#5553 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pesterloglog · 1 year ago

Text

Caliborn, Jane Crocker

Act 6, page 5551-5556

undyingUmbrage [uu] began jeering gutsyGumshoe [GG]

uu: CROCKER.

uu: HEY IT'S ME.

uu: REMEMBER ME?

GG: What the?

uu: TUMUT

uu: OOPS NO.

uu: *HOLDS SHIFT.* *NOSTALGICALLY.*

uu: tumut

uu: YESSSS.

GG: Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me.

GG: You are the absolute last person I want to hear from right now.

GG: And the bottom of that list is pretty competitive territory at the moment!

uu: DON'T BE LIKE THAT. YOU STUPID EARTH COW.

uu: HOW ARE WE SUPPOSED TO BE BECOMING FRIENDS. IF YOU RECOIL FROM MY OLIVE BRANCH.

uu: LIKE I'M FLAILING A WITHERED MUMMY'S SEVERED LIMB IN YOUR DIRECTION.

GG: I don't want us to become friends!

GG: We all thought you were gone for good. And we liked it that way!

GG: Please don't tell me you've found a second wind of petty trolling in you.

uu: HEY. I DON'T TROLL.

uu: I *JEER*. GET IT RIGHT.

uu: TROLLING IS FOR LOSERS. LOSERS SPECIFICALLY WHO ARE TROLLS.

GG: Whatever. And what's with the ugly green text?

GG: Reading your malformed sentence fragments was unpleasant enough as it was.

uu: I BORROWED IT FROM MY SISTER.

uu: AND SHUT UP. IT LOOKS GREAT.

uu: AND IS NO UGLIER THAN YOU. WHO I CAN SEE NOW WITH EASE. FOR THE RECORD.

GG: "Whom" you can see, moron.

GG: And no, you can't!

GG: Calliope said you couldn't see us at all in our game session. So I think you're lying!

uu: AM I REALLY.

uu: WHEN RIGHT NOW I AM LOOKING AT A HOMELY FEMALE IN DUMB BLUE PANTS. SULKING IN A GRAY PLACE. TYPING ON A COMPUTER WITH A STRANGE HUMAN FACE?

GG: Oh, dear God.

GG: WHY???

uu: MY POWER HAS GROWN CONSIDERABLY SINCE I LAST JEERED YOU.

uu: I HAVE MADE REMARKABLE STRIDES ON MY SACRED JOURNEY TOWARD IMPORTANT ADULTHOOD.

uu: ON THIS BULLSHIT PLANET. WHICH USED TO BE YOUR HOME.

uu: I HAVE FOUND MANY KEYS. AND UNLOCKED MANY HOLES.

uu: AND NOW I CAN SEE MORE. AND LEARN MORE. THAN YOU COULD EVER FUCKING DREAM!

GG: How wonderful for you.

GG: I don't care how all-seeing and all-powerful you think you are.

GG: If your intent is to waste my time with more of your pitiful bullying, you are out of luck.

GG: Because that is exactly NOT the sort of crap I am in the mood for today.

GG: Toodle-oo!!!

uu: WAIT!

uu: I THINK I GOT OFF ON THE WRONG FOOT.

uu: HOW ABOUT WE. GNAW THAT ONE OFF AND START OVER?

uu: I WAS TRYING TO PAY YOU A COMPLIMENT.

GG: ??

uu: MY PEOPLE AREN'T MEANT TO LIKE ANYBODY. GET IT?

uu: I MEAN, NOT THE WAY HUMANS DO. WE DON'T HAVE THE HUMAN EMOTION CALLED "LOVEKHEKLFSDKF". AND WE SPONTANEOUSLY START MASHING KEYS. WHEN WE ARE FORCED TO EVEN TYPE THE WORD.

uu: ALL OUR RELATIONSHIPS ARE DICTATED BY THE MIRACLE OF HATRED. SO WHEN I USE BAD WORDS TOWARD YOU. THAT'S JUST ME SAYING THINGS TO TRY TO KNOW YOU BETTER.

uu: LIKE. "SOCIALLYUOIPY".

uu: AS A.

uu: *SHUDDER*

uu: A... "FRIENDJISJFDJISJSDKFLDJSDKLJF".

uu: SO WHEN I SAY YOU'RE UGLY. WHICH YOU FACTUALLY ARE.

uu: I MEAN THAT FROM MY PERSPECTIVE. OF BEING NORMAL, AND NOT A SHITTY ALIEN. TO SAY THAT YOU ARE ACTUALLY ATTRACTIVE IN AN UNPLEASANT WAY. TO MY BRAIN.

GG: Hrm.

GG: Nope. That makes very little sense.

uu: FUCK. TRY USING YOUR SUPPOSEDLY BETTER SMARTNESS THAN MINE.

uu: AND THINK SOMEWHAT LATERALLY. ABOUT LIKE. FUCKING CULTURE. THAT ISN'T *YOURS*.

uu: YOU DUMB BITCH.

GG: Yes, I see it all too clearly now. You're really quite the charmer!

uu: NO. COME ON. "DUMB BITCH" IS ANOTHER GREAT COMPLIMENT.

uu: IN THE SAME VEIN AS THAT WHICH I JUST DESCRIBED.

uu: IT'S A TERM OF "ENDEARMENKSKLJJF" I USE TO TALK ABOUT GIRLS. WHO IN MY VIEW HAVE MANAGED TO AVOID BEING.

uu: UTTERLY BENEATH MY PERSONAL ACKNOWLEDGEMENT. THIS ISN'T COMPLICATED.

GG: Uh huh.

GG: So you're actually trying to claim that you find me attractive, from the alleged "bad means good" point of view of your hate-driven species?

uu: DEFINITELY.

uu: I'M NOT JOKING AROUND, CROCKER.

uu: I'VE UNLOCKED A BUNCH OF YOUR SCREENS. AND SPENT A LOT OF TIME WATCHING YOU.

uu: WHILE THINKING. JUST.

uu: THE *DIIIIRTIEST* THOUGHTS.

uu: HEE HEE. HAA.

GG: Eww.

GG: You pig.

uu: THE OTHER FEMALE TOO. LET'S NOT FORGET YOUR SQUAD'S BACKUP BITCH.

uu: HOW NASTY IS SHE?? JUST SO FOUL. AND THE THINGS YOU GET UP TO WITH ONE ANOTHER. OH MY.

uu: NEED I EVEN CITE THE ALTERCATION WITH YOUR PUFFY SLUMBER LOAVES?

GG: Excuse me??

uu: MY COMPLIMENTS IN PARTICULAR. ON YOUR COLORFUL UNDERGARMENTS.

uu: WHILE BOUNCING UP AND DOWN ON THE SOFT HUMAN SARSWAPAGUS.

GG: Oh, that's just great.

GG: The ONE TIME we had a generic girly pillow fight, and it turns out some pervert was watching us.

GG: I think I need a shower.

GG: Assuming I can ever take one again in peace!

uu: DON'T WORRY. YOU CAN'T.

uu: BUT SERIOUSLY. JANE. CAN I CALL YOU JANE? BITCH, LISTEN.

uu: YOU ARE ONE GRODY HARLOT. WHICH MEANS GOOD (BAD) THINGS TO ME, LET'S REMEMBER.

uu: WHEN I UNLOCKED YOU. I DON'T KNOW. MAYBE I'VE CHANGED? OR MAYBE JUST YOU. SINCE YOU TURNED OLDER. BUT YOU'VE REALLY.

uu: FILLED OUT.

uu: SINCE I LAST SAW YOU BEFORE.

GG: What?

GG: ...

GG: Really?

uu: HELL YES.

uu: I DO ENJOY A MEATY BITCH. WITH A LITTLE CLOUT.

GG: What do you mean, exactly...

GG: By "clout?"

uu: OH. I THINK YOU KNOW.

uu: WHEN PHYSICAL PORTIONS OF THE BITCH. KIND OF JUT OUT. EXUBERANTLY.

GG: Do you mean...

GG: My...

GG: Why am I even having this conversation!

uu: I JUST HAVE A WEAK SPOT. FOR THE ABOVE AVERAGE HEFT OF YOUR PARTS. WHICH WOBBLE THE MOST.

uu: NOW DO SOMETHING NAUSEATING FOR ME TO WATCH.

uu: I WANT TO SEE A TAWDRY ACT OF HARD CORE SCHMALTZ.

uu: SEE THAT ROCK OVER THERE. PRETEND IT IS THE OTHER INSOLENT BITCH.

uu: ACT A LITTLE NERVOUS. WITH YOUR IDLE HAND, GRAZE ONE OF YOUR MORE BULBOUS LOCATIONS "INCIDENTALLY".

uu: THEN ASK THE ROCK IF IT WANTS TO FALL IN LOVE!!! OOOOOOOH.

GG: What? No!

GG: Are you insane?

GG: I don't care where you are, or whatever the hell it is you "unlocked" to spy on me.

GG: You aren't allowed to sit there all day leering at my boobs!!!

uu: YOUR WHAT.

GG: My... what?

GG: Wait, what were YOU talking about?

uu: NO. TELL ME WHAT THOSE THINGS YOU SAID ARE. I'M SO ENTICED!

GG: Screw you!

GG: Tell me what you were getting at with all that!!

GG: The stuff about "clout," and my "bulbous locations."

uu: I WAS JUST SAYING. MY TASTE PREFERS.

uu: WHEN THE BUXOM SHREW'S PHYSIQUE PUTS A HEALTHY DENT IN SPACETIME.

GG: Spacetime??

uu: I LIKE HOW SALTY IT IS. WHEN A BITCH GROWS OUT OF HER SKELETAL PHASE.

uu: AND HER FRAME REALLY BEGINS TO CHALLENGE THE HORIZONTAL DIMENSIONS.

GG: WHAT!

uu: WHEN THE FEMALE RUMP STARTS GETTING MORE MILEAGE OUT OF ITS WIDENESS ATTRIBUTE. MORE BANG FOR ITS BOONBUCK!

uu: IT EXCITES ME BETTER. WHEN BITCHES PUNISH THE GROUND. WITH EACH MEGALITHIC FOOTSTEP.

GG: SHUT UP!

GG: I'M NOT FAT!!!

uu: JANE BITCH. I HAVE NEW ORDERS.

uu: YOU WILL STRIP TO THE SCANTY PAIR OF PARTY PANTS AND THE CLOTH CHEST PIECE WHICH YOU WEAR UNDER THOSE PLAIN RAGS.

uu: THEN FIND A NAUGHTY PATCH OF MUD.

uu: AND ROLL AROUND IN THE MUD. LIKE AN EARTH PIG.

uu: FLAUNTING FOR ME. YOUR SLIPPERY AND SWOLLEN PORCINE PHYSICALITY.

uu: AND MAYBE GRUNT SOME DECADENT POEMS THROUGH YOUR SNOUT. ABOUT SOME SHITFACE YOU "ADOREFJSDKLJJF".

uu: OOOOH YES.

uu: THAT WOULD BE.

uu: *WRRRRETCHED!*

GG: GO FUCK YOURSELF!

uu: WAIT! DON'T SHUT ME OUT.

uu: REMEMBER WHAT I SAID. ABOUT OUR DIFFERENT CULTURES OR WHATEVER.

uu: HAVE A FUCKING OPEN MIND, JANE.

uu: I MADE YOU A PRESENT. FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY. WHATEVER THAT ACTUALLY IS.

uu: SEE HOW I'M MAKING AN EFFORT TO UNDERSTAND YOUR CUSTOMS?

uu: MEET ME HALF OF THE GODDAMN WAY.

GG: Oh cripes.

GG: What is it?

uu: A SUBLIME ARTISTIC PORTRAIT.

uu: REMEMBER HOW I SAID MY POWER WAS GROWING WITH EACH DAY.

uu: THIS APPLIES AS WELL TO MY PROWESS AS A DRAFTSMAN.

GG: Oh goodness, no. You poor delusional thing.

GG: I don't care what progress you think you've made. You will never be a good artist, dear.

uu: HORSESHIT.

uu: MY ILLUSTRATION IS STUNNING. IT IS NEARLY A PHOTOGRAPHIC REPRESENTATION OF YOUR ODIOUS MILKSHAKE.

uu: NOW PARK THE INDUSTRIAL LOAD OF FREIGHT YOU DECLARE A BOTTOM. AND FEAST YOUR EYES ON MY FUCKING EXCELLENCE!

uu: http://tinyurl.com/JANETHISISYOU

GG: Groan.

uu: I BELIEVE I HAVE CHOSEN THE PERFECT SHAPE FOR YOU.

uu: IT IS DESCRIBED IN CERTAIN CIRCLES KNOWLEDGEABLE OF THE ARTS. AS. "A CIRCLE".

uu: I AM VERY PLEASED WITH HOW FAITHFULLY IT HAS CAPTURED THE OBSCENE ROTUNDITY. OF YOUR MAGNIFICENT CARRIAGE.

uu: TRULY A SPITTING IMAGE OF THE CROCKER BITCH.

uu: NOW LISTEN CAREFULLY. YOU MAY LEARN SOMETHING.

uu: THE MASTERPIECE AFICIONADO WILL NOTICE. HOW I ACHIEVED THIS HIGHLY ADVANCED AND DIFFICULT SHAPE.

uu: WHAT MOST GIFTED ARTISANS WILL TELL YOU. IS THAT. CIRCLES ARE BASICALLY FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE TO DRAW.

uu: TRUST ME.

uu: IT'S LIKE A PARADOX. A SHAPE WITHOUT ANGLES. WHAT??

uu: SO I FUCKING CHEATED.

uu: I NAVIGATED THE IRRATIONAL PERIMETER BY MAKING A LOT OF EASILY UNDERSTANDABLE, TOTALLY LOGICAL MARKS. FORMING A WHOLE BUNCH OF LITTLE RIGHT ANGLES.

uu: THE CHEATING PART HAPPENS WHEN I DO THIS A LOT. SO IT GOES IN A ROUND DIRECTION.

uu: THIS ONE CAME OUT WELL I THINK. BUT THERE'S ROOM TO IMPROVE.

uu: I HAVE THEORIZED THAT IF I KEEP MAKING BOGUS CIRCLES LIKE THIS.

uu: WHILE DRAWING MORE AND MORE ANGLES. BUT SMALLER. SO SMALL THAT YOU START CAN'T SEEING THEM.

uu: THAT THE ILLUSION OF THE CIRCLE WILL BE COMPLETE! AND PEOPLE WILL BELIEVE IN THE FAKE CIRCLE. LIKE A BUNCH OF SUCKERS.

uu: I BET NOBODY HAS THOUGHT OF THAT CIRCLE STRATEGY. I THINK I'M THE FIRST AT THIS IDEA. AND BEST AT IT ALREADY.

uu: PEOPLE THINK I'M DUMB. ESPECIALLY THE VOICE IN MY HEAD.

uu: AND THEY MAY BE RIGHT ABOUT ME BEING DUMB.

uu: BUT WHEN IT COMES TO THE SPECIAL WAY I DO THINGS. WHICH IS ALWAYS ACTUALLY. THE PERFECT WAY.

uu: I AM.

uu: A GENIUS!

GG: That is the most pointless and incomprehensible load of drivel I have ever read.

GG: Your "portrait" is every bit as abysmal as I was expecting. And for the last time. I AM NOT FAT.

GG: I think your claims of attraction to heavyset women, which you present as "flattery," is an obvious ruse to get me to feel insecure about my appearance, and it isn't going to work!

uu: OINK.

GG: SHUT YOUR STUPID FACE!!!

GG: UGH, THIS BIRTHDAY IS SO AWFUL! I CAN'T STAND IT!

GG: WHY IS EVERYONE TREATING ME LIKE SHIT TODAY?

GG: WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS?!

uu: YOU WERE. WAIT. WHAT'S THE CONJUGATION ASSOCIATED WITH "HUMAN BIRTH"?

uu: IS IT. HUMAN BORTH?

uu: YOU WERE HUMAN BORTH.

GG: SHUT UP!

GG: I'M DONE HUMORING YOUR PERVERTED ADOLESCENT MIND GAMES!

GG: TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED TO CALLIOPE!

GG: CALLIOPE!!!

GG: WE WANT YOU BACK! PLEASE COME BACK AND SPARE US FROM THIS LECHEROUS NINCOMPOOP!

GG: CALLIOPE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

GG: WHY DOESN'T THIS WORK?!

uu: SAYING HER NAME ONLY WAKES HER UP. IF SHE'S ALIVE.

uu: SO YOUR HOG FACE CAN SNORT THE DIRTY SYLLABLES ALL IT WANTS. HELL, I WILL EVEN GIVE YOU A HAND!

uu: CALLIOPE! WAKE UP SIS!

uu: HAA HAA, WHOOPS. SHE CAN'T.

uu: THE BITCH IS DEAD!

GG: I DON'T BELIEVE YOU!

uu: NO IT'S TRUE. I GOT SOMEBODY TO STAB HER A LOT.

uu: THEN I STOLE HER BLOOD FOR MY LETTERS.

GG: NO!!! THAT CAN'T BE TRUE! I REFUSE TO BELIEVE EVEN YOU WOULD DO SOMETHING SO TERRIBLE!

uu: JANE BITCH. YOUR PREPOSTEROUS FEMALE EMOTIONS ARE GOING EARTH BANANAS AGAIN.

uu: SETTLE DOWN AND LISTEN TO BOY REASON. DO NOT MAKE ME DEMONSTRATE THE VERACITY OF MY FACTS. YET AGAIN.

uu: THAT SACCHARINE TRAMP IS SUCH A GONER. SHE'S NEVER COMING BACK.

uu: JUST LIKE YOUR DAPPER HUMAN GUARDIAN.

GG: WHAT?? WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT MY FATHER!

GG: WHERE IS HE?

uu: HE'S FUCKING DEAD IS WHERE.

GG: YOU'RE LYING AGAIN!!!

GG: TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW!

uu: GOD. I'M TRYING TO.

uu: MY FACTS ARE HAVING DIFFICULTY PENETRATING YOUR HYSTERICAL ATTITUDE. LISTEN TO ME VERY CLOSE.

uu: HE WAS CAPTURED BY AN AGENT SOON AFTER YOU BEGAN YOUR QUEST. HE WAS THEN PUT IN JAIL ON DERSE.

GG: Ok...

GG: So he's on Derse, then?

uu: BITCH, YOU AREN'T PAYING ATTENTION. DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THE PRISON SYSTEM ON DERSE?

uu: IT ISN'T LIKE THE SOFT TIME YOU DO ON PROSPIT. I BET YOU NEVER SPENT ANY TIME IN THE JOKE THEY CALL A SLAMMER THERE. LET ALONE ON DERSE.

GG: And I suppose you have??

uu: I WAS NOT VERY WELL BEHAVED. I DID MORE THAN MY SHARE OF TIME. CHAINED TO THE WALL OF A CELL.

uu: HEE HEE! LIKE I WASN'T SO USED TO THAT. I WAS LIKE. DO YOUR WORST.

uu: AND THEN THEY DID. DERSITES DO NOT TREAT THEIR PRISONERS GOOD. TO SAY THE LEAST!

uu: I WAS ONLY ABLE TO SURVIVE THE BRUTALITY. DUE TO MY EXCEPTIONAL CONSTITUTION. AND EVEN TO SOME EXTENT. MY ABILITY TO ENJOY ANGUISH.

uu: BUT YOUR PATHETIC, FRAIL HUMAN "DAD" IS A DIFFERENT STORY. THERE IS NO DOUBT AT ALL. THAT HE IS DEAD BY NOW!

GG: No. Don't say that. Shut up!

uu: YOU REALLY SHOULD BELIEVE ME. I HAVE UNLOCKED MANY OF HIS SCREENS, JUST LIKE YOURS.

uu: YOU SHOULD SEE HOW THEY TREATED HIM! THE HORROR HE EXPERIENCED MUST BE DIFFICULT FOR A HUMAN GIRL TO IMAGINE.

uu: PERHAPS I SHOULD CAPTURE ONE OF THE VISUALS. AND SHOW YOU FIRST HAND?

GG: YOU BASTARD! I SAID SHUT UP!!!

uu: HIS AGONY WAS MAGNIFICENT. AND VERY LONG LASTING. YOU SEE. HE WAS A VIP.

uu: A VERY IMPORTANT PRISONER. SO THEY GAVE HIM SPECIAL TREATMENT.

uu: UNDER SUCH CRUEL CIRCUMSTANCES. I BELIEVE HE WOULD HAVE TRADED HIS FAVORITE HAT. FOR A SWIFT END TO HIS HILARIOUS SUFFERING!

GG: STOP IT

uu: BUT IT WAS SO WONDERFUL AND GREAT TO WATCH!

uu: BETWEEN YOUR FATHER'S DEMISE. AND HIS DAUGHTER'S EPIC POSTERIOR. LOOMING LARGE ON MY VIDEO DISPLAYS.

uu: I REALLY MUST THANK YOUR ENTIRE "FAMILY". FOR HOURS OF SCANDALOUS ENJOYMENT!

GG: SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!!!

GG: FUCK YOU! HE'S NOT DEAD!

GG: MY DAD'S FINE, I'M NOT FAT, AND I HATE YOU! I'M NEVER TALKING TO YOU AGAIN!!!!!!

GG: AND STOP WATCHING ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

#homestuck #caliborn #jane crocker #homestuck act 6 #page 5551 #page 5552 #page 5553 #page 5554 #page 5555 #page 5556 #homestuck act 6 act 5 #homestuck act 6 act 5 act 1

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tropes-and-tales · 1 year ago

Text

🤮 FINALLY

Day 9: Exhibitionism (Frankie "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!)

CW: Light angst, kinda; idiots in love; enemies to lovers but not really; smut (fingering; exhibitionism; PiV, unprotected); 18+ only.

Word Count: 5553

AN: This was requested by @elegantmusicdragon!

AN: There is a sequel here!

The cabin is small: it only has two bedrooms. The Miller brothers claim the loft bedroom on the second floor, the steep eaves of the roof leaving barely enough room for Will and Ben. Pope, as the group’s resident planner, helps himself to the slightly larger bedroom on the first floor.

It leaves you and Frankie in the living room. There’s a lumpy couch; there’s a thin, rolled-up mattress for the floor.

There’s also a fair amount of antagonism between the two of you. It’s not complete hatred: it’s love-hate, maybe. Begrudging respect. Admiration, but only if someone put a gun to your head and made you admit it.

You just irritate each other. Too similar in some ways, too different in others. Polar opposites in some aspects, the same person in others. It’s been the same as long as you’ve known each other: there’s a low-simmering annoyance with each other that eventually blows up in a fight, then cools off in a period of niceness until it cedes back to annoyance. It’s been that way for as long as you’ve known each other—for years.

The hooking up is new.

The hooking up is so new the guys don’t know about it. You haven’t been hooking up long enough to get caught. Hell, it’s so new that even the two of you can barely fathom it. Each time a dalliance ends, you both have the same stunned, sheepish expression, like neither of you can believe it happened.

But it keeps happening: Frankie shows up at your door in the middle of the night. You turn up on his porch on a Sunday afternoon. You call each other; the other comes over eagerly enough. The two of you sneak off at a group hang-out, and you reappear long moments later to the larger group one at a time, flustered or overcompensating by being too casual.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you told him the last time you hooked up.

“Obviously not,” he agreed. “This is insane.”

Neither of you really meant it.

-----

The cabin is a thing Pope is trying to do. It’s a tradition he wants to start in the wake of Tom’s death. A way to keep everyone together, even if just for a long weekend every fall: the gang may drift apart, but they can reassemble once a year at least, for good food and drink and sitting around the campfire.

Thursday, and everyone rolls into the rental property where the cabin is perched along the shore of a lake. The Miller brothers turn up together; Frankie comes alone. You catch a ride with Pope since he flew into your hometown.

Thursday, and it’s just take-out pizza and beer from the nearby village. It’s stocking the cabin with provisions, unpacking, settling in, claiming where you’ll each sleep for the weekend. Pope builds a fire in the massive fire pit outside just as the sun is setting, and Frankie feels a calm settle over his nerves. He’s been clean now for over a year, but the cravings come and go. He glances across from him and studies where you sit between Will and Pope: the firelight casts you in an orange light, throws your features in sharp relief where shadows fall. You’re quiet tonight—maybe your nerves are bad too. Frankie knows you have your own anxieties.

Thursday, and when it’s time to turn in, you don’t even bother to fight Frankie for the mattress on the floor. You take the lumpy couch, and you fall off to sleep within minutes, leaving Frankie to lie awake with his own thoughts for a long while.

-----

Friday, and everyone is back in their groove with each other. There’s the usual laughter, the usual ribbing. Pope knocks Frankie’s hat off his head. Ben feigns a series of punches at Pope. Will wraps his arm around your waist and spins you until you slap at his arm and shriek for him to release you. It’s easy and familiar, like slipping into a faded old t-shirt washed to velvety softness.

Pope organizes a hike to the summit of a nearby mountain. The weather is so crisp and the air so clean it hurts Frankie’s sinuses to breathe. At the summit, the views are spectacular, stretching for miles in all directions, the hills and dales and low-slung mountains of this patch of Appalachia. Frankie is reminded that not everything is so complicated: there are swaths of wilderness where life is simple, where his problems seem small and inconsequential.

You all settle on a flat stretch of rock and eat lunch, sandwiches and apples from a farmstand in town that you packed in for the hike. Frankie watches you peel out of your boots and socks and stretch your bare feet against the sun-warmed rock. The conversation flows naturally; everyone shares their latest life updates, their hopes for the near-future.

If Tom is with you, his ghost rests lightly between the five of you.

On the hike back, there’s a tricky stretch of the trail, a switchback that was easier to climb up than it is to climb down. Frankie is behind you, taking up the rear, and he loses the rhythm of his hiking cadence when you suddenly balk. He pulls up just in time to not run into you.

“C’mon,” he grumbles, exasperated. With Pope at the head of the group, Frankie has just been on auto-pilot, his feet leading him forward, but now he’s been yanked out of his reverie by your sudden stopping.

“Ground’s covered in scree,” you reply. Frankie watches as you take a tentative step forward, reach out a steadying hand along the outcropping of rock. You do this sometimes, he knows—you have sudden moments of freezing up, afraid to fall, afraid to stumble and jam up a wrist or twist an ankle. Frankie watches in exasperation as you suddenly transform from an assured hiker to a bumbling newborn foal, all shaky legged and trembling hands.

“C’mon,” he repeats. “Move.”

“Don’t rush me.” The words come out tense, pushed out between clenched teeth. You hate being weak, sure, but you hate being weak in front of others—especially Frankie.

“Don’t be a baby.”

“I’m not.” You take another careful step forward, your toe knocking some of the scree loose.

“It’s not even that steep here.”

“I’m going as fast as I feel comfortable.” You turn your head, glance at him, and Frankie sees the animal panic in your wide, unblinking eyes, your nostrils flaring as you take shallow breaths. “Go around if you have to.”

He doesn’t have to go around you but he does. He heaves a sigh, edges around you on the trail, and he doesn’t miss the quiet little whimper of fear as you press yourself against the face of the mountain to make room for him. He doesn’t glance back to see that you’re fully frozen now, not moving at all—until Ben notices and reverses back to rescue you.

“Overthinking it?” he asks. Frankie can’t make out your reply, but it makes Ben chuckle, then add, “well, let’s get you off this part then, yeah?”

Friday, and Frankie learns that there’s an ugly streak of jealousy in him. Ben manages to peel you off of the mountain face with gentle teasing and good humor, and Ben is the one to wipe away the couple of shaky tears that squeezed out during your crisis of courage. The group rearranges itself: Pope then Will, then Frankie, and you and Ben at the rear, and Frankie seethes the rest of the hike back to hear the two of you joking and teasing.

Friday, and Frankie learns that he can be jealous over you. He’s quiet over dinner as he turns over this new intel about himself.

Friday, and when it’s time to turn in, you take the couch again. Frankie lies awake and watches you in the faint silvery moonlight streaming in through the curtains, and he berates himself for letting Ben step in where he could have intervened. Frankie could have been kinder, could have helped you. You’ve never been cruel to him about his own struggles. A little episode of panic on a low-stakes hike would have cost him nothing in terms of kindness.

Frankie does something he’s never done before with you.

“Hey,” he whispers. “You awake?”

You huff out heavy breath, a low groan. “I am now.”

A long stretch of silence passes. Frankie can’t quite get the words out; his tongue feels like it’s glued to the roof of his mouth. Enough time passes that you sigh again, roll over on the squeaky couch.

“Sorry,” he manages to mutter. It comes out gruffer than he’d like, more mean-sounding.

“What?”

“I said I’m sorry.” Now he sounds defensive, a bit petulant.

“Oh.” A beat, then, “for what?”

He rolls over on the mattress and faces where you lie feet apart from him, slightly higher than him on the couch. “For being a dick on the hike.”

“Ah.”

There’s another long beat of silence, and then the room lights up as you turn your phone on. He hears you tapping on it, and he asks what you’re doing.

“Just marking the date and time. Latitude and longitude.” In the white light cast across your face, Frankie can see your smirk. “Need to know where to put the memorial plaque when the time comes.”

“Huh?”

“You know.” You lock your phone and toss it aside, and Frankie hears you roll over to face him. In the scant light from the moon, he can just make out your face, still smirking. “The commemorative plaque. On this place and on such-and-such date, Francisco Morales offered the first apology in his life.”

Frankie bristles. “Funny, but I’ve apologized lots of times before.” He thinks of his ex-wife, his mother, Tom’s wife. He’s apologized plenty: for his bad behavior, for his poor choices, for all the ways he’s lacked as a son or a husband or a teammate.

“Not to me you haven’t.”

“Bullshit.” He rolls onto his back and stares up at the rough-hewn boards of the cabin’s ceiling. “I probably have.”

“Bullshit,” you retort. “You haven’t.”

“Well now I have, and I damned well regret it.”

You laugh softly, but it doesn’t have its usual bitter edge to it. You don’t add anything for so long that Frankie’s eyelids start to get heavy, but just as sleep starts to lap around his ankles, he hears you say, far softer than before, “I appreciate it, Fish.”

Friday, then: Frankie learns he has a jealous streak for you, and he learns that he can feel ashamed of how he sometimes treats you. Both revelations pale in comparison to how he feels to own up to his less-than-stellar behavior…and how he feels when you accept his apology rather than retaliate with your own less-than-stellar behavior.

-----

Saturday, and the day starts promising: sun in the blue sky, bird song, the wind rustling through the leaves. Storm clouds gather after noon, low and fast-moving, blotting out the sky, and the evening turns into a torrential storm.

You and Pope go into town to pick up more beer, a bottle of wine for dinner. Frankie and the Miller boys stay behind. Ben gets a headache and goes to nap it off, which leaves Frankie and Will alone on the cabin’s porch, watching the rain disturb the mirror surface of the lake as they nurse a couple of longnecks.

“Good to have everyone here,” Will offers after a while.

Frankie grunts in agreement. He doesn’t mention Tom, and neither does Will.

Will handles the bulk of the conversation, which is really just gossip about you and Pope and Ben since you’re all absent. It doesn’t come across as especially catty, though, since Will spins everything in his motivational lingo.

Then Will touches on you and Frankie’s rocky relationship. He takes a sip from his bottle and gives Frankie a sidelong glance, says, “heard the two of you talking last night. Surprised it didn’t end in yelling.”

Frankie snorts and takes a drink of his own beer. “First time for everything.” He shakes his head, rueful, and adds, “we’ve just never got along. You know that.”

Will nods in that irritatingly sage way he has now. “Well, you’re both crabs.”

“She makes me crabby. I’m usually fine otherwise.”

The man chuckles and shake his head. “Nah, I mean you’re both crabs. You’ve both got tough shells. Even if you could get out of your own shell, you’d have to get past hers and vice versa. Double walls up, whatever you want to call it. Makes it tough to connect.”

Frankie bites back the obvious response: that you and he connect plenty, in a carnal way, and that Will’s dumb analogy would crumble the moment Frankie mentions that the two of you fuck often, and that you don’t have a tough shell when he’s balls deep in you. Instead, he snorts again and says, “okay,” heavy on the sarcasm.

“The problem with a crab’s shell though,” Will adds in that faux-wise tone of his, “is that if you don’t shed them once in a while you can never grow.”

Frankie almost wishes you were here to hear this bullshit too. You’re irritating, but as a fellow crab, you’d tell Will to fuck off, to go play shrink with someone else.

-----

You and Pope return, and the two of you handle dinner together. Pope sears the steaks on the grill outside; you make fresh pasta and sauté late-season vegetables. Ben is pulled from the loft bedroom by the scent of the food, headache gone, and everyone circles up around the table to eat and drink.

The fire snaps in the fireplace and the rain drums against the roof, and Frankie hasn’t felt so relaxed since South America and the scramble over the Andes that ultimately claimed Tom’s life. He glances around the table, and it occurs to him that aside from his parents, the people he loves best in the world are all right here with him. Even you, he supposes.

He lets the good food and drink and warmth of the fire work against his anxiety. He feels the snarls and tangles of his tight muscles—those perpetually tense shoulders hiked up near his ears—unlock. He feels all those bad feelings, the constant self-doubt and low-level depression ebb into the distance. He is lulled into a drowsy state as he eats, as he sips at his wine, and he rejoins the conversation in process and finds himself jolted by its subject.

It's Pope needling you, and the man is clearly picking up a thread from earlier between the two of you. He’s asking you about some guy, some guy named Paolo, and Frankie feels an uncomfortable prickle along the back of his neck.

“Just call him sometime,” Pope tells you. “Grab a coffee or something.”

“Nah, Santi.” You push a bite of steak around your plate and don’t look up. “I don’t think so.”

“I think the two of you would get along.”

“I’m not really interested.”

“Why not?” Will interjects, catching up faster than Frankie. Then to Pope, “you trying to set her up?”

Pope nods at Will’s question as you shrug and mumble something about being out of the dating game for too long, and Frankie stares at you, wills you to look up at him, but you don’t.

“Which is why this is perfect,” Pope replies. “Paolo is coming out of a long-term thing. He needs a gentle reintroduction to dating too. C’mon…what would lunch hurt? Or dinner?”

“You should think about it,” Will adds. He glances over at Frankie, catches his eye. “Might help for you to get out of your shell.”

You laugh at that. “I think I’m good, William, but thanks.”

Then Ben gets in on it, Ben and Will and Pope cajoling you into dating this Paolo guy. The Millers point out your paltry dating history, your lack of serious relationships—you’ve never even lived with a guy, let alone edged up against an engagement or marriage. Pope tells you about Paolo, some coworker in his contracting work with a failed marriage, something about cheating, the man is hurting, blah blah. Frankie is shocked to find that his jealous streak isn’t just wide but deep—it feels like a bone-deep ache, a cold searing in his gut as the guys egg you on, try to convince you to just meet the dude.

“What do you say, Fish?” Pope asks, and Frankie glances up and finds your eyes settled on him. There’s a question there, but Frankie can’t see beyond his own tough exterior to know what it is.

“Sure,” he replies with a shrug he hopes looks nonchalant. “I’m sure this Paolo guy would love to be disappointed by you.”

Which earns him a punch in the shoulder from Ben, who’s sitting beside him, and rolled eyes from Pope, and a disappointed tsk-ing from Will.

Frankie doesn’t see how his barb lands with you, though. As soon as he launches it, he looks away, looks down at his plate, so he can’t see if you are hurt or not by him.

But he hears your reply to Pope. He hears you say, “you know what? Sure. Give him my number. I don’t have any better prospects.”

-----

The rest of the evening is a blur. There’s a robust game of poker, low stakes, and the beer flows steady as the conversation.

Frankie goes mute, only mumbles out monosyllabic answers when the conversation turns to him. His thoughts turn maudlin.

He always felt a step ahead of the guys. More mature. More of a man. Him and Tom, both: making the adult choice to marry instead of drifting around in the chaos of the post-army bachelor life. Where Pope and the Millers lived in bland beige apartment complexes, strung together short-term relationships and hook-ups, Frankie had a house with a wife. He felt a smug satisfaction when he’d meet up with the guys back then, like he and Tom were the sage elder statemen of the group.

You had been there too, of course, but it was different with you. Back then, Frankie used to compare you against his wife—you were the other woman in his life, so you were a handy comparison to his wife, Sophia. You were prickly where Soph was sweet. Opinionated where Soph wasn’t. When Frankie held the two of you up, it made Sophie shine brighter.

But now hindsight is twenty-twenty. Because Frankie always compared the two of you, he can’t help but craft an alternate universe where a marriage to you had faltered and then fell apart. With Soph, it had been ugly: she never spoke up, never held him to account for his increasingly bad behavior as his addiction took hold. She merely left one day—Frankie came home to an empty house and instructions to not reach out to her, that her lawyer would be in touch.

You’re the one who had confronted Frankie. You’re the one who arranged for the intervention, who chased him when he stormed out, who grabbed him by the arm and shook him, told him he had to get his shit together and get help. You’re the one who handled everything: packing his bag, getting him on the plane to the rehab. You found him a place for when he got out, you and Pope salvaging as much as you could from his marital home before it was sold as part of the divorce.

And now he’s back to square one, but even more so. He’s divorced. He’s a recovering addict. He’s got a bad back and a suspended pilot’s license. He’s nobody’s bargain, as the song goes, but he wonders how much his low mood right now is linked to you. Pope and the Millers talk you up, gas you up for this date with Pope’s buddy, and Frankie feels worse and worse the more he realizes you may slip away from him.

It's a startling revelation that he even cares. If asked, he’d lie and say he doesn’t, that you can date whoever you want, move away to wherever. That if he never sees you again, he’ll be perfectly okay, because the two of you have never gotten along and the hooking up has just been two bored, lonely people mutually using each other.

But he remembers a million little moments of you being…not kind, maybe. You’re prickly with your kindness, you sigh and roll your eyes when you do nice things for him, but you’re the one who started him on the path of recovery. You’re the one who stood in front of him at Tom’s wake and told him in a low voice that it wasn’t his fault, it was no one’s fault but Tom’s own greed.

Hell, he bets you’ve even taken the couch this whole time in the cabin because of his bad back.

Frankie feels like he’s close to some world-altering revelation, but it’s just beyond his grasp. Instead, he just stews: his memories circle around his failed marriage, how he was never further ahead than the guys after all. His memories shift to you then, circle around you: the most irritating person he’s ever known, yet the one who probably saved his life. The frustrating woman who has had his back for years, who squabbles with him and argues with him and (lately) has been fucking him with equal aplomb.

-----

When everyone turns in for the night, Frankie waits a long while before he hisses out your name. You don’t sigh or groan like he’s woken you up; you answer him by saying his name back with a questioning lilt.

“You can take the mattress if you want,” he whispers. “If the couch is uncomfortable.”

“It is, but I’m fine.” A beat, and you confirm his suspicion by adding, “your back.”

“Mattress is wide enough for both of us.”

He hears your quiet snort of laughter. “Nice try, Fish.”

“What?”

“You know what. If I lie down with you, you’ll get all handsy.”

Frankie smiles in the darkness. “You don’t mind my hands usually.”

Some spring deep in the couch squeals as you roll over. “We said we weren’t doing that anymore.”

“We say that every time,” Frankie points out. “And then you call me at two in the morning because you need it so bad.”

You snort. “I never need it.” You’re silent for a long moment, then add, “and anyway, I’m actually looking forward to meeting Pope’s friend.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious.” Your voice does lose its snarky, insouciant tone—you sound uncharacteristically somber. “I need to get my shit together. I’m tired of being alone all the time.”

That stings Frankie a little, like all those moments with him don’t count, even though he knows they don’t. You’re talking about being alone, all those times you need someone to talk to or cuddle up with or just be with. Frankie and your hooking up isn’t any of that; it’s a lone moment of physicality without any of the intimacy.

“And you think Paolo is the one then?” he asks, and the name Paolo drips with disdain that he doesn’t bother to hide. You hear it, too.

“You sound jealous, Fish.”

“’m not.”

“Because I thought I was just gonna disappoint him anyway, so why would you be jealous?”

“Said I’m not.” He’s not jealous. He isn’t. The bloom of hot acid in his gut is something else entirely. Maybe Pope didn’t cook the steaks thoroughly enough. Maybe it was too much red wine.

Now your voice turns faux-casual, conversational, like you’re just gabbing with a girlfriend. “Do you think Paolo is hot?” you ask.

“Probably looks like a troll doll.”

“I bet he’s big. Huge.”

“Gross.”

“Bet he’s slinging a real hog around.”

Frankie scoffs. “Pope said he’s divorced because his wife cheated on him. He’s probably tiny.”

“Ooooh, you’re definitely jealous.” Another rustling of your blankets, and then Frankie feels it—your bare foot reaching down and out to where he lays, your cold toes kicking him lightly in the side. He swats at you, but you pull your foot back at the last minute with a laugh.

“Fuck off,” he grits out. “I’m not.”

Another playful kick that clips him in the shoulder. “Aw, Fish, did you fall for me? Are you in love? Are you—”

He’s quicker this time, and he catches your foot, catches his hand around your ankle and tugs you towards him. You squeal; he gets you halfway off the couch but not entirely and there’s a moment of tug-of-war. Frankie doesn’t release your ankle, and you try to break his hold, but Frankie (who knows how strong you are, how good you are at self-defense) doesn’t think you really fight him that hard.

Instead, you let him pull you the rest of the way onto the floor. You let him tug you across the short span between the couch and the mattress, and he’d smirk and gloat at how willingly you come to him, but within a second you are beside him. You smell smoky, like the snapping wood fire of the evening has burrowed into your hair, and you smell like the wet, washed-clean earth and loam, and you smell like the slightly-metallic water of the lake, and Frankie’s mouth finds yours, seals over yours, steals away any other teasing or arguing you may do.

Part of him hates how well the two of you fit together. For as much as you squabble and irritate each other, in these moments, you are perfectly in line with each other. On the same wavelength. Frankie kisses you deeply, tastes you beyond the mint of your toothpaste, and he still—even after all these moments, all these stolen interludes—gets a fluttery swoop in his gut when you slide your tongue against his.

He maneuvers you underneath him and you go willingly. Eagerly. He wishes sometimes he could read your mind. He wonders what you’re thinking in these moments. Have you been lying beside him the past few nights, wanting this to happen? Or are you only riled up and slick to his searching fingers because of the idea of this Paolo, a man who could theoretically assuage your loneliness?

The thought makes that deep streak of jealousy pulse inside him, so he breaks the kiss as his fingers slide into you. He feels how wet you are, always wet and hot for him, and he hisses into your ear, “this for me?”

“Fuck off, Fish.” You whisper it back, and in the wan moonlight, Frankie can see you glaring up at him.

He pulls his finger out, adds a second, pushes both into you. He catches how your eyelids flutter, how your lips part at the stretch of his digits. He studies your face as he pulls out, pushes back in a handful of times.

“Tell me,” he demands. He keeps his voice low, aware that the Millers are asleep in the loft above you and Pope is asleep in the bedroom just beyond the small galley kitchen.

“I said fuck off.” You enunciate the fuck clearly, catch your lower lip between your teeth as you hiss out the eff. As guilty as Frankie feels to compare you to his ex-wife, the differences are never more stark than here: Sophie had been completely soft, completely submissive in the bedroom, never quite willing to do more than a handful of positions or situations. Fucking you is like wrestling a wild cat sometimes, and you make him work for it, and Frankie kinda loves it.

He clucks his tongue in mock sympathy. He pushes his two fingers into you as deep as he can, then crooks them inside you, strokes your inner wall until you gasp underneath him.

“There it is,” he croons. He dips his head, drags the slick muscle of his tongue along your pulse point where your heartbeat jumps and thunders away. “Knew I’d find it.”

“Fish—”

“Always find it.” He moves his thumb, presses it lightly against your swollen clit. “Pope’s dumb fucking buddy could never.”

You laugh but it’s breathless as he works his hand against you. You tangle a hand in his hair and tug against him, steer his head back to you.

“Knew you were jealous, you asshole,” you whisper. You surge forward and nip at the side of his neck, and he bites back his own groan, hushes you, reminds you that the guys are nearby and you have to be quiet.

Frankie reaches down and shoves his sweatpants down enough to free his aching cock, and he doesn’t even bother to get you out of your sleep shorts. He only shoves them to the side and then removes his hand, guides his cock to replace his fingers. He hears the low groan you give at the contact, so he reaches up a hand and covers your mouth and pushes into you in one firm, deep thrust. His hand absorbs your moan as he mounts you, but he looses his own groan to be back inside your clenching heat. You both freeze for a long moment—his cock twitching inside you, your cunt bearing down on him—but none of the guys make a noise, so you proceed as quietly as you can.

You’re not nearly quiet enough.

*****

Pope is woken by the sound of a thump, like a body hitting the floor.

That’s exactly what it is: Frankie yanking you off of the couch, and just as Pope starts to wake up, starts to swing around and put his feet on the floor, he hears a moan.

Ben sleeps like the dead and hears nothing: not you and Frankie squabbling in whispers, not you and Frankie fucking, and not the furious clicking of Will in the other bed, texting back and forth with Pope. He’s only woken up later.

Will hears everything. He never fell asleep at all, only drowsed a bit, so he heard you and Frankie talking down below.

Then he hears the same thump as Pope, then the same moan.

His first thought is that Frankie has made you cry, that Frankie has said something mean enough to break that tough dam that holds back your emotions. But then he hears a gasp (yours), a low chuckle (Frankie’s) and he realizes what he’s hearing.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out. “No way.”

His cell phone, silenced, lights up with a message. Will unlocks it and sees that it is Pope.

Please tell me I’m not hearing what I think I’m hearing, the text reads.

Will responds. Not sure, he types.

Pope: You got eyes on them???

Will: No way

Pope: Sounds like she’s crying. Need confirmation.

Will: NO

Pope: Ur in the loft. Confirm.

Will sighs, mutters “fuck.” It does sound like you’re crying and trying to hide it, breathy, bitten-back moans that could be crying or could be…you and Frankie fucking.

The former seems unlikely. Will’s never seen you cry, and he thinks he’s only heard you once—a similar gasping sound, through a flimsy motel room wall in Central America as you made your way back to the States with Tom’s body.

The latter—the thought of you and Frankie fucking—seems even more unlikely. Yet when he freezes, when he holds his own breath so long he hears his heart beating in his ears, Will swears he can hear the quiet rustling of fabric, heavy breathing that sounds more like Frankie.

He moves as slow as if he were on a mission. He turns around on the trundle bed and crawls to the edge of it, a millimeter at a time. He reaches the open doorway of the loft; there is no door, and it looks down at the first floor, and when he peers over the railing, he sees the two of you awash in silvery moonlight.

Frankie, on top of you. Your knees on either side of Frankie’s hips, one hand gripping his curls at the nape of his neck, the other hand reaching down and grasping his ass, guiding him where he fucks into you in slow, deep strokes.

Will doesn’t know why he never saw it before. This can’t be the first time between you—you move too well together. The two of you have always grated against each other, but no one ever really thought it was hatred. You and Frankie love each other in your own way, Will guesses, and maybe this is just a facet of that.

You helping Frankie get clean: another facet of that love.

Frankie going silent at the thought of you dating Pope’s work buddy: another facet of that love, perhaps?

Will retreats just as slowly. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment, though he thinks he’ll need therapy to erase the vision of the two of you fucking from his mind. He climbs back into bed carefully, then texts Pope.

She’s not crying, he types out.

She’s not??? Pope replies.

Yeah, dude, Will types. She and Fish are fucking.

Pope responds with a puking emoji first, but then he adds, FINALLY.

#frankie morales #frankie morales imagine #frankie morales x reader #catfish morales #catfish morales imagine #catfish morales x reader #triple frontier #kinktober 2023 #tropes and tales

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