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ohforficsakelibrary · 4 months

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Barbados

Summary: You've been carrying on with whatever this is for months, pushing and pulling, until one night Frankie wants control.

masterlist

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!Reader

Word Count: ~2.2K

Rating: Explicit 18+ for smut/ Unprotected piv, edging, multiple orgasms (f), creampie, a hint of dom!Frankie, a dash of brat-tamer!Frankie, still a Consent King, a pinch of blasphemy, y'all are gonna get a noise complaint / Minors DNI

A/N: As with Dominica, this is written about these two idiots, but flipped to the reader's perspective. Can be read as a standalone, only a few tiny, non-critical nods to the series.

Happy Frankie Friday to all those who celebrate.

Eight months into whatever this is, Frankie pulls noises from your throat that you’ve never made in your life.

And to think, you had fought him on it.

You’d been working each other up all evening, spiking heated glances over the dinner table as you listened to Pope go on about something.

Can’t remember what.

You’d both unceremoniously deposited Santi in his room next door, each smacking your key cards against the reader so quickly that it took three tries to unlock as Frankie groaned into your mouth and you pawed at his belt. This room was one of yours.

Can’t remember whose.

It doesn’t matter, one key eventually worked.

In your haste to have each other after a month apart you’d skipped his mouth, and his fingers, and everything you would have demanded if you’d had more sense.

Sense. The thing he simultaneously robs you of and delivers in spades to every starving nerve ending.

The two of you hadn’t even made it to the bed.

Frankie’s behind you on the couch, your upper body draped over the armrest as he works his way inside you.

“Mmfh, hold on, wait, wait, wait,” your hand finds his where it’s wrapped around your hip and immediately he stills as you hiss through clenched teeth.

“Shit. Baby, talk to me.”

“Just. A little sharp.”

“No, I should have…” he makes a move to pull out completely.

Your hand flies back to his hip, “Francisco Morales, don’t you dare.”

“Baby, just let me taste you,” he barely has the tip of his cock inside you now as he cranes to drop kisses along your spine, “get you all warm and ready for me. ”

“I’m fucking ready for you now.”

Stubborn as a moose is not the saying, but Frankie reckons it should be.

“Baby, please, I’m not doing this if it hurts.”

He’s mad at himself, more than anything. Frankie doesn’t fuck around with this. He knows what he is.

He’s normally so methodical. He has his procedures. His checklist. You blew right through it and in his haze of want—he let you.

You’re doing it even now as your nails bite into his hip when he makes a move to pull away.

“Baby…” he urges again.

“No.”

Talons of irritation tug at the back of his scalp.

And he gives in to them.

“You know what, fine,” he growls, hands leaving you completely as something shifts, “you do it then.”

You move to bring one of his warm palms back to your skin but he snatches it away.

“No. That’s all you. You wanna take me? Take me. Go ahead.”

Oh.

A Frankie Mood.

He hasn’t had you in a month and already they’ve returned with a vengeance.

You throw him a look over your shoulder, half expecting to see his arms crossed over his chest. One hand’s braced on the back of the sofa, and you can feel the heat from the other where it hovers over your hip.

His bottom lip is trapped between teeth.

Okay, Frankie.

You prop yourself up off the arm of the sofa with one hand, reaching down with the other to guide the tip of his cock against your entrance, gently shifting your hips and rocking back onto his hard length at your own pace, moaning as you do.

A pace you’ve slowed way down for his torture benefit.

It smarts a little less and you take a little more.

But this stopped being about that a few inches ago.

You can hear Frankie sucking sharp breaths in through his nose. The back of the sofa creaks with the white-knuckled pressure he’s subjecting it to.

While his words are bold, his body’s barely held together.

But he’s composed enough not to give you the satisfaction of the moan that’s bursting at the back of his throat.

“God, Frankie,” you breathe when the curve of your ass meets his stomach.

He barks a dark laugh.

“Oh, I thought you could take this whole thing,” he leans to cover you with his body, nose skimming the shell of your ear.

“I’ve still got two more inches here for you, babe,” he continues to taunt just before he bites down on your earlobe, soothing it with his tongue.

“What are you gonna do about that?”

You have half a mind to flip him off of this couch and onto the floor.

Instead you drop your chest back down to the arm of the sofa, tip your hips forward, and squeeze around him.

It makes him give you the last two himself.

It hadn’t taken long for you to discover how to short his brain and send his hips slamming into yours in search of more.

“Ohh, you little…” he’s growling but you can feel the smile against your ear.

He loves this.

The push and pull.

You guide his hand to your clit, where he immediately starts rubbing slow circles with his middle and ring fingers.

He’s gonna drag this out.

You tip your face to meet his mouth, sucking on his bottom lip before he gives you his tongue.

“You okay?” He whispers softly when you break for air.

“Yeah, baby.”

Frankie drops a kiss in your hair before he bucks his hips against you without pulling out.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

“Mmmm,” he rumbles, sitting up and holding your hips with both hands. He gives you a few tentative strokes, slowly, palms mapping the contours of your back until you take it upon yourself to push against him.

“You’re so fuckin’ impatient, aren’t you,” his hips don’t falter from their lazy pace as one hand grabs the back of your neck. “So fucking greedy for me. For this cock.”

You clench down around him to make your point, smiling when he groans, his hips stuttering.

“You know what?” He brings his face to your ear, “let me have it, baby.”

Control.

Let him have control.

He can’t see the way you arch an eyebrow in challenge, but he knows it’s there on your face.

“Fine,” you whisper and cant your hips back against him.

“Need a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ gatita.”

“Yes. Frankie.” It’s sour in your mouth as you say it. But you trust him. Trust that he’ll take care of you. That he’ll work you up and over and through until “yes Frankie” is all that you can scream.

You trust that he’ll take you past the point of words.

And so “yes Frankie” it is.

He rewards you by picking his pace up to something you luxuriate in, humming with approval as warmth builds low in your belly. You instinctively reach down between your legs and Frankie immediately pulls your hand away.

“That’s mine,” he growls, “and I’m not ready for it yet.”

You bury your face into the armrest and moan in petulant protest.

The hand on the back of your neck soothes, rubbing down over your shoulder blades. He follows the motion with his mouth and you arch up into him.

You can feel his eyes on you, reading your body in the absence of your face. He slows his pace when your breath goes shallow and waits for it to deepen again before building you back up.

When your fingers dig into the armrest, he nearly stops, holding you in place by the hips, grinding his pelvis against you. He leans forward to drop kisses at the base of your neck and scrapes the scruff on his chin down your spine, the prickle of it giving you another sensation to latch on to. After a few moments, he skates a massive palm over your skin to wipe the feeling away, hooking it over your shoulder and yanking you backwards faster against him.

The next time he pulls you back from the brink it’s with a hand in your hair and teeth in the curve of your shoulder.

He unwinds you like rope, pulling at each cord, twisting until it frays, until all that’s left is you pleading and panting in front of him.

By the fourth time you’re telling him to go fuck himself, and he’s purring in your ear that no you feel much better between thrusts that drag the crown of his cock over every spot inside you with the capacity to light you up, he’s just doing it too slowly to cause a spark.

“Frankie, I swear to God…”

“You can swear all you want, gatita, God isn’t here. Just me.”

And oh but He is, in the searing palms that hold you firm, the thick, clever fingers that finally slip down to where he fills you to rub tight circles against where he knows you need him most.

In the way your ears ring when he speeds his hips and his hands up—and finally allows you to break.

A gasp, a captured breath, and a cry when you exhale again.

Except now, he doesn’t stop.

“Frankie, fuck, Frankie, Frankie, Fr…Fran…FranKIE,” discretion abandoned in favor of open-mouthed pleasure. His pace is brutal and you don’t care who knows that he handles you with a pilot’s precision, one hand encouraging the arch in your back, pulling where it’s wound in your hair, fingers of the other working faster over your clit.

You’re keening as you claw at fabric and bury your face in the armrest, Frankie never letting up as your walls clamp down around him again.

He grits his teeth through your torture, grunting as he continues.

He continues until you’re laughing deliriously.

Until you’re growling.

Whining.

Sobbing.

Jesus, Catfish. Don’t kill her. Frankie’s phone buzzes with a text from Santiago.

Neither of you notice.

You’ve angled your hips to take all of him, hair in your face, death-grip on the armrest because it’s the only thing keeping you here.

He cracks you one last time, has you crying and moaning and screaming for him in the seconds before he holds you fast, deafening you with the guttural scream that rips from his chest as he pumps you full of him, stuttering hips fucking hot spend into you as desperate cries escape his throat.

His teeth sink into your shoulder and his weight becomes yours to bear when he finally quiets and collapses, sucking open-mouthed kisses into your sweat-damp neck between gasps for air.

You stay a moment like this.

Feeling his lungs fill at your back.

Feeling his heart hammer against your spine.

He finds himself enough to take his weight, but your hand grips his hair before he can move much further.

“The couch,” you pant a warning and he catches your logic in his hormone-addled brain, wrapping an arm around your waist and rolling you with him down to the hardwood floor.

His body breaks your fall.

Broad palms roam your stomach, up over your breasts and down again, hot, ragged breath rasping over the shell of your ear and catching in your curls.

He guides your hips up enough to allow him to pull out with a groan before he encourages you over, one hand immediately flying to the base of your skull to bring your mouth to his.

You can feel the warm rush of him between your thighs.

“Was that okay?” He sighs against your lips.

“More than, baby.”

“I missed you.”

And you hum with a smile, raking damp hair out of his face.

You missed him too.

Both of your phones clatter repeatedly against coffee table glass and it finally spurs Frankie to his feet.

You both still alive?

You need electrolytes?

Fish, rub some sugar on her gums.

You read the group texts aloud from your back on the floor and Frankie laughs, returning with a warm washcloth and your underwear.

All good, Santi. So good.

Frankie sits on the couch and kisses your stomach as you stand and shimmy your panties up your legs. He pulls you to curl against him where he can still trail his nose over your sweat-slick neck.

How do I know Fish didn’t take your phone? Proof of life.

It’s tossed offhandedly with a smile. He doesn’t expect his screen to light up with a photo from Fish.

The look on your face in the photo is apologetic, one hand raking the hair out of your eyes, the other holding your phone with the screen lit to display the date and time. Frankie is behind you with his nose pressed into your hair and a Cheshire cat grin playing on his lips.

God, on the COUCH?

Sorry, not sorry, Pope. Is his answer.

Santi offers only the eye-roll emoji in response.

_____

Fifteen minutes later, when you’re both showered and in bed, Frankie’s head resting on your stomach and your hand gently raking through his freshly washed hair, your phone fills the room with blue light.

From Santiago to you alone.

You’re better for him than you know.

The truth is, he hasn’t seen the man smile like that since his daughter was born.

I can’t save him, Pope.

No. But you can make him feel.

And you understand exactly what he means because someone once did the same for you.

You stretch and Fish moves, rolling you onto your side where he can fit against your back, solid arm locked around your waist, breath brushing peacefully against your neck.

Yeah.

You can make him feel.

And sometimes that’s enough.

#frankie morales #frankie morales smut #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #ohforficsake

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