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Frankie blinks, absorbing every detail and sensation. Musing on how he's tempted to title this moment as perfect, as the bliss, the joy, pure and perfect, of this instant invades him, surrounding every inch of his body, freezing time, stilling his movements for a spell, making him shudder with its significance, how tangible it is.

This happiness is the kind he believed he couldn't have anymore, too hollow and damaged by the army and the drugs to be worthy of, having caused too much pain to deserve it; till his baby girl was born, and he got to hold her, feel her warmth against his chest, feel her ribcage expand as she breathed in tempo with her heart, beating with strength, under his hands. The love he felt for her had imbued him, flooded him. So mighty and endless, it left him breathless and reshaped him. Giving him the push to wake up and find the resolve to heal, not just survive, cling to the broken pieces of himself, and hope for the best. For Lucia at first, and for himself afterwards, finally forgiving himself and accepting the care of his family, even if it was too late to save his marriage with Gabriela.

Ben's voice snaps his attention, halting his reflections. He's coming back from inside the house, talking loudly, happy to be surrounded by his people. Frankie is attuned to Benny's timbre, husky and deep, always soothing him. There's a lilt of mischief in his tone now, though, one Frankie's intimately acquainted with -he'd say he's an expert after having been on its receiving end many times before- and means trouble, one that won't get satiated by teasing the girls and making them laugh for a spell. Frankie doesn't have time to brace himself for it, ponder why, or what might have caused it. As soon as he begins to turn, he's attacked, and everything becomes blurry for a second.

Ben moves fast, a nimble hunter certain that he's about to get his prey, craving it, foregoing the chair he had used while they ate, to sit on Frankie's lap, his favourite spot, chuckling at Frankie's bewilderment.

"Easy!" Frankie protests loudly, but with too much fondness in his voice for his complaint to have any bite, unprepared to have a lapful of Ben but already obliging him, doing his best to steady them as he accommodates Ben, and not allowing Ben's force throw them out of the chair. He splashes the floor with his beer, precariously holding the bottle, almost dropping it as he grabs Ben's hip with his free hand. "You don't fit."

"You know I fit," Ben states, pausing for a second to ogle Frankie with intent, foreboding what he's about to do. He grins, wide, toothy, and honest, a perfect mix of affection and mischief. A smile that makes Frankie fall in love with him again and boil with exasperation. Frankie can only glare at him, feeling the heat sneak in and cloak his countenance.

Between the two of them, Ben is the one who uses more pet names. Frankie will call him babe sometimes, or tesoro between the sheets, when their bare skin is sweaty, and the passion is fervent, running wild between them. He doesn't need them. He calls him Ben. A name he took for himself, owning it, highlighting his place at Ben's side, for everyone else calls him Benny, or Benjamin, when his mother is angry at him. Ben, though, loves to use endearments, whisper them to Frankie's ears, press them to his lips, his chest, or yell them across a room. Sweetheart. Darling. Baby. Honey. Lover. Hot stuff. And the worst of them, the one that never fails to make him flush like a high schooler with his first crush. Big boy. 

The gleam in Ben's irises as he gazes at Frankie gives him away, revealing that he knows what he's doing, that he’s being wicked, and relishing in it. Delighting himself as the blush blankets Frankie's cheeks and goes down his neck, aware of how far down it goes. 

"Don't you, big boy," Ben challenges, laying his charm thick on the endearment, unashamedly getting comfortable on top of Frankie's legs. Ben waggles his eyebrows, smirking, stealing Frankie's beer, taking a sip as his arm circles Frankie's shoulders and buries his fingers in Frankie's curls, scratching his scalp, lasciviously staring at Frankie's eyes, ready to land his final blow. "Last night proves it." 

God help him, but Frankie loves him. He truly does, with every fibre of his being, with a force he only loves Lucia with. Even when Ben annoys him, telling him to do something he is about to do, or he's already doing. Even on those rare times, when his whole body shakes with anger while they argue. Even in this instant, when he's facing the brunt of his teasing.

The quiet that follows is piercing. Broken by Will and Santi's respective exasperated curses. A  blend of 'fuck' and 'for Christ's sake' that land flat on deaf ears, too feeble to break the enchantment between Frankie and Ben.

“Stop,” Frankie warns him, pinching the flesh of his hips. It’s a growl encasing his command.

“Why?” Ben stares at him, pleased, daring him, moving his hips with purpose, a slight tilt enough to notice Frankie’s reaction to his proximity, his weight on top of Frankie. Frankie's cock twitches, showing interest, starting to thicken. “You’re gonna have to make me, hot stuff.”

Frankie falls for Ben's taunt, raising his hand from Ben's side to grab his hair and pull it hard enough to elicit a sigh from Ben's chest, witness his arousal dilate his pupils and part his lips as a rosy hue blooms, sweeping across his nose, up to the tip of his ears.

Frankie tugs Ben's face closer to his, sliding his hand under the curve of Ben's neck, rubbing his nose against Ben's jaw, despite Will and Santi's whining protests. He ignores them, smug for having gotten the upper hand over Ben's teasing, and hungry for his man. 

Frankie softly brushes his lips to Ben's chin, murmuring, “later, tesoro”, as he coaxes Ben into a kiss.

Ben laughs into the kiss, their mouths open, slotting together as their tongues slide, seeking to dance. Ben tilts Frankie's head how he likes, with firm fingers seizing Frankie's nape, palms spanning over his jaw, feeling his stubble, taking what he wants with determined devotion as Frankie groans into Ben's mouth. The kind of kiss that could easily grow, become real lust, and filth. Heat that pulsates through their veins with barely touching each other. 

It doesn't. It stays light, lingering caresses that savour the intimacy, playful. Chasing each other to see who leads and who follows. 

The interruption doesn't take long. It comes in the form of crumpled napkins being thrown at them, making Ben and Frankie chuckle and break the contact as Ben flips the bird at Will and Santi.

“If we,” Will starts, pointing his index to Santi and himself, “can’t get all lovey with our girls without getting objections, you two can’t either.”

“It was just a small kiss,” Ben rebuts the statement, smug, taking another sip of the beer he just stole. “You two are so whiny today."

“A small kiss? And the foreplay?” Santi mocks, looking at Will in disbelief at Ben's audacity. 

Over Santi’s growl, Will protests, fueling more comments from Santi. “You two scarred us for life!”

“Sure, as you wish, you blushing virgins. What did I miss?” Ben asks, barking out a laugh, disregarding them, plainly and with no ounce of guilt, happy to have ruffled their feathers, not making any attempt to leave Frankie’s lap as they keep bantering. Ben relaxes against Frankie's chest, settling as he catches Frankie’s palm and weaves their fingers together, tightly for a second, tender and grounding as he caresses Frankie's knuckles with his thumb.

They start to clue Ben in, sharing the plans they had been pondering while he was away, the idea of the four of them, and the girls; Yovanna, Hannah, and Lucia, sneaking away for a couple of weeks during the summer, infecting Ben with their cheer, as he starts to offer his thoughts.

But Frankie stays mute, overcome by his feelings for Ben.

When things began to shift between them, when they walked the edge, before their lips touched, before they realized romance was a seed taking root, but when friendship wasn't enough to define their relationship, and touch started to linger, growing bold and avid, Frankie had been terrified of reaching. Of asking for too much, deemed as excessive, and being refused. It wouldn't have been a first for him. 

Ben had surprised him, reciprocating with the same fervour, the same greed, emboldening Frankie, releasing his want. It had felt natural right from the start, as the intimacy flourished, bare of big declarations, but filled with trust and reverence. He had become addicted. 

The guarantee of being accepted, sought with the same longing, still perplexes Frankie sometimes. Like right now, when there's a free chair next to him, but Ben chose to sit on his lap. 

Frankie's palm slips under Ben's t-shirt, caressing his side, taking Ben's weight as he melts against Frankie, humming with pleasure, blissfully happy, not caring if his legs go numb as he rests his face on Ben's arm.

“That'd be great. Right, sweetheart? Lucia would love it.” Ben presses his shoulder to Frankie’s sternum, demanding his attention.

Ben looks down, steadying Frankie with his gaze, steadfast, oozing adoration. There's an awareness in his eyes, a hue of profound understanding, as if he recognized the thoughts shimmering in Frankie's mind and shared them, leaving Frankie breathless.

The weight he's been carrying for the last couple of weeks lands in his chest, not heavy or distressing, but freeing. It settles in his bones, bringing assurance, bestowing a certainty, deep and unmovable.

The question he’s been trying to pronounce, that shall reveal the ring he's been hiding between his socks, black titanium with a band of gold in the center, and brings a set of vows to withstand any trouble, to last for a lifetime, a question he already asked for the wrong reasons years ago, it's suddenly easy, clear, tickling his tongue, begging to be asked.

“Yeah…” Frankie nods, nuzzling Ben’s shoulder, pressing his lips over the maroon t-shirt Ben is wearing, one of his, again. “Maybe we could go somewhere colder and get a break from the scorching temperatures we get every summer,” he offers.

Frankie can smell the mix of their softener and Ben's rich scent and aftershave as he exhales through his nose, pressing his mouth to his back one more time, following the conversation as it moves from one thing to another. Something gentle and resolute flickers in his irises, unseen, a promise to himself.

His hesitation hadn’t been born out of doubts, of mistrusting their commitment. Fearing being denied. Ring or no ring, Frankie is sure that they are in this for the long haul, that they are it for each other. 

The delay had come from his desire to create a special moment, something meaningful they could remember fondly, which drove him to overthink and dismiss every opportunity he got.

The truth now bows in front of him, simple and undeniable. As long as they are together, the moment he asks will be sacred, maybe a little messy or corny, but ultimately perfect, theirs.

There's no need to wait anymore.

He will ask tonight once they are alone. 

Part I: A hug

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘C’mon, Shiv.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frankie Morales, though, is a different animal.

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

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

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

But that’s neither here nor there.

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

‘Pope says to put it on his tab.’

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

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

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

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

The contact startles him - he practically jumps out of his skin, and you don’t miss the way the veins on the back of his hands pop and he digs his nails into his legs.

'Easy, boy,' you soothe with a teasing undertone, earning yourself a glower from the pilot. As much as you enjoy needling him, you do want your customers to be comfortable. So you let slip a deliberate but genuinely appreciative hum as the dark tendrils, subtly tinged with grays, part softly at your prying fingertips. ‘Wow, your curls are really thick.'

He looks up, an unsure frown on his brow. ‘Oh. Is that bad?’

‘No, Morales, it’s definitely a compliment,’ you tell him encouragingly - your bark has always been worse than your bite. ‘What do you use to wash your hair? It’s a bit dry.’

He shrugs. ‘Shampoo.’ At your insistent stare, he snaps, ‘What?’

‘Don’t lie to me, Morales,’ you warn him in a stern voice.

He huffs and gives in. ‘Fine. It’s a 2-in-1 body wash. I get it at the gas station, happy?’

You shoot him a smug grin as he rolls his eyes. ‘Well, you’re using proper shampoo from now on, and conditioner.’ He opens his mouth, a complaint on the tip of his tongue, when you hold a finger up at him. ‘Don’t argue with me, mister. I’ll throw in a couple of bottles on the house to get you started.’

‘Fine,’ he concedes. Unfailingly polite even when grumpy, he adds, ‘Thanks, Shiv.’

Your trusty swivelling stool screeches in protest when you drag it over on its wheels, before you take a seat and address the elephant in the room. ‘So - I’m guessing you’re here because of the wedding.’

You get a grunt in response. Scratching a particularly scrappy patch of his beard that has turned prematurely silver, he says, ‘My ma says I should cover up my old man grays for it.’

You snort, shaking your head. ‘Ha! And you tell your mother I say - hell no, ma’am! I will do no such thing.’

Frankie blinks at your unexpectedly adamant response. ‘What?’

‘I said, hell no,’ you repeat. Turning his head to the side with two fingers on his stubbled cheek, you comb his locks upwards to study the way the grays blend in softly with the umber, matching the ashen flecks in his beard. He doesn't start as badly at your touch this time, but there’s a telltale tick in his jaw, and you can almost hear the tension that thrums just below his skin where a late summer tan still lingers.

‘See how your grays are mainly coming out on the underside?’ you point out. ‘I like the way they just peek through the brown, it gives more depth to your curls. Natural highlights, if you will.’

He looks unconvinced and swipes at a smattering of silver with dismissive fingers. ‘Dunno. Thought the grays make me look old.’

You chuckle. ‘You’re no spring chicken anymore, Morales, and I mean it in a good way. Grays are natural - they will look even better when you start using actual shampoo and conditioner. Trust me, the salt and pepper works on you. I’m not dyeing your grays, and that’s that.’

For the first time today, Frankie turns his head and looks directly into your eyes. ‘My mother’s coming back to town for the wedding, you know. And she remembers where you live.’

You laugh. ‘Go ahead and send her my way, you know I’m not scared of her.’

He scoffs at your big talk. ‘You should be.’

Your relationship with the Morales matriarch is complicated, to say the least. She was always hard on you when you were a kid, thinking you were too wild and undisciplined. Now that you’re grown, you’re still torn between your admiration for her as a single mother who raised a good man, and the woman who never tires of dishing out criticism, warranted or not.

You give him a reassuring pat on the back, solid and warm under your touch. ‘Leave your mother to me, Morales. The grays stay, and I’ll make sure you steal the show at the party.’

‘Your funeral,’ he quips.

‘You just worry about getting yourself to the wedding,’ you retort, cracking your knuckles. ‘Now, are you ready for some pampering?’

Frankie rolls his eyes, but you see the corner of his mouth tick up in a vaguely upward direction - and you take it as a win.

‘Relax, Morales.’

‘I am relaxed,’ he insists through gritted teeth.

‘You’re about as relaxed as a cow on the butcher’s block. Unclench.’

For someone as economical with words as he is, his body certainly says a lot. Every single part of him seems hellbent on making his discomfort known. He breathes a frustrated exhale through his nose, brow deeply furrowed, his glare burning holes into the ceiling.

The leather seat of the backwash barely contains his tall build, his t-shirt stretched to the seams across his chest as he leans back into the basin. He’s bouncing his left leg irritably, the tight denim straining against his lap.

You try - valiantly - not to gape too obviously at the conspicuous bulge nestled snugly between his thighs under his belt buckle. But you can’t avert your eyes from something of that size. It’s against the laws of physics. Or something.

Even from where you’re standing, at the top of the basin peering down the slope of his body, its heft is clearly testing the structural integrity of the zipper of his jeans. Imagine the view from the other side -

Clearing your throat, you bodily press down on Frankie’s shoulders which are coiled up like the hood of an angry python, forcing them to loosen up. He jerks as if he’s a copper wire and you’re electricity. You tease, ‘So sensitive. You act like you’ve never felt a woman’s touch before, Morales.’

‘You know that’s not true,’ he growls at you, the prominent vein in his neck starting to pulse in frustration.

‘No, you’re right - I do know,’ you smirk, dragging out your syllables.

Your tone has him frowning at you, upside down. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I mean - I know,’ you repeat with a conspiratorial wink.

He narrows his eyes at you. ‘What do you know, Shiv?’

You wriggle his eyebrows at him suggestively, enjoying yourself far too much. ‘I own a salon, Morales. I hear things from the ladies about town.’

One large palm reaches up to shield his face in embarrassment, a pained groan escaping between the gaps of his fingers. ‘For fuck’s sake - kill me now.’

You laugh, wrestling his hand from his face to with an impish grin. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve only heard good things so far - Frankie big boy Morales.’

He blushes so hard that his ears and neck go a livid red, and for a minute, you’re actually worried that he’d pass out from not enough blood reaching his heart. Not keen on the prospect of having to explain to the emergency services that you teased the poor man into an aneurysm, you turn on the water and cut short your little chinwag with a good-natured chuckle. 

His hands are still tightly clamped around the armrest when you carefully run the shower head along his hairline and behind his ears, soaking his curls. His biceps flex from the tight grip and the lean muscles strain against the sleeves of his t-shirt. 

At least he closes his eyes when you start with the shampoo. The velvety lather froths as you patiently wash his hair, which clings to his wet curls like vanilla frosting. The deep crease between his brows eases with each gentle swipe into his locks, and the invisible force pulling his lips downwards slackens. By the time you rinse out the bubbles, you don’t miss the way the tension in his body unwittingly goes with it down the drain.

When your nails slide slickly into his hair with the conditioner, his stubborn body finally, slowly unfurls. His head tips back of its own accord, baring the column of his strong neck as he leans inadvertently into your touch. Colour returns to his knuckles when he releases his death grip on the backwash. 

You smile to yourself, scraping your fingertips along his scalp in a firm massage, watching his chest rise and fall as he teeters on the brink of consciousness.

As your thumbs trace a confident path down the back of his skull, they appear to find a particularly sensitive spot near the base of his neck, and it's as if a switch is flipped. You witness the exact moment he breaks - his back arches off the leather seat, his obstinate lips part with a strangled half-sigh catching in his throat as he yields his full weight into the palm of your hands.

If you're not careful, you could get used to this.

‘Still with me, Morales?’ you tease quietly.

He garbles incoherently, and you grin.

Frankie practically molds into the chair like warm wax when you shepherd him back to the styling station. You’re so chuffed with yourself that you don’t even feel the need to gloat at the way his eyes are glazed over and how his head lolls into the soft pressure when you run a fluffy towel through his hair. The man recoiling at the mere brush of your fingers a distant memory.

You run an assessing eye over him, brushing out his locks to gauge your game plan. ‘I like this length on you, so I’ll just trim the split ends and tidy up your sideburns. You’ll benefit from some layering too - it’s a bit heavy on top right now.’

From the way he blinks owlishly at you, you know he doesn’t catch a single word. He shrugs and says matter-of-factly. ‘You can’t do worse than Pope.’

The salon is quiet this afternoon, as it tends to be on Wednesdays. You let him enjoy the peace for a little bit and tap your foot to Ashton’s playlist as your styling scissors move over his curls in metallic snips.

‘Tip your head forward for me,’ you instruct, sliding around the back of his head on your wheels as you probe, ‘So - how are you feeling about the wedding?’

The fabric of his t-shirt bunches over his shoulders as they quirk noncommittally.

‘It’s just a few days away.’

He makes an indifferent noise. But you’re not so easily dissuaded from conversation, and he knows it.

‘Can’t be easy - watching your ex get married.’

Frankie pins you with a long-suffering stare in the mirror. ‘We broke up a year ago.’

Getting onto your feet, you ruffle your fingers through the crown of his curls. ‘Yeah, but you dated for years. She sure moved on quick.’

He huffs a sardonic laugh. ‘Thanks, Shiv.’

Swapping out the styling scissors for blending shears, you argue, ‘What? It’s a legitimate observation. I’m just making conversation here.’

‘Or we could just sit here quietly.’

Ha. As if you ever listen to him. You press on, ‘Why did she invite you anyway?’

Frankie’s sigh sounds a lot like surrender as he humours you. ‘It’s a damned if she does, damned if she doesn’t kind of situation, I guess. The whole town’s invited.’

‘You sure she isn’t trying to flaunt it in your face or something?’

‘Flaunting implies I still care. I don’t.’

You give him a juvenile nudge nudge, wink wink. ‘Well, on the bright side, you’ll definitely get laid, being the heartbroken ex and all. Chicks love that shit.’

He dispatches a side-long stare in your direction. ‘I’m not heartbroken, and that’s not why I’m going. And you know none of this is any of your business, right?’

‘You’re no fun,’ you pout.

He quips, ‘As a professional hairstylist, you really should be better at making polite conversation.’

You snort. ‘Do you really think it’s a good idea to call me rude when I have scissors in my hands?’

Frankie watches you work in the comfortable lull that’s settled between you, gliding the blades along strands of his curls pulled taut, before running a fine-toothed comb through to brush out the loose tufts. Soft coils land on the floor around his chair as you work your way methodically through his layers.

‘Are you going to the wedding?’ he asks eventually.

You shrug. ‘Maybe, depends on my schedule. I gotta say, I’m kind of curious to see how tacky it will be.’

At his eyebrow sternly cocked, you argue, ‘I know she’s your ex and all, but she’s always been a bit tacky. I mean, that remodel of your house was just tragic.’

Frankie frowns. ‘How do you know all this? You’ve never been to my house.’

You wink. ‘Benny tells me everything when I do his hair.’

He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Of course. Benjamin fucking Miller.’

You give him a pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, I’m on your side, if it helps.’

‘I don’t need you on my side.’

You flash him an insufferable grin. ‘Too bad, Francisco. I am and there’s nothing you can do about it.’

The hairdryer drowns out any further conversation, and Frankie quietly studies you as you cord your fingers through his hair, ruffling it as it dries.

It’s still a bit damp when you switch off the hairdryer and reach up to pull a couple of jars from the shelf above. ‘On the day of the wedding, I want you to wash your hair just before you style it. You have a hairdryer at home, right?’

He throws you a pointed look. ‘I’m not a heathen.’

You grin. ‘Down boy, just checking. Now, you’ll dry your hair until it’s still a bit wet, like so.’ Presenting the styling mousse to him, you say, ‘Then go on and grab some product - you only need a dollop.’

He dips his index finger into the pot, scooping up a generous blob. Your attention is unexpectedly piqued at the sight of his hands. 

Have they always been so big?

Realising he’s staring at you in wait, you shake yourself out of it. ‘Ok, rub the mousse onto your fingertips and run them all over your hair, combing from root to end.’

Frankie does as he’s told, face set to a serious scowl as he impeccably goes over each section of his locks, staring into the mirror to make sure he gets every strand. For the first time, you see the pilot in him up close, and you wonder if he’s this thorough about other things, like -

Laundry, your mind interrupts as it careens on the brink of the metaphorical gutter. Get your shit together, Shiv.

‘Good,’ you smile when he’s done, hoping he doesn't see the strain in it. ‘Now, I want you to rake your fingers through the roots when you dry your hair all the way.’ In demonstration, your nails burrow into the base of his thick hair, then you wriggle your fingers upwards towards the ends. ‘It will give you lots of volume and really show off this cut.’

Passing him the hairdryer, you watch him critically in the mirror. He imitates your movements, a bit clumsily and far too cautiously. Leaning down to his ear so he can hear you over the whir, you instruct him, ‘Don’t be gentle, Francisco. C’mon, harder, deeper - don’t hold back.’

He chokes and pins you with a wide-eyed stare in the mirror that glances right off your oblivious self. Along with your words, nothing about this exchange would register in your head in any other way until much, much later tonight, when you replay the conversation in your head in that limbo between sleep and wakefulness. 

It may or may not have you squealing into your pillow in latent embarrassment - and something else.

But for now, you’re happy with the way his hair has set, and you gesture for him to switch off the hairdryer. Turning his chair towards you and away from the mirror, you scan your eyes over him and make small adjustments - tucking a couple of strands behind his ear here, a couple of final snips there. 

As a final touch, you bury your fingers into his locks, dragging your fingertips through the roots to impart a final tousle so that the curls are loose and soft. You preen at the way he sways into your contact, all shyness gone, his hooded eyes half-closed - before he seems to catch himself and sits up with a self-conscious ahem.

Grabbing a small bottle from the shelf, you say, ‘Last thing - your beard is a bit dry as well. This oil will keep it nice and moisturised, just two or three drops after you wash up in the morning will do.’

Tipping his face up by the crook of your finger and opening up his neck to you, you smooth the ointment along both sides of his jaw, rubbing circles into his neatly trimmed whiskers and all the way up his sideburns. Sliding downwards, your hands seek out the closely shaved stubble tucked beneath his chin. Then, by sheer momentum, your palms continue down his throat in a slow, sticky descent, until the pads of your thumbs slot into the hollow between his collarbones, your fingers resting at the base of his neck where you feel his pulse rabbiting underneath. 

The air thickens and shifts between you. When he swallows, you feel the ripple of the moment against your fingertips. 

His eyes are on you, and suddenly he’s too close, his skin too hot under your hands. To your horror, something akin to shyness rears its head and you almost stumble backwards to put a safe distance between you.

Scrubbing the oily residue from your hands on a towel, you break the moment with a wink and a steadier smile than you actually feel. ‘You look good, Morales. Ready to take a look?’

‘As if you would take no for an answer,’ he mumbles under his breath. Fondness might be too strong of a word - but you don't think you're imagining the faint trace of amusement in his voice.

With a dramatic ta-da, you spin his chair around with a flourish.

Frankie Morales is obviously not a vain man - he most likely owns five pairs of jeans that he’s worn on rotation for the past fifteen years, his t-shirts are washed ragged, and his trusty leather boots have seen better days. He probably doesn’t use a mirror other than for purely utilitarian purposes, like checking if there’s something stuck in his teeth from his last meal.

But right now, by the way he’s holding his breath as he meets his own eyes in the reflection, you can tell that he’s really looking at himself for the first time in a long while. 

You pretend to busy yourself with tidying up the styling station as you discreetly sneak glances at him, feeling strangely bashful for intruding in this moment. When he remembers to breathe again, he tilts his head left then to the right, and back again, even swivelling his chair from side to side so he can peer round the back.

You’ve parted his waves to the side, the lighter cut allowing his curls to carry their natural shape. The healthy sheen, courtesy of the mousse, tempers his grays to a softer, burnt silver that catches the light fetchingly as he moves. Reaching up, Frankie pushes back a stray curl that falls over his eyes, and his back straightens in a quiet show of confidence.

Running a salon is hard work and often thankless. But on days like this? You know you’re meant to do this.

A dramatic gasp draws both of your attention. Ashton is clutching at his chest, backed up against the neighbouring styling station, gaping at Frankie. ‘Mister - you look good enough to devour. Look at that salt and pepper, I’m living for the grays. Doing the Lord’s work, Shiv!’

You laugh as Frankie flushes, scratching an invisible itch on his forehead. You brush the loose hairs off his shoulders with a towel and give him a nudge. ‘See? I’m not the only one who thinks you look good with the grays. You better stock up on the condoms, Morales, the ladies will be all over you at the party.’

He shakes his head self-deprecatingly as he stands up, rubbing his palms on his jeans, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. ‘I doubt it, but - thanks. I appreciate this, Shiv.’

He shrugs on his well-loved burnt yellow jacket, the one with the sleeves perpetually folded up above his wrists and grabs his cap. You hold out a paper bag with the free shampoo and conditioner you promised him, throwing in a jar of hair mousse for good measure. ‘You’re welcome, and you better not put your hat on again this afternoon after all that hard work.’

His fingers brush yours when he takes the bag from you, then, as if it’s the logical next thing to do, he leans down to press a chaste kiss to your right cheek, his stubble coarse against your skin - and you know without looking it’s the gray patch in his beard that brushes against your jaw as he draws back. You fumble, feeling heat prickle the back of your neck and blooming in your rib cage. 

He flashes you the most self-assured smile you’ve seen on him this afternoon, which has you biting your bottom lip. ‘I won’t. Maybe see you at the wedding, Shiv.’

It takes you five full seconds to regain motor functions. By the time you unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, Frankie’s already out of the door with a spring in his step.

In companionable silence, you and Ashton watch the pilot strut - because that’s what he’s doing, he’s strutting with a confidence that becomes him - across the road through the glass front of the salon.

‘What a dish,’ Ashton sighs dreamily, flopping into a chair as if his limbs have given out. ‘I hope he comes back soon.’

You smile. A girl could always hope.

Notes: It's the first time I'm using a nickname for a Reader, but I have a real soft spot for Shiv, and I think she deserves one. I'm not sure where the fandom stands on this, does it disqualify the fic as a reader insert? If anyone has an issue with this, please let me know! For me, Shiv has no physical descriptions so to me she's still a reader insert.

Pedro Pascal

Teasing: Complete!

Part One (x) 🌑

Part Two (x) 🌑

Part Three (x) 🌑

Hot Chocolate Thief 🌕

Stick to the Script 🌑

Javier Peña

The Informant (series)🌗🌑🌕

Say Yes (With Carillo) 🌑

One Shot Till the End 🌗

G.A.N.E. Universe with Javi x !f reader (co-workers to lovers)

Synopsis: Javi and you are partners. You both have played on the idea of flirting and messing around and on one fateful night, you do. But alas, complications with feelings and pushing away tears you apart. But with time, things can possibly mend.

Goodbyes are Never Easy 🌗 🌘

Welcome Back to Colombia 🌗

Suppressed Memories 🌗

Hold Me Close 🌗🌑🌕

Oberyn Martell

Clash of Houses (series)🌑🌗🌕

Love, Actually🌕

Sex or Murder🌑

Agent Whiskey

Risky Nights 🌑

Eating for Two 🌕

Hidden in Plain Sight 🌕

Yoga🌑

Francisco (Catfish) Morales

Keep You in My Heart🌗🌕

Just One of the Guys 🌗🌕

Flights🌕

Din Djarin/Mandalorian

Massages 🌑

Take It Slow 🌘🌕

Firsts🌕

Dieter Bravo

Phone Sex 🌑🌒

Welcome Home 🌑🌒

Marcus Moreno

The Parent Trap 🌕

Javi Gutierrez

Los Jefes Universe

Synopsis: Javi G has recently lost his brother and you are a well-renowned leader in arms dealing that has watched Javi from afar. A phone call that leads to meeting Javi on purpose is lucrative, but perhaps the burning desire of crossing the lines threatens professionalism.

Updates: Sundays at 11:30 AM PST. I will make sure each installment is in order <3

A Proposition 🌕

First Day 🌕🌖

Swimming 🌕🌖

Surprise Dinner 🌕🌑

Poolside Lovin’ 🌑🌕

Show Off 🌑🌒

Headcannons, asks, prompts, drabbles

Javi seeing you for the first time 🌖

Polyamorous relationship with Javi, Horacio, and Steve 🌘

Who would be the most kinky in bed (All the boys) 🌘

Jack takes care of you when you get hurt/confesses his love for you 🌕

Drinks with Jack and some friends leads to a series of confessions🌗🌖

A Reunion with Frankie🌗

When you finished, almost on the verge of tears that night, he apologized, and asked you to stay, that he would try to change, because he apparently never had such a good assistant and didn't want to get someone who was a klutz. 

He was angry with himself for making you cry so much that night, for pushing you so hard, and you only found out later, but he was only doing it for your time and attention...

You thought about it for most of the night, not knowing that Dieter was doing the same. He'd never seen anyone get so angry at him, or at least to his face... No one really dares to get mad at a celebrity with an Oscar for fear of not getting a job after that. 

He appreciated your tenacity, the way you didn't hesitate to raise your voice to the loudest he'd ever seen you speak, and it even excited him a little at the time...

And so your secret relationship began. Dieter begged you to stay, and you did after thinking about it... He eventually changed his worst habits, but he didn't lose them all, but he tried and it took you a little to heart, and when he got closer and closer to you with every moment you spent together you realised that you liked him maybe a little more than you let on... 

And on one of those other days, when the days of work were too long, he asked you to have dinner... Then he kissed you... And there followed a relationship hidden from the world.

One of those lingering days is another tonight, but Dieter isn't here... not yet... You are waiting for him in his room as you have been doing every night since the filming started, escaping from the sets a little earlier than everyone else to make sure you can't be seen going to his room. On the rare occasions when you can't, he comes to yours and manages not to be seen...

You're about to go to the bathroom when you hear the bedroom door open, revealing an exhausted Dieter from a long day of shooting, eyeliner still shading under his beautiful brown eyes.

"I've run a bath, will you join me Dieter?" you say, smiling tenderly at him, understanding that his body just needs to rest at the moment 

"As much as I'd love to tonight , I don't have an ounce of strength left in me for tonight..." 

You smile at him and walk over to him as you begin to slowly remove that horrible dressing gown he loves so much and let it slide to the floor. 

"That's why I suggest you come and lie down with me in the warm water... Nothing could be more loving..." 

You drop your bathrobe and walk to the bathroom, letting yourself slide into the warm water, comforting every muscle in your body, because your day was rather complicated too.

Dieter soon joined you and you let him settle between your legs, his back against your stomach, his head resting on your chest, his eyes closed as he enjoyed a moment of relaxation with you. 

The two of you don't speak. He just strokes your legs and takes your fingers in his and kisses them tenderly. 

No words are exchanged when you get dressed either, not out of any embarrassment but rather out of simple relaxation. You suddenly feel Dieter naked behind you kissing the back of your neck, running his hand over your stomach

"I thought I heard you say you didn't have the strength..." you say, biting your lips, savouring the kisses he places on your body. 

"I can't resist your naked body..." he whispers into the hollow of your neck.

He placed his words with a tighter grip around your hips, letting you know that he might not have much patience with you tonight. You know his body language well, the way he lightly pushes your body towards the bed, while not letting go of you, keeping his erection pressed against your back. 

You gasp tenderly at every long kiss he takes the time to place on your body, turning you over to let you sit on the bed. 

He pulls away for a few seconds to look at you, thinking you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, and kneels by your thighs to continue his quest for stolen kisses on your slightly curvy hips that Dieter enjoys watching move as he pushes into you quickly, accompanied by that, breast he wishes he had in his mouth every moment of his life.

He kissed your crotch, and went up to your lips, to kiss you in a less tender way than what he was giving you until now and repositioned himself between your legs without giving you time to return his kiss. He is impatient… You love it…

You can see his eagerness in the shine of his eyes, the way he kissed your mount and wasted no time in taking your clit into his mouth to suck it while adding a finger to your pussy already soaking wet with excitement after the minimum of teasing there was...

"Already wet for me beautiful?" 

"Not for you..." you tease him with a smile  

He suddenly stops to look at you, not thinking you would go that way tonight, and smiles back

"And for whom?" he asks, playing with the finger inside you, his thumb now running circles on your clitoris. 

You wiggle your hips and keep your eyes on him, knowing full well that he likes it when you look him in the eye, and don't answer, just stick your tongue out at him and laugh. 

Laughter that quickly turned into a groan of disapproval as he pulled his finger away from your pussy to stand up straight in front of you. He stands there staring at you for a long moment without saying anything and you give him a disapproving pout, still admiring his proud penis in front of you. 

Eventually he moves to do something you didn't expect : he quickly turns you over and gets you down on all fours. 

"Don't move," he says, placing a hand on the small of your back.

But you're not in the mood to obey tonight and prefer to give him a splendid view of your ass by rolling it in front of his eyes and you don't see it but he smiles at your impertinence, and can't help but slap your ass, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make sure you'll feel it for a little while tonight. 

You restrain yourself from letting out a soft cry that might satisfy him and bite your lip as you smile and wiggle your buttocks a second time in front of him. 

"You want to play little brat unh..."

"I'm not playing any games, sir," you say, turning slightly and smiling at him.

So far Dieter has been holding back from doing what he wanted to do to you since you gave him that look when he was between your legs, but this lack of discipline and this smile is just a call to action for him and he knows that you know it. 

He grabbed your hips and jerked his cock inside you in one sharp stroke. You let out a scream you're pretty sure half the hotel heard, choking on an intrusion you'll probably never get used to, he is so pleasingly thick...

"That's all you deserve for your behaviour, little brat" 

You gasp with laughter trying to get used to his intrusion and he grab your throat to pull yourself back onto his chest, leaving you no time to savour the feeling even as you struggle to adjust.

"And are you laughing now?" he says, pushing into you with a sharp jerk.

You mewl, shaking your head, and he captures your lips in his, giving you another sharp hip movement that you feel more strongly at a new angle. 

Your moan is muffled by his growl against your lips, and he speeds up his thrusts into you, dryly, painfully making you roll your eyes quite quickly.

"Dieter Please...OH LORD"

You scream, grabbing his hand around your neck as he changes his angle to slap against that magical spot inside you, tightening his grip slightly around your throat.

"Be a good girl and open your mouth," he said, tilting your head towards him, and you obeyed, meowing without hesitation.

He spat into your mouth and you kept your eyes on him as you swallowed, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes and almost gasping for breath as he thrust hard into your hips. 

You might wonder how he manages to keep up this pace, but you can hardly think of anything else but the thrusting of his cock inside you, and every single veins you can feel pressing against your walls...

And it doesn't get any easier for Dieter, who's pretty sure he'll cum in a few seconds if you don't do it first. 

He drops more kisses into the hollow of your neck, letting his second hand leave your hip and move past it to start circling your clit. Your nails dig into his front arm begin for him to let you seak your release. 

"I want you to cum for me beautiful, I need you to cum for me"

You can't answer him but only make little moans of pleasure and let yourself go to the rhythm of his fingers and hips. You scream his name and he quickly puts his hand in front of your mouth to make sure no one hears you say that, waiting for the day when he doesn't have to hide from hearing you scream his name, from seeing you tremble underneath him after he's completely satisfied you as you deserve. 

Dieter watches you cum on his cock, and watches the liquid drip onto the sheets, while he palms your breasts, pressing lightly on the nipples as you like it.  

Dieter doesn't waste much time after you and only gives you two or three more thrusts before you feel a warm liquid pouring into you. He kisses your jaw and nibbles lightly as he likes to do, not letting you fall back onto the bed, the sheets now completely wet from your orgasm.  

He pulls out faster than he would have liked to carry you to the bathroom.

He looks at you completely drained, a smile on your face, cockdumb, he likes to see you like that. 

When he puts you down on the floor and lets you lean against the wall so he can run a bath, he's surprised to see you laughing all of a sudden after so much silence

"So you were tired unh Dieter?" 

He looks at you for a few seconds and laughs back, letting the water run in the tub, taking you in his arms to kiss you more tenderly than he fucked you, his favorite little brat…

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