#fic: triple happiness

[bidisasterevankinard]

tease tidbit tuesday

chapter 2 of triplets fic is in cooking:

The worst  pain that knocks your breath attacks his lungs and the pain in his throat from spitting is worse than the terrible taste of bile and poorly digested food with gastric juice coming out through his mouth. At least today he’s not so dizzy and going for what feels like hours, no he stops exactly when someone knocks at the door that he knows he hasn’t even closed,

“Evan? How can I help?”

“Can you please get rid of the coffee you made and open the balcony before I come out?”

“Yeah, of course,” Tommy nods. “I suppose I should forget about my morning coffee for a while?” The question has no judgment or indignation, but light humor that Tommy’s little small do not deny.

Buck hums, “I can’t drink coffee because OB said so, but as it seems your kids are making me sick even from the smell. Guess they hate coffee.”

“Mine kids, huh? Only mine?” Tommy smirks, crossing his hands near his chest, and Buck hates that they have no time even for a quickie if he wants to not be late for work. Also the view of Tommy in his tank top, flexing his big, huge, even, absolutely delicious muscles, that Buck knows can hold him down near the wall, makes him so horny like never before. Hormones seem like getting to him. Or maybe he is just so in love with the absolute beast of the man he found for himself and the idea of the future they are building right now makes him too giddy and emotional.  

Finally stopping ogle his man, Buck finds the words to answer.

“Yes, when they make me sick they are only yours. As they're gonna be when they kick so hard I’ll be in pain.”

Tommy chuckles, “ok, sweetheart, anything you say. I’m going to go get rid of coffee and bring you water,” but before it Tommy comes to him and helps him get up, kissing his birthmark. 

np tagging @mmso-notlikethat @hippolotamus @wikiangela @diazsdimples @bewilderedbuckley @typicalopposite @powersuitup @pirrusstuff @actuallyitsellie @desert--moonchild @hyperfocusthusly @leashybebes @lavenderleahy @louscurls @loucifersbitch @marvelousbuckley @repressedqueen @racerchix21 @theotherbuckley @diazheartsbuckley @saybiwithme @bekkachaos @devirnis @bi-buckrights @bibibibuckleykinard

[raspberrybesitos]

let’s get outta here, baby | frankies morales x f!reader

Valentine’s masterlist | Main masterlist | Palestine

Please take some time to go through the Palestine links. If you enjoy my writing, I ask you to help Palestine in any way you can.

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word count: ~2.5k

Summary: Frankie whisks you away on Valentine’s Day for a romantic evening secluded by the water.

Warnings: established relationship, exhibitionism, oral (f!receiving), face riding, unprotected PIV (wrap it up y’all), creampie, fluff, pet names (baby, hermosa, querida, amor) after care, reader has no description, no mention of hair type/body type/skin color, NO USE OF Y/N.

A/N: let’s try this again. happy frankie friday! oh how i missed my Frankie so much omg 😭 he and Javi are tied for my favorite Pedro boys tbh. i love love love him sm. anyway, i hope y’all enjoy!! as always, not beta’d - all mistakes are my own. 🏃‍♀️

Translations: Te amo = I love you

Divider by @saradika-graphics

“Come on, baby. Get dressed, we have plans,” he said.

“Where are we going, Frankie? I just got comfy, plus I thought we were gonna stay in and watch a movie or a few episodes of our show?” You pout, already snuggled in on the couch, lounging in your leggings and one of Frankie’s hoodies.

“I know, but I thought we could do something else tonight. And what you’re wearing is actually perfect, just throw on some comfy shoes. I promise it’s nothing crazy. Now come on. Let’s get outta here, baby,” he says, car keys in hand as he extends a hand to you.

That was 2 hours ago, his left hand drumming on the steering wheel to the music that plays throughout the speaker, his right hand resting on your thigh, giving it an occasional squeeze.

After the two of you worked crazy hours the past week, work had finally given you a deserved day off, and it just so happened to be Valentine’s Day. Frankie opted to use his sick hours, giving you two the whole day to yourselves. You’d craved to sit at home and wait for your boyfriend to get home to enjoy a romantic evening at home with him.

Frankie had other plans it seems.

Your hand rests atop his, fiddling with his fingers as you hum along to the music. The road winds along the coast, the rind of clouds floating in the tangerine sky. reflecting off the water. Traffic was a bit heavy, but Frankie said it didn’t matter what time you two made it to the location, that it’d be open. 

Pulling up to a hill, Frankie drives upwards. Your brows furrow in confusion, head snapping to gaze at your boyfriend. He pulls his hand from your thigh as he maneuvers the car up the hill, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Where are you taking me, Francisco?” You playfully question him. 

“I told you, it’s a surprise, baby. You’ll see,” he says smugly. Jokingly scrutinizing him, you cross your arms and hum. 

Soon enough, he pulls the car to a stop and cuts the engine. He’s parked on a cliff overlooking the coast, the waves crashing in the background. Crickets chirping and a brisk breeze blows through the air. Frankie rushes out of the car and to the trunk.

“Don’t look back here yet, querida!” He shouts. He’d told you the same thing before you’d left, covering your eyes as he helped you in the truck and blocking off the backseat with some blankets. You hear Frankie grunting and shuffling around the trunk, smiling softly to yourself at the thought of him all flustered. 

“Need any help, baby?” You yell over the commotion. You’re met with a few more grunts and can feel Frankie crawling in the trunk.

What the hell is he doing?

Popping up in your peripheral, you jump slightly as he stands there - his cheeks flushed as he takes off his cap and runs a hand through his hair before putting it back on.

“Come on, querida,” he says, his hand extended awaiting your grasp. A suspicious smirk tugs at your lips, brows scrunched in question. He leads you to the rear of the truck, the trunk door open. Pillows and blankets strewn about the truck bed, a cooler and his laptop lay on the floor.

Gasping at the sight in front of you, tears spring in your eyes. You whirl around, hands still entwined as a cheek-splitting smile crinkles your face.

“Frankie. You did all this for me?” You ask quietly, Frankie mirroring your smile. 

“Of course, querida. I know we said no gifts this year and we wanted to stay in with work being hectic for both of us, but you still deserve something.” His voice growing hushed and timid, his free hand fidgeting as his neck flushes red. Smiling even bigger, you throw your arms around his broad shoulders, looping them around his neck and crash your lips onto his. Frankie cups your cheeks as you two smile into each other, soft laughter bubbling from both of you.

“You are the sweetest man alive, Francisco Morales,” you whisper, disconnecting from him. His cheeks flush with heat. “I don’t know about all that, querida,” he rasps against your lips, grinning bashfully.

“You are, Frankie. This is perfect. Thank you for this, amor - for loving me. I love you,” you utter sweetly, threading your fingers through his curls and giving his head an affectionate, gentle scratch.

“No need to thank me, baby. Loving you is the best decision I’ve ever made. I love you - so much, hermosa,” he affirms, his voice growing huskier. He stealthily sneaks his hands down your back, resting them on the globes of your ass. He leans in, capturing your lips in another tender kiss.

The tenderness doesn’t last long though as the kiss blossoms into something hungrier, thick with lust. Frankie walks you backwards towards the truck bed, carefully helping you inside.

Only breaking for air to scoot back and settle into the makeshift mattress. He slowly settles you on your back against the plush padding of the blankets and pillows. Yanking him down for another hungry kiss, moans and sighs grow louder. The area is so secluded, no one is around to hear.

He slides his tongue into your mouth, tongues entangled and teeth clashing together. Moaning into him, he brings his rough, warm hands to cup your cheeks, sucking your bottom lip in between his teeth.

“Frankie,” you moan softly, parting from his lips, panting. Frankie suckles on your neck, moving his way to nip at your jaw. Kissing his way down your body, you moan quietly when he presses a kiss above your clothed mound.

“Can I take these off, hermosa?” He asks softly, toying with the hem of your leggings. You nod, whimpering as he slides them off, not wasting a second. Peppering kisses along your bare thighs, you squirm beneath him - desperate for his mouth.

“Need to taste you, baby,” he rasps, kissing your mound before slipping off your panties, tossing them to the side to join your leggings. You lift your hips, aiding him in the process and lay back down as he licks his lips. Eyes blown black and wild, eager and hungry for you. The feel of his lips against your bare sex earns him a whine, a desperate plea for more.

“I got you, querida,” he grits, diving in and licking a long, languid stripe between your folds, moaning into you as he savors the sweet, salty tang of your slick. Moaning at the feeling of his hot mouth on your aching core, you tug on his soft curls. Frankie grunts into you, always loving the way you grip his hair, holding onto him for purchase as he unravels you.

A wanton moan tumbles from your lips, slick endlessly streaming from your weeping cunt as Frankie slurps up every droplet. Your back arching further into the air as your head sinks deeper into the plush mountain of pillows and blankets on the truck bed.

“So fucking good, Frankie, fuck, yes, baby." Your moans bloom into a cry as Frankie abruptly stops, pulling away and sitting up. His cheeks sticky with your nectar, and his eyes black and wild - vehement. He sits up against the pillows, bringing you to sit up with him.

“Wh-what? No, Frankie, please why’d you st-,” you whine, until Frankie cuts you off with his rough grasp. He drags you up his chest, leaving a trail of slick on his belly and broad chest, before coming face-to-face with your dripping cunt - groaning at the sight of your swollen clit. Without a word, he forces you to sit on his face, his strong nose nudging at your clit as his tongue prods in and out of your entrance.

Sucking in a sharp gasp, you clutch his curls, the new position throwing you off-kilter. Gasps morph into uncontrollable moans as he grips your thighs tightly, your hips rocking into his face. His tongue flicks your precious pearl swirling frantic circles around your clit before wrapping his lips around your swollen bud.

“Oh my god, oh my fucking god, Frankie,” you keen, your orgasm rapidly approaching - taunting you on a precipice that’s just within reach. Frankie moaning below you, the vibrations sending jolts of electricity throughout your entire body. 

You glance down with glazed eyes, catching a glimpse of him drunk off your pussy. Eyes shut in bliss, cheeks flushed and shiny, his scruff burning your thighs, curls disheveled as he moans while working his skillful tongue. It pushes you further to the edge, wailing above him as you cant your hips harder into his face.

“Yes, yes, yes, Frankie! Oh fuck, Frankie! I’m gonna come, I’m gonna - oh fuck!”

Twitching and writhing above him, he releases your clit from his lips and licks another long stripe through your folds before relentlessly flicking at your precious swollen bud again.

“Frankie, oh fuck! Frankie, Frankie, Frankie!”

You crumble, your body nearly folding in on itself as your orgasm sets your body aflame, rutting your hips into your boyfriend’s face. Screaming his name as you ride out your orgasm. Your heartbeat thrumming in your ears like the waves crashing in the ocean nearby.

As the rush of your orgasm slows, Frankie wastes no time to slide you off his face, licking his lips and eyes wide and feral. Your legs tremble as he settles you atop his stomach. The trail of hair brushing against your sensitive clit, hissing at the sensation.

Frankie grunts with his bottom lip sucked in between his teeth as he hastily fiddles with his belt, unbuttoning his jeans and yanking his briefs and pants down in one go.

“Need to be inside you, querida,” he grits. You love seeing him so needy, desperate - so wild. He drags you down his stomach, his weeping cock brushes against your folds - guttural moans bouncing off the confines of the truck. He lifts your hips slightly, just enough to slide you down on his cock. Your mouth agape in a perfect O as you slowly sink onto his heavy, hard length. Filling you to the brim, fluttering around him as he twitches inside of you.

“Frankie, s-so full,” you whisper, voice pitchy and desperate. He groans as you clench around him. 

“Fuck, don’t do that, hermosa. Or else this’ll end before it starts.”

He slowly grinds his hips, pushing his cock deeper into you. Shuddering as he feels impossibly deep, taking him is never an easy feat, but the reward is priceless. The stretch aches deliciously as he splits you open.

You slowly grind your hips into his, meeting him with his thrusts. Moans stream from your lips, an endless river of Frankie Frankie Frankie. Your orgasm cresting, the sensitivity still prevalent from the one he gave you just minutes ago. Lifting off him with what little strength you have, you slam your hips back down onto him.

The stretch of his cock makes your eyes roll to the back of your head as you sink back down onto him. He hits that spot just right as he fucks up into you.

“Sweetest fucking pussy ever. Mine, it's all mine, huh, querida? Who does this pussy belong to?” He grits, his hips canting upwards, thrusts growing sloppier every time.

“Y-yours, Frankie! 'S all yours, I'm all yours,” you slur, vision growing spotty.

“‘S right, baby. You're mine. All fucking mine," he moans, his cock punching your g-spot hard, wailing at the feel of him.

“Frankie! Oh god, Frankie,” you keen, bracing yourself on his clothed chest as he fucks you as if his life depends on it.

“Come on, querida. Come for me, you’re so close. Squeezing me so goddamn tight. Let go, baby. Soak my cock, baby, need you to soak my cock, querida,” he babbles, fighting off his own orgasm as you reach the top of yours.

His words send you crashing into your second orgasm, screaming as he fucks you through it. His own resolve crumbles as he watches you squirm and feels you squeeze around him.

Your hearing muffled as your orgasm drags you under the waves, you hear Frankie shout strings of profanities as you feel his cum coat your fluttering walls. The two of you ride out your highs together.

Your vision hazy, covered in a thick fog of bliss as you float back to the surface of reality from the waves of your orgasm. You collapse on his chest, the two of you full clothed, save for your bottoms. Laying on him for a moment, silence hangs in the cool air as you two catch your breath.

He traces patterns on your lower back, huffing as he regains control of himself. His rapid heartbeat returns to a steady thrum, calming your senses. Sex and sweat coats your bodies and the air in the trunk.

Carefully flipping you onto your back, he slips out of you slowly, hissing in tandem at the loss. He grabs one of the extra blankets he packed from the floor and wipes off the combination of his cum and your slick between your thighs. He cleans himself up before tossing the blanket on the floor behind the passenger seat.

Sitting up, you slide your leggings back on, forgoing your panties. Frankie tosses his belt off to the side and pulls his jeans up, leaving the button undone.

“You okay, baby?” He asks, sitting beside you.

Always a gentleman, always checking in with you. 

Bringing a hand to his cheek, you smile at him with heavy eyes. 

“I’m good, baby. Thank you,” you whisper. He smiles, placing a tender kiss on your palm before he lays beside you. 

“I am a little hungry now though. You didn’t tell me we’d be on the road for so long and doing strenuous activities,” you joke. His chest rumbles while he chuckles heartily.

“I didn’t expect to be doing any strenuous activities either… well, at least not so soon into our date.”

“At least wine and dine me first, Morales,” you giggle. He nips at your neck, your giggles blossoming into a belly laugh.

“Come on, amor. Let’s eat. Gotta make sure my girl is ready for round two when we get home,” he says with a wink. He sits up, pulling you up with him. You rearrange the padding and pull up a movie on his laptop as he digs for something in the cooler. 

He pulls out two beers, his toothy grin making you smile. Cracking open two beers, he hands you one and settles back on the fort. He throws a blanket over you two as you snuggle into his side, clinking your bottles together in a silent toast, grinning from ear to ear.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, hermosa. Te amo, baby,” Frankie rasps against your head, pressing a soft kiss to your hairline. Gazing up at him, eyelids droopy with love and admiration. You capture his lips in a sweet, chaste kiss as he pulls you in closer, squeezing you tight.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, mi amor. Te amo también.”

tag list: @honeyedmiller @gracieheartspedro @nostalxgic @harriedandharassed @loliwrites @pedrostories

[eddiemunsonsmum]

Just saw this comment on a story posted a month ago.

*cries in Eddie Munson Solo Series no one wanted to read, interact with or request for*

No shade to the person that commented this on their own fic if you recognize it. It's not their fault. I'm not mad at them. More crying in the tags.

[0nelittlebirdtoldme]

I need him so bad i -

Her teeth are bared, unsheathed blades and cutting fury, and yet his eyes are full of breathtaking adoration.

[shikai-the-storyteller]

Speaking of Megaman, someone just left a comment on one of my very old Megaman fics from 2018 saying they printed it out years ago, and when their anxiety doesn't let them sleep, they reread that story and it helps drain the tension out of them.

; ____ ;

[mywordhaven]

The Road Ahead - ch 1 | Frankie Morales x female reader

Next Chapter

Throughout most of your married life, you've dedicated yourself to waiting for Frankie. After each deployment, you patiently anticipated his return home, longing for the moment when he would be by your side once again. You yearned for him to open up to you during those nights when nightmares consumed his thoughts, hoping that he would find solace in sharing his pain with you. And as his addiction spiralled out of control, you hoped that he would recognize his problem and seek help. Yet, despite your countless protests and pleas, you now find yourself waiting for him once more as he ventures off to Columbia doing God knows what.

But this time is the last. Resolved, you make a solemn promise to yourself: You will never wait for Frankie again.

Rating: M for Mature (18 + / no minors allowed)

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: Applicable to the entire fic / PTSD, drug use and addiction, postpartum depression, abusive familial relationships, self-hatred, hard relationship to food, unhealthy coping mechanism, explicit sexual content, violence, mentions of suicidal thoughts, super angsty guys (more warnings will be added if necessary).

Summary: Now that Frankie is finally home for good, you can start looking to the future.

Notes: Hey everyone, I am super happy (and anxious) to be sharing my first-ever fic! I hope you like this deep dive into character growth with a lot of angst and a healthy side of fluff. The story will be told in the 2nd POV, but there will be no use of Y/N, ya'll get multiple nicknames instead. Hope you guys enjoy!

Ao3 link for those interested is: Here

You find yourself immersed in the itchiness of the comforter draped across you, its green, worn fabrics scratching your sensitive skin. Surprisingly, today you welcome this uncomfortable sensation, as it anchors your mind to the bed you are currently lying on. In this moment, as you struggle to catch your breath, the scratchiness of the duvet is grounding, preventing your mind from flying away.

Your hands glide slowly across the rough fabric, savouring its familiar prickle. As you trace the worn contours, memories start to flood back— The day when Frankie introduced that horrid green monstrosity was when you first moved in together some years ago, right before his second deployment. And although you despised its discoloured hue that clashed with your envisioned home's colour scheme, you kept silent. Frankie was leaving, and you didn't want your last moments together marred by a pointless argument over a green bedspread, no matter how dreadful it looked.  

Now, ten years, 2 home relocations and a marriage later, that green duvet stubbornly remains an integral part of your bedroom decor, painfully clashing with the soothing blues surrounding it. Cornflower Blue, as the home improvement store employee had labelled it. You recall the days of indecisiveness, tirelessly seeking the perfect shade for your bedroom— A place you hope would be a peaceful haven for Frankie. Weeks were spent deliberating between countless swatches until finally settling on the current hue. Still, the green persists, clashing with the blue. Perhaps sage green would have been wiser, you think. But you had refused to admit defeat to an old, worn duvet and instead, had stubbornly gone with your first idea, horrid green be damned! Now, to your frustration, the bedroom remains an enduring battleground of colours, an ongoing struggle where shades of blue and green vie for supremacy in their quest to dominate the mood of the room.

Yet Frankie was unfazed, never commenting on the jarring combination of green and blue or their blatant mismatch. Perhaps you were making a mountain out of Molehill as you always seem to do. After all, your tendency to dramatize insignificant matters had been a subject of teasing within your family for as long as you could remember. Your brother had a habit of remarking on how seriously you took trivial matters. For your entire lives, nicknames like "Miss Prissy" or "Your Majesty" had been thrown your way to highlight your over-sensitiveness. And while your family saw it as innocent sibling teasing, these remarks had a way of leaving you feeling bruised, unable to brush the comments off as easily as everyone expected you to.

Your hands pause above your bare, sweat-dampened chest, shaking your head to dispel the unwelcomed and intrusive thoughts. Instead, you focus on the blissful moment you’ve just shared with your husband. The memory of that bothersome, green eyesore and all its associated baggage swiftly retreats from your mind, vanishing as fleetingly as it arrived.

At long last, a sense of savouring the simple joys of life begins to envelop you. With Frankie by your side, you envision a newfound freedom to engage in playful bickering, loud laughter, and the sheer enjoyment of each other. The mundane moments hold an allure like never before, beckoning you to revel in their ordinary beauty. It's a longing for a life that seems quintessentially American, relentlessly depicted on daytime television—an idyllic portrait of a family, complete with devoted parents and their brood of 2.5 children, nestled in a cozy backyard. PTA meetings, a simple 9-to-5, soccer practices after school, and piano lessons on weekends create the repetitive rhythm of this picture-perfect existence. In your vision, the pinnacle of concern revolves around selecting the ideal flowers for the summer flowerbed. While some may deem it mundane, for you, it represents an exquisite slice of paradise.

Your husband Frankie, having endured years of military service, deserves nothing less, you think. Your hands still from their exploration as you reflect on the vivid nightmares, anxiety, and overwhelming fear that would sometime consume Frankie. Even here with you, it sometimes felt as though he was still back there, never truly able to be completely present. You think of the many nights when he was on leave these past few years, and he would wake up screaming and trashing in the middle of the night covered in cold sweats. Or when you guys would be out and about, and his eyes would shift with practiced zeal as if he was assessing for possible threats. Never really “turning off”. No amount of sweet reassuring words was ever able to soothe him when he found himself stuck within his own mind. Every time you tried to discuss these concerns with him, your husband would respond with calm reassurances, followed by a tender kiss on your forehead, urging you not to worry about him.

You shake your head, a resolute movement meant to, again, brush away the intrusive thoughts lingering on the periphery, refusing to let them dim this precious moment. You shift your gaze, fixating on the horizon of possibilities that stretches before you. It is a horizon where love acts as a healing balm, gently tending to the myriad wounds etched upon your husband's past. Your heart, though cautiously guarded, brims with a glimmer of hope, eager to embark on this journey together.

However, despite your best efforts, thoughts of your mother insidiously infiltrate your mind. Over the years, you've clashed with her on countless occasions, yet now, as a married woman, you think back on her warning before you got married. The resonating echo of her stern voice lingers in your thoughts, admonishing you to unwaveringly stand by your husband, regardless of the circumstances, and emphasizing that his happiness must always take precedence over everything else. Strangely, she never mentioned the reverse. With Frankie's return, you resolve to be more present, leaving daydreams behind and focusing on him and solely on him.

As you think of Frankie, you can clearly see his body and how it bears the evidence of his service, a map of scars, some worn openly, while others hide beneath his weary flesh. Deep wounds that bleed and pain him more than any bullet ever could. Words alone seem insufficient in the face of everything he has sacrificed. But now, Frankie is finally home, all of this is behind you two. And isn't all this what marriage vows were meant for? In sickness and in health, through the lows and the highs, you pledged to be there. As you remind yourself, supporting your husband doesn't diminish your strength and independence. It's merely an expression of love and partnership, you firmly resolve, even though the words ring somewhat hollow, as a voice in the back of your mind whispers, "But what about you?"

You slowly redirect your attention to the persistent itchiness on your skin. Taking three deep breaths, you allow each inhale and exhale to anchor you firmly into the present. As the air fills your lungs, you feel your shoulders slowly ease from the tension you always seem to put yourself under.

Now that Frankie is here to stay, you want nothing else than to provide the emotional solace and respite he needs to rebuild and find peace within himself. After everything Frankie has endured, you decide that he deserves a life that is predictably dull yet safe and warm. You want to build that life for him.

As your imagination runs rampant with visions of the life you're now free to construct together, Frankie emerges in the doorway. Clad in nothing more than a familiar, well-worn pair of briefs, he exudes an aura that is unmistakably his own—a blend of warmth, comfort, and a sense of home. In that instant, as you gaze at each other, it feels as though every small longing you held during Frankie's absence has converged into this singular moment. Nothing else matters to you right now except being with him.

In Frankie's hands, he carefully balances a tray, on it a tall glass of ice-cold water adorned with glistening condensation. The hunger stirs within you and your gaze falls upon two perfectly crafted PB and J sandwiches, invitingly prepared. It's evident that even now, the precise conditioning instilled by the army remains ingrained in Frankie. The unwavering precision, tidiness, and discipline persist, even amidst post-coital bliss. Sloppily prepared sandwiches? Never on Frankie’s watch.

Fondness envelops your heart, causing it to flutter with an intensity that threatens to burst from your chest. At this moment, a culmination of experiences floods your mind—the countless sleepless nights spent anxiously awaiting a call, the fear that gripped you while scouring the news for any shred of information, and Frankie's inability to share the depths of what he went through all race to the forefront of your mind. Now, as you reminisce about those moments when others would claim that being with Frankie wasn't worth the pain or hardships, a profound sense of satisfaction fills your heart. You're grateful for having ignored their words, as every single challenge and difficulty encountered along the way—the long-distance separations, the emotional uncertainties, and the sacrifices made—has ultimately proven to mean something. A smile mirrors your own overwhelming happiness as Frankie starts to walk toward the bed.

"I thought you'd have an appetite after all that exercise," Frankie says, his voice laced with a playful tone. His eyes, warm like melted chocolate, cradle you in their soft gaze. They speak volumes, no words needed, telling you just how much he cares.

A mischievous smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you playfully quip, "Guess it doesn't help that we skipped dinner either, huh?"

"I apologize, mi cielo. I suppose I let my excitement get the better of me," Frankie admits, a touch of boyish bashfulness colouring his tone. "After eight long months apart, how could you expect me not to pounce on you, especially when you look so breathtaking?"

With utmost care, Frankie gently places the tray on the tiny side table, taking special care to move aside the book you're currently engrossed in. With the task completed, he turns his gaze towards you, slowly making his way to your side. Your eyes lock, and in an instant, he tenderly captures your mouth with his own. The kiss is unhurried yet filled with an intense passion, a promise of all that is to come, a fulfillment of the multitude of promises you have made to each other. Now, you have all the time in the world to embrace those promises.

As the kiss deepens, Frankie's hands begin to explore your naked body, their touch igniting a fiery desire that resonates deep within you. It engulfs you in a passionate longing that intensifies with each passing second. Frankie's wandering hands halt at your hips, where he gently strokes your sides while deepening the kiss even further. Breaking the kiss, he presses his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily, his warm breath mingling with your own. A playful glimmer dance in Frankie’s brown eyes as he firmly grabs your hips, effortlessly flipping you both into the deep plushness of the bed.

A delighted squeal escapes your throat, and you find yourself on top of Frankie, straddling his warm hips. His devilish smile meets your gaze. Like a tidal wave, a rush of excitement cascades through you, electrifying your senses and igniting newfound energy within.

"I thought we were supposed to have dinner," you playfully tease, your hands resting on the firm planes of his pectorals.

Frankie's eyes glisten mischievously as he responds, his voice filled with playful affection, "Don't worry, hermosa. Dinner can wait another minute. Right now, all I want to do is admire you." With a tender touch, he grabs a handful of the fleshy part of your hips, gently massaging your sides. His voice carries on, laced with adoration, "You know, this angle is my favourite. When I see you from above, naked, and sweaty, you look like my very own Amazon. My fierce warrior queen whom I can’t wait to worship." His grip tightens possessively, playfully swatting your behind, causing your flesh to softly jiggle.

You can't help but snort with amusement, firmly grinding down in a slow sensuous movement Frankie exhales a low moan, his eyes closing in pleasure. Yielding to the temptation, you momentarily cease your ministrations and whisper, "Well, last time I checked, librarians weren't renowned for their battle prowess.”

Frankie's smile stretches, his eyes opening and locking with yours, while his hands gently secure your hips. His soft voice echoes sweetly, "Physical prowess is just a fraction of true strength, mi cielo. It's a mindset, a spirit that radiates courage and perseverance. Believe me when I tell you, you possess that strength in a way that surpasses anyone I've ever encountered."

His words envelop you in a comforting embrace that floods your being with warmth. Reflected in his eyes is an unwavering conviction, a faith given to you unlike any you've experienced before. Such belief, one you've never even held for yourself, captivates you. The weight of his words resonates deeply, shaking the core of your being, even as you strive to maintain a facade of nonchalance. But Frankie effortlessly sees through your charade, knowing you better than he knows himself at this point. He slowly pushes his upper body upward and starts peppering your collarbones with tender kisses. You feel your cheeks heating as you shyly avert your gaze, unable to resist the sweetness of his praise and the even sweeter ministration.

A brief moment passes, during which you nibble on your lower lip, contemplating your next words. Finally, you muster the courage to meet Frankie's eyes once more, you push him back down on the mattress and ask, a mischievous glint shining in your eyes, "If I am to be your queen, does that mean you're willing to obey my every command?”

A playful smile dances on Frankie's lips as he replies, "Well, mi cielo, let's just say I'm more than willing to embark on the thrilling adventure of fulfilling your every desire, one command at a time." With those words, Frankie softly grabs your right arm, the very arm that had been holding him down, and he punctuates each word with a tender kiss upon the palm of your hand. As he does so, his eyes gently close, allowing his lips to linger in their affectionate embrace, locked in that sweet moment.

Frankie surrenders to the present, savouring every precious second that slowly passes between the two of you. The ache of longing for you these past months had been insurmountable, a void that only you could fill. Amidst his world engulfed in chaos, pain, and the remanence of a haunting trail of death that seemed eternally imprinted on his very being, your presence at his side has always been the sole beacon of meaning and coherence. The only thing that ever truly mattered to him. Screw everything else; he should have chosen to stay home long ago, before feeling trapped in the abyss he felt he had dug himself into over the years. In an attempt to dispel the encroaching darkness threatening to envelop him, Frankie inhales deeply, pushing away those grim thoughts, before swiftly flipping you over.

Everything else fades away again, and only the two of you remain. As you draw in a deep breath, the air fills your lungs with a trembling intensity, causing a burning sensation. Your chest tightens, not just from the weight of Frankie's presence, but also from the weight of everything that surrounds you, suffocating you in its bittersweet grasp. Tenderly, Frankie gently presses his nose against yours, once, twice, before planting a soft kiss upon its tip.

"I promise you, mi cielo, there is nothing that can ever come between us. No war, no ruler, no divine power could ever separate me from you. I am yours for eternity, and as long as I get to spend my life with you, cariño, it would have been a life worth living."

Your eyes well up with tears, and with a quiver in your voice, you whisper, "I love you, Frankie."

"Te amo, mi cielo, te amo para siempre," he replies, his words carrying the weight of a vow between you two.

With intertwined fingers and hearts overflowing with love, you gaze into each other's eyes. As you lie there, wrapped in the afterglow of passion, you savour the tranquillity and completeness that permeates the room. You vow to cherish each day, to embrace the ordinary moments that always become extraordinary when you are with Frankie. Together, you will face the world with open hearts, ready to create this future you’ve always yearned for with Frankie. As Frankie peppers kisses down your throat, you smile, and a shuddering breath escapes you. Food can wait you think giddily. Your hands gently glide along the broad expanse of his back, savouring him in all his glorious being. Nothing else matters now, for Frankie is home.

[bidisasterevankinard]

Wip Wednesday

I was tagged by amazing @typicalopposite

More from chapter 2 of triplets fic:

Leaving himself in only his red briefs, Buck looks in the mirror, trying to understand if the slightly bigger belly than it was a month ago is the result of his latest hyperfixation in baking, because Tommy loves his sugar, or if maybe …

“I chose to believe it’s you showing,” Buck turns to the voice. Man stays near the wall, admiring him with so much love. Tommy bites his lip, giving him through up and down, that makes Buck shiver and think how bad it would be to be late for his first day of light duty. “For me it’s them already saying hello to us. Changing your body because they need more places to grow.”

“I hope so too.”

“Then let both believe it,” Tommy nods, giving him his pill and water, “your breakfast is ready for you and the second floor is safe for you to go get some clothes and get dressed.”

Np tagging @wikiangela @hippolotamus @diazsdimples @mmso-notlikethat @bewilderedbuckley @loucifersbitch @devirnis @desert--moonchild @powersuitup @repressedqueen @bigfootsmom @bi-buckrights @racerchix21 @saybiwithme @louscurls @lavenderleahy @leashybebes

[lit-in-thy-heart]

180 works for wolfgang/kala/rajan on ao3 i am being fed

[thawthebeez]

NEED to write a yuri on ice fic SO BAD but every time i go to write skating stories i always feel awkward DESPITE BEING A SKATER MYSELF. of all people to write about figure skating IT SHOULD BE ME. but alas. it feels awkward...

[laurfilijames]

Happy Birthday to Breathe, the first fic I wrote for a Charlie character 🥳💗

I love this series so much and am looking forward to continuing it soon!

Breathe

Pairing: Will "Ironhead" Miller x female reader

Rating: M but will be E as smut is definitely coming (I surprised myself and didn't write smut in the first chapter)

Words: 1,815

Warnings: PTSD. Anger issues. Almost passing out. Sexual tension. Mentions of previous assault (choking).

Summary: You've seen Will at the gym many times before, and he you, and today you finally share a moment, discovering your assumptions about him are right.

A/N: Here I was thinking my first character fic for Charlie Hunnam would no doubt be Jax Teller, and then this guy swooped in and floored me. (I also haven't finished SOA yet and feel like waiting to write for Jax until I do, and also my feelings about him are soooo conflicted) Will is an absolute MAN and I'm in love.

This will be a series and it will be smutty and indulgent.

---

It had almost been a year, but he would always be known as the man who nearly choked a stranger to death in the cereal aisle of the local grocery store.

Will - as you overheard him be called by the man he usually came to the gym with who looked just like him and assumed was his younger brother - often cleared anyone away from any machine out of fear; the other patrons sacrificing their workouts in favour of not wanting to provoke someone who may snap if he didn't get his way.

He was solo today, grunting and groaning to the left of you as he worked through his second set of bench presses; your eyes often drifting over to him in the mirror in the event he needed a spot.

You blinked as he slammed the heavy barbell back on its rack, shifting your gaze back to yourself performing deadlifts as he sat up and rubbed a towel over his face to catch the drips of sweat running down his tanned cheeks and into his blond beard.

Distracted, you lost count of your reps, cursing to yourself internally as you suffered through two more than was necessary, your hamstrings on fire and barely able to complete the last one with proper form before dropping the weights to the floor with a huff.

You glanced in Will's direction, catching him staring at you where he nodded before you quickly averted your gaze. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him lay back on the bench and continue another set, his noises of effort making your heart rate increase possibly more than your workout was.

Passing him to go to the squat rack, you couldn't help but notice the way his muscles flexed as he worked, the way his cheeks flinched as he clenched his teeth together tightly, similarly to the way he did even when he was 'relaxed' and not straining through an exercise.

Happy to be facing away from him, you started through your first set, thinking you were keeping track of your reps, only to find your mind wandering back to thoughts of him.

You sympathized for him, hearing his fiancee had left him after the event at the supermarket, knowing he had likely seen and done so many things people could never fathom experiencing in his many years in the Special Forces, and on top of all of it, not even being able to go to the gym without every person giving him a wide berth and downcast stares when they passed by.

"Damnit," you breathed, realizing you yet again lost track, only to be startled when a deep voice sounded behind you.

"You're at 8," Will spoke, making you glance over your shoulder to see him as much as you could as you squatted through another repetition.

"Thanks," you puffed, trying to sound as genuine as you could, thankful for his attentiveness while you did your best to look effortless in completing four more squats at the heaviest weight you had ever done so far.

"No problem," he smiled, assisting the bar back onto the rack when you were done. "I notice you lose count a lot."

He stated it so matter-of-factly, making you knit your eyebrows together quizzically as you turned to face him.

"Sorry!" he raised his hands in defense, "I'm a numbers guy, I tend to notice shit like that, I'm not trying to be an ass."

"No, it's fine," you returned with your own smile, "I guess I just never thought anyone would pay close enough attention to something like that, especially to someone they don't know."

Will tilted his head to the side and shrugged, like he wasn't quite sure what else to say to explain his behaviour.

"I appreciate it, though," you added, seeing a sort of discomfort crease in his features. "Saved me from doing an extra one. I thought I was only at 7."

Your laugh seemed to relax him, bringing out a light in his blue eyes and his smile that you instantly knew you could become addicted to seeing.

"Well, I'm happy to have helped, then. I'm Will, by the way."

He held his hand out, and taking note of the size of it as well as the length of his fingers, you swallowed and extended your own, meeting his eyes as he shook it with a firm grip.

"I know," you answered, seeing your response immediately wash a shameful look over his face.

He quickly withdrew his hand and moved it up to scratch his head, coming to terms that everyone knew who he was and the reputation he had.

"I've heard your brother," you accentuated as a question, "say your name a few times here."

"Oh, uh, yeah, that's Benny, my younger brother," he confirmed, placing his hands on his hips with a sigh of relief that your recognition of him wasn't only due to his infamous incident.

"Was he in the Service, too?"

"Yeah," he nodded, biting his lower lip.

"Your family must be proud of you both," you stated, positioning yourself under the bar to begin another set.

"Some days more than others," he said quietly, watching without shame as you lowered yourself into a squat and powered back up again with an enticing thrust.

Will cleared his throat, "You've got great form."

The tone in his voice made you steel yourself before continuing with another rep, feeling adrenaline rush through you that wasn't on account of the weight-lifting.

"That's it, breathe through it," he purred, that voice of his making you lose focus.

You closed your eyes and exhaled deeply, trying to match your breaths properly with your execution but failing, your mind going to a place you couldn't deny it hadn't been before in all the times you worked out at the same time as him.

It was good to work until failure, you reminded yourself, but as Will counted you to your twelfth and final rep, you struggled to reach the top of your squat let alone get the bar back on the rack.

Will effortlessly took the weight of it in one hand, lifting it easily for you to set it back in place.

"You okay?" he asked, assessing you with concern as you wiped moisture from your brow while his other hand rested along the small of your back.

"Yeah, thanks."

He stood close to you, enough for you to smell the intoxicating scent of his sweat mixed with lingering shower gel or cologne, and when you turned, his hand fell away from you just as yours felt the intense need to touch the dampened cotton shirt that clung to his warm body.

Suddenly feeling dizzy, you shifted on your feet and reached out to grip his forearm for support, shaking your head and apologizing.

"Sorry, that's the heaviest I've lifted and I guess I didn't eat enough for breakfast before I came," you stammered, looking up at him to see his face screwed up with worry.

"Hey, it's fine," he soothed, his hands holding your shoulders in a strong, reassuring grip. "Just breathe."

You did as he suggested, closing your eyes and inhaling deeply and slowly, your hand loosening on his forearm only slightly while he remained unmoving.

"Good, that's good," he whispered, his face leaning closer to yours, and you didn't dare open your eyes again in fear you really would pass out.

"Keep breathing," he repeated, prompting you to continue what he was quickly causing you to forget.

Another slow, calming breath filled your lungs, and when you blew it out gradually through your parted lips, Will spoke again, his fingers pressing into your shoulders.

"Good girl."

Your eyes flashed open, his words making you feel like you were in a haze, his crooked smile and glint in his alluring blue irises creating the opposite effect this whole exchange was meant to have.

"It always helps me," he admitted, his eyes not shifting from yours. "Whenever I'm stressed or angry…to breathe through it."

"Does that happen often?" you asked, your curiosity getting the better of you.

"Hmm, sometimes," he began, not seeming offended at your question. "Less than it used to."

"You must have been through a lot," you spoke, letting your thoughts come out freely, your hand giving a reassuring squeeze over one of the tattoos covering his forearm.

Will licked his lips, leaning slightly closer to you, holding in a breath despite knowing he shouldn't in a moment like this.

"Hey, are you done with this?" a man asked, pointing to the squat rack that was left abandoned beside you, his unexpected voice startling you both.

"Yeah, man, go ahead," Will answered, nodding at the man once and giving him a curt smile.

You watched Will size him up as the man switched out the plates on the bar, like he was waiting to see if anything impolite would come from his mouth next or turn into a threat somehow. The veins in his neck bulged as he increased his breaths, his cheeks flexing again due to his teeth clamping down on each other forcefully. When the other man continued about his business, Will seemed to blink back to reality, his chest still heaving sharply as he struggled to find calm.

Not thinking twice, you reached up and placed your open palm on his chest, directly over his furiously beating heart, bringing his attention over to you along with a sense of surprise.

He blinked quickly and sighed, his eyes searching yours for something to help him until you spoke.

"Breathe, Will," you coaxed, reminding him of what he needed to do, seeing him close his eyes and begin to slow it down until his breaths eventually matched yours.

"Thank you," he muttered, reaching his hand up to cover yours that remained on his warm chest, giving it a gentle squeeze as he flashed you a weak smile.

"Hey, I was gonna grab a protein shake from that smoothie bar down the road after, why don't you join me?"

"I'd love to," you beamed, feeling more than okay with ditching what was left of your workout to go with him, the look on his face making it even more worth it as he grinned brightly and took your hand to lead you toward the change rooms.

"Grab your things and I'll meet you outside," he ordered gently, revealing his effortless ability to delegate, and your willingness to want to comply.

Will leaned against the side of his truck as he waited, sighing to himself while he attempted to sort out everything he was feeling; the mix of wanting to lean in and trust you overpowering his usual go-to of staying distant and playing it safe, all of which was confirmed when you walked out the doors and instantly brought an easy smile to his face.

---

Part 2

Taglist: none!! Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in this series or any other Charlie Hunnam roles I may write for 💗

[jeewrites]

Hold Fast | Ch. 6 Knuckle Sandwich

Rating: Explicit, this blog is 18+ MDNI

Summary: How the first date ends and six months later. OC!Mike returns to the gym.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday! This is my first attempt at writing smut, lol. Please be gentle. Thank you to my beta @bloviating-vy, I am so grateful for our friendship.

Word Count: 8.8k (it was 10.2k, but it wasn't working, so I shuffled a scene for a future chapter, lol)

Chapter Tags/Warnings: no y/n, smut, unprotected p in v (wrap it up folks), implied oral (m and f receiving), cock warming if you blink?, OC!Chloé, OC!Mike (the menace), descriptions of a physical fight (not between Frankie and reader), alcohol, prev abusive relationship mentioned (very lightly described), panic attack, fictional description of custody arrangements, adulation of thighs, Tom owns a bar called Redfly's, Pope owns a gym, Triple Frontier AU where all the guys return from Colombia alive with a day pack of $ each, alternating POV  

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Frankie used to hate hearing his full first name. Francisco, a reprimand, a scold, smothered in exasperation from his mother when he was younger. Then with Vanessa, Francisco became a curse, a complaint, a regret, laced with resentment and bitterness.

But when you say Francisco, he feels like he’s coming home — warm, wanted, and safe. You call him Frankie most of the time, occasionally Fish, when the guys are around. But when it’s just the two of you, you'll murmur Francisco, as you run your fingers through his curls, giving him gentle head scratches as you relax together on the couch after a long day. Or when you’re pliant beneath him, legs wrapped around his waist as he thrusts slow and deep into you, you’ll gasp Francisco, sheathing his name in reverence and adoration. And he can't get enough.

You don't fuck Frankie after the first date. But you do wake up with his strong arms wrapped around you, nose nuzzling into your hair, soft puffs of air warm and humid against your neck.

After kissing you on the pier, he drives you back to your place, eyes on the road but lips pressed against the back of your hand. It's not until he walks you up the stairs to your apartment, large hand against the small of your back do you start to panic. It's been a long time. None of your dates ever made it this far. Hell, some of the dates you'd been on never even made it past the main course. And you hadn't quite allowed yourself to consider that Frankie would want you like this. Pressed up against your front door, kissing you like he needs to, nipping and sucking along your neck, trailing a hand along the curve of your waist. A part of you wants this too and another part of you isn't ready, the scared part of you, the tender bruised part of you screaming too fast, too fast.

It's not until you tense and open your eyes does Frankie pause, brown eyes searching yours, before asking, a little breathless, "Baby, do you want me to stop?"

No. Yes. No. You don't know.

"I—"

"Baby, I don't want to do anything you don't want to do." Frankie leans back to give you space, but you grasp at his shirt, tugging to keep him close.

"I don't want you to leave, yet," you manage. "But, are you okay coming in even if we — if we don't — It's just been a long time since —"

"I mean it, Sweets," Frankie murmurs. "I don't want to do anything you don't want to." 

He pauses, "It's... been a long time for me, too."

Your eyes search his handsome, earnest face before he continues with a small grin. "We could just make out on the couch like teenagers."

His grin morphs into confusion when you giggle, imagining Frankie trying to fit on your tiny ass couch with you. "We could. But I'm pretty sure we both can't fit on it."

After you open your door and lead him inside, he takes in your small blue couch before trying to lie down on it. "I see what you mean."

On one side, the arm rest digs into his broad shoulders as he folds himself nearly into fetal position to fit his feet within the frame of the other arm rest. The sight makes you laugh even more. It's comical how small he makes everything look in your apartment. 

"Why'd you get such a small couch?" he grunts as he unfolds himself from the couch, sitting back, shoulders broad and legs apart. One arm draped over the back of the couch and you wish you could tuck yourself by his side. But no, the couch is definitely too small.

"It's the only one where my feet could touch the floor," you respond, stepping closer between his legs, tracing a nervous finger on the top of his knee. Your knees bend exactly where the edge of the seat ends so your feet can plant solidly on the floor. Frankie's thighs on the other hand, extends halfway past the edge of the couch as if he's sitting on a couch made for a child.

"Short people problems." You shrug looking down at him.

He gently takes your hand that's tracing anxious circles on his knee and tugs you closer. "I know how we can fit." He tugs you closer yet again until your shins knock against the edge of the couch. One warm hand on the back of your thigh featherlight, coaxing you forward as he looks up at you, asking for permission without pressure.

You give him a slight nod and begin to bend one leg and he wraps his strong arms around your waist, pulling you on top of him, your thighs bracketing his tapered waist, arms around his broad shoulders. He looks up and asks, "Is this okay?"

He's giving you the upper hand, the position to lead, the position where you could move off of him at any moment if you're uncomfortable. He's not even grasping your waist anymore, letting his hands rest, light upon your thighs. You're in control. He wants you to be in control, and it soothes a part of you that's scared. And it's so hot.

You answer him by pulling his face to yours with both hands and kissing him, breathing him in, a heady mix of sandalwood, body wash, and a distinct masculine scent unique to him. Your own personal catnip you're discovering. 

You don't know how long you make out with Frankie like this, straddling him, running your hands through his curls. Breathless kisses, messy kisses with tongue and teeth, kisses that still taste like passionfruit and mango. His large hands roving over your waist and hips, rough fingers teasing the slip of exposed skin just along the hem of your top, setting your skin on fire. You can't get enough of him. The subtle way he pauses when he shifts his hands to map another part of your body, waiting to make sure you're okay with it. Safe. You feel safe in his arms.

You feel him harden under you between the layers of fabric separating your core from his cock. Your hips grind into him on instinct, seeking friction, needing relief.

Frankie groans, grasping your hips, holding you still. "Baby," he huffs, lips puffy from your kisses. "Can't— don't do that. Gonna make me come in my pants."

You sit up. "Well, we can't have that." A mischievous smile crosses your face admiring the blossoming pink marks against the golden skin of his neck, curls wild from your fingers. Your handiwork.

You carefully stand as he looks up at you with confusion mixed with desire at the distance growing between your bodies.

"C'mon," you say as you tug one of his hands, but he doesn't budge, worry across his face that he's somehow crossed a line.

"Come on, Francisco," you repeat, pulling harder. "Let's go to bed. You can come in my mouth."

It is the first and only time Frankie allows himself to come before you do.

Being with Frankie is easy like Sunday mornings, which is how you start spending time with him regularly. You start coming over on Sundays to make brunch together with him and Gabi before walks to the park or baking experiments with two eager guinea pigs. Sundays morph to include Saturdays after your SBD workout, Frankie working out with Pope before coming over to spot you on bench and cheer you on for deadlifts, your nemesis lift. Post-workout meals followed by afternoon naps and cuddles to give your bodies a chance to recover before hitting a new food truck or hole in the wall joint on your list. Your now shared list of places "To Eat."

You spend Saturday nights if Frankie didn't have Gabi, tangling in his sheets, and sleeping the best you'd ever slept in a long time, sated and wrapped in his arms. But as the weeks roll by, the weekends don't feel like enough, so you head over as soon as you finish work on Friday, packing all of your lifting gear and clothes for the weekend. You go to the gym together. You watch Disney movies with Gabi and giggle with her in the kitchen when she gets flour on her nose. By three months, you even occasionally spend a work night at his place.

Sometimes you worry it's moving too fast, but there's something so comforting about transitioning from professional work mode to what Frankie likes to call baby mode. The first time he tries to help you relax after work you didn't know how to react, body tense with confusion. 

“What are you doing, Frankie?” you ask him, eyeing the home-cooked meal. 

“Just trying to take care of you, Sweets,” he responds, sliding your work bag off of your shoulder and pulling you in for a kiss. “You said you had a long day.”

Now, after an especially long day, he'll greet you at the door, throw you over his shoulder, carry you to the bedroom, peel off your clothes, and sink you into a hot bubble bath. You learn that it takes time to learn how to let yourself be taken care of instead of trying to take care of everything on your own. After a while, it feels so nice to have someone else care about you, for you in all the innumerable ways Frankie does. A sliver of you worries he'll get tired of it, that you'd become a burden, but he reassures you he's happy to. Just like the way you care for people, Sweets. 

One day when you have a moment of deep insecurity and ask him, wide eyed and nervous, What are we? Is there anyone else? He pulls you into his arms and chuckles, How could there be anyone else? It's only you. 

For his birthday, you surprise him with a backyard BBQ with the guys, gym friends, and a few select co-workers. You serve a decadent chocoflan and a mountain of milk chocolate covered alfajores for dessert after hearing Pope mention they are Frankie’s absolute favorites, anything with manjar. 

The look of utter adoration he gives you as you walk out with the chocoflan ablaze with candles as everyone sings him happy birthday is forever imprinted in your mind. A small framed photo of this moment, you all beaming smiles, placing the chocoflan down in front of him as he looks up at you while wrangling Gabi in his lap as she reaches for the dessert, finds its way onto the gallery wall in the foyer. He hasn't said it out loud yet, but you think he might love you. Because you sure as hell are falling head over heels for him. 

It's easy to love Frankie.

Even meeting Vanessa for the first time when she comes to drop Gabi off is relatively tame aside from her one off comment about finally someone else dealing with Frankie's bullshit. It strikes you as odd that she had no questions for you, like she couldn't care less who Gabi spends time around, much less if you are a safe adult. You've heard from your patient's parents and guardians navigating divorces, new relationships, and how it all impacts their children. It doesn't add up how nonchalant Vanessa is about your presence in Gabi's life, her daughter's life. 

You are going to be the death of him. Between calling deadlift "deadies" and giggling before pulling 3 plates and dancing between sets, bumping hips with Chloé to Lil Boo Thang every time it comes on over the gym speakers, Frankie can't keep his eyes off of you. It doesn't help in the least that you're wearing a cut off shirt that reads "THICK THIGHS SAVES LIVES" emblazoned across the front. Thick thighs indeed. He loves your thighs. The shape of them. Their strength. But especially when they are wrapped around his head.

Things have been so good with you that Frankie sometimes has to pinch himself to make sure he's not dreaming. He must be making a face that Pope reads like a book because when Pope finishes his set, he nudges Frankie's foot and asks, "Things good between you two? It's been what, six months?"

Frankie nods, looking at his best friend. "Yeah, just sometimes it feels too good to be true."

"You know, she deleted all the dating apps after your first date." Pope grins at him. "Overheard her telling Chloé. Musta been a hell of a first date, Fish."

Frankie blushes crimson as the memories of what happened after flickers through his mind. Your bright eyes with a devilish gleam. Your smile. Your fucking mouth. The way your hushed voice betrayed a sliver of vulnerability when you led him to your bedroom and whispered, “I just wanna make you feel good, Francisco.” Your tongue. His cock twitches and he sneaks another look at you.

He sees you freeze mid hip bump with Chloé, eyes wide, looking at whoever just walked in. He clocks Chloé’s eyes narrowing as he snaps to attention and catches Blondie, fucking Mike, skulk into the gym.

“The fuck he doin’ here,” Frankie growls at Pope. 

Pope shrugs and gives him a look that says calmate as he trots off to have a chat with Mike. When Frankie glances over at you again he catches you looking at Chloé with apprehension, eyebrows quirked up. He hates seeing you look like this — afraid, in a place you love so much.

He beelines over to where you are, just to be closer in proximity. You purse your lips at him, “You’re not done with your sets with Pope yet.”

“Just wanted to check in on you,” he responds, noting a brief expression akin to approval from Chloé. He glances over at Mike again, keeping an eye on him. Mike looks particularly trite and apologetic talking with Pope.

“Wonder what that asshole is doing here,” Chloé grumbles. 

You all find out soon enough when Pope wanders over to let you know he’s giving Mike a second chance at being a member of the gym, but if he so much as bothers anyone, he’s gone for good. 

“Sometimes people need a second chance,” Pope explains, “And he was very apologetic.”

"You think that's really a good idea?" Frankie gives his best friend a hard look. 

Pope turns Frankie away from you and lowers his voice, "We all needed a second chance when we got back from Colombia." 

“If he looks at her wrong, I’m throwing him out myself,” Frankie growls at Pope before turning back to you. 

You seem to weigh Pope’s explanation and accept his reasoning with a small nod. The playfulness is gone though as you prepare for another set of deadlifts.

“C’mon Sweet! Hold fast baby, hold fast!” Chloé encourages you as the barbell lifts off the ground. You keep pulling and pulling, but it doesn’t clear your knees. You drop the barbell in frustration at the failed rep.

“Gonna give it a few and go again,” you huff, plopping down on the floor.

After a few minutes, Frankie watches you attempt the set again, weight you’ve pulled without hesitation before, but it barely comes off the ground, hovering for a moment before you drop it again. He can feel the waves of frustration coming off of you as you pace around the barbell, hands on your hips. 

Pope drags him back to finish their last few sets when he just wanted to stay nearby just in case Mike decided to be an idiot. But true to his word, Mike gives you and Chloé a wide berth, keeping to himself through his entire work out. 

It’s not until the next time Frankie sees Mike that he reverts to his true douchebag self.

Benny is annoying the shit out of you.

"What, so now you're with Fish, you don't bother hanging out with the rest of us anymore?" Benny whines.

He's trying to convince you to come out for Friday night drinks at Redfly's this week after you and Frankie had missed the last few. Vanessa had begged to drop Gabi at the last minute yet again. The custody arrangement seems to be whatever is convenient for her lately and it chafes. Frankie is supposed to talk to her about it soon.

"Benny, I already said we'd be there this week," you huff, trying to psych yourself up for your workout. 

You've had a few absolute garbage workouts lately. Having Mike lurking around the gym again after flipping out at you for not saving him a baked good for snack time, spikes a feeling of general unease throughout your body even if he leaves you alone. You understand the importance of second chances, but you didn't think Mike would change so easily. Not after the stunt he pulled when you first started working out at Pope's, inviting you to come out to a local bar to "hangout" with other members of the gym. But when you arrive, only Mike is there, sitting at the bar. He tries to sweet talk you into staying when you realize he tried to bait and switch you into a date and you try to leave. Ultimately, the bartender had to get involved before you were able to get away from Mike. Ugh. Yeah, you don't buy his apologetic act one bit.

"Will you — will you bring some friends?" Benny asks after a beat and quickly looks away.

"Like who? All my friends are here at the gym and they all know about Friday nights at Redfly's," you respond. "You want me to invite my co-workers? They're all married with kids under the age of five."

"NO. Uh, I mean, if you want?" Benny's oddly panicky. "What about — how come you never bring Chloé or um — what's, uh, his name, uh — ?"

Oh. OH.

The thing Frankie mentioned about Benny acting weird when he went to talk to Chloé about planning your first date comes careening to the front of your mind. It all makes sense now. Benny definitely has a thing for Chloé.

"Why don't you ask her yourself?" you needle him.

Benny doesn't have an answer. For once Benjamin fucking Miller is at a loss for words.

"Um, well, uh —"

"Poor Benny boy, always used to women throwing themselves at him, now forced to make the first move," you tease. With affection of course.

"Goddamnit," Benny growls, turning to stomp away and pout.

"Hey Benny," you call after him. He turns with the grumpiest expression on his face. "I'll ask her."

The change in his expression is instantaneous as he bounds back over to your platform to help you load the bar, all golden retriever energy again.

"Really?! You're the best, Sweets!"

Benny's late. Actually, all of the guys are late to Redfly's as you and Chloé nurse watered down cocktails at the bar. Even Tom is MIA, having hired a dour looking man to tend the bar in his rare absence. This guy cannot make a proper cocktail to save his life.

"I could be in my PJ's right now watching the Great British Bake-Off," Chloé grumbles into her drink.

"Same, girl, same," you grumble back in solidarity.

Frankie had texted you he is running late after dropping Gabi off with Vanessa because Pope needs a ride. Something about his car dying. Sorry baby, we'll be there soon. You have no idea where Benny and Will are, but if Benny doesn't arrive soon Chloé's definitely going to leave. Hell, you might leave. It's been a long week and you're tired.

A shaft of sunlight pierces the dimly lit bar as the door opens and you turn, hoping to see any of the guys. It's some guys alright, and one of them is Mike.

Frankie's tired. And fed up. Specifically with Vanessa and how she keeps deviating from the custody arrangement. Tonight is the first time handing Gabi over went according to plan in a long time, but Vanessa wants to talk after getting Gabi settled into her car seat. She leans against the back of her car, out of ear shot of Gabi, before she explains that she's met someone, someone amazing that's not like him at all, and she thinks this is really going somewhere, but this guy, he doesn't like kids, doesn't want kids. So, can they formally change their custody arrangement? Won't Frankie consider taking Gabi full-time and Vanessa can do occasional holidays or whatever? The whatever grates at him.

He grips the steering wheel harder as he turns into the parking lot of the bar. How could she just abandon Gabi like this? Her daughter? As much as Frankie knows it's better that he and Vanessa are separated, Gabi needs her mother. And who is this guy anyway? Is he a good influence on Gabi even if he’s not a kid person? And if Frankie's honest with himself, he's terrified of not being enough, of full time custody and everything that would entail. Even if you have been incredible with Gabi, nurturing your own sweet relationship with his girl, would you want to stick around at this monumental change? How is this going to affect his relationship with you? He thinks he's going to fight Vanessa on this. Make sure Gabi has her mom in her life. Pope's silent the entire car ride, reading his best friend's mood and choosing to keep his mouth shut after Frankie briefly mentions the conversation with Vanessa.

Frankie is lost in thought as he and Pope run into Benny and Will also making their way from the parking lot into the bar. Shit, they're all late, you must be pissed.

It's not til he hears Benny roar WHAT THE FUCK does Frankie look up and see Mike, what the fuck is he doing here, yanking you by the arm. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Benny pulling a guy off of Chloé, who's trying to get to you. The next thing he knows you're looking up at him from the ground, looking terrified of him, before he's outside again, smashing his fists into something bony and hard on the ground.

"Jesus Christ, Frankie." He resists even as he feels strong familiar arms pulling him back. Pope's voice sounds far away, like he's underwater. "FISH, STOP! You're going to fucking kill him."

Mike's on the ground groaning, covered in blood. Nose definitely broken, a new shiny pair of black eyes. Frankie's breathing hard, chest heaving, heart slamming in his chest, as Pope hauls him further back. Benny brushes by and throws another man down next to Mike, only slightly less worse for wear.

"Don't ever fucking show your face here again. Or the gym," Benny snarls at the two men prone on the ground. After a moment, the other man manages to get to his feet and pull Mike up, dragging him away without a look back. It's only as the threat to you leaves does Frankie feel a lurch in his stomach as he turns and scrambles back into the bar to find you.

Inside he sees Chloé and Will kneeling on the ground next to you as Will checks your ankle. You wince. Bruises the shape of fingerprints blossoming along one forearm. He shoulda fucking killed Mike. As he rushes to your side he sees your eyes widen as you physically recoil from him with a hitched breath. The expression on your face just about kills him. You're afraid of him. It's then he feels the pinch and tight pull of the battered skin across his knuckles covered in blood. He must look like a mess. He raises a hand to remove his cap, to run his other hand through his fingers, when he realizes his trusty cap isn't on his head. 

"She needs a minute," is all Chloe says when she stands with a groan and places a hand on his chest, holding him back with her fingertips. He notices that her hand trembles. He's still breathing heavily, the buzz of adrenaline in his ears, his hands fisted again. His throat feels raw, like he's screamed all the rage out, but he doesn't remember making a sound. Frankie considers protesting. Just let me make sure she's okay. He needs to touch you and make sure you're okay for himself, but something in her eyes tells him he needs to back the fuck off.

"C'mon Fish, let's get you cleaned up," Benny shares a look with Chloé. He hands Frankie his cap back before putting a hand on his shoulder and steers him away from you. 

You stand up the moment you clock Mike and his friend walk into Redfly's.

"Fuck," Chloé mutters under her breath when she glances over to the entrance. 

"Let's get outta here," you whisper, but it's too late. Mike spots you and Chloé and beelines it over with a smug look across his face. A look that just screams danger.

"Well, lookee who we have here," Mike crowds your space as Chloé stands and tries to get between him and you. His eyes narrow, "You know, I promised Pope I wouldn't bother you at the gym." He places a threatening hand on the bar, blocking one direction of escape before sneering, "But I never made any promises about anywhere outside the gym."

Out of the corner of your eye you see Mike's friend put hands on Chloé and jerk her back. Oh, he's going to regret doing that. You suddenly feel Mike's clammy hand grab your arm and yank you against him. You think you hear someone yell what the fuck.

In the next moment, you feel Mike lose his harsh grip on you as someone — Frankie — wrenches Mike away from you. You stumble forward and feel a sharp twinge in your left ankle before you hit the ground. You find yourself looking up at an absolutely unhinged Frankie shouting something about don'tfuckingtouchher and i'mgoingtofuckinkillyou as he drags Mike out of the bar like a rag doll. You don't hear much else besides the roar of panic in your ears. You feel the dull ache of bruises forming on your arm punctuated with sharp twinges from your ankle. The logical part of your brain that's trying to tell you Frankie is protecting you, you're safe now, gets drowned out by the alarms coursing through you, screaming danger, danger, everywhere.

You jerk back when someone approaches to check on you. It's Will. He's crouching down at your level, talking softly like he's approaching a wounded animal. You calm down enough to let him get closer when Chloé joins him. 

"Looks like you sprained it pretty good," Will drawls as he checks you over and you hiss when he gets to your ankle. "Gonna get some ice for it."

Chloé sits with you and puts a grounding hand on your back, coaching you to take deep breaths like the absolute best friend she is.

"I — I've never seen him like that with someone," you manage, looking towards the door.

She hums and knows you're talking about Frankie. It's like she can sense you're getting worked up again in your head when she reminds you to think about what you've seen and observed about the man since you've met him all those months ago.

"It's true, you've never seen him like that. And you've never seen him in a situation like this before. Has he ever been like that with Gabi? With you?"

No, no, you haven't. Ever. Frankie practically has the patience of a saint when it comes to Gabi. Even when he's being firm with her, it's always couched in gentleness, in love. The same with you.

Even as these thoughts flit through your mind, Chloé makes total sense, bless her, you still flinch on instinct when you see Frankie approach, sweaty and fists bloodied. Where is his hat? The hurt look on his face when he sees you react to him cracks your heart (still beating a mile a minute in your chest). You're still too frozen to do anything about it though. Chloé stands with a grunt and you overhear her tell Frankie you need a moment before Benny hands him his hat and leads him away. 

"Babe, I know yelling and screaming sets you off, especially with what you went through with Chase. But I just want to put it out there that he was yelling at Mike because the man was hurting you," Chloé continues. She shifts her position and if you aren't so overwhelmed you'd notice her wince at her shoulder.

"You tell him yet?" she finally asks, voice low.

You shake your lowered head. It never felt like a good time. 

"Might want to consider it sooner than later, babe." You know she's right.

Will and Pope help you off the ground into a chair and settle your hurt ankle propped up in another chair. Chloé plops down next to you. Pope wanders off to grab a bottle of whiskey and shot glasses before Benny and Frankie emerge from the back office, both sporting various layers of bandages. Benny makes his way over and sits on the other side of Chloé while Frankie slowly sidles up to you, asking with his eyes if he can sit in the chair next to your injured ankle. The bag of ice Will left on your ankle slowly melts, condensation dripping onto the chair. It's so cold it hurts, but you know if you give it just a little more time it'll go completely numb. You could use some of that numbness for the rest of your body, curled in on itself, sensitive to every sound movement in the room.

"Okay, I think we can agree we all need at least one round of shots," Pope announces as he walks up to the table and pours out whiskey for everyone. You and Chloé are the first two to wordlessly throw back the shots.

"Uh, okay, maybe two shots," Pope continues, pouring you both another round. 

What a fucking way to end the week. The alcohol starts to take a slight edge off of your fried nerves. You sneak looks at Frankie who's staring at your injured ankle looking like he wants to throw up. He waves away the shot Pope offers him. 

After your second shot, the alcohol and steep adrenaline drop combine into a potent combo and you just want to curl up and go to sleep.

"Think I just wanna go home," you mumble as you place your elbows on the table and rub your eyes.

"Shit, I drove us, but I can't after these shots," Chloé groans, laying her forehead on your shoulder in apology. You lean back against her head to wordlessly reassure her it's totally okay.

"Sweets," Frankie says softly, gazing at you the puppiest of puppy dog eyes. "Please let me take you home."

His eyes are trying to say so many things. And you know in your heart of hearts the man would never hurt you. He really was protecting you from Mike. Your heart knows this, you just need to get your nervous system on board.

"Ookay," you murmur, the whiskey making your tongue thick and clumsy in your mouth. "But, but what about Chloé?"

"I'll make sure she gets home safe," Benny reassures you. You cock an eye at Chloé and she nods and says, "Works for me."

Will and Pope help you into Frankie's truck, while he follows behind, still trying to give you space.

He doesn't say anything as he starts his truck and pulls out of the lot. You lean against the passenger door just breathing slow and steady breaths as the scenery flits by. You try and think about how to bring up what happened with Chase to Frankie, to explain, but the whiskey makes your brain syrupy and slow. The silence is stilted as you both struggle to come up with something to say.

You sit up abruptly in the passenger seat as Frankie takes a turn going away from his house. "Wait, where are we going?"

"You — uh, wanted to go home?" Frankie replies, confused.

Oh. He's driving you back to your apartment.

"Oh. I meant, um, I want to go… back to your house?" your voice comes out meek, not like you at all. You shrink back against the passenger seat.

When he turns the truck around you think he is trying to suppress a smile. "S'ok, baby. I'll take you home." He continues driving with one hand on the steering wheel and the other arm draped on the center console. You can feel him sneaking glances at you, checking on you while trying to give you space that you so desperately need.

You slowly place your arm on the center console next to his, not quite touching, and brush your pinky finger against his. After a beat, you hook your pinky finger in his. Frankie's entire body visibly relaxes. He drives you both the rest of the way to his house.

Home. You think of his place as home.

It almost makes up for the way you recoiled at the sight of him, the terrified look you gave him when he hauled Mike out of the bar. Almost, but not quite.

The driving calms him down, nerves frayed between the conversation with Vanessa and Mike putting hands on you. When you hooked your pinky with his he calms even more. Maybe everything is going to be okay? But he doesn't like hearing the meekness in your voice when you realize he's driving to your apartment instead of his house. Like you're scared he's going to punish you for the miscommunication. He doesn't like it one bit. God, he could really use a drink. He didn't take the shot Pope offered because he wanted to be sober in case you'd let him drive you home. 

When he pulls into his driveway you throw open the passenger side door before hesitating to slide out. Like you're seriously considering getting out of the car and trying to walk on your hurt ankle. 

"Sweets, let me carry you in. Don't want you hurtin' your ankle more," he says softly.

You hum in that way you do when someone tries to take care of you and you're fighting it. To his relief, you let him.

He carries you piggyback into the house and sets you on one of the leather couches, gently removing your shoes, and touching you as little as possible. You lean back and close your eyes like the shots you took earlier are still getting the best of you. It seems like the more space he gives you the more you come back to yourself. He hopes.

He busies himself in the kitchen, fetching you a mug of hot water from the little hot water dispenser you had brought over from your place months ago, before pouring himself a generous amount of whiskey. When he sets down your mug of hot water you open your eyes and startle briefly before thanking him.

"I'm never taking that many shots again," you mumble. "Two is too many."

Frankie takes a seat next to you on the couch, close, but not too close. Cradling his glass of whiskey, taking small sips, not sure what to say, his mind a whirlwind of panicky thoughts flitting across his mind. Is the violence, beating up Mike, a deal breaker for you? Even if it isn't, are you scared enough of the violence he's capable of that you'd want to end things with him? You heal people. He kills people. Well, killed people. 

And even if none of those things are true, would you stay with him once you find out Vanessa wants him to have full custody of Gabi? He's not sure how he could survive losing you. You've woven yourself into the fabric of his life, he loves you for christ's sake. You leaving would irrevocably tear his life apart.

When he sneaks another look at you, he notices you eyeing his hands, Benny's sloppy bandage application in his rush to get back to check on Chloé. 

“Benny really did a shit job patching you up,” you mutter as you reach out to take one of his hands in yours. It’s bandaged but only just. You give him a small smile that says, I’m trying. His heart clenches at your touch.

He looks at you again. "Yeah, Benny isn’t the greatest at this shit.” 

“Will you get me the first aid kit? Let me do this right?”

“It’s fine.” He tries to shrug off your offer. “I’ll survive.”

Part of the reason Frankie doesn’t want to get the first aid kit is because you’re holding his hand and he doesn’t want you to let go. Is this the last time he'll get to hold your hand?

“Please, Francisco. Let me do this for you?”

Logic finally gets the better of him when he realizes you’ll be holding his hand, both his hands, for a while if he lets you do a proper patch up job.

He notices your hands no longer tremble as you focus on the task at hand. Namely his knuckles, seeping and bloody. You work methodically, checking for the possibility of a boxer's fracture, cleaning the broken skin and reapplying the antibiotic ointment, before folding the gauze crisply and taping it all down nice and secure. He suddenly feels irrationally envious of your patients and how they all get to experience your gentle care. 

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” you ask, looking up at him with those eyes. God, he hopes you never stop looking at him like that. He could just get lost in the hues of your eyes forever. 

Just my heart, he thinks if you leave. He realizes he hasn't answered you when your eyes pinch and you drop your gaze. 

You take a shaky breath, "I need to tell you something. But I — it's really hard to say out loud." 

You won't meet his eyes like you now have terrible news to give him. You bite your lower lip.

His stomach drops. You're going to tell him you can't accept his capability for violence, you can't be with him, what else could be hard to say out loud? You came back to his house to tell him so he could fall apart in the privacy of his own home. Right after patching him up. You're thoughtful like that.

"I didn't just break up with Chase because he cheated on me," you huff out.

Wait, what.

You glance up at him. He has no idea what expression he has on his face as he looks back at you. You look down again before continuing. 

"By the end, Chase got really verbally abusive. It started with him yelling about things to him yelling at me about things, blaming me for — for everything." You pause before willing yourself to continue. "The night I tried to leave, he came home early, he never does that. And — and he didn't touch me, but — I thought he was going to kill me. I thought I was going to die." The last part you whisper. 

"So I stayed," you look up at him, eyes full of fear, of shame. "I stayed for weeks until I found a place to live and a new job. And I left one day when he was at work."

You sniffle. Frankie wants to reach out and touch you, comfort you. But your arms are crossed tight over your body, shoulders hunched like you wanted to curl up and disappear.

"So yelling, it — sometimes I handle it okay now, but sometimes I just — can't," you stumble out. "I've been working with someone about it. But it's taking a lot of time. And it's, I can be a lot sometimes." Your voice falters and you're looking at him again with pinched eyes. "I'd understand if you — if you didn't want to deal with that..."

"Hey," Frankie interrupts you. "Baby, c'mere."

You hesitate before scooting over as best you can before he hauls you into his lap, ever careful of your hurt ankle. 

He presses a kiss to your temple, your cheek before continuing, "I wanna deal with all of you. Every part. I'm glad you told me, Sweets." You lean against him, tucking your head between his neck and shoulder. Eventually you relax into his arms and you both sit like this for a while before you erupt into nervous giggles.

"Man, what a fucking day," you hiccup, nuzzling your face into his flannel before pulling your face back to look at him. "Wait, how did drop off go with Gabi?" 

He stills before responding. "Baby, you've had a long day. Don't wanna burden you more."

"Hey," you cup his chin to turn his face to meet yours. "If you can be there for me, please let me be there for you, too."

Frankie hesitates long enough you pull him into a soft kiss, sweet and tender like you are. 

"Tell me, Francisco. Please?"

He sighs, he can't ever refuse you. Frankie pulls you into him a little tighter before summarizing his convo with Vanessa. You raise your eyebrows but reserve judgment, focusing on affirming his feelings, his thoughts on the matter. It feels good to talk about it with you even if in the back of his mind he's still worried about losing you to these big changes. 

“I’d understand if you didn’t want to stick around if — if…” his voice cracks and he can’t finish the sentence, can’t say the thing he’s terrified of happening. He can’t say it out loud.

He searches your face and it's as if you can read his mind, see his fear, as you cup his face and remind him you're there for him and Gabi. You care about them both and you're there to support and help them figure out what's next. And you're adamant you're not going anywhere.

“You can’t get rid of me so easily, Francisco.” You smile up at him as you brush your thumb across his patchy scruff in reassurance. He closes his eyes and leans into your touch with a long exhale. You’re not leaving.  

You both talk a little more, winding down from this hellish day. When he sees you stifle a yawn he carries you to bed and tucks you in next to him, wrapping you tightly in his arms where you belong.

It's still early when sleep starts to recede and you flutter your eyes open at the first flush of morning peeking in through the curtains. Despite the overwhelm of last night, you realize you had slept miraculously well. Even now, his strong arm anchors you tight against him, protective around you. Protected. Safe. The way he cares for you overwhelms you in a good way after a lifetime of meeting your own needs, forced to be strong and independent too soon. It takes some getting used to, but you are finally allowing yourself to accept love and care from others. And it feels so good.

You love the way Frankie cares for you in all the big ways and the small ways too. The way he shortens his stride to match yours when you walk together. The way he noticed you having difficulty reaching the mugs in the cabinet so he moved them all to a lower shelf and tucked a small step stool in the corner of the kitchen. The way he never wants you to carry in the groceries even though you can literally lift hundreds of pounds. And the way he always has snacks around, often knowing you’re hungry before you do. You've never been loved the way Frankie loves you. Thoroughly. Intentionally. In all the ways.

Now that you've had a night to sleep on everything that happened at Redfly's, you can recall the events without the paralyzing fog of panic, remembering the way Frankie strode through the door and immediately assessed the situation. The way he moved without hesitation to neutralize the threat. To protect you. The workouts with Pope paying off as his arms and shoulders flexed under his shirt as he hauled Mike off like a doll. And despite how much you knew he desperately wanted to be the one checking on you, making sure you were okay, concern etched across his beautiful face, he gave you space because you needed it. A man who puts your needs above his wants. The thought makes your heart clench and desire pool in your belly. You push away the thoughts that you don't deserve someone like him, these flickering thoughts skulking around your mind. We take care of each other, you think, crowding out the negative thoughts. 

God, you want him, need him right now, but he's still blissfully asleep, nose nuzzled into your hair, oblivious. As if he can sense it though, he rumbles and pulls you tighter against him. You wiggle and twist around in his arms to face him. He looks like an angel with his halo of curly brown hair, dark lashes fanning his closed eyes, plush lips slightly parted. Nuzzling your face into his broad chest, you inhale his warm, familiar masculine scent. Each freckle along the column of his neck begs to be kissed and sucked so that's exactly what you do, laving your tongue across each one and giving it the attention it deserves. 

"Mmh, whatcha doin' there baby," he mumbles, voice laced with sleep.

"Just wanna love on my knight in shining armor a lil bit," you grin into his neck, adding more pecks along his scruffy jawline, paying extra attention to the one heart shaped spot that refuses to grow hair.

"Lucky me," he smiles at you, eyes still closed before pulling you in for a searing kiss, leaving you breathless. He pulls you flush against him and groans as you feel his hard length pressing against the softness of your belly.

"Francisco."

His eyes pop open at his full name. Already his pupils edging out the brown.

"Something you want, baby?"

You answer by carding your fingers through his hair and pull him in for another deep kiss. He pulls away to nip and bite down your neck, hand roaming your body, caressing your thighs before you hike one leg over his waist.

He murmurs, "God, I love your thighs." You feel his fingers dig into the meat of them, firm and possessive.

"Need you, Francisco," you whine.

"Yeah, baby?" Frankie nips along the shell of your ear. He slides a hand down to cup your mound, panties already damp with your arousal.

You move to slide his boxers down. "Need you now. Inside," you pant. "Please."

"Needy little thing," Frankie teases as he helps you pull his boxers the rest of the way off before he strips you of your panties and sleep shirt. "Gotta get you ready for me." 

"Nuh uh, inside, now," you gasp stroking the full thick length of him, brushing your thumb over the precum beading at the tip. 

Frankie hisses into your ear. "Fuck, baby. You sure?"

You respond by sliding the fat head of his cock through your wet folds before notching it at your entrance. You roll your hips against him and whine at the stretch even if he's just inside you. He grins against your shoulder before pressing you on your back and pinning your hands above your head. The heat of his body rolls off of him in waves as his weight presses you into the mattress. His eyes scan your face, his pupils blown with desire. Frankie is very, very awake now.

He feeds you his cock inch by tortuous, delicious inch, ensuring you feel every ridge and vein until he bottoms out, hips flush against yours. You whimper at the sting and stretch, the razor thin ridge between pleasure and pain. He makes you feel so fucking full with his girth, holding still inside you.

"Fuck baby," Frankie groans into your mouth.

"Frankie. Please. Move," you gasp. 

He doesn't move. "Need a minute baby, you're so tight."

You wiggle under him, trying to plant your feet on the bed to gain any leverage under the pressing weight of him. He immediately shifts, pinning you down more with his hips like he knows what you're trying to do. You furrow your brow and pout.

"Don't think so, baby," Frankie grunts at you. Still not moving. 

You feel so full, too full with him pinning you down like this.

"I hip thrusted you off the bed once," you grumble, smirking up at him as the memory plays across your mind, before trying to plant a foot down one more time. 

"Nuh uh, baby. If you want this cock, you’re going to take it how I give it to you," Frankie huffs, releasing one of your hands and pressing against your inner thigh to open you more to him. He presses himself impossibly deeper into you, into that spot that makes you see stars and your eyes roll back into your head. A soft moan escapes your lips.

Of course, he gives it to you exactly the way he knows you want it, until you're a whimpering, writhing mess beneath him, all unintelligible sounds from your mouth until the coil in your core snaps and you come hard, walls squeezing his cock as he fucks you through it.

When you mewl at the overstimulation, he slows his thrusts to a slow rock of the hips, peppering your face with kisses and praise, as your breathing calms.

"Still with me, baby?" Frankie hums in your ear as he nips at your pulse point.

Mmmmh is all you can manage, limbs loose from pleasure.

Frankie smirks at you, "Mmmh sounds like you can give me another."

Before his words register in your pleasure soaked brain, Frankie flips you onto your tummy, pulling your ass up in the air and slamming back into you, one hand gripping your hip and the other pressing down between your shoulder blades. You'd probably scream if the air hadn't been punched out of your lungs.

He leans down and kisses your shoulder, your cheek, before checking in with you, "You doin' okay for me? Not bein' too rough with you am I?"

You mumble something into the bed. You fucking love this.

Frankie moves to brush back the hair from your face, "Hey, gotta use your words, baby. Need to know you're okay." 

You finally manage to turn your head to the side. You smile as your hands grip the sheets, "Make me yours, Francisco."

You can feel him return the smile even if you can't see it as he grips your hips with both hands and obliges your request. Every deep, delicious thrust as he slams into you. Mine. Mine. Mine.

It doesn't take long at this pace before you feel the coil in your stomach tighten, ready to snap. 

"Fuck baby, you're close already?" Frankie grunts between thrusts.

You hope the sound you make is affirmative, but you're too far gone for words, your entire consciousness focused on the pleasure of Frankie splitting you open from behind.

"Wanna see you..." he huffs, deftly flipping you onto your back without pulling out. He props one of your legs over his shoulder and presses a large hand against your lower belly before resuming his devastating pace. 

Errant curls flop over his forehead, bouncing with every thrust. "Look at me," he grunts, a sheen of sweat glistens on his golden skin. "Wanna see you. C'mon, give it to me, baby."

And who are you to refuse this beautiful man? Your beautiful man.

"Fuck," you gasp, eyes locking with his. "Francisco."

Tears prick your eyes at how hard you come, vision whiting out, legs trembling, back arched. He comes with you, jaw slack and eyebrows drawn up, groaning your name in that baritone that goes straight to your core. His cock throbs, pulsing deep into you as your walls flutter around him. 

He mostly manages not to collapse on you afterwards, your own personal Frankie sized weighted blanket, panting into the crook of your neck. Eventually, he cradles your head with his large hands and wipes away the tears collecting in the corners of your eyes with his thumbs, ever so tender and gentle.

"They're happy tears," you whisper at his concerned expression as you pull him in for a kiss.

Mmmmh is all the response you get, as he deepens the kiss, still buried inside you.

Series MasterList

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I think I tagged everything appropriately, but please let me know if I missed anything! Writing smut is infinitely harder than reading it (lololol), but not entirely impossible. There will be some angst the next few chapters before the end FYI, but I promise to angst responsibly.

My 🏋🏻‍♀️ meet is in a few weeks so Ch. 7 will likely come out mid-June and I hope to wrap the series before the fall semester starts! Thank you always for reading, reblogging, commenting, and being part of my first little story that's been a delight to write! xoxo, jee

Taglist is open: @katareyoudrilling @christinamadsen @rebel-held

@littlemisspascal @burntheedges @darkheartgatita

@enretrogue @titabel @copperhalfcent

@triplefrontier-anniversary @iamskyereads

[0nelittlebirdtoldme]

Happy Thanksgiving!

Jonathan accidentally gets hurt during the act. Fortunately, Dracula knows exactly how to handle the wound - and he never really minded a little bit of blood anyway.

Because I had a discussion with KINGBeerZ on discord if Drac would eat booty. In my humble opinion, yes, he most certainly would.

[littlebunnyman]

2023 was a very unpredictable and busy year (writing-wise and otherwise). I still somehow managed to finish some Wips from 2022 (and some big ones too!) but then Ted Lasso happened and then Crit Role campaign 2 happened and then Black Sails happened and I ended up with far more new ideas than time to write ahskfla

Anyway, have the full list of my 2023 fics- nearly everything's rated E except the two fics rated M (marked with *):

Mordredpercy

Hungry and alone* - vampire Percy gets fed properly, 2k+

Painted like the wings of butterflies - homewrecker Mordred gets what he wants, 14k+

Critical Role (campaign 1)

Make you feel alright - Percy (Merlin) convinces Percy (CR) to stay in the dating show, 1k+

Bring me consolation - Percy is sad, Grog distracts him, 1k+

The one by your side* - Tary experiences sexual attraction for the first time (thank you Percy's hands), 1k+

Right behind you - Percy is horny for his bodyguard Grog, 2k+

Prettiest little wife - the Briarwoods marry Percy to Grog, 6k+

Beware of darkness - Percy and Grog cope after the fight against Vecna, 1k+

Midnight feast - Vax introduces Percy to vampire Percival, chapter 1 of 2 up, 3k+

Critical Role (campaign 2)

Grab my horns - Fjord fucks Molly's face, 1k+

Ted Lasso (Roy/Jamie)

losing my favourite game - Jamie presents during a game, 9k+

What you'd do to me tonight - Jamie fantasizes about Roy in the club in 1.03, 1k+

A fondness like rot - Roy trains Jamie in being a proper omega, 1k+

Black Sails (Billy/Flint)

Fair's for fools - Flint doesn't like it when Billy spends his heat with someone else, 2k+

I'm trying not to make too many plans for 2024 but I hope I will finish Midnight feast in January and then I also have plans for every Whumpuary prompt so it's gonna be a busy month. After that I have several Wips (percyasion) I'd like to finally finish and many ideas that have been sitting around long enough and I'll probably be lucky if I write half as much as I want to, but I can't wait to get to it!

See you next year 🥂

[bidisasterevankinard]

Triple Happiness

It’s bad. It’s so, so bad, Buck looks at the ultrasound that Dr. Reez is doing. He’s definitely pregnant. He can see it.

There’s definitely a baby inside him.

“Everything looks good. For 8 weeks all babies are exactly on point of development,” Dr.Reez smiles and Buck nods at her, thinking how the fuck he ended up in that situation, when the number of “babies” hits him in the face harder than the news about pregnancy.

“I’m-I’m sorry babies? As if more than one?” his voice breaks and he wants to run and hide from the truth.

Doctor just nods at the screen moving the ultrasound, “baby A. Next to them is baby B and here’s baby C. Congratulations, Mr. Buckley, you’re having triplets.”

Buck does what every adult man would do if he were to find out he is pregnant with triplets. He faints.

or, Buck finds out his pregnant with triplets soon after their with Tommy 6 months anniversary. What happens next to him, Tommy and their unplanned miracle?

[not-neverland06]

Hey! Your writing is amazing! I’ve been checking daily for new fics lmao

I was wondering if your requests were open would you be able to write some angst with a happy ending w/ Peanut?

Perhaps a Shy!Reader who has flirty banter with Logan. They’re on a mission and Logan has to make a quick decision on who to save — Reader or Jean and he saves Jean without thinking. Reader ends up surviving with a few injuries but her and Logan’s relationship starts to deteriorate. Logan’s not good with verbal apologies so he does acts of service — bringing reader food/drinks etc. reader is stubborn and Logan starts to get frustrated. He eventually proves himself to reader.

I’m sorry if this is confusing!! I’m not creative enough to write it myself and you’re really really skilled. Love your work x

a/n: I read this request and then read them together and my brain imploded because I loved it so much, no smut in this one Summary: Logan saves Jean on a mission and it's the wake-up call you desperately needed to understand that you will never be her. You can't stand to look at him anymore and he doesn't understand why you've stopped talking to him.

“What’re you thinking of doing after this?”

You shrug, leaning back on the uncomfortable bench seats and looking over at Logan. “Not sure, got any plans?”

Logan smirks and you immediately know whatever he’s about to say is going to send you spiraling. “Yeah, whatever you’re doing, sweetheart.”

Oh. My. God!

You know you’ve got it bad when something as simple as that has you swooning. It’s so easy to fall into this routine with him, to pretend you’re more suave than you actually are. Despite your usual tendency to fade into the background, you find it nearly impossible to do with him. 

Where someone else might let you stay quiet and go ignored, he seeks you out. He makes you feel seen and heard. Some days you don’t know if you appreciate it or despise it. You laugh a little, trying to hide just how affected by him you are. “Sounds good, Lo.”

He smiles and leans back on the seat, his arm coming around the back to rest lightly over your shoulders. You can tell from the look on Storm’s face that she’s trying not to laugh at you. You can’t blame her, you’re sure your eyes have tripled in size and you look absolutely stunned. 

Flirting isn’t out of the usual for you and him. Lately, though, he’s upped the game. Touching you more than usual, spending more one-on-one time together. You can feel it all building up to something. You’re shy, not stupid, you know when a guy’s going to ask you out. 

But it feels like he’s dragging it out longer than necessary like he’s enjoying teasing you a little too much.  “Alright,” Scott stands up and moves towards the back of the jet. “We’re almost there, get ready.”

You, very reluctantly, pull away from Logan and get to your feet. He walks past you, briefly squeezing your hand before joining Scott by the ramp. You grin, flexing your hand by your side and trying to memorize the feeling. 

The ramp lowers to the ground and Scott and Logan lead the way out. You’re expecting this to be simple. Stake out the area, find some information about the people running the warehouse, and figure out what exactly it is that they’ve been doing. 

The air is bursting with moisture. It’s suffocating, how humid it is, how it makes the material of your suit cling to your skin. You know the rest of the team can feel it. That it’s irritating them just as much. 

None of you want to be out here in the peak of summer, trying to be stealthy in these ridiculous costumes. Your thighs squeak every time they rub together. It’s beyond embarrassing. You know that that’s what has you all distracted. 

You’re struggling through ankle-deep mud and sweating buckets. So none of you are paying any particular attention to the area around you. Technically, you shouldn’t have to, you’re still about a mile out from where you need to be. 

You duck, hands coming up to cover your ears as Charles’ voice screams through your mind. It’s a trap!

Even with the warning, there’s no time to prepare. The ground around you explodes, grass and dirt flying through the air. Logan grabs your arm, he shoves himself in front of you and takes the brunt of the bullets. Splatters of blood hits your cheeks and he runs you both behind a tree for cover. 

The other three have all found their own cover and they’re struggling to figure out where the shots are coming from. You spot something in the underbrush and scream, “Behind you!”

It’s more of a warning to duck than it is to move. You throw your hands up, shoving the man away from them and sending him flying into the trunk of a tree. You swear you can hear the snap of his spine as it hits the bark. 

You look to Jean and nod towards the small clearing of trees. “Don’t,” Logan warns. But you’re already slipping out of his grip and solidifying the air in front of you. It provides enough of a cover, absorbing the bullets, and giving you all time to figure out a plan of attack. 

Jean moves beside you, eyes narrowing on the perimeter of your cover. “There are too many of them, more than I can count.” 

“How did they know we were coming?” Scott snaps, keeping an eye on the area behind you. 

Your arms struggle under the weight of your power. The more bullets they shoot into your cover, the harder it is to keep up. You’re forced to absorb their energy, push it out tenfold to try and keep the blockage solidified. 

“Guys,” you snap, “we need a plan. I can’t hold it much longer.” You grit your teeth, taking a step forward to try and push against the strain. It does nothing but make your bones ache. Logan shoots you a concerned glance, coming up behind you like he wants to take the weight off your shoulders. But there’s nothing he can do. 

There’s movement behind you, a boot snapping a twig in two. You can’t risk looking back but you can hear the worry in Jean’s voice. “Ten of them-”

You can tell by the sounds of their movement that the others don’t give her much of a chance to finish. Ororo, Scott, and Logan all shoot forward to deal with the threat. Ten isn’t much to worry about. But that doesn’t change the fact that the men in front of you haven’t let up and you’re about to weep from the weight of keeping the wall up. 

Jean stays beside you, brows furrowed in concern. She places her hand on your shoulder and closes her eyes. A second later you feel something like a cool blanket laid over you. The tension in your arms and core eases just enough for you to stop clenching your jaw so hard. Some of the strain eases away and you know she’s sharing it with you. 

But just as quickly as the relief was given, it’s yanked away. Jean jumps back with a gasp, “Flux, we need to move!”

“I can’t,” you shout, fighting to be heard over the sound of bloodshed and gunshots going off in front of and behind you. The others are steadily moving through the people surrounding you, but their numbers are still overwhelming. “It’ll all come crashing down,” you tell her. 

She glances towards the bullets, finally spotting the way they’re slowly, but steadily, moving through the thickened air. The second you let go you’ll be riddled with holes. “Shit,” she hisses. “Look, we can’t stay here much longer-”

She’s cut off by a loud bang. You’re so disoriented by the noise your hands drop to your sides. At the same moment, you hear wood splintering and cracking beside you. What has to be the largest tree in the forest creaks before it begins its descent down towards you both. 

You don’t what happened, or what they used, but it doesn’t matter. The wall in front of you is fading. You have seconds to get out of the way of the bullets and the tree, you’re not sure either of you is going to make it. 

“Jean!” There’s a flash of brown hair and Jean’s being tackled to the ground, safely out of the way of the tree and bullets. You feel something stinging against your shoulder and know the first bullet’s made its way through. 

You also see the tree is almost over top of you. You’ve always been a fight response in flight or fight scenarios. But when there’s nothing to fight, when you have nothing to go up against, you freeze. It’s horrible, you know it, but there’s nothing you can do about it. 

Even as you’re desperately screaming at yourself to just fucking move, all you can do is watch as the tree topples down on top of you. “Flux, duck!” The words trigger something in your brain just soon enough to drop to the ground. 

Scott releases a red beam, blasting through the tree and knocking it off course. You don’t even register the smell of burning flesh as you lay in the mud. Your blood is rushing so fast in your veins, there’s so much adrenaline pumping through you, you can’t focus on anything except the sound of your heartbeat. 

You let out a breath of relief, slowly lifting yourself up to your knees. You don’t hear any more fighting and you figure whoever they hadn’t taken down before, the beam took care of the rest. 

You look down, checking yourself for any bullet holes or serious damage but you can’t find anything. Something warm trickles down your shoulder, it drips across your arm and down your hand. 

You look at the blood curiously, it seems to steady a flow from the simple bullet graze you’d had earlier. “Oh my god,” Jean whispers your name and you turn around with a concerned look. 

You want to ask her what’s wrong but your eyes are trained on the way Logan’s arms are bracketing her. He’s practically on top of her, only now getting up to check on you. You get it, it was a stressful situation, he acted fast. 

But that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow the lump in your throat. It doesn’t ease the burn of betrayal. He saved her, not you. He chose her even though she doesn’t want him. The anger you’re feeling only makes it harder to be aware of your surroundings. 

It’s not until Scott kneels behind you a presses a gentle hand against your back that you lurch forward with a loud cry. The pain slams down on you all at once. The wind blowing gently against your back feels like someone’s dug razor blades in your skin and ripped. 

Feet rush towards you, someone kneeling beside you and grabbing your shoulders. Logan forces you up and makes you look at him before his gaze turns to your back. “What the fuck did you do?” He practically growls, lunging towards Scott. 

He grabs him by the collar and shoves him into the dirt. Ororo and Jean leap forward, trying unsuccessfully to rip him off. You try and keep your eyes open, try and stay focused. The pain is too much, you don’t want to be awake for this anymore. Every nerve on your back feels like it’s being forcefully exposed and plucked at. 

Your brain forces a shutdown and you slump into the mud, the world going black. 

When you wake up, you’re on your stomach. You’re a little dazed, not fully remembering how you got here. You try and sit up but there’s a steady grip around your wrists stopping you. “Don’t move,” Jean warns from somewhere behind you. 

You try and look for her but you can’t move much. Your head feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, stuck to the pillow beneath you. “What happened? Why can’t I move?”

Her shoes appear in front of you and then she’s kneeling down, a slightly worried look on her face. “We needed to make sure you didn’t roll over in your sleep.” Her brows crinkle and she frowns, “You don’t remember?” You shake your head minutely. She sighs, lifting her hand to your face and pressing her chilled fingers to your temple. 

The images rush towards you. You see it all from her eyes. The way Logan had grabbed her and thrown her to the ground, checking over her and not once looking at you. How Scott had tried to stop the tree from breaking your spine. His beam had just barely grazed your back as you had ducked. But it was enough for there to be serious damage. 

Through her view, you can see the way your skin had bubbled up and blistered. How horribly damaged it was. You have limited healing abilities, but it was enough to stop the nerves from being permanently damaged. 

She lets you go and you groan, the pain slowly registering in your brain. It’s dulled and you don’t know if they’ve given you drugs or if your abilities are still working to help you. “How’s Scott?” 

She chuckles and shakes her head while she undoes the restraints around your wrist. “He feels awful. He keeps coming by to check on you.”

The thought of him sitting beside you while you were strapped down to the bed makes you feel a little bad. It wasn’t his fault, he’d helped you. It was more than Logan had done for you. 

You frown, hating yourself for being bitter. If he hadn’t helped, Jean might not be here next to you. He had saved your friend. The thought didn’t bring much comfort, though. “I’m not mad at him.”

Jean eases you onto your knees and slowly helps you sit up. It causes minimal pain, but it’s still uncomfortable enough to grit your teeth and dig your nails into your palms. “I know, but he’ll probably be coming down here a lot to check on you.”

You almost ask her if anyone else has visited. If Logan had, but you don’t think her answer would make you feel any better. “He did,” she tells you and you click your tongue in irritation. 

“Out of my head,” you warn. She releases you with a small grin. “I don’t care,” you tell her, trying to appear nonchalant. 

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing on you. “Yes, you do. And I don’t need telepathy to know.” She walks towards your IV bag, fiddling around with something on the line. “He was here whenever he could be, practically lived beside you.”

“Don’t care,” you tell her again, but there’s less conviction this time. 

Jean frowns and you hate how guilty she looks. It’s not her fault he’s desperately in love with her and not you. You can’t force someone to love you or choose you. And you don’t want to. You want someone to love you for who you are, not because they couldn’t have their first choice. 

“Don’t,” you say lowly. “Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault.”

She doesn’t get a chance to say anything before the door bursts open, both Logan and Scott sliding into your room. Scott lets out a relieved breath when he sees you. He breathes out your name and approaches with a guilty smile, “You’re awake.”

“Charles told us,” Logan informs. You offer him a brief glance before diverting your attention to Scott. 

Petty, you’re aware. But you don’t want to see Logan right now. You’d put so much effort and time into your friendship with him. It doesn’t even matter if he doesn’t feel the same way about you. You two are best friends, and he didn’t even try to help you when you needed him the most. 

So, you smile at Scott. You forgive him and you tell him you're fine. You chat with him and Jean while Logan just stares at you from the other side of your bed. You can’t make yourself face him. You don’t want to look at him, it makes you sick to your stomach.

Eventually, Scott’s guilt is slightly assuaged and he and Jean leave for the night. Logan is a heavy presence beside you, one you no longer can ignore. You shift around, pretending to fluff your pillows until he grabs your hand. 

“What’re you doing?”

You look at his hand and then at him. Whatever look is on your face is enough for him to release you and back off. “Getting comfortable,” you spit out, more venom in your voice than necessary. Something clicks for him, you can see it as it happens. 

He backs up and narrows his eyes down at you. “Right.” He frowns and sucks on his teeth, nodding his head silently. “I’ll come back when you’re feeling a little better.” You don’t miss the hidden dig underneath it all, the way he’s calling out you’re unusual behavior. 

“I think that’d be best.”

He scoffs and shakes his head, slamming the door behind him as he leaves. You jump at the noise and it makes you hiss as a twinge of pain shoots down your spine. You feel slightly guilty about the whole interaction. Then, you remember the way he’d been cradling Jean and you feel slightly vindicated. 

You’re sure he doesn’t even give a shit. He’s probably pouting in his room, wishing Jean was in bed beside him. 

What the fuck?

It’s all that’s been playing through Logan’s head since he returned from your room in the medbay. He’s waited days for you to wake up, so he can finally take a breath and let go of the anxiety that’s been plaguing him. 

He’d thought that he’d lost you in that forest. When he’d gone for Jean, he’d assumed you’d just be able to use your powers to knock the tree out of your path. Or make it melt around you. 

Honestly, he can’t put a finger on what exactly he was thinking. But he knew that you could protect yourself and that would be your priority. So he’d moved without really thinking and grabbed the person who would be collateral damage if your powers went haywire. 

And then you hadn’t saved yourself and all he could smell was your burning flesh. The smell has been stuck in his nose since you were brought back to the mansion. He can’t escape it. Everywhere he goes, he sees you burning and hears your screams. 

He’d thought that you were dead and there was a moment where he genuinely was so lost he could do nothing but watch as the others swarmed you. He couldn’t move, couldn’t help you. He could only stare at your still body and pray to anybody who could hear him that you weren’t dead. 

He didn’t know what he would do if he lost you before he ever got a chance to love you. 

He’d, irritatingly, imagined all the different ways he would finally tell you how he felt when you woke up. He’d prepared himself for every possible reaction, except this one. He hadn’t expected you to reject him before he ever got the chance to confess. 

Anger stews within him as he paces through his room. He knows that it’s unfair to be upset with you. You’d gone through something horrific and there had been doubts about your recovery. Of course, you’d act off. 

Except, you only seemed to be directing that at him. Had you been just as dismissive to Scott, the person who actually hurt you, he would have looked past it. He’s tempted to go back down and see you again, maybe try and make you see some sense. 

Instead, he decides to give you both some time to calm down. He doesn’t want to do anything he might regret while he’s pissed off. He’ll see you tomorrow and, hopefully, you’ll be back to normal. 

You’d thought Logan might have gotten the hint with how you behaved earlier. That was not the case. He’s back today and you can smell the breakfast food he’s brought you. The smell is wafting deliciously from an inconspicuous brown bag. 

But you know it’s from the restaurant that’s twenty minutes out of his way. You’re not petty enough that you can’t appreciate the forty-minute round trip he’d taken for you, but you still aren’t excited to see him. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he smiles at you despite your clearly hostile energy. He tugs the chair towards your bed, ripping open the bag and pulling out enough food for the both of you. 

You think it should be considered a form of manipulation to call you that while you’re pissed at him. He has such a clear effect on you. You know he’s aware of it. He knows that when he calls you something sweet like that it makes your heart race and stomach flip. 

You turn your gaze towards your blanket. You pretend the thread pattern is the most interesting thing in the world so you don’t have to look at him. You’re sick of giving your all to men who couldn’t care less about you. 

You’re tired of being the second, third, fourth choice. You want someone to choose you first for once. And you genuinely thought Logan would be the man to do that. But he’d chosen Jean. You should have known. 

“Alright,” he huffs, crossing his arms and glaring at you. You’re pissed off that he’s acting like he’s the one who was hurt. “What the hell is your problem? You’ve never been this mad at me before.”

It’s his tone of voice that really grates on you. He genuinely does not understand what he’s done wrong. He doesn’t even comprehend the possibility that you might be mad he left you to die. Have you really become such a doormat?

Yes, you’re shy and generally reserved with the people you meet. But he is so different. You two met and it was an instant connection that you thought was reciprocated. You hadn't realized that you'd become so complacent in the relationship he thought he could get away with something like this with no repercussions. 

“You left me to die,” you snap at him, voice taking a pitch it never has before. You’ve never truly gotten angry at him. Pissed off sometimes when he teased you a little too much. But you’d never plainly shown anger at him. “You fucking left me behind and expect me to, what,” you scoff and shove the food back towards him. 

“You think some shitty breakfast is going to fix this?” His face contorts. It screws up into something like hurt and you worry you might have been too harsh. He doesn’t know how you feel about him. He doesn’t know that this would hurt you so bad. 

But, it doesn’t matter. You’re still his friend. You should have at least warranted a little concern. 

Just as quickly as it appeared, the hurt is washed away by his own anger. “I thought you could take care of yourself. Isn’t that what you’re always bitching at us about?”

If you weren’t so upset you might find it funny how quickly the two of you turned on each other. Clearly, there was something repressed between the two of you. Some brewing resentment that neither of you had ever acknowledged. The words are coming quickly now, without thought.

“Fuck you, Logan,” you snap back at him. “You didn’t give a shit whether I lived or died. You only cared about your precious Jean.” You spit out her name with so much venom it stings as it leaves your tongue. 

He laughs, getting out of his chair. He shakes his head and glares at you. His anger is always a physical thing. You know he’s pacing so he doesn’t do something worse, like destroy the entirety of the room. 

“That’s what this is, you’re jealous? Don’t blame your fucking incompetence on me.” You hate the way he’s speaking to you. Like you’re a little girl who's incapable of understanding even the most basic of concepts. He has such a patronizing look on his face, you want nothing more than to wipe it off. 

The tables beside you tremble, the vases of flowers rattling against the wood. “I’m your friend, Logan. You could at least pretend like you cared about me.”

He leans against the end of the bed, tilting himself forward until he’s aggressively imposing your space. You shrink back against the pillows, narrowing your eyes in disdain. “Don’t fucking pull that shit with me. I knew that your priority would be to save yourself and I acted accordingly. This wasn’t some goddamn ploy to get into Jean’s pants. Grow the fuck up, Flux!”

You flinch back at the volume of his voice. Unwillingly, tears pool in the corners of your eyes. It’s an involuntary response. Sometimes you just get so enraged that you have no other way to get rid of it than to cry. It’s infuriating to see the moment someone stops taking you seriously and starts to think you’re nothing more than a crybaby. 

Logan’s face pales and he winces, backing away from you. “I didn’t-”

“Enough,” you stop him, voice thick with unshed tears. He never calls you by your X-men name, it’s an unspoken agreement between the two of you. That’s a formality reserved for the other members. To each other, you’re nothing more than two people who care deeply for one another. 

Or, you had been. Before this one moment had blown your life and your back up. 

“I appreciate how much faith you have in my abilities, but the fact that your first instinct wasn’t even to protect me says a lot.” You take in a deep breath and shake your head. “Thanks for the breakfast, but can you please just leave?”

He looks like he doesn’t want to. You know he doesn’t want to leave. You two never fight like this. Even if there wasn’t a lot said, it’s still not normal for you. Maybe that should have been your first hint that things weren’t what you thought. 

It’s healthy to fight, to a certain extent. Sometimes it's needed. You two never have before and you know it’s just been brewing for a while, waiting to blow up. “I-”

“Get out,” you shout, and the tables beside you finally crumble under the weight of your emotions. They drip to the ground in an inorganic form of liquid wood. “Shit,” you hiss, glancing over at them. You wave your hand and they return to their normal state, but it doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t have lost control at all. 

The door slams and you look up to find the room empty. You sink back against your bed and run your hands over your face. You ignore the way the skin of your back screams in protest. 

You embrace the pain, the fiery shocks running up your nerves as the bandages chafe against the wounds. You focus on that instead of how things have ended with Logan. You always had such high hopes that he might be the one you finally man up and confess to. 

You should have known you were wrong. You should have known that it would never have ended with him picking you over her. 

You’re permitted to leave the medbay the next day. You don’t see or hear from Logan for the following week. You can’t confirm if he’s purposefully avoiding you or not but you have to believe he is. You both live in the same hall. You don’t know how it’s possible to have gone this long without even catching a slight glimpse of him. 

You force yourself to suffocate the part of you that misses him. You picture the side of yourself that longs for his presence and imagine shoving a pillow over her face. You don’t want to ache and cry over someone who doesn’t give two shits about you. 

You keep reminding yourself over and over again that when things got rough he showed you his true colors. But it’s more difficult than you imagined to just completely disregard so much history with him. 

Besides, you hadn’t realized just how little you interacted with the others until Logan was out of your daily life. It’s so difficult for you to bond with people that when you’d connected with Logan you’d latched onto him. 

It’s a little pathetic, honestly. Being grown and eating lunch alone because you only had one friend. You wonder if your feelings for him were genuine or born from a desperation not to be alone. You don’t let yourself linger on the question for long. 

It’s as your training with the students that you finally see him again. 

“Has he made much progress yet?”

Jean shakes her head and purses her lips. She watches as Billy, one of the newer students, struggles with the logs in front of him. He was a firestarter, a very inexperienced one who had only ever set his curtains on fire. 

His powers were more focused on the mental aspect of things rather than the physical. Which is why you and Jean were in charge of helping him. He couldn’t start anything on his own, he only really seemed to be able to activate the ability when he was emotionally stimulated. 

That meant whenever he was mad or sad, or anything in between, everyone in a fifty-foot radius was in danger. He was a risk to the other students and you were both trying to be gentle with him. But you’d been working with him for so long and there was so little progress. It felt like he wasn’t trying sometimes. 

He’d asked Rogue out a week ago and when she’d said no, her hair had caught on fire. You know he could have been hurt and lashed out without thought or malice behind it. But you’d seen the look in his eye. 

You’re fifty percent sure he knows exactly what he’s doing. This little act he puts on is just to get himself out of trouble. You hadn’t brought the issue to Charles yet because you’re trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

“Billy,” you call out. His head whips up and he sends you a vicious glare. You can’t help the sneer on your lips. “Just take a deep breath and try again. There’s nothing wrong with struggling, we all did.”

You put on your normal teacher voice, calm and collected. Assuring. But the little shit in front of you isn’t buying it for a second. He gives you a sarcastic little grin, “Right. Sorry, I forgot you’re a fuck-up just like me.”

“Billy!” Jean snaps, taking a step forward to reprimand him. She doesn’t get far before there’s a fireball shooting out of his palms and hurtling towards the both of you. 

There’s no chance to react before something slams into your side and is tossing you to the ground. Your head nearly snaps against the grass but there’s a hand underneath your skull softening the blow. 

You smell something smoking and look up to see a large scorch mark right where you’d just been. Jean’s standing over it, palm outstretched as she keeps the fire subdued. She gives you a worried look, “Are you okay?”

Surprisingly, yes. You glance up to see Logan hovering over you. He backs off when he notices you’re okay, getting to his knees and offering you a hand. Wordlessly, you slip your palm into his and let him help you into a sitting position. 

“You alright,” his hand hovers over your shoulder like he wants to pull you closer. But he resists, backing off and waiting for your answer. You nod your head, still a little dazed from the failed assassination attempt. 

He narrows his eyes, searching your face for any sign of head trauma. When he’s properly assured you’re okay he jumps to his feet. “Billy!” His voice booms across the courtyard and it’s the first time you’ve ever seen that little asshole scared. 

He’s barely on his feet before Logan is stalking towards him, jerking him forward by the scruff of his neck and dragging him towards the mansion. “We need to have a little talk,” the tone of his voice has you a little scared and you’re not even the one he’s mad at. 

Jean walks towards you and helps you to your feet. “Is your back okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod and brush your clothes off. You have to physically shake the shock of what happened off. “Yeah, I’m fine. I can’t believe he did that.”

Jean scoffs and glares towards Billy’s back. Your eyes widen in shock when you see the large scorch mark across his arm. “Jean! He got you, are you okay?”

She glances down at her shirt and frowns. “Yeah, practically a sunburn.” She gives you a reassuring smile, “I’ll be fine.”

As shitty as this sounds, you’re not concerned for her. You can only focus on the fact that she was in just as much danger as you and Logan had tackled you to the ground. You glance back towards the mansion, more fucking confused than ever. 

You’re not sure what compels you to follow Logan, but you’re running after him before Jean can stop you. He’s barely got a minute headstart on you, you’re not sure why you can’t find him. You’d gone through every inch of the first floor. 

You don’t know where he would have dragged Billy, but it’s nowhere you can find. After about ten minutes of looking for him, you give up on the hope that you’re ever going to figure out what’s happening inside his brain. 

You let out a defeated sigh, running a hand over your face and trying to shake off the funk of the day. You can’t believe that little shit tried to roast you. You’re not comfortable with the fact that he’s just roaming around inside the mansion somewhere. 

You turn out of the living room and nearly slam into someone. His hands shoot out, grabbing your shoulders and gently stopping you. “Logan,” you give him a strained smile. “I was looking for you.” You glance over his shoulder and frown. “Where’s Billy?”

Logan sighs, his hands linger on your arms for a moment before he takes a step back. “Wheels got to him before I could do anything.”

You laugh a little, the noise involuntary. “What were you planning on doing with the sixteen-year-old?”

He doesn’t find the question amusing if his expression is anything to go by. “He was really trying to hurt you.”

His words sober you up slightly and you drop the flippant attitude. “Yeah, I wanted to,” god, it feels like you could choke on the words. Just last week you were screaming at him for not helping you. Now, you could barely thank him because he had. 

“You’re always my priority.” He tells you before you can struggle any longer. Your head shoots up and you stare at him with confusion. He groans, the noise tired and resigned. “Saving Jean was a mistake. I mean it, kid, I just thought you could handle yourself.”

You open your mouth but he stops you before you can argue. “I know, that’s not the point. I should have saved you, no matter what I thought you could or couldn't handle.”

“No,” you stop him and shake your head. “No, Logan, I shouldn’t. I,” your mouth opens and he stares at you expectantly. What you were going to say gets stuck in your throat. This is a horrible idea. 

“I liked you in a way you didn’t like me and it was unfair of me to push my expectations onto you.” You wanted it to sound better, and more intelligent. Instead, it came out in one rushed breath and you’re not sure he even understood half of what you said. 

His brows furrow in confusion for a moment before a smile breaks out on his face. You’re not sure if it’s a good or bad thing that he’s smiling. You can’t tell if he’s mocking you or about to profess his undying love. 

You don’t have to wonder for long. He moves closer towards you, leaning forward until you’re practically sharing the same breaths. Unconsciously, you’re drawn into him, hands braced gently on his chest as you chase after him. 

“What are you doing?” Your whispered words brush against his lips and he gives you a small smile. His hands travel up your waist. He tugs you closer, his other hand looping around your neck and craning you up. 

“I’m gonna choose you every fucking time, kid.” His lips brush across your own and it’s like a switch is flipped in you both. Your arms twine around his neck, pulling him down until you’re practically melting into him. 

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted and so different at the same time. You always thought your first kiss would be after some cheesy first date. He would have taken you out to dinner. Something would have inevitably gone wrong, you spilled something on your dress or the waiter brought the wrong order. 

You would both worry that it was a sign that nothing would work out between you. And then, at the end of the night, he’d tug you into his arms and kiss you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever held. 

That would be nice, but this is better. He’s not holding you like you’re something fragile or something too precious for this world. He’s kissing you like you’re the very air he needs to survive. He’s greedy with his affections and demanding with his wants. 

You’re being consumed and devoured. And you never want to stop. This is all you’ve ever wanted with him, from him. 

Sadly, you do have to breathe. You’re the one that forces the stop, you’re sure he would have happily suffocated if it meant he could keep touching you like this. You pull back, the air coming in short pants between your parted lips. 

You can already feel them swelling, the slight irritation on your cheeks from his stubble. You don’t mind, you quite like the feeling. He speaks before you can, a pleased smile on his face. “Forgive me yet?”

You chuckle, a little impressed by how cheeky he is, still slightly pissed off. “Why don’t you do that again and I’ll think about it?”

He rolls his eyes but you can see the smile fighting against his firm glare. “You’re really gonna make me work for it, huh?”

You smile and nod, leaning into him again. “You’re never gonna hear the end of it,” you whisper before dipping down and kissing him again. You can’t believe you ever doubted just how much he cares for you. 

He didn’t choose Jean over you. He’s just a dumbass. 

a/n: I had to resist putting in a “pick me, choose me, love me” line in there bc that would have just been too much lol

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

General Taglist: @evasmlp

Logan Taglist:  @nonamevenus @smexy-bucky-waifu @wh1sp @peony-always @corvusmorte  

@mrs-ephemeral  @wolviesgirl ♡ 

[jeewrites]

::Runs off the re-read the entirety of Fix You because THERE’S A NEW CHAPTER::

Fix You - Chapter 16 - Genesis

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Fem!Reader

Fic Masterlist

Read on A03

Spotify Playlist

»»———————►

Chapter Summary: 🤷‍♀️

Word Count: 4K

Rating: Explicit

Chapter Warnings: cussing, graphic violence, mentions of sex. I'm not giving more warnings than that, sorry.

A/N: Hey all. First I want to say I'm sorry. I literally had no time or motivation to write this. I'm gonna be honest, this is a really tough chapter, and it was hard to get in this headspace. Suffering a recent heartbreak, things in this chapter are things I have thought also, and so it was really hard for me to voluntarily want to address that. I also started working in veterinary medicine, i do not have the spare time that I used to. We also recently adopted a puppy who we named Bucky! And if you read my earlier posts, you know that I was SA'd last January. All that to say, sorry I couldn't do this faster.

Also want to wish a happy birthday to @musings-of-a-rose, my beloved, my bestie, and my constant support. This is for you. Sorry it's not a happier chapter....

* If a character is speaking fully in Spanish, I will put “[ ]” around the dialogue. I speak pretty decent Spanish but not good enough for this

Suggested Songs: "Exile" Taylor Swift feat. Bon Iver, "I Love You" Billie Eilish, "Vampire" and "Logical" by Olivia Rodrigo, "The Night We Met" by Lord Huron and Phoebe Bridgers, "Genesis" by Grimes

You didn’t even flinch at the landing, which was rough, so that’s saying a lot. When the janky cargo door (which looked like at any time during the flight would be ripped right off) opens, you barely even lift your eyes from the floor. You felt heavy and hollow, somewhere suspended in between shock and just not giving a fuck anymore. The only thing you could still fell was the pinching in your heart. It was still broken.

At some point during the journey, the co-pilot had taken pity on you and untied your arms from behind your back and bound them in front of you instead. You hadn’t struggled. There was no point. Where would you go? Jump in the ocean? You weren’t that great of a swimmer and you loved sharks and everything but the open ocean is not where you are supposed to be.

You have no sense of space and time, so you have no actual clue where you are other than not the mainland. You’re dehydrated as fuck, groggy, your vision’s blurry and you’d figured out the sticky moisture on your face was your own blood. 

Because when you had suddenly blacked out it was because they’d hit you, and had absolutely no hesitation doing so. They did not care about you, they did not see you as a human being, they didn’t even bother strapping you into a seat so you had been sliding around the cargo bay the entire flight, bumping into everything. You were in deep danger, any hope that you would have some ransom protection had pretty much disintegrated. You had hoped that the boys wouldn’t come for you at first. Then you had hoped that they would, because if you’re ransom, even if at the very least you’d be alive until then, right? But “alive” doesn’t mean unharmed.

A shadow looms over you and it finally makes you look up, squinting to adjust your eyes to something so close, as well as the brightness of the sun. It feels like it takes you 10 whole minutes to process that you were being spoken to in English.

“Eh!” The man leaning over you snips, and when you simply blink in confusion and don’t answer, he slaps you lightly on both cheeks. You’re stunned enough to finally look at him, his oval face, beady eyes and unique sideburns seeming so familiar to you but quite frankly you wouldn’t trust yourself with recognizing even your dad at the moment, so you push that thought aside.

He kneels down in front of you. “You listen to me. We don’t want you. We want the money. This means if you don’t fucking piss me off, I might be nice and not kill you, you understand? Be a smart little girl, eh?.”

You nod, you probably should be feeling some sort of panic setting in but you don’t. Whatever. Who even cares anymore.

He takes your silence as submission. “Bueno.” He whispers, leaning down and grabbing you by the arm, lifting you until you are back on your feet. He tilts his head and steps to the side, revealing 5 additional men with AKs pointed straight at you. From behind, you feel the sharp tip of another poking your back, urging you forward and down the precarious ramp. The pilots.

You didn’t trust that they wouldn’t hurt you, but you knew you had no other choice. Trying to fight was asking for it, and once you step out of the hold and realize you were in the fucking jungle, there would be no sensical place to go even if you did get away.

You step out of the plane onto a rickety steel ramp that bounces as the footpad of your sandals touches it and shuffle slowly down it. You feel suffocated sandwiched between four men, your hands chafe where they are tied and you have been in the same positions for so long your whole body is sore. Every touch and movement hurt.

You stumble as the ramp ends but one of the men grabs your arm and yanks you so you don’t fall. It wasn’t kindness. It was a way to hurt you that he could get away with. The tiny dirt landing strip is almost canopied completely by the jungle trees, leaving large patches here and there where the plane flew through, not noticeable from far above. It looks like you’re walking to nothing, just a dirt road that ends right into the thick middle of the jungle, but you don’t stop at the edge. You push through.

It’s hot as shit and you felt sweat buildup in every crevice of your body, your thighs are rubbing raw from your asinine decision to wear short shorts to the fair, and you could feel a heat rash growing under your tits that you couldn’t even scratch because your hands are bound.

You walk for forever. You walk until the friction rash on your inner thighs turn to lesions. You haven't drank water in almost 48 hours and it feels like 150 degrees out, with full humidity. You’ve had to stop twice already to vomit from heat exhaustion and you still occasionally gag even though there’s nothing in your stomach to come up anymore. All the years that you did not appeal to insects are making up for it now, they’re all over you and you can’t walk 3 steps without one getting in your eye.  The jungle gets tighter and you can’t breathe because it’s pushing in on you almost as tight as the hands on your shoulders pushing you forward..

You start crying. At least, that is what you tell yourself as you whimper and sob as quietly as you can. You know you’re strong, but this is just beyond reason that any normal person could take. And when you think about how this is probably what life was all the time in Delta for the boys, you cry even harder because you feel guilty, that you have no right to complain.

Finally, after what feels like forever, the tightness of the jungle seems to loosen. More open. You notice some of the trees look more oddly arranged than others. As you get closer you realize they aren’t trees at all, but tents and dilapidated buildings built into the shadows of the trees.  The huge roots and overhanging canopy of the jungle transformed a bustling camp into what looks like a little village. At the entrance, a line of guards in jungle fatigues that were impossible to detect until you got right up to them. You hear someone speak above you, alerting you to a man up in the trees on a platform tucked between the branches. There was another in the tree on the opposite side. He calls to the man with the sideburns, saying something in Spanish you can’t interpret fast enough, but it’s jovial and they laugh, and it makes you feel like you’re going to go mentally insane. 

It’s like it’s not even serious to them. And it’s so serious to you.

You are pushed through the camp quickly, but not quick enough that you don’t see the insane amount of cocaine packages piled up in the makeshift buildings, sheds, and tents toward the back. Men were milling about checking them, moving them and glaring at you as you walked past.

You continue past the main camp, crossing over a bustling creek whose bridge was literally just planks of wood, but you noticed there were tire marks across them so you felt at least safe it could handle a car’s weight. Across the creek, an old stonework manor stood. You can tell at one time it must have been glorious, but the white stone-worked walls were dirty and crumbling in many places, the fountains out front had dried crusty palm fronds and dirt in them and looked like they hadn’t sprayed water since the 1980s.

It was still oddly beautiful. You thought about how this house came to be, what it might have looked like when it had been first built. A beautiful Caribbean sea mansion. A jungle that hadn’t closed in on it yet. Fountains spraying and colorful birds resting on the rooftops. But then you  realize that this place has probably always been used for what it is now. Someone like Carl Lehder probably lived here and ran an entire cartel within this very jungle. Maybe it was the same one, just run by someone else.

There was a shabbily made shack to the left of the manor with padlocks, piles of debris piled next to the door. You assume that’s where you would be taken, but you were instead led up the stairs to the manor proper. And as your eyes focus in on the ground while you were being guided to the mansion instead, you realize the heap of matter by the shack that you thought was some dying plantation was actually a crumpled human body. A boy looking not much older than 17, shot execution style in the head and left to rot.

Then smell hits you, your knees buckle and you vomit on the stonework stairs, a scream of shock and realization pierces the jungle, making the nearby tropical birds explode from the treetops. When the sicarios pick you up and carry you through the mansion door, you’re still screaming.

Eventually whoever was carrying you became fed up, and simply dropped you at the bottom of the stairs and dragged you up backwards by the armpits instead. You didn’t even feel the step edges hitting the small of your back all the way up, but you would later. 

You were tossed stricken and shivering on a disgusting, top-sheeted mattress on the floor in the corner of a room, your feet still bound together and your rope-bound hands looped through a radiator that was long enough only for you to lie down or shuffle over to a bucket for your business. Everything stank and you still had vomit on your chin so you curled up in a ball and slammed your eyes closed, hoping that in time the voices and smells and fear would give way to just simple numbness. You didn’t hear a female voice speaking to you for several seconds.

Your eyes snap open, skin pulled taut from dried unwiped tears,and you jolt upright to look in the direction of the voice. A woman who wasn’t even tied up was propped up against the adjoining wall, and as you take in her condition you could understand why they hadn’t even bothered. She wouldn’t have been able to run.

Her legs look..wrong, splaying at angles that shouldn’t be possible. They look like they could be broken, but you can’t tell for sure because she was wearing jeans that cover up most of her skin. The jeans were ripped in some places and stained with dark blood spots, the color turning brighter wherever her skin shows through the tears in the fabric. She’s missing several fingers on her left hand that had been burnt at the ends to cauterize, and her face was black and blue, swollen and smeared with more blood that seemed to be coming from her scalp somewhere. Her lips are pale and cracking and her eyes are glazed over and barely open. When she speaks, she already sounds like she is dead. 

She swallows and winces slightly in pain, then licks her cracked pale lips.“Is…my…her–my brother. Did you see him? Out there?” 

Your face scrunches in confusion, which actually hurts a little and you’re not sure from what specifically. Perhaps you look just as bad as the other girl. “Your–I—I don’t understand.”

She’s too exhausted to even be annoyed with you. “My brother. They took him from me days ago. They do not talk to me anymore. They don’t—need me anymore.” A single tear falls down her swollen cheek and you suddenly feel so much connection with this woman and how  incredibly fucking strong she is. Her eyes roll over to you, meeting yours for the first time. There are burst blood vessels in them. 

“I think that they killed him.”

Your lips part and you utter a shuddering breath as you connect the dots. There’s no point in sugar-coating it. You nod slowly. “I think so. But it’s not…recent.” You look away as her eyes slowly close, the additional tears she was holding back finally spilling over and cascading down her cheeks. 

“Bueno.” She says. “Then at least he is not suffering like me.” 

You both fall quiet and you look over her again. Her pants aren’t completely done up and her t shirt is ripped at the neckline, exposing a gashed shoulder. Almost like…

You start crying again, and you feel even worse about it this time because you have in front of you a woman who has been through much worse and is somehow NOT crying. You curl tighter into yourself to try and hide. 

But she simply asks. “Who are you?”

You swallow, raising your head up off your arms, quickly wiping the access tears off on your sleeve. It’s incredible how adrenaline and fear can sometimes make you the most clear-headed you’ve ever been. Your thoughts are swirling but you knew one thing for damn sure, if they didn’t know your name yet, you weren’t going to say it now. 

If I look forward I am lost. Focus on right now. Nothing else. It’s my best chance.

You know enough about trauma that compartmentalizing this moment is your best chance. You can’t think what will happen if you don’t escape, if you aren’t found, if they never come for you. You need to stay focused. You need to keep hope alive. You need to stay coherent, because if a chance pops up, you need to be able to think quickly.

“I’m no one.” You mumble. “Just happened to be dating the wrong person.”

She sniffs and looks away, but it’s muffled because her nose sounds congested. You don’t miss her tone though. “Mmmm. His new one then.”

You blink. “What?”

Her glazed over, discolored eyes snap back to yours. “Pope.” She spits. “Your man. Santia—”

“NO!” You cut her off with a shout, you know there is a guy who is in the area and you still don’t know how much these men do or do not know. “Don’t. Don’t give them names if they don’t already know it.”

“I don’t give a shit about Agent Garcia, or his friends, or anyone else, it’s their fault I am here and it’s their fault my brother is dead and..” She finally, finally starts to cry. “I told him I didn’t want to do it. They said they would let us go if we gave them what they wanted.”

“It was you.” You exhale with a shuddering breath. “They found us cause of you. You told them.” You shake your head, and for some reason you feel betrayed by this woman even though you’ve never met her.  “How could you?” 

“Because all I care about is my brother, do you understand?! I wish I’d never met him, Garcia, we would have just snuck away and no one would never seen us, but no, instead we listened to him and helped them steal from fucking Lorea, and now they found us and I knew they would, and YES, I gave them EVERYTHING because they said they’d let us go so long as they found you and–”

“Eh!” A voice trails in with a watchman you knew was hanging out somewhere in the hallway beyond. He slips through the doorway, a smaller man you were not expecting from that voice, and leans against the deteriorating door frame. He crosses his arms and his legs and it makes the handgun on his hip jut out prominently from his skinny hips. “No talking to each other.” His voice is silky and the words all slide together so it sounds like ‘no talkintoeeachother.’

You shrink back into the dirty wall behind you as your associate spits a bloody phlegm ball in the man’s direction. “FUCK you!” She snarls, a tirade of cuss words in Spanish flying from her lips. 

A loud pop almost bursts your eardrums and your heart and you exclaim in terror as your associate is shot point blank in the head, her back slumping against the wall and her head hitting with a bang, pieces of blood and brain tissue spraying over the back wall with pieces flying in your direction.  

The man remains completely motionless with his arms still raised before huffing a laugh to himself, putting the gun back on his hip, and looking at you with the such an unaffected gaze it leaves you feeling dizzy and you scream and scream and scream yourself hoarse, crumpling onto your mattress in a terrified heap, arms over your head, sobbing hysterically.

A gentle but firm palm wraps around your forearm, yanking you back up to a seated position. You look away, but the man’s other hand takes you gently by the jaw and makes you look at him. And just behind him, the woman slumped in a pool of blood and brain matter. You try to wriggle out of his grip but he tightens ever so slightly, and you can’t help but notice how different it is when Frankie would grab you like that versus this man. Frankie held you the same, sometimes harder, but you had trusted his domination and his care of you and because of that, it made it arousing. That same motion with this man has you more scared than you ever have been in your life. 

“Bebita.” He coos, thumb lightly caressing your jaw. He wipes at a small speck of blood you don’t know is even there. You can feel yourself shaking and breathing so fast you can see his half waxed back tousled locks that hang past his temples are blowing in its breeze. You can’t answer him. “Look at me.”

You do. His eyes are a dark, almost black chocolate brown, shape mismatched, a scruffy beard and goatee and thin lips. In another world you would find him devastatingly attractive and the fact that you do makes you feel absolutely violated and disgusted with yourself. 

“Do not cry.” He continues. “You have no reason to if you behave, si? You be good and you listen and I will keep you safe you understand? Well, at least for now.” He shifts closer to you, you can smell his breath. It smells like orange and cloves. “There are a lot of men here Bebita. I am sure you understand what this means, si? Answer me.”

“Yes.” A final fat tear spills from one of your eyes, and it stings as it mixes with your sweat and the raw skin around your eyes. 

He juts his head in the other woman’s direction. “This one, she fight the whole time. I like a easy job. Make my job easy, I make sure you always deal with me. Do not make me call in the other guys, they are not as nice. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He releases your chin and you scoot back quickly as he saunters over to the other woman’s bloody body, grabs it by the arm, and casually drags her as dismissively as possible out the door and out of your sight, leaving a bloody trail behind.

At first you just sit there in a slump staring at the opposite wall,, you don’t know for how long. Probably hours. Maybe days. The man, whose name you figured out from when he spoke to someone else in the hall, is Angel. Sometimes he would sit up and watch you, as if figuring you out, your body and the way you shift and switch positions when you are uncomfortable, what it looked like when you were crying and trying to keep quiet and unnoticed. But most of the time he ignored you. Occasionally others would come into the room and either speak to him or approach you, but upon noticing Angel watching them they would hiss or spit a curse and slink off.

The room reminded you of those old houses from the 70s that had those drafty unfinished basements that were simply concrete floors, painted stucco or white brick. To the sicarios, it served as an overflow area, there was a rotting desk along the side wall with a metal folding chair and piles of scattered papers and random household tools on them. Against the opposite side wall was a pretty nice tv, considering, which was always playing soccer. Angel seemed to make that his home base, his lithe frame sprawled across a grandma-fabric sofa, head resting on one of the puffy arm rests. He binge-smoked cigarettes and his right hand was always stretched over his head resting against his forehead in the direction of to an end table with an massive overflowing porcelain ashtray on it. You didn’t used to mind the smell of cigarettes too much but now it makes you feel sick.

You’re ashamed of how little you actually think about your current situation and like the hopeless romantic idiot you are, mostly all you can think about is Frankie. The things he said–you knew he said mean things when he was mad, or things he didn’t mean, but isn’t there always some truth to things that are said in the heat of the moment? That was enough for you to silently spiral. You thought about every memory you had of him and how it could be viewed through the lens that Frankie just wanted to fuck you. Your self confidence was low enough it was believable, and your mind races through every instance of an older man being in a relationship with someone much younger and how of course it was predatory, and how could you not see it, that you didn’t have anything in common? It’s a tale as old as time. He just wanted to fuck you, he wanted to fuck you and dominate you, his dark desires seducing you into feeling so wanted you can’t believe you thought he loved you and didn’t see right through it. 

And his friends, well, they were all in on it weren’t they, because why would they want to hang out with someone like you either? Why would men such as that actually want to be friends with you when you have never experienced half of what they have.

Fuck him. Fuck him and his lying ass, he was a fucking loser addict and you’re pissed at yourself for even considering him. Like how lonely were you?? To choose an old man with a kid who served in an institution that represented everything you hated about this country? To be so easily blinded by pretty words and love bombs to immediately take your clothes off. Because how, if he actually loved you or even like you, could he possibly have lied about something so big?! Or bought you something nice with all that fucking drug money he stole. Not that you’d want it or expected it, but why wouldn’t you want to treat someone you love as much as he claimed to? 

How could he sit there and make up what happened to Tom like that, when you were being so coddling and trying to be a caring ear. And Benny…Pope...if they were your friends they should have told you, that’s what real friends do…

But they weren’t your friends. They were never your friends. 

And if you went the other way, and considered that it was all true, that he did love you, that they were all your friends, and that he lied to you and threw stones to hurt you and push you away, how was that any better? You couldn't even think about a future not being with him, but obviously he could. He could watch you cry and question him and not even look at you, completely ignore you, then not even think about you again. No texts, no calls. No “I’m sorry, please come back.” Silence. 

How could it be so easy for him? How can he just go about his life like you never happened? Why did you still care?

Why did you still want him? 

Why did you still love him so so much. Part of you wishes they’d get on with it and just kill you. At least then you wouldn’t have to feel this excruciating pain. You wouldn’t have to see him show up to rescue you because he has to, to have to see his fucking face and every line, crinkle, scar, the bald patch in his beard and the tousled little curls that pop out of his hat…only for him to save you and then leave again, or die and then you have the guilt of killing a man who no longer loved you.

Yea. You think you’d rather die.

You feel like you’re going to throw up again. You’d let him force his cock in your mouth as far as it could go, let him tie you up and fuck you hard enough to leave bruises you had thought of as a badge of honor. You’d let him cum on your face. You’d let him fucking cum inside you! He’d gaslit you so you actually wanted him to tie you up with zip ties—-

Your heart almost stops. You can picture how his face looked exactly when he said it.

Sometimes rope can give over time.

That’s why we always used zip ties.

You look down at your bound hands.

They’re bound with rope.