #vi's fic recs #vi's fic rec friday #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #fanfic #joel miller #din djarin #javi gutierrez #baldur's gate 3 #dave york #ppcu #oberyn martell #francisco catfish morales #triple frontier #the equalizer #mr ben snl #marcus moreno #marcus pike #max phillips #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fandom

[ilovepedro]

frosted cookies | husband!frankie morales x wife!reader

Main masterlist

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word count: ~4.4k

Summary: You pack away an extra treat in your husband’s lunch. What happens when Frankie sees you’ve packed more than just some cookies? Cookies won’t be the only thing that’s frosted when he has his way with you.

Warnings: unprotected PIV (wrap it up y’all!!), oral (f receiving), fingering, doggy style, missionary, praise kink, three (3) spanks, cum eating, teeniest bit of soft dom!Frankie, sickening fluff, after care, pet names (querida, hermosa, baby, etc), husband!Frankie being so in love and down bad for his wife, reader speaks some Spanish, reader is female, no mention of hair type/skin color/body type, NO USE OF Y/N, some Spanish translations throughout.

A/N: can be read as part of the “just married” universe or a stand alone. did y’all think i forgot about a 500 follower treat?! hehehe i would never!! i’m back with a lil slice of domestic holiday bliss and smut with our guy, our husband! i’m just so down bad for Frankie, like there’s really no explaining myself. he’s everything. i want him so bad.🧎‍♀️anyway, happy Frankie friday everybody! hope y’all enjoy 🫶🏼 not beta’d, all mistakes are my own. 🏃‍♀️

Divider by @saradika

“Jesus, querida. How many cookies are you gonna bake?” Frankie asks before popping one into his mouth. “Francisco! Ya basta! (Enough) Those are for tomorrow!” You yell, smacking your husband’s hand away from getting anymore cookies.

After tomorrow, you and Frankie are off for 10 days. The stress and anticipation of the festivities and just spending uninterrupted time together energizes you to work rapidly. You’ve been baking all day for your office’s Christmas party, whipping up an array of cookies and packaging them up to give out to your coworkers.

 Flour, powdered sugar, and icing bags are scattered throughout the counter. A bowl of icing sitting in the middle of the island and cookie cutters next to 3 trays of cookies. Powdered sugar coats your hands and icing splattered across your apron.

“Lo siento, bebita, (I'm sorry, baby girl)” he says through a muffled mouthful of cookie, rubbing circles on your lower back while he peppers kisses to your shoulder.

“I have to make sure there’s enough for everyone. 50 is good right? The whole office will be there, and I don’t want anyone to feel left out,” you ramble as you roll out the last batch of dough in between parchment paper. Frankie rubs up and down your arms as you cut them into shapes.

“50 is plenty, baby. You work too hard, mi amor. Is this the last batch?”

“Yeah, I’ll finally be done after this one comes out the oven,” you say as you place them onto the cookie sheet.

“Good. You need to rest, and I wanna have my wife to myself.” You turn around in his embrace and wrap your arms around his neck. “You sure no one will feel left out?”

A small gentle smile splays on his lips as he readjusts his grip on your hips. “No one will feel left out, baby. I promise. And if they do, then fuck ‘em. They don’t know how hard you work, or how kind you truly are,” he softly says. A relieved smile creeps onto your face as a toothy grin appears on his. He places a sweet, lingering kiss to your lips, you getting lost in him as the taste of him mixes with the sugary cookie he’d just eaten. Both of you sighing into one another, never getting enough of each other.

The oven timer dings, startling the both of you and breaking the kiss as you jump back a bit. The two of you giggling like a pair of children, Frankie places one last chaste kiss to your lips as you head to the oven. Feeling a playful swat to your ass, you turn around and playfully scold your husband as you remove the cookies out of the oven - the aroma of sugar and spice filling the air.

“How long’s this last batch gonna take, mi vida?” Frankie asks as you place the final batch of cookies in the oven. “Only 15 minutes, mi amor. Tener paciencia (have patience),” you say through a fit of giggles, laughing at your husband’s impatience. He scoffs, rolling his eyes as you stride towards him. Pulling him in for another kiss, his hands freely roam down to your ass, giving it a playful squeeze. Laughing into him, you pull away as you bark out a belly laugh, your husband mirroring you.

“Could you help me clean up, please baby? The faster we clean, the faster I’m all yours,” you taunt. “Of course, mi vida, you don’t even have to ask. Although, the incentive is nice,” he says with a smirk. The two of you swiftly maneuver throughout the kitchen while the cookies bake. Frankie clearing the counter as you wipe it down, and washing and drying dishes together - working in tandem to tidy up your kitchen. The oven timer dings once more, Frankie washing and drying the remaining dishes as you remove the last batch and set them on the cooling rack. As you remove your oven mitts, Frankie tosses the dish rag onto the counter and swoops behind you, engulfing you in his broad, taut arms while he litters kisses along your neck.

“All done, mi amor?” He asks against your skin, his mustache tickling you along with his eagerness, eliciting a laugh from you. “All done, mi amor,” you laugh, wrapping your arm around his neck to twirl the curls at the nape of his neck. “Vamos, mi esposa,” he says, whisking you away and up the stairs.

Laughter bubbling over the two of you as you rush up the stairs.

After tomorrow, it’s 10 days of this - uninterrupted bliss with each other.

Frankie plops down on the chair, groaning as time ticks by agonizingly slow. He runs a hand over his face, his wedding ring making contact with his cheek reminds him of you - just 4 more hours until he’s home with you.

Cracking open his lunchbox, he smiles as he spots the usual yellow sticky note that you pack in his lunch which lay atop some of the freshly baked cookies that you made last night. Picking it up, he reads the note:

“Enjoy your lunch, mi esposo hermoso. Can’t wait for you to frost my cookie when you get home ;)

-Con amor, su esposa”

Beneath it, a polaroid of you dressed in a crimson red babydoll with white fur lining the bust. It leaves little to the imagination as you display your breasts to the camera, a coy smile on your lips as white frosting runs down your lips and onto your chin, teasingly biting into one of the cookies you baked.

His breath hitches in his throat, eyes widening as he takes in your form. He’s hard as a fucking rock, his lunch now completely forgotten.

“‘S matter, boss? Wife forget to pack your juice or something?” A stupid rookie asks, laughing too hard at his own joke as he creeps up behind Frankie to catch a glimpse inside his lunchbox. Frankie immediately drops the polaroid back inside and flips the lid closed before the rookie can see it.

“Shut the hell up, Daniel,” Frankie grumbles as he rises to his feet, stomping out of the break room and into his tiny, cluttered office. He typically eats lunch here, wanting to get away from the fumes that permeate the shop, but the anticipation of your time off together made him antsy - seeking out a place without constant reminders of you as the day drags on.

That did absolutely nothing. Your boudoir polaroid having made his day better and worse simultaneously. You looked nothing short of a dream, but now his impatience is getting the better of him as his mind wanders to all the things he plans to do to you tonight. He groans, his cock still half hard as he unravels his lunch. He huffs sticking the polaroid in his wallet, aggressively nibbling at his lunch.

Could this day go by any slower?

He opens the door, tossing his keys into the bowl as he shuts and locks it. Trudging inside, he toes off his boots, pushing them to the side as he takes in your fully decorated home. His heart swells at the sight, knowing you were off work early today after your office party. Meaning you probably spent the entire afternoon decorating.

Garlands adorn every wall, the tree now fully decorated and the Christmas village sits atop the mantle. Twinkling lights warmly illuminate the room. The sprig of mistletoe hangs above the entryway to the kitchen, the smell of dinner and more baked goods permeating through the air mingling with the fresh pine scent of the tree.

You’ve gone full Christmas-mode and he can’t get enough of your domesticity - your ability to make every single thing you touch feel like home.

“Frankie?!” You yell faintly from the kitchen.

“Hermosa, I’m home!” He shouts as he shrugs off his brown utility jacket. Footsteps bound from the kitchen and into the hall. There you stand, in all your domestic glory with your apron around your front and a bit of flour on your cheek. 

You beam at him, happy your husband is finally home for the week. Your office is closed and so is the shop for the following week and then some for the holiday, now you have him all to yourself for the next 10 days. Practically flinging yourself into his arms, you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a searing kiss. He laughs at your eagerness, his cock twitching in his pants as you tug him closer by his soft curls, deepening the kiss. His tongue slips into your mouth, a soft moan escaping you and into Frankie.

It’s unclear who breaks the kiss first, but the both of you are heaving, panting for air. The smile returning to your face, a smug look appearing on your husband’s face. 

“Hi, baby. I missed you.” Your hands snake up his chest and you remove his cap from his head, setting it on the table by the door, carding your fingers through his hair. His smile softens, eyes gleaming with love. “Hi, mi amor. I missed you too. I see you got up to some stuff while I was gone,” he says, swirling circles on your lower back. You giggle, knowing you can be a bit elaborate when it comes to decorating.

“‘S not too much?” You ask. He quickly shakes his head. “Never, mi amor,” he nearly whispers, reassuring you before capturing your lips in another kiss. Walking you backwards into the kitchen, he presses you up against the kitchen counter, catching a whiff of something baking in the oven again.

He pulls back, forehead resting against yours as he swipes away the flour that’s smudged on your cheek. “You’re still baking, mi vida? I thought you were finished,” he asks. “I am, but I wanted to make you something, a treat to celebrate our vacation,” you ramble. A chuckle rumbles in his sturdy chest.

“Got the most delicious treat right here,” he tsks, you chuckle rolling your eyes at his cheesiness as butterflies erupt in your belly. His hardening length presses against your core as he dives in to litter your neck with kisses. “Even got a picture to prove it,” he rasps against you. A small gasp escapes you.

So he did see the picture.

“Oh really? Can I see this picture, amor?” Your voice breathy and titillating, feigning oblivion as a smirk plastered on your face while he sucks on your neck.

“I’m sure you know what it looks like. In fact, you’re gonna let me recreate it with the real thing, baby.” His voice low and husky now as his clothed, hard cock ruts into you.

A wave of arousal pools in your panties. “I am?” You breathlessly ask, still keeping up the innocent act.

“Mhmm. Gonna be covered in me. Isn’t that what you wanted, princesa? Huh? You couldn’t wait for me to get home and frost your cookie, hermosa?” He asks as his lips ghost over yours now, emphasizing the reference to the note you’d put in his lunchbox this morning. You snort, eyes shutting as heat courses through your veins as he quotes the note, and warmth blooming in your belly.

A light smack to your thigh reels you back in, eyes flying open. His eyes filled with lust, pupils darkening. Your eyes glossy and hazy, feeling tipsy just off his embrace, his words.

“Y-yes, Frankie. ‘S what I wanted - want. Want you s-so bad, mi amor,” you mumble against his ear as he resumes peppering kisses along your chest. Humming against you, your words going straight to his cock, which you feel as he presses into your core a bit harder.

“Want you so bad, too, princesa. Been wanting you all day. Y’know how hard it was to keep it together seeing that picture of you? Look so fucking sexy, fuck. Had to stop myself from cumming in my jeans like a fucking teenager,” he mutters into your ear. You giggle, taking great joy in knowing your husband wants you just as bad as you do, maybe even more.

He bites down on your earlobe, your giggles quickly dissipating into a moan. “But what you did today was so bad, mi vida. Distracted me all fucking day from work, could barely concentrate. I think you just made it on the naughty list. What do you think, baby? Are you naughty or nice?”

“N-nice. Nice, baby,” you whimper as Frankie unties your apron and smoothly tosses it on the counter. 

“Mmmm, you sure about that? You gonna be a nice, good girl for me and let me have my way with you?” You furiously nod, your neediness growing into an impatient monster. 

He laughs at your eagerness, relishing in how needy you are for him. “Come on, princesa. Show me how good you are,” he rasps before releasing you from his grasp, grabbing your hand as you two stumble out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Excitement stirring within you as he leads you to your room.

Frankie flings the door open, eagerly bringing you into his embrace again. He cups your cheeks, leaning in as his lips engulf yours in a messy, heated kiss. It’s all tongue as teeth gnash together, moans flying out from both of you while you strip each other down. Frankie groans as he discards your bra onto the floor. You can’t help the moan that escapes you as you shuck off your husband’s briefs, his hard cock springing free, weeping and red.

“On the bed, hermosa,” he demands, his timbre husky and low. You scramble onto the bed, laying on your back, displaying yourself for your husband. “Spread your legs.”

Your brain on autopilot, operating as if Frankie has a remote to control your actions.

Legs spread, the cool air of the room hits your sopping core, a shiver running down your spine. Frankie licks his lips, pupils blown black and wide swirling with lust. He stalks towards you, laying down and settling himself in front of your aching pussy. He grabs your thighs, placing them on either side of his head. The frigidity of his wedding band burning into your skin, contrasting the blaze that burns from within you as you anticipate your husband’s next move.

You pant as the excitement transforms into a forest fire within your core, Frankie so close to where you desperately need him. He presses firm kisses to your thighs, your breath catching in your throat again. Kissing and nipping at your thighs, your neediness causes your hips to involuntarily buck into Frankie - his nose catching on your clit for a split second. A shocking loud moan escapes you as Frankie pushes you back down on the bed.

“Just like you told me last night, mi vida. And like how I had to tell myself after what you pulled this afternoon: tener paciencia,” he practically growls against your thighs. You whine as his teasing resumes. You know this is payback for the polaroid, making him wait all day for some relief. Your husband is the most patient man you know, even when he wants nothing more than to take you any chance he can get.

His desire for you though, constantly burning, so you know this must be killing him too. However, the sweet revenge of seeing you fall apart and writhe under him, begging him to do something is the most delicious reward.

“Frankie,” you desperately sigh, eyes closing as he presses kisses to your mound. “When have I ever not given you what you wanted? Hmm, baby?” He asks against your core, your eyes opening and to lock with his gaze. “Never, mi amor,” you nearly whisper, it comes out much more rushed than intended.

“Tranquila, mi vida. I’m gonna take care of you and this pretty pussy. I got you, baby,” he says with one last kiss to your thigh. Without preamble, he licks a long, languid stripe up your folds. A relieved moan tumbling from your lips as you bury your head further into the pillow. He repetitiously licks up your glistening core, your clit throbbing for some attention. Your husband knows your body like the back of his hand, as if he can read your mind.

He flicks your precious pearl with a steady rhythm, wrapping his lips around it. You twitch underneath him, eyes heavy and glazed.

“Oh fuck, Frankie!” You keen as your hands fly to tug on his hair, his rhythmic, skilled tongue bringing you closer to the edge. Your weeping cunt clenches around nothing as a wave of slick seeps from your hole. He snakes a hand up to cup your breast, flicking and suckling your clit as he rolls your nipple in between his thick, calloused fingers, alternating breasts. Your breathing is ragged as you moan, Frankie groaning and humming into you. The vibrations rumbling from within him launching you higher into your climax, teetering on lift off.

“Feels s-so f-fucking good, Frankie. Always s-so fucking g-good,” you babble. He pulls away for a second, his chin coated in your slick. “Come on, baby. Know you’re close. Let go, hermosa,” he rasps right above your swollen cunt. He dives back in, moving his hand from your breast to your entrance, two fingers sliding home with the amount of slick pouring from you.

A sharp gasp escapes you, eyes rolling back at the welcomed intrusion as Frankie rapidly and steadily alternates between sucking and flicking your clit. His fingers hitting that spongy spot only his fingers and cock can reach. The coil in your belly snaps as you’re launched into your orgasm, stars appearing behind your eyes as your vision blurs white hot.

Frankie helps you ride out your high as you scream and writhe beneath him, lapping up every last drop of slick gushing from your throbbing pussy. Desperately trying not to rut his hips into the mattress, he groans at the sweet, tangy taste of you that he can never get enough of. Your thighs tremble as you slowly return back to Earth, whimpering as Frankie presses soft kisses to your thighs.

“Did so good for me, baby. Always so fucking good for me,” he hushes you, peppering kisses up your body.

You fight to keep your eyes open, catching sight of your husband soaked in your release as his mustache and patchy beard gleams in the warm glow of the bedroom.

Pulling him down, you connect your lips with his, both of you moaning into one another. Wrapping your arms around his broad, strong shoulders as you tug on his curls. His mouth licking into yours, letting you taste your sweet slick on your tongue. Sweet and heady, the kiss melds into something sinful as you feel Frankie’s hard, leaking cock rubs right above your core. Precum smearing on your belly, Frankie pulls back and moans at the friction.

“Not done with you yet, querida,” he says gruffly as he lifts himself off you. “Turn around,” he demands. You recognize that tone: he’s gonna have his way with you tonight. A shiver runs down your spine as a new rush of arousal burns brightly in your core. You swiftly lay on your stomach.

“On your knees, baby.” His voice husky and firm. You readjust yourself and settle on your knees, balancing yourself on your forearms. Feeling the mattress dip behind you, another spark of arousal jolts in your pussy, your belly warm and full of anticipation. You can hear Frankie pumping himself in his fist as he lines his hips up with yours.

“See, you can be a good girl. Knew you could do it, mi vida.” You moan at his praise. His large hands caress your ass, engulfing your cheeks in each hand, admiring the view. You teasingly wiggle your ass, Frankie-drunk giggles bubbling over your lips and spilling into the pillow. A smack comes down on your ass, the sting of it making your pussy throb. Moaning as you turn your head to the side, locking eyes with Frankie.

His chocolate irises invisible, eyes completely darkened and filled to the brim with lust.

“Don’t start.” You nod, drool pooling under your mouth, your patience wearing thin. “Be good, baby,” he rasps as he lines his cock up with your entrance. His tip prodding your aching hole, as one of his hands rests on your ass. He slowly slides in, taking his time bottoming out. Both of you moaning in tandem as his cock splits you open, the sting blurring the lines of pain and pleasure. You squeeze around him as he fully sheathes himself inside you, never fully getting used to his size despite being married to him now.

“Alright, baby. Alright, baby,” He hisses, roughly kneading your ass. “Come on now. Relax, baby. I got you,” he calmly whispers. You feel yourself relax, unclenching and releasing him from your vice grip. “There we go. Good girl,” he says as he leans down to press a kiss behind the shell of your ear.

He slowly slides out from you, nearly pulling out all the way until he slams his hips back into yours. His cock punching your cervix.

“Frankie!” You gasp, moaning as you grip the sheets. He repeats the motion, grunting as he cants his hips. “Tightest, sweetest fucking pussy ever. Fuck, always feel so fucking good, baby. You were made for me, made to take my cock. Huh, querida?” He asks, breathing ragged as he fucks in and out of you. You nod and moan in agreement, words escaping you as he brings you close to your second orgasm. It doesn’t take long for your orgasm to slowly creep up on you, still reeling from the sensitivity of your previous one.

Another smack hits your ass, clenching around him in your tight heat. You love when Frankie gets a bit rough with you.

“Words, querida. Come on, you were doing so good,” he taunts. You swallow through your moans, unaware of the desperate tears of pleasure that were pooling in your eyes.

“Y-yes, baby. Made for you, made for your cock. S-so fucking good to me, Frankie. L-luckiest girl in the w-world,” you babble. You feel him twitch inside you before he pulls out.

Whining at the loss of your husband’s cock, you’re suddenly being flipped on your back. Before you can give what’s happening a second thought, Frankie slides back into you. Your calves pressed against his strong chest, your ankles resting atop his taut shoulders as he bends you in half. His pace rapidly picking up, his thrusts growing sloppy.

“‘S right, baby. Made for me. I’m the luckiest man in the world, querida. Won the wife lottery,” he rasps lowly, pressing a kiss to your calf.

The love you have for this man is overwhelming. His existence constantly gracing your mind, his unwavering support, his unconditional love, never feeling like you’re not enough for him, his kindness, his patience, how gentle he is with you even when he’s roughing you up.

“Eres la esposa más hermosa y perfecta del mundo. (You're the most beautiful and perfect wife in the world) So lucky to call you my wife, baby,” he grunts, punctuating each word with his thrusts. His sweet words toss you over the edge, fat tears of euphoria and love cascade down your cheeks as you scream his name.

An endless stream of slick seeps from your cunt, coating Frankie in your release. The squelching sound filling the air mixed with pants and moans is sinful, obscene.

“Fuck yes, baby. Give it to me, all of it. Soak my cock, querida. So fucking good - you, this pussy, our life, fuck yes,” he babbles. You mindlessly move your legs from his hold to wrap around his middle, bringing him in closer as you ride out your high.

“Love you so much, Frankie. Best husband in the world, come on, mi amor. Cum for me, need your cum,” you whine, giving him one last good squeeze. Frankie fills you up with half his load before pulling out and coating your mound in his cum. Endless moans streaming from you both. Frankie cums for a long time. 

The picture really did a number on him.

Ropes of his spend coats your sex and your belly. Unable to control yourself, you reach down and swipe two fingers through his cum and lick them clean. Relishing the delicious, salty taste of your husband. Frankie groans as he sees you suck your fingers clean, gathering cum on his fingers and stuffing it back into your cunt. You moan around your fingers at the feeling of his thick, long fingers stuffing you full of his cum.

Releasing your fingers with a pop, Frankie pounces on you - his fingers brushing against your lips, prying your mouth open. You suck them into your mouth, an animalistic groan rumbling from within you as you taste the combination of you two. He removes his fingers, adjusting himself to pin you down, caging you in between his large biceps.

He dives in for a kiss, it’s slower - savoring the taste of you and him on your tongue as he soaks in the love which radiates off your body and into his soul. “Love you so much, mi vida. Para siempre (Always),” he whispers against your lips. You cup his cheeks, a soft smile on your lips as your eyes glimmer with contentment and love.

“Para siempre,” you repeat. Another firm, lingering kiss is pressed to your lips before he rises to his feet, padding to your shared bathroom. The faucet turns on, your usual routine of aftercare beginning. Frankie returns with the warm rag, gently cleaning you up.

“Frosted your cookie pretty good, huh?” He asks with a smirk on his lips, curls in disarray.

You bark out a belly laugh, unable to control your laughter at your husband’s stupid joke.

“Francisco!” You squeal. Frankie tsks and rolls his eyes. “Oh after all the shit we just did, that’s where you draw the line?!” He playfully asks, a toothy grin on his face.

“No, I just thought you forgot about that stupid note!” You say through your laughter, Frankie bursting into a fit of giggles with you. “Wasn’t stupid, and how could I ever forget that and that picture?” He asks as he continues to clean you up.

“Speaking of, I’m not even gonna question when and how you took that picture, but next time, I’m helping you,” he says as he rises up and walks back into the bathroom to discard the rag into the laundry basket. “Whatever you say, mi amor,” you tease from the bed.

He returns, playfully pouncing on the bed beside you. Another fit of giggles erupts from you.

“That’s right, baby. Whatever I say,” he says with a wink and a smile, interlacing your fingers with his - toying with your wedding ring as he places a chaste kiss to your lips before saddling up beside you.

i love husband!Frankie sm 😫😔

wrote this on a bit of a whim, i had no idea what i wanted to do, i just knew i wanted to write a lil christmasy somethin-somethin for y'all 🩷

i hope y'all enjoyed!!! thank you for reading 🫶🏼

tag list: @nostalxgic @sweetercalypso @undrthelights @gracieheartspedro @jenispunk @joelsgreys @bastardmandennis @party-hearses @tinygarbage @mandoisapunk @javierpena-inatacvest @pedgito @tupelomiss @pedrostories @harriedandharassed

#nini’s 500 follower celebration #happy frankie friday #frankie morales #francisco morales #frankie catfish morales #francisco catfish morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x female reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales smut #frankie morales fluff #husband!frankie

[softiedingo]

LOOK AT THAT BELLYYYY 🫠🫠🫠

#jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal #pedropascal #triple frontier #francisco catfish morales #francisco morales #frankie morales #frankie friday #LOOK AT THAT BELLY #god have mercy on me #i'm melting #🫠🫠🫠 #that's WHY i watched triple frontier #softiedingo

[undercoverpena]

frank.diy

frankie morales x f!reader | bonus graphic for do me yourself

HAPPY FRANKIE FRIDAY. so because i have zero chill, i've designed some companion graphics that will go along with the story. it won't be each week (for reasons you'll see) but there will be a few. if you've not read chapter one, i recommend doing so before clicking under the cut.

i am so in love with him, you lot. i can't even...

NEXT CHAPTER COMING 20TH FEB

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #happy frankie friday #frankie morales x you #frankie morales #triple frontier x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #pedrostories

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Grays

Frankie Morales x f!reader

{ Grays Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Grays Part II }

Rating: M

Summary: Frankie wants you to cover up his grays. You want to knock some sense into his salt-and-pepper head.

Warnings: Insecure Frankie in need of self-love comes with his own warning, Reader is a hairstylist and has a related nickname, no physical descriptions other than that Reader has hair that can be dyed, not-quite-friends to *respectfully looking* dynamics, mentions of hair, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, sexual innuendos, lots of teasing and banter.

Word count: 4.8k

Notes: The origin story is here if you missed it. This is dedicated to my Frankie soul sister LJ @prolix-yuy who encouraged me to write this many months ago ❤️ As always, I’m an anxious mess writing for a new-to-me Pedro boy, so please be gentle with me (cos it's my birthday week) 🥺

I have a part 2 (with smut) in mind. I love where this leaves off, but who am I kidding. I probably won’t be able to help myself 😂

The bell on the door chimes with a sweet tinkle, cutting through the low, insistent purr of the hair clipper buzzing in your grasp. You don’t look up as you spy broad shoulders and a battered Standard Heating Oil cap crossing the threshold out of the corner of your eye.

‘Are you lost, Morales?’ you drawl indifferently, focused on the task at hand. ‘I have an appointment with Pope today, not you.’

‘He booked it under his name. Thought you’d take it as a prank if I called in myself.’

You look up to meet his gaze reflected in the mirror sitting in front of Greg, your current customer. ‘I wonder why he’d think that.’

Frankie shrugs, leaning against the reception counter with his arms crossed. ‘Beats me.’

You snort. ‘Really? You’ve insisted loudly and repeatedly for as long as I’ve known you that you don’t see the point of going to a hairstylist when you can have Pope cut your hair with kitchen scissors in his bathtub.’

‘C’mon, Shiv.’

‘Oh, he knows my name,’ you gasp sarcastically. You turn to Greg, who’s clearly amused by this exchange, and loop him in. ‘He usually just grunts at me.’

At this point, Ashton - your apprentice and all-round salon maverick - makes an appearance. Clearly having caught the tail-end of your conversation with Frankie, he glances between the two of you with an arched eyebrow. ‘Are we back to chasing customers away, boss?’

‘Sit his ass down but he doesn’t get a free drink,’ you instruct. ‘I’ll get to him when I get to him.’

Ashton goes ahead and ignores your orders point blank, per usual. After hanging up Frankie’s jacket and settling him at the station furthest away from you in the far corner of the salon, you see him sneakily give him a coffee. He can never resist the handsome ones.

You take your sweet time with Greg, cleaning up his sideburns, even though you’re basically done with him - just to tick off your waiting customer.

Not that it works, and you know it won’t. He just sits there, his wide frame filling up the chair, still as a rock. The dog-eared, months-old magazines strategically placed on the table for idle reading lie untouched. That’s Francisco Morales for you.

You’ve been orbiting each other since sixth grade, as all kids in your close-knit neighbourhood do. In fact, most of your customers went to your school. 

You don’t even remember how it started - probably at a sleepover - you discovered one day that you’re handy with box hair dye. By freshman year, you were colouring your fellow classmates’ hair in the girls’ toilets after school, earning enough pocket money to keep your cabinet at home fully-stocked with new hair products on rotation.

Your ever-changing hair colour got you into trouble with the headmaster more times than you can count, who nicknamed you Shape Shifter. Your friends abbreviated it to Shifter, then over the years, whittled it down to Shiv, and it stuck.

After being gifted a set of styling scissors for Christmas one year, you started hanging out at the neighbourhood salon, hustling for an apprenticeship. You practised what you observed on your fellow students, giving out haircuts on the bleachers on non-game days for a couple of dollars (the fee waived if something went disastrously wrong).

That’s how you first met Benny - his then cheerleader girlfriend took him in for a haircut when it got too long for her liking. When you eventually opened your own salon years later, he was your first paying customer, having come home after being honourably discharged from the army.

During the early days, when you struggled to fill your appointments and he couldn’t win a fight to save his life, you made a pact. You would do his hair at a heavy discount for his posters and promotions, and in return, he would let you use his photos for the salon’s marketing.

And it worked. Well, not that you had anything to do with him turning his fortunes around on the MMA circuit, but he had everything to do with getting customers through your door. It only got busier when Santi joined the ranks a couple of years later, and even though Will only shows up when his hair gets really unruly, they both sit in front of your camera with no complaint in return for mate’s rates.

Having these guys on your salon’s social media keeps both the gents and the ladies booking up your appointments.

Frankie Morales, though, is a different animal.

When you finally appear over his left shoulder, his coffee is all gone and he meets your eyes in the mirror nonchalantly. He’s leaning his whole weight on his right elbow on the armest, his left arm outstretched and blunt nails tapping on the table, the only hint of impatience he’s giving away.

He’s good at that - he’s the laid-back one out of the boys, the one who hangs back and observes with arms crossed, but quick to crack a grin and throw in a wicked barb when the occasion calls for it. Nothing ever seems to faze him, and probably nothing does - you hear that makes a good pilot, and from what Pope lets on, he’s a damn good one.

It also makes for highly effective bait for the ladies. He’s a popular fixture on the local bar scene - let’s face it, all of the boys are. You’ve seen him in action more than once when Benny or Pope invites you along on a night out, more often than not without Will since he had a baby girl with his high school sweetheart last year. Frankie’s brooding, quiet, beer-sipping act often works better than Benny’s over-the-top flirting or Pope’s Casanova bit.

But that’s neither here nor there.

Hands on your hips, you goad him, ‘Alright Morales, how do I know you’ll pay up, you cheap bastard?’

‘Pope says to put it on his tab.’

‘Music to my ears.’ You tap him on the shoulder. ‘Sit up and off with the cap.’

With a grumble, Frankie lifts the cap up by the beak, ducking his head as he does so. He tosses it onto the table offhandedly and shifts in his seat, but you’re not fooled by his unconvincing air of indifference. From the way he plasters his palms to the top of his denim-clad thighs, as if to stop them from fidgeting, you know he’s feeling vulnerable. 

You can’t say you’ve ever seen Frankie without his headgear - now that you think about it, he’s been wearing it since high school. Heck, he might have gone through several incarnations of that blasted hat in the years in between. You’ve caught glimpses when he lifts it up to fix his hair, but otherwise, all you see is what peeks out from underneath, the longer wisps that coil around his ears and the curls at the back. 

As it turns out, there’s really nothing to hide - sure, the cut is blunt and his hair lacks shine, but both can be easily fixed. You step into his space and comb through his locks, starting at the base of his skull and working your way up the sides. 

The contact startles him - he practically jumps out of his skin, and you don’t miss the way the veins on the back of his hands pop and he digs his nails into his legs.

'Easy, boy,' you soothe with a teasing undertone, earning yourself a glower from the pilot. As much as you enjoy needling him, you do want your customers to be comfortable. So you let slip a deliberate but genuinely appreciative hum as the dark tendrils, subtly tinged with grays, part softly at your prying fingertips. ‘Wow, your curls are really thick.'

He looks up, an unsure frown on his brow. ‘Oh. Is that bad?’

‘No, Morales, it’s definitely a compliment,’ you tell him encouragingly - your bark has always been worse than your bite. ‘What do you use to wash your hair? It’s a bit dry.’

He shrugs. ‘Shampoo.’ At your insistent stare, he snaps, ‘What?’

‘Don’t lie to me, Morales,’ you warn him in a stern voice.

He huffs and gives in. ‘Fine. It’s a 2-in-1 body wash. I get it at the gas station, happy?’

You shoot him a smug grin as he rolls his eyes. ‘Well, you’re using proper shampoo from now on, and conditioner.’ He opens his mouth, a complaint on the tip of his tongue, when you hold a finger up at him. ‘Don’t argue with me, mister. I’ll throw in a couple of bottles on the house to get you started.’

‘Fine,’ he concedes. Unfailingly polite even when grumpy, he adds, ‘Thanks, Shiv.’

Your trusty swivelling stool screeches in protest when you drag it over on its wheels, before you take a seat and address the elephant in the room. ‘So - I’m guessing you’re here because of the wedding.’

You get a grunt in response. Scratching a particularly scrappy patch of his beard that has turned prematurely silver, he says, ‘My ma says I should cover up my old man grays for it.’

You snort, shaking your head. ‘Ha! And you tell your mother I say - hell no, ma’am! I will do no such thing.’

Frankie blinks at your unexpectedly adamant response. ‘What?’

‘I said, hell no,’ you repeat. Turning his head to the side with two fingers on his stubbled cheek, you comb his locks upwards to study the way the grays blend in softly with the umber, matching the ashen flecks in his beard. He doesn't start as badly at your touch this time, but there’s a telltale tick in his jaw, and you can almost hear the tension that thrums just below his skin where a late summer tan still lingers.

‘See how your grays are mainly coming out on the underside?’ you point out. ‘I like the way they just peek through the brown, it gives more depth to your curls. Natural highlights, if you will.’

He looks unconvinced and swipes at a smattering of silver with dismissive fingers. ‘Dunno. Thought the grays make me look old.’

You chuckle. ‘You’re no spring chicken anymore, Morales, and I mean it in a good way. Grays are natural - they will look even better when you start using actual shampoo and conditioner. Trust me, the salt and pepper works on you. I’m not dyeing your grays, and that’s that.’

For the first time today, Frankie turns his head and looks directly into your eyes. ‘My mother’s coming back to town for the wedding, you know. And she remembers where you live.’

You laugh. ‘Go ahead and send her my way, you know I’m not scared of her.’

He scoffs at your big talk. ‘You should be.’

Your relationship with the Morales matriarch is complicated, to say the least. She was always hard on you when you were a kid, thinking you were too wild and undisciplined. Now that you’re grown, you’re still torn between your admiration for her as a single mother who raised a good man, and the woman who never tires of dishing out criticism, warranted or not.

You give him a reassuring pat on the back, solid and warm under your touch. ‘Leave your mother to me, Morales. The grays stay, and I’ll make sure you steal the show at the party.’

‘Your funeral,’ he quips.

‘You just worry about getting yourself to the wedding,’ you retort, cracking your knuckles. ‘Now, are you ready for some pampering?’

Frankie rolls his eyes, but you see the corner of his mouth tick up in a vaguely upward direction - and you take it as a win.

‘Relax, Morales.’

‘I am relaxed,’ he insists through gritted teeth.

‘You’re about as relaxed as a cow on the butcher’s block. Unclench.’

For someone as economical with words as he is, his body certainly says a lot. Every single part of him seems hellbent on making his discomfort known. He breathes a frustrated exhale through his nose, brow deeply furrowed, his glare burning holes into the ceiling.

The leather seat of the backwash barely contains his tall build, his t-shirt stretched to the seams across his chest as he leans back into the basin. He’s bouncing his left leg irritably, the tight denim straining against his lap.

You try - valiantly - not to gape too obviously at the conspicuous bulge nestled snugly between his thighs under his belt buckle. But you can’t avert your eyes from something of that size. It’s against the laws of physics. Or something.

Even from where you’re standing, at the top of the basin peering down the slope of his body, its heft is clearly testing the structural integrity of the zipper of his jeans. Imagine the view from the other side -

Clearing your throat, you bodily press down on Frankie’s shoulders which are coiled up like the hood of an angry python, forcing them to loosen up. He jerks as if he’s a copper wire and you’re electricity. You tease, ‘So sensitive. You act like you’ve never felt a woman’s touch before, Morales.’

‘You know that’s not true,’ he growls at you, the prominent vein in his neck starting to pulse in frustration.

‘No, you’re right - I do know,’ you smirk, dragging out your syllables.

Your tone has him frowning at you, upside down. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I mean - I know,’ you repeat with a conspiratorial wink.

He narrows his eyes at you. ‘What do you know, Shiv?’

You wriggle his eyebrows at him suggestively, enjoying yourself far too much. ‘I own a salon, Morales. I hear things from the ladies about town.’

One large palm reaches up to shield his face in embarrassment, a pained groan escaping between the gaps of his fingers. ‘For fuck’s sake - kill me now.’

You laugh, wrestling his hand from his face to with an impish grin. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve only heard good things so far - Frankie big boy Morales.’

He blushes so hard that his ears and neck go a livid red, and for a minute, you’re actually worried that he’d pass out from not enough blood reaching his heart. Not keen on the prospect of having to explain to the emergency services that you teased the poor man into an aneurysm, you turn on the water and cut short your little chinwag with a good-natured chuckle. 

His hands are still tightly clamped around the armrest when you carefully run the shower head along his hairline and behind his ears, soaking his curls. His biceps flex from the tight grip and the lean muscles strain against the sleeves of his t-shirt. 

At least he closes his eyes when you start with the shampoo. The velvety lather froths as you patiently wash his hair, which clings to his wet curls like vanilla frosting. The deep crease between his brows eases with each gentle swipe into his locks, and the invisible force pulling his lips downwards slackens. By the time you rinse out the bubbles, you don’t miss the way the tension in his body unwittingly goes with it down the drain.

When your nails slide slickly into his hair with the conditioner, his stubborn body finally, slowly unfurls. His head tips back of its own accord, baring the column of his strong neck as he leans inadvertently into your touch. Colour returns to his knuckles when he releases his death grip on the backwash. 

You smile to yourself, scraping your fingertips along his scalp in a firm massage, watching his chest rise and fall as he teeters on the brink of consciousness.

As your thumbs trace a confident path down the back of his skull, they appear to find a particularly sensitive spot near the base of his neck, and it's as if a switch is flipped. You witness the exact moment he breaks - his back arches off the leather seat, his obstinate lips part with a strangled half-sigh catching in his throat as he yields his full weight into the palm of your hands.

If you're not careful, you could get used to this.

‘Still with me, Morales?’ you tease quietly.

He garbles incoherently, and you grin.

Frankie practically molds into the chair like warm wax when you shepherd him back to the styling station. You’re so chuffed with yourself that you don’t even feel the need to gloat at the way his eyes are glazed over and how his head lolls into the soft pressure when you run a fluffy towel through his hair. The man recoiling at the mere brush of your fingers a distant memory.

You run an assessing eye over him, brushing out his locks to gauge your game plan. ‘I like this length on you, so I’ll just trim the split ends and tidy up your sideburns. You’ll benefit from some layering too - it’s a bit heavy on top right now.’

From the way he blinks owlishly at you, you know he doesn’t catch a single word. He shrugs and says matter-of-factly. ‘You can’t do worse than Pope.’

The salon is quiet this afternoon, as it tends to be on Wednesdays. You let him enjoy the peace for a little bit and tap your foot to Ashton’s playlist as your styling scissors move over his curls in metallic snips.

‘Tip your head forward for me,’ you instruct, sliding around the back of his head on your wheels as you probe, ‘So - how are you feeling about the wedding?’

The fabric of his t-shirt bunches over his shoulders as they quirk noncommittally.

‘It’s just a few days away.’

He makes an indifferent noise. But you’re not so easily dissuaded from conversation, and he knows it.

‘Can’t be easy - watching your ex get married.’

Frankie pins you with a long-suffering stare in the mirror. ‘We broke up a year ago.’

Getting onto your feet, you ruffle your fingers through the crown of his curls. ‘Yeah, but you dated for years. She sure moved on quick.’

He huffs a sardonic laugh. ‘Thanks, Shiv.’

Swapping out the styling scissors for blending shears, you argue, ‘What? It’s a legitimate observation. I’m just making conversation here.’

‘Or we could just sit here quietly.’

Ha. As if you ever listen to him. You press on, ‘Why did she invite you anyway?’

Frankie’s sigh sounds a lot like surrender as he humours you. ‘It’s a damned if she does, damned if she doesn’t kind of situation, I guess. The whole town’s invited.’

‘You sure she isn’t trying to flaunt it in your face or something?’

‘Flaunting implies I still care. I don’t.’

You give him a juvenile nudge nudge, wink wink. ‘Well, on the bright side, you’ll definitely get laid, being the heartbroken ex and all. Chicks love that shit.’

He dispatches a side-long stare in your direction. ‘I’m not heartbroken, and that’s not why I’m going. And you know none of this is any of your business, right?’

‘You’re no fun,’ you pout.

He quips, ‘As a professional hairstylist, you really should be better at making polite conversation.’

You snort. ‘Do you really think it’s a good idea to call me rude when I have scissors in my hands?’

Frankie watches you work in the comfortable lull that’s settled between you, gliding the blades along strands of his curls pulled taut, before running a fine-toothed comb through to brush out the loose tufts. Soft coils land on the floor around his chair as you work your way methodically through his layers.

‘Are you going to the wedding?’ he asks eventually.

You shrug. ‘Maybe, depends on my schedule. I gotta say, I’m kind of curious to see how tacky it will be.’

At his eyebrow sternly cocked, you argue, ‘I know she’s your ex and all, but she’s always been a bit tacky. I mean, that remodel of your house was just tragic.’

Frankie frowns. ‘How do you know all this? You’ve never been to my house.’

You wink. ‘Benny tells me everything when I do his hair.’

He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Of course. Benjamin fucking Miller.’

You give him a pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, I’m on your side, if it helps.’

‘I don’t need you on my side.’

You flash him an insufferable grin. ‘Too bad, Francisco. I am and there’s nothing you can do about it.’

The hairdryer drowns out any further conversation, and Frankie quietly studies you as you cord your fingers through his hair, ruffling it as it dries.

It’s still a bit damp when you switch off the hairdryer and reach up to pull a couple of jars from the shelf above. ‘On the day of the wedding, I want you to wash your hair just before you style it. You have a hairdryer at home, right?’

He throws you a pointed look. ‘I’m not a heathen.’

You grin. ‘Down boy, just checking. Now, you’ll dry your hair until it’s still a bit wet, like so.’ Presenting the styling mousse to him, you say, ‘Then go on and grab some product - you only need a dollop.’

He dips his index finger into the pot, scooping up a generous blob. Your attention is unexpectedly piqued at the sight of his hands. 

Have they always been so big?

Realising he’s staring at you in wait, you shake yourself out of it. ‘Ok, rub the mousse onto your fingertips and run them all over your hair, combing from root to end.’

Frankie does as he’s told, face set to a serious scowl as he impeccably goes over each section of his locks, staring into the mirror to make sure he gets every strand. For the first time, you see the pilot in him up close, and you wonder if he’s this thorough about other things, like -

Laundry, your mind interrupts as it careens on the brink of the metaphorical gutter. Get your shit together, Shiv.

‘Good,’ you smile when he’s done, hoping he doesn't see the strain in it. ‘Now, I want you to rake your fingers through the roots when you dry your hair all the way.’ In demonstration, your nails burrow into the base of his thick hair, then you wriggle your fingers upwards towards the ends. ‘It will give you lots of volume and really show off this cut.’

Passing him the hairdryer, you watch him critically in the mirror. He imitates your movements, a bit clumsily and far too cautiously. Leaning down to his ear so he can hear you over the whir, you instruct him, ‘Don’t be gentle, Francisco. C’mon, harder, deeper - don’t hold back.’

He chokes and pins you with a wide-eyed stare in the mirror that glances right off your oblivious self. Along with your words, nothing about this exchange would register in your head in any other way until much, much later tonight, when you replay the conversation in your head in that limbo between sleep and wakefulness. 

It may or may not have you squealing into your pillow in latent embarrassment - and something else.

But for now, you’re happy with the way his hair has set, and you gesture for him to switch off the hairdryer. Turning his chair towards you and away from the mirror, you scan your eyes over him and make small adjustments - tucking a couple of strands behind his ear here, a couple of final snips there. 

As a final touch, you bury your fingers into his locks, dragging your fingertips through the roots to impart a final tousle so that the curls are loose and soft. You preen at the way he sways into your contact, all shyness gone, his hooded eyes half-closed - before he seems to catch himself and sits up with a self-conscious ahem.

Grabbing a small bottle from the shelf, you say, ‘Last thing - your beard is a bit dry as well. This oil will keep it nice and moisturised, just two or three drops after you wash up in the morning will do.’

Tipping his face up by the crook of your finger and opening up his neck to you, you smooth the ointment along both sides of his jaw, rubbing circles into his neatly trimmed whiskers and all the way up his sideburns. Sliding downwards, your hands seek out the closely shaved stubble tucked beneath his chin. Then, by sheer momentum, your palms continue down his throat in a slow, sticky descent, until the pads of your thumbs slot into the hollow between his collarbones, your fingers resting at the base of his neck where you feel his pulse rabbiting underneath. 

The air thickens and shifts between you. When he swallows, you feel the ripple of the moment against your fingertips. 

His eyes are on you, and suddenly he’s too close, his skin too hot under your hands. To your horror, something akin to shyness rears its head and you almost stumble backwards to put a safe distance between you.

Scrubbing the oily residue from your hands on a towel, you break the moment with a wink and a steadier smile than you actually feel. ‘You look good, Morales. Ready to take a look?’

‘As if you would take no for an answer,’ he mumbles under his breath. Fondness might be too strong of a word - but you don't think you're imagining the faint trace of amusement in his voice.

With a dramatic ta-da, you spin his chair around with a flourish.

Frankie Morales is obviously not a vain man - he most likely owns five pairs of jeans that he’s worn on rotation for the past fifteen years, his t-shirts are washed ragged, and his trusty leather boots have seen better days. He probably doesn’t use a mirror other than for purely utilitarian purposes, like checking if there’s something stuck in his teeth from his last meal.

But right now, by the way he’s holding his breath as he meets his own eyes in the reflection, you can tell that he’s really looking at himself for the first time in a long while. 

You pretend to busy yourself with tidying up the styling station as you discreetly sneak glances at him, feeling strangely bashful for intruding in this moment. When he remembers to breathe again, he tilts his head left then to the right, and back again, even swivelling his chair from side to side so he can peer round the back.

You’ve parted his waves to the side, the lighter cut allowing his curls to carry their natural shape. The healthy sheen, courtesy of the mousse, tempers his grays to a softer, burnt silver that catches the light fetchingly as he moves. Reaching up, Frankie pushes back a stray curl that falls over his eyes, and his back straightens in a quiet show of confidence.

Running a salon is hard work and often thankless. But on days like this? You know you’re meant to do this.

A dramatic gasp draws both of your attention. Ashton is clutching at his chest, backed up against the neighbouring styling station, gaping at Frankie. ‘Mister - you look good enough to devour. Look at that salt and pepper, I’m living for the grays. Doing the Lord’s work, Shiv!’

You laugh as Frankie flushes, scratching an invisible itch on his forehead. You brush the loose hairs off his shoulders with a towel and give him a nudge. ‘See? I’m not the only one who thinks you look good with the grays. You better stock up on the condoms, Morales, the ladies will be all over you at the party.’

He shakes his head self-deprecatingly as he stands up, rubbing his palms on his jeans, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. ‘I doubt it, but - thanks. I appreciate this, Shiv.’

He shrugs on his well-loved burnt yellow jacket, the one with the sleeves perpetually folded up above his wrists and grabs his cap. You hold out a paper bag with the free shampoo and conditioner you promised him, throwing in a jar of hair mousse for good measure. ‘You’re welcome, and you better not put your hat on again this afternoon after all that hard work.’

His fingers brush yours when he takes the bag from you, then, as if it’s the logical next thing to do, he leans down to press a chaste kiss to your right cheek, his stubble coarse against your skin - and you know without looking it’s the gray patch in his beard that brushes against your jaw as he draws back. You fumble, feeling heat prickle the back of your neck and blooming in your rib cage. 

He flashes you the most self-assured smile you’ve seen on him this afternoon, which has you biting your bottom lip. ‘I won’t. Maybe see you at the wedding, Shiv.’

It takes you five full seconds to regain motor functions. By the time you unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, Frankie’s already out of the door with a spring in his step.

In companionable silence, you and Ashton watch the pilot strut - because that’s what he’s doing, he’s strutting with a confidence that becomes him - across the road through the glass front of the salon.

‘What a dish,’ Ashton sighs dreamily, flopping into a chair as if his limbs have given out. ‘I hope he comes back soon.’

You smile. A girl could always hope.

Notes: It's the first time I'm using a nickname for a Reader, but I have a real soft spot for Shiv, and I think she deserves one. I'm not sure where the fandom stands on this, does it disqualify the fic as a reader insert? If anyone has an issue with this, please let me know! For me, Shiv has no physical descriptions so to me she's still a reader insert.

I don't know if anyone expected this kind of dynamics between these two, but it's been so much fun to write with a bit of antagonism in the mix. I hope you enjoyed this, reblogs and comments are so, so appreciated as always. Thank you for reading ❤️

#frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #francisco morales #triple frontier fanfic #frankie friday #queue

[honeyedmiller]

Tangled Sheets | Frankie Morales

pairing: frankie morales x f!bombshell!reader

rating: 18+, minors do not interact.

warnings: somewhat shy frankie, probably nothing about this is canon except for the five men, drinking, smut (f oral receiving and unprotected piv), one (1) smack to the ass, praise, acquaintances to (potential) lovers, multiple uses of sweet pet names, no use of y/n.

word count: 4.4k

synopsis: frankie finds himself infatuated with you and even though he’s not the best flirt, he shows you other ways he can put his mouth to good use.

divider by @saradika-graphics

(sorry for any mistakes. this was not revised well)

The night air swirls around your body as you and your best friend walk to the front door of a busy bar. Her brother, Benny, is back in town and invited you both for some drinks with him. Of course, what comes with Benny, comes with the four other guys you’ve come to slowly know over the last couple of years.You’ve met her brother and his friends a handful of times—all handsome, but not enough to intrigue you… except for one. 

Frankie Morales. 

He was generally the quiet one of the group; much more of an observer than a talker. You’d always been intrigued by him. You’d always share heated glances with him, the other too stubborn to break eye contact until one of you is whisked away by someone else in the group. 

It was New Year’s Eve and you were just going to sit at home watching Dick Clark’s NYE special on TV, so when Stephanie invited you out for drinks, you couldn’t say no. 

You had a hunch you’d be seeing the boys tonight, and with one particularly on your mind, you wanted to impress him just a little—something that would grab his attention, keep his eyes on you, and have him wanting you. 

You turned heads everywhere you went, though. Your beautiful looks and killer personality always had people easily wrapped around your perfectly manicured fingers—not that you wanted them to be. It’s just how it was. 

You were a charmer without trying and any man or woman would’ve loved to chat you up to see if they could take you home. Many have tried, but never succeeded. 

Your heels clicked on the sidewalk as you reached the door of the bar, arm interlinked with Stephanie’s. You fish your ID out of your purse to show the bouncer, and he lets you both in with a ‘have a great night’. You toss him a kind smile over your shoulder before your eyes roamed the bar, patrons laughing and trying to talk over the thumping 70’s music that was playing while enjoying their drinks and the company of friends. 

“Oh, I see them! C’mon.” Stephanie tugged your arm, and you followed her to be met with the boys: Benny, Will, Tom, Santi, and Frankie. 

He looked good. 

Before you could not so subtly assess how mouthwatering he looked even further, Santi called your name and held his arms wide open. You grinned and hugged him, strong arms enveloping you for a quick second before his lips met your cheek. 

“Nice to see you again.” He says, taking a swig from his beer bottle. 

“You too, Santi.” You gave his arm the faintest squeeze before moving on to Benny, giving him the same greeting you did to Santi. You moved down the line of men with greetings before stopping short with Frankie, not entirely sure how to address him. 

His eyes were scanning your body adorned with a short, sparkly champagne colored dress and strappy wine red heels. You felt your body heat up with the way his intense gaze was roaming your figure from top to bottom. 

You stepped closer to him with a small smile, hand gently landing on his insanely toned bicep. 

“Hey, Frankie. You look good.” That’s all you say before taking a step back, hand dropping from his arm too soon for his liking. His cheeks burned red at your compliment. He swallowed hard as his deep brown eyes met your gaze, tipping his beer bottle neck to you in a ‘cheers’ fashion. 

“You too, sweetheart.” He says, and you offer him a genuine grin before turning to the bar. You flag down the bartender easily, ordering a Paloma. As the bartender works on your drink, you feel Frankie’s eyes burning a hole in your body. You turn your head to look at him and rest your chin in the palm of your hand as your elbow supports you on the sticky bar top. 

You eye him carefully, studying his features. His brown curls peek under the baseball cap he was wearing, and you reach out to brush one that had been resting on his forehead. 

“I see you’ve got the whole Clark Kent thing going on.” You grin at him, twisting the curl around the tip of your finger before letting it go. 

He offers you a shy grin and drops his gaze to the beer bottle in his hand. 

“Need a haircut.” He mumbles. 

“Mm. I think it’s sexy.” You shrug, and his eyes shoot back up to your face. Before he can say anything, the bartender hands you your drink and shoots a wink your way, saying it’s on the house. You gingerly take it and graciously thank the bartender, sipping your drink. 

A pang of jealousy oddly wrapped around Frankie in that moment, wishing he was as suave at the bartender. He wanted to at least flirt back to you, but he had to face reality. You were a bombshell. You made him tongue tied. Him trying to flirt with you would simply end in pure fucking disaster. 

Frankie always thought you were gorgeous, and itt was no surprise that you turned heads. 

What he didn’t get, though, is why you were flirting with him suddenly. Was it a bet? Did you get put up to do this? Why him? 

Out of all the men that were ogling you in the bar tonight, you only gave him the attention. 

“So how’ve you been?” You ask, deciding that the heated glances were too much to bear. 

“Uh, I’ve been alright,” He sets his beer bottle down onto the bartop, habitually scratching his forearm nervously. You watch him with a careful, steady gaze and a soft smile on your lips. “How about you, sweetheart?” 

That nickname sends heat through your body once more, making you unintentionally clench your legs together. 

Frankie notices. 

He wants to smirk, thinking that maybe you really did have an interest in him. But again, why him? 

“I’ve been good. Just busy with work and all.” You shrug, taking another sip of your drink. He grinned at you as you maneuvered yourself onto the barstool next to him, crossing one leg over the other. Your undivided attention was on him, and the tension rolls off your shoulders and eases, dissipating into the slightly warm air of the bar. 

As you and Frankie began to immerse yourself in comfortable conversation, the group behind you took notice. They were shocked to see you two actually talking instead of just staring at each other with imaginations wandering completely wild. 

You reach out your hand to gently grasp Frankie’s kneecap, and he swore his cock twitched in his jeans from your feather-light touch. He withheld a groan, gazing at you curiously. 

“I have to go to the restroom, but I’ll be right back.” You say, and he nods. He instinctively puts his hand over the rim of your drink, pulling it closer to himself on the bartop. 

You summon Stephanie and ask her to go to the restroom with you, and as soon as you two leave the vicinity, all four men look at Frankie with quirked eyebrows and knowing smirks. 

“‘Bout damn time, Fish.” Santi says, chuckling behind the rim of his schooner. 

“For what?” Frankie asks, a perplexed look overcoming his features as he stares back at his friends. 

“You’re kidding, right? It’s about time you two actually talked to each other instead of, you know, just eye fucking.” Benny laughs, and Frankie’s cheeks go red. 

“Give him some slack, asshole, he’s always been the quiet one. Nothing wrong with that.” Santi chastised Benny. “But seriously, Fish, you go get your girl.” 

“I highly doubt I could. Have you seen her? She’s a total catch, and I’m, well…” Frankie huffed a laugh as he shook his head, eyes averting to his jean-clad thighs. 

“You kidding me brother? She ogles over you just like you do to her. We see the way she looks at you. Take your chance with this one, Frankie. Trust us.” Benny says, and the other three nod their heads in unison. 

“Doesn’t hurt to try, man.” Will pipes in, and Frankie twists his mouth to the side. After a beat, he nods, looking at his friends. 

“Okay. But if this backfires, I’m blaming all four of you fuckers and I’m going ghost.” Frankie says, and Santi holds his hands up in surrender. 

“Understood.” Santi grins at Frankie just as you and Stephanie round the corner. 

Your body was hot with the conversation you just had with Stephanie replaying in your mind. She was grilling you about Frankie, and finally got you to ‘fess up about your undeniable attraction toward the beautiful brown-eyed man that sat patiently at the end of the bar for your company once more. 

You slide onto the barstool again, and Frankie slides your drink back over to you. You thank him and get into another invigorating conversation, time slowly fading into the abyss of the evening. Before you know it, it’s ten minutes before midnight. 

The whole bar is drunkenly shouting lyrics to Piano Man by Billy Joel, awaiting to ring the new year in. Even your friends are all in it, singing the lyrics as loud as they can while their drinks slosh side to side in their glasses as they sway. 

Amidst all the chaos, you and Frankie look at each other with goofy grins plastered on both of your faces. 

“You know,” He starts, finishing off the last of his final drink of the night, “I’ve always had a thing for you. Ever since I first laid my eyes on you all those years ago, I always thought you were the prettiest woman in the room.” Frankie’s lips twitch into a shy smile as you look at him in shock, his admission the last thing you were expecting from him. 

“Frankie,” You breathe. “I feel the same way. I know we only really know each other in passing, but I’d really like to get to know you, well, better.” You’ve slid off the stool now, standing in between his spread legs.

You rest a hand on his chest to feel his heart hammering beneath your fingertips, and you grin at the sensation. You don’t know how long you both stand there just looking at each other, but it must’ve been a good few minutes before the patrons of the bar start counting down sixty seconds to midnight. 

Frankie pulls you closer by your waist, hand fully splaying on the small of your back as your hand slides up to the back of his neck, dragging your fingertips across his warm skin. Your nails slightly scrape him and it makes him shiver.

 He chuckles as the last ten seconds are being counted down. “Querida, please let me kiss you.” His simple ask almost sounds like a plea, and you didn’t even have to think twice about it before you nod your head. 

“—Three, two, one, happy new year!—”

And he’s on you. He closes the gap between your bodies, free hand cradling the back of your head as he smashes his lips to yours with such desperation and fervor. The contrast between the neediness of the kiss and his soft lips is dizzying, and you were trying to find your ground. You felt like you were floating. 

It’s all teeth and haste and desperation to taste one another, to chase that feeling of intimacy before it slips through your fingers. Except, it’s not slipping, and Frankie is here and he’s proven to you that he wants you just as badly as you want him.

It’s poetic, in a sense. The guy who never thought he had a chance gets the dream girl with the beautiful looks and killer personality—the one that has him so tightly wound around her perfectly manicured finger—and he can’t believe this is his reality right now. 

You pull apart from him, breath ragged and heartbeat racing. 

“Frankie, please take me home. With you. Wanna go home with you.” 

He kisses you again before groaning, pulling apart as he nods. You make sure it’s okay with Stephanie that you leave without her before you exit the bar with him hand in hand. Santi sports a proud look on his face, and Frankie knows it: fucking finally, Fish. 

The ride home is filled with so much tension, and Frankie keeps a firm hand on your thigh as he rubs circles into your warm skin. 

When he pulls up to yours, you both barely even make it inside before he’s on you again, lips slotting themselves between yours once more. He has you up against the front door of your apartment, fingers grazing the side of your thigh just below the hemline of your dress. 

He keeps you there for a while, relishing in the pure intimacy of kissing you. His hands roam everywhere except for where you need him most, and it nearly becomes unbearable as your throbbing core begs for some relief. 

You pull away from him, knocking his hat off of his head to display his messy curls. You card your fingers through his locks, holding on to the nape of his neck as you rest your forehead against his. 

“C’mon, let’s take this to the bedroom.” You whisper, and he nods against you before you lace your fingers with his. You lead him down the hall and into your room, shutting the door behind you. 

He takes a few steps into your room, and at first, his broad body looked so out of place. His thumbs hook nervously into the front belt loops of his jeans, taking in his surroundings. 

White walls are adorned in pictures and a few posters from your favorite bands and movies. A record player sits next to your desk on the left of your room underneath the window with vinyls stacked neatly on the ground. Your queen-sized bed with the white comforter and terracotta pillow cases sits in the middle of your room, neatly made, calling your names. A white dresser and makeup vanity sit on the right side of your room. Your dresser has a few decorations and a candle atop a candle warmer, and it’s neat—unlike your vanity that’s in a complete disarray. 

You were in a hurry to get ready before you left, not having a care in the world that your vanity was a complete mess. That was a problem for a later time. 

Frankie smiled at the thought of you rushing to get ready to head out to the bar. You didn’t even need the makeup though—you were naturally so gorgeous and captivating, which is why nerves seeped into Frankie’s bones once more. 

He relished in the thought of being in your space. Your sanctuary. He knew what was coming next, but to his surprise, you made the first move. You step behind him and wrap your arms around his torso, one hand trailing down to the waistband of his pants. You slipped your hand underneath the cream colored shirt he wore, cold fingers splaying across his hot abdomen. You kiss his neck once before he slowly turns in your grip, eyes searching for any regret or warning that he shouldn’t go further. 

There were none. 

He grabbed your waist and gently walked you back toward your bed. The backs of your knees hit the mattress and he was coaxing you to sit down, so you obliged to his silent plea. 

Frankie sank to his knees before you, one hand on each of your kneecaps as he gave you a curious look—a knowing look. A look that was dangerous and had the deepest, hottest parts of your core reeling to be touched by him. 

You bite your bottom lip, reaching a hand out to caress his stubble on his chin before dropping your hand over one of his, guiding it up the warmth of your flesh. Goosebumps rise onto your skin as his fingertips skate over you, up up up until he reaches the hem of your dress once more. He continues to push his hand up until he’s at the apex of your thighs, rubbing soft circles over your skin. 

“Take off your dress for me. Please.” His voice is hoarse, almost pained. You oblige and he helps you slip the material over your head, and you’re left in front of him in just your bra, underwear, and heels. 

He could kneel before you all day and gawk at how much of a goddess you are, but he was a man on a mission. He wanted to please you, make you beg, enjoy every moment he had with you. 

Frankie starts to unravel the straps of your heels, purposefully skimming his fingers over your legs. He leans forward and presses light, delicate kisses against your thighs, trailing his lips up to the apex. 

Your breathing was getting heavier each second, the carnal desire for this man almost too much to bear. Once both heels were off, he gently tossed them to the side before fully kneeling on his heels. His gaze ran over your clothed core, seeing you were already soaked. 

He groaned before shaking his head, smacking his tongue against his teeth in a teasing manner. 

“Look at you, querida. You this wet because of me?” He asks, half in awe, half in desire. 

You nod your head frantically. “Frankie, baby, please—” Your voice is nearly a whine. He shushes you gently, thumbs rubbing circles near your aching core. Always so fucking close, but never close enough. Always everywhere and nowhere at the same fucking time. 

“Don’t worry gorgeous. I’ll take care of you. Promise.” His voice is a near whisper as he leans forward to press kisses against your inner thighs once more, moving up before he’s nosing at your slick coated panties. 

The moan you let out when he kisses you there is almost sinful. “Frankie,” You beg, eyebrows threaded together. “Fuck.” 

“I know mamas.” He coos, kissing your core through the soaked material before hooking his fingers through the band, looking up at you for permission. You let out the faintest please before he tapped your hips so you could lift them and he could slide your underwear down your legs. 

He was met with your glistening core, puffy and aching and begging. He hums satisfactorily, moving your legs over his shoulders as his arms wrap around your thighs. Blunt fingernails dig into your flesh as he positions his face right before your slick core. He places one last kiss to your thigh, the scrape of his beard setting your skin aflame.

You reach down to slot your fingers into his thick curls to encourage him, and he wastes no more time as he licks a long, hot stripe from your entrance to your clit. You gasp at the sensation, gripping onto his curls tighter as your body falls slack against the mattress. 

And he’s not relenting. His mouth works you, licking and sucking your core in such an expert manner that it made you fucking dizzy. 

“Frankie, oh—oh fuck.” You cry, shoving his face further into your slick cunt. 

He hums against you, relishing in your taste. You’re sweet, something of nectar from a peach in the summer, and he wants to drink you down until you’ve got nothing left to give him. He’s meticulous with his tongue, already seeming to know what makes you tick and moan and writhe above him as his mouth works you to an unforgiving orgasm. 

The sounds that reverberate off of the four walls of your bedroom are nothing less of obscene, wet smacking and suckling as more arousal gushes from you and pools around the lower half Frankie’s face. 

And you feel it. You feel that sickeningly sweet white hot sensation licking at the base of your spine, growing and growing and growing until it sets your whole body ablaze. 

Frankie feels your body tensing, so he takes the liberty of pushing two fingers into you to launch you over the edge. 

“C’mon baby, c’mon baby– give it to me.” His words are slurred, completely pussy drunk off of you. 

“Oh god oh god oh god—” You chant, and a whole galaxy explodes within you as your orgasm washes over you, body wrapped in a purely devastatingly euphoric feeling. Frankie licks up the remnants of your slick, sliding his fingers out of you before moving them up to your mouth. 

“You deserve to taste how sweet you are too, cariño.” 

You open your mouth and suck on his fingers, tasting the sweet tang of yourself before releasing them with a pop. He stands up, and a frown grows on your lips as you notice he’s still fully clothed. 

“C’mere handsome.” You coax him onto the bed, and you run your hands down his body. You’re looking into his eyes before your fingers reach the hem of his shirt, pushing up in the slightest with a plea in your eyes. He nods, and you slide the shirt off of his torso and over his head, carelessly tossing the material to pool onto the floor with the rest of your discarded clothes. 

Your nails trail down his torso lightly, scratching the tuft hair above his belt buckle. He noticeably shivers, and a grin curls onto your lips as you use your other hand to pull him down into a kiss. You both moan into each other as your hands roam his broad, muscular back before circling around to his front once more. Your hands work at his belt buckle and the button of his jeans before he separates from you, the same shy smile appearing on his lips. 

“Want you, Frankie.” You murmur, and he leans down to kiss your forehead. 

“I want you too, sweetheart.” 

He stands and removes the rest of his clothing, and you couldn’t help but admire his body before he hovered over you once more. You wrapped one hand around the back of his neck gently before trailing your other hand down his torso once more, meeting the dark, coarse hairs above his throbbing cock. 

“Please.” His voice is strained, eyebrows scrunched together as he nestles his face into your neck, kissing your pulse point repeatedly. You wrap your hand around his thick length, nearly moaning at the throbbing sensation you felt. You gave his silky flesh a few tugs before gathering the pre come on your thumb, moving your hand away from him to taste what he had to offer. 

You slithered your hand back down as you swiped the tip of his head between your slick folds, eliciting a loud, desperate moan from both of you. 

“Fuck, baby. So goddamn wet.” Frankie whimpers behind gritted teeth. 

“Only for you.” You say, and he leans up to take over your hand on his cock. He positions himself at your entrance, looking into your eyes once more before you bite your lip with a nod. He pushes himself into you slowly, moaning at the feeling of your sweet warmth wrapped around him. 

“So—fucking—tight,” He hisses, sinking to the hilt. You felt so fucking full and warm, and god—dare you say complete—wrapped around him like this. 

You bring his face down to yours once more to kiss him with such pained and unmistakable fervor as he starts to move. He’s so fucking heavy in you, and every push and pull of him has your mind reeling. 

He’s everywhere around you, all-consuming as he picks up his pace. The wet squelch of your arousal and skin slapping against skin is in perfect harmony with both of your moans. 

“You know,” Your voice is breathy as you let out a small laugh. “Can’t believe you’ve been hiding all this the whole time.” Your fingers pull gently at his curls, and he huffed a laugh. 

“I’m full of surprises, baby.”

He picks up the speed, tilting his hips up to hit that spongy spot inside of you that has you seeing stars once more. 

“Fuck, Frankie. Feel s’good.” You cry, wrapping your legs around his body. Your heels dig into his lower back as you roll your hips to meet his thrusts, but it was nearly impossible. 

Frankie halts his movements as he looks down at you, a smirk spreading onto his lips. 

“Why’d you stop?” You pout, and he grips your hips as he slides out of you to flip you around. 

“Ass up, baby.” 

You don’t hesitate. You arch your back as you balance yourself on your forearms, gripping the sheets. He sinks into you once more, groaning as he bottoms out. The new sensation is otherworldly, and when he starts thrusting once more, your eyes roll to the back of your head. You cry out in pleasure, nails scratching the comforter below you. 

“You like that baby?” Frankie grits, his hold on your hips nearly bruising. You were too fucked out to form a coherent sentence, so all you could do was nod frantically. Frankie laughs as he rubs the soft flesh of your ass soothingly before giving it a smack, and you moan at the stinging pain that quickly subsides into pleasure. 

The same white hot pleasure starting brewing in your core once more, licking a flame up your spine as he relentlessly pistoned into you. 

“I’m so fucking close, please don’t stop, pleasepleaseplease—” You’re a babbling mess underneath this man, searching for sweet release. 

“There you go, sweetheart. That’s it. Let go, it’s okay, I got you.” He encourages, and his wish is your command. You’re convulsing around him, crying out his name as tears pool into the corners of your eyes. 

“Where do you want me?” He asks, hips sputtering as he was on the brink of his own release. 

“Inside, please, god—please.” You cry, and he comes undone at your words, his warm release filling you with everything he’s got. He slumps down onto you, kissing your back before rolling off of you. You’re both breathless, smiles adorned on your lips. He pulls you into him as he strokes your back gently, and you plant a kiss onto his chest. 

“Please stay.” Your voice is a soft plea, and Frankie’s heart melts at the thought of you wanting him to stay with you. 

“Of course, baby. Get some rest,” He kisses your forehead gently before you both get under the covers. “Happy New Year.” 

“Happy New Year.” You mumble back, already half asleep and completely content. 

His thumping heartbeat is what lulls you completely, a newfound gratitude coursing through your whole being that you finally get to be with the man you’ve wanted for so long… especially wrapped around him in these tangled sheets.

tags: @party-hearses ; @ilovepedro ; @bastardmandennis ; @cool-iguana ; @pamasaur ; @nostalxgic ; @pascalpvnk ; @tinygarbage ; @amanitacowboy

#Frankie morales #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales smut #frankie morales fanfiction #francisco morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie catfish morales #frankie friday #pedro pascal characters

[rhoorl]

Turbulence | Part 3

Pairing: Frankie x reader (will turn into an OFC)

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 Link

Word Count: 4.8k

Summary: These two can’t stay away from each other for long.

Warnings: Masturbation (m). Little bit of angst and some fluff.

A/N: I’m so excited by the reaction to part 2! I’ve been stewing over this story for a while so it’s fun to have it out in the open. Previously on my A/N I said that there would be three parts. I’m surprised no one laughed at me for saying that because of course I’m long-winded and can’t wrap up something succinctly. There will be a part 4 before this story gets woven into Delta Landscaping.

As a reminder, I don't have a beta. Also, I made the dividers :)

“Vamos pendejo, they’re gonna make me circle if you don’t get in,” Santiago yelled towards Frankie, motioning for him to get in the car.

“Fuck,” Frankie shook his head to center himself before walking towards the curb. He opened the back door of Santiago’s car and tossed his carry-on and backpack in before settling into the passenger seat. “Sorry, Pope. Thanks for picking me up.”

As Santiago maneuvered his way out of the maze of cars, he quickly glanced over to Frankie. “All good, hermano. You good?”

“Uh y-yea…I’m great, actually.” 

Frankie stared out of the window as Santiago continued to drive, a smirk coming over his face.

“So tell me more about this handsome man,” Mom looked over at me with those eyes. 

She was trying so hard, but I just knew she wanted every detail but I was still trying to process what happened. Shit like this doesn't happen to someone like me. What are the odds of actually meeting my…whatever Frankie is, or could be…on a plane?

“He uh…he was on the plane with me. Sat next to me so we talked.”

“Good flight then?” She waggled her eyebrows, trying, but failing, to suppress a shit-eating grin.

“We hit some turbulence but…I don't know,” I shook my head and looked out the window. “It's like he made it…better…anyway afterward I wanted to say thank you, so I invited him to get a drink.”

“Please tell me Mac was working today,” she chuckled. Over the last year they had become friends. She would stop by to see him whenever she'd fly up to see me. She was subtly trying to play matchmaker between him and my Aunt Lori.

“He was,” I laughed.

“What did he think?”

“He was really amused by it all. I already know he's going to give me so much shit when I fly out Monday.”

“Did you make plans to see him again? What's his name? Where does he live? What does he do? Sorry,” she glanced over at me quickly before returning her gaze to the road. “I needed to get that out, I’m done, I promise.”

“Frankie, his name is Frankie,” I said softly, twirling my phone. “He lives here. I got his number so we'll see…”

“Do you want to see him again?”

I sat and pondered for a moment, collecting my thoughts. My immediate reaction was yes, absolutely. I wanted to hear his laugh, talk with him, hold his hand…he was such a good listener and was so attentive. I wondered if his attentiveness would also extend to the bed-. I suddenly remembered I was in the car with my mother and had to reel it in.

Taking a deep breath, I looked over at her, “Yeah. I really do. But it's jam-packed until I leave Monday.”

“Not necessarily…” she smirked as she stole another glance my way. “Ok, well, obviously tonight is with the rehearsal dinner. And then tomorrow with the wedding, but it's early…you'll be able to sneak away,” she winked.

“Mom!” I giggled. “I can't ditch Carol and Dave's wedding!”

“Oh stop it, yes you can. There's going to be so many people there, it'll be fine,” she smirked.

Frankie played with his phone, bringing it up to his chin. He went back and forth on whether or not to text. Well, texting wasn't really the question. He knew he wanted to text, but was debating what to say.

I can't just text “hey” that seems so…I don't know, casual? It's one step away from “you up?” and that's not the vibe I'm going for. 

He kept an inner monologue going as he listened to the music coming from the speakers of Santiago's car. 

Think of something Frank. What says, “I want to see you again” but doesn't sound desperate?

Because he did want to see her again. More than anything he's wanted in a long time. It's like something ignited within him, something he thought had long been extinguished…the embers starting to crackle a bit.

He could see Santiago out of the corner of his eye, silently observing. They'd already made some small talk about Frankie's trip and how much it pained him to say goodbye to his niece and nephew. It was a fun visit and cathartic in ways he was still processing.

“Know what you're gonna wear tomorrow?” Santiago finally broke the silence.

“Hmm?” Frankie murmured.

“For the party? Will said that it's a Star Wars theme.”

“Oh shit,” Frankie ran a hand down his thigh, “I didn't get a present.”

“Don't worry, hermano! I got gift cards, a set from each of us, and uh ah,” he put his hand up to stop Frankie from talking, “no you don't owe me back. Just…I don't know buy me a beer or something next time we're out,” he glanced over.

“Thanks, man.”

“I knew you had a lot on your mind, so figured I’d take care of it. Wanna guess what I’m going as?”

Frankie turned his head to the side, catching Santiago's smirk. “Lemme guess. You're going as Poe?”

“I already have the costume, can't let that baby go to waste!” Santiago chuckled.

“I’ll wear some Star Wars shirt I have.”

“See, I knew you were going to say that. I have something for you in the backseat.”

Frankie turned to see a plastic bag. Grabbing it, he reached inside and pulled out a gray T-shirt with BB-8 on the front. He furrowed his brow as he inspected the shirt before the realization hit him.

“Seriously?” He snorted. “Poe and BB-8, huh?” He shook his head as Santiago busted out laughing.

Mom and I got to the hotel with enough time for me to get checked in and upstairs to freshen up before the rehearsal dinner. The lobby was already swarming with distant relatives from both sides. 

We'd chosen to stay at the hotel rather than at home for a couple of reasons. One is the convenience factor. Since the wedding was at the aquarium downtown, it just made a lot of sense to already be down here and not have to deal with traffic. Plus, Carol had us getting up at the ass crack of dawn to get ready.

At the time I booked this, I thought springing for the suite would be a fun treat for myself. However, I wasn’t planning on getting a room that was bigger than my apartment. The bathroom looked like it could fit the entire bridal party in it…or at least one other person with broad shoulders...

My mind flashed to Frankie. His eyes, his smile, the way he smelled when I hugged him at the airport. I shook my head, pulling out my phone from my back pocket. 

I wanted to text him…but say what? I can't ask how his day is going. That's a weird thing to ask. Right? I mean, we don't know each other. I need to think of something funny…or witty…ugh.

Thankfully a knock at the door pulled me from my impending spiral. It must be Mom, figuring she'd pop over and sit with me as I got ready. Opening the door, I was pleasantly surprised to see my favorite cousin Ash.

“Hey,” they squealed, coming in for a hug. “Ah, I missed you!”

“Same!” I returned their tight embrace.

“Can I come in? I'm trying to avoid Carol,” they laughed, looking both ways down the hallway before ducking into my room. 

“Of course, come in.” I shook my head laughing. Ash was always a colorful character and was basically a sibling; we were close in age and grew up together.

“I love my sister but she's a little high-strung. Apparently, some of Dave's family is delayed getting in from Virginia. How that's my problem, I don't know,” they laughed. “How are you? How was your flight?”

“Good, really good,” I gave a tight-lipped smile before turning on my heels and walking to the bedroom to grab my toiletry bag.

“Wooow,” Ash whistled. “You're big time now! Big job so you went for the suite, huh?”

I rolled my eyes and laughed. “Figured I'd treat myself a bit.”

“And I love that for you!” They sat at the end of the bathtub as I laid out my makeup. “So…spill.” I furrowed my brows, looking at Ash in the mirror. “Don't play coy, your mom already told mine about this guy…you met him at the airport?”

“On the plane,” I sighed. “Jesus Christ, please tell me that story isn't spreading.”

“No, no! Seriously, it's not,” Ash reassured you. “I just happened to overhear it. It was said in passing, I swear, nothing more to it. Buuut, I can be useful,” they raised their eyebrows.

Ever since you were younger, Ash had a knack for “research” as it came to be known. It almost became a game…how little information could you give Ash to be able to turn around a dossier on whoever your intended target was. Although Carol's soon-to-be husband was the government agent in the family, you really thought Ash missed their calling as a spy.

“C'mon, JoJo…please, everyone's in a relationship, it's been so long since I've done this,” they pouted. 

I took a deep breath, I couldn't resist that face. Plus, it was always so funny to see how quickly Ash could solve the case. “Ok. His name is Frankie…he's retired military. Delta Force,” Ash started immediately tapping on their phone. “Has a sister in Dallas. A few friends who live here, two of them just bought a house together. They're brothers. The other one lives with him.” I trailed off as I opened my eyes wide to swipe some mascara.

“Santiago?”

“Y-yeah,” I paused looking at Ash in the mirror. “That was the guy who was coming to pick him up. Are you serious? That's like a new record.”

“Well, your boy doesn't really have much of a social presence…but a couple of his friends do.” Ash came up beside me and flicked through a couple of Facebook and Instagram accounts. I made a note of a couple of the names so I could go back and do my own research later.

“Good to know I still got it,” Ash winked, cracking their knuckles. “So, you gonna see him while you're here? Got this biiiig suite all for yourself.”

I rolled my eyes, “seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. C'mon, let me live vicariously through you! Handsome stranger on a flight. Love at first sight. Hot hotel sex…c'mon it's writing itself!” Ash laughed.

“Whoa whoa whoa … who said anything about love at first sight.”

“You haven't stopped smiling since I brought him up,” Ash nudged my arm with their elbow. “You look beautiful, send him a pic! Have you two been texting?”

“I can't just send him a photo out of the blue, what the hell Ash?!” I scoffed. 

“Ok well, a text? Making sure he got home ok? I dunno something…get the ball rolling. This will be fun! C’monnnn.”

The guys decided to spend a quite Friday at home, sitting around and watching a baseball game over some beer and pizza. Benny was tired from his training schedule so he wasn't up for going anywhere.

Frankie’s cell phone felt like it was a brick in his pocket. He wanted to send a text. He really wanted to get a picture of her, something to look at versus relying on the image his mind kept replaying. He went to the kitchen to grab another beer when he felt his phone buzz. His heart skipped a beat before he shook his head. He didn't want to get his hopes up as he fished the phone from his pocket, but then a big grin came across his face once he saw his screen.

Wifey: Did you make it home ok? 

I did. How about you?

Frankie bit his thumb as he saw the text bubbles pop up.

Wifey: I did. Got a suite. It's nicer than my apartment 😆

Nice. Do you have a good view?

She sent a photo of the bay. She was clearly at one of the nice hotels downtown.

Aww I don't get to see you?

Ash squealed and cupped their mouth. 

“Will you stop it? I'm going to get a noise complaint,” I hissed, trying to play it cool even though I was freaking out.

“I'm sorry, but that was fucking smooth. I like him. Ok, you need to send him a picture.”

I struggled with a flattering angle…this is why I never took selfies. But with Ash’s help, I managed to get a decent one that showed off a bit of my rehearsal dinner outfit too.

“Here goes nothing,” I winced as I pressed send.

“Ooo he's typing,” Ash looked over my shoulder.

Frankie ✈️: Beautiful

Frankie ✈️: The view is nice too

Ash brought their hand to their mouth and let out a little scream followed by a happy dance. My face was starting to hurt from smiling so much.

Frankie instantly saved the photo and then studied it, thankful that now he had something to look at.

“Hey Fish, you brewing the beers yourself in here or what,” Benny came into the kitchen, clapping Frankie on the shoulder as he made his way over to the refrigerator. “Oh hey, Monday you wanna come to the gym with us? I could use you,” Benny started shadowboxing.

“Yeah, Benny, I'll be there,” he smiled. His eyes trailed after Benny as he made his way back into the living room.

As much as Frankie didn't want to, he decided to change the name in his contacts in case any of the guys happened to get a peek at his phone.

The rehearsal dinner went off without a hitch, well, except for the fact that Dave's sister and her family and his coworker Susan and her family were delayed. They arrived as dessert was served.

But Ash and I were in our own little world, giggling and overanalyzing every text. I found out that tomorrow he was going to a Star Wars-themed kid's party at a roller skating rink. Coincidentally it was the same place Ash had a birthday party when we were younger. 

Frankie returned the favor and later sent a photo of his own. It was a bathroom selfie of him in the T-shirt Santiago had bought him. He looked so handsome; a little bit of hat hair, but the curls by his ears were adorable. He arched an eyebrow and pursed his lips in a silly pose that made me laugh. My eyes traveled down seeing how his shirt stretched across his broad chest, the sleeves sitting perfectly against his biceps. I wanted to feel his arms again. It may have been the wine talking, but my mind started to wander to how it would feel to rest my legs on his shoulders as he…

“Psst,” Ash elbowed me in the side, pulling me out of my reverie.

Carol and Dave were standing at our table, doing their rounds greeting everyone. I stood up and gave them both a hug. A lot of people were intimidated by Dave since he was on the more serious side and didn't talk a lot, but I had a soft spot for him. He always doted over Carol and treated her well and she was so incredibly happy.

Once we got a breakdown of tomorrow's events, complete with an agenda with times, Ash and I decided to head out. Carol didn't want us all staying out too late and getting hammered since we had to get up early. I kissed my mom goodnight and Ash and I headed upstairs.

“I am not looking forward to that wake-up call tomorrow morning. Seriously, who sets up hair and makeup at 6? Do we all need to be there the whole time? It's only going to take like five minutes for me to get ready and put my suit on.”

“Relax, it's just one day,” I smiled. “She wants the pictures and the whole nine yards of everyone in their robes getting ready. Now, did she really have to have 12 people in her bridal party? No, that's a little extra,” I chuckled, “but she's absolutely beaming. She's so happy.”

“You're right, she is happy. After all the shit they've gone through, I'm happy they’re getting this,” Ash said with a soft smile before the attention was redirected to me. “Speaking of happy,” they winked.

I buried my face in my hands as we both giggled. When the elevator reached Ash’s floor, they looked at me with a wicked grin “Try and not stay up too late.”

“Goodnight Ash. I'll see you bright and early!” I said cheerily as the doors closed, not missing Ash flipping me off in the process.

Frankie ✈️: I'm probably gonna head to bed soon. Sleep well.

Seriously, this guy is so cute. But my mind started to wander about him in bed…what does he wear to bed? Does he wear anything? I bit my lip at that thought, remembering how big his hands were and wondering if that meant…

Ding.

The doors opened and I shook my head to compose myself. I needed to respond to him and then get into bed. I hope my vibrator is charged, although I probably won’t need it at this point.

Sweet dreams Frankie. 😘

Frankie scrolled back through their text string, smiling to himself. He then came to her photo again. Remembering how perfectly she fit into his arms when they hugged. How badly he wanted to feel her delicate fingers run through his hair, scratching his scalp. Wondering how her hand would look wrapped around his cock.

He shuffled in bed, laying on his back. His mind remembered how her chest felt pressed up against his. The smell of citrus in her hair. Her plump lower lip and how he just wanted to feel it in between his teeth. He spit into his hand, hissing when he reached down and started to rub up and down his cock. 

He felt a little guilty doing this, but he needed to feel a release. Remembering her laugh and how cute she looked when she was thinking. His mind continued to race as he chased that release, it wasn't too far given how amped up he was. He wondered how she would sound. How she'd taste. How her hips would buck and her back would arch when he did that move which had become his signature over the years. Would she let out a breathy moan or scream his name while grasping a fistful of his hair? 

His mind started to go blank as that feeling came over him. Before long, he felt the ropes of his spend on his stomach as he panted, coming down from the high only to realize he was alone in his bed.

The alarm came far too early and I was already wanting an IV of coffee. Thankfully my vibrator was up to the task last night. I laughed at the thought of getting off to a bathroom selfie of a guy wearing a BB-8 T-shirt. I won't look at that little droid the same anymore.

I rushed to put on some jogging pants, a loose top, and my robe. Thankfully, I had packed up my dress and the rest of my accessories, so I just had to grab and go this morning.

When I arrived at Carol's suite, my mom and aunt were there fussing over the spread of fruit and pastries. I spotted Ash in the corner, sunglasses on and hair all askew.

“Jesus, did you get in a fight with your pillow?” I snorted as I walked up.

“I'm not speaking to anyone until I have been awake for a full hour and have had a cup of coffee.” Ash tried to say in a deadpan tone, but immediately cracked up when they saw my face. “How was your night? Your vibrator work or did you kick it old school and use your hands?”

“Will you shut the fuck up,” I hissed. “Grandma is here,” I cut my eyes over to our grandmother who was asleep in one of the chairs.

Ash rolled her eyes. “Well…”

“Yes, it works. It worked quite well.”

“Ha, I knew it! Now all you need is to get an actual di- hi Carol!” Ash gave a tight smile.

“Hi, hey JoJo. Ash, do you want to go first and get this out of the way or do you want to go last?’

“Let's get this show on the road sis!” They winked and headed over to the hairstylist.

“You look happy. My mom said you met some guy on the flight here,” Carol whispered.

“Jesus, who doesn't know at this point?” I shook my head.

“Honestly? Probably Grandma on account of her being asleep,” she laughed. “But seriously, if you needed to duck out of the reception early I won't say anything,” she winked.

The next couple of hours were a bit of a frenzy as I helped the maid of honor keep track of the seemingly endless game of musical chairs between make-up and hair. Once everyone was dressed it was time to stage the getting ready pictures. I'd been so caught up that I missed a text from Frankie. Ash saw it when they picked up my phone to check the time.

Frankie ✈️: Good morning. Hope it all goes smoothly this morning.

Sorry I missed this! It's been hectic but good. We're almost ready for pictures!

Frankie ✈️: Am I lucky enough to see?

Maybe…

He sent a picture of himself pouting and he looked absolutely adorable with his bed head and scruff. I couldn't help but notice he was still in bed. The blue and white plaid comforter pulled up to his chest, but I could see he wasn't wearing a shirt. I bit my lip wondering if he was wearing anything at all as I took in his bronzed shoulders, noticing a few freckles along his collarbone.

How dare you send me such a scandalous photo this early? 😉

Frankie ✈️: So if it were later it would be ok?

Maybe

Frankie ✈️: Noted 

Frankie ✈️: I've been thinking about that dress of yours.

Oh yeah?

Frankie ✈️: I bet you'll look beautiful in it

Well, I'm about to go get dressed. Maybe I'll send you a photo of the finished product

Frankie ✈️: Just the finished product?

I could feel my cheeks getting warm. Thank goodness I was planning on wearing Spanx underneath my dress because my current pair of underwear was soaked. I thought about rubbing one out quickly in the bathroom as I changed but hearing everyone laughing and carrying on just on the other side of the door killed the mood.

Frankie fidgeted on the couch, sitting up to readjust himself as he waited for Santiago to get ready. He felt like maybe he went a little far, but she seemed to be into it so far so he tried to silence that little voice.

“So, what do you think,” Santiago popped out into the living room, giving Frankie a twirl. 

“Looks the same as it did last Halloween, Pope,” Frankie smirked. “Ready?”

“Yeah, we should head out. Lord only knows Will’s going to be early so we’re already late,” he chuckled.

The guys walked out and got into Frankie’s truck. He checked his phone one more time, before putting it in the cup holder and reversing out of his place.

“So, what does he think?” Ash asked as I came out of the bathroom.

“I haven’t sent a photo yet, I wasn’t going to do it in the bathroom.”

Ash furrowed their brows and gave me a skeptical look, “Oh c’mon live a little. Who hasn’t sent a nude in the bathroom before?”

Before you could chastise your menace of a cousin you hear everyone gasp as Carol walked out. She looked radiant and so happy. Dave had sent up a present for her to open - a simple blue sapphire pendant to match her engagement ring. 

As everyone fawned over the gesture and snapped photos, you grabbed Ash and forced them to take a few photos.

“Ooo this one, your boobs look great in that one,” Ash pointed as you rolled your eyes. “What? They do. Ok, send it please.”

Taking a deep breath, I just attach a photo, hit send, and immediately hand my phone to Ash. “Please, I need you to screen his reaction.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek as we both waited for a response. It was an agonizing couple of minutes and my mind raced to all sorts of possibilities before finally I heard the buzz.

Ash looked down and a big smirk came across their face. “He liked it.”

“Lemme see,” I grabbed my phone, unlocking it to see his message.

 Frankie ✈️: Wow, what a finished product.

Frankie ✈️: You look beautiful. 

“See…I told you,” I heard Ash say, but all I could focus on were those messages. I bit my lip to control busting out in a huge smile.

As we got everyone downstairs and loaded into the limos to head over to the venue, Frankie and I were texting. I was so thankful I decided to pick a dress with pockets. I didn’t want to keep him from his friends and he kept telling me he didn’t want to keep me from my bridal party duties, but here we were - still texting each other. 

I’ll be away for a little bit here soon. Ceremony is going to start.

Frankie ✈️: ok, I guess I can wait 😀 

How much longer are you planning on staying at the party?

Frankie ✈️: I don’t know, it depends.

Depends on what?

Frankie ✈️: Might have a date to get to, we’ll see.

Ooo a date, huh? Wow. Where are you going?

Frankie ✈️: Depends. 

Frankie ✈️: Pizza or burgers?

Depends.

Frankie ✈️: On what?

Is it homemade or are we going to a restaurant?

Frankie ✈️: Who said I was taking you? I was planning on asking Lulu. 😉

I stifled a snort, trying to cover my face with my hand. He had quite a soft spot for one of his friends’ neighbors, an older woman he said reminded him of his late mother.

Oh so you have a hot date with Lulu tonight then huh? Too bad…

Frankie ✈️: Why you say that?

I got a pass to skip out on the reception…

Frankie ✈️: Send me the address and what time I can pick you up.

I laughed at the speed at which he sent me that response. I sent him the address of the reception and told him I was putting my phone away for the ceremony. The last thing I saw was a message from him saying he couldn’t wait to see me, which set loose a kaleidoscope of butterflies in my stomach.

“You look happy,” Ash whispered as we stood in line to walk down the aisle, rolling their eyes as one of the other bridesmaids shushed us. “Care to share with the class?”

I kept a coy smile as we continued walking up, waiting for our turn. When it was about to be my turn I turned around and whispered, “I’m going to see Frankie after this.” With a wink, I turned around smiling as I left Ash slack-jawed.

“Hey Pope, you ok to get a ride with Benny and Will? I’m…um…gonna head out,” he took off his cap and quickly ran his hand through his hair before returning it.

“Todo bien Francisco?” Lulu asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“Y-yeah, all good. I…um…just need to go take care of something. You good Pope?”

“Si, hermano, go ahead.” He nodded to Frankie.

“Adios Lulu,” he bent down to kiss the woman on the cheek. “Ok, let me go find Olivia and tell her bye and I’ll head out.”

Frankie tried to exit the party as quickly and nonchalantly as possible, so as to not raise too many suspicions. His hand twitched as he walked to the parking lot, the anticipation of seeing her making his heart race. When he finally climbed into the cab of his truck, he took a deep breath before reversing out of the parking spot. 

He hit nearly every red light on the way to the highway and then hit a couple of patches of traffic. But despite all of the delays, he kept a smile on his face the entire time, his mind racing. He was excited and full of nerves, but also a bit scared that maybe once they saw each other again she wouldn’t feel the same. Like this was all about the thrill of a weekend fling. 

He shook his head and tried to keep the intrusive thoughts at bay as he parked, giving himself a once-over in the rear-view mirror. Showing up to a fancy wedding in jeans and a t-shirt wasn’t his idea of a great first impression, but she clearly didn’t care.

A/N: What do we think? These will finally get back together in person in the next chapter!

I don't have an official "tag list" for this, but I'm going to tag a few who may be interested based on comments/reblogs from the past part. I can remove you if you want: @laughing-in-th3-purple-rain / @lwfics / @missladym1981 / @alltheseperfectimperfections / @anavatazes / @inept-the-magnificent / @weho2kcmo / @casa-boiardi / @undercoverpena / @survivingandenduring / @secretelephanttattoo / @sin-djarin / @readingiskeepingmegoing / @trulybetty

#frankie friday #francisco morales #francisco catfish morales #frankie morales #frankie x reader

[romanarose]

Triple Frontier Write-A-Thon

Hosted by @romanarose and @for-a-longlongtime

Hello everyone! March 13th of this year is the 5 year anniversary of Triple Frontier, a movie that was underrated but very precious to all of us. To me, it is a comfort movie and something that through fics and fandom has helped me process a lot of things. 

Charlie Hunnam announced recently that there is potential for a sequel and he is trying to get it in production and has signed on as a producer. Me and @for-a-longlongtime want to both drum up a little noise and celebrate this media we all love so much!

How it works

Write a fanfiction of Triple Frontier, following the content rules listed below. This is for both art and fanfiction. We encourage you to utilize twitter or instagram if you’d like to share either, and #triplefrontier or #triplefrontier2019 on any site you post on. If you don’t want to make art or write, we encourage you to use social media platforms with the hashtags to help make some noise.

We are highly encouraging LGBT themes and for you to think outside of x f!reader. 

All fics that fall under the rules are encouraged, so if you write Santiago Garcia x afab!f!reader, that’s great! But we’d like to take this time to encourage gay/bi pairings, trans readers, or even trans interpretations of the boys. Branch out!

When you post, tag @triplefrontier-anniversary on tumblr and we will reblog it there. We also may reblog onto our main, so consider tagging one or both of us so we know what’s up! Please follow that page to see what other people are writing! In the tags, please tag it triple frontier write a thon, just to make everything easily found.

If you want to post art that tumblr doesn’t allow like nude art, link the content in a tumblr post, like a twitter link, and we’ll reblog that!

If you exclusively write on ao3 or wattpad or other, you can either make a link on a tumblr post and tag us. Other option is to message me (RomanaRose) privately and I’ll make a post and link you and reblog it to the page.

Rules

We will run from March 1st to March 14th. Fics and art posted before or after will not be counted.

This is not a dark event, sorry! Some of us enjoy dark content but wanted to keep this particular event mostly non-dark. That being said, we will allow dub con in the context of mild alcohol use, power dynamics etc. Kidnapping/arranged marriage etc is fine as long as consent is given for anything sexual. Mostly we are looking to avoid non-con/violence. If you have questions, don’t be afraid to reach out to us!

All participants must be 18+, although smut is not required

No incest, including Millercest. None of the usual ‘no’s’, such as underage content apply in addition to no dark.

We have the right to exclude any fic that makes us uncomfortable. It’s our event.

However, we will NOT be excluding people for personal biases, unless it encroaches on our boundaries. I.E. If we have you blocked, please don’t try to enter the event. However, if we’ve had petty beefs or you and one of our mutuals don’t like each other, we generally will include your work. This event is to promote Triple Frontier, not about us.

LGBT themes are highly encouraged, not required.

Tom is allowed. We’re not gonna tell you not to include him if that’s what your little heart desires. However, we highly encourage that your work includes at least one of the usual 4

Leave me alone I love Arrested Development, RIP Carl Weathers.

We hope everyone has fun and this drums up more Triple Frontier fics, in which we are severely lacking!

Remember to reblog and comment to support artists!

Please come to us with any questions!

#triple frontier #santiago garcia #will miller #william miller #triple frontier fanfic #benny miller #ben miller #frankie morales #frankie friday #francisco morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales fanfiction #fishben #ironpope #benjamin miller #santiago pope garcia #santiago garcia x reader #male reader #x reader