#jo: iltwy

[undercoverpena]

x. make me yours

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter ten of i like the way you

best friend! friends with benefits! frankie morales summary: what starts off as an offhand remark, quickly becomes a regular, scheduled 'stress relief'. the only problem is, both of you are in denial that you feel anything outside of friendship for the other.

warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. flirting. idiots who are so in love it’s stupid. feelings/love confessions. smut - p in v, mirror sex, praise (for both) worshipping frankie's cock. happy ending in more than one way.

word count: 4.6k

an: thanks to @thetriumphantpanda for being here every step of the way, holding my hand. to @secretelephanttattoo for the comfort over the last week since i finished and to you, amazing readers, for putting trust in me once again that i could write something. i was so nervous after late night texts i'd never deliver a thing you'd all love, but here we are. thank you.

There’s a calmness to an early morning—especially one where you feel his legs tangled with yours.

Your room splayed in the glow of a new day, it fluttering through the slit of the closed curtains. Just enough for you to know it’s morning, but not enough to convince you that you need to rise.

Especially when he’s beside you.

From the steady, faint way the tips of his fingers seem to trace up and down your arm, you can tell he’s been awake for a while. The world around all so silent, just his breath and yours—the soft thudding of heartbeats and the occasional moving of limbs brushing against your sheets.

It’s enough to soothe you back to slumber, faintly hearing him whisper I’ll be right back, just awake enough to mumble an okay as the mattress dips and your cocoon of warmth begins to cool without him.

All of it perfect, almost picturesque—doing all you cannot to ruin your own delusion or fantasy with thinking about last night.

When you finally move from your sheets, you listen for him. The heavier footsteps, the way he occasionally bumps into the corner of your counter—a thing he’s done ever since you moved here.

But, there’s none.

Not even as you layer on a jumper, or pull on some socks from your bedside drawer—nothing flooding the silence except the water down the drain as you brush your teeth, as you make eyes at the bleary eyes coming back to you in the mirror.

It’s only when you leave the haven of your room, do you see him walking back in through your front door, his keys joining yours in the bowl on your side table—jacket hung beside the other, hat thrown onto the sofa.

And it makes your heart squeeze, makes your chest tighten for a moment. Because this is what you want. This. Him. His things being all messily arranged around yours, your things moving for him. A morning like this, down to the sheepish smile he gives you.

Lifting the paper bag, he begins to grin—all soft, gentle—lines beginning to appear near his eyes as he does. “I got us breakfast.”

Biting your smile, you nod, moving from the doorway to the kitchen—helping. It being all you can focus on, breaking the things down into small tasks, because it’s that or fall apart. It’s that or spill to him a mess of words you’d rehearsed for last night.

Swallowing them, the two of you move instead. All in a fluid motion, grabbing plates, a mug for him and a glass for you. The scrunching of the paper bag is all that can be heard, not the clatter of your hand against the plate as it shakes or the way you keep swallowing back a lump. One which sounds awfully like I don’t want to lose you.

He must know—be able to tell. Always able to read you like you’re the most obvious flight plan laid out for him. Because he nudges you, just ever so slightly:

“We’re okay, alright?”

You’re not sure if it’s the years of being let down by others or the sheer weight of your feelings for him, or the odd combination of both, but it crashes together inside of you, dissolving the lump, making fresh tears rise to your eyes. One falling, unable to cling itself to your lashes—unable to hide it, disguise it, not quick enough in turning before he’s already seen it.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” he whispers, all soothingly.

It’s similar in tone to the one he used in the Heli that one time. Close in relation to the voice he used sometimes when he had his hand between your thighs, pleading with you to give him another, because you can do it, hermosa, you can.

Covering your face with your hands, you bite down on your cheek—the tide of pain enough to halt the fallout of tears. The pitter-patter on your cheeks, fingers sliding them down, smoothing them out over your skin as you take a breath, remove your palms, lashes lifting.

His brows are pinched together, one thick line, surrounded by a few others—eyes wide, all brown, glistening in worry and concern.

“I don’t want breakfast.”

Blinking, his eyes move around the room, before landing back on you. “O-okay, that’s—that’s okay—”

“I want you.”

It isn’t anything you like you rehearsed.

Nothing close to the script practised in mirrors and as you chopped, prepared and cooked the dish last night. It’s more an array of balled-up words which hastily leave your lips—chest rising and falling, a pang in your chest.

“I want you—and admittedly I do actually really, really want breakfast. But I want… this, the whole thing, not just the food, the act. I want the morning we began having—I…”

Your voice trails off. Keenly aware that your body has begun to tremble, the enormity of it all rising inside of you like a snake—slithering, clotting, making it hard to breathe without focusing in on it coming up your throat.

“I’m not—this isn’t making much sense. I want mornings like this. I know you saw what I did—and I don’t know if you cleaned it up because you don’t feel the same and that’s your wonderful, gentle way of telling me. And, I’m not sure if you came to fetch me out of some guilt, just like I’m not even sure if you lay with me because you wanted to make sure I wasn’t sad…

“But, Frankie, I like you. I like the way you make me feel lighter and happier, that you don’t even pretend to have all the right words. I like that you show up, that you make me feel…”

His head tilts, eyes fixed on you—unwilling to move.

Captivated. Enchanted.

It makes your skin warm and the nerves seem to settle as you take a settling breath.

Swallowing, you smile. “I like the way you make me smile. That you make me feel good, incredible even. I like you, Frankie. You.”

You watch him roll his lips, gentle movements, brain likely whirring a mile a minute under his curls. Ones you want to run your fingers through—soothe him, comfort him.

But you remain where you’re stood. Feet planted, unwilling to move closer. Not prepared to bend and curl into him, even if everything in you is screaming too.

The fear of him rejecting you keeps you still, braced—waiting and watching, studying each micro-inflexion for an insight into whether sun or rain is going to come and land on your parade.

Then, he whispers your name.

It sounds so jagged—sharp in places it is usually soft. It hits your ears wrong, not matching the look on his face, as a hand reaches inside of your chest and squeezes, while other parts of your crumble.

“Do you… not want to be with me?”

You shouldn’t ask, but you have. It's more pitiful when you replay it back, worsened by the look he gives you. It’s one you assume he’d wear if you’d slapped him. Half-wounded, half-irritated. As though what you had just proposed was the most stupid thing you could ever say.

“Fuck, no. I just—”

“Just, what?”

His jaw slides from side to side, fingers picking at the bread he’d just gone out to fetch. “I just think…

“Think what?”

“That you deserve better, alright?”

Your face falls.

Inch by inch of it shifting, feeling it do so—as though a mist has washed down over you, clinging to your features, dragging them down. From your eyebrows to your upturned lips.

Slowly, you press your spine into the back of your kitchen counter, hand resting on the top of it, not moving, not circling the pattern or tapping against the side.

“Frankie…”

“No, listen. You deserve someone who has their shit together, someone who can take you out—spoil you—give you the life you want. I… I can’t do that. But someone else, someone like—“

“Like Will?”

His chin lifts, his eyes landing on you. Fear and panic eroding away the earlier irritation.

You’re breathing heavily, seething and panting. Adrenaline darts through you, making your back straighten and your fingers want to close into fists.

“Yeah, I know. Surprise, surprise, you don’t need to be military-trained to know that you’re being a dick to him because you’ve created a narrative in your head. Which, by the way, is all that is, because I don’t like Will like that. Never have. He’s… he’s not my type for one.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I like you.” You chew your cheek, staring at him, sighing. “Frankie, I don’t deserve better.” Trying to blink away tears that begin to spring, feeling them practically stinging. “What is even better than you?”

He shoots you a look, lips rolling, before he pushes a heavy breath out through his nose.

You don’t care if it’s childish, you fold your arms. Anger suddenly crawls up your throat, wanting to throw whatever you can at him.

Narrowing your eyes, you drop your voice, “So, what? You’re good enough to be my best friend, to have a key to my house, to sleep with me—fucking regularly, by the way—but not to put a different label on it?”

He says your name, soft, barely in a breath. Eyes all dark, swarming with things you can’t begin to work out.

And it rises in you again. The feeling from last night.

The matted mess of emotions that rumbled out of you in floods of tears as your glare intensifies, your heart aching as you dig your stare into him with all you have.

“No, Frankie. No. You know I like you. I always have. It’s… it’s always been you. And, I think you know that, just like we both know this hasn’t just been fucking.” Straightening your spine, you take a more measured breath. “So, if you don’t feel the same, that’s fine—but I’d like you to go.”

The latter comes out more shaky—a crack in your resolve. Each syllable all practically broken by the time it hits the air, eyes unwavering in their stare at him, watching, studying. Easily able to spot the slight shift of his jaw, the tick of it to the side, and the way his throat bobs as he contemplates it—whatever he's fighting inside his head.

Then, he takes your hand and moves it from being around your other bicep, unfolding your crossed arms.

It’s simple to take your hand. Easy. A gesture he hopes says more than it does.

From your glare, he’s not sure it does.

So, he takes a moment. Weigh it up, tries to align up the words which will make the most sense, and have the most impact. Holding your fingers in his. Allowing himself to feel the little bones that make it up, the knuckles and the way your hand just instantly fits inside his own.

If anything, it’s only more evidence of how long this has been in front of his face. A thing he now can’t unsee or unnotice. Because with you it’s never forced, not the way he feels or the way you fit. A place there for you, growing as he did, especially made for you inside of him.

He beats for you.

A realisation he really only accepted last night when he stood in your home—the one littered with the little quirks he’s been around to witness take shape. Like your obsessions with fake hanging plants, because you can’t keep real ones alive; that you like black and white images over colour, because it doesn’t matter what colour the room is.

“I think…”

Your brows rise, pulling your eyes with it—making them wider, more like pools. There’s hesitance embroiled in the rest of you, appearing so close to unravelling that it hurts his heart.

But it’s your eyes he focuses on. He’s always found them beautiful, and expressive—a thing he could happily dive into and contently live inside of if allowed.

“I think we make new rules?”

His grip tightens on your hand, and he feels your fingers slide with ease between his. Letting yourself soften to him, come to him—like you always do.

It would be easy for someone else to admit it all, to tell you that he wants you, likes you, practically fucking needs you. That you’re important, the most important thing, if anything—that he couldn’t leave you, not ever.

It had already pricked at him before the of you began all of this. When the two of you were nothing more than just best friends. It being there, ready to pierce him when he leaves for work, when he says goodbye; when he’s in a different city reading your text messages.

The idea of leaving, leaving, would kill him. Would be worse than a bullet ripping through flesh or a knife plunging into muscle. It would ruin him, end him.

Because you’re the light that leads him back. The hands that somehow find all the pieces of him that have shifted from their places, able to solve him, complete the puzzle. You see him, bloom inside of him, force away the darkness and add little beams of sunshine when it had only ever been shadows.

“We can’t see other people—”

“Frankie—I already know this.”

He gives you a look, a pointed one. A give me a second kind of look, and you relent, mouth clamping shut, eyes narrowing a touch.

Tracing his tongue over his bottom lip. “And, one of the nights I’m back—we go out. Whether it’s for a drive, for dinner, for a movie, something—anything. I… I wanna take you out.”

Your face flickers, attempting to shift. “Okay… I think I can do that...”

Taking a half-step closer, he watches your other hand fall to your side, allowing him to slide his hand over your hip. “And, I want you to cook for me. Baby, I miss your cooking so fucking much. I miss the little smile you do when you see me take a second bite—I… I miss it.”

“You gonna turn up for it?”

Smirking, he pinches your side. “I deserved that.”

Nodding, you smirk, and he takes the opportunity to look at you—really look. The shine in your eyes having returned, the slight upturn of your lips.

Seemingly, and obviously, coming to the conclusion he’s offering—and he’s sure if he could tell you what he thinks, what he said to Will, it would shift into a grin.

Holding your hip, he takes another half-step, the gap gone, faded, vanished. “And, I’m going to buy you wine—because… well, hand it to you, I never actually stopped.”

“Wait. What? What do you mean?”

Letting his hand release yours, Frankie instead cups your cheek, thumb stroking against it in a soft line. “Couldn’t help it. Each time I went to the store, I ended up buying it anyway. I have been for months, since we first began our arrangement. It’s just…. stored away. My cupboards are full of it, my truck even—it felt wrong not to buy it for you.”

Glancing down at you, he quickly spots how your eyes have begun to fill, water filling at the bottom that he already feels is different from the way they had done earlier. The sun catching them, twinkling, practically shimmering with something he hopes is joy.

It’s why he reaches his finger to brush out over the corner of your growing smile, feeling it, basking in it.

Clearing your throat, you bite your lip before saying, “Can I stay at yours—'cause your bed is so much nicer than mine.”

Laughing, he feels a grin explode across his face. “Can stay over at mine whenever baby.”

“Because I’m yours?”

The question makes his throat tighten, just a touch before his body floods with warmth. “Because you’re mine.”

And fuck, the way you look at him as the words hit you, it’s like nothing he can ever explain. No words able to describe it, no phrasing that can properly explain it. It’s like a thousand things all flickering over your face.

It’s why he kisses you, needing to feel it, taste it. Finding you moving your fingers around his neck, nails scratching lightly at the base of his hair.

“I like our new rules,” you whisper, mouth hovering over his.

“Yeah?”

Nodding, you bite your lip, twirling a curl around your finger before tugging ever so lightly.

“Yeah. I agree to all our new rules.”

As he smirks, you must want to feel it—because you press your lips back to his, deepening it, tongue sliding past his, licking behind his teeth as his body presses you more to the counter. So reminiscent of that first time—your words coming to him.

That is—if you didn’t find me so repulsive.

He groans against you, keeping you close, flush. “Fuck you must really like me, querida.”

Licking your lips, he hears you let out a soft breath. “I do, actually—in fact, I love you.” Lifting his brows, knowing they’re cutting into his forehead, likely all deep lines appearing as his eyes get even wider. “Have done for a stupidly long amount of time.”

“How long?”

Needing to hear it—needing it to coat him.

Shrugging, you smile, his hand rising, taking yours from around his neck and pressing it against his cheek. “Too long to not have said anything.”

“Me too.”

He wants to tell you it all. The speech that barely makes any sense. How his feelings for you are something akin to love at first sight, but not. Like an ache, a need. A purpose to make you smile, to make you happy—a thing he tried to do at all the chances he had.

And at some point, between then and now, he’d fallen, head over.

And fuck was he glad. More so as he has the opportunity to dance his breath along your lips, feeling the softest flicker of your hammering through his chest.

“Been crazy about you for ages,” he says, instead. “Made it easy to be too. Nothing about you has ever been difficult.”

“Not what I’ve heard you say in bed.”

Smirking, he purposefully slants his mouth over yours, wishing to paint your lips in the feelings that rage and flow throughout him. That he wants this, you, for the rest of his life.

“Thought I could never deserve you.”

“Fra—“

Your chastise is swallowed, muffled against his mouth as he silences you with his lips. Moving you, walking you—happy that you let him, as he twists his body, the two of you walk back to the room the two of you had woken up in. The one he wishes he gets to wake up in many more times.

“Tell me again.”

He knows he’s not specific, but he hopes you know. Not hiding the doubt he knows that usually strums inside of him, offering the chance for you to brush it away, remove it. Like you have done so many other times, but just never like this Your brain is cruel to you, Morales.

“I love you, Francisco.”

He kisses you, a groan vibrating against his lips as your body smothers his—all welcomed, a weight he’d missed.

“I love you so much, Frankie,” you whisper again, closer to his ear, his mouth on your neck, finding that spot.

Lifting the bottom of your jumper up, his thumb brushes over your soft stomach as he pulls it up off your body—unveiling you, smothering you in soft yellow as the sunlight tries to peek through your curtains.

“I love you, querida.”

He speaks it, then he burns those three words against you. Right under your ear as he casts your clothing to a corner, then against your pulse as he cups your breast, thumb brushing over the hardening peak as you whimper, before he does it a millimetre from your lips, watching you fix your gaze on him.

Your body is slowly smothered with his, letting himself feel you, all that he can. The few items the two of you are wearing are removed, falling in a littered pattern against the floor, until it’s just a skin-to-skin—the cool air pebbling both of your skin.

It’s your turn: say it again.

And he does. Not just with his lips, but with everything he has. Warming you, making you smile against his mouth as he slides his hand between your thighs, feeling it, how much you want him, how much you love him. Coating his fingers in it, that honeyed slick that he would feast on forever—almost tempted to drop to his knees and draw each letter of those three words against you.

“Wanna try something,” he whispers, instead.

Your eyes pinch, before smoothing out as he slides two fingers inside of you, easily up to the knuckle. Feeling enveloped, delving into silken warmth that welcomes him like you have done since the beginning.

“Wanna show you how pretty you are.”

His thumb catching your bundle of nerves, your pussy fluttering around his fingers—tightening, pulling him in. A gasp of his name leaving his mouth, already so wet, all beautiful, a sight to fucking behold as the tension fades and you relax around where he’s touching you.

“Can I?” he asks. “Show you?”

Yes.

I love you, he responds.

And you grind into him at the words, chasing a high from the fingers buried inside of you. He wants to say it more, let it be all he says to you today. Press it to every part of you, make sure you know only those words—

Your hand wraps around him, gripping him, thumb sliding over the head of his stiff, leaking cock as he grunts—and you grin. Twitching in your hand, mouth open as he rests his forehead against yours.

“Y’have the nicest cock, Frankie.”

“Fuck, baby.”

His eyes clench shut, your name falling from his mouth.

“Love how it feels inside of me.”

“Y’want it now, baby? Want my cock inside you?”

Please, you whimper. But, it’s only when you moan his name does he move, shifting you, removing his fingers from you, noting the whimper at the loss of him, as he guides your body in front of him, shifting until the two of you are standing in front of your mirror.

That mirror.

The one he’d thought of nothing else since you’d begun sending the photos, the phone call, the noises he was able to pull from you even miles away.

“Haven’t stopped thinking about your mirror, baby,” he whispers, nipping at your ear lobe. “Thought of taking you in front of it.”

Your head tilts, eyes meeting his, lust there—

And you sink to your knees without hesitation, staring up at him, waiting. That wave of whether he deserves you darting through him, but he stuffs it away, easily able to do when you offer your hand to him.

Following behind you, your back to his chest, a hand planted on your hip, the other guiding, leading the head of him in until you’re sliding yourself down on his cock. He buries himself inside of you, hissing as he does, as you take all of him, hearing the noticeable gasp as you do.

You’re so right, tight—so perfect. Moulded around him, adjusting, stretched just for him.

“So good for me.”

“I like it when you say that to me,” you whisper, eyes locking with his.

His fingers are on the base of your neck, staring at you in the mirror, letting his gaze wander up and down your naked frame. His hips slowly moving—cock sliding in and out. All slow, deliberate strokes that are so deep you whine in the base of your throat each time he leaves just the tip in.

“You look so beautiful taking me,” he hums, fingers flexing on your hip. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Me or—fuck, Frankie—my—“

He doesn’t let you finish, nipping your ear lobe. “You, querida. Always you.”

Your hand coming up around his neck, gripping, digging your nails into him as you move with him, hips slamming back into his—thrusts increasing, the noise the two of you are making together filling the air, a poignant reminder that it’s real, this, the two of you.

“I’m yours,” you croak.

Heat pools in his stomach, more so when he watches you in the mirror as your fingers slide between where the two of you are conjoined. Moaning, whimpering as your fingers move just above where his cock pistons in and out of you.

“All yours—always yours—“

Your walls tighten around him, fluttering, sucking him in and he wants nothing more than to fill you. Taking in each moan, noise, gasp you emit as your fingers begin to draw circles, his eyes focused on it, lasered in on your movements—knowing your eyes are on him.

“Gonna come, Frankie—so close—“

He’s tight, fingers grasping as his hips snap to yours, his mouth on the space between your neck and shoulder, licking, kissing, biting.

“Please, baby, please—“

“Let go for me, baby. Show me, let me have it.”

It’s heaven.

Getting to both feel it, watch you in awe of yourself as you do, while still getting to enjoy a view of you as your body tightens and then snaps. Your body arching into him, nails likely cutting into his skin, but he doesn’t care. Wants a bruise, and desires little half-moons scarred on his skin—evidence of the marks you constantly leave on the inside of him. The ones he welcomes, thankful for.

M’gonna come.

It leaves his mouth all foreign, your eyes opening, landing back on him—in awe, like he’s something you’ve fantasised about and found truly exists. And it’s all he needs, the look in your eyes, so close, impossibly so, flames dancing through him, all twisting, becoming an inferno.

“I love you, Frankie.”

His eyes lock with yours, your words hit his ears—and he comes hard. Shivering from it, shaking from it. Blissed out and fucked out as your name rips from his throat, painting the air in the same way he paints your walls.

Then he breathed, twitching, one last roll of his hips as he dragged your chin to face him, kissing you hungrily, desperately.

“I love you too,” he says, breathless, but very much fucking content.

At some point, you’re led back from the carpeted floor, back to the sheets you both woke in. His mouth sliding over your shoulder, fingers looped in yours.

The breakfast he had bought long since cold, but devoured, his hand on your knee as he grins at something you say, and you want to find your phone, open the camera and snap it.

It isn’t until the two of you are lay, silent, your hand inside his, head on his chest.

“When are you taking me on a date then?”

Hearing him snort, you look up, finding his eyes already on you, watching. “You free tonight?”

“I think I could move things around.”

And you smile, mirroring the one which slides across his—your heart thumping, all in a pattern it has been since the very beginning. I love you. I love you. I love you. Excited, thrumming with energy that slides against contentment, because—

“Really glad I’m yours, Frankie.”

Feeling his fingers fan out across your jaw and cheek, you let your eyes trace his smile.

“Glad you’re mine too, baby.”

Body curling into him, you let your fingers slide across his chest, you let the beat of his heart hammer against your wrist, smiling. Brain ticking, thinking, suddenly coming to a thought.

“Since Will knows. How long do you think it’ll take Benny to figure out we’re together?” you ask.

Staring off, you watch his eyes narrow as he begins to smirk. “Wanna see?”

“Oh, most definitely.”

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[undercoverpena]

viii. leave me on red

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter eight of i like the way you

best friend! friends with benefits! frankie morales summary: what starts off as an offhand remark, quickly becomes a regular, scheduled 'stress relief'. the only problem is, both of you are in denial that you feel anything outside of friendship for the other.

warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. flirting. idiots who are so in love it’s stupid. feelings. smut - phone/text/video sex. angst. dont hate the jo.

word count: 3.6k

an: the hugest thanks to @thetriumphantpanda for not getting mad at me for doing this to them.

You decided it in the minutes after he left, you were going to tell him.

Back pressed to the door, head resting, eyes closed. Tears stinging in the edges, burning. Your breath all strained and difficult—that is, until it decided what it wished to be, anyway.

Then, it shifted, transformed. It morphing into a sob that rumbles and cracks, shaking its way through you until your knees plead to crumble to the floor.

Because you had wanted to chase after him. Even ring him. Beg him to come back.

It wasn’t until you climbed back into bed, letting the scent of him wash over you, did you commit to the idea.

That’s when you begin rehearsing it, letting it move from rolling around your skull to dripping from your tongue. You did so as you made food, as you did chores. Perfecting it, choosing words so cautiously and carefully, swapping them out, practising it until it becomes a thing typed into a piece of your soul.

I’m in love with you Frankie. I have been for a while.

You don’t expect it to rival the greatest poets, and won’t find a place amongst the greatest scripts to ever be. It won’t be a speech that’ll be copied and used in film. But it’ll matter.

It will be meaningful.

It’ll have weight and carry truth—and you suppose, when all is said and done—that’s what will matter. It’ll be out there, free, existing—swirling between the two of you instead of caged inside of your chest.

Once you’ve spoken it, it should calm the storm inside of you; should quiet the choppy waves that collide within you, each one attempting to do more than knock you off your feet, but grasp you by the ankles and drag you under.

Confessing it, should do a lot of things. But that doesn’t bring you any comfort right now. If anything, it makes you feel sick, feeling only thorny anguish which keeps you up at night.

Never before had you been thankful for booking vacation time.

A chance to be, to sit around your home and pretend you don’t want to find a way to get to him, tell him it all now, let it unspool, even with no hope of it being the same as it ever was.

Because you could lose him. Ruin it all. Taint the one thing you cherish above all else.

It’s why you turn it over. Letting it worm its way from a box of doubts to a fully-fledged car crash you replay over and over as you lay in bed, fingers twitching, chest tightening, jaw clenching.

It’s only on the third day since you had made the decision, that you decide to share your plan with another soul.

Doing so over the phone—only one name came to mind. As soon as she answered and you spilt, you were greeted with only a joyous tone, it all full of pride. Your friend who is all knowledgable and wise, being nothing short of a cheerleader. Saw it coming, she tells you, been waiting for you to wake up and smell the coffee. You bite your inner cheek, doing so until copper swirls around spit, because you’ve known too (something you want to tell her). You’d been carrying it around for longer than realisation had been bestowed on her.

It’s easier not to say it. Swallowing it, letting it die in a pit of stomach acid, where other things you never say go to erode.

“Any advice?” you’d asked.

“Just be honest.”

On day four, you had gnawed the skin from your lip. It's sore, practically pulsing. It has its own heartbeat from how raw it feels.

Your nerves beginning to get the better of you, swarming and piercing, pecking away at your earlier confidence—stinging it with doubts, ones which spread, all poisonous, swelling out until it’s all you can feel.

His texts help.

One day I’ll get you back up in a heli. Only if I can sit between your legs like last time. Can sit anywhere you want, baby.

You’re not sure how it’s possible that miles away he can make your day better and your pussy clench around nothing all at once. Your body missing him—just as much as your head, heart and soul. Thighs pressing together, all your earlier thoughts popping like bubbles as you read his words over, and over, and over. A whimper grows in the back of your throat, hammering on the back of your teeth to be released.

Flicking your eyes up, you catch your appearance in the mirror.

The way your skin is just lightly sheened with the droplets from your shower—having been in a rush to reply than dry yourself. So much so, the air tinged with the scent of your shampoo and body wash. It’s thick, and heavy, your skin warming under the effect of his words making it more prominent, evident.

Smirking, you slide your hand until it undoes the robe of your dressing gown—letting it gape, the cool air brushing over once warm skin, until it pebbles, the peaks of your nipples hardening as you take a breath, and snap. There, immortalised, you stand—positioning your phone, ensuring the camera cuts off your eyes, beginning at the base of your nose, capturing the white of your teeth against your bottom lip, the white robe hanging, parted, framing the bare skin under it.

And you don’t think, you just send.

No caption, no message.

Just the sound of the whoosh as your heart hammers, beats, and thumps in the milliseconds it takes before you see the speech bubble of his reply.

Fuck, baby. Wish you were here.

Bending down to kneeling, you shimmy the fabric from your shoulders—pooling it in the creases of your elbows. Positioning yourself so your hand can be seen perfectly between your thighs, keeping yourself hidden, just a fraction. You ensure your breasts are on show, arm shifting to push them closer together, before you smirk—no, you think. Shifting your expression to a smile, a little one, which grows bigger and larger just as you click the shoot button.

It begins, a slow-motion capture of your disrobe, of you seating yourself down on the floor in front of your mirror, taking instruction through his texts—positioning yourself like a doll. The last being on your rear, soles flat to your carpet, thighs spread, head back as your neck elongates.

You’ve never felt more beautiful, even exposed. Eyes don’t linger on the things you usually pick apart first thing in the morning, before you dress for another day, and they don’t linger on the parts you catch in the corner of your eyes before you shower. You just see radiance, shadow-kissed skin that is being bowed to through a screen.

Fuck you’re gorgeous. Can see how wet you are. You need me, baby? Always, Frankie.

Your finger sliding along your inner thigh, tips brushing over before parting your folds. It won’t be enough, he’s ruined you—made it impossible not to wish for him, crave those thick, long fingers that both keep things hovering in the air and you hovering over space, time and existence.

“Frankie,” you moan, to no one but you.

Curling, sinking deeper until—

Can I call you?

You don’t reply, you just call. The distinct sound of a request to video echoes around the room as you slow your ministrations, a low whimper escaping as he connects, as his face fills the screen that's cast to the side, his own view of your ceiling.

He says your name, quiet, more questioning. Your trembling hand moves, picking it up as the other remains buried deep inside you, lifting your phone, giving him a view, a taste, a sight.

“Tell me what to do,” you whine.

Watching him as he drinks as much of you in as he can, commits you to memory, skates his eyes over every pixel, not wanting to miss a single one, before he clears his throat, before he carries you in his phone to his bed.

Licking your lips, you release a breathy sigh—one that begins in the depths of your stomach, rising up and fluttering out. Almost carrying a moan as you find that spot inside of you, the one which makes you boneless, thighs threatening to tremble.

“You want me to keep my fingers—“

“Faster,” Frankie stammers, “Want you to move those perfect fingers a little faster for me. Think you can do that?”

Nodding, you roll your lips, heat washing out over you, gripping the phone tightly.

“Fuck, baby. Y’know how good you look right now?”

You heave out his name. It building, fanning out over nerves that tingle at the edges of you—making your fingers curl, heel of your palm catching the swollen bundle of nerves that makes the sound of what you’re doing that much louder, filthier, more obscene.

And you fucking love it.

Love all of this.

Love him—

“Wish I could bury my face between your legs—“

“—oh, shit—“

“—y’like the sound of that, querida?”

Your eyes flick to the screen, staring at him—a pang in your chest flooding outwards, it mixing with how much you wish he was here, desperate for it, half-wanting to beg him to get his ass over here and make a mess of you in front of your mirror.

“Touch yourself,” you say instead.

Swallowing back the rest, letting your head fall back, obscuring him from view as you slow your movements, teasing, edging yourself as your core twists, and electricity thunders in your veins.

“Want—fuck—wanna come with you.”

“Alright baby,” he says—as if it’s the most normal thing, as though anything the two of you are doing is normal. “Let’s do this together.”

You hope it’s not the only time he’ll say that to you.

Days drag when you clock watch. Hours take even longer.

It’s a thing you know, but you can’t help but do so all the same. Each time you check, you hope it’s closer to the time. The one marked in your calendar, the one which has been making you both nervous and elated all week.

It had only been when you stopped tidying, stopped moving things from one counter to the other, did you spot it—eyes land on it and never leave.

You're not even sure when he left it behind, but your eyes linger on the corduroy jacket near your door. It’s moss-green, hanging, growing in the corner of your eye and borrowing more of your attention than it should. You’re sure it grows vines, ones which tap on your shoulder when you’re able to forget it’s there, only to make you look over, and spot it all over again.

The worst thing about it, it looks like it's supposed to be there. As though the hook you had expertly hung, (correction: hammered a nail in and hoped for the best) was always meant to hang his things, be dedicated to it.

In truth, he acts like he’s supposed to be here.

Fitting, even if you’d never made a place for him outside of being his friend. Now, you see the outline of him, perfect cut out, a drawer which could host the bolts and bits from his pockets, the shelf which he could place his eccentric collection of DVDs from the sleepless nights during storms.

You suppose it’s why it continues to catch your eyes, your gaze lingering on it—knowing, without brushing your fingers against it or burying your nose into it, that it smells like it. That, in its own way, is spreading out that calming effect he has.

One you need now more than ever.

Hand wrapping around the handle of the knife, chopping, preparing. Eyes studying the recipe that is ingrained in you, one you could do with a timer and your eyes closed, but you need to stare at it, to read the handwritten notes and pretend for a second it’s not something you used to make for him all the time.

Before the rule, the one he made you agree to because you’d asked something from him.

Now, you just snort. Adding the ingredients to the pot, turning the heat down, as a soft simmer begins before you wipe your hands down on your towel. Because in time, you’d broken all of them, both for one another and for yourselves.

And that had to mean something. Had to be more than a coincidence or something that just was. It had to be underpinned by unsaid words and swirling emotions neither of you feel equipped to handle, yet feel more prominently than you know what to do with.

You make more of an effort in your clothes. Not for him, for you. A thrill sparks through you when you catch sight of yourself when you pass a mirror, catch yourself in the reflection of a window, your television. Because you look like someone who could confess your feelings, let your adoration be known. You feel like someone who will do it, can do it—a confidence which has been coming and going since you’d decided.

It’s only when you lay it all out (the glasses, the plates and the cutlery), does a stitch begin to appear in your carefully thought-out plan. One that digs, the needle-sharp, pointed, aiming to prick and make you bleed, smear across perfection and make it ruin. A thing you put off, able to argue with it, point out its stupidity.

Tonight could be the last time you see him.

Maybe, this thing the two of you had was all he had wanted—all he’d needed. Not an overbearing amount of emotions he can’t handle or begin to understand.

A thought you try to squash, shove down deep inside.

That is, until the bigger hand pushes the smaller one on, and it begins to create a hole inside your chest. It forming based on that earlier thought. That dread, that worry and concern which has been thickening in the back of your head for weeks now. Now, it's grown out of the walls you kept it behind. It widens with each passing minute until it’s close to an hour and it’s practically a sinkhole. It taking everything it can with it—happiness, courage, laughs and the smiles. Vanishing them, wiping them clean like they never existed, as every bit of wanted you had felt, was painfully plucked from you, tweezed until you were back to that horrid place you were before all of this began.

Except now, you felt too much. Unsure if you’re able to put a cork in it, trap it under just want him to be happy and content at being friends.

A sob escapes, just a little one.

But, it’s enough to widen the door. Allowing more of them to bubble up and appear, climbing forcibly up your chest as though they’ve been building a ladder and plotting their escape for the last few minutes.

Each rolling out, freeing, bursting into the air. Your body racked with them, trembling, shaking.

Your hand finds refuge on the counter, stabilising you, keeping you from falling into the hole of your own making. And your thumb brushes porcelain, the neatly displayed food you’d spent hours on, a declaration all on its own.

A—see, I broke the rules too, Morales—except, he hasn’t come. Hasn’t arrived.

Maybe he’d known. Maybe he’d decided that it was all too much, standing you up easier—you supposed it was much harder to face the person you’d been best friends with and break her heart to her face.

But, your Frankie would never do that. Except he isn’t yours, not really.

Even less so as time ticks far past running late into the zone of stood up.

And you feel dumb, stupid. A gnawing sensation growing in the place your love had once been, it twisting, tainting, painting everything it can in ruin and staining it in the disappointment you never thought he’d make you feel.

“Fuck,” you choke out, hand clasping your face.

Fresh tears, acidic and thick, hammer down onto your cheeks like a downpour. Layering on top of one another, blurring your vision, making your chest feel both heavier and lighter all at once.

Grabbing your phone, you don’t even think—unlocking it, finding the contact and clicking Message.

Are you free for a drink?

You should consider it, go to bed, wake up tomorrow and bury your feelings in something healthier like yoga or a walk—but you send it. Discarding your phone across the counter, it clattering, catching on the plate as you bury your face in your hands.

Tears, hot and thick—running down your wrists—not doing enough to numb you as you let them fall. Disbelief doubles as hope is swallowed whole, your throat filling with sobs you feel forced to let spill—etching their way into the silence, fracturing it, cracking what should be laughter, but is instead loneliness.

It’s why you’re thankful they reply with a yes, giving it no more thought as you blow out the candle in the centre of the table, ending the night before it even began.

Frankie wakes to darkness.

It’s a comfort, the way it blankets him, allows the little shadows to rest easy against the ceiling from his open curtains—it is all soothing, relaxing. It even almost allowed him to curl back into the comfort of his sofa. His blanket—the one you bought him—cast over the lower part of his legs.

Then he remembers.

Eyes widening, blinking furiously as he throws his legs from the sofa, hand grabbing—making all sorts of noise on his coffee table—until his phone screen illuminates and he sees the time.

Late it spells.

It all a blaze, just in the form of numbers.

Fucking late it bellows.

Disorientation wraps around him as he shoves himself up to stand, fingers tugging at his curls until he imagines they’re more frizz than defined. Not even thinking—just grabbing. Phone, keys. Shoes barely on his feet as he yanks open his own door.

Calling you.

It rings. And it rings. Each unanswered drone of it doing something to the fragility of his heart. Making it quake, crackle at the edges.

All week, he’d done nothing but think of you. Think of holding you, burying himself close against you, not even asking you to shed layers, but rather just lying with him. Take in the weight of you that he finds all but a comfort.

I love you, he had planned to whisper. Mark it against your neck, just under your ear. Write it against your lips if you let him. Burn it anywhere else until you’re nothing but tattooed in praise and adoration.

“Pick up, baby,” he mumbles.

Ringing you again in the car.

The drive over tense, silent—the occasional dial tone echoing around the bed of his truck. His knuckles whiten at each red light, shoulders practically under his ears when he pulls onto your street. Something knotting, all horrible, riddled with vines and sharpness that cut into him with each breath he takes.

He’s not sure if he should be worried or thankful your car is in the drive—because the house is plunged into darkness. His boots clatter against your wooden steps, hammering on the short porch as he cracks his knuckles against the door.

Its echo, comes back to him—able to travel around in the silence and come back with an answer.

You’re not here.

But he knocks again, and again. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes, something clenched around his stomach, tightening and tightening as your name falls, all pleading, an edge to it that he hadn’t known was possible. But then, he hadn’t known he could begin splitting down the middle, the seams coming undone, his own might and willing not able to keep him together as the realisation he’d fucked up the one good thing he had.

The one good thing he didn’t even really have, too cowardly to tell you—too fearful that you’d stare at him blankly and tell him you don’t feel the same.

Because he’s been drowning in it, in this, in you, for so long, he knows how to just about keep his head from going under. He had been sure he could do it for longer, could stem his feelings, push them down. Until, you slept against him, fitting perfectly.

Until he woke with his arm draped over your waist, your leg tangled in his, staring at him with wonder and awe as you traced your name on his back.

He should have told you then it was the best thing he’s ever woken up to. A sight he had only dreamt of, but never imagined could even be true.

Pushing your key into the door, he’s greeted by darkness. It hovering its hand to him, welcoming him, even if the cold chill of the place was more than unsettling. He wanders, feet almost dragging, half hoping to find you sat in the dark, because at least then he could begin to make it up to you.

You’re not.

Moving through to your kitchen, all set to pass through to your bedroom, when something makes his eyes pull to your table, and he sees it.

Eyes landing on the set-up, from the plates to the glasses, to the orange dish in the centre—and his heart drops to his feet. It landed with a squelch, a thud which vibrates through him to the tips of him.

You made him food.

You broke a rule. You broke the rule.

His eyes beginning to well up, stinging, until one falls.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

Letting his hand run down his face, staring at his favourite meal—unable to unsee how congealed it was, how long it’s been sat there, existing, waiting.

“Fuck.”

an: forgive me 😘

CHAPTER NINE ->

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[undercoverpena]

i. aren’t repulsed by me

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter one of i like the way you

best friend! friends with benefits! frankie morales summary: what starts off as an offhand remark, quickly becomes a regular, scheduled 'stress relief'. the only problem is, both of you are in denial that you feel anything outside of friendship for the other.

chapter warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. smut. p in v. dirty talk.

an: the biggest hug to @ghostaholics because without her allowing me to waffle saturday night, all of this wouldn't be here. a huge thank you to @thetriumphantpanda for reading this and telling me i should post it, and to my eyes all over my skies @guyfieriii

wordcount: 4k

“You’re late.”

Frankie smirks, watching you lean in the doorway, his hand lifting the sweating bag of food and the clanging paper bag containing the essentials, aka wine and beer.

He watches as the gesture makes your eyes narrow, forgiveness etching across earlier annoyance as you put out your hand, offering to take something, anything.

“The store close to mine was out of your wine.”

Shutting the door, he finds you glancing over your shoulder, the television already set up. The usual array of candles and blankets across your living room—the ones which aren’t romantic, just mood setting (a thing you’ve highlighted to him many times). Not to him—he knows. But to others. Those who don’t understand that a friendship that’s spanned over ten years can remain as innocent as it seems—that movie nights were just movie nights. Even if the group chat joked otherwise.

“I’m serious,” he adds.

“So it’s not because you left yours at the time you were supposed to be here?”

Snorting, he follows you into the kitchen—the light flickers on, making him blink. Once again thwarted by the phone you made him upgrade to—the one which spills his secrets, like location and when he’s read your message.

Grabbing a plate, you hold it out to him. “That’s what I thought.”

“Y’gonna forgive me, or am I gonna have to surrender my movie privilege next time?”

You scrunch your nose—an act that shouldn’t make him smile, but does. His eyes scan up and down your face, a calmness spreading over him as soon as he is in the walls of your place—a feeling he always has when he’s with you.

His friend—his best friend.

A person who has been there through it all. Not batting an eyelid when he knocks on past midnight, red-eyes, dripping with rain because he lost his license, and he can’t sleep, and he’s so impossibly fucking tired. Not fazed when he slumps next to you, detailing the heartache of finding out he wasn’t going to be a father after all, handing him a bottle of beer—his favourite, the only kind you keep, all because of him.

You don’t make him pay. You never do.

Forever there, a rock—a comfort and a safety. It’s why he doesn’t fuck around with movie nights—doesn’t fuck around with anything to do with you. A silent promise, a rule: Frankie will always be there.

It didn’t matter if the person you dated hated him, didn’t matter if you pulled away because life became hard and you wanted to decline invites to the bar with the others. Frankie was there, the two of you giving and taking, always balanced, forever shared.

Movie nights reflected this. Last time was his choice, and tonight, it’s yours. A romantic comedy, with a twist—you’d said. He didn’t ask questions, just nestled under the blanket you dubbed his—green, worn, “like you, Morales”, you’d said when you’d pulled it out of the cupboard for him.

Taking his plate, you pop them on the coffee table. “You think you’d ever do it?”

“What? Friends with benefits?” He watches as you nod, getting comfortable again in your place. “Be better than whatever I’m doing now.”

“Which is?”

Smirking, he rolls his head on the back of your sofa. Hat gone, thrown on your armchair, fingers carding through his curls as he glances at you. “Nothin’. I’m not… I’m not dating—don’t really have the time. My schedule is just…”

“Fucked?”

Laughing, he nods.

“Can’t say I’m much better…”

Nudging you, you lift your chin, meeting his eye line again—something there, flickering. An array of words you’d usually share, but stick, cling somewhere in your throat as you offer him a comforting smile.

One he knows, well.

It’s your ‘doesn’t matter’ smile. The one you give when you’re single again, not willing to explain it—not until you’re two glasses into the bottle he’s brought to cheer you up—mumbling about not wanting him to say anything. As if saying something would be at the top of his agenda with some of them.

“It’s just that… I don’t wanna do that dating bit. You know, doing the how are you? What do you do, shit? Can’t exactly go out and just say I want to be bent in half and stuffed full—“

“Fuck me.”

“—but really, that’s all I want. Fun, with someone I don’t dislike, but won’t ask me to do romantic things that make me fall for them, only to be let down by them like I always am.”

Letting his head rest on your sofa, he sighs. “Yeah, same. Just want the stress relief.”

You agree by letting the softest yeah fall from your lips before you glance back at the movie. But he knows you’re not watching it. Eyes glazed over, brain ticking, turning. His finger poking you, the same way he always did—something he began doing back when he told you he’d enlisted, and you didn’t say anything except ‘you were happy for him’.

“Just thinking, I could… I could probably help you solve it, the stress relief. You know? That is—if you didn’t find me so repulsive.”

It’s instant, the way he feels his forehead scrunch and his eyes narrow. The sound of the movie fading to nothing—mind filling instead with your words, them rolling, and rolling, and rolling…

Frankie stares. Watching, finding you, if anything, looking like you weren’t even expecting a reply, never mind needing one.

“I don’t—I don’t find you repulsive.”

You smile, with an added snort, before layering on a shrug for added measure. The embodiment of unbothered, the painted picture of I don’t care.

He’d believe it too if you didn’t stand so quickly—mumbling about getting another drink. Asking if he wanted one. So quick to leave, to remove yourself from the situation, from being close to him.

It isn’t until he watches you stand that it hits him. The realisation going straight through him as he sees your shoulders slide down, the knowledge tearing, ripping—it feels worse than a bullet because:

You don’t believe him.

A part of you having convinced yourself before you’d even thought the words, never mind said them, that he could possibly think you weren’t attractive to him.

It forces him up from his seat, blanket discarded, pursuing you—the television covering the sound of his feet on your wooden flooring, the tap filling your glass doing the rest until he’s behind you. The glow of the street light through your kitchen window halos around you as you keep your back to him. Hand twitching at his side, a part of him unsure if he should keep standing here or if he should turn you.

Think, Frankie. Think.

Because for all the usually loud reasons he normally has told himself as to why he shouldn’t pursue you, it’s now surprisingly quiet in his head.

Even more so when you turn, the glass in your hand, eyes taking him in.

The rest is just instinct—not even thinking. His hands come either side of you, pressing into the counter, swallowing, watching as you place your glass down.

“I don’t find you repulsive,” he says, low, almost gruff. It comes from deep within—laced in other confessions, wrapped in words he hopes you can’t hear. “Not in the slightest.”

His eyes burning, searing the words in. Watching as you don’t break from him, lips ever so slightly parting, before he sees your gaze drop to his mouth, before flicking back up.

If someone asks, he’ll never be able to confirm who moved first. The two of you finding yourself in the middle, mouth slanted over yours, feeling your tongue behind his teeth as you pull him close, his arms caging you in. He can taste the berries, the sweetness that he hopes is just you and how it’s mixed with the sauce from the food—heat licking up his spine, need spreading through his stomach as he presses himself flush against you, leaving no room between him, you and the kitchen counter.

It’s intoxicating, dizzying, the feeling of dipping his toe into the pool he has always thought was off limits. Feeling you moan. Frankie basks in the sound, paints himself in it—hoping he can hear you sing his name, hoping he’ll hear it—capture it, keep how pretty, it is all to himself.

You moan when he grinds his hips into you. It vibrates down his throat, marking him, scratching its claws into him as he grips the back of your head—deepening the kiss. Drowning in it—in you. You’ve always made him breathless, so now he just hopes you pull him under, your hands clutching him closer, as though he’s your anchor—when in truth, he’s pretty sure that’s you for him.

“If we do this,” he says, dragging his lips down your neck, feeling one of your hands slide into his hair, “We need rules.”

Teeth grazing against your skin, the scent of your lingering perfume infecting his nose. A scent that usually clings to him, buries itself in his clothes—one he finds comfort in. Like he always finds comfort in you.

“Like, we can’t tell anyone.”

Snorting, you meet his lips—kissing him, tongue swiping across his bottom lip as he groans. Signing it, his proclamation.

“Deal,” you whisper. “I’m not staying over at your place. You can stay here, but I’m not… I won’t—“

He places his palm on your cheek, tilting your head, chaste, smaller kisses. A silent agreement.

Licking his lips, his heart thunders at the next. The one which is like acid in his stomach—one you could think is selfish, demanding. “You can date, but if we’re fucking, we’re fucking. I don’t share. So, if you want to do that with others, you tell me, and we stop this.”

“Okay.”

His other hand slid between the two of you, thankful—more than he can articulate and ever put into words—that you’re wearing sweats. His.

An old pair—one you’d borrowed when you’d spilt food on yourself and never returned.

Fuck, they always looked better on you.

Smirking, you turn your face, kissing his wrist. “But, you can’t buy me wine anymore. No flowers. No romance.”

Chewing his cheek, he mirrors your smirk. “You can’t cook me food.”

Sighing, you nod.

“So.”

“So.”

Grinning, you loop a finger into his belt hook, pulling him close. His fingers toying with the knot on your sweats.

“So, you gonna put your mouth where your hand is?”

Raising his brows, you laugh—light, airy, fucking beautifully.

“Is that what you want, querida? Huh.” He says, voice dropping, hand cupping you through his sweats. “Cause I’m dying to see if you taste as good as I’ve imagined.”

“You’ve not imagined this.”

Lowering his lips to yours, he ghosts them over—your breath warm, teasing against his skin, the hairs above his lip. “Oh, I have.”

His fingers move, toying, teasing. Hearing you murmur a groan in the back of your throat as he imagines how wet you are. Whether there’s a patch on your underwear, whether you’ll coat his fingers when he finally touches you skin on skin.

“You need a ha—”

“Don’t worry, querida,” he whispers, the hand on the back of your head sliding around your neck, thumb under your chin, tilting your head up, “I’m good with my hands.”

He’s not sure if the moan you emit is at his words or the fact he undoes the little knot at your waist with one hand. But fuck does he swallow it—he feasts on it. It fills him like no food ever could as he manoeuvres his hand, fingertips brushing cotton before he slides his fingers against your warm skin.

“Last chance,” he offers, light touches, all feathery. Not quite touching, but close enough.

Swallowing, you shift your weight, ever so delicately handing him the words he desperately needs: I want you, Morales.

Morales, he thinks—fingers dipping into your wetness, slick covering his fingers, and it’s his turn to groan. More so when he drags his finger over your swollen clit, admiring how you arch into him, mouth desperate to find him, breath ghosting over him as he grins, all cocky, likely lit up by the moon and the street light.

“You’re the prettiest fucking thing,” he groans.

Pressing two of his fingers inside your heat, the hand on your jaw—finger under your chin—keeping your eyes up, lifted, perfectly on him so he can watch how your flashes flutter. Watch in the highest of definitions what he’s doing to you.

“Always have been,” he continues.

His focus is only on you, and all you’ll give him as he pumps his fingers in and out—the sound of how much you want this, want him, coating the air. So much so that he can practically taste it.

A part of him knows how close you are before you whisper it.

Imagining the way heat is pooling in your stomach, that your fingers must be aching from how you’re gripping the kitchen counter for leverage as he curls his fingers inside of you. And fuck, does he hate jeans—hates how tight they feel on his hard cock, how all he wants is to relieve some pressure, to grip the base in his hand and squeeze so he can marvel at how fucking gorgeous you are like this.

“Eyes on me,” he says, gruffer, laced in gravel—all low, like it’s coming from somewhere deep inside of him. It has, truthfully.

The moment he began seeing your lashes fluttering, he knew he didn’t want them to close.

Your whine, peppered with a moan emitting. “I’m so cl—close.”

Smirking, he licks his lips—dragging his tongue across his bottom lip. The one you want where his fingers currently are. Almost wishing you could speak so you could ask, beg, plead.

“I know, querida. I know. It’s why I want your eyes on me.”

Your body pauses. Halts.

Then he feels it, the beginning—the telltale sign. The incoming he wants to have a second sight for by the end of the night, as he marries his lips to yours, desperate, needy, to taste what it’s like when you call his name as you come.

Fuck you even sound pretty.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought of him.

But dreams could never live up to him.

His hands on either side of your face, kissing you as you step out of your sweats, and underwear, that he’d yanked down your thighs when you’d caught your breath.

Fuck, he is good with his hands.

It’s the first thought you have since he caged you in the kitchen—all serious, something etched into his forehead that is now smooth, like it was never there. It’s also the first solid thought you’ve had since you returned to Earth from him making you come in the kitchen.

And you’re thankful that his fingers are on your cheeks, your body having turned into liquid—muscles having forgotten their role with your bones betraying you too. Your hand loosened on his wrist, the one you’d gripped to feel what it was he was doing to you, needing to be present with each thrust of his fingers.

Now, you’re leading him.

Body having taken over, while your brain is left still reeling.

Because fuck do you want this. You’ve imagined it, dreamt of it. Frankie, your best friend, the one who knows you better than you know yourself—clearly in more ways than you ever counted on for how quickly he undid you in the kitchen.

It’s why you turn, realising you know him too.

Stories coming to you, memories—ghostly snippets that had filled you with rage that now fuel you—as your hand grips him through his jeans. Quick, careful—well-versed—in the way you crash your mouth to his as his groan vibrates against your tongue. Your spine met the wall closest to your room, him thrusting into your hand, words falling, all laced in lust and dusted in desperation.

“Por favor, te deseo. Please, querida.”

You’re slow in the way you undo his jeans. The pop of the button is dramatic, a sign. Your mouth places kisses against his lips, his cheeks, jaw and neck.

Then, you’re unzipping his fly. The sound cutting through the pants, the heady breaths—the only other discernible sound is the movie the two of you have left playing.

“Wanna wrap my mouth around you, Morales.”

You can’t see him, but you can hear his throat swallow, likely imagining the way his eyes are staring at you, drinking you in, dragging them up and down your face like he was in the kitchen.

“Yeah, you wanna taste me?”

Nodding, you bite your lip, palm brushing over his covered cock—lashes fluttering at the feel of him. Because he’s thick, big—fucking hard. Something you should have known from the way his pants hugged him, the way it commanded a glance when he wore those lighter-wash jeans.

“You think you can take all of me down that pretty throat of yours, baby?”

Snorting, you flatten your palm against him—hearing him hiss, wishing there was light, wanting to see the expression on his face. “I’d give it a good go.”

Dragging his thumb over the curve of your breast, the fabric moving, applying additional friction before he’s lingering, drawing a circle over your nipple until it pebbles, just as you hear him smirk—adamant, somehow you can even see it.

“Later,” he adds. “Need to feel you come around my cock first.”

You couldn’t argue with him. Less so when more clothes fall, unveiling him. All soft muscles, defined when he flexes, the pair of you down to your underwear—a path of removed clothes detailing the route the two of you have taken.

Frankie kisses you hard.

Pulling you back to him, removing any other thought from your mind with ease. Not that you have the time to think about how you can’t believe this is happening, or the movie that’s still playing. Not when he’s leading you, walking you backwards, hand on your waist, thumb drawing circles, squares, triangles and everything else until the back of your legs meet your bed.

Then, you’re falling, landing on cool, cushioning fabric, bouncing ever so slightly as he wipes his hand across his bottom lip.

“Still can’t believe you ever thought you’d repulse me.”

Your skin warms, burns. A part of you wants to hide yourself, cover your stomach with your arm, hide your face in a pillow.

His fingers slide over the fabric at your waist, a whispered can I that you’re quick to nod at, until you’re bare in front of him. No hiding, illuminated by the moon and the stars outside, covered in milky-white light, hoping it’s forgiving on your curves.

“Querida, where are your—“

“I’m clean. Are y-you?”

He nods, direct, quick. Evident of a former soldier as his fingers slide under your chin. Mouth asking if you’re sure, he doesn’t mind. You just kiss his touch, bringing your hand around his wrist, sliding his fingers into your mouth.

I’m sure.

I’m so sure.

Then he’s crawling up you, his mouth slanting over yours. All tongue, all passion. His hand wraps around your head as the other guides the head of his cock through your slick, tilting your face up, opening your eyes to see him barely a breath away as he stares down at the two of you. Eyes pausing on the place where you’ll soon be conjoined.

“Look at me,” you say this time.

Watching his eyes drag back up to yours, your arms wrapping around his neck.

“Please fuck me, Frankie.”

He nods, wearing the most gentle, sweetest smile on his face. “I will, I promise. Anything for you, querida.”

All you can think is fuck.

Not getting a second to comprehend his words before he sinks in, every inch of him making you feel so full. Your head going limp in his head, arms tightening around his neck, gasping as he keeps going, and going until he’s buried in you to the hilt.

And you’re sure, could swear on it with confidence, you’ve never felt such fullness—filled to the brim, stuffed.

“So full,” you moan.

You swear he smiles, lit up by the light through your undrawn curtains.

“Thought about this,” he says as he pulls out and slams back in. “After Ben’s party, when you wore those jeans—in the summer when you wore those shorts. Fuck, baby, your legs—”

He says it as he runs a hand over the outside of your thigh, gripping the top as he punctuates it with a thrust.

“Always thought you were pretty, too fucking good for those people you dated—”

Your hips push back, meeting him. “—Frankie—”

“—too good for me, really.”

And you groan, whimper, moan. Letting a no fall out, an attempt at arguing with him for what he said.

But he kisses it away.

Desperate, more passion and teeth than before. A silent pleading for you to bury your words. A mixture of all three coming out at once, hitting the air, tainting it in something good that should feel sinful. Your hand slides down over his neck, shoulder and torso, clutching his waist as you mirror his movements, meeting him with everything you have, lips ghosting over his neck, tasting the salt and smelling the scent you know is just him.

A scent you hope digs into your skin, able to wear it long after this. An aroma that has always brought you comfort, even if it shouldn’t—even if the two of you are friends, nothing more.

And you’re close, beads of sweat on his brow, and if he isn’t the most handsome man you’ve ever had above you. One that you want to flip onto his back so you can admire him from above—sitting poised on his cock, bouncing on him until your eyes are blazed with stars and satisfaction.

The sounds of the two of you, all obscene, wet, as he grips the back of your thighs and somehow fucks you deeper. Each thrust punches a breath from your lungs, fingers clutching his shoulder, the other buried in the duvet.

“Takin’ me so well, baby. Can’t believe I’m fucking you.”

“Fucking me so good, Frankie. Fuck.”

“Better than your exes?”

You nod, words at a loss. All stolen, punched from you by his cock—because you feel so good, he makes you feel so good.

You swear you hear him say good, all low, voice dark, as you feel his hand sliding between you before he brushes his thumb over your clit. Circling, circling, circling—

Frankie knowing what you need, likely skimmed his fingers across your skin and read you like a map. 

That, and the fact he must feel you squeezing him, tightening, vice-like around him as he begins to pound into you.

“I always fucking hated your exes.”

Your back arches, like he commanded it. It sparking, what he’d been driving you to, erupting, rippling out from your core across your body, as his name rips from your throat. The sound of your moan blending into the air, tingeing it, painting it with his groans as he continues to work you through it.

Ever-determined, focused.

Your hand slides down from his shoulder to his chest, to his waist, feeling his muscles flex under the skin.

It’s only as you begin to catch your breath, that you realise how close he is.

You smirk, devilish, all laced with cockiness as you beckon him down, knotting your fingers in his curls, dragging his head down, so your mouth is close to his ear. “Always hated your exes, too,” you say, punctuating the words. “Now be good and fill me up, Morales.”

CHAPTER TWO ->

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[undercoverpena]

vi. hate my car

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter six of i like the way you

best friend! friends with benefits! frankie morales summary: what starts off as an offhand remark, quickly becomes a regular, scheduled 'stress relief'. the only problem is, both of you are in denial that you feel anything outside of friendship for the other.

warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. flirting. idiots who are so in love it’s stupid. feelings. smut. praise kink. car sex. p in v. jealous!frankie, moody!frankie for a small part.

word count: 4.6k

an: thank you, as always, to @thetriumphantpanda for always reading my work even when she has a headache because she loves me.

Even though you had given him a key to your place, Frankie never used it.

He preferred knocking. Liked waiting to be invited in. Never wanting to be an inconvenience—as if he ever could be.

It’s for this exact reason why it takes you by surprise when you step out of your bedroom, finding him coming in through your front door.

No explanation, no reason.

Your thoughts stolen, ripped from your throat when his eyes land on you, taking you in. You’ve noticed he does that more and more recently—take your breath away, leave you thoughtless.

He does it again when he shuts your door without looking, doing the littlest of head shakes before he closes the gap between you in several strides.

No warning, nothing vocalised.

The jacket in your hand falls to the floor, hands busying themselves with pulling him by his jacket as his mouth slants itself over yours. He tastes of mint and happiness, the latter something he always seems to leave lingering in your mouth when he’s gone.

But it’s his hands. His fingers which purposefully find themselves on your waist before even a hello could be muttered. Keeping you close to him, thieving any question you may have had about what the fuck brought this one.

But you know. Deep down, you know.

It’s for the same reason why you let I’ve missed you, escape in a whisper. It gets stifled between kisses, as your hands hurry to remove his jacket, it dropping with a thud before you’re pulled flush, little to nothing between the two of you.

“I’m driving your car,” he rasps, walking you to your sofa.

Like the spark from a scorched match, it all unravels. Your earlier work of being ready—on time—quickly vanishes, it all coming undone.

Fingers are all dexterous and moving like they have a mission, all aiming to pop open and free you from your jeans. Temporarily, you lose his mouth from yours as he rips your trousers down your thighs before palms glide under your top and remove that over your head—all discarded, forgotten.

And, you don’t care. Not even a little bit.

“You are?”

Nodding, he kisses you—all open-mouth, breath dancing over your lip. “Because when we��re done, I can take my time taking you apart. Not rushing—like we’ll have to right now.”

Swallowing, your fingers slide up his jaw—feeling his cheeks rise, the pulse in his neck throbbing against your wrist.

“We could wait—“

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head—one hand rising to cup your jaw and chin. “No. You deserve this,” he adds, sliding his other hand into your underwear, “You do, so enjoy it, querida. This is about you”

It’s easier to moan against him, to vibrate your want against his lips, than begin to puzzle together what he could mean.

Which is precisely why you rock up to the bar late.

For as fucked out as you feel, he assures you that you don’t look it. Although, his hand is on the small of your back, guiding, propping, as he passes you your keys before opening the door for you.

Ever the gentleman—if he hadn’t been already for what he’d done to you at yours.

A part of you, a part that doubles, and triples, in size between the milliseconds, wants to face him, take his cheeks in your hands and ask him to take you back home. That you’ll make it worth his while, get on your knees for him; that you’ll make an excuse—

Even if there isn’t one.

There’s only truth. And that truth is that you want him to take you home because you had missed him. Both the friend and the other parts.

Swallowing, you offer a smile. Not asking him. Feeling disappointment slide down inside of you like mud, adding to the swirling concoction of complexities you don’t have the processing power to unravel.

You both spot the others, offering a wave, and pointing to the bar as you head to get drinks. A slither of you grateful for the moment to catch your breath.

“You want a drink qu…” his voice trails off, your name falling quickly, replacing it, attempting to cover the near slip-up.

And it makes your throat tighten, something growing there—large, pulsing and thick.

Your feelings rise, fighting their way out of the box you keep stuffing them in—all hands, fingers and toes, scratching and pulling, desperately wanting to claw their way out of your throat and embed themselves in his ear.

But you’ll lose him. Lose this if you do.

Steadying your forearms into the bar counter, you press down—hoping it’ll ground you, almost hurt.

Because if it hurts, you’ll stop thinking; you’ll find a second to take a breath that will calm you.

It doesn’t. It never does.

Curling your lips into a smile, you stare at him. “You should be careful, Morales.”

And he snorts. “So I’ve been told.” It’s your turn to snort, shaking your head until you feel him lean closer. “But, I think you liked me slipping up. Bet it made you—”

You’re just grateful the bartender interrupted his sentence.

For the last hour, Frankie has had his arm resting behind your head. The scent of him washing over you in waves you hope embed themselves in your soul.

But it’s his fingers occasionally squeezing your shoulder when he laughs, that you hope leave a mark. Each time you make him laugh, he wheezes ever so lightly.

It’s normal. A thing you do a lot—make him laugh. It’s not special. Yet, somehow, it is.

Your thigh pressed against his, curling into him as the table erupts, Benny sinking into the leather of the seat as his lips curl up.

And then, a drink gets placed down—taking the good time with it.

The bartender, a new guy (one you’re not used to) politely interrupting to offer it to you. It’s colourful, a fruit slice slotted into the rim—more ice than you know what to do with—and then the words that kill the last semblance of the night, “It’s from the man over there.

You feel Frankie still before your heart sinks. It further shatters when you feel his arm slide out from behind you—leaving you cool, cold. A chill brushes across the table, the other two not reacting either. Each pair of eyes staring at it.

But, you suspect the others aren’t struggling to swallow. They don’t feel like the happiness that had ballooned in their chest, had exploded.

“Go over there,” Benny says, poking your arm.

Narrowing your eyes, you swat at his finger as he goes for another poke. “I’m not interested.”

Glancing from the corner of your eye, you take note of the way Frankie is focused on the label of his drink. Not looking up—Will looking from you to the others all in turn.

“C’mon, when’s the last time you even got laid.”

Biting your tongue, you twist your head to meet Benny’s stare. “Last week, actually. How’s your dry spell, Ben?” Benny’s face drops and you smirk. “I don’t need drinks being bought for me, I have money.”

“It’s only a drink,” Will says, shrugging.

“It’s fine—can you move?” you huff.

Hands pushing at Benny, finding him unwilling to move quickly enough. Your body trying to clamber, to put enough distance between you and the person unwilling to meet your eye. Your thigh cooling to a freezing temperature too, the burning fading from being against his—leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

Sliding from the booth, you grab the drink—not making eye contact with anyone—walking up to the bar to find the man straightening up in his seat.

Hating that he of course has to be handsome. That he has nice eyes and a fucking charming smile.

“Thank you, it’s very kind of you. But I’m not—I don’t need a drink buying for me.”

“Just being a gentleman.”

Smiling, you place it down, sliding it across to him. “Well, I’m being pleasant, and saying it’s okay.”

The man eyes you, narrowing them, placing his elbow onto the bar top as he wipes his mouth, brushing over the hair above the top of his lip.

“I will say,” you continue. “It is bold to buy someone a drink when they’re surrounded by other men.”

Tilting his head, he smirks. “So, which one is it?”

“What?”

“The reason you won’t accept my drink—is it the conventionally pretty one who’s been eyeing up women? No, can’t be him. You’ve not reacted.”

Gritting your jaw, you narrow your eyes.

“So, it has to be the one glaring.”

Steadying your voice, you soften your smile. “Which one?”

“Blond.”

Your heart sinks, but you try to hide it. Stuff it down. Smother it—

“Which means, it’s the one I didn’t mention—who is staring, by the way.”

Your face burns, eyes dropping to the bar—trying to not show that your heart is racing. Trying not to focus on the fact you can feel Frankie staring. Them piercing, digging in, practically clawing.

It shouldn’t feel good. It shouldn’t feel like anything.

But it does. It does. It does.

“You should laugh.”

Snorting, you shake your head, digging your forearms into the bar. “I don’t do that on command.”

“Guess I’ll have to be funny then.”

Smirking, you tilt your head—because in another time, you’d be into this. Him. The quick-witted nature and charming personality. Another time, you’d find it more than appealing.

“You’re annoying.”

He takes a sip from his drink. “And, you’re very pretty. Hey, if you laugh, the guy who won’t stop staring might shatter his bottle.”

Rolling your eyes, you tap your phone against the machine. “Goodbye…?”

“Javi.”

“Enjoy your evening, Javi.”

“And you.”

He shouldn’t be jealous.

Shouldn’t be clutching his bottle with more firmness than he used to do a rifle.

There shouldn’t be things circling—doubts, and thoughts all pulverising him.

But then, they’d begun doing that earlier when he’d watched you head off to play darts with Will. His blood secretly simmering. He knows it should be, knows he’s being foolish. His body however wasn’t aware of that, least of all when your top rose up your back when you grabbed a stray dart from the floor—because you’ve always been bad at playing—and Will had the chance to bask in how you looked bent over.

He had needed to talk himself down from dragging you to a bathroom stall when you’d finally got a bullseye, had wanted to remind you that your calendar was synced with his, when you threw your arms around Will and jumped up and down.

Because all of his feelings were suddenly too much.

They felt too large. Bigger than him.

Jealousy weaves its way in, let in by the slither of darkness he always carries with him from bad days that led to bad months.

In truth, Frankie knew he had you to himself, but somehow it felt both too much and not enough all at once.

A sudden hunger, all unable to ignore, at wanting to have you all completely to himself, even if he knows he has nothing to offer you.

He’s a man with a blip on his record, a sketchy past of bad decisions, and some scars that show more proudly when it’s stormy, and the rain doesn’t stop coming.

Frankie knows this in great detail because he’s been here before.

He’d been stood in front of someone he cared about, being read his rights about why it wouldn’t work—and yet he’s no more prepared.

Bitterness worms further into his chest as he continues to watch you talk to him—the man at the bar. It buries itself deep, spreading its poison, reminding him he’s a secret, worth nothing more, nothing less.

You love her, don’t you? What the fuck are you asking me, Pope? I’m asking you if you lo—

He only snaps out of it when Benny slides out of the booth. Suddenly able to release the bottle, let out a sigh, sliding his eyes away, happily finding a new point to fix them on as he tried to get a hold of himself.

But, from the corner of his eye, he’s always watching.

He had been earlier, when he’d gone to get a round—you texting him to stop looking at me like that, Morales. He almost wonders if he’s always done it, or if you’ve only just caught on.

“So, how long?”

Snapping his head in Will’s direction, he blanks. Watching as his friends lean back in the booth, doing that head tilt he does.

“Alright, better question, you know what you’re doing? With her, I mean?”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Frankie swallows. A frown tumbles out across his forehead, somehow able to mutter a what do you mean as innocently as he could.

But, even he knows it holds nothing when it emerges. It’s wrapped, practically encased in the simmering annoyance that you’re still over there talking to him.

Will, though, is already not buying what he’s being sold. Likely hasn’t been way before tonight, before this. Frankie can tell. Should have guessed it when he spotted him ticking about an hour ago, two beers ago.

Even if they all had the same training, you couldn’t teach the level of observation Will had. The way he saw through things, people—more than ticks, secrets and lies, but truths and hidden woes. He was always watching, always aware.

“Y’know, I hadn’t put my finger on it until she said last week,” Will continues, “Then, it made sense. The shift—the difference between the two of you. So, I’ll ask again, you know what you’re doing, Fish?”

No. It almost falls out, all pitiful and weak.

But, he manages to claw it back, roll it to the back of his throat and submerge it back down his throat.

Because he can’t have this conversation with him. Not of all people.

Will who is both his friend and is somehow also yours.

The man who he often finds you huddled with, gossiping in low whispers, your smile wide, broad, fucking spreading up into your eyes as Will stares at you like you’re the one who hung the sun. He knows the two of you have your own things—ones he and Ben never get invited to.

And Frankie gets it, he does. Why wouldn’t Will look at you like that?

You’re wonderful, funny—practically the reason there’s a moon, stars and sun in Frankie’s world. He just wishes he deserved it, wishes he had more to offer.

Because unlike his friend, his job is unstable, practically rocky. His home is barely more than a one-bedroom, one-bath. He comes with baggage, often unable to close both his eyes comfortably and achieve more than five hours of sleep.

All things he knew Will didn’t struggle with. His job was good, his home nice, a body continuing to be curated in a gym—even around training Ben—and all he had was—

“Fish?”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?” Will continues, tilting his head, dropping his voice. “Cause your fingers are turning white.”

Rolling his jaw, he fidgets with the bottle, running his tongue against his teeth. “She can talk to whoever she wants.”

Frankie almost believes his lie.

He suspects you’ve known something was off before you’d taken a seat at the table—choosing to slide in next to Will and not him.

You’d likely already spotted the mist hovering above the three of you—Benny still somewhere else, likely attempting to undo his dry spell.

It’s you who asks (suggests) you head home. A silent request, please take me home, Morales.

The two of you walk back to your car in silence, him still opening the door, watching you lingering on his eyes as you nod—searching, digging.

And, he can feel it, the way you’re pleading for him to open up, while he silently begs for you to stop.

But, the stare has already dug in. Is already driving him insane. It’s there when he blinks, sketched in concern, drawn into him, making his chest ache.

Because it’s a look you should never wear, never. Yet, he’s made it appear on your face far too many times.

It’s the only reason as to why he puts your car into park, killing the engine.

“Why are we in an abandoned parking lot, Morales?”

Trying to stretch his legs, he rubs the bridge of his nose. Unsure where to start, where to begin. A mixture of the evening mashing into the slowly building feelings he’s had since he synced the calendars.

Because now he’s had you, it’s all he wants.

Addicted, in only the best, fucking way.

“Just wanted to talk to you—before I dropped you off.”

From the corner of his eyes, he sees you fiddle, playing with the edge of your top. Twisting it around your finger, a habit you’ve always done.

Unlike before, you’re watching him through your brows, as he wipes his hand across his jaw—tongue swiping over his bottom lip, a punched breath escaping his nose.

“About the guy—at the bar—“

“Frankie.”

He hears you, but he’s already going, falling through his mind. Kind understanding flowing from his tongue, because he needs you to know you’re a good person, a person who deserves good things, nice things, a happy life.

Each thing wrapped in a compliment he isn’t sure if he should let slip, yet does—knowing each is tainted with a blend of truth and sadness.

Because of course he doesn’t want to give you up, doesn’t want to lose you. But he wants the best for you. He wants you happy, content—beaming like you were earlier without it ever having the chance to be stolen—

“—and so, if you wanna use that number the guy gave you and go on a date, you should—“

“I didn’t take his number.”

Whipping his head, he sees how you’ve twisted your body to face him. A sheepish, but slowly growing smile spreading. The streetlights put focus on it, on the two of you, illuminating the car, making every bit of you twinkle—and he’s sure there must be stars in his dark brown from the way your smile grows up into your cheeks.

Because he’s lost for words. Silenced.

His brain struggling to catch up. Even more so when you unbuckle your seatbelt, and he hears you take a steadying breath.

“I didn’t take his number,” you repeat, more forcibly, more sternly. “Because I didn’t want to.”

Sliding up onto your knees, you swallow, holding his gaze, placing a hand on his shoulder as you try and swing your leg over his—almost hitting the centre console—brows stitching, frustration mounting, until he reaches out, worrying you’ll get your fucking ankle stuck in the steering wheel.

“Be careful, querida.”

You inwardly groan, and he can’t be sure, but it sounded so close to an I’m trying, with it dying when he grasps your hips, his fingers brushing over the softness of your skin, all to aid your movement—but he can’t hide how glad he is to feel you.

Even more so when you’re straddled over his lap, all picture-perfect, something from a dream.

For a moment, he just stares. Processes. He’s sure you’re letting him catch up to what you were hoping to say without words being said.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he whispers back.

Unable to stop staring, his heart begins to do that thing again—the double beat, the little hammer. The thing it does whenever he’s around you, long before the movie night when things blurred over the line, and has only increased in its strength since.

Slowly, your hands slide around his neck, his mouth instantly moving to press a kiss to your skin. Leaving it against your forearm, all invisible marks he hopes you’ll think about long after they’ve faded.

Then, you part your lips—but nothing emerges.

No words, no confession.

Even if he’s adamant something is there, gurgling at the back of your throat. Words. Sentences. Likely even paragraphs.

You don’t spill them, don’t share them. Holding them close to your chest—just like him. Except, instead of words, you dip your face under the beak of his hat. Not wanting to speak, to share anything more, and so he leans into it—this thing which courses through him. The thing which is tough to cage, and harder to ignore. Choosing, rather, to slot his mouth over yours—tasting the remnants of your last drink, the gum you’d poached from Will, and bask in the feeling of you moving your lips against his.

And, he hopes he’s not wrong, but he swears I want you is breathed into his soul.

Hopes it is what is thrumming in the air because he feels the same.

Knowing it’s just fear holding him back, it having stitched and embroidered itself all around how right this all feels. Because it does feel right, as scary as that is to admit. He’s lost in it, descending further into it. Just as a needy moan is suddenly buried against his mouth, his fingers trace a path up your neck and along your jaw. Desiring more. Needing more.

“Always sound so pretty for me,” he whispers.

You groan, light, delicate at his words—just as he slides his hand back around your hip, tugging you closer, keeping you right there. A silent, but loud demand of do not move, and he’s hoping you’d never want to, praying you don’t want to be anywhere that isn’t on top, under or alongside him.

A thought which makes his throat dry, makes him pause against your mouth.

Because he’s been wanting to kiss you all night in that booth. Had been wanting to forego all the secrecy and just wrap his fingers around your cheeks, pull your mouth to his—and publicly declare that there’s something (small, large—he’s not even sure) going on between the two of you.

Something he’s fought wanting, something he’s tried not to wish or linger on, because…

You mean so much to him.

It’s the backbone to all his movements as his fingers skim over your cheeks—searching, trying to read what’s going on in your mind as he looks into your eyes. Trying to ride through the storm that’s swirling around and around, wondering if it’s named after him—because of him.

Because he’s riding out one too, and it eerily is named after you.

“You want me to take you home, hermosa?”

You smile—whether at the name or the implication—and then it unfolds, twisting, changing into a smirk. Leaning closer, he spots something darkening in your eyes, something that makes his stomach knot and heat wash over his spine.

Because he knows that look now. He sees it in his dreams, thinks about it—

“I think we should fuck in my car, Morales…”

He swallows, just as you roll your hips.

Dragging his tongue across his teeth, he flicks down to your spread thighs—wondering how drenched his fingers would be if he dipped them into your underwear. Wondering how long you’ve been thinking about him—whether you had been as affected by being sat so close to him, as he had been by you.

For the last few hours, he’d just been bathed over and over again in your perfume. Felt the heat of your leg against his, your laugh reverbing through him each time it emerged.

“You want me to fuck you in this parking lot, hermosa?” he asks, biting down on your lip, forcing your hips to roll against his, swearing he hears a little fuck escape from your mouth. “Cause, I’ve thought about that all night. Fucking you in this shitty car that I hate.”

Your answer comes in your movement, pushing your head into his neck, grabbing the level of the seat before he’s pushing it back as far as it can go. Buying you both more space, more room—something you further aid when you twist the dial, around and around, his eyes able to stare up at you, watching how your tongue swipes across your bottom lip, until the back of the chair slowly sinks to meet the backseat.

For a moment, there’s a pause. A few breaths. A few beats.

“Do you want that, baby?” he whispers, cradling your cheek.

And you nod, slowly. “Please, Frankie. Want to feel you inside me.”

Then, it’s hurried.

Both of you attempting to bury something, run from it, hide. Your bottom layers gone, awkwardly, but discarded all the same, bunched up in the footwell as you help free him from the confines of his jeans. Those fucking jeans—the ones he knows you like him in, you confessing it once, a while ago.

“Didn’t know you’d were into exhibition, hermosa.”

Snorting, you tilt his chin up—his hat unlodging from its place, falling freely from his head into somewhere in the backseat. “You don’t know what I’m into, Morales.”

Your hand teases his length, palming him, torturing him beautifully. Taunting him.

“Bet you’ve been half-hard since we left mine.”

He groans, his hands finding purpose on your waist, guiding, aiding as you emit sweet noises that echo around the car as he helps you sink down on him, taking every inch of him. Because you’re not wrong.

“So big,” you whine.

Licking into your mouth, he swallows another moan, another groan. “So tight around me, hermosa.”

His hand sliding down, grasping your ass, slamming your hips down on his. And you’re perfect. All of you—your fucking ass, your thighs, all at the top of your perfect legs.

Everything about you is perfect.

Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.

“You like it, taking my cock in your car, baby?”

“Please, please, please.”

He grins against your mouth, feeling hot breath on his skin—your nails digging into his neck, his shoulder. “Can think about this when you’re driving to work—how good I feel inside you.”

You whine, louder, soft begging following.

“I’ve got you. Touch yourself for me, querida,” he moans.

Watching you nod, watching your hand slide from around his neck until it’s between the two of you. A little gasp emits from your pretty mouth when you begin circling, swiping over your clit as your walls flutter around him, reaching your peak.

Him burying against your neck how close you have him—feeling your pulse against his lip.

“Taking me so well...”

Your body stiffening, his feet planting on the floor of your car—thrusting up, watching your eyes clench shut as your fingers curl, digging, desperate to hold on to him. He hopes you leave more than half-moons that fade in time, he hopes it’ll bruise, it’ll be there when he showers later, can brush over it.

“You’re made for me, always feel so fucking good.”

You moan, loudly, his name never sounding so fucking good until he first heart it fall from your lips. And right now, it’s divine. Your lips parting, more hisses and pants filling the small space. They’re all embedding into the increasing steam on the windows—it clouding you both from view if anyone were to pass by. It all misting—a light sheen spreading over your skin. Another look he’ll dream up, conjure, of you.

For the second time today, he watches you unravel—how it floods you, him continuing to pound into you as you collapse against him, breathing heavily, painting his neck in it.

And, he’s nearing his own climax. So close to the edge. So close, so close, so close—

“I know you wanna come, I know you wanna finish inside of me,” you whisper, all sultry and soft into his ear.

His head turns, catching your eyes.

"Please. For me."

Hands full of your hips, he continues to feel your walls flutter around him as he fucks into you, body alight, burning, searing—

"I need it," you add.

And then he curses—a cascade of them—burying his spend in you as he pulls you close, pressing his lips against your neck.

CHAPTER SEVEN ->

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales smut #Frankie morales x reader smut #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales #jo: iltwy #triple frontier x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #frankie morales smut #triple frontier smut #frankie morales x f!reader smut #pedrostories

[undercoverpena]

v. call me at night

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter five of i like the way you

best friend! friends with benefits! frankie morales summary: what starts off as an offhand remark, quickly becomes a regular, scheduled 'stress relief'. the only problem is, both of you are in denial that you feel anything outside of friendship for the other.

warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. flirting. idiots who are so in love it’s stupid. feelings. smut. cunnilingus. p in v (mention). fingering (self-pleasure). praise kink. phone sex - frankie talking you through it. tasting yourself (post phone sex).

word count: 3.2k

an: thank you, as always, to @thetriumphantpanda for reading this after i told her "i think this is the hottest thing I've ever written" and her going, "yes."

He wakes with you curled against him—breathing softly, deeply. No line between your brow, no scrunched forehead, just peace and content etched into your features.

It pulls a smile from him. Teases at the edges, sewing string, until it’s pulled and he finds himself grinning

That’s when Frankie realises this is one of those moments he’ll replay—because it’s a morning that will forever cast others into the shadows.

It seems that mid-sleep, you’d thrown the pillow (that you’d insisted on) from between the two of you. Your leg has been thrown over him, cheek to his chest, fingers tucked into the place where his ribs meet the mattress.

It’s perfect, normal, far too romantic—especially for whatever this all is.

A part of him knowing this the more he lays there—being as still as he fucking could, letting minutes tick smoothly into an hour. Thinking, as his fingers slide against your skin, that he most definitely has slidden past falling and landed somewhere into fallen.

He’d always been close.

Frankie has been skirting the lines of his feelings for you for longer than he will ever care to admit.

Right now, it’s harder to fight when you’re pressed against him, all bare except for the barrier of your underwear. It all feeling too normal. Too right.

He supposes it’s why, when you do wake, he doesn’t let you second guess this. Just lets his lips find yours, his body moving yours until you’re on your back—fingers tangling back in his hair—and he’s descending, feeling the grip lesson until his fingers are sliding the fabric back down your gorgeous thighs.

Pressing a kiss to each leg, both on the top and on the inner leg, he catches a wispy whine of his name from your lips. Just as he catches the light scent of his body wash—the one you’d lathered on yourself after their fun last night before sliding into bed—on your skin.

I’m staying in your bed as a friend.

Sure, querida.

He takes one last look up at you, capturing it, and gripping it in his greedy hands—because fuck, you look beautiful, empyreal, exquisite. In truth, he’s constantly in awe of the way you stare at him, and right now, it makes his tongue heavy, his throat dry.

To the point, Frankie isn’t sure how long he stares, but when he blinks, he has to move. Fingers spreading you, parting you, the soles of your feet meeting his mattress before his mouth is on you, flattening his tongue, making your spine lift from the sheets.

You moan, and his cock twitches against the bed.

Mixed chants of his name, fuck, and a pleading—a collection of sounds, a record of them—all flowing from your mouth to his ears. One he would, and could, happily play on loop, over and over, never tiring of it, never tiring of you.

He’s sure he’s communicating that. His own moans travelling up, escaping, vibrating against you as your nails scrape in his hair, leaving little marks he’ll keep hidden, brush his touch over when missing you reaches a new peak.

Dipping his tongue into you, he spreads one of your thighs from squeezing his skull. Knowing you, your tells now, the little ways you tell him you’re close without muttering them—rendering you useless, breathless, almost fucking boneless.

Mixing up his play, he keeps you hovering, dangling, nerves lit up and sparkling, but not quite exploding, until he needs it as much as you. Rutting his cock against the mattress, groaning your name against your own core, fingers curling inside you, tongue lapping and lapping—

And then you fall, crash, shatter.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

Your skin shimmering with perspiration, glistening in the arriving morning. A sight, a beauty that is breathing and gasping because of him.

“Fuck,” he repeats.

“Fuck,” you murmur, breathless, a lazy, content smile passing over, fluttering across your mouth until your eyes flash open.

And he can taste you on his lips, knowing they’re glistening too. Not willing to wipe them just yet, licking what he can as you stare at him, more hungry than when he’d begun it this morning.

“Querida, you… that was so hot,” he whispers.

And, your eyes flick from his face to his cock, swallowing, all dark and lustful.

“You coming undone on my tongue, fuck, baby.”

His palms pressing into the mattress, crawling back up to you—hovering over you, watching your eyes slide from his face to his cock.

“I need you inside me. Wanna come round your cock,” you interrupt, tilting your head, and tracing your tongue over your bottom lip. “Please, Frankie.”

Your palm rises, cupping his cheek, and he curls into your touch, just for a moment. Temporarily allowing himself to imagine that there’s no deadline to the day, that he doesn’t have to take you home.

And then he crashes his lips to yours.

You tell him you should go home, once the two of you have caught your breaths.

There’s a soft smile, one put there by him, by the several rounds the two of you endured before 9 a.m greeting him, even if your words wound.

Frankie blames the smile for why he kissed you over breakfast, thumb wiping the sauce from your lip. It’s why he walked you (hand in hand) to the car, doing what you asked, and taking you home.

He also guesses it’s why he drove you back in silence, heart heavy. His shoulders sinking when all he was left with was the memories of last night, the scent of your perfume on his shirt and the knowledge he has to wait to see you like this again.

The moment he’s alone with himself, he replays the last few times he’s found himself able to enjoy you, sink himself inside of you, earn the little gasp you make when he sheaths himself fully in you.

Each time he does, his mind moves to the look you gave him once you’d shut the car door, lingering, hovering. It being so far removed from the one you usually give him when your nails are dug into his chest, slowly rocking yourself on him—eyes mixed with lust and adoration, love there, shining down on him. This one was different, unreadable.

“Always make me feel good, Frankie.”

His palms grip the steering wheel at the echo of your voice, wishing the wheel were your waist—holding, aiding. Guiding you as you rock against him, your words coating him, making it harder to hold on and not paint your walls in white.

“So good to me. For me. Think your cock was made for me.”

Fuck, he wants to go back. Turn the car around and hammer his fist on your door. Tell you all the things he thinks all the time—the ones he talks himself out of.

“You’re so deep, Frankie. Feels good.”

The sounds you make roam around his mind, haunting him—having done so all the way home, worsening when he slumps himself down in front of the television. Puts a show on to distract him, but his gaze remains unfocused, the sound not reaching him.

Because he’s just thinking about you.

The way your lips part when you moan his name. The look you give him, the smile which reaches your eyes before your lips when you've caught your breath.

He wants you back here.

Half-tempted to get his ass off the sofa and spend the rest of the day buried to the hilt inside of you. Dedicate himself to you, down on his knees, whispering prayers into your pussy until you’re chanting his name like a hymn.

He’d even be happy with just stuffing you, filling you, keeping you there, twitching and kissing him. Thighs on either side of his.

Frankie had half hoped that’s what you were asking him for when your message came through.

His heart sinks when it isn’t.

We didn’t really talk about it, but I’m away next weekend. I‘ve seen, it’s been a while since you had a girls weekend. I know. And the following one is bar night. I can pick you up for that. You don’t have to, I can get you this time. I already have to be away from you for two weeks, don't fight with me too, querida. Such a flirt, Morales.

Letting his head fall back, his hand runs across his face, massaging the aching spots on his skull. The ones that have appeared since he’d left you, each time coming in the moment he’s left with his thoughts.

The ones hammering.

Trying to focus on the ache he can rid himself of—the one hardening in his shorts. The one he finds he can’t alleviate now unless he thinks of you—unless he pictures your face or the angle of your body.

He’s fucked. More than fucked.

More so when your face outside the car comes back to him, and he wonders, if maybe you’d wanted him to ask you to stay.

You’d never been a good sleeper in a bed that wasn’t your own.

Franke’s had been always been an exception.

Even back when the two of you were friends. When you’d drank too much and he’d build a wall of pillows between the two of you, because you’re not getting a cab home, hermosa.

You’d re-learned that fact now, when you were in fresh hotel linen, eyes open, all wide at 2 in the morning. Body thrumming with unspent energy and the lingering taste of that tequila shot on your tongue. The laughter is still there on your face from hours with your other best friend. The one you’re not in an entanglement with.

She did well not to ask until you were full of food and joy, the question posed quietly, almost sneakily with a draw on her lips and a twinkle in her eyes.

So, you and Morales?

It doesn’t matter that you said nothing was happening, your body lied. It lit up, practically squirmed as it gave into thoughts of him—ones you’d tried not to think about. Especially when you hadn’t seen him in the week, the only free opening he had was tonight.

So, you and Benny?

You’d fired right back. She had just been able to be a little more honest than you. Explaining how the two of them were having fun, getting to know one another—something easy, simple.

Two things you couldn’t really put as descriptions for whatever the fuck you were doing with Frankie.

If she suspected something, more than she usually does, she says nothing. Instead, she orders water, some fries for the table, her hand covering yours before adding: you look happy, whatever it is.

Whatever it is being him.

The one thing you can’t stop thinking about.

You’d even noticed you’d become giddy when he texts, even if you know those are no different than before. You’d spotted an excitement bubbling when the days decrease until that green spot in your calendar, counting the hours, minutes.

Now, as you lay awake in soft, crinkling bedsheets, you don’t even try to not think about him. Losing yourself in the memories of the way he feels, the way he’s solid, toned, but soft—broad, firm and warm. How it feels to have your fingers in his hair when he‘s kissing a path to your pleasure.

The way he’s whispering promises he’ll keep, gonna make you feel good. Adding your name to the end, tailoring it, personalising the experience further to topple you over the edge before his mouth has even latched itself onto your pussy.

Sliding your hand down your body, you half-wonder if your arrangement can spread to the phone or if it only applies in person.

The thought running and running; fluttering and fluttering. Toying your bottom lip with your teeth, you allow your fingers to skirt over your underwear—somehow knowing, as awake and as needy as you were, you knew all you wanted and needed was him.

Frankie, as expected, answers in two rings.

No chance to end the call, to take it back—

“Hey…”

“Can’t sleep?”

You smile, fingers toying over the lace of your underwear. “Think your bed ruined me.”

“Just my bed?”

Smiling, you run the back of your palm across your face. Feeling the heat flushing over your cheeks.

“No. Not just your bed.”

He chuckles, deep, and you swear you can almost feel it ghost over your features.

“Kinda hate that next weekend is the bar night,” you say, somewhat out of the blue. An array of thoughts mix in your mind.

Ones you can’t ignore, all desperate to say.

I miss you. And not just as a friend, being the main one. The one that clags in the back of your throat, that sits there simmering, thumping. It adds to the long list of things you’re sure you should have said to him by now.

This situation, this beautiful, fucking perfect situation (that you’re sure could only become more perfect if you were honest) doing a number on you.

Frankie just laughs—a chuckle—a little noise he covers with a cough. “I can work around a deadline.”

“I bet you can.”

It’s more flirty than you mean. It escapes, hitting the air.

The two of you don’t do this. Don’t flirt outside of the pre-arranged calendar slots you both make. It’s friends then—just banter, jibes and inside jokes.

But, that wasn’t either of those two things.

“You call me because you need me, querida?”

Yes, you want to respond. Your teeth bite down on your lip, fearful of the way it’ll leave your lips. Whether it’ll escape all breathless, more of a moan, a whimper, than an actual word.

Because fucking yes, Francisco. Yes.

“You want me to help you sleep, baby?”

You let out a breath, it all shaky, nodding against the plump pillows before you’re able to whisper a yes. But, as soon as you let it out, he’s there—commanding, that same tone you imagine he used when he was knees deep in mud and clutching a weapon; the tone you envision he uses when he’s up in the air, switching things, pressing buttons—

“You listenin’, querida?”

Swallowing, you blink.

“Put me on loudspeaker, next to your head. Can you do that for me?”

You do. A thrum of nervousness and adrenaline both crashing into you, creating a storm, a current.

But, he washes it away, smothers it. His voice flows from the speaker, asking you to remove everything but what lay between your thighs. A thing you do, quickly, purposefully discarding it onto the floor before telling him you’ve done it.

“That’s my girl.”

Fuck. You close your eyes, half imagining the dip in the mattress, the way his stare feels on your skin, especially as he begins to guide you. You begin to paint the scene out, capturing him perfectly, creating a false version of him that can accompany the very real voice flowing from the speaker.

The one which is currently telling you where to place your hand. The one which is talking you through the path he wishes you to travel on—it whispering, darkly, almost gruffly, to slide your fingers across your collarbone (two, because he’s being particular), before he asks you to draw your thumb down your breastbone.

It’s precise, the movements he tells you to make.

Cup yourself, circle this, before Frankie asks you to lick a stripe on your thumb, before drawing a lazy shape over one of your peaked nipples—your choice, querida.

Then you’re descending, fingers raised, wrist being part of you making contact with your skin, as you go further down, feeling yourself flutter in despair for your touch—his touch.

“Now, pull them to the side and touch yourself for me.”

A gasp flutters from your lips, back arching as you do so. You’re wet, soaked. Lifting your hips into your own touch, before his voice cuts through. Direct, solid—his directions all clear. Obeying to his highest order as you dip your middle finger in, sliding it back up, brushing over your clit.

Each movement decided by him, and you’re willingly being putty in his hands all these miles away. Following each step, even if your body is thrumming, a knot coils in your stomach before he tells you to touch somewhere else. Keeping you hanging, beautifully edging you as though making you face a punishment for making plans that coincide with when the two of you could have been together.

“Slide two inside of you,” he says, voice deeper, more husky.

Both his tone and his instruction undoing you, another thread snapping off inside of you, adding to the fire that had begun in your spine.

You moan his name, quietly, worrying about your wall neighbours, but loud enough for him. Loud enough to spark a noise from him, one that must have risen from his chest to your ear, because it’s more a growl, an elongated moan of your name that makes you pump your fingers quicker inside of you.

“Wish they were yours.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “Missing my thick fingers?”

It was louder this time, the pathetic whine of his name that rushes past your lips. Your hips move, shifting with your ministrations as your head tilts towards the phone more, closer to his voice, pleading in whimpers for him to speak.

“Bet you feel so good—you’re always so tight, baby. Don’t think I can ever fuck anyone ever again, that’s how perfect you are, you ruined me.”

“Jesus, Frankie.”

He snorts, it travelling down your ear—furthering the flames that lick violently up your spine. More so, when he tells you to add another finger, curling them inside of you, annoyed that they’re not as thick as his, not as precise, not as good, nice or perfect.

“Wish you were here,” you say, letting it fall out in a moan.

It is too late to retract. To take back. Not even caring that it’s out there.

He stammers, you hear it—light, barely smothered, until he says, “I wish I was there too.”

His words continue. How he’d fuck you with his tongue, have you on all fours, fingers splayed over your back. Interconnecting his words with directions, your other hand drawing swirling, flicking as your walls tighten around the fingers buried inside of you.

“Need you.”

“I know, baby. I know. You’re so good for me.”

Your eyes clenched shut, feeling it building, rising, practically smothering up from your toes to your stomach—it all warm, hot—

“Please, baby,” he adds.

Let go. Let me have it. Come for me.

All words he doesn’t say, but barrel into you and shove you over the edge. Your breath hitching, body tensing—walls tightening around the fingers stuffed inside of you as you begin free falling, descending, swallowed by fire that smothers every part of you as your brain empties, body becoming more noodle than muscle and tendons.

Because of him.

For him.

“Bet you taste sweet,” he whispers, a noticeable shift in his voice, a little break between the words.

You let yourself smirk. It sliding over the soft smile that had appeared from how relaxed you now felt.

Because you know. Can tell from the little breaths he tries to keep from you—the tiny tells he thinks he’s a master at disguising.

“Want me to try?” you ask, voice dropping, low, husky. “Want me to taste myself?”

He pleads, more a whisper, a breath, than any word. But it’s there, please.

And you do. Tongue around the digits, swirling, tasting what he did to you, from all those miles away. Unsure what he has awoken in you, your body flushing under the praise which rolls from him in tandem, hoping to fuck he never calls you a good girl around the others.

CHAPTER SIX ->

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales smut #Frankie morales x reader smut #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales #jo: iltwy #triple frontier x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #frankie morales smut #triple frontier smut #frankie morales x f!reader smut #pedrostories

[undercoverpena]

iii. build me furniture

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter three of i like the way you

best friend! friends with benefits! frankie morales summary: what starts off as an offhand remark, quickly becomes a regular, scheduled 'stress relief'. the only problem is, both of you are in denial that you feel anything outside of friendship for the other.

chapter warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. illusions to smut. frankie builds you furniture, and like that deffo needs a warning.

an: thank you to @thetriumphantpanda for letting me bother you countless times about this.

wordcount: 3.7k

He knows he should check the calendar, but he doesn't.

Frankie, instead, throws his hat on the seat, phone into the cup holder, and shoves the key into the ignition before sparking his vehicle to life. Waiting, and waiting, until he hears the distinct beep of his phone connecting before his finger is seeking your name on the dash, pulling out of the car park.

The dial tone echoes through the bed of his vehicle. The silence between each allowing the sound of tyres crunching the road to fill his ears until your voice soon plugs the quiet.

It’s heavenly, all sweet, layered ever so slightly by an edge of sarcasm—What do you want, Morales?

After some back and forth, a slight deviation in his journey, you’re buckling yourself in beside him. His hat in your lap, your perfume filling the car as he pulls away from the front of your house.

He hopes it soaks into the fabric—clings to the interior of his car. A thought, he suspects he shouldn’t have, but allows to swirl and twirl in his mind all the same.

“Bit spontaneous of you, Mr Calendar.”

Shifting in his seat, he checks the mirrors, watching from the corner of his eye as you did your usual. It starts with checking his glovebox, for what—he’s never quite sure—to closing the vents, to fiddling with the station or volume of his radio.

If it were anyone else, he’d kick up a fuss. But, not you—never you.

“I can’t believe you was gonna ask someone else to take you to IKEA.”

Rolling your eyes, you lean back in your seat—eyes doing that thing. Where they warm him, sizzle his skin under his clothes. “I wasn’t asking anyone, I was asking Will.”

“Still.”

“I thought you were busy. Your calendar was blocked out.”

“So, you’d have asked me first if I was free?”

It leaves his tongue teasingly, and a part of him means it as such. But another, a darker-tinged part—one forever covered in shade, where things fester, and happiness has wilted—means for it to be tainted with bitterness. The embers of jealousy brimming, licking, nipping at the words as they filter out into the air.

“You’re my best friend, Frank. Of course, I’d rather go pick out an entryway table with you.”

“Good job my day opened up then, isn’t it?”

You only hum. It being followed by a smooth, almost comforting silence that falls across the vehicle as he drives. His elbow leaning on the door, fingernails tapping against the window to the beat of a song which thrums through him.

He can’t help it, but his eyes flit back to you—finding you staring out the window, lips moving, whispering along to the words of whatever song filled the truck.

And he shouldn’t think it—shouldn’t even entertain the thought—but fuck you are something.

His hand gripping the steering wheel as the thought undoes itself, it opening itself up within his chest, releasing butterflies and confetti that, in time, will fall absently to the base of his stomach. Because—

“I don’t want anything too big,” you announce suddenly. Your head turns, rolling on the seat as you lift your leg up, present, but eyes unfocusing as you think. “Just near the wall, where the chest currently is—think it’ll look nice.”

Swallowing, he nods. “It will.”

He’s not sure what to do with the way you smile. The way you beam. Illuminating the world on what is already a nice sunny day, adding something extra to it. So, he does nothing. Letting the vehicle fall into silence again. Your foot occasionally taps the floor, muttering lyrics as he lightly thuds his fingers against the roof until he enters the parking lot, hunting for a space.

Frankie has been here countless times.

For his place, for yours—for ex-partners who over-romanticised a trip here. But, it was furniture. A warehouse full of pre-arranged rooms and ideas, accessories flowing out of bins and plants swirling around light fixtures in a zone they try to make look close to a jungle.

“You know what you’re looking for?” he asks, walking in step with you.

Shaking your head, you nudge him with your elbow. “Good job your day opened up, right?”

Nudging you back, he turns on the spot—facing you, walking backwards. “Shotgun pushing the trolley.”

“You’re such a big fucking kid, Morales.”

And, he’d let his cheeks burn under your words, but he sees the look on your face. The unfiltered delight, how it glides from you and lands straight in the centre of his chest.

He’d scribbled the aisle number on the piece of paper three zones previous.

Your fingers had been running over the display table—a little smile etching itself across your cheek as he flicked up the paper, writing the information he needed.

“The pencil looks tiny in your hand.”

Smirking, he stuck it behind his ear before poking your side. “It’s a tiny pencil.”

When you look at him, you’re smirking—a thought running, all restless in your mind. He can tell. Can practically hear your mischievous wheels turning in your brain.

“We done?”

“Nope.”

The ‘P’ pops intentionally, your body turning to face him, hand on the base of the cart—walking backwards, an unreadable smile spreading out over the place your smirk had just lived.

“Need candles, plants—and I would really love your opinion on a new throw cushion.”

“Fuck. Maybe I should have let Will bring you,” he grins, nudging the cart into your side as you laugh sarcastically.

If he was honest with himself, Frankie knows he’d spend all day in here with you. Get to play house in your two’s weird, twisted way.

Because he'd liked it earlier when you called him to come and look at a display kitchen, hand pretending to fry the plastic eggs in the pan as you tell him to check the fridge for OJ. From the twinkle in your eye, you liked it when he called you honey and asked if you wanted to watch the sports channel with him—you hovering in the doorway of the display living area, shaking your head.

If anything, though, it made the knot in his stomach tighten.

The one that’s been loosening and binding since the moment in your kitchen, the moment in his, the bedroom and your sofa.

“Frankie, c’mere.”

Pushing the trolley, he finds you—of course—in a sea of shelves filled with candles. Various shades, an array of scents, some more overwhelming than others, as you lift a left and then a right to your nose, before jutting your head.

“Smell this.”

Lifting the candle to his nose, he inhales, watching you—before his face scrunches, yanking his head back as you burst into laughter. It flows out from your throat to your eyes, nose scrunching, hand clasping his forearm as you lean into him, muttering in half-breaths and laughing that it’s awful, right?

The scent is, but the moment isn’t.

Composure sets in, wiping the joy from your face gradually as you place another back. His hand finding one, a white pot—simple, plain, glass. Lifting it to his nose, he’s immediately transported to your place. A candle he smells so often, it unlocks a host of memories that suddenly balloon inside of him—pulling a smile across his lips, before he tilts it to your face, watching your fingers wrap around his wrist, gently, softly.

“This is the one you usually buy, right?”

Flicking from the candle to him, he almost loses his breath. More so when you let a different smile grace your lips, one that makes his heart skip a beat.

“Y-yeah. It’s my favourite.”

Nodding, he forces a swallow, before he puts it in the bag inside the trolley—your brow arching, smile fading. “It’s mine too.”

“You burn candles?”

Smirking, he tilts his head, he grabs another, and another. “What? I don’t strike you as someone who burns candles?”

“No, Morales. You seem like someone who’d accidentally burn their house down.”

“Yeah, maybe. But, maybe I can buy these and keep them at yours.”

If you’re conflicted, you don’t show it. Staring for a second, and another, until you shrug. Something there, desperate to glide over your cheeks, but he knows whatever it is, it’s forced back. He can tell.

It’s a thing he’s about to point out and poke fun at you for—especially when the two of you haven’t stopped staring. Focused. Entirely too much, if the next second is anything to go by. Because you clear your throat, avert your eyes, turning—rather quickly—not seeing it, the other shopper’s trolley full of poorly stacked packages.

And it’s instinct, he thinks. Tells himself.

The way his mouth curls around your name, but his arm is already reaching out. Fingers first, then palm, until he’s wrapping his forearm around your waist and pulling, twisting you into him. His other hand all quick to follow his movements, grasping your shoulder with the other until your body is flush with his—head, avoiding the other person’s trolley full of long boxes.

Your gasp hits his ears, as your eyes land on him.

They’re wide, wild—painted in surprise, fright and amazement. Your pupils having swallowed all the colour—until you blink, and he realises his chest is falling and rising in tandem with yours.

“Should look where you’re going, querida.”

If at all possible, your eyes widen. His fingers release your shoulder, hovering, half-tempted to brush his knuckles against your cheek—but he drops them to his side.

Even if all he thinks is: this is nice—holding you this close.

It pulsating within him, until he lets go. Watching you step back—eyes still on him, all unreadable and surprised.

“We should…”

“Yeah. Let’s,” he replies, quickly.

Pushing the trolley in the direction you’re heading, feeling his cheeks burn, his ears following not that long behind.

Fuck he looks good.

Your mouth goes dry for the billionth time in the last five minutes. Having already found yourself needing the reminder that you have a glass in your hand—even more so when he looks up at you from his place knelt on the floor.

The two of you had chosen to also buy a set of drawers to match—ones that would fit in the corner, and store the six thousand candles you own. As though he hadn’t played a part in why that amount had grown.

“You listenin’ to me?”

Not at all. “Hmm?”

“Where’s the toolbox I made up for you?”

It’s easy to let your face fall into a two-step. For your brow to arch as his question pulls it, and your lips slide into your cheek. “Wherever you left it when you made it me.”

Your name falls from his lips—satiny, yet laced with disappointment—as he slowly gets up, leaving his spread-out instructions, many screws, and bits and bobs he’d laid out before he could even attempt to build it.

Frankie has always been more sensible—more structured. You’d witnessed him build things before, always following the same pattern, the same checks he’d do—to the point you wonder if he has an order when he flies. Whether he has a to-do list in his head he has to run through, one that doesn’t beat to the same drum as what is needed, but rather a curated one by him, just for him.

By the time he’s back, you’ve downed half your glass, finding—like the last—it does nothing to quench you. Not in the way you’d hoped, least of all when he removes his hat, throws it to the sofa, and you see the dampened edges of his curls.

Your brain betrays you. Reminding you—in vivid shades and high-definition, how you’d liked the feel of them in your hand. How he’d like them tugged, pulled when he was deep, his thumbs digging bruises into the back of your thighs—your hand all desperate for leverage, for something. You’d liked the home they found in his head, earning yourself the trophy of a groan that shot sparks through your already overstimulated body.

Blinking, you shake your head.

Trying to think of something, anything—

“I need to ask you something.”

His eyes lift, fixing on you as he kneels back down—all vast brown landing on you, coating you, smothering you in warmth that only he ever can.

“I’m starving, Frankie. Please, can I order us food?”

It takes a second, two at most. His face shifts into a frown before it smooths out, realisation dawning, crashing out over him.

“To say thank you,” you add, fluttering your eyelashes, face smooth.

Sighing, he licks his lips. “I’ll let you order, if you can keep your hands to yourself.”

Rolling your eyes, you move from the floor. “Yes, Morales. Because cheese dripping down your chin really does it for me.”

Grinning, he wipes the back of his hand against his forehead. “I don’t know your kinks.”

Competency, you quickly think—almost hum it. Especially when he slides another wooden leg into place—not even glancing at the instructions this time. You, your brain follows up with, immediately banishing, forcing it away, storing it in some box marked do not ever fucking open.

His grunts as he builds being added to the same box as you order the food. They’re all punchy, low—and it sparks memories which shouldn’t be present when you’re ordering food.

Not if you want to keep a level head, because you’re not entirely sure what playing field the two of you are on tonight. Prior to today, it’s all been planned—blocked out in both calendars, clear, rooted in the rules the two of you had laid.

The boundaries all spelt out.

But this, today and tonight, is now two people—two friends—who are moving to the beat of their own drum. The same two who hung out like this before the entanglement had begun, and while you know this, something else whispers around the logic.

It isn’t drowned out when you’ve ordered, or when you’re hanging in the open doorway—watching him, ogling him, basking in how normal it is that he’s here.

“Can I build something?”

Smirking, he leans back on his knees. “You can build a drawer.”

“Because they’re the most important part?”

He smirks wider, more teeth—a flicker in his eyes.

Because you know why he’s left you with drawers. Your earlier mishaps with furniture building had set a rule that you should be nowhere near a hammer, nails or flat-pack furniture—especially if you wanted it to be usable.

“Or, you can pass me the bits I need,” he offers.

Simpler, you swear you hear him think.

So you do. You pass each tool, each fixing. Watching in awe as he slowly ignores the paper, not even bothering to turn the pages as the thing slowly becomes an entryway table—a thing which you can store and put things on.

In the time he builds, your face aches from smiling, and your stomach hurts from lack of food and laughter. So much so, you don’t realise the time until the pizza arrives—him standing, all but trying to force money into your hand until you kick him in the shin.

By the time the two of you are back on the floor, the box open, scent immediately filling your home, he’s still complaining.

“Bet I have a bruise.”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo. Eat ya damn pizza, Morales.”

Grinning, he takes a messy bite.

And you know what you said earlier. Are distinctly aware that the thoughts you’re having are crossing all sorts of lines, even if the two of you never specified rules. Because, you want to trace your tongue over his chin, catch the sauce that’s sat there, climb into his lap, grind your lap into his—

“You’re staring.”

Blinking, you swallow. “Forgot what an animal you are when you eat.”

“You’re rude, y’know that?”

Grinning back, you take another bite. Aware of the way he’s staring now. Feeling the way it runs up and down your body, your fingers brushing against your thumb to remove the dust.

Clearing his throat, he averts his eyes. Focusing on a spot on the floor, toying with taking another bite. You’re so close to asking him why, when his mouth opens, and something falls out you don’t expect:

“You think friends build each other furniture?”

You pause because it’s unexpected. A warmth floods your cheeks when he lifts his stare back to you. Waiting—for what, you’re not sure.

Clearing your throat, you lean back, palm pressing into the floor—rooting you, keeping you stable. “Well. I was gonna ask Will, remember?”

He says nothing. Doesn’t even move to eat the last two bites of pizza in his hand.

“I think friends as good as us,” you say, needing to fill it—the silence, “can do lots of things together, and still be able to…”

“Reap the awards of unlocked benefits?”

“Exactly,” you manage to croak.

Feeling it again. The way the air thickens. Something charging, all electric, lightning and thunder.

“I meant it earlier—about asking me.”

“Your calendar is rather full, Frankie.”

Wiping his hand on the box, he shoots a smile. “Nunca estoy ocupada para ti.”

Your smile pulls itself across your face, chin dipping, ears warming. It settling, the meaning of his words, sweltering in the tension that seems to double until you ask if he’s done. Excusing yourself, mumbling about tubbing up the rest. Letting him continue, not much left anyway, he’d said. It’s why you take longer, tidying—putting things away that have lived on your counters forever.

Because this is new and foreign. All of it.

The way things are flowing inside of you, bubbles of feelings you want to ignore but find them rising up in the sea that’s suddenly ever-present and just fucking there.

“I’m done.”

Your hands spread over your kitchen counter, taking in the cold of them—the feel of them—as you let a big breath fill your chest. Whether for courage or strength, you weren’t sure. But it fuelled you to turn to face him, but not quite enough to settle the fluttering in your stomach as you walk back to him in the living room—finding him standing, admiring it.

Just like you should be.

But your eyes are on something else—someone else.

Lingering up and down. Seeing him differently, things all mixed up inside, jumbled, out of sorts.

“It looks good,” you whisper, aware your voice has dropped an octave.

Even more aware that your shoulder is close to his, a gap barely there between the two of you. And it’s hard not to stare at him. To not marvel at him. How he’s soft and muscular, firm and strong—how you’ve seen his arms flex when he’s between your thighs and when he’s building your furniture.

Licking your lips, you don’t blink when his head turns, and he meets your stare.

You don’t fight the way your eyes drop to his mouth.

Instead, you just move into it. Slanting your mouth over his, tongue brushing over his bottom lip as your fingers slide around his neck, burying themselves in his curls as you become aware that his arms are around your waist. Then, you’re kissing him hard, dizzying.

Heat, all bubbling and ferocious, grows inside of you—spreading, beginning at the base of your spine, until it’s curling up and around everything it can to lick at your throat. Every sense, nerve and thought orienteering and honed in on him. How his body feels pressed against yours, how his mouth feels on yours.

“Frankie,” you moan.

It escapes, his name passing your lips as he buries the sound with a groan of his own. But, you've opened the gate—it flung open now, more escaped syllables and letters following it.

Want you.

Wanted you all fucking day.

Think about you all the time.

Your fingers slide up the front of his t-shirt, darting the tips of them over his stomach, resting your palm against his hip as he walks you back to the wall—stability needed as his hips find yours.

Dios mío, eres tan sexy.

The words have barely washed over you, when you feel his fingers under your chin, lifting your chin, forcing you to hold his stare. Proving a chance to back out. A momentary break.

A get-out to keep the night friendly, rather than whatever the two of you now call the thing you do. But, if anything, you want—

“Bet that pencil would look real small next to your—”

“Shh,” he whispers, cutting you off.

His grin spreading, all large and not easily contained or bit back—ghosting it over yours, the tip of his nose tracing yours.

His fingers sliding further up your neck, his thumb catching your chin and the fire in his eyes almost makes you forget how to think, never mind breathe.

“Really want to fuck you on your new table.”

“You think IKEA build furniture to support how we do it?”

He ponders, you can see it. Sweeping his eyes up and down your frame. The maths running, there suddenly an array of equations in the blown pupils of his eyes as his fingers circle and swirl on your neck and hip. “If I break it, I’ll replace it.”

“You’ll be doing that forever, Morales.”

You see it bloom, his cockiness. It swallowing whatever remainders there were of the shy friend you used to know, replacing him with the cock-sure person who regularly makes your thighs shake and your brain empty.

“Building furniture gets you going, does it?”

The hand on your hip drops, finding a place along the tops of your thighs—and even through your jeans, you can already feel him. The strokes of lightening up and down your body, the way he makes you become putty.

The point is proven when he slides his hand between your thighs, a gasp escaping, easily kissed from your tongue by his lips.

“Not usually,” you whimper, his ministrations halting. “Just you building it. Apparently.”

And fuck, you swear you’re swallowed by lava, from both the look he shoots you and the way his mouth crashes back to yours.

chapter three ->

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[undercoverpena]

ii. sync up our calendars

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter two of i like the way you

best friend! friends with benefits! frankie morales summary: what starts off as an offhand remark, quickly becomes a regular, scheduled 'stress relief'. the only problem is, both of you are in denial that you feel anything outside of friendship for the other.

chapter warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. smut. frankie gets a blowjob.

an: thank you to my smut specialist, @psychedelic-ink for giving me the belief that my writing wasn't trash.

wordcount: 3.5k

You wake to still-warm sheets, but an empty bed.

Lashes fluttering, fingers sliding over soft cotton as your nose is immediately greeted with the scent of him, last night and your washing powder. A concoction, you realise (very quickly) that you want to bottle.

So much so, it makes your heart heavy, but also full.

A contrast you're not sure how to feel about.

Your mind trying to process it—the entanglement of feelings you’ve managed to keep stuffed down inside of you, that are now free, floating, fluttering.

Deep down, you know you should try and unpiece, but you’re not sure what you’ll find when you do. What will be left. What will happen if you pull on the earth-green thread that’s woven itself around every part of your life since the moment he shyly introduced himself.

Instead, your fingers just trace where he was the last time when your eyes were open. Something working itself into in your bones, digging, spreading. Unsure if it’s best labelled as disappointment or as realisation, because—

He wouldn’t just leave, surely?

Eyes stinging, burning. Blinking them away as you close your fingers into a fist. Rolling your eyes, sighing if only to yourself—hand coming across your forehead.

Because, of course, he would. Last night was…An arrangement.

An excuse.

A stress relief.

Yet, deep down, you’d hoped that for all the tests your friendship had undertaken, it wouldn’t be this thing that had him leaving before you woke. Not after the things the two of you have lived through, coped through—worked through layer by layer until movie nights and being close was all easy again, no lingering worries and knotted, balled-up unspoken secrets.

Sitting up, you pull the sheets up, staring at the doorway—hopelessly wishing. Imagining, sliding yourself into a fairytale where he walks back through the door, something in hand—a coffee, maybe?—wearing a smile, hair all at odd ends, curls still prevalent (even after all the tugging you had done). Your heart sinking, descending, falling.

Because all you’ve done is hopelessly wish.

Then, it happens. The fairytale becomes reality, flowing out, as if it’s painting itself in real time—a living, moving, walking tapestry coming to life that you realise isn’t manufactured or dreamt. But real.

“Made you coffee.”

You shouldn’t let it, but your heart skips a beat.

The sight of him alone conjuring it because Frankie’s found one of his tees in your drawer—likely from the collection of his clothing slotted between all of yours. The sweats you’d been wearing last night now on his hips, all loose, hanging, all untied and easy to drag down his thick thighs and—

The memory of last night hits you. Makes your throat dry and heat floods through you.

For a moment, you just sit in it, staring—the moment. Desperately trying to ignore the way your heart does a lurch, even if it knows it shouldn’t; your body settling, calming, even if you know this isn’t what your mind is concocting and running away with.

He’s your friend—with added stress relief. That’s it.

An agreement between kisses and exploration. A promise made between naked bodies and gentle moans.

“Hey?”

You drag your eyes up, finding brown—watching him placing the mug in your hand, wrapping his index and thumb around your wrist as he lifts it. It’s then that the bubble bursts, the one you’d begun stitching together at the idea of having him, having him call you his all over again.

His touch spreading sparks down your wrist, along your fingers, the pads of them pulsing, twitching—

“We should… talk.”

Blinking, you shift your face—rearranging emotions, haphazardly placing a smirk, smearing your lips in coffee before you know your throat can say the words that are needed to be spoken.

“About what?”

Frankie tilts his head. Gives you a look—one that says ‘don’t be like that’—one that makes you almost splutter coffee all over him, and the bed, as he sits down next to you. The mattress dipping, his thigh close to your knee, body twisting to you, fully focused, tenacious.

He takes a breath. So you begin—wanting to put him at ease. A thing inside of you that always thrums, a need to calm, to make it better.

“I had fun, Frankie.”

His eyes widen, words quick to follow: “Me too! Yeah, me too.”

Swallowing, you take a look at him.

He’s so handsome. To the point, you’re not even sure he sees it—has ever seen it. He doesn’t realise how beautiful his eyes are, how much you want to fall into them, coat yourself in the distinct Frankie-brown that you had pictured when he didn’t respond to your messages. The eyes you worried you’d never see when the trip lasted longer than he’d said.

“I would like… I’d want to..”

Smiling, you place a hand on his knee. “Me too. But, I just… I don’t want us to, I don’t—“

“I don’t want to lose you either.”

A part of you relaxes, while the rest of you sighs. Something beating normally, everything settling—not quite sure when the anxiousness had bled in, or it had tried to cling to you until it lessens and fades away.

“You’re… you’re the best thing about my life.” He says it in a tone that’s far more commanding than you’re used to—as though attempting to stamp it in. Ensure you know it, understand it, believe it. “Which is why when it begins to change *us—*what the two of us have—we stop. Alright?”

It’s easy to agree, to let the okay slip out when still holding his knee.

“So, we don’t tell anyone, alright? Not Ben. Not Will.”

He spits the latter with intent. Something there. A prickling, a loose tile of sorts on an otherwise perfect roof.

“Agreed,” you say.

Because it’s not the time or the place.

Your skin is bare under the sheets, not wanting to get into whatever the tone was when you couldn’t comfortably cage him in somewhere to tell you the truth. Because he does that—Frankie—he protects, also likes to make things easy, simple. To the point sometimes he hides himself from you, fearing he’s making things worse, complicating your otherwise normal life.

A rehash of the rules is evidence of it. A verbal contract, an assurance there’s no regret.

As if you could ever regret him; ever regret last night. The two of you.

“And you don’t want me buying you wine?” You shake your head. “You can’t cook me food—if we need it, we order.”

“Agreed. And… I’m not staying over at yours.”

His eyes narrow, but the rest of his face remains unreadable. “Okay?”

Shrugging, you take another sip, coffee spurring you on. It corrodes away any shyness, giving you the confidence, the strength. “It just gets complicated. Like I end up with things at yours, and then y’know, where does this,” you gesture between you, “end, and our friendship begins.”

If he disagrees, he doesn’t show it. Although, the air around him thickens, tightening quickly around the two of you as his head tilts, processing it—your words. His hand reaches up, scratching at his beard before he flicks his eyes up at you—warming your skin and making your ears burn.

“Okay, yeah. I get you.”

“Good.”

Then, the air dissolves, relaxed. Him reaching forward as he takes your mug, playfully winking as he takes a sip—not cowering under your gaze as he places it back, wrapping your fingers around it. Fingers lingering, desperately clutching you, as though needing you for one last time.

“Guess for this to work, y’need to give me your phone—so we can sync calendars.”

Arching your brow, you move, grabbing it from the bedside table, taking a sip as you hand it to him. Noticing how his eyes drag over you, forcing your hand to shift the sheet.

“Didn’t think you’d know how to do that, Morales.”

Snorting, he quickly smirks. “Don’t sound so surprised, querida.”

That name—it shoots fire through you. Something from last night, a thing he’s only ever let slip when he’s more booze than brains. It has the same effect then, as it does now. If not more.

Your skin warms, almost scorching against your bones. Even as his eyes drop to your phone, unlocking it, trying to fight it widening as he asks if yours is up to date—whether there’s anything missing from it.

“Looks like we’re both free in a week.”

Rolling your lips, you drip feed the heavy breath. Disguise it in your mug, a poor attempt at settling the effects he has on you.

“In a week it is.”

Then his eyes are back on you, attentive, all full of focus, as though he needs to snap a photo of you like this. Keep you framed somewhere on a ledge in his mind.

“I should get… you know, going.”

Nodding. Even though a part of you wants to pull him back down to the sheets. Tire yourself out, fuck out the worries over whether fucking him in scheduled appointments is a bad idea. Especially when…

It’s him.

It’s Frankie.

His lips find your cheek, fingers searing on your shoulder as he lingers. The scent of the two of you enveloping—almost smothering in a way you hope it never leaves.

“I’m… I’m glad it’s you.”

“What? Being your fuck buddy?”

Shaking his head, he drags his hand down his face. “I don’t like the term, but yeah.”

Smirking, you lick your lips, unable to fight a grin. “Do you prefer best friend with an unlocked benefit, Morales?”

Laughing, he shakes his head—taking your mug, draining the last bit. “Need it for the road.”

“Oh, how come? Heavy night?”

Shaking his head, he stands. “Stress relieving, I’ll say that. Text me—still. Like…”

“Normal?” you offer, earning a nod. “I will. Don’t worry, this is a perk to our friendship. Not all that it is.”

Frankie has to give it to you, you’re punctual.

Knuckles on his door, thudding away—even if you have a key.

The reason was blurred as to why the two of you swapped them, to begin with. It having been more a requirement from him to have yours, than for you to have his. But, he had been more than happy you had one when he stepped through the door that day after landing from the events in Colombia. His body having been heavy, grief hanging from every part of him that it could, the flight not easing it, the drive not soothing it, but the sight of you stepping out of his bedroom—face puffy from crying, his clothes adorning your body—

“Took you long enough to answer.”

Not a hello, not a greeting of any kind.

Frankie flexes his hand at his side.

“You could’ve used your key,” he retorts.

But, you’re smirking. Stepping in, him allowing you entry into his place as though you’ve never been here before—as though you haven’t slept on his sofa or on his bed. As though you haven’t rocked up with a thousand things to share, only to ask if you can stay just for the night.

“Do you… want a drink?”

He watches as your hands come across your front, fingers playing with fingers, nerves swirling with his.

It was easier last time. All unplanned. Almost uncoordinated—even if your bodies moved as though they knew the dance the entire time.

This was new. Unchartered waters—a high risk of drowning, spluttering, making a mess—

“Water. Please,” you say, a slight clear of your voice you try to bury, shrugging yourself from your jacket.

Frankie takes the chance to admire you.

You’re in a T-shirt, jeans. A normal outfit—one he sees you in all the time. It’s one you wear to the bar when the group is together; one you’ve picked him up in when the two of you went to run errands. But, none of those times has he been able to peel the layers from you—to unwrap you, have you splayed out on a surface in his home.

“You’re gawking.”

“Well, you’re a sight to look at.”

You just smirk. Face shifting, hiding any—if there is any—effect his words have. “Shut up, Morales. Get me my drink.”

It’s there, the semblance of normal. It thrummed, all intact, not yet ruined.

He wonders if this is a thing.

Briefly remembering that you were getting water when he’d caged you in the kitchen. Suddenly aware he can feel you close, a risk of turning around and being blocked in—an UNO-reverse.

“So,” you say, voice shaky, “H-how’s your week been?”

He swallows, filling the glass. Turning to find you loitering, hanging at the end of the counter—two steps, not quite three, away from him.

“S’alright. Just had to do a few intense lessons for a trip this couple has coming up,” he explains, your hand brushing his, sparks shooting up his arms as you take the glass.

“Do you prefer giving lessons now or?”

Frankie isn’t such what he prefers.

His mind addled, broken. It crumbles at the edges and works its way in—because he’s not sure if he can see the peaks of your nipples through your shirt. Not sure if the water droplets on your lips will ever dry without his tongue brushing over them.

A want in him to kiss you, to test if your lips are as soft a second time, a third. Whether you make the same noises, or if he can unlock more from you this time—whether there are levels to you, achievements.

You’ve always been a puzzle, an unexplainable thing. Not there one second, then there forever another. The best part of his days, the thing he thinks of when he’s knees deep in mud, sand in his eyes and coated in so much rain he isn’t sure whether he begins and the weather starts. A person he craves being close to, taking whatever he’ll get. Grateful for the thigh against thigh in small booths, that you grip his arm when you laugh at his sarcasm—when you curl into him on the sofa during a movie you’d rather stop watching.

Then there’s the times he’s made your eyes fill with water. The time he made your eyes mist up, filling with a different kind of tears when you’d collided into him after Colombia, murmuring into his shoulder that you’d been worried, oh so worried—but, neither of you had unpacked that. Never daring, never wishing to.

There’s a lot the two of you don’t unpack. Stuffing it down silently, placing it in a box the two of you tape up together and pretend to ignore.

Now, you’re standing next to him, eyes glazed over, sparkling—inviting. Your lips curling into your cheek, all mischievous, unreadable.

“What’re you thinking, querida?”

“That I’ve had a shit day—week, actually—and I want you to fuck my throat.”

He’s stunned. Feeling his eyes widen, his throat dry, chest tighten. All at once. The time to think on it doesn’t arrive, not when your hand is dragging his lips to yours—not that he wants to protest. His hold tightening to say as much, driving you on—your kisses growing more intense, bolder. The pressure increases as Frankie willingly parts his lips, mouth doused with mint—that same taste he knows from the gum you always have in your car.

Your name escapes his lips, more of a moan—whispered, swallowed. Smothered quickly by your smiling mouth as you swipe your tongue across his bottom lip.

“Let me taste you, Frankie.”

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. The request flowing from your mouth all easy, silky, almost velvety.

You repeat the sentiment as you stare up at him, getting down onto your knees—but this time you ask. Falling like silk: Can I taste you, Frankie? Will you fill my throat?

A part of him is distinctly aware of his legs being exposed to the air, fabric falling down to his calves. The rest of him is focused on the way you’re looking at him—like he moves mountains for you, like he’s everything. A look he’s sure he’s seen in glimpses, but now is swallowing him whole. 

And he likes it, almost lo—

“Never got to tell you,” you whisper, dragging his attention to you, fingers hooked in his underwear, dragging it down, freeing him, “You have such a pretty cock, Frankie. So big.” 

Your fingers digging into his thighs, your lips pressing a chaste kiss against the throbbing vein on the side of his length. 

He hisses when you finally wrap your lips around him, your mouth warm, all inviting. Tongue swirling around the head of his cock, the tip sliding over the slit as his hand cups the back of your head firmer, seeing your eyes flick up—a glimmer in your eyes that makes his heart do a double take. More so when you swallow to take more of him, jaw slack, prepared, ready.

“Shit, querida.”

You keep him pinned, feet planted, hand on the wall to the side of him and the other on the back of your neck. Taking him, as much as you can, your hand working the part you can’t yet fit. All heat, your tongue dragging along, swirling—and fuck he feels good, warmth stretching out through his thighs, embers biting at his lower stomach, all frantic to dance up his spine.

Then, your lips—all plush, slick with spit and him—glide down him, teeth lightly grazing down his shaft as you do.

And the moan he emits rips from him so quickly, he’s sure it leaves a mark in his throat. One which only further deepens when he hears you moaning around him, seeing you trying to shift on the floor, desperate for friction, for something, anything.

It makes his hips move, shifting with you, trying not to—not wanting to push, to have you spluttering, not when you look so good, so perfect, all mouth stretched around him.

“Y’so good, baby. Tan perfecta.”

You whimper at the praise. A thing he’s learnt about you—a thing he wants nothing more than to continue giving to you until nothing else lives in your head except his praise. His fingers sliding down the neck of your t-shirt, lightly massaging, gripping—

It forces itself out, another groan. Punching the air, yanking itself up from his throat as he wipes a tear from your cheek—him aiding, guiding himself down your throat, taking him much easier, better. It’s clear you’ve gone past your limits, swallowing him—desperately so—all enveloped and welcomed by the expanse of your throat.

“Doing so well,” he tells you, watching you, not able to take his fucking eyes from you.

How could he? When you’re such a vision.

Frankie admires the way you look up at him, lashes all tacky, cheeks shimmering with how much you want to do this. It makes a part of him want to pull you up from the floor, place you on any given surface and ruin you. The thought pushing him on, the noises you’d made under him, on top of him, in front of him, all coming back, immersing him.

Nothing exists, nothing mattering.

“So good—so good for me, baby.”

All he can feel is how he twitches against your tongue, how good your mouth is, how close he is—how much he wants nothing more than to coat your throat. Somehow claim you, even if you’re not his.

A thought he has to banish. Rid himself off.

Reminding himself that the small slot in your two’s calendar says otherwise, as he bucks into your mouth.

Your name falls feverishly from his lips, over and over until it’s swallowed by a groan—your tongue lapping up everything he’s giving you. The sight of you like this forces the fire to do more than dance or lick up his spine, it twists, it climbs—all purposeful in its ascent. Coating him in flames only you seem to make grow, an inferno, an intoxicating concoction he wants to bottle and brand in your name.

The sounds hitting the air are a mix of moans, groans and a wet sound as you work him, as you own him, consume him—trace your name into his cock. Something which makes him smug, pulling a smirk half-heartedly over his parted mouth. His whole body lit up, illuminated, so close, so near to filling your throat with him.

Another swirl. Another graze. The feel of him hitting the back of your throat—it’s too much, unable to stop himself, to hold himself in this moment, too close, so close—

Gone.

Pleasure floods him. Scratches its way through him. Bursts from somewhere deep and flows out, ripples—distantly aware he’s flooding your mouth, twitching in your throat, pulsing.

Opening his eyes, Frankie immediately casts his sight down to see his spend leaking from the edges of your mouth as you try to swallow as much of him as you can. Your name leaves his mouth raw, scratchy, gravelly, just as the warm space of your mouth is gone, thumb tracing your bottom lip, staring up at him as you swipe any remnants away with your tongue.

Still on your knees, eyes wide, dutifully waiting for further instruction—all for him.

He banishes away what a bad idea it is, helping you up off the floor, crashing his lips to yours—tasting salt mixed with mint. Fingers spreading over your lower back, balling up fabric, keeping you flush against him.

“Bedroom?”

“Bedroom,” you agree.

And he smirks, right against your mouth, before sliding his tongue in—hoping he can earn another moan, hoping it’ll be enough to blanket the thought that he doesn’t want this to end.

CHAPTER THREE ->

#jo: iltwy #frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #Frankie morales x reader smut #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 #francisco morales smut #frankie morales smut #triple frontier smut #frankie morales x f!reader smut #pedrostories

[undercoverpena]

iv. anchor me

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter four of i like the way you

best friend! friends with benefits! frankie morales summary: what starts off as an offhand remark, quickly becomes a regular, scheduled 'stress relief'. the only problem is, both of you are in denial that you feel anything outside of friendship for the other.

chapter warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. hand stuff (f receiving), illusions to the past, bi!frankie.

an: thank you to @thetriumphantpanda for reading this after bake off and telling me that i can do the thing.

wordcount: 3.4k

The moment Benny’s (insistent) invite landed in your messages, you had expected the one from Frankie.

Phone in hand, tapping your foot, counting, barely making it to 30 seconds before the banner slid down your screen. Because, of course, the can’t-say-no invitation was on the day the two of you had a scheduled thing.

Unsurprisingly, his simmering annoyance hadn’t vanished when he came to pick you up—another thing insisted—and you came out to meet him.

I’ll pick you up. I can drive there and meet you, save you coming across town. I‘m picking you up. Means I get to make sure you get home okay.

The sound of the car door slamming into place as you lock up, turning to walk towards his vehicle to find him eyeing you up in a way that makes your cheeks burn and you want to hide your face.

He keeps having that effect on you.

Make heat lick up your spine, your brain forget its sentence or thought, and your eyes find themselves unable to stop dropping to his lips .

It’s why it takes all your strength to say, “Eyes up here, Morales.”

He does, although he does take a second. Licking his lips, before doing exactly that. “Do I tell you enough that you look good?”

Laughing, you roll your eyes. More for him. An act, a pretence. Because you’re trying to seem unfazed—attempting to ignore it, the flutters of wings in your stomach.

Having to focus on it more and more when he stops in front of you, the bill of his hat shielding his eyes from the sun, allowing you to see how they drink you in, swallow you. Practically smothering you in simmering heat that makes you want to tear your clothes from your skin.

“You’ve mentioned it a lot lately.”

He doesn’t move, a thing which makes the wings flutter worse. More intense. Practically beating them as you stare at him, fighting the urge to wrap your fingers around the back of his neck and pull his lips to yours.

To have him. Kiss him.

Remembering as you shift in your shoes, that you’re not with him. This is all an arrangement, a plan—a schedule, a date each week (or two) that Benjamin Miller fucked up.

Nudging him, you wink. “C’mon, I want first dibs of the food Will is cooking before you lot leave me with the scraps.”

You were outside in the backyard an hour, before a water gun soaks you.

Benny’s—of course—a stupid gift you’d purchased him, now used on the neighbours’ kids, with you caught in the crossfire.

By the time you’ve realised, you’re being flooded with apologies. Each coming from Benny’s tongue tenfold, rushing over as though he’d sprayed you in bullets and not water.

Your discussion with Will all but ended with a gasp as you stared down at your now transparent shirt. Watching his eyes lift up, trying not to glance or look.

“Shit, I’m so sorry. I was—and then—let me show you where the towels are—“

You’re not sure who you laugh at more: Will or Benny. Holding a hand up, accepting one of the many apologies that fall, waving it all off, as your eyes scan the other guests, not finding the one pair of eyes you really want.

“It’s fine—can I, borrow something?” you ask, dropping your voice, “There’s kids around.”

Before Benny has even finished nodding, you make a beeline for the house. The one you know. You’ve been here enough times, dipping in through the side door, feeling your top cling to your skin more uncomfortably than it had outside.

That’s when you stare outside. Noticing that the gathering was closer to a party, it all loud and busy—even from inside. Suddenly grateful for the cover to spend a minute cooling off in the house. An excuse merged with gratefulness when you could hide and slide your shades off—wanting a drink, water, ice.

Suddenly needing a second.

Because all you’d done is eye-fuck your friend. The one you’ve seen naked—the one who looks more than good, and fucks even better.

The one, you suddenly can’t spot.

The glass in your palm lets condensation droplets slide down your wrist. The rim against your bottom lip, staring out at the people laughing, smaller kids being chased by Benny and his water gun. Eyes scanning, nervousness bubbling, mind beginning to worry you’re about to see him with someone else.

Like you have done so many times before .

You’re so lost in it, you don’t hear him, never mind feel him, until his arm snakes around your waist. The man you’d been missing—the one who’d been burning holes into your spine, but never coming over.

Now, though, he’s all warm mouth again to your ear, a whispered shh, as he peels your glass from your hands.

“You’re all wet, querida. We best get you dry.”

And then you’re walking, being led. Moving with ease as Frankie—who you hadn’t even seen come inside—was wrapping his fingers inside yours. Leading you, down the familiar hallway you’d helped paint several years ago, to the bedroom you still called Frankie’s, even if he hadn’t lived here in years.

You remember when you‘d knock on the very door to call for him, or hang out on the other side of the frame.

Frankie and Benny had shared this space before Frankie had found his own. The offer of your spare room had not been good enough—even if he painted it in, not wanting to be an inconvenience. How you’d sit on the bed that’s now for guests, perched, waiting for him before the two of you grabbed food or visited the movies. Simple things—friend things.

It isn’t like that today. His mouth slants over yours as soon as you’re both alone, pressing your back to the wall, devouring, licking into your mouth as you gasp.

Because the two of you could be caught. A shudder spreading out at the idea. The thought of the door being thrown open, making you groan into his mouth.

But, you’re not sure you’d care if you did.

You don’t fucking care if they all found you like this.

Lost, whimpering, desperate—all for him.

Not at his hand places itself around the base of your neck—lightly touching, pressing the smallest amount of pressure down, as he hushes your soft moans. His finger resting against your chin, the others slowly bury themselves in your underwear, giving you more reasons to be loud than be quiet—not something close to friend things.

“You been thinkin’ about me?”

The yes leaves your lips, but it is swallowed by a moan. It travelling from somewhere deep, flowing up, rippling out as you begin to writhe against his touch. Your eyes fixed on his—drowning in brown, sinking in as he curls his fingers inside of you. Beckoning, pleading with you to hand him what it is he wants.

Fuck, you want to give it to him. Had done from the moment you’d arrived, pulled up in the space outside Benny’s home—the former fixer-upper, turned dream house.

Frankie always looked good, even if his wardrobe was minimal. The back of him easy to pick out from a crowd, so broad you’re sure you could draw it with your eyes closed. You’ve stared at it so much—and that was before this all began. This, whatever this mutually beneficial thing is between the two of you, neither of you will properly name.

It’s why you kiss him, needing to taste his groan, lather your tongue in the way he says your name. Pronounces it. It more noticeable when your hand cups him—greeted by the hard outline of him against your palm, all noticeable, barely contained by his cargo pants.

“—tan bonita,” he croaks, throwing your hand away before placing it back to cup your cheek, forcing your head to his, the base of his palm catching your bundle of nerves as he slows his ministrations. “Be good for me, querida. And just focus on being quiet.”

A chaste kiss pressed, a signature on the dotted line—one you agree to as you chase his lips. Just tasting the beer-tinged air of his breath as he continues to bury his fingers inside of you. The sounds of it so vulgar, loud, barely muffled by the strangled whimpers you try to keep back.

“So good for me, tan perfecta.”

Your eyes close, lashes clenching. His whispered words make it harder to stay quiet, to be the thing he’s just told that you are.

And the worst is, you know he knows it. Can feel his smirk against your jaw, the way the tip of his tongue swirls over your pulse as his hip pins you in place, his fingers continuing their wanted assault, keeping your feet rooted to the ground, head barely able to think about anything but this.

“Please,” you ask.

Eyes open, capturing his. Hooking in. Watching him drink it in, your request—your ask.

“Alright baby, I’ve got you,” he whispers, more breath than words, right against your cheek, finger drawing circles against your clit. “Always got you, haven’t I?”

It’s electric, and also fire. It surges and licks up your spine as you nod. As your throat goes dry, sound goes fuzzy, before he’s good—to you, for you. Alternating between filling you with the same fingers that built your furniture.

“Doing so well for me,” he says, nose against your cheek, fingers pumping—

In and out.

In and out.

“Be good though, let me feel you squeeze my fingers—wanna feel you come, querida. Please. Please.”

Your eyes clench, feeling both nothing and everything. Because someone could walk in. Your teeth bite into your lip as you try to keep back the chants of his name. His fingers are so deep, feeling so good.

“Let go, querida.”

It falls from his lips like honey. Sweet. Almost sticky in how it clings to the air as your eyes open, finding him.

The first thing you think is: earlier was nothing on the way he’s staring at you now.

Doing more than devouring, he’s drowning in you—likely unaware you’re doing the same with him.

Each nerve illuminated, your ears slowly buzzing louder and louder as you crash your mouth to his and lick into his mouth as you still, tense and writhe all at once.

Then you are stars, feel yourself unknotting, all at once. In the bedroom that used to be his.

Frankie shouldn’t like seeing you in an old t-shirt of his, but he does.

Unable to tear his eyes away from you as he leads you to two seats, your laugh flowing—something he said under his breath, now forgotten, still swirling through you, forcing your eyes to close and your fingers to dig into his forearm.

He likes you like this—has always liked your laugh.

Blissfully aware that he should, but shit, he can’t take his eyes off you. Even if he knows he needs to—plenty of eyes around, ones who have always teased, always taunted.

You’d be so good together. You pair are so cute.

The comments go on, and on. Have done for years.

Except now, you’re dressed in him.

To most, it’s a simple, old tee splattered with paint. To him, it’s when the group of them painted Ben’s house. His eyes having drank you in, wishing he could wash the paint from your legs, unsure how you’re covered in as much as the wall.

Your clumsiness having painted itself against you, your own clothes ruined, before you’d purposefully (and intentionally) splattered yourself against him when you’d come in for a ‘hug’.

Now, you’re sitting next to him, curled under one leg, shades hiding where your eyes are—but he hopes they’re on him—wishing you’d be on him.

“You dry, querida?”

“Oh, jodete.”

Smirking, he takes a sip of his drink. Licking the front of his teeth, leaning forward.

“Rather fu—”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

Your tongue traces the bottom of your lip, slowly shaking your head. A part of him wanting to pull you close, have you in his lap. Fuck everything and just give in and—

“So,” Will announces. Suddenly there. Blocking the sun, pointing at an empty chair before he sits beside you.

And Frankie drowns his throat in beer.

He listens, while staring off, as Will asks how your friend is—when she’s back in town, because Ben won’t. You knotting and unknotting the end of the tee around your finger, chatting and chatting.

Something tightening inside of him when he catches sight of you, from the corner of his eye, throwing your head back as Will makes you laugh. Him trying not to grimace each time his friend does so.

Because Will is his friend.

A good one, a great one. Yet, when it comes to you, he always feels inferior. Less than. Somehow more broken more than—

“Fish?”

Will’s voice drags him from his thoughts, blinking. Thumb tracing the neck of his bottle as he nods.

“I said have you heard from Pope?”

He tenses. Frankie feels himself still. Back all straight.

The question cuts through his bubbling thoughts. Suddenly aware of the sound of his own heart in his ears. That knotted ball of things, the one full of rope, strings, steel wire, as it all tightens inside his chest—and in his stomach.

Worst of all, he then feels your eyes land on him. Searching, cutting through the sheets he throws up as walls, desperate to press something warm to him, keep him rooted.

He takes a breath, feeling you willing him to. Appeasing you, even if you’ve not asked verbally, finding himself easily able to.

It’s always easy with you.

Just like it was the night he told you. Confessed it. Whispered it out on the floor, his back to the wall in the same bedroom he just had pressed you against.

I’d suspected it, honestly.

Your fingers brushing, carding through his curls until you pulled his head into your chest. A whole other sea of emotions bubbling, both of his long loves out of reach—even if one had their fingers buried in his curls, attempting to soothe him. The rest of his confession dying on his tongue, letting it rot, fester.

Because that one was and still is harder to confess.

It desperate to escape. Almost coming out the night you’d suggested he found you repulsive. Not knowing how wrong you were—

“Um…” you murmur, eyes digging further into him, practically clawing. Not to hurt, but to pull him back. “I don’t think I have—not since before?”

Frankie swallows. His heart hammering heavier, lifting his eyes and landing on you—and it all goes calm. Your face, like it always has been, is like a blanket that smothers the leftover hurt and anguish, an anchor that roots him in place.

“N-no. Not heard a thing,” he says, as plain as possible. Direct. Trying to hide the shake.

Because he can still feel your eyes on him. Focused, unwilling to leave his face as Will mutters and mumbles about something until he’s shouted away, beckoned by an overzealous neighbour, Frankie plants a smile on for, not moving to greet or speak to.

You say nothing.

But you do lift your shades. Smothering him in warmth and kindness, and a bit of sorrow too. Your teeth nursing the skin on your bottom lip, picking and picking.

Fuck he wishes he could tell you.

He wishes he could tell you that Pope knew—knows. Had already guessed it. Teased him on it before he dragged it out of him in the cold, rainy depths of Colombia.

You just have a thing for friends, Fish. That it!

It had ripped from his throat then. Shooting, spitting in mixed English and Spanish as he told Pope his feelings for you—how long they’d been there.

How they were messy. The same as his feelings had been for him. That they churned and turned for months with the conflicting ones he had for him.

That it has shaped him—the thing that neither of them talk about, but had let happen the handful of times it did.

And now he was repeating himself, but differently. This time, he suspected there was something more there. Something there in your eyes in the moments after he’s brought you to pleasure, it twinkling, it licking into his mouth when you kiss him, softer, desperate in a different way.

“Are you okay?”

“Come to mine. Tonight. After.”

You release your bottom lip. Staring. Thinking. “Are you going to take me home after?”

He tries not to let his face shift, but he fails. It falls and drops out over his features as you take a sip from the bottle in your hand.

“Frank…”

“You like my bed.”

You roll your eyes, brow slightly arched. You’re faking annoyance, he can tell. He can tell because you’re ticking, pondering. Weighing up the options of what difference one night would make to your principles.

“It’s not because of that.”

“No?” you say, arched brow and laced in sarcasm.

Fuck, he wants to take your hands. Pull them to his face. Because he doesn’t feel like that for him anymore. He hasn’t. Not for a long time.

Not since before he showed up with his plan, and his lies, and his mission that ended with Redfly’s death.

He wanted to let it roll from his tongue that he meant it that first night. That he has hated all of your exes for the reason you must think, deep down—the one you’re unwilling to question or acknowledge for the same reasons he won’t.

Because he’s scared. Because he knows he’s only worthy of being a dirty secret—not something real. Not something stable and concrete, things you truly deserve.

And, he wants to respect your wishes, your rules. But, he also wants to wake up beside you in his bed. Wanting nothing more than to have his cake and eat it too, because how could he not? How could he not want you there for one morning, when he wants you there every single day?

That thought was the one he had shouted, it burning the air between him and the man he now doesn’t hear from.

You gonna tell her? Depends on if we fuckin’ get outta here, doesn’t it?

He didn’t. Even if he did make it out, make it back. You in his arms, sobbing, worries running from your mouth to his ear as he held you—silently sobbing into your shoulder for reasons he has never explained.

Which is precisely why he doesn’t reach for your hands. It’s why he lets the silence thicken before he answers.

Because he knows he loves you.

“No,” he says firmly.

Hoping it’ll be enough. Hoping the finality of the word will inform you that, if anything, it’s in spite of the memory of his former friend, former brother-in-arms, former…

“I live closer to here,” he shrugs. Not wanting to admit that it’s for any other reason. “Means we’d be quicker to—“

“Morales!” you cut him off.

All stern, cute—as though he hadn’t had his fingers buried inside of you half an hour ago in his old room.

“How have you been sleeping?”

It’s a simple question, easy. Your lips around the straw, draining your cup before placing it on the grass, next to his empty bottle.

His fingers reaching up, itching the front of his fringe under his hat—your eyes following his movements, holding on to them, adding them to the mental notebook you’ve likely made.

Frankie shouldn’t be surprised that you remembered. The trip that lasted more days than it should have and left its own marks on you, too. Scarred you in ways that you can’t explain or ever get rid of.

“Fine. I guess, just…”

“I know,” you say with a faint smile. Forced. Placed there to soothe him, but it doesn’t do much.

You don’t play with the radio.

You don’t even really talk. Just drumming your fingers on the door, staring outside, letting streets pass the two of you, until he pulls up outside his place.

All the way, he thinks about apologising.

For everything, and yet for nothing all at once. His eyes sliding over to you as he drove down roads, turned his chin a little more to gather more of you as he turned a corner.

You don’t look at him until he turns the engine off. Head rolling on the back of the seat, the softest, most beautiful smile on your lips—one he wants to taste, feel moulded to his mouth. Capture and steal it, in case he never gets the chance to again.

“If you say you’ll stay, you haven’t broken the rules,” he whispers.

It is all quiet, except for the little noises made by the car as it cools and relaxes from its journey here.

Frankie hears you swallow, and then sigh.

“Won’t I be?”

Shaking his head, he turns to face you on the plastic seat. Palm cupping your cheek, thumb stroking soft lines, hoping it’ll ease you. Relax you.

“If you prefer me to take you home—“

Your eyes drop.

“—then I will. But…”

Your eyes flash back up to him, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe. Even under twinkling lights, he can see each fleck of colour in them.

“But?” you whisper.

And he drags his thumb across your skin. “I just really want you to stay, for tonight.”

Sliding your lips to the side, your fingers move over his, pressing his palm to your cheek, giving him a smile—a gentle one, reassuring, sweet. “I want the right side. When you let me sleep.”

Smirking, he nudges closer, going to kiss you, but finding himself pressing a kiss to your forehead—one brimming with a smile.

Only realising he’s done so when he retracts.

Little lines appearing in your brow, gone, vanished in the next second, because then you’re moving closer, your lips on his—and for a brief, but pleasant moment, he forgets all of this isn’t real.

Falls into it, lets himself live there as he runs his hand up your thigh, before he’s dragging it over his. Uncaring that there’s a bed some so many feet away, he just runs his hands over your cheeks, along your jaw, thumbs on your neck—as he groans against your mouth.

Swallowing your moan, he fights a smirk at the way you rock your hips against him. Hand moving to your hip, pinning you—chasing your lips before kissing you again, and again.

Not ever having enough. Always wanting more.

As he has done for years. As he’s thought about for years.

Because there may have been others, but since he let himself think it, it’s always been you. A notion he kisses against your lips, writing them with his tongue against yours, content, happy.

“Can’t wait to spread you out on my bed, querida.”

He feels your lips spread into a smirk against his. “Can’t wait to have your cock down my throat again, Morales.”

He groans. Loud, almost undignified. Unsure how he got to be so lucky. Your fingers digging into the base of his neck.

CHAPTER FIVE ->

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #Frankie morales x reader smut #frankie morales x you #frankie morales #jo: iltwy #triple frontier x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #francisco morales smut #frankie morales smut #triple frontier smut #frankie morales x f!reader smut #pedrostories

[undercoverpena]

vii. take care of me

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter seven of i like the way you

best friend! friends with benefits! frankie morales summary: what starts off as an offhand remark, quickly becomes a regular, scheduled 'stress relief'. the only problem is, both of you are in denial that you feel anything outside of friendship for the other.

warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. flirting. idiots who are so in love it’s stupid. feelings. smut - p in v. reader has a bad day, soft romantic fucking.

word count: 4.7k

an: the biggest thanks to @thetriumphantpanda who read this before bake off and left me a bunch of comments that made me so excited, you almost had this chapter yesterday.

You had seemed downtrodden before he rocked up and ‘broke a rule’.

His pretence at forgetting all quickly seen through, as though he’s transparent. He had wanted to explain that he had only wanted to cheer you up, but you looked less in the mood for an apology than you did an explanation.

So he swallowed both.

From the middle of the week, he had suspected something was wrong. When he had finally managed to call you, you had sounded so close to tears, that he wondered whether he should drive back sooner.

Especially when you had barely laughed at a joke he made on one of his commutes back to the hotel—barely even answering when he asked it if was his movie choice or yours.

I don’t mind. You always mind. If I remember right, you have a real thing about me always pickin’ the movie, querida. Well, I don’t today, okay? You can pick—I—Frankie, I have to go.

When the end call tone flooded the bed of his truck, he’d strongly suspected that you’d fought your way off the phone with him so you could crumble. Cracking yourself open into a bunch of shards, all pressure-cooked by the weight of everything you take on, only to say you’re fine.

It’s why he had driven past your place the day before he had made plans to see you. Fighting with himself about getting out and going up to your door. Weighing up the options as to whether checking on you tonight or waiting for tomorrow would be best.

Then there was the fact he wasn’t sure if it was as your best friend or as someone who hopes for something more.

The lines blurred, practically erased. A speech is likely needed, but he’s as poor with words as he is with owning how he feels, so it’s easier to stuff them down—to drive away, wait.

It’s why he grabbed it to begin with. Why he’d been grabbing them since you put the darn rule in place anyway. A habit, a part of his routine seeing you—a thing he did to show you that you mattered, were important, cared for.

Which is why he’d wrestled with him again on whether to leave it in the car when he walked up to your front door or not.

“You broke a rule.”

You look glum, defeated. Whatever your working week had done to you, it had stolen more from you than you’d been able to—never mind willing to give.

And it fractured a part of him. Made his shoulders sink, his heart sinks—because nothing hurt him more than the look on your face. The one which should be full of smiles and twinkling eyes.

Kissing your cheek, he closes your front door behind him. “I think you’ll forgive me.”

You just snort. Momentarily smothering the sadness that had been there before he’d showed you the bottle—whatever had upset you buried, all of it being quickly hidden as you placed the wine down and picked up your water bottle.

It forces more confusion to swirl inside of him, more so as you begin to go back and forth with him on food, on what he wants to watch, and whether he wants to share a blanket or have his own.

He replies in his usual tone, even if his attention is split into equal parts—one part focused on the little things you do, the mannerisms you’re not aware to pretend. The other on the IKEA furniture he built, the memories pricking him, needling, making the zipper of his jeans suddenly feel uncomfortable over his cock.

“Work been okay?”

Your mouth falls open, all set to answer, but then something shifts in your eyes. A shadow—possibly—it dancing across the plain, suddenly all but desperate to thump its way out.

Then the words never come. Swallowing instead, discarding whatever you'd been about to say—pushing it back before any lingering parts of it are blinked away as you offer a nod.

“Yeah. Yours?” you answer, but your tone isn’t right.

It’s flat, without its usual infliction. There isn't any edge to your words, nor a tease or taunt, not even a Morales in sight. And, the smile you paint doesn’t quite reach the eyes.

It’s practically humming now, the fact something is wrong. It simmers, hanging around, whistling through the air.

Yet, you don’t break, don’t confess it all to him like you had once done with such ease. Instead, you just smear another smile on your face, nudging him, phone in hand as you mumble about food options and what he wants as you lead him to the sofa.

He knows on the surface, it looks the same—how the night is playing out. But it’s different. In all the ways he doesn’t want to put his finger on, and doesn���t want to acknowledge. Not as you order food, not as you chew the inside of your cheek as you wait for the order to be accepted.

Even less so when you mumble about the film, reaching for your remotes.

It's then he decides what he wants to do is take the remote from your hand as soon as you pick it up. Frankie wants to hold your fingers in his, even place a kiss on your wrist. He wants to place two fingers under your chin, and ask you again to tell him what has happened—wanting to be let him in, be shared with.

He wants you close, and not like friends do. A need to have your head to his chest, his fingers sliding gentle strokes against your cheek and neck, offering comfort, providing it in plenty.

His own head turns the options over, planning it out, trying to guess what the various outcomes are. Which, by the time he reacts, instead of managing to grasp your hand, he knocks the remote from your hand with a clatter.

Ears burning, he feels your glare before he truly appreciates it. It ripples out over him before it’s blinked away—a momentary flood of fire licking at his skin.

In the oddest way, it’s at least reminiscent of the person he knows. The sharpness in your eyes is more a friend to him right now than the gnawing going on in his chest. Especially, while the rest of you is lost to whatever you’re trying to pretend doesn’t exist.

“What?”

It’s simple, one word.

Almost feels normal. It's all sharp and layered, just like it usually is. Followed by your body sinking into the array of cushions you decorate your sofa with as you pull up his pick, rolling your head to him—nail-picking at the battery cover on your remote.

And he wants to ask again—just like he always would have done.

Instead, Frankie places his hand on your knee, thumb and index swirling over the cloth-covered bone as you look at the television briefly, before flicking back to him.

In the silence, it’s louder—the whistling. It's suddenly accompanied by the noticeable noise of your brain whirring, your cogs turning.

“Talk to me,” he whispers, but secretly he's pleading, begging.

He watches as your teeth pick at your lip, snuggling yourself further into the couch—knee abutting his leg as you sigh. “It's... nothing. Can we... can we just watch the movie?”

“Hey, of course we can. Is…”

He can't ask.

Fearful of asking. A lump forms in his throat, sticking, thickening second by second as he flicks his eyes over you.

Before you can blink it away, he spots it again. The shift in your eyes.

This time instead of a shadow, they fill with water. They vanish any part of your truth that wished to escape in its drowning. Before he can poke and push, you blink it away as quickly as it had first arrived.

And it needles him, pricks at his skin and stabs into his chest, twisting and twisting and twisting—

“I just… wanted my best friend,” you mumble.

“That it?”

You seem to fight it, whatever it is inside of you, before you curl against his arm again, tugging your blanket up closer. “I really missed you this week, that's all.”

It’s been on his to-watch list for ages, and yet he’s one hour into it and he has no clue what is happening.

The pizza box is still half-open on the coffee table, your plate still remaining with picked-at food that you never really made any dent in, and he blames that as to why he doesn’t even know who the good guy is and who is bad.

Because all of the parts of his brain that usually begin working on undoing and arranging what he thinks will and is happening, are working in overdrive on you.

It's also stopping his heart from hammering even louder down your ear. Because, even if the two of you have cuddled before—lots of times—it's not been post the whole sleeping together thing.

And, it feels nice having you against him, normal, right.

He likes the way your fingers occasionally clutch him a little closer, head turned in the direction of the television and the movie he should be watching.

Instead, he's piecing together the puzzle you've thrown on the floor. The one without the box lid, so no image to compare it to. Trying to assess where you missing him, lines up with the way your bottom lip almost wobbled as you confessed it, as though it was a sin and not a virtue.

Frankie tries to line it up with the fact he knows whenever he's found a moment to himself, he’s texted you. The sea of other unread messages piling up, collecting.

It adds to the knowledge that all of the normal conversation he has with you, quickly derails, slipping into something foreign yet wonderful. Casual phone calls, divert into him with his hand around his cock, listening to you breathlessly say his name and that you wish he was there.

And that somewhere between collecting the sweet noises you make and those innocent-but-not-innocent moments, are the soft moments he has where you’re resting—where Frankie has realised, decided and accepted, that there is nowhere else he likes being.

Not a single place.

Because he wants this.

Frankie wants the calmer person he is when he's around you, the thoughts which are less intrusive. He likes that the rain barely bothers him when he has you in his arms, that he doesn’t even overthink, if anything he just plans. Considering things, turning them over, thinking of a future that begins to sketch itself out and colour itself in.

Something which has been doing so since the time in the car.

Your words rolling and rolling, stitching themselves to other phrases you’ve let slip, until he’s sewing things together to create a gallery, a museum of moments he loves admiring and replaying when the world goes silent.

That's when he notices the movie, the shit-show of a plan formed involving a helicopter, and the words roll from him without stopping.

"That would never fuckin' happen. Not—can you imagine, if I said to you—" and he rambles. Feels himself doing so. So comfortable and at ease more and more things just flow and fall from his lips.

Even when the scene changes in the movie, more bright light than the softer one from before, forcing him to blink—he is still detailing how inaccurate it is. Only slowing to nothing when he realises you’re looking up at him. Hanging on to every word as though he's a poet reading something beautiful.

He feels the way they tracing him then, lightly glazing over all his features as he slowly holds your stare.

Because it’s the kind of gaze he sees in the movies you make him watch. The lingering ones—a blend of both fiery and craving. It all peppered with yearning, and swirling in so much he suspects you don’t want to say.

“You’re going to miss the movie.”

Blinking, you smile. Feeling you flick your eyes from him to his mouth. “Am I?”

Your smile slides further into your cheek, and he can’t help but brush his thumb over it. A dire need to touch you, brush your soft skin and remind himself how you feel.

He doesn’t expect it, but he likes that you curl into his hand. It allows him to trace his fingers along your jaw, down the side of your neck. Half-expecting you to tell him to stop, that tonight isn’t about that.

You don’t.

Instead, your hand cups his against your cheek, staring at him, lit up by the flickering scenes neither of you are paying attention to.

Faintly, blooming out in the shimmer of your eyes, he thinks he sees it again—what he thinks is adoration. It mixing, blending, swirling with care, love…

“Thought you wanted your best friend?”

“I do,” you say, low, just above a whisper, “So, take care of me.”

A second passes as your words drip into the air.

So take care of me.

His eyes flick over you. Likely needing you to say it again, give permission, tell him you want this.

You do. Fuck you do.

Your heart hammering against your chest like a drum because of it. All unable to speak, fearful, fucking petrified, with how much you want him.

Because all you do is want him, and if you speak, you worry you won’t stop telling him that.

Let it fall, leak. Slip out and stain like oil on a sheet.

Because you know it's only normal to miss him this much for one reason, and one reason alone. It's the same reason why you want him, crave him, and feel so desperate for him that you can’t think or breathe. It is all-encompassing, looming, forever there in between the days you don't see him and the waiting on replies to texts.

It’s so close to your tongue, held back only by your teeth.

It could come out, could escape. So you keep your mouth clamped shut. It is better, easier, and less bothersome than telling him you’ve been counting down the hours, minutes, and seconds until you could have your hands on him. Not for this, not because he makes you feel good and beautiful and wanted, but because you feel better. Happier. More you. You feel safe, like no bad work day could ever touch you.

“Querida…”

“I want y—”

The rest of your words are swallowed, stolen. Frankie seals his mouth over yours, barely needing a sentence, just enough.

And it’s searing, full of ache as his hands pull you close, your body singing, itching to come alive—has been since the scent of just him hit your nose.

The worst of days doesn’t matter when he’s around you, less so when his lips marry to yours, when he licks into your mouth, when he breathes you in, and you breathe him.

No one else has ever made you feel like he does.

Not the way your feet almost kick out when his message arrives, a smile gracing your mouth without control when he calls you.

Because he’s different, but then he always has been.

There's always been something, it thriving and growing, embedding vines you pretend are just because you're good friends. But you know, you do. It's hard not to.

Frankie saves you, oblivious to the silent plea for rescue—he just knows. He gets you. Understands every inch of you now, you're unsure how anyone else can ever read you as well. He's someone you could confidently rely on, knowing he’d never leave you alone, not even in the dark—forever a light, a way home.

You think you’re that for him too. Hope so anyway.

He moans your name. Kissing you like he never wishes to stop. He acts like he wants to drown in you, be overflowed by you, and fuck you want the same.

Mine. That’s what you want to say.

Instead, you bury it in a low moan when his mouth captures yours, tongue sliding past your teeth as his hands come to rest on your cheeks. Each touch softer, gentler—from the way he moves his fingers over your cheek, to the way he slides them over your jaw, landing on your neck.

Then, his mouth comes to your ear, breath dancing, all flooded with the flickering television—let’s go to your bed.

He doesn’t rip, he peels your layers off, leaving a trail leading right to your room. He smothers your body with his, his palm remaining flat to your spine, leading, hooking his fingers around the back of your neck as he steers you.

Careful, hermosa.

The consideration dripping from his lips like syrup, all adorned in affection, a taste you have to capture, spinning in his hold, hooking your arms around his neck as you pull him flush, close.

“Tell me you want me,” he hisses.

There's an edge that isn’t usually there but it’s pounding now, all sparkling and fucking shimmering.

You’re more sure of it when he lies you back on your sheets, his mouth exploring, taking his time, taking you to the edge with his mouth as you plead and plead—one hand sliding up over the softness of your stomach, as your back arches into him.

And you shudder, so close to your high—hips held down by his arm. “I want you, Frankie. Always want you. Want you inside of me.”

He pauses—cool air blowing over you as he flicks his eyes up from between your thighs, his skin flushes, a light beading of sweat at his hairline as he comes up onto his palms.

Watching him crawl up you, eyes enamoured, unable to look anywhere else even if they were commanded to. Because he’s more than a sight for sore eyes, he is the sight. He’s the best-looking thing you’ve ever fucking seen, clutching his face in your hands, feeling him drag the head of his cock through your slick walls, staring at you in waiting, like he couldn’t believe this is happening.

“Again,” he asks.

Taking your hand in his, he slots his fingers between yours, fitting, ever so perfectly, before he places your conjoined hands above your head. Eyes tracing up and down your frame, more so as you arch into him, hearing the breathed-out expletive as you wait for his stare to land.

“I want you.”

And, thankfully, Frankie doesn’t let you linger on it. Doesn’t allow you to hyper-focus on it, slowly sliding in, pushing in by inch until you’re full of just him—no more of him left that you can greedily take.

“Always take me so well, baby—“

“Frankie.”

You’re breathless. The air punched from your lungs—his hand remaining knotted in yours, grounding, your nails digging into his skin as his other hand finds a place on the back of your thigh, eyes dropping, all fixated on where the two of you are joined.

“Y'so good for me. Always so good for me,” he adds when his hips are flush with yours. “Take my cock so well.”

Letting his gaze return to you, you’re suddenly so grateful for the bedside lamp you’d left on hours ago because now you get to see him. Admire him, so much so, it makes your throat dry.

Able to watch his muscles contort when he moves, lips parting as he slowly cants his hips into yours, all deep strokes.

And, you know it’s still fucking, but it’s also not.

It’s a unique blend of need that feels right, and also wrong—lips messily finding yours, burying confessions as you eagerly swallow them.

Hoping your throat, lungs or stomach could begin to decipher them as you feel his hand slide down your wrist, and arm until it's cupping your face. His lips slide over your cheek, resting close to your ear, whispering compliments. Because he has to tell you that you’re gorgeous, he says; that you're always so stunning.

Each word that lands has more than an effect on you, as he stutters when you clench around him.

Mouth wrapped around an exclamation of his name as he slides out and sinks back into you.

Frankie has always felt big, but from this angle, like this—he’s somehow deeper, filling you more. He's in your soul. It all filthy and romantic and obscene, but it feels so good, makes heat bloom through your hips and up into your spine, it twisting, eroding the bad day, the bad week.

In a sense, he’s the perfect antidote. A person you trust, care for, lo—

“You’re perfect, you know that?”

Frankie’s hand slides back to grip yours, pressing it down—lightly against the pillow above you, before placing the other beside it. And he’s enveloped in part shadows and the light from the table, blessed in golden hues, giving just enough to see how wild his eyes are and how deep the brown in them goes, how blown his pupils are.

“Do you know how beautiful you look right now?”

You feel your cheeks warm, your ears—every bit of skin on show suddenly inflamed because of his words. His mouth lapping at your breasts, all arched into him, hips steadily meeting his.

“Always are, really.”

“Well. You’re handsome, Morales.”

It’s intentional, adding his surname. Taking the softness out of it, removing what you can, and adding barriers and throwing up walls.

He still sucks in a breath, eyes lingering on yours, fingers dropping to brush a line up and down your cheek as he continues to slide his cock in and out of you. You moan as the head of him keeps kissing that part deep inside you.

It’s different.

You know it; he likely does too. Thankful he slants his mouth over yours. Slowly rocking with you, thrusting into you as you murmur his name, it falling enriched in moans.

From the way you both kiss, to the way you keep an arm around his neck, desperate to keep as much of him against yours.

“You feel so good, Frankie.” Your fingers scratch at the base of his neck. “Always make me feel so full.”

Stuffed really. Packed in. Clenching around him, all tightening, purposefully wrapping your walls around him until he groans right into your ear. Each drag of his cock in and out feeling exquisite, perfect, amazing.

It’s never been like this with others, never been like this even with him. His fucked out face, the grunts and groans coming from deep within make your thighs unable to stop their twitching as fire floods up your spine and the way he plunges you in lust-filled brown.

And you clutch his face, feverish from him, quivering, shaking. Burying the words, “So close, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m close baby,” against his mouth.

Pressing each letter in, stamping it—ensuring he knows it’s him doing this to you. Making a mess of you. The only person you ever want to make a mess out of you.

It thumping inside of you, hammering—all balled up fists and desperation because you want to tell him. Shout it at him. Paint the walls in it as he paints yours in white.

“Need you, Frankie.”

It’s close to the truth. Barely an inch from it.

“I know, need you too. Need to feel you come around me, hermosa. I need it, please. Please give it to me. Let me feel—fuck—feel you coming around my cock.”

And you hear it, the way he pleads—as well as realise the double meaning. You in the car, whispering words so close to the ones he’s spilling now.

“I will if you stay.”

He doesn’t still, but he does jolt. A hesitation in his pistoning.

Then he drops to his elbows around your face, cradling you, caging you in, as he kisses you—sloppily, messily, sweetly. It’s soft, but also full of heavy moans he wishes to force down your throat. It’s indulgent, a thing you never thought you’d have so now you take as much of it as you can get.

“Course I’ll stay. Never—fuck—anywhere I want to be but here, baby. Nowhere else.”

His eyes fix on you, digging the words in.

And, even if you knew it before, you realise how under your skin he is. How he’s woven in around tendons and ligaments, found a home, left marks against your bones you never want to rid.

You’re sure it’s that and not the words which make everything else mute.

Even if it’s all you can hear. Not the television in the other room, not the headboard clattering against the wall, not the sounds you’re making each time he drags his cock through your walls.

Just his words. Whatever he blesses you in. Your thoughts are all incoherent other than that. All shaky, practically vibrating; all gasping and torturous heavy heat, all unable to breathe and yet never wanting any of this to stop.

His hand slides around your thigh, pulling on your knee, bringing it closer as his grip almost grows bruising on you. He’s deep. Fucking into you so hard, hearing the concoction of his hisses, gasps and moans, before his mouth lands back on yours.

It’s overwhelming. The height you’ve reached, the way your mouth is only able to say his name as you watch him lick his thumb and distinctly feel it slide between the two of you. Finding it. Barely struggling to press the pad of it to your bundle of nerves before you lock up, the knot tightening, almost ripping inside of you.

It fraying from how much you’re fighting it, so close to bursting—

Then he draws quicker circles, all persistent, expertly, and you snap.

It surging, all white-hot, all blistering and mind-melting. You become both light and heavy all at once, your nails finding purpose in his side and your sheets, twisting, knotting to root yourself in this, in him—in how much you fucking love him.

“Fuck, querida—that’s it.”

You can’t respond, can’t even think up a response, but you do yank his mouth to yours. Pressing those three words there, laying them down, as well as thanking him, over and over until you slide your mouth against his cheek.

“Be good for me now, Frankie.”

His eyes flick to you, all ablaze and engulfed in want. And so you nod, knowing he can see it, feel it.

“Look so good, baby,” you add.

The noise is strained that comes from him, all sucked in breath. Then, his hips stammer, convulsing, all strangled, tightly entangled in a mess of your name and fuck.

And you kiss him.

Happily licking into his mouth to taste how delicious his moan is.

You try to fight the way your heart drops when you return from using the bathroom. Biting the inside of your mouth as you see the bed empty, sheets a mess, your throat swallowing back whatever sob wishes to escape.

Because the edges of your happiness crumble, your arm wrapping around the other, bottom lip almost wobbling.

That is, until you feel his hand on your lower back. Your head turns quickly, seeing him there. All hair-wild, and soft smile.

“Water, baby?”

Smiling, you thank him, taking several sips before handing it back to him, watching him do the same. Studying the way his throat bobs as he does, the faint marks of your mouth still lingering there on his skin.

“C’mon,” he whispers, kissing your cheek. “Let’s get in bed.”

“Oh, but the—“

“I’ve sorted it. Turned it off—folded the blanket, put the plates in water.” His hand wraps itself around yours. “So, let’s sleep.”

All you can muster is an okay. It leaves soft, slightly webbed at the edges from the way it catches on the growing lump in your throat.

It isn’t until you’re curled against him,

“Is this okay?” you whisper.

He lets out a laugh, little and breathy. “More than okay, hermosa.”

Guiding your leg to hook over his. Keeping his body flush as the two of you cuddle. His thumb swipes across your cheek, forehead close to yours as his fingers fan out over your hip, and he presses a kiss to the space between your brows.

You’re pretty sure your heart just tripled in size.

And those three words, the ones which have amassed into a chunk in your chest have suddenly begun pulsing all on their own—a beat completely separate, you find, to the one which pumps blood around your body.

CHAPTER EIGHT ->

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[undercoverpena]

ix. put me to bed

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter nine of i like the way you

best friend! friends with benefits! frankie morales summary: what starts off as an offhand remark, quickly becomes a regular, scheduled 'stress relief'. the only problem is, both of you are in denial that you feel anything outside of friendship for the other.

warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. idiots who are so in love it’s stupid. feelings. angst with fluff. dont hate the jo. a love confession, but not to the other. mention of alcohol (a few drinks). one use of the nickname 'bean', no use of y/n

word count: 4.1k

an: the most overwhelming thanks to @thetriumphantpanda for reading this chapter and the next, and giving me the comfort i needed to say goodbye to them.

He doesn’t know where to begin.

For the longest time, he just stands. Eyes sweeping across the effort you had made—the weight of it hitting into him. Contemplating the reason behind it, letting it mist over him, slathering itself onto his clothes, making them cling to his bones.

Drowned. He feels like he’s drowning.

It’s making everything feel tight, uncomfortable. All the while processing this thing he’s squandered. Ruined. Destroyed like he does everything else in his life.

Because you had broken a rule for him.

A declaration that you had encased in a statement, it all bold. He can only imagine from the display (and an array of wick-burnt candles) that it would have been illumed by dancing flames.

That is if he hadn’t overslept. If he had put on an alarm, done something other than close his eyes and hope.

Usually, Frankie doesn’t nap. He barely, and rarely even sleeps. Hasn’t been particularly good at getting a good amount for a while. Too many thoughts which keep him paralysed in the dark, ifs and buts and maybes all circling. The unknown faces of the loved ones that are left behind because he had something to do, achieve, complete.

Even since he’d gotten out, it hadn’t improved. In fact, it had worsened, doubling more so in the time since Colombia—only improving whenever he finds himself next to you. When your soft breaths in, and out, calm him, the scent of your shampoo takes the last bit of stress from him, handing him only a pleasant night's sleep.

He’d wanted to return the favour—give his attention, his time. It’s why he’d closed his eyes to begin with, why he’d thought grabbing an hour would be beneficial.

Now, it’s spoiled everything.

His teeth leave indents on the inside of his mouth, biting further down until it stings. The pads of his fingers tug at his curls as he unsticks his foot from the floor, deciding it was likely best he begin to tidy.

One, in the hope it’ll distract him, pass the time until you return from wherever it is you’ve gone. Two, because it’ll at least provide you with a clean home to return to—no evidence of the night he’d let you down.

It’s only when he’s cleared the table, mid-scraping the food into your bin, does he glance up. Eyes landing on your fridge, finding the Polaroid stuck to it—the one the two of you had taken at some BBQ years ago. Your lips pressed to his cheek, his eyes closed, lines in the corners as he grins something stupid. It always makes him smile when he sees it—had even begged you to let him take it when he began working away.

No. If you take it, you’ll have nothing to come visit me for.

As if that could ever be true.

He remembers when he told you about his license, the stupid drug charge. You had been the first place he thought of going. Rocking up to your door, enveloped in your porch light he stood more mess than man, shaking, trembling, so fearful that his life would go up in flames. But, you were an anchor, a thing which rooted him and didn’t let him float up into the sky. Hand on his back, guiding him in.

Whatever it is, it’ll be okay, Frank. I promise.

You had been right. Like you were about so many things.

Constantly a calming vibe, a thing he instantly feels better around—relaxing and unknotting him, it not mattering what state he presented himself to you in.

Closing his eyes, he runs his thumb over his phone—without even needing to open them, he finds your contact. Suddenly drowned in the dull ringing tone. It sounds out in the tension, vibrating against it, making it more prominent, until it rings to nothing, stuffing it back where he won’t see you and your face illuminated on the background of his phone.

Sinking into your sofa, he feels he should go. Return back to his place, pass all the buildings he’s just torn past, likely hit each red light on the way home (a thing he’s sure he deserves). He should get behind the wheel, tap his thumbs against it as he hopes you’ll ring him, maybe even force him to change lanes and come to you.

He sits instead. Both in the discomfort of his own making and the sorrow of a failed night—letting it sink into him. Pierce in, leave a mark, an invisible tattoo needled in with what he hopes isn’t your tears, sadness and anger. Yet, he suspects it’s all three.

His phone buzzes, heart flipping as he pulls it out of his jean pocket, hoping he sees your name—sees your face lit up on his screen. That happy one, where your eyes are closed and your mouth is open, it snapped a year ago, his shades hanging off the tip of your nose and a streak of jam on your cheek from a doughnut.

It isn’t your name.

Isn’t even a call.

Just one text, from Will.

Come get your girl, Fish.

He drives calmer than when he’d headed over. Only for the fact he doesn’t want to face the judgment when he arrives.

Because Will is nothing but predictable, likely timing him, knowing the exact minute of when he should arrive from either his own place or yours.

Naturally, he’s greeted by him—waiting outside, arms folded.

“Hey. Where is she?”

Frankie is barely confident he’s shut the door of his truck, only hoping it’ll lock as he presses the button, walking across the road to him—coming face-to-face with his friend.

It’s clear there’s judgment there, all heavy—embedded in confusion and disappointment. Both were like old friends sliding in, sketching across the same face he’d been beside in sand dunes and deep in jungles alongside.

“Inside.”

Something tightens, the rope threading through itself further, creating another knot he’ll struggle to undo. “She tell you?”

Will snorts. “No. But she didn’t not tell me either.”

“You out here to defend her or something?”

Narrowing his eyes, Will just stares—letting it simmer for a moment, letting it bubble in tension before he runs his thumb across his bottom lip.

“No,” he eventually says. “If anything, I’m not sure who she’s more pissed at. Apparently, I betrayed her.”

Frankie bites back a smile, dipping his head, hiding it—hopefully.

“Tell me I upset her for the right reason,” Will continues. “Tell me I didn’t make her look at me all crushed for no reason, Fish.”

Scratching the back of his curls, he swallows.

“C’mon man, gimme something here. I’ve had to watch the two of you do this fuckin’ dance for years. Ever since you left Ben’s. I thought, maybe this is it, maybe the two of them will open their eyes.”

Rubbing his arm, he drags his tongue across his bottom lip. Staring just passed him, at the windows of the bar—wondering if you’re there, if you’re further tucked inside, simmering, all hating and fury—

“Fish.”

“What?”

Giving him a pointed look, Will throws his arms out to the side. Wearing a look he’s seen before. One usually there when he’s telling someone off—berating them.

“What do you want me to tell you?” he asks.

Because, he isn’t sure. Not even wholeheartedly confident he knows what to say.

It’s why it was supposed to come out solid, all sharp edges and deep. Instead, it comes out shaky, weak—wrapped in nerves and encased in concerns. Defeat flowing through him, smothering everything else—made worse by the tilting head of his friend.

“You want me to tell you that I’m in love with her? Well, I am. I have been for… fuck—longer than I’ve known. You want me to tell you that I’ve been happier than I have been the last few months getting to enjoy seeing what it would be like to be with her, because I can’t.”

Swallowing, Frankie runs his hand across his face.

“You want me to tell you that I can’t stop thinking about her, that it feels like my heart has been wrenched out and gutted from my fucking chest because I let her down tonight—that she deserves better—“

“Fish…”

“—she does. Someone good, someone like you who makes her laugh, is there at the drop of a phone call, and can provide—“

The ball doesn’t shrink, it just pulses. Filling the space in his throat, constricting, widening in the limited avenue it has until he almost chokes on it.

“—and I can’t. I… I don’t know how to do any of it. Even if being with her feels like everything—like the fucking rain doesn’t make me think of Colombia, doesn’t make me remember the weight of carrying his body. Because—“

It catches and hits the back of his teeth. Attempting to swallow, shove it back. A sting to his eyes as he tries to blink it away.

But it isn’t so easily hidden, removed—or buried. It’s there now, existing, risen to the surface, bobbing up and down on emotions which are too heavy to sink to the bottom of his soul.

“—Because—“

“Y’need to tell her,” Will says, finally cutting through. Hand on his shoulder, grappling him, digging his fingers in. “Believe me.”

Blinking, he breathes. Takes more air in. Trying to settle his nerves, the adrenaline from letting it all out. “What if I lose her?”

“Y’won’t. Do you know why? Because while you’re getting worked up about what you think she deserves, she’s sat wishing she was good enough for you. So, talk to her. Trust me.”

Nodding, he casts his eyes down, hearing the door of the bar open—the loudness escaping out into the otherwise quiet street—as he locks eyes with you. You, who even with anger simmering, take his fucking breath away.

“I don’t like her like that, Fish,” Will whispers. “Never have. But even if I did, it wouldn’t have mattered. She’s always been yours.”

You’re quiet when he opens the door, even more so when you slide in beside him. A part of you knows he'll hate it, the silent treatment.

But, it's either that, or words, all matted together, coming out like a magician's infinite silk handkerchief.

You're sure that's what is simmering in your chest, all eroding, bubbling, all coiled and twisted. At the heart of it is disappointment, followed up by so much more. It prickles in and around the truck, adding in thick layers to the tension—it all being plucked like the chords of a song.

Your stomach swirls, in the opposite way to your head. The few drinks you had mixed with the emotional whiplash you were still recovering from.

Because when you’d seen him, all you had wanted to do was bury your head into his chest. Somehow hold him, rid yourself of the doubts, the worries. The thoughts which had thundered inside of you, were only diluted by the anger you’d been feeling that maybe, just maybe, he’d decided against doing this thing with you.

It isn’t until the engine rumbles, does your stomach make a noise, a grumble. The hunger rising, not as easily ignored as it had been before—when you’d been turning things over. Purposefully choosing to sit in the complex emotions Will tried to urge you to explain.

But how could you?

Especially when you were unsure at what point they began and ended? A love that had woven in and around all of you, threaded itself between bones and became part of muscles.

“How much did you drink?”

Twisting your fingers around the strap of your bag, you swallow. “Two, maybe three.”

You catch his brow arching, lips tightening into a thin line. His profile is all lit up by the lights above dashing past as he heads down the quiet road.

“Someone spilt a drink on me. That's... that's why you can smell it.”

“You okay—I got a hoodie in the back?”

Snorting, you lick your lips. “No. I’m fine. Was just a shot—smells worse than it is.”

Pulling up to a light, you hear him take a deep breath. A sound you shouldn’t be happy to hear, but you are. It settling things, easing the grip around your heart—the one which had tightened when you’d wondered if something had happened, if he had been hurt—

“You really do stink.”

You don’t laugh, just bite it back, letting the lights go green as he drives and drives. Your head wants nothing more than to turn, stare at him—ask him what happened, shout and even cry.

You do none of it.

Just waiting until he pulls up, in that spot his vehicle always finds itself in. The engine cuts, the air around the two of you turning silent.

It’s just you, and him, your dark and quiet street, and the animals who wish for some privacy as they get up to no good.

“I…” he begins, clearing his throat. “I need you to know I didn’t mean to stand you up—I overslept.”

“I know,” you mumble, shaking your phone. “Saw your text.”

Nodding, he chews his cheek, sighing. “I know people let you down, but please... I wouldn’t, I didn’t mean to do that to you. I just—I needed a nap, just… fuck I just wanted to be more alert.”

Biting your bottom lip, you almost pierce it. It stings, throbs, worsening in the seconds that pass as you nod.

Undoing your seatbelt, shifting yourself to the side. Pulse thumping in your ear, beating, getting louder and louder, and then you look at him.

The way his eyes have widened, soft, all worried. His face pinched, his lips in a thin line, but it’s the dark circles under his eyes, the darkened tinge you know wasn’t there the week prior.

Because you’ve mapped him. Know every inch of him now. Somehow able to carve him from clay with how your hands know him, able to spot the way his hand feels in yours from a lineup.

“I just didn’t want to have waited all week to see you, and fall asleep once I was around you.”

Snorting. “I must be good company.”

He whispers your name, more urgently, all quick. “You’re… I feel relaxed around you, that’s all.”

Sighing, the car fills with the sound, as he lets his head roll back onto the headrest. And you can feel him staring at you, getting the feeling he’s unable to take his eyes off of you. As if he’s almost unable to, commanded to.

You hate that you feel the same. That you always feel the same. Your eyes scanning over each angle of his face, an act you’ve done thousands of times, but this time, feels, different.

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t sleeping?”

“It’s not that I’m not sleeping. More that I’m just not sleeping as well.”

You almost say same. Spill it. Share it with him.

You’re just fearful of what will come with it. Confessions are so easy when your mind is full of the things you can’t say, mixing with the tiredness that’s come on from worrying, from being nervous, from crying—from keeping a tight lip when Will tried to get you to open up.

At this point, it would be easier to tell him that you dream of waking beside him. Your linens, but in his bedroom—all dark walls that make the day not seem like it's arrived, just so you could steal more time with him.

“How long?”

Smirking, it softens into a smile as the seconds collect. “Since I began spending one night a week curled up against you.”

Eyes dropping, your fingers begin playing with the zip on your bag. Pulse thundering in your head, that little screech starting in your eardrum as you try to keep yourself calm, try not to let yourself get ahead of yourself.

“It’s why…” pinching the bridge of his nose, you let your gaze wander back to him. “I just wanted to see you on more sleep than I’d had since I was up there.”

“Don’t be cute.”

“You want me to turn it off?”

Looking down, you nod. A playful smile begins to grace your lips, feeling him still watching you. You sit in it—all the things unspoken. The fact that hours ago, all you had wanted to do was pour your heart out, tell him, clutch his cheeks—love me, Frankie, please love me.

Now, you fiddle with any part of your bag you can. Secretly wanting him to kiss you, render you thoughtless—make the night fade, blend into a sea of other ones. Because you’re not sure how to explain to him how often you think of him, how his name comes so easily to rest on your lips when you first wake in the morning when you’re having a bad day, when your hand is sliding under the band of your underwear seeking a little something to unwind.

It’s him. Always him.

Even if you know that a part of you also knows he isn’t yours. He doesn’t owe you anything, it all barely an agreement, barely anything in place which would explain the way you feeling—how crestfallen, shattered and smashed into a thousand pieces.

“Bean…” he whispers.

Forcing your eyes to drag up. “You’ve not called me that in ages.”

Smiling half-heartedly, he snorts.

An old nickname, a thing he called you for no reason, but it stuck. Became a fixture. A thing now replaced with other pet names, other terms of affection. You're not sure which one makes your heart double in size more.

Not now. Not when all you do is feel so much for him.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” you reply. And you do.

Not meeting his eyes, not able to, a part of you worrying what will happen if you do—will you ever be able to look away? Will he see through the facade you’d throw up for him, see all the ways he’s managed to bring old scars to the surface, make you feel at fault, foolish—

Your insides churn.

“Okay.”

Lifting your chin, you slide your hand over to take his, gripping it, not letting go. Because there’s not a thing you wanted more than him, not ever. Not when you’d been sat waiting, with time to tick on, and not now sat, feeling his guilt wash from him in thick, horrid waves.

“I thought you’d had enough of me.”

It’s all you can say, swallowing the rest. That you’d worried you were broken, unsave-able—forever destined to be let down and hurt. A pattern of it stitched into you before him, a sea of bad dates and bad relationships, each leaving a different insecurity nestled within you.

“Never,” he breathes.

You blink, feeling the corners blur as the tears approach—your elbow resting on the door of his truck, teeth nipping at your thumb, biting down harder, more intently, just to stifle them. Stop them from building more, fearful of them falling.

Because it heals a shard inside of you—apply glue to it, knowing it’ll be set in a few hours.

“You coming in?”

“Sure, querida.”

Another part of you calms. It sliding back into its original place inside of you—able to take a breath, a real one. Hearing his footsteps fall behind you, your fingers finding your keys, as your door unlocks with far too much ease with how you’d slammed it earlier tonight.

It’s only when you throw your bag on the hook, passing the jacket he’d left behind, that your mind remembers the evidence at your dining table. The thing you wouldn’t be able to explain, even if you tried. The words are all jumbled now, blasted to the inside of your brain by earlier sobs, anger and now beer.

“I’ve already seen it.”

His voice sounds louder in the quiet of your home and the thudding of your head. Your brain whirring, trying to catch up, to think on your feet—be quick, be witty, do something, say anything.

“Tomorrow?” he adds, cutting you off before words even begin to be thought.

A lump forms in your throat, beginning there, all unable to be swallowed as he runs his hand up and down your arm before he heads into your kitchen. You follow, slowly, more cautious in your steps as you hear the tap, hear him grab a glass—all movements that feel normal, but now feel the very opposite of that.

“Drink this.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“Humour me,” he says, nudging the glass into your hand.

It allows you a moment to spot the table—how spotless it is, the only evidence of the night being the candles, the cutlery he hadn’t put away, the rest is gone, vanished.

“Came to find you,” he says, all able to read you—a thing he does with far too much ease.

And it makes you worry, and panic. Because if he can so easily discern this, does he already know? Had it been an element of why he had needed the nap—more energy to end this, the thing the two of you have that has been more than just sex. It has become something so much more.

You had known it. Had been feeling it.

It was evidenced by the fact you had begun to count more than days till you could see him.

“Remember when you cleaned sick of my floor.”

Snorting, he leans against your counter, all legs outstretched, arms folding—even the outline of him handsome, barely needing the light on to see how good he looks. Because that’s just him.

“Vividly,” he says, smirking. “Not repeating that tonight, are you?”

“No. Didn’t drink much.”

“You keep saying that but your eyes are glazed.”

You bite your lip. “I didn’t eat.”

He doesn’t speak but rather makes a noise. Something in the back of his throat, something he buries in a cough, smothering it from existence with a wipe of his face, as you drain the last bit of your glass.

“Good gi…”

Biting your bottom lip, you pause as you offer it to him, staring at him.

It’s likely wrong, not the thing you should do, but you do it anyway. The gap closing, all easy to do (barely more than three steps) as you clutch his cheeks, crashing your lips to his, hoping it says enough—a gesture which speaks a thousand of the words which keep circling, swimming.

Can you hear me love you, Morales?

His lips moving with yours, the tip of his tongue sliding across your bottom lip—warm, eager, likely saying just as many things, but they’re not easy to read, to tell.

Pulling back, you press your forehead against him, fingers working around his neck, twirling a curl or two. Just being. Taking in the way you can feel his heart hammer against yours, the two of them trying to find a rhythm, desperate to match, to fit.

“Should sleep,” he whispers against you, a soft kiss against your skin. “We can… we can talk tomorrow.”

“Stay—“

Nodding, he cups your face with his hands. “I will, baby. I promise. Out here, on the sofa. You… we should talk tomorrow. You’re tired, I’m tired.”

Tears threaten to spill, hanging, all delicate from your lashes as you slowly lift your head, trying to nod. Your throat tightening, clenching.

“Bean, don’t cry. It’s gonna be alright, we’ll sleep and then tomorrow we’ll talk and it’ll be fine.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you try to smile. “Okay.”

Kissing your forehead, he lingers, your fingers hovering over his waist, desperate to pull him close.

“You’re not leaving me are you?”

Something shifts in his eyes. A moment where they widen and then narrow ever so slightly—like they’re being pinched by his thoughts, things he likes wants to say, spill, let you know and understand.

“No. Never,” he whispers, fingers clutching your chin, thumb drawing a line up and down it. “I’ll tell you how I’m never going to tomorrow. When you’re sober.”

Okay, you think. Biting your lip, casting your eyes down when you hear him say your name.

“If I…” Frankie scratches the back of his head. “You’ve had a drink… I don’t wanna push things, but if you—”

“I want to fall asleep with you,” you cut in.

Okay, you hear.

And it’s different than the one you thought, different than the nervousness in his voice a second ago. It’s different—all of it. You just hope different doesn’t mean wrong.

FINAL CHAPTER ->

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales smut #Frankie morales x reader smut #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #jo: iltwy #triple frontier x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #frankie morales smut #triple frontier smut #frankie morales x f!reader smut #pedrostories

[undercoverpena]

today is the final chapter of I Like The Way You and I just wanted to take a second to say a huge thank you to every person who has taken the time to read this little idea I concocted (and then became obsessed with).

after LNT, i never knew if I’d write something I loved just as much ever again (a fear I guess most writers have) and I’m proud to be able to say I have.

friends to lovers is one of my fave tropes—it’s also the basis of how I got with my husband—and I’m so grateful and it means so much that you let this little pairing into your hearts.

the final chapter of their current story will be up around 6.30 GMT 😘🩷

sobs into pillow.

#jo’s thoughts #jo: iltwy

[undercoverpena]

I’m rewatching the office US, and I’ve reached Pam and Jim’s wedding and I’m sobbing (ofc) and now I’m just imagining it as Frankie and Bean’s wedding (ILTWY), and Benny organising the church dance 😭🥹 and Will getting really into it

#I’m not okay #I am an emotional wreck this week #jo: iltwy #jo’s thoughts

[undercoverpena]

dont wanna ever hear you can’t write smut after call me at night 🥵

😏 alright, I’ll retire my doubts on that one—which means, NEW DOUBTS INCOMING ✨ I kid. I’ll be kinder to myself, I promise.

also this is super lovely to hear and I’m glad so many people are enjoying this little thing my brain concocted one day on a drive to work ☺️

#asked and answered #kind souls #anon #jo: iltwy

[undercoverpena]

HOW COULD YOU???????????? END THE CHAPTER LIKE THAT???????? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO WAIT A WHOLE WEEK FOR THE NEXT?????? i swear i’m going INSANE !!!!!!!!!!!!!3$&22881827282 can’t wait for next wednesday 😭😭😭😭😭

think of it like this bby, Wednesday is now only five days away ;)

also, here’s a prescribed hug 🫂 I cant wait until Wednesday either, but it also makes me incredibly sad as we are so close to the end now 😭 two more chapters and that’s it, my mini series (that ended up being longer than it should) is over 😭

#asked and answered #kind souls #anon #jo: iltwy

[undercoverpena]

Ughhhh I’ve read up to and including chapter 4 and oh my god I just want to give this poor man a hug. This poor, sweet, IDIOT man who is in such deep love with his bestie(s), I-

FRANKIE WE LOVE YOU.

I loved the background to frankie we got in chapter 4 it was so insightful. And how angstyyyyy he made me feeeeeeel asking her to STAYYYY???? God.

You’re right. He’s a menace. I’m done for. Ruined! Wouldn’t have it any other way though!

I am FORCING myself to stop here because it’s after midnight and I am up early tomorrow but my god I would read this until it’s done if I had my way! 😅

okay so i was asleep, so the fact that I've read these both at the same time makes me howl (this and the one you sent after).

THE LOVE they both feel for one another just makes me wanna protect them forever. they're just in their own bubble of love not even realisingggggg. and i'm so glad you loved the background of frankie, it was something I've wanted to explore a bit, and it felt natural in this.

are you really stopping? because i have evidence that you did not stop reading...

#iknowisoundcrazy #asked and answered #jo: iLTWY

[undercoverpena]

Hi!

I just finished binging your FWB!Frankie series and it made me scream and cry and yearn real hard 😭 breathtaking, exquisite writing! ♥️

omg anonnnnnnn!!! 🥹🥹🥹 can we hug? we should hug 🫂

this means so much to me cause I truly ADORE this story, and I had so much fun writing it (even if it pushed me a bit with my spice) but gosh I miss them so much! I embedded so many smirks and sobs into it and I’m so glad you also loved it!

want another hug? come on then 🫂 (you’ve honestly made my day)

#kind souls #asked and answered #anon #jo: ILTWY