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luxurychristmaspudding · 4 months

Text

Pickup Truck

summary: frankie hates your boyfriend. in fact, everybody does. but he’s willing to give him a chance. you’re his best friend, after all.

until frankie discovers something he can never forgive.

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

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

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

wc: 9.8k

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

Frankie really doesn’t like your boyfriend.

Scratch that. Nobody does.

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

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

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

Not until last week, anyway.

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

And how do you get out?

Walk you home to see

Where you're livin' around

And I know this place

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

It’s his favourite moment of the night.

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

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

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

Frankie loves you.

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

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

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

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

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

And then you’d met Tanner.

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

‘This is me.’ You say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pour yourself on me

And you know I'm the one

That you won't forget

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boyfriend. Boyfriend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in your denim eyes

I see that something's awry

And I see you’re weak

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yeah,’ you say, ‘He’s okay.’

Frankie’s jaw twitches, his stomach clenching uncomfortably.

‘Just okay?’ He asks.

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

‘Yeah,’ you shrug. ‘He’s good.’

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

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

And he hates himself for it.

When he comes around

I see you're fixin' to shine

And my face won't speak

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

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

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

Over your shoulder, Frankie exchanges a look with Santi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Frankie knows Jessa won’t take you shopping.

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

So worried, they tell you.

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

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

‘You’re right. You’re right.’

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

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

Hate to be so emotional

I didn't aim to get physical

But when he pulled in and revved it up

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

And in the moonlight I throwed him down

Kickin', screamin' and rollin' around

A little piece of a bloody tooth

Just so you know I was thinking of you

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He whirls around to the other man and spits -

‘Who the fuck are you?’

Frankie almost laughs, too. Almost.

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

‘Santi’s one of my friends.’

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

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

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

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

‘Pope.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Boy, fun bunch you are.’

You look at him through your eyelashes.

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

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

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

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

‘Well, well, well.’

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

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

Tanner hasn’t noticed, but everyone else has.

The awful unveiling of your last secret.

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

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

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

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

Frankie gets to his feet, slowly.

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

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

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

He expected the wrong war from a soldier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trembling misery

And as cold as a hole

I hug your bones and skin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Please stop apologising.’ You whisper.

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

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

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

He closes his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

‘You think I love him?’ You croak.

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

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

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

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

You blink up at him through red, swollen eyes.

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

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

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

Crackling wood’s gone white

And my eye swole up now

I can see the light

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And finally, he begins to cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re here.

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

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

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

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

You look up at him through gorgeous, glazed eyes.

‘I want to,’ you say, ‘Do you?’

Dangerous, dangerous question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I love you,’ he says.

‘I love you, too,’ you giggle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Pinky promise.’ You say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Good?’ He asks, quirking an eyebrow.

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

And Frankie does not need to be told twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You manage a nod, a broken whine escaping you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile lazily at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A little piece of a bloody tooth

Just so you know I was thinking of you

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

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trickphotography2 · 4 months

Text

Santa's North Island Delivery Service

Stuck at work, Bradley is missing his daughter's first Christmas Eve. But when the squadron decides to turn the hanger into Santa's Workshop, the pilot is able to sneak away to spend a little time with his girls. (Inspired by a true story; Rooster x Reader Christmas fluff)

Word count: 2.4K

Ao3 | Masterlist

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Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw was officially having the worst Christmas Eve. Not only was he stuck at work doing absolutely nothing, he was missing his daughter’s first Christmas Eve.

With his boots kicked onto his desk, he leaned back in his chair and scrolled through the photos you’d sent him throughout the night. At eight months old, Bennett was too young to really know what was going on, but it didn’t make it suck any less. He wanted to see her lying under the tree, colored lights reflecting in her eyes. (He’d already set that picture as his home screen.)

“Hey, Lieutenant?” A knock on his door drew his attention, and he looked up to see Petty Officer Second Class Wagner, one of the head mechanics, standing there.

“Yeah?” Rooster said, sitting up. Even though he outranked the enlisted man, Wagner was one of the most respected non-commissioned officers in the squadron. To cheer up the men stuck working the night shift, he’d organized a movie night after doing a Christmas movie bracket throughout the week - National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation had barely edged out Die Hard.

“You got anything at home that needs to be assembled before going under the tree?”

“Huh?”

“Any gifts for the kiddo that need to be put together? We’re getting a list of stops together for the trucks.” Rooster gave him a confused look, which made the man chuckle. “We’re bored, so we figured we’d set up some presents for everyone’s kids in the hangar. The first group of guys are heading out now to get stuff, and then we’ll swap.”

“Oh, uh… yeah, I think there’s a couple things. Let me check with my girlfriend.” With a nod, Wagner left, leaving Rooster to stare at his phone. After a moment, he called you.

“Hey, babe,” you said, answering on the third ring. He could hear babbling in the background.

“Hey. Have you started getting things together to go under the tree?”

“Not yet. We’re just finishing up bath time, and then we’re gonna get cookies out for Santa and go to bed, aren’t we, Benny girl?”

“Any chance you can hold off for about an hour?” Bradley asked, unable to keep from smiling at the sound of his daughter giggling.

“Are you getting off work early?” It was hard to miss the sound of hope and excitement in your voice, and he hated to dash it.

“No, but I’m gonna run home and pick up some stuff.” You hummed.

“Okay. I’ll try and keep her up. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Alright, love you.”

“Love you too.” Hanging up the call, Bradley dropped his head and tapped the phone against his forehead. It was only your second Christmas together and the first as parents, and he was already missing things. You’d assured him it was okay and that you understood that his job sometimes meant spending time apart, but he hated it.

“You’re a mean one, Benny Grinch,” you sang, gently bouncing your daughter as she howled. Letting your head fall back, you blew out a long breath. The crying fit couldn’t last forever.

Though overly tired, she was fighting against going to sleep. It was a nightly battle, but one that Bradley usually helped to fight. You’d learned early on that he had what you lovingly called the Sleeper Hold - the minute Benny was tucked into her father’s arms, her eyes would start to close. Shifting her onto your shoulder, you glanced at your watch and sighed. As much as you wanted to wait to finish the bedtime routine until Bradley got home, it was getting late. “Alright, sweetie,” you cooed, grabbing your water bottle and retreating to the nursery. “Let’s get settled in.”

With the white noise machine and night light on, you settled into the rocking chair and lifted your shirt. Benny rooted for a moment before latching onto your nipple, making you inhale sharply at the pinch. Digging your toes into the carpet, you gently rocked back and forth, holding your daughter’s gaze as she ate. “Merry Christmas, Bennett,” you whispered, stroking her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed as she grunted. You closed your eyes, comforted by the warm weight of your daughter in your arms and the tugging at your breast.

“Hey.” The soft, raspy voice roused you from the trance you’d fallen into, and you lifted your head to see Bradley standing in the doorway.

“Hey,” you replied sleepily. His long legs ate up the space between you until he was beside you, leaning down to press his lips to your forehead. The familiar scratch of his mustache had your eyes fluttering closed again.

“She done?” Bradley asked, a large hand coming down to cup your daughter’s head.

“Should be soon.” At his touch, Benny startled from her doze, suckling hard and squirming.

“You need anything?”

“The sleeper hold in a minute to finish her off.” In the dim lighting, you saw Bradley grin before he leaned down again to brush his lips against yours.

“I can do that.” As if on cue, Bennett released your breast, her breath a soft pant against your tender skin. Without a word, Bradley took her and settled her on his shoulder, patting her back. “Hey, Benny, were you good for mommy tonight?” He paced the nursery as you reached for one of the breast pads and cleaned up. When a loud burp sounded, you heard him chuckle. “That’s my girl.”

You took a moment to appreciate the sight before you - your boyfriend in his tight khaki uniform cooing to your daughter as she rubbed her face into his shoulder to fight sleep. “How long do you have before you have to head back?”

“I’ve got about thirty minutes,” Bradley replied, turning on his heel to face you while pacing the room. “Benny girl, the sooner you go to sleep, the sooner Santa comes.”

“I’m not sure she’s old enough for that bribery to work yet.” His grin blinded as he kissed the back of her head, lightly bouncing her.

“Gonna be fun when she is. We’ll track him with NORAD and everything.” Shaking your head, you stood and kissed both of their cheeks.

“You get her down, and I’ll start pulling out the gifts.”

“Put aside anything that needs to be put together or wrapped, and I’ll take it to the hanger. Apparently, that’s what we’re gonna do for the rest of the shift.” With a mocking salute, you left the nursery to the sound of him humming a lullaby.

Ten minutes later, Bradley crept out of the nursery with the baby monitor in hand and joined you in grabbing the presents stashed around the house. The Daggers had dropped off their gifts throughout the week, and your family had mailed theirs. The craftsman that you’d helped Bradley purchase when he moved to North Island didn’t have the best hiding spots - it wasn’t exactly something he needed when you’d been his real estate agent - but with Benny so little, it was a problem for the future. “I think we may have overdone it,” you sighed, setting an unwrapped toy on the couch. The floor by the tree was already covered with wrapped presents.

“Nope, just enough,” Bradley chuckled, opening his arms. With a scoff, you stepped into his embrace, smiling as he swayed you. A dark spot decorated his shoulder, and you gently wiped away your daughter’s drool. “Gotta spoil my girls.”

“I really hope you kept to our budget for each other.” When he stayed silent, you pulled away and cocked an eyebrow. “Bradley Bradshaw, you stayed within the budget, right?”

“I stayed within our Christmas budget,” he answered, his hands gliding down your back to cup your ass as his mustache tickled your throat. “Love you, baby.”

“I love you too. Now, help me get all of this stuff under the tree. Did you want to do her stocking?”

There was a whoop, and Bradley turned to see three guys crouched on the hanger floor cheering as they played with a racetrack. Another corner had been designated as the bike assembly space, an array of tools spread on the ground. One of the card tables had been dragged out from the break room, and it was covered with popcorn and an assortment of cookies.

Unsure of where to go, Bradley walked towards a few other officers standing in the corner. “Hey, Rooster,” Captain “Taco” Bell said as he neared. “We were just talking about ordering pizza for everyone. Would you throw in?”

“Yeah. Does anyone know if there’s a system here, or does it just go wherever?”

“Wagner’s in charge,” Payback shrugged, nodding towards the NCO helping assemble a kitchen playset. “You got stuff for Benny?”

“Just a few things. Brought some of the smaller stuff to wrap, too.” The two men quickly went to the Bronco to unload the gifts. Setting them in a pile with a couple of rolls of wrapping paper, they quickly assembled the play sets. A few other guys drifted by, helping to slot the plastic pieces together or offering to help wrap. Boxes piled up on one end of the hanger, and a sign-up sheet for folks who had larger gifts at the house that needed to be assembled was passed around. It looked like at least six families were getting swingsets or trampolines. Bradley idly wondered about setting up a swing in the backyard in the summer. In the meantime, he assembled the small slide that would be perfect for the living room.

The pizza arrived around 10:00PM, and there was a quick break. As they sat around the hangar, the Santa letter exchange happened. Wagner supplied blank papers with a printed Christmas border, and the parents swapped letters for others to write the replies. “This saved my ass one year,” Wagner shared. “My middle daughter was starting to question Santa, and boom - different handwriting. Got her for at least another year.”

Around midnight, the squadron split into three sections - one to stay back and clean up the hanger, and two to deliver gifts and set up the presents. Bradley packed up his gifts and put them into the back of the Bronco. He was joined by three guys to set up a trampoline. Aided by headlamps, they were able to get it done in about an hour with only a few pinched fingers in the process, which was worth it to test it out.

A trampoline was added to the Christmas list when Benny was a bit older.

After touching base with Wagner, they headed to the second house to set up another trampoline before returning to the hangar. The third team left to assemble a swingset while they settled in to watch Die Hard for their last two hours on shift.

Tucked away in his office, Bradley set about wrapping his last present.

“Benny girl, look here!” you cooed, trying to get your daughter to look as you snapped pictures. Sitting in her father’s lap, she slapped the present in front of her and shrieked. Bradley laughed, quickly shifting his hold to wipe the drool from his wrist onto his sweatpants before retrieving his cup of coffee. Even with just two hours of sleep, he wasn’t willing to push back Christmas morning. After taking a sip, he set the mug down and took Benny’s hand, sliding it under the paper seam. Her hand flew up, ripping the paper.

“Good girl!” he chuckled, helping her tear the rest away to reveal stacking cups. It took about an hour to get through the presents, trading off the baby to get pictures.

A small stack of presents surrounded you as Bradley opened his new electric razor. “Thanks, baby,” he said, crawling across the living room floor to kiss you. With one hand on Benny’s stomach to keep her upright in your lap, you cupped his cheek and ran your thumb along his scars.

“You’re welcome, babe. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.” Pushing onto his feet, he quickly shoved the wrapping paper into the trash bag and ran a hand through his hair. “That looks like almost everything.”

“Unless Santa left something somewhere in the back of a closet, it looks like we got it all.”

“Hang on,” Bradley said, reaching around the back of the tree and retrieving a small box. “Looks like we missed one.” Holding it up, he glanced at the gift tag. “To Mommy, from Bennett.”

“What?” Grinning, he sat down across from you and offered you the box, holding out his arms for the baby. A quick glance confirmed it was Bradley’s handwriting on the tag. “What’d you get me, Benny?” you asked, smiling as your daughter laughed when her father tickled her. Lifting it to your ear, you shook it gently and heard it rattle. Tearing away the paper, you laughed at the kid’s jewelry box. The ballerina twirled when you opened it to reveal a bunch of plastic necklaces, rings, and bracelets. “Oooh, fancy! I know what I’m wearing today,” you laughed, quickly putting on a pair of clip-on earrings and a necklace.

“There’s a note,” Bradley said, leaning down to press his lips to Benny’s head. He looked a bit nervous.

And there was. Buried under the plastic was a folded-up piece of paper. Your mouth fell open when you read it.

I couldn’t get you jewelry this year, but Daddy could.

With wide eyes, you looked up to see Bradley grinning at you. “Open the drawer.”

Slowly, you pulled the handle to reveal a diamond ring. “Bradley?”

“Will you marry me?”

Later, when Bennett was asleep and the baby monitor was tossed onto the couch, Bradley watched the Christmas tree lights dance across your face as he took you apart slowly, savoring your taste. The ring sparkled on your finger when you pressed a hand to your mouth to muffle your moans as you shook apart under him, thighs bracketing his ears.

Kissing his way up your body, Bradley paused to suck on a tender nipple, groaning when your nails raked his scalp. The tree shook when he continued his ascent, knocking the lower branches as he tried to reach your lips. “Fuck.”

Laughing, you lifted your head to meet his gaze and wiped your thumb along his mustache, feeling your arousal coating the coarse hair. “Merry Christmas, Daddy.”

“Merry Christmas, Mama. Now get out from under the tree so I can unwrap my present in bed and fuck you properly.”

-------------------------------------------------------

Author's Note: This was inspired by my dad and his squadron when we were stationed in Japan. He had to work overnight Christmas Eve and they ended up making a run to everyone's house on base to pick up gifts that needed to be set up. I definitely believed in Santa for another year when I didn't recognize the handwriting on the letter the Christmas morning.

The jewelry box and note are also pulled from real life. Dad went remote for a year (he was over in Korea and we were stateside) to ensure that we got orders to Florida, and came back just in time for Christmas. My sisters and I got mom the fake jewelry (we were all in high school/college) while Dad got Mom a new necklace.

Thank you for reading my (late) self-indulgent Christmas fic! I hope you enjoyed it, and my first foray into writing Rooster. And a major thank you to @mamachasesmayhem for encouraging me to write this, even if she's just dipping her toes into Bradley and would have preferred it to be Jake 😂

#bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #top gun #top gun fanfiction #top gun x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster fanfiction

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undercoverpena · 9 months

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the day frankie meets you

frankie morales x f!reader | resurrected chances

summary: a chance meeting or event is one that is not planned or expected. set after the events in Colombia, single-dad Frankie meets "Pretty Girl" at one of Benny's fights. kick-starting a second chance at happiness he'd long since abandoned.

wordcount: 3k themes: mentions of past drug use. relationship falling apart (not the one with reader). fluff, falling in love, second chances. dad!frankie (so mentions of a child) and use of nickname pretty girl/PG, but no other use of name or y/n.

an: this is a series that isn't a series. you can follow along with updates, but they won't be uploaded in chronological order, but will all be connected (muhahah).

For a long time, Francisco Morales had felt like he was drowning.

Sinking into mud he can’t pull his boots out of. Drenched in regret he couldn’t shake from his shoulders.

It felt worse when he landed back on home soil—wrapped itself around him as he clapped his hand on the backs of men. The rain hammered down as they all said their goodbyes, soaking their civs to their skin.

It tightened its hold when he stepped through the threshold of his home. People greeted him as he placed the bag down. Her (and her vast smile), family—and the friends he’d made because of her—cheering at his arrival. Them all swarming, patting and wrapping him in affection and words that never quite land.

Frankie would smile until he didn’t have to.

And then the darkness knocked, and the sadness crept over him.

The moon high, the house silent. It all worsened as he thought of the decisions he should have made—the calls he should have shouted earlier. The men, and their faces, the ones he can’t stop seeing when he blinked.

Then his nose vanished the white powder. Just once. Merely to forget.

And then he did it again a few weeks later. When they’d been fighting, and she’d gone to bed alone.

He hadn’t heard her come to fetch him, discovering what he’d been doing off the top of a CD album—her favourite one too.

The pattern of loneliness continued as he lost and he lost, his grip on his life being tugged from his fingers—even as they turned pale from how hard he held on.

Happiness appeared at his door, but he was never in time to answer. Just missing it, forever chasing. The echoes of it banging circled his skull.

Then, he was born. His light, his reason. All wide-eyed, little nose—hair that shifted into curls and a smile that could rival the sun. A beacon, hope, and the warmest of days all wrapped into one tiny bundle of joy.

His little cries never fazed him. He was awake anyway. Frankie all content to bring him close, bask in the scent that was all natural to him, patting his little back and listening as he hiccuped against him.

He should have put his foot down when Pope asked.

Dug the heel of his boots into the ground—doing so—until pain shot up his calf, right into his knee. He didn’t. Instead, he agreed. Nodded—thought of his little one having a room full of stuffed toys and days out with him on his shoulders.

But, then it rained worse in Colombia.

Soaked him to the bone, made a home in the osseous matter, becoming a part of him as it all frayed. But then, it had done so before he left.

She held their little one, glaring at him like he’d burned her: do not do this—an ask that was more a demand. The crumbling edges of what the two of them could have been fraying further, almost unrepairable—the little one babbling, not realising he’d been born into fracture.

If you go…

Frankie never did allow her to finish her sentence, but he knew.

Had felt it in the air of their home.

It all further chipping at the cracks in his heart as he pushed his aviators up his nose, listening to Benny harp on and on about buying cars and trips to Vegas.

No one asked, so he didn’t tell—didn’t share that he wasn’t happy with his lady, that his purpose for doing it was solely on the baby they managed to create in the brief times they didn’t despise one another.

Whatever ruin he’d left their relationship in before he left had worsened by the time he returned. His grief, guilt—and sea of other things—pressed down, almost taking pieces of his height, as well as his confidence.

He was lonely in a different way then.

Standing in an apartment with little to his name—some boxes with Sharpie scratches on, dull walls which needed more than just a lick, and a mattress he’d managed to barter for. The only time he wasn’t lonely was when he picked him up, his reason, his sun, his Luca.

Friday to Sunday every other week, Frankie didn’t think of rain, foliage or Tom. He learnt to make things go silence his mind. He thought of him, focused on him—the little thing he made, loved, adored.

And in between, he worked on his room.

The one that was the largest out of the two, restoring bits and pieces he could find in groups and selling pages, so when he grew up, he didn’t think his dad was the fuck up that he actually was.

If Frankie is out in public past sunset, it's because of Benny.

In the years since the four of them had gotten back, it was Benny who stayed the most in touch.

Will texted, called when he could, his job keeping him on the road, picking up pieces of accents to confuse them all when he returned.

Pope was Pope—both around and not all at once. A text here, a visit there.

It was on Benny’s insistence he’s now in a packed-out room tonight. The air all tinged with fragile masculinity and sweat, as bells rang and people jeered.

He had wanted to ask why he’d begun again, having stopped for a short while when he met her—Ena, his fiancé. But Frankie never got the chance.

Instead, Benny’s arm—hands already wrapped in preparation—came around his shoulders, pulling and turning him in as Frankie fought a grin at another one of the Miller hugs. He doesn’t quite hear him, the crowd choosing the moment to bellow, but as he tuned in as hard as he could, he manages to follow the odd word, and begins to piece bits together from: glad— here—just, wait.

He’d been about to question, clarify, when Ena came into view, and behind her….

You.

Frankie is told your name three times.

Once by Benny, straight into his eardrum.

Second by Ena: clarification added, such as my best friend and to be nice (as if he’s anything but).

Third by you—hand outstretched, sleeves off your jacket rolled up, exposing several bracelets on your wrist that jangle when he shakes it.

Then, you’re suddenly both alone. Benny being all busy, pulling Ena away, practically vibrating with puppy-like energy as she shakes her head and he stares back, grinning.

Seconds build, him taking a sip of his drink, before you clear your throat and say:

“So, do you come often?”

His brow arches almost entirely on its own. His mouth twisting, the edges lifting into a smirk.

Even if Frankie knows what you mean (your question being about the fight—to Benny fighting), it’s hard not to hear it as a line. Something you must also catch onto because your eyes widen, lips curling similarly to his own, and then you whisper: shit.

And he laughs.

Low, throaty—almost like it’s coated in dust from how long it’s been since he has done. In a way, it likely has. It comes from somewhere different from the laughs Luca pulls from him, the ones born from his little movements and toddler oddities.

Before he can even unravel how sad that is, he hears your laugh join the mix—all soft, light and sweet. It makes his ears burn under his hat and curls, your eyes looking around before landing back onto him, making the same heat flood his cheeks.

He waits for it, the tension. Remembering all too well what meeting someone new is like—memories of being introduced to Luca’s mum returning. But, it doesn’t come. The tension never arrives, not slamming into the two of you.

Instead, you talk.

Tell him how your friend invited you to watch her fiancé have his face smashed in—your words, not his—and that you had no other plans so said yes.

To his surprise, he shares too. He tells you how he served with Benny, taking a large sip to fill the silence so you don’t ask him about it.

If you can tell, you don’t mention it. Choosing to begin muttering other things and questions—little things—like who is your money on, what do you do? and his personal favourite, do you think the large man walking out currently knows what the lyrics to his walkout song mean?

With each one, Frankie relaxes and even answers. Interjecting his own, his mouth close to your ear at times, allowing him to capture the scent of your perfume—all jasmine and wisps of vanilla—as you gaze into his eyes as though you’re trying to see into his soul.

He’d let you.

It’s the first solid thought he has when he thinks it, arriving before he realises how dry his throat is, how warm it is under his jacket and shirt—the crowd around them all of a sudden silent, as though they’d been turned down for a moment. Before it all rushes back, overwhelmingly so.

“Do you want another drink?” you ask, pointing to your empty cup—the plastic bending under your thumb and fingers.

He blinks, swallowing. “Think I should be the one buying you one.”

Shrugging, you smile—more playful than anything else. “If you continue to keep me company, I may let you buy me one back.”

It takes Frankie a minute from when you’re out of sight to realise he’s grinning, bringing his own cup to his lips, draining it in one swoop.

You weren’t long, back by his side in under ten minutes.

(Not that he was counting.)

He makes quick work of his phone, stuffing it back into his pocket as he takes the plastic beer from you, fingers lightly brushing yours, pretending he doesn’t feel the flickers of electricity shoot up his hand.

“Guess what?”

Tilting his head for you to continue, he takes a sip of his drink.

“Even if I was given a perfectly good name by my parents, pretty girl is the name the sweaty man—“ your finger pointing to the man licking his lips across at the bar. “—at the bar has given me.”

Frankie grits his jaw—it tightening almost on command.

“I’m flattered, obviously.”

The corners of his lips smirk as you lean a little closer.

“I also kinda told him I’m with you. Which I mean, I am on the one hand, but I implicated it in another way,” you add, staring up at him. “I… I hope that’s okay—he just really gave me—“

Your words fade, fall off into non-existence, because he wraps his hand around your waist. Pulling lightly until your hip nudges his, fanning his fingers out as he watches your eyes fall from his face and your smile seeps into your cheek.

“S’all good, pretty girl,” he says, smirking—watching as your lips curl into one not too dissimilar to his.

Then you’re staring ahead, and Frankie follows suit. Watching from your places as the people around the ring—the ones jumping and raising their arms—begin really shouting, before he feels you wince, flinch and then lean back, his hand tightening on you as one man begins to take punch after punch—

You drag yourself from looking, body almost curling into him, eyes landing on his face.

And it bubbles, the thing he feels he should have said conversations ago. The face from his phone screen sitting behind his eyelids. It burning, clagging in his throat, eroding a hole in his throat—

“I have a kid.”

He had hoped to say it with more tact.

The thought running around his head, whipping, pressing down on him—nipping at him to tell you. As though by not saying it earlier, he’d committed some crime.

Your face blinks, expression smooth—unreadable—before your brows rise slightly, and your face illuminates. “Oh! How old?”

“Three. Almost three—next month.”

You grin. “Do you have pictures?”

He does. More than a few. Something he comments under his breath, and you manage to hear, curling into him even as his hand drops from yours to grab his phone.

It’s easy to tell you about him.

Even if he usually keeps him like a well-guarded secret.

You listen as he explains how he likes to colour, has begun kicking a ball, how he’s obsessed with the colour yellow—which means often, he has fistfuls of flowers from the park—and his name is Luca.

“He has your smile, right?”

It's instant the way he beams, barely a gap between the two of you as he looks to meet your gaze. “Y-yeah...”

Swiping a finger over the screen, you glance at the next photo, finger ready to swipe to the next photo. “What’s his favourite thing to do?”

“Building a fort in the living room, currently.”

“Fairy lights?”

“Of course, I’m not an animal?”

Grinning, you take a sip of your drink. “Just checking. He’s gorgeous, Frankie.”

He has to bite down on his tongue so he doesn’t tell you that you do too.

“I have to ask—“

“We’re not together. His mum and I. Haven’t been for years. Not since... I’m single,” he interrupts.

Then he watches as your lips slowly close before your lips slide into a smirk, eyes dropping to the ground as you take a sip.

Scratching at the curls under the bill of his hat, until he clears his throat. “That… that was what you were gonna ask, right?”

“No,” you say, lifting your gaze back to him. “I was gonna ask when Benny’s fight is—I’ve… I’ve never been to one of these things before.”

“Oh.”

Smirking, you take another sip. “But, good to know I’m not barking up the wrong tree or anything.”

It’s his turn to smirk, then.

“You’re not. At all,” he adds, staring ahead, feeling your eyes on him.

Then he looks at you from the corner of his eye. Spotting you smiling. Lifting your cup to your lips as you try to hide it in foam and beer.

His throat goes dry, impossibly so.

But not because you’ve moved a little closer, elbow brushing his.

Rather because you have the smallest amount of foam on your lip, and he wants nothing more than to lick it from your lips.

Benny wins.

His eye doesn’t look like it, but he has. Ena tries pressing a cup of ice to it, the shade already beginning to purple, as he watches you animatedly tell her all about the man and his walkout song from earlier.

He knows he’s staring—unable to tear his eyes away. Even as Benny takes the cup from his fiancé, letting her talk to you.

Even on the first prod from Benny, Frankie isn’t able to pull his eyes back, only managing to do it on the third when it’s more a pinch than a prod.

“You good?”

“Yeah, man. You?”

Benny smirks, all knowingly. “She’s a nice girl.”

Frankie says nothing, taking a sip.

“Y’deserve nice.”

“Yeah, yeah. I got Luca, though. And y’know how work—”

“Y’deserve nice, Frank,” he repeats.

It’s said more forcibly, all wrapped in more meaning than the first attempt.

His throat goes dry, nodding—dismissing the other buts he had lined up and instead letting it sink in—allows himself a brief moment to consider that he does too.

Before he watches you hug Ena, before throwing a wave at the two of them.

Something extinguishing inside of him, sinking—like a balloon had popped.

Frankie should move. Wants to. Tries too. His feet stuck to the floor as his tongue doubled and his throat tightened. Needing something, a shove or a shout.

He jolts as Benny slaps him on the back.

“Cheers, man.”

“No problem, go get her.”

Connecting his shoulders to others, he tries to part the crowd. Watching, focusing on the top of your head as you make your way through people to the exit—his pulse quickening, palms growing clammy as he unconsciously wipes them on passersby until the cool air hits him, smacks into him.

“Hey, pretty girl.”

He inwardly cringes. So much so that he tries to turn on the spot, head up at the star-speckled sky as he groans internally.

“Pretty girl, huh?”

You’re grinning. All wide and beautiful.

Your fingers playing with the strap of your bag, the other a button on your jacket—a slight tremble, barely noticeable, except he’s been talking to you all night.

“I just thought, if you fancy—y’know—meeting up that doesn’t require watching someone we know getting bruised, text me.”

Your lips slide into a smile, eyes looking down before you dig into your bag, pulling out your phone before unlocking it. It takes mere seconds, adding his number, saving it—handing it back, allowing you the chance to look at what he’d saved himself as.

“The man who owes you a drink, how cute.”

Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, he laughs. “Well, I do.”

“I’ll call you.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Tipping his head, he whispers goodnight—something you return, all soft and sweet.

His hand all set to yank open the door, it briefly cracking open, allowing the jeers and bar-sounds to escape into the quiet car park as he feels it—hears it.

Frankie’s hand moves to his pocket, pulling it out—a momentary clench of his heart—until he sees it’s an unknown number. Not a hospital. Just unknown.

“Francisco Mor—”

“It’s me... Pretty girl.”

Doing a 180 on the spot, he spots you—leaning against the back of a small car, one he assumes is your own. Your hand lifting, waving your fingers.

“You said to call if I fancied meeting up, so…”

And he grins again for the billionth time since he met you tonight.

an: i love them, your honor. i love them.

huge thank you to G for just being my sounding board, telling me i can do this and constantly being such a rock. this wouldn't be a thing, it wouldn't be fit to be shared, and i wouldn't have fallen so deep without you. i love you.

#francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #✨🩷 francisco morales #frankie morales x you #francisco morales x f!reader #francisco morales x you #frankie morales fanfiction #triple frontier x reader #mm: resurrected chances #frankie morales x f!reader

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batsydoodle · 4 months

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little thing i actually love about superbat is that, since Bruce and Clark both have dark hair and blue eyes, fic authors can't just go ''the blue eyed one'' or ''the dark haired one'' the whole fic. It's more effort to come up with distinct descriptors, sure, but also so refreshing to not have to read a whole fic where a character is kinda named the bitch with blue eyes the whole time

#superbat #bruce wayne #batman #clark kent #superman #nothin wrong with using those descriptors! i love when bruce is described by his pale icy blues but like moderation is a friend here #it's just a little pet peeve of mine where u read a fic and the author pretty much never call the character by name. they got one! use it #benny babble

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tightjeansjavi · 2 months

Note

Jeany! Congrats on one year, baby!

What can I bring to the sleepover? I have punch and pie at the ready.

You know I’m a Frankie girl thru and thru… but what if he was… drunk and handsy (in the best way possible) and maybe we’re not an item yet… but he’s hella interested and the alcohol makes him brave…

Love a little friends to lovers…

Beefro👌🥩💜

BEEFRO!! my darling, mi vida, thank you for sending this in! I hope it’s okay that we didn’t get smutty with it, and the reader was the one who was a lil drunk 🥺

mi vida

~word count: 2.0k~

Summary: Frankie Morales is your best friend and the love of your life.

Pairing | best friend!frankie morales x f!reader

Warnings: fluff, angst, no age gap, language, mentions of drinking and smoking, right person wrong time, best friend!frankie, assumed unrequited love, frankie and the reader are bi, Santi, Will, and Benny exist in this universe but fuck Tom. Me and my homies hate a motherfucker named Tom, happy ending, reader can understand and speak Spanish, reader has no physical descriptions, +18 minors dni!

Translations:

mi vida- my life

querida- darling

hermano- brother

nada de eso- none of that

estoy en camino- I’m on my way

no te vayas de ahí- don’t move

voy a intentarlo- I’m going to try

vamos a salir de aquí- let’s get out of here

The bass in the nightclub is booming, pulsing in your ears and rattling your brain in your skull. Your vodka lemonade has practically watered down to nothing—great. To make matters even worse, your favorite pair of metallic heels keep sticking to the floor—gross. There’s too many people packed in this club, too many bodies, and you realize then that this was a terrible idea.

It all started with your stupid boyfriend—ex-boyfriend. He broke up with you over the phone, babbling pathetically about how he met someone else and how sorry he was. Bullshit. You sucked in your tears, and the remaining threads of your dignity and packed his shit up into a cardboard box and tossed it right down the garbage shoot.

Fuck him.

You weren’t even the least bit sad, no—you were furious. You should have known that he was a tool, just another asshole hiding under a ‘nice guy’ persona.

Did I even really love him? You questioned yourself in the mirror while applying a glitter shadow to your eyelids.

You did, but he’s not— You gripped the edge of the sink, staring at your reflection and the smudge mascara streaks under your eyes.

Frankie is too good for me. He deserves better.

Francisco—Catfish, Morales had been your best friend, your ride or die—your Clyde to your Bonnie, since you were kids.

You grew up on the same block and you remember the first day you met Frankie like it was just yesterday.

His mom sent him over to your house, with fresh tamales in a well loved container held between two clammy palms.

“Hey, I’m Frankie. Welcome to the neighborhood.” He said with a small, boyish grin.

He had the warmest brown eyes you had ever seen, and soon enough your diary was no longer doodles of unicorns, butterflies, princesses and dragons, it was Frankie Morales, and those brown eyes of his.

You walked to school together everyday and soon your duo turned into a little group consisting of three other kids that had become like brothers to Frankie and you.

There was Benny, Will, and Santi; the five of you shared your own stomping ground: the neighborhood playground. And as you grew older…your feelings towards your friends shifted.

You had a minor crush on Santi who found out through Benny and that’s how you ended up going to the movies together one weekend. Santi was a total gentleman, and while you were attracted to him, the butterflies weren’t there. The spark that you dreamed about feeling—was nonexistent. And when he kissed you, your foot didn��t pop up like it did in the Princess Diaries!

Get a room! You’d recognize that voice from anywhere—Frankie.

And low and behold, Frankie, Benny, and Will were all sitting a few seats behind you and Santi who wasted no time to grab a handful of popcorn and toss it at the three of them.

You and Santi decided afterwards that you were better off as friends. Will took you out to dinner once, and the two of you also quickly realized that you were better off as friends.

Benny ended up being your date to the junior prom. It was hard to not be attracted to a guy like Benny. He was smart, funny, and a total goober. He couldn’t dance for shit, but you had fun, and it was definitely going to be a night for the books.

Maybe you and Benny would have ended up together if you hadn’t slow-danced under a shimmering disco ball with Frankie after Benny took a break from dancing. Maybe your heart strings wouldn’t have tugged you in the direction of your best friend, and those big brown eyes of his.

“Are you going home with him, mi vida?” His words whispered against the shell of your ear while one hand rested along your lower back, and the other around your waist.

“Probably” You whispered softly.

You tried to pretend that you didn’t see the way his face fell, and his lips curve into a set frown.

“Good. He’ll take care of you. You deserve to have fun, querida.”

And when the song ended, and Benny returned, you watched your best friend walk away, his arm wrapped around Santi’s shoulders.

It was half-past 5 in the morning when you told Benny about your feelings for Frankie. You were tangled up in his sheets, passing a cigarette back and forth. Benny wasn’t even surprised, he just had this knowing grin on his face.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. We all know how you feel about catfish. It ain’t a secret.” He winked at you reassuringly.

On graduation night you had built up enough courage to finally tell Frankie how you felt, and after downing a few glasses of champagne for some extra liquid courage, you were ready—until you saw Frankie leaned in close to another girl in your grade, and your heart sank to the very pits of your stomach.

You told Santi how you felt about Frankie later that night while sharing a bottle of champagne on the old rusted swings of the neighborhood playground.

He confessed to you that he felt the same way about Frankie, but he was afraid of ruining their friendship and how Frankie would react.

You reached over, gently grabbing his hand in yours and told him, you should tell him how you feel, Santi.

When you went off to college, your four friends enlisted in the military and you weren’t sure if you would ever see them again. Life continued on for you, until you found yourself right back to your roots, and feeling the same way for your best friend as you did years ago. You just did a real damn good job of hiding it from your boyfriend.

So, that’s how you found yourself outside of the women’s bathroom, phone pressed to your ear, the bottom of your favorite heels sticking to the floor, and your thumbnail bleeding because you had ripped out a nasty hangnail with your teeth.

The dial tone rang, and rang and you thought that maybe this was a sign that you and Frankie were never meant to be. That it was all made up in your head, and scribbled in your diary. Maybe Frankie never felt the same way about you as you did for him.

“Mi vida?” his voice crackled on the other line and you imagined he had his hand cupped over his phone so that he could hear you better.

“Francisco,” you breathed, taking a pause as you gathered your thoughts. “I—I need you, Frankie.”

He nearly dropped his phone, lurching forward in his chair from your words. His erratic movements caught the attention of Santi who was sitting across from him in the booth and he raised his brows, mouthing, you okay, hermano?

Frankie was too caught up in the pounding of his heart in his chest, and his pulse racing in his eardrums to even notice Santi or Benny and Will now looking at him.

“Where are you, querida? Are you—safe? I can barely hear you.” Frankie uttered, bringing his thumb to his lips and gnawed on the side of the nail nervously with his teeth.

“I’m at some shitty club. Boyfriend broke up with me—and I ended up here. You don’t have to come, I just—I thought maybe…” you trailed off.

“Nada de eso, mi vida. Is it that same club we tried sneaking into back in highschool? The seedy one?”

“Yeah. The one where the floor is always sticky, and you can still smoke cigarettes.” You stifled a giggle.

“Estoy en camino, querida. Hang tight, okay? No te vayas de ahí.” He said in an urgent tone, gathering up his wallet and keys before he downed the last sip of his beer.

“I’m not going anywhere, Frankie.” You reassured him.

“I know, mi vida. I’ll stay on the line with you, ‘Kay?” He slipped out of the booth just as Santi stood up.

Frankie pulled his phone away from his ear momentarily, holding it against his shoulder as their eyes met.

Santi gave him a knowing a grin, slapping him on the shoulder gently in a half hug, “go get your girl, hermano.”

Frankie hugged him back, wrapping both arms around him before pulling back slightly with a grin slowly tugging over his lips, “Voy a intentarlo, hermano.”

And then there was Benny in the background yelling, “HELL YEAH, CATFISH! GO GET YOUR LADY!”

Frankie stayed on the phone with you the entire walk to the club which evidently was only a few blocks away. You were babbling on about how watered down your vodka lemonade was when Frankie had pushed himself through the mass of bodies all sweaty and sticking together. His eyes locked on your familiar face, right where you said you would be.

“I’m here, mi vida.” He whispered into the receiver before ending the call. He didn’t even have a chance to slip his phone into his back pocket when he felt your arms wound around his neck, pulling him into a hug. You smelled like cheap vodka, and flowery perfume that burned the sensitive hairs in his nostrils but he didn’t care.

“I missed you, Francisco.” You breathed into the bare patch of exposed skin on his neck, hugging yourself to him tightly. “I—there’s so much I want to say—and tell you, Frankie.”

“I missed you more than you can imagine, querida. I never—I’m so sorry…about your boyfriend.” He pulled back slowly so that he could get a good look at your face. He expected you to be a heartbroken wreck, but he was met with the complete opposite.

“Don’t be. He was a jackass, and I don’t think he and I were ever compatible.” You shrugged, eyes never leaving his. “I don’t give a fuck about him. I came out here to clear my head, but then I thought about you, Frankie. “Fuck it!” You laughed, choking back an on-coming sob that you weren’t expecting, “I should have just grown a pair all those years ago and told you how I felt! Fuck—do you have any idea just how in love with you I am, Francisco?”

“Mi vida, you’re drunk—you—just went through a break up, and you’ve had a lot to drink—”

She’s in love with me?

“I should have broken up with him a long time ago, Frankie. There’s a lot of things I wish I could have done differently, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but it’s always been you, Francisco, mi vida.”

She is in love with me.

Frankie brought his hands up to your face then, gently cradling your cheekbones in his palms. “Hey, hey, querida. It’s okay. Shit, it’s okay. You don’t have to apologize for any of that. You and I—we’ve always danced around the subject, haven’t we?”

You nodded and brought your hands up to rest along his.

“Santi told me after we enlisted that you were going to tell me how you felt on graduation night and then never did because—the timing wasn’t right then, mi vida. I thought about writing you a letter at some point, but I never did because the last thing I ever wanted to do was hold you back from the life you deserved, querida. All these years I’ve wanted to tell you—”

You cut him off, pulling his face close to yours, “I love you, Frankie” you brushed your thumb across the heart shaped patch in his beard.

“Fuck—I love you so much, mi vida.”

And then you were both surging forward, accidentally smacking one another in the forehead, letting out a synchronized groan of pain before your lips finally met in a bruising kiss. Your foot popped up behind you as drunk club-goers stumbled past yours and Frankie’s passionate embrace.

You came up for air a few minutes later, giggling as you threw your arms around his neck once more and he held you close, swaying with you as if there was a slow song playing.

“Vamos a salir de aquí, Frankie.” You said breathlessly, carding your fingers through the back of his hair having half the temptation to rip off his baseball cap just so you could mess his hair up even more.

He grabbed one of your hands, bringing it down to his face and pressed his lips to the outside of your hand, looking deeply into your eyes.

“I’ll go anywhere with you, mi vida.”

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professionaljester · 1 year

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synth amelia meeting yes-man like “ROBOT, your pronouns please”

#abc shut it #shoves my companion amelia su into my GFs courier lore bc her courier is a lesbian and someones gotta sleep with benny #and benny is amelias type :/#oc babble

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auteurdelabre · 3 months

Text

Daddy Morales - FINAL Frankie! x F!Reader

Summary: After Frankie breaks things off with you to protect his marriage, you decide to make him jealous at a family BBQ. . . and then you ensure he stays yours permanently.

rating: 18+

tags contain spoilers

tags: Infidelity, Face-Fucking, MAJOR Daddy Kink, Doggy Style, Cock Riding, Nickname: Babygirl, Dom!Frankie, Sub!Frankie, Possessive, Jealousy, Sexual Coersion, Forced Impregnation.

a/n: please don't look at me. This series was finished for the one person who said they wanted the ending. I hope its... okay? Tell me if I missed any tags!

masterlist here

---------------------------------------

Pigtails.

Frankie breaks things off with you for the sake of his marriage and sanity and you show up today in fucking pigtails.

"Hi Mr. Morales," you say when he opens his front door.

Frankie is gobsmacked to see you here on a Saturday morning when he and his family are supposed to be heading out to Will's place for a BBQ.

Two weeks ago he'd called you during the day, his heart in his stomach. He knew he had to break things off. Fucking you in his bed, coming inside you without knowing you were on birth control? He was out of his element, playing with fire.

You'd been upset. Called him a liar. Said he was a hypocrite. You'd also turned down two babysitting jobs at their place since then, citing you were busy at school.

He's deleted everything off his phone that you were on. No more photos of you sleepy eyed in bed kissing him. No more texts of your hand slipped below your panties with xo. He never texted you back and your face isn't shown in the photos so thankfully there was nothing much to scrub there.

It's like this never happened.

He'd been terrified that you'd tell Carmen. For the last two weeks he'd been waiting for her to come storming in, slapping his face and demanding a divorce.

But instead things are calm at home. In his guilt Frankie is more patient with her, listening intently when she talks, he's more loving. He kisses her temple and brushes his hand along her back when she walks by him. He tells her how beautiful she is when she rocks Luca to sleep.

They even fucked last night. Frankie forgot how good it felt to be with someone his age, how loving it could be when they weren't fighting. Carmen made him a husband, a father. She's done so much to make sure she's not critical of him as much. Things are going good, Frankie almost thinks of his indiscretion as a wakeup call.

And then today you and pigtails.

You give a small smirk, looking up at him. You twirl one of your pigtails innocently as he stares at your shorts and tight t-shirt. You're not wearing a bra and he is positive he can see the outline of your nipples.

"What are you doing here?"

"Hi Mrs. Morales," you say ignoring him and looking over his shoulder.

He feels his blood run cold when Carmen approaches with a babbling Luca in her arms.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," Carmen tells you with a smile, handing Luca over to you. Frankie is still thrown, confused as to what is happening.

"What--"

"I thought we should take some time and enjoy the BBQ," Carmen says attempting civility. "Figured if Luca has his babysitter that means we can enjoy some grown up time."

"But I wanted the guys to see Luca," Frankie argues, desperate to find a reason to send you home.

"He will," Carmen says motioning to you holding their son. "She's coming with us."

///

"Fuck, isn't she a pretty little thing," Benny says from behind his beer bottle later that afternoon.

"She is a peach," Will agrees.

Frankie frowns as the men gather around the BBQ giving appraising looks as you bend over to pick up one of Luca's toys.

The day is sunny and warm and swarming with friends and Miller relations. The food is plentiful and the cold drinks close at hand. There's been plenty of laughing and teasing, but when the conversation turns to Frankie's cute babysitter his good mood dims.

Carmen is nearby talking to one of the Miller cousins, laughing. Frankie looks past her to see you laughing as you fly a toy plane overhead of a gurgling Luca.

"How do you leave the house when something like that is just hanging around?" Benny smirks to Frankie. "She always dress like that?"

No.

You're usually in jeans and a casual shirt. Not shorts so high he can see the curve of your ass begin. Not with t-shirts so tight he can see your fucking nipples. And never, never in pigtails. You're doing it to fuck with him. To make him want you and know that he can't have you. You want to punish him for stopping things.

Frankie watches Benny walking over to you, holding out a beer to you. You shake your head, motioning to Luca and probably saying you can't while you're working.

Benny moves closer and Frankie doesn't miss how your eyes briefly flit over to him before turning back to Benny.

"You okay there Frank?" Pope smirks. "Gonna shatter that glass. Things okay with the old lady?"

Frankie holds in a relieved sigh. They just assume you're irritated that Carmen's talking with some guy.

"It's okay," Frankie shrugs. "Getting better."

"Good," Pope asks, his dark eyes losing their humor. "I'm glad to hear it."

"Yeah we're getting back on track," Frankie says, dragging his eyes away from you and Benny.

"Living happily," Pope observes, placing a gentle hand to his friends shoulder and squeezing tightly. "That's what they call winning at life."

Frankie wants to reply but he seems to have lost sight of you in the process of the conversation. His dark eyes scan the space and he turns to Carmen as she approaches him a short while later.

"Where is the fucking babysitter?" Frankie grumbles. "Aren't we paying her?"

"Ease up Frankie," Carmen says handing him a Coke as she holds a sleepy Luca. "She's been amazing all day. She's allowed a break."

Frankie doesn't ease up. He doesn't ease up because he's noticed another glaring absentee amongst the throng of BBQ guests - Benny.

Without thinking Frankie's legs carry him into the Miller house, his heart hammering. Much like in Columbia he enters stealthily, his footfalls quiet as he scans each room. It's when he comes to the main level bathroom door that he pauses. It's closed, and when he tilts forward he can hear Benny's voice.

"You know why they call these handlebars?" Benny is asking, his voice teasing. Frankie swallows the white hot rage that comes along with your giggled response.

"No, why?"

"Lemme show you," Benny says, his voice pitched low. "Why don't you get on your knees, gorgeous?"

Frankie feels his jaw clenching, his hand tightening around the doorknob. He feels jealousy licking at his abdomen when he hears shuffling and the sound of a zipper being drawn down.

"You like it?" Benny asks.

No. Say no.

"Mhmm," you enthuse. "S'pretty."

"It'll look prettier in that mouth of yours," Benny says, voice dipping softly. "Why don't you taste it?"

There's a pause and then the wet sounds Frankie knows so well. It makes his pulse pound furiously in his chest.

"Oh yeah baby," Benny groans. "You're fucking good at that."

You give a breathless thank you before Frankie hears you take him into your mouth again and begin moaning gently around him.

Frankie thinks he's going to dent the knob in his hand by how hard he's squeezing it. His ear is pressed so tightly against the door it aches.

"We gotta be quiet though," Benny says between grunts. "Can you do that?"

Frankie holds his breath as you must pull off Benny once more.

"Yes Daddy."

Frankie sees red.

He shoulders open the door grunting as the cheap lock breaks and it thrusts open. He catches the mirrors reflection of you on your knees with your mouth around Benny's cock. He's gripping your pigtails one in each fist, holding you in place as he fucks into your mouth.

When Frankie comes barreling into the room the two of you break apart, you wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand, Benny hurriedly tucking himself back into his shorts.

"Frankie what the fuck man?"

"She's my fucking babysitter," Frankie says menacingly. "What is wrong with you?"

"She's an adult, man-"

"She's supposed to be babysitting my kid," Frankie spits out, his face red with anger. "We're not paying her to be in here sucking your cock!"

He looks deranged, so much so that Benny actually cowers. He’s never seen Frankie like this, not since Columbia and the horrible time there. When Frankie’s eyes blew black and wide and furious.

"I'm sorry," Benny says. "I'm sorry, Frank."

"Get the fuck outta here."

Benny leaves scrambling and zipping up his shorts. He doesn't even cast a look at you as he rushes out. Frankie slams the door after him.

"And you," Frankie says rounding on you still kneeling on the floor. He expects you to look terrified of his anger but instead you look... Amused?

"Calling another man Daddy?" Frankie grunts out furiously, grabbing you by the back of the neck and forcing you to a stand. He holds you by the scruff of your neck as you smile sweetly up at him.

"I'm sorry Daddy."

"You're gonna be," Frankie growls.

He forces you over to the bathroom sink and pins you between himself and the bathroom counter tugging down your shorts and panties. He doesn't even check to see if you're wet, he just slides himself into your cunt.

"You wanna be a whore?" Frankie spits, cock slamming into you from behind. "Then you're gonna take cock like one."

"Fuck!” you cry out, eyes wide as he tilts you over the counter.

"Shut the fuck up and take it," Frankie orders. "You take Daddy's cock and you say thank you."

Frankie sees your head dropping and he responds by pressing your body further against the counter, watching your reflection in the mirror. His hips are smacking into your ass loudly. You jolt forward over the sink, your hands gripping the counter tightly. You don't know if you love or hate what's going on.

Frankie looks at the back of your head, eyes fixed on those fucking pigtails. He takes one in each broad hand and uses them to tug your head back. Your mouth hangs open slack, eyes on him in the reflection.

"You watch yourself get fucked," Frankie groans, eyes heavy lidded. "You fucking watch Daddy's cock slide into your tight little cunt."

"Yes Daddy," you whimper, you entire body rippling as he fucks himself deeper into you from behind.

"Who's cock do you come on?

"Only yours."

Frankie looks possessed, his teeth clenched tightly as he fucks you. "Who's mouth?"

"Yours, Daddy."

"That's right."

You begin to moan now as his cock hits a particularly good spot within you. Frankie winces, thinking if someone else decides to come into the house they’ll hear you.

"Being too loud babygirl," Frankie pants out. "Gotta make sure that mouth is full."

He pulls out of you roughly. You give a small whimper of surprise before he's turned you around and forced you on your knees. You don’t hestitate to submit, your eyes bright and gleeful as Frankie unravels in front of you.

"Open," he orders and you comply, eyes glazed. Your mouth opens widely, tongue out enticingly. Frankie smiles at how eager you are. He takes his thick cock in hand, tapping it against your tongue.

"You don't call anyone else Daddy, do you understand?”

You nod, about to say something when he thrusts his cock between your lips and starts fucking hard.

"You belong to me," Frankie tells you darkly, hands wrapping around your pigtails once more to hold you in place. "This mouth only sucks my cock."

"Ylesh Dahnndy," you garble around his cock.

His cock comes popping out of your mouth and he strokes vigorously, his cheeks stained with red. You’re breathing deeply, swallowing before his cock thrusts back between your lips, fucking your mouth until your eyes water. He does this over and over until saliva drips down your chin and your face is wet with tears.

Only then does he pull out, panting so heavily he feels dizzy. You look wrecked, eyes half-open and mouth swollen.

"I missed you, Daddy," you tell him with a hoarse voice.

"Missed you too babygirl," Frankie pants, feeling lightheaded. He strokes a thumb along your lower lip. "You're doing so good for Daddy."

You beam up at him, kneeled at his feet. Frankie continues stroking his cock, picking up the pace.

"Want you to fuck me hard Daddy," you tell him, your hand replaces his. You give ginger licks to the head of his cock as you continue to jerk him off. “Finish inside me.”

"We've been gone too long already," Frankie insists, even though his cock continues to thrust into your slick palm.

“I think you wanna fuck me,” you say, pausing to take off your shirt. Frankie watches those luscious fucking tits free themselves to the air, groaning as you stand naked and waiting for him.

"Need you deep," you say as you fingers slide between your legs. "Need to come on Daddy's cock." You kneel there at his feet, touching yourself and moaning.

"Baby please," Frankie murmurs, but he's already stepping out of his jeans and stepping over to you. “We should stop.”

"You really wanna stop, Daddy?" you say with an oily smile up at him, fingers working between your legs. "When my pussy is this wet and tight for you?"

Frankie makes a strangled noise in his throat before he drops to the ground next to you.

"No baby. Please let Daddy fuck you."

You smile when he urges you onto your hands and knees on the tile and begins to slam his hips into your ass with vigor. It makes a loud, clapping noise.

"This is so wrong," Frankie whimpers, hating that the knowledge is turning him on this badly.

He watches your hips flexing as he fucks you from behind. The reflection of the shower door shows him your tits bouncing with every thrust. Frankie feels his balls tighten when you glance over your shoulder, jerking with every thrust from Frankie.

"Tell me I'm the only girl you wanna fuck."

"You are," Frankie promises you, eyes half-lidded. "Only wanna fuck this perfect pussy."

"Prove it."

"How?" Frankie starts to babble, feeling that tingle at the base of his spine. "I'll do anything."

"Leave your wife," you groan, feeling his cock nudging your g-spot over and over. "Leave your wife and you can have me. You can fuck this perfect cunt every day."

“Christ,” Frankie moans, his back damp with sweat as he fucks into you.

"You wanna leave her," you insist, ass bouncing against his hips. “I know you do.”

You both dissolve into moans and grunts for the next several seconds, Frankie pulls you up by the waist until your back is balanced against his front. He fucks up into you, grunting into your ear.

"Yes, I wanna leave her," Frankie says if only so you'll keep squeezing his cock like that. "This is the only cunt I wanna fuck."

"Finish inside me," you whimper, arching further for him as you feel his hips start to stutter under you. "Finish inside me and make me yours, Daddy."

"Yes yes yes," Frankie hisses pulling you down against his twitching cock. "Gonna make a mess of y-"

The door bursts open just before he can finish his sentence, startling Frankie enough that he pulls out but not before he comes, pearlescent stripes decorating your ass. He groans out loudly as he comes, draining his cock onto you.

"Frankie what the fuck?"

Frankie snaps out of his lust filled haze long enough to see Carmen at the door to the now opened bathroom door with a sleeping Luca in her arms. She looks at the babysitter kneeling away from Frankie, ass coated in come. She looks at her husband's red cheeks and softening cock.

He's about to say something, anything, when you suddenly start giggling. Frankie is horrified when you crawl up into his lap and start grinding against his flaccid cock.

"What are you doing?" Frankie murmurs, his heart going wild in his chest. You look completely composed however, almost irritated at the interruption. He feels you loop your arms around his neck and continue rubbing your pussy along his cock.

Frankie darts his eyes to his wife's face as she watches her husband's cock swell to life and her babysitter slowly lower herself onto it. Carmen is horrified, stuck in spot as she watches her husband start to grind up against the woman in his lap.

“What the fuck is wrong with you two?”

Frankie hears Carmen and goes to turn his head, but your hands have come to either side of his face to stop him. You force his eyes to you, rising and falling as you take his cock further.

"Don't stop," you murmur, your pussy moving up and down his cock. Frankie's eyelids flutter, confused why his cock is so hard inside you when Carmen has caught you. Why it still feels so good when he’s been caught.

"She's seen-"

"Let her watch," you say, mouth on his neck sucking sweet little love bites into his throat.

“We need to stop.”

Frankie whimpers as you smile, pressing a long kiss to his damp mouth. Then you're lips graze his ear. "Let her watch Daddy fill up his babygirl with cum."

Frankie lets out a desperate moan, his hips jerking upwards, hands smoothing over the globe of your ass.

"You need Daddy's cock to come."

“Yes,” you breathe, pressing your forehead to his as he continues fucking you. “Yes, I do.”

And suddenly despite everything, Carmen feels like she's interrupted something. Like she's the one who is in the wrong and not her husband fucking the babysitter. It mutes her, leaves her frozen and staring as Frankie pulls you harder down into his lap.

Frankie's face is pink, his mouth parted, your body still covered in his spend as you start to fuck yourself on his cock.

"Don't have to be quiet," you whisper against Frankie's sweaty cheek. "Let her know how good this pussy feels, Daddy."

Frankie feels the whimpers escape him when you trace your tongue along the lobe of his ear, whispering how good he feels, how big, how much you want his come. Frankie feels his head tilting back, ragged moans escaping him.

"See how he fucks me?" You call out to Carmen over your shoulder, hips rolling over Frankie's as he holds you. "He fuck you like this? He makes these noises for you, Mrs. Morales?"

"You two... You two are fucking sick," Carmen yells before she's fled from the room in disgust.

"I'm sorry," Frankie cries out after her, his eyes sorrowful even as he pistons in and out of your dripping cunt. "I'm sorry!"

"Don't be sorry," you tell him, arching back and fucking yourself on his cock faster and faster. "Don't be sorry, Daddy. Just fuck me hard. Just focus on that."

There is a relief. The knowledge that there's no more lies, no more sneaking around with a pit in his stomach.

Living happily. That's what they call winning at life.

But as he thinks of Carmen storming away with tears in her eyes and Luca in her arms, Frankie can't help but think that winning feels a lot like losing.

"I should go after her," Frankie pants, his cock throbbing inside you.

"No Daddy," you soothe, pulling yourself up so he can hold you while he fucks you. "You stay right here."

He doesn't stop. He can’t. Any choice in the matter is gone the second your cunt clenches around his throbbing cock. How is he still so fucking hard? His hips continue to snap against your ass, pulling you both closer and closer to orgasm.

“You’re mine,” you growl, milking his cock harshly. “All mine Mr. Morales. And I’m gonna make you a Daddy again.”

Something about how you say that causes a chill to go through Frankie. He narrows his dark eyes on you.

“What?”

Frankie feels his hips slowing as you giggle, breasts bouncing as you ride him, spurring him to continue. His hands are still around your hips, but they loosen.

“I’m not on the pill,” you tell him with a simper. “And I’m ovulating today.”

It’s as if only now Frankie is seeing the crazed look in your eye, the almost feral way you grin as you ride him, as if you’ve won a coveted prize.

And he realizes for the first time that there is something deeply frightening about you.

Before he can pull from you, he feels your climax hitting you, causing fresh arousal to soak his throbbing cock and bringing him deeper into your cunt. His balls tighten and his thrusts go fast and deep. You cling to him, thighs parting so you can take him further, murmuring that this one will stick, that you’ll be the most perfect wife for him.

It's too late to stop. Too late to throw you off. He's coming, he's coming fucking hard. He empties himself deep into your pussy groaning loudly as you cry out for him to make you a Mommy.

When he’s spent you both rise on rubbery legs, pulling on your clothes. You’re chirping about how he’ll move in with you, how he’s already left quite a few things at your apartment already.

“We’re gonna be so happy Frankie,” you say, throwing your arms around him and kissing him soundly. “You’re the best Daddy and I’m gonna be the most amazing Mommy.”

He holds you loosely, his entire being still in a state of shock, his eyes drawn to his stunned reflection in the mirror. He looks at you serenely tucked against him and he sees his own dark eyes slowly filling with tears.

I know. I'm sick.

#frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie friday #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie catfish morales #dark story

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justafandomgvrl · 4 months

Text

Carollers

Santiago Garcia x Reader

Word count - 500ish

Flufffff. Santi is a hot dad.

You answer the door as the bell rings repeatedly, your three month old son in your arms. Your glare fades into a smile when you see Benny, Will, Gracie and Frankie all dressed in Christmas sweaters and hats.

“You guys have never rung the bell before. All of you forgot your keys?” You tease. Benny sticks his tongue out at you as Santi joins you at the door. The three men and the five year old girl begin to sing terribly but it seems to make Alex smile and anything that makes your son happy is good enough for you. He giggles excitedly and all the singing stops. Your son’s first laugh and it's because of three dopes and one kid dressed in ugly jumpers and butchering Christmas songs. Your eyes light up and you gesture for them to continue, Santiago squeezing your hip as he watches Alex grow even more giddy. Santiago looks at you as Alex plays with your hair and even though he didn’t think it was possible, he falls even more in love with you.

When the four are done singing, they pile into your house. Benny kisses the top of your head, Will kisses your cheek, Frankie kisses your temple, and they all coo at Alex on the way past. Gracie hugs your legs and begins to babble excitedly about her first Christmas with ‘her baby brother’. Santiago closes the door, rolling his eyes in fond exasperation. You pass Alex to Frankie as Gracie demands your attention. Santiago watches Frankie and Alex with concern that he knows he doesn’t need but he can’t help it. Frankie and Santiago disappear into the kitchen and your brow furrows, hating not having Alex in your sights. Gracie squeezes your hand.

“Daddy is good with kids. Alex’ll be okay for a few minutes.” She mumbles and you smile at her.

“When did you get so smart?” You whisper, taking the comb she offers you and she slides to sit in front of you, sitting as you begin to comb through her hair and hum a lullaby to her.

“So, how are you keeping up?” Frankie asks and Santiago grins, taking Alex and cradling him.

“I didn’t know if I’d be a good dad, Fish. But there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. And… well, she’s the best mom I’ve ever known.” Santi says and Frankie grins at him as Alex babbles incoherently. “You want your mama, huh? I get it, I can’t stand to not be with her either.” He looks up at Frankie again. “It’s hard, sure. But it’s amazing.”

When they re-enter the room, you look up and smile at Santiago holding Alex, Gracie’s hair split into multiple braids. Santiago eases Alex back into your hands and when he watches your eyes light up as you whisper to him, he knows he has everything he’s ever needed. Benny and Will grin at Frankie as he sits with them and you put on a stupid Christmas movie to keep Gracie occupied.

#mj’s christmas list #santiago pope garcia x you #santiago garcia x you #santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia #santiago pope garcia #oscar isaac #oscar isaac characters #drabble

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ktwritesstuff · 6 months

Text

Nothing Else Matters (a Triple Frontier shifters AU) Chapter 5

Title: Nothing Else Matters Fandom: Triple Frontier Rating: Explicit Characters & Pairings: Reader x Triple Frontier Boys reverse harem style Word Count: ~2,000 Summary: Things with Santiago reach their boiling point.

Content Notes: rough sex, a little d/s with shifter dynamics, etc.

Chapter Five

After three days, Will’s fever finally broke. Arrangements were made to have Tom’s remains cremated and returned to the states. And then there was the matter of the money: five million and change. Split five ways it wasn’t enough to live on even if you spent the rest of your days as misers. To hear that Santiago’s woman got two million of her own left you seething, but still you put on your best dress and got Luna ready to go to the bank with the others to finish the paperwork.

You sat at the back of the room as the accountant explained the processes and fees. Luna cooed and babbled, excited by the novelty of being out of the house for the first time in weeks. At just over seven months of age, she had a few word-like sounds in her lexicon, like ba-ba and da-da, but you were still waiting in eager anticipation for those bona fide first words.

When the time came to sign the contracts, Will asked for his share of the money to be included in the trust for Redfly’s family. You don’t know what you were expecting. Will saw himself as the noble warrior, doing right by his fallen comrade, but still your eyes went dark. Of course, Benny followed his brother’s lead, signing away his share of the money as well.

You rose from your seat, approaching the table to stand beside Frankie, balancing his child on your hip as you leered down at him. He pointedly refused to meet your gaze as he crumpled up his set of paperwork before scrawling his name on the family trust documents. Luna could tell you were upset, pulling at the neck of your dress to try to get to your breasts. You pried her hands away and she whined loudly in protest.

“Are you serious right now?” you moved in front of Frankie as he made his way to the door.

“Don’t,” Frankie warned, stepping around you.

You let him go, returning your attention to Santiago.

“I hope you’re happy,” you said, looking down at him. “You destroyed our lives.”

At the end of the table the accountant cleared her throat, as if reminding you of her presence would persuade you to reconsider the awkward exchange.

If Ironhead were there, he would have torn you a new asshole for challenging Pope in front of an outsider. Whatever disagreement you had with Santiago was pack business.

“Shame on you,” you snapped.

You stormed out of the bank, buckling Luna into her carseat in enraged silence. Frankie started the car and you rode back to the safehouse in the same heavy quiet. You regretted that Frankie was hurting, but you didn’t worry about him. He would come around, he always did. It was Catfish’s nature to blow up then calm down. Things would return to normal until the next cataclysmic event.

More pressing was your realization that Santiago was intent on leaving. Soon. That was the only reason he would insist on imploding your relationship with Frankie before Redfly was even in the ground. He wanted it out in the open before he rendezvoused with his human and her millions.

Parking the car, Frankie tried to come around to take Luna out of the back seat, but you snarled at him, forcing yourself between him and the car door. He backed down, trudging up to the house after the others without another word.

“Come here, baby,” you said, unbuckling Luna and lifting her out of her carseat. “It’s just you and me against the world, isn’t it.”

You felt like your family was falling apart before your eyes. Santiago would leave again, and then what? Will and Benny would be useless without someone to give the orders. Frankie would backslide, God forbid relapse. If Santiago thought he could just implode your family over out of stubborn self-righteousness and disappear back into the desert, he had another thing coming.

You put one hand on Luna’s head and pressed your nose into her baby-fine hair, soothing yourself with her sweet milk and powder smell.

In the house, the boys lingered quietly in the front kitchen, as though the gravity of the past weeks had finally set in. Tom was gone and so was the money. Sooner or later, in all likelihood, some very bad men were going to come looking for it. The person you usually counted on to figure these things out was dead and now there was nothing left but to forge ahead without him.

“Congratulations, boys,” you announced bitterly. “You should all be very proud of yourselves.”

“We got Lorea,” Santiago said, leaning heavily on one of the kitchen chairs.

“Of course,” you mocked. “After years of training, the best shifters in the world managed to achieve their ultimate goal: killing one guy. And let’s not forget the consolation prize, a measly five million dollars.”

“It’s enough to take care of Tom’s girls,” Benny said.

“I am so sick of hearing about Tom’s daughters,” you said. “Hell, even Santiago’s whore got her cut!”

You paced the room in agitation.

“What about my daughter? Who’s looking after her future? Certainly not her deadbeat father—can’t even be trusted to do the one thing he’s good at.”

It was a cruel thing to say, too cruel, and you knew it. Frankie shook his head, but said nothing. It wasn’t him you were trying to provoke anyway.

“You need to remember your place,” Santiago warned you.

“So do you!”

If it were possible, Santiago’s eyes grew darker.

“Frankie, take the baby,” he said coldly.

Frankie looked between you nervously.

“Pope, don’t hurt her,” he said.

You were almost touched; after everything you had said and done, he was worried about you.

“Take the baby,” Santiago ordered, already stripping off his clothes.

You scoffed, handing Luna over to her father.

“Oh please,” you said, turning to face Santiago, you could feel the pressure building in your head as your eyes flashed amber. “I’m not afraid of him–two bad knees and a spinal fusion. Go ahead, if you still have it in you–”

Pope hit you like a freight train, but with Ginger roiling so close to the surface, you had shifted before you hit the ground. In truth, it wasn’t much of a fight. Just enough to keep up appearances. Everyone already knew how it would end. You hadn’t given Santiago much choice. You had openly defied him in front of the pack. It was either mark you or kill you and Pope wasn’t so cruel as to do that to Frankie and Luna.

Ginger submitted as Pope’s jaws clamped down on your shoulder, a careful strike, missing the tender vein in your neck by centimeters. You cried out, shifting back, Pope naked on top of you. He grabbed you by the hair, dragging you toward the bedroom, the others watching in anxious silence as he slammed the door behind you.

Santiago threw you onto the bed, climbing over you. You panted hard, struggling to push yourself up.

“Turn over,” he growled, grabbing you by the waist to flip you onto your back. “You’re going to look at me.”

He pinned both your hands over your head with one of his, taking no time at all to stroke himself to hardness with the other. You shivered in anticipation.

“If you’re going to act like a bitch, I’ll treat you like a bitch.”

Santiago pressed into you all at once without hesitation or preamble. Big enough that you felt yourself tear and whimpered at the stab of pain.

“Is this what you want?” Santiago growled. “You want me to take you like a fucking whore?”

Santiago placed one hand over your throat, fingertips squeezing with expert precision. He barely withdrew from you, just stabbed deeper in. The pain didn’t last, hormones raging, the need to submit to your alpha overriding every other instinct. You moaned, back arching, womb clenching with need.

Santiago’s hands began to roam, groping the soft give of your belly, squeezing your thigh hard enough to bruise. You moved to hold his face–his dark curls plastered to his forehead with exertion–but he caught your hands and pinned them back on the mattress.

“No.”

He lowered his face to yours, snarling with fangs bared, but all the hostility was out of him now, replaced by hunger, desire, yearning. He nuzzled against your face, interlacing his fingers with yours as he rutted into you. The sick squelching of your eager, creaming pussy barely audible over the blood rushing in your ears.

“Take it,” Santiago growled, head bowed toward your breasts. “Take it all. Or I’ll eat you up.”

A lewd sound escaped your lips as he pinched and pulled your nipples to swollen points. The animalic scent of your combined arousal pierced by creamy sweetness as your breasts began to leak.

Santiago took your breasts in his hands, squeezing hard, milk spilling between his fingers.

“Mine,” he proclaimed, the word a barely intelligible snarl. “These are mine. You’re mine.”

You whimpered, squeezing your eyes closed as he sank his teeth into the flesh of your left breast, sealing his mouth over the sensitive nipple, drinking from you as his pelvis ground into the soft pad of your mound, his back arching.

Santiago was too lost in his own desire to protest as you moved again. Sliding one hand down his back, drawing him toward you as the snug muscles of your inner walls tightened around him with your climax. As you moaned, he caught your mouth in a harsh, possessive kiss, his lips still tasting of milk and blood.

Santiago shuddered with his release, the hard pulse of semen filling you up as the head of his cock swelled inside your already impossibly stretched pussy. You cried out, quivering with relief as spurt after spurt of hot cum surged against the mouth of your womb.

Santiago relaxed into you as he finally emptied himself inside you. He had never been like this with you before: forceful, demanding. But somehow you knew, he had always had it in him. You felt a sudden pang of gratitude that he had finally let down his guard for you.

“Thank you, Alpha,” you murmured, combing your fingers through his hair as he rested his head between your breasts. “Thank you.”

Pope slept for close to an hour as you rested beneath him, enjoying the pleasant surge endorphins. He stirred slowly, his weight shifting over you as he eased himself out from under the covers. His eyes fell on the dried bloodstains on the sheets twisted between your legs.

“I hurt you,” he said quietly.

You hummed softly, sitting up in bed.

“I earned it.”

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper,” Santiago said.

He went to your medkit on the dresser, cracking open an instant ice pack to tuck between your legs. The cold felt nice against your swollen heat.

He doused a clean gauze pad in antiseptic wash and brushed the hair away from your neck to blot at the bite mark on your shoulder, although it had long-since stopped bleeding.

“It doesn’t hurt,” you assured him, your eyes cast down in submission.

“What do you need?” Santiago fretted, the gravity of what he had done sinking in.

Not even Redfly had dared to give you a claim mark–a scar that could been a death blow–a sign for all to see that you were alive by his grace alone. To abandon you after that would be considered a cardinal sin among wolves, and above all else, Santiago needed to see himself as the hero.

“Water would be lovely,” you cleared your throat. “Please, Alpha.”

Santiago poured you a glass from the pitcher on the dresser and waited patiently at the bedside while you drank to take the glass from you when you were finished.

“What else?” he asked.

“Luna needs to be fed soon,” you said.

“Of course. I'll bring her to you,” Santiago agreed, sticking his head out the bedroom door where the others were still gathered in your laughably small living area, pretending they hadn’t heard what had just gone on behind closed doors.

“Fish, Ginger needs to nurse the baby. I can take her.”

“No, I got it,” Frankie insisted, pushing past Santiago in the doorway with Luna in his arms.

Santiago arranged the pillows comfortably around you, placing the densest one in your lap to support the baby. You brought Luna to your breast and she latch eagerly.

“She’s got a good appetite,” Santiago remarked, stroking her little foot.

“We haven’t had any problems,” you agreed. “It’s been a blessing.”

It had been a hard birth–complicated somewhat by your insistence on laboring at home–everything after had seemed like smooth sailing in comparison.

“Are you hungry?” Santiago asked. “I can bring you something.”

“There’s leftover soup in the fridge,” you said. “It just needs to be heated up.”

“I’ll get it ready,” Santiago agreed.

As Santiago rushed off, Frankie paced the room anxiously.

“Please try to relax,” you said, supporting Luna with one arm as you beckoned him to you with the other. “You’re making me nervous. Just sit down.”

“Sit down,” he repeated, lifting his cap to tousle his hair before replacing it, slightly off-kilter. “Where my best friend just fucked the mother of my child?”

“Don’t say it like that,” you said. “You make it sound obscene.”

“How do you want me to say it?” Frankie asked.

“Come here,” you pleaded. “Just come here.”

Frankie took a careful seat on the bed beside you, placing a hand on Luna’s head as you took his chin in your hand.

“I love you, Francisco,” you said. “I chose you. And I chose Pope. You knew that it was never going to be just one. It doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

“I know,” Frankie sighed, his large dark eyes wet and shining. “I just wish you hadn’t done that.”

As much as you assured him that you didn’t care if he took other partners, that you wanted him to explore those parts of himself, Frankie insisted he only wanted you. You suspected he was still holding out hope that you would marry him one day, but now that hope was marred by knowing he could only have you if Pope allowed it.

“I did what I had to do,” you said. “He was going to leave us. I wasn’t going to stand back and let it happen. I’m sorry you’re upset, but I won’t be held hostage by shitty ultimatums. I love you.”

“I know,” Frankie nodded, placing one hand on the back of your neck, bowing his head toward yours. “I love you, too.”

Santiago returned, a warm bowl in hand, and took a seat on the other side of you to offer you spoonfuls of barley and broth.

“You’ll have to tell me if it’s warm enough,” he said.

“It’s good,” you nodded wrapping your lips around the spoon to mask your smile. “Is there enough for the others?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Santiago assured you. “You just rest. I can take the baby for a bit, if you need a break.”

“I’m fine,” Frankie said, leaning into you possessively.

“Fish,” you warned, touching his face lightly. “Let Santi help. You could use a few solid hours of shuteye. These bags are out of control.”

“Then it’s settled,” Santiago agreed, setting your dishes aside. “I will spend some quality time with my beautiful goddaughter and you two will get some sleep.”

Santiago lifted Luna from your arms, her body pliant and relaxed in her milk-drunk state, as he lifted her to his shoulder to rub her back soothingly.

“Sleep,” Santiago repeated, uncharacteristically light-hearted as he carried Luna from the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

“You need to undress,” you instructed, reaching for the buttons on Frankie’s shirt.

“It smells like blood,” he protested, reaching to stop your hands.

You pulled him closer, stroking his face and combing your fingers through his hair. Frankie whimpered like a frightened pup, fists balled and muscles taught.

“It’s fine, Frankie, you’re exhausted. Just lay down.”

None of the boys had truly recovered from their misadventure, and while Will was still healing from physical wounds, Frankie hadn’t had much opportunity to recover from the psychological trauma between waking up for late-night feedings and diaper changes.

“Luna is safe. I am safe. Relax.”

It took some cajoling, but you finally convinced Frankie to take off his clothes and settle down beside you in bed. He climbed under the covers and turned onto his side. Certainly the sheets could use a good wash, but that could wait until after some much-needed sleep. You rolled over to press your front against his back, hitching your top leg over his hip and drawing him close.

“This is nice,” you reminded him, slinking an arm around him, resting your hand on his chest. He entwined his fingers with yours and nodded.

You breathed slowly, consciously, your breasts pressing into his back and soon you felt his breath grow deeper and more even, the wings of his heart pressing back into you with each rise and fall.

Baby's First Taglist: @hiroikegawa

#triple frontier fic #shifters au #reverse harem #reader x frankie 'catfish' morales #reader x santiago 'pope' garcia #reader x will 'ironhead' miller #reader x benny miller #pedro pascal #oscar isaac #charlie hunnam #garrett hedlund

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