Hi, I’m Berry and I accidentally built an entire emotional universe around one very broken man. Watch me make things unnecessarily poetic on default. This masterlist is mostly Frankie Morales: soft chaos and smut with feelings. Sometimes healing, sometimes heartbreak. Always lingering.
If you're into longing, slow burns, and love that refuses to be quiet you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
new? confused? here’s your starter pack:
⋆ Reader-favorite: “Slow Motion” —Best friends. Always there, never quite enough. He broke your heart without ever knowing he held it—until everything fell apart, and the only person he wanted was the one he pushed away. (one-shot)
⋆ My personal fav: “Like A Song Stuck In My Head” — This story isn't about happy endings. It’s about almosts. About the kind of love that brands you and ruins you and lives in you even long after. (finished series)
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
⤷ ゛find me here as well : Ao3 , sideblog „berryshapedache“ & ko-fi ˎˊ˗
emoji key: 💔 Angst 🔥Smut ☁️ Fluff 🩹 Hurt/Comfort
Francisco Morales
𓂃⋆.˚ Series 𓂃⋆.˚
⟢ Like A Song Stuck In My Head (rockstar! Frankie) (finished) 💔☁️ Main Navigation
⟢ Grace & Gravitas (regency!AU) (ongoing) Main Navigation
⟢ Burned Between Us x (brothers best friend x ofc) (hiatus) 💔 🩹 Series Masterlist
⟢ Complete Mess (xf! reader) (finished) ☁️💔🔥
I Stole Your Heart, You Stole My Life
You Make Me A Complete Mess **
She Keeps His Shirt, He Keeps His Word **
⟢ Rain Down on Me (xofc reader) (finished) 💔🔥☁️ Series Masterlist
𓂃⋆.˚ One Shots 𓂃⋆.˚ (newest to oldest)
no matter the distance 🔥 ☁️
tacos at midnight ☁️
damage control ☁️
Neon Ghosts 🔥
A Home for the Holidays ☁️ 🩹
More Than Enough 🔥 ☁️ 🩹
Earned. ☁️ 🩹 🔥 (2/2)
The Warmest Kind of Shelter 🩹 ☁️
Watching the Weather 💔 🔥🩹
—> (Sequel „Between Departures“) 💔 🩹
after the vows ☁️ 🔥
The Color of Peace ☁️
Swipe Right for Fate ☁️
I only bought this dress so you can take it off 🔥 💔
Public Use 🔥
In the Woods (I Knew Your Eyes) 💔 🩹
the prison of your own skin 🩹
call me friend but keep me closer 🩹
A Kitchen Kind of Love ☁️
they say if it’s right you know 💔☁️
The Wrong Side of Forever 🩹 💔
Wreck Me Gently 🔥
Denim 🔥
i am not who i was ☁️ 🩹
Made of Us 🔥
Every Way That Counts ☁️💔
Brat Tax 🔥 ☁️
The Day I Met Your Mom ☁️
Carved Into Me 🔥 💔
Your Hands On Me 🔥
Midnight Miles 🔥
Borrowed Time 🔥💔
Heatwave 🔥
Don‘t Let You Go ☁️
Did You Have Fun? 🔥
More Than This 🔥
Counting Sheep ☁️🩹
Thunder 🩹💔
Just For The Record ☁️
Chicken Soup ☁️🩹
The Way You See Me (1/2) & The Way I See You (2/2) ☁️ 💔🩹
Stars Above, Us Below ☁️🔥
Insatiable 🔥
In The Wake of Our Ruins 🔥💔
Poetry in a Room Full of Noise (1/2) & Serendipity (2/2) ☁️
Where You Left Me 💔
All In ☁️
What It Feels Like 🔥
Slow Motion 💔🩹☁️
Haunted by You (1/2) & What Lingers (2/2) 💔
Everything But Us 🔥💔
When Words Fail, Let Me Stay 🩹
Just for Now 🩹
What’s Left 🩹 💔
A Little Extra Care 🔥
Your Home’s Only a Town You’re a Guest In 🔥🩹 💔
Insomniacs 🩹
What I Didn't Say 🩹
Eres Mi Vida 💔
Love Cracks Through Tiny Spaces 🔥💔
10 Minutes 🩹💔
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
Drabble Challenge 11/24 (finished) - to find under the tag #glimpsesofus
𓂃⋆.˚ Other works 𓂃⋆.˚
Navigation
Other Pedro Characters
Ted Garcia - Soft ☁️
Kermit - Late Nights 🔥 ⟡ Cream and Sugar, Baby ☁️🔥
something so special about someone who takes their time to make you come. not edging you, but showing you patience and eagerness in learning how to unravel you. mumbled sweet words to coax your attention back on them when you're getting into your head about 'taking too long'. if anything they just scoff, maybe getting angry on your behalf for whoever made you feel this way in the past. as if getting to taste and feel and worship you for hours isn't the best thing that ever happened to them. their intention is not to push you over the edge in record time but to get to know you inside out, no matter how long it takes. they rather come untouched in their pants than to stop giving you everything you deserve and more. your pleasure is their pleasure.
Summary: After landing in the States after the events of South America, Frankie calls you to let you know he's coming home. To his surprise, you come to pick him up from the airport and bring him back to your shared bedroom effortlessly.
Pairing: Frankie Morales x Wife!Reader
Content warnings: takes place immediately after the events of Triple Frontier, Frankie is a girl dad x2 ("I got the new baby now" implies at least two kids) (I am a freak for semantics), brief mention of traumatic/premature birth and a baby in the NICU, positive mention of postpartum body (thoughts of body worship), angst, hurt/comfort, smut, crying during sex, little bit of lactation (not a kink here)
Word count: 2,193
Read on ao3 here
Author's note: 300 follower celebration!!! (extremely overdue; let's not talk about it.) 400 follower celebration to follow either tomorrow or the day after, then 500 the day after! I wouldn't be here without you (and your reblogs) ((that is how this platform works)) I love you so much; I am flattered that anyone wants to read my writing!!! you are so special to me!! thanks for being here!!! <333 anyways, title is a lyric from "Nettles" by Ethel Cain. hearing that live was truly a religious experience, and I 10/10 recommend. this fic has actually been titled and in the drafts since January (way before I saw Ethel live), but still. anywho I hope you turn on "Nettles" and get to reading and enjoy!!! ily ty for reading !!! <3
It’s been eleven days since you dropped Frankie off at the airport. He was supposed to be back six days ago. No phone calls, no texts, nothing. You’ve decided you won’t get truly concerned until tomorrow.
You can’t remember the number of times you went a week, sometimes two, without having contact with Frankie before he discharged from the military. This is an unsanctioned mission, but you still have an idea of what to expect from Frankie when he’s in it like this.
You’re in bed, alone, staring up at the ceiling. Both the two-year-old and the five-month-old are (finally) fast asleep in their rooms. None of Frankie’s girls can ever seem to get good sleep when he’s gone.
It’s 11:47 PM when you finally put your phone on the charger and shut your eyes. It’s 11:49 when the distinctive ringtone you’ve been waiting to hear for the last six days finally sounds off in your quiet bedroom.
You accept the call and bring the phone to your ear.
“Frankie?” Your voice is soft and hopeful, and Frankie swears he can feel his heart twist.
“Hi, baby,” he sighs on the other end. “I’m sorry.”
You let the apology sit in the air for a moment before you ask where he is.
“Airport. Um, I’m about to call an Uber, but I wanted to let you know I’m coming,” he says softly.
You can imagine him sitting on a metal bench near baggage claim, his Standard Heating Oil hat in his hand, his phone in the other.
“I’ll come get you,” you decide, swinging your feet over the mattress.
Frankie shakes his head even though you can’t see him.
“No, I’m sure the girls don’t want to get out of bed. I’ll call an Uber, be home within the hour, hopefully,” he says, the exhaustion in his voice evident.
“Frankie, I’m coming. I’ll see you in half an hour,” you say before hanging up the phone.
You grab the hoodie Frankie left on the chair in the corner and throw it over your tank top, the fabric so long and worn that it almost conceals your pajama shorts.
With soft footsteps, you head into the nursery first to grab the baby. You manage to pick her up from the crib without waking her, then walk to the garage and get her situated in her car seat.
Then you head to your oldest’s room, but she ends up waking up when you snake your hands beneath her body.
“Mama?” Her little voice is so tired.
“I’m here,” you murmur as you wrap your arms around your daughter and carry her to the garage, where you slip on some sneakers.
She doesn’t make another noise, having fallen right back asleep in your arms as you get her situated in the backseat with her sister.
The drive to the airport is silent. You’re bracing yourself to possibly see a battered version of your husband, definitely more withdrawn than before he left, hopefully a richer version to save you from the buckets of debt.
The traumatic birth of your youngest, who came six weeks early, paired with her three-week-long NICU stay, not to mention the court bills that have come with Frankie getting busted for cocaine use and subsequently getting his pilot’s license suspended, have been the biggest hits.
As you pull into the arrivals line, you spot the back of him.
You text him, telling him to turn around, and he quickly finds your car. You put the vehicle in park and get out. He doesn’t need your help putting his duffel bag in the trunk, but he does need your arms around him, and you need the same from him.
He breathes in the scent of your shampoo and clutches the fabric of his hoodie on your body.
“Let me drive,” Frankie murmurs softly when you pull back.
“No, you’re tired. I got it,” you insist, gently pushing him toward the passenger side.
As you get back on the highway, Frankie lets out a deep sigh, prompting you to turn your head briefly, then do a double-take when you notice his face.
“You shaved.”
It’s thankfully the only visible change that occurred over the last week and a half. You’re sure his body aches, but he seems physically okay.
He brings a hand up to scrub over the lower half of his face.
“Was in the jungle for God knows how long,” he says softly. “Got itchy.”
You glance one more time, then fix your eyes on the road.
“It’ll grow back.”
“I know,” you mumble.
The rest of the drive is quiet. You know better than to ask what happened when it’s all so fresh, so you focus on driving.
Frankie keeps turning around in the passenger seat, stealing glances at the girls, like he needs reminding that they’re there, that he’s back with them.
When you pull into the garage, Frankie opens and shuts the passenger door, immediately going for the oldest, then his duffel. He still worries about you lifting anything heavier than the baby, despite you being cleared by the doctor and being five months postpartum.
With the baby in your arms, you open the garage door and let Frankie step through, then shut it behind you.
He drops his duffel in the hallway, then heads into your oldest’s room and softly lowers her into her bed while you put the baby down in the nursery.
Frankie stares at his beloved two-year-old for a moment, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath she takes. He missed her and her sister deeply while he was gone. Every move he made in South America was with them and their mother in mind.
He finds you in your shared bedroom, already going through his bag and sorting things into the hamper.
“That can wait,” he says, coming up behind you and gently grabbing your wrists to stop your movement.
There is a feeling of anger at your husband for leaving you in the dark for a week and a half, but there’s also relief that he has his hands on you again.
It’s never easy with Frankie, never black and white, not even when things are going great, but you couldn’t walk away even if you wanted to. You’ll never feel as safe anywhere in the world as you do in Frankie’s arms.
You lean into his hold and let him wrap his arms across your front. Your eyes shut for a moment as you soak up the moment of relief with your husband home, safe and sound.
“You stink like the airport,” you murmur after a moment.
Frankie drops his arms and takes a step back before kissing your shoulder.
He steps into the bathroom, not bothering to shut the door all the way. You hear the shower turn on, the shucking of his clothes, and the shower curtain closing.
You venture down the hall to check on the girls one last time, finding them sleeping peacefully in their beds before returning to your bedroom, shutting the door behind you before you finish sorting the clothes in Frankie’s duffel.
After pulling Frankie’s hoodie over your head and dropping it in the hamper, too, the shower turns off. You hear him brush his teeth, and a few minutes later, he steps out, naked, skin damp, his hair dripping water down his back as he opens his side of the dresser to pull out some boxers.
He joins you in bed a minute later and pulls the covers up to your chins, then turns his body toward you and pulls you close, his front pressed against your back.
“I missed you. I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your hair.
It’s all so overwhelming. It isn’t like when he would come back from a deployment or one of the quicker missions. This was voluntary, and it obviously went bad, and he didn’t have Uncle Sam at the ready to pull him out if things went worse than bad.
You don’t know what to do other than follow your instincts, which are telling you to grab his hand. You take his hand and move it down, down, down to in between your legs.
Frankie cups your mound and sighs into your hair. He dips his fingers underneath the elastic of your shorts and finds your bare cunt. He slides his middle finger through your slit a few times before slipping the tip of his thick finger inside of you with a small whimper escaping from the back of his throat.
All he could think about on that mountain while he, Santiago, and Will waited for Benny to come back from the boat was you. All he wanted to do was hold his wife in his arms and show you how much he loves you.
So he tightens his arm around you, his right hand gently stroking your stomach where your tank top has ridden up. The stretch marks, some old, some new, some glossy and some more wrinkled with time, are soft against his fingertips. He loves them, loves that his babies put them there. You bear these marks the same way you bear everything else: with more grace than Frankie can fathom.
He barely lasted those eleven days in the jungle without you. He isn’t totally sure he could have also taken care of the girls the way you did without him. You’re better than him in every way, and he’ll never be worthy. He can only hope to make you feel good in return for being so perfect.
He works his finger in and out of you for a moment before you turn over, his finger slipping out of your shorts.
“I need to feel you,” you plead with a whisper.
You pull his boxers down, and while he gets them off his body, you pull your tank top over your head, then kick your shorts off.
“You sure?” he asks softly as he positions himself on top of you, his hands planted by your head, holding up his body.
“Mhm.” You nod and pull him closer, his heavy cock brushing against your sensitive entrance.
Frankie leans down and kisses you as he pushes inside of you, swallowing your moans and the soft whimper from the tight pinch.
You pant beneath him, and he peppers your face in kisses.
“I love you. I’m never leaving you again,” he says, slightly out of breath. “Fuck, you’re perfect, and I’m an asshole.”
“No.” You moan softly as he rolls his hips against yours. “Not an asshole, baby.”
Frankie whimpers softly and kisses your chin.
“You took care of our girls all on your own. They’re healthy and happy, and I could never do that without you. You’re incredible,” he babbles, his brow furrowing.
Honestly, he’s in disbelief that he’s inside of you, in bed with you, and not being yelled at and kicked out. You’ve always been too good for him, and he’s just a grumpy coke addict who got lucky.
“I’m sorry I left you,” he whimpers.
You bring your hand up to cup his cheek, his stubble scratchy against your palm. “You’re here now. I love you. We’ll get through this, I promise.”
Frankie lets out a shaky sigh and buries his face in your neck as he starts thrusting into you at an even rhythm.
“I love you,” he repeats over and over in your ear.
He sinks down onto his elbows and snakes one hand between your bodies to rub your clit.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
It’s spoken like a chant, and his voice breaks more and more with every admission of love.
You feel the tears well in your eyes just as Frankie’s own tears hit your shoulder.
“I love you,” he whispers. “Fuck, I’m gonna–”
“It’s okay,” you whimper in his ear.
You wrap your arms tightly around his back and kiss his neck. The let-down has started, and it smears against Frankie’s chest with every thrust of his hips in and out of you. He moans softly when he feels the warm liquid begin to stain his chest.
Frankie rubs your clit just that much harder to make sure you come before he does, which has you whimpering into his neck and digging your nails into his skin before he’s spilling inside of you, filling your cunt with his warm cum as he groans.
As the two of you come down from your highs, you let out a sniff and reach out to wipe Frankie’s tears.
“We’re gonna be okay,” you promise.
“I’m never gonna hurt you again,” Frankie vows. “Gonna be a better husband, a better father. I promise. Fuck, I love you and our girls so much. I’ll be better.”
You nod and rub your thumb back and forth across his cheekbone.
“I know,” you whisper, smiling softly. “I love you, baby.”
Frankie will tell you about Tom and the money tomorrow. For now, he’ll keep replaying you saying “I love you, baby” in his head as he drifts off to the best sleep he’s had in nearly two weeks.
dividers by @/saradika-graphics
tags: @person-005 @upintheclouds95
p.s. if you would like to be added to/removed from my all works/Frankie Morales/Pedro Pascal characters taglist, comment or message me!
summary: He has survived war, loss, and loneliness before but nothing prepares him for the silence waiting at home.
word count: ~540
author's note: This is angst with a side of angst. It's one of the many things in my graveyard of docs and today on Frankie's day, I thought why not make you all suffer with me? 'Happy' FF >:)
Frankie doesn’t even remember the drive home.
He knows Santi was talking beside him, trying to be gentle, trying to keep him tethered. But it all blurred together—the sound of tires on pavement, muffled crying somewhere two rooms down, the smell of antiseptic still clinging to his skin.
He stares at the apartment door longer than he should.
The key doesn’t turn right away. It never does.
When he steps inside, the silence cracks.
There’s your favorite mug in the sink. The one with the chipped handle you refused to throw away. Your fuzzy socks are still kicked under the couch, the ones with little crescent moons. The jacket you swore you didn’t like when he bought it for you hangs from the back of the chair—worn in all the right places.
It’s your home.
His home.
Yours together.
But now it feels like a stranger’s life.
Frankie makes it as far as the bathroom before the shaking starts. His hands fumble with the buttons on his shirt, pulling it over his head, the fabric damp where your tears soaked into it. He turns on the water and doesn’t wait for it to heat up. Just steps into the cold, hoping it might numb something inside him. He presses his forehead to the tiled wall and finally lets the sob tear out of his chest.
One loud, wounded sound.
Then another.
After that silence again, just the sound of water falling.
His hand slams against the wall once, hard enough to sting. His voice cracks in the mist.
“She doesn’t remember me.”
His eyes squeeze shut as the memories hit like lightning.
The first time you said I love you.
The time you danced in the living room in your pajamas, singing into a wooden spoon.
The way your eyes sparkled when he called you his girl.
The yes you whispered into his mouth when he slipped the ring onto your finger.
The way you looked at him like he was the safest place in the world.
Now you look at him like he’s a stranger.
And the part that hurts the most is that you don’t know you’re breaking his heart. Because how could you, when you don’t even remember him or the love you shared?
He sinks to the floor of the shower, arms wrapped around his knees, water running down his face like it’s trying to drown the ache. He cries until he’s hollow. Until there’s nothing left but steam and the sound of your name echoing inside his chest.
He’ll show up again tomorrow at the hospital, watching the woman he loves drift somewhere between her past and her future.
And the day after that.
And every single day as long as it takes.
Even if he has to make you fall in love with him all over again.
Even when, right now, he’s a stranger wearing the shape of someone you once loved.
You were the warmth in his winter. The light in every version of the dark he had ever found himself in. So whatever happens, Frankie would hold you close to his heart and honor your light while you try to find your way back.
summary: He has survived war, loss, and loneliness before but nothing prepares him for the silence waiting at home.
word count: ~540
author's note: This is angst with a side of angst. It's one of the many things in my graveyard of docs and today on Frankie's day, I thought why not make you all suffer with me? 'Happy' FF >:)
Frankie doesn’t even remember the drive home.
He knows Santi was talking beside him, trying to be gentle, trying to keep him tethered. But it all blurred together—the sound of tires on pavement, muffled crying somewhere two rooms down, the smell of antiseptic still clinging to his skin.
He stares at the apartment door longer than he should.
The key doesn’t turn right away. It never does.
When he steps inside, the silence cracks.
There’s your favorite mug in the sink. The one with the chipped handle you refused to throw away. Your fuzzy socks are still kicked under the couch, the ones with little crescent moons. The jacket you swore you didn’t like when he bought it for you hangs from the back of the chair—worn in all the right places.
It’s your home.
His home.
Yours together.
But now it feels like a stranger’s life.
Frankie makes it as far as the bathroom before the shaking starts. His hands fumble with the buttons on his shirt, pulling it over his head, the fabric damp where your tears soaked into it. He turns on the water and doesn’t wait for it to heat up. Just steps into the cold, hoping it might numb something inside him. He presses his forehead to the tiled wall and finally lets the sob tear out of his chest.
One loud, wounded sound.
Then another.
After that silence again, just the sound of water falling.
His hand slams against the wall once, hard enough to sting. His voice cracks in the mist.
“She doesn’t remember me.”
His eyes squeeze shut as the memories hit like lightning.
The first time you said I love you.
The time you danced in the living room in your pajamas, singing into a wooden spoon.
The way your eyes sparkled when he called you his girl.
The yes you whispered into his mouth when he slipped the ring onto your finger.
The way you looked at him like he was the safest place in the world.
Now you look at him like he’s a stranger.
And the part that hurts the most is that you don’t know you’re breaking his heart. Because how could you, when you don’t even remember him or the love you shared?
He sinks to the floor of the shower, arms wrapped around his knees, water running down his face like it’s trying to drown the ache. He cries until he’s hollow. Until there’s nothing left but steam and the sound of your name echoing inside his chest.
He’ll show up again tomorrow at the hospital, watching the woman he loves drift somewhere between her past and her future.
And the day after that.
And every single day as long as it takes.
Even if he has to make you fall in love with him all over again.
Even when, right now, he’s a stranger wearing the shape of someone you once loved.
You were the warmth in his winter. The light in every version of the dark he had ever found himself in. So whatever happens, Frankie would hold you close to his heart and honor your light while you try to find your way back.
one year ago, i gave life to two people who were never meant to be easy.
and i never— not even for a second— expected them to become what they are now.
"FireFish" were never just a story. it was a place i bled into, a version of love that didn’t ask for permission to exist, even when it hurt. they were messy from the start, annoyingly human and a little bit doomed from the start and i loved them for it in a way that felt almost unfair to everything else i’ve created ever since.
and a year later… they’re still here.
the love, the ache, the weight of them — it never really left. if anything, it settled deeper. quieter, maybe, but stronger. like something that chose to stay. and i think that’s the thing i keep coming back to:
pain like that doesn’t exist without love just as deep.
they hurt because they mattered. they still do.
there are pieces of me in every quiet glance between them, in every almost-touch, in every moment they chose each other even when the world made it impossible to stay.
and the most surreal, most humbling thing i’ve ever experienced is that they didn’t just live in me.
they lived in you, too.
people met them and carried them. felt them. hurt with them. remembered them.
that will never not feel like magic to me.
because what greater achievement is there, really, than creating something that lingers? something that follows people long after they finished reading? something that leaves fingerprints on hearts that were never mine to begin with?
it’s been a year, and they are still here.
in the quiet.
in the music.
in all the small, impossible ways of loving them through the ache.
happy anniversary to the love that burned fast, broke, and stayed anyway, forever. 🐝💔🦋✨
attaching their playlist here as well, that i still listen to regularly.
(all graphics in this post are made by myself)
i am tagging some people who were there from the start to invite them to scream with or at me.
Summary: When cramps and desire collide, Santi takes care of you in the most intimate way possible: slow, bare, and full of love.
Tags: Smut, period sex, unprotected PiV, tender lovemaking, established relationship, aftercare, fluff, emotional intimacy, caring partner! Santi
Wc: ~3.4k
It’s been one of those days.
The kind where every brush of fabric against your skin feels too much, and every glance from him just makes it worse. You’ve been restless since morning. Your body aching, hormones doing whatever kind of cruel dance they’re into this week, your period arrived one day early.
Santi doesn’t notice at first. He’s half-focused on something on his phone, that familiar little furrow between his brows, the serious look that always gets to you. You’ve tried to distract yourself all day - cleaning, folding laundry, pretending you’re not thinking about how warm his hands are when they rest on your hips, or even lower.
By dinner, you’ve dropped three hints already.
First, you stood too close while he was chopping vegetables - brushed against him “by accident.”
Then you made a soft noise when you bent to get something from the oven, the kind that isn’t quite pain but not quite innocent either.
The third was probably too obvious - when you told him your cramps were bad and he asked if you needed a heating pad, you said, “Maybe just you.”
He’d laughed softly, not catching the tone underneath.
Now you’re on the couch, a movie playing you couldn’t describe if your life depended on it. Your legs are draped across his lap, his hand idly resting on your thigh, and it’s driving you insane with want.
You shift slightly, your breath catching.
He looks at you. “You okay, cariño?”
You smile too sweet, too casual. “Yeah. Just… tense.”
If he notices how you press your thighs together after, he doesn’t say a word.
He sets the remote aside, eyes still on you, searching now. There’s that small furrow again, the one that means he’s paying attention.
“Tense?” he repeats, voice soft. “Like sore tense…?”
You shrug, eyes again on the screen. “We can call it like that”
He hums thoughtfully, like studying you, his thumb tracing idle circles on your thigh. The sound and his touch makes something flutter in your lower stomach.
“Did the painkiller help?” he asks.
“A little.”
He nods slowly, then shifts just enough to face you, one hand finding the curve of your knee, the other brushing a strand of hair from your face. His touch is warm, careful, like he’s holding something fragile.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
You move before you think, sliding one leg over his lap, settling on him. His hands come up instinctively, not to pull you closer, just to steady you. Santi's warmth seeps through everything: your clothes, your skin, the ache in your body, and you feel your want for him intensifies.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. You can feel his heartbeat under your palms, the slow, steady rhythm grounding you.
He studies your face, eyes gentle. “You don’t have to hide things like that from me, you know?”
You tilt your head just enough to meet his eyes. The look there makes your pulse stumble. Soft, yes, but intent. You can feel the way he’s holding himself back.
“I wasn’t trying to hide it. I’ve been trying to send you signals all day,” you complain softly, making a little pout. “I really did try. You didn’t notice.”
He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before coming back up. “Guess I was trying too hard not to.”
You blink. “Not to what?”
His lips curve, slow and small, like he’s letting you in on something he shouldn’t say. “Not to notice you like this.”
Your breath catches. The room feels too warm, the sound of the movie long forgotten.
He shifts just slightly beneath you, not enough to close the distance, just enough to remind you it’s there. That he’s there.
His brows lift slightly. “You could have just told me.”
“I just… didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Or push for something you didn’t want,” you admit.
“Cariño,” he murmurs, “you couldn’t ever make me uncomfortable.”
For a heartbeat, everything stills.
The air feels different, heavier, charged. His hands stay on your hips, warm and steady, but there’s a question in the way his thumbs hover, like he’s waiting for permission.
“C’mon, tell me what you need, nena,” he says quietly.
It’s not a demand, not even a request. It’s a promise, that he’ll listen. That you can trust him to.
You meet his eyes, your stomach tight with everything you have been holding in all day. For a long moment, the only sound is your uneven breathing.
“I… I need you,” you whisper.
His pupils dilate slightly, the smallest flicker of something dark passing over his face before it softens into something unbearably tender. His hands move just enough to rest more firmly on your hips, grounding you without rushing, without demanding.
“You do?” His voice is low, almost a murmur, carrying a warmth that makes your core twitch.
You nod, unable to look away, the admission leaving you feeling exposed but safe all at once.
He starts to slide his hands along your thighs, slowly moving up toward your waist, slipping beneath the oversized T-shirt you’re wearing. A shiver runs through you at the warmth of his touch.
Then he kisses you, soft at first, sweet, but carrying a contained urgency. The kiss doesn’t stay gentle for long; it grows more insistent, more needed. He lets out a quiet growl against your lips as he moves you closer, seeking to feel that full closeness, the connection that makes your heart race and your body awaken. It’s hard to tell who of the two of you wants this more, in that moment that seems to stop time.
You start to move on top of him, and you can feel him awakening; the friction and the warmth of your bodies pressing together through the barrier of your clothes making your head spin.
He helps you with your T-shirt, letting it fall away as he holds you closer. His eyes stay fixed on you, full of awe and tenderness, like if you’re the most beautiful thing he has ever seen and he can’t believe how lucky he is to call you his.
His hands move gently along you, careful, reverent, as if every touch is a promise. You let out a soft, breathy sound when he cups and squeezes your breasts and he looks at you, concern and adoration mingling in his gaze.
“Do they hurt?” he asks softly.
“A little,” you whisper.
He continues, careful and reverent, as if every touch on your skin is an act of devotion. You tilt your head back, letting him trace open-mouth, reverent kisses along your neck and shoulders, your collarbone, then the valley between your breasts. He worships them with his mouth; slow, open kisses, the wet heat of his tongue circling each nipple with exquisite care. Every brush of his lips sends a shiver down your spine, and you feel the quiet electricity between you.
Your hands weave into his short, dark curls, flecked with silver, holding him as close as you can without letting go. You can feel the warmth radiating from him and it makes your chest tighten with something like awe and longing.
Now it's you who helps him pull off his shirt, your fingers brushing against his skin as you work together. Both of you laugh at your own impatience, soft, breathless laughs that bubble up uncontrollably. The sound makes your heart race, and for a moment it feels like the world has shrunk to just the two of you.
Your laughter falters as your lips meet again, muffling the sounds into the quiet hum of a shared, lingering kiss. You feel the warmth radiating from him, the steadiness of his hands, the unspoken trust in the way he holds you. Every glance, every touch, every quiet laugh carries a weight of intimacy that makes your pulse quicken, a delicious tension that’s both thrilling and comforting all at once.
His hands drift toward your waist, tracing the line of your underwear, and suddenly you both pull back from the kiss, eyes locking in a silent question.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” you ask softly, the reminder of your state still fresh in your mind.
He shakes his head slightly, a small, earnest smile tugging at his lips. “No,” he says gently, his voice low and steady, “what matters is… are you comfortable with us continuing?”
You feel a rush of something warm in your chest: awe, relief, and the undeniable intimacy of being truly seen. In that moment, it’s impossible not to notice the depth of his care, how every word, every glance, every pause is measured to make sure you feel safe.
You study his face, the seriousness mixed with tenderness, and you realize he’s not thinking about himself at all. He’s only thinking about you, your comfort, your trust, your boundaries. It’s a devotion that makes your heart ache, a quiet kind of hunger that doesn’t need to be spoken.
You nod, a little breathless, a little shaken by the intensity of being so utterly known. “I… I’m comfortable with it,” you whisper.
His eyes soften, a sigh escaping him as if a weight has been lifted, and he leans just slightly closer, careful, patient, letting the moment linger. You can feel the warmth of him near you, the steadiness of his presence, and the unspoken promise that nothing will happen unless you want it to, that he will always, always prioritize you.
“Then let me take care of you.”
He moves you carefully, guiding you down from his lap, where the result of your movements over him are more than evident, and lies you back on the couch. Every movement is gentle, deliberate, as if he’s trying to make sure you feel completely safe and comfortable.
“Just give me a moment,” he says, disappearing briefly. When he returns, he has a towel in his hands. You lift slightly, letting him adjust it under you, grateful for the care in his actions, the attentiveness in his eyes, the quiet devotion in the way he looks at you.
There’s a soft intimacy in these small gestures, in the way he pauses to make sure you’re okay, the way he waits for your approval before he touches, the way he makes even the simplest act feel like a promise that he’s entirely here for you.
His body molds then against yours, careful, patient, every movement deliberate. Lips capturing yours in a long, deep kiss, his hands roaming over your body with both care and restrained hunger. Every caress is a question, every touch an affirmation: I’m yours, if you want me, he seems to say, and you answer with every movement, every breath, every soft, muffled moan between kisses.
Your fingers trace along his back, pulling him even closer, and he groans softly, lips leaving your own to kiss and nibble along your neck, teasing the spots he knows make you shiver. “You feel so… perfect,” he murmurs, voice low, vibrating against your skin.
Slowly, his hand slides between your thighs, and when his fingertips touch the seam of your underwear, he pauses to look at you, searching your eyes.
You nod and guide his hand further, arching into him, letting him know you’re ready, and he follows every signal, lips leaving gentle kisses along your jaw and neck, murmuring soft, husky words against your skin.
He kisses you again, lips deep and insistent, as his free hand continues to explore your body, tracing every curve, memorizing every line. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, gasps and moans escaping between kisses, your bodies moving together in perfect, aching rhythm.
Santi's fingers press in the wetness between your thighs, slick with arousal and the unmistakable evidence of your period. He doesn’t flinch. If anything, his touch becomes more reverent. His fingers keep moving with deliberate, gentle insistence, and you tremble, gasping as waves of heat and pleasure course through you. He watches your reactions carefully, eyes soft, always attentive, lips brushing yours as you shivered under his touch, until a beautiful, overwhelming release washes through you, leaving you breathless and trembling.
He kisses you immediately, muffling your sounds, lips claiming yours in a mix of tenderness and raw desire, as if every gasp, every moan belongs to him. Your hands move instinctively, impatiently tracing along his crotch, and Santi pauses for a moment, holding your chin gently, eyes searching yours.
“Are you really sure?” he asks, voice low and steady. “If not we… we can stop here, anytime…”
“I’m sure,” you whisper, voice shaking with desire. “I don’t want you to stop. Please… don’t stop.”
A slow, approving smile curves his lips, and Santi kisses you again, deeper, hungrier, as he finally gives in completely to the desire.
He frees you both from the last restraint of clothes and then, slowly, deliberately, he enters you, a shiver running through both of you. Your bodies press flush together, every nerve alive, every touch magnified. This is the first time you feel each other like that, just skin against skin, without the barrier of the latex. The world shrinks to the rhythm of your hearts, the heat of your skin, the soft gasps and moans that escape in tandem.
He moves with careful, deliberate tenderness at first, letting you adjust, letting every sensation sink in. And then, slowly, gradually, the rhythm builds, a perfect unison, bodies moving together as if they have always known this cadence. Every thrust, every brush of skin, every soft sigh and moan is a conversation. No words needed, just the language of your bodies. Santi holds you close, lips pressing yours in between movements, murmuring soft praises.
You arch into him, fingers clutching his back, nails grazing, pulling him closer, matching his rhythm, losing yourselves in the heat, the closeness, the exquisite, consuming connection. Each movement sends waves of pleasure coursing through both of you, a perfect storm of desire, trust, and surrender.
The rhythm between you both quickens, a wild, desperate harmony of bodies and breaths. Each movement pushing you closer to the edge, each touch igniting sparks that travel through every nerve. Santiago's lips never left yours, stealing your gasps, murmuring soft, husky words of praise and need: “You’re incredible… so perfect… te quiero… te quiero tanto…”
And then, the crescendo hits. Waves of pleasure course through you both, bodies shuddering together, breaths mingling, hips pressing in perfect unison, moans muffled against each other’s lips. Time seems to stretch, every heartbeat, every gasp a testament to the connection, the surrender, the love between you.
The world vanishes, there is only this, only heat, only the overwhelming sensation of being utterly, completely joined.
And then the unavoidable happens.
You tremble first, a soft, breathy sound escaping your lips as the wave of pleasure rolls through you. Your body arches against his, hands threading into his hair, drawing him closer, wanting him to feel the same intensity you do.
He groans, voice low and raspy, as your rhythm pulls him over the edge. He lets himself go, pressing fully into you with a last, deep thrust, and fills you with warmth, with him, in the most intimate, unguarded way you have ever shared. Every movement, every shiver, every sigh speaks of trust, desire, and the depth of what you feel for each other.
He holds you tight through it, forehead pressed to yours, lips capturing yours as your bodies tremble together, grounding each other in this shared, exquisite intensity. And when it finally subsides, the rhythm slows, replaced by a quiet, lingering heat. Your breaths heavy, hearts still racing, wrapped around one another in the perfect, intimate closeness only you two know.
For a long moment, the world is just breath; slow, uneven, shared. The room hums with the quiet echo of what just happened. The air feels heavy, alive, yet peaceful. Santi doesn’t move right away. His body stays close to yours, connected to you, skin warm against skin, his hand tracing slow, absent circles on your side, as if he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of your breathing.
You both stay like that, suspended in the soft afterglow. Your pulse still stumbles here and there, his heart beats steady against your chest. When he finally pulls out and lifts his head to look at you, his eyes are calm, deep, almost tender enough to undo you all over again.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice hoarse but gentle, his hand resting now in your low stomach. “You okay?”
You nod, a soft smile tugging at your lips while you move to curl against his chest.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “More than okay.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, brushing your hair back, fingertips lingering at your temple.
“Good. That’s what I wanted. Nothing that a good loving session can’t fix,” he teases, tone light and playful, the one he only leaves out with his closest ones, though there’s a quiet reverence underneath that makes your throat tighten, one you try to hide with a chuckle.
“Don’t be an idiot,” you mumble, smiling against his chest.
He grins, the sound of his laughter rumbling low against your skin. “What? I’m just saying the truth.”
You laugh softly, the sound easy and warm, before glancing toward the couch beneath you. “I just hope I didn’t ruin your sofa,” you whisper with a sheepish smile.
He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Hmm… Don’t worry about the couch,” he says, smirking. “It’s seen worse. But if you did, I think it was worth it.”
You snort, playfully nudging his shoulder, and he catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. The air feels lighter now. Warm, drowsy, familiar. You cuddle against him again, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your skin, and when you finally close your eyes, it’s to the sound of his calm breathing beside you, steady and safe.
The quiet between you feels soft, unguarded. Maybe that’s why you say it, a confession that slips out before you can stop it.
“I’ve never… done something like this before,” you murmur, voice small against his chest.
For a beat, there’s silence, then a warm, low laugh vibrates through him. “Like this?” he teases, feigning innocence. “What, exactly, are we talking about, mi vida? Period sex, creamp-”
Your head snaps up, eyes wide. “Santiago!” You gasp, half laughing, half scandalized.
He grins, delighted by your reaction, laughter spilling easily into the space between you. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he says, though the sparkle in his eyes says he’s only half sorry.
You swat at him lightly, but you’re smiling too.
Then his expression softens, that easy smile fading into something steadier. He shifts just enough to meet your gaze fully, fingers brushing your jaw.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You’re really okay with this, right?”
You nod, the warmth in your chest spreading at the care in his tone. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I wanted this.”
He studies you for a moment, searching, not for doubt, but for truth. When he finds it, his shoulders ease, and he presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Good,” he murmurs, voice dropping to something low and rough. “Then that’s all that matters.”
You let your head rest against his chest again, smiling against his skin. “You’re impossible sometimes, you know that?”
He hums, pretending to think it over. “Hmm… maybe. But…” his grin turns lazy, wicked, “... if you ever need me to, I can be impossibly good again later.”
You let out a quiet laugh, half exasperated, half delighted, swatting at his chest. “Santi!”
He just laughs softly, wrapping you closer. “What? I’m just making sure you’re feeling better, cariño.”
The laughter fades into quiet again, comfortable and warm, your bodies still tangled together in the narrow space of the couch. And in that small, golden stillness, it’s impossible not to think that maybe this is what safety feels like.
And maybe, in all the ways he takes care of you, you also have finally learned what love is supposed to feel like.
-`♡´- tags: sweaty!Frankie, slightly bratty!reader, dirty thoughts, almost public indecency
summary: Frankie refuses to make you feel like you're too heavy to carry.
word count: ~ 780
a/n: Hello from the other side! Please don't take this post too seriously, I didn't either while writing. But since today is our favorite pilot's day, what better way to celebrate him than some over-the-top gym fantasy? Enjoy my feral gremlins. <3
“You think you’re too heavy for me?” he asks like you just said something blasphemous in front of God himself.
It started as a throwaway comment. Half-teasing, half self-conscious, murmured into his shoulder late at night while lying on top of him. Something about squishing him. You barely remember saying it.
But he remembers.
And now, you’re in the gym.
Frankie doesn’t usually bring people here. This is his quiet place. His rhythm. His control. But today he’s got something to prove.
You’re perched on the edge of a bench, water bottle in hand, still unsure how exactly you let him drag you along. And then you watch him start to load the barbell. One plate. Then another. And another.
“Frankie…”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“That’s a lot of weight.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
He adjusts the bench. Rolls his sleeves up. Sits under the bar like he’s preparing for war. You can feel the shift in the air—the quiet snap in his focus, the sharp set of his jaw. And suddenly he’s someone else. Not just your Frankie. But someone determined and beautiful.
And then—
Thrust.
The bar rattles. His arms flex, shirt clinging to every ridge of his chest and shoulders. Sweat already blooming down his spine. His hips snap up with startling power and precision.
“One.”
Another. And another. He’s gritting his teeth now, jaw tight, breath rough through his nose, veins like lightning across his forearms and neck.
Your thighs press together involuntarily.
“This,” he bites out through clenched teeth, lifting again, “is baby weight.”
Thrust.
“You’re not heavy.”
Thrust.
“You’re mine.”
Thrust.
“And I could lift you all damn day.”
By the time he racks the bar, chest heaving, sweat beading on his brow, curls damp and clinging to his temple you’re only able to stare. There’s no hiding it. Jaw slack. Breath shallow. Brain running on one loop:
Hip thrusts. Thighs. Frankie. Sweat. Frankie. Moans maybe. Frankie.
He wipes his face with the edge of his shirt, exposing the trail of hair under his navel, and glances at you with a slow, knowing smile. Damn what a sight.
“Still worried, cariño?”
You’re not. You’re burning. You don’t even remember your own name at this point.
You follow him into the locker room like a woman possessed. Your bag? Who cares. Your water bottle? Gone. All you see is the way the sweat glistens on his neck, the curve of his back, the pull of his shorts over his thighs—God.
And the second the door closes, he’s on you. His hands on your waist, your back hitting the wall, his mouth at your neck, your jaw, the hollow beneath your ear. He’s warm and flushed and wrecked and wild.
“You were staring,” he mutters, voice low, dark. “You think I didn’t notice?”
“I wasn’t—” you gasp, already losing the thread of logic, “okay, maybe I was.”
“Stacked that weight just so you’d see. So you’d stop saying dumb shit like that. You still think I can’t handle you?”
You don’t even answer. You can’t. You just nod, or shake your head—he’s too close, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your leggings—
And then—
SLAM.
The locker room door creaks open.
A guy walks in, towel around his neck, earbuds in. Freezes. Blinks. Realizes. Backs out slowly.
Frankie goes still. Forehead against your shoulder. Breathing like he’s been shot. You’re trembling meanwhile. Dizzy with adrenaline. Frustrated. Feral for this unfairly attractive and sweaty man.
Frankie pulls back, cheeks flushed, curls damp and sticking to his forehead, lips parted like he’s seconds from saying something he’ll regret.
You try to lean in again but he stops you with a soft, wrecked growl:
“No, not here.”
And then—
He lifts you. Throws you over his shoulder, effortlessly, like you weigh nothing.
“Frankie—!” You squeak.
“Shut up. You started this.”
You’re laughing, flustered, your heart punching against your ribs as he stalks through the gym like a man who’s about to commit a crime.
People stare. Someone whistles. Frankie doesn’t care.
He doesn’t break stride until he opens the car door like it offended him personally.
The car ride is quiet. Except for your breathing. And the death grip he’s got on your thigh. The muscle twitching in his jaw. The white-knuckle hold on the steering wheel. Every red light feels like a punishment. You really need to bite back a laugh.
He doesn’t play music. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t even blink. Just takes the fastest route home like a man on a mission.
When he finally slams the gear into park, he turns to you—eyes dark, voice low:
“Upstairs. Now. And don’t bother taking off those leggings. I’ll do it with my teeth.”
-`♡´- tags: sweaty!Frankie, slightly bratty!reader, dirty thoughts, almost public indecency
summary: Frankie refuses to make you feel like you're too heavy to carry.
word count: ~ 780
a/n: Hello from the other side! Please don't take this post too seriously, I didn't either while writing. But since today is our favorite pilot's day, what better way to celebrate him than some over-the-top gym fantasy? Enjoy my feral gremlins. <3
“You think you’re too heavy for me?” he asks like you just said something blasphemous in front of God himself.
It started as a throwaway comment. Half-teasing, half self-conscious, murmured into his shoulder late at night while lying on top of him. Something about squishing him. You barely remember saying it.
But he remembers.
And now, you’re in the gym.
Frankie doesn’t usually bring people here. This is his quiet place. His rhythm. His control. But today he’s got something to prove.
You’re perched on the edge of a bench, water bottle in hand, still unsure how exactly you let him drag you along. And then you watch him start to load the barbell. One plate. Then another. And another.
“Frankie…”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“That’s a lot of weight.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
He adjusts the bench. Rolls his sleeves up. Sits under the bar like he’s preparing for war. You can feel the shift in the air—the quiet snap in his focus, the sharp set of his jaw. And suddenly he’s someone else. Not just your Frankie. But someone determined and beautiful.
And then—
Thrust.
The bar rattles. His arms flex, shirt clinging to every ridge of his chest and shoulders. Sweat already blooming down his spine. His hips snap up with startling power and precision.
“One.”
Another. And another. He’s gritting his teeth now, jaw tight, breath rough through his nose, veins like lightning across his forearms and neck.
Your thighs press together involuntarily.
“This,” he bites out through clenched teeth, lifting again, “is baby weight.”
Thrust.
“You’re not heavy.”
Thrust.
“You’re mine.”
Thrust.
“And I could lift you all damn day.”
By the time he racks the bar, chest heaving, sweat beading on his brow, curls damp and clinging to his temple you’re only able to stare. There’s no hiding it. Jaw slack. Breath shallow. Brain running on one loop:
Hip thrusts. Thighs. Frankie. Sweat. Frankie. Moans maybe. Frankie.
He wipes his face with the edge of his shirt, exposing the trail of hair under his navel, and glances at you with a slow, knowing smile. Damn what a sight.
“Still worried, cariño?”
You’re not. You’re burning. You don’t even remember your own name at this point.
You follow him into the locker room like a woman possessed. Your bag? Who cares. Your water bottle? Gone. All you see is the way the sweat glistens on his neck, the curve of his back, the pull of his shorts over his thighs—God.
And the second the door closes, he’s on you. His hands on your waist, your back hitting the wall, his mouth at your neck, your jaw, the hollow beneath your ear. He’s warm and flushed and wrecked and wild.
“You were staring,” he mutters, voice low, dark. “You think I didn’t notice?”
“I wasn’t—” you gasp, already losing the thread of logic, “okay, maybe I was.”
“Stacked that weight just so you’d see. So you’d stop saying dumb shit like that. You still think I can’t handle you?”
You don’t even answer. You can’t. You just nod, or shake your head—he’s too close, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your leggings—
And then—
SLAM.
The locker room door creaks open.
A guy walks in, towel around his neck, earbuds in. Freezes. Blinks. Realizes. Backs out slowly.
Frankie goes still. Forehead against your shoulder. Breathing like he’s been shot. You’re trembling meanwhile. Dizzy with adrenaline. Frustrated. Feral for this unfairly attractive and sweaty man.
Frankie pulls back, cheeks flushed, curls damp and sticking to his forehead, lips parted like he’s seconds from saying something he’ll regret.
You try to lean in again but he stops you with a soft, wrecked growl:
“No, not here.”
And then—
He lifts you. Throws you over his shoulder, effortlessly, like you weigh nothing.
“Frankie—!” You squeak.
“Shut up. You started this.”
You’re laughing, flustered, your heart punching against your ribs as he stalks through the gym like a man who’s about to commit a crime.
People stare. Someone whistles. Frankie doesn’t care.
He doesn’t break stride until he opens the car door like it offended him personally.
The car ride is quiet. Except for your breathing. And the death grip he’s got on your thigh. The muscle twitching in his jaw. The white-knuckle hold on the steering wheel. Every red light feels like a punishment. You really need to bite back a laugh.
He doesn’t play music. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t even blink. Just takes the fastest route home like a man on a mission.
When he finally slams the gear into park, he turns to you—eyes dark, voice low:
“Upstairs. Now. And don’t bother taking off those leggings. I’ll do it with my teeth.”
It's been a while since I posted something, so to celebrate ✨Frankie Friday✨ why not posting some of my hc's about our favourite pilot?
🚁 I think my favourite headcanon about Frankie is that he’s the type to remember very specific details about you. Not birthdays. Not obvious things. But the way you always reach for the left side of the blanket first, your favourite bubble tea order, or the exact tone your voice takes when you’re pretending you’re fine.
🚁 He pretends to be way more put together than he actually is. Like he moves through the world with that quiet, steady energy… but internally he’s constantly overthinking. Not in a dramatic way. Just in a soft “did I say that right? Omg did I mess it up again?” kind of way.
🚁 He’s very tactile and touchy without even realizing it. He’ll rest his hand at the small of your back when you’re walking. He’ll fix your sleeve absentmindedly. He doesn’t announce affection. He just does it.
🚁 Speaking of being tactile, I’m also fully convinced he’s ridiculously good with his hands (in every possible sense 😏😈), genuinely, anything that involves building, fixing, assembling, taking something apart and putting it back together. He’s the kind of person who won’t Google how to fix something. He’ll just stare at it for a minute, roll up his sleeves, and figure it out. Quiet competence. The most attractive genre 🫠🫠
🚁 Which is funny, because you look at those sausage fingers and you wouldn’t expect precision… and yet I can absolutely see him being surprisingly delicate. Folding tiny paper cranes out of receipts while he’s waiting. Carving small wooden figurines when his mind won’t slow down. Sanding the edges carefully until they’re smooth enough to trace with a thumb. Working with his hands helps him regulate. It keeps his thoughts from spiraling. Gives him something solid and real to focus on when everything inside feels too loud. There’s something very grounding about watching something take shape under his fingers. And I love the contrast. Big hands. Careful touch. The ability to fix a broken cabinet hinge and then sit there patiently trying to get the wings of a paper bird symmetrical.
🚁 He absolutely talks to himself when he’s alone (most of the time in Spanish). Not full conversations, but little muttered thoughts. Especially when he’s fixing something or cooking. And if he burns himself, he’ll glare at the stove like it personally betrayed him.
🚁 He struggles with feeling like he’s “enough”. Not because anyone tells him he isn’t, but because he holds himself to impossible standards. And he’d never say that out loud. You’d only notice in the way he goes quiet when he thinks he’s disappointed someone.
🚁 He falls asleep fast, but only if he feels safe. Otherwise he just lies there, staring at the ceiling, thinking too much. If someone he loves is next to him, though? He sleeps deeper. Like his body finally unclenches.
🚁 Like most of men, he's just a cry baby and the most exaggerated person on Earth the moment he gets sick. A simple cold? In his mind it’s basically a terminal illness. He'd sigh dramatically, complain about everything, act like standing up requires heroic effort.
🚁 He smells faintly like clean cotton and musky and something warm. Not cologne. Just him (and a faint hint of cigarettes).
I hardly ever draw anymore, but a post on Twitter inspired me to draw my forever favourites: rockstar Frankie and his girl Elena "Firefly", from this wonderful and unforgettable story written by the loml @berryispunk 💜
i’m putting this blog on an indefinite hiatus. this isn’t a hard goodbye, more like a quiet step back.
if i’m honest, this space hasn’t felt the same for me in a long while for a multitude of reasons. so i’m choosing to move where my energy feels lighter again (aka a new fandom). i also don’t really associate myself with pedro or this space the way i used to either.
that being said: this doesn’t change what frankie means to me. he was my first fictional love, and that will always stay with me.
to everyone who supported me, read my work, interacted with me; thank you. truly. i see you, and i appreciate you more than i can put into words.
for now, it’s time for me to move forward.
not goodbye forever just a “see you, maybe” 🤍
all my love,
berry 🍓
(p.s I’m opening my ask box again in case some of you want to say something nice anonymously)
i’m putting this blog on an indefinite hiatus. this isn’t a hard goodbye, more like a quiet step back.
if i’m honest, this space hasn’t felt the same for me in a long while for a multitude of reasons. so i’m choosing to move where my energy feels lighter again (aka a new fandom). i also don’t really associate myself with pedro or this space the way i used to either.
that being said: this doesn’t change what frankie means to me. he was my first fictional love, and that will always stay with me.
to everyone who supported me, read my work, interacted with me; thank you. truly. i see you, and i appreciate you more than i can put into words.
for now, it’s time for me to move forward.
not goodbye forever just a “see you, maybe” 🤍
all my love,
berry 🍓
(p.s I’m opening my ask box again in case some of you want to say something nice anonymously)
I need you to try to write my favorite priest because I remember how good of a job you did with Frankie (I miss the neighborhood thing still btw) 👀
I don't have a Frankie fic ready, but I did get hung up on his billcap, if you recall.
Frankie's Standard Heating Oil cap always made me wonder why? Why that hat, that company?
I researched, and Standard Hearing Oil is the fictional company run by Abel Morales in J.C. Chandor’s earlier film A Most Violent Year. (Abel is played by Oscar Isaac, so Santi fans rejoice.)
Are Frankie Morales and Abel Morales related? An uncle maybe? It's possible, but unknown. Makes for a great backstory though! Honest uncle up in NYC, trying to legit business in the 1970s.
Anyway, in A Most Violent Year, Abel Morales is obsessed with doing things the right way. Abel’s hope and belief is that integrity is possible if you’re disciplined enough.
Okay, now, on to Triple Frontier.
Frankie’s story is about what happens when someone who once lived inside systems of duty and honor discovers those systems don’t take care of you once they're done with you.
Frankie isn’t a villain, even remotely. He’s competent, careful, and the most level-headed person in the group. But he still goes along with the plan. He still crosses the line.
Abel tries to prove the American dream can work if you refuse to compromise. But Frankie is living in a world where that dream already feels broken and compromise is useless.
Frankie walking around South America wearing that logo feels kind of ironic, in a way. It's like a whisper of a promise about honest work and upward mobility that he's been denied.
So, if Abel’s film is about building something legitimate in a corrupt world, then Frankie’s is about what happens when people stop believing legitimacy can ever pay off.
Frankie walking around South America wearing that logo feels kind of ironic, in a way. It's like a whisper of a promise about honest work and upward mobility that he's been denied.
