Frankie

The thing about breakups is that they're never clean. Not really. People like to pretend they can walk away with their dignity intact, maybe a little sad, maybe a little wiser, but Frankie's never been good at pretending.

It ended over something so stupid he still gets annoyed thinking about it. His ex and his sister got into it at a family dinner—something about a comment that got taken the wrong way, words that should've been dropped but got picked up and shaken like a dog with a toy, and then suddenly it was a whole thing. Voices raised. Plates pushed back. His mom quietly leaving the room like she'd seen it play out a hundred times before.

And instead of letting it go, she'd looked at him afterward and said, "I'm not coming to another family thing if she's there."

Frankie had sat with that for a second. Let the weight of it settle. And then he'd said, "Then I guess we're done."

It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't loud. It was just... quiet. And disappointing. The worst kind of ending, because there was no big blowup to point to, no villain, no satisfying closure. Just the slow realization that he'd been giving more than he was getting for months, and he was tired.

So he did what he always did when something knocked him off balance: he redirected. Poured himself into the studio. Said yes to every collab, every feature, every last-minute session. Kept moving so he wouldn't have to sit still with the feeling.

And then, on a whim, he got a dog.

A Cane Corso puppy, because his cousin's dog had just had a litter and the photos were too cute to ignore. Eight weeks old, all wrinkles and oversized paws, with a face that made him feel something other than tired. He named her Pancake because it was funny and she was sweet and he figured a big tough dog needed a soft name.

What he didn't figure on was how much work a puppy that size actually was.

She's four months old now and already pushing sixty pounds, all legs and enthusiasm and zero impulse control. She pulls on the leash like she's training for the Iditarod. She's chewed through two pairs of sneakers and a charging cable. She's smart—scarily smart—which means she learns fast but also figures out how to get what she wants fast.

Frankie's in over his head and he knows it.

That's how he ends up standing outside a training facility on a Tuesday afternoon, Pancake's leash looped around his wrist, trying to mentally prepare himself to admit to a stranger that he can't handle his own dog.

The bell above the door chimes as he pushes inside. It's a nice space—clean, open, good lighting. Smells like disinfectant and dog treats. A few kennels line the far wall, and there's a rubberized mat in the center of the floor where a golden retriever is sitting patiently, watching its owner with focused eyes.

Pancake spots the other dog immediately and lets out an excited bark, lunging forward and dragging Frankie with her before he can brace.

"Whoa—hey—" He stumbles after her, barely catching himself, shoes squeaking against the floor. "Pancake. Pancake. Sit. Remember sit? We practiced this."

She does not sit. She plants her big paws and pulls harder, tail going haywire, completely ignoring him.

He sighs, running his free hand through his hair, and looks up—and that's when he sees you.

The afternoon sun was starting to mellow out, casting long shadows across the pool deck. Music thrummed through the outdoor speakers—something smooth, bass-heavy, with a groove that made it impossible to stand still. That was the point. Frankie had curated the whole playlist himself, switching between genres every thirty minutes to keep the energy from plateauing.

Pancake paddled furiously in the shallow end, a soaked tennis ball clamped between her jaws, her stubby tail wagging so hard her entire hind end swayed. She surfaced, shook violently—water spraying everywhere, including across Frankie's bare arms—and dropped the ball at his feet with a wet thump.

"Again?" He grinned down at her, already bending to scoop it up. "You're gonna be pruney, you know that?"

She barked once. Sharp. Demanding.

"Alright, alright." He wound his arm back and launched the ball across the pool. It landed near the far edge with a splash, and Pancake launched herself after it like she'd never seen water before.

Frankie straightened, rolling his shoulder, and let his gaze drift across the party.

The backyard was packed. Not in an uncomfortable way—more like a carefully curated gathering of people who actually gave a damn about their dogs. A few label execs stood near the grill, nursing beers and comparing leash brands. A model he'd worked with on a music video was sprawled on a lounge chair, her golden retriever asleep at her feet. A comedian he'd collabed with on a livestream was doing tricks with his corgi near the hedge line.

It was a good party. Great party. Everyone was smiling, dogs were everywhere, and nobody was wasted. Exactly what he'd wanted.

But his eyes kept drifting toward the entrance from the side gate. The spot where people walked in after parking.

He caught himself doing it. Looked away. Scratched the back of his neck.

Pancake returned, dropped the ball, and stared at him with the intensity of a tiny, wet predator.

"You're gonna wear me out, mama." He picked up the ball anyway, but his toss was half-hearted this time. His attention was elsewhere.

He'd gotten to know someone during Pancake's training program. Not just exchanged pleasantries—actually talked. Late-night texts about behavioral breakthroughs. Shared laughter over Pancake's stubborn refusal to learn "roll over." A vulnerability that crept in gradually, naturally, the way it does when you find yourself enjoying someone's company more than you expected.

They said they'd come today. But they hadn't shown up yet.

Frankie bounced on the balls of his feet, restless. His hand found the chain around his neck, thumbing the pendant absently. He wasn't the type to hover by the door or check his phone every thirty seconds. He had some pride.

But he also couldn't stop wondering if they'd changed their mind. If they'd gotten held up. If they'd decided a party full of industry people and their prissy purebreds wasn't really their scene.

Pancake paddled back, dropped the ball, and gave him a look that said you're slipping, dad.

"Yeah, yeah." He scooped it up, aimed for the far end, and let it fly.

Then he heard the side gate click open.

Frankie was pacing the length of his hardwood floor, his chains clinking against his chest with every hurried step. In one arm, he was awkwardly cradling Pancake a Cane Corso puppy who was already the size of a small boulder and twice as clumsy. The pup's thick, velvety coat was pressed against Frankie's tank top, and he could feel the dog's warm breath against his neck.

Then it happened again. Hic.

Pancake’s entire body gave a little jolt, his stubby tail thumping once against Frankie’s hip. Frankie stopped mid stride, staring down at the dog with exaggerated concern. He knew he knew that puppies got hiccups, but his brain was already running a mile a minute, jumping from 'minor inconvenience' to 'emergency situation' because it gave him a reason to hit the dial button on his phone. He’d been staring at Bun’s contact info for the last twenty minutes, convincing himself that this was the most organic way to get her attention without looking like he was trying too hard.

He pressed call and put it on speaker, holding the phone out like it was a piece of evidence. The moment she picked up, he didn't even give her a chance to settle in.

"Yo, hey Bun, right? I know I'm probably bothering you, but like, I think something is wrong with Pancake," he said, his voice pitched higher than usual. He started pacing again, his free hand gesturing wildly in the air. "I I don't know. He's doing this thing where his whole body just... jumps? Like a little spasm. Every few seconds. He's breathing fine, I think, but it's this weird rhythmic thing. Should I call the vet? Like, is this an emergency? I'm lowkey freaking out over here."

He paused, listening to her voice through the speaker. He glanced down at Pancake, who was currently trying to lick his chin. The puppy let out another audible hic, and Frankie made a small noise of distress.

"See? Did you hear that? It sounded like a... like a little glitch. I can't tell if he's choking or if his diaphragm is just acting up. I remember you saying you knew your shit with dogs at the facility and I just I didn't know who else to call."

The front door clicked shut behind Frankie, and he was already kicking off his sneakers before the deadbolt fully caught. His blood still buzzed after three hours in the booth with Beau. The beat they’d been sitting on for months had finally come together—a track that worked. He should have been riding that high for the rest of the night.

Instead, the moment he stepped inside, all that creative electricity rerouted straight south. His phone was still warm in his pocket. He hadn’t stopped thinking about the photo they’d sent during his last take. He’d been standing in front of a microphone, trying to lay down a verse about chemistry, tension, and the kind of pull that made no sense until somebody felt it—and all he’d been able to picture was them. The Airbnb was quiet. Soft light spilled from the kitchen into the hallway, and Frankie followed it.

There they were, leaning against the counter with their phone in hand.

Waiting for him, maybe.

Frankie’s mouth curved. He didn’t slow down. “You,” he said, his voice low and rough from the long recording session, “are the reason I couldn’t finish that last hook.”

He crossed the kitchen in three strides and stopped between their knees, hands settling around their waist. The photograph had kept him distracted for hours, but having them this close was worse. Better. Every restless thought in his head narrowed to the warmth beneath his palms and the small distance still separating them.

His gaze searched their face, giving them the chance to stop him. When they leaned into his touch, he tightened his grip and lifted them onto the counter.

Cool marble pressed beneath their thighs. Frankie stepped into the space between them, his chest and hips close enough to make restraint feel increasingly theoretical. One hand rose to cup their jaw. He tilted their face toward his, pulse beating hard beneath the lingering rush of the studio. His pupils were blown wide; he could feel the adrenaline crackling beneath his skin with nowhere else to go.

“Mami,” he breathed, the word landing somewhere between a curse and a prayer. “You been sending me that while I’m tryna focus? While Beau’s right there?”

He watched their expression, waiting only long enough to be certain before closing the distance.

His mouth found theirs with all the hunger he’d been swallowing for hours. The kiss was impatient but attentive, Frankie following every response as his tongue slid against theirs. One hand traveled down their side, fingers gathering the fabric of their top until he found warm skin beneath it.

He pulled back only far enough to trail his lips along their jaw and toward their ear.

“Te tengo,” he murmured, voice rough. “Right here. Right now. You wanted my attention?” His hand moved slowly up their thigh. Deliberately. His thumb pressed into the soft skin near its apex, stopping just short.

“You got it.”

Frankie lifted his head so he could see their face. However badly he wanted them, he wanted to hear it more. “Now tell me what you’ve been wanting all day, nena.” His thumb traced one measured circle against their thigh. “Tell me, and I’ll give it to you.”

Frankie was practically vibrating with pride when he walked into the room, his grin wide and teeth flashing. He didn’t say a word at first just stopped dead in the center of the floor, completely butt naked. His hands were locked tight behind his back, fingers interlaced, shoulders squared. He looked like he was reporting for duty, except he was standing there with nine inches of uncut cock hanging heavy and already half hard, the pale splotch of vitiligo at the base stark against his honeyed skin.

"Okay, okay, don't say anything yet. Just watch," he said, his voice thick with that familiar, fast paced energy. He shifted his weight, his bare feet slapping against the floor. "I figured this out like two days ago. Thought I was tripping at first, but I swear to god, I got it down."

He started slow, his hips beginning a deliberate, rolling motion. Because his hands were trapped behind him, every ounce of the work was happening in his core. His abs flexed and rippled, the muscles in his stomach carving deep lines as he angled his pelvis. He wasn't just thrusting; he was using those internal muscles to make his cock jump. The shaft began to twitch and lurch upward in time with his breathing, the dark veins standing out against the skin as he forced blood into it until it was rock hard and throbbing.

"See that shit? I'm not even touching it," he breathed out, his voice dropping an octave. The pace picked up. His hips started snapping forward, faster now, the motion becoming more erratic as he chased the edge. Sweat started to bead on his chest, catching the light, and his breathing turned into ragged, uneven bursts. He was focused entirely on the sensation, his head tilting forward as his cock jerked violently with every flex of his pelvic floor.

The tension in his body reached a breaking point. His thighs shook, and his toes curled against the floor. The base of his cock began to bulge and clench that firm, internal structure around the root pumping hard as the first wave hit. The shaft didn't just pulse; it jolted, the head stretching and twitching as his body took over. The muscles in his groin contracted in rhythmic, ugly spasms, forcing the first thick spurts of cum to shoot across the room.

Frankie’s head snapped back, his throat exposed, Adam's apple bobbing as he let out a broken moan. His whole body went rigid, every muscle locked tight while his cock continued to jerk and pump in his hands free grip.

"Me vengo..." he gasped out, voice wrecked and raw. His chest heaved as he fought to catch his breath, each inhale coming in shaky, shallow pants. The aftershocks kept rippling through him—tiny, involuntary twitches that made his cock jerk weakly against his stomach. White streaks of cum were splattered across his lower belly and thighs, thick and glistening under the room's lighting, slowly beginning to cool and tack up. He stayed frozen for a few seconds, eyes half-lidded and glazed with pleasure, before a slow, triumphant smirk started to spread across his face.

"So," he panted, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his shoulder since his hands were still behind his back. "Yeah. Told you."

The hotel suite still smelled like the show: hot metal, sweat, and the bourbon someone had spilled during an afterparty whose echoes had only just begun to fade.

Frankie’s shirt hung open one button past respectable. His chain caught the low orange light as he reached across {{user}} for the ice bucket, bringing him close enough that she caught the lingering heat of him.

Beau was stretched across the sofa opposite them, long enough that his feet nearly touched the coffee table. He was still wearing those ridiculous tinted glasses indoors. She suspected he knew exactly what they did for him.

{{user}} sat between them, caught in the middle of a conversation that had begun as an argument about a remix and somehow become Frankie’s very serious insistence that Beau would not survive a real dog-training session with Pancake.

“I’m just sayin’,” Frankie said as he dropped into the space beside her. His thigh pressed warmly against hers. “You’d let her drag your big ass through the parking lot and then try to act like it was a workout.”

Beau’s grin was lazy and shameless. “I’d win. Me and Pancake got an understanding.” “You met her once. She ate your shoelace.” “She was tastin’ the vibe.”

Frankie laughed—quick, bright, and impossible not to feel beside her. His arm settled across the back of the couch behind {{user}}. His fingers skimmed the curve of her shoulder, not possessively, but with an unmistakable awareness of her presence. That was Frankie’s way: attentive without needing to be asked. He turned his head. For half a second, his lips hovered close to her temple. He didn’t kiss her. He was simply there, near enough that she noticed the choice.

Then Beau shifted.

He leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees. Behind the tinted lenses, his attention settled on her with that deceptively relaxed interest he wore whenever he had already decided what he wanted—and was only waiting to see whether she wanted it too.

.