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theywhowriteandknowthings · 4 months

Note

frankie is a long time friend of a friend/runs in the same circles as you, and you both have a hate boner for one another. it all comes to a head bc he's the only one in the group chat who answers your call for aid when your [insert some busted appliance/plumbing fixture] and you're going to either fight, fuck or fumble this night.

WHAT DO YOU CHOOSE.

You ask, ye shall recieve. Thank you "nonnie" ;)

This blog is a 18+ space, Minors, do not engage. If you are under the age of 18 you are not welcome here. Your reading and consumption of my work is your responsibility but I will endeavour to mitigate any discomfort for you, the reader, as possible. Once again, this is a 18+ space and minors should not interact. Specific warnings: Enemies to Lovers, Angst, alcohol consumption, drug addiction, coke addiction, Frankie being mean/an asshole, Whiny Frankie Supremacy, weed smoking (medicinal), Ken Burns?, Country Music?, pining, angst, M!Masturbation, sub!Frankie.

Thank you @angelofsmalldeath-codeine for beta-ing this real quick. Word count: 2.3k

Frankie Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 2 | Part 3

Frankie pops his first beer of the night as he starts the next episode of the Ken Burns ‘Country Music’ documentary. He started it out of sheer lack of something better to do a few nights back, but now he’s hooked. He’s ready to settle in for the night, rolling a joint as a new message in the group chat comes in.

He checks it, only to see its you.

He locks his phone and turns it over; no way is he entertaining your bullshit tonight.

~*~

You sit there for what seems like forever, not a soul answering your cry for help in the group chat. You know it’s Friday night, you know everyone is likely to have plans, but the way water has flooded your kitchen is no joke.

So much for the joys of home ownership.

You lament as you wish there was a super contractually obliged to fix this mess. But it’s a week away from your next paycheque and you cannot afford to call in an emergency plumber. You’re about to give in and get your credit card out when a message comes through.

~*~

The credits roll at the end of the documentary and Frankie hums in approval, he realises he’s barely touched his beer, and his joint is similarly untouched, long gone out. He’s ready to put the next episode on and re-light as his modest buzz settles him into the recliner. Since quitting coke he’s found weed to be a welcome mellow fix that never tempts him too far but lets him mute the cravings otherwise. It has meant he’s gained a few pounds from all the munchies, but he takes that as a win. He was getting too skinny and working out is near impossible when so under-fuelled.

Absently he checks his phone again and his stomach drops.

No-one has answered your call for help, it’s been almost two hours. He shouldn’t care, the two of you butt heads on everything, you’re the Lex Luthor to his Superman. He hates you, at least, that’s what he tells himself. You challenge him in a way the other guys don’t. You don’t take his bullshit.

He swipes the message across to reveal the “Seen” tab, and his stomach drops. Everyone in the group chat has seen it, Alyssa, Barry, Benny, Santi, Will… the list goes on. There’s a pang of guilt in his gut as he realises just how desperate you must be right now.

He grumbles as he turns off the TV and snaps his lighter shut, putting his ashtray and joint aside. He’ll be damned if he leaves you hanging like this, no matter how much he claims to hate you.

~*~

You pace your hallway, waiting for the bane of your existence to arrive. You’re trying to put on a brave face, trying to ignore the coil in your gut. You play it off as anxiety, but you know it’s more than that.

You’re nervous because as much as you try and hate Frankie, he always gets under your skin. You’re always left wondering what his scruff would feel like on your skin, grazing your jaw, your neck. You hate Francisco Morales, but only as much as you secretly find him hotter than the sun.

He’s not a bad guy, you know he’s struggled with addiction, you know he and the guys saw some shit in the military. But there’s a rudeness reserved only for you when it came to social gatherings and interactions in the group chat.

You’d initially put it down to you being a new addition to the group – by way of Santi – after you two hit it off at a quiz night last year. But in that year, he has only seemed to close you off more and more. You’re almost at the point of looking for a new group of friends, if you’re completely honest with yourself. And you resent him for it.

You’re jolted from your thoughts as a fist pounding on your front door signals his arrival.

I have a doorbell asshole.

You grumble inwardly, but you tell yourself to play nice, Frankie’s doing you a favour here.

“Coming!”

You pause at the door, not wanting to seem too eager as you feel a nervous flutter in your stomach. You take a deep breath and swing it open to reveal Frankie in all his glory. Your chest constricts as you feel the inevitable bloom of desire in your core.

He’s wearing a floral pink and white Hawaiian shirt with a dark tank underneath that stretches across his soft belly. His sinful calves are on display under his tan cargo shorts and you try not to ogle him further as you welcome him into your home.

“Hey, thanks for doing this,” you start as he steps over the threshold, eyeing up your house with a methodical gaze, “Look, I know we’re not-,”

“Don’t worry about it, just show me where the sink is.”

He cuts you off, not looking at you as he speaks, and you bristle at his tone. It’s like he’s speaking down to a child, scolding you no less.

“This way,” you snap as you lead him into the kitchen and gesture at the sink, the cabinets below open ready for him. You feel his gaze on you. It makes you squirm, but you do your best to ignore the pooling of arousal in your panties.

“You turn the water off?” Frankie asks as he notices the multiple bath towels on the floor, sodden in your failed attempt to try and dry the place out. You’re just glad the kitchen is tiled.

“Yup.”

“Good,” he says almost to himself as he strips off his shirt, throwing it onto a countertop before getting on his knees. You prop yourself against the counter and wait, trying very hard not to stare as he gets on his back. He bends his knees to brace himself as he grabs the adjustable wrench that you’d been battling the U-bend with for the last hour. You try not to imagine how he’d look similarly stretched out on your sheets upstairs.

“Ok so good news, it’s not the U-bend,” Frankie says with a huff as he pops the entire faucet unit up and out of the basin, he rolls up onto his feet. You’re a little annoyed that he was able to determine the issue in minutes after you had spent over an hour googling and trying to fix it yourself.

“Oh?”

You are genuinely curious, so you push off from the counter to see what Frankie’s doing. He holds up the underside of the faucet, showing you a broken rubber ring sat at the neck of the mechanism. His shoulder brushes yours and you feel the fizzle of heat under your skin. Your heart flutters and you think he’s going to move away at the contact, but he seems only to lean in further.

He smells good. A faint hint of weed, which you know he has a prescription for, and his cologne, earthy and rich. It blends together into a smell you know by heart, something so uniquely Frankie, it makes you salivate. You hate how much you want a man who seemingly thinks so little of you.

“This happened to me last month,” he explains as he brings the offending washer into your eyeline, “Damn contractors used cheap fittings so they’re all going, Santi’s went last week.”

“So, I need a new tap? It’s that simple?” You groan in frustration, you’d been ready to spend hundreds of dollars to get this fixed, and here’s Frankie swooping in to save the day.

“Yup, but you’re not likely to get anything now,” Frankie looks at his phone, it’s way too late to be getting something decent. His eyes flick up to meet yours and you see his pupils dilate. There’s something in his deep, sinfully dark eyes that makes you wonder if you’ve been wrong about his feelings towards you all this time. But you avert your gaze, you’re probably just reading into things too heavily.

“Yeah, shit,” you sigh, “At least I’ve got bottled water, so I won’t die of thirst.”

“I can come by tomorrow to pick up and fit a new one if you want?”

The offer is out of Frankie’s mouth before he can stop it, his good nature tumbling out in an unusual display of kindness towards you. You furrow your brow, shocked by the sudden good will from him. It makes you nervous.

“Why’re you being nice to me all of a sudden?” You scoff, something about Frankie being so cold to you for the last year, only to play nice when you’re in distress makes your stomach turn. Like he’s trying to take advantage – or worse – pitying you.

“You needed help and no-one else was responding so I thought it was the right thing to do.”

He grumbles bitterly as he turns his back to you grabbing his shirt from the counter and hastily pulling it on as he turns to leave.

“You could have just left me hanging,” you snap, “What’s different today? Is it so you can lord this over me? Saving the poor little damsel in distress, another tool with which you can ridicule me with?”

“Ridicule you?” Frankie snaps, turning to face you, his face pained as if you’d struck him with a physical blow.

“Don’t play dumb,” you growl as you square up to him, “I hear the snide comments you make about me when we’re out with the others. Desperate this, lonely that.”

Frankie winces, he remembers exactly what you’re talking about now. That night months ago at a club in Orlando. You were dancing with someone you’d met at the bar, and he’d gotten jealous. He brushed it off to Will and Alyssa, going on the offensive instead of letting slip that he’d have done anything for it to be him you were grinding against. He just didn’t know you’d heard him as you went to get another drink.

“That was one time,” he growls but it’s a weak rebuttal and he knows it, “I was in a bad place.”

You know that; you know he was only a few months sober. He wasn’t in a good place when he first met you. But that’s no excuse to continue to treat you like he has ever since.

“Sure, but ever since you’ve looked at me like I don’t belong,” you hold his gaze, even as your eyes start to fill with tears, “Always dismissing my comments, rolling your eyes if I dare speak up in your presence, it gets tiring Frank- Francisco. You don’t have to like me, but they’re my friends too, don’t make me lose them just because you can’t stand me.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel that way I swear.”

“Yeah well, save it,” you say, pointing to the door, “I don’t need you to save me Francisco, and I sure as hell don’t need your pity. Get out of my house.”

“That’s not how it is, I promise,” he pleads but you’re not looking at him now, your cheeks are hot with embarrassment and you’re trying not to say something you’ll regret.

“Please, just leave,” you snap as you feel tears welling in your eyes.

“Yeah, ok.”

Frankie sighs as he runs his fingers through his hair, he brushes past you, and you hear a soft “I’m sorry.” As the door clicks shut behind him.

You feel your body tremble with rage as you find yourself unable to process the whole interaction. You pull out your phone and message the group chat.

You: Crisis averted.

You think you should add that it was Frankie who helped, but you’re feeling petty. All he did was show you the problem, he didn’t actually fix anything.

If anything he made things so much worse.

~*~

Frankie slumps back down in his recliner but he doesn’t turn the TV back on. Instead, he sits in silence and broods. He re-reads your message to the group chat and scowls. He has no right to be mad, not really, he knows that. But he really wishes he’d dealt with the situation better.

He looks down to his tented shorts and curses himself, the moment he showed you the faucet you were so close to him. The moment your arms touched he felt the rush of desire he suppresses every time he sees you. Now he’s worried he’s fucked it up completely. He can still smell you, the scent your bodywash he’s committed to memory now clings to his skin.

He forces himself upstairs and into the shower, running it ice cold, just to try and make his erection go away. But it doesn’t help. He’s painfully hard as he tries to think of anything else.

All he can think of is the way your skin felt against his, the way you called him Francisco. It was meant to spurn him, but he loved it. The way his name rolled off your tongue with derision. It’s all he can think of as he turns on the hot water and grips his cock. He pumps himself slowly as he feels the hot burn in his gut, he’s already so fucking close.

“Fuck,” he groans under the hot stream, “I’m sorry.”

He growls as he fucks himself harder to the thought of you putting him in his place. He’s never considered himself a sub, but it’s all he can think of now. He’s whimpering as he fucks his fist faster and faster at the memory of you chewing him out. He deserved it, and that makes it all the sweeter.

He wants you to make him suffer. Atone.

He comes with a whine as his spend splatters against the tiles and slowly washes away down the drain. He pants desperately for some time before washing himself off. He heads back downstairs to re-light his joint and watch another episode of his documentary. On a need-fuelled whim he texts you.

Frankie: If you want me to fix your sink, let me know, I’m free all day.

Frankie Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 2 | Part 3

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morallyinept · 15 days

Text

Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 14

Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it; harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.

Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak; but he’s not alone on the island, and soon he’s running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.

And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude

Chapter word count: 7k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: In the aftermath of the tsunami, Frankie and Jude are haunted by dreams, and struggle to determine what is real and what isn't. Very, very brief mentions of suicidal thoughts, and mentions of drug taking.

Song sung in the chapter is:

Enjoy! 🖤

Chapter 13

As Frankie slowly regains consciousness, he finds himself enveloped in a disorienting haze - a fog of confusion that clouds his mind and dulls his senses.

The sterile scent of antiseptic assaults his nostrils, and the rhythmic beeping fills the air; a cacophony of sound that seems to echo in his ears, its rhythm erratic and unsettling.

His head throbs with a relentless ache, every pulse sending a sharp stab of pain shooting through his skull. His mouth feels dry and parched, as if he hasn't had a sip of water in days, and a bitter taste lingers on his tongue - a reminder of the poison he’s willingly ingested.

Every movement is an effort, every breath a struggle against the weight of exhaustion that presses down upon him. His body feels heavy and sluggish, as if it’s weighed down by invisible chains, tethering him to the hospital bed with a cruel inevitability.

And then there’s the sensation of the IV line - a thin, plastic tube that snakes its way into his arm, delivering a steady stream of vital fluids and medication into his bloodstream. The sensation is strange and disconcerting, a constant reminder of his own frailty, his own mortality.

He can feel the cool touch of the saline solution as it courses through his veins, a lifeline tethering him to the world of the living, anchoring him to the present moment.

With a groan, Frankie attempts to sit up, only to be met with a wave of dizziness that sends him reeling back onto the hospital bed. Blinking against the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, he struggles to piece together the events that have led him to this place - a place of sterile white walls and solemn faces and plastic name tags who speak in foreign medical terms; a place that feels worlds away from the place he once called home.

And then, like a bolt of lightning striking through the fog of his memories, it all comes flooding back - the overpowering rush of euphoria, the reckless abandon of his actions, the acetous taste of regret that lingers on his swollen tongue.

He’d overdosed on the coke, lost in a haze of self-destructive impulses and desperate cravings, until the world had faded to black and he’d slipped into unconsciousness.

His eyes adjust to the dim light of the hospital room, and he surveys his surroundings with a growing sense of unease. The other bed beside him lays empty and untouched, the sheets neatly folded back as if waiting for someone who’ll never come.

The silence that fills the room is deafening, a hollow echo of the emptiness that gnaws at Frankie's insides.

Something doesn’t feel right. He shouldn’t be here.

For a moment, he lays there in stunned silence, grappling with the enormity of his solitude. His mind replaying the moments leading up to this candid awakening - moments filled with reckless abandon, self-destructive choices, and a blind refusal to acknowledge the consequences.

He’d driven them all away with his addiction, with his lies, with his inability to see beyond his own needs. And now, when he needed them the most, he found himself abandoned, left to face the consequences of his actions alone.

To wake up, alone.

Frankie feels the sting of tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, a silent testament to the pain that grips his soul tightly in gnarled claws. He’s pushed everyone away, burned bridges with those who had once stood by his side, and now he’s paying the price for his folly.

As the reality of his situation sinks in, Frankie feels a cold knot of fear tighten in the pit of his stomach - a sinking realisation of the depths to which he’s fallen, the consequences of his actions laid bare before him in stark relief.

He’s come so close to losing everything - his life, his sanity, his chances at redemption - and yet, somehow, he’s been given a second chance as he feels that familiar shake in his fingers tingling.

The heavy silence of the hospital room is suddenly pierced by the sound of the door swinging open. His heart skips a beat as he turns his gaze towards the entrance, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

And there, standing in the doorway, is Benny - the steadfast friend who has never quite given up on him, even when Frankie's given up on himself.

A small smile tugs at the corners of Frankie's lips as Benny strides into the room, a personality as big as his boots, holding steaming coffee cups in his hands.

"Hey, Fish," Benny greets him, his voice warm and familiar. "Figured you could use some of this to chase away the cobwebs."

Frankie nods gratefully as Benny places a cup on the bedside table, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. He watches as Benny winks with a knowing smile.

And then, as if on cue, the door opens once more, and Frankie's heart skips another beat as Will and Carla enter the room.

There’s a moment of hesitation, a brief flicker of uncertainty in their eyes, before they approach Frankie's bedside with tentative smiles.

"Hey, buddy," Will greets, his voice tinged with concern. "How you holding up?"

Frankie meets Will's frosty gaze with a mixture of gratitude and relief.

"I'm... I'm okay," Frankie replies, his voice hoarse with emotion.

As Carla steps into view, her gaze immediately falls upon Frankie, but she can't bring herself to meet his eyes. Instead, she keeps her focus fixed on the floor, her hands nervously fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, the tinkling of her bracelets like familiar music in his head.

Frankie can sense Carla's discomfort, the tension radiating off her in waves. He wants to reach out to her, to offer her some measure of comfort, but he hesitates, unsure of how to break through the barrier that seems to have sprung up between them.

It’s clear from the tightness in her expression that she’s anything but okay with him right now. She’s struggling - struggling to come to terms with everything that’s happened, struggling to face the reality of Frankie's addiction, struggling to find the words to express the turmoil raging inside her.

The anger. The love. The hatred. The helplessness.

Frankie watches as Carla takes a hesitant step closer to his bedside, her eyes still fixed on the floor. He can see the conflict etched in her features - the desire to reach out, to offer support, warring with the fear of saying the wrong thing, of making things worse somehow.

And yet, despite this comforting picture, something feels off. Something’s askew, not quite right. A weird sense of Déjà-vu almost. It’s like trying to grasp at smoke - elusive and ephemeral, slipping through his fingers just when he thinks he has it within his grasp.

The disquiet within him grows stronger, a nagging voice at the back of his mind urging him to question, to probe deeper into the recesses of his memory. Prickles on his skin making him shudder.

But try as he might, Frankie can't quite put his finger on what’s wrong - only that something is amiss with this scene.

“Frankie?” Benny asks. “You alright, man?”

Frankie swallows and looks up at his friend, and that’s when he sees it. See’s odd movement in the IV bag out the corner of his eye.

There are fishes in the bag, swimming around.

“W-what-” Frankie stammers.

His attention is pulled by the sudden screeching, and he turns his head to see a monkey sitting casually on Carla’s shoulder as she speaks with Will. A tiny monkey with big, yellow eyes staring back at him.

“What’s h-happening?” Frankie queries, feeling dizzy. Like he’s being tossed about on an unsteady bed that feels like it’s floating. “¿Qué está pasando?” (What’s happening?)

Water is trickling down the walls, steady tracks that grow in width and speed.

Frankie's voice echoes through the building furore, but his friends seem oblivious to the rising floodwaters around them. They continue to move about the room with casual nonchalance, as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening.

That their feet aren't sloshing around circling waves of water flooding in from under the door and through the windows now.

“Fuck!” Frankie hollers as he scrambles out of the bed.

As the water continues to rise, inch by inch, Frankie feels a sense of desperation clawing at his chest. He knows he has to get out, has to escape before it’s too late and he drowns.

But as he struggles to find solid ground amidst the swirling currents, a sense of futility washes over him - a sinking feeling that he’s trapped, that there’s no way out. He looks down at the deflated lifejacket now around his torso, his fingers frantically pulling on the useless cords.

“No, no, no…”

The walls seem to blur and warp around him, and a strange sensation sweeps through his body, like the ground shifting beneath his feet. Panic surges through Frankie's veins as he looks around frantically, searching for some semblance of solidity in the shifting, swirling chaos.

The water rises steadily higher with each passing moment, until it reaches his knees, then his waist.

“Benny!" Frankie calls out, his voice swallowed up by the roar of the water. “Will! Carla!”

But his friends are nowhere to be found, lost amidst the churning currents that threaten to engulf him.

As the water rises higher and higher, panic gives way to a sense of resignation - a grim acceptance of his fate. He knows he’s dreaming, knows that none of this is real, but that knowledge offers little comfort in the face of the impending deluge.

He’s not waking up.

And then, just as Frankie feels himself on the brink of being swallowed whole by the raging waters, a voice cuts through - a voice that is familiar and comforting, like a beacon of light in the darkness.

A voice that he knows only too well rushing into his ears around the water as he sinks beneath the surface.

“FRANKIE!”

A tsunami can last anything from a few minutes to several hours.

The energy of a tsunami runs through the entire depth of the ocean. It only becomes deadly when the ocean floor becomes shallow enough, and all that energy compresses into a smaller amount of water.

The deeper the water, the faster the tsunami, travelling up to speeds of five hundred miles per hour, and taking mere minutes to reach land.

Once it reaches the land, the raw energy of thousands of tons of water destroys everyone and everything in its path in mere seconds. It’s a myth that you can outrun a tsunami of that magnitude - you simply can’t. It will engulf you before you even comprehend the thought in your mind of running.

The survival rates of a tsunami can vary depending on several factors such as the magnitude of the tsunami, the distance from the coastline, the elevation of the land, and individual preparedness and response. Generally, survival rates are quite low in areas directly impacted by a large and powerful tsunami, particularly if people are caught off guard and unable to evacuate to higher ground in time. And even if you can, your chances are still dubious.

You just gotta hope that luck is on your side.

Jude’s tumbling through the water, swallowing more of it as the deadly moments wear on; the lifejacket seemingly useless as she keeps being pulled under as she’s swept along with the ferocious current.

She surfaces momentarily to yell out for Frankie, before she’s dragged under again.

“Frankie!” She screams, more water pouring down her throat making her choke and gag.

She kicks her legs, her lungs on fire as she surfaces again, blinded by the inflation of the life jacket as she tumbles like she’s in a spin cycle in a washing machine.

She glances at her wrist as she surfaces again; part of the ripped shirt is still wrapped around it, but Frankie isn’t on the end of it anymore.

“FRANKIE! FRANKIE!!” She screams out in the water, the waves continuing to crush her head on a relentless repeat.

She splashes around frantically searching for any sign of him in the choppy current as it pulls her along.

“FRANKIE! WHERE ARE YOU?!” She cries out again, a choked sob overcoming her but refusing to admit defeat - he has to be here, he has to have survived this just like she’s doing.

They survive together, that’s the deal.

“FRANKIE!”

But then his lifejacket didn’t inflate. What if he’d been knocked out as his head had smashed into a rock under the water? What if he’s already dead?

“NO!” Jude cries out, swimming as hard as she can as the waves try to pull her under again.

“NO! NO! FRANKIE!” She screams again until her throat is raw. “FRANKIE! FRANKIE!”

With each passing moment, the waves seem to grow taller, more relentless in their assault, threatening to engulf her completely. She fights against the current with all her strength, but it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave with her bare hands.

As she struggles to stay afloat, her mind races with a thousand fears and uncertainties. What if he can't hear her over the deafening roar of the waves? What if he’s hurt, trapped somewhere beneath the surface? What if...

She can hear choking and yelling, and turns in the water to see Frankie swimming towards her.

He disappears under a wave as it rolls on top of him and she takes a deep breath as the wave crushes her head only seconds after. She resurfaces just as Frankie reaches her and she clings onto him as he splutters and chokes.

“Thank God! Fuck!” Jude exclaims, thrashing amidst the frothy chaos, her body battered by the relentless force of the sea.

Without hesitation, Frankie reaches out, his strong arms encircling her trembling form as they ride the waves together. For a fleeting moment, time seems to stand still as they cling to each other amidst the fury of the ocean.

The water crashes around them, the salty spray stinging their eyes and coating them with a thin film of mist.

“Hold on to me!” He makes a weird gurgling noise as he tries to speak and coughs. “Holy fuckin’ shit!” Frankie cries out in disbelief as he paws at her and her hands grab a tight hold of his t-shirt.

He looks like a drowned rat, his hair and beard covering him and sticking to his skin with the saturation. There’s no sign of his trusty, familiar cap.

Frankie coughs again as water splashes over his face as they ride the waves of the tsunami, desperately clinging onto one another as they tumble and swirl with the ocean’s aftershocks.

Jude grips so hard onto him that her hands will ache for days afterwards, but she’s determined not to let him go this time.

It’s hard to tell how exactly long they’re in the water for.

The sun has moved across the other side of the sky as they bob there on the waves as the remnants of the tsunami begins to fade out on the ocean.

Thankfully, the tsunami wasn’t all powerful or engulfing enough that it’d taken their lives, but it was still incredibly damaging.

Exhausted, Frankie rests his head against the front of Jude’s inflated lifejacket with his eyes closed. But he’s still holding tightly around her waist as they float in the water, aching all over from their battered bodies.

“Look, over there!” She says to him, rousing him, and he lifts his head when they spot the island in the distance.

“Can you swim that far?” Frankie asks her.

“Yeah. We did it before, we can do it again, right?”

He nods. “Take it slow. Don’t burn out.”

They swim together against the current slowly; their limbs searing and getting pushed back with the waves every now and again as they continue to surge.

It seems like they aren’t making much in the way of progress, stopping occasionally to catch their breath and check the other is okay to carry on, but the island seems to grow closer, until eventually they can stand on the ocean floor again and stagger up the shore to the sandbank.

They both collapse on the sand; Frankie falling onto his back gasping for air like he’s having an asthma attack. Jude falls onto her knees, battling to get the life jacket off and dry heaving as she coughs up copious amounts of sea water until she eventually pukes it all out.

“Are... you... okay?” Frankie gasps in between each word as he hears her upchuck relentlessly.

She looks up at the beach, front wiping her mouth when she’s done spitting out, and is dismayed at what she sees.

“Oh God...” Jude’s voice breaks.

In the aftermath of the tsunami, the once eerily quiet island lay battered and broken, a landscape transformed by the merciless force of nature.

Trees lay uprooted and strewn about like discarded matchsticks, their branches stripped bare and twisted into grotesque shapes by the ferocious waves. Debris littered the sandy shore, a grim testament to the havoc that had been wrought upon the island in a matter of moments.

A scene of utter devastation that seems to stretch out as far as the eye can see. The once pristine, rocky beach is now marred by the impacting detritus.

It’s gone - all of it. The shack, the fire pit, the solar stills, just... gone. Nothing but a sparsely flooded and barren landscape greeting them, and not much else.

Jude staggers up the soggy sandbank wandering aimlessly in shock and disbelief. Face blank and eyes wide in disbelief. Body trembling from exhaustion and adrenaline as it confuses her nerves.

Frankie calls after her, rolling over onto his front and taking in the overpowering sight of destruction presented before him.

“Fuck.”

He drags himself to his unsteady feet and follows behind her in a stunned silence as he casts his weary eyes about the place. Their movements are slow and unsteady, as if they're moving through a fog, each step weighed down by the crushing weight of the destruction around them.

Every sound - the crash of waves, the creak of splintered wood - amplified, assaulting their senses with a relentless barrage of stimuli.

Jude stops when she spots something near the cave mouth as they begin to pass it.

“Oh no,” she whimpers, and drops to her knees when she reaches it. “No, please no-”

She picks it up and cradles it to her chest, her hands trembling as she strokes his cold, sodden fur. Frankie approaches, and she looks up at him with silent tears streaming down her face.

“Egon...” Jude blubs through choked wails, as she holds the little, lifeless monkey inside of her arms; his once wide, yellow eyes closed forever in a drowned sleep.

Frankie drops to his knees beside her and despite his will, he can’t help but shed some tears for the little critter who, as Jude had said before, he actually loved more than he let on.

People of faith will often be heard saying ‘God is testing me,’ when things ultimately get tough in their lives.

Like a bearded man, wearing Birkenstocks, relaxing on a cloud and sipping from a G&T, is observing your plight and revelling in it, chuckling haughtily like watching an episode of a trashy talk show.

God is clearly a sadist after everything he’s put them through, and as she watches Frankie scooping the pile of sand back into the hole he’d dug with his shovel-like hands for Egon’s grave, Jude can’t help but feel a deep sense of harbouring resentment for her maker right now.

Frankie rubs his hands against the thigh of his damp shorts and looks up at her as she stares down at the sandy grave.

“Do you think we should say something?” He asked her, scratching at the back of his head and squinting.

“There isn’t anything left to say.” Jude mutters and strides off, sitting on the sandy shore and staring out at the ocean.

It’s calmed considerably; the oncoming dusk making the horizon glow pink in the distance.

Frankie plonks himself beside her after a few minutes of staring at the monkey’s resting place; returned to the earth in the cycle of life, a festering ouroboros of gut-wrenching despair swilling inside of him, alongside copious amounts of sea water.

Hugging his knees and holding onto his wrists as he looks out at the horizon too. He breathes out a deep weary sigh and sniffs in deep.

“I’m sorry,” Jude says to him after a few moments.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, hermosa,” Frankie turns to her.

“Yes I do. I’m sorry for berating you so much about having hope all those times. You were right not to. There is no hope for us. We’re going to die, just like Egon.” She speaks like a robot, devoid of any emotion whatsoever, and it rattles his bones to see her talk like this, to see that she’s just done.

“Stop it,” he warns, pulling her towards him, but she resists, pulling her arms back away, but he grips onto them, grappling with her.

“No-”

“Hey, stop it!” Frankie yells, and pulls her in close as she wanes and falls against him without any more fight left in her.

“We’re going to die!” Jude wails into him and sobs as he holds her tight, almost like he’s a boa and is constricting the life out of her.

She writhes and her shoulders heave as she cries for what feels like eternity. Her sobs louder and more haunting and all Frankie can do is hold her in his arms and never let her go.

But his arms feel weak, no longer the strong barriers they once were to protect her anymore.

He doesn’t say anything to her; offers her no reassuring lies of comfort because there’s no point. She’s finally accepted it now like he had; they were going to die.

And it kills him all over again.

There’s nothing to pick through or scavenge.

It’s almost as if they’re just going through the motions to stay busy and not to actually drown themselves willingly in the water to end all the pain and suffering they’ve endured.

How much suffering can two people withstand before it finally breaks them? When is that breaking point, the crux of no return? When do you take that step and what is it that will finally give you that unwavering courage to turn your back and fall off the ledge?

Beaten, crushed... starving; on the brink of death and looking into its inviting, comforting jaws as it reaches out to you and convinces you in a soothing lullaby that everything will be okay, and you start to believe it for a while. That life on the other side will be better than this - anything will be better than this. The allure calls to you like a Siren song and it gets harder not to become bewitched by it and resist.

They don’t speak much, in fact at all. Jude simply watches Frankie get up from the sand where they’ve slept all night from their exhaustion, and observe as he starts hunting for things - anything that he can find and strike gold on.

Knowing it’s pointless, she stands up anyway, robotically copying his every move, searching for any stray bottles or clothes and not really understanding why she’s doing it. Searching for anything at all that can prolong their survival, even just for the tiniest bit.

But of course it’s fruitless - the tsunami has washed it all away.

Frankie reaches the tree line, surveying the damage of the wooded area that's halved in size, and he can no longer see the fuselage anymore that was previously stuffed into the bank on this side of the bay. There’s a singular piece of wood from the shack, split and broken as it floats in a muddy pool by some snapped tree trunks.

He glances up at the ridge and there’s no trace of the branch igloo and he sighs, deflated and beginning to hear that deathly Siren song tinkling inside his ears.

Jude wanders around aimlessly; frying under the heat and constantly pulling up her jeans that are falling down when she takes a few steps forward. Her legs have that dark shadow of hair growth and she hates the fact that she hasn’t been able to shave them for some time now.

She hates the fact that her stomach seems on a constant, never ending rumble. She hates that she can’t just lie down face first in the water and just go. She hates that she can’t do it because of him.

She hates that Frankie won’t simply let her die.

As she wanders along the shoreline, her eyes scanning the debris scattered by the waves, she spots a familiar sight - a baseball cap, swirling amidst the calming foam and froth of the ocean.

With a quickening of her heart, she wades into the shallows, the cool water lapping at her ankles as she reaches out to retrieve the cap, trembling with disbelief, she can't help but feel a surge of astonishment.

As her fingers close around the familiar fabric, fingers gliding over the sewn-on patch of the Standard Heating Oil logo, she chuckles out in disbelief. This simple piece of fabric, battered and worn by the elements, had made it back to him somehow. And she’s glad to see it - Frankie isn’t quite Frankie without his cap.

They meet back on the beach a little while later and slump themselves in the sand defeated with heavy thuds, hungry and tired and irritable beyond all reason. That kind of heaviness that swamps your head and crushes it until your brain splurges out of your ears.

Jude hands him the cap and he’s just as astonished, if not relieved to see it, as she is. But she doesn’t say anything to Frankie as she watches him put it back on his head under a scraggly mess of overgrown curls. And Frankie doesn’t say anything to Jude after offering her a limp smile.

She lays back and rolls over on the sand, facing away from him; willing the sand and rocks to turn into quicksand and just swallow her into the suffocating dark.

They stand on the ridge, the sun on high and the breeze blowing through her braid.

He’s always so fascinated with those stray wisps of hair that will escape it, no matter how tightly he ties it for her. They’ll flock to her face and cling to her cheek, pelting her with never-ending kisses affectionately.

Frankie’s sitting amongst the half constructed branch igloo; sticks scattered all around him that he’s whittling with the switchblade, and Jude’s looking over the ledge of the ridge and humming a faint tune that’s barely audible, wandering back and forth as she stretches her legs.

His hands are tight and raw, blister with the effort exhumed, but he continues on with the job nonetheless, numbing out to the aches and splinters. As Frankie stretches, cracking his back, he hears her hum out again.

“Sing it for me.” Frankie prompts her, and Jude turns to catch his smirk with glowy cheeks. “Go on, hermosa.”

Jude takes a breath with a grin and sings.

“In the end. As my soul's laid to rest, what is left of my body? Or am I just a shell?”

She starts moving her head, swaying it side to side as her shoulders begin to follow. She can hear the music inside her head as though they have her playlist right here blasting out on the rocks beside them; the beat of the drums counting her in and the strum of the guitars plucking through the riffs and melodies.

Frankie stops whittling, resting the stick in his lap squinting up at her with a smirk stretching his pink, dry lips.

“And I have fought. And with flesh and blood, I commanded an army. Through it all, I have given my heart for a moment of glory...”

He laughs as she rocks her hips with vigour and then punches her fist up in the air.

“In the end. As you fade into the night-”

“Woah-oh-oh-oh!” Frankie yells out singing along to the tune.

“Oh fuck, you know it?” Jude exclaims, smiling in happy delight at him.

Frankie nods. “Keep singing,” he encourages.

“Who will tell the story of your life? And who will remember your last goodbye?”

“Woah-oh-oh-ohhhh!” Frankie hollers again as he stands up, taking her hand and twirling her around whilst she laughs again, her eyes crinkling and throwing her head back.

“Cause it's the end and I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid to die.” Jude sings.

“CAUSE IT’S THE END, AND I’M NOT AFRAID - I’M NOT AFRAID TO DIE!”

They both fist punch the air over the ledge as they sing the final words out loud together, echoing all down the ridge across the island.

It’s a memory that splinters him. That was the happiest he’d seen her since they’d landed upon this dreadful island. Carefree and joyous, a wild jackal roaming unrestrained and free.

It was in that moment right there, as they’d both looked at one another with their fists in the air and turned them into the finger; giving the middle finger to the island that had bullied them for so long, through breathy smiles and wondrous awe, that Frankie realised he loved her. He fucking loved her.

I fuckin’ love you!

He’d suspected it for a while leading up to it, those sickly butterflies whenever she was near becoming more apparent. The thrumming of his heartbeat when she touched and kissed him; those early premonitions when you just know and feel giddiness from the high of meeting someone who’s so in tune to your frequency.

But that was the moment right there when it registered deep inside of the layers of his heart and winded him. Terrified, elated; utterly sound in the knowledge of the sincere truth as it flowed through his blood and over his bones.

Convinced he wouldn’t possibly feel this way again about someone, fearful that it could turn into that awful situation again where he could be selfish and push her away. But Frankie was so desperate to learn from his past mistakes, to not repeat them and be better - be better for her.

That’s love, right? Wanting to be the best you can be for someone?

Frankie-

I fuckin’ love you!

No. No-no-no!

BRAAACE!

I fuckin’ love you!

Frankie glances over at Jude lying in the sand away from him, her back to him and slipping further and further out of his reach.

‘Cause it’s the end and I’m not afraid, I’m not afraid to die!

Frankie turns towards the sea, and after he’s had enough of that horrific view staring back at him, he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes to stop the tears from slipping out of them again.

The droning noise wakes her, along with the muffled sounds of shouting. Like her head is under the water and hearing it pummel her eardrums as someone is yelling above the surface.

She sits up in the sand squinting and can see Frankie at the shoreline, waving frantically. Her eyes soon look past him to the small speedboat hurtling towards the shore.

Jude flies up on her legs, any sense of sleep rolling right off of her as she watches Frankie’s animated face astonished, and looking back at her, as his hands continue to signal to the boat.

The little boat with the inexorable humming noise like a swarm of hornets approaches the shore closer. Out in the distance she can see a larger boat, a little like a liner. Its grey shadow is stark on the blue horizon - a cancerous smear on a perfectly undisturbed cobalt backdrop.

It’s all lies... wake up, you’re dreaming.

Frankie begins to swim out towards the boat and Jude pads towards the shore in complete disbelief, her heartbeat kicking it up a gear as Frankie gets closer and closer to it.

The boat skids to a halt on the surface and she watches as the person inside heaves Frankie into the boat with his arm, and Frankie points back towards the shore with flailing fingers.

Wake up! It’s a dream!

Panic overcomes her, Jude can see Frankie waving to her, and she freezes, watching as the boat turns in the waves and holds her breath.

No, come back!

Circling, the boat speeds towards the shore again and the spray hits her in the face as she wanders out to it, her feet sloshing through the water, stunned and hyperventilating a little.

Oh God! Wake up! Please, wake up!

Frankie hops out of the boat alongside the person, who turns out to be two separate people, in blue and white lifejackets. Frankie reaches out to Jude, saying words that she can’t hear or understand, almost as if he’s jabbering away in excited, fast Spanish and she can’t decipher or recognise any of the sounds as they flow from his labrose lips.

She feels him pulling her into the boat and a foiled blanket is wrapped over her shoulders, a bottle of water placed into her numb hands.

“Wake up…” Jude mutters from trembling lips. "Wake up, wake up..."

More incomprehensible gibberish is exchanged between Frankie and the men, and she glances over her shoulder at the sight of the island suddenly shrinking away forever in the distance, reaching a gnarly hand out to her that can’t quite keep up.

Come back, Jude. Don't leave me.

It’s like an out of body experience; she’s floating and watching it happen. She pinches her arm and feels the pain ebb into her skin.

Wake up!

Frankie turns her chin towards him and presses his forehead against hers, breathing out as he pulls the blanket over her wet shoulders further.

“We made it, hermosa.”

She remembers hearing him say it to her, but the words don’t sink in; slowly being squeezed one at a time into her ear canal making the slow journey towards her brain that’s a messy pan of sloppy scrambled eggs.

“You guys, alright?” Comes a loud voice over the sound of the engine. “You get stranded after the tsunami, your boat capsize?”

Frankie and Jude look up simultaneously at the speaker holding onto the side of the boat whilst the other one steers it.

Frankie shakes his head. “No, we’ve been out here f-for over a year.” He speaks up through a deep hoarse voice that’s scarred from the sea water he’s swallowed in his desperate swim towards the speedboat.

“What do you mean out here?” The man asks.

“Our plane crashed, and we-”

“Fuck, you guys were on flight eight-sixteen?” The man questions taking off his sunglasses; the concern and astonishment palpable on his face. He has frosty blue eyes that instantly remind Frankie of Will’s.

“Y-you know about that?” Frankie asks with a widening mouth.

The man nods. “Sure, the whole damn world knows about it. They didn’t find any survivors. Looked everywhere.”

“You didn’t look hard enough!” Jude suddenly shouts at him over the sound of the engine, her voice tight from being throat punched back into reality.

This isn’t a dream. She doesn’t need to wake up. She can feel the vibrations of the boat on the waves as it bounces over them. She can see the island shrinking, feel the wind in her hair.

Frankie clutches onto her as the man dips his head in sympathy, unable to meet her stunned gaze.

“We were always here...” She trails off, looking back out at the island in wonderment.

Come back, Jude. Don't leave me. Come back.

“You guys are gonna be alright. You’re safe and we’ll get you home.” The man confirms putting his sunglasses back on. He reaches for the boat’s radio and speaks into the receiver, his voice swallowed up by the humming of the boat.

Jude clings onto Frankie and looks up at him, with eyes as watery as the ocean.

“Is this really happening?” She asks him, searching his eyes for the moment she’ll wake up from this terrible, reoccurring dream she’s doomed to live through on repeat forever.

We’re never going to get off this island. It can't be this easy.

Frankie nods with a bewildered smile through his bushy whiskers, the wind from the speed of the boat rippling through the curls behind his ears as he holds onto the cap, a giant palm flat on his head.

Jude clutches onto his wet t-shirt and rests her head against his chest hearing his heart beating as loud and as fast as hers is, even over the sound of the speedboat.

The larger ship in the distance is a US Navy vessel; called out in the wake of the tsunami to look for survivors, and to scout the ocean for capsized boats or people who had gotten into deep water.

Once on the ship’s main dock, a plethora of uniformed personnel busy themselves as Frankie and Jude are ushered towards the main control room.

She clocks a helicopter on the landing pad and shudders, recalling the countless times her mind had convinced her in her sleep that Frankie was leaving her on one, shrinking in the sky.

The captain of the ship greets them both with a caramel tan stark against a crisp white shirt, regarding them with some kind of disbelief when the rescue officers explain they originate from the doomed flight that had disappeared well over a year ago.

“Are you American?” The captain asks them both and Frankie nods.

“We’ll call the consulate. Get you some representation to help you back home.”

“Where are we, captain?” Frankie asks, and he looks back at him with a bemused expression.

“The SS Pendrinhas; US Navy.”

“No, I mean, where are we in the ocean? The island?” Frankie clarifies.

“You’re approximately one thousand and forty-three miles off the coast of The Prince Edward Islands. We’re in the Indian Ocean, sir.” The captain explains.

“We are?” Frankie asks him, turning white as a ghost.

“Yes,” the captain nods. “The island you were on is one of many scattered islands that are vastly unpopulated, surrounding the main Prince Edward Islands. You couldn’t see other peninsula points?”

Frankie shakes his head. “There was a-a ridge, but we couldn’t see any other land from that.”

“Damn. So near, yet so far,” the captain concludes with a frown, but it doesn’t offer any comfort at all. “We’ll take you down to the med bay, get you some dry clothes. It’ll be a couple hours before we reach the mainland. You look like you could do with a coffee.” The captain claps Frankie on the side of the shoulder and he winces. “Maybe something a bit stronger, huh?”

They’re both escorted down into the ship’s hull towards the med bay, passing officers stop to glance at their dishevelled appearance occasionally like they’re a rare exhibit in a museum.

Once inside the bay, another officer gathers some papers on a clipboard and proceeds to run through a list of questions, firing them off like ammo.

“Can you... Can you leave us for a few minutes?” Frankie says to the officer, noting the painfully vacant expression on Jude’s face. A thousand yard stare he recognises only too well.

The officer nods, looking somewhat relieved. “Sure. Take as long as you need.”

“What day is it?” Jude asks the officer, who stops and looks at her with a strained smile.

“It’s the nineteenth of July, ma’am.”

“And the time?” Frankie follows up.

The officer pulls back his sleeve and checks his watch. “Twenty-seven past six in the evening, sir.”

Once the grunt leaves, Frankie approaches Jude and puts his hands on her shoulders.

“Look at me,” Frankie persuades “I’m right here, find my eyes…” and her eyes slowly find him. “We made it, we’re off the island. We’re alive, hermosa.”

It takes a few moments, a couple of beats for the words to really sink in. We made it, we’re alive.

We’re alive.

Jude slumps forward into his arms, like she’s lost all her air and she sobs in abject relief. She feels him emit a small chuckle as he breathes out at his own realisation; his hands massaging her back up and down in deep circles soothing her, but they’re shaking.

“We really got off the island?” She asks him, absolutely astonished and wiping at her eyes that are so dry and sore.

Frankie pulls back looking down at her with a relieved smile; he smooths away the tear tracks from her face with his thumbs and kisses her gently on the forehead.

“We did. I love you,” he whispers to her.

Jude looks into his intense brown eyes, and remembers him shouting at her that he loved her right before the tsunami swallowed them up. She realises she hasn’t said it back.

But the look in his eyes right now assure her that saying the words out loud doesn't matter - he knows that she loves him back unconditionally.

When you spend that amount of time with someone - in that kind of situation - fighting for your life on a continuous basis, not only do you learn about your own resilience, but that of the person with you. You begin to depend on one another, work as a team; look out for each other’s well being, because understandably, if you can prolong their survival, you undoubtedly prolong your own.

But not only that, you become company for that other person, a means of distraction and escape from your plight, even if it’s just temporary. Lost in the sounds of her melodic laugh, or the way in which his muddy eyes regard you as you speak.

You begin to care for that person, worry for them and soon enough, you become attached in so many ways. An intense bond that no-one else can ever understand, and it can never be severed, even if you were to part ways - forever bonded in your strife and survival.

And eventually, you grow to love them; to depend on them to the point that you can’t function through a single moment without them, and it kills you to be apart from them for even the briefest of moments. You fall in love with them.

Jude pushes her forehead against his, breathing out, and Frankie feels her breath warm his face and insides in equal measure.

“I love you so, so much, Frankie.” Jude hiccups, holding onto him tightly. “Te quiero, te quiero.”

To be continued...

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whatsnewalycat · 1 month

Text

Designated Person | 9

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 9: Where The Wild Things Are

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 8.6k+

Tags / Warnings: alternating pov, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship, angst, food mention, jealousy, alcohol & alcoholism, lying, conflict avoidance, crying, internal conflict, birthday party, a low-key dudes rule moment (bros! bros! bros!), tried my hardest hardest with Spanish but I am a white girl I’m sorry if its wrong pls let me know, a lot of dialogue like so much dialogue fuck, children, toxic relationships just bad all around

Notes: WELL HI, long time no see! I know it’s been over 6 months since I’ve updated. I went on a warpath with another series (Psychomanteum—it’s finished if you wanna check it out). But I’m back to force these two dummies to walk through hellfire 💘

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ]

———————————————————————————

Nothing seems right.

For what has to be the hundredth time, you sift through the sparse collection of t-shirts and dresses hanging in your closet. Each time you push a hanger aside to consider a potential outfit, your brain falls into the same pattern.

First, you wonder if Frankie would like it. Granted, if you showed up wearing a cardboard box he’d still want to fuck you.

You want him to like it more than that, though.

You want him to see you and get all weak in the knees. You want him to look at you in that way he does sometimes. That soft, magnetic look that tugs at every part of you. The one that argues against logic and speaks to intuition instead. That can't-eat, can't-sleep, reach-for-the-stars, over-the-fence, World Series kind of look.

After considering this entirely reasonable and attainable goal, you picture yourself wearing the clothes through Angie’s eyes.

You dissect each potential outfit as she would. This dress too low cut, that one too frumpy, the other too short. A critical chorus of slut slut slut plays in the back of your head, accented by the memory of her manicured hands wrapped around your throat, the growl she let out when she squeezed around your windpipe.

“You little slut, I will fucking kill you.”

Throughout this whirlwind of turmoil, snippets from this morning rise to the surface and drown out everything else.

Frankie’s lips on yours, hungry and certain. His strong hands on your body, digging into your skin. The way he talked to you, voice low and strained—Whose pussy is this?

Every time these words repeat, your heart hammers in your chest. Tingles trickle out from between your legs and work up your spine.

The time before this, right after he moved in, when you fucked on the couch… you felt dirty afterwards. It sent you into a spiral of self-guilt that gnawed away at you for days. It reminded you of how sex was towards the end last time. Like you could have been anyone. Like he needed something to make him feel alive, and you were just the most ready and willing participant.

But it felt different this time.

Intimate in a way it hasn’t been in so long. It felt like an act of something bigger and stronger, like he needed you specifically. Not the rush of endorphins. Not just the heat of another person. Not a substitute for the love his wife wouldn’t give him. It felt like he needed you and nothing else would sate him.

“I won’t do that to you again, mariposa, I promise. I’ll fix it, I promise I’ll fix it, ok?”

Right about here is when indecision ties your brain off in a knot that seizes the production of valuable output.

Then you return to yourself, staring into the closet like it’s fucking Narnia, and slide the hanger aside to do it all over again.

—

Frankie collapses into a patio chair with a groan, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair before replacing his cap, then tilts his head up towards the blazing sun and closes his eyes.

When he trekked through the Andes with his team, there were nights where he felt the cold so deep in his bones, he wondered if he would ever be able to get warm again.

Right now is the opposite of that.

Right now he would give up fistfuls of cash to feel that bone-deep freeze.

He casts a longing glance at the cooler and fantasizes about drinking a cold beer. That psssch-ahsound it would make when he opened the tab. He imagines the condensation cooling his heated skin and the alcohol calming his fried nerves.

Fuck, that sounds perfect.

Through the open window to the dining room, he can hear Angie and her sister Marta gossiping to each other, talking about how so-and-so is dating what’s his face again and blah blah blah. His ears perk up when Marta segues into their personal life.

“Speaking of people getting back together… How are things with you and Frankie?”

Angie doesn’t say anything, but must make a face at her sister because she follows the question up by giggling, “What, can I not ask?”

“Ay, Marta. No seas metiche.”

A beat of silence passes. Marta must non-verbally pry, because Angie speaks again, quieter this time.

“We’ll see.” Then quickly, almost defensively, she adds, “He’s getting his act together, you know. He quit drinking, and he’s doing this parole program. It seems like… it seems like he’s trying.”

“Mmm. Is he still living with that girl? Su amante?”

Frankie knows Angie well enough to know she rolls her eyes in response.

Marta tsks, but any further conversation is cut off by a sudden commotion of squealing and bickering.

He looks down at his watch, reading 1240, and guesses that Angie’s friend Carmen arrived with her five children.

His eyes clamp shut and he fantasizes about drinking a beer. Maybe three. Hell, make it ten. Ten would do just fine. Ten would anesthetize him just enough to let him clear his head and make this whole ordeal manageable.

“Just get through today,” he tells himself, “Just one more goddamn day, then you can be done with this fucking charade.”

The backdoor opens, releasing a burst of chaotic noise. Angie and Carmen step out, and he stands at attention.

“Oh wow, look at all this,” Carmen tells Angie, “Damn girl, you really went all out, didn’t you?”

“We don’t really know what the situation will be next year, with Frankie and everything,” Angie’s eyes flick to him, and she shrugs, “So I figured, make it memorable. For all of us.”

“Sure,” Carmen nods, concern creasing her brow, then she acknowledges Frankie with a quick head-to-toe scan, “Francisco, how’re you doing?”

“Better than I deserve,” he smirks, and gestures to the gift bag hanging off her wrist, “Let me take that for you. Want anything to drink?”

She hands off the present and glances at Angie, then back to Frankie, “Can I get a beer?”

“Sure,” he nods to Angie, “How about you, amor?”

“I’ll take a beer, too.”

“Two beers coming up,” Frankie calls behind him while descending the stairs.

As he walks to the 10’ x 20’ white canopy tent, he tries to eavesdrop, but the two women talk to each other in hushed tones. He has no doubt it’s about him, though, because he hears Carmen exclaim, “Oh shit, really?” then, quieter but still distinguishable, “Good for you, mamá.”

After dropping the gift bag on the designated table, Frankie goes to the cooler to grab two cans of beer and a bottle of water, then returns to the deck, where Angie and Carmen both lean against the railing. They both murmur a thanks when he hands them their drinks.

He rubs between her shoulder blades, “Need anything else?”

“A fucking Xanax,” she jokes while cracking her beer open. He watches foam bubble up from the mouth of the can and his pulse surges green with envy. She takes a long sip, then sighs, “Mmm let’s see. Food is done, Mamá and Marta are bringing everything out. Your mom should be here with the cake any minute. You got everything set up in the tent?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Alright, well,” she takes another swig and shrugs, “Wanna get the slip ‘n’ slide going? We can get the kiddos changed into their suits.”

“You got it.”

He starts away, but she grabs his shirt to stop him.

When he turns back to her, eyebrows raised in question, her golden brown eyes meet his, then drop to his lips, “Thank you.”

His hand finds her waist and he nods, “Not a problem.”

She kisses him, and he kisses her back, thinking of you—always fucking thinking of you— as he tells himself: One more day.

—

Leah picks up on the second ring.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Tell me I shouldn’t go to this party.”

She releases a big sigh that makes you grimace, then says, “Tell me you’re not actually thinking of going.”

You glance up at the Morales residence through your windshield, sinking down into your seat when you spot Benny, Will, and Dani making their way up the driveway.

“I’m outside in my car.”

Leah is quiet for a moment before she asks, “Do you want to go?”

“Yes and no,” you watch the Millers open the door and go inside the house, “I want to see Sarah, and I wanna be there for Frankie, just because… I don’t know, everything, but…”

“But Angie?”

You nod, casting your eyes down to your hands to pick at the frayed cuticles, “I’m afraid she’s going to say something or do something to retaliate against me.”

“You did have an affair with her husband—”

“I’m well aware,” you snip.

The silence that follows wrings guilt from your stomach. A burning sensation works up your throat behind your eyes, so you pinch them shut and hang your head.

“Fuck, sorry. You’re right. She has every right to despise me. I deserve it. I shouldn’t go, it’s stupid.”

Your words come out all pathetic and warbled by tears, but you continue anyway.

“I feel so torn. I care about them a lot and I wanna be there. I want it to be better so that… fuck. I don’t know. Nevermind.”

“Why do you want it to be better?”

“It’s stupid.”

“No, I want you to tell me.”

You take a deep, shaky breath, tilting your head up towards the drooping ceiling of your car. The answer pulses through your body and tingles on the tip of your tongue. If you speak it you might shatter to dust.

Instead, you offer up a consolation prize to distract her.

“I did something I shouldn’t have,” you whisper, then swing your head down to stare at your steering wheel, “I… had sex with him.”

Leah snorts, “I fucking knew it.”

“Shut up, you did not,” you scoff, “It just happened this morning.”

“Rach owes me $10.”

“You bet that—God, you are the worst.”

You hang up on her, then stare at your phone for a few seconds before sending a text to Frankie.

< ME: < Are you sure I should come? I feel nervous

A few unresponsive seconds go by before you flip the visor down to inspect your reflection in the mirror. Not terrible. Some black smudges around your eyes. Could use some lipstick.

You remedy these problems while trying not to think too hard about what you’re about to do, lying to yourself in hopes that you can somehow warp the truth.

This will be fine.

—

By the time Frankie gets the hose hooked up to the slip ‘n’ slide, his mother- and sister-in-law are setting the last few food items out on the long folding table under the tent.

Two of Carmen’s sons dash across the deck in their swimsuits. As he passes them on the stairs, he ruffles the older one’s scraggly dark brown hair, calling after them, “Soda and water in the cooler if you boys are thirsty.”

They holler an acknowledgment as Frankie makes his way inside.

The relief of stepping into cool, conditioned air quickly dissipates as the commotion hits him.

At least a dozen conversations meld together in this wall of indistinguishable sound. He can’t quite focus on any of the vaguely familiar faces or isolate one single voice from the warble of people talking.

A heavy, frantic pounding starts in his chest. His hands start to tingle. Noises disappear completely for a second, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in his ears.

Jesus fucking Christ, I’m losing it.

He pulls a chair out from the dining room table and sits down, praying nobody notices him clench his eyes closed to inhale a deep, wide breath.

Then another.

Everything starts to come back into focus, and he tunes into someone asking, “Fish, you ok?”

He startles when a broad palm settles between his shoulder blades. Looking towards the source, he finds Will’s dusty blue eyes studying him with concern.

“Shit,” Frankie mutters, running a hand over his face before he clearing his throat and standing, “Sorry, yeah. Think I got too much heat or something.” He gives his friend a quick, one-armed hug, “Good to see you, man.”

When Will parts ways with Frankie, he gives him a look that says he doesn’t buy it for a second, but doesn’t push the subject.

His wife, Dani, approaches with a cautious smile, “Frankie, good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too” Frankie gives her a hug, “Thanks for coming.” They separate and he asks Will, “Benny here yet?”

“Yeah,” he smirks, jerking his head towards the living room, “Shooting the shit with your mom.”

“Figures,” Frankie chuckles and shakes his head, “I gotta go make my rounds, but, uhh,” he gestures from the gift box in the crook of Will’s arm to the back door, “There’s a gift table outside. Food and drinks and all that, help yourselves.”

“Catch up later, yeah?” Will nods.

Frankie mirrors the action as a few waist-high kids race past, budging in front of them when Will opens the door.

He notices a cluster of aimless partygoers lingering between the dining and living room, and starts directing the halted human traffic out to the backyard. It prods them into action, thinning out the crowded common area as he makes his way to the couch, where he finds his mom sitting with Sarah in her lap and Benny at her side. Benny says something to Sarah that makes her and her grandmother giggle.

“Is this guy bothering you?” Frankie asks, unable to stop the smile from spreading across his face.

“Francisco!”

She passes Sarah to Benny and struggles to get to her feet.

“Christ, mamá, let me help you” he mutters while taking her well-worn hands in his to pull her upright.

She’s always been a woman of small stature, barely measuring up to his shoulders once the growth spurts petered out and left him as tall as he’d always be. But each time he sees her, she seems to have shrunk a little bit more.

As soon as she steadies herself, she kisses his cheek, then pulls him down into a surprisingly tight embrace, telling him, “I missed you so much, mijo.”

“Missed you too, Ma.”

She pulls back from the hug, but holds onto his arms to look him over, “How have you been?”

“Fine,” he nods, looking away when her keen dark eyes narrow, “What about you, hmm? How was the drive?”

“Bien bien,” she waves off his questions and takes a step back to smile at the birthday girl, “She’s getting so big, Pancho. Such a pretty dress.”

Sarah grabs at the puffy hem of her skirt and giggles at the attention.

Frankie snorts in admiration at his daughter, then asks her, “You wanna go see your party, princesa?”

“Yes!”

He looks at Benny, “I gotta see if Ang needs me to do anything, do you wanna…?”

“Escort these lovey ladies?” Benny winks at Julieta, “Shit, I’d love to.”

“Jesus Christ,” Frankie mutters, then tells Sarah, “Go with Uncle Benny, I’ll be there in a minute, ok?”

She jumps off Benny’s lap and runs to the back door, leveraging her weight against the knob. It swings open and she escapes, sending Benny chasing after her, laughing, “Hey, wait up!”

Julieta starts after them just as Sarah’s bedroom door opens, and two little girls come charging towards the back door. Carmen and Angie trail behind, the former carrying a baby tucked into her side, the latter looking around with a puzzled expression pasted to her face.

“Everyone outside?” Angie asks her husband, slowing to a stop a few feet away from him while Carmen continues outside.

“Yeah. I, uhh, got the slip ‘n’ slide set up, all the food is out—anything else you need me to do?”

“Is your girl here?”

She smirks and tilts her head at him, like she’s joking or teasing, but the humor doesn’t reach her eyes.

His skittish heart skips in his chest.

Sensing a trap, Frankie searches her face and shakes his head like he doesn’t understand.

Angie raises an eyebrow at him, “Don’t act like you don’t know who I’m talking about.”

So fucking sick of this.

“Whatever,” he blinks, “No. I haven’t seen her yet. Anything else?”

The forced amusement immediately drops from her face and she stomps outside, slamming the door closed behind her.

He takes a deep breath, pulling his hat up to run a hand through his hair, then glances at his watch.

1308

He shakes some of the nervous energy from his fingertips and starts to pace the living room.

What if you decided not to come?

Honestly, it would make today much easier. He could just go out there and play his role. Put on his mask and blame his disposition on the ongoing legal battle. His mother, wife, and friends, they’d be none the wiser.

Something inside him lurches at the thought.

Suddenly and very clearly, he understands that if you don’t show, nothing will change. He will drive this ship into the ground.

As if on cue, the doorbell rings.

He jogs down the steps, swings the door open, and there you are, wearing a pretty floral sundress and a nervous smile.

“Hey,” he backs up to allow you entry.

“Hi,” your smile grows wider, and you step past him as you enter the house, “Long time no see.”At the foot of the stairs, you turn to face him, “Where’s the party?”

“Backyard.”

“Oh.”

When you glance down at his mouth, one hundred butterflies start chittering away at his stomach. He licks his lips and notices himself gravitating towards you. It doesn’t help that you’re doing it, too. The subtle way your body bows in his direction, inching so close he can smell the bright burst of your perfume and the damp musk of your sweat.

“Is everyone out there?”

“Pretty sure,” his eyes flick to the vacant upstairs, then back to you, “Why?”

Just an inch away, you clamp a grin closed and shrug, “No reason.”

“Uh huh,” he raises an eyebrow, daring to rest his hand on your waist. The contact floods his body with a hot, thudding pulse he can taste.

Searching his face, you slide your palm over his heart. Beneath your touch, the muscle pounds at its seams.

Against his better judgment, he leans in to capture your lips in his. Warmth spreads out from his chest through his limbs. You hook a hand behind his neck and pull him closer, your body curving flush against his.

Only hours have gone by since he last saw you, but it feels like months. It’s like that with you. Timeless when you’re together and an eternity when you’re apart.

Pulling back, you look at the floor and shake your head, “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“We shouldn’t, umm,” you swallow hard, shaking your head again as you glance upstairs, “Here, now, you know…”

He glances at the back door, “You’re right. We should get to the party.“

“Yeah,” you take a big step back and clear your lungs with a deep breath, then hold up your gift bag, “Where should I put this?”

“Right this way—”

“Wait, look at me,” you chuckle, tugging at his hand.

He faces you, asking, “What?”

You cup his cheek and lick the pad of your thumb, bringing it to his bottom lip, “Lipstick.”

Your brow furrows in concentration, tongue poking out the corner of your mouth as you scrub off the evidence.

It’s kind of adorable, the way in which you do this. Doting, almost. Reminds him of the times Mamá would catch him with a dirty face in public and try to make him more presentable.

Briefly, he pictures you as the matriarch of a rowdy crew of children. Driving a minivan to school drop-offs and extracurricular activities and family outings. It suits you.

He can’t stop his lips from curving into a smile.

“What?” you grin, eyes flicking to his.

“Nothing,” he murmurs as you tilt his face around and inspect him. “Better?”

“Better,” you nod, “How about me?”

He pinches your chin and looks you over, correcting a smudge before telling you, “All clear. You ready?”

You give a half-hearted shrug, looking around at the ground, then ask, “Your wife isn’t gonna like… yell at me in front of everyone or pelt me with produce, right? This isn’t an elaborate revenge prank?”

“Is that what all the tomatoes are for? Shit,” he teases, earning a chuckle and an eye roll from you. “No, but really. She agreed to be nice.”

“Ok,” you nod, “So I’m like allowed to talk to you and everything without worrying she’ll try to murder me?”

Frankie snorts, “She wouldn’t murder you—”

“She has literally told me ‘I will fucking kill you.’”

“That was—” he shakes his head, then brings his hands to your shoulders and stares into your eyes, “It’s gonna be fine, mariposa. We’re gonna go bullshit with people and eat some food, and then we’re gonna home and watch a stupid fucking movie. Ok?”

You laugh, dropping your gaze for a moment before returning with a bashful smile, “Ok.”

—

As you make your way down the food table, piling tamales and Spanish rice and fresh fruit on a flimsy paper plate, you feel eyes on the back of your head. Whether it’s just one set or ten, you don’t care to know, but the feeling sends a shiver up your spine.

When you reach the end of the line, you take a deep breath before turning to find a place to sit.

Like every other party, the crowd is mostly separated into cliques.

Parents from around the neighborhood stick together at a few long tables, bribing their children to eat and drink water before returning to the slip-n-slide. At another table sits Angie’s family, including the queen herself, whose pointed stare you gloss over, ignoring her and Frankie at her side. You find some familiar faces at a table near the edge of the big party tent: Benny, Will, and Dani. With them is a small, elderly woman who must be Frankie’s mom or an aunt or something, due to the striking resemblance.

The whole thing reminds you of choosing a place to sit in your high school cafeteria. Much like you did in those days, you gravitate towards an empty table nearby, but halt when some calls your name.

Frowning, you look around to find Benny waving at you.

“Over here,” he pulls out the chair beside him.

You approach with a smile, the tension held in your shoulders dissolving just a little as you take the open seat and greet everyone.

“Thanks. I didn’t know if, umm… it was ok,” you chuckle nervously and drop your eyes to your plate, shaking your head.

“Oh, come on now, you’re always welcome with us,” Benny grins, leaning back in his chair to reveal the tiny graying woman on the other side of him, “Have you met Frankie’s mom, Julieta?”

“I have not,” you reach across Benny to shake her hand, “Good to meet you, I’m—”

She waves you off and pushes her chair out behind her. You half-expect her to furiously walk away at your presence, but instead she wobbles over to you and holds her arms open.

“I know who you are. Come here, mija.”

You stand to accept the invitation, stammering out, “Oh—ok—”

Emotion wells up in your chest when her bony arms squeeze tight around you and she tells you, “Thank you for taking care of my boy.”

Not sure what to say, you just hug her back for a few long seconds. The embrace says it all. It feels maternal and earnest and brings a few tears to your eyes. When she pulls away and smiles at you, you notice she’s a little misty-eyed, too, and you smile back at her. She gives your cheek a few pats before you both return to your seats.

“How’ve you been?” Dani asks.

You contemplate the question long enough for Benny to interject.

“Well, she’s keeping Fish out of trouble so I’m sure she’s having a hell of a time.”

You shrug, “It’s nothing compared to some of the toddlers I’ve had to deal with.”

Your audience chuckles, then awaits a follow up.

“No, I, umm… I’m doing ok. Going through a breakup, so that’s tough, but… mostly I’m good.”

Why did I say that?

“A breakup?” Benny leans back and drapes an arm over the back of your chair, “What happened?”

“Oh, we don’t have to—” you laugh at your plate, stabbing a chunk of watermelon.

“Come on, give us the dirt,” Benny prods.

You shove the watermelon in your mouth and wrinkle your nose at him, shaking your head.

“Let the girl have some privacy,” Dani scolds, “If she doesn’t wanna talk about it, she doesn’t wanna talk about it.”

“If she didn’t wanna talk about it she wouldn’t’ve mentioned it,” he counters.

“It’s fine, it wasn’t even a big deal. We were only dating for a few weeks and it wasn’t a good match,” you explain, glancing around the table, “I don’t know why I said it, sorry, I’m just, umm… nervous.”

You notice Will studying you and hold his meticulous gaze for a moment before dropping your eyes to your plate. He speaks up then, drawing the fire away from you.

“Hey, that’s alright. Not like Benny has room to criticize,” he gives his brother a lopsided grin, “Remember that girl that tried to stab you?”

“Not this again,” Benny groans.

“Ok well now you have to tell me,” you say, flashing a grateful smile to Will before nudging Benny, “Come on, give me the dirt.”

“Well, if you’re gonna twist my arm about it.” He visibly shifts into storytelling mode, sitting up straighter as a glint of mischief sparks in his eyes, “First of all, I had no business dating her to begin with. She had a PT Cruiser with whiskey plates. If that’s not a red flag, I don’t know what is.”

—

Trying to be a halfway decent host, Frankie makes his way around the party checking in with people, introducing himself to all the unfamiliar faces and making small talk, recycling the same lines.

Drinks are in the cooler if you’re thirsty. Thanks for coming. I’m doing great, how about you?

Meanwhile, Ang seems to have taken on his former role as the champion beer drinker of the party. Every time he glances at her she’s either guzzling it down or popping open a new aluminum can.

When she and Carmen start directing slip ‘n’ slide traffic and seem sufficiently distracted, he walks up to the table where some of his favorite people are seated and takes the open chair next to Will.

“Look who it is,” Will smirks at him, “We were just talking about you.”

“Christ, do I wanna know?” he leans forward to rest his elbows on the table.

“Probably not, I was talking mad shit about you,” you tease, looking at him with a grin that makes his heart swell.

“Figures you would be,” he shoots back.

You chuckle and shake your head, “No, actually I was just telling them about how I’m teaching you to cook.”

“Oh yeah,” he looks around the table, “Did you tell them about the stir-fry?”

“Ok, you tried with the stir-fry and it was almost edible—”

“Almost edible?” Benny laughs

“Somehow the rice was both undercooked and burnt, and the veggies were mush,” you share, sitting up taller when you meet his eyes, “But it could’ve been worse. You’re learning!”

“I’m just impressed you could get him in the kitchen in the first place,” Benny says, then turns his attention to Julieta, “Mamá, you didn’t make him cook anything growing up?”

She tsks and waves him off, then explains, “His father wouldn’t let me. He was very traditional, you know, said it was women’s work.“

“It’s ok, Ma,” Frankie assures her.

“I am glad you’re learning now.” A smile stretches across her face, “You must be grateful to have such a good teacher.”

“I am, really,” he nods and glances at you before admitting, “I’d be a fucking mess without her.”

Everyone at the table seems to sit with this information in silence for a moment before Will clears his throat and asks, “Are you still working on that car?”

Frankie leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, “Here and there. Lately it’s just been collecting dust.”

“Mind if I check it out?” Will inquires, “It’s been, what, a year and a half since I’ve seen it?”

“Sure,” he frowns, looking over at you and your creased brow as if seeking permission, at which point you give a shrug, then he squints up across the yard and spots Angie talking to her mom and dad. “Let me just tell Ang so she doesn’t lose her shit if she can’t find me.”

The three men stand from the table. Frankie gives you one more glance before starting off towards his wife. With each step he takes across the grass, he wishes more and more that he could kiss you again. Give you reassurance that you’re doing great in this precarious situation.

Angie’s father glares at him as he approaches, which isn’t abnormal. Angie follows his line of sight, wobbling a bit as she lays eyes on him. Surprisingly, she smiles, “Hey!”

“Hey—”

She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him, the action so unexpected he stumbles back a step. Her lips taste of beer and poor judgment. When he pulls away, he plasters on a fake grin and says, “The guys wanna look at the car, is it ok if I slip away for a few?”

“You boys and your toys,” she rolls her eyes, “Fine, just be back for presents in a couple minutes, yeah?”

“Alright,” he searches over her shoulder, “How’s Sarah doing?”

“Good, good,” she nods, “She’s playing with Carm’s kids in the sandbox.”

“Make sure she gets some water, I don’t think she drank any with—”

“She’s fine, Francisco. I’ve got it,” she insists, patting his chest.

He studies her for a moment, then says, “Ok, I’ll be back in a minute. We’ll be in the garage if you need me.”

“Give me a kiss,” Angie demands, her long nails scraping at the nape of his neck. He leans in and presses his lips to hers, feeling nothing but irritation and disgust.

—

When Frankie and the Miller brothers disappear into the house, so does your social armor, leaving you exposed.

For a while you make scattered small talk with Julieta and Dani, discussing Sarah and the party and the weather. You watch Sarah play with her friends from a distance, not wanting to disrupt their sand castle building by approaching. Every once in a while, your eyes cheat to Angie.

A vile, familiar sensation sits heavy in your stomach.

He warned you that it might be difficult seeing them together, but you forgot how bad it hurts to witness.

The way she kissed him doesn’t help. Hanging off him, looking at him with bedroom eyes.

It’s not the same this time. He’s different now.

The foul thing in your belly goes dead weight, making you lurch.

What if he’s not?

Before you can spiral too much, you hear, “Chacha!” and realize Sarah is running towards you

“Hi, pumpkin!” you smile and outstretch your arms to catch her as she slams into you.

“I’m not a pumpkin, I’m just a girl,” she giggles.

“Are you having fun at your party?”

She grunts out an “mhmm” while you pull her up onto your lap. Her face is flushed, skin all heated and damp with sweat.

“You look like you’re hot, do you want some water?”

“Um. Ok!” she smiles.

“Ok let me get you—”

“I got it,” Dani stands and starts towards the cooler.

You murmur a thanks and return your attention to Sarah, “Thank you for letting me come to your party. I’m having so much fun.”

She giggles in response, leaning into you.

“How are you liking daycare? Do you get to play with your friends?”

She nods.

Dani returns with a cold water bottle, twisting the cap open before handing it to you.

“Here you go, sweetie,” you bring the bottle to her lips and slowly tip it back as she takes big gulps of water. Periodically, you pull it away and let her catch her breath, then start again until she pushes it away.

“Better?”

“Much better,” she nods.

“Maybe she should go inside and cool down for a minute?” Dani suggests.

Julieta leans over to feel her forehead, “Too much sun, hija.”

“Do you wanna go inside for a minute?” You ask, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Chacha will you go with me?”

“You want me to—oh, um… should we ask your mom…?” You frown at Dani, who grimaces, then Julieta.

“Just take her,” Julieta insists, “I’ll tell Angelica if she comes looking.”

“Ok. Ok sure. Let’s go, sweetie.”

You rise from the chair, sliding Sarah to your hip, then carry her up the stairs into the house. Once inside, you sit on the couch with her for a few seconds before she wriggles away and scampers off down the hallway.

“Chacha come see my room!”

“Oh my fucking god,” you whisper under your breath, glancing nervously up at the back door before following her, “Ok, but just for a minute, then we should go back out to the party.”

—

“Are you seriously calling him?” Frankie blinks, leaning back against the workbench.

Will shoots him a look while raising the phone to his ear.

“Unbelievable. It’s like six o’clock in the morning there, you’re gonna wake—”

“Hey Pope, I’m gonna put you on speaker.” Will presses a button and sets the phone down next to Frankie, “Now I want Fish to tell you what he just told me and Benny.”

Gnashing his jaw back and forth, he stares at Will, then Benny. They both watch him expectantly while Santi speaks up, his voice groggy from sleep.

“Alright, let’s hear it.”

Frankie clears his throat and rubs his mouth before saying, “I’m gonna ask Ang for a divorce.”

“Oh shit, ok.”

Will prods Frankie further, “Tell him the other part.”

“Will you just—Fuck, ok. I’m… seeing someone.”

On the other line, Santi chuckles a little, “Uh-huh.“

“Any guesses on who that might be?” Benny asks.

“Oh, I have one—”

“Wait wait wait, let me give you a hint,” Benny grins while scrolling through his phone, pushing off the hood of the car to grandstand, “On June 10–only seven weeks ago, mind you—Fish said about her, and I quote: It’s not like that, we’re only friends. To which you said—”

“—I said bull-fucking-shit!” Santi finishes, then howls, “That is fucking delicious, thank you.”

Frankie crosses his arms and shakes his head at Will, “See, this is why I didn’t wanna tell him.”

“How long?” Santi asks.

“How long what?”

“How long have you been sleeping with her?”

“It’s… complicated, ok?”

Benny giggles and repeats, “Oh, it’s complicated.”

Santi questions further, “Sure, well, let me ask you this: How long have you been in love with her?”

“Why does it matter?”

“You do, though, right? You love her?”

Frankie crosses his arms and glares at the phone, “Yeah.”

“When did that happen?”

Heat flares through his veins. He wrings his neck and mutters, “That’s a stupid question.”

“Why’s it stupid?”

“Cuz, Pope, that’s like… that’s like asking how long ago mankind came to exist. Or asking what point a chrysalis becomes a butterfly. I don’t fucking know, man, it just does. I just know that I do, I love her, and I have for… a while.”

The two men before him are silent, along with the voice on the phone. Frankie, on the other hand, finds momentum in his confession. He continues.

“And Ang… Jesus Christ, I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve felt like this with her. And the longer I think about it, the more I convince myself I never did. Not this way, like I can’t live without her, you know?” He taps his fingers against his lips, then shrugs, “Maybe I could have at one point, if I tried. But even then… I don’t like who I am when I’m with her. It doesn’t feel right. It’s like I’m wearing someone else’s skin and it doesn’t fit me.”

He glances up at Benny, then Will. Their faces are somber, but understanding. Benny approaches, leaning on the workbench beside him to rope an arm around his shoulders and give him a supportive squeeze.

“When are you gonna tell her?” Will asks.

“Soon. Not today, but this week probably.“

Benny withdraws his touch and crosses his arms in front of his chest, “She’ll go right for the jugular. You know that, right?”

“I know.” Frankie takes off his cap to run a hand through his hair, then puts it back, “She’s gonna try to take Sarah. Fuck, I’m gonna need another goddamn lawyer, aren’t I?”

“Can you afford that right now?” Will furrows his brow, studying him, “Be honest.”

“Probably. Well, maybe. I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but is now the right time? You’re on parole and looking to add felony charges to your wrap sheet. Not to mention the infidelity. On paper, your custody case is shit.”

Frankie shakes his head, “If I have to keep living like this… all this lying and pretending… I don’t know, man. I can’t do it anymore. Something inside me is about to break. I can feel it.”

The Millers exchange a look.

“I don’t think I’m speaking out of line by saying we all just want what’s best for you, Fish,” the voice over the phone tells him, “We want you to be happy. If you need to get out, get out.”

Frankie glances up at Will, who nods in confirmation.

“Thanks. It-it means a lot to me,” he shifts his weight to one leg, looking down at his wristwatch, “We better get back to the party. Talk soon, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Santi says, “Hang in there, buddy.”

After hanging up the phone, Will gives Frankie a pat on the shoulder, “We’ve got your back.”

As they file out of the garage into the entryway, Angie walks out from the bathroom. When she notices them climbing the steps, she calls, “Hi boys.”

To his credit, Benny puts on a convincing smile and greets her with a high five, “What’s up, Angie?”

She steps aside to let him pass, then fixes her glassy eyes on Will, “How’s the carcocha looking?”

“Better than the last time we saw it,” Will shrugs, glancing over his shoulder at Frankie, “Just needs a little TLC.”

“Needs to go to the scrapyard if you ask me,” she snorts and tilts her head at her husband as he reaches the top of the stairs, “Hey handsome.”

He gives her a half-hearted smirk, then frowns, “Where’s Sarah?”

“She’s fine, still playing. Francisco,” she tugs on his shirt, so he comes to a stop.

Jesus Christ, her breath smells like a brewery.

His eyes flick to the Millers stalled at the back door. After waving at them to clear out, he raises his eyebrows at Angie, “What?”

“I need your help with something.”

“Sure, what?”

Instead of answering him outright, she takes his hand and leads him down the hallway. His stomach twists with understanding when she pulls him through the doorway towards the bed.

“If you wanna lay down for a bit, I can take care of every—”

She turns to face him, placing her palms on his chest and sliding them up to his shoulders, “I want you to fuck me, Francisco.”

“Ang,” he chuckles with exasperation, shaking his head, “We have a backyard full of guests here, come on.”

“They’re all having fun, no one will notice.” She takes his hand and guides it to her face, gently folding down all his finger but the index and pouts, “Please, Frankie.”

He swallows a groan when she wraps her full lips around his digit and sucks. The wet hot plush of her mouth makes his eyelids flutter and weakens his resolve.

“I don’t think—”

She pulls his finger from her mouth like a lollipop and bats her eyelashes at him, cooing, “Don’t you wanna fuck me like you did the other night? Didn’t that feel good?”

“Well, yeah—”

“We can be quick.”

As she reaches for his belt, something moves at the edge of his vision.

“Mommy, Daddy!”

He looks at the doorway to find Sarah in the hall, holding one penguin toy in each of her pudgy toddler fists. A big, toothy grin spreads across her face and she giggles, galloping into the room.

Thankful for the diversion, Frankie smiles and takes a big step away from his wife, crouching down to ask Sarah, “Hey sweetheart, what’re you doing in here?”

“Showing Chacha my penguins,” she tells him, holding up her toys, “This one is an emperor penguin, and this one is a macaroni penguin!”

“Chacha?”

Something inside him drops to the floor. He looks up and sees you emerge from Sarah’s room. You pause briefly in the hallway, glancing at Angie before meeting his gaze. The pained look on your face rips his heart in two.

“I, umm…” you stammer, dropping your eyes to the floor and shaking your head, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, I was just—leaving. There’s a thing and-and I have to go.”

With this, you flee down the hall, then the stairs, your footsteps still echoing heavy in his head while the front door slams shut.

—

“Whiskey coke?”

You look up from the bar top’s glossy wood finish to give Bubba a nod.

“Ain’t seen you around here in a while,” he comments while scooping ice into a glass.

“Yeah.”

It surprises you a little, how hoarse your voice sounds. A self-awareness passes over you and you straighten your spine, glancing around the bar before digging a compact mirror from your purse. By the time you finish rubbing the bleeding mascara from your swollen eyes, Bubba is placing your drink in front of you.

You exchange the mirror for your wallet, but when you fish out your card and hold it out to Bubba, he shakes his head.

“On the house.”

“What, do I get the sad sap discount?”

He chuckles a little at this, then shrugs, “If that’s what you wanna call it.”

“Thanks.”

Leaning forward onto the bar, you pull the glass closer, then stab the ice with your straw a few times. Little bubbles of carbonation fizzle up to the surface and release the gassy scent of rail whiskey. Nostalgia sours your stomach.

“Everything alright?”

A deep ache branches out from the weight beneath your sternum and curls around your shoulders. Every cell in your body feels heavy and burdensome.

Staring at the glass, you shake your head.

“I’m all ears if you wanna talk about it.”

“It’s a long, messy story.”

“I got time.”

You glance up at him, studying his concerned expression, and sigh, “You know that guy who meets me here sometimes? Brown hair, usually wearing a hat? Started a fight that one time?”

“The vet?”

“Yeah,” you nod and swallow down the thickness in your throat, then tell him, “We’ve been off and on for years. He’s, umm… he’s married. I was their nanny when it started. I fell in love with him. He made it clear he didn’t feel the same and he wouldn’t leave his wife, but I kept seeing him because I’m an idiot.”

“Sounds like you kept seeing him because you loved him, not because you’re an idiot,” Bubba observes.

“Same difference,” you shrug and tilt your head at your drink, “He’s an alcoholic. After his wife caught us fucking, he went off the rails completely. Still kept seeing him even though he kept me at an arm’s length and drank himself dumb every night. The thing is… I never believed him when he said he couldn’t love me like I loved him. I felt it, and I thought…”

Tingles work up your throat behind your eyes, and everything becomes blurry as you choke out a sob.

“I’m sorry—”

“It’s ok.”

You shake your head and wipe away your tears, but they keep coming.

“I thought if I kept loving him he would see how good it could be and come around. I thought he would admit to himself that he does love me like I love him. I wanted that with him so bad, I just couldn’t fucking let go. Then, umm…”

You clear your throat and take a deep, shaky breath.

“I had to give him an ultimatum. Her or me. He picked her. I cut it off and tried to move on with my life. He called me a few months ago from jail and asked me to bail him out. I got roped into being his custodian while he’s on parole, so he’s been living with me. We agreed not to get involved in, umm, that way again.

“He’s been sober and opening up emotionally while working through this shit. It’s been really hard. But it’s also been good, you know, because we’ve had to hash out all these problems that we’ve ignored for years. I’ve been able to see the real him, and… I love him more than I ever have.”

“Uh-huh,” Bubba raises an eyebrow at you, crossing his arms above his beer belly, “So what happened that’s got you in a fuss? He still doesn’t love you back?”

The question pierces your heart.

Your voice balances a tightrope as you confess, “I thought he did. I really did this time, I was so fucking certain. He promised he would fix it, that we could be together—and I fucking believed him—”

Waves of emotion swell in your chest and flood your eyes with hot tears. You fold forward, burying your face in your hands, releasing sob after sob as you replay the last two months in your head and wonder how you could be so fucking stupid to think it was real.

The world around you melts away until it’s just you and that dense, pulsing pain. Like it’s always been. Like it always will be.

It doesn’t matter how hard you try to help him. It doesn’t matter that you love him more than anything else in this world. It doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters, because he doesn’t love you and he never will.

A hand rests on your shoulder blades and pulls you back to reality. So lost in your self-pity, you didn’t notice Bubba come around the bar to console you. You sit up and wipe your eyes, mumbling out an apology.

“It’s fine, darlin’. Can I do anything to help?”

Sniffling, you shake your head, “I’ll be ok.”

“You sure?”

You inhale a shattered breath and give him a weak smile, “Fifty-fifty.”

He furrows his brow and studies you for a moment before nodding, then taking a step back.

As he makes his way back to his side of the bar, you stare at your drink. A fat droplet of moisture rolls down the thick condensation lining the glass and gets swallowed up by the cardboard coaster beneath.

You wish you could forget about him.

You wish you could feel nothing.

You wish you could hurt him the way he’s hurt you.

So, you pluck out the straw, raise the cup to your lips, and start drinking.

—

The setting sun paints the wispy clouded sky above a brilliant shade of orange. Beneath his feet, the soles of Frankie’s shoes scuff against the driveway. He glances down at his mom, with her arm hooked in his, and says, “Thanks for coming out, Mamá. I hope you had a good time.”

“It was a very nice party, mijo.”

She gives him this stifled polite smile like she’s holding something back. So he prods her.

“What?”

She waves him off, “Nada nada.”

“Come on, Ma.”

They come to a stop at the driver’s side door of her car and turn to face each other. She studies him a moment, then gives in with a huff, “You have been like this all afternoon. Why?”

“Like what?”

“So stormy.”

He deflates, “Don’t worry about it.”

Her lips purse as she tilts her head at him. The ‘don’t make me smack you’ look.

“It’s messy, mom. How I’m feeling,” he wrings a hand behind his neck and shrugs, “I don’t know. Everything is a mess and it’s all my fault.”

“All your fault how? Did something happen?”

“No—well,” he catches himself, swallows, then corrects, “Yeah. I did something bad. And I lied about it. Then I got caught in the lie, and, you know…”

She nods slowly, waiting for more.

“I think I might be a bad person.”

Her expression softens when Frankie says it. She cups his cheeks and stares straight into his soul. Suddenly, he’s five years old all over again, Mamá comforting his bruised heart.

“There is a good man inside you. I know him well because he’s my son. Let him be brave.”

He absorbs this for a moment, then croaks, “Ok.”

“Give me a hug.”

He hunches over to hug her, burying his face in her neck, “Quiero mucho, mamá.”

“Yo a ti,” she squeezes him, then pulls back and asks, “Will you call me tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

He waits for her to get in her car and drive away before returning to the house. Inside, he finds Sarah and Benny reading a book on the couch, while the siren song of the party still roaring out back rubs at his nerves.

Frankie pulls out his phone to confirm you, predictably and rightfully, did not respond to his messages or calls. Reconciling with you will be a fucking nightmare. Going home to face the consequences seems less appealing with each passing second.

He starts to consider other options.

He could stay and drink. Join the party. Doubtful that Angie or any of her people would give a shit. Hell, they would probably encourage him.

Better yet, he could stay and drink by himself in the garage. There’s enough booze laying around, nobody would notice if he drained a bottle or two in order to reach that blissful numb.

He plops down on the couch next to Sarah and brings his attention to Benny’s reading.

“—‘Now stop!’ Max said and sent the wild things off to bed without their supper. And Max the king of all wild things was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all. Then all around from far away across the world he smelled good things to eat so he gave up being king of where the wild things are.

But the wild things cried, ‘Oh please don’t go—we’ll eat you up—we love you so!’ And Max said, ‘No!’ The wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws but Max stepped into his private boat and waved goodbye… and sailed back over a year and in and out of weeks and through a day… and into the night of his very own room where he found his supper waiting for him… and it was still hot.”

Benny flips the paperback closed and looks down at Sarah, who yawns and rubs her eyes, then to her father.

“Still want that ride home?”

Frankie considers this for a moment before nodding, “Yeah. Let me put her to bed and talk to Ang, then we can take off.”

#designated person #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x ofc #francisco catfish morales #frankie catfish morales #francisco morales #triple frontier #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales angst #x reader #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fic

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tightjeansjavi · 4 months

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Catfish | Chapter 1

🫧Filet O’Frankie🫧

A/N: this is my first ever Frankie fic and while I’m excited, I’m also a little nervous since I have never written for him before 😭 be prepared for lot of corny ocean/fish innuendo’s and Frankie being an ass because why would he just admit to the reader that he’s attracted to her? Nah, that would be too easy!

~word count: 3.0k~

Summary: a fisherman walks into a bar..you again with the damn umbrellas in his drink.

Pairing | fisherman!Frankie Morales x bartender f!reader

Warnings: fluff ,teasing, banter, reader has thoughts of jealousy and feelings of insecurity, language, sexual tension, mutual pining, implied smut (not with the reader) mentions of alcohol, ouid, mean!frankie, grumpy!frankie, is really just a big ole softy!frankie, close proximity, no fish fingers..I swear, no age gap, readers nickname is Starfish, reader has no physical descriptions, +18 minors dni

A fisherman walks into a bar..you again with the damn umbrellas in his drink.

You’ve been working at the town bar right along the harbor where fishermen and tourists would parade down the wooden docks like a flock of seagulls.

Instead of throwing yourself head first into figuring out your career after graduating with your masters in publishing, you decided to take a year off and return to your roots. You grew up in this little beach town, and it would always be your home.

Then there was him; Frankie Morales. A local fisherman that you used to attend highschool with..except, you lived in two completely different worlds. Frankie’s parents owned a small fishing business that Frankie attended to. And once his father could no longer hold down the business on his own, Frankie took over the business entirely.

Now, here’s where your two worlds finally meet. The bar you work at? It’s owned by your parents who gratefully hired you to be a bartender. The catch? (literally). Frankie gets drinks and food on the house simply for the fact that he supplies fish to the bar. It’s a fair trade, and even though he frowns upon some of the trendier menu items, business is good so he really has no room to complain.

Unless..that complaint is directly rooted back to you.

Frankie Morales can’t stand you, and those stupid little multi-colored umbrellas that you insistently put in his beer, every. Goddamn. Time.

Other than those stupid little umbrellas, you’re an alright person. Pretty, bubbly, chatty with everyone that crosses paths with you. Your infectious energy can be described to be similar to a Golden Retriever or a Husky. Whereas for Frankie? Well, he’d agree that he has black cat energy, and not an ounce of Golden. (You’d beg to disagree).

Sure, he’s a bit offstandish, mean at times, but man, is he handsome. Handsome to the point where you want to giggle and kick your feet anytime you see him. He’s mean, but you can’t help the way that you feel. Maybe he’s so grumpy all the time because he’s out at sea from morning to evening, and he smells a bit, well, fishy.

You remind me of a starfish. He said completely out of the blue on one particularly hot summer day while you were pouring his first beer after a long day out at sea. Just down the dock, the water was glistening under the bright sunlight, shimmering like a million diamonds.

Because they’re pretty? You set his glass down between his hands where they were resting along the bartop. Before he could take a sip, you placed a hot pink umbrella stick into his glass.

He grumbled, like he always did, before he adjusted his usual baseball cap on his mess of curls. Sometimes you wondered if he ever washed that damn hat.

No. Not because they’re pretty, but because they suction themselves to everything. He said casually while gingerly plucking the umbrella from his glass and tossing it to the side.

You glare at him while you feel your heart clench inwards like a tight fist. “Well, if I’m a Starfish, then I’m going to start calling you..Fish Filet.”

His brow raises in mock amusement at your little nickname for him. “Fish Filet?” He scoffs, “how original.”

You want to stomp your foot and tell him that he’s really being an ass, but that voice inside of your head reminds you to refrain from stooping to his level. “It’s either that, or Catfish. So, I suggest you pick one, Morales.” You quip.

He grimaces as soon as the words “Catfish” leave your lips. His face scrunches inwards like he has just gotten a taste of something sour, revolting. You can’t see his deep brown eyes as they’re hidden from your view by his sunglasses, but you imagine he’s glaring at you now too. “Do not call me Catfish ever. Call me Fish Filet or whatever, but not Catfish.” His words are firm, straight to the point as he brings the rim of his glass to his lips and takes a large sip.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Fish Filet.” your middle finger slowly rises upwards, but before it can be fully extended, he reaches over the bartop and swiftly interjects with his hand.

His palm is warm, and albeit, a tad sweaty, but that doesn’t stop the sparks from shooting up through your arm from his sudden contact.

He says nothing, scoffs, assumably rolls his eyes before he retracts his hand.

He’s so mean, but your heart skips a beat whenever he’s near.

“I don’t get what you see in him honestly. Sure, he’s a good looking guy, but he’s such fucking dick to you during every interaction i’ve seen.” Your coworker, and close friend says to you while fixing up another drink. It’s happy hour at the bar and the tourists are in full swing tonight.

You laugh, because you know she’s right, why continuously bat your lashes at a man who wants nothing to do with you? Is it the chase that excites you? The coursing adrenaline firing through your veins. The close proximity?

There was that one time that you believed Frankie almost was attracted to you. It was during a little beach bash that ended up with you and a few friends making a drunk decision to skinny dip in the ocean. You caught Frankie trying to inconspicuously sneak a peek, but you caught him in the act, and you had never seen a man’s face turn so red.

“Yeah, he’s mean, he’s an asshole.” You agree, “but, June, look at him. He’s a dreamboat, literally. I think he’s just a big fat grump all the time because he’s forgetting to wear his sunscreen, and he faintly smells of fish. I don’t know about you, but I’d be pretty pissed if I kept getting nasty sunburns and smelled..fishy.”

You know that Juniper is just looking out for your well-being and just wants the best for you. But she just can’t seem to grasp why you were so attracted to a man who seemed like he could frankly give two-shits about you, and your existence in his life.

“I wouldn’t exactly call Frankie Morales a dreamboat in my books, but I just think you’re a total catch, and any guy would be lucky to just breathe the same air as you.” Juniper said while she expertly lifted a tray of freshly made shots to deliver to her table.

When she walks away, that's when you notice the devil himself with another tourist who’s wrapped tightly around his finger like a worm on a fishing wire. Frankie doesn’t have to try very hard to get his dick wet practically every night. He just has to smile, run his fingers through his curls, and look in their direction before they’re ensnared. You used to think he was like a shark, swimming in the depths of the ocean, targeting his prey when they least expect it. But now, he reminded you of a Barracuda. Calculated, precise, and almost always successful in his ‘hunts.’

You never considered yourself to be jealous in nature. Not even in past friendships or fizzled out relationships with mediocre guys that you spent your college days with. These feelings didn’t begin to breach the surface until Frankie Fucking Morales showed up on your radar

Your fist clenched tightly around the little paper umbrella in your grasp while you watched Frankie work his magic. He made a point to freshen up before heading to the bar. He’s wearing a clean shirt, and that same stupid baseball cap. His jeans fit snugly on his waist and thighs. What you wouldn’t give to slip your hands into the stitched back pockets of his jeans.

He leans in close, whispering something into the female tourist's ear that elicits her to throw her head back a little and giggle. Her hand slides up the expanse of his chest where he’s left two buttons purposely undone for this exact reason.

You can see the sliver of exposed skin glistening under the fairy lights strung along one of the wooden beams. His skin is tanned, bronzed, and you imagine dragging your tongue between his pecs, tasting the tang of the sea, and of him all in one swipe.

His hand rests along the lower back of the woman, fingers sliding down further to rest along the curve of her ass. She’s wearing a flowy sundress, one that you’ve seen in a boutique in town. She looks beautiful, and even though you know you shouldn’t compare yourself to others, you can’t help but feel like you look frumpy next to this stranger.

You can’t tear your eyes away from the scene that is unfolding in front of you even if you tried. It reminds you of the feeling while watching a really bad movie or tv show, and feeling like you probably should stop, but the small part of you is dying to know what happens next. You watch closely as he leans in, lips brushing the shell of the woman’s ear in a teasing fashion. You wonder if he popped in a few breath mints, and spritzed on some cologne. You were so used to him wearing the sea on his skin, that it was hard to picture him smelling any different.

Wanna get out of here, beautiful?

She nods, and he reels her in, just like he did with the last one, and the one before that. He was the enticing bait on a hook, and they were the unsuspecting, curious fish that just had to go in for a taste.

You hear his warm laughter that echoes through the hot summer night air as he entwines his fingers through the woman’s hand and leads her to the bartop with nothing short of enthusiasm in his step.

“Evening, Starfish. Mind hooking up my lady friend and I here with a couple shots of tequila?” He’s dropped her hand now and rests his bare tanned elbow along the sea glass countertop. His other arm is wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against his side. His small grin is enticing, tantalizing and sending the butterflies swarming in the pit of your stomach. On the outside, you remain calm, collected, and professional.

“Good evening, Fish Filet. Sure, you want salt and lime on the side as well?” You smile politely at him and his catch of the evening.

“Fish Filet?” The woman giggles, dragging her nails across his bicep as she leans into his strong grip around her waist. “Is that your nickname, Frankie?”

He chuckles, ignoring her for a moment to focus all of his attention on you while he pulls out a five dollar bill and places it in the tip jar. “Salt and lime on the side as well. Thank you, Starfish.”

He usually never bothers to tip you, and it’s not expected given the arrangement, but you think that maybe he’s just doing it all for show so that his lady friend believes him to be a chivalrous man.

“You got it, Catfish.” You shoot him a wink before he even has the chance to open his mouth to spit something back.

Your face heats up at the realization of what you just called him while you turn your back swiftly and grab the nearest bottle of tequila and two shot glasses.

Yeah, dollface. It’s my nickname because y’know, I’m a fisherman. He’s leaned in close again that the woman can feel his hot breath fanning her cheeks and parted lips.

Well, you don’t smell like a fisherman, Frankie.

His hand moves from her waist and slowly ascends upwards, drifting across her exposed cleavage before settling at the base of her throat, feeling her pulsepoint quicken and jump from his lingering touch. He presses a hidden kiss to the spot where the base of her ear connects with her jaw. His patchy, uneven beard tickles her skin as she lurches forward for even closer contact.

No, I don’t. He agrees, But I fuck like one.

Her knees nearly buckle in on themselves from the tone of his voice and the way that every word drips from his lips like warm, sticky, sugary sweet, syrup.

“Two shots of tequila on the house.” You announce, breaking through the building, palpable tension like a hot knife on a pad of butter. You can hear the sizzling sound now.

“Thanks, Starfish. You wanna take one too?” He offers, knowing that you’ll decline his invitation.

“Can’t drink on the job, Frankie.” You think about saying thank you, but for what? You don’t really owe him that either.

He shrugs, unfazed by your immediate choice to decline him as he returns his attention back to the woman beside him.

“You ever taken a tequila shot before, cariño? Goes down nice and smooth with a bit of salt and lime.” He slides the shot glass of shelf Tequila to her with ease while he grabs the two lime wedges and the salt shaker.

“No, I'm afraid I've been taking tequila shots wrong this entire time.” She might be lying, but you can’t really tell just based on her tone.

“That’s alright, beautiful.” He reassures her. “I’ll show ya how to do it properly.” He licks the back of his left hand before sprinkling a bit of salt on it. “Licking the salt before you take the shot really minimizes the burn on its way down.” He explains.

“Care to do the honors?” She asks while holding her hand out towards him.

You fight the urge to roll your eyes at the scene playing out in front of you, but that would give yourself away. And you’d be damned if Frankie ever knew how you really felt, so you busied yourself with wiping down the same glasses you had cleaned off earlier in the evening.

In your peripheral you see Frankie drag his tongue across the back of her left hand, his eyes flit upwards towards her face so she can get a mental image of exactly what he’ll look like when his face is buried between her thighs–

He pours a trail of salt granules on the outside of her hand and his own. “Now, we lick the salt, cariño, then immediately take the shot, and finish with the lime. It really brings the flavor of the tequila out.” He grabs his own shot glass and lightly taps it with hers before he licks the back of his hand, throws the shot down his throat, and grabs the lime wedge. He sucks the citrus juice from the fruit expertly just as she’s taking her own shot. Before she reaches for her own lime wedge, his hand drops to her waist, pulling her flush against his chest before he kisses her deeply. She’s surprised, but eager as her arms loop around his neck in the heated kiss. She can taste the salt, tequila and the lime juice on his tongue as he licks greedily into her mouth.

Get a fucking room, Morales. You say to yourself internally. The jealousy burns deep and is stoked at with a hot iron that scorches your insides.

That’s how a real man kisses, and I'll never know what it's like.

He pulls away from the bruising kiss just for a lick of air. His lips are slightly swollen, and now coated in a light pink shimmer from her pretty lipgloss. Her fingers are toying with curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him back in for another kiss. “I see what you mean about the salt and lime now, Frankie.” She purrs.

His eyes meet yours across the bartop, brow raised as he waits to see if this will be the night that you finally snap and show him that his attraction to you hasn’t gone blindly unnoticed. That maybe you’ll stop him from taking this woman back to his boat, stop him from fucking her till her legs shake, and the only name she’ll remember on her vacation is his; Frankie Morales, the fisherman. Whereas come morning, she’ll be gone, and he won’t even remember her name, just like the rest of them.

Instead, you stand there, eyes meeting him in an even-toned gaze. There’s no indication given on how you feel towards him, or that you wish it was you he was taking back to his boat. You simply smile, give him a small nod before you return to wiping down the glasses.

Only when his back is turned towards you, and you hear the scraping of the bar stool, and the light jingling of his keys being pulled from his pocket does your face finally fall, and your mask loses its place like loosened strings on a violin that hasn’t been properly tuned in a very, very long time.

His arm stays wrapped around his catch of the night as he leads her down the dock where his boat is gently bobbing with the evening current. He kisses her again, calloused hands from tugging coarse rope, and fastening fishing lines, now bunches up the fabric of her dress in a haste.

Through the open window at the stern of his ship, you can hear her breathy high-pitched moans, and his deeper, more prominent groans as he drills his hips into her pelvis over and over again, imagining it was you instead.

It’s an hour past closing time for the bar when his catch of the night finally stumbles from his boat, heels clutched in one hand as she wobbles up the dock. She’s close enough that you can see her face, and her wild mess of hair and swollen lips, and that post-fuck glow to her skin as she passes by you without a glance.

Frankie emerges minutes later, shirtless, boxers hung low on his lips, baseball cap on his mess of curls. In one hand he holds a cheap beer, and in the other, a joint and a lighter held between his middle and forefinger. He sits along the bow of his boat, sparks up the joint, before he lays on his back and gazes up at the starry night sky longingly.

banners made by the lovely @saradika

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#fic: Catfish #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales #frankie morales fic #frankie morales fluff #frankie morales smut #frankie morales angst #francisco morales #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #frankie morales au #pedro pascal characters #mean!frankie morales #fisherman!frankie #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x female reader #frankie morales x reader

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auteurdelabre · 4 months

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A Secret Kind of Pain (one-shot) FrankieMorales x f!Reader

Pairings: Frankie Morales x f!reader (no use of y/n) (No descriptions other than hair he can move behind your ear. She’s you, babe!)

Rating: 18+

Words: 7.0k

Summary: A poker night over at Benny’s tests the amazing burgeoning relationship you have been hiding with Frankie Morales.

Warnings: secret relationship, friends to lovers, angst (BUT A HAPPY ENDING), oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, sweet Spanish nicknames, Frankie is a jealous lil’ thing, miscommunication trope.

a/n: I love Frankie Morales and realized I needed to write him up a honey. Y’all can blame my muses for this. I keep tryin’ to update my other stories and the damn muses keep starting new ones! At leas this is a one-shot!

Also if you like my stuff I'd really love a follow, a reblog, a comment (those especially make me smile!) would be real appreciated!

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"We're gonna be late," you whine, even as your back arches against the springy mattress. Your breathing is shallow, your forehead dotted with perspiration.

"I don't care," he replies breathlessly from between your thighs, dark eyes fixed on yours as his pouty mouth goes back to work.

You've been like this all afternoon, touching, kissing, fucking. You're both covered in a thin sheen of sweat, the fan in the corner of the room no match for the balmy weather.

"Frankie," you whine, feeling his hands on the globes of your ass, pulling your dripping sex more fully against his mouth and tongue. He won't let up. He's eating you out like his life depends on it and has been for the last forty minutes.

Your legs are spread wide over his broad shoulders and his hands move over the crease of your thighs to hold you in place as he devours you. He feels so impossibly good, you can't help but succumb, your hands fisting in his curls, your body quaking with every swipe of his deft tongue.

His mouth begins giving your pussy sloppy kisses, groaning as he does. You don't know who loves this more - you or him. You whimper out his name again, eyes rolling into the back of your head.

"C'mon cariño," he purrs, smiling up at you. "You can give me one more."

And you do. You come crying his name as he gently laves your clit. As you come down you reach blindly for him, sighing contentedly as he crawls up the length of your body, pressing glossy kisses up your naked flesh before he positions his cock at your entrance.

"Don't make me wait," you beg, urging your hips towards him. He smiles down at you before his mouth is on yours, his cock sliding into your slick cunt. It's not long before he's emptying himself into you and moaning into your neck.

You lay tangled in the sheets afterwards, your head on his arm, looking at his hawkish profile. He looks almost angelic with his hat off and his curls on display.

"We're gonna be late," you repeat giving his bristled cheek a swift kiss. You go to move off the mattress and to the shower but he holds tightly to you, his leg lacings between yours.

"Let's not go," he says, nuzzling against your neck. "Let's just stay in."

"How is that going to look?" you counter, not oblivious to his hand which ventures to brush over your chest. "We both don't show up to poker night? The week after we both mysteriously don't make it to the pub for drinks?"

Frankie sighs, knowing that you're right. You're always right. The second that the guys find out you're together it's going to be a nightmare.

They'll have opinions, so many fucking opinions on Frankie dating Tom's cousin. The one that Will had a crush on for years. The one Pope flirted with every time she came back for family visits. The one they all promised Tom they'd never fuck; a pact they reminded themselves of when she moved back to town a year ago for her job.

The one Frankie had fallen for the second he'd met her at one of Benny's shows. The one he'd sat next to, thighs touching as they laughed and talked between rounds as he stole bits of her popcorn. The one he'd told himself he couldn't want, but then found he couldn't stay away from.

So when he'd thrown a memorial party for Tom's birthday months ago and you'd stayed behind to help him clean and you confessed your burgeoning feelings for him it seemed it was inevitable he would take you in his arms telling you he felt the same. It felt fated that he would be kiss you before carrying you to his bedroom and making love to you until the sun came up.

You'd both known it had to remain a secret. Couldn't come out. Not when things were still so new, still so fresh. Not when Tom was gone, the promise his friends had made still very real.

Didn't matter that Frankie hadn't met you before he made that vow because he was always away flying or with his ex when you were visiting Tom. Didn't matter that he didn't just want to fuck you.

Pope hadn't been stupid. He'd known Frankie was seeing someone in the following months. In a panic Frankie had confessed over drinks one day that he was seeing some girl from the coffee shop near his place. This had placated Pope enough to drop it.

But he and the rest of the gang still teased Frankie about it for weeks, insisting he bring his "imaginary girlfriend" to poker night while you sat back in the booth, hiding your grin behind your beer bottle.

And so you snuck around, slipping into Frankie's bed and into his life without hesitation. Nights and weekends were spent making meals together, watching TV, going to try new coffee shops, kissing and fucking everywhere in his house.

He craved you when you weren't around, more than coke, more than flying, more than anything. He loved that his pillows smelled of you, that your variety of shampoos and conditioners lined his shower floor.

"I gotta shower and then we gotta go, Morales."

Frankie finally releases you, but not before pressing a soft kiss to your mouth. You smile before rolling off his bed and towards the shower. Frankie watches your naked body sauntering away and he holds in a grateful sigh.

///

"I'll go in first," you tell him, grabbing the bag of pretzels from the back seat of the truck.

Frankie has parked around the corner from Benny's, knowing you both couldn't show up together at Benny's infamous poker night.

You'd made yourself part of the group soon after moving back. Part of you wonders if it's because you're filling a void left by Tom or if they really like your company. You decide you don't mind when it means more time with Frankie.

"See you in there."

You go to leave, hand on the door before you shoot him a sweet smile. You lean over to give him a peck on the lips. You glance over the t-shirt that strains over his biceps, the jeans that mold over his long thighs and you give a crooked smile.

"Did I tell you how sexy you look tonight, Morales?"

Frankie blushes up his neck, his face growing red as he gives a bashful grin at you from under his baseball hat. The kind of smile that makes his dimple pop out. You give him a wink and then you're gone, heading into Benny's place, carrying a comically large bag of pretzels.

Frankie watches the clock, waiting a whole five minutes before grabbing the shopping bag from the back seat.

He ambles towards Benny's front door, noting the SUV with the space invaders bumper sticker. Will is here already, probably the first to arrive at his brother's event.

By the time Frankie arrives the group is loudly chatting, the kitchen full of food and noise. Benny and Pope are opening beers for their dates and you're nowhere to be seen.

"You didn't bring your girl?" Benny observes with a frown when Frankie enters the kitchen holding the shopping bag of chips and salsa.

"Uh we broke up," Frankie says with a shrug, accepting the coke can his friend passes him. Pope pulls out the chips and salsa, dark eyes trailing inside the bag before he's pouring the chips into a bowl.

"You don't seem too upset about it," Pope says with a quirked brow, his arm going to sling around the shoulders of his date. Frankie is about to reply when you both hear your laugh from the next room.

The two of you glance over to see you and Will on the couch, knees almost touching as Will says something else to make you laugh. You have a great laugh, the kind where you tilt your head back and you just let go. The kind that makes Frankie smile when he hears it.

But he doesn't smile now. In fact it's quite the opposite. He watches as Will's light eyes trace over your face warmly.

"Seems like Will is foregoing the pact," Pope says amused, his eyes on Frankie's face.

Frankie feels his hand curl into a fist. Who the fuck does Will think he is? Will could have any girl he wants; he's handsome and successful. He's not a recovering addict who can't legally fly anymore like Frankie.

Doubt, the ugly insidious snake creeps into his mind. Why are you with him? What could be possibly offer you?

"Hey Fish," Will calls out with a wave to Frankie when he notices the man in the kitchen. "No girl tonight?"

"They broke up," Pope says, coming to rest on the edge of the couch.

"Sorry to hear that," you say airily. Frankie can't look at you. He knows he'll see the amused glint there and he can't risk it.

"He doesn't seem too upset about it," Pope smiles.

Frankie focuses his attention on Benny who claps him on the back before announcing that it's time to start the poker game. Everyone moves to the table that Benny has set up with chips and cards.

Frankie's chest warms when you slide into the chair next to his at the table but he holds in a grimace when Will takes the seat next to yours, smiling at you.

You nudge his thigh under the table and he slips a hand under the table to give your knee a squeeze, watching your lips curl into a subtle smile at the contact.

Frankie feels idiotic for being jealous when you're obviously his girl. But the thing is he hasn't said you're his girl. It's just silently implied. He wonders if he needs to tell you, in words.

"Alright," Benny announces, breaking into Frankie's thoughts. "The game is Omaha and-"

You tune Benny out as he explains the rules for the large group around the table. You throw in your two ten dollar bills along with the rest of the group to the center of the table.

All you can focus on is Frankie's hand still resting on your knee, so wide and warm.

You're so into him it's ridiculous. You love the way he curls around you in bed, the way he makes you coffee to take to work, the way he looks at you when you talk because he's really** listening to what you have to say.

He removes his hand as the game starts and you immediately miss the contact. You look across the table at Pope and Benny and their girlfriends, jealous that they get to flaunt their relationships while you have to keep yours hidden.

But at the same time you don't want anything to spoil this beautiful thing you have with Frankie. It's too precious to you, too beloved. So you'll keep it a secret for as long as you need to.

The game is a long one and considering the entire group is ridiculously competitive the air is tense. Pope and Benny's dates are the first to be knocked out, both shrugging and leaning against their boyfriends, watching them play.

You stand after you fold your latest hand, stretching and announcing that you need a drink.

"Can you grab me a Coke, baby?" Frankie asks without thinking, his focus on his cards. It's an innocuous comment, one he's made to you at home dozens of times before.

Immediately he realizes the fuck up. Your eyes are blown wide, your features contorted into horror as you look down at him. He snaps his attention to the group abruptly, his face blanching and his shoulders rising. The men nearby give puzzled looks in your direction.

"The fuck did you just call her?" Pope laughs, amusement clear in his handsome features.

"He called her baby," Benny says with a grins, taking a swig of his beer.

"He didn't!"

"Asked her to get him a drink!"

"The fuck?" you say forcing a laugh and giving Frankie a look of disdain. "I know your girlfriend dumped you but I'm not throwing you a pity lay, Morales. I'm not really into guys who wear baseball caps past the age of twenty."

The group erupts into drunken laughter that you both join in on. But you don't see the hurt in Frankie's soulful eyes.

"I'm gonna grab that drink," you tell the group, needing some air and a chance to stop the pounding of your heart.

"Can you get me one, baby?" Will teases.

"Of course honey," you tease right back with a wink.

You don't even cast a look in Frankie's direction. His stomach twists when you return to the table with a bottle of beer for yourself and Will and no drink for him.

"When are you gonna bring a guy around for poker night?" Benny slurs from the other end of the table. "You been single too long."

"Maybe that's how I like it."

You swallow nervously, your cards growing slippery in your damp hands. They've never asked you things like this. Why now?

"C'mon," Pope urges, pressing a kiss to his girlfriends' shoulder. "I bet Yovanna can set you up with one of her friends, couldn't you, bonita?."

"Oh yes!" Yovanna nods, smiling.

"I dunno about that," you say, your face heating. You force your attention back to your cards. "I'm pretty busy with work."

"Too busy to date anyone?" Will says, trying to say it lightly but failing miserably. You can feel irritation radiating off of Frankie beside you. A quick glance out the corner of your eyes tells you he's clenching his jaw as he looks at his cards.

You want to squeeze against Frankie, bury your face in his neck and assure him that he's the only man for you. That you think about Frankie more than you think about yourself some days. That you've imagined an entire life with him, a future. That Will is perfectly nice but you're utterly besotted with Frankie.

"Not really into dating right now," you chirp, grin widening. "I'm more into winning all your money. That’s a full house, bitches!"

The group groans as you pull the money towards you, slipping the winnings from this round into your jeans pocket. The game continues on for several more rounds, until it's late and you feel yourself drifting.

"I should head out," Frankie says with a sigh, tossing his cards into the center of the table. "Don't have any more money left to lose tonight."

He stands, moving out the door without a backwards glance at you. You know the drill, you can’t leave at the same time. You stretch after the folding your cards.

"I should head out too," you say forcing a yawn. "Gotta be into work early tomorrow. Night guys."

The group bids you both drunken goodbyes, their focus on the remaining pot of cash in between them. You wave, heading out the door in search of Frankie around the corner. You see him leaning against his truck looking delicious. His broad arms are crossed in front of him, but his customary smile is replaced by a look of sullen displeasure.

When you're safely away from the house inside his truck your hand reaches for his across the bench seat. You're confused when he pulls out of reach, his hand going to the wheel. This confuses you because you’ve never taken a drive with Frankie where his hand wasn’t on your knee.

You pull on your seatbelt, convinced you must have mistaken him pulling away earlier as he starts the car. Maybe he just needs both hands to drive tonight. The weather has taken a turn, raining lightly in the darkness.

"Benny's new girl seems nice," you offer in the quiet of the drive. You glance over at Frankie when he doesn't reply. "You okay?"

"Hated how you looked at me tonight," Frankie finally gets out, his voice rasping. "Like I disgusted you."

Immediately you feel your heart sink.

"You know I didn't mean it," you say, reaching for him and again Frankie shrugs out of your grip, his dark eyes somber as he drives.

"Seemed real easy for you to say that shit," Frankie says tightly. "Pity lay?"

"Frankie we agreed we didn't want anyone to know," you reply, irritation rising in you that he seems to be blaming you. "That we didn't want our relationship under a microscope. I'm only doing what we both agreed was right."

"Yep," Frankie nods sharply, his dark eyes on the road. "Guess I didn't realize that meant flirting with Will all night."

Jealousy coils in him, twisting between his ribs and pulling angrily, causing his temper to flare, his body to tense up.

"I wasn't flirting, Frankie."

"Could've fooled me."

He's at your house now, pulled up to the curb with the engine still running. You swallow the frustration in your chest, turning to Frankie. You really like him and you don't want to fight. You can work this out; you just need to discuss it.

But Frankie still isn't looking at you. His hand is just curled around the steering wheel and his face is partially hidden in shadow. All you can make out is the sharp of his jaw under his scruff.

"You wanna come in so we can talk about this?"

"I'm tired," Frankie replies with a soft shake of his head. "Gonna head home."

"Tomorrow then?"

Frankie shrugs.

This was a fun dream. A sweet illusion. But there's no way it can continue. No way that you're gonna wanna stick with Frankie for the long haul. Not when men like Will want you.

"Right." You give a disgusted scoff, pulling the seatbelt off of you. "I think I'm gonna be tired for the next week or so, so I wouldn't bother calling."

"I won't."

"Good."

You jump out of the still running truck, slamming the door behind you and making your way to your house. You're thankful he can't see the tears that slip down your cheek as he drives off into the darkness.

///

Frankie has a brutal stubborn streak and a temper to match. The problem is so do you. No one is willing to be the first to wave the white flag. Instead you both give each other the silent treatment. It goes on for over a week, neither of you bending. No texts, no calls, no nothing.

But it's Frankie who breaks first when one evening he finds his pillow no longer smells of your shampoo. The panic of knowing that like the faded scent, you're disappearing from his life.

He throws himself into his truck and begun driving over to your place. He doesn't even want to waste time texting or calling. He just wants to see your face, to take it between his hands and kiss it. To apologize to you because he's been a fucking idiot.

How could he have been so pissed off at you for something you both agreed on? Something that he'd fucking suggested? So insecure when you've never given him reason to be?

He drives to your place and when he sees Will's car parked out front he feels like he's going to be sick. He thinks maybe he's made a mistake but then he sees that fucking space invaders bumper sticker.

Will is inside your house, in there with you.

Images of the two of you fucking immediately flood his mind. Will fucking you in the bed Frankie helped you to set up the bed frame for. You making the same noises for Will that you do for Frankie.

It takes all his willpower to keep driving, to swallow the lump that's formed in his throat at the thought you could move on so quickly.

But that dark part in the back of his head insists that this is for the best. That he was never worthy of you anyway. That he needs to let you move on with Will.

Frankie is friends with the group so he doesn't miss a poker night or drinks out or going to the batting cages. When your absence is commented on by the group he pretends to be equally perplexed until Will comments that he thinks you're busy with work. The same kind of shit Frankie used to say to cover up that you were together.

He doesn't let Will see his irritation. He doesn't ask Will about you. He wants you to be happy.

He doesn't let anyone see his heartbreak.

///

When the third week of silence from Frankie ends you feel your resolve dissolving. Yes, he'd been an asshole, but Frankie was also delicate at times. More delicate than you gave him credit for.

He'd been through a lot and perhaps this reaction was out of fear not anger. This is what you told yourself as you sent off the text to him.

Hey. Busy tonight?

Yep. Got a date.

You feel as if you've been punched in the gut. You're breathing sharply when his second text comes through seconds later.

Tell Will I say hi.

You frown at the message, confused. But you don't parse it. You're too upset. Too hurt. He just ... Moved on? One fight and he's fucking met someone else?

You were so fucking stupid to do this. To fall in with one of Tom's friends. He'd warned you off all of them and given you good reasons for why none of them were dating material.

But then you'd met Frankie Morales. The man with the shy smile and dark curls peeking out under a faded ball cap and all warnings had been forgotten.

You allowed yourself to fall head over heels, quickly and without protecting yourself. Like a skydiver jumping eagerly out of the plane without a parachute.

But now you wish you'd listened. Because the pain of losing Frankie is worse than anything you could have anticipated.

Your phone chirrups with a text from Pope.

Where the fuck have u been?

Work is busy.

Not too busy to come have drinks with us tomorrow night.

Sorry can't.

Either you come out or I'll send Will and Frankie in to drag you out of your office in front of everyone.

...

What pub?

///

Frankie watches you walk into the pub from under the brim of his hat. You've obviously just come from work; you have that serious look about you. It dissolves slightly when you see the group calling your name.

It's been weeks since he last saw you and it's like you've only gotten more beautiful. Your smile brighter, your eyes luminous. You give a wave to the group, eyes sweeping over Frankie as if he's just another one of the guys.

He's confused when Will greets you casually, no standing up and kissing when you waltz over.

"We've missed you," Benny says sliding you over a drink as you take the free spot next to Will in the booth.

You feel warmed by the realization that these men are your friends. That you're not just a placeholder for Tom.

"Works been so busy," you explain with a shy shrug. "Tell me what I missed."

"Hmmm well Benny and Carmella have started a couple's pottery class," Will tells you smiling as Benny rolls his eyes, his eyes on his phone as he texts his girlfriend. "Catfish here officially got his license back and Pope here is still annoyingly good looking."

"Obnoxiously so," Pope agrees, tapping his beer bottle against Will's in cheers.

You force a smile to your face as the group laughs but all you can hear is Catfish got his license back.

You'd talked about what you'd both do when that happened. That you'd bake him a cake and you'd go celebrate with the biggest steak at the nicest restaurant. That you'd ride him before he took you for a ride in his friend’s helicopter.

You'd made these plans giggling in bed, warmed by each other's bodies and smiles.

Now it seems like a lifetime ago.

"Congrats," you say to Frankie, looking at his ear and not his eyes. "I'm really happy for you."

He probably doesn't even remember what you'd planned. Or worse he's gonna do it with his new girl.

"Thanks," Frankie replies in a soft voice, no malice left in it. His eyes are on your face, the longing clear in them, not that you're looking at his eyes.

He misses you something terrible. All he wants is to pull you into his arms and cover your face with kisses. He's so fucking furious with himself for letting you get away.

Will leans back in the booth, arms sliding against the back of your seat as he stretches. Frankie's face immediately darkens and he's sullen as the rest of the group laughs and jokes.

A short while later someone suggests darts and you all agree, going to stand around the only free one left at the side of the pub.

You go first, you're usually very good. But you can feel Frankie's eyes on you, burning through your clothes. You falter, your darts barely making it into the circular cork.

"She's lost her edge," Will jokes, slinging an arm around your neck companionably. "Spending too much time at work, not enough time at the pub."

You laugh up at him, eyes disappearing into half moons. Frankie watches this and feels his stomach churn. Its one thing to move on with Will, but it’s quite another to rub it in Frankie’s fucking face.

"Move," he says gruffly to the two of you. You look at him shocked, hurt at how he's spoken to you both.

"Someone's got their panties in a twist," Will says smirking at the rest of the group. "I'm gonna get another round."

Frankie ignores him, tossing his own darts. They don't even hit the outer circle; they just careen off into the nearby wood. He grimaces and turns to see you watching, your face unreadable.

"What?" Frankie challenges, his neck going red. His dark eyes narrow on your face. "Like you did so much better?"

His voice is so dark and spiteful Pope and Benny turn from their conversation at the sound of it.

"Dude, calm down," Benny says looking from you to Frankie.

Pope says something as well but all Frankie can focus on is the way your eyes are filling up with tears. He feels all his frustration and anger leave him, replaced with icy shame as you murmur about going to the bathroom, shouldering past Will as he returns with the drinks.

He barely waits ten seconds before he's following you, not caring how it looks, not caring that you're with Will. He needs to talk to you, to touch you.

He gets to you just before you're heading into the women's bathroom. He grips your wrist.

"We need to talk."

You allow him to tug your limp arm as he pulls you outside the pub along with him. It's drizzling and cars are driving by but neither of you care. You pull back from his grip, eyes on the wet cement. Frankie gazes at you, wishing you would look at him.

"Why are you being so mean?" You suddenly ask in a quiet, hollow voice. "You're a lot of things, Frankie. But mean isn't one of them."

Frankie feels his heart sink at the accusation, mostly because it's true, and also because he never wanted you to think of him as anything less than.

Irritation and hurt flash on his features now, his arms crossing in front of his chest.

"Hard not to be upset when the girl you were seeing moves on with your friend."

Your head raises, eyes narrowing. "What?"

"You and Will," Frankie says, trying to act like it doesn't hurt him just to say the words. "I'm happy for you both but doesn't mean I wanna see it every time we all hang out.”

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

You're really going to act dumb? He sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck, smoothing the curls there.

"I drove by your house a couple weeks ago," Frankie finally says, mouth in a frown. "After the poker night. I was coming to apologize."

Hope blooms behind your rib cage, a bouquet of desire and genuine need for Frankie overtaking the weeds of your previous devastation. He came to see you? To apologize?

"You did?"

"Yeah." Frankie's normally sweet, soft eyes are hard. "Saw Will's car out front."

Your face is confused, your eyes scanning the air as if you're trying to recall. And then suddenly you do. Your hope crumbles to dust. You realize now what all of this was. Possessive male bullshit. The kind of thing you thought Frankie was above.

"He came to borrow my portable BBQ," you tell him flatly. "He mentioned that he needed it for camping and I offered mine since I never use it."

Frankie feels his face slackening in disbelief. He blinks rapidly a few times, his posture going from rigid to loose.

"He wasn't there to-"

"To fuck me?" You shake your head with a sneer. "No, Frankie. You see, I was really into this other guy at the time so fucking someone else never even crossed my mind. But thanks for assuming that I’ll just fall into bed with someone every time we have a fight."

Frankie's heart hammers and shame suffuses him. He feels like a fucking moron. How could he ever have thought you’d do it? How could he have thought so little of both you and Will? He takes a step towards you as you hold out a hand between your bodies, your gaze turned icy.

"Don't even think about it."

You slip past him, heading inside and grabbing your purse. You're flustered and give the group a sharp goodbye, ignoring their questions as you dash from the pub, your second beer untouched.

Frankie returns to the group moments later, his eyes red-rimmed. He's confused when the group just stares at him in disbelief.

Benny is twisting the dart in his fingers, Pope has his arms crossed and Will just looks abashed. They all shoot each other confused looks when Frankie reaches for his dart.

"Aren't you going after your girl, Fish?"

Frankie feels his stomach twisting at Pope's words. "Huh?"

"She just left here looking really upset," Will adds. "I think she was almost crying."

Frankie looks at the concerned faces of all his friends and he leans against the wall in disbelief. There’s a heavy silence there, pitying looks from all of them. No menace, no anger. Just overwhelming sadness for their friend.

"You ... You all knew?"

The men nod, smirks on all their faces.

"And you aren't pissed?"

"Jealous? Yes," Will laughs. "Not angry though. Why would we be?"

"The promise to Tom -"

"Tom isn't here and you're both adults. And I haven’t seen you this happy in a long time," Pope says, looking thoughtful. “Maybe ever.”

Frankie can barely believe what's happening. All the sneaking around, the stress of being caught, all for nothing. He could have been holding you, calling you his girl in public this whole time.

"How long did you know?"

"After the poker night," Pope says. Frankie feels his body deflating.

"How?"

"Saw the receipt for chips, salsa and pretzels. Saw how you were when Will was flirting with her." Pope shrugs. "Put two and two together."

"I never knew until later that night," Will says looking apologetic. "I never would have chatted her up if I knew you were with her, Fish."

"We felt like assholes after talking about setting her up on dates and all that shit," Benny adds.

"Yeah, well, we're not together anymore," Frankie mumbles, hating that he has to tell them this. Hating that he's fumbled the best thing that ever happened to him.

"But you were, right?"

"Yeah."

"How long was it going on?" Pope asks.

"Four months."

"But you and that coffee shop girl-"

"Wasn't real," Frankie sighs, putting his forehead in his hand. "Just didn't want you guys to catch onto us."

The men share an amused look.

"Well your girl sold it," Benny confirms. "You not so much."

His girl. His girl. Frankie is almost elated at the sound of it. Then devastated when he realizes that he’s fucked it all up.

"Every time she came into the damn room you'd stop talking," Pope points out. "You'd get all squirrelly."

"We thought you just didn't like her or something," Will shrugs. "Didn't realize you were in love with her."

"In love?" Frankie says, dark eyes fixed on Will's. He's never said those words aloud in regards to you. Thought them, whispered them at home alone as he thought of you, but never spoken them to you.

"Yeah," Will nods, brows furrowed. "You're in love with her, aren't you?"

///

You decide to make pancakes that night, a comfort food because you are desperately in need of comfort. You've been trying not to cry since you drove home, trying to forget Frankie's face as you left him in the pub.

He thought you were with Will? He thought that your feelings could so easily be swayed?

All you can see is the Frankie’s beautiful eyes of his that you'd fallen in love with first, followed quickly by his laugh, his smile, the way he runs his fingers through his hair when he adjusts his cap. The way he loves fiercely and his first instinct is to protect.

You pull into your driveway with your grocery bag, confused when you see Frankie's truck already there. He's standing on your porch, face eager as he watches you park. Frowning you take your shopping bag from the car and stalk towards your front door, ignoring Frankie entirely.

"Go home Frankie."

He watches you approach, his heart hammering in his chest. You look so fierce, so strong, so fucking beautiful. He hates that he's wasted time not being with you.

"Can we talk?"

"Had three weeks to talk," you bite back as you look for your house key. He watches you search through your purse until you find it.

"I know," Frankie insists, voice low. "I'm so sorry."

The emotion in his voice catches you off guard. You don't glance at him when you unlock the door but you do wait for him when you push it open.

"You've got five minutes."

He walks in after you, watching you head to the kitchen. He closes the door, watching as you take down bowls and bring out the whisk. He can see that you're making pancakes, your comfort meal and this tugs at his heartstrings.

He normally makes you pancakes for dinner on the days you text you're having a tough day. When your boss is on your ass and you want to cry in the ladies room. On those nights Frankie would be there at your place with flowers on your kitchen table and pancakes flipping in the pan.

He watches you measure the dry mix into the bowl, followed by the egg and milk. He knows it's going to taste like shit because Frankie always makes his from scratch with vanilla and a pinch of cinnamon.

"Down to four minutes," you snap at him, breaking him from his trance of watching you mix everything in the bowl. He stands on the outside of the kitchen, framed by the arch leading into it.

He feels awkward, his broad shoulders too-wide for your small space, his body out of place here in the warmth of your home. A place he normally felt so at ease in, suddenly gloomy and foreign.

"The guys know about us."

You stop your mixing to look over at him, your face pinched. "Why would you tell them?"

"They already knew," Frankie says, stepping further into the kitchen, feet soundless against the tiles. "Turns out I'm not so great at being subtle."

You turn back to your batter, mixing with a soft hum.

"Can't say it's one of your strong points," you say with a small curl of your lip. A smirk. That small motion gives Frankie enough encouragement to keep walking towards you.

"Were they upset?"

"No."

"Really?" You've stopped mixing long enough to see Frankie is beside you now, leaning against the counter, his eyes tilted to your face. You don’t dare look at him when you shrug. "Well, guess that doesn't matter now anyway."

Your mixing resumes again as you glance to see that the butter is melted in the pan on the stove. You try to ignore the way Frankie is staring at you.

"They asked me if I was in love with you."

He sees your body tense at this proclamation. He sees the way your eyes dart to his face only to leave once more. Your breathing is increasing, your hands completely stilled over the bowl. From here he can see some of the mix that has dribbled onto your wrist.

"What did you tell them?"

"That I was," Frankie admits almost breathless. "That I'd been a fucking insecure idiot because I was so terrified at how much I loved you."

Your body starts to thrum. He loves you. He loves you. He loves you.

"Terrified?" you ask gently. You turn off the stove, pancakes forgotten for the moment. Frankie’s eyes, those beautiful eyes capture yours and you can’t look away this time. You can only stare up at him as he speaks in that shy, rasping way of his.

"Last woman I cared about got pregnant by another guy and tried to convince me it was mine," Frankie tells you. "Only then I had coke to keep me from falling apart."

You nod, knowing this story of Frankie's past. He knows that you know this, but he has to remind you. It explains the next part, even though he hates bringing it up in front of you. He doesn’t like you to see his weaknesses. But he needs you to and he knows that you’ll accept them.

"But now I'm sober, I don't have any way to escape when I feel... I've never...." Frankie looks concerted, taking off his cap to nervously run his fingers through his hair before replacing it. "I've never felt about someone the way I do about you. Never. It scares the fuck outta me."

You want to leap into his arms. You want to kiss him until you're both breathless. But the text, the girl, all of it flashes into your mind. The relieved smile that had started in your cheeks quickly dies, the light in your eyes dimming. Frankie sees all of this, confused at your sudden withdrawal.

"You liked me so much you decided to start dating someone new a week after we'd had a fight?"

Frankie's cheeks flame and he gives a nervous smirk. "That uh... was kinda because I thought you were with Will."

Your jaw clenches at how amused he seems. "Didn't stop you from going on a date."

"Cariño," Frankie says, his voice low. "She was as real as the coffee shop girl."

"What?"

"I thought you were with Will," Frankie shrugs, neck reddening. "I wanted to look like I'd moved on too."

You blink up at him and then you can't help it, you laugh. A loud, melodic thing that Frankie can't help but join in on.

"You fucking liar," you grin, both amused at the situation and so fucking relieved.

Frankie's eyes are damp, unsure if from laughter or what he's about to tell you. You let him cup your face in his wide hands, nuzzling against the warmth of them.

"I wasn't lying about what I said before," Frankie says, his thumb grazing your cheek. "I love you, querida."

You don't hesitate. You can't. Not when it's been bubbling up within you for weeks.

"I love you too, Morales."

Frankie hears those words and feels his entire body lightening. As if just your voice could soothe every ailment, your mere presence purge every bad feeling from his body. It also scares the shit out of him. To know that what you both have is real. To know that it isn't casual. That both of your hearts are on the line.

He knows he will have to be better for you. To learn to communicate, to bring you close when he's scared instead of trying to push you away. It starts tonight.

He lowers his mouth to yours, kissing softly. You melt into him, warmed by the strong arms that encircle you. By the only man you want warming your arms and your bed. The only man you want for the rest of your life even if its dizzying in its proportion.

"I'm scared."

"Me too."

Frankie is comforted by this. That is not just him that feels the enormity of the shift. He pushes your hair behind one ear, taken entirely by how beautiful you look in the low kitchen light.

"My pillow doesn't smell like you anymore," you tell him and his eyes blow wide.

"Mine doesn't smell like you either," he admits, a small crooked smirk on his face. "That's why I drove over that night."

You make a humming noise, stroking his face, fingernails rasping over his stubbled cheek. He watches your eyes crinkle in amusement.

"I can't believe you thought I'd go for Will."

"He's handsome, smart, has his life together," Frankie shrugs. "What can I offer you compared to him?"

Your face goes serious, your eyes searching his.

"You're everything I want, Frankie."

His mouth finds yours once more, his hands skating down your back until you're arched against him and it isn't long before the kisses turn heated, his hands coming to stroke you through your shirt.

When Frankie begins licking into your mouth you decide that the pancakes can be saved for later. You move your mouth to graze his earlobe.

"Do you remember what we said we'd do when you got your license back, Morales?"

Frankie smiles against your mouth, his voice dropping to a soft purr as his arms bring you tighter against him. "I do."

"Should we go to the bedroom then?" You arch a playful brow. "You get your ride and then I get mine?"

"Anything you want, cariño," Frankie says, kissing you deeply. "Anything you want."

#frankie morales #fanfiction #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie catfish morales #francisco catfish morales #frankie morales x ofc #pedro pascal #pedro pascal smut #francisco morales #romance #angsty #angst #miscommunication trope #happy ending #happily ever after

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pimosworld · 2 months

Text

The ties that bind

Pairing- Dave York x f!reader x Frankie Morales

Series Summary-Dave is a private investigator who tracks down soulmates. He's tasked to find Frankie's, but what happens when he finds you and wants you all to himself?

CW-18+,MDNI, NSFW, Smut,Fluff, shameless flirting, sexual tension, MMF dynamics, MM flirting, oral (f) receiving, unprotected piv, cream pie, aftercare

WC-5.9k

A/N- I’m sorry I made you guys wait so long for this but I promise it was worth it. We just have a few chapters left before I say goodbye to these three and I’m glad they finally figured it out.

[Main Masterlist][Series Masterlist]

Not beta read

Chapter VI

“I know you’ve explained it already but repeat it back to me.” You bite your fingernails as you pace in front of the couch.

“Honey I can explain it to you a thousand times, you’re still going to have to hear it from them.” Alicia says after her attempt at calming you down. The story Santi told her sounded so far-fetched you didn’t believe it at first and then you needed to hear it again to be sure.

“I just find it hard to believe they would go through such great lengths for me.” You narrowly miss the pillow she throws at your head from her spot on the couch.

“I told you about talking down on yourself.” She points a finger at you. “You’re a fucking catch and you have the upper hand so talk to them and see where it goes.”

****

It sounds easy enough but you weren’t even sure where to begin. You’re just glad your current predicament didn’t seem to be affecting Alicia and Santiago’s relationship. You loved seeing her so happy and told her not to worry about you. You had plenty of time to think since you spent most nights alone while he whisked her off on dates.

You were taking your sweet time responding to Dave and Frankie wanting them to squirm a little after what they put you through. You did appreciate their persistence. The daily good morning texts even with no response from you. Flowers overflowing your apartment and the record store. Your boss had stopped by on a rare occasion and raved about how you’d been decorating the place. You wanted to turn down the money he left knowing how expensive flowers were and you didn’t have it in you to even begin to explain where they all came from.

After a week and a half they were slowly wearing you down. Frankie sent you his attempt at a selfie while he was in the helicopter in his aviators. He cut off half his face but it still had you weak in the knees.

Frankie: image

Frankie: just in case you forgot what i look like

You wanted to respond so badly but you opted to just like the photo.

Dave:image

Dave: thinking of you

The extreme close up of the hummingbird practically brought tears to your eyes, but that could also be your hormones. You can see the vibrant colors on its back and the blur of its wings as it feeds from a petunia in the park.

It was inevitable that you were going to cave, but you wanted it to be on your terms. Over the course of the next week you spoke to both of them separately. You called them and heard both of their stories…the truth this time. As bizarre as the whole thing sounded you were relieved when their explanation matched up and you could tell they were being genuine. You’ve never heard two men apologize so much in your life.

Dave had to return home for a few days and Frankie was busy with work so you decided to meet at the end of the week to all talk in person about what you were going to do going forward.

****

“You’re gonna be late if you keep fussing with it.” Alicia says perched on your dresser as you fidget with the little black dress she let you borrow. As uncomfortable as it was in the beginning, wearing her clothes always brought out another side of you.

“I’m just taking a page out of your book.” You point at her in the mirror. “Fashionably late…plus I want them to squirm a little.”

She stares at you with an incredulous look on her face. “What have I done to you?”

In all honesty she’s given you a boost of confidence that you sorely needed over the years of your friendship. You’ve learned to ask for the things you want and not take no for an answer. You’d spent years being told you weren’t good enough or didn’t fit the part by your step mom and your ex and ultimately the rejection from your dad had you really believing those things were true.

Anyone else may have grown tired of constantly reminding you that you deserve to take up space. She never did and would be there every step of the way to prove it to you time and time again.

You suppose that’s why she’s such a good fit for Santi. He needed someone to be his match, to challenge him when no one else would. To show him what it was like to laugh again and enjoy the little things.

You put the finishing touches on your makeup as she hops down from the dresser. “You call me either way.”

“Of course.” You wave your phone in front of her face as she crosses her arms.

“Just know I’m extremely jealous of you right now.” She trails behind you as you make your way to the front door a little wobbly in your heels.

“Nothing to be jealous of…this could all crash and burn in my face.” A sudden wave of fear waves over you at the prospect but you shove that down.

“I highly doubt that hon.” She spins you once and places a kiss on your forehead. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She’s leaning precariously in the doorway as you step out into the hallway.

“Would you do this?” You ask sheepishly.

“In a heartbeat.” The door shuts in your face and you’re left in the quiet. Only the sound of your heels clicking on the ground echo as you head to the elevator.

****

“If you’re gonna keep fussing with your tie you might as well not wear one.” Dave says as Frankie pulls uncomfortably at the collar of his dress shirt.

They’re sitting in the lounge where you all agreed to meet to discuss things and Frankie hasn’t been this nervous since his pilots exam. Dave is the picture of calm as he relaxes back in the blue crushed velvet seat.

“Where am I gonna put it?” Frankie aggressively rips the tie from his neck.

“Put it in your pocket or something.” Dave bites out as he leans forward to take a sip of his drink.

The two of them probably look ridiculous sitting here bickering. It’s been an uncomfortable few minutes since they finished their conversation about how the night could go.

Frankie was preparing for you to tell him that you would need to think things over for awhile since they lied to you initially and he didn’t come to you genuinely and say who he was from the beginning.

Dave was prepared for you to tell him that you were obviously going to choose your soulmate and that he was a creep for leading you on and basically stalking you in the process. He seems calm on the outside but inside he’s cursing the thought of returning to his lonely life of helping others find what he so desperately missed.

Frankie leans forward as he glances at his watch. “We said seven right? It’s been a little while.” He wrings his hands together nervously. “What if she doesn’t show?”

Dave swirls the glass in his hand as he looks over at Frankie. “Relax…she’ll be here.”

They both turn their heads as the sound of heels on marble floors sound in the room.

****

It’s serendipitous walking into the hotel lounge where weeks ago you and Alicia tried and failed at finding love. The very same lounge where you both decided that this was it and you were probably going to end up marrying each other and riding off into the sunset.

You see them before they see you.

Dave is sitting back in the chair, legs spread wide with a glass of amber liquid twirling in his hand. He’s wearing a fitted black suit with his hair combed back. Frankie looks about as nervous as you feel as he leans forward muttering something to Dave. You can’t hear his reply but he looks unbothered. He’s ditched his signature cap and his loose brown curls are styled somewhat to frame his face. He’s got on black slacks and his white dress shirt is unbuttoned a little so you can see a sliver of his tan chest peeking out. If you were a weaker woman you’d forgo any conversation and ask for Dave’s room key right now.

It’s the click.click.click of your heels that brings their attention to you as you approach the table.

****

“Holy shit.” Dave speaks first and for all his practiced effort to keep it cool his resolve quickly crumbles as he sees you approach wearing something entirely not you but such a welcome surprise.

He would tell Frankie to close his mouth if his wasn’t hanging agape at the short silk, black dress. The barely there straps that he could break with his teeth and the front plunging low enough to see your sternum.

You’re standing there expectantly and he quickly realizes neither have them have spoken a word since you waltzed up to them.

Just as Frankie is about to speak a waiter appears at your side. “Excuse me miss, would you like something to drink?” His eyes linger over you a second too long Dave’s nostrils flare in annoyance.

“Gin and tonic with lime please.” You say politely as you sit in the open seat in front of them. Doing your best to cross your ankles to not give them a view you’re not ready for. The dress rides up your thighs as you sit on the soft velvet seat and Frankie’s eyes flit briefly to them as he clears his throat and adjusts in his seat.

You’ve barely said a word and you’ve got both men wrapped around your finger. You’re completely unaware of the predicament you’ve been in since your little stunt at the country bar and this is only making it worse.

“So I suppose you both have some things to say before I tell you my thoughts.” There’s a slight air of confidence to your tone as you survey both men.

Frankie glances at Dave before clearing his throat. “Listen, I'm sure you’re sick of hearing our apologies.” You nod once before letting him continue. “I still have to say I’m sorry for lying to you. I wrongly assumed you would just toss Dave aside.”

“Thanks.” Dave responds dryly and you have to suppress your laugh. It’s obvious they’ve formed some sort of connection that hopefully plays into your favor.

The waiter returns with your drink trying to gauge whatever interaction is playing out in front of him. You all awkwardly wait until he’s out of ear shot to continue.

“Anyways…everything else I told you was the truth. Including the fact that I think I’m falling in love with you.” The last part is rushed out as your eyes go wide. A small part of you thought you might be moving too fast, but the feelings you were developing for both of them were hard to deny.

Frankie wishes the floor would swallow him up whole right now. His practiced speech went out the window when he saw you walk in the room.

You take a sip of your drink and direct your attention to Dave.

“I don’t regret what I did.” Dave states matter of factly as Frankie brings his head up from staring at the floor. Of all the things you expected him to say it certainly wasn’t that. “If I could do it all over again the only thing I would do differently is tell you who I was as soon as Frankie met you.” His voice is low as he leans in a little closer. “Even if you never want to speak to me again, I’m glad I did all those things for you and I never lied when I said I care about you a lot. So much that it scares me.”

You finish the rest of your drink and sit back in your seat. This is really starting to feel like an episode of the bachelor and if they don’t accept your proposal you suppose more than one person is going to get hurt.

“Well…” You fidget with your hands momentarily as your voice shakes a little. “I appreciate your honesty…even if it’s a little late. I’m relieved to know that you feel the same way about me that I feel about you.”

Frankie feels like he can breathe a sigh of relief that he didn’t just make a complete fool of himself.

“I’m not choosing.” You say with finality and Dave raises an eyebrow at you from across the table. “I don’t think I should have to after what you two put me through. So if you want out, now is your chance.”

****

You’re all three or four drinks deep, now the only ones in the hotel lounge. You’ve been swapping horrible dating stories and they’ve been swapping some more classified stories that you don’t care to remember for fear of your personal safety. These two unassuming and charming men have seen some things in their lifetime that you would never have imagined. It’s thrilling in a way to know how dangerous they are but when it comes to you they’re inculpable.

Neither one budged when you told them you weren’t going to choose and now that you’re sitting here a little more comfortable sharing the loveseat with Frankie as Dave relaxes back in the chair next to you it almost seems like this is how it was supposed to be.

Frankie’s strong hands rub small circles along the exposed part of your thigh. “So he calls you hummingbird?”

“That was our secret.” You say playfully to Dave as he brushes his fingers along your knuckles.

“Well, you share the tattoo with Francisco so I figured I should tell him.” He turns your hand over in his tracing the lines of the tattoo on your wrist.

“You don’t have to call me Francisco.” Frankie’s breath is hot on your neck as he’s moved a little closer to you.

“What if I want to?” Dave’s voice is anything but innocent as you watch a moment pass between him and Frankie.

This could work.

Frankie leans in whispering something as his lips brush your ear. He has to resist biting it as he sees the goosebumps raise on your skin at the close contact. Something in the air has shifted throughout the night and he’s done trying to overthink it.

“Who’s telling secrets now.” Dave grabs your foot that was trailing up his leg, your heels have been long discarded. His hands start to kneed and rub and you have to stifle a moan at how good it feels.

“I was just telling her what hummingbird means in Spanish…so we can have our own little name.” Frankie’s feeling bold as he kisses your neck. “Isn’t that right?”

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or the sensation of both of their hands on you but a pleasant buzz is running through your body.

A throat clears behind you and you lean your head back against Frankie as you lock eyes with the waiter. He looks a little annoyed but straightens up Dave and Frankie put their attention on him.

“The lounge is closing for the night so-“

“Charge it to my room please. Dave York, Capri Penthouse suite.” Dave cuts him off and he’s gone before he could finish his sentence.

It’s quiet for a moment as you wait to see who’s going to speak first. You definitely don’t want the night to end yet but you have no idea where their heads are at. You exhale and look them dead in the eyes before you lose the courage to say what you’ve been wanting since they both walked into your lives.

“I want you both.” They nod at each other but you’re certain they don’t interpret your true meaning.

“We’re yours.” Dave says genuinely as he looks at Frankie.

“Tonight.” It’s not a question, more of a statement as they both look at you wide eyed. Frankie tenses behind you and Dave’s shocked expression has you a little worried. It’s bold and so unlike you, you’re sick of doing the predictable thing. You want them and they clearly want you so these are your terms.

Dave slides forward in his chair. “You’ve been drinking…” he whispers as if you’re not the only ones left in the lounge. “We don’t want to take advantage.” He emphasizes we….assuming Frankie feels the same and he nods at him.

“We’ve all been drinking… and I made up my mind last night.” You gather your purse in your hand and start to stand. “Unless you don’t want to and we can discuss this at a later…”

“No.” “No.” You have to chuckle at their sudden enthusiasm.

Frankie’s mind already starts to wander to all the things they could do to you. Things they could show you. All the ways he could make you come apart. Two hands are better than one and four hands….

It’s a little shocking to Dave that this scenario had never crossed his mind but it’s clear neither of them were about to let this opportunity pass them by, if even for one night.

“I’ll give you two a moment to talk, I need to make a phone call.” You walk just out of ear shot to call Alicia who is no doubt picking up on the first ring.

****

“I didn’t bring a change of clothes.” You can hear her sigh and probably shaking her head on the other end of the line.

“Clothes!…that’s what you’re worried about right now? I will bring you a change of clothes in the morning if you manage to pull this off.”

You’re standing at the edge of the lounge door, not wanting to turn around and see whatever heated conversation could be going on behind you.

“I’m mostly stalling, and mentally preparing myself to call a ride home in case they think this is crazy.” This is crazy right, how was this the next logical step in your brain. It all sounded right bouncing around in your head throughout the week and now your nerves seem to be getting the best of you.

“Deep breaths…I doubt anyone with two eyes would turn down and offer like this.” Alicia mumbles something incoherent on the other end but you can take a guess as to what she may have said.

You duck your head as some loud guests enter the lobby heading back to their room after a night on the town. You don’t know why you’re shying away, it’s not as if they could possibly know what’s going on behind you.

****

“You said this would go one of two ways.” Frankie says as he fidgets with the label on his empty beer.

“I know what I said…it’s just of course I didn’t expect…do you not want-“ Dave’s brief moment of clarity cuts through the sexual tension. Not even realizing what he’s asking of Frankie who’s already given up so much.

“No, of course I want this.” His voice is sure and it’s the first time he actually says out loud the thing he’s been thinking since that first day in the coffee shop when he met Dave. Nothing in his wildest dreams would’ve imagined him here in this exact scenario.

They’re both quiet for a moment, a little hesitant after admitting something that most men wouldn’t be brave enough to counter. It feels like that moment when you’re lucid and you don’t want to wake up because the dream is just too good. The lights in the lounge are perfectly dim casting a shadow along the walls. You’re standing there against the doorway, looking adorable and exposed in your shirt black dress and your heels haphazardly buckled because you didn’t want to walk barefoot away from the proposition you just dropped in their waiting laps.

“Have you ever?” Dave asks timidly no ridicule evident in his tone.

“Yes, but I didn’t care about them this way.” Once or twice when he was stationed overseas because Pope wrangled him into it, long before he was married. “I doubt she ever has.”

Dave surveys you for a moment as you chance a look over your shoulder. “There’s no need to rush this, if this isn’t going to be the only time. I think it’s fair if you take the lead.”

Frankie should be nervous or anxious at the prospect of your first time together being watched by Dave. There’s something else drumming below the surface as his voyeuristic tendencies start to rear their head. Frankie adjusts himself trying to hide his excitement as Dave’s eyes linger too long on him.

****

You’re glad you walked away to give you and them a moment to collect yourselves. You didn’t want to be present for any uncomfortable conversation if either of them decided this was just too much.

You can see it in their eyes as you approach, it’s clear what decision they’ve made.

“So boys…are we doing this?”

Frankie stands and takes your hand in his as Dave slides the room key out of his pocket. “Baby…we’re all yours.”

****

“You wore this to talk?” Dave’s fingers lift the strap of your lace bra as he slides down, brushing his thumb across your nipple through the soft fabric.

“What can I say? I like to be prepared.” You bite your lip as small goosebumps raise across your skin.

Frankie has to shake his head at the sentiment. The act you put on is not as innocent as he previously thought. Maybe your friend gave you a little push in the right direction.

He’ll have to thank her later when she doesn’t want to kill him.

Both of them standing in front of you, patiently waiting for your next move has you feeling a little exposed.

Dave can sense some hesitation from you, you’re staring anywhere but at them as your hand covers your stomach.

His hand cups your face, as he brushes his thumb across your jaw. “We don’t have to do this hummingbird.” You can see it in his eyes, how deeply he cares for you in that moment.

“No, I want to…it’s just. I’ve never done this before.” You gesture between the two men and laugh a little.

They both hold such serious faces then, not wanting to make a joke of your vulnerability. You are opening this part of yourself to both of them.

Dave leans in, his lips brushing yours as you melt into the kiss. He turns your jaw slightly and Frankie is at your side, his large palm replacing yours across your stomach and then caressing your hip.

His forehead meets yours for a moment, just breathing you in before he dives in for a kiss. It’s like shockwaves whenever you touch him, the feeling skates down your spine into your toes and you’re leaning into his touch.

Dave presses you impossibly closer, the growing bulge in his pants pressed against your back and the added pressure of his hand kneading your breast. You reach your hand back, reveling in the way Dave moans into your ear as you palm his cock through his jeans. The other hand tangled in Frankie’s hair as he pulls your bottom lip between his teeth.

“We’re gonna take real good care of you baby, aren’t we Dave?” His breath ghosts over your lips in a whisper.

Dave just hums in response, he’s letting Frankie take the control. He wants him to have this with you. He’s already been given the world, now's not the time to get greedy.

“Lay down on the bed.” Frankie hooks his finger around you, making quick work of your bra before he lets you go.

You haven’t been this exposed for anyone since your ex and he used to look at you in disgust, all the tattoos that weren’t his.

They’re staring at you now like a painting in a museum. It almost takes your breath away at the thought of him finally seeing his artwork adorned on the body meant solely for him.

“Jesus…you’re beautiful.” Frankie half whispers to himself as you sit on the edge of the bed, gesturing to their clothes.

They almost mirror each other as they strip their dress shirts and slacks. You’re practically salivating at the two of them stripped down to their matching black boxers and tan bodies. Dave looks over to Frankie and whistles and you can see the red flush creep up his neck. It’s a relief to know you weren’t the only one this nervous.

Frankie nods his head and Dave takes the spot behind you against the pillows. He crooks a finger at you to join him and you crawl over settling in the spot between his legs. You lay your body back against him and you can feel his hard cock through his boxers as he adjusts to get you more comfortable.

“We’ll go slow…this time.” Frankie says as he crawls on the bed, fitting his broad shoulders between your legs. His fingers hook into the lace of your panties as he slowly slides them down your legs. His eyes are dark as he sets them on his prize and you swear you see him lick his lips.

Your ex would go down on you occasionally but you could tell he was unsure of himself and so you never really could enjoy it.

Frankie takes his time as he kisses at your stomach and nips at your thigh. Dave’s strong hands knead your breast and you giggle a little as he whispers in your ear that he knows you’re ticklish. The laughter dies in your throat as Frankie licks a stripe through your slit. His groan reverberates through you as you let out a soft whimper. Your senses are on overdrive as Dave’s hands work your body and Frankie’s mouth devours you whole.

Frankie doesn’t care that he has to share with the way you’re looking at him and the sweet noises you’re making he thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. You cry out his name as your hands tug on his curls. He’ll do anything to have you say his name a thousand times over while his face is buried between your thighs. “Fuck…Frankie I’m gonna come.” You pant out between breaths.

“Come for me hermosa, I want to hear you.” He dips two fingers into your pussy as his tongue works circles around your clit.

Dave’s not sure how he thought tonight would go. He hoped you would forgive them both and maybe find a way for everyone to get what they want. He didn’t expect to have you splayed out in front of him while Frankie takes you apart.

He’s always thought himself confident in the bedroom but he may have to ask Frankie what exactly he’s doing to elicit these noises. His cock twitches at every moan and whimper as you squirm against him.

You arch your back into him and whine, he can tell you’re close the way your whole body shakes.

“I’ve got you baby, you can let go.”

It has to be Dave in your ear because Frankie hasn’t come up for air. You can feel the coil tighten inside as your fingers grip his hair. He growls as you pull him closer.

He’s missed this feeling, the craving for someone so bad you can feel it in your gut.

He can taste it on his tongue, the moment you break and cry out his name. Your voice is hoarse and he’s barely had his fill of you.

He looks up from between your thighs and locks eyes with Dave. Your chest is heaving as he holds you close trying to calm your breathing. there isn’t an ounce of regret in the way he’s looking at you both. Like this is exactly what’s been missing from his life.

Frankie rubs his hands down your body, slowly bringing you back to him. He kisses that crease of soft skin before he raises up and captures your lips in his, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “Don’t you taste so good?” He rasps against your lips.

“Mhm.” Is all you can manage as Frankie squeezes your thigh, dimpling your skin between his fingers.

“I think Dave wants a taste.” Frankie nudges you back as Dave moves down beside you.

You can feel Frankie take the spot on the other side as Dave takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger. Gently holding you there while you catch your breath. When he presses his lips to yours it’s softer than you would imagine. The hard set line of his jaw and his intense stare don’t let on to the tender touch of his hand.

His hand drifts from your chin to cup the back of your head further deepening the kiss as you both moan at the sensation. He’s achingly hard against your stomach as he rolls his hips into you, pulling you impossibly closer.

You reach down and palm him through his boxers but he carefully grabs your hand pulling it up to his lips, placing a kiss to your palm. “Not tonight hummingbird.” You tense up at the slight rejection but he’s quick to assure you. “You’ve already made me the happiest man alive, I can be patient and wait my turn.” He looks over your shoulder to Frankie with some unspoken words as they effortlessly roll you to face him.

Frankie’s hair is a wild mess as you reach over and run your fingers through it. “Sorry about this.”

Dave laughs as he presses his lips to your shoulder. “I don’t know, I kinda like it.”

If there was a competition on who could make Frankie blush, Dave would be winning by a landslide.

Frankie suddenly looks a little shy. “We can stop now, if you want too.”

“No Frankie…I need you.” You surge forward and kiss him as you feel two fingers dip into your entrance. A small gasp leaves your lips as Dave works your open. Frankie’s pulling his boxers down in one swift movement as you try not to balk at the sheer size of him.

“I’m gonna go slow okay?” His breath fans across your face as you nod. Dave groans behind you as he pulls his fingers out dragging them slowly up and circling your clit. You whine and drop your head back on his shoulder as he lifts your leg over Frankie’s hip.

You only let the two of them talk briefly about tonight and yet it’s like they’ve mapped it out for weeks. They have the blueprint to your body’s every need and they work together like they’ve studied you for years. You’re not afraid to call it what it is anymore…it feels even more than love to you the way you all fit within each other. Dave at your back and Frankie at your front, looking at you with those puppy dog eyes like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

Frankie reaches between you to grip his cock, sliding the tip between your lips as you shudder. He pushes in slowly, experimentally rolling his hips as you grip his shoulders. Dave is nearly silent behind you as he places his hand along your abdomen, feeling the way you breathe. You grit your teeth at the slight pain that gives way to pleasure as he buries himself to the hilt. You wait there a moment, your foreheads pressed together as he tries to catch his breath.

“Frankie please…” A stray tear rolls down your face as the sensation takes over your body. The feeling of Frankie’s cock inside you has you clenching around him.

“Fuck me…” Frankie hisses and Dave has to chuckle at the sentiment of you fucking him. “You’re so tight baby.”

Frankie starts a slow agonizing pace and you can feel every ridge and vein as he drags his cock in and out, his eyes flit down to where you’re connected so he can watch the way your pussy takes him so well. He’s not going to last the way you feel right now and the way Dave’s looking at him. You bury your head into his neck, crying out his name as he picks up the pace, his grip tightens on your hips as Dave squeezes your stomach making Frankie jerk his head up to him.

He can feel him and he knows it, your legs pull him in further as you match his thrusts and he finally locks eyes with Dave. He can see it in his eyes and he hopes he’s not wrong as Frankie leans in kissing him feverishly. He’s dizzy with the scent of you and Dave on his tongue.

“Oh fuck Frankie.” You’re shaking as you whine into his neck.

“You gonna come for me?” Dave’s voice cuts through the moans and sharp breaths and Frankie doesn’t know who he means but he’s dangerously close.

Dave’s hand trails down from your stomach to rub your clit, his hand is pressed between your bodies and Frankie bites down on his lip to keep from coming right then, he wants to wait for you. He has too.

It’s delirium having them all over you, inside you. You open your mouth as a silent scream leaves it, Frankie’s lips are on yours breathing it in as you come apart in his arms. You can feel his hips stuttering as Dave grips his arm. “Mierda, díme.”

“English Francisco.” Dave grits out behind you.

“Come inside me please…” Frankie groans as he pulses hot ropes of cum inside your pussy as you flutter with the aftershocks. You can feel a warm wet spot on your back as you cling to Frankie, his cock still pulsing inside you as you whimper at the overstimulation.

It takes you all a minute to come down from your high and Dave rolls out of the king size bed to the en-suite bathroom. Frankie’s kissing your sweat soaked forehead as you rub circles on his back, still tangled up in him.

“Okay lovebirds, I need to clean you up.” Dave says as he dips onto the side of the bed, wiping your back carefully with a warm washcloth. You glance at him over your shoulder as he blushes. “Not a word.” You laugh and mock zipping your lips.

There’s a moment after he’s done where you’re unsure where to go from here. You can tell Frankie feels the same as he sits on the edge of the bed.

Dave clears his throat as he takes his spot on the other side of you. “Generally speaking people sleep under the covers.” He pulls them back as you and Frankie deflate, his relieved smile etched across his face. It feels right between them, maybe a little hot at the moment but you know it’s where you’re supposed to be.

You nestle in between the two of them as your eyes start to drift off to sleep.

“Hermosa?” Frankie’s sleepy voice sounds from behind you. “You speak Spanish?”

“In a pinch.”

Dave snorts into the pillow as you both burst out into laughter. Ya this feels right

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avastrasposts · 11 months

Text

The Pilot and his Girl - ch. 14

I'm sorry. Please feel free to yell at me.

Warnings Contain spoilers

Word count: 5.7k Chapter 15

You start pulling on your clothes as you come back from the bathroom, Frankie is already wrapped up in the bed sheets, half asleep as he pries open an eye to look at you.

“I was thinking we should maybe not both sleep at the same time,” you say, reaching down for your boots. Frankie loses his sleepy look almost immediately and shoots up in bed, but you’re already holding your palm up to him.

“I’m taking the first watch, Frankie, no arguments. You didn’t sleep last night, I did, albeit behind the couch, but still. You need to sleep because to be frank, we’re gonna need you alert tomorrow more than me.”

“Cariño…” he starts to protest but you physically push him down onto the bed with your hands on his shoulders, and he lets you topple him over.

“Sleep, Frankie, I’m going to be outside the door, you’ll hear me shout if anything happens.”

He looks up at you, trying to find an argument for taking the whole watch himself, but his brain is scrambled by adrenaline and sleep deprivation. The post-orgasm hormones don’t help either.

“Leave the door open, wake me at three,” is all he manages before you kiss his lips and stroke his cheek, you swear he’s already asleep by the time you leave the room.

Staying awake was harder than you thought, sitting on one of the bar stools by the kitchen counter stops you from dozing off, but you still feel like your jaw is going to pop as you yawn widely. Your gun is on the counter in front of you as you study the ring Frankie slipped onto your finger. The delicate gold band is thin, three simple diamonds set in a row, with room, you notice, for more diamonds along the band. You know Frankie isn’t the kind of guy to spend three months pay on a ring just so that it’s as big as possible, he would pick the ring that meant something to him and make it mean something to you too. You run your fingers over the diamonds, three in a row, you’ll have to ask him tomorrow.

At three am you gently walk into the bedroom to wake Frankie, but he sleeps too lightly, your footsteps wake him up and he shoots up in bed.

“It’s ok, Frankie,” you say in a low voice, “It’s three am.”

“Ok,” he rumbles, his voice rough with sleep as he rubs the heel of his hand into his eyes. You pull off your boots and crawl into bed with your clothes on next to Frankie. He catches your chin between his thumb and fingers, giving you a slow kiss, before letting go.

When you wake up a few hours later daylight is starting to slip through the shutters of the window. Frankie’s hand is on your shoulder, gently shaking you.

“Hermosa, time to wake up,” he murmurs as he bends and presses his lips to your temple. “The night was quiet and I made coffee.”

“Thank you,” you mumble and push the covers back, sitting up as Frankie hands you a mug.

You drink it while you get ready, which only means you put your boots back on and stick the gun into the back of your trousers. Frankie’s heated up another can of stew from Denny’s supplies and you both eat it in silence. You’re apprehensive about leaving the safety and quiet of the cabin and move back into populated areas, but you can see Frankie’s nerves too. His jaw is clenched as he goes through both your packs, swapping out some of the food for Denny’s supplies. As soon as you put down your spoon into the empty bowl he grabs it from you and starts readying up to leave.

“We should leave a note for Pope or anyone else who comes here,” you say and Frankie nods.

“Yeah, I did already,” he points to a folded piece of paper on the dining room table, “Read it and tell me if it makes sense.”

You pick it up and flip it open, reading Frankie’s neat handwriting;

September 29th

To anyone of the guys

My girl and I are safe up here for now. We’re heading to L’s place today. Pope was here on the 27th, also went for L but hasn’t returned yet.

We’ll return here when we have L, hope to see you all safe.

Catfish

You fold it up and put it back on the table, “Looks good to me, I really hope they’re all here when we get back,” you say, looking over at Frankie who’s picked up your backpack and walked over to you with it.

“Yeah, I really hope so too,” he replies as he helps you on with the pack, turning you around and adjusting the straps before he pulls your gun from behind your back.

“I made you this while I was keeping watch,” he holds up a makeshift leg holster. “You can’t wear a regular holster with a backpack on and you won’t be able to get the gun from behind the pack, and I don’t want you walking around with the gun in your hand.”

He kneels down and straps it to your thigh, using a snap-link to attach it to your belt. “Denny had a couple of old holsters for his hunting gear so I repurposed them.” He’s got a similar holster on his leg, his gun already in it and now he slides your gun into yours.

“Feel good?” he asks, looking up at you from the floor, tugging on the holster, making sure it’s not too tight.

“Yeah, but I’m not sure how much use I’ll be, Frankie, I’ve never even fired a gun.”

“Hopefully you won’t have to but I can’t show you, I don’t know when we’ll get more bullets,” he gets up and gives your backpack a final look over, “Denny didn’t keep any guns or ammo up here so we’ll have to grab any that we find.”

Once outside the cabin, Frankie locks up and puts the key back into the lock box before turning towards the lake.

“There are a couple of canoes down by the small boat house,” he says, “we can use one of them to get across the lake, saves us walking around it, we’re heading in that direction.”

You nod and follow him down the gentle slope to the lake, the morning is calm and quiet, and again you’re struck by how normal everything feels. If it wasn’t for the slightly heavy feeling in your stomach, a small hot ball of anxiety, you’d think it was just Frankie and you heading out for a couple of days camping.

The trip over the lake is smooth and when you get to the other side, about a mile from the cabin, you get the packs out before Frankie paddles the canoe into some thick, tall reeds to camouflage it as much as possible. Luckily it’s an old wood canoe and it all but disappears into the reeds.

Frankie glances down at his compass, attached to his belt, and motion for you to follow him. You’ve agreed to speak as little as possible and move quietly. There probably won’t be any infected out here but Frankie doesn’t want to take any chances. So in silence you walk behind him for three hours, stopping when he holds up his hand, checking his direction or listening intently. At one point he signals for you to stop and crouch and as you sink down behind a bush, you hear rustling in the shrubs ahead. Your skin goes cold as you mimic Frankie’s movement and pull out your gun, moving it slowly out of your leg holster. The rustling continues, coming closer until, finally, you see the source of the sound, a white tail deer, slowly ambling through the forest, nibbling at leaves here and there as it goes. You let your breath out slowly, as Frankie stands up, startling the deer enough to make it prance away into the underbrush.

At the three hour mark Frankie finds a good spot for a break, a small stream that lets you refill your water bottles. Stretching out your legs on the ground, your back against a large boulder, you try to savor your lunch sandwich. Frankie sinks down next to you and gives you a little nudge with his shoulder.

“How you holding up, cariño?” he asks in a low voice.

“I’m alright, just jumpy,” you reply, leaning your head on his solid shoulder for a little bit. He caresses your cheek with his warm palm and you feel his lips press into the top of your head before he begins to unwrap his sandwich.

After lunch you get even jumpier, you’re still following hiking trails through the forest but every now and then you have to cross main roads, you start seeing houses, you even skirt around a small town. In the distance you see a group of people, you can’t tell if they’re infected or not, but as Frankie leads the two of you in a wide circle around the group, you keep watching them. They don’t move and you think they’re too unnaturally still for humans.

Just as you’ve managed to clear a small ridge and put some distance between yourself and them, a loud collective shriek goes up from the group of people. Frankie immediately grabs you and pulls you down into the tall grass next to the trail. It feels like your heart is going to claw itself out of your chest as you feel Frankie’s weight on top of you, he’s half covered you with his body. You glance up at his face and you see him carefully lift his head out of the tall grass.

“It’s ok, they’re running, but in the other direction,” he whispers and pulls you up. In a crouch Frankie starts to jog down the other side of the ridge, holding on to your hand as you run to keep up with him. You continue running until your lungs are about to give up and Frankie slows down but starts walking next to you, keeping a brutal pace, still holding onto your hand.

“We need to get away from them as fast as possible, we can’t fight that many on foot,” he pants, giving your hand another squeeze.

Not until you’ve covered about three miles does he slow down to a regular pace, you’re drenched in sweat and breathing hard, your legs aching. He pulls you off the side of the trail you’ve been following, into the forest and behind a thick shrub.

“Sit down,” he motions, pointing to the ground, “catch your breath and drink some water.”

You gratefully sink down and pull out your water bottle while Frankie remains standing.

“We’re about half a mile from the bridge and the river crossing,” he says, looking at the map. “We need to be extra careful as we approach, if people in this area were trying to get away from any towns they’d probably have to cross there which means a potential traffic jam and potentially infected.”

You nod and sip the water, offering Frankie your bottle when you’re done. He gratefully takes a long swig while you get back to your feet. You’re still exhausted after the sprint but you want to keep moving. The countryside around you makes you nervous, there are small farms dotted across it, three days ago you would’ve thought it looked quaint and rural, now the sight of every farm house makes you edgy.

Putting away your water bottle, you follow Frankie back to the trail and after a short time it emerges from the forest onto a large country road, up ahead you can see the bridge. As Frankie had feared, it’s jammed with cars. You can walk between them, but the thought of what might be hiding among them makes panic claw its way up your throat and you take a tight hold of Frankie’s hand. He looks back and sees the fear in your eyes. Pulling you back into the trees he wraps his arms around you. Holding you tight to his chest for a minute, he pulls back and cups your cheeks, his large hands are warm and dry on your skin, as he kisses you deeply before he looks down at you and traces his fingers over your lips.

“I’m sorry, cariño, it’s the only way forward.” His eyes rake over your face as if he’s committing it to memory and you suddenly realize what he’s doing.

“Don’t say goodbye, Frankie,” you croak, your voice catching in your throat.

“Just in case, mi amor,” he says in a low voice, pressing his lips to yours again. When he pulls back he turns and takes your hand, leading you back to the road where he lets go of it.

“Stay six feet behind me, gun out, safety off, but keep it pointed to the ground. If you have to fire, squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it.” He gives you a final look, a small smile, before turning back to the road.

It’s slow going, following Frankie’s lead you move carefully in his footsteps, trying to make as little noise as possible. Frankie stops and surveys the cars in front of you regularly but nothing seems out of the ordinary, you see no humans, only open car doors, luggage that’s been left behind.

As you’ve crossed about two thirds of the bridge a dog suddenly launches itself at the cage door keeping it shut in, barking loudly from inside a large SUV. Frankie and you both drop into a crouch, trying to see if the loud noise will draw in any infected, but the dog quietens down and the landscape around the bridge remains silent. You breathe a sigh of relief as Frankie carefully stands up again and motions for you to follow him. He carefully approaches the dog in the cage, a golden retriever you think, mumbling soft words to it, calming it down. Soon the dog is licking his fingers through the bars of the cage and Frankie slides back the lock, opening the door. The dog jumps down, its tail happily wagging as you scratch its ears.

“Good boy,” you mumble, patting its flank as Frankie starts moving forward again. You give the dog a final scratch before you follow him towards the end of the bridge. The dog trails behind you for a while before it falls behind, going back to the SUV.

As you get to the end of the bridge Frankie holds his hand up, signaling for you to stop. He points to the last pillar of the bridge, written on it, in what looks like black magic marker, are the letters SOF, underneath is a rectangle with a single line through the middle and the number 1 just outside the box.

“Special Operations Force,” Frankie says, “Pope’s been through here but he’s alone. The rectangle means he’s motorized.” He walks over to the pillar, pulling a marker from his side pocket and crouching down he writes SOF underneath Pope’s message, but he adds an odd looking cross underneath, two sides are flat and two are rounded. Then he writes ‘2’ next to it.

“Special Operations Aviation,” he explains while he stands up and puts the marker away. “I don’t think any of the other guys will come past here but if Pope comes back the same way he’ll see that we’ve been here.”

You continue down the road, it’s still about an hour's walk to Lucía’s house and you’re forced to stay on the road, there are no hiking trails leading in the right direction. Frankie’s head is on a swivel, his gun drawn as you both walk off to the side of the road, creating some distance between yourselves and the cars. There are less of them now, and up ahead you can see an almost clear road. You crest a hill in the road, carefully trying to see over to the other side before you’re too exposed, when a pickup truck just ahead rumbles to life and barrels towards you with a screech of tires. Frankie grabs your hand and pulls you behind one of the few cars on the road, his gun aimed at the truck. “They’ve got to be ok, right Frankie?” you say, his hand still holding you down behind the car. “Infected can’t drive!”

“Stay down, cariño,” he snaps, his eyes focused on the truck. You hear it come to a stop and the engine goes silent as the doors are opened. Frankie lets go of you and grabs his gun with both hands. You turn and peek over the bonnet of the car and see two men get out, staying behind the doors of the truck, as another two jump down from the flatbed.

“You know how to use that gun, sonny?” the oldest man calls from behind the driver’s door. He’s big and burly looking, a cowboy hat squashed down on a very round head.

“Sure,” Frankie calls back, shifting his stance.

“Why don’t you lower it and toss it over here. And any gun your cute girl might be carrying.” The man’s voice is saccharine and makes your neck hairs stand on end, you glance up at Frankie and see the muscle in his jaw working.

“We’re just passing through, trying to get to some friends, we don’t want any trouble.”

“Then why you pointing a gun at me, son?” The older man looks over his shoulder and nods at the two men who got off the truck and they slowly move to the sides, circling the two of you.

“Cariño, get your gun up and stand behind me, aim at the man on the left,” Frankie says in a low voice, his eyes never leaving the older man. You do as he says, trying to have a steady grip on the gun to keep your hands from shaking. Copying Frankie’s stance, you hold your gun in both hands, your feet apart and steady, aiming at the man on the left. With a thumb you flick the safety off and draw a deep breath.

“Steady there, girlie,” the old man drawls, as he sees you move, holding up a hand to stop the two men. “Son, you don’t want to do anything stupid and get your girl in trouble here.” He moves out from behind the car door, and from the corner of your eye you see the rifle he’s holding low in his hands. “We’re just out here making sure no one’s looting these cars, especially of any guns they might find.”

“These guns are mine, like I said, we’re just passing through.” Frankie calls back through gritted teeth. You can hear the sharp tone in his voice as his eyes flick from the man in the cowboy hat and the man still standing behind the passenger side door.

“You’re outnumbered, pal,” the man on the right calls out with a chuckle, “just hand over the guns and any supplies, and we’ll let you pass.”

“Might keep your girl though,” the man on your left drawls, the man you’ve got your gun aimed at, he’s eyeing you with a smirk on his face that makes your skin crawl. “She’s shaking like a leaf but I bet she’d put up a nice little fight.”

Frankie glances over at the man on the left, before he looks back at the man in the cowboy hat, he’s got a crooked smile on his lips as he shoulders the rifle.

“C’mon, sonny, the guns and the girl, and then you can walk away.”

Frankie’s gun is loud on the silent road, and the man in the cowboy hat crumples over, his shot going wide as the rifle hits the ground. The man on the left throws himself forward and you feel the recoil in your arms as you fire, you don’t even know if your bullets hit, you can hear several shots from Frankie’s gun and your own, and Frankie’s hand on your shoulder as he pushes you to the ground. Two more shots ring out and Frankie ducks behind the car, his gun raised, listening. When nothing stirs he quickly glances over the bonnet before he stands up. Three of the men are dead on the ground, the fourth one, the one behind the passenger door, is scrabbling for something and with a few long steps, Frankie is on him, kicking the gun out of his reach.

He’s on the ground, you can see him beneath the door, Frankie towering above him, his gun aimed at the man. As you watch, the man lifts his palms up, pleading, but the shot rings out and the man slumps back. Frankie bends down and picks up the man’s gun, quickly patting him down and fishing an ammo box from his pants. When he straightens up and walks back towards you his face is impassive, blank and you remember when you last saw that look; the bar that night you thought Frankie was a violent man. Now you know, he is violent, but only when he needs to and for now, you’re very grateful for his skills.

You put your hands out to push yourself off the ground and a burning pain shoots through your shoulder, wincing you get to your feet and look at your torn shirt. Blood is seeping through and you suddenly feel faint. Frankie is on you in two fast steps, grabbing your arm and pulling back your shirt.

“You’re hit,” his voice suddenly sharp with worry, as his gentle fingers push at the fabric, making you wince again. He unbuttons your shirt and pulls it over your shoulder. “Thank god,” he breathes out as he sees the shallow gash, “you’ve been grazed, it didn’t go in.” He pulls up his arm as if he’s about to pull his backpack off but changes his mind.

“Come here, get in the truck,” he guides you over to the passenger side, “close your eyes, don’t look,” he mumbles as you have to step over the corpse. You breathe in deeply and keep your eyes closed until Frankie closes the door. He bends down to pick up the other man’s rifle, putting it behind the bench seat, before he gets in and starts up the engine. It rumbles to life and Frankie turns it around, heading back down the almost empty road, and as soon as he sees a secluded spot he pulls over and kills the engine.

“I’ve got to clean your arm, cariño,” says, opening up his backpack for the first aid kit. “Does it hurt?” He looks over at you, his eyes are worried and you shake your head to calm him.

“Only a little, it stings more than anything.”

“Ok, just keep breathing in and out while I do this.”

The iodine solution makes you whimper but Frankie is fast and efficient, when the compress is on your shoulder the pain is already subsiding. He pulls your shirt back on, gives you a soft kiss, cradling the back of your head with his large hand.

“You ok?” he asks in a low voice, “not just the injury, with what just happened too?”

You let out a shuddering breath as you allow yourself to think about the situation, “I’m very glad you used to be a soldier, Frankie,” you say, leaning your forehead against his, “I think that’s the fourth time you’ve saved my life in twenty four hours.”

“Me too,” he breathes, his thumb is caressing your cheek as he looks at you. His deep brown eyes are strained, but calm, “Things are going to get worse before they get better, cariño. I’ve seen it before, when society crumbles, it brings out the worst in people and they become very dangerous. I need you and Lucía safe at the cabin until we know things are getting back to normal, whenever that might be.”

You nod and he turns back to the wheel and starts up the truck, “At least we got a truck out of it, this will make things easier as long as we have gas.”

The truck rumbles through the landscape, in the distance you see a group of infected running towards something but the road curves and you move away from them. Frankie has driven this road hundreds of times, every time he came to pick up or drop off Lucía, and now he wonders at how eerily still it is. There are no people as the truck drives past the first few houses of the small town, cars line the main street but they’ve been pushed to the side. The dents and scrapes on them indicate that something big came through and shoved them out of the way.

Frankie turns down a smaller side street, and then another small street, coming to the end of town. There are a few cars still parked outside the houses but most are gone. You glance over at him, his fingers are drumming on the steering wheel as his restless eyes bounce around the street, looking for infected, people, anything. He’s grinding his teeth, the muscle in his jaw flexing and when he pulls up outside a small bungalow you hear his white knuckles make the steering wheel creak.

“This is their place,” he says in a low voice, “the car is still here.” He opens the truck door and steps down, listening for any movement as you follow him out. Pulling his gun he moves carefully up the porch and tests the handle on the door, it’s locked.

“Stay by the truck,” he says to you, “if anything happens, if anyone comes, fire once in the air, ok?”

You nod and do as he says. Frankie carefully walks down the side of the house, easily scaling the wooden fence that closes off the backyard. He disappears from view and you nervously wait, looking around the quiet neighborhood. When he opens the door to the house from the inside you jump but he holds up his hand in a placating sign, signaling for you to stay where you are. He disappears into the house again, you guess this means Lucía isn’t here, and neither is anyone else.

You hear him walking through the house and before long he comes back out, a note in his hand.

“They’ve been evacuated,” he says, showing you the note from Lucía’s mom. It’s dated the day before yesterday, Saturday, the note says the soldiers came at night and gave them fifteen minutes to pack up essentials.

“She says they told her they’re going to a quarantine zone in Franklin. I’ve got to see if I can get them out of there.” He breathes a sigh of relief, “At least they’re safe for now.” he says, getting back into the truck and starting it up.

As the truck rumbles through town you start seeing more infected, they stumble out of a few of the shops, attracted to the sound of the truck. At one intersection you see a large number of them fallen into a pile, bullet wounds to their heads, and you quickly look away. Their pallid skin, starting to show strange looking lesions, no longer looks human, but their clothes are still bright and colorful, reminds you terribly of the people who would’ve put them on, maybe on Friday morning, expecting just another day.

Frankie speeds up, leaving town, and the shrieking infected behind, heading for Franklin. It’s less than an hour away, the nearest big city, and like before you see the cars pushed to the side of the road. Frankie’s fingers are drumming on the steering wheel again, his grip tight, his jaw clenched. He’s getting closer to Lucía, now he knows she’s safe, he just needs to get to her.

“When we get to the quarantine zone, do you think we should stay there?” you ask him. “It doesn’t sound like a ‘quarantine zone’ is somewhere they’ll let you in and out of. Maybe it’ll be safer for us there too?”

“I don’t know,” Frankie says, glancing over at you, “I need to see it first, how are they quarantining people? Keeping them separate enough so that if someone is already infected, they can’t attack and infect more people?” His fingers drum faster against the wheel, “I just need to see her, see her safe.”

You put your hand on his leg and give it a squeeze and he drops his hand, curling his fingers around yours.

“How’s your shoulder?”

“Still stings a bit, but it’s dulled, hurts when I move it.” You test moving your arm up and down, feeling the pull of the compress.

“It’ll give you gnarly looking scar,” he grins, “match some of mine.” He pulls your hand up to his lips and gives it a kiss, his eyes leaving the road for a second. When he looks back again he sees birds circling up ahead.

“Buzzards,” he points them out to you. “Looks like they’re circling just over the road.” He slows down the truck as you come around a bend, clearing a small group of trees. The rumble of the truck startles the birds and you see more of them rise into the sky from the field bordering the road. Frankie stops the truck, leaving it in neutral, watching the birds circle, waiting to see if something moves. When nothing stirs he opens the door, signaling for you to stay put, and he steps on to the instep of the truck, hoisting himself up so that he can look over the door of the truck.

“Oh fuck…” you hear him breathe out.

“What, Frankie, what is it?” you ask but he doesn’t answer so you open your own door and swing yourself up on the instep. Frankie glances back at you and motions for you to get back inside.

“Cariño, don’t, you don’t wanna- “

It’s too late, you look over the field, it looks like almost a hundred people are lying in it, none of them moving. The buzzards are settling back down, walking across the still bodies.

“Oh my god…” you gasp, your hand going over your mouth as your eyes widen in horror. “What killed them?” you whisper, “are they infected?”

“Get into the driver’s seat,” he says, “I’m going closer but I need you to be ready to drive if they are infected.”

“I’m not leaving without you, Frankie!” you say in a hard voice, as you slide over the bench seat and get behind the wheel.

“I’m counting on it, cariño,” he grips your hand before jumping down onto the ground. Grabbing the rifle from the back he loads it before he starts moving slowly towards the field.

You step up onto the instep on the driver’s side, watching Frankie’s back as he makes his way across the road and into the field. As he reaches the first body he crouches down and seems to inspect them. Nothing moves, none of the bodies are jerking, they’re just dead. He stands up again and walks around the outskirts of where they’ve fallen. Suddenly he stops, slinging the rifle onto his back, before he steps into the mass of bodies, he must be stepping on them as he bends down and pulls at one of them, turning it over to face him. He stumbles back, losing his footing and falls onto his back among the bodies.

Without thinking you jump down from the truck and run to him, grabbing hold of his arm as he scrambles to stand up, getting away from the bodies.

“It’s Helena, she’s the mom of Lucía’s best friend,” he pants, standing up. You look over at the blonde woman, her open eyes looking sightless to the sky. Her torso has at least three bullet holes in the pale blue shirt she’s wearing, blood staining the light fabric dark.

“They lived across the street from Lucía,” Frankie croaks and you suddenly realize what he’s saying, gripping his arm hard.

He tears himself away from you as he starts circling around the bodies, crouching down, looking under those who have fallen on top of others, his eyes desperately scanning every face, every piece of visible clothing, looking for something he recognizes, praying he doesn’t. His heart is racing, his vision narrows into one long tunnel, focused on the bodies, praying, cursing, he can’t hear you call after him.

And then he sees it.

The hem of a dress he’d know anywhere because her abuela made it for her.

With a shout he steps into the mass of bodies. You rush up behind him, tears are welling up into your eyes, as you watch him scramble over to the small body. Skinny little legs in sneakers you bought for her birthday, you bite down hard on your lip to stop yourself from wailing.

The dress is sticking out from underneath a woman, and as he gets closer he realizes it’s his ex-girlfriend, her arms hugging her daughter tight, even in death. The back of her tan coat is dark with coagulated blood that sticks to his hands as he bends back her arms to release her grip. As he shoves her aside a strangled cry goes up from the small body underneath, Lucia’s head moves as a rattled breath escapes her lungs and Frankie cries out in relief, grabbing hold of her waist to gently turn her over, scanning her body for injuries, he sees no blood on her.

“Mija, I’m here, I’m here,” he gasps, “daddy’s here, Lucía, I’m here.”

He’s holding out his arms to lift her up when he sees it.

Trailing under the skin of her small throat.

Up under the pallid skin of her cheeks, spreading out in a fine net.

Tendrils reaching out from her small mouth.

“Frankie!” you cry as the small body shrieks and reaches for him. He almost takes her hand, almost takes the small hand that’s grasping after his. You can see it, even from behind him, you can see the empty eyes, the twitching movement.

Infected.

His hand is still in the air, halfway to reaching out for her, his Lucía, her hand outstretched to him. As she screams, his hand drops to his gun.

You turn your head when the gunshot rings out.

Chapter 15

Taglist: @pimosworld @i-own-loki @casa-boiardi @littlenosoul @stormseyer @mxtokko @javicstories

#frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #frankie morales fanfic #the last of us #the last of us fanfic #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #tlou #frankie morales angst #francisco catfish morales fanfiction #francisco catfish morales #francisco morales

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angelofsmalldeath-codeine · 7 months

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Hemmy's Recommendation List - Master List

Hi! I am Hemmy and live in a delusional world where I am the female companion to Frankie Morales, Joel Miller and Javier Peña. The amazing banner by the incredible @proxima-writes @pr0ximamidnight; mid-banners and dividers by @cafekitsune

This is my first-ever recommendation list and I am trying to figure out the best format.

These are fics that I have read and enjoyed. I am sure there are many more out there that I have yet to discover. If you have any suggestions, please comment so we can all add them to our 'to be read' lists.

Self-plug: if you need a beta reader or want help with Spanish for the ones who write Javi P and Frankie, hit me up!

Disclaimer:

These creators are putting out content for free and do not have to cater to your personal preferences or expectations of how this or that character should be written.

You are not forced to read through it. Feel free to abandon a series or one-shot halfway through if it is not working for you.

If a creator has not explicitly asked for feedback for their work, keep your opinion to yourself. If they are open to feedback, mind your fucking manners.

Heed warnings and tags, if you don't like soft!Javi, don't read anything with that tag. It is THAT simple. Apply that logic to everything else that is not to your taste.

Warnings and tags on each fic. Read at your discretion. You are responsible for the content you choose to consume.

Frankie 'Catfish' Morales Javier Peña - Part 1 Javier Peña - Part 2 Joel Miller

TAG LIST @astoryisaloveaffair @atinylittlepain @autumnleaves1991-blog @beecastle @bellofthemeadow @blueeyesatnight @brighttears @bubbles-for-all-of-us @chloeangelic @chronically-ghosted @creedslove @criticallyacclaimedstranger @dancingtotuyo @danniburgh @darkroastjoel @devilmademewriteit @diversemediums @djarinbabysnotes @dolly-on-the-dotted-line @eideticallys @fhatbhabie @firsttimewriter92 @forever-rogue @frannyzooey @freshlyrage @fuckyeahdindjarin @furious-rogue-stuff @gnpwdrnwhiskey @goodwithcheese @gracie7209 @gracieispunk @groguspicklejar @hellishjoel @hiscyarika @iamdesibell @iamskyereads @itsjustsemantics @jake-g-lockley @javierpena-inatacvest @javiscigarette @jawabear @jedifarmerr @joelmillers-whore @joels-darlin @jokersfangirl84 @justagalwhowrites

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theywhowriteandknowthings · 2 months

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I hate how much I want you | Frankie Morales x F!Reader | Snippet

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #francisco morales x reader #francisco catfish morales #francisco morales #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier fic #frankie morales fic #frankie morales angst #frankie morales fanfic #frankie morales fluff #frankie morales smut #frankie morales fanfiction #fanfic

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morallyinept · 2 months

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Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 8

And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude

Chapter word count: 7.2k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: Time passes on the island. Frankie and Jude try to stay busy whilst they face uncertainty. Descriptions of drug use.

Enjoy! 🖤

Chapter 7

Three years before the island…

“She brayed like a fucken’ goat all night, man.” Benny cajoles.

“Goats don't bray.” Frankie says stoically, fingers pressed cool against the glass in his hand.

“What?”

“Yeah. Horses bray. Donkeys bray, not goats.” Will adds.

“Goats bleat. Like sheep.” Frankie informs.

“Yeah. So, did she sound like a goat or a donkey?” Will asks.

“The fuck do I know? It was a weird fucken’ sound like buraaaahhh, and I just shot my load and left, man.” Benny chuckles.

“Cue illegitimate child in nine months' time.” Will remarks to Frankie with a side eye roll.

“Nah, I got the snip.” Benny retorts with scissor fingers.

“Wise man,” Frankie nods, looking about the bar furtively. His grip around the glass intensifies as he can feel the heavy buzz in them twitch.

Around the table, mismatched chairs huddle in, their well-worn upholstery offering a comfortable respite from the hustle and bustle of the crowded bar. The chatter of patrons fill the air with a growing hum, mingling with the crackling strains of music drifting from a nearby speaker. The American flag is draped everywhere.

"You ever notice how they just go about their lives, completely clueless?" Will remarks, his voice tinged with frustration as he glances around the bar filled with naive civilians laughing and drinking merrily.

A loud clap on his back from Benny pulls him out of the cloud threatening to pour over his head.

On Veterans Day, Frankie and the Miller brothers find themselves gathered around the little table in the corner of the bar they often frequent, nursing their drinks in sombre reflection.

The atmosphere is tinged with a hint of bitterness, a toast to the fallen in remembrance of Tom, and Santi’s obvious absence from their lives for the past eight months.

A pretty woman walks by the table, her eyes flickering over the group of grizzled vets with a hint of curiosity. Benny catches her gaze and flashes her a charming smile.

"Hey there, sweetheart," he calls out, his voice tinged with flirtation. "Care to let a hero buy you a drink?"

She smiles. “Sure.”

Benny turns to the two of them and smirks. “Don’t wait up boys,” as he stands and escorts the woman to the bar.

"Did you see that?" Will exclaims, his voice tinged with incredulity. “Slick asshole.”

Frankie can all but chuckle as he shakes his head. “You want another?”

“Fuck yes.” Will mutters.

Frankie heads off to the bar, making a detour to the bathroom.

Closing himself in one of the stalls, he breathes out deep and long, fumbles with trembling hands to produce a small packet from the depths of his jacket pocket. With a shaky exhale, he tears it open, revealing the white powder nestled within.

Without hesitation, he bends over the makeshift altar, the cold porcelain of the toilet seat pressing into his skin as he carefully prepares the lines. With each snort, etching its presence into every crevice of his mouth, leaving behind a metallic tang, he feels the familiar rush of euphoria coursing through his veins, washing away the pain that plagues him like a relentless tide.

An intense rush surges through Frankie's veins, flooding his senses with a fleeting sense of invincibility. A wave of warmth and energy washes through, momentarily erasing the weight of his troubles and the burden of his thoughts. His heart races in his chest, the steady rhythm of its beat echoing in his ears like a primal drum.

Colours seem to intensify, vibrant and alive, as if the world around him has been turned up a notch in hues of heightened perception. He closes his fist in and out noting the shakes dying away, his hand feeling steady again. No longer seeing the gun inside his grip, the blood that stains his fingers.

But beneath the surface of reprieve lurks a darker truth - a gnawing emptiness that lingers just beyond the edges of his consciousness. A hollow sensation, a stark reminder of the void that threatens to consume him from within, even as the drugs whisper promises of escape.

For a fleeting moment, he allows himself to forget - to forget the demons that haunt him, the sounds of gunfire and shells, the screams. Tom’s dead eyes; the memories that torment him, and the emptiness that bites at the edges of his tattered soul.

In that moment, there’s only the numbing embrace of oblivion on his knees in a feculent bathroom stall.

As Frankie returns to the table, his movements heavy and sluggish with the weight of his clandestine deception, he can't shake the feeling that he’s teetering on the edge of a precipice - a single mis-step away from plunging into the darkness that threatens to consume him whole, jaws open.

Will can't help but notice the subtle change in his buddy's demeanour. There’s a distant look in Frankie’s glassy eyes, a shadow of unease that flickers across his usually stoic features.

“You alright?” Will asks, as Frankie puts down the foamy glasses.

Frankie looks back at him and his breath catches in his dry throat, his mind scrambling for a plausible excuse. But as he meets Will's gaze, something shifts within him - a familiar instinct kicking in, urging him to deflect and deceive.

It’s surprisingly easy to lie, to mask the turmoil churning within him with a façade of false reassurance.

The words slip and uncoil from his pale tongue with practised ease, each syllable carefully crafted to deflect suspicion and conceal the dark truth.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Frankie replies, his voice steady despite the turmoil raging within. "Tired, y'know?"

He watches as Will's expression softens, the furrow in his brow smoothing out as he accepts Frankie's reassurances with a nod.

A weight lifts from Frankie's shoulders, even if it is a pyrrhic victory.

Benny returns to the table with the woman, and now her friend in tow, as they nestle in around them.

“This is Carla,” Benny introduces to Frankie, who nods at her with a small blooming smile.

“Encantado de conocerte, Francisco.” (Nice to meet you.)

“¿De dónde eres?” (Where are you from?) He asks with raised eyebrows.

“Pensacola, you?” Carla smiles with a nonchalant shrug, as Frankie leans in closer to converse with the pretty Latina with gorgeous brown eyes smiling back at him.

“El Paso then. Pensacola now. Y'know, around.” He smirks.

"You get around a lot?" She asks.

He shakes his head looking at her dewy lips. "Not anymore."

Day 16 on the island…

Frankie and Jude continued to fish in the bay daily and rationed what they could; eating the fish and occasionally snacking on some of the remaining treats from the trolley as they dwindled slowly, but their stomachs rumbled regardless.

They used some of the shampoo and soaps to try and clean some of their clothes, but that salty, ocean smell still lingered over them making them stink like a packet of salty chips constantly. But it was a small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things.

Frankie tried the iPhone several times more, until the battery finally gave out and died. Switching it on and off and trying to obtain some signal up on the ridge desperately, but ultimately to no avail.

Between the two of them, they started work on re-building the shack in the tree line to keep busy. Frankie collected some soil and mud from the woods and mixed it with sea water in one of the rusted over tins to make a sludgy cement to insulate the shack.

Although the heat was currently unbearable, they couldn’t be confident that it wouldn’t get colder as the seasons changed on the island, so it was best to be prepared.

Jude collected large, waxy leaves and rolled them up tightly to create layers of insulation for the roof, tying them together with vines. Using the lifejackets, they created a watertight under layer for the rooftop.

It took several days to build fully and whilst Jude was rolling up leaves on the beach, she’d look over and catch Frankie, shirtless in grubby shorts using the switchblade to sharpen and cut branches.

He’d crack them over his knee to break them and each time he did it, she noticed the tightening of his stomach and became mesmerised by it until he’d glance over and smile at her, and she’d have to look away quickly, feeling hot.

Jude noticed a scar tucked into the side of his hip when his shorts would hang low; a silvery line flashing at her against the tan skin dipped under his subtle paunch on the right side. The line of blue faded numbers that ink around his wrist, hidden under his watch strap. The way he walks towards her sometimes with a subtle limp.

“You hurt yourself? You're limping.” She questioned.

“It happens sometimes. I'll be fine in a minute.” He shrugged off with a tight smile, and she didn’t question it further, despite her mind ticking about the origin of all these things that make Frankie up into the mysterious clay of who he is.

She wondered if perhaps he’d noticed little nuances about her too, then realised she’d been staring too long when he looked back at her quizzically from under the shadow of his cap.

She showed Frankie how to braid vines so they would be more robust and not snap as easily when he used them to tie the planks of wood together.

“I've no idea what I’m doing; kinda free styling it right now.” He chuckled, and then she laughed harder at his messy attempt of braiding them.

“It’s like this, under, over, under, over...” He watched as Jude’s fingers weaved the vines and he followed along with his, seemingly with ease like watching a live YouTube tutorial.

“Like this?” Frankie asked, holding up a long braided vine when he was done.

“Perfect!” She praised taking it from him and securing the end.

They soon had a stack of them and she would hold the planks in place whilst he reached up and tied them together.

Their relentless teamwork enabled the shack to be fully completed after six days.

Whilst she was down at the shore washing their clothes and cleaning herself up in the water, Frankie put the finishing touches to the shack.

He arranged the seat cushions they ripped out of the fuselage; tying them together with the straps he cut from some of the life jackets. He was down to the last two and decided not to cut anything off them, instead placing them on the suitcase he had turned on its side and used as a makeshift bedside table.

He considered in his gut that it might be wise to have two working life jackets; even though that thought made his scalp prickle with a cold shiver.

He made a hanging mobile of colourful beach shells he’d been collecting randomly from the bay each time he went down there to fish; reaching into the water and looking at their pearly undersides and putting them in his pocket that rattled as they walked back.

He tied it above the beds, using shoe laces from his boots and Jude’s Converse that were pretty much ruined now. He just either walked around barefoot or in a pair of flip flops that were a little small for his feet that he’d found in a case.

Frankie folded the clean clothes Jude had washed and that were dry into another case he kept open, he tied together a cluster of branches to make a broom to sweep leaves away that would blow in on the breeze. He used two large branches that he wedged into the sand and made a clothes line with vines, so their clothes could dry in the sun, rather than spread out on the rocks and blow into the sea when the wind whipped up.

Life became somewhat domesticated.

Now, as Jude makes her way up the beach, he’s coming back through the tree line with some plants and leaves inside one of the rusted over tins and stops to greet her.

“Hola,” (Hello,) he calls and waves with a large open palm before she heads into the cave to return the toiletries.

She smiles and waves back.

They’d mutually decided to use the cave mouth as their storage pantry for the food, fish and toiletries. The fire still burned and Frankie would check on it regularly. He’d dug a deep trench around it which was ashy and had scorched the sand black, but when it would get a little breezy in the evenings, it meant the fire wouldn’t blow out fully whilst they slept.

Frankie places the makeshift vase of plants down on the bedside case and steps back to marvel at their creation.

Jude pokes her head through the door, lifting the plastic sheeting he’s cut to make a doorway that creaks softly in the breeze.

“It’s finished?” She asks, stepping inside and looking about in wonder.

“Yeah, what do you think?” Frankie asks her; his hands on his hips and face shining with sweat.

“It’s really great. You did an amazing job.”

“We did an amazing job.” He corrects holding out his giant palm, and she high fives him.

She glances over his shoulder at the bed and spies the cushions pushed together. He’s rolled up some of the clothes that were too big for them and stuffed them inside some of the vile patterned shirts to use as pillows.

“Urm-”

“I can separate them, it’s just to conserve space.” Frankie begins, rubbing at the back of his head. “It’s, uh, a little tight in here.”

“Uh-huh.” She smiles at him and notices the blush creeping into his ears as he stuffs his hands into his shorts pockets.

She simply saunters past and lays down on the bed looking up at him. She pats the empty space beside her and he lays back on it with her; them both looking up at the shell mobile twirling silently above their heads.

“That’s really pretty.” Jude comments nodding up at the shimmery rainbows inside the hollows of the chalky shells hanging in different lengths.

“It’s the little things that make a house a home.” Frankie muses.

In that moment, memories flood his cerebral cortex: the familiar streets of Pensacola lined with palm trees, the scent of salt in the air, the warmth of the Florida sun on his skin. He can almost hear the sound of seagulls crying in the distance, the gentle lapping of waves against the shore.

But as quickly as it had come, the moment passes, leaving Frankie with a bittersweet longing for the place he once called home, even if he put all of his effort into destroying it.

“You’re very good with your hands. Perhaps you missed your vocation as a carpenter or something.” Jude says.

“Maybe,” he crosses one of his long legs over the other at the ankle and rests his arms behind his head. "I like to fix things, make things, I guess."

“It’s much cooler in here already,” she surmises with a smile of relief and closing her eyes.

She feels Frankie shuffle beside her and opens her eyes, turning her head to see him reach for the notebook. He scribbles something in there and then puts it back.

“How many days?” She enquires.

“Twenty-two.” He says with a flat tone.

He hears her take in a deep breath and release it out again in a heavy sigh.

“You know, when you’ve been missing for more than forty-eight hours, people tend to stop looking for you.” She says bluntly.

“Don’t.” He says softly.

“Do you really believe that we’re gonna be rescued?”

He pauses before answering. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because if I don’t I’ll lose my fuckin’ mind.” Frankie mutters.

He reaches up with a long arm and taps one of the shells and the whole mobile wobbles about above their heads.

Her gaze fixes on the spinning seashells with a faraway look in her eyes.

Jude sits upright on the bed after a few moments, and then stands. She looks down at him over her shoulder.

“You’d better not snore, mister.”

Frankie grins back at her and watches as she leaves the shack.

The first night in the shack lying so close together, is weird to say the least.

She’s only known this guy for just over three weeks or so and Jude can feel the subtle warm whooshes of his breath on the back of her shoulder as he snoozes contentedly beside her.

She woke through the night, and was startled to have him so close to her, momentarily forgetting everything in that oneiric haze rousing her from unconscious slumber. His right hand thrown up hid most of his face as it casually lays there, blocking half of him from her view.

But she can see his right eye, the light from the fire outside casting dancing shadows on his face, and it’s closed; fanned eyelashes twitching gently as he dreams.

His body is slain clumsily on top of the cushions, and she can see he’s still wearing one of his flip flops, although just barely as it clings to life desperately on his big toe. Her eyes trail the length of his long legs, smattered with dark hairs and the occasional graze or bruise.

She wanders back up the length of him, taking in the golden colour of his contoured arms and broad shoulders, the odd freckle constellation en route to the back of his left hand with thick ropey veins and long fingers. His hands are huge; the surface area of them spectacularly ginormous.

A wayward thought creeps into her frontal lobe; thinking about him getting to know her body with those big hands...

His eye is now looking at her, studying her as she meets it with her own curious trailing up to his face, and she struggles to find words to greet him when he’s intrusively near like this.

But he never touches her, despite their proximity; a subtle, permanent gap where neither of them venture into, even when asleep.

Instead she doesn’t move, just lays there taking him in and fixating on all the details of him, much like he is with her. It’s a weird feeling; a contented bloom that settles her, yet an undeniable pull that she can’t resist against as they both take in one another through their sleep laden, yet curious gazes.

She smiles first and he moves his hand to reveal his full face to her; a face full of boyish good looks and sharp angles, trying to cling onto youth underneath crinkled, golden skin and fuzzed facial hair peppered with grey on the sides of his jaw.

Frankie tosses a crooked smile back at her through those meaty pink lips before she closes her eyes again and tries not to think about how hot she suddenly feels.

Jude isn’t able to sleep much as the night proceeds; rolling over and then realising she’s too close to him and then backing away again. Paranoid she’ll break wind or snore or dribble in her sleep and he’d hear it.

After much tumultuous tossing and turning, she gets up quietly and exits the shack onto the beach.

The fire is still burning, although the flames are low inside the pit, and she chucks on a few branches, wrapping the shirt she’s wearing around her for warmth. The breeze picks up at night, but the warmth in the air still lingers and suffocates above it.

She sits down by the rocks on the shoreline and looks out into the bleak, enveloping darkness, hearing the waves crash and roll in.

She scans the horizon as best as she can through the dark, but there’s nothing there, as usual. There’s never anything on the horizon, and after twenty-three days it’s getting harder to fathom that someone could be looking for them.

There has to be some sort of panic and worry back home. Her mother would be having a fit and her father going absolutely crazy and calling the embassy and Amnesty, or any other official body he could think of, demanding that his daughter be found and brought home.

She imagines that Frankie will definitely be missed back home; he seems the type to have hundreds of people surround him, a social butterfly.

So why is no-one coming out here to them? Why haven’t they seen a boat or heard a plane or helicopter flying overhead at least? Someone has to be looking for the missing flight - it just doesn’t make any sense at all.

She thinks of her room back at her parent’s house from when she’d moved back in after splitting from Nate, with all of her essential stuff crammed boxes, and wonders who will take what from it all when they eventually accept the fact she’s dead and not coming back ever again.

What will happen to her credit card debt? Does that just disappear and get written off?

She scoffs to herself when she realises she won’t miss that at least.

Her thoughts drift to Nate. Is he missing her, is he concerned for her welfare? Will the thought of never seeing her again be the crux of him realising what an utter idiot he’s been to ever let her slip through his clumsy, cheating fingers?

Her eyes well up and she absentmindedly wipes them with the sleeve of the shirt and sniffs as the breeze ripples through her hair.

Why couldn’t he love me? What’s wrong with me?

She cries into her knees, feeling foolish and bereft, and more than anything, utterly lost.

Frankie rolls over in the morning to be met with an empty space where he expects Jude to be laying asleep next to him. He sits upright and rubs his eyes before traipsing out the shack to find her.

He discovers her curled up on the rock asleep in a huddled ball and nudges her awake gently.

“Did you sleep out here all night?” He asks her with an unreadable expression.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“If it’s too weird I can separate the cushions. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me.” He explains with a frown as she sits up rubbing at the crick in her neck. His face looks a little disappointed as he speaks, she notes.

“No it’s not that. I just...” She searches for the words. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

“You wanna talk about it?” He probes gently.

“And say what exactly? That I’m terrified that no-one’s coming for us? That the reality is looking more and more bleak that we’re going to be rescued any time soon? I think we may be here for the long haul.” She huffs.

Frankie bites down on his lip.

“If you wanna live in denial that’s fine, Frankie, but I can’t pretend that everything is okay when it’s not.” She snaps a little too harshly at him.

“I’m not in denial.” He corrects. “I-I have hope; there’s a difference.”

“Hope? I’m struggling to understand what that word even means right now.” Jude snorts.

Squaring his shoulders, Frankie looks out at the ocean marred by the dull sky hovering above it and feels that heavy pull in his gut. Jude’s despair is slowly matching the growth of his own; a silent spectre that haunts his every thought and action.

Despite his best efforts to remain optimistic, to cling to the belief that help will come, Frankie can't shake the feeling of impending doom that hangs over them like a dark cloud. It’s a relentless onslaught - a constant barrage of doubt and fear that threatens to consume.

He’s reminded of a time when he could drown out these muddled feelings with a quick fix - a line of cocaine to numb the pain and silence the voices of doubt echoing in the depths of his mind.

But on the island, he’s forced to confront those fears head on as he glances down at the incessant aching tremble in his fingers, reminding him of this new, terrifying reality he's wading in, as he balls his hand into a fist.

“We’ll get through this, look at what we’ve done,” his arm points out to the shack. “We can survive because we can support each other, okay? You lean on me, and I’ll lean on you. Deal?”

Jude looks out to the sea and the sky seems gnarly. “You hardly know anything about me, Frankie.” She says, bitterly.

He sits beside her on the rock. “And you don’t really know that much about me, either. But I know that you’re a survivor. If you weren’t, you’d be at the bottom of the ocean right now.” Frankie reminds her.

She looks at him, soft brown eyes burrowing their way in, and offers him a small glimmer of a weak smile.

“We can get to know each other better, right? It’s not like we’re going anywhere...” He trails off.

“Way to stay hopeful there, Fish.” Jude remarks with a pout.

He smiles at her use of his code name. “You know what I mean. Right now we’re here. Let’s make the most of it; keep busy. We can fish, cook and talk. Whatever you want, okay? If you need space, I can sleep in the cave.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t be silly.” She tucks her hair behind her ears. “Thank you,” she says to him. “I think if I was alone, I probably would’ve died by now.”

Frankie confirms. “No. You’re stronger than you think, hermosa.”

She smiles up at him. “What does that mean?”

He hesitates for a second. “It uh, it means… beautiful.”

She blinks in surprise, as she turns to meet his gaze. It’s a simple compliment, casually spoken, yet it carries a weight and significance that catches her off guard.

Jude’s face softens as she looks at him, a small tinge of pink blooming in his tanned cheeks under the wiry hairs on his face.

“Gracias,” (thank you) she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes shining at him with a mixture of surprise and delight.

The sky breaks later in the afternoon; those gray clouds rolling in from the sea bringing with them torrential rain.

The fire is extinguished; steam wafts from it in a small curl and the bottles they’d planted into the ground are filling with water and overspilling into the sand.

Jude twists the caps onto them and stacks the bottles inside the shack whilst Frankie’s outside checking the waterproofing on the shack’s outer walls.

“It’s holding together,” he says, with an accomplished smile as he steps back inside; his clothes utterly drenched and water from his cap dripping crystal lengths down his cheeks.

He reaches for the Finding Nemo towel and dries his face. “At least we have plenty of water again.”

Jude nods back at him with a relieved look about her.

He sniffs in and reaches for the spears. “You up for some more fishing?”

“Won’t we get wet?”

He looks at her like she’s stupid. “We’ll already be wet in the water.”

“I’m such an idiot!” She laughs and rolls her eyes.

“Well, I didn’t wanna point it out.” Frankie muses as she shoves him in the arm, following him out of the shack towards the bay.

They manage to collect some fish, but are unable to light the fire due to the rain pelting non-stop, so they don’t eat much. They share the last of the snack bag from the trolley stash sitting in the cave mouth together watching the rain, and once they’ve finished, Jude looks up at him with some concern.

“We’ll be okay with the fish.” Frankie persuades gently. “There might be some mussels or something around the rock pools. Maybe even some lobsters...” Maybe that’s wishful thinking, but the thought makes his mouth water.

“I’m going to dry off and change. Can you wait out here for a few minutes?” Jude asks him.

He nods, “of course.”

Frankie puts the fish inside the tin down by the side of the shack wall. The rain has already filled the tin and the fish are submerged in the water with their bubbly dead eyes looking up at him as they bob lifelessly around.

He looks up into the dank clouds as rainwater falls into his eyes.

He stands, affirmative and taught with his head pointing upwards into the direction of the sky itself letting the raindrops wash over his skin.

His eyes are closed and he allows himself to feel the sensations that each tantalising droplet has to offer as they beat over his face. His bare toes search their way into the damp soil and take root there, as if he’s connecting with the earth on some spiritual level unknown to anyone else.

His private sanctuary in which Frankie dwells for a stream of time that seems unrelenting and almost as if he’s at one with the elements.

Jude appears on the other side of the plastic sheet ready to tell him to come back inside and just looks at him for a few moments enjoying the rain.

It feels as though she’s invading on this private moment that seems to render her still with a quiet awe. Just watching as the rain soaks him as he leans back, face turned to the sky with a small smile blooming over his face.

It takes him a short while to come back to her level when she calls his name gently, and he opens his eyes smiling sweetly at her as if the show hasn’t occurred at all.

Once inside, she shuffles around awkwardly and says she’ll wait outside for him to change too, but then realises she’ll get wet all over again.

“It’s okay, you can stay inside.” Frankie reassures.

“I won’t look,” Jude promises and promptly turns around facing the wall.

She fingers some of the clay mud in between the planks of wood anxiously with her nail, as she hears him shuffling about behind her. She hears the buckle of his belt and imagines he’s dropped his shorts as she hears them plop onto the ground.

She shuts her eyes and tries not to think of him removing his boxers too.

Fuck.

“Okay, I’m done.” Frankie says and is pulling on a dry t-shirt as she turns around. He’s in new shorts and proceeds to ruffle the towel through his dripping curls.

“You alright?” He asks her, noting her bashful unease.

“Fine,” she replies smiling, and makes her way over to the cushion bed and sits down.

He sits beside her and reaches for a bottle of water and hands it to her.

She twists off the cap, takes a mouthful and hands it back to him. “Where are the fish?”

“I left 'em outside, figured they might start to stink in here. As soon as the rain stops, I’ll light the fire again and we can cook.”

“Sure,” she replies.

They sit together in silence and it’s all kinds of awkward the longer it lingers.

“It’s a shame we don’t have a board game or something.” Jude mutters after some time, and he smirks.

“A deck of cards. We could play poker; I’m good at poker.” Frankie replies.

“I’m not,” she laughs.

“Everyone’s good at poker, come on.”

“You’d see through my poker face immediately.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. I have one of those faces that gives the game away.” She says, feeling a little hot under the collar still.

“Really? I think you don’t give much away at all.” Frankie states.

“What do you mean?”

“I never know what you’re really thinking; you hide your emotions well.”

“Dude, I’ve cried in front of you.” She reminds him.

“Yeah, but you don’t need to cry to be emotional, right?”

She thinks about it for a minute. “What makes you cry, Frankie?”

“Being kicked in the balls,” He remarks.

She snorts as she takes a sip from the water. “Have you been kicked in the balls a lot?” Jude enquiries.

“Once or twice.” He chuckles.

“Come on, what really makes you cry?”

He shrugs with those broad shoulders of his. “I dunno. I cried when my dog died.”

“You had a dog?”

“Yeah, when I was little.”

“What was his name?”

“Luca.” Frankie answers, accentuating the pronunciation.

“I’ve always wanted a dog, but I’m away a lot so it wouldn’t be fair, I guess.”

“What would you call it if you could have one?”

“Humphrey.”

“Why Humphrey?” Frankie questions.

“After Humphrey Bogart, of course.”

“Of course. How did you get into photography?” He enquires as he relaxes back on the bed.

“I love taking pictures and then it kinda just slotted into place. I started my own travel blog originally, and I just got some freelance jobs from that. Then I spent some time with a travel website and got regular work with them.”

“I assume your fiancé didn’t like you being away a lot.” Frankie puts.

“Oh, he coped fine. In fact, I doubt he noticed I was away a lot. He was more than pre-occupied and kept busy.” She remarks sourly.

“He sounds like a dick.” Frankie surmises.

“He is a dick.” Jude laughs.

“Well, it’s his loss,” Frankie says, gently.

Two molten brown eyes catch her own, and she reminds herself to swallow the water.

“Yeap,” she says after gulping. “It’s your ex-girlfriend’s loss too by the way.”

Frankie smiles, looking down at his bare feet. “Thanks.”

Two months on the island…

Life, stranded on the island, continued with much of the same for the next two months.

Yep, you read that right; two whole months had passed by, and with no rescue attempt either.

Frankie and Jude continued to fish in the bay, collect and ration the rain water to stay hydrated as best as they could, and spent the evenings talking and eating around the fire; star gazing on those clearer nights when the universe would give them a clandestine peep up its skirt.

To try and keep the boredom at bay, Frankie created a few games for them to play.

He dug holes in the sand up the beachfront of various sizes and spaced apart, and they would toss pebbles into them, keeping a tally of the score in the sand with who got the most pebbles in the holes - beer pong, but without the beer.

Sounds simple and incredibly mundane, but it kept them preoccupied for a while. They’d play Tic-Tac-Toe in the sand with shells and stones, and Jude always beat him, much to his dismay.

“You’re cheating. There’s no other explanation.” Frankie muses, with a frown as he places his shell down confidently only for her to block him making a line with her pebbles.

“I never cheat.” Jude confirms confidently.

“You better not be; you know what happens to bad girls who cheat.” He smirks, pursing out his lips as he rakes the stick through the sand drawing out another grid nonchalantly.

She looks up at him incredulously with cheeks that feel hot and decides it’s best to change the subject.

“You urm, you know how to play chess?” She all but squeaks out.

“Sure,” he nods and they play that too, trying to remember which stone or pebble they’ve allocated for their Bishop or Rook pieces.

“You can’t make that move, that’s your Knight.” Frankie corrects her, and laughs when she gets confused.

“Whoops.” Jude raises her eyebrows innocently

“I knew you were fuckin’ cheating.” He winks at her playfully as he places his Queen shell down. “Check Mate.”

They never spoke about the number of days racking up in Frankie’s notebook.

He was regimented in his routine of opening it up in the dim morning light and writing in it. He’d often scribble away in it for a while, lost in turbulent thoughts.

Jude never asked him what it was exactly he wrote in there, and she soon stopped asking him to tell her how many days it had been when they hit the thirtieth day on the island.

Frankie, of course remained cautiously optimistic, but whenever she looked at him with a concerned face, he no longer offered his monotonous words of “they’ll be here soon” to her anymore.

She didn’t want to hear it; he could tell by the way her face sank, and he didn’t have the strength to summon the words and their pointless inflection either.

The toiletries had halved considerably, despite rationing them out as best as they could. They discussed it and decided that instead of bathing in the sea daily, they would decrease and alternate between using shampoo and soap rather than both. They would no longer use them to clean their clothes either - plain old sea water would just have to do.

They would sit in front of the fire at night and he would teach her some Spanish, marvelling at her pronunciation attempts until she could converse with him in basic sentences.

“How do you say my Spanish tutor is doing a good job?” Jude asks him with a compliment.

“Mi tutor de Español está haciendo un buen trabajo,” Frankie replies in deep, Spanish gravel around his voice with a thankful nod and smile back at her.

“How about my head hurts?”

“Me duele la cabeza y estoy cansado.”

“How do you say I have sand in my underwear?” She giggles and Frankie can't help but smile at the sound.

“Tengo arena en mis calzoncillos.” He laughs, and then mutters, adding “quizás deberías quitarte los calzoncillos…” (perhaps you should take your underwear off…)

“What does that last part mean?” Jude enquires.

Frankie shakes his head at her trying not to grin, and doesn't elaborate any further on it.

They agree to use the razor for sparse grooming only, meaning Frankie will have to let his facial hair get wispier, and Jude wears her jeans more despite the heat, covering up the hair on her legs growing, even though he says she shouldn’t have to worry.

Yep, think about it, you ain’t going to be a hairless beauty on a desert island for very long. It isn’t like in the movies. In fact, Jude braves herself to look in the cosmetic mirror in the make-up bag one day, and can see her eyebrows are growing a little wild and her bangs are getting longer. She plucks her eyebrows, neatening them up as best as she can, inwardly cringing at the state of them.

She happens to notice she’s dropped some weight too. Two months of eating nothing but white fish and drinking only water sparingly would be a Keto dieter’s dream, right? She’s in the sea and cleaning herself down one morning, and can notice the difference in her torn jeans when they feel significantly looser as she dresses.

It’s a worrying thought, but it’s soon interrupted in its blooming by frantic shouting.

She looks up to see Frankie running towards her as she scrambles to throw on her t-shirt to cover her modesty.

“What’s wrong?” She questions with wide eyes as he dashes towards her; yelling for her to come quickly and grabs her hand.

He yanks her along with such force that she almost loses her footing.

He’s speaking as they run, but it’s all incomprehensible noise as her heart thunders in her ears as he pulls her through the trees and out to the other side of the island into the bay.

He points to the horizon - there’s a boat in the far, far distance.

“Oh my God!”

Frankie starts jumping up and down, waving his hands around and yelling. She starts doing the same too; her lungs and throat burning from the strain of her screams and wails.

The boat is a tiny white dot in the distance, glimmering as the light hits against it from the sun; it’s definitely there and not a mirage.

Jude looks around and realises the fire is on the other side of the island, on the rocky beach, and the hills are covering the wispy smoke. The boat won’t see it.

“HEY! HEY!” Frankie yells like he’s possessed.

“WE’RE HERE!” Jude screams at the top of her lungs.

She sees the flash of the boat again and they both stop shouting, realising with a swamping dread that the boat is disappearing from the horizon - it’s leaving.

“No!” She gasps.

“Come on, we can swim!” Frankie runs towards the water’s edge and she watches, horrified, as he dives into the sea after running fast through the shallows.

“Frankie, stop!” She runs after him as he powers through the waves. “Frankie!” She splutters as he swims further away from her.

“We can make it!” He shouts back at her.

“It’s miles out! It’ll be long gone before we can even catch up to it!” She protests, water splashing in her ears.

He doesn’t seem to hear her as he carries on swimming, lost to all rational reason and thinking.

“Frankie! STOP!” She yells at him again.

She catches up to him and reaches for his shoulder pulling him back. He tries to shake her off, but he stops dead in the water as she reaches for him again.

“Frankie, please! It’s gone!”

He looks back at her after being still; eerily unmoved and silent on the water’s surface for a few moments. The look on his face is worryingly blank and chills her to the bone immensely.

Frankie simply swims back past her, defeated and towards the shore; she follows with a racing heart.

When he reaches the shoreline he stomps up it, dripping wet and stops in his tracks, his hands balled into fists.

Several looks sweep across his face, similar in how a chameleon adapts to his surroundings; fear, frustration and then abject fury.

He stands before Jude, drenched and barefooted as she is, with a look of utter distaste continually changing and morphing on his face, shaking his head vehemently with flaring nostrils.

“Frankie.” She reaches out to touch him, but flinches away as he absolutely loses his shit.

He picks up rocks and hurls them into the sea with all of his might. Cursing and yelling out in Spanish profanities.

"¡Sácame de esta maldita isla! ¡Dios, ayúdame! ¡Infierno! Maldito hijo de puta! FUCK! FUCK!” (Get me off this damn island! God, help me! Hell! You fucking bastard!)

Frankie bellows and heaves, and eventually falls upon his knees in the sand, worn out; his fists squeezing and shaking in anger.

Jude becomes numb; frozen in her stance with eyes open wide, mouth opening wider. Unwilling and unable to move, for at that moment he controls everything on that beach front with his searing rage.

She can only watch horrified as his distilled and purified agony engulfs him as it rips him apart from the inside out.

She approaches him cautiously, and then clutches him in her arms and holds him tight. She hears him wheeze and gasp out through strangled, incoherent yells and groans dying in his native language as they shrink back into his hoarse throat.

He eventually breaks completely, sobbing inside her arms. His body is a rumbling earthquake as he gasps into her shoulder and chest, clutching on tightly to her.

What makes you cry, Frankie?

It’s enough to render Jude teary too, and they hold each other as she realises, aghast, that any shred of remaining hope that Frankie had been carrying all this time, had just died a horrible death in front of her.

She looks back out to the horizon in the desperate hope that the boat has re-appeared and is coming back for them.

It doesn’t. No-one comes back for them.

To be continued...

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whatsnewalycat · 11 months

Text

Designated Person | Chapter 7

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 7: Dirty Laundry

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.5k+

Content / Warnings: Reader POV, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship and related flashbacks, angst, food, AA meeting mention, alcoholism, lying, conflict avoidance, crying, female masturbation, unprotected piv sex, send nudes pls, hold the moan/secret sex, text message chains, movies, fluff, awkwardness, praise kink, daddy kink

Notes: I don't really have any notes! Just excited to share, I hope you like it.

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The first time you wake comes a result of Frankie clomping around the house as he gets ready.

It used to annoy you, how loud he can be in the mornings. But you’ve come to find it kind of comforting. Each cupboard slam and heavy footfall serves as a reminder that you’re not alone. That you’re safe.

You stay cocooned in your sheets while he goes about his noisy routine, eyes closed, cradled in that warm, fuzzy space between awake and not. Content.

When he leaves, a high-contrast silence takes his place. The slow rhythm of your automatic breathing lulls you back to sleep.

You’re surprised when your eyes flutter open at 10:34 AM.

Thanks to your opaque curtains, the room is drenched in darkness, despite the daylight trying to sneak in through the cracks. You squint into the brightness of your phone screen and read the text messages that came in while you were sleeping, all about a half an hour apart starting at 7:00.

> RORY: > Good morning beautiful > How are you today? > I get off work at 3 today, wanna do something? > I miss you

“Oh my god dude, chill out,” you scoff under your breath while typing a reply.

< ME: < Sorry, just woke up. < Yes! I’m cleaning today but that’s all I have planned. What’re you thinking?

He reads and responds immediately.

> RORY: > We can check out that trail by the lake? Grab a bite to eat afterwards?

< ME: < Sure

> RORY: > Pick you up at 3:30?

< ME: < See you then 😘

You toss the phone aside and sit up, scrubbing your hands over your face. Your eyes burn when you grind your fists into them and welcome a big yawn that stretches your lungs’ limits. A spasm catches your breath, shoving out a fit of coughs that leave you a little winded.

Yeah, go on a hike today, that will be fucking fun.

When you tiptoe through the kitchen, you find the coffee pot still on from when Frankie ran it this morning. Your nose wrinkles at its contents. The stale brew will be muddy and unsatisfying, but you pour it into a mug with some half & half anyway.

You settle into your spot on the old couch in your living room and pull the notebook out from under your arm. Between sips of terrible coffee, you jot down the nighttime thoughts still floating around your head.

Hard time falling asleep. Kept thinking about puppies, thinking I should have adopted that dog last year. Regret. No nightmares I think. Woke up at 10:30, feel tired still. Don’t want to go on a hike with Rory, but I am an idiot who can’t say no to people. I would rather stay home and be alone. I want it to be

You pause here, staring at the passage.

A jolt skitters across your ribcage. Blood rushes to your face. You glance around self-consciously, then cross out the last two and a half sentences. A few moments go by before you decide it doesn’t seem like enough, so you cross it out again and again, scraping dark lines into the notebook paper until the sentiment beneath is unrecognizable.

Then you drop the ballpoint of your pen a few lines below the redaction and start writing out your to-do list for the day.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you mutter to yourself.

Frankie’s damp clothes stick to the circumference of your washer’s stainless steel drum. The rank scent that emanates from the machine reminds you of your grandparents’ house in the summer.

With a sigh, you empty your dirty laundry on the floor of the mudroom and pull his clean clothes from the dryer into your basket, replacing them with the damps, then replacing those with your dirties. En route to his bedroom, with your laundry basket propped on one hip, you text him.

< ME: < I stg you leave your clothes in the washer dryer on purpose so I’ll fold them

He must be on his lunch break, because he texts back right away.

> FRANKIE: > I would never 😉

The door opens with a creak when you step through the threshold, dropping your basket on the floor next to his bed. You take a selfie from the middle of the room and send it to him along with your response.

< ME: < K well I’m gonna lick all your stuff after putting away your clothes

> FRANKIE: > Promise?

< ME: < Shut up lol

> FRANKIE: > You look cute btw

Heat floods your cheeks. A smile spreads across your face as you fall back into his bed. The musk woven between the threading of his sheets tugs at you. Your skin tingles with want, and you find yourself pulling the covers over your body and burying your face in his pillow.

The phone buzzes beside you.

> FRANKIE: > Feel free to take a nap or do whatever you want in there

You sit up and whip your head around, then text back.

< ME: < Are you watching me

> FRANKIE: > Are you in my bed?

< ME: < … what if I was?

> FRANKIE: > I wouldn’t mind one bit > What are you doing in there?

< ME: < It’s comfy, I’m laying down

> FRANKIE: > Can I see?

Your stomach flips. The warmth in your face spreads, sprouting up all over your body. You lick your lips and smirk, then open the camera and take a picture of yourself and send it to him.

> FRANKIE: > Wow 😍 > I’m going back to work. See you later tonight, sweetheart

You start and erase about five variations of a response before just locking your phone screen and slamming it down at your side. Your hands fly to your face. All your organs melt and pool hot between your thighs.

Fuck, you hate that he can make you feel like this.

… but you love it, too.

It’s intoxicating.

You know him well enough to know that, throughout his day, whether he’s tinkering around in some commercial airplane, or running diagnostic tests, or chatting with coworkers, he will be thinking about you. Wondering what you’re doing. Hoping that when he arrives home there will be a spot in his sheets marked unmistakably yours.

He always held a particular fascination with you touching yourself, a fact proven true last week when he got off watching you masturbate.

The memory pricks your skin. Your squeaky mattress. The exchange of gasps and whimpers and moans. His lust-blown eyes, all wild and black as they watched you.

Even before that, though.

When you were working for him, he would sometimes text you specific locations in his house, asking you to masturbate there, send him pictures, and leave your panties. Of course, you were happy to oblige.

There were a few times when he had you choose a place to fuck yourself. You gave him three clues, and if he guessed the location correctly, that’s where he would fuck you when he got home.

One Saturday night, you were watching Sarah while he and Angie went out on a date. He texted you exactly one minute after Sarah’s bedtime.

> FRANKIE: > Baby in bed?

< ME: < Yeah

> FRANKIE: > Good > Can you do something for me?

< ME: < Maybe, what?

> FRANKIE: > Go in my upstairs bathroom and take off that pretty dress > Film yourself getting off in the mirror > Then send it to me

< ME: < Where are your manners sir

> FRANKIE: > Pretty please 😘

So you did. You tiptoed into the bathroom and pulled your dress off over your head, which is all the effort it took to strip down to a red thong. You stood in front of the huge vanity mirror and pressed record.

When they came home, Frankie ushered an extremely inebriated Angie to their bedroom. He emerged a few minutes later and coaxed you into the bathroom. Between heated, whiskey-soaked kisses, he told you, “We have to be quiet.”

You nodded and raked your fingers through his hair, responding to his urgent mouth with your own. He locked the bathroom door and dug his phone from his pocket, propping it up on the bathroom counter before he pressed play.

You pulled your dress off, watching his reflection in the vanity mirror for telltale signs of him being shitfaced. A stumble or slur. Compared to other nights where he spent hours at the bar, he seemed fine, which was a relief.

From his phone, you heard your own whimper. You looked down and watched the past you, video you, flick your wrist beneath the cover of your underwear.

His belt clanked as he undid his pants, pulling your attention back to his reflection. You met his eyes through the mirror and watched the darkness in them churn. He slid your thong aside, head of his cock nudging against your entrance.

A rasp tickled your ear, “Look at you, the dirty little movie you made me—what were you thinking about?”

Your gaze dropped to the video. To video you grabbing your tits and biting your lips. He plunged forward, splitting you open, pulling a gasp from your lips, “Ffffuck—”

“Thinking about fuck?”

He started to roll his hips, driving his cock into you, slow and deep. Pleasure rippled up your spine. Video you slid your thong off and showed the camera your pussy.

Your lips parted to answer his question, but the words caught in your throat. It felt so wrong to tell him. He grabbed your shoulder and pulled your body against his, snapping his hips, pumping into you with sharp, hard movements.

“Holy fuck, Frankie—”

“Tell me what you were thinking about when you were playing with your pussy.”

“This,” you breathed, arching your back into his thrusts, each one a heatwave across your body, “You fucking me—trying to be quiet—trying to be a good girl—”

“You’re doing so fucking good, baby,” he purred, “Can’t get enough of this sweet pussy—drives me fucking crazy, Jesus Christ.”

Little whimpers and gasps started wriggling up your throat. Your eyebrows threaded together and lips parted with a croaked, “Frankie—”

“Fuck yes, baby, take it,” he hissed through gritted teeth, fucking you harder, faster, repeating under his ragged breath, “Take it, take it, take it.”

His cock rubbed along all the right parts of you, sending your pulse racing, adrenaline spiking when you remembered Angie asleep in the other room while he was there with you, dark gaze flicking between your video playing on his phone and your body bouncing off of him.

Your whimpers morphed into moans, immediately muffled by his warm, rough palm.

“Gotta be fucking quiet, sweetheart,” he panted in your ear, “I know it’s hard but you gotta do that for me, ok? Can you be a good girl for me, be quiet?”

You nodded. Calmed your moans into frenzied breaths. Lowered your gaze to the phone screen, where video you sank two fingers into your cunt and moaned, fucking yourself, just for him.

“That’s it,” he panted, wrapping his arms around your torso to hold you in place as he fucked up into you, hot breath heating the crook of your neck, “Fuck, that’s it, such a good girl for daddy, hmm?”

You couldn’t help the choked moan that escaped you.

“Say it, say you’re such a good girl for daddy—”

“I’m such—such a good girl for daddy.”

“Fuuuuck yes,” he groaned, one hand finding your clit, drawing frantic circles that flooded your body with a gooey, electric, pulsing energy, “Pussy so tight, feels so fucking good, fuck—”

“Oh my god,” you gasped, pushing against his thrusts, nodding your head, “Daddy I’m gonna fucking cum—”

“Holy fuck—that’s it, sweet girl, cum on daddy’s dick, you can do it.”

You lost yourself, forgetting all about the concession to be quiet—whining and moaning as your bodies slid together with this sick, wet, sucking noise—consumed by the throbbing fire at your center, amplified with each snap of his hips, with his dirty little praises whispered in your ear, cock filling you again and again until you couldn’t fucking handle it anymore and your pleasure reached a fever pitch.

Frankie released a deep, guttural moan as you clenched down, pussy fluttering around his length, white hot static vibrating across your body.

He plunged into you once, twice, three more times with a shudder, spilling inside you.

“Holy shit,” you panted, collapsing forward onto the bathroom counter. His grip softened and he went slack against your back. A few blissful moments went by like this before the spell broke.

“God, I wish you could stay,” he told you in a breathy murmur, pressing a kiss into your bare shoulder, “Wish I could wake up with you.”

And it sounded sweet on the surface, but you knew it was your cue to leave.

You think about it now.

About Frankie, and the video that you sent him while he was on a date with his wife. How she was under the same roof when the two of you fucked in the bathroom. How he had you call him daddy, and how you were such a good girl for him.

You think about how it is between you now, how good it would feel to give in to those reckless desires and fuck like you used to.

Your touch trails down between your legs as you imagine him here in the bed with you, cooing filthy things in your ear, rubbing your clit, laying heated kisses on your neck.

You grab your breast and pretend it’s him squeezing your flesh. Imagine his soft lips around your nipple, the roll of his tongue against it.

“Fuck,” you breathe, rolling your hips into your hand.

A whimper bubbles through your lips and the brazenness of it stokes your insides. Another whimper, this one louder. Tingles shoot up your middle.

You drag your fingers along your slit, moaning at the puddle of arousal pooling at your entrance, spreading it, coating your pussy in the slick substance.

“So fucking wet,” you gasp, gripping your tit harder, imagining Frankie there, touching you, watching you with awe, telling you how fucking good you’re doing.

Your fingers move faster, sliding easy against your lubricated nub, and you release a throaty moan, “So fucking good, daddy, you make me feel so good.“

The words out loud jolt your insides. You think: What if he saw me like this? What if he heard me? What if he knew I still fantasize about him?

A burst of feral energy overtakes you and you crawl up onto your knees, pulling your loose cotton shorts and underwear aside so your cunt is exposed to the room. You work one hand hard and fast against your clit. The other sinks two fingers inside you.

You roll your hips, fucking your hand, moaning out, “Fuck yes, Frankie, fuck me just like that, so fucking good, daddy, you’re gonna make me cum—”

Uttering the words out loud electrifies you. Heat churns beneath your touch, growing brighter and hotter as your wanton moans hit his bedroom ceiling. Pleasure starts to swell and your movements grow frantic, desperate, chasing that feeling as you whine, “Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—”

You convulse around your fingers and gasp, twitchy prods of pleasure gushing at your center each time your slick fingers graze your clit, slowing as the waves ebb into a fuzzy kind of bliss that occupies your whole body.

You fall back in his bed, chest heaving, and try to gain your bearings.

Shame starts to creep at the edges of your post-orgasm fog. Without prompting, your brain tells you: I hate myself.

It stings.

You gulp and shake your head, whispering out loud, “I love myself.”

The correction soothes your hindbrain’s outlash enough for you to release a content sigh. A smile creeps across your face. You blink over at Frankie’s dresser, then rise to your feet and start folding his clean clothes.

As you tuck the folded clothes away in his dresser drawers, you find the underwear he snatched from your bedroom last week. Teal lace, all stiff with his dried cum.

You chuckle to yourself and shake your head. That familiar, reckless kind of satisfaction spreads through your veins.

It’s fucked up, but the thought of him getting off on the scent of you fills you with pride.

This is rocky territory. More than rocky, honestly. It’s dangling-off-a-cliffside-while-your-grip-is-slipping territory.

You both know it. It’s like neither of you can help it. Over and over, you fall back together like opposite poles of a magnet.

Are you drawn to each other because there’s something real? Or is it because of the thrill?

You remind yourself that there is something more between you and Frankie than sexual desire.

You laugh together, support each other, and enjoy your shared time. The bond you’ve formed is genuine. He has come to be one of your best friends. Second only to your sister, Leah.

There’s a softness when you’re with him, too. A saccharine kind of intimacy that curls around your body and makes you feel at home. It has always existed between you, even if he never admits it. He used to push it away, but more and more, it’s become commonplace when you’re together.

You swallow hard and shake your head, finding that you’re still staring at these cum-encrusted panties. You know Frankie won’t be able to bring himself to throw them in with the rest of his laundry. That would mean washing your scent, throwing your gift away.

A little flint of arousal sparks at the base of your spine.

After dropping the teal lace into your laundry basket, you shimmy your shorts and underwear down your legs, then wipe yourself off with the gusset of your floral cheeky bikini. You shove them into his dresser drawer in place of the spent pair.

Two flimsy cardboard boats slide out onto the "PICK-UP HERE” window’s ledge. A booming voice follows, “Order number 32!”

Rory glances down at his receipt, then tucks it in his pocket as he steps through the crowd of hungry onlookers and approaches the rusted-out food truck. He returns holding one basket in each hand, a victorious smile dawning on his face, “Where should we sit?”

You squint around your surroundings and spot a shaded patch of grass beneath the gnarled trunk of a buttonwood tree, then point to it, “Ooh, over here!”

“Got it!”

Rory jogs ahead and lands on the grass before anyone else can claim the spot. You catch up a few seconds later and sit down next to him, crossing your legs. He hands you your shrimp tacos and you murmur a thanks to him while balancing the basket on your knee.

Under the eaves of the buttonwood tree, you find relief from the unrelenting sun. Your skin, all heated and gleaming with sweat, thanks you profusely. The cool earth somehow feels icy against your palms when you lean back and stretch out. You pull your sunglasses up on your head and tilt back to look up through the twisted branches of the tree, “Fuck, it’s hot out.”

You’re never really sure how to start conversations with him.

“Yeah,” he follows your gaze up into the tree, quickly losing interest. A deep breath expands his lungs as he looks around the park, finally settling his gaze on a playground, “You ever take the kids you babysit out here to play?”

Your nose wrinkles a bit when he calls you a babysitter. You follow his line of sight to and watch hordes of squealing, laughing children crawl all over the playground.

“Not this park, but I take them to the one by their house. It has a splash pad and this playground with water features. They love it, it’s pretty cool.”

He nods.

“When I worked for Frankie and his wife, I took their daughter, Sarah, here a lot. She was still just a little squish, but, you know, there are all these trails with cool trees and there’s the lake, and another playground further down that-a-way.”

You point to your left. He doesn’t seem to care much about what you’re saying, but asks, “Is that a job you see yourself having long-term?”

It’s a question you’re familiar with answering. Always tainted with judgment, insinuating that your job is that of bored teenagers trying to make a buck over the summer.

“Yep,” you tell him with a close-lipped smile, tilting your head as you wait for him to say more.

“How will that work when you have kids? Do you want to be a stay-at-home mom, or will you bring the kid with you, or what?”

With a shrug, you tell him, “Figure I’ll see where I’m at when the time comes and go from there.”

Rory hums and nods, brow furrowing at the ground like he’s soaking this in, then he says, “It’s nice that you do that. I like that you’re a caretaker.”

It takes you by surprise. His gaze meets yours and you smile at each other for a moment.

“Thanks,” you say and bring your attention to the boat of shrimp tacos resting on your knee, finding them cooled down enough to eat.

After finishing your food, you and Rory start off towards his vehicle, hand-in-hand. The trail winds by the playground you were watching from afar. Like playgrounds often are, it’s total chaos. Children screaming, running, climbing, crying.

You spot one little girl sitting in the sand, digging a hole between her splayed legs. She seems oblivious to the world around her. The dark ringlets dangling around her cherub face wiggle as she talks to herself, eyebrows raising expressively like the one-sided conversation is intensely interesting.

She must feel you watching her, because her spine straightens and she looks around. When her dark brown eyes meet yours, her face lights up in recognition, and she squeals your name.

You stop in your tracks and can’t restrain the wide smile from spreading across your lips, “Sarah!”

Aside from the brief glimpse you caught of her the day Frankie moved in, and the grocery store shortly after, you haven’t seen her in over a year. She’s grown so much. Her chunky, wobbly baby legs have elongated and grown more capable, allowing her to run towards you, arms outstretched.

When she reaches you, you scoop her up, twirling her around as you give her a big hug, “How are you, sweetheart? I missed you!”

Sarah squeals with delight and says, “Missed you!”

A cool rush of panic spreads across your skin when you look around and ask, “Where are your parents, sweetie?”

“I’m digging a hole!”

“Oh wow, you’re digging a hole?” you laugh and shift her onto your hip as you continue to study the sea of faces, ears growing hot when you remember Rory standing behind you. The last time you saw Angie, she insulted you in broad daylight. How the fuck would you explain that to Rory if it happens again?

“Hey!”

The familiar voice is sharp with outrage. Frankie’s hand grips your shoulder and spins you around to face him. His chest is heaving, jaw clenched, eyes aflame with fury.

You have never seen him like this.

Your eyes widen and you hold your palm up to him, “Just me, sorry!”

He studies your face, still red-hot anger, then it seems to come into focus for him. His shoulders relax with a relieved exhale, then his features soften and grow apologetic, “Oh, hey.”

You bring your hand back to your hip to support the weight of Sarah and chuckle, “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to scare you—”

“No, no, it’s ok.”

“We were just walking, and, umm,” you gesture back at Rory, trailing off when you see Angie approaching, arms crossed, beautiful face squared off in a stern expression.

Frankie’s gaze flicks to Rory and he gives a nod of recognition before returning his attention to Sarah, “Did you see your friend and go to say hi?”

Sarah smiles sweetly and nods, then starts wiggling to be put down. You grant the request, lowering her to the ground and letting her go. She gallops back to her hole in the sand, while you call behind her and wave, “Bye, Sarah!”

Your face scrunches up into a wince when you meet Frankie’s eyes again, and you shrug, “Sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it,” he waves you off with a smirk.

“Hey,” Angie greets, surprisingly calm. Her fingers curl around Frankie’s bicep and she blinks at you.

“Hi, Angie,” you give a nervous nod, plastering on a smile that’s too eager, “I was just passing by with my, um,” you swallow hard and turn to Rory, waving him forward, “My boyfriend, Rory.”

Your voice is shaky. This is a nightmare.

Rory’s arm wraps around your waist from the side and he gives a polite wave, “Hi.”

“This is Angie Morales, Frankie’s wife,” you tell him.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Rory smiles and extends a hand to her. Angie says nothing, just shakes his hand while wearing this Mona Lisa smile and steps back beside her husband.

The silence that follows is painful.

“Ok, well, sorry again for the scare,” you sigh, looking down at your feet, “It was really nice to see Sarah, I miss her a lot.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Frankie says, and you look up to see his brow knit together, dark eyes all apologetic, “I’ll see you at home, yeah?”

You nod at the ground, then tell Angie, “Good to see you.”

She raises an eyebrow and laughs at this. It feels like a slap. You suppose it’s better than her screaming insults at you, though. Or, like, a real slap.

When you turn and walk away, Rory’s hand finds yours again. His grip is warm and steady, and he frowns over at you, “You ok?”

You forgot to adjust your face. The pain bubbling up inside you must be obvious. Traitorous tears spring to your eyes, thankfully hidden behind the dark of your sunglasses. You clear your throat and nod, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

It sounds watery and false.

“Hey,” he stops walking to turn towards you, “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head and sniffle, “Nothing, I’m fine.”

He raises his eyebrows, searching your face, “Really?”

Your teeth catch your tongue. Dull pain wells up in each section of the soft muscle you clamp down on, providing a microscopic release. With a deep breath, you look down at your feet and shrug, “I just—I guess I missed her more than I realized.”

“Come here,” Rory murmurs, ushering you into a hug. You oblige. His body seems to awkwardly wrap around you, but it brings you a small dose of comfort. Even if he doesn’t feel or smell like home.

“What’s the deal with his wife, why did she seem mad?”

Fuck. You were hoping he wouldn’t notice, or ask.

“She, um… she thinks I stole something from her,” you tell him, “That’s why I don’t work for them anymore.”

Misleading, sure, but not entirely a lie.

He hums, rubbing your back, “You care about her a lot, huh? The little girl?”

“Yeah,” you croak. A few tears spring from your eyes. You squeeze your eyelids shut and wish them away.

Rory kisses your hair and gives you a tight squeeze, “Should we keep going?”

You sniffle and pull back from his embrace, flashing him a tight smile as you nod, “Yeah.”

When Frankie comes home, you’ve already resigned to your room for the night, content to wallow in self-pity you have no right to feel.

His footsteps creak against the floorboards as he makes his way through the kitchen, into the hallway outside your room. A knock comes at the door.

You sigh and pout to yourself, then call out, “Come in.”

Frankie opens the door and hovers in the threshold. You pause Stardew Valley and look over from your laptop, raising your eyebrows in question.

“Hey,” he says, puppy dog eyes in full force, crossing his arms, “How’s it going?”

“Oh, you know.”

He hums and studies you for a moment, shifting his weight into the doorframe, “Earlier was… It was weird, right?”

Your eyelids flutter. You shrug, “She didn’t call me a slut this time, which was… nice.”

He chuckles at this. You don’t crack a smile.

When your lack of amusement registers to him, he clears his throat and pushes off of the door frame. He makes his way around the bed and sits down on the opposite side, scooting close to you. You roll your head on your shoulders and watch him reach out to touch you, then decide against it, fingertips curling onto his lap instead.

“Look, I’m really sorry,” he says finally, but doesn’t look at you.

“For what?”

“I know you miss Sarah. And I know my reaction earlier was—was,” he sighs and shakes his head, “It wasn’t great.”

“Frankie, you thought I was a abducting your child—”

“I mean after that,” he turns to you now, sincerity etched in his features, “I could have let you hang out with her, or been nicer or something, I don’t know. I just—I know, in my gut, that I could have done better. And… I’m sorry.”

An ache of affection spreads across your chest. You reach out and rest your hand on his forearm, thumb grazing his skin as you search his face, “I appreciate that, thank you.”

A small, relieved smile graces his lips. He nods, “Of course.”

Then he seems to relax a little, leaning back onto one elbow as he squints at your laptop screen, “Whadda you have going on here?”

“Exploring caves, fighting monsters.”

“Sounds nerdy,” he teases, “Figures you’d like it.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” you laugh and give him a playful shove, “You think I’m a nerd?”

“Maybe,” he grins.

You scoff and shoot him a mock glare, “On what grounds?”

He frowns, looking up at the ceiling like he’s thinking about it, then shrugs, “Basically just this, but you’re cute when you’re all riled up.”

“Wow,” you laugh, covering your face as it heats up, “So rude.”

He grins and lays back in your bed like he’s making himself at home here, so you join him, resting your head on his shoulder. His cheek presses into the crown of your head. You resume playing Stardew Valley.

Some time passes like this, cuddling with him while he idly plays with your hair, asking you questions about the game like he’s interested. When the sun sets and you both start yawning at regular intervals, you tuck the laptop away in your nightstand. Frankie doesn't move.

You return to your pillow and roll on your side to face him, tucking your hands under your cheek. He mirrors the action, just a foot or so away. His warm gaze works around your face and he murmurs, “Do you want me to go?”

It’s so quiet you can hear your pulse pounding through your arteries.

“Not really.”

A small smile flicks across his lips. He looks down at his clothes, “Do—do you mind if I, um…”

“What, you don’t wanna wear jeans to bed?” you snort.

He chuckles and shakes his head, “They’re not great pajamas.”

“Go change, I gotta wash my face and stuff anyway,” you yawn, rolling onto your back, stretching your arms into the air.

The two of you go about your bedtime routines. When you return to your room, Frankie is laying on top of the covers, arm tucked behind his head as he scrolls on his phone. He changed into gray basketball shorts and his old, worn out Metallica t-shirt.

“That shirt is gonna crumble into dust one of these days,” you tease while plugging your phone into its charger.

He sets his phone down and looks at his shirt, then grins up at you, “Until it does, I’ll be wearing it.”

You shake your head at him, peeling back the covers with shaky hands. He sits up and wriggles between your sheets as you turn off your bedside lamp and crawl in beside him.

For a few moments, it’s just quiet in the dark. Neither of you move or say anything. You imagine he’s staring at the ceiling with tingling nerves just like you, filled with uncertainty and fear and want. Not sure what the “line” even looks like anymore because it’s been blurred so much it’s indistinguishable.

Every other time you’ve fallen asleep together since he moved in, it could be chalked up as either accidental or, like when you were sick, necessary. Excusable if brought forth as evidence by others, or each other, or yourselves.

But this is different.

It’s intentional. No plausible deniability in sight. Heat blooms in your chest and between your legs. He feels so far away.

“Frankie.”

“Hmm?”

“Would it be weird if I asked you to hold me?”

He lets out an amused scoff. The bed squeaks and shifts as he rolls on his side as you scoot closer to each other. His hands find you under the covers and he pulls your back to his chest, tucking one arm under your head while the other wraps around your belly.

“It’s not weird,” he murmurs, pausing for a second before saying, “It should be, but it isn’t.”

This makes you smile. It’s a relief to hear him say it. You relax into his embrace and rest your arm atop his at your waist.

The darkness surrounding the two of you seems to hold space for honesty. It’s that sort of feeling you got at sleepovers when you were younger, when you and your friends would whisper secrets to each other in the dark.

“I have nightmares sometimes,” you tell him.

“I know.”

You know he knows. He’s been there to wake you from them and calm you down in their wake at least a dozen times. Regardless, there’s this buzzing under your skin like you need to tell him.

“I can never remember what happens except—except, um,” you blink your eyes open and swallow the thickness in your throat, shaking your head, “There’s this feeling, like… I know that he’s chasing me, and if he catches me, I’m never going to escape.”

His body seems to tense a little. He looks down at you, “Who?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

You can feel the question occupying his tightened muscles, and say, “It’s not you.”

“But if you don’t know—”

“It started before you,” you lace your fingers with his, letting your eyelids drift shut, “And, besides, I don’t feel like that with you. I feel… safe.”

He relaxes around you with a sigh that sounds like relief.

“When I lived alone it was hard. I’d wake up alone and scared, and I couldn’t fall back asleep,” you murmur, “But it’s been better lately.”

He hums. The noise vibrates against the nape of your neck. His thumb brushes against your midriff.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” you admit, “I guess… I just want you to know it’s nice having you here.”

The wet swallow of his throat makes you start to worry you said too much, that you showed too much belly. You brace for him to pull away. But when his voice breaks the silence, it sounds raspy and damp. Heartfelt.

“You don’t think I’m a burden?”

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s ridiculous.

“Not even a little. I’m happy to have you.”

“I’m happy to be here, mariposa.”

The nickname stings a little. A sharp, precise prick to the center of your chest. But his arms squeeze around you tighter, bringing you closer to his warmth.

Your lips curve into a slight smile and you feel the tug of drowsiness on your limbs.

“No funny business back there tonight, Franklin,” you mumble out, your words fuzzy with fatigue.

“Yes ma’am,” he nuzzles into your hair, his own voice groggy and low, “Best behavior.”

That warm, soft intimacy settles deep in your bones and makes you feel at ease. Safe. Loved. And it’s not long at all before sleep overtakes you.

Your Friday nights used to be synonymous with drinking.

It meant going out to the bar to get drunk and dance and maybe find another lonely soul to spend time with. It meant blackouts and bar tabs and spending your Saturdays absolutely fucking miserable.

Truth be told, you much prefer your new Friday night ritual: Movie Night.

You and Frankie each get to pick any movie you want and stuff your faces while watching them back-to-back. After work, you pick him up from his AA meeting and load up on junk food, then head home.

Tonight, the two of you walk side-by-side down aisle 5 of your neighborhood grocery store, moving at a leisurely pace across the glossy white tiles. A country music station broadcasts softly over the store’s speakers. From the cash registers up front, you hear the rhythmic beep of customers being rung up. Probably the only other people in here, honestly, it’s fucking dead.

“What’s your movie pick?” Frankie asks while tossing a bag of classic potato chips into the red basket hanging from the bend of his elbow, “And I swear to god if you say Moulin Rouge! I’m instituting a no-repeat policy.”

Your laughter ricochets down the aisle and you shake your head, “Don’t act like you don’t like that movie! I know you do.”

“I mean yeah, but… there are other movies.”

“Other… movies…?”

He snorts and shakes his head at you.

“Actually, I wanna watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,” you tell him, slowing to narrow your eyes at a bag of salt and vinegar kettle chips, “Do I want pretzels or salt and vinegar chips?”

“Why not both?” he shrugs.

You scrunch your nose up, tossing your head from side-to-side, then grab the kettle chips and drop them into your basket, “What’s your movie pick?”

“I’m between Dazed and Confused and The Wolf of Wall Street,” he says, glancing over at you.

Your face lights up and you coo, “Ohhh Dazed and Confused, please!”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

He grins at you and shrugs, “I will take your opinion into consideration.”

“What, I can’t help you choose?”

“It’s my pick,” Frankie chuckles, “You can’t pick my pick!”

You roll your eyes at him. The two of you round the corner, merging into the vacant main aisle, and you say, “Fuck, I want ice cream.”

“I want a fucking drink,” he mutters offhandedly, then notices your concerned stare and says, “Sorry.”

“Do you really?”

His brow furrows as he considers this, eventually admitting, “In a way, yeah.”

You know you shouldn’t take it personally. He’s an alcoholic. But that rationale doesn’t stop the ache that spreads across your chest.

Frankie must recognize your hurt, because he nudges you and adds, “Not because I don’t like this or anything.”

You give him a warm, reassuring smile as you turn down the freezer aisle. He continues.

“It just lingers, I guess. Like I think I could drink and be fine,” he comes to a stop in front of the ice cream, glancing around before staring forward into the freezer like it holds all the answers, “Everything is just so… raw without it. All the feelings I’ve never dealt with, they keep bubbling up and it’s—I don’t know, it’s a lot.”

It surprises you that he’s talking about this so openly, in a public place and everything. Two months ago you could not have dragged these words from his mouth under any circumstances.

You nod as you study him, “Well, um… I know it’s hard, but I’m glad you’re doing it.”

He doesn’t really react, just continues to look at the ice cream. His eyes are a million miles away, though. Lost in thought. You lay your hand on his shoulder and graze your thumb against him, “Francisco.”

His jaw tightens.

“Hey, look at me.”

He blinks a few times, then swings his gaze to meet yours.

“I mean it. It’s been a pleasure getting to know the real you, in all your, uhhh,” you stop and try to come up with something eloquent, landing on, “sober glory. I know it’s a lot. But I can see that it’s making a huge difference. You’re so far beyond where you started. It’s… it’s really brave to choose sobriety. I’m proud of you, Frankie.”

It all kind of spills out of you. A collage of sentiments you’ve been keeping to yourself thrown crudely together here in the middle of the freezer aisle.

His brow creases, eyes all dewy as they flick around your face. You worry that what you said doesn’t make sense, or that maybe it was insensitive. But then, his basket falls to the floor with a clatter and he pulls you into a hug.

Again, you’re taken by surprise.

You just stand there for a moment, kind of awkward with your basket dangling in one hand.

He squeezes you tighter. Unbridled appreciation flows from him. Your stomach flutters and tears prick your eyes. You drop your basket to properly return the gesture, wrapping both arms around his torso, pulling him close.

The warmth of his body surrounds you. You take a deep breath, inhaling the comforting musk of his skin, exhaling tension, melting into this softness.

Frankie sniffles and kisses the crown of your head, murmuring into your hair, “Thank you.”

You part ways, both taking a step back to see the others’ glossy, red-tinged eyes.

And you’re not sure exactly why, but then you both laugh. Not in a nervous way. More like joy. It bubbles beneath your skin and makes you feel hopeful.

He picks his basket up off the ground and clears his throat, turning back to the freezer door, “Anyway, ice cream.”

When the end credits roll on Dazed and Confused, you stand up off the couch and start towards the kitchen, asking Frankie, “Need anything?”

“I’m good, thanks,” he answers with a yawn.

You pull open the cupboard and find a bag of popcorn, then toss it in the microwave. While you wait for it to pop, you check your phone. Three unread messages.

> RORY: > Hey > How was work? > Doing anything fun tonight?

“Hey, I was thinking,” Frankie says as he shuffles past the dining room table, into the kitchen. You set your phone down on the counter and cross your arms, looking up at him.

“Next week is Sarah’s birthday, Ang is throwing a party on Saturday. Do you want me to see if she would let you come?”

The question leaves you momentarily speechless. You never thought it would be a possibility, and the offer completely blindsides you.

Your mouth gapes open and you blink, “I, um—well, I—”

“If you want to, I mean.”

You frown and meet his eyes, “Well, yeah, obviously I want to, but is Angie really ok with that?”

“I’ll talk to her,” he says, leaning back on the counter next to you, “She’s been more receptive lately. And—and I think if you brought Rory, she would feel more reassured, that, um…”

Your stomach drops like a rock.

A clusterfuck of messy emotions tangle and twist inside your body. At the tip of your tongue sits the question: That, what, there’s nothing going on between us?

You look over at him and search his face. It’s unreadable. He’s frozen like he knows he came dangerously close to mentioning the elephant in the room and doesn’t know what to do next.

The air thickens.

Moments go by that feel like centuries.

You can’t stand it anymore, and lead him to continue the thought, “That what?”

He turns to face you and looks fucking terrified. Forehead creased. Eyes wide. Lips parted like apologies are about to come spilling out of them.

You hold his gaze. Try not to notice the pungent energy pulsing between your bodies, or the way his eyes soften when he looks at your mouth and takes a step towards you.

For one heart-stopping moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.

A beep sounds from the microwave.

He looks to the source, trance broken, but your eyes stay trained on him. On the elongated bob of his throat swallowing nerves. On the restless, twitchy movements that suddenly seem to possess him.

When he notices you’re still staring at him, he only allows a brief glance before dropping his gaze to the ground and shoving his hands in his pockets, finally saying, “I—I just mean that I think she’ll be ok with it. And—and Sarah would be excited to see you.”

You pause before you react, trying to decide whether or not to ask him the question tearing apart your insides like a rabid dog: Do you want me to go so I can see Sarah, or so you can continue to lie to your wife?

Simultaneously, you cannot ask him and you need to know.

You tell yourself: He’s in recovery. He needs support, not criticism.

You say: Let him figure out the missing pieces in his life and put it back together. Even if the shape it takes breaks you.

“Ok,” you give him a tight nod and push off the counter, pulling the microwave door open, “If she’s fine with it, I’d love to go.”

“Yeah?”

You pinch the corner of your bloated popcorn bag and pull it out, nudging the microwave door closed, then turn to face him, but don’t look up, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

A small, distant voice says: You fucking coward.

#designated person #frankie morales #frankie morales angst #frankie morales x ofc #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie catfish morales #francisco catfish morales #francisco morales #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal character fanfiction #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfic

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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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maximoff-forevermore · 5 months

Text

Memories

Summary: You and your fiancé, Frankie "Catfish" Morales, get into a car accident.

Warnings: No use of Y/N, mentions of SA, child abuse, child SA, mentions of abusive relationship (not between Frankie and reader), mentions of drug use, allusions to murder (self-defence), mentions of military, mentions of divorce, mentions of depression, mentions of suicide, mentions of anxiety, drugs, no happy ending, barely edited, I think that's all? If I've missed something, let me know

A/N: I kind of stole this idea from a friend of mine, @/ramblers-let's-get-ramblin. She said she sort of dumped all of her trauma into a google doc and made it a fic, and I did the same thing. This is kind of a mopefest, and I've never written anything and posted it before, so I hope you enjoy, as much as you can, anyway.

Word Count: 2.5k

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader

You remember sitting in front of a fireplace.

Winter had come in the lashing of wind on the windows, glass shaking and a roof made of heartbreak and filth barely withstanding the cold it had withstood many times before.

You had held your sister close, your blood, your only love, to your chest, whispering in her ear as she cried over her first breakup.

When her sobs had eased, and the spot of your skin her shoulder dug into had grown numb, you whispered, “You will find the right one.”

You whispered those words a lot.

Whispered them into your pillow, into the mirror, into your own hand to muffle your cries as the second, then third and fourth stepfather took what he wanted from you.

You needed to remember those words.

If you were being completely honest, the first time you let a man put a ring on your finger, you knew he had not been the right one.

You knew because you did not know him.

All you knew was that he had a house without the echo of your mother’s vicious screams and a bed for you to sleep in that would not be tainted with the hands of men who never asked.

At least marrying him was something akin to permission.

At least a wedding ring would stave anyone else off.

And so, you married him.

The man you did not know, the man who believed to love you but truly wanted to possess you, you married him.

With time, you came to love him.

Professionals would have called it something like Stockholm Syndrome, but for you, then, it had been love.

You never left the house—simply were not allowed to.

You studied online, but only in the dark, hiding your laptop screen from the man you loved.

You justified it, merely saying he would support you when the time came.

He worked, he slept, he ate, he fucked, though not always you, and it hurt when it wasn’t you, but in the darker part of your mind, you knew it was best.

You forgot what it was like to leave the house, to live under a sun and to live with love and laughter and friends.

Your sister stayed in touch, but she was the only one.

Eventually, through a sequence of unspeakable events, of bruises all over your body and blood on a nightgown that barely fit, you would sit in a courtroom for months, and, finally, listen to the judge call it “self-defence”.

The judge said a lot of things, as did the lawyers.

You didn’t listen to any of them.

There was this harrowing silence within you, it drew in the things of everyone around you, melting them, turning them into puddles of distance, where their faces blurred and their words, sometimes accusations and sometimes comforts, fell on ears that weren’t yours because surely if they were yours you would be able to use them?

You had thought, during those months, that perhaps no pain or silence would ever live up to that.

You had been wrong.

Now, you lie in a hospital bed, a few years later.

Years spent healing, loving, learning, studying, and now, finally, dying.

Your sister had said it with such relief.

“You won’t die. You’re going to be fine.”

No. Lie.

You were dying. That’s what this feeling was.

It had to be death.

You had not answered, staring ahead, waiting for one person to step into your line of vision.

Frankie. Your Frankie.

It was a coma.

Your Frankie locked in a coma.

How he would hate to ever be such a thing.

You knew it, because you knew him.

Loved him, as he knew and loved you.

You had healed together, learned together, loved together, grown together.

You had met when he and a horrid, filthy drug pierced his system, and he needed it to.

You had “cut right through his bullshit”, as he always said when he told the story, refusing to go out with him.

He always said he changed because you didn’t ask him to.

You had not given him conditions, you had not asked him to grow or be someone new, you had looked at him, seen him for what he was, and denied him.

You had needed him to be someone he wasn’t, so you had said no, instead of asking him to be different.

And thus, he had changed.

Changed because he had needed you, exactly as you were, and would not stop until you could be his as much as he was already yours.

He joked in the years after the first kiss, joked that his heart had buried itself behind your ear the first time his fingers had brushed yours as he handed you a drink.

For Halloween, you had asked to go as Morticia and Gomez Addams.

“It fits us,” you said, grinning broadly, wooden spoon in your hand as you stirred his favourite.

You always made his favourite, he always whispered that anything you made was his favourite, so maybe you were cheating.

But still, it was his favourite.

That was all that mattered.

Frankie shook his head. “No.”

You were dumbfounded. He never said no to you.

The first few months you’d scolded him for it, telling him he needed to tell you when he wasn’t okay, when he needed to say no.

He promised he would, but he never said no.

This might have been the first time, so you nodded. “Okay. Sure.”

He shrugged, moving around the kitchen island, coming up behind you, his arms like puzzle pieces fitting around your waist.

Perfect.

The two of you were perfect together.

He pressed a kiss to the back of your head. “I just think we should save Morticia and Gomez for when we get married.”

You leaned back into his words, smiling a smile you thought your lips would never be capable of. “When we get married?”

“When,” he promised into your scalp, smile matching yours.

The ring wasn’t on your finger now.

Someone else was keeping it, you weren’t sure who, but it wouldn’t fit on your left hand, aching and swollen and bandaged.

The doctors would not say anything to you at first, then they said he was in a coma.

When they finally told you his condition, you had screamed.

Screamed so loud you knew the sleep of some of the other patients had been disturbed.

You had sobbed and wailed and one of the nurses had tried to calm you, explaining that the vicious pain all throughout your torso was from your injuries, but you deserved it.

Deserved the cuts and scrapes and stabs and stitches because you were here and he was not and there was nothing that could right that wrong but the pain of your body was a step.

Eventually, they called your sister, and your other sister who was not yours by blood but yours all the same and they had held you.

Flowers sat at your bedside table, flowers for the wounds, oh, but the wounds meant nothing.

Nothing next to the pain inside.

The injuries, you supposed, were a happy coincidence.

Because they kept you bedridden, and the only thing that had kept you from suicide was the fact that you simply had not the muscles nor movement to do so.

The nurse had come in later, when the tears had stopped but not dried, when the screaming had stopped coming from your mouth but still echoed in your mind, and told you to sleep.

You didn’t.

Your eyelids were so heavy, your body so stiff, your head aching.

You didn’t close your eyes, lest you miss it.

People talked about hallucinations, about losing a loved one and seeing them afterwards.

So you kept your eyes open.

Waiting. Looking. Watching.

You needed to see him.

You needed it.

Craved it.

But he wasn’t there.

And that wasn’t fair.

You had been through so much, so many hands, so many locked doors, so many tears, surely you were insane?

Surely you saw things that weren’t there?

He wasn’t here.

So you had to see him.

You didn’t, though.

You didn’t see anyone.

Your sisters came again the following morning, with soft smiles and softer words and the softest hands.

They said your mother wanted to visit.

Your chest was too tight to say anything, but your sister who shared your soul and not your blood touched your hand—not gripped it, for fear of broken bones and split skin—and promised she would never let that happen.

Frankie’s brothers, his military brothers, came to visit you, too.

You cried when you saw them, they cried with you.

Santiago had sat next to you as everyone else began to filter out.

He’d opened his mouth, and you knew what he’d been about to say.

“Don’t,” you whispered, tears burning their way up your throat. “I don’t care. I just—I can’t, please. Not—not right now.”

He had nodded, tears in his own eyes, holding you to his shoulder carefully as sobs so violent they ripped stitches wracked your broken body.

Santiago had gone with Frankie that day, many days ago, now, to change his will and leave everything to you.

Frankie and Santiago had both thought it a secret, but Frankie’s beautiful, little girl had come running to you, and you had known for months.

You didn’t want to hear about the will. Not now.

Not ever.

You talked about it often, the money Frankie had come into when his absent, Scrooge McDuck–type of father had died, and, for some unknown reason, left it all to Frankie.

It was a running joke; the rich, older man you’d swindled, the money you’d ultimately have because of the ring he was always planning to put on your finger.

Truthfully, the money had always meant shit to you.

Growing up poor as dirt, money had been a luxury, and you would never take it for granted.

But around Frankie?

Money meant nothing.

There was no richness to compare to the richness of the laughter he gave you when you cracked a foul joke, no amount of swimming in pools of gold to compare to swimming in pools of water with his arms around you and your legs around him.

Money was four letters short of happiness, because you needed nine letters to spell Francisco.

When Santiago left, Frankie’s ex trundled in, having stayed good friends with Frankie after the divorce and hitting it off with you.

There had been something special about it, exchanging stories and tears and memories with her, while Frankie’s daughter napped with her head painfully digging into the ruin the car had left of your thigh.

Then the nurse had ushered them out, and you’d asked if your sister could come back.

The nurse couldn’t say no, not to you, not with a ruined body and a worse heart, so your sister had come back briefly.

You had asked her to bring your laptop.

“You can barely type,” she had said.

You shook your head. “I need to. Please. Please let me put this somewhere.”

Your words slurred, either from the drugs coming through the IV in your hand or the cuts on your face.

Your sister had nodded, kissing your forehead, avoiding your damage, and the nurse handed you the laptop about an hour later.

She was right.

You could barely type.

Still, you had to write something.

Something broken. Something unfinished. Something sad. Something lonely.

Something like you.

Writing was never your thing, it was just something you did.

In your room, in between school and homework and nights you didn’t speak of, you wrote.

You wrote a lot in the time you spent locked in a house with a ring on your finger and not a soul who knew you but a sister you couldn’t see.

You’d lost it, getting out, turning to studies that consumed your time, turning to Frankie.

You found it again now, with hands that can barely type, a body in pain but barely noticeable.

You know you don’t really feel it.

Not yet.

The realising will come later.

You doubt you’ll survive.

You won’t have to leave the hospital, not for a good long while, and that’s the biggest relief you could possibly get.

You don’t have to eat. You don’t have to think.

You can just lie here, pain eating away at every muscle you own, half-curled into yourself as your tears refuse to let your pillow dry, thinking about Frankie.

Every memory you have, every smile he gave you, every moment, you lie there and stare at nothing while you think about him.

You may never think about anything else ever again.

You don’t know if you have the strength.

Everyone around you is waiting for you to snap. For the ball to drop and for you to start screaming and throwing blame.

You can’t.

Anger takes energy, anger requires for there to be something within you.

There’s nothing left.

You’re a hollow shell of a creature, the only thing you’re capable of doing is remembering.

You messaged a few friends online. You’re grateful for all of them. There’s this understanding between you, that you’re going to act like a normal person with a normal life, and they’re going to let you. They don’t avoid it, but they don’t mention it, not unless you do.

That means more than they think. For them to let you pretend, for them to pretend with you.

Sometimes they help bring you back to reality, telling you it’s going to suck and nothing will feel right.

That helps.

You don’t know what else could possibly help you, but you think you might have a suspicion.

So you get someone to bring you a pillow, put it on your lap and place your laptop on top, like a makeshift desk.

You start typing.

Stories, memories, Frankie.

You’ve heard of people who avoid the names of their spouses but you can’t. Won’t.

You can’t stop saying it, writing it.

He needs to be alive, he has to be, or else whatever remains of you will fade into nothing.

He has to be alive somewhere.

So you write.

Tomorrow, you don’t think you’ll have the energy to do such a thing.

You find you don’t have much energy, not anymore.

For now, you write.

It’s all you can do.

Someday, what’s left of your resolve will drip away into the hollowness of where Frankie should be.

Then you’ll wither away into a shadow, into a broken doll forgotten under the bed.

Either that shadow will regrow into a person, or it won’t.

You have no idea which it might be, and you’re scared.

You wrap yourself in memories and tears so you might continue to feel, but wrapping yourself is so tiring.

You’re so tired.

You’ve been hospitalised for four days, awake for two, maybe three.

You have no idea how you’re supposed to live past midnight tonight.

Maybe you won’t.

Maybe your injuries and your hurt and your hollowness will carry you away in the night, never to be seen again.

Maybe all that’s left of you will be the words on paper that you give to Frankie.

Maybe that’s all you want.

To be with Frankie.

Whether in his arms, or two words on a page, or in the ground, you just want to be with him.

Maybe you’ll live.

Maybe you won’t.

The doctors had come into your room three times.

The first, they refused to tell you anything.

The second, they said he was in a coma.

The third time—

True happiness was nine letters long, while death only four.

But four had been enough.

Tags: @planet-marz1 @catchallfangirl @pamasaur @janaispunk

#frankie ‘catfish’ morales #frankie morales #francisco morales #frankie ‘catfish’ morales x f!reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales fanfiction #angst #very angsty pookie #my writing

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