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intheorangebedroom · 5 months

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Tonight you belong to me, chapter 1

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.

Guilt is a wild trip, but so is desire. How the hell did you end up in this divvy motel? And now, what's next?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, orange besties 🧡 PLEASE, see series masterlist for extensive trigger warnings. Now I'm off to disappear for another month, heehee. To anyone who celebrates anything, happy whatever you celebrate. Ily 🧡

@frannyzooey And to you, Kelli… Thank you 🧡 Thank for your help on this chapter, without you it wouldn’t exist. Arguably, without you I wouldn’t exist (my gothic ass) and without you I would certainly not be writing at all. You’re the kindest, most generous, most beautiful person I’ve ever met, you shine so brightly and I love you more than all the Frankies from all the universes put together 🧡✨

Word count: 6.5k

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Chapter 1: Dirt

Guilt, you’re about to find out, is an interesting feeling.

A viscous, gluey business that sticks to your skin and clings to your frame. It’s a prickling tickle under your armpits, a rigidity in your legs. It’s a tightness in your shoulders, and it pulls on your face. It has a density, and it’s tangible, not only do you feel it, you see it in every mirror, every reflective surface.

A pervasive, shape-shifting torment that unfurls gradually, and comes in many colorful shades, when you begin to take in the gravity and the ramifications of your actions.

The first wave is darkened by fear, black as petrol, trickling down your insides when he says his name.

Frankie.

Like an invitation, an opening. Gaping, abysmal, pulling you in and you remain silent, struggling on the edge of it, grasping for balance. Drawn in, but too stunned to let go and dive in yet.

It’s a violent crimson, next, shame creeping over you when you walk back inside the bar to retrieve your purse.

Facing Mark is difficult, but talking to him is beyond your strength. You gesture toward the handbag waiting for you on the other side of the counter. He hands it to you in appraising silence, judgmental, surely, and you smile, or you wince, you can’t even tell. With shaky hands, you fumble inside it for your wallet, his green gaze strained on your face.

You know that your entire appearance gives away the narrative of what just took place in the back lot of his establishment. Your face is flushed, your lips swollen, your hair undone. Your clothes are rumpled and in his eyes, you will from now on and forever be this woman.

After what feels like several minutes, he takes pity on you, and reiterates his offer. You’re good, he says. Sweetheart. The first pint’s on him.

You don’t stay long enough for a second drink, however.

Back outside into the muggy night, you crumble onto the passenger seat of your car. The polyester lining of your skirt clings to the bare skin at the back of your thighs, damp with sweat and what is left of your inconsequential desire, and you feel appallingly filthy, bone-deep disgusting.

Guilt washes over you in blue waves of regret, welling under your eyelids when you notice that the red truck is gone. And with it, the gaping, abysmal possibilities of another you, reinvented with him.

The shaking starts as you’re driving, trembling hands gripping the steering wheel. A brutal, chilling comedown, guilt experienced in bright and blinding yellow at the belated realization of your betrayal.

How easily, how rapidly you forgot, trapped under Frankie’s gaze, coming undone between Frankie’s hands, that your life isn’t truly yours. That it has never been. You’re not on your own, no matter how much you long to be. You have never been afforded the privilege of independence, nor do you possess the necessary strength to break free from your family.

And who has Frankie betrayed? What faceless, nameless woman has he gone back to? Remorse blends in with envy and resentment, painting green ring-shaped stains in your peripheral vision as you get out of your car and into the lobby of your building.

Eyes to the floor, you step into the elevator, this oversized coffin lined with mirrors reflecting your image with a silent scoff. There’s dust from the gravel on your leather pumps.

Inside your apartment, the clickety-click of your heels on the tiled floor bounces off the walls of your skull. You hate that sound, eminently cold and giving away your presence.

The living-room television is on, probably set to a news channel, most likely broadcasting a financial show in which white men over 50 listen to the sound of their own voice and debate about obscure economical regulations you’re supposed to care about.

Adrian’s already here. Uncharacteristically early. Friday evenings usually mean late night poker or whatever his own excuse is to get away from your cribless home.

Hoping to go unnoticed so as to avoid him, you take off your shoes, but it’s too late. He calls out your name from the kitchen, his intonation surprised but cheerful.

Head hanging low, heartbeat picking up, you make a silent dash for the upstairs bathroom, remorse so pungent you fear no shower can ever wash it off your skin.

Under the scolding high-pressure stream, you scrub your body raw with a soapless loofah, but there is no scrubbing away the feeling of those hands over your skin.

Eyes drifting closed, you lean your forehead against the anthracite marble of your Italian shower, and let your chest heave around a suppressed sob.

Guilt, shame, and remorse are powerless to outweigh your want, undeterred, unabated, unquenched.

Back in the parking lot, it had been a moment before you were able to push away from the side of the truck and stand upright. He stood there, silent and immobile in front of you. Waiting, as if to shield you from the street and the rest of the world. Silence hanging charged and heavy between you, as you wouldn’t offer your name in return.

When you started moving toward the bar’s entrance, he stepped aside, and that’s when your body moved of its own volition. You took his hand in yours, palm against palm, trembling fingers wrapped around his knuckles.

“Can I see you again?” you asked, pleaded, begged. You didn’t recognize your voice.

He swallowed hard, shook his head at you for the third time, and squeezed your hand in his bigger one.

“I don’t think so. You know that’s not a good idea,” he said.

—

Grief settles like dust over the first weeks of September.

You are surprised, almost shocked, to observe how little your life has changed. You get up in the morning, you shower and get dressed, drink coffee, go to work. You attend meetings about maritime trade regulation, sitting at your father’s side, go over endless spreadsheets detailing import-export profit and loss, you pretend to understand them, and you pretend to care, like a pretty human puppet.

You come home at night, skip dinner when you can. You lie in bed next to Adrian. You seek out warmth where there is none. You perform sex without satisfaction.

There has been no question asked. No suspicion, no doubt cast.

You wear the same clothes, drive along the same roads, walk around the same hallways.

And no one seems to notice that you are different. That you experienced imperious want and incandescent pleasure. That you carry a secret. Nestled, dormant and quiet, between your lungs, like a wild and unknown creature.

Whatever part of him you welcomed inside you transformed the hollowed spaces of your existence. It redefined the void, creating a place of your own where to curate your new desires.

His lips on your lips, your body molded into his, and pressed against your hips, an unfulfilled promise for more.

In the palm of your hand, the ghost sensation of Frankie’s hold, now forever gone and lost, and your highlighted loneliness feels like a barless prison. On your own, always, again, to divert the old familiar pain of being you.

Weeks go by. The guilt recedes, and sadness takes its place, like clockwork, like physics. Like a new sort of weight coating your limbs. A nostalgic longing without any object.

In the idle moments of your day, when you’re stuck in traffic, in a meeting, or in a conversation, your mind wanders back to him. The solid slope of his shoulders. The strong span of his back. Muscles bunching up under your grip. His scent, his curls, his taste. An organic trace seared into your being.

His rebuttal, after he’d given you so much, felt less like a rejection than like a refusal to heed a deeply rooted instinct.

His stare was no longer hard and cold. It carried only sorrow and loss.

Does he think of you like you think of him? Does he miss the contact of your skin, or the abandon of your kiss?

Did he walk away from your embrace with something to keep, like you did?

Day after day, summer fades into fall, the change hardly perceptible through the consistently sweltering weather.

Day after day, focusing becomes tricky, finding sleep more and more difficult and your train of thought turns downright maniacal.

Ava’s calls go straight to voicemail.

More often than not, you start drinking as soon as you come home to fence off the tears of exhaustion, hoping Adrian won’t notice. Another line you had promised yourself never to cross, and under the combined effects of the alcohol and the antidepressants, you feel drowsy and dizzy, increasingly disconnected from your reality. A nagging sting settles on the left side of your lower abdomen. But you don’t mind the pain as much as you mind turning into your mother.

Some days, you think you’d like nothing more than to give way, allow yourself to drown into the proven refuge of self-abuse. Whenever you indulge the thought, soothing images spring to mind, oil on canvas, deep green, tender brown. Ophelia, crowned with wild flowers and rings of violets, sleeping peacefully in a shallow stream.

When you finally return to the Hole in the Wall, it’s only with the hope of hindering your impending tailspin.

In the parking, after turning off the ignition, you sit in your car for the whole of five minutes, staring numbly at the dark lot where the red truck had been parked.

Mark’s hesitant greeting puzzles you; by now you have lost most of your ability to read people’s reactions.

You walk to the counter and choose to sit on one of the high stools. Somewhere deep down, you enjoy his distance; you relish the sadistic pleasure of reliving the humiliation you felt standing before him, freshly fucked dumb on a total stranger’s fingers.

Besides, you’ll take the attention, however uncomfortable it may be.

“Long time no see,” Mark says, and you produce a poorly executed smile.

“I don’t know… two weeks? I’ve been busy,” you add as a way of apologizing.

“It’s been a month,” he replies curtly.

You try a brown ale, this time, rich and bitter. He busies himself behind the counter, cleaning and wiping, while you drain your glass in silence. You haven’t eaten all day, and you’re drinking too fast. Nausea laps against your diaphragm. It’s the last missing scene from this scenario: you, throwing up in the toilet of his bar.

You’re considering leaving when he speaks again.

“Trucker hat dude came by.”

Your head shots up and you glare at him, eyes widening under your pinched brow, a new wave of sickness nudging further up. He gauges your face, twirling a towel inside a pint glass, waiting for your answer, but when you give him none, he goes on.

“Did he…” he starts, and his eyes slowly go back and forth between yours, “he didn’t hurt you or anything? Cause if he did, if you wanna press charges, I can—“

“No,” you cut him off, “god no, I’m fine. I’m perfectly ok,” you add unnecessarily when his gaze narrows.

He pauses for a moment, like he’s the only one who can judge if you are, indeed, perfectly ok, before he faces away from you to put back the clean glasses on the lower shelves behind him.

When he’s done, he turns back around, props his hands low on his hips, and for the first time since you’ve entered the place, he stands perfectly still.

“He’s been asking about you.”

Between your lungs, the creature begins to stir.

“He came back,” you say, surprisingly matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Asked if you come here every Friday.”

Piece by piece, your mind starts swiveling, sluggish and blunt after being successfully dulled out by the past couple of weeks of excessive drinking. You picture his tall figure standing in the small bar, perhaps he sat on the stool you’re sitting on now? Did he lift his cap to comb his hair with his fingers before he spoke?

Mark is talking again, and it’s a conscious effort to bring your attention back to his words.

“Asked if you always come on your own. If I know your name.”

“I never told you my name,” you panic, “what did you tell him?”

“I see your name every week on your AmEx Gold, sweetheart, but I kindly told him to go fuck himself,” he scoffs.

His sardonic tone snaps you out of your drifting daydreaming. Your face immediately hardens. You sit up straight, drawing further away from him and he seems to change his mind. He’s softer when he speaks next.

“Look, I don’t know what’s the lowdown between you two, you understand? And anyway, I’m not in the habit of discussing my regulars with just about anyone. That kinda goes against the job’s ethics, you know what I mean?”

You shrug away the rational, albeit patronizing explanation with a huff of annoyance. You feel more alert than you have in weeks.

“When was that?” you ask.

“Last week. Thursday, I think.”

“Shit.”

Mark lets out a heavy sigh, resembling that of an exhausted father, and he opens the cash register.

“He left a note for you.”

—

An address. Written in all caps, black ink on a white piece of paper torn from a lined notebook. No phone number, not date, no time… and no name. Just the address. Under the feeble cabin light of your car, the paper looks old, like it’s been carried around tucked inside a wallet for years, and time has turned it yellow.

The coordinates on the dashboard GPS are identical to the ones on the paper. They were identical back in the parking, at the bar, when you typed them in; they were identical at every single red light you stopped at and checked. And they’re still identical now, glowing in blue letters, cold and synthetic, above the message You have reached your destination.

You raise your head again and stare at the building in front of you.

It’s a motel. One floor, L shaped, slightly sloping roof. With wrought iron details, a porch hanging low and square wooden pillars demarcating each room, nine of them in total. On the right, underneath a bare bulb, a large ice machine gleams like a beacon for lost time-travelers, next to a pay phone with a cut-off cord and a missing receiver. On the rear end of the building, to the left, above what looks like the reception, a 4 feet tall sign spells MOTEL in red neon letters.

At its height, the place probably looked nice. But that was a rough 55, 60 years ago, you estimate. Now it’s nearly derelict, with visible cracks streaking the yellowing walls, several broken drainpipes, and a missing number on the door of room 7.

If you cared about these kinds of things, you’d figure that the diversion of the main road further south is responsible for the motel’s decaying state.

Your attention is elsewhere, as usual. The parking lot is deserted, save for three vehicles. The red truck is here, parked a couple of places away to your right. Engine off. Empty.

The drive here from the Hall in the Wall was nearly an hour long. The car cruised along poorly lit, narrow two-lane roads, lined with luxuriant vegetation, dense and confining in the pitch darkness of the suburban night. You’ve lived in Tampa your entire life and have never set a foot in this part of the Bay Area. Technically, you’re not even in Tampa anymore.

He’s inside one of these rooms, somewhere. Waiting for you, and that thought alone makes your breathing difficult and your hands clammy.

What now? What’s next? Are you supposed to walk up to the reception and ask about him? A tall man wearing a trucker hat? Frankie?

And what will happen, once you’ve found him?

This is ridiculous. Sordid. It’s gone too far, whatever that is. A motel outside of town. The worst possible cliché. The most degrading place.

Between your lungs, the creature is clawing at your chest.

You shift nervously on the creaking leather seat, exhaling long and shaky, no longer repressing the memory of his sturdy fingers curling inside your warmth, of his tongue swirling inside your mouth. The instant intimacy of your furtive encounter, that turning point, when he briefly relinquished his control.

A chorus of voices rumbles like tumbling boulders inside your head, a cacophony of rules and guidelines, tacit and unspoken, ingrained and internalized. But with every passing minute staring at the bright motel sign, your resolve grows surer.

The yellow curtains ripple behind the rectangular window of room number 2 and you quickly pull the key out of the ignition. Grabbing your phone from the dashboard, you stuff it inside your purse, which you slide under the driver's seat.

Eyes locked on the curtains, you make a fast-paced beeline to the door. Around you, the night is bustling with the sounds and noises of the invisible wildlife. Revealing nothing, containing so much.

With a quick rattle of your heels, you step under the porch, hand extended and ready to knock on the door when it opens for you.

Oh he’s broad, so much broader than you even remembered, blocking the entire doorway with his frame, blue jeans, black shirt, and this goddamn hat that’s already haunting your dreams and your nightmares.

Looking down on you, irate, defiant, daring you to push him aside and enter. Behind him, the room is plunged in darkness. Above you, the porch lights cast a warm hue on his face, that fails to soften his expression. The crease between his brow is deeper than your fears.

You take a step closer, on instinct, but he moves to the side as if to avoid any contact with you and you enter the dark bedroom, carried by your momentum.

Guilt will come back to you later, sporadically, in episodes, but for the most part, you forfeit it wholly when you cross the threshold of room number 2.

He closes the door behind you and flicks up the toggle switch near the door frame. Two quaint lampshades blink to life on the headboard, casting a warm, subdued light. There’s no AC, or he hasn’t turned it on, and the atmosphere inside the room is already stifling, charged with his scent.

“Took you long enough. Thought you wanted to see me,” he grunts, and the creature purrs inside your chest.

“I did. I do.”

Stopping in the middle of the room, you turn around to face him. He’s standing tall and firm and mighty, feet planted apart on the carpeted floor, arms crossed over his chest. Yet you note his hands are splayed across his biceps, as if he were attempting to hug himself.

Perhaps that’s when you convince yourself Frankie is not his real name. Somehow, it makes it easier to believe you’re not the object of his ire.

“Your friend didn’t tell you–”

“He’s not my friend,” you interrupt. “I only got your note earlier. Tonight.”

You let the implication sink in and your gaze travels down to the dip at the base of his neck and back up. The square, yellow bedroom provides you with the brightest environment you’ve ever had the leisure of observing him in.

He’s beautiful, stunning, really, with unique and complex features. Almost pretty, but in a reluctant way, as if it was irrelevant to the life he’s chosen and led. His face speaks so loud, washed over by so many emotions, frustration, doubt and anger, and that lingering sadness in his dark eyes that tugs at your heart and twitches your fingers.

“What’s your name?” he asks, tilting his chin in your direction.

Janet Leigh’s face pops up in black and white inside your mind, driving through a curtain of strident violins, skittish eyes flicking between the road ahead of her and the rearview mirror.

“Marion,” you answer, inexplicably.

“Marion,” he repeats, and you know he knows you’re lying.

Unable to hold his gaze, you look away to the side, and he gives you time to take in the surroundings. The medium size bed with a stained, synthetic bedspread, the practical, shipped furniture, an angular chair and a desk surmounted by a rectangular framed mirror, the antique cathodic TV set hanging from the wall in the corner. The brown carpet. The yellow curtains. The painting of the Appalachian.

And whatever your face says then makes him huff.

“Not what you expected? How did you think this was gonna be? How do you think these things go?”

You look at him again, stunned, lost, hurt maybe, that he should recognize you for what you don’t want to be.

“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before,” you tell him in a small voice.

He shakes his head, like you aimed to wound, and unconsciously, your fingers find your sternum, jittery, anxious to appease this wild creature scrabbling against your rib cage.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he mutters hoarsely, shaking his head again, or still, “and you shouldn’t be here either, this is bullshit.”

And he’s right, once more, he is right, neither of you should be here. All the lines you walked, all the rules you abided by, meeting expectations and doing as you were told, and you still end up here, on the outskirts of town, in this gloomy motel. Facing this stranger, begging to surrender to him, with your heart in your hand and your life on your lips.

Eyes strained on his, you move closer, cautious, with your palms upward, as if he were to jolt and scurry away if you were too sudden. If you tame him, perhaps you will tame the wild creature between your lungs as well.

Drawn to his skin, you brush the tips of your fingers along his bicep, and the taut muscle thrums under the freckled, tanned surface of him.

He’s holding his breath, hardened face, hardened stare, deepening crease, and your fingers skate up along the slope of his arm until they meet his hand.

He’s difficult to catch, you think, even when willing to be caught, but it’s now very clear what you want for yourself. You want him.

It matters not that he belongs to somebody else. If you’re here, it’s because he wants you too. Despair and desire have brought you together, combined, conjoined, converging.

Your hand travels round to the back of his arm, soft and feather-like, up under the hem of his t-shirt, lifting his sleeve. His eyes are boring into yours. You lick your lips, slowly, and lower them to his skin. A light kiss, testing, tender and wet, and underneath it, a tremor.

There’s a terrible density to his body. He’s tension and heat. Pressing your parted lips to his shoulder, you let your tongue peek out between them. You take in the tangy taste of him, it travels through your body like lava, like syrup, heavy and sticky and sweet and it pools down between your hips.

He’s completely still, eerily so. Emboldened, hopeful, you tug on his t-shirt, tentatively at first, and when he doesn’t stop you, when he unfolds his arms, you pull it off his frame, the hat coming off with it. You suck in a sharp breath at the sight of his naked head full of curls, lush and tousled. You want to run your fingers through them. You know that’s probably not a good idea.

His chest, broad and solid, fills your vision, and your hands fly to his sternum where you press them, chasing something invisible, roaming up the plane of his chest, as delicately as possible. Your fingertips drum lightly along his collarbone, as if you were seeing him with your hands, as if all your senses were necessary to take in the whole of him.

His frown turns imploring, his breathing shallow.

“Tell me your name,” he murmurs, his deep baritone a pleading husk.

“You can call me whatever you like,” you answer, lifting his hand and taking his two first fingers into your mouth, eyelids fluttering. You cradle them with the flat of your tongue, brushing against the callous tips of them, saliva flooding your mouth around the salty taste. A moan escapes you, imperceptible, and his jaw ticks around a curse, something you don’t make out, something in Spanish, you’re too dazed with want, too dumb with thirst.

Fire licks up your spine when he moves, fast and sure. His hand tangles in your hair and he sharply tugs your head back, his fingers popping out of your mouth with a hanging thread of saliva. His face has become a threat, a warning, a promise. He’ll give you what you want until you regret asking for it.

His mouth crushes yours, teeth colliding, and his tongue is inside you, swirling and licking.

Like a dam that gives, his strength breaks and sweeps over you, crushing you into his chest with his hold and his kiss, fingers gripping your hair, your ass, and you let him have it, let him bruise your flesh with his need, scraping your fingernails up his arms, on his back.

You’re smiling into the kiss, with relief and eagerness, squirming into him and he hardens his hold before releasing you, swift and sudden, grabbing your blouse and pulling it up in a feverish movement that you follow, lifting your arms like a docile little girl. A seam of the silky fabric rips around your shoulders. You don’t notice it.

His face dives into the crook of your neck, the scruff of his beard grating your skin, and he sinks in his teeth, sucking hard and feral, and at first, you melt into it, before you remember. You force his chest away with both palms, whining, urgent, plaintive, “I can’t– can’t have marks,” when what you really want is to be covered in him.

It makes him chuckle, and it sounds like a growl, so terribly dark, so profoundly disillusioned, that you shiver in the heat of his body. He squeezes your breasts through the thin cotton of your bra, it’s brutal and it hurts like retaliation.

“Get fucking naked, Marion.”

Drawing away from him, you start working the button and zip fly of your skirt with fumbling fingers, blood beating fast and booming in your eardrums, while he toes off his shoes and undoes his belt buckle. Hard metal, the same one that was scraping against your belly when he was crushing you into his red truck, into white-hot pleasure.

His skin looks amber and smooth under the mellow lighting, the harmonious muscles you guessed under his shirt on the very first night highlighted in shadows. A soft belly, and a long, sideways scar on his left side. Would he tell you the history of his wounds? Will you ever have the chance to ask?

Your skirt crumples at your feet, you’re lost in the sight of him, arms falling limp at your sides. Self-consciousness skirts the edges of your lust. This body that you neglect and ignore at best, despise and mistreat if given the chance, will it be worth anything to him? Will he want you like you want him? With determination. Without dignity.

When he pulls down his jeans and his boxer briefs in one deft motion, your eyes widen, but he’s grabbing your arm already, spinning you around like a doll and throwing you onto the bedspread. He climbs on the bed after you, the mattress dips with his weight.

His firm hands spread your legs; he’s manhandled other bodies before yours, the skill evident with his dexterity, the experience obvious in his assurance, and you want to be all of them at once, lovers and enemies.

His hand rubs over your damp panties and you buck into it, trying to raise yourself on your elbows to turn around. You want to see his face as he touches you, see his reaction at the evidence of your arousal, you want to watch his eyes when his cock breaches you, but he presses a large hand between your shoulder blades and pins you into the mattress with a grunt.

He’s unlike anyone you’ve known before, brisk and rough and domineering, and you blush at your inexperience, at his irreverence, when he yanks your panties to the side and spits on your folds. The sheer obscenity feels like a reward for coming this far.

Sprawling your arms forward, bunching the slippery fabric of the bedspread in your fists, you brace yourself, the round tip of his cock lining up at your entrance.

He shoves himself inside you to the base, and you cry out at the blinding intrusion, the strength of his thrust hauling your body forward on the bed. With a harsh grasp, he slides you back down on his length and you bite down another cry, flesh gushing through the splayed fingers clutching your hips.

Crouching over you, he presses his forehead heavy against the back of your head.

“Don’t move,” he hisses through clenched teeth, “don’t fucking move.”

His cock pulsates angry and swollen inside your throbbing pussy, his chest pressing down on your back with each uneven, shaky breath burning your nape.

Sitting back, he wraps his right hand around the strap of your bra and twists it around his fist, pulling on it for leverage as he begins to fuck into you. The thin elastic bands bite into your shoulders, raspy vibrations echoing from your throat straight into the bedding with each of his rhythmic pushes forward.

He’s too much, too fast, too sudden. And he picks up the pace, forcing your right leg up with his knee and angling up his strokes, reaching deeper inside your core. He’s going to puncture your body from the inside, and you contract tight and rigid around his length, writhing underneath him, until he leans into your neck, close to your ear with a command, voice low and gravelly.

“You want it, just fucking take it, then.”

That wild thing inside your chest is swelling, madly swirling, your slick floods around his drilling length. Closing your eyes, the side of your face smearing makeup on the bedspread, you nod with just enough strength to exhale a breathless yes.

Yes. Yes, you want it, just like so. You want to be used, shattered, obliterated by this man.

And so you relent. Curling your fists and sinking your fingernails into your palms, as the pain turns to pleasure and he rams into your taut heat, rams against your cervix, bending you backward, spine ready to snap with each forceful shove.

The room is filled with the explicit sounds and noises of your emerging dirty secret. The relentless smack of his hips against your ass, the lewd squelch of his cock slamming in and out of your cunt, the creaking bedding, his feral groans, your grateful moans.

He’s miles away from you, but that’s what you came here for, drain the sadness from his eyes, make it yours, understand. If you’re only going to have him once, then you want it all.

But his rhythm is faltering already, and it stops abruptly. He releases his grip on you and pulls out with a loud curse, leaving you empty, for all those things you never wanted in the first place to fill you up again.

You feel his knuckles brushing against the swell of your ass as he strokes himself into his release. He loses his balance, and braces his hand next to your face to catch himself as come spurts hot and rich into the curve of your arched back.

He slaps his cock into the cleft of your cheeks once, twice, pumping out the last drops of his spend, and he collapses next to you, with a grunt when his back hits the bed, his chest heaving with exertion.

Unshed tears weigh down your eyelids. Your heart rattles against your rib cage, frantic and irregular. Your blood is thick as molasses, of amber and gold, coursing dense and languid down your limbs, but your nerves are crackling like electrical wires of blue and purple.

The creature between your lungs has tripled in size and your sore cunt throbs with your suspended orgasm.

Sunk into the mattress, you’re unable to round your back or turn your head towards him. Everything hurts. Everything is alive.

Reaching back blindly, you dip the tip of your fingers into the pool of his spend, and bring them back to your lips. Tasting him with delight and a quiet, strengthless moan.

The mattress moves with him as he shifts on the bed, and you feel the warmth of his large hand covering the expanse of your lower back.

Before you can relax into it, he flips you on your back with an easy strength, and you wince with the sudden change of position. What a mess you must look like, flushed face, sweat-damp hair, clotted mascara.

He’s heavy, in his straddle of your thighs. He brings his hand to your mouth, and you open up for him, pulling out your tongue to lick his come-coated palm, wrapping your lips around his fingers as they glide over the hot wet muscle. You swallow his essence with fluttering eyelids, grateful, tears rolling down your temples.

The soft light catches at the sheen of sweat gleaming over his chest, like he’s made of gold, leaning over you like a magnificent and merciful god, like you’ll grant him everything, and you bask into his radiance, your lips pursed into a new smile around his digits.

The frown that hasn’t left his brow softens ever so slightly. His throat bobs, corded muscles, pebbled skin, the tension barely relieved. His fingers slip out of your mouth and come to cup your chin, so gentle your mind fails to comprehend. His touch lingers, warm and relenting and it becomes a caress, trailing down the line of your throat and coming to rest over your beating pulse at the base of your neck.

“Are you real?” he asks, sorrow blurring his dark eyes.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, beading sweat, beading tears. “Make me be.”

He breathes in deeply, and perhaps it’s the first time in years he breathes in so freely.

“Okay,” he nods.

Slowly, with the tip of his tongue darting between his parted lips, he tugs down your bra to the side. His calloused palm finds the soft swell of your breast, and his warmth radiates through your skin. His hold strengthens, he pinches your nipples with his two first fingers, the ones you took in your mouth earlier, harder, until your mouth goes slack with pleasure and with pain, and you keep smiling at him through it all.

Loose, trustful, pliant, you watch as he drags your panties down along your damp skin and spreads your thighs. He pauses, eyes on your core and you lie still, exposed and opened, feeling no shame.

His curls, matted with sweat, are stuck in locks to his forehead. Where was he, when you were still hopeful? Were you too young for him, then?

He dives between your hips, and his teeth bite into the soft skin of your inner thigh. You jerk, palm pushing feebly onto the crown of his head and he freezes, eyes shut, like he doesn’t have enough willpower to let go, like too much of his control has already waned and thawed.

“Please,” you coo, “please. I’ll get in so much trouble.”

And your heart sinks a little with apprehension because, surely, he’ll scoff at you again, but instead he just lets go, bringing his fingers to your swollen folds to part them.

A small whimpering sound escapes you when he latches his lips around your clit, but the sensation is nothing like what you anticipated. Of his previous roughness, only the bruising digging of his fingers into the plush of your hips remains.

His mouth is warm and soothing, a liquid caress, the touch from the tip of his tongue precise but gentle. He shifts with a soft groan, applying more pressure and you keen, head trashed back into the bed. Instantly, he adjusts his grasp, pulling you closer to his face, suckling on your clit with more insistence.

The smooth skin of your calves brushes over his shoulders, your heels digging into the muscles of his back and you’re reminded of that first night again, when he swiveled around to meet your gaze, soft sad eyes, hard cold stare. Your orgasm builds up fast, embarrassingly so, encouraged by his heavy breathing fanning the soft curls on your mound.

The wild creature melts into your blood and flows down to your core, branching out to every nerve from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. And when you come, you come sharp and bright, with your hand clasped over your mouth to muffle a loud mewl and your back arched from the bed.

He forsakes his restored restraint when you recoil from the overstimulation, hardening his hold and fastening his mouth over your cunt to lap up your release, tongue diving in, greedy, burning your walls.

You’re still shaking with the aftershock when he releases you and rises above your trembling body. Lying his forehead on your belly, heavy head, heavy breathing, sweat dripping on your skin, he stays there until his breathing slows down, falling in rhythm with yours. You reach down for his hair, threading your fingers through his curls, at last, and he gives in, leans into the tenderness of your touch.

A stray tear slides down into your hairline and it’s over, he’s gone, standing up, his broad back turned to you, gathering his clothes and dressing up.

The notion of the world around you resurfaces. Outside, tucked away in the heart of the night, countless other wild creatures dwell and carry on, moved by fear or desire, and you lie still in that crushing knowledge. Soon, you will have to leave this bed, confront your solitude to theirs.

You roll to your side and curl up on yourself, drifting with the soft droning from the sleeping creature between your lungs and the sweet soreness thrumming between your hips.

He’s at the door, putting his hat back on, when you call out his name.

“Frankie.”

It passes your lips for the very first time, a long kept secret, a forbidden vow, a usurped oath, and immediately you want to say it again. You want it to be real. You want it to be yours.

Frankie pauses and tilts his head towards the bed without facing you completely.

“Thank you,” you say.

He opens the door to a draft of air wafting in, charged with the salty, humid scent of the faraway bay. He’s about to cross the threshold, and disappear into the night, when he speaks.

“The room is paid for til morning. I’ll see you next Friday.”

****

Additional note: I woke up on day and decided to build a multiverse of orange bedroom Frankies 🧡 For those who've read PTMY, can you spot all the clues? This Frankie is really pissed off, though, but I kinda like it. I hope you'll like it too 🧡

Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts @your-voice-is-mellifluous @mylostloversbookmarks @readingiskeepingmegoing @lovesbiggerthanpride @youandmeand5bucks-blog @sarcasm-theotherwhitemeat @southernbe @blackvelveteen1339 @anoverwhelmingdin @casa-boiardi @nandan11 @jessthebaker @pedroshotwifey @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @noisynightmarepoetry

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absurdthirst · 9 months

Text

A Bumpy Road {Frankie Morales x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 12.6k

Warnings: Fake marriages, mentions of emotional alienation/affairs, fighting, drunk driving, death, feelings, injuries, mentions of surgeries, confessions, oral sex, vaginal sex, mentions of family planning

Comments: In order to stay on his team and keep his toxic ex in-laws from gaining custody of his daughter, Frankie does something crazy. He marries you, his friend. You need insurance and he needs someone to care for his daughter, ignoring how he feels about you until he ends up hurt on his deployment.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

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|| MasterList || Frankie Morales MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

You have an idea, it’s outrageous, outlandish and completely insane but it might just actually work. You bite your lip nervously as Frankie paces in front of you, swiping his hands through his hair and it’s unusual to not hear the rasp of the shorter military high and tight he used to wear. Since being accepted into Delta, he had been allowed to grow his hair out past normal regulation, the need to look less like the soldier necessary for the ops he would be running. Unless he has to give up his entire career because of the three year old little girl currently napping in her room upstairs.

“How could they do this?” Frankie hisses, angry and frustrated. Scared that they actually could take his daughter from him, terrified they would. “They can’t do this. I just- I asked for help while I was deployed! Not to take her from me!” It had been a mistake to reach out, to talk about his upcoming deployment. The papers had been delivered by a court server today. He was being sued for full custody of his little girl by his late wife’s family.

Your mind races, trying to talk yourself out of the crazy idea but you can’t. It would work. Better yet, people who knew you would believe it. And Frankie could prove that he had care in place for his daughter, stability. The military would get off his back and his former in-laws would have no case. The bonus would be that you would have health insurance for the first time in years. “Frank.” You murmur quietly, following his frantic pacing. “Frankie!” You call louder, getting his attention this time as he stops mid-turn to look at you. “Marry me.”

His eyes widen, absorbing your words, and he thinks back on how damn long he’s been in love with you. It’s hard to think about but he nods, knowing that this is smart. You need your meds and the insurance will get them for you. He needs a caretaker for his daughter that isn’t his toxic former in-laws. “You’re a genius.” He declares and cups your cheek to kiss your forehead. “God, how - you are a goddamn angel, baby. That’s perfect. We can - we can get married before I deploy and then Ana can have someone - are you sure you want to take over caring for her? I know you babysit and when I’m away but - full time? It’s a lot of work.” He says, lowering his hands from your cheeks.

“I won’t lie and say that I’m not nervous.” You chuckle and melt at the soft, grateful expression in his warm eyes. “But she’s a good kid. And there’s the daycare, so I can still work.” The more you think about it, the more that you know it’s the right thing to do. “Ana loves me, and I know you don’t want to lose her or give up your spot on the team. The boys need you.” The fact that you have very strong feelings for Frankie doesn’t need to factor into this. “I say we get married quickly so you can let your in-laws know that it’s a losing case.”

Frankie can’t believe you’ve agreed to do this and he knows he will owe you for the rest of his life. He can’t lose his daughter but he also can’t leave his friends, his brothers, to go into danger without him. “I want you to pick a dress. I’ll pay for everything. Rings too. I- I want it to be us and Ana. No one else. She loves you already and I- are you sure you want to do this?” He asks, reaching for your hands to squeeze them.

“It’s not completely altruistic.” You remind him, knowing that he is aware of your need for health insurance. “I want to do this. I know we need to take care of things, power of attorney and things like that, but I want to help you, Francisco.” You promise quietly, imagining a small courthouse wedding with the handsome soldier. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t sure. We’re friends. It’ll be easy.”

Frankie nods, knowing you know him inside out, even the dark things he hides from the outside world. The dark sins he has committed. He leans in to kiss your forehead, “I think so too, I- I can’t believe I’m saying this but - but I can’t wait to marry you.” He smiles as he pulls back. You are his best friend and as much as he tries to deny it, he’s in love with you. He knows you’re better off in the dark on that particular sin. It wouldn’t benefit you to know that. His late wife knew and that’s what killed her.

****

“Janet, please. Just calm down, sweetheart.” Frankie pleads, following his wife down the hall. Ana is crying, woken up by the screaming, and Frankie is desperate to deny what Janet is accusing him of.

“You’re fucking in love with her! Just say it. I- you didn’t love me. Did you? It’s always been her.” Janet screams down the hall and Frankie shakes his head, unable to answer. When Janet got pregnant, he was just about to be called up for a deployment and he knew he had to do the right thing and marry her. He loved her, he did. In his own way. He can’t love her like he does you, though. You are the sun, the moon, the stars. Everything to him. He had done the right thing and married Janet but she was never you. When Ana came along, she became his world and he stayed for her, fought for her.

When Frankie doesn’t answer again, Janet shakes her head. “I knew it. You bastard! You shouldn’t - you shouldn’t have married me. It’s over Frank. It’s done. I- fuck. I gotta - I gotta go.” Janet says, rushing towards the front door.

“Wait. Don’t. You can’t fucking drive. You’ve had three glasses of wine.” Frankie growls, having long accepted that his wife became an alcoholic in his absence, drinking when the nights were lonely and Ana wouldn’t stop crying. He didn’t realize it until he came home from that first tour.

“I’m fucking leaving otherwise if I stay in this house, I’m gonna kill Ana.” She threatens and Frankie growls, grabbing her purse.

“You fucking - threatening the life of our daughter? You- I know you’re hurt but you’re a - get the fuck out. Go kill yourself on the goddamn road for all I care.” He growls, shoving her purse at her. She doesn’t say a word as she leaves and Frankie watches her drive down the street.

Little did he know that he’d be getting a call an hour later to tell him that his wife had died in an accident, driven into a tree. He was upset, mostly for Ana, for the mother she’d never get to have. Janet looked after her well-being but was never affectionate or caring. Now she has no mother at all. “I’ll be right there.” He promises the cop and the next number he dials is yours. “Hey. Yeah, um, I know it’s late but can you come over? I need someone to watch Ana for me. I’ll explain when you get here.” He says and hangs up after you agree. His wife just died but his heart still beats at the sound of your voice. He’s committed many sins but tonight might just be the worst of all.

****

“You don’t need to be nervous.” You remind yourself as you look in the mirror, hands trembling as you lean towards the glass and smudge a little more of your eyeliner into place. “It’s Frankie, he’s not- he doesn’t actually love you.” That stings more than you thought it would as you wear the white tea dress you had picked out to get married in. Feeling like a bride and yet not one all at the same time. It’s going to be just ten minutes before Frankie will be here to drive you to the courthouse to exchange vows. The marriage certificate is ready to be signed by the magistrate that will officially declare you Mrs. Francisco Javier Morales. The knock on the door startles you, and you look towards it before glancing back in the mirror. “It’s time.”

When you answer the door, Frankie’s breath is taken away from him. You look devastatingly beautiful. “You look so pwetty.” Ana grins up at you and you look at her in her little white flower girl dress that is similar to yours, her hair done in what looks like an attempt to style it by Frankie.

“She’s right. You look - you look incredible.” He says, his dark eyes meeting yours and he offers you a boyish grin.

Frankie is wearing his uniform, you had asked him to but it’s impossible to think of anything but how handsome he is wearing his medals. “Not nearly as incredible as you.” You reach out and your finger strokes his jaw. “You shaved.” Your finger grazes his lip and you pull back, aware that if you keep touching him, you will want to kiss him for real. “Every single woman in town is pissed at me today.” You promise.

Frankie suppresses the shiver that runs through him at the way you caress his face and he knows it’s going to be hard not confessing how he feels. He knows you only think of him as a dear friend and even if, by some miracle, you didn’t, you wouldn’t be able to look past his sins. He’s not good enough for you. He blushes and clears his throat, “alongside every man.” He counters and Ana tugs on your hand, “daddy got me petals.” She holds up the basket that she insisted Frankie get her. She had heard about flower girls from her friends in pre-school and she insisted Frankie let her throw the petals down before you walk down the aisle. “I know it’s only a courthouse wedding but Ana wanted to make it special.”

“Thank you, Ana.” You bend down to look the little girl in the eyes, knowing how excited that she is. For her, this is exciting and fun, something that she will play with her friends the next time she sees them in school. “You are the prettiest little flower girl I have ever seen.” You promise, making her smile and you reach out to cup her little cheek. “Now I know your daddy talked to you about it, but how would you like me to come stay with you and daddy? Help him make breakfast and do your hair? Would you like that?”

Ana nods, her eyes wide, “yes! Daddy never gets my hair right.” She says with a pout, “are you my new mommy?” She asks and Frankie had spoken to her about this. How you were going to come live with them, how you were going to be his new friend and that her mommy was still with her. He hates how selfish Janet was to drink and drive and the guilt he felt when she died after he all but forced her into the car, but there was something in her eyes. He’s seen that look before. She would’ve hurt Ana and he couldn’t allow that to happen.

“I-” You frown slightly, unsure of what to say to the young girl. “I would like to be your friend. A good friend. But I also don’t want you to feel like I am trying to become your mommy unless you would like that.” It might be a little more than a three year old understands, but you don’t want her to feel like she has to forget Janet.

Frankie kneels beside his daughter, “your mommy is your angel, remember? She’s gonna look after you.” Frankie smiles and says your name, “she’s gonna be your friend when daddy is gone fighting the bad guys, okay? You are safe with her and she loves you as much as daddy does.” Frankie knows his job is much more complicated than good guys and bad guys but it’s how he can explain to a three year old that he’s gonna be gone for so long. He hates missing huge parts of her life but he can’t let his team down.

“Okay daddy.” She hands him the basket and steps closer to wrap her small arms around your neck.

You smile at the two of them together and you know that you are doing the right thing. You are giving Frankie the opportunity to keep his daughter here with him so he can come home to her when he can. “Are you ready to go throw the petals down, sweetheart?” You ask softly. “I bet daddy will take us out for ice cream after.”

Ana grins and nods, squealing “lets go!”

Frankie chuckles and stands up, holding his hand out to his daughter and he winks at you, “lets go get hitched, baby.” You smile and he holds his arm out to you, guiding his girls to his truck.

****

Ana beams as she tosses the flowers on the floor, Frankie would say in heaps more than scattered but he chuckles and she comes to stand beside him. When you walk down the small aisle, Frankie exhales shakily, his heart pounding and he’s certain you can tell he’s sweating. When you stand in front of him, you beckon Ana to stand between you and Frankie knows he’s made the right choice for his daughter. It’s always been you.

The magistrates ceremony is brief and you barely remember any of it, grinning like an idiot as you stand there with Frankie, imagining if this were actually real. “Do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?” He asks, making you swallow harshly before you squeeze his hands. “I do.” You promise clearly.

Frankie nearly yells “I do” but manages to control himself, staring into your eyes as the officiant declares you husband and wife. “You may now kiss the bride.” Frankie knows this could be the only chance he gets to kiss you so he leans in to cup your cheek, pressing his lips to yours and he is firm but not demanding. It’s not brief but it doesn’t drag, despite Frankie wanting to pull you against him and slide his tongue into your mouth. This is an agreement between friends and nothing more. He pulls back and smiles, looking down at Ana between you who looks happy. This feels right. After signing the marriage certificate, Frankie takes your hand to guide you and Ana back to his truck. “I - I hope you don’t mind…it was supposed to be a surprise but the guys put together some food and drinks at Tom and Molly’s.

“Really?” Your mouth drops open in shock and you smile when he nods. “Oh my god, that’s so sweet.” You gush before you frown. “Wait.” Twisting in your seat, you watch as Frankie buckles Ana into her car seat. “Do they- uh, know what the situation is?” You ask softly, unsure of what you can say around them.

Frankie shakes his head. “No.” He finishes pulling the strap up Ana’s chest and looks over at you. “I wanted them to be able to truthfully say they believe it is real.” He explains, making you nod in understanding. There’s the possibility that Frankie’s in-laws could still come for custody or challenge the validity of the marriage and it’s better if everyone thought this was real. “Got it. Happy newlyweds.”

Frankie is grateful that you’re going along with this. He knows it benefits you too but it’s a lot to ask, to pretend to be married to him. The drive to Tom’s house is quiet and when you knock on the front door, Molly opens it with a “congratulations!” You grin and Frankie holds your hand and Ana’s as he walks inside. All of his team are there, several of your mutual friends, and Frankie is blushing when they shout “congratulations.”

“Hot damn!” Benny bellows, making you automatically grin as the younger Miller brother bounds into view. “Fish got married! You son of a bitch, you hid it from us!” He tackles Frankie in a bear hug while Molly pulls you in for a hug. “What? Afraid she’d see me in my dress uniform and run off with me?” Ben teases, pulling back to grin at his friend before he scoops you up in a hug. “She wouldn’t have done that? Would you, sweetheart? You’ve been in love with ole Fish for years.” Benny teases.

Frankie picks Ana up, not wanting her to be excluded and he tries to ignore the comment, aware that people have thought you and him have been in love with each other for years. It’s true on his side but he doesn’t fool himself into thinking you love him as more than a friend. “Shut up Benny, my wife has good taste.” He jokes and Pope walks over.

“Couldn’t pick a best man so you decided to do it solo?” Pope jokes and Frankie gives him a one armed hug.

“Uncle Pope!” Ana cheers as Santi takes her into his arms, “hey chiquita.” He kisses the cheek of his goddaughter.

Frankie smiles, turning towards Will. “You finally did it, huh? You convinced her to marry you, you son of a bitch.” He chuckles and Frankie hugs his friend.

“Guess so.” He grins as you greet your friends and they admire the ring Frankie had bought you. He had spent quite a bit of money on it, wanting to make something about this situation real.

The party is fantastic but after a few hours you are ready to leave. Not because anyone is rude, but the jokes about you being pregnant before Frankie leaves for deployment and giving Ana a sibling just curl in your stomach. Knowing that you are never going to have that with your husband because he didn’t marry you for love. He married you for Ana and to fight off his in-laws. With the little girl passed out against her father’s shoulder, you use that as an excuse. “We need to get her home. Today was a big day for her.” You tell Molly when she offers to keep Ana overnight so you and Frankie can have some time alone. “I think we will settle in better if she’s there with us.”

Frankie nods, aware that he won’t be getting a wedding night. He’s not that stupid. He would never ever ask it of you. “She’s right. I want Ana to feel settled since we are leaving soon.” He says and rubs your back with his free hand. “Let’s go, sweetheart.” He murmurs and he keeps Ana in his arms while he says goodbye to his friends, knowing he will see them soon.

In his truck, you look over after he’s pulled away from Tom and Molly’s. “We didn’t discuss sleeping arrangements.” You realize, rolling your eyes at yourself. “I can stay at my apartment until you leave, but I would rather Ana get used to me being there.” You admit. “Or I can stay in the guest room if you prefer? When Ana notices that we aren’t sleeping in the same bed, you can say that you don’t sleep well beside me? Or….” you bite your lip, imagining curling up next to him. “We are both adults. We can sleep next to each other, right? You have a king sized bed.”

“We can share a bed. We are adults. Not like we haven’t before.” He reminds you of when he used to get drunk and end up in your tiny one bed apartment, seeking solace and a late meal after a night out with the boys. “Besides, I think it would be best if Ana thinks this is real. I want her to think that this is real so she is happy with you. Not that I don’t think you’re not - you know what I’m saying, right?” He asks as he drives to his house.

“I know what you mean.” Reaching out, you pat his hand and give him a smile when he looks over at you. “It’s a good thing we’ve started carting some of my things over, right?” You have every intention of selling most of your things, since Frankie’s is already established and your furniture holds no sentimental attachment for you. “We can go get my ID and everything tomorrow. Get me set up in the system as your wife?”

Frankie nods, “yeah. We will sort everything out tomorrow.” His heart pounds in his chest at hearing you call yourself his wife and he swallows harshly, knowing that nothing can be done. For your sake and Ana’s. He can’t fuck this up by letting his feelings get involved. He sighs and pulls into his driveway, killing the engine and he’s careful as he takes Ana out of her car seat.

As Frankie takes Ana to lay her down, you take the bag that Frankie had brought over into the master bathroom so you can change out of your wedding dress into some comfortable pajamas. They aren’t fancy or sexy but you had bought some new, cute sleeping clothes since you would be sharing a house with Frankie. Washing the makeup off and taking your hair out of the careful style you had put it in for the ceremony. Looking more like your normal self when you open the door to find your new husband in the bedroom you will share.

Frankie is carefully hanging up his uniform when he sees you and his heart clenches at how fucking beautiful you look. He feels guilty that he’s got you in this situation, in a marriage of convenience when you deserve all the love in the world. He strips down to his boxers, pulling a plain shirt out to pull on. “You want some water?” He asks, clearing his throat and you nod so he ventures into the kitchen, exhaling shakily to force himself to calm down. This isn’t a real wedding night. “Here you go, sweetheart.” He says and hands you the glass.

“Thank you.” You sit on the end of the bed and take a sip of the water, trying to calm your nerves and you sigh. “I know that this is- that we aren’t actually together, but I want you to know that I’m not going to embarrass you while you are deployed.” You tell him. It's been a long time since you’ve dated but just because you aren’t really Frankie’s wife in all senses doesn’t mean you are going to mess around with anyone. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

Frankie comes to sit down beside you, reaching for your hand. “I- I know this isn’t easy but if you do meet someone…you need to tell me and we end this. I shouldn’t - I don’t want to get in the way of the rest of your life. I love you - for - for doing this for me, and I will never be able to repay you. You’ve helped me keep Ana and I’ll forever be in your debt. I can’t - I can’t hold you back if you find someone and want to live your own life.” It kills him to say it, hating the thought of you with anyone else but he can’t be selfish, not when you’ve done so much for him.

It’s hard not to immediately assure him that you would never meet anyone else. Not when you are in love with him and no one has ever stood up against Frankie in your heart. Instead, you nod. “And I want you to do the same thing. You deserve to be happy, Frankie and when you meet someone that does that for you….” You give him a weak smile and go for a joke. “It will be the easiest divorce in the history of divorces.”

Frankie chuckles softly, his heart sinking but he ignores that and leans in to kiss your cheek. “Let’s get some sleep. It’s been a long day and I know Ana will be waking us up with excitement to have our first day together. I want to do as much as I can with her before I leave. Tomorrow, let’s go get you in the system and go for breakfast.” He says and lets go of your hand so he can slide under the covers.

Frankie has his side of the bed established, so you climb in on the other side. Knowing that you don’t mind it and you are thankful that his bed is comfortable. “It was a good wedding, Frankie.” You murmur as you lay down beside him. “Thank you. For not thinking that I was crazy.” You grin at him, knowing that he is also thankful you are willing to do this. “Goodnight hubby.”

“Goodnight wifey.” Frankie chuckles, leaning over to turn the lamp off and you curl up, falling asleep pretty quickly. He doesn’t. Staying awake and listening to your soft snores, murmurs, and breathing. His heart aches for you, to curl around you and breathe you in. He can’t ruin this. You don’t feel the same way, you want the insurance and to help him out. It takes a while but eventually he falls asleep, unaware that he had ended up doing the thing he was trying to avoid: curling around you.

Waking up in Frankie’s arms is a special kind of hell. Because you know that this is only because he’s asleep and not because he’s decided that he wants you in the middle of the night. Even if the very prominent hardness pressed against your ass makes you want to pretend that he does. The good thing is that Frankie is a heavy sleeper when he’s home so you manage to wiggle away from him before you wake him up. “Morning.” You huff when he starts to stir. “I have to pee, go back to sleep.” You urge softly.

He grumbles, hugging the pillow you were sleeping on, inhaling your scent from it, and he falls asleep again, wanting to make the most of this time at home. When you walk into the kitchen, you decide to get a start on making some coffee and eventually, Frankie wakes up, rolling onto his back and willing his morning wood to disappear. When the mental attempt is fruitless, he gets into the shower. Groaning as he wraps his hand around his cock, he remembers the dream he was having of you underneath him, celebrating your wedding night for real.

In the kitchen, you are reminding yourself that Frankie is just a man who wakes up with a hardon. It doesn’t mean that he wants to throw you up on the counter and fuck you. Deciding that you will make a small breakfast for Ana, giving Frankie some space and allowing you to cool down.

“Fuck. Oh fuck.” Frankie groans, jerking himself as his cum paints the shower wall. He’s lost track of how many times he’s imagined fucking you while in this shower. After cleaning off the shower and himself, Frankie brushes his teeth and shaves, getting dressed just in time for you to finish Ana’s breakfast. “Thank you for doing that.” Frankie says and fixes himself a cup of coffee after he sees you already have a cup.

“Of course.” Ana squawks over the baby monitor, obviously just waking up and you smile. “Do you want to get her or do you want me to start getting into a routine?” You ask, before you answer your own question. “Let me get her. I’ll be right back.”

Frankie watches you go, sipping his coffee and smiling as he listens to Ana sleepily say good morning on the monitor before she realizes you’re still there and she is excited, telling you how she wants to make cupcakes and show you all her dolls. It makes Frankie feel comforted that his little girl will be looked after while he’s gone. “Morning baby girl.” He greets her when she walks into the kitchen, eyes still sleepy and he picks her up to kiss her cheek.

“Daddy. I want pancakes.” She demands and Frankie chuckles, “we will get pancakes later baby.” He says your name, “she made you some eggs for now.”

Ana frowns slightly and shakes her little head. “I no want eggs.” She pouts, crossing her arms and you try not to smile at the ferocious little look on her face.

“Oh, well..” you sigh softly, “I guess you don’t have to eat the eggs. Even though they give you lots of energy to play.” You tell her softly. “Especially since this is just supposed to be first breakfast.”

“First breakfast?” She pipes up and Frankie nods, “yeah. Pancakes are second breakfast. But only if you eat the first breakfast. You wanna show off all your dolls, right baby girl? You gotta have energy to do that and eggs give you that.” Frankie explains to his daughter who lowers her arms.

“With ketchup.” She insists, walking over to you.

Laughing, you turn back towards the refrigerator. “Eggs with ketchup, got it.” You don’t miss the way Frankie winces and you wonder if it’s something that she had learned from Janet. Frankie’s first wife had never hidden the fact that she hadn’t liked you, so you had tried to give her the distance she wanted, though you weren’t going to stop being friends with the guys or Frankie for her. “After you eat, I’ll help you get dressed and we will do your hair, how does that sound?”

Frankie is reminded of Janet, who he used to make fun of for having eggs with ketchup and she used to make it for Ana when she started eating solids. “Can I have braids?” She asks, wanting to have her hair different from the styles Frankie just about manages to put together. “Of course, sweetheart.” You say and Frankie smiles as he watches Ana hug your leg.

Breakfast goes easy for Ana and you leave Frankie to clean up the kitchen while you and Ana go to get ready. The young girl sitting extremely still for a three year old, excited for her braids. You don’t blame her. The dolly she had introduced you two had braids and she wanted to look like her. Making her gasp in the mirror when she looks at her reflection.

When Ana comes out, squealing happily about her braids, Frankie ooohs and awws and tells her how pretty she looks. He winks at you, “you did a good job, baby.” He says and he doesn’t even think about the nickname he calls you and Ana admires the braids. “You wanna get ready and I’ll entertain the little lady?” Frankie suggests.

“Thanks.” You nod and try not to take his nickname to heart. It’s just practice for when you are in public and around others. “I’ll try not to be too long,” you promise, turning and heading towards the bedroom where your bag is. You need to shower and plan on doing just basic makeup for your ID photo.

****

Frankie glances over at you while he drives, admiring your profile in the sun and his gaze drops down to his ring on your finger. It makes his heart twist that he didn’t propose to you properly but again, he’s reminded that this isn’t real. “You got everything?” He asks while looking in the mirror at Ana who is admiring her Barbie.

“Social security, birth certificate, marriage certificate, driver’s license.” You go through all your documents and grin. “Yep. Although now I need to change all of that too. To reflect the last name Morales.” Your stomach twists pleasantly and you remind yourself that you are a Morales in name only. “Plus a passport change. That’s the one I dread.”

“It’ll be fine. You’ll have the insurance soon. Do you have enough meds to last?” He asks, knowing you have been halving the dose and he hates that, seeing how it has taken a toll on you. You aren’t your usual self and he wants to see you’re okay before he leaves.

“Yes.” You bite your lip and reach for his hand on the gear shifter. “Thank you Frankie. This is- I am grateful. I hated choosing between my medications and eating sometimes.” You hate how expensive it is to live when you don’t have health insurance and your job does not provide employer insurance since you are technically a contractor.

Frankie exhales, hating that you have to even choose. “Fucking country.” He huffs under his breath, knowing that he fights for freedom but those freedoms don’t allow you to have what you need when you desperately need it. He pulls into the parking lot of the administration building and comes around to open your door, helping you out before he moves to unbuckle Ana.

“Thank you.” You feel your cheeks heat up from Frankie’s attention to manners. You grab the diaper bag just in case and the three of you make your way to the first office to have you officially added to Frankie’s record as his wife and dependent. You will have to memorize his social security number because that is how they will give you the services you need from now on.

Frankie remembers adding Janet to his file when she was newly pregnant before he was first deployed and he squeezes your hand as you walk out, officially added as his dependent. He will call his lawyer later to tell them about the wedding so he can get Janet’s parents to drop their custody case. For now, he’s going to take his family to breakfast.

****

“Silly daddy!” Ana giggles when he puts the empty glass to his eye and pretends to look at her through it. Pancakes eaten and bellies full, he hasn’t been this happy in a long time, glancing at you when he lowers the glass from his face.

Frankie is such a good father and it makes your heart pound. Imagining that you are a real family and wishing that you could be looking forward to giving Ana a little brother or sister. “Daddy is silly.” You tease, sending him a smile.

He chuckles, reaching for your hand so he can caress the ring with his thumb. “Daddy is silly!” Ana giggles and leans into Frankie’s side. He cuddles her with his free arm, knowing it’s going to be hard to leave but he has to, he can’t abandon his brothers.

****

“Is she asleep?” You ask as Frankie walks into the kitchen.

“Out like a light.” He tells you and groans in appreciation when you hand him the bottle of beer. He leaves in a few days and tomorrow he begins to prep for his departure. He has one last night to spend with you in relaxation.

“You wanna finish that show?” You ask and he nods, watching you dish up the pasta that you’ve been cooking after giving Ana her simple buttered noodles earlier.

“Sure baby.” The nickname comes naturally now and it slips off of his tongue without thought.

Your evenings have been so natural, perfect together. The friendship between the two of you had made it easy to be around each other and the only thing that you are struggling with is to not try to jump Frankie. He’s so sexy, especially when he comes home in his uniform. Waiting until he’s asleep to touch yourself while you are laying next to him at night or using your toy in the shower before Ana gets up is the only relief that you are getting. Bringing the pasta over to the couch, you sit down beside him and hand him his bowl. “Hopefully we figure out if they are going to get together this episode. I don’t want to wait until next season to find out.”

“Probably not. It’s the waiting that makes the end result sweeter, don’t you think?” He asks, thanking you for the food and he hits play on the show. “Fuck, this is good.” He groans after swallowing the first bite. You are a damn good cook and he is going to miss your food when he’s got MREs on the menu. You eat in companionable silence, it’s comfortable and he loves that he can just be himself around you. Janet’s parents were furious to hear Frankie had married you, having heard from their daughter about how she thought he loved you more than her. Still, they didn’t have a case anymore so it was dropped

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind.” You start as you turn towards him. “I told Ana that we will drop you off together. She wants to see you off and I couldn’t say no. I think it will help her understand why daddy has to be gone for a long time.” You know this will be the first deployment that she will remember and you want it to be as good as it can for her. “I also got you one of those recordable books. You know? The ones that we saw in the toy store? That way you can read her bedtime story anytime she’s missing daddy.”

Frankie swears he falls in love with you even more in that moment. Watching you with his daughter, how caring you are, how much you love her, it makes him want to stay and just spend the rest of his life with you, not missing a moment. When you were in the kitchen baking cookies with Ana last weekend, he imagined you pregnant with his child and it’s almost too easy to envision. “Yeah? That’s a great idea. I’ll do that tomorrow when she’s napping. I-I’m worried that she’s gonna forget all about me.” He admits his deepest fear, knowing he could potentially leave his daughter an orphan if he were to die on this deployment. It keeps him awake at night.

“I’m not going to let that happen.” You promise him softly, reaching over and taking his hand. “You have your will set up, you know I will make sure that if something happens, she knows all about her wonderful father, Francisco Morales.” You bite your lip. “Maybe you can record some videos for her? Send them to my phone to show her when she’s needing to see your face?” You know that video chatting will be sparse, sometimes impossible, but you want to make sure that she remembers him. “And we are going to be making you care packages.”

He smiles, unshed tears stinging in his eyes as he squeezes your hand. “You are amazing. I- I know this is - this is hard but I want you to know that I love you. You’re my best friend and I couldn’t do any of this without you.” He admits, “I owe you everything, baby.” He blinks and a tear escapes, allowing himself a moment of vulnerability, knowing that you’d never think of him as weak or not enough. He trusts you implicitly.

Your heart aches because you know that he doesn’t mean ‘love’ like you wish that he would. Still, you swallow down your feelings and lean over to kiss his cheek. “I love you too, Frankie.” You promise him quietly. You do, you love him with everything that you are and you always will. “I promise you that I will hold down the fort until you can get back home.”

****

It’s early and Frankie knows Ana is sleepy but she insists she comes to say goodbye to her daddy. The enormous hangar is full of families saying goodbye to their soldiers, some for the first time, others are well practiced in this. Frankie adjusts his pack over his shoulder when he sees his team. Tom saying goodbye to Molly and the girls, Will and Benny saying goodbye to their mom. Pope saying goodbye to his current girlfriend. “Come here, baby girl.” Frankie says, bending down to pick Ana up after setting his pack down once he’s standing with the team, not wanting to tear up in case it upsets his daughter more than it should.

“Daddy, I don’t want you to go.” Ana sniffles and you reach over to rub her little back. She had been very brave while Frankie was packing and had even stuffed a picture she had drawn for him in one of the pockets. “I want you to stay with mommy and me.”

Frankie has mixed feelings, so happy that Ana is comfortable enough to call you mommy but he’s sad that she doesn’t remember Janet. As much as he resented her mother for what she became, he wants Ana to know her mother. Your eyes widen slightly and he knows he will email you to discuss this when he can. Now isn’t the time or place. “I know, baby girl.” He kisses her hair, “but I can’t stay. I gotta go fight bad guys, remember? You’ll be safe here with mommy and I promise you, I’ll come home as soon as I can. I will call you as many times as I can. I love you. So much.” He chokes a little and swallows the lump in his throat.

You know that it’s important for you to kiss Frankie goodbye, everyone around would expect it. You lean in and kiss his cheek. “I’m going to miss you. We are going to miss you. Take care of yourself please.” You beg him quietly. “Come home to us.”

Frankie doesn’t know if he will come back and he nudges his nose against yours, “I- can I kiss you goodbye? Properly?” He asks, knowing it’s important for him to show you are his wife to anyone watching. You nod, unable to speak, and he cups your cheek, pressing his lips against yours. It’s brief but he tries to pour as much into it as possible. Ana clings to him as he nudges his nose against yours again before he pulls back. “I’m going to miss you, baby.” He tells you, adjusting Ana on his hip and he gets the minute warning to say goodbye.

Taking Ana, both you and she give Frankie a tearful goodbye, another fierce hug before he is walking away. His daughter is clinging to you as you both wave frantically as he boards a bus to take them to the plane. “Okay, baby girl.” You murmur softly, stroking her back as the little girl tucks her face against your neck. “We’re going to be okay. We’ll talk to daddy soon.”

Frankie looks back at you before he boards the bus. Walking away is the hardest thing he has to do but he does it because he cannot turn back. He has to be there with his team. With a sigh, he steps onto the bus and takes a seat, unable to tear his eyes away from you and Ana as the bus pulls away. Pope slaps his shoulder, “they will be okay, hermano.” He promises and Frankie silently prays he’s right.

****

“Hello?” You quickly answer the phone, hoping that it is Frankie, letting you know that he’s gotten to his base overseas. “Frank, is that you?” You fumble for the light beside the bed and sit up. It’s late, or early but you don’t care. Ana groans next to you, having slept in the same bed for the last couple of nights since Frankie had left. “Hello?”

“Hey baby.” Frankie smiles against the phone when he hears your voice. He’s aware of how late it is there but he wants to hear your voice. He’s going to his op brief in the morning, diving straight into it, and he doesn’t know how long he will be dark for.

“Hey.” You reply sleepily and Frankie’s heart twists, remembering how you’d curl into his chest during the night.

“Just wanted to let you know I’m safe. Fucking cold here right now. How are you? How’s Ana?”

“She’s good.” You look over at his spot to see his daughter sprawled across his pillow and taking up even more room than he does if that's possible. “She’s sleeping in your spot. Wanted to cuddle daddy’s pillow.” You murmur quietly so you don’t disturb her. “I won’t let her get used to it, but she needs some comfort right now.”

“I miss her already. So much. I, uh, I want you to give her the bear tomorrow.” He says. He’d gone to the mall to Build A Bear and recorded his voice, telling Ana how much he loves her, and he wants her to have it now that he’s gone. The bear is wearing a uniform like daddy does. “How are you doing? I know it’s a lot to look after her alone.”

“Taking it one day at a time, baby.” You tell him. Thank god for her pre-school, allowing for you to work without having to entertain her. “Molly promised to come over and help out, we will get along just fine.” Reaching over, you pull up her covers and smile when she frowns just like Frankie does. “The bear will be the first thing she sees when she wakes up, I promise.”

“Good. I- I’m heading out any day now. Not sure when, but I’ll be dark for a while until we come back to base. I- I don’t know what’s gonna happen out there but I want you to know that you and Ana mean everything to me.” He confesses, wanting to leave you with that as his time is nearly up.

“We’ll be waiting to hear from you and putting together your first care package.” You hate how your stomach twists but you put on a brave front for him.

“Sounds good. I gotta go now, sweetheart. I- I’ll talk to you soon.” He promises, aware of how much he wants to say to you but he can’t. He has to stay strong and not drag you into his stupid emotions. “Bye Frankie.” You murmur and he smiles, “bye baby.” He says and hangs up, closing his eyes and he knows this is going to be harder than ever.

You knew that this wasn’t going to be easy. Living in his house, raising his daughter. But it has moments where you can’t imagine anything else. Packing up care packages with his favorite things inside for him to have a bit of home and shipping them off faithfully. Living with your phone nearby at all times, because you don’t want to miss his calls. They are few and far between, but emails are regular, making you create a file folder to keep them all in. It’s been three months and you are finally settled into being Frankie’s dependent.

Frankie devours every email, every photo, every damn video you send of Ana. He wishes you’d include photos of you - not sexual, he just misses your smile. “Baby girl, daddy misses you.” He tells Ana on the video chat, back on base after a few hard hitting missions and he’s glad to see his daughter’s face. “Mommy. Give daddy a kiss!” Ana demands, having been kissing the phone to Frankie herself making his heart yearn for his family.

“Hey!” You light up when you see Frankie on the screen. Your hand automatically goes to your hair. You haven’t done it and you are wearing leggings and one of his t-shirts while you clean. Not your best look. “It’s good to see you, baby. How are you?” You think he looks tired but you don’t want to say that. You know he’s been out of communication so he’s been outside the wire.

God, you’re gorgeous. Frankie inhales sharply and bites his lip, “I’m good. Exhausted. We think we are gonna be sent out again. It’s - it’s rough.” He admits, running his hand through his hair. He realizes you are wearing his shirt and his cock twitches, knowing he’s gonna imagine you wearing just that when he goes to shower. “I miss you.” Frankie says softly.

“I miss you too.” Admitting that is easy. You miss your friend. The man you have fallen in love with. “Ana has a playdate on Saturday. We are going to Chuck E Cheese with one of the little girls from her preschool and her mom. Her dad is on the deployment with you.” You ramble, filling him in on all the small things about the time he’s been out of communication. “And we started a countdown for your tentative return.” You grin and angle the camera towards the calendar, showing where you’ve been marking off days.

Frankie hates that you’re waiting on him but he loves it at the same time, having a family to come home to. It keeps him going. It allows him to put his entire being into making sure he flies the team out of danger. It motivates him. “Hopefully I won’t be a day late coming back to you.” He says, asking you how your work is. Menial conversation but it means the world to him, he loves how simple it is to hear about your day but compared to the horrors he sees, he appreciates it.

You know that the call will have to end soon. Plenty of others want to talk to their loved ones. “We are planning on mailing you another package since Benny ate all your Oreos.” You laugh. “I put in a package for him so he doesn’t steal yours .”

Frankie grins, “thanks baby. I could’ve killed him when he bragged about stealing my cookies with the goddamn crumbs in his teeth.” Frankie shakes his head and Ana rushes up to the phone. “Daddy! Mommy got me a Barbie!” She holds her new doll up and Frankie admires it, reminded of how good you are with her. He’s not sure what will happen in the long run. When you meet someone and want to divorce. It will kill him but he will do it. “Okay my loves. I gotta go. Ana, sweetheart, I love you.” He says and she blows him a kiss, “love you daddy.” He looks at you, “I love you too. I’ll call when I can.” He promises and you nod, “bye Frank.” You blow him a kiss and he knows he will be thinking of that all afternoon.

****

“Coming!” Drying your hands on a dish towel, you rush towards the door, wondering who it can be. Maybe Molly, she had said she would drop by. Your friendly smile freezes the second that you open the door and see uniforms. Heart sinking, you feel like you’re going to be sick. You’ve seen this scene in a movie way too many times. “No-“ you gasp out, making the one with the silver leaf on his lapels remove his hat- or cover as Frankie called it.

“Mrs. Morales?” You can’t breathe, you can’t speak as you imagine the next words, praying that you are finding yourself in the middle of a nightmare. “I am sorry to report that your husband has been injured in combat. He was shot multiple times and is currently being flown to Germany. You are his medical power of attorney and we need you to consent to surgery for when he arrives.” His words almost sound like you’re underwater. “Mrs. Morales, do you understand?” He asks you with a frown.

You blink stupidly at him for several moments before his words sink in. “He’s alive?” You whisper, reaching out for his arm desperately. “Frankie’s alive? Yes, yes whatever they need.” You rush out, tears streaming down your face. “Oh god, Germany?” You swallow. “I need to be there. I need to go be with him.”

“We have already arranged for you to go to Germany. Pack your bag now and we will wait. There’s no time to waste.” He says and you nod, rushing into the house to the bedroom to frantically pack a bag, grabbing your passport, and you go into Ana’s room, grabbing things for her, and you are grateful that Frankie got her a passport in hopes of taking her to Chile to see his distant cousins one day. “Mommy? What’s wrong?” She asks with a frown after she stops playing.

“Honey.” Bending down, you brush Ana’s hair back. “Daddy - daddy got hurt. He’s going to be okay, but we have to go visit him. Cheer him up.” You don’t want to scare her, but how do you explain to a three year old that her dad was in surgery after getting shot. “Can you be a big girl and come with me now? We have to be good because it’s a long trip.”

“Daddy’s hurt?” She asks, her lower lip trembling and you nod, “yes but we are going to kiss his boo boos better, okay? Can you be a good girl and pick out some toys for us to take?” You ask, grabbing her backpack and she nods, picking up her favorite dolls to take on the trip. Once you’re all packed up, you alarm the house and lock it, stepping out to the men waiting for you.

It’s surreal, being driven to a plane that is scheduled to take off in just a few hours. Apparently they had delayed it and you’ll never know if it was them or providence that had you up in the air so quickly and on your way to Germany. Praying the entire time that Frankie would be okay as you tried to entertain Ana, worried what you might learn when you land.

****

“Morning baby.” Frankie smiles, kissing along your neck.

“Hmmm. Morning.” You grind back against his hard cock and smile, “someone is eager to start the day.”

Frankie chuckles, sliding his hand under the t-shirt you’re wearing to cup your tit. “Always when it involves you.” He rasps, pinching your nipple and you whimper when he slides his hand down your belly after letting go of your breast. It’s starting to round, you’ll have to announce that you’re pregnant soon and Frankie knows you won’t be able to wait long after you both tell Ana. She will spill the beans within hours. His hand slides lower to disappear into your panties and he wastes no time rubbing your clit. Your soft moan has him biting down on your shoulder, grinding against you.

“Fuck, Frankie.” You whine softly and he smiles against your skin, “mmm love it when you moan my name. My beautiful wife.” He sighs and pushes two fingers inside of your wet cunt, making you turn your head to find his lips. His tongue slides into your mouth as he pumps his fingers, loving the way you push your pleasured sounds into his mouth to muffle them. It doesn’t take you long to cum, sensitive from the hormones, and he pushes you over the edge by twisting his wrist to press his thumb to your clit. “Cum for me.” He begs against your lips and you fall apart with a cry of his name. He kisses along your jaw, working you through it until he’s pulling his fingers out of you.

There’s a beeping noise and he frowns, looking over at the nightstand. “Did you get a new alarm clock?” He asks and you shake your head.

“No. Frankie? Frankie?” Your face blurs and he’s back into the void.

“Frankie.” You carry Ana, rushing through the hospital behind the nurse who is bringing you to his room. He’s out of surgery but he hasn’t woken up yet. The danger is still there but he’s stable. Tears stream down your face when you see him looking grey and still in the hospital bed, hooked up to the heart monitor. “Oh god, Frankie, we’re here.” You promise, rubbing Ava’s back. “It’s okay baby,” the little girl has turned away from the sight of her daddy in the bed and tucked her face into the crook of your neck. “He’s okay, he’s sleeping. Trying to feel better.” The doctor had explained his injuries and the surgery and you are so damn thankful he survived.

Ana whimpers, “is daddy okay?” She asks and your heart breaks at the fearful tone to the voice.

“Yeah, baby girl. Daddy is gonna be fine.” You try to be positive, hoping that he’s going to be okay.

You’re not sure how many hours have passed. Ana is asleep on the chair, curled up after the hospital staff brought her and you some food. Time will tell if Frankie wakes up, his head and chest bandaged and you can’t seem to look away from the rise and fall of his chest, the beeping of the heart monitor reminding you that he’s still here. When he does wake up, he blinks, wincing at the bright light above, and he tries to remember what happened.

“Oh thank god.” You sigh breathlessly when you feel him shift, looking up to find his eyes slowly opening. “Frankie. It’s okay, take it easy.” You don’t want him to be startled or scared. Squeezing his hand gently. “It’s me. You’re in the hospital in Germany.” Trying to keep your voice soothing until he turns to head to look at you.

His throat is so dry. Like he has been stranded in the desert for days without water. He swallows, trying to speak, and he tries to remember what happened but all he can say is “love you.” His dreams were lucid, showing him what life could be like. A life spent with you and Ana. You as his wife, his actual wife, not some paper so you can get healthcare. He closes his eyes again, feeling exhausted.

“I love you too.” You cry, relieved that he’s okay. That he’s awake. The fear and the anxiety make you sob as you lean forward and kiss his hand. “I’m so- god, I’m so - god I was so worried.”

The nurse comes in to check on you at that moment and you turn towards her, “he’s awake.” The nurse nods and comes over to Frankie, ushering you away and pushing the button to summon the rest of the medical team to assess Frankie who is still half drugged up but aware of his surroundings.

You move over towards Ana, leaning over and checking on her while the doctors and nurses come into the room. Smiling as she cuddles the beat that had his voice recorded in it while she sleeps. You have to talk to him. You can’t do this. Not when you really love him. You can’t pretend you don’t want a real future with him while playing as his wife.

The medical team eventually filters out and the doctor approaches to tell you that Frankie’s vitals all look good. He was shot in the head but it was just scraped and didn’t go in. He had a bullet to the chest which punctured his lung but didn’t go near his heart, and a bullet to the shoulder. He’s lucky to be alive but he should make a recovery as long as he’s stable.

Listening to the doctor, you are so damn thankful for the fact that Frankie pulled through as well as he has, hugging yourself as you hear the prognosis and what will happen going forward with rehab for him. “Thank you.” You murmur as the doctor leaves, letting you move back towards Frankie. You can tell that he’s about to fall asleep as you take his hand again. “Baby, I-” you choke out the words, new tears falling and you just squeeze his hand again, unable to get the words out. Frankie’s eyes flutter closed again and his breathing evens out as he falls asleep again.

****

“Daddy! Mommy wants pancakes.” Ana declares and Frankie chuckles, “oh she does? I guess it is Mother’s Day after all.” Frankie says as he slides the pancakes he was already making onto the plate. “Come on then. Let’s go.” Frankie says once he’s got everything and Ana opens the door for him to find you holding the baby, breastfeeding him.

“Happy Mommy Day!” Ana declares and you smile, looking up at Frankie as he holds the tray.

“Happy Mother’s Day.” He says and kisses your cheek even though he showed you how much he loves you this morning before the kids woke up. “I’ll hold him while you eat.” Frankie offers after his son pulls off of your breast. You nod and Frankie takes the baby into his arms, certain that this is a dream. The life he’s always wanted with the woman he’s always wanted.

“I’ve been thinking.” You smile sweetly at the picture Frankie paints holding your son.

“Yeah baby? What have you been thinking about?” He asks, looking up from Miguel to find you grinning at him. His heart flutters every time he sees that smile.

“I think that once the doctor clears me, we should try for another.” You admit, chuckling when his eyes widen. “Have a set of Irish twins. What do you think?” You had cursed him while you were pushing Miguel out, but immediately apologized once the pain had passed and your son was in your arms.

Frankie’s eyes widen, “really? You want another one so soon?” He asks and you nod, “yes. Yes. I don’t want to waste time. It’s precious.” He agrees, knowing how quick time flies. “Let’s do it.” He says and he is leaning in to kiss you. “I love you baby.” He murmurs and you hum into his mouth, making him smile.

****

Frankie squeezes your hand while he continues to rest. Letting you cry in solitude while Ana still sleeps curled up in the chair. “I love you Frankie.” You admit quietly. “I’ve always loved you. It’s why it was so easy to offer to marry you. I- I want you to recover for Ana, but for me too.” Leaning down, you kiss his hand again, wondering if he’s dreaming. If he is, you hope that it's a good dream.

Frankie blinks against the bright light again, annoyed that he’s been dragged away from his dream of making another baby with you. The dreams were so real he mourns the life he had in those dreams and he opens his eyes to find you crying while holding his hand. “Wha- baby?” He croaks, throat still so dry and he wonders why you are crying.

Looking up, you press your lips together as you hold back a sob. Leaning forward and pressing your lips to his cheek and forehead, taking care to keep away from his bandages. “Oh god baby, you're awake. I - I’m so glad.” You pull back, knowing he is probably confused. “You were- you were shot.” You explain quietly. “You’re in a hospital in Germany. I- Ana and I flew out as soon as possible. I have been so worried about you.”

He frowns, finally getting his focus, and he looks at you. “Shot? Germany? The- the others?” He asks, suddenly worried about his team. Are they okay? Is anyone else hurt or dead? His heart monitor starts to beep rapidly and he squeezes your hand.

“Everyone else is fine.” You promise, having heard what happened from the officer who had taken you to the airfield to fly out. “You took fire while you were trying to get soldiers out of a heavy fire situation. You were shot, but managed to get them back to the base before you passed out right after you set down your chopper.” Your heart had stopped when you heard how he had barely made it back to base, but you could only be strong for him.

He’s still fuzzy but he understands what you are saying. He nearly died. He remembers the panic in his mind when he was shot, thinking about leaving you and Ana behind. Fuck, he nearly died. Fuck. “I love you.” He tells you breathlessly.

“I love you.” You murmur, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“No. No. You don’t understand. I’m in love with you. I love you. I love you. I can’t - I can’t live without you. You’re my best friend. You’re my everything.” He chokes, needing you to understand him.

“You’re my best friend too.” You promise him, thinking that he’s just telling you needing you as a friend.

But Frankie frowns. “No baby, I don’t- I want to be married to you for real. Forever.” He manages, squeezing your hand.

“For real?” You frown and then lean forward. “Baby, I want- if this is just some kind of reaction to being shot-“

“it’s not,” he insists. “I love you.”

You lunge forward and press your lips to his. “I love you.” You tell him breathlessly.

He wishes he could reach up and cup your cheek, keep you pressed against him, but all he can do is kiss you back. “I’m so fucking in love with you. Always have been. Even with - even when I was with Janet. It’s why she left that night. We were arguing and I- shit. I’ve made so many mistakes but marrying you ain’t one of them. I love you. I love you.” He says when you lean back to look into his eyes.

Your heart breaks, knowing that you were the cause of what could be the reason that Janet was driving that night, although you know her actions were her own. You know that she and Frankie weren’t good together and you can’t blame him for the past. “I love you, Francisco.” You promise him softly with a smile, kissing him once more. “Will you stay married to me?” You ask quietly, not wanting anyone to over hear. “Make this a real marriage with me?”

Frankie nuzzles into your cheek, unable to believe how lucky he is to have you. “I love you. It’s always been you. I- I don’t want to waste any more time. I want to start the rest of our lives.”

You smile and giggle happily, reaching up and brushing his hair back from his face. “I love you too baby. Now you just need to heal so you can come home to us.” Frankie’s deployment is officially over and as soon as he is recovered enough to go home, you would be headed back to the states so he could recover fully.

****

“Frankie!” You huff, pushing at his wandering hands and pushing them away from your ass. “You need to stop. You could pull a stitch.” You chide, finding it harder and harder to push him as the weeks go by.

Frankie grunts, “don’t care. It’s been torture seeing you and not being able to be inside of you.” He admits, and he knows you’ve done stuff. You have sucked his cock and he let you sit on his face, but the doctor told him no strenuous activity. He hasn’t been cleared yet but every day it’s getting harder to not fuck you. He honestly wants to make love to you, something slow and sweet to consummate your marriage…finally.

You bite your lip and you know that he is just as eager as you are to finally have sex. Leaning in, you press your lips to his. “If - and I mean if - you can be good and be still, how about we compromise and I sit on your cock?” You know that Frankie wants to be in charge but he can’t. No with the bandage on his side. But if he could be still, you could ride him. “But you have to be still. Not trying to take over.”

Frankie pouts, aware that he can’t ruin you the way he wants to but he has the rest of your lives to make love to you, to make you cum on his cock while he fucks you. “I can be good.” He promises, sliding his hands down to squeeze your ass. Ana is in bed and he’s so grateful for it so he can push his hard cock into your hip. “I won’t take over.”

You smirk, absolutely aware of the fact that he will try to take over. “Then what are you waiting for, soldier?” You tease. “Get undressed so I can fuck my husband.” You are already getting out of the bed so you can strip out of the t-shirt and panties that you had taken to sleeping in. Enjoying the way Frankie’s eyes wander over your body every night.

He loves seeing you like this. His beautiful wife. The love of his life. He swallows, throat suddenly dries, and he is grateful he isn’t wearing a shirt. His boxers are able to be shoved down and he pushes the sheets down the bed before settling against the pillows. “Baby. Come here. Are you wet? You wanna sit on my face?” He asks, “there’s lube in the nightstand.” He wants you to be comfortable. “And condoms…if you want.” He adds, knowing you haven’t been on birth control and he doesn’t want to push you in case you change your mind and don’t want to get pregnant yet.

He pants, fingers twitching to grab you. He desperately wants you, he wants to make you feel good. “I can’t wait to see you pregnant.” He admits, knowing that the experience will be different than Janet who was a nightmare when she was pregnant. She was demanding and accused him of cheating, and then cried and begged for sex in the same breath. He had whiplash and tried to be there for her but it was hard at times. His hands caress your back and he leans in to kiss your shoulder, just breathing you in while you grind against him.

“Lean back, baby.” You chide, pushing his shoulder back gently. “I’m going to come to you. Give you what we’ve both wanted.” He feels so good against your clit that you can’t help but roll your hips, slicking up his cock with how wet you are and enjoying when his cock flexes against your folds. Leaning in, you press your lips to his in a soft kiss.

“Fuck. Don’t tease me baby. It’s been torture.” He groans when you kiss him slowly, his hands squeezing your hips to encourage you. “Come on baby. I need you to fuck me.” He begs, rocking his hips to grind against you.

Taking mercy on him and yourself, you reach down and wrap your fingers around his thick cock and lift your hips. Eager to have him inside you now and feel his cum filling you up. The first inch makes you gasp, carefully bracing your hands on his chest but not putting any pressure on him. Wanting to make sure you don’t hurt him as you sink down on him.

Frankie whimpers, actually whimpers, when you take his cock inside of you. “Fuck baby. You- Jesus fucking Christ - you feel so good.” He pants, “I- oh God. Wanted this for so long.” He grips your waist, wishing he could slide inside of you on your back and make love to you.

Leaning forward, you press your lips to his and slide your tongue into his mouth as you grind back onto him. Wanting to make sure that you get used to the thick heft of him inside you. “Me too baby, wanted you for so long.” You promise, your walls clenching around him.

Frankie almost feels like he can't breathe. His heart beats out of his chest and he pants when you clench around him. "Fuck, sweetheart. Feel so good. Can't - can't wait to feel this for the rest of our lives. So damn lucky." He kisses along your jaw and down your neck, wanting to worship you as much as possible.

“I’m lucky.” You start to slowly roll your hips, in no hurry to cum. You want this time to be soft and sweet. Not only for him, but so you can feel every inch of him scrubbing through your walls. “Love you.” You close your eyes as he kisses you, absorbing the groans and loving how his hands wander as you slowly ride him.

“Love you too.” He vows, knowing he’s going to ask you to marry him again. He wants a big wedding, the boys to be there and your friends. He wants to show off how much he loves you. After nearly dying, it’s put everything into perspective and he knows he is grateful for what he has. Others have fared far worse than him. His hands squeeze your breasts and his cock twitching inside of you, imagining them full of milk for his baby. The thought nearly sends him over the edge but he controls himself.

“Ohhh someone thought of something they like.” You tease, seeing the look on his face as he twitches inside you. You wonder if it’s the same as him. Imagining him knocking you up tonight. Your hips roll a little faster and you moan his name softly, reaching up and combing through his hair as your nose touches his and you look in his dark eyes

He chuckles softly, “was thinking about you full of our baby. When your tits get bigger.” He confesses and nudges your nose with his. “I can’t wait. I can’t wait to begin our family with Ana and another child. It’s gonna - fuck - it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.” He murmurs, caressing your back.

You moan, imaging how possessive, how loving he will be when you are showing. Frankie seems like the type to worship you when you are pregnant. “I want that too.” You promise. “Have your baby, share that with you. Raising our kids.” Ana isn’t yours by blood but you love her like your own.

He nods, knowing he wants to ask you to formally adopt Ana and be her mom. He will preserve Janet’s legacy with her daughter but Ana deserves all the love in the world. “Fuck.” Frankie groans when you rock a little faster, his shoulder aches but he ignores it, trying to rock his hips up into you as you grind on top of him.

“Frankie.” You gasp out, clenching down around him when his cock nudges against your g-spot wonderfully. “There.” You pant, knowing that if he keeps hitting that spot just like that, you will cum quickly.

He hisses, concentrating on thrusting up into you at that angle. “Baby. Cum for me baby.” He begs, “come on, be a good girl. Cum for me.” He demands, needing to feel you clamp down on his cock.

You whine out his name, holding onto him as he takes control.

He wasn’t supposed to do that, but you are beyond caring. As long as he doesn’t rip his stitches, he can take the reins and thrust up into you. “I’m gonna cum baby, oh fuck, I’m gonna cum on your cock.”

“That’s it. That’s it.” He groans when he thrusts up into you, his hands gripping your ass, and you clamp down on his cock. “Fuck yes baby. That’s it. Oh shit. I’m gonna-” Frankie usually prides himself on his stamina but the emotional connection combined with wanting you for years and the added ecstasy of you possibly getting pregnant and his near demise has him sent over the edge. “Fuck.” He moans your name as he cums, cock twitching inside of you.

It’s Heaven, the molten heat of his seed filling you. Making you gasp in pleasure as you grind down on him as he rides out his high, pushing up into you with short thrusts. “Oh god, oh god.” You collapse against him and kiss along his jaw. “I love you so much.”

“Love you.” Frankie pants, his entire body lost in the feel of his orgasm. It’s more than he could’ve ever imagined. He feels complete. His wife in his arms, hopefully pregnant soon with his second child. It’s his dream come true. He just wishes it wasn’t such a bumpy road to get to this point but that’s life. Twists and turns…Frankie still got his happy ending.

#pedro pascal #frankie catfish morales x reader #francisco morales #frankie morales x reader #Frankie Morales x you #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales triple frontier #frankie morales smut #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales imagine

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greyskyflowers · 8 months

Text

A idea with a darker approach but...

I'd like to see something about Zoro bringing everyone on the crew a head at some point.

Zoro and Robin have no issue killing. I personally like the idea of them actually enjoying it. I personally feel that every ship and every crew needs a few bloodthirsty people.

Sanji and Franky will do so if absolutely necessary. What qualifies as necessary usually depends on the situation.

Luffy doesn't usually see a point in it, more than willing to beat someone down as many times as it takes for the lesson to sink in, but he has his fair share of blood on his hands.

The other crew members aren't supid, they know all this.

By this point they've all killed someone, on purpose or accident, it's more who stays up with nightmares from it.

Luffy makes them ask for things. Zoro is the same. Asking for someone to die is something you need to be able to give voice to, otherwise you don't want it enough.

He won't go on his own, he needs to hear it, but they've all pulled him aside before and asked, "please." In fear. In hatred. In anguish.

And Zoro hums lowly, and disappears in the shadows.

He still carries the title of hunter and there's a good reason for that.

It never takes him long before he's back, a bloody bag in his hand that drips along the deck but no one says anything. Luffy catches his eye and whatever passes between them stays between them.

He drops it at the feet of whoever asked for it, like a cat bringing their human a mouse.

That's it. There's nothing else to say or do. Zoro said he'd handle it, and he did.

Sometimes the only people who even know who's head is in the bag are Zoro and the person who asked. And probably Luffy, because he always seems to know everything Zoro does, and Robin because thinking she doesn't know would be an insult to her.

The bag gets tossed over the side once confirmed by the person who asked for it.

Franky makes a big show of cleaning up the blood with wails about birds shitting on his ship. He drags Usopp into helping and it doesn't usually take much for chaos to break out.

Chopper follows Zoro around until he finally lets the little doctor causally look him over for anything that may need attention.

Robin smiles at him behind a tea cup and Sanji calls him something insulting as he walks by but a bottle of sake and a snack always find their way over.

Luffy clings to him, as long as he's not hurt, and they speak to each other the way only they do, without words.

Nami quietly drops his debt down a little in her head and Brook plays something soothing.

The day will come when Zoro asks them. Not a single one of them will worry about blood on their hands.

Am I in love with the idea of morally grey strawhats? Yes

Do I think everyone is low-key terrified of the strawhats? Yes

Do I think everyone should be high-key terrified of the strawhats? Yes

#the opla scene awakened something within me #bloody protective zoro and a crew that adores him is my favorite thing to muse about #one piece #zoro #mugiwara #straw hat pirates #mugiwara crew #luffy #nami #sanji #tony tony chopper #robin nico #brook one piece #franky one piece #usopp #setting sail with greyskyflowers

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gatitties · 4 months

Note

HEY HEYYY! I got a request for u if u don’t mind!! Also before I ask, I literally jus found out that ur the one writing Freshwater on wattpad and I was FLABBERGASTED CUZ I DIDNT KNOW IT WAS U I WAS SO HAPPY CUZ I LOVE UR WRITING SM. Ight anywayy-

Can I please have a Strawhats x teen! Reader who’s like Link from The Legend of Zelda?? The reader is silent because they feel its necessary to stay strong and silently bear any burdens(like Link) and so their really skilled with a sword and a bow for their age!! Their also really fun and even if their really strong their still being silly and they get into any sorts of trouble out of recklessness and adventure. Their adorable, and u can still hear their giggles and chuckles but just no words. I jus find this idea so cute😭 but ofc their still gonna be serious when the situation calls for it!

Take your time with this!!! Please and thank you. Have a good life!!!❤️

─ Strawhats x teen!reader (platonic)

─ Summary: You are a faithful and reliable companion, with few words beyond a few shouts or phrases, as well as a genius at solving puzzles.

─ Warnings: none

ohhh were you reading freshwater?! 😳 I'm sorry to have the story so abandoned but right now I don't really feel like writing it, but I promise to update one day and I totally understood the Link description, I love botw and totk <33

─ The entire crew adores you for one reason or another, as you are really reliable enough to find money efficiently (no vase has been broken, so far…) and silly enough to play along with Luffy and Chopper.

─ Not to mention your fighting skills, although you were not the strongest, you were cunning enough to easily win a battle in different ways.

─ You practice sword combat alongside Zoro, although you don't necessarily use swords, you usually make do with anything that can hit your enemies, even if it's a tree twig.

─ You will also sharpen your aim with the bow with Usopp.

─ You spend hours in the kitchen with Sanji because you love to see how the dishes are prepared, also because you will receive a little more food on your plate because of that, you have a great appetite, not comparable to Luffy's but you could compete with him.

─ You spend some of your free time doing some puzzles with Robin.

─ Usopp always hugs you when there is a threat, since you always put on that brave face in the face of problems, without a doubt you are a good shield for this scared boy.

─ Once you almost blew up half the ship because you were playing with your bombs, Jimbe was able to stop it in time and they forbade you from playing with them on the ship.

─ It's okay, Franky will make you new bombs that are not so easy to explode, he will give you a remote control and a timer without anyone finding out.

─ You are a persistent and stubborn person, Chopper will have to bandage your hands more than once because you preferred to climb an entire mountain instead of going around the predetermined path.

─ Nami always goes with you when you are exploring, she doesn't know how, but you always find chests everywhere with valuable rewards, you are a gold mine.

─ Sometimes when you stop to rest in a village you find yourself involved in other people's problems (like your captain but on a smaller scale) and solving their problems, receiving rewards in return.

─ You are so stoic and at the same time so expressive, the crew would not be able to describe your personality exactly, but without a doubt you were more than reliable for all kinds of situations despite being only a teenager.

#op #one piece #one piece x reader #strawhats #strawhats x reader #reader insert #request #platonic reader #one piece x planotic reader x #teen!reader #strawhtas x teen!reader #one piece x teen reader #sfw #platonic strawhats #platonic relationship #link!reader

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morallyinept · 6 months

Text

D!! I'm a little busy right now, sweetie. What's up?

What do you mean there's not enough potatoes?! You had one task, buddy!

Alright, alright. I'm going to need you to run down to the store and see if they have some more. Here, take my car...

Why are you looking at me like that? Dieter, are you high?

Wait, you don't look so hot... OH SHIT!

Marvellous. Now I need to change my shirt. Thanks, D. 😑

Javi! Can you go to the store and get some more potatoes for me? Dieter isn't feeling so good, I think he took something-

I see... well, at least I know where he got the LSD from. 🤨

Yeeeah, I love you too bud, just... sleep it off, okay?

Honestly those two... Frankie, have the other Pedro Boys started to arrive yet?

That's a negative? Okay, great we still have time.

Have you seen Dave? Oh, he's keeping a look out for the boys too?

Is that really necessary? I mean, it's just a turkey dinner... I don't think we need heavy artillery.

Okay fine. Carry on with the perimeter checks... As you were, Pilot. 🫡

Marcus, it smells really good in here. How's the meringue coming along?

Urm, the eggs are supposed to go into the bowl dude, not the sink. Focus!

Jack, you got a handle on the fire there, cowboy? You sure? It's looking a little out of control...

Well okay. If you say so. At least one of you is helpful today... sheesh. 🙄

Marcus? Are you dressed yet? Can I borrow a shirt? Dieter threw up on mine... Marcus?

What are you doing in there?! You know what, I don't wanna know...

Marcus, that sock looks awfully sticky... Wait a minute, is that MY sock?? 😶 No, you can keep it... just get dressed, would you?

MAX! Oh my God! Put her down, we don't eat the guests!

Javi, are you going to do anything to help me get these boys under control, or are you just going to sit there looking pretty?

Ezra, take your suit off, we're not going to the moon for Thanksgiving dinner... Remember what happened the last time you went? I'd prefer you to keep your remaining limbs in tact today... In fact, stay way from the carving knife.

Speaking of, Joel! Can you come carve the turkey for me please?

Oh, for crying out loud...

Oberyn, can you light the candles please?

I mean, sure, but they're just candles, bub. No need to lose your head...

Tim! Where did you get Chinese food?? We're about to sit down and eat!

Din! Dank farrik, DIN!

Can you please keep Grogu from eating the cookies! They're for later...

Pero, I hope you're not helping yourself... Those bread rolls are for everyone.

Seriously, boys. You all need to calm down and help!

I don't think I can handle much more carnage today-

Jack, honey. Was that you...?

Well boys, looks like we're ordering out... 🙄 Sigh.

Tim, what's the number for that Chinese place?

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Although I'm British and we don't really celebrate, I'm so thankful for all of you lovely people.

All of you lovely writers, mutuals, followers, silent lurkers, friends and, of course, the Pedro Boys (and all the chaos that comes with them).

Eat, drink and be merry today, if you're celebrating. And try not to blow the place up. 😬

🖤

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pedroshotwifey · 5 months

Text

Christmas Countdown Day 11 - Too much Eggnog

Cravings

Pairing: Frankie Morales x pregnant!reader

Word Count: 975

Tags/Warnings: not much, no use of y/n, fluffy fluff, lil garnish of angst at the beginning, throwing up but not graphic/descriptive, Frankie being a sweetheart, reader is preggo, established relationship

Summary: Frankie comforts you after you ignore his advice

A/N: Hey babes, thanks for reading! I really do like this one. Every time I write fluff, it honestly surprises me that I can. Tomorrow's prompt involves Javi G, and it will be my first time writing him, so I'm not sure how that will turn out, but I'd appreciate whoever sticks around to find out <3

***

“Baby,” Frankie says hesitantly as he watches you gulp down another glass of eggnog. “Maybe you should slow down on that.”

You set your now empty glass down and shoot him a glare.

“I think I’m fine. Maybe you should slow down on telling me what to do,” you snark back and cross your arms. He sighs and shakes his head but doesn’t retaliate.

You know you’ve been a bit snippy with him these past few weeks with the pregnancy, but you can’t help it. You also see where he’s coming from on the eggnog; this is your fourth glass today. You’d never tell him that, of course.

You don’t even fucking like eggnog. Well, at least you didn’t before your dumb cravings started to kick in. Now it’s the only thing you seem to want half the time. That’s what you get for being pregnant during the holidays.

You get up to refill your glass and Frankie follows you. You huff an annoyed breath as you pull open the fridge and reach for the carton.

“Sweetheart, I–”

“Can you not?” you fume as you set the carton on the carton and shut the fridge with more force than necessary. You just want one more small glass; you don’t understand what the big deal is.

Frankie winces both at at the tone of your voice and at the sound the door makes as it closes.

“Baby, I’m just trying to help,” he says cautiously. “You remember your morning sickness phase…” He looks at you, watching your impatient expression as you wait for him to stop talking. He licks his lips nervously and carries on.

“I just don’t want you throwing up again, and that eggnog isn’t going to help.”

“Oh my god, I’m not going to throw up,” you say, whipping back around to pour some more in your cup. “I haven’t even had that much.”

You can tell Frankie disagrees by the hiss he makes as he sucks in a breath. He takes his cap off to run his fingers through his hair as he usually does when he’s anxious.

“Alright baby, but maybe just take a break after this one.”

You roll your eyes but comply.

“Fine, Frankie. If it makes you happy.”

You put the carton back in the fridge and sit back down at the table, Frankie resuming his seat in front of you. He watches you tiredly, one hand supporting his chin as you take a sip.

***

You’re sitting on the couch, snuggling with Frankie when you feel it. A rolling, nauseating feeling in your stomach, bile coming up to your mouth.

You throw the blanket covering you off and hop off the couch as fast as you can, heading straight for the bathroom. Frankie jumps up right after you, concerned about your sudden outburst.

When he reaches the bathroom a second after you, you’re already leaning over the toilet bowl, starting to puke. Frankie sighs and gives you a sympathetic look, but he’s right next to you in an instant to hold your hair up and rub your back.

“I’m sorry honey, I know it doesn’t feel good,” he says soothingly. “Get it all out, there you go, you’re doing good baby.”

You appreciate him so much in moments like these. You feel disgusting as you spit into the bowl, your entire body heaving, but having Frankie next to you makes bearable. The circles he’s rubbing on your back soothe you enough so that you’ve stopped panicking.

Once you’re sure it’s all out, you grab a piece of toilet paper and wipe your mouth. You look at Frankie with tired eyes, his expression full of both love and pity.

He lets go of your hair to embrace you, and you lean into him, letting out a quivering breath. You close your eyes and let him hold you.

“You okay sweetheart?” Frankie asks quietly. You nod into his chest.

“Alright, let's brush our teeth and get you to bed, okay?” You nod again.

He helps you up and plants a kiss on top of your head before leaning around you to flush the toilet. You wash your hands and look at yourself in the mirror, frowning at your reflection.

“You just look tired, baby,” Frankie assures you when he sees what you’re doing. “Working so hard to grow our little angel takes a lot, mama.”

You meet his gaze in the mirror, and he looks back at you lovingly, his deep brown eyes warm and inviting. You smile sheepishly at him.

He steps behind you and reaches for your toothbrush, picking it up and squeezing a glob of toothpaste on the bristles. He wets it, then hands it to you.

You watch him get his own toothbrush ready as you brush your teeth. You don’t know what you did to deserve him.

Once you’re both done, you put your brushes back into the holder and walk across the hall to the bedroom. Frankie helps you change into a baggy T-shirt for bed, and then he strips down to his boxers.

You both get adjusted under the covers, you with your head on his chest and your leg over his. He gazes down at you in the lamplight, and you stare back, your eyes having a silent conversation.

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,” you whisper. Frankie chuckles quietly and rubs his hand up and down your back.

“That’s okay, baby,” he says.

“I love you,” you tell him truthfully. He smiles warmly at you, almost amused at how quickly you can switch from being defiant to affectionate.

He leans his head down and you tilt yours up, your lips slotting together in a gentle and lingering kiss.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

He leans over and tugs the string on the bedside lamp, plunging the room into comfortable darkness.

*** Thank you for reading! Please consider liking, commenting, or reblogging if you enjoyed this fic <3

Also lmk if you would like to join the countdown tag list :)

FOTJC: @arcanefox207 @redhotkitchen @magpiepills @exquisiteserotonin @sparklefarts38 @pink-whiskey-woman @youandmeand5bucks @legendary-pink-dot @for-a-longlongtime @secretelephanttattoo @morallyinept @beskarandblasters @tightjeansjavi @theywhowriteandknowthings @nerdieforpedro @maggiemayhemnj @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @ghostofaboy @joels-shitty-puns @elvinaa

WCC: @amyispxnk @melaninmommy @brittmb115 @mandoalorian

Link to prompt list

#pedro pascal #fan fiction #ao3 #frankie morales #frankie morales fluff #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales fanfiction #pregnant reader #fluff #wifeys christmas countdown #christmas couple #christmas #christmas countdown

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deathc-re · 2 years

Text

how they view sex...

characters : luffy, zoro, law, cyborg franky x gn!reader

warnings : this is all over the place, idk if it even follow the prompt, mentions of jacking off, over stimulation and sex ofc

an : just some hcs of my most fav characters

luffy

i'm among those who think luffy is ace but i also think, seeing as he is one really intuned with his instincts and such, he wouldn't wanna ignore the urges when they come.

maybe even demisexual

he wouldn't be embarrassed by it or anything, he'd see it as another natural thing (which it is)

if he has a partner then he'd make use of them, going at it until he's satisfied. if not, he'd make like any other dude without an outlet and use his hand 🤷🏾

and like i said before, even though he doesn't really have an innate desire or want for sex (a sex drive if you will) i think he'd notice when his partner is feeling needy and make it his own personal mission to satisfying them. over satisfying them even. seeing you happy, that after sex glow only adding to the beauty of your tired lazy smile, will definitely have him over the moon.

zoro

as much as i love sex god zoro i think he'd see it as a waste of time. or just something he wouldn't go out of his way to do, therefore making him really inexperienced

he has one goal and that's really all that takes up his mind

that and when he can peacefully enjoy some booze again

seeing as he's inexperienced he'd be really shy about it. of course, it would hurt his pride to admit that so you won't be able to tell until your just about to cross the line.

when nature takes its course, of course he'd relieve himself but he'd be embarrassed about it after.

trying to justify his actions (to himself) by going on and on in his head about how a healthy body is necessary to becoming the best swordsman.

if he has a partner though it'd be a whole other story. i think any little thing about them will make him wanna fuck. to put it bluntly.

so with that in mind, he'd think of it as a perfect way to let off some steam and admire everything about his partner

law

i think he would also think of it as a waste of time when single. a nuisance even

everything from finding someone he likes or even just finds attractive and going through the whole process of flirting etc etc

he is also definitely inexperienced but not bad at it. with him being observant he'd figure it out as he goes.

it's just annoying, even more so if he likes them romantically. then the process becomes even complicated.

if he has a partner then of course, his view on it will change. though he won't admit it.

he'd find it less of a nuisance and more of bonding time kind of. i think when the both of you have the time he'd wanna make love instead of fuck.

he's a closeted romantic if you will

with that in mind, he'd view sex as something to express the deep emotions he has for his partner when he can't find the words.

franky

franky literally calls himself a pervert but he gets no bitches. no maidens. no lads. no nothing

he isn't a virgin but also he isn't well versed in the realm of sex

he views it as something you do with someone you really care about. he isn't one for hook up culture.

i think he's pretty good at concealing when hes aroused or anything like that, other wise it's extremely noticeable (the speedo)

but when he is, it's very uncomfortable for him. metal hands don't really make for the best jack off tool lmao

when he has a partner hes definitely vocal about what he wants, when he wants it and expects his partner to be the same

his views on sex stays the same, and he's glad he's found that someone to let loose with ( it's super)

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chvoswxtch · 1 year

Note

Hi! For my first drink could I order an old fashioned with Frankie when he is jealous pls, idk why but I wanna see him in that situation 😏

hi nonnie!

one old fashioned with a bright green garnish coming right up. 😏

headcannon below the cut

frank castle & jealousy

in my humble opinion, frankie is absolutely the jealous type, but he's very quiet about it

it's not that he doesn't trust you, it's more so his own self-esteem issues and the hyperawareness of the baggage he carries around

frankie thinks you are literally the most beautiful thing to ever be crafted by the universe and he doesn't understand what you see in him or why you find him attractive

and despite how many times you tell him all of the many reasons you have for falling in love with him, and all the ways you show him just how handsome you find him, that green eyed monster still rears its ugly head

like when that coworker of yours that's always hitting on you, that he fucking hates, tells a joke and you laugh at it, frankie wants to know what the fuck is so funny and then he starts questioning if you think he is funny (even though you always laugh at his jokes, and when he says something you find funny that he doesn't really get but fuck it, it made you laugh)

he let you get the next round at the bar one time, but after seeing how the bartender openly flirted with you and the attention you got from the other patrons, frankie insisted on getting every round from then on out

but then he noticed that those assholes would just come up to your table when he got up, and it made his blood boil seeing how close they got to you, even if he could tell by your face that you were telling them you weren't interested

but frankie is quiet about his jealousy. he doesn't make a scene unless absolutely necessary

he doesn't rush up to the table and tell that stupid son of a bitch off, no he calmly walks up and stands behind him, glaring daggers into the back of his head until the idiot notices the look on your face and follows the path of your eyesight and finally notices his presence

he can't deny the smugness he feels seeing how their eyes go wide and watching them back away slowly with their tail tucked between their legs, holding their hands up in surrender, quickly scurrying away with a mumbled "sorry man, didn't know she was with you"

frankie gets lucky in that he doesn't have to say anything, he can just glare

when your goddamn coworker catches his piercing gaze from across the room, he suddenly stops laughing, and puts as much distance between himself and you as possible

when the bartender notices him stalking up behind you, placing his hand possessively on your waist and staring at him with murderous intent, the bartender's smile instantly drops and he's shoving your drinks forward and rushing to the other end of the bar

frankie only gets physical if someone can't take the hint or dares to put their hands on you

but whenever frankie is done scaring off your admirers and turns to look at you, his icy glare instantly melts into pools of shame as you stare back at him with a displeased quirk of your brow and a light smirk on your lips

as soon as he hears that warning tone laced within your sweet rendition of his name, he's quickly looking anywhere but at you like a child acting like they don't know what they're in trouble for

"frank." "what? just standin' here. that a crime?"

he knows you're never really upset with him by the way you giggle and shake your head, hands reaching out to grab him by his arms to pull him in closer towards you

"i don't know what you bother getting so worked up about, big guy. you're the one that gets to take me home."

frankie does know that, but he often wonders if the day would come that you decide you want someone else. someone less complicated that didn't carry the weight of a lifetime of trauma and loss on their shoulders. someone that didn't make a career of violence and bloodshed. someone that didn't come home to you bruised and broken. someone better than him

"i know, sweetheart. don't mean you gotta deal with their shit, though."

"i never have to. you always come to my rescue. my hero."

frankie always melts when you call him that, because he never thinks of himself as a hero, but you say it with such sincerity, it makes him believe it

and when you kiss him like you're the only two people in the room, he forgets what the hell he was jealous about in the first place

#frank castle #frank castle request #frank castle headcanon #frank castle x reader #frank castle x you #court's 2k follower celebration #court's 2k friends celebration

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yourfavouritefighter · 6 months

Note

OK obsessed with the swap idea

- Does Jackson still get bullied?

- How is Holt's life in the monster world?

- How does the trigger work?

- What is their personality like in this world?

- How out of touch is Holt?

- Do they know about each other?

I would love a first days fanfic?

yo glad you like the au! I don’t have all the details set in place so sorry if things are a tad bit inconsistent but here we go! (Also sorry for the late reply I didn’t see the ask rip)

Bullying

-I feel that both of the boys would get bullied but in different ways and for different reasons, Jackson would be pushed around since he’s quite nerdy, so I feel manny still wouldn’t like him. However holt would probably just be excluded from things, or have rumours spread about him, but due to him being prone to fighting back it wouldn’t be direct bullying like it is for Jackson.

Holts life in the monster world

-Holt would still Dj however he’d most likely do it whilst in a disguise of some form, (even if it’s just a mask or some make up) as many monsters don’t trust him. He doesn’t like the fact he has to Hyde his identity but the extra money comes in handy.

Triggers

-This may change in the future but my current plan is to have Jackson be triggered by extreme silence. So there has to be near to no sounds for him to appear. As such the headphones double as extra noise if necessary or as music. I also thought about him being triggered by piano specifically alongside the silence trigger.

Personalities

-Holt: He’s a bit of a joker and pretty immature, he likes to just chill and have fun in life. However he is quite hot headed and can have a short temper. This pairs to mean people don’t trust him too well and don’t want to mess with him (well not directly at least, no one minds the anonymous pranks or rumours just as long as it doesn’t tie back to them).

-Jackson: He’s more reserved than his counterpart, preferring to follow rules and structure, unlike holt’s ‘rules were made to be broken’ mentality, he prefers to stay out of the public eye, whether it be due to not wanting people to find out his identity or avoiding the bullying (since I haven’t decided if people know about him and holt yet). His quiet nature means he can be quite the push over at times making him prime for taunts and attacks from his peers.

(Man I really gotta draw some art of Jackson interacting with people)

Out of touch?

-I’m not too sure what you mean by this, whether it be out of touch with monster culture, or out of touch in the sense of being isolated from his classmates. Either way due to his DJ-ing and being a student at MH he’s picked up a lot of monster slang and culture. And as for friends, he’s known Draculaura since before MH and managed to meet Frankie on his first day, so he isn’t alone there. In the au I’ll still have him be friends with a lot of the usual characters (e.g deuce heath frankie etc with some exceptions)

Do they know?

-As of joining MH definitely yes, but as kids their mother tired to keep it secret, as she doesn’t get along with her Hyde, as such it was a shock when during quiet time at school he burst into flames. Holt was quickly pulled from the school, switching between a mix of homeschooling, monster schools and normie schools. Usually not lasting long at any of them, due to his temper and monster side.

A fic?

-Maybe??????? I’m not too great of a writer, but I might work on a one shot or really short fic about it….someday? If I have the chance and people are interested in it I might take a crack at writing lmao

I hope that covers everything! I’m happy to answer any more questions people have on the au and I really appreciate all the support it’s got! (I really wasn’t expecting it lmao)

#normie au #holt monster high #normie holt #holt hyde #jackson jekyll monster high #monster jackson #jackson jekyll #lore #au lore #long post #monster high #monster high au

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doodles-bi-tea · 11 months

Text

how you met the love of your life, benny miller

pairing: benny miller x bartender reader [second person, no y/n]

warnings: mentions + consumption of alcohol. that’s really it. flirting?? idk

word count: 2,116

a/n: heyyy I’ve been really inactive (at least in terms of posting) but I’ve opened up requests recently! this isn’t a request but thought I’d write something just for fun and to get back into writing. here’s the post where I talked abt the requests, feel free to send something in!! also sorry I kind of weirdly switched time perspectives closer to the end so uhhh hope you don’t mind it just felt weird trying to fix it so I didn’t. but yeah I’ve been hella obsessed with benny miller from triple frontier so figured I’d write smth for him 🤗 honestly not entirely sure I like this oneshot that much but yeah whatever if you enjoy feel free to lmk <3

The bar was quiet, to say the least. It was a Saturday night, which typically meant that many of your usuals would be there, as well as other strangers looking to unwind after the work week. But, fortunately for you, it was mostly empty, save for most of the aforementioned usuals. This was an empty shift no one else wanted to take, and you didn’t have plans so you just decided to take it on a whim. You wiped off a glass and set it on the counter next to a few others, hearing the bell on the door ring again.

Glancing up, you saw a group of four [hot] men come in, talking and smiling with each other. You watched them as they made their way over to a booth closer to the back. They got settled in as you continued to dry different beer and cocktail glasses behind the counter.

Since it wasn’t busy, you spent most of your time just doing mundane tasks to clean and fix different things around the bar and in the back. Eventually, one of the men came from the booth and up to the bar to grab drinks. He wore a dark red t-shirt and beige pants, with a navy baseball cap atop his head and aviators covering his eyes.

He asked for four beers, which you then handed to him. He nodded in acknowledgment, and was turning to leave with the bottles, but paused.

“Hey, by the way-“ he turned again to face you. “-my friend over there thinks you’re cute.”

You were admittedly a little stunned to hear that, but you let your eyes drift over to the booth where his friends sat. Also to your surprise, two of the other three were looking back at you. The one wearing a blue button up over a white tee and a backwards green baseball cap put his hand up with a grin and winked.

“What’s his name?” You waved back, albeit more hesitant.

“Benny. I would’ve sent him over but didn’t know if you’d like that.” He put the beers down on the counter as he leaned against it.

“Tell him he can come over if he wants, I don’t mind. Oh, but what’s your name?”

“Just call me Frankie.” He stuck his hand out and you shook it. “Let me know if he starts harassing you or something, I’ll beat ‘im up.”

You smiled and chuckled quietly. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, but thank you.”

He nodded before grabbing the beers and heading back to the booth. You saw him put the bottles down on the table before sitting down and saying something to the rest of the group. It probably had something to do with what you said about Benny, seeing as he stood up suddenly and began [nearly] bounding over, beer in hand, like a golden retriever with a stick in its mouth.

“Hey.” You greeted him as he sat on one of the barstools and leaned against the counter.

“Hey,” He smiled at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling upwards like his lips. “I’m Ben, or you can call me Benny.”

You didn’t know what you were expecting but it certainly wasn’t his voice when he first spoke. It was deep and smooth, with a hint of a southern drawl, like music to your ears or honey for your tea.

“Yeah, Frankie over there told me.” You nodded over in the direction of the booth he had just come from. “Said you thought I was cute?”

Benny chuckled, letting his head tilt downwards as if to look at his shirt or shoes bashfully. It was a wonderful sound. “Yeah, yeah, I still do.”

You suddenly became aware of the fact that you were feeling warm all over, and a little nervous. You’d have your fair share of people hitting on you, but Benny seemed different for once. He seemed very genuine.

You weren’t sure what it was. Maybe the way his dark dirty blonde hair peeked out from the edges of his backwards baseball cap. Maybe the way his eyelashes were so thick and dark that you could practically see them from a mile away. Maybe the way his voice had your stomach doing somersaults any time he spoke. Anyway, you weren’t sure what it was.

“Well thank you then, hon.” You smiled back at him. “I think you’re pretty cute too.”

“Thanks.” He chuckled again, before taking a sip of his beer.

That noise. You would never get enough of it. It was deep, slightly raspy, and had a bit of a stutter to it. Your knees nearly buckled underneath you when he looked back up at you with those pretty blue eyes.

“So,” Benny started, setting his bottle down on the counter and crossing his arms. “Could I get to know you a little better?”

The once-boring evening turns into something much more enjoyable from that point on. You continue serving the customers that are already there and the ones that come in later. Benny sits at the counter, talking to you about each of your likes and dislikes, daily life, stuff like that. He asks you about the bar, you ask him about his fights and training. It’s nice and calm, and he’s very easy to talk to. He makes a joke about every other sentence, but you can tell he’s not trying too hard, it’s just something that comes naturally to him.

You ask him a couple times if he needs to get back to his friends, who are still nursing their beers and talking amongst themselves, but he smiles and waves the notion away.

“I’d much rather talk to you, honey.”

This man was going to be the death of you, with his stupid pretty blue eyes and fluffy hair and soft jaw defined by that barely-there stubble.

The night continues on. You and Benny end up talking until closing, long after his first and only beer is gone, when you realize that it’s only you two and his friends left in the building.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I talked your ear off all night. I should start closing up.” You apologize, wiping the counter with a rag one last time for the night.

Benny smiles at you gently. “You’re fine, don’t worry about it. I had fun, even if all we were doing was talkin’.”

“Me too.”

There’s a bit of silence as you finish cleaning and putting some things away, before you decide to speak again.

“Hey, I hope it isn’t too forward of me, but could I get your number?” You’re not sure where the sudden confidence comes from, but it appears and you welcome it.

“Honey,” Benny grins a little wider this time. “You can never be too forward with me. Here, hand me your phone real quick.”

You feel your cheeks warm up again as you hand it to him, waiting as he creates a contact for himself. He hands you the phone back a moment later. “Benny Miller,” the contact reads.

“Thanks, Miller.”

“No problem. Make sure to text me later. I’ll be waitin’ for it.” He winks.

You can only chuckle in response, feeling almost giddy as you notice his friends make their way over to the bar behind Benny.

One of them, not Frankie, though, came up next to Benny. He was slightly shorter than Benny if he were standing, but looked somewhat like him, instead with shorter hair of a similar dark blonde hue, and more grown out facial hair. He shared Benny’s striking blue eyes.

“Hey, we’re heading out now.” He told Benny, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You wanna leave with me or do you need the keys to the truck? I can leave with Frankie and Santi if you need to stay longer.”

Ah, so that’s the name of the other man next to Frankie. All four of them were very attractive, now that you get a nice up-close look at them. You give a little wave to Frankie as he talks with “Santi.” He smiles and waves back, not breaking their discussion.

“Oh, uh…” Benny trailed off, before looking back at you. “Did you need a ride?”

As much as you would have liked that, you had your own car to take home. Damn, the one time you choose not to get an Uber.

“No, I have my own car, it’s fine. And I need to just close up anyways, I’ve cleaned up most of the stuff already.”

“Okay,” He grinned at you before turning back to the other man. “I’ll take the keys, thanks.”

The man nodded and fished them out of his pocket, along with his wallet. He placed a $20 and a $5 bill on the counter and slid it over to you.

“I’m Will,” Like Frankie, he holds his hand out for you to shake, which you take. “Thanks for the beers. Let me know if you need anything.” He says that last part to Benny, before nodding again at you in acknowledgment and then turning to leave with Frankie and Santi—who you didn’t get to talk to, unfortunately.

He seemed fun, though, as he yelled out to Benny as they began opening the door. “See you later, tonto!” [“See you later, silly!”]

You giggle a little as the door swings closed and Benny scoffs under his breath. “They sound like a fun group.”

“Yeah, they can be. A bit of a handful, though.”

“Present company excluded?” You tilt your head slightly and raise an eyebrow.

“You’ll just have to find that out when we go on a real date, honey.” He flashes you a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he does so. “Could I walk you out when you’re done here?”

For nearly the tenth time tonight butterflies arise in your stomach at his antics. “Yeah, that’d be nice. Let me go in the back real quick and then we can go.”

He nods and checks his phone as you head behind the doors to the storage rooms and kitchen area, just doing a check-up to make sure everything’s locked and secured. You finish that up quickly and turn off all the lights in the rooms before coming back out behind the bar counter to face Benny.

He looks up from his phone and gives you a sweet smile as he turns it off and slides it back into his back pocket. “Everything good?”

“Yep,” You reach into a cabinet behind you to grab your bag and coat. “Ready to go.”

You finish putting on your coat as you come out from behind the bar to stand next to Benny, who gets up from his seat before pushing in the stool.

“Shall we?” He holds his bent arm out to you as if you two were about to go out on a walk in a fancy flower garden.

You chuckle quietly at the motion, before going to hook your arm with his. “We shall.”

And so the two of you walk out—you locking up before you leave, of course—and he leads you to your car.

“Thanks for walking me out.” You smile at him under the mixture of the glow of the moon and the shine of the streetlights. “You’re real sweet, you know that?”

“It’s no problem. Just been raised that way,” Benny grins back. “Gotta make sure you get home safe.”

You hum in agreement, tracing his features with your eyes for the last time that night. Your ears almost don’t hear what he says because you’re so enthralled with just studying his face. “Real pretty too, Benny.”

His smile drops for a moment, out of shock, you think, before he just looks down again at the ground, cheeks flushed. He almost looks embarrassed, and for a moment you’re afraid you’ve said something wrong. You open your mouth to speak but he says something first.

“I think that’s the best compliment a man like me could get, honey.” He brings his gaze back up to make eye contact with you, his voice smooth and deep. “Thank you. You’re real pretty too.”

Even as you head home alone, driving along the dark and near-empty streets, you can’t stop thinking about him. About how pretty he looked under the moonlight in the latest hours of night, the early hours of the morning, in that barren parking lot. About how easy it was to talk to him and how interested he was in the things you had to say. The dark was unsettling, but his presence made everything a bit brighter.

You would definitely have to find a way to thank Frankie for introducing you later.

#tea writes #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fic #triple frontier boys #triple frontier x reader #benny miller x reader #benjamin benny miller #benny miller #x reader #garrett hedlund #garrett hedlund characters #garrett hedlund x reader #santiago garcia x reader #francisco morales x reader #william miller x reader

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idolatrybarbie · 5 months

Text

series masterlist | read on ao3

pairing: francisco "frankie" morales x f!reader

word count: 9.2k

rating & summary: mature - 18+ only! | You and Marcus haven’t spoken in three years. It isn’t like that—nothing bad has to happen these days for you to lose touch with someone. So goes adulthood.

tags: previously established friendship, lies and manipulation, canon-typical crime, mention of guns, mention of alcohol, the United States government comes with its own warning, reader does not speak Portuguese fluently and is written as such

notes: WE'RE HERE. oh my god. ohhh my god. this has taken MONTHS. it's a little gross, a little freaky. take it. read it. love it (please?) more to come. over and out.

“All truths – even the laws of science – are subject to revision, but we operate by them in the meantime because they are necessary and they work.” — The Elements of Journalism, Bill Kovach and Tom Rosenstiel.

You wake up in a cold sweat, adrenaline pumping. Your heart is beating fast in your chest; you almost tumble out of bed with the force from pushing yourself up. The phone rings—Mom’s landline—the trill high and bubbling from the kitchen. Following the noise through the fog of half-sleep, you pad across the quiet house slowly. You reach the phone by the fifth ring, answering on the sixth.

“Hello?” Your voice is raw with sleep.

“I was starting to think you were dead.” Marcus Pike’s voice reaches your ears, flowing down the line like water.

“Marcus?” you ask. Looking out the window above the sink, you see that the sun is not out yet. The sky is pitch black, forcing you to seek out the microwave’s clock. “It’s five o’clock in the morning.”

“Seven in D.C.,” he says.

Right. That cushy, not-so-new gig out in Washington. He went from art theft investigator to a DOJ special agent in what felt like the blink of an eye.

“How did you get this number?”

“Your folks still live in Kendall County,” he says.

“And I live in Hell’s Kitchen,” you counter.

“They’ve got that yearly trip to Mexico. You house sat for them at the start of every summer.”

“Back in college,” you say.

“You still answered, didn’t you?” Marcus asks.

You can’t help when you laugh. “You haven’t changed.”

“Nope,” he says. You picture him in an office somewhere, shaking his head with a satisfied smile. “Neither have you.”

You and Marcus haven’t spoken in three years. It isn’t like that—nothing bad has to happen these days for you to lose touch with someone. So goes adulthood. He moved away from Texas by the time you were already out on the east coast. Your job at The Metropolitan Post keeps you busy. Maybe a little too busy, absolutely quashing your personal life.

“Not that it’s unwelcome, Marcus, but—”

“You’re wondering why I’m calling you in Texas at the ass-crack of dawn,” he finishes for you.

“Sort of, yeah.”

He hums into the speaker, taking a moment before he speaks again. “I was wondering if you had time for breakfast?”

“Marcus, that’s a four hour flight,” you say.

“I’m not actually in D.C. right now,” he says.

“Okay…”

“I’m staying in San Antonio.”

“So that’s why you’re calling. You got bored, huh?”

“Something like that,” Marcus says. “Meet me at the Sunshine Diner? It’s on Commerce. Say, seven o’clock?” It’s like he’s rehearsed the line over and over again.

“Marcus—”

“Great.”

“Marcus,” you repeat.

He says your name back to you in that same firm tone.

“What is this about?” you ask. The playfulness can’t hide the weirdness surrounding a surprise trip down here.

“I’ll tell you when I see you, alright? All will be revealed.”

You roll your eyes, curiosity unsatisfied. Clearly he’s unwilling to tell you anything over the phone.

“Sure, fine. Breakfast at seven. I’ll see you there,” you say.

The drive from Boerne to San Antonio is only thirty-two minutes. Those thirty miles stretch to feel like thirty-thousand, but before you know it, you’re parked halfway up West Commerce Street. You see the diner, its sun-faded metal sign taunting you from the driver’s seat. None of the cars on the block look like they could be Pike’s. They’re too old or too dirty to be rentals, a sea of Texan license plates before you.

You sigh to yourself, pulling the handle on the car door as it creaks. “Now or never.”

The sun hasn’t brought enough heat to ground yet, the morning air still tepid as you walk onto concrete. Peering into the diner’s windows, you spot Marcus before he sees you. The absence of a suit over his shoulders throws you off. When you think of him, you picture Special Agent Marcus Pike. Sitting inside at a table alone, he looks more like the guy you used to know.

A bell jingles above you as you open the door to the restaurant. He looks up, face absent of surprise or question. It’s seven on the dot. He knows you like to be punctual. The kind waitress smiles at you when he waves you over, letting you join Marcus at his corner booth. He waits until you slide into the seat opposite him to say anything.

“Hey, stranger.”

“Hey, yourself,” you say. “You still have to answer my question. What are you doing here?”

“A man can’t find the sudden urge to visit the great state of Texas?” he asks.

“Not when that man is you.”

He’s got too many bad memories here for this be a vacation. He has never told you outright, but you aren’t stupid. The personal tragedy of a failed engagement and prospects of greener pastures for his career is enough to draw any man away from home. If Marcus is here, there’s a reason.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.

“That’s what phones are for. Remember this morning?”

“This…isn’t something I can really talk about over the phone.”

You furrow your brow, eyes squinting as you assess his body language. Shoulders tight, hunched close to his body. He runs a hand over the light scruff on his jaw, rubbing the pads of his thumb and forefinger together when his wrist meets the table again.

“What’s wrong?”

“There isn’t anything wrong,” Marcus says.

“You can’t talk about it over the phone, and you look like someone’s got you in a gun sight across the street,” you say. “But sure, nothing’s wrong.”

“Look—”

“What can I get started for you today?”

The waitress from earlier approaches your table with a peppy sway in her hips, dark ponytail swaying gracefully behind her. She pulls out a notepad to go with her stub of a pencil, ready to take down your order.

“Two coffees,” Marcus mumbles. “Two cream, two sugar.”

Then she turns to you. “How do you take it?”

“Black.” You don’t look at her, staring at Marcus as he taps his fingers against the plastic coating on the table.

“I’ll be right back with those.”

When she ambles away, you say, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Instead of giving you an answer, Marcus reaches into his back pocket. What he puts on the table almost makes your heart stop.

“Where did you get that?”

You’re staring at a face—your face—on a second-rate identification pass. A name that doesn’t belong to you sits under your photo in bold black ink alongside credentials you certainly don’t have. There is no Molly Hills that works at the Justice Department. At least, not until you made her up.

“Doesn’t matter,” Marcus says.

“I already got into shit over this, Marcus, so if you’re here to—”

“I’m giving it back.”

You pause. “Giving it back?”

“Well, it’s yours. Figured you might want it.”

“There’s nothing that badge can get me that I’d want anymore.”

You were naive when you made it. Green, ready and willing to do anything to get the story. You’d paid the price, too. Lost your job, lost your place, almost went to federal prison. A lot of trouble for a silly little journalist. A long nightmare you don’t want to relive.

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

Irritation consumes you. “Marcus, did you come here to see me or did you come here to piss me off?”

“I need your help.”

He needs your help? That’s a chance in a million. “Aren’t you the federal agent?” you ask.

“This is something that I can’t do,” he says lowly. You don’t believe him. “I’m serious. This is serious.”

“What is this?”

The waitress returns with your coffees, setting them down in front of you. She asks if you want anything else. Not right now, and she’s gone again.

“There’s something you should look into,” he says, voice low as he brings his mug up to his lips.

“I don’t do that anymore,” you say.

He gives you a look of disbelief. “Of course you do.”

“I sit around on my laptop for nine hours a day sending out push notifications and rearranging the homepage, Marcus. I don’t even write.”

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

He knows about your…issue. It’s what gets you into trouble, always has.

“That’s why you’re really here,” you say.

“I’m here to catch up with a good friend,” he says. Reaching across the table, he takes your hand in his own. “It’s been too long.”

Marcus skirts around the topic from there, ignoring the disappointment etched into your forehead as he tells you about Washington: the job, the cases—all the pertinent details left out, of course. You start to play along, sliding the badge off of the table and into your bag. Even if he won’t tell you, you at least want to try and enjoy his presence. It’s been a lifetime since you’ve had it.

Apparently the job is hard work, but you could’ve figured that. Demanding, he tells you. Not much time for a life on his end of things either. You tell him about New York; about your one bedroom claim to fame on the edge of Clinton, about the house plants you’ve managed to keep alive for some time now. Not once does he bring up your old life, how things used to be. You’re relieved.

Marcus is gone when he finishes his coffee, scooting out of the booth to stand and rearrange his shirt.

“I should get going. I’ll call you in a few days, okay?” he asks. “It was good to see you.”

As he turns on his heel, your words stop him. “For the record, I don’t like this. You’re not being fair, Marcus.”

“I’ll call you soon,” he reasserts. And then he’s gone.

You don’t see which car he gets into. You don’t even care. When it’s been long enough and you get sick of staring at the brown dregs at the bottom of your mug, you fish the badge out of your bag. Putting it on the table again, you examine it. Not even half a decade and you already look so different. Weathered, maybe. In this photo you are so very bright and smiley.

Staring at the piece of plastic, you realize you resent it; you’re disappointed in yourself, begrudging Marcus for bringing it here as some sort of token. A reminder. A chit. You owe him, and this is his way of calling in a favour. With you, the man never has been one for the direct approach.

Turning the badge over in your hands, you notice a scrap of paper lodged behind the plastic. Marcus has written something on it. A series of random numbers and letters.

18USC209-14489.

It reads as gibberish. You toss the thing back into the shadows of your bag and flag down the waitress for another cup of coffee.

You try to ignore it; that lingering pull. It’s more like a sinking feeling than anything. You start making lists to distract yourself. Lists of chores to do, things to buy, times to remember. Keeping your hands busy with dishes, sweeping, tending to the back lawn. You hand-wash the guest room bed sheets to keep your mind from wandering.

Marcus hasn’t called for a couple days. You’re starting to think he never will. Even with him leaving you to this alone, you’re trying to keep the temptation at bay. It’s a game you play with yourself: whenever you’re seconds away from looking up the sequence on the back of the badge, you instead search for the specific statutes of federal law under which you almost went to jail for breaking. You’d say it’s pretty effective.

One week after that coffee, you almost trash the badge altogether. All that hunk of plastic does is take up space, both in your mind and your bag. You can’t look for your keys without your fingers brushing past it. Every time, you pull your hand away like you’ve been burned. As you stand over the sink, waste disposal roaring with life, you prepare to drop the card down the drain.

Screw Marcus. He could ask for any favour, but not this one. He didn’t even have the guts to ask you in the first place—he’d stuck you with it, laying this mystery burden over-top of you, smothered.

After a long while, you turn the disposal off, card still intact. You turn it over and over again in your hand, flipping between the two sides. Brain idle and eyes closed, the pause of silence is ultimately what does you in. The series is burned into the underside of your eyelids, a white shadow against the dark. It looks like a code; a sequence used to file records.

18USC209-14489.

You are bent over your laptop before you can stop yourself, fingers flying across the keys. You type in the first half, results for Title 18 showing up in a fraction of a second. Federal crimes and criminal procedure. Marcus has given you a case.

Looking further, you find chapter two hundred and nine of the code—extradition. Beyond scope, limitations, and a lengthy list of countries that the United States has extradition treaties with, this webpage is useless. The public access government site isn’t going to tell you anything about what the rest of those numbers mean.

That’s when it clicks. The badge. Marcus gave it back. What was it he’d said? This was something he couldn’t do. Something you should look into. That he needs your help.

Immediately, you know what he’s asking. You don’t like it one bit. Of all the things he could ask of you, spend this life sized favour on, it had to be this?

You open another browser tab, accidentally clicking the bookmark of your email. There’s one new message waiting in your inbox. The address that sent it is professionally scrambled, the body absent of text altogether. Attached to the email is an unnamed file. It takes a moment to load before filling your screen: a one-way plane ticket to Reagan National, tomorrow at noon. You don’t have to know the address to know Marcus is the person who sent it to you. What he wants from you is clear now. The question lies in whether or not you’ll do it.

Except it isn’t really a question. You know it and he does too. The email keeps you up all night, finally caving at two o’clock in the morning. You pack a bag, something small, and call the cheapest hotel in Virginia that you can find. Your parents are due back in just a couple of days. Leaving a note on the fridge for them, you write that a work emergency called you home early. The identical text you send them won’t go through until they get back onto American soil, but it’s all the notice you can give.

The drive to San Antonio Airport is warm, the sun beating down on you through the windshield. In your head, you try your best to convince yourself that this is a good decision. At least the car will be there when they get in from Mexico City. You’re mostly focused on this playing out as a dead end. Maybe whatever Marcus is sending you to find isn’t all that important. The man isn’t exactly a journalist, or a lawyer; there could be no story here. He could be wrong. It’s not like he hasn’t been before.

Keeping your eyes open in the airport feels next to impossible. Even with the overwhelming chatter, the announcements, and the never-ending foot traffic, you almost fall asleep three separate times. A Styrofoam cup of cheap espresso is your only saving grace. You’re sat at the gate when your phone sounds off in your pocket.

Marcus Pike. You answer immediately.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Good morning to you too,” he says.

“Do you think this is funny?” Your hostility over the phone is drawing eyes. You get up from your seat, wheeling your luggage behind you as you search for a quieter corner.

“Quite the opposite. But some of us like joy in our lives, keeps the mood up.”

“I know exactly where you can stick that joy, if you’d like any suggestions,” you say. “What’s waiting for me in D.C.?”

“National Mall, the Dumbarton Oaks Museum, Capitol building…”

“You know what I mean.”

“And if you’ll remember, I already gave you the details on that specifically,” Marcus says. Can’t talk about this over the phone. “I’m calling from work.”

Of course he is. Positing you to violate federal law, and he’s calling you at the office. You’re starting to think he wants you both to go to jail.

“What am I going to find when I get there?” you ask.

“Something important. Something I know you’d want to see.”

“Don’t put this back on me,” you say. “I’m doing this because I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“You and I both know that’s bullshit.”

It’s what he has always said. That you don’t owe him, there’s no favour to be traded here. That he helped you because he’s your friend. You’re not about to go rehashing memory lane fifty feet from the American Airlines help desk, but last time you checked, helping a friend meant moving boxes out of their apartment or sitting a shitty pet—not sparing them from federal prison. You owe him, and for the longest time you thought you always would.

“If I do this, I’m never doing you another favour again,” you whisper. He says your name, almost exasperated. You cut him off quickly. “You can lecture me when I’m in D.C.. Next time, get your own damn cup of sugar.”

Boarding is frustratingly slow. You have to kick some whiny kid out of your seat as his mother gives him a coddling lecture—no sweetheart, you can’t just sit wherever you want. You nod off moments after reaching altitude, not waking until your seat neighbour shakes you by the shoulder.

The older woman is sweet, strands of long hair greying at her temples and forehead.

“I’m sorry to wake you, honey, but we’re here,” she whispers.

“Thanks,” you sigh. Glancing out the porthole window, you can see workers in their fluorescent vests loading luggage onto dollies. Idly, you ask her, “You ever been to Washington?”

“Oh, once. A long time ago. It was lovely,” she says. “How about you?”

You turn to the woman, giving her an easy smile. “Never been,” you lie.

“You’ll love it,” the woman says. “It’s the city of big things, you know. Everything important happens here. Everything good.”

“People really think that, don’t they?”

You’re speaking to yourself, the woman already close to disappearing as she walks with the toddling line of passengers off the plane. You’re the last to de-board, giving the pilot and flight attendants a polite nod as you leave. The air inside of Reagan National Airport is stale. You almost hold your breath the entire time you wait for your bag, taking in a deep gulp when you step outside of its main glass doorway.

Hailing a cab is easy. The ride is a smooth twenty minutes before the stout driver drops you off in front of your hotel. Check-in, the trip up, and swiping your magnetic key card through the door’s lock all blur together. Your surroundings pull into focus when you realize that you’re on your knees. The upper half of your body is hunched over the porcelain toilet in the bathroom as you wretch into the bowl. All that comes up is bile, green and oil slick.

When the vomiting finally stops, you wipe at your mouth and turn on the shower. You avoid the mirror as you strip, stepping under the steady spray. The water is ice cold, beating against your skin like hail. Pulling the shower curtain closed, you sit facing away from the stream. It soaks down your back, running in a dozen bitter rivulets. The cold seeps into your skin, freezing bone-deep.

You lodge your head between your legs to keep the nausea at bay. Your mind stays quiet as the water trickles into your ears and down your face. It feels like hours before you will yourself out, gripping the sides of the tub to stand. You leave the fresh towels where they are in a wicker basket, wet feet padding across tile and hardwood to the queen bed in the middle of the room. Wrapped in crispy white sheets, wet and naked, you squeeze your eyes shut and pray for sleep.

Everything glitters in your dreams. Marcus’ eyes especially, twinkling as they look anywhere but at your face. He sits across from you at this overbearing table—on the side of the good guys. Here, you are logically the bad one. The lawyer your father paid for brushes up against your shoulder as he pulls a stack of paper the rest of the way across the darkened wood. He flips through every stapled page and nods silently. Then he slides it over to you.

You remember this. Even if you can’t decipher the lawyer’s garbled speech, you know that he’s directing you on where to sign.

It’s a good deal, he’ll tell you later. You’ll be standing in the hall of the courthouse, feeling small and stupid in this cheap suit as you wipe tears from your eyes. Seven years behind bars down to two years of federal probation. The ankle monitor will take some getting used to, but, y’know—

Consciousness comes in a slow roll, eyes opening to stare at the curtains you left open. The puff of a sigh passes your lips as you watch the stars outside the window, the sky still dark. If you look long enough, those glowing dots start to morph into Marcus’ deep brown eyes gazing back at you.

The image unsettles you enough to get out of bed. You pull the curtains closed and dress yourself, transforming into another person over the span of twenty minutes. Your own face slowly disappears under layers of makeup, your clothes a business professional clown costume. You know that you’re ready when you can’t see yourself in the mirror anymore.

The cab is called from a payphone across the street. You give the company your name, Jane Doe, paying in cash when the wheels stop in the middle of Penn Quarter. You walk the four blocks to the Justice Building without feeling any part of your body, sweating in the Washington cold.

The building itself is hard on the eyes, the visitor entrance not far from you now. The line to get in is short. You’re waiting less than ten minutes to get through the security screening. An officer rummages around in your purse for a moment. The badge—your badge, or Marcus’?—burns in your pocket. When he hands you your things again, he smiles. You smile back.

A tour group is forming in settled clumps just beyond the entrance. A woman in a button-down blouse and thick heels gathers the tourists, leading them down a cascading hall. You lump yourself in with the group, folding your coat over your arms as you pretend to listen to her history lesson. Really, you’re eyeing the halls, looking for an elevator.

It doesn’t take long to find one, the group rounding a corner into another hallway. The buttons are calling you as the tour turns down a thin corridor. Taking the opening, you part from the crowd, shoving the cylinder of fabric wrapped around you into the nearest trash can. The coat will be missed, but not dearly.

The elevator arrives in a matter of seconds, sleek metal doors sliding open. You press at the button violently to close them again after picking the third floor. A sigh leaves your nose when they pull shut. You’re acutely aware of the blinking bulb of a camera to your left, watching your every move as the car ascends. Right now, you are fine. You look like any other employee.

Inside the heat of the building, you can feel your limbs again. You swallow back the spit that’s gathering in your mouth. It isn’t anxious hyper-salivation, but accumulating drool. Your heart hammers in your chest, not from fear but from thrill. Some people like to fuck in public, picking up a rush from the real potential of getting caught. You like this, but not for the anticipation of failure in your mission—in the prediction of your success.

There is something wrong with you. Inside of you, maybe. Biological. A dark and inky well, a pocket of spoiled flesh. Marcus has reached in and pressed at it, prodded around with sharp fingers until he could coax the oozing stream of rot out of you. You hate to admit that it felt good—feels good now, as the runoff drives you to the very brink of smart and sane decisions.

You call it professional curiosity. Others might label it being a nosy bitch, too cerebral for your own good. Your eyes are always bigger than your stomach, though. The last time you chased a story, you almost choked. You get a little obsessed sometimes, what can you say? Everyone has their vices. Information is yours.

They have a name for it somewhere. L’appel du vide, you think. The call of the void. It turns people reckless, irrational. But this isn’t really your fault. You didn’t ask to be here. No, you were sent. An agent of someone else’s bidding, a man only a few floors from the one you step onto now.

Marcus knows exactly what he’s doing. It turns you on; it makes you want to kill him. If he is the good guy, and you are decidedly not, then what happens when you start working together? Does that make him bad or you good?

White hats stay on the good guys, but right now you can’t help but feel like Marcus has taken his off. And the million dollar question: why? You hope it’s for a good reason. If not, you really might kill him.

You remember this door, déja vu jolting you back in time. Bringing the badge out of your pocket, you hover your hand above the scanner. If this fails, security will be immediately alerted to a false attempt at access, and it’ll be over. Holding your breath, you tap the card against the bulky scanner. If it doesn’t…

The machine seems to wait, teasing you, before a small light in the corner blinks green. The lock on the handle dislodges for you, a soft click in your ears. You press down on the handle, push forward…and you’re in.

You don’t know how much time you have before someone else enters the file room, getting right to work. Starting at the bottom of the many shelves, you carefully rummage through box after box as you read over their labels. You go through shelves one box at a time, moving from sitting to standing every few minutes. Each file is left exactly how you found it. The last thing you need is anyone asking questions after you leave.

You go through fourty-five boxes in fifteen minutes, exhausting yourself in the process. Scooting into a corner between the wall and the end of a shelf, your head thunks against flaking paint behind you. This room must hold hundreds of boxes. There’s no way you’ll be able to find what you’re looking for in time.

Phone in front of you, you look down at the black screen. Dim LEDs reflect off the screen from the ceiling. That’s when you see it. The box next to your shoulder, the handwritten case file numbers on the front: 18USC209-14489.

You twist around quickly, practically tearing your body in half. Pulling the box off the second-lowest shelf, you keep it in your lap and shovel through the contents. There must be a dozen file folders here, all thick with paper. You start with the lightest one, flipping it open.

It’s mostly photos. Glossy, high quality surveillance images. Various men are featured in each of them, the same group of four rotating every other picture. They all look a little rough and tumble—you know the type. The images show them doing mundane things; walking a dog, sitting in a car, exiting a building at night. You’re still missing something.

Next, you opt for the chunkiest of the manila folders in the box. Everything inside is paperwork. Some of it is formally typed up, but a lot of these are handwritten notes. You start reading, and once you do, you can’t stop. Your eyes roll across the sentences over and over again, skipping over bits redacted in dark ink. You want to make sure you’re getting this exactly right.

Washington, D.C.…proposed extradition to Colombia for the violation of…several criminal charges. War crimes, including…illegal search and seizure of….American dollars…drug cartel.

You have to stop reading, scrubbing a hand over your face. You don’t know exactly how much money that is, the number blacked out, but it certainly isn’t insignificant. Somewhere in the hundreds of millions.

You go back to the photos of the four scruffy men. The U.S. government thinks these men have done it? Seriously. They looked like dads, like men who spend too much time in their garage. The carpenter across the street.

This must be it. Marcus’ big scoop.

You keep reading, flipping through other files. Everything starts to piece together on the floor before you. Four files have names on them— Benjamin Miller, William Miller, Santiago Garcia, and Francisco Morales. You assume the first two to be brothers, their blonde hair and pale skin matching in surveillance photos.

The other two are a guess. You assume the shorter man with the dark grey-black curls to be Santiago, leaving the last man to be Francisco. He’s clean-shaven in this photo, shirt criminally unbuttoned as he leaves a grocery store.

When you get to the file detailing their (heavily classified) military careers, the suspicion makes more sense. The things these men are capable of scares you to even think about. Still, it doesn’t quite add up for you. The States cooperating with Colombia in and of itself is enough to call the investigation into question. There are very few historical instances of that even happening, and when it has, they have been more than a little self serving. The very last thing that you’re about to do is trust your government.

Getting your phone out, you take as many photos of everything as you can. With the four personal files, you’re going to need your own hard copies. You stand from the floor with them, approaching the copier at the other end of the room. With one quick pass, the machine rejects your badge. No one has been alerted to your intrusion, it just won’t let you into the copier’s system. The I.D. was amateur, made for one thing and one thing only: getting in and out of the building.

An idea comes to you. Terrible, reckless, and stupid, but haven’t we crossed that threshold already? You fumble for your phone again, weighing out two options. You have GPS disabled, roaming on airplane mode to avoid satellite tracking or being pinged by any nearby cell towers. If you try to text Marcus, it will only go through once you reconnect to cell service and it will place you here inside the Justice Building.

The evidence of the text, the location data, using his credentials to log into the photocopier…no. Too risky. Any connection to Marcus here would be bad, leaving a clear digital trail.

That leaves plan B, then.

You reorganize the files into their storage box, already regretting leaving them here. Unsure if your badge will get you back into the file room, you lodge the thin piece of plastic between the door and the latch. When you are sure that it’s jammed open, you head towards the elevator. You hold the files close to your chest as you wait for the car. When the ding hits your ears, you get in, choosing a random button. The elevator takes you up, stopping at the thirteenth floor.

Every hallway is a Greek revival monstrosity, the art deco influences hamfisted into the design everywhere you look. You wonder how Marcus gets on working here, how he likes it this way. You picture the many men that have walked along these halls, all of them the type to pride others on their sense of fairness as they jerk it to the thought of naked Lady Justice behind closed doors.

The kind of men whose life aspirations mirror those of John Ashcroft and hold appreciation for the Patriot Act. Dwelling on it for too long, you lose the sense of where those men end and Marcus begins. But you know him. He’s different.

Breezing past a set of sturdy wooden doors, you come upon an office floor. Cubicles are arranged in a strange game of Tetris, men in suits milling about. You walk straight down the aisle to a photocopier that’s practically calling to you across the room. Keeping your head down, you sandwich the papers into the scanner. You press some buttons, knowing they won’t do anything without badge access. When the thing beeps at you angrily, you make a point to sigh loudly. When it warns you again, you groan.

Someone taps at your shoulder. You do your best to swallow a sly grin, turning to meet the eyes of a man you don’t know.

“Sounds like the copier is giving you some trouble,” he says.

You shake your head. “Honestly, I think it’s my card. This is the third machine I’ve tried today.”

“Well, here,” the man says. He slides his own badge from his jacket pocket and swipes it over the photocopier’s reader. The machine beeps again, this time in the affirmative. “That should have you all set.”

You’re about to mumble a thank you, batting your eyes at the federal agent, when another man catches his attention.

Behind Special Agent Chivalry stands another man—tall, tan, and all too familiar. Marcus. Over the unknown agent’s shoulder, the two of you make eye contact. He keeps his lips pursed, barely acknowledging your presence.

“Schrader,” Marcus says. “Hate to break it up, but the AUSA’s waiting.”

“Right,” the man who helped you nods, turning to look at you again. “Good luck with your files.”

He’s walking away without a second thought as Marcus behind to share another glance. You can tell by look alone that he is decidedly unhappy about this. You’ll be getting a phone call later, or maybe another message from that cryptic email dressing you down for playing fast and loose with risk. You hope he doesn’t say anything about it at all. Can he? What’s Marcus to do? Bitch you out via carrier pigeon?

None of that matters right now. You begin the process of scanning and copying every single page of the four personal files, starting with the Millers and ending with Garcia. It’s quick work, anxiety ratcheting up the speed of your hands as you open the lid of the copier, flip to a new page, and pull the lid down again. Doing this all out in the open is bold—again, terrible, reckless, and stupid—but that’s what makes it work. No one questions the receptionist at the photocopier. She’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.

Back downstairs, you recoup in the file room. The door shuts behind you with a solid click, the plastic card no longer keeping it open. You stick the four folders back into their box, leaving things exactly as you found them. As for your personal copies, you fold them in half and stuff them into your purse. Making sure everything is in order, you quietly slip out of the file room and take the stairs down. Leaving takes less than five minutes.

Cool air fills your lungs outside, the usual trappings of an east coast autumn. It takes a moment, walking two blocks, for everything to really sink in. You really just did that. Had your cake and ate it too. Committed a federal crime and got out without anyone blinking an eye.

The success affirms you. This is the right thing to be doing, it has to be. Marcus wouldn’t lead you astray. You wouldn’t let yourself fall down the wrong path. Not again.

The city of São Paulo thrums with energy. You can feel it, a pulsing from the ground that shoots up through your legs. The air is hot and damp, the slow curl of spring transforming into summer raising the humidity. The sky is dark but not quite black, light from the many high rises illuminating overhanging clouds.

You pass by nightclub after nightclub with young and beautiful people waiting in line like cattle to get past the door. It’s been a while since your life was like theirs; not as much of an adventure, surely, but carefree.

There’s been a notable absence of laissez-faire for the past four months. The promotion from digital producer to staff writer has you working during the day and chasing this case in your free time. All of that is set to end. No more hunting down leads, trying to find these men who’ve turned up as ghosts instead of people.

Will Miller was impossible to find, and you only got one thirty second phone call—three months ago—with his blonder brother Benny before the line went dead. Francisco Morales hasn’t seemed to exist since November 2019. All that leaves you with is tonight: a contact in Brazil who promises a lead to Santiago Garcia.

The café you enter has more patrons than you’d expect at this time of night. The coffee culture is different here; the people of Brazil enjoy a good steaming cup of caffeine even well into the evening. You take a seat at the table you’ve been instructed to—a round surface with uneven legs and a thin metal stand holding a card to indicate that this is table five. You use your phone to check the time, catching a glimpse of another piece of cold and shiny metal in the process.

There is a gun in your purse that wasn’t there three months ago. It replaced the badge to the Justice Building in the process of looking for these Delta Force soldiers that the world wants to pretend don’t exist. Marcus hasn’t called, and you know that if he can’t protect himself then he certainly can’t protect you. Lord knows if he even wants to anymore.

You pissed him off that day in D.C.. Marcus has a bad side, everyone does, but you never imagined getting on his would be so icy. You are out in the cold, that’s for certain. The gun—one here and one in a safe inside your New York apartment—is the flame that’s kept you from freezing. So far, you haven’t had to use either. Let’s hope things stay that way.

The heat is getting to you. Sweat crawls down your spine, surely leaving a dark stain across the middle of your shirt. It doesn’t matter. The lead is so close you can almost taste it. A few more minutes…

Caught up in your thoughts, it takes a moment for the echoing silence of the café to register. It takes another moment for you to notice the wall of a man that sits down across from you. He’s tall, forehead beading with sweat as his hairline fights against gravity. Opening a dictionary, an image of him is what you’d find to illustrate the definition of gruff. Well-worn. He is exactly the man to do shady back alley deals with nothing-something American journalists. He’s exactly the man you need.

“Olá,” you say.

The man nods at you, then smiles a toothy grin. He says, “Você é mais bonita do que eu imaginava.”

You take a second to translate in your head. You’re prettier than I imagined.

“Obrigado,” you nod, returning the niceties. “Disseste que tinhas informações.”

“Certo,” the man says. The absence of noise leaves your skin cold, goosebumps prickling along your arms. “You are looking for a man named Santiago Garcia.”

“Yes. You said that—”

The heavy clink of a gun against the table halts your words. Everything changes in an instant when he picks it up and points it at your neck from across the table. He is simply itching to pull the trigger. Someone must’ve told him not to.

“You should stop looking for a man named Santiago Garcia,” he says.

“Sir, I—”

“Stop looking for Santiago Garcia. There is nothing for you here, pretty girl. Go home.”

The mystery man holds your gaze for a second longer before he stands from his seat pulling the gun away from you. You watch with wide eyes as he leaves, disappearing into the night.

He didn’t shoot you. The clip could have been empty. You can’t convince your legs to move, to follow him and make him answer your questions with the use of your own very loaded gun. Heart pounding away behind your ribs, you’re frozen in place.

You don’t trust the cab that takes you back to the sweat stain that is your motel, but you don’t really have another option. Your phone, too, is compromised—you’d made the rookie mistake of making contact with your cell. The room door stays bolted once you get inside. Then you take the remote of the complimentary TV to your screen, smashing it to pieces.

Dragging your luggage out from the closet, you toss everything you’ve brought inside. Shattered bits of glass litter the linoleum flooring. You were set to leave tomorrow morning anyway. The departure couldn’t come any sooner.

Tears flood your eyes, fear and pure embarrassment ripping through your chest. How could you be so stupid? So unthinking and hopeful, it disgusts you. You’ve wasted three months of your life on this.

All of that time and work for what? A man from a million lifetimes ago, who one day calls you friend and the next refuses to pick up the phone? Marcus used you and you let him. Leaped at the opportunity. Enjoyed it, even.

When the sun comes up, you vacate the dingy motel room, tossing your old phone battery in the pool on your way out. You don’t cry on the way to the airport, or on the plane back to America. It takes all of your will not to stain the fabric seats of the Queens cabbie that drives you home. You stay bottled and composed.

Inside your place, everything is just as you left it. The wine glass is still in the sink, the dishwasher stashed with clean plates. And yet the world feels different somehow. You feel different.

Dropping your bags at the door, you stalk through the apartment to your room. Under your bed sit boxes of files, all copies of what you took from the Justice Department. You yank them from their place beneath your bed frame, almost spilling paper across the floor.

You haul them to your living room window, stepping onto the rusting fire escape. The first box turns over in your hands. Hundreds of pieces of paper fall into the Dumpster below or get caught in the wind, floating away. You repeat the process with the second box, leaving a mess on the pavement.

In the kitchen, you sit down at the tall glass expanse of your counter. Your mom made you buy a cordless phone for the place when you first moved in, assuring you that it’d come in handy. Right now, you can’t help but agree.

You dial Marcus’ number, knowing it like the back of your hand after months of staring at it with no answer. This time is no different. The phone rings and rings. Marcus doesn’t pick up. You stopped leaving messages a while ago, but this time you wait for the dial tone to end.

“I don’t know who you think you are, or what leverage you may have had… But I’m done. Done, Marcus. You drop this bomb in my lap and walk away when I handle it in a manner you disapprove of? You leave me to follow a trail that’s cold, and set me up to become another corpse in a Brazilian morgue somewhere! I won’t do it anymore. You can take your story and your justice and shove it up your ass.”

You breathe heavy into the phone, collecting yourself. “This is the last phone call from me you’ll ever have to ignore. What a relief that must be,” you say. “Don’t ever contact me again, Marcus.”

It’s icy for late February. D.C. is only the slightest bit warmer than New York at this time of year, the snow melting into grey sludge quicker than the Big Apple. Yet somehow, the White House briefing room is about a million degrees. Fanning yourself with the silk of your blouse, you wait amongst the gaggle of other reporters and journalists for the president’s press secretary. You don’t have a speaking seat yet, but you’ve only been on this assignment for a couple weeks.

You remember watching President Bush unveil the renovated room in the mid-aughts on television, picturing it as a grand theatre. But no, it’s a crammed little room without enough chairs for the number of people they delegate to it, so here you are standing in the back rubbing shoulders with a writer from the Washington Examiner. Still, it’s the White House. How many people do you know who’ve been inside the White House?

You’re watching the press secretary, lithe and airy at the podium in her off-the-rack from Saks Fifth Avenue. She’s getting questions about the president’s new education bill—a topic that your readers couldn’t care less about. Foreign policy, tax legislation, land use laws—you wait for her to get to the good parts. Rich people want to know if the country is going to war so they know where to hedge their bets. They don’t want to hear about inner city kids getting a boost in the classroom.

An hour and twenty minutes pass before you’re released, hearing from the FEMA administrator and the secretary of education. Before you can leave, you hear someone call your name. A woman stands at the edge of the room, almost like she's trying to bleed into the fabric of the curtains and disappear. She's small in stature, the stiff blue fabric of her dress settling awkwardly over her shoulders.

"Do I know you?"

She clears her throat, standing a little taller. You're now noticing the large envelope under her arm.

"I'm an intern for Marcus Pike. He told me to give this to you."

She hands you the envelope, heavy in your hands. Before you can thank her, she disappears into the escaping flood of journalists. You look at it, swiping the pad of your thumb over the sharp corner. Discreetly, you slide it into your purse and follow your colleagues out of the press room.

You know that whatever Marcus has delivered to you via mousy blonde messenger is something you definitely shouldn't have. Your heart speeds up inside your chest, heels clicking against the floor a little too hard, a little too loud. The sky over D.C. is grey as always, but a welcome change of scenery from inside.

This rental car is your office, your living room, and your safe place all at once. Getting into the passenger seat, you lock the doors and put your purse on the center console. You stare at the leather, waiting to see if it explodes or if a SWAT team converges on the vehicle. When nothing happens, you pull the envelope from your bag, undoing the metal clasp at the top.

Inside is paper. A lot of it. A thick stack of fresh white pages stamped with bold, black printer ink. You scan over the first page, trying to figure out what it is you're looking at. At the bottom is a small pink sticky note, Marcus' loopy scrawl written in blue pen: Don't say I never do anything for you.

You bite back a sour laugh, peeling the note up and stuffing it into your pocket. Then your eyes are back to reading the words on the page, piecing together dates and times, people and places. A flight log.

Dozens of them, going back almost five years. A name you've become quite familiar with in the last few months adorns every one. Francisco Morales. Yahtzee.

At the back of the pile are pages and pages of minutes. A series of disciplinary hearings that resulted in a pilot’s license suspension for Morales. From the look of things, it was reinstated shortly after only to be revoked again two years later for the same reason: drug possession.

Francisco was given a mandatory stint in rehab. The facility is redacted from the paperwork, but it doesn’t take you too long to track it down. Some place called New Beginnings Medical Hospice in Austin. Of course, the lady on the phone won’t give you answers.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” she says, no trace of a southern accent in her voice. Must be a Texas transplant. “We cannot give out information on any patients, past or present. We have a confidentiality clause.”

“I hear what you’re saying but—” Oh fuck it. “As I said, I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Morales’ insurance company. We’re having trouble tracking him down for billing of his fees, and this was his last known address.”

You know never said who you were, and certainly not that you were with his insurance company at the beginning of this phone call. You also know the woman on the other end of the line will zero in on the fact that this man apparently owes them money and completely ignore the discrepancy. It’s not your first choice in journalistic strategy, but beggars can’t be choosers here.

She coughs up the address easily. Somewhere in Lubbock, Texas the answers to all of your questions is sat on his ass in a trailer park. Francisco has been there the whole time. Only four hundred miles from your parents’ place, right under your nose. If you didn’t start laughing as soon as you got off the phone, you’d cry.

You’ve got all you need: the man and the myth. One flight to Preston Smith International, and you might be able to figure out the legend.

The city of Lubbock is small, but not too small. Insignificant enough that someone looking for something, someone like you, would glance over it unblinkingly. You figure that’s why Morales chose it. Property records show that his new lease to the park lot started about eight months ago; two months before Marcus put you on his trail.

Maybe he’s hiding. Maybe—and you try to expel these thoughts as quickly as they materialize—he really did it. Maybe they all did. But Marcus doesn’t think so, and you would like to have more hope in these men than that. Guilty people run, but so do the scared. Those who don’t have much left to lose; who want to hold onto what they have left. It’s not like the government is all right and fair here.

Honestly, you aren’t too sure what to think. You know that you have to know. Whatever happened, whatever story is here, you need to find it. So you found Francisco.

The trailer park is located right at the outskirts of town. You can drive through the populous area end to end in under twenty minutes, but the ride out to the Morales place is a good fourty-five. The warm weather has you sweating, forehead damp as the truck’s windshield does little to hide you from the sun. Adjusting to the temperatures here compared to chilly D.C. gave you a bit of weather whiplash. That’s Texas for you.

There’s not much to look at out here. Grass, a few sparse trees. The past three billboards have advertised some beer brand you’re sure tastes like wheat piss. Your eyes almost glaze over at the scenery. The next billboard coming up finally catches your attention.

LOOKING FOR A SIGN? This is it!

It straightens your spine a little, unglued your shoulders from the driver’s seat as you pay attention to the road. Oddly placed, here in the middle of nowhere. It is, in fact, a sign. Could be something else for you, too.

Rolling into Muddy Creek Mobile Residence, half of the trailers look abandoned. Beer cans and newspaper pile up at the steps, garbage bags left out for the elements and wildlife. Francisco Morales’ registered lot sits at the back of the park. Things look fairly tidy from the outside, meaning someone still lives here. With any luck, it might still be him.

You take a moment to walk around and circle the trailer. Every window has the curtains drawn. Not a single way to see in. A part of you wants to get back in the truck and wait him out. Drive back to the airport entirely.

There’s no way to calm your nerves. After months of buildup and being left on the hook, it’s now or never.

Climbing the few steps up, you sigh to yourself. “Maybe he’ll just…”

You deliver three sharp knocks to the door, then take a step back. The seconds stretch on painfully, wind blowing up dust behind you until finally—

The door jerks open with a creak of its hinges. You recognize the man behind it immediately from the surveillance photos you are holding.

“Hi there,” you say.

“You sellin’ something?” he asks.

“No. Actually Mr. Morales, I was hoping—

“I’m not interested,” he grumbles, moving to shut the door in your face. You jam your foot between it and the doorway before he can.

“Mr. Morales, I’d just like a moment of your time,” you say, the words rushing out of your mouth.

He presses against the other side of the door harder, slowly crushing your toes. “Not interested. Now get your foot out of my goddamn door—”

“Why would the U.S. government have a reason to draw up a warrant for your extradition?” you ask.

You know it’s the only thing that will catch his attention. You’d been hoping to lead into it, lull the man into a sense of personable security before you sprung the trap on him. He stares at you now, the door ajar, his mouth slightly agape. Maybe that’s why they call him Catfish.

“Excuse you?”

“I’m here because the government is currently in communications with the Republic of Colombia about your extradition to South America. Along with,” you pull out your pocket notepad, reading off what you’ve scribbled there, “Santiago Garcia, and William and Benjamin Miller.”

“This isn’t funny.” His voice is low, timbre rough as gravel. “How could you know that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say. “The fact is that I do. And whatever you did in Colombia? The government knows too.”

“Why are you here?”

You open the file folder under your arm, pulling out the blurred picture. “This is you, right?” Francisco doesn’t have to nod for you both to know it is. “I’d like to help you, if I can.”

#frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #frankie morales fanfiction #pedrostories #pedro pascal #fic: revisionist history

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cyborg-franky · 1 year

Note

Hey Franky, how are you?

I adore your style of writing. I confess that I'm not a big fan of Marco... Sorry, it's not really that I hate him, just that for me, he's a bit like a protective big brother

So, I'd like if possible (and if requests are open) a one shot or hc (it's up to you) on Marco who's kind of a brotherly figure for a reader who just got out of celestial dragon slavery and if you could add Ace and Sabo (more about Sabo) since he hates nobility, I would like to see how he would react (in a love context) or just how he would like to protect her or something

if you take for Sabo as the reader will become his girlfriend, it will be an nsfw towards the end

Thank you very much, and have a good day. Take care of yourself ☺

Thank you so much! and yeah I know Marco can be a choice bless him.

I don't write female reader and I'm not doing n.sfw atm so I hope you still enjoy this!

Platonic Marco Platonic Ace Sabo x GN Reader TW: Ex slave mentions. ACE LIVES AU

Marco

Thanks to Marco you didn’t have the searing brand for the rest of your life, you’d escaped before the awful thing had healed and marked enough on its own and you were forever grateful for the older man.

Marco tended to treat you like a younger sibling. Always sitting with you when you were alone, helping you get into the swing of things. Helping you make friends and fit in with the rest of the crew.

“Ready for your trip with Ace?” He asked as he sipped his drink and you shuffled the deck of cards, munching on a piece of pineapple, sharing Marco’s evening treat as you started to deal the cards.

“Yeah, I think it’ll be nice.” You said with a nod, popping another piece of fruit into your mouth, seeing the lazy smile on his lips as he looked at you fondly.

“You both better not get in too much trouble yoi.” He warned, giving you a friendly nudge and you rolled your eyes.

“Would you say that to anyone else or am I special?” you asked and he just gave you a knowing smile.

“Alright! What are we playing kiddos?” Marco and you both looked up seeing Thatch come and join you both.

You enjoyed playing cards with them, you enjoyed how Marco had taken you under his wing. You had a feeling the normally laid-back zoan had told Ace he had to be on his best behavior.

Ace

The next day you were packed and waiting for Ace.

You had a feeling he was having a prolonged and last-minute goodbye with Marco. You leaned on the rails and sighed, staring at the bright blue sky, watching fluffy white clouds gently sail past, wishing you were already on the road to adventure. Excited by getting to ride on the striker with Ace.

“Sorry about that,” You turned and saw Ace, seeing the sheepish expression on his face as he itched his neck, his bag slung over his shoulder before he walked past you.

“Ready?” “Yeah!”

You had no idea this thing went as fast as it did, you gripped the sides for dear life as Ace let out a cackle of amusement at seeing your hands white knuckle. You couldn't even close your eyes, flying across the sea, bouncing over the waves.

“Acccceeeee!”

“Relax! I got this, I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, don’t worry!” You leaned back and stared at his grinning face, how he winked at you.

He had been the one that found you escaping the Celestial Dragons, he’d brought you back to the ship, to Marco for help.

Ace had been the one that stayed at your bedside while you healed, while you ate and got your strength back.

You'd tried to thank him over and over but he’d always simply said “What are big brothers for?” and ruffled your hair.

Sabo

Meeting Ace’s brother had been more than a surprise to you.

He was handsome, scars and all.

Maybe he dressed a little silly but it oddly suited him.

He’d introduced himself to you, holding your hand a little longer than was necessary for a handshake and it had made your heart race, beat faster in your chest as he spoke to you.

How you soaked up his voice, how you wanted to spend time with just Sabo. But you also didn’t want to get in the way of Ace and Sabo’s brotherly bonding time.

So when Sabo knocked on your door, the room you were staying in while you and Ace were here, you were a little shocked not to see the familiar freckled face.

“Where’s Ace?” You asked and cocked your head to one side, half expecting him to jump out.

“I thought it would be nice to get to know one another. If that's alright…” You tried not to nod your head so fast and give away just how cool you were about that.

Sitting on your bed, drinking cheap wine he’d brought out of wooden cups someone in the base had made themselves. It was simple, humble.

“Ace said you were an ex-slave..” The tone in his voice, the fire in his eyes when you nodded.

“I can’t wait till we burn their city to the ground, get revenge for everyone they messed with.” He balled his hands into fists. You watched as the anger washed over him, even if Ace wasn't his brother by blood you could tell they shared alot of views.

You placed your hand on his knee and offered him a small smile. “I’m okay now though,” “I’m glad, I’ve really enjoyed meeting you..”

Maybe it was the cheap wine, the dim lighting in the room, or just how much passion Sabo had running through his veins, his sense of justice but you were so utterly taken with him that you couldn't stop yourself leaning up and pressing your lips to his.

Marco and Ace were going to have alot to say to you and Sabo when they both found out you’d started a relationship…

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pedroscurls · 9 months

Text

Third Time’s A Charm (Part 17).

Character(s): Frankie “Catfish” Morales and Reader (female, second person POV) Summary: Frankie settles his divorce with Victoria, and he asks you a very important question. Word Count: 4,545 Author's Note: I just want to express my gratitude for everyone that has read, commented, and liked this story. Truly, it means so much to me. This story was so very special to me (and my first ever Frankie Morales multi-chaptered story) and I can’t wait to write more of him. We’ve got an epilogue left and this story will come to an end... I’m sad to see it end, but excited to see what other stories I write for this character. (also this is the ring if you wanted to see what it would look like) Warning: smut!!! (truly just very sensual p in v sex)

Frankie was exhausted. Finally, after six months of hell with Victoria and her lawyer, they had finalized their divorce. Frankie no longer wanted to fight with her, settling on allowing her to keep the house and everything else that came with it. He wanted to cut ties with her, to just start fresh in this new chapter of his life, and he didn’t want any reminder of her or the memories they shared. That isn’t to say that Victoria made it easy. In fact, the past six months were brutal with her bringing up the fact that he was an addict who was currently on probation. It hurt; she knew exactly where to dig the knife further and further until he couldn’t take it anymore.

But whenever Frankie wanted to react, wanted to scream and yell and tell Victoria how much of a bitch she was, he held his tongue. He kept quiet, only speaking to his lawyer and addressing Victoria when it was absolutely necessary and he noticed how it angered Victoria when she realized that she wasn’t going to get the reaction out of him like she had planned. That, at least, satisfied Frankie. To know that Victoria was no longer going to win, that she didn’t have any power over him like she used to, and it gave Frankie the confidence to keep showing up, to finalize this divorce so that he could continue on with his life and never have to look back.

The day the divorce was finalized, Frankie immediately called the guys to tell them the good news. He knew he should have called you first, but he had other plans in mind that required Benny, Will, and Santiago’s help. He climbed into his truck, letting out a relieved breath as he removed his tie and undid a few buttons at the top of his shirt.

“Congratulations, hermano,” Santiago said over the phone.

“Thanks, Pope. I feel like a brand new man.”

Santiago laughed. “So, what’s next?”

“Can you and the rest of the guys meet me? I’ll text you the address.”

“You’re not going home to celebrate with the missus?” Santiago teased.

Frankie chuckled. “Not yet. I want to do something first and I need your guys’ help.”

“Is it–”

“Just meet me, Pope.” Frankie smiled. He hung up the phone and sent the address to Santiago. Frankie pulled out of the parking spot and began making his way towards a store that you always liked to visit. He had told you months before that he didn’t want to waste anymore time and now that his divorce was finalized, Frankie wanted to make it official. He knew what your answer would be, but he wanted to make it meaningful, wanted to show you how much he truly loved you, and how excited he was to move forward with you as his wife.

Wife. It brought a smile to his face. You had always been the one that lingered in the back of his mind. The first time you two were together, Frankie was overwhelmed and truthfully fearful about how much he felt for you– he had fallen for you so fast and so hard and he hadn’t ever felt that way before. To this day, he still couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have you in his life. You were so kind, so understanding and with such a big heart that he constantly wondered what good karma he did in his life to deserve you. Of all the things he had done, he never truly felt like he deserved you.

You were so good and he was just… not.

But you always made sure to show him just how special he was. You always looked at him with such soft and warm eyes that Frankie never wanted to disappoint you, never wanted to hurt you; he wanted to be a good, and better, man for you.

He knew that being in a relationship with him wasn’t easy and that dealing with someone like him took a certain kind of patience and empathy, but with you? It was easy. You never put any pressure on him to talk about the things that bothered him, never told him to just get over it… Instead, you constantly reminded him that you weren’t going anywhere, that you’d always be by his side, even if it meant that it hurt you. You were his anchor, his light at the end of the tunnel… You kept him grounded and reminded him that while days can be tough, you were still going to stick by his side no matter what, and that always brought him comfort.

As he pulled up to the jewelry store, he saw Benny, Santiago, and Will leaning against their cars. With a smile on his face, Frankie pulled into the spot next to them and climbed out of his truck. He removed his suit jacket, now clad in just suit pants and a white button-up with the buttons undone at the top and the sleeves folded to his elbows.

“Fish, congrats, man,” Benny said, pulling him into a hug. “We’re so happy for you.”

“Thanks, Ben,” Frankie smiled, giving the younger man a hug and pulling away. “I want to do this right and I want you guys to be part of it.”

“We’re gonna get the most perfect ring,” Benny winked. “She’s gonna love it.”

“And we already got her ring size,” Will grinned.

“You have an idea of what you’re looking for, Fish?” Santiago asked.

Frankie smiled and nodded. “Yeah, I’ve got an idea. Let’s head inside.”

Once the four of them stepped inside, one of the workers approached them with a smile. Frankie let out a breath as he looked around the display cases, biting his lower lip.

“Hi there,” the woman said with a smile. “Is there anything specific you guys are looking for?”

Frankie looked at her and nodded. “A 1.5 carat oval diamond with an 18k yellow gold band? Maybe with some extra small diamonds on the band too?”

The woman smiled. “Of course, follow me.”

“You put a lot of thought into this,” Benny teased. “1.5 carat? 18k yellow gold?”

Frankie rolled his eyes, followed by laughter from Will and Santiago. “I just want her to have the best.”

“We’re just teasing,” Santiago laughed. “I mean, we didn’t even come with you the first time around.”

“I didn’t put much thought into that one,” he admitted. “But I want her to look at the ring and just–”

“We get it, Fish,” Will smiled. “She deserves the best of the best. If you know what you’re looking for, it makes this a bit easier.”

Frankie smiled, watching the jeweler pull out several choice rings to display in front of him. He bit his lower lip, looking at each one intently until one caught his eye. The moment he looked at it, he imagined it sitting on your finger and a broad smile lined his lips.

“That one’s perfect.”

The woman smiled and gently handed it to Frankie. The guys were all standing near him, looking over his shoulder at the ring that was now in Frankie’s hands. It was delicate, not too over the top, but was flashy enough to show just how beautiful and special it was. It was perfect for you and Frankie nodded to himself.

“That’s– She’s gonna love that one, Fish,” Santiago smiled.

Will nodded in agreement. “Oh, she’s definitely going to cry.”

“Because of the ring or because Fish is gonna propose?” Benny chuckled.

“Probably all of the above,” Will smiled.

“Es perfecto, hermano,” Santiago said.

“I think so too,” Frankie smiled. “Can we get this one?”

“Of course. What’s her size?”

Frankie looked over at the guys.

“Six and a half,” Benny said.

“Do you guys have that right now or would we have to place an order and pick it up at a different time?” Frankie asked.

“Let me go and check.”

Once the worker left, Frankie smiled and looked down at the ring. “If they have it in her size, I’m proposing tonight.”

Santiago grinned. “How are you gonna propose?”

“On one knee?” Frankie replied.

“Okay, smartass,” Benny laughed.

“I was thinking of taking her to the beach,” Frankie smiled. “Maybe during sunset and then just… Asking her to spend the rest of her life with me.”

“Always the secret romantic,” Will said with a smile.

—

Frankie walked into the apartment and saw you in the kitchen, pouring yourself a glass of water. He let his eyes rake over your frame, taking note of your casual loungewear of shorts and one of his t-shirts. He smiled to himself; Frankie always loved seeing you in his clothes.

“Hermosa,” he called out, walking towards you.

You looked up at him and smiled, bringing the glass of water to your lips. “How’d it go, my love?”

Frankie wrapped his arms around your frame, pulling you to him. You set aside your glass and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “I’m divorced. Officially.”

“So, it’s me and you from now on?”

Frankie nodded. “Last chance to back out.”

You rolled your eyes playfully and leaned up to peck his lips. “Not a chance. You’re stuck with me.”

“Oh, you promise?” He grinned. “Because I kind of like the sound of that.”

“Kind of?” you said with a pout.

Frankie let out a quiet chuckle and kissed your forehead. “Maybe just a bit.”

“Fine, I’ll take it,” you teased.

Frankie smiled, pulling back to look down at you. “Look at you, wearing my shirt.”

“Mmm, I like wearing your clothes.”

“I like seeing you in my clothes, hermosa.”

You bit your lower lip, bringing your hands to rest on his chest. You tilted your head and leaned up on your toes to place a soft kiss on his lips. “Keep that up and we’re gonna have to go into the bedroom.”

Frankie grinned against you, his hands resting on your waist. “Can I take you out first? To celebrate?”

“You sure you don’t wanna stay in?” You asked, pulling back from him. “I don’t mind–”

“How about we grab some burgers and head to the beach?”

Your eyes lit up and a broad smile lined your lips. “And watch the sunset?” you asked.

Frankie nodded. “It’s been a while since we’ve done that and I figured–”

“Yes,” you interrupted. “Absolutely, yes.”

“Let me get out of these clothes and then we can head out.” Frankie placed a gentle kiss on your forehead before pulling away from you. “Can you wear this though?”

“What? Shorts and your shirt?”

Frankie nodded with a smile. “Please?”

“Only because you asked so nicely,” you chuckled. “And because it’s comfy.”

“I’ll bring a sweater for you in case you get cold too.”

“You just want me in all your clothes, huh?”

Frankie laughed. “I’d very much prefer you without any clothes, but–”

“Okay, get ready or else we’ll never leave.” you said with a smile, gently pushing him for him to turn around and make his way to the bedroom.

While Frankie was changing into much more comfortable clothes, you let out a relieved breath. You had seen how the effect this divorce had on Frankie; some days were rougher than others, but only because Victoria made it a point to make it difficult for him. You could see that he was constantly in thought, especially on days where he would come home quiet and to himself. Part of you had wanted to confront Victoria and tell her to grow up and deal with this like an adult, but you decided that she was just a waste of time and she wasn’t worthy of yours.

You had gotten a job a month after losing the one at the university. You were working at a community college, teaching literature to students who were only there for a general ed requirement. It was different and nothing like what you were used to when you were working at the university, but you were still grateful for the opportunity to have a job, still teaching a subject that you loved. It also helped that you had Frankie to come home to every day.

You were excited, hopeful for your future with Frankie. It finally felt like all the pieces were coming together, that now you both had the chance to be with each other like you were supposed to be. Frankie always gave you butterflies, no matter what he was doing, and whenever he looked at you, you always felt your heart skip a beat. You knew that he was the man you were meant to be with, the man you were supposed to spend the rest of your life with, and it felt good knowing that you now had the opportunity to be with him, forever. He had practically implied that he was going to marry you and while he hadn’t proposed yet, it still excited you to know that it was going to happen at any moment.

With your back facing the hallway, you gasped when you felt Frankie gently smack your backside. You turned around and looked up at him, biting your lower lip almost instantly at the sight of him. He was wearing a denim button-up shirt with the sleeves folded to his elbows and a dark t-shirt underneath with a pair of jeans, and as always, he was wearing his Standard Heating Oil hat. He smiled at you mischievously and wrapped an arm around your waist to bring you flush against him.

“You slap me again and I’m taking you to the bedroom,” you warned.

Frankie ran his tongue across his lower lip and winked. “Don’t tempt me with a good time.”

You smiled, moving your hands to his shoulders. “How about we get some food, watch the sunset, and then come back home for some–”

“Fun?” he grinned.

“Exactly,” you smiled, pecking his lips. “I love you.”

Frankie smiled. “I love you too, hermosa. Let’s go.”

—

You were both now sitting on the sand with a hamburger in each of your hands. The sun hadn’t yet begun to set, so you both were leaning against each other, taking a bite of your food. You always felt like the beach was a place where you and Frankie went to when the reality of life became too much; the beach and the sunset always managed to keep you both grounded, to remind you both to slow down and breathe.

“I can’t finish my food,” you said with a sigh. “It’s too much.”

Frankie chuckled, finishing his food and taking your burger in his hands. “It’s a good thing I’m here then, aren’t I?”

“It’s why I keep you around,” you teased.

“And here I thought you kept me around because you love me, hermosa.”

“Eh, maybe just a little bit.” you grinned, looking over at him. Frankie chuckled and took a couple of bites of your burger before wrapping it back up to put back in the bag. He wrapped his arm around you, feeling you lean against his side as the sun slowly began to set.

“Thank you,” he whispered, kissing the crown of your head. “For sticking by me, hermosa.”

You looked up at him and smiled, pecking his lips. “I told you I’d always be here and I never break my promises.”

Frankie smiled to himself. The sun was beginning to set and was casting a perfect glow around you and Frankie felt like he had fallen in love all over again. He used his free hand to rest over his pocket, feeling the velvet box inside before he stood up, taking you with him.

“Dance with me?” Frankie asked, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Always,” you smiled. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, swaying side to side with him to the sounds of waves and distant laughter. You were looking deeply into his eyes, biting your lower lip as you leaned up to peck his lips. “I’m just so happy…”

“Me too, hermosa,” he whispered, leaning down to rest his forehead against yours. “It’s always been you… And I’m sorry that it’s taken this long.”

“The things that happened, were meant to happen,” you replied. “Because at the end of it all, we found our way back to each other.”

Frankie let out a contented sigh. “I was so hesitant when Santiago told me he was setting me up,” he said with a quiet chuckle. “I fought him on it for weeks, but we both know how persistent he can be…”

You listened, biting your lower lip as your bodies continued to sway with one another. “Oh, I know it,” you giggled.

“But when I saw you for the first time…” Frankie smiled. “I knew I was done for. Your big eyes looked at me in a way that no one ever had before,” he admitted. “You looked at me like I mattered… That no matter what I had done in my life preceding you, it didn’t define me.”

You felt tears stinging your eyes, staring up at him. “I was so nervous,” you smiled. “You were so handsome and I thought you were way out of my league.”

Frankie rolled his eyes playfully. “You’re the one out of my league, hermosa.” He pecked your lips softly and continued. “Pope knew exactly what he was doing when he set us up,” Frankie chuckled. “Because he knew, before the both of us, that we were meant to be with each other. You’re my other half, hermosa. I’ve told you plenty of times that you make me want to be a better man and I mean every single word.”

You bit your lower lip as you both stopped swaying, still just holding each other and taking comfort in being in each other’s arms.

“And I told you that I don’t want to waste any more time…” he began, pulling away to grab the box from his pocket before he knelt down on one knee. Frankie had removed his hat and looked up at you, seeing the smile lining your lips as you wiped at your eyes.

“Frankie…”

“I can’t imagine my life without you. I’m not going to promise that it’s going to be easy, but I will promise that I’ll be by your side no matter what. I promise to fight for us, no matter how hard it gets. From the moment we met, it was always you.” Frankie then opened the velvet box to reveal the engagement ring he had chosen with the guys earlier that day.

“I love you so much, hermosa. I want to spend the rest of my life with you… I want you to be the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I see when I go to sleep. I want to continue to laugh with you, to cry, to make more memories with you…”

You gasped at the ring, the sun hitting it just right to cast a twinkle against the diamond.

“Yes!” you said immediately. “Yes, yes.” Tears were falling from your eyes as you wiped them away with a quiet chuckle.

“I didn’t ask yet,” Frankie smiled.

“Oh–”

“Will you marry me, hermosa?” he interrupted, staring up at you with those deep brown eyes that you had fallen in love with all those years ago.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you repeated, kneeling down in front of him and wrapping your arms around his shoulders to press your lips against his. Immediately, you moved your lips with his, smiling against him. Frankie had to pull away enough to take your left hand once he took the ring from the box. He looked down at your hand and slowly slid the ring onto your ring finger, smiling instantly.

“Perfect fit,” he whispered.

“I love you,” you said, pecking his lips. You looked down at the ring and smiled to yourself, tears still trickling down your cheeks. It was a yellow gold band with several small diamonds with an oval diamond on topic, sparkling against the setting sun. “It’s so beautiful, Frankie.”

“You like it?” he asked, biting his lower lip.

“I love it, but you know me… I would’ve been happy with anything.”

Frankie smiled, pecking your lips softly before he stood up with you. “I know, but you deserve something as beautiful as you and the minute I saw this ring, I knew it belonged to you.”

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” you whispered.

“Funny you should say that,” Frankie said quietly, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Because I feel the same way and…” he whispered, “I think you saved me, hermosa.”

You bit your lower lip, shaking your head. “You saved yourself, Frankie,” you whispered, running your hands along his arms. “I was just here so you didn’t lose your way.”

Frankie sighed contentedly, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re my dream come true, hermosa. You have no idea how much I love you…”

“Oh, I’ve got some idea,” you teased, lifting your hand to show him the ring. “I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you, Frankie.”

“Let’s go home and celebrate?” he winked, wiggling his brows together.

“Yes, please,” you grinned.

—

Once back at the apartment, Frankie was quick to lead you down the hall and towards the bedroom. His hands were on your waist, peppering kisses along your neck as he pressed himself against you. You leaned back against him, resting your head against his chest to expose more of your neck for him.

You couldn’t believe it. It still felt so surreal to know that you were now Frankie’s fiancée and you couldn’t wait to just spend the rest of your life with him. Your best memories were with Frankie and despite all of the challenges you both faced, you were just so happy to finally get another chance with him.

Frankie’s hands moving underneath your shirt brought you out of your thoughts, feeling his rough fingertips graze upwards to brush his thumbs against each nipple. You arched your back against him, biting your lower lip at the sensation.

“You weren’t wearing a bra?” he whispered against you.

“I never do whenever I wear your shirts,” you replied, letting out a quiet whimper.

“Fuck me,” Frankie groaned, turning you around and slowly lifting the shirt over your head to reveal your bare front. Frankie licked his lips at the sight of you, gently backing you towards the mattress. Once you felt the edge of the bed hit your knees, you fell back onto it with Frankie climbing on top of you.

Frankie moved his hands to your shorts, gently pulling them down your legs until you were now completely naked below him. He pulled back enough to let his eyes take you in, growling at the sight as he stood to undo his pants, kicking them off to the side. Frankie pulled off his denim button up, followed by shirt until he was clad in only his boxers. His manhood was pressing against the thin fabric and he brought a hand down to squeeze himself, his eyes focused solely on you.

“Get over here,” you whispered, parting your legs.

Frankie licked his lips, watching as your spread legs exposed your sex. He pushed down his boxers, letting out a quiet breath at the relieved pressure before he climbed back on the bed, settling himself between your legs. Frankie couldn’t wait; he didn’t want to take his time like he normally did. Instead, he just wanted to revel in the feel of you wrapped around him.

“Frankie, please,” you whimpered, feeling the head of his member brush against your opening.

He smiled, grasping his member and slowly pushing past your folds. Frankie kept his eyes on you, watching as you let out a quiet moan. He saw you move your hands to his chest, his eyes catching a glint of your ring and he smiled to himself, pushing further into you as your tight and warm walls wrapped around his manhood like a vice.

“Fuck, hermosa,” Frankie whispered, his hands resting at either side of your head. Slowly, he pulled his hips back only to push back into you, continuing the slow thrusts.

“Frankie,” you moaned, wrapping your legs around his waist. His slow movements were just as effective as his rough and fast thrusts, but this felt more intimate. Your eyes were locked onto his, the sounds of your moans mixing in with his as the feel of his member continued to slide in and out of your depths.

He lowered himself to rest his forehead against yours, lips brushing against you ever so slightly as his movements picked up. Frankie always loved to hear the sounds of your moans, the way his name escaped your lips; he took pride in knowing that he knew how to make you feel good and now he was going to get to do it for the rest of his life.

“I love you,” he whispered against you, moving both hands to grip your hips as his own drove into you repeatedly.

“Oh god, Frankie,” you moaned as your eyes fell shut at the feeling of getting closer and closer to your climax. Frankie just knew exactly what to say and what to do to get you to the edge of your orgasm and this time was no different. Your bodies moved in tandem with one another, breaths against each other’s lips, moans escaping quietly. “I love you too,” you whispered back, your fingernails digging into his skin at his upper back.

Frankie groaned against you, pecking your lips lightly before he buried his face against the crook of your neck, rolling his hips against yours. His fingertips dug into your hips as he felt your walls slowly begin to tighten even further around his manhood, throbbing against you. He knew you were close, so he gently nipped at your skin along the side of your neck as he pulled out to his tip only to slam into you. He repeated this motion several times, the sound of skin slapping against one another beginning to echo off the four walls of the bedroom.

“Frankie!” you moaned loudly, tightening your legs around his hips to keep him still as you reached your high.

Frankie let out a moan, feeling your walls milk his manhood to his own release. He pulled back enough to look down at you, gripping your hips as he began to quicken his own movements. He watched as your body bounced against his own with his rapid thrusts, becoming more erratic.

“Fuck,” he growled. “Fuck, hermosa,” he moaned, slamming into you once more as he released in your depths. His body shook slightly and he collapsed on top of you, breathing heavily.

You smiled to yourself, running your fingertips lightly along your back, brushing against the scratches you left. Frankie shuddered against you and pulled back to peck your lips, looking deeply into your eyes.

“You and me forever?” you asked with hopeful eyes.

Frankie brought a hand to brush his thumb across your cheek and whispered quietly, said quietly, “Forever, hermosa.”

---

Epilogue.

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