#Sour writes: Finding Frankie | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

luxurychristmaspudding · 11 months ago

Text

Pickup Truck

summary: frankie hates your boyfriend. in fact, everybody does. but he’s willing to give him a chance. you’re his best friend, after all. until frankie discovers something he can never forgive.

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+. MDNI. this fic contains allusions to, but no descriptions of, domestic abuse. please do not proceed if you know this will upset you.

frankie's pov. no lady and no baby for our boy. drinking, violence (against pos bf), angst, lots of hurt, allusions to dv. comfort, fluff. frankie to the rescue. unprotected p in v (wrap it irl!). oral, f receiving. creampie. bad spanish (again). kings of leon references. happy ending, of course.

wc: 9.8k

an: whew, this was an emotional one to write. but i hope a good love comes to all of you in time, no matter where you are at the moment. and if you already have it, may it always keep you safe. lovely divider from @saradika.

Frankie really doesn’t like your boyfriend.

Scratch that. Nobody does.

Nobody really knows where you found him, either. A sweet, smart girl like you, moved back to your small town from your big city life, and it looks like you picked up the very first guy who sidled up to you in a grimy bar.

Which, if you’re really honest, is exactly what happened. Because he was nice at first. Real nice. He was charming and sweet and interested - he bought you drinks all night and didn’t push to come in when he walked you home. You went for dinner a few times, and sure, he could be a little rude to the waitstaff, but it was only because he was so focused on you. He bought you flowers and took you for rides, and sure, sometimes he’d come home far too drunk after seeing his friends and get a little too close, a little too loud, but he always apologised.

And sure, he sometimes made you cry, but he always made it up to you. Sweet promises, small gifts. And he'd never laid a finger on you.

Not until last week, anyway.

You don’t know what to do. You don’t know who to turn to. The thought of it makes you so sick you have to lock yourself in the bathroom at work. How did this happen? How did it turn so sour?

And how do you get out?

Walk you home to see

Where you're livin' around

And I know this place

Frankie walks you home from the bonfire. He always does.

It’s his favourite moment of the night.

He gets to have you all to himself. Gets to watch your cheeks cool in the night air, watch as the blush from the heat of the fire subsides. Your giddy, wide eyes, your tipsy babbling about stories which had been swapped over the flames, picking out particularly scandalous details for you two to giggle about before doubling over into breathless laughter over something Benny had said.

He likes to hold your elbow, your hand, as you catch him in your amusement, gripping onto his bicep. He loves to lose himself in this little pocket of time with you.

He loves the sparkle of the stars, the glow of the streetlights as they light your features.

Frankie loves you.

And he’s so glad you’ve moved back from your life in the big city to come and be around your real friends again. So glad that you’ve all found your way back to each other. Tonight has left him with such a mellow tingle in his bones that he finds he can’t stop smiling at you, looking at you, on your walk home.

Bonfire nights have always been your monthly hangout, a time when you can be sure you’ll get the whole gang together. There used to be more of you through highschool, and still a fair few during college. It dipped when the boys joined the forces, when people moved further east and further north. But eventually Frankie, Benny, Santi, and Will had come back. Jessa, your other best friend, had returned too. A few others coming and going - Lily, Marcus, Maggie - also back and forth from their new homes to their old ones. And then eventually folk had just… settled.

Frankie felt like he was one of the last, like he was maybe the one finding it the hardest, retired to a life of civvy duties. Unable to hold down a girlfriend, struggling to stick at a job, sofa surfing around friends’ places. He was still flying whenever he could, but then this coke allegation happened, and it was like the world was finally swept from under him.

You were the first person he had called, the first person to talk him down from his panic, that debilitating squeeze around his heart when he thought about the future. The first person who made him feel like it would be okay.

So of course his joy when you had come back had been immeasurable. Maybe this time, he’d thought.

And then you’d met Tanner.

He’s pulled from his thoughts as you drag your hand out of his, skipping a little further up the dark street until you reach a corner. Frankie watches as you spin on the spot in the quiet neighbourhood, gesturing down the pathway before you.

‘This is me.’ You say.

But you don’t turn to keep walking. You watch him, a small, excited smile on your lips. Like you’re waiting for him to work it out.

Frankie drags his eyes from you, away from thoughts of your new boyfriend, to look up and down the street you’ve led him to, and for a second he is pulled beneath the ebbing flow of memory, towed with the riptide of things forgotten.

This is his grandmother’s street. Was his grandmother’s street.

The cracked concrete, the peeling paint of the porches. The weeds, the flowers, the smell.

He breathes your name like you’re the only thing tethering him to the now.

Breathes your name through the bright, sunny flashes of his childhood. His mama bringing him here with his brother, his papa swinging him by his legs in the flower-riddled front garden. Cartoons in the ripe heat of the afternoons, him and his cousins stuffing their faces with Guagitas and Frugele until they’d made themselves sick while the younger siblings napped in the sunbeams of the bedroom next door. Cycling over on his bike after school to sit at her kitchen table to do his homework, letting her fuss over him - his height, his friends, his grades, girls -

A skinnier, younger Frankie stopping by his abuela’s house with you to pick up her up for his nineteenth birthday party, along with her homemade tamales, her chiles rellenos, and specially made pumpkin sopaipillas for later on. The way you had chatted to her, natural, easy going, how you had made her laugh, her eyes sparkle. How, when you had taken some of the plates to the car, his abuela had pinched his cheek. I like her, she’d said, Será tuya algún día, mm, mijo? And Frankie had flushed bright red, batting her arms away as she chuckled at him. He had hidden in the back bedroom when you came in from outside, and listened a little longer to your conversation as he waited for the heat of his face to die down. When he reemerged, you had helped his grandmother into her shoes, her cardigan, and kept ahold of her arm until she got into Frankie’s beat up old car. At the end of the night, his abuela had kissed both your cheeks several times, rocked you back and forth in a hug, and clapped her hands as she said how she looked forward to seeing you again.

When you came home from college every summer, you’d have tea with her in her garden. She always asked Frankie about you, about how you are doing. When he told her you were coming home, she’d been so excited. Quizás este sea el momento? She’d said to him, squeezing his hand. He’d smiled, his heart quietly full of hope. Tal vez, abuela, he’d said.

When he called you two weeks later, his voice weak from crying, to tell you that she’d passed, you had been heartbroken. And it seemed like her wish, the red thread she’d seen between the two of you, had been snipped, too.

Pour yourself on me

And you know I'm the one

That you won't forget

Frankie likes to listen to you talk, because he’s never much been one for talking.

He supposes you just bring it out of him, though. Because here on this street, in the moonlight, he tells you more about his grandmother. You spend hours walking up and down the pavement as he recounts every story he can remember; him and his brother, his parents, aunts and uncles, cousins. Birthdays, weddings, funerals. The street comes alive with the ghosts of people, the spectres of feelings. You and Frankie talk of growing up. Of falling in love. Of each other.

Your small, well-loved house is half way down the street, four up from his abuela’s. It does something strange to his heart to have two of his favourite people, who loved each other in their own ways, so close but so far away.

Your fingers hold his wrist as he shows you a scar on his palm from eating shit on his bike when he was eight, and when he looks up, your eyes are shining under the streetlights. There is a glint of moon in your teeth, and a shocking want so clear on your face, but when he meets your eye there is suddenly hesitation, a realisation, a shuttering. Frankie stops his story. There is a moment, and then it slips away like sand.

You shiver, chilled all of a sudden, and wrap your arms around yourself. Frankie tries not to look too hard at the goose bumps blossoming on your bare skin, tries to fight off the urge to kiss the little raises until you’re warm again under his touch.

‘Cold?’ he asks, and you smile back up at him. God, his heart.

‘As a hole,’ you giggle, and he feels himself smile goofily back at you. ‘We gotta warm up.’ You say, and then freeze.

It takes Frankie a little while longer to hear the inadvertent invitation in your words.

Boyfriend. Boyfriend.

You both stand on the porch, frozen, like some great frost has swept over the land. If Frankie squints, he can imagine the glitter of your eyeshadow, now fallen, dusted on your cheeks, is a collective of tiny constellations of ice.

Your body is wracked with a shiver again, but when Frankie looks you in the eye, you’re burning up from the inside. He swallows.

If he could only make the steps towards you. If he could only will his heavy feet to move, if he could summon his nerves to do exactly what his brain says, he would already be in front of you. He would have your face in his hands, be able to look into your eyes to see that deep, hidden want again, and kiss you. Again and again and again, and he wouldn’t stop, because things like that shitty boyfriend of yours wouldn’t matter anymore.

No. The whole world would be glitter and stars and constellations of ice crystals.

And then you blink, smile softly, and wish him a goodnight.

When he can finally lift his foot to move, your door is already closed.

And in your denim eyes

I see that something's awry

And I see you’re weak

You don’t see Frankie for a while after that, always finding a way to brush off his attempts to hang out.

At first he doesn’t worry too much about it. You’ve just moved back - you have a new job, a new place, new friends to get to know. Tanner.

Frankie finds other things to do. He gets business cards made up for the flying school he’ll be setting up next month. He pilots people across the state, sometimes across the country. He sees the boys for drinks, even sees Jessa for a coffee. He starts to worry when they say their texts have gone mostly unanswered, and they haven’t seen you either.

It must be why he turns up on your front step one day, a six pack in hand.

You open the door on the second ring of the doorbell, and Frankie finds himself rendered speechless. You look… different.

Tired and wary, a little thinner. And when he gets you chatting, you say you haven’t really been anywhere, done anything. You’ve been settling in, getting used to it. You have two beers each, but you seem on edge, like you’re waiting for a knock on the door. And then Frankie asks about Tanner, and your eyes linger on the entryway a little longer.

‘Yeah,’ you say, ‘He’s okay.’

Frankie’s jaw twitches, his stomach clenching uncomfortably.

‘Just okay?’ He asks.

Because you should be excited. You should be gushing and giddy and falling in love. But you’re not.

‘Yeah,’ you shrug. ‘He’s good.’

There’s something in your eyes. Something which shrinks away, skitters back. Something drained, something sapped of life, of energy. Hurt, maybe. Fear, perhaps.

When Frankie thinks back now, he knows he should have pressed you harder. Maybe should have taken you to his, made you talk a little more for a little longer. Away from Tanner, the threat of his presence. But he didn’t. He didn’t.

And he hates himself for it.

When he comes around

I see you're fixin' to shine

And my face won't speak

When Frankie next sees you, you’ve had a hair cut, and there are deep, dark bags under your eyes. Both of these things worry him equally.

Your beautiful hair that you’d been growing out since you were young, hair that you swore you’d never cut shorter than it was in seventh grade, when your mum had to chop it into a bob after you got gum caught in it. And here it is now, much shorter.

Jessa says she likes it, and you give her a watery smile, a weak thank you. She asks where you had it done, when. She asks if you like it, and you shrug. You say you’re trying something new. You say Tanner likes it.

Over your shoulder, Frankie exchanges a look with Santi.

You’re quiet the whole time you're at the bar. Far too quiet, so far from the bubbly conversation you usually hold, your loud cackle, your bent-double amusement. Your affection for your friends - the hands on knees, arms around shoulders, kisses pressed to cheeks. It’s hardly there.

Frankie offers to walk you home, but you wave him off kindly. Tanner’s picking me up, you say, he’s probably outside. Jessa frowns at you.

‘Are you sure, babe?’ She says. ‘It’s not even late yet.’

You smile and nod at her, gather your stuff to go. Jessa catches your arm.

‘We’re still on to go shopping Saturday, though - right?’

You smile at her, the first warm one you’ve mustered all night.

‘Of course,’ you say, ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

When you stand to leave, you hug everybody goodbye. Tightly, for longer than usual. Frankie doesn’t give you an option when he walks you out to Tanner’s car. The smug prick is hanging out the driver’s seat window. He watches Frankie as you walk up, hostile, threatening, arrogant, and somehow still ridiculous. And, Frankie thinks cruelly - ugly.

Frankie pulls you into his arms a few steps away from your boyfriend. He kisses your hair, and you sigh.

‘Have a good time on Saturday,’ he says softly. You twitch a smile at him.

‘Thank you, Frankie.’ You say before stepping back and walking to open the passenger door. As you climb in, Tanner winks at him.

‘Gettin’ a new one tomorrow,’ he says, stupid fucking grin on his face. ‘New car. Exciting stuff. Anyway, better get this one back,’ he says, squeezing your knee a little too hard. You don’t look at Frankie, something like humiliation colouring your cheeks. ‘See you around, Frank.’ Tanner says.

Frankie steps back from the car as it glides forwards, and he watches it disappear up the street.

Deep anger burns in him. And a kind of fear. It crawls over his skin, cooling the sides of his neck. His heart churns uncomfortably in his chest.

He tells your friends about it when he returns to the table. And they form a plan. Jessa texts you a time she’ll pick you up on Saturday. You say you’re excited again, you need some new clothes.

But Frankie knows Jessa won’t take you shopping.

No, she brings you here, to the beach, to the bonfire. To him, to Santi and Benny and Will. Because they’re worried.

So worried, they tell you.

They sit you down in one of the chairs around the fire, and they explain why they’re worried. They tell you they love you - so much - and they just need to know if you’re okay. Because they can help. They want to help, want you out of this, because he’s not good for you. The silence, the hair, the clothes you were going to buy. They tell you they hate the way he doesn’t let you speak, how he speaks to you. And you are so quiet through all of it, Frankie begins to get more worried. He speaks to you gently over the fire, but you can’t meet his eye. He tells you his worries, their love for you again. He swallows down his own confession, anything to make you see. How they don’t want you pushed closer to him, want you to be pulled closer to them instead.

But your eyes are so vacant, so far away, that Jessa leaves her deckchair next to you to sit on the burned up log closer to you on your other side. She takes your hands, and you finally, finally look at her. You open your mouth, and you say so quietly -

‘You’re right. You’re right.’

It feels like the biggest gulp of oxygen Frankie has ever taken. He feels lightheaded from the relief, from the knowledge. They were right, they were right, which is a terrible, terrible thing.

Will clears his throat, and Frankie looks at him to see similar thoughts flicking over his face like film reel. He licks his lips, opens his mouth, and -

Hate to be so emotional

I didn't aim to get physical

But when he pulled in and revved it up

I said, ‘You call that a pickup truck?’

And in the moonlight I throwed him down

Kickin', screamin' and rollin' around

A little piece of a bloody tooth

Just so you know I was thinking of you

Whatever Will is about to say is cut short by the sweep of headlights over the brush near the dunes.

A beat up old pickup truck bumps up the track and pulls up alongside Will’s Ranger. The driver’s side window slides down, and Tanner’s face emerges from the gloom. He revs the engine loudly, making you and Jessa jump. A sick feeling curls in Frankie’s stomach as he watches him, this piece of shit who’s been so busy crushing you down.

Tanner leaps out of the truck, and slams the door. Frankie looks over at you, visibly panicked on the other side of the fire. How the fuck did he find you?

‘Hey baby,’ Tanner says, sickly sweet as he strolls towards you, ducking to press a kiss to your unresponsive mouth. He turns to the rest of the group, eyes skating over Will and Ben until they land on Frankie. Tanner steps towards him, offers his hand.

‘Good to see you again, Frank,’ he says, ‘Told you I’d be getting a new ride.’

Frankie stares at his hand. He takes a deep swig of his beer, breathing deeply before looking Tanner in the eye, refusing to shake it.

‘I’m surprised to see you.’ He says to the dirty-haired man.

Tanner tries his best to appear unfazed, but there’s a glimmer of something hot behind his eyes.

‘’Course man, wanted to show off the new pickup.’ He says, grinning broadly. He looks around again, eyes falling hungrily on Jessa. She shifts uncomfortably on the log, rearranging her body so there’s less for him to look at. A deep heat begins to rise in Frankie’s chest.

He glances again at the ancient car that Tanner’s driven up in. The front bumper almost hanging off, the red paint aged and scratched, bumps caved in all up the sides, the roof sagging.

‘You call that a pickup truck?’ Frankie says lightly. Tanner narrows his eyes at him, angry, before he catches the sound of Santi’s laugh.

He whirls around to the other man and spits -

‘Who the fuck are you?’

Frankie almost laughs, too. Almost.

Pope spreads his hands. He looks up at him through his brows, a glint in his eyes that Frankie is violently familiar with. You must notice it, too, because you clear your throat and say -

‘Santi’s one of my friends.’

Tanner doesn’t even look at you. Just keeps staring at Pope.

The moment seems to last an eternity. Frankie feels like he’s watching everything through sludge, like he’s in someone else’s dream. His whole body is on edge, vibrating, ready to lunge - he’s just not sure at who. He looks between the two men before he catches your eye through the flames. The adrenaline in Frankie’s heart gutters at the look of panic in your eyes.

Please don’t let them do this. Please help me stop it.

Frankie glances back to Pope, and says, so softly only he can hear it -

‘Pope.’

And Santi immediately looks away, taking a swig of his beer.

Tanner stands there still, clearly baffled at Santi’s sudden lack of interest. Then he turns to the rest of the group like a petulant child, a toddler who has been ostensibly robbed of its favourite toy.

‘It’s a good truck,’ he says, before turning to you. ‘Ain’t it, baby?’

You hum your agreement as Tanner scoops a beer from the pile by Will’s chair, shucking off the top with his teeth. Jessa looks away, disgusted. He settles himself in the deckchair at your side.

‘Y’aint allowed to touch it, of course, sugar,’ he says to you, before laughing into his bottle. ‘Ruin everything you come into, anyway. Root of all my problems, ain’t ya?’ Tanner takes a pull of his beer. The group is silent around him. Around you. Tanner notices.

‘Boy, fun bunch you are.’

You look at him through your eyelashes.

‘Baby, that’s enough.’ You say as softly as possible, and Frankie cringes at the pet name.

Tanner looks at you sharply. Dark, furious. It’s in the pinch of his jaw, the anger at what you’ve said so obviously rolling around in his skull.

Frankie hates him for it. And he hates that he hates him for it. There are already so many things he hates him for, but he’s so fucking stupid it’s almost funny. Not your equal in any way. In kindness, in conversation or in intellect. And not even willing to try. To learn. For you. Just trying to dumb you down instead, squash you into smaller, more digestible bites to chew on.

When it comes down to it, Tanner has nothing smart to say back. He just pushes a short breath from his nostrils and mutters out a little -

‘Well, well, well.’

Then he flexes his fingers against the chair, and you flinch.

You flinch hard, your brows coming together, chin scrunching, waiting for the blow to land. And when it doesn’t, your eyes flicker open slowly. Hollow, bereft, drained and dim.

Tanner hasn’t noticed, but everyone else has.

The awful unveiling of your last secret.

Frankie forces the bile down his throat. His head swings forward to the ground of its own accord, a faint, resonant ringing in his ears. When he looks at his hands, they aren’t his own. In fact, he recognises no part of his body as the ringing gets louder, as he gently places his beer bottle on the floor. When his eyes leave the dirt, the mix of faces around the fire are all mirror reflections of each other. Horror, disgust, grief. Grief that this is what you hid from them, this is what they have taken too long to pull you from. The burning building splintering around you, your shell of a body immovable in the middle.

You won’t meet his eye. You won’t meet anyone’s eye as your hand shakes around your bottle. Jessa notices. She stares at your trembling fingers for too long, but she can hardly say anything. None of them can. Her eyes shine like beacons from her seat, wet with tears. Frankie sees her bottom lip quiver, her chin dimple. And then she swallows, swallows again, and reaches for your hand.

You flinch again, softer this time, and Frankie is sure everyone around the fire - everyone in the town, the world, must hear his heart crack. Because he feels it so keenly, so deeply, that it takes the air from his lungs. His breath is caught in his throat, and no matter how hard he tries to draw it, it seems impossible to claw it down. He’s drowning. He’s drowning right here in front of everybody, and it makes it all the worse to know that this is how you must feel. Every damn day.

Come on, he hears Jessa say, Let’s go and get another drink. And through the dark swirling of his mind he watches the two of you stand slowly and disappear towards the back of Frankie’s truck. He waits until Jessa has you hidden from view, her arms around your hunched back as you bring your hands to your face - crying - and that’s when the thread snaps.

Frankie gets to his feet, slowly.

Pope and Will watch him. Benny is still staring at Tanner.

Tanner looks up at him, chin jutted out, smirking as Frankie approaches.

He’s challenging him. He’s waiting for a war of words, for the shouting to begin, for the insults, the observations to fly.

He expected the wrong war from a soldier.

The first punch sprawls him out of his seat. It makes a satisfying cracking sound, and the first trickle of blood starts to bleed from behind his lip.

Then Frankie kicks him. He kicks him hard in the ribs, making sure he doesn’t have enough time to recover from the punch to deflect Frankie’s boot.

Tanner clutches at his abdomen, wheezing, gazing up at Frankie with bewildered eyes. Fucking coward.

Frankie grabs him by the front of his shirt, pulls him upwards. He has nothing to say to him, but the fury he feels, this deep, endless, swirling pit of rage, he lets him see. He lets it fill him from the soles of his feet all the way up through his eyes, and he lets it bleed out. He lets the blackness flood the ground. He lets Tanner watch it, lets it petrify him, and then Frankie swings again. Tanner takes it on his chin this time, his jaw snapping closed, and when it goes lax, a couple jagged bits of tooth fall out. Frankie grunts in satisfaction and swings again, again, until blood spouts from Tanner’s eyebrow and his cheek begins to bruise and swell. Frankie breathes deeply, in rhythm, doesn’t even feel it when Tanner manages to land a lucky punch to his eye socket. He plants a knee into the other man’s crotch, lands him an elbow to the back of his head when he keels over, and then shoves him to the ground. Frankie gets on the floor with him, raining blows down on Tanner’s body, his face. He’s methodical about it, a punch to each eye, the crack of the cunt’s nose, one to either side of his mouth, then bloodying up his jaw. He’s aware, somewhere, that Tanner is screaming. Strangled, gargling sounds trying to claw up his throat. And then he’s aware of two pairs of hands around each armpit, dragging him away, pulling him up. Will is saying something in his ear, that’s enough, Frankie, alright now, and Benny is speaking, too, panicked - you’ll kill him, Fish, come on man.

Frankie blinks, really looks at Tanner where he lays bleeding on the dirt. His eyes already swelling, a couple more teeth scattered on the ground next to him. His face different shades of red and purple, a mess of a man, and Frankie is pleased. He could keep going. He wants to see him bleed much, much more. Will and Benny keep their grip on him.

‘Leave,’ Frankie growls, low, without a quiver in his voice. ‘And don’t you ever come back. You ever look at her again, I’ll gouge out your fuckin’ eyes. You ever touch her again, I’ll break every bone in your body. I’ll make sure they don’t find anything left of you.’

Tanner doesn’t say anything, which must be the only smart thing he’s ever done in his life. But he still doesn’t move.

The four men watch him for a moment, the silence heavy, broken only by the crackle of wood and Tanner’s heavy, wet breaths.

Then Benny lets Frankie go, steps forward and picks the man up by his collar, swinging him around to the direction of his truck. He throws him down on the dirt.

‘Move,’ he spits. ‘Get out of here. And if you have the courage on the way, wrap your fucking truck around a telephone pole.’

Tanner finally has the good sense to crawl over to the vehicle. He hauls himself up the scarred body work before creaking open the driver’s door and slipping inside. The truck sputters to life, yellow bulbs flooding the bonfire site again before it quickly backs away, turns, and drives off. Frankie watches its blinking red brake lights until he’s sure the cunt is gone, and then he turns around.

You’re stood with Santi’s arms wrapped around you, back from the fire where Tanner’s blood is drying. Pope strokes your hair, squeezes you tightly as your body shudders. And Frankie can only stare.

Minutes might have passed. Hours. And Frankie is terrified. Terrified that he’s scared you, broken you, pushed you away. And then you turn your face on Pope’s chest, moving your head from shoulder to shoulder, and you’re looking at him. Eyes red-rimmed and raw, face flushed and damp, and it’s like Frankie’s trance breaks.

Frightened, he takes a step forward. He breathes your name.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and you shake your head. Fuck. What has he done? What has he allowed himself to do? ‘I’m sorry, querida, please - I know, I know -’ but what does he know? He looks to Santi, pleading for help, and the man offers him a small smile as you step out of his arms.

Through a fog, you come towards him. Your chin wobbles. Your eyes swim. You’re a little wide-eyed, a little shocked. And something else, something beyond his reach.

You get to him, and your arms make their silken way around his middle as you begin to cry. Hot tears stain the front of his shirt, and he cradles you to him, holding your skull gently, enveloping your abdomen. A loud sob looses from your ribs.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’ You wrap your arms around him tighter, press your nose into his sternum.

‘I’m not scared of you, Frankie,’ you sob into his chest. He clutches at the back of your head, holds you even closer, strokes your hair. When you speak again your voice is higher, strained with your tears. ‘I could never be scared of you.’

The sting in Frankie’s throat becomes hot, burning. He doesn’t know whether to pull you impossibly closer or to push you away, to run as far as he can from your broken, heaving body in his arms. Because what he’s done should scare you. It should. He’d lost all control. The only thing he’d been able to see, to feel was his all-consuming, depthless fury. And Tanner’s face as it splintered, bloodied, swelled. And he’d wanted to keep going, until there was just pulp. No nerve endings, no teeth, no eyes, no mouth, no body that he could ever hurt you with again. He doesn’t want you to hurt any more.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers into your hair.

Trembling misery

And as cold as a hole

I hug your bones and skin

Frankie holds your hand the whole way home, the drive passing in a dazed silence.

You still don’t talk when you get to his place, when he unlocks the door, lets you in, and locks it behind him. You take his hand in the quiet cool of the house, lead him upstairs. He follows, slowly, sore, exhausted. Trying to process it all.

When you reach the landing, you turn on the bathroom light, and he trails behind you. He stands propped against the sink as you dig around in his medicine cabinet, finding wipes and bandages and anything else you think might be useful. You take Frankie’s hand again, examine his bruised, bleeding and swollen knuckles with solemn eyes. You are so gentle, twisting his hand in the light, inspecting. You look over it for a while, and Frankie watches you. When you reach for an antiseptic wipe, your hand is shaking.

Frankie winces silently when you start to dab at the blood on his knuckles, cleaning it away with minute swipes. You chase the dried rivulets of blood down his fingers, over his palm. The scar there from when he ate shit riding his bike.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. You ignore him, breathing shallowly as you inspect his hand, holding his wrist, cleaning blood which is no longer there.

‘Might be a hairline fracture or two,’ you say, distant. ‘I won’t bandage it, gonna let it dry out first. But you’ll need to rest it. And we’ll need to ice your eye.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says again, into your hair. You shake your head, and the light catches the different colours in every strand. Frankie’s throat tightens.

‘Please stop apologising.’ You whisper.

A shaky breath pushes itself from between Frankie’s lips.

‘No, querida,’ he says softly, ‘It wasn’t right. Shouldn’t have done it. And I shouldn’t have let you see -’ he swallows thickly, throat bobbing. He looks over your head at the white tiles behind you as your grip on his wrist tightens. You still don't look up at him. ‘But it’s not how you treat someone you love. Not how it should be. Should be protecting them, treating them right, loving them the way you love -’ him. He cuts himself off, because he realises as he says it he’s wrong. So wrong.

Right to be like you in your gentleness. In your care, your touch, your tenderness, your loving. But Tanner deserved none of those things. He didn’t deserve your faith, didn’t deserve your protection or your silence either. None of it.

He closes his eyes.

An image of you flickers through Frankie’s mind. Your fingers on his wrist as they are now, your eyes shining under the streetlights. The glint of your teeth, and the want so clear on your face, then the hesitation, the fear, the shuttering -

And if only he had kissed you then. If only you had taken him inside. He could have shown you what it was supposed to feel like. He could have saved you from the hurt, the fear which lay ahead.

There’s a splash of warmth on the pale skin of the underside of his forearm, and he opens his eyes again. You’re still hunched over his hand, but your movements have stilled. Frankie waits, confused, before another warm drop lands on his arm and you hiccup a sob out. He whispers out your name, and you turn your face up to him, devastated.

Frankie’s face crumples, and your grip on his wrist loosens enough for him to lift his hands to your face and cup your cheeks.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said it. I wasn’t thinking -’

‘You think I love him?’ You croak.

Frankie’s jaw works around his next sentence, his next thoughts. He tries to process what this means. That look in your eyes, your tears, your implication. His lips move, but no sound comes out.

‘I don’t love him, Frankie,’ you choke, ‘I don’t. Christ - I don’t think I ever did, I never could -’ you suck in a deep, stuttered breath. ‘I’ve never - never hated anyone more. I couldn’t stand him, couldn’t have him near me, couldn’t have him touch me -’ Frankie flinches at your words. ‘But I was so scared. And embarrassed. I didn’t know how to leave - I didn’t know how to tell anybody about what was going on. I was terrified of what he’d do. To me, to you guys, if he found out I’d spoken about it. And he made it so hard for me to see you, so hard for me to get away.’ You sob now, panic and relief forcing out your words. ‘I thought - wherever I go, he’ll find me. He’ll track me down, and he’ll bring me back - and somehow - somehow that was worse than if he tracked me down and - and - I don’t know, killed me or something -’

Frankie’s eyes shutter. He can’t even follow your thought, so awful is the image, the gaping emptiness. He pulls you close, he lets you cry. Curled into his chest, your body wracking with tears, shaking, tense and uncontrollable, the sounds you make rooting in his brain. They file themselves away in a box where very few things go. Deployment. Tom. The darkness after his investigation. You break and break in his arms, and it’s all he can do to hold the pieces of you together. To press kisses to your head, breathe in the smell of your hair, rub his hands over your back, cradle you like a child.

He doesn’t know how long the two of you stand there for. He waits until you stop sobbing, stop crying softly, stop hiccuping, stop sniffing. He waits for a few more minutes in the silence, too. And when he pulls away, he presses a long, sweet kiss to your forehead.

You blink up at him through red, swollen eyes.

‘You’re safe here.’ He says, and you nod.

‘I know. Thank you. For - everything.’ You say thickly. Frankie swallows, nods. You know it all anyway. Any time, for however long you need.

He pads downstairs to get you a glass of water, and while he’s pouring it, he can hear you blow your nose, wash your face. Somehow, they are the most perfect sounds in the world.

Crackling wood’s gone white

And my eye swole up now

I can see the light

Frankie gives you one of his sleep-stretched t-shirts and an old pair of shorts for you to wear to bed.

The clothes dwarf you a little, and he can’t wipe the small, thrilled smile from his face, even when he looks away. You look fucking adorable.

You giggle at him every time you see it, your little what? only making him smile harder. It stretches his mouth until it hurts and his cheeks start to cramp up, squishing his swollen eye. Stop he tries to say, but it comes out as an equally breathless huff of laughter - and that only makes you giggle more. So much so that he sweeps you up into his arms to stash you under the covers, and you laugh even harder as he tucks the sheets in tight around you, just like his mama used to do when she wanted him to stay put.

He looks down at you from the side of the bed, hands on his hips, and you laugh back at him - eyes shining, mouth open in wide hoots of delight, your hands coming up in a desperate attempt to contain yourself. He points a finger at you.

‘You need to calm down,’ he says, voice tight with bridled amusement. ‘It’s bedtime.’

But you cackle back at him, this glorious puddle of sunshine in his bed, only howls of laughter for a response. Unable to help himself, he returns your joy, turning off the bedside lamps to slip in beside you.

In the darkness, your snorts subside into ragged breaths, and you turn on your side to look at him. You study him as though you never want to forget a single line on his face; such warmth, such affection in your eyes that Frankie’s whole body swells and lifts.

You take his hand beneath the sheets and hold it between your faces, smiling softly at him.

The first and only girl he’s really ever loved. This brilliant, fierce, bright, intelligent woman damped down by the waste of fucking space who had bled by the fire. At the thought of it, Frankie feels his heart fall out of his chest, down through the floorboards, and plummet towards the middle of the earth.

And finally, he begins to cry.

He tries to stop it, he really does. It’s selfish, he thinks, so awful and selfish to cry in front of you when it’s you who should be wrapped in his arms, swept away by emotion again if you needed to be, safe and warm and unworried, never having to fret about anything again.

But he can’t stop it. It comes out in great shuddering breaths - pained, wracked sounds slipping past his lips, and he can’t help it. He tries to gather them in his hands to shove them back in his mouth, tries to scoop them in his arms and press them back into the caving ache of his chest, but he can’t.

When Frankie was a child, he saw his dad cry once. Only once, and exactly like this, after his father’s brother was killed in a car accident. He had seen it through a crack in his parents’ bedroom door, and it had hurt him. It had wounded him, as a child, to see his father break with such grief, such pain, such emptiness, and to know there was nothing he could do about it. And now, he is split into those two people - younger self, older self - as he thinks of you lying next to him on the bed. This person who he loves so much, who is now so full of the knowledge of the worst parts of living, wound up so tight within you that you let it settle, let it unfurl around your bones. He sees your hurt, your grief, your pain refracted around him tenfold, and he hurts with you. He sees you as the boy he once was, this poor creature looking in at a heart breaking, as he has unknowingly watched yours break for months.

And he’s so sorry, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop saying it.

But here you are, still, performing the ultimate act of kindness. Comfort.

He feels the mattress move as you slide closer to him, and then your hand is on his back, swooping in gentle movements. He feels the scrabble of your fingers under the ribs he has pressed into the bed, the pressure of your arm moving under him so you can hold him properly. Frankie sobs harder, but he opens his body to you. You press closer to him, burying your face in his neck, and he breathes you in as he cries. Your scent is here, you are here. And like you heard him, you whisper -

‘It’s okay, Frankie. It’s okay. ’M here. I’m safe.’ And this realisation allows a little more air, but it doesn’t make Frankie’s guilt, his shame any better. But you’re right, he knows it. And somewhere in his crying, this turns his gasps to tears of relief. Softly, you retract your arms from around him.

You take his hands away from his face, and kiss the palms. You kiss each fingertip, each bruised and cracked knuckle. You lean forward and press a kiss to each tear, each trail of saltwater on his face. And you are so beautiful in the moonlight. Soft and wide eyed. Safe. Kind, always kind, and full of understanding. Frankie sees now that you have been crying against him, too, your eyelashes cloyed with tears. Sees his thoughts in your eyes as though you have had each of them zip to you through the air. When you were a child, you saw your dad cry once. Only once, and exactly like this, after…

A smile breaks through your eyes, chasing away the remnants of tears, glazing down, softening your lips.

And Frankie doesn’t think this time. His feet don’t fail him. He doesn’t think of stars or glitter or constellations of ice crystals. He just kisses you. And kisses you and kisses you and kisses you. And he doesn’t stop, because nothing else matters anymore.

You’re safe. You’re warm. You’re in his bed.

You’re here.

You tip your head back, deepening the kiss, licking into Frankie’s mouth. He gives in so easily to you he’s almost ashamed. But then your fingers clutch at him, ball at the bottom of his shirt, tangle in the thick of his hair, and all his thoughts are forgotten. He feels you slip a soft, strong leg over his, pulling him forward. You groan against him, and Frankie’s cock twitches. You feel it, you must do, as you pull your body closer to him, tight against him. Frankie is so lightheaded he doesn’t know where his hands are, what they’re doing - and when he concentrates, he finds them skating over your back, squeezing the tension out of the back of your neck, gripping your hip.

He moans against you as you rock your hips over his thigh, as he feels the heat of your sex against his skin. He feels like he’s on fire.

You slip a hand under his sleep shorts and palm him, brushing his silken length with two fingers, feeling him grow harder, thicker against you. You take him in your hand, pump him once, twice with the perfect grip, the perfect speed, like you were made for him. He’s gasping against you, panting as you suck his lower lip into your mouth.

‘Baby,’ he groans, breathless, ‘We don’t have to. We really don’t -’

You look up at him through gorgeous, glazed eyes.

‘I want to,’ you say, ‘Do you?’

Dangerous, dangerous question.

Frankie tries to shake his head, look away, think of anything but the tight fist of your fingers around his cock.

‘I do,’ he says, ‘I do. But I don’t think - this is the right thing -’

You loosen your grip, draw away from him. His body aches with a shudder.

His eyes flick back to yours again - confused, hurt - fuck, he can’t do that to you, ever -

‘I - I don’t want to take advantage of it - of you,’ he says. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks as you look down the sheets towards your toes. His jaw tightens. ‘And - and I don’t want this to mean - different things for us. I don’t want it to ruin what we have.’ Frankie breathes out heavily through his nose. He has to tell you now. He has to. ‘I don’t want it to mean different things, because I love you. I always have. And if we do this, if I have you even just for a night, I - I’ll never recover from it.’ Tears spike in his eyes again. He tries to smile. ‘You’d ruin me. And I don’t think I’d ever forgive you for it.’

Your breath hitches in your throat, and Frankie watches as your eyes flit back up to his. They search his face, the dribble of his barely-shed tears, the slope of his sad smile. You bring a hand up to cup his cheek, running your thumb over his scraps of beard. He closes his eyes.

‘What you said earlier,’ you begin. Frankie swallows. He waits for the blow of rejection. ‘About me - about me loving him.’ He opens his eyes slowly to find yours, bright and clear. Something begs to bubble over in them. Something golden and warm. ‘You were wrong - obviously. And I couldn’t tell you truly why, because I was afraid. So afraid of pushing you away, even though I think that’s all I’ve ever done. I’ve never thought I was worth it, Frankie. I don’t deserve you. And I am terrified of how much I love you.’ You beam at him, eyes bubbling over with that thing - love - ‘I love you,’ you say simply, like it’s not the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

A stunned little laugh ripples up his throat, and you copy it. He grips your face in his hands, and kisses you again, again, again.

‘I love you,’ he says.

‘I love you, too,’ you giggle.

‘And you are,’ he presses to your lips, ‘You are absolutely worth it.’

He rolls over on top of you, and begins to kiss your jaw, nipping at the skin there, before moving down your throat. He kisses you with a hot, open mouth, sucking marks into the sensitive skin at your pulse point. Mine, he groans, and you whimper against him, rubbing your thighs together.

Frankie pushes your shirt up - his shirt - so he can bite at your chest, press kisses to every bit of exposed skin. Every single part of you that deserves to be loved, every single place which has so far been unknown to him. He sucks each nipple into his mouth, delighted when you keen beneath him, panting, please, please Frankie, before he sinks lower down, peeling his shorts away from you to expose your glistening cunt.

He groans, unable to take his eyes away from it as he leans forward, pressing his body into the mattress to lick a stripe from your asshole to your clit.

‘Frankie -’ you groan down at him as he begins to work at you, sucking and licking, nipping at your thigh before slipping his tongue into your hole, swiping and tasting everything you’re giving to him. He grinds himself into the mattress, hissing at the relief, the uncomfortable weight of his cock dragging below him.

‘Taste so good, baby,’ he tells you, and he doesn’t think he ever wants to taste, wants to smell anything else ever again. All he can do is eat at you, breathe you in, until you’re begging him -

‘Frankie, your fingers - please -’ And he flexes his hand at your hip before brushing a fingertip against your entrance and gasping at the pain.

You try to bear down towards him, but he rips his hand away, lifting his head towards you.

‘Can’t,’ he gasps, and you mewl, bucking your hips up to his face, desperate. ‘Hand’s fucked,’ he says, and you still your movements before beginning to laugh again. It’s loud and from your belly, and it's bizarre. But Frankie gets it. He gets it, and he giggles too. He doesn’t try to fuck his broken knuckles into you, but he does try to continue lathing you with his tongue. You’re making it pretty fucking difficult, though.

‘Stop laughing,’ he huffs against your clit, ‘I’m trying to make you come.’

‘Okay,’ you say, gasping for air, ‘Okay. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. You’re doing really well, by the way.’ But this only makes him laugh. He groans, leaning his forehead against your inner thigh. ‘This is impossible.’ He pouts.

‘Nooo,’ you cry, leaning up on your elbows to pout down at him. ‘Please, baby. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. I won’t laugh anymore.’

‘Promise?’ He says. You hold out your pinky to him.

‘Pinky promise.’ You say.

Frankie stretches his hand out to you and tries to extend his pinky. He winces at the sharp pain which shoots from the movement, and grunts at you, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

‘You bastard,’ he says, trying and failing to hold his smile, ‘You knew I wouldn’t be able to do that.’

‘Just keeping you on your toes,’ you grin, and then before you can make any more smart remarks, Frankie resumes his ministrations, lapping and tonguing at your clit, your hole, mouthing hot, wet kisses to your pussy. He shakes his head from side to side, running your bud in tight, hard little circles until you’re a moaning, whimpering mess beneath him. Your hips buck unconsciously, and Frankie hooks both his arms around your thighs to hold you down, flattening his hands against your belly to keep you firmly in place. He reaches up to twist at your nipples and you gasp.

‘God, Frankie, tongue feels so fucking good -’

He can feel you begin to pulse against his chin as your whines get higher in pitch, and he groans as you twist handfuls of his hair.

‘Come on, baby,’ he says, ‘Give it to me. Wanna see you come, querida. Wanna taste it. Come on my face.’

And you do, the sensation of it arching your back tight like a bow, a strangled moan cutting off into the ceiling.

‘Fuck, Frankie, fuck -’ as he drives you through it, nodding and murmuring against you as you try to wriggle free, squealing in protest until you manage to twist a leg and set a foot against his chest, pushing him off.

‘Fucking - hell -’ You pant, and Frankie grins down at you, smug.

‘Good?’ He asks, quirking an eyebrow.

‘Oh, fuck you, Morales.’ You laugh, pulling him in for a sloppy kiss, moaning when you taste yourself on him. Your tongue explores every part of his mouth, every crevice behind every tooth, like you can’t get enough of him. Like there'll never be enough of him. ‘Now fuck me.’ You whisper.

And Frankie does not need to be told twice.

He rips his shirt up and off his back, shucks his shorts down his legs, and squeezes himself tight as he can in his left hand. He ruts into his palm, thumb swiping to slick his heavy beads of precum down his length.

‘Ready?’ he asks, looking down to find you staring wide-eyed at his cock. It twitches under your gaze.

‘What?’ He says, and you shake your head in quiet disbelief and amusement. You lift your eyes back to his face, and they are so dark with arousal he almost melts into the mattress.

‘Nothing,’ you shrug. ‘Just somehow never believed Pope and the boys when they said it was like two coke cans put together.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Frankie laughs, his face pulling tight with a grin as he lines himself up at your entrance, swilling the head in your arousal.

‘I mean, what if it doesn’t fit?’ You babble, and he shakes his head.

‘It’ll fit, baby,’ he says. ‘We’ll make it fit.’ Then he sinks the first inch in, and just waits. He waits and watches you, watches as your mouth falls slack, all the smart things coming out your mouth grinding to a halt. He throbs at how tight you are around him, at how you clench already, trying to suck him in further. And fuck, you are so wet.

‘You okay, querida?’ He asks through gritted teeth.

You manage a nod, a broken whine escaping you.

‘Move Frankie, please baby -’ you beg, and he groans as he pushes further inside you, watching the obscene stretch of your pussy around him, the way it pulses, the way it gets wetter and warmer and tighter around him. When he bottoms out, he feels the hot rush of his orgasm leap towards him a little too quickly.

‘Fuck, baby,’ he breathes, closing his eyes just to make sure he doesn’t come right away. You squirm beneath him, canting your hips up, trying to fuck yourself. Frankie grips you, gritting his teeth. ‘Stay still,’ he hisses, flushing a little. ‘God, fuck, please - just for a minute.’ He opens his eyes to find you watching him, your bottom lip caught in your teeth. His eyes glaze down your body - his t-shirt bunched up around your chest, perfect tits, perfect belly, and your sweet, sopping cunt split open on his cock.

He groans again, slipping out, watching as he retreats, soaked by you, before pushing back in. A high pitched whine leaves your lips, and you twitch your hands up to play with your tits. Frankie doesn’t think he’s ever seen something more sexy in his life.

‘That’s right,’ he says, ‘Keep playing with yourself like that, gorgeous. Look at you.’

So you do, looking up at him with doe-eyes as he fucks into you, soft at first, letting you adjust before quickening his pace, readjusting his angle, feeling you leak around him. His balls slap against your ass loudly, and you keen up at him, eyes wide, begging for something as you tighten like a coil around him, something you can’t quite voice. But Frankie knows.

He swipes his thumb against your clit, and your eyes roll into the back of your head, your back arching again. He groans at the sight, and works the bundle of nerve endings in tight circles, faster and harder, harder and faster, until you’re gripping him so tight he thinks you might push him out.

‘Come baby, come,’ he pants, ‘Please, querida, need to feel you - need to feel you soak me. Need you to come for me, come on this cock, baby, please -’

And he groans, long and loud as you clench and pulse around him, milking him, pulling him impossible deeper - fuck, Frankie, oh my god, feels so fucking good - the delicious pressure at the base of his spine at breaking point as he fucks you through it, as he pants and gasps -

‘Come, Frankie,’ you plead, ‘Please - want you, need you -’ and he spills himself deep inside you, hips stuttering, eyes clamping shut, overwhelmed and short circuited. He’s never known it could feel like this - good to the end of every synapse - and he’s fucking it in with three long thrusts, pulling out slowly just to watch it dribble out of you as he twitches against his thigh. He thumbs your clit just to watch you seize and sigh against him, then sits back on his knees to look at you.

‘You are something else,’ he says in disbelief.

You smile lazily at him.

‘Ain’t so bad yourself, Morales,’ and he laughs, throwing himself down next to you, kissing anywhere he can. I love you, I love you, I love you. Safe.

You lay there for a while afterwards, just feeling each other, calming your ragged breathing. Eventually, Frankie rises from the bed to grab a washcloth, coming back and swiping between your legs tenderly, gently, before collapsing back into bed and pulling you into his chest.

He feels like he’s in space, and he tells you as much. He spills secrets like a child at a sleepover. He tells you about the glitter and the stars and the constellations of ice crystals. You match him with a galaxy of feeling spanning the time he’s known you. And he feels that this is a dream, this love which floats like a nebula within the bed. He tries to keep his eyes open for as long as possible, even as you sleep. And even when he does drift off, he dreams of you. He dreams of you sparkling with stardust, waiting for him with your arms open.

When he wakes the next morning, you’re still there. Safe, soft and warm against him, furled into his ribcage, heart beating against the hand that’s pressed against your chest.

Everything’s okay. That red thread still intact, after all.

When the sun rises, bloody and mild, it’s never been so sweet.

A little piece of a bloody tooth

Just so you know I was thinking of you

#pedro pascal fanfiction #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier #pickup truck #kings of leon #Spotify #pedro pascal x reader

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javierpena-inatacvest · 29 days ago

Text

Chapter 1- Jello at Your Front Door

Summary: 15 years ago, a football and a boy four doors down makes your move to Florida a little more bearable. Now, you're not quite sure how to feel when you find out he's shown up back at home unannounced

Word Count: 5.5K

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader (no use of y/n, Frankie has a nickname for reader)

Warnings: Angst, yearning, mentions of death, sick parent, meeting Frankie for the first time, cute, awkward baby Frankie, a football throw Santi will never forgive you for

A/N: ... Hey.... How y'all doin'.... Remember when I said I was gonna start a different Frankie series months ago? I hope you humbly accept this as my official formal apology for not being able to get my shit together, as I present this offering to you instead 🙂 I started writing this 24 hours ago and I legitimately couldn't stop, so here we are??? I know this is a different style that what I normally write, but here's to trying new things (and hopefully finishing them). I hope you guys enjoy 🥺💛

All The Things We Never Said Masterlist

Next Chapter

You, Present

“Frankie’s home.”

You weren’t really sure how to comprehend how the combination of those two words would be one of the worst sucker punches you’d taken to your gut in the better part of the last decade.

As the sentence replayed over and over in your head, you could think of any other combination of two words that would have scared you less.

“Hurricane’s coming.”

“Bomb’s dropping.”

“World‘s ending.”

In a universe where things make sense, the response these would elicit from the average person would be reasonable, rational even. When you’ve been given a warning about the way two words have the potential to alter your reality, you can’t help but panic.

But today, you’ve woken up in a universe where things don’t make sense.

And what’s worse is, you didn’t even get a warning.

The statement shouldn’t have shaken you as much as it did. When you’d seen his truck parked in the driveway four houses down, you knew it had to be him. Anyone else in the world would be caught dead driving the barley mobile piece of metal he’d been traveling in for the better part of 20 years. But Frankie Morales was not anyone else. He’d drive that damn car until the wheels fell out underneath him.

It wouldn’t be the first time you’d gotten in a stubborn stare down with his 1989 maroon Chevrolet Silverado. You had a sneaking suspicion that today wouldn’t be your last.

“Why is Fr- Why is he back?”

You hadn’t intended for your tone to be so bitter, but the taste of Frankie’s name on the tip of your tongue left a taste in your mouth so sour, you wanted to recoil into yourself.

“Why do you think?” It was clear your mother had no interest in playing into your game of cruel intentions, barely paying you any mind as she glanced out the window, unphased by the looming presence in the Morales’s driveway, “You should go say hello.”

“No thanks, I’m not a fan of purposely ruining the rest of my day.” You don’t mean for your eyes to roll as far back into your head as they do, but you can’t help it. At this point it seems like an innate, programmed response. Simply the thought of Frankie Morales was enough to dampen your mood; an intentional confrontation was the last thing you needed.

“You’re going to have to see him at some point, you know. Can’t hide from him the whole time he’s here.”

Your mom hadn’t even given you the chance to rebuttal, disappearing from your bedroom to leave you to stew in your own resentment, because she knew as well as you that it was pointless to fight back.

At some point, you’d have to face Frankie. Today, you’d stick to hiding.

You, Summer of 1999, Age 11

26 total hours trapped in a U-Haul with your family and every item you’d ever owned was not the way you had planned to spend your last week of summer before starting middle school. You’d hoped that the nearly 3 day journey from Michigan to Florida would be long enough to help you cope with your distress. Unfortunately, you weren’t shocked that cramped quarters and unclear driving directions in the midst of uprooting your life wasn't doing much to lighten your mood.

Your parents had promised you the move would be worth it. That starting a new life halfway across the country would be good for your family. You weren’t quite sure what positives Florida posed to you, but even at the ripe age of 11, it didn’t take a genius to realize that “starting over somewhere new” was code for ��trying to keep your dad alive.”

The doctors back home were thrilled to tell you about the new, potentially life saving treatment for his rapidly progressing colon cancer. You were thrilled too, until that new, life saving treatment meant moving 1,300 miles from home.

Not once did you protest- keeping your dad a living, breathing part of your life was better than having to say goodbye to your best friends, but it still didn’t mean every mile you drove further and further south down I-75 was another grain of salt in your freshly open wound.

Your parents had tried to incentivise you with all the joys that Florida would have to bring- warm, sunny weather, beaches, being a 3 hour drive away from Disney world, a bigger house, the list went on and on. And while you knew one day you’d find joy in the rewards you’d reap from your sacrifice, you had a feeling that day wouldn’t be coming any time soon.

It took too many movers to count to finally get your new house to resemble what was supposed to be a home. There was something so unsettling about seeing your furniture reassembled into unfamiliar corners of a place you’d never been. Even the things that were supposed to feel familiar and comforting now felt distant and foreign, scrambled in the walls of your new residence like a child who had shaken up a box of their favorite toys and dumped them out on the ground, leaving behind a mess for someone else to clean up.

The only solace you could seem to find in the wave of chaos that had washed over your life was the view outside your bedroom window. A quiet escape, perfectly positioned to watch the warm rays of sunset fade behind the rooftops, the night slowly shifting into shades of black and blue as your eyelids became heavy.

Each night as you drifted to sleep, you dreamt about the ways you could be saved from the lonely island you were trapped on. A sole survivor begging to be found. You tossed and turned in the sea of your twisted bedsheets, crying out that there would be someone, anyone who would risk their life to rescue yours.

On the first two nights, the only response to your pleas was a deafening silence, an insult to injury that you were destined to spend the rest of your life on a godforsaken landmass no one would ever find. On the third night, your cries carried on the winds of the warm summer air, sneaking through the cracks of an open window four doors down.

“You should go out there and play with those boys down the road! They look like they’re probably about your age!”

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed the two gangly figures racing up and down the street for the better part of the last hour, hoping they wouldn’t catch your passing glances through your living room window as you pretended to watch whatever episode of “Rocket Power” aired next on Nickelodeon. Perhaps the pair boys hadn’t noticed you watching them, but your dad had surely noticed the way you could have cared less about whatever was on the TV in front of you.

“They’re playing football, I don’t really think they’d probably want me to play.” You huff under your breath.

“You’re good at football. Probably better than they are.” Your dad laughs like it’s meant to be funny, but you know he’s serious. He’ll never admit to you out loud he wished his only child would have been a boy, but you’ve never minded playing the role of the son he never had.

And he’s not wrong. You definitely are a better throw than either of them.

“They’re gonna think it’s weird that a girl’s asking to go play football with them.” The sigh that follows this is even more annoyed than the last, now too self aware at 11 years old to revert back to the days of approaching kids you’ve never met on the playground and asking to join in without needing to worry about the social repercussions of your actions.

“Well, you can either pout and pretend to watch TV, or you could go try to make some friends. That’s up to you, Bud.” He smirks at the scrunch in your brow and flair in your nostrils, the same face he knows he makes when he’s been hit by the cold, hard truth he doesn’t like.

You know he’s right.

“Fine,” You grumble, reluctantly pushing yourself off the edge of the couch, “But if they’re dumb, I’m coming back home.”

“Atta girl. Go easy on ‘em, Killer.”

As you step outside, it feels like you’ve become some sort of jungle explorer, trying to approach a herd of wild animals in their element without startling them to the point of attack. You’d even brought a peace offering to ease the introductions, hoping that your own football would be an appreciated contribution to their game.

As you make your way down the street, you’re not sure if you’re particularly good at sneaking up on the boys, they haven’t noticed your presence, or worse, they’re actively trying to ignore you in hopes that you’ll go away.

“H-Hi.” You stammer, half attempting to wave at the back of their heads, nowhere near close to catching their attention.

“Hello?” This time it’s a little louder, slowly taking a few steps closer, “Hi?”

God, maybe it’s a fourth option you hadn’t considered and they’re both deaf.

“Hey!”

This one finally catches their attention, causing both boys to turn around cautiously, not sure whether they’re more shocked that someone’s interrupted whatever play they’re about to run, or that the person who’s interrupted them is you.

All of three of you stand in silence for a moment, mind racing in curiosity as you take in the image of clumsy limbs and messy mats of hair stuck to sweaty foreheads. The one boy is shorter, thick, jet black curls sprouting from the top of his head and arms crossed over his chest with a scowl on his face that’s not quite mean, but most definitely not welcoming.

The other, taller and lankier, a mop of dark brown hairs twisting at the nape of his neck, eyes soft as he glances back and forth between you and his friend. His demeanor is much different, almost nervous compared to the boy standing next to him, fits balled in the pockets of his shorts while the adam’s apple he still needs to grow into bobs in his throat.

For as much as no one wants to draw in the silent standoff you’ve entered, you started this mess, so you might as well be the first one to fold.

“H-hi. Sorry, I um, I didn’t wanna interrupt-”

“I mean, you did.” The shorter boy mumbles, wincing as the nervous one slaps him in the chest with the back of his hand. “Jesus, what was that for, asswad?!”

“Let her talk!” He grunts, sneering at his friend before turning back to you, his face much kinder now than the expression he just gave to his friend. “Sorry. You can um, you can keep talking if you want. Sorry about him.”

You try not to laugh at the exchange, but it’s hard not to smirk at the way the two have managed to put themselves on display in the thirty seconds you’ve spent talking to them.

“It’s okay. I um- I just moved in down the street. That green house over there.” All of your eyes shift as you point behind you, signaling where your journey had begun a few moments ago, “I was uh- I was wondering if you guys wanted another person to play with? I- I brought my own football.”

“Normally you only need one football to play football, duh. Do you even know how football works?”

In an instant, your heart sinks to your gut, eyes dropping to the ground to watch your feet start to drag across the pavement, back to where you came. But before you can lift the sole of your sneaker from the cement, a voice stops you.

“She obviously does or she wouldn’t ask, numbnuts! C’mon, Santi, don’t be a dick.”

Although it’s not directed at you, it’s enough to bring your attention back to the kinder boy, no name yet, but quite positive it’s not also Santi (or asswad). The two of you lock eyes for a moment, a strange sort of calm running through you as his slight half smile reveals his brace covered teeth, looking at you in a way that makes you feel just a little less small.

“Yeah, you can play with us. I’m Frankie, by the way.”

Frankie.

There’s something about his name that fits him so perfectly. You can’t quite put your finger on it, but you know from the way it rolls off your tongue that it just feels right.

“Hi, Frankie. I’m Mackenzie.”

Frankie’s hands are now out of his pockets, a line of defense dismantled after hearing your name.

“Hello? Have we forgotten about me? There are three of us here, remember?”

“This is Santi. Well, Santiago, but we all call him Santi.” The way Frankie rolls his eyes at his friend tells you everything you need to know about their friendship, giggling at the way he dramatically pouts as he introduces him.

“Mackenzie? Isn’t that, like, a last name?” Santi asks, still not yet warmed up to the idea of you, but intrigued enough to ease how tightly his arms are crossed.

“And? Isn’t Santiago the capital of Chile?” You sass, your mater-of-factness and quick wit making Frankie unintentionally snort.

“Alright, touché, Christopher Columbus.” Santi mocks, acting tough to try and hide the pink blooming in his cheeks.

“I like Mackenzie. I think it’s cool.”

There’s something about the way he says it that you know he means it, wondering why the way hearing your name fall from his lips churns your stomach in a sensation you’d never felt before this moment.

“Yeah, well, just so you know, Frankie is short for Francisco.” Santi interrupts, trying to find a way to get a jab back at either you or Frankie, at this point he doesn't really care which.

“Well, last time I checked, there wasn’t a Francisco, Chile.”

That one sends Frankie into full blown hysterics, boyish snickers taunting his friend, whose attempt to save his namesake has left him the butt of the joke.

“Will the two of you clowns just shut up and throw the ball? If you’re gonna let her play, Frank, can we at least make sure she can throw?” Santi whines, using every ounce of prepubescent strength he has left to play into his unbothered facade.

“You can use your ball if you want.” Frankie suggests, shrugging at his indifference to the ball held in your hand compared to the one held in yours.

“No! If she’s playin’, she’s usin’ our ball!” Santi’s voice trails further away with each step back he takes, settling himself in the middle of the street a few feet down from where you and Frankie stood, not willing to take any more risks when it comes to you, even if it’s something as stupid as a football.

“Fine by me.” You shrug, happily obliging to his request, Frankie giving you a silent nod of reassurance as he passes his football off to you.

It’s only now you notice he’s nervous again, one hand back in his pocket as he wriggles his toes in the ends of his worn sneakers while you size up your toss, knowing he’s worried that Santi will never let him live it down if the ball can’t make it more than three feet in front of you.

Neither of you would know it then, but the silent exchange you make with Frankie as you line up your throw would be the first of many unspoken promises you’d keep to him. What seemed like a simple task, to prove worthy of his friendship by throwing a football, would turn out to be the most important promise you'll ever make to Fransisco Morales.

You weren’t ever going to let him down.

“You can go further back.” You shout, almost offended by the distance Santi had chosen to stand away from you.

“If you can make it this far, I’ll be impressed.”

“You promise you’ll go get it after I throw it past you?”

“I promise, Joe Montana, throw the damn ball.”

You shrug at Frankie, like he’s supposed to know what comes next. He’s too scared to question either of you, all he can do is let his eyes dart back and forth between you and Santi, knowing there’s no world where both of you can prove your point. What scares him more is that he trusts you more than his friend.

You line your fingers up on the laces, gripping the leather like your life depends on it. In a way, it does. With a step forward, your arm hurls the ball, two of the three of you standing dumbfounded in the street as you watch it soar further and further past its intended target, spirling through the sky until it bounces off the cement with an acrobatic roll, three times the distances of where Santi had placed himself.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. You just smile and shrug- it's the best “I told you so” you could give them.

“Fine. She can stay.”

To this day, it’s the closest you’ll ever get to a compliment from Santi.

“Nice work, Kenz.”

Your stomach flips. You try to blame it on the adrenaline of it all, that there was no way a compliment so simple had you wiping your sweaty palms over the denim of your shorts, trying your best to erase any evidence that he was the reason your heart was racing out of your chest.

Now it’s 15 years later, and as much as you hate him, you still can’t get that goofy, brace faced smile out of your mind.

Frankie, Present

There’s a reason he shows up at 1 A.M. Everyone’s asleep. If the world is asleep around him, he’s safe from having to deal with anyone, at least until morning. There’s a part of him that wishes he would have parked his truck down the street, tricking you into thinking that he wasn’t even there.

It’s hard to justify when you’re the reason he’s back home in the first place.

When he got the call from his mom, he knew he had to come. He didn't want to, but he knew he’d hate himself forever if he didn’t.

“Hey, Mamá.”

“Francisco, how quickly can you make it home?”

“Mom, I told you, I’m not-”

“It’s Doug. He’s in hospice.”

“Fuck. How um- how much longer do they think he has?”

“When I talked to Michelle, she said they were hoping for a few more weeks. But I’m not sure. He doesn’t look good, mi amor. If you want to say your goodbyes, now’s the time.”

“O-okay. I can probably be home by tomorrow. Gonna be late though. Is uh- is she, um-”

“She’s here. For about a week or so already. She keeps looking over at your empty spot in the driveway just like she did all those years you were away. Waiting for you, Francisco.”

It’s the lump in his throat and ache in his chest that gets him home an hour and fifteen minutes faster than what his GPS said it would. He’s not sure what delusional part of his mind thinks that maybe you’ll be waiting for him when he pulls into the driveway. Maybe it’s the same delusional part of his mind that pictured you sitting there, cross legged on the concrete, staring up at the sky to count stars like sheep, waiting for him to come home all those years ago.

He’s also not sure why it hurts so bad when he shows up and you’re not there.

Frankie feels like he’s 16 again, sneaking into his own house in the wee hours of the night, digging the spare key out from under the doormat, attentive to the practiced pattern of how to avoid squeaks in the hinges as he turns the lock behind him, careful not to wake a single sleeping soul. He tiptoes over the 4th stair to the second floor and barely taps the 7th before he finds shelter in his room, successful from his journey.

Every time he comes home, he can’t help but laugh at the fact his mother refuses to change anything about his bedroom. Everything is in the same place it was the day he left for the Air Force, down to the pile of unfinished homework from his Senior year of high school stacked on his desk. Each time he sees it, he’s never sure if the source of his laughter is nostalgia or irony. Maybe it’s a little bit of both.

When he looks at the picture frames scattered across his nightstand, a 17 year old Frankie stares back at him, tall and gangly, arms too big for his own body, an awful haircut he begged his mom to let him get. It was the year he discovered how much he couldn’t live without a hat, simply out of necessity for the 6 months it took for his hair to grow back out. You were the first one to tell him how cute he looked in the one hat he already owned. He bought three more in the weeks to come.

He wonders what the 17 year old in those pictures staring back at him would think of him now. If there’s one thing he knows for certain, it’s that high school him would have beat the shit out of him for the way things turned out, scrawny limbs and all.

It seems like the military has taught him how to sleep anywhere besides his own home, keeping company with the shadows dancing on his ceiling in the moonlight, tossing and turning in the tattered sheets of the twin sized bed his mom promised she’d upgrade when he got big enough. To this day, he and his mom both know he was never begging her for a new bed because he had outgrown it, he just always wanted to make room for one more person.

He clocks 3 and a half hours of sleep as good enough, creeping out of his house the same way he had come in, making the 5.4 mile trip to Benson Park to watch the sun rise. Frankie’s always hated running, it’s just as much of a surprise to him as it is to everyone else that he keeps doing it. It makes his knees hurt like shit and his lungs feel like they’re being strangled by rubber bands, a cruel cycle of self punishment he can’t seem to shake his addiction for.

He’s sat on the same side of the bench underneath the ancient Blooming Dogwood since the first time he came here. He tried one time to sit on the other side. He’s superstitious enough to believe his one time fuck up has had a lasting effect. The bench is so hidden at the back of the park, he likes to think that the two of you are the only ones to have ever found it. No one else has ever burst through the bubble of secrets shared between the two of you there, leaving the wood grain to be stained with memories and moments that have shaped the both of you, good and bad.

It’s the first place you ever told him about your dad. It’s the first place he ever told you about his. His dad was already nothing but memories by then. It makes him sick to his stomach that soon, that’s all you’ll have left, too.

Frankie, Fall of 1999, Age 11

“How much longer do we have, Frankie? I feel like my legs are gonna fall off!”

“Quit being such a baby, you’re fine!”

“Next time we have to ride our bikes this far, I’m pulling an E.T. and riding in the front basket of your bike.”

“Perfect, you look just like him.”

“Frankie!”

“Kidding, kidding!”

Frankie’s never had a friend like you before. Sure, he’s got Santi, but it’s not quite the same.

Santi took some easing into- five years ago, when Frankie moved onto Everett Street, he became a friend by force, not choice. Santi staked his claim on him, seeing Frankie as a gift sent straight from heaven, finally having another boy his age to play with after too many years of being sentenced to dress up and tea parties from his 3 older sisters.

Santi was everything Frankie wasn’t- loud, assertive, the kind of friend who grabs you by the hand and drags you along with them whether you liked it or not. There’s times now, after a half a decade of friendship, that Frankie still questions the way Santi’s brain is wired, but Frankie’s too good of a friend to ever make a fuss about it.

You, on the other hand, needed no easing into. From the moment he met you, watching you toss that football so far past Santi that he was convinced it would disappear on the other end of the street, Frankie had been mesmerized by you.

There’s something about you that makes him feel a weird thump in his chest every time you’re together. Everything about you gives him comfort in a way he can’t describe, a safety he’s felt with very few other people in his life until now.

There’s just something about you. He still hasn’t been able to quite pinpoint what it is.

Whatever it may be, it’s enough to invite you on a bike ride to the back of Benson Park instead of Santi.

“Do you even know where we are? I don’t think there’s any more park left past this point, Frankie.” You huff, slowing the wheels of your bike behind him as you come to the edge of a steep rolling hill, nothing left in front of you but acres of empty land and tall grass.

“Yeah, I do. Maybe we just passed the trail on the way in. We’ll just- We can just find it on the way back.”

He knows you know he’s fibbing, but he wants your trust that he won’t lead you astray more than he wants to tell the truth.

“Okay. There’s a bench underneath that tree. Can we just sit for a little bit before my legs turn to jello?”

You’re already halfway off your bike before he can respond. Even if he had said no, there’s no way he’d leave without you.

“Fine. What flavor jello?”

“Whatever flavor is your least favorite so you don’t eat my legs, Francisco. That’s just weird.”

The two of you laugh, tossing your bikes to the ground as you bottoms find the wood of the bench you’d pointed out, you on the right side, Frankie on the left.

“My mom only ever gets the red kind. I don’t even really like it that much. Don’t worry, you’re safe, Kenz.”

“I don’t really like it either. But we have every flavor at my house ‘cause that’s like, all my dad eats.”

Frankie starts to laugh like you’re playing a joke on him, trying to pretend your dad’s diet exists exclusively of artificially flavored gelatin, but your sudden silence and the way your voice drops to the ground right with your eyes tells him he’d better stop snickering.

“Your dad only eats jello?”

“Well not only, but a lot of it, I guess.”

His face scrunches with a mixture of confusion and concern at your sadness. He’s never heard you this quiet before.

“Um, w-why?”

The silence is almost deafening. He’s not sure why he should be so concerned with asking about jello, but he’s too curious to let it go. He selfishly wants to know what about it makes you so upset, because he just as selfishly hopes there’s something he can do to make you feel better.

“My dad has cancer. He’s really sick. He can’t really eat a lot, but jello’s the one thing he can keep down most of the time without, like, throwing up or whatever.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, like you’re worried someone else will hear and spill the rest of your secrets right along with this one. You say it like he’s the only one in the world you want to hear it.

“I’m- I’m sorry. That sucks.”

Frankie blames it on his instincts, the way his hand finds yours, outstretched on the bench. He touches you like he’s handling a baby bird who’s fallen out of its nest, delicate and careful, calculated, hoping you won’t try to fly away in fear. Instead, your hand welcomes his, scooting closer to the weight of his palm resting on top of it. He feels you give in as you let him carry you back to safety of the tree you’ve descended from.

“It’s okay. That’s why we moved here. The doctors in Michigan said that there were even better doctors here who could maybe help make his cancer go away.”

“And then maybe he won’t have to eat as much jello.” He takes a gamble with the joke, but it pays off with your surprised snort, “Sorry, that was stupid. I shouldn’t be joking about it.”

“I mean, it was, but it was funny. It’s okay, my dad jokes about it, too. He always says, one day, it’ll be funny, so might as well make that day today.”

His heart warms as he watches a small smile return to your face. It heats the pink in his cheeks when he realizes he was the one who helped bring it back.

“Your dad sounds nice.”

“He is. Even though he doesn’t feel good a lot of the time, he still always tries to come to my soccer games and stuff. I know he can’t be like what he was before he was sick, but he tries to be. What about your dad?”

Frankie prays you don’t notice the way his heart sinks like he noticed yours. He chews on the inside of his lip so hard, he thinks it may bleed. He wants to lie, but he knows that you’ll know. You always know.

“Um, I don’t- I don’t really see my dad.”

It’s you now who's grabbing his hand, offering him the same type of safety net he’d made for you. He’s barely known you two months. He’s known Santi for five years and all he knows is that his dad doesn’t live with him. Frankie didn’t want to tell him, he’s not sure he’d understand. There’s a strange sensation that swirls in his gut, because he wants to tell you. You’d laid the first brick in the foundation of trust between the two of you. The least he can do is help you keep building.

“Oh. Why don’t you see him?” He sees you’re prying, but not in a way that hopes to expose him. He knows you’re prying because you want him to let you in, to get a peek at what's behind the curtain. It’s a locked door most people in his life will ever get access to, but he’ll let you have a spare set of keys.

“I never really knew him. My mom said he left when I was a baby. She says she’s always been happy it’s just me and her. That it was easier to live with one less person than to live with someone who was mean.”

“Your mom sounds like a wise lady.”

He appreciates the fact humor was your first response, too, it makes the sting of ripping the stitches off a still-healing wound hurt just a little less.

“Yeah, I guess so. Still kinda wish I had a dad, though, ya know?”

“You can borrow my dad whenever you want. As long as you don’t mind super embarrassing, stupid jokes.”

“Are they as bad as mine?”

“No. They’re worse.”

Neither of you would have minded staying just a little bit longer, but the bright reds and yellows of the setting October sky remind you both that the parents you’ve opened up about are expecting you back before night washes over the quaint suburbia of your town. The bike ride home is much quieter than the one there, but the simple silence seems to speak louder than anything he’d have to say.

The next day, Frankie would raid the cabinets of his kitchen for every last packet of jello he could find and bring them all to your front door.

@chaotic-iguana @rhoorl @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

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@pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper @vee-bees-blog @itsokbbygrl

@hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk @msmorningstaarr

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@witchofthedeepwoods @ericamarie093 @readingiskeepingmegoing @whimsiwitchy @whoaitspascal87

@vickie5446 @katw474 @ravenpoe67 @inthedarkestnight @brittmb115

@harryscherrysugar

@javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

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ak-vintage · 3 months ago

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Please Note: This is an 18+ blog. Unless otherwise stated, all linked works can be assumed to contain adult content. Specific content and trigger warnings can be found on the individual posts/series masterlists.

Masterlist will be continuously updated as content is posted.

PPCU WORKS

Quarry - ONGOING

Din Djarin is on what he expects to be his last bounty hunt for Greef Karga. However, after capturing a wanted starship engineer who would rather go anywhere other than “home,” the Mandalorian is forced to reassess his priorities. Your taste of freedom had been brief but glorious. Now you are a prisoner of the most infamous bounty hunter in the Outer Rim – it’s only a matter of time before he turns you in. There isn’t much you would not do to keep from being sent home, but as you find yourself growing closer to your captor and his strange little companion, you start to wonder whether escape is really what you want. Set immediately following Chapter 13: The Jedi.

I'd Like To - COMPLETE

Din has always struggled to prioritize his own happiness, even more so now that he is a single father. When some well-meaning friends create a dating app profile for him without his knowledge, he finds himself on his first date in years with a woman who seems determined to bring some much-needed softness to his life. Written for @hellishjoel's Hot DILF Summer Challenge

Miller Tours | Secret Springs Resort - COMPLETE

Prompt: Joel Miller & Speedboat Rides Created for the Secret Springs event hosted by @secretelephanttattoo

Whiskey's Sour | Secret Springs Resort - COMPLETE

Prompt: Jack Daniels (Agent Whiskey) & Cocktail Bar Created for the Secret Springs event hosted by @secretelephanttattoo

Sweet As - COMPLETE

Frankie comes home after a long day at work and learns how you have been keeping cool in the midst of a heat wave. Prompt: Frankie Morales x Grapes Written for the @happypedrohoursCharcuterie Board Challenge

Work of Art - COMPLETE

Your pregnancy brings out a vulnerability in Marcus you never would have expected. When he reluctantly shares his insecurities with you, you are more than happy to reaffirm your affection for each and every part of him. Written for @joelmillerisapunkPPCU Body Worship Writing Challenge

Sins of the Flesh - COMPLETE

After multiple chance encounters with a mysterious stranger, you begin having the most unsettling dreams. Written for Monster (S)Mash hosted by @quinnnfabrgay-writes and @hauntedhowlett-writes

The AK-Vintage Archives (works published pre-2023) can be found here.

#ashley's masterlist #ak's masterlist #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #ppcu fanfiction #ppcu fandom #din djarin #joel miller #jack daniels #agent whiskey #frankie morales #general marcus acacius #pero tovar

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mikeyswayy · 8 months ago

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◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

(UPDATED INTRO POST)

(𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨...)

DNI'S are literally only like MSI fans.. oh and if your homophobic, transphobic, racist. anything like that.. oh and if your possibly one of my family members

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I don't have a name, call me cunt or something I don't care

•

MCR is my favorite band, I like fob too and I forgot but I love any of Frankie's bands too! And Gees solo music!!!!!

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My favorite movies are (these aren't in order btw) Donnie Darko, star Wars, life on the murder scene. (I like the Chucky movies too, I was raised on them but they're not my favorite)

Favorite TV shows, the walking dead (all the spin-offs too) , umbrella academy, Chucky (I'm a big nerd for child's play and Chucky btw) / (I can't think of others right now but I think I have some more maybe..)

Favorite comics, the walking dead, the true lives of the fabulous Killjoys, the true lives of the fabulous Killjoys: national anthem, umbrella academy (I have more but like I forget a lot so..)

Favorite games, the walking dead telltale games (I have others that I'm not gonna name here bc I wanna say it somewhere else.. But you'll probably know soon enough)

Favorite colors are red and black

My favorite YouTubers are jake webber and Johnnie guilbert but I have a few more and they do pranks but like I don't think anyone that's here probably likes them so.. Well carry on.

Favorite album is I brought you my bullets, you brought me your love

Favorite songs are, my way home is through you, not that kind of girl, Emily, black dragon fighting society, all the angels and tomorrow's money

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𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗢𝗠 𝗙𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗦 :

I've always wanted to play bass

I wanna make comics, draw and maybe write some.. :D

I'm a minor, don't be a Creepazoid.. but i dont care if your over 18 :P

Literally obsessed with Mikey way..

I like sour candies, war heads I like a lot. Sour candy also isn't sour to me..

I like vampires (𝘪 𝘢𝘮 𝘰𝘯𝘦) and that stuff, bats too I guess

Blood is cool too

I draw sometimes (𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘐'𝘮 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘐 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴.. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦?)

I edit sometimes..

I'm awake all night listening to MCR, and all day almost too..

Petekey.. ♡

Frerard ♥︎

My favorite soda is root beer

I'm running out of things to say now.. Let's carry on..

⚰︎

This is the end.. So.. Bye? I don't know.. Want the lyrics to the foundations of decay? There, it's down there ↓

See the man who stands upon the hill

He dreams of all the battles won

But fate had left its scars upon his face

With all the damage they had done

And so tired with age, he turns the page

Let the flesh submit itself to gravity

Let our bodies lay, mark our hearts with shame

Let our blood in vain, you find God in pain

Now, if your convictions were a passing phase

May your ashes feed the river in the morning rays

And as the vermin crawls, we lay in the foundations of decay

He was there the day the towers fell

And so he wandered down the road

And we would all build towers of our own

Only to watch the roots corrode

But it's much too late, you're in the race

So we'll press and press 'til you can't take it anymore

Let our bodies lay, mark our hearts with shame

Let our blood in vain, you find God in pain

And if, by his own hand, his spirit flies

Take his body as a relic to be canonized

Now, and so he gets to die a saint

But she will always be a whore

Against faith (cage all the animals)

Against all odds ('cause the message must be pure)

Against change (you can wander through the ruins)

We are free (but the poison is the cure)

You must fix your heart

And you must build an altar where it swells

When the storm, it gains and the sky, it rains

Let it flood, let it flood, let it wash away

And as you stumble through your last crusade

Will you welcome your extinction in the morning rays?

And as the swarm it calls, we lay in the foundations

Yes, it comforts me much more

To lay in the foundations of decay

Get up, coward

Now, so long and goodnight...

(I'll probably be adding more once I remember more shit, but for now Run, run, bunny, run)

(𝘈𝘴𝘬 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘧𝘧...)

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#intro post #my chemical romance #my chem

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oogaboogasphincter · 2 years ago

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Voltage | Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales x f!reader

your favorite toy dies on you at the worst possible moment. frankie compensates - and absolutely obliterates - your woes.

word count/rating/warnings - 3100+ // hurt then comfort, swearing, EXPLICIT 18+ ONLY: masturbation (f), unprotected p in v sex (use protection irl!), oral sex (f (come on it’s the pussy-eating king we’re talking about here) and m receiving), light choking, squirting, anal play (f receiving), sprinkles of a breeding kink, a DISGUSTING amount of pet names, creampie, aftercare

a/n - ahh, this is the first full-length fic i’ve written in a veryyy long time! do i have two requests sitting in my inbox? yes and i send my sincerest apologies to those patiently waiting. but this idea came to me like a premonition skdjs 😭 and it is giving me the confidence to write those two! i hope you enjoy! :)

Acute, harsh tremors pulse on your clit as you hold your vibrator against the swollen bud, wiggling the head of the wand ever so slightly to radiate the stimulation. Legs spread wide and thong pulled to the side, your free hand reaches up and pinches your nipple, sending your head back in a rapt gasp. Visions of your soft, sweet boyfriend pounding into you ruthlessly fill your dazed head, aiding you over the edge of your orgasmic cliff. And just when you're about to scream his name, though he's not at home, the vibrations stutter and then fall dead.

You snap your neck back upright, eyes wide open as you inspect the toy. This cannot be happening.

"No, no, no, no," you whimper as you shake the wand, attempting to rev it back to life for the measly yet crucial thirty seconds you need it for. To no avail, the toy sits silent, unmoving in your hand. You whack it against your palm two more times before you sit up and rub your eyes with the heels of your hands, unceremoniously dropping the disappointment on the bedspread beside you.

You had needed this. Frankie had been gone all day, over at Santi's to help install a back deck - and of course Benny, upon hearing this, invited himself and his cacophonous truck over, knowing Fish had a way with machines and the patience of a mule. With the holidays around the corner, both your biological and adoptive families badgered you with messages and calls of 'When are you coming over?', 'I don't control the weather, find a way to get here, we're all counting on you', 'Oh and by the way make sure to bring a present or three for everyone!'.

Work had ramped up; the collective stress of the forcibly affectionate season was making everyone a grouch; and the dog managed to tear up your flower garden and subsequently stole your lunch break for a bath and half your dinner time for cleaning up the yard. Sitting with your knees to your chest, you can't help the tears that well up in your eyes from your robbed pleasure.

Fleck's nails tapping against the hardwood floor and the creaking of the front door signals your lover's arrival home. You get up and throw on the pair of sweats you had changed into earlier, feeling embarrassed to just sit there naked in your wallowing. Frankie can be heard greeting your puppy, setting his keys down and toeing his boots off before opening the fridge to no doubt grab a drink. You settle yourself on the edge of your shared bed, trying to compose yourself at least a little bit, as Frankie comes in.

"Hey angelface," he blurts out before he can process the sourness of your expression. He immediately sets his water down and comes over to kneel in front of you, looking up at you with concern, "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

You can't hold it in anymore. The dam breaks and you let your tears stream down your cheeks, causing Frankie to sit up and pull you into a quick, grounding hug. He drags back and puts his strong, comforting hands on your shoulders, waiting to listen patiently when you're ready. You wipe your dribbling nose with your sweatshirt sleeve and speak shakily, "I-I just had a bad day. Not bad, j-just- stressful."

Those damned puppy dog eyes of his are washed over with devastating sadness, "I'm so sorry, baby. And I'm so sorry that I couldn't be here to help you, I knew I should've waited until the weekend-"

You shake your head, "No, it's okay," cupping his cheek. The prickle of his patchy stubble never fails to calm you down, no matter by how little, no matter how upset you are. You turn to your side, gesturing helplessly at your dead toy and ramble in one breath, "And I knew you'd be tired by the time you got home and I didn't want to make you even more tired so I wanted to just cum and get it over with but then this fucking thing fucking died and-"

You had picked it up, squeezing it with rage, but Frankie places a gentle hand over yours and melts your fingers from their irritated freeze. His other hand comes up to cradle both of yours, rubbing his calloused thumbs over your trembling knuckles, releasing a pressurized huff of fatigue from you. He reaches up to the apple of your cheek and dabs a puddle of tears away with the back of his finger, "Shh, honey, it's okay. I'll make you feel better, I promise."

You glance up at him dejectedly through your waterfall, and he repeats in assurance, "I promise," before moving in to press his soft lips to yours.

They're slightly chapped from his long day of work, with minimal time and lazy effort to keep hydrated. You'll give him a smack on the shoulder for it later. For now, you let his movements soothe you, his mouth waltzing with yours with steadily increasing desire all the while maintaining his trademark gentleness. His hands fall away when you anchor yourself around his neck, only to find your hips upon landing. Those mischievous fingertips slink into your waistband, easily removing your loose fitting pants while maintaining his worship kneel and adoring kiss.

Your bright pink thong catches his eye during an enamored flutter of his lashes, tearing him from your kiss momentarily. The petulant wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens in question and you explain with a tired shrug, "I wanted to feel sexy."

He slides the scrap of fabric off, "You're always sexy," and removes your hoodie before returning to your mouth, his haven, and feeding you his tongue. You accept it with a starved moan, suddenly feeling overcome with emotion. He says it like it's a concrete fact, fast and simple. No condescending disbelief, no dramatized emphatics, not like it's a well-known fact and he's taking pity on you that you're the last one in the world to know it. But rather it's a scientific law that has mountains of evidence to explain it, that it's been tested time and time again with a guaranteed success rate. He's a scientist, driven mad with desire, and you're his favorite phenomena.

He shrugs his dirty coveralls off; though they make him look absolutely adorable, you're buzzing to see him naked. Deeply entranced in his poignant relaxation, you lie back into the bed and run your hungry hands from his neck to his collarbone to his shoulders, biceps and back, retracing your favorite sensuous steps again and again. Covering your body with his delectably broad frame, his hardened, heated cock brushes against your splayed entrance, making you both break apart in a gasp. Seeing evidence that you had pleasured yourself - even though this time it was anticlimactic - never fails to make him hard. You reach down and grab his hips to pull them into yours, telling him that you're ready to take him by rubbing his length through your puffy folds, coating his shaft in your slick.

He groans at this, tucking a jostled piece of hair away from your precious face in awe before leaning down to give you a searing kiss, his tip catching at the tight entrance of your heat. You exchange moans into each other's mouths as he slowly breaches your hole, warmly welcomed by your quivering, plush walls. Although you felt like you'd hollowed yourself out trying to rub away the stresses of the day, he still gives you time to adjust, something you always need because of his impressive girth.

"Fuuuuck," he chokes out. The way the elongated expletive strangles itself out of his throat would've made you laugh any other day, but tonight it cradles your distressed heart in gentle fingers. He begins to move, and with every gratifying push forward and aching pull back of his hips, it feels like he's returning every part of yourself that you lost during this hectic season back to you.

He nuzzles his nose against yours, dots kisses across your forehead and holds you so tight that your pieces have nowhere to fracture. Your shaking hands yank at his hips, eager to catapult yourself to your peak once and for all, "Faster, Frankie."

"Do you trust me, bebita?" he asks, eyes closed, blissfully lost in your sensations.

You respond, "Yes," memorizing his relaxed expression that he only slips into when he's with you.

"Then you'll take what I give you," he strains, his teeth gritting together on the last few syllables. He's restraining himself with brute strength, determined to give you a languorous night of luxury rather than a one-note eruption.

He keeps his slow pace, making your nerves all over itch with impatience. Although you clench his biceps in anticipation, nearly squirming underneath him, you do trust him - you may think you know what you want, but he always knows what you need.

His speed doesn't change, but the depths at which he surges inside you grow ever deeper. It doesn't take long for it to feel like he's grazing your cervix. And with that, a familiar squishy feeling in the pit of your stomach arises. Coupled with his mustache tickling your lip on every thrust and his hot breaths swirling in your open mouth, you're dangerously close to your final destination.

"Please make me cum, Frankie," you whimper against his flushed skin, begging for a better outcome than the last time you were at this altitude.

"You don't have to ask, baby, I got you," he watches, eyes half-lidded trying to stave off his own release, as your face mirrors your body; scrunching up and then sobbing with relief as endorphins drown your nerves. You mewl his name down his throat, your body sparkling with exhilaration. But as he momentarily slips trying to steady himself and his thrusts get quicker, his cock punches that sweet spot inside you that makes you gush. Through your ecstatic haze you seize the opportunity and wedge your hand between your impossibly close bodies, playing with your clit until you scream.

"H-holy fuck," Frankie stutters as he hears what's happening below, leaning back to watch you drizzle over his groin. Overwhelmed tears skip down your cheeks and dampen his hair as he buries his face in your neck. He hisses, his resolve on the brink of collapse but steadfast in prolonging your joy. His grunts from continuing thrusts sound near agony, every primal instinct in his body igniting and shouting at him to stuff your womb full of his cum until it seeps out of you.

He goes until he knows for certain you've begun your comedown, abruptly sliding his cock out of your wet channel. You whine at the loss, your pussy clenching in aftershocks.

So stunned you don't even realize it's happening, he hoists you from he edge to the middle of the bed and climbs on after you, laying on his tummy and holding a quivering thigh in each hand. He takes his time prying you back open, mindful of your body's involuntary response to clamp away from such breathtaking pleasure. Once he's got you spread out, he leans in and takes a drink of your juices directly from the source, moaning at the way his tongue glides over you effortlessly thanks to your copious amounts of slick. He revels in your taste; tangy, fleshy, sweet.

He shares your fluids with you, feeding them to you with his tongue on yours, sighing, "How's it taste?"

"Fucking delicious, " you giggle out. He joins in your chuckles, the skin around his eyes crinkling from his wide smile as he swipes his thick fingers through your folds, plunging two down to the second knuckle in your magnetic heat. He brings his hand back up, offering you his middle while he takes his index. Together you swirl your tongues around his digits, hungrily lapping up your flavor, staring at one another in the close proximity and basking in the debauchery with mutual glimmers of mischief in your eyes.

Drunk on pleasure, you want as much of him inside you as you can manage. So you take his large finger back deep, groaning in happiness at the feeling of something of his being shoved down your throat. A new wave of fervor crashes through your veins and lubrication oozes from your core and coats your inner thighs.

"Oh no, you don't," he smirks and retracts his finger from your trap. His hand slithers to your throat and takes control, confining you to the soft - and sweaty - sheets beneath you. He takes a moment to just look at you: a complete 180 from what you were feeling like a little bit ago. He can't wait to make you smile so much your cheeks hurt tomorrow. And maybe make some other body parts sore too.

"C'mere bebita," he rasps, rolling onto his back and beckoning you to climb on top of him. You gladly follow his call, straddling his lap and molding your bodies together, your cheek pressed firmly against his sternum to hear the harsh thrum of his heart. He encapsulates you in his arms, squeezing you firm to his chest, and plants his feet steady into the mattress. Giggles tumble out of you on butterfly wings as you anticipate the speed and force that he's capable of in this position, triggering a chorus of his own playful chuckles that vibrate your face. With no time left to waste, he enters your swiftly - no pinch of discomfort after your rainfall - and gets straight to reacquainting you flesh.

"Oh, fuck, Frankie!-" you shriek into his neck, dappled with drops of exertion. His answering grunts are born from unbridled passion to deliver pleasure to every square centimeter of your cunt and steeled willpower to keep himself from exploding at any given second. He drives his cock into your pussy severely and at a devastating pace, letting the instinct inside him to breed you rage on. He wants to claim you, to fuck you so often that your plushness sculpts to a shape that only fits him. You constantly remind Frankie that he's the only one for you, forever and always, but it's still fun to demolish the nonexistent competition.

Not long after he begins his onslaught of drilling, you're close to falling into that bottomless valley of carnal eruption again.

"Please, please, please, please," you chant the request to him with heightening strangulation, the ripples of his affectionate passion seizing you from your tightening core outward.

And then he makes you fly with the tip of his finger teasing your asshole. As you come apart, he pushes inside your ass; just barely, but enough to make you bury your face into his shoulder and scream his full name, "Francisco!"

Your squeezing of his finger and massaging pulses to his cock force him to slow down, moaning heartily into your hair while you gyrate your hips against his, juicing every last drop of pleasure from your body's breakdown. When your tensing subsides, you're heaving, your breaths skidding across his collarbone like glittering desert over dunes in a sandstorm. His hands come up to hold it between his palms, gazing up at you with an amused twinkle in his eyes.

You brush through his beard, staring at his pouty lips before lowering to them, "It's your turn, mi nutria."

He smiles against your kiss, "Had to take care of my lady first."

Slipping out from underneath you, he gets to his knees and starts waddling behind your drained frame. With his aching cock bobbing in your face, you can't stop yourself from grasping the hairy base with a trembling arm and latching your mouth to his tip, suckling. He groans loud, painfully. You're only able to get three thorough swirls of your tongue in before he's jerking his hips back. "Not now, bebita. Too c-close," he stammers out, completing his trek around to your ass.

He wraps his hands around your hips, modeling your near-dead weight into the correct form. They then glide up and down your dipped back - his cock rutting in between your cheeks - soothing your twitching muscles to stabilize them for one last fuck. He enters your pussy in one swift motion, tired but eager to deposit his load inside your needy hole.

Plunge after plunge he takes, your cunt swallowing him whole each time. Only a handful of thrusts later he falls over top your back, reaching around to fondle your breasts. You arch further, into his touch when he rolls your nipple between two fingers, pinching it gingerly when he stifles, "'M gonna cum baby."

You contort to brush his sweaty chocolate curls off his forehead, swiping the sweat off of his brow, "Cum for me, Frankie."

He does exactly as you say, halting when he's buried to the hilt, his spine pulling the reins of his hips and grinding them into yours with every jolt of his orgasm. His cum is thick inside you, its warmth radiating from your womb to your stomach, enveloping you both in a final blanket of sleepy heat. Like the last dribbles of his spend squeezing out of his cock, your name on his tongue tapers from hypnotized groans to faint echos in the night.

His weight presses you both flat into the bed, sleep pulling at the corners of your eyes. Chin on your shoulder, he mumbles, "Feeling better, sweetheart?"

Using every bit of strength you have left, you huff out from under his heavy, lax muscles, "Abso-fucking-lutely."

His laughs lift him off your back, but not before pressing a kiss to your shoulder, then he ghosts into the bathroom. He returns with a damp washcloth, cleaning up your mess, his mess. It feels nice - he had taken the time to let the water warm up before soaking the cloth. You reach a hand out, patting his thick thigh in gratitude, "I'll take care of you tomorrow."

Keeping his languid swipes through your folds, his forehead wrinkles with incredulousness, "What do you mean? You're already taking care of me."

That makes your heart sing and eyes shine. Impatient to laze with you, he chucks the rag into the laundry bin in the corner of the room and flops on your back, the sound of your sweaty skins smacking causing you both to giggle. He swathes you both in the damp top sheet; you know he'll sneak away from your grasp in the night to retrieve some fresh blankets once you've both cooled down and dried off. Nuzzling into your neck, he kisses you randomly, murmuring against your skin, "Get some rest, angelface. Santi and Benny gave me the day off tomorrow, I'll be here in the morning."

"Yay," you cheer weakly, not from lack of enthusiasm but rather blatant exhaustion. Frankie loved you so hard you'll be satiated for a while, through tomorrow if the temptation of him being close by wasn't a compounding factor. But that won't stop him from getting a midnight snack under the sheets.

main masterlist ♡ join my taglist!

💘taglist: @pedrostories @pascalpanic @maievdenoir @tenderwhat @melody13522

#frankie morales #francisco morales #francisco catfish morales #frankie catfish morales x reader #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x afab!reader #pedro pascal characters

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improbable-outset · 3 years ago

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I’ve joined a lot of new fandoms this year and even started writing my own fanfic.

This year was good to me so I want to end it with sharing some of my favourite fics. (Some on this website and some from AO3)

If you’re mentioned on here, hi :) thanks for making this year good.

** = Indicates explicate content

𝚃𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚛

Learning curves - Frankie Morales x fem!Reader by @ezrasbirdie (series)*

Summary: Frankie goes back to school, and he meets you in his quest to understand financial aid and find love.

Let the best man win - Frankie Morales x fem!Reader x Benny Miller by @albertasunrise (Series)*

Summary: You’ve known Frankie all your life and have harboured a crush on him for as long as you can remember. Thing is, he doesn't feel the same. Little do you know, his best friend has a thing for you. What happens when you learn this leads to a messy chain of events that’ll leave more than one person with their heartbroken...

Comfort food - Frankie Morales x fem!Reader by @lowlights*

Summary: Frankie tries to make you dinner

Always come home - TF boys x fem!Reader by @underwood0723*

Summary: Your boys had gone out for the night, leaving you with chaste kisses on your cheeks and promises to, “make it up to you when we get home.”

Doing it for the first time - Frankie Morales x fem!Reader by @queenofthefaceless (Request)*

Summary: Your relationship with Frankie blossomed into a beautiful, trustworthy one. You knew everything about each other, you were there for each other and loved each other unconditionally. But there was one aspect of it that made you restless and that was being physical.

Reader who doesn’t celebrate Christmas - Frankie Morales x gn!Reader by @queenofthefaceless (Request)

Summary: Frankie invites you over to a Christmas party with the boys

𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚝

Wildfire - Deimos x gn!Reader by @jalapenjowrites

Summary: You’ve been on Deimos’ mind a lot

Cuddle me close - Sanford x gn!Reader by @jalapenjowrites

Summary: You wake up with a headache and your boyfriend helps you

Golden medal ribbon - Sanford x gn!Reader by @AyeJay_Fuentes on AO3

Summary: Back pain seems to be getting worse from all that infiltration action previous day, but waking up to your man seemed to bring sunshine in your grey. How could he forgotten you longed the taste of sweet from all the sour, salt and bitter things going on in your life.

𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝙽𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝙵𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗’

Rekindling something once forgotten - Pico x gn!Reader by @/BlueMouseSD on AO3*

Summary: You have a chance encounter with your old high school classmate, Pico. For you, it was a great way to reconnect with your past. For him, it was the opportunity he's been waiting for. See, it doesn't make Pico too happy to see his ex already in a loving relationship. He's feeling petty as hell and has something to prove: that he can bounce back just as easily. Are you willing to help him?

After school activities - Pico x gn!Reader by @multifandommotherfucker on AO3

Summary: Signing up for an after school community service was, most definitely, something you wished you'd never done. All you wanted to do was sleep. When a cute, rebellious boy is forced to be there and eventually tolerates your presence, though, it makes things a bit better.

Laundry day - Garcello x fem!Reader by an anonymous author on AO3*

Summary: It's laundry day at the apartment. You and your roommate Garcello are hard at work bring your clothes back upstairs, but when something important pops up, you leave Garcello to his own devices. Not even a couple of minutes later, Garcello is finding it very hard to control himself.

Loophole of love - Sarvente x Ruvyzvat by @supremacyhours on AO3*

Summary: Living with a wannabe Nun is something Ruv didn't anticipate for his life to fall upon, to be fair he has been remarkably happy with where his life eventually arrived even if he doesn't display it.

A moment of grace - Tabi x gn!Reader by @sweetpxxches *

Summary: Tabi has had a crush on you for a long time. But what will happen when you invite him over?

𝚃𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜

You’re stuck on my mind and in between my thighs - John x gn!Reader by @HS_Killjam on AO3*

Summary: No you don’t have feelings for him

The worse timing known to (Tank)man - John x fem!reader, Steve x fem!Reader, Ted x fem!Reader by Anonymous author on AO3*

Summary: You tried to finish your shower before any of the male recruits showed back up at the base.That didn't work in your favor.

Of course these are only a small fraction of my fave.

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scorpio-marionette · 2 years ago

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31 Nights of Head Canons - Night 4

Night 3

A/N: This one was hard. I haven't actually seen any of these movies. I had to do a LOT of reading of summaries to write this one. Hence why it's so late coming out. I would've gotten to it sooner, but I had to cover a shift at work. Now that it's done, I go to sleep.

Night 4

What is your favorite classic horror movie monster?

Dio

Dracula is Dio's favorite. I imagine that there are days he feels like him. I mean, he brags about all of the mindless drones that he can't seem to shake. Dracula turns people into his vampiric minions that follow his commands without question. Sounds pretty similar to me.

Omar

Cheela from the Captive Wild Woman reminds Omar of how trapped he is in his own life by his father's desires. He, like Cheela, is actually very affectionate. Sure, he can act all cool and attractive. Ultimately though, he just wants freedom.

Zach

The Gill-Man in the Creature from Black Lagoon has always triggered Zach's love for travel and discovery. He finds the creature's desire for the woman strange, but enjoys the movie all the same.

Oberyn

Centuries prior to even the fair Targaryens rein over Westeros, before even the Children of the Forest, there was an ancient serpent that dwelled in the expansive caves of the land. This serpent was said to be the ancestor to all dragons, having been the first to sprout wings and fly free of its rocky confinment. Oberyn does not see this ancient beast as a monster or as the creator of monsters as so many others do. While his relations with the Targaryens have soured, he still holds much respect for the distant cousins of his namesake.

Marcus Pike

Erik, the Phantom, from the 1925 version of the Phantom of the Opera. Marcus loves this character as much as he fears becoming him. He hasn't had the best luck with love, but he hopes to never feel compelled to "take" someone's love rather than earn it.

Max Phillips

Dr. Jack Griffin, the invisible man, is more like Max than you know. Both are suave, psychotic, and easily disarmed by the one they really love.

Pero Tovar

William often likes to tell stories from his homeland to Pero, whether he cares to hear them or not. One such tale was of a man who turned into an animal. The Wolf-Man William had called it. Slave to the Moon and a hunger for flesh, whatever that may mean at the time. Pero acted like he didn't care for the story, but secretly he enjoyed thinking about resigning himself to his more basic instincts.

Javier Peña

Frankenstein's monster has become a favorite of Javi's. While he knows it isn't true, there are days he feels like a monster. He's done bad things. They don't define him though. This movie reminds him of that truth.

Jack

Dan McCormick, the Electric Man, from Man Made Monster. While you can see parallels in the men having both been turned into monsters due to their circumstances. The truth is, Jack finds the applications of electricity facinating.

Ezra

In is search for more relics, Ezra discovered the movie the Brute Man. He enjoys this movie because he sees himself in Hal Moffet. Not because he's disfigured, but because he's be slighted by people whom he trusted.

Dave

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde speaks to Dave's double life. He is a man with a family he loves, but he misses the work he used to do. Now a monster lurks under his skin. Itching to come out and be in charge forever.

Frankie

Wilfred Glendon, the werewolf, is a long time favorite of Frankie's. Both because he relates to having the seemingly uncontrolable beast within, and just from a personal facination of the mythological creature.

Max Lord

Gwynplaine, the Man Who Laughs, is a movie Max doesn't like to share with people unless he trusts them. He knows the movie calls out to his own perpetually forced smile. He hates that he has to pretend. He appreciates that his isn't carved into his face though. He also likes knowing that even Gwynplaine could find love in the end.

Marcus Moreno

Marcus is not a Hollow Earth theorist by any means. Just because he lives in a world where superpowers are a thing, doesn't mean the Earth has to have a whole subterranean ecosystem. He does enjoy the idea of the Mole Poeple though. It isn't entirely impossible for a whole seperate species closely resembling humans to exist underground in caves.

Din

Din doesn't really remember any stories from his childhood, unfortunately.

Nico

Godzilla and all of the other kaiju from Japan. Nico loves the look of the old films and comparing them to their latest itterations. The progress of production only heightens the action. It will always be funny to think of the man in a lizard suit though.

Dieter

Exeter from This Island Earth is Dieter's favorite. Though it's been a long time since seeing the movie, he remembers this being his first favorite sci-fi movie about aliens. He likes that he's a hero though not human.

Javi Gutierrez

Imhotep, the mummy, from the 1932 movie the Mummy. Javi likes this version of the mummy because it really focuses on Imhotep's desire to find his love again. That isn't to say he doesn't like the 1999 version. It's just with that one, he sees himself more as Rick rather than Imhotep.

Joel

This isn't really a monster persay, but they are huge and dangerous. In the Monolith Monsters, there are asteroid fragments that grow rapidly when exposed to water. They also seem to leech out all trace amounts of silicon from your body and leave you petrified. I would imagine Joel wanting to use some of that stuff right now to build walls very quickly around Jackson.

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euphoniouspandemonium · 2 years ago

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What's the thing you're most excited about for each wip? :D

Welp, it's time for a list, and it's gonna be a long one. You have been warned.

Cotton Mendings: I am absolutely hype about like. Literally Everything. Right now I am especially excited about 1) exploring the relationship between Willie and Edward (they're side characters, Willie is Salvatore's elder brother) even though I know it is going to make me cry so much 2) literally everything about Percy but especially his backstory, which is also going to make me cry so much and already has and 3) this one side character who is a close friend of Percy's - their name is Kaspar and they're a magician. Also they're nonbinary and German. I would die for them. OH and! I think I'm gonna make a (much more in depth) Power Point Comic Sans reintroduction, which is also really exciting <3

Putting the rest under a cut!!

Clarity Is Blood On A Murder Weapon: COMMUNISM. A CHAOTIC WHOLESOME QUEER FRIEND GROUP. VERY SAD BACKSTORIES. ROCK MUSIC REFERENCES. WACKY 1960S FASHION. MURDERRRRRRRRR- also like there's several scenes that happen in bathrooms and they range from wholesome and cute to so fucking gay and tender they make me want to break down sobbing on my bedroom floor. And I can't wait to write said scenes. And everyone's dynamics??? I am just. Obsessed with these stupid queers.

Tuned Teeth And Sour Symphonies: well for one thing I get to cowrite something with the most darling person in the world (@writing-is-a-martial-art <3)- and. Our characters are so interesting and I would like to put them under a microscope. And hurt them, mentally and physically. OH OH and the PLOT is SO FUN and our prose and the themes are so >>>>>> and the BACKSTORIES!! Oh lord the backstories. They are very sad but. Writing about them is so >>>>>>>>>> AND THE SYMBOLISM *screams*

Okay okay now WIPs that I haven't really talked about-

The Art Of Devouring: this is actually a short story/prose poetry collection and I've posted three of said stories/poems!! The Moon Was Eaten Last Night – Whatever Will Happen To The Tides, What To Dream At World's End, and How To Lose Your Corpse To The Sea (they're all linked in my pinned post!). AND. I am very excited about the other ideas I have for it. I started a story about lesbians and consensual??? cannibalism a while ago. The first line is "you are my apple of Eden", which I think is quite cool. There's probably also gonna be a story about dramatic eating of a peach because I feel like I am devouring god whenever I eat peaches so.

And Bleed, Like Hydrangea: it's about three queer theatre kids who find the memoir of a gay man from the Victorian era and the things that happen in the memoir parallel the stories of these kids and it switches between a) epistolary (the memoir) b) third p present tense narration of the teens' narrative and c) a screenplay based on the memoir. LIKE WHAT'S THERE NOT TO BE HYPE ABOUT. (This is my most ambitious project and it terrifies me.)

Earl/Edith WIP: it's literally a story about a bisexual genderfluid criminal mastermind. Like what's more exciting than that. Also there's moth and butterfly symbolism and two borzois named Frankie and Lola.

Claude WIP: TRANSGENDERISM AND SCIENCE AND FEMINISM AND HOMOSEXUALITY, NEED I SAY MORE. Need or not I will because I want to. It's set in the 1840s and the protagonist, Claude, is a trans guy (but he doesn't know that yet) and he adores science and wants to be a scientist but he gets arranged married with a (very gay) scientist dude who's pining for his best friend from college. Also Claude's sister is a raging lesbian scientist and her shitty husband died of mYstEriOuS cAusEs a while before the main plot. And did I mention everyone loves science.

The Kraken WIP: it's set in the 18th century and there's pirates in it. The imagery is probably gonna be rather fucking ethereal. Also I think there's a fucked up little sopping wet cat scientist guy. And it's historical magical realism which is >>>>>>>>

She's A Femme Fatale (???): (female) detective falls in love with a femme fatale who murdered her husband. And it's got strong noir vibes. That is very fucking exciting I think.

Alright my unhinged ranting is over now. Have a good day, my dear Inara!!

#asks

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minamotoz · 3 years ago

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top 7 worst degrassi ships (excluding the obviously terrible/abusive one) just like you least faves

you've opened up a storm anon

7. cake. outside of the INCEST, i generally found their storyline to just be sorta.. annoying, especially in comparison to the far more enjoyable campy insanity of imogeli, these two just come off as bland as shit. i really wanted to like clare, especially because she sorta reminded me of andi mack and i love andi a lot, but the cake era and ESPECIALLY nowhere to run (a very cake centric episode) was just clare at her most insufferable and almost made sour on her completely. the best i can say about them is that jake will always be hilarious

6. triles. i honestly dont hate them as much as other people, but they just sorta annoy me. honestly all of degrassis MLM pairings have been kinda underwhelming to me, from darco being sorta Weird and bad for marco to ziley being boring as shit, but triles is the one thats just kinda frustrating and annoying. like maybe its the lack of chemistry between them or the fact that they are both sorta really shitty to each other, but i just prefer both of them to be Far away from each other. im sad that miles never got another male love interest .... and by that i mean im sad that we never got canon chullingsworth

5. jankie. these two are just ANNOYING. i really hate jonah, i dont know why because i really didnt mind him in s14 but then NC hit and he became so insufferable, and frankie is frankie. i like frankie marginally better than jonah bc she was funnier than him (not jonah didnt have the occasional Good Moment), but taking two characters i find annoying and pointless and putting them in a relationship made them so much more annoying. theres just no chemistry and i hated that the second they started writing frankston somewhat well in NC1, it was just to shove him to the side for JONAH. justice for winston. also they just seem to be so miserable during their entire time together, jonahs treatment of frankie in NC3 was sorta Really shitty, they were just a pathetic excuse for an enemies to lovers storyline, i wouldve had more fun if i were watching hunter and baaz fall in love instead.

4. owanya. i was like 6-8 when s10-11 were airing so i have no real way of telling if this is the case, but from what i hear from other people in the fandom these two used to be really well liked and i really have no idea why. was owen popular as well? how was someone like owen found more likeable than fucking marisol???? (racism) anyways i dont really feel like explaining why sleeping with the guy who hate crimed one of your best friends and also harassed you multiple times isnt the Smartest of moves, and i feel like it wouldve been much better had anya realized what she did was stupid and then refuse to look at owen ever again, or at least not have their relationship be framed as a positive. were we supposed to like... disagree when holly j and fiona were talking shit on owen in front of anya ?????? bc they were based af.

3. dolly j. i think i have a bit of a bias when i say this because season 10 was the first season of degrassi i watched so i didnt have the proper backstory to these two and their only storylines in that season were him trying to be her sugar daddy (which i wasnt even paying attention to bc the misfits vs fitz and three tenners plots in that episode were 1000x better than their drama), them breaking up, and then him assaulting her so.... not the best first impression. even when i did get their backstory in s9 i still ended up finding them to be extremely half baked. but also i think i also have a bias against them in s9 because i found holly j in s9 to be at her strongest, softening up and being kinder while also retaining her snark and edge which i love about her, but then along comes declan and holly j becomes a shell of herself. i still love her of course, but i hate the fact that post-declan, holly j didnt feel quite as... holly j-like. i could honestly care less about declan as a character, but its more of what this relationship does to holly j that makes me dislike them so much. and again the assault definitely soured me on this pairing from the jump. im just sayin holly j shouldve dated a different coyne....

2. bhandarco. i know you said that i couldn't include any 'obvious' ones, and in my mind this IS one of the obvious ones, but they have a lot of fans so that means its free range for me to put this on this list. for one, the age gap is . questionable to put it lightly. and its the fact that multiple characters around johnny and alli (clare, bruce, jenna) point out the fact that shes too young for him that makes it all the weirder. how the writers were able to WRITE IN characters saying 'hey its really weird that johnny, a grade 12, is dating alli, a grade 9' but refused to condemn this relationship is beyond me, but it wasnt the first time they did it, and unfortunately it wasn't the last, this is just the tamest example of the show doing this. anyways, i dont need to explain why the lying about sexual history or spreading around nudes of a 14 year old are bad. the thing is, i want to like johnny dimarco, because hes a funny character and had a fuckton of potential, but his treatment of alli, no matter how 'soft boye🥺' he acts around her, puts me off of him. and maybe im biased but the fact that so many people can ship them despite all of this but act like bhandurner is toxic and problematic makes me wanna bash my brains in. anyways alli deserved so much better and im glad she got better, eventually.

1. zaya. im not very subtle about my burning hatred for zaya, ive said multiple times that i hate them and that theyre my least favorite degrassi pairing Ever. i think my hatred of them used to be a kneejerk reaction post-cam, seeing as camaya is one of my favorite pairings from the show, but thats definitely not it because i liked matlingsworth! i am not against the idea of maya dating people after cam, hell im not even against zig and maya getting together post-cam in concept. it couldve worked like toberty, and i love toberty! i think all of my problems revolving zaya stem from season 13. back when i first watched s13, the only thing i could think of when i saw this new zaya dynamic was that they were trying to reverse engineer their dynamic into a knockoff of duncan and courtney total drama, with the whole 'reckless bad boy/goody two shoes good girl' thing they were pushing, but it didnt work for either character, ESPECIALLY zig who is 10x more whiny than he was as a niner while they tried to push him as a bad boy. the weird enemies to lovers thing they were trying to push didnt even work, zig just felt needlessly cruel to maya for no reason. the zig/miles fighting was horrible, zig calling maya his sloppy seconds was horrible, zig telling maya instead of respecting her boundaries after her boyfriend died he shouldve kissed her was HORRIBLE, zig being pushy and pretty much harassing maya into loving him and then becoming pissy when she didnt was horrible (notice a pattern?) i think him learning to respect that and moving on wouldve been a pretty good, if insufferable to get through, arc had they not randomly have maya realize shes in love with him during s14 out of literally no where. they were terrible in NC1-2 but i think anyone could tell you that. idk im sorta talking out of my ass rn and if i go and rewatch s13-NC4 i would definitely be more concise and accurate to why i hate these two so much but as it stands right now zaya is my least favorite degrassi pairing and i hate how the show tried making them seem so cute and #otp, especially in s13.

#degrassi #long post #this took me like 30 minutes to write i hope it was worth it anon

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max--phillips · 3 years ago

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Do you have songs that you associate with Pedro Pascal characters??? Like a song that reminds you of Max Phillips or Din Djarin?

An excellent question! I forever will associate sour candy by lady Gaga and blackpink with Din bc I wrote a fic about it but uh. Here hang on. I’m gonna go through my playlist real quick let’s see

Goodbye Earl by the chicks is something I associate with Jack bc I have this idea for a crack-ish fic where. Jack basically plays the part of Mary-Ann. Anyway

Another dumb Jack crack fic idea: White Trash Wedding by the Chicks. Trust me. And listen to it.

Easy Silence by The Chicks - Jack

Jolene by Dolly Parton - Jack. I just remember reading a really sad fic someone wrote inspired by this. Or at least their idea for one? Anyway

New Rules by Dua Lipa - Javi P. Do I need to explain

(Laugh at me if u dare) bring me to life by evanescence - Max P. That’s complicated but trust me

The chain by Fleetwood Mac - Frankie obviously

Third eye by Florence and the machine is a song I generally associate with a lot of characters and I can’t put my finger on exactly why

Budapest by George Ezra - Ezra but not because of the name & also max phillips but I do not know why??

I love it by icona pop - Javi P again

Alright get ready for a bunch of Jewel songs. Most of them are in the Javi court, some in the Frankie court. Don’t ask I don’t know it’s just the Vibes

Good Day, Drive To You, Again and Again, Summer Home In Your Arms, 2 Find U all by Jewel - Javi P

Jupiter and Stay Here Forever by Jewel - Jack

(SO many songs off of 0304 remind me of Frankie for some reason) Stand, Run 2 U, Leave The Lights On, Doin’ Fine, 2 become 1, Sweet Temptation, Yes U Can, U & Me=Love all by Jewel - Frankie

Haunted by Jewel - Din :)

Love me just leave me alone by Jewel - Max P

All Kesha songs - Max P. That’s kind of a throwback joke to an ask I got a long time ago

If you go through my audio/music tag you can see I kinda assigned all of the songs off of Chromatica to Pedro characters, but the main one that sticks out is Enigma I associate with Frankie, Replay with Maxwell (but also haunted au Din), Sine from Above with Ezra, and 1000 Doves with Javi

Beautiful, Dirty, Rich and Money Honey by Gaga I also associate with Max P for some reason

I Like It Rough by Gaga - Javi P

Monster by Gaga - Max P

Alejandro by Gaga - if you guessed Javi P by reading the song title you’re right

Teeth by Gaga - also Max but just generally any of the boys I’d like to write being dommed

John Wayne by Gaga - Jack

I’m A Believer by The Monkees - Din

Silent Movie and We’re All Mad In Our Own Way by Natasha Bedingfield - Ezra

Cassiopeia by Sara Bareilles - Ezra

Machine Gun and Come Round Soon by Sara Bareilles - Dave York

Shoutout to Wolves by Selena Gomez & Marshmello bc this song has Vibes. I don’t associate it with any one character but the Vibes.

That’s. Pretty much it. This list is kinda hard to parse but I have limited and wack music taste so rkgjenfjdbdns

#tori answers questions #max answers questions #anonymous

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javierpena-inatacvest · 1 day ago

Text

Chapter 5- Miles Between Us

Summary: Frankie's decision to join the Army was the catalyst in the collapse of your friendship. When he's forced to reconcile with his past, packed away in boxes in his childhood basement, he finds pieces of you in everything he's left behind.

Word Count: 5.0K

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader (reader has a name/nickname)

Warnings: Angst, lying, guilt, military deployment, FEELINGS, Frankie's mom not putting up with his shit

A/N: IT'S TIME TO PEEL BACK ANOTHER LAYER OF THE ONION, BABY!!! I hope you guys don't hate me that this is a slow burn- I know this is not how I normally write at all, but it's been really fun to build this story up bit by bit (if you hate it though, please tell me lmao 💀) I'm excited for this chapter and how it hints at next chapter (we're finally getting to some smut y'all, omg) Thank you as always for your kind words, it makes my day to hear what you have to say about these two 🥺💛

All The Things We Never Said Masterlist

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

You, Age 17, Spring of 2006

“You’re late, Morales.”

“Can’t be late to something we don’t have a set time for, Anderson.”

It’s true, you and Frankie have never set an official schedule for your afterschool ritual, but it never seems to fail that at 3:45, only 10 minutes after you’ve gotten home from soccer practice, he’s at the foot of your bed with his forest green Jansport backpack, ready to complain about the homework he doesn’t want to finish and the tests he has no interest in studying for, just so he can keep you company while you stress yourself to death about the same assignments.

And for as much as he hated school work, Frankie was never late. Never. So to watch him mope into your bedroom an hour later than his usual arrival time, it almost would have been safer to assume he was dead than anything else.

“What took you so long? Get lost on the way here?” You joke, trying to keep it light while still prodding for an answer about his absence as you write down the answer to the math equation you’re trying to solve.

“No. Don’t worry about it.”

There’s been very few occasions you’ve seen Frankie so stoic. Even on his worst days, he’s at least still got a little tolerance left in him for your stupid banter. It’s enough to draw your attention completely away from your homework and onto him.

“What’s wrong? Why are you being so weird?”

You can tell then that something’s clearly not right, the way he’s angrily yanking loose papers and textbooks from his backpack and nearly slamming them onto the edge of your bed, making you gnaw anxiously at the end of your pencil you’d been using.

You’re too nosy for your own good to let up until you find what you’re looking for.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Well obviously something’s wrong.”

“What? I’m not allowed to be late, ever?”

“No? Frankie, I just asked where you were and you’re acting like I’m asking you if you just shot the fucking president or something. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing, MacKenzie!”

“If it’s nothing, then why are you so upset about it?”

“I’m not upset!”

“You clearly are? Frankie, what the hell are you-”

“I’m joining the Army, okay?!”

Out of all the things you could have expected to come out of Frankie’s mouth, that would have been at the bottom of your list. In fact, it’s so out of left field, you’re not even quite sure you believe him.

Your forehead hurts from how tightly your brows are knitted together in confusion, scowling at Frankie with a dumbfounded intensity that probably had you looking like you had just gotten an unsuspecting whiff of the world’s most sour lemon.

There’s no way he’s being serious. He can’t be.

“Ha ha, very funny, Francisco.” You mock, frown still splayed across your face, “Now will you please tell me what’s actually going on?”

His silence makes your heart drop into the pit of your stomach. You can feel the way your face falls, the muscles once tensed in adamant skepticism now sinking into a quiet panic. You can hear each breath as it flows in through your nose and out through your mouth, blood pounding louder and louder in your ears with each pulse of your veins.

“Frankie, if this is one of your stupid jokes, it’s not funny.”

“It’s not a joke.”

His eyes are still peeled to the floor, too afraid to bring himself to look at you. All he can do is stare at his pinky toe, poking out of the hole in his socks that he refuses to replace. You wait for what feels like hours, days, for him to say something, but his silence is deafening. And the sound of Frankie’s silence is the scariest thing you’ve heard in a very long time.

It’s so terrifying, the only thing you can do to cope is fill the quiet void with your rambling and pray that Frankie Morales is choosing to play the world’s worst joke on you.

“What- what do you mean? Frankie, I thought- When you and Santi talked about doing the same thing as Will- I thought you were fucking kidding? What about college? We already both got accepted to Florida State, what are you gonna do-”

“I didn’t get in.”

Please let him be kidding. Please, please, let this be a sick joke.

You can feel your confusion starting to bubble into anger, jaw clenching at the way Frankie’s too coward to even look in your general direction, gaze still glued to that stupid fucking hole in his worn down sock.

“Frankie, what the fuck? We both got accepted back in January? You’ve been lying to me this whole fucking time?”

“I didn’t wanna lie, okay?!”

He’s riddled with enough guilt to speak up, trying to keep himself from the brink of tears as he works up enough courage to finally look you in the face. You can hear how hard he gulps, like his heart is bobbing in his throat, trying to buy all the time he can to come up with a reason for his deception that won’t hurt you any more than he already has.

“I just- fuck,” he sighs, chewing at his bottom and bouncing his leg against the bed so intensely it’ll make him sore the next day, “I didn’t know what to do, Kenz. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

It’s hard to stay mad at him when you know he means it. It’d be easier if it weren’t for the way his brown eyes flooded with disappointment in himself, spilling out in tears onto his cheeks. For as frustrated as you are, you have enough sympathy to ease up on him enough to at least try to understand.

“Well, not lying to me about it for the last four months probably would have been a good start.” You huff, the air that puffs from your nostrils still tainted with the let down you’re trying so hard to not let override your conversation.

You can’t help but let yourself find a spot next to him on the edge of your bed, a peace offering that you hope is enough to signal to him you’re willing to listen to what he has to say.

“I- I didn’t think you were being serious when you and Santi were talking about it. I- I thought you- I thought the plan was to go to Florida State. Together. What happened, Frankie?”

It’s quiet for a few more moments. Frankie takes a few, slow deep breaths as he runs his hands through the curls twisting at the nape of his neck. The silence isn’t as bitter as before, but it stings enough to gnaw at the edges of your nails, the anxious habit you can’t seem to break, and certainly have no intention of giving up right now.

“Stop chewing at your nails, Kenz. You’re gonna be pissed at yourself later.” Frankie sighs, gently grabbing your wrist to pull your hand away from your mouth, trying to fulfill his duty of being the one to stop you from ripping your nail beds to shreds.

“You’re kinda making it hard not to.” You try your best to attempt a laugh. It’s the only way to keep yourself from crying. “So are you gonna tell me what’s going on or what?”

“Y-yeah.” Frankie re-adjusts himself on the edge of the bed, twisting the fabric of your comforter between his fingers, trying to ground himself in the reality of the truth he’s forced to tell you, “I- I didn’t get into Florida State. I told you I did because I didn’t know what I was gonna do. You were just so excited when you thought we both got in and I- I panicked and I lied. I didn’t even think I was gonna get in anyways. I didn’t think I was gonna get in anywhere. Even if I did, I don’t know if I even could have afforded it. It’s just me and my mom and neither of us-”

“It’s not too late. I can help you look for scholarships. To help you with tuition. I’m sure that there’s a bunch out there that you could apply for. I’ll even write your essays and stuff for you if you want me to-”

“I’m pretty sure you can’t do that, Kenz. Plus, you hate cheaters.”

Frankie tries to reciprocate the same half-assed laugh you gave him. He looks over at you, the small smile he’s forcing to keep between his lips quickly fading as he sees the way you’re pleading with him to realize that you would forge a thousand essays in his name if it meant he wasn’t going to leave you. He’d be a cheater you’d gladly forgive.

“It’s not even just the money. I just- I- I don’t even like school, Kenzie. I suck at it. If school is already hard now, how much harder is it gonna be when I get to college? To study for a job that I’m probably not even gonna want when I graduate? At least with the Army I can have a job and benefits and hopefully make enough money to help my mom so she’s not working at the hospital 6 days a week. MacKenzie, the only reason I applied to Florida State was because of you. I thought that maybe there would be some miracle I got in and I could figure out how to pay for it and I could magically get smarter and better at school so we could spend the next four years together. I wanted it to happen. I wanted it to happen so bad. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I lied to you. I just- fuck- I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

Neither of you are quite sure what to say next. That quiet comes back to fill the space between you, allowing enough room for the silent sobs you’re both trying your best to hold in, small sniffles still escaping from each of you. You’re not sure if your brain has fully processed what he’s had to say. The only thing you can understand is the swirling of sadness and confusion in your gut and the pounding ache in your chest.

You take a scooch closer to him, the outsides of your thighs barely brushing together as you tilt your head to rest against his shoulder. It’s heavy, the weight you can’t help but lean against him, but the arm he wraps behind your back and around your waist tells you that he’ll gladly take it. He’ll take it all, if he has to.

“Did you already sign a contract to go?” The whisper of your words is so soft, like you’re hoping he can’t hear you. If he can’t hear you, then he doesn’t have to tell you the answer you don’t want to hear.

“Yeah. Me and Santi did a few weeks ago.” His voice is almost quieter than yours, convinced he has the same idea as you.

His truth stings worse than the lie he’s been masquerading behind the past four months. You want to scream at him- To curse him with shouts and sobs, question how he could make this choice for himself and leave you in the dark until it’s too late for you to change his mind. You know it’s selfish, the way you want him to stay, the way you would have fought with every bone in your body to keep him from leaving. You know it’s the reason Frankie couldn’t tell you.

It’s the same reason why Frankie couldn’t bring himself to tell you that if he had given you that chance, he probably would have stayed.

“Do um- do you know when you have to leave?”

It hurts to hear the words come out of your mouth. It’s an admittance of defeat. Because once you ask that question, there’s nothing you can do or say that will make him stay. No fighting, no begging, no pleading. You have to accept he’s leaving.

“Not ‘til the end of the summer.”

“Where?”

The more you ask, the more it makes you want to keel over the edge of the bed and vomit, the reality of it all setting in at an alarming pace.

“Missouri for basic training. I don’t know where after.”

He doesn’t have to say where. You both know. Even if he doesn’t know the exact longitude and latitude of where the Army will deploy him, there’s nowhere else they’re sending him besides Iraq or Afghanistan or whatever godforsaken, war ridden country in the Middle East he’ll be forced to put his life on the line for.

And for how much the reality of Frankie leaving scares you, when you’re hit with the reality that Frankie may leave and never come back, you’re absolutely terrified.

“I don’t want you to go, Frankie.”

You can’t beg him to stay. There’s no amount of bargaining you can do with him or the powers that be to change what’s been done. All you can do is tell him your truth as you sob into his chest while he holds you. Maybe if you’re not enough to make him stay, you’re at least enough to make him want to come home.

You’re not sure how long he holds you while you cry. Maybe it’s minutes, maybe it’s hours. However long it is, all the moments you have left with Frankie feel that much more precious. You won’t let any of them slip through your fingers.

“You promise you’ll come home, right?”

“I promise, MacKenzie. I promise.”

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Francisco Morales, it’s that he’ll never break a promise. You just hope the universe is kind enough to let him keep this one, too.

“I promise that we’ll have a really fun summer together before I leave too, okay? Whatever you wanna do, Kenz, I’ll do it.”

“Anything?”

It’s enough to peek your head out from the crook of his neck, trying your best to wipe away your tears with your sleeve, like you hadn’t just stained the better part of Frankie’s sweatshirt with the same wetness.

“Anything.”

“Alright, well, I guess we’re gonna go to Dairy Queen and get an extra large blizzard every day until you’re too fat for the Army to want you anymore.”

The two of you giggle, a quiet symphony of soft snorts and sobs at the idea of rolling an ice cream filled Frankie off to boot camp. It makes him laugh even harder that he wouldn’t put it past you if you really did try. Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if you did.

“Whatever you want, MacKenzie. I’m all yours.”

Frankie, Present

Frankie’s convinced he might as well start training for a marathon at this point.

He’s not really sure how else to spend his time. It’s hard to keep himself occupied when all he can do at home is sit around and wait for your dad to die or stare out the window like a creep to watch your comings and goings.

At least if he’s running, he can’t think about you.

Well, he can’t think about you as much.

It’s been a day and a half since he decided to follow you on your run. He’s already pushed his luck enough that you didn’t damn near kill him for it, let alone that you even gave him a chance to talk to him.

He let you take the first shift on the morning yesterday, despite the fact he’d been awake well before the sun rose. The irony wasn’t lost on him at the way he watched you through his bedroom window the same way he did most Saturday and Sunday mornings for the first few years of your friendship. You’d be up at the same ungodly hour as him, except you’d be pacing up and down your driveway, stretching and lunging across its length as you clicked around on the iPod wrapped around your forearm, searching for whatever song would pump you up for your run.

It wasn’t until you had finally noticed Frankie peering out his bedroom window every weekend that you began to drag him along on your runs with you.

“If you’re awake too, you might as well come running with me, Morales. It’ll be fun!”

“Fine. I gotta warn you though, Kenz, I am actually pretty fast.”

“You barely run the mile in gym class.”

“Savin’ up all my energy for when I need it most, Anderson.”

There was once a time where you would have to beg Frankie to come with you on a run. Now, he’d give anything for you to tolerate his existence ten feet behind you.

But he’ll sacrifice another run alone through all too familiar roads of his childhood subdivision if it helps him kill time and keeps you from hating him anymore than you rightfully deserve to.

Yesterday, he went on two runs to pass the time. Hell, today, he’d consider adding a third run to his underwhelming schedule just to keep himself busy. Fortunately, (or unfortunately, he can’t tell yet) for him, Maria Morales has other plans.

And when Maria Morales has plans, it’s in Frankie’s best interest to drop anything else he had in mind for the day.

Even when it means he’s got a hot date with his basement and a mountain full of boxes in his basement.

“Okay, anything in this pile to the left is for you to go through.” His mom grunts, lifting up one last box to add to the heap labeled “Francisco’s things” in her perfectly curved cursive, “If you want to take it home, find an empty box to put it in, but not my new clear, plastic bins, entiendes (understand)? Those were expensive.”

“No clear plastic bins, got it.” Frankie chuckles, following the exaggerated step his mother takes over his scattered belongings.

“If you see something and you don’t want it now but you want me to keep it for later, you can put it over on the shelf by the stairs. If you think it’s basura (trash), leave it over here and let me look at it first before you throw it away.”

“Comprendido (got it).” Frankie nods, sizing up the stack his mom has set out for him, “Jesus ma, this is gonna take me all morning to go through.”

“If you were home more, there would be less things to go through now.”

“Yeah, well, you got me there.” Frankie grumbles under his breath, grimacing at the harsh reality of his mom’s words. He knows isn’t meant completely out of malice, but he can’t deny it’s certainly got some truth to it as well.

“Okay, well I need to go run some errands, and I want this pile sorted by the end of the day, so standing here and moping certainly isn’t going to help that. Get to work, mijo (son).”

His mom will never be one to throw a pity party for anyone, and most definitely won’t be throwing one for her son, based on his own, self-inflicted problem. Frankie helps her step over another makeshift pile scattered for sorting across the basement floor, giving him a quick pat on the back before disappearing upstairs, leaving him to quite literally unpack his past.

“Fuck. Okay.” He sighs to himself, gently kicking one of the edges of flimsy cardboard at the bottom of the tower, trying to formulate his best plan of attack to make his sorting as painless as possible.

He’s thankful that his brain has always worked in a way that allows him to analyze things so quickly, doing some quiet calculations in his head as to the most effective and efficient way to sort through god knows what may be hidden in the pile his mom has created for him.

He runs his hand through the still messy curls of his morning bed head before selecting what feels like the lightest boxes and moving them off to the side, opening up a cardboard container from the next layer.

Besides the trophies still in his room, every prize he’d ever won for every sport he’d ever played sits in the box below him. Frankie chuckles to himself, picking up some from the top to examine them, thumb gliding over the fake gold plating to read plaques like “Florida Junior Divisional Freestyle Swimming Finalist- 2005” or “Regional Championship Winners- Florida Firebirds 2007” glued to poorly sculpted plastic statues of swimmers. A few more medals and certificates had sunk to the bottom of the box, Frankie quickly grazing through its contents before rehoming it to the “trash” pile, unsure of when he would ever need proof he won several swimming competitions in high school.

The next few boxes were more of the same- His varsity jacket, old t-shirts he wouldn’t stand a chance fitting into, considering the gangly figure that stretched them more than a decade ago, some old books from high school he’d only kept because of how much you loved them and he promised you that one day, he’d read them, too.

It’s the shoe box that catches his eye next, sure that no matter how much his mom loved to hoard, whatever was in there most definitely was not a raggedy, holy pair of Converse from high school.

It’s not until he picks up the box that he knows exactly what’s inside. It’s one of the lightest things he’s picked up in the last hour, but when he knows the weight of its contents, his arms want to tremble.

It’s with a long deep breath that he brings the shoebox over to an open patch of floor, letting out a grunt and cursing his knees as he sits down cross legged with the box in front of him. He gently flips open the lid, hand running over his face and down the back of his neck when his suspicions are confirmed.

Open envelopes spill out over the edges of the worn cardboard, the box stuffed to the brim with every letter you’d ever written to him while he was away.

Even if he wanted to, he’s not sure he could ever physically bring himself to throw them out. Those letters have more miles on them than most people’s cars will ever reach in a lifetime, flimsy, stamped pieces of paper following him to every corner of the globe he’s traveled to.

Some letters he’s read so much, they’re worn on the edges where he’s held the paper, smudging the pen that’s reached the sides of the pages. Others, he’s only read once. He’s not sure he could ever bring himself to read them again. But regardless of their contents, he’d made a promise to you they’d stay with him.

“Better not get rid of those letters, Morales. Do you know how many hand cramps I’ve given myself trying to find the words to send halfway across the world to you? You better promise me you’ll keep ‘em.”

His commitment to the folded pieces of paper ring in his ears as his fingers drag across the tops of the open envelopes. He can’t help the way his index finger and thumb pinch the paper below his grasp, carefully tugging a random letter out of its shoebox storage.

It’s a gut wrenching gamble, the game he’s about to play, a roulette of making his heart ache from joy or pain depending on the one he chooses to pull. He’s already placed his bet as he pulls the lined piece of paper out of the envelope- He’s not getting the money he’s already placed on the table back, so he might as well pray he makes a return on his investment.

With one more deep breath, he unfolds the tri-fold creases, ready to watch his bet play out before him.

August 18th, 2006

Frankie,

I hope I sent this letter to the right place! I looked on the website and it said to send mail to new recruits (that’s you, Morales), to this address, so no one better be holding my letter to you hostage.

Anyways, how’s training so far? Did they make you shave your head yet? I hope not. I’m not sure why the Army insists on making you all look like Dr. Evil from Austin Powers. I’m sure you’ll still look cute even with short hair! I don’t think I can say the same for Santi, but you didn’t hear that from me… hehehe

I just moved into my dorm yesterday! My roommate seems pretty nice. Her name is Jessica and she’s from Georgia. She claims that she’s neat and she better be, or I may lose my mind. I’ll send you pictures of my dorm once it’s all set up! It’s kind of a mess right now, but I made sure to put the picture of us from prom up on my desk :)

I don’t start class until next Tuesday. Hopefully I’ll meet some new people in my dorm or on the soccer team so I’m not a total loser with no friends. LOL.

Have you met anyone new yet? I can’t wait to hear all about your new Army friends! I already started a countdown calendar until we can see each other again. Only 70 days until basic training is done and I can hear about everything in person!

I miss you a lot. I know that’s dumb to say because it’s only been a week, but still. I wish I would have kissed you again before you got on the plane to leave. I promise I will when I see you. Nothing says perfect place to kiss like South Missouri, romance capital of the USA (haha).

I know you’re gonna be busy, but write me back when you have time. The return address on the envelope is my dorm address, so use that, or risk Doug and Michelle reading your mail if you send it to my house!!! I can’t wait to hear from you. Miss you, weirdo.

From,

Kenz :) <3

His luck of the draw sends a wave of relief through him, smiling down at the curvy loops of your perfectly neat printing signed at the bottom of the page. It makes his heart skip a beat, the same kind of butterflies coming to life in his stomach as they did the first time he read it. He’s earned his money back and then some. He gets how casinos never go broke, because the high of good fortune is enough to have him reaching back into the box to put another gamble on the line.

October 13th, 2009

Frankie,

I always feel dumb sending multiple letters before I hear back from you, but you know me, I love to worry. I know you can’t tell me where you are right now (stupid military and their secrets for the safety of society lol) but I’ve been seeing stuff on the news and it makes me scared for you. I just hope wherever you are, you’re safe.

My dad’s cancer is back. He’s been in the hospital for almost two weeks now. They found a new mass on his liver, but they said hopefully they can target it with radiation before it starts to spread. Cassandra at the front desk asked how you were when I was at the hospital yesterday. I said that you were good. I think she’s only asking because if you’re not there, there’s no one to keep me from burning a hole in the waiting room carpet.

I wish you were here. I feel really lost right now. I just know if you were here, you’d find a way to make everything better. You always do.

Sorry this letter isn’t longer. I haven’t been sleeping that great and don’t have enough brainpower to write something decent. Just wanted to let you know what’s going on.

Counting down the days until you make good on your promise. I hope you come home soon, Frankie.

Kenzie

He curses himself for an unlucky draw, heart sinking at the tear stains smearing the blue ink of your trembling letters. An overwhelming wave of guilt washes over him, vivid memories of reading your notes in his bunk alone, wishing there was a way he could fly halfway around the world for a night just to hold you and tell you that everything was going to be okay.

It’s the addictive itch in the back of his brain that makes him decide to pull one more letter from the box, taking one last gamble to see if he can prove the nagging pit in his stomach to quit while he’s ahead, wrong.

February 4th, 2011

Hey,

If you don’t want to write anymore, that’s fine. I was trying to be friendly, but clearly you don’t really care. Just let me know and I’ll stop bombarding you with mail you obviously don’t want. Or I guess you not responding is letting me know. If you want to send anything back you can send it to my parents house. I’m moving into Liam’s house and it’s only 20 minutes away so I can just drive there and pick it up. No need to send you a new address you probably aren’t going to write to, anyways.

I guess I’ll see you when I see you.

MacKenzie

And that’s how Vegas will always stay in business.

Because now Frankie is forced to walk away, all his money stolen from him at the stupid risk he’s decided to take. The one letter he’d give anything not to read again is the one he had to pull.

Heat seethes in his chest- he can’t quite explain why. Because he lost at a rigged game he’d set up for himself? That he still hasn’t quite come to terms with the ugly truth of what he put the both of you through? That he wishes with everything in him, he could go back and change what he’s done?

Or maybe, it’s because now might be the last chance he has to fix what he’s broken, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to live with himself if he can’t.

He leaves the pile in the basement unfinished, shoes barely tied to his feet before he bursts out the door in a sprint.

He's not sure where he's going. He's not even sure how long he's run for. All he knows is the pounding of his feet against the pavement, trying to outrun the stupid decisions of his past.

He tells himself if he runs fast enough, he'll beat them.

If he goes far enough, they'll be forgotten.

If he outraces them, you'll be there waiting for him at the finish line.

@chaotic-iguana @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine