I reblogged her late last year and my 2024 has been very satisfying work-wise and (secure enough to not stress out) money-wise so far. Money Snake is wise and good.
fuck it, i never ever do those âreblog for X, this one really works!â posts, but this one doesnât have any of that BS, this is just straight up wishing us good things; and then the comment doesnât even say any of that either. Zero claims on this post, all positive vibes
May you end this week feeling ever more certain of a future youâll love
january is one of those months where you experience every feeling on the human spectrum and you just have to go about your day like that isn't happening
I've been watching so much Leverage lately while in the grippe of a terrible cold and honestly it's been so soothing in this billionaire-bootlicking day and age to watch a show that is so unashamedly fond of just straight up psychologically torturing corrupt rich people. Like remember that episode where they locked a hedge fund manager in a hospital and made him think he had a fatal disease? Every single ep the client is like "I just want him to face legal justice for what he did to my poor daughter/grandpa/pony/etc :(" and the crew is like "Not only will we do that, we will also find out this bastard's hopes, their fears, their deepest darkest dreams and desires, and rip their whole life to shreds right in front of their eyes while they watch and weep in abject dispair. And then we will give you $2 million dollars cash." Fucking legends. Do Elon next
summary: all of that led to this. The now. Eyes staring at him as he stands in front of you in a moss-green shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, curls not buried by a hat. âHi.â âHi,â you reply, before heâs ushering you in.
warnings: fluff, soft!frankie, first kisses, christmas vibes, lilâ flirting. brief mention of Frankie being a dad.
wordcount: 2.6k
to @nothoughtsjustmeds - merry christmas from me, to you. you gave such amazing prompts, i tried to include as many as i could, and here it is. i hope you love this as much as i heart you.
When the cab comes to a stop, you find yourself outside of a very nice house, on a very quiet street.
Dropping your gaze down to the address on your phone, swallowing. Your nerves suddenly begin doing their thing to your gut again. Working. Gnawing at your insides as you flick your gaze back up to the number on the mailbox.
Thatâs when you take in the little âSanta Stop Hereâ sign stuck into the perfectly maintained grass, the faux snow footprints which lead up to the porch and the array of twinkling lights that set this one out against all the others.
And, honestly, itâs just what you imagined from his home.
Not that it stopped the nerves from swirling, doubling up inside youâapprehension having begun to mount itself on top of worry.
Taking a deep breath, you pull out some notes, paying with a smile, before stepping out with a keep the changeâand a Merry Christmasâand a slam of the cab door.
It takes everything within you not to yank the door open and get back inside. Even more not to turn and look at the driver, to not show how nervous you were.
Instead, you stare ahead. Steadying yourself as tyres crunched gravel, silence washed itself over you.
And then you were alone. No way of turning backânot without a phone call and another long wait.
Glancing around, you hover your eyes over the homes on either side of the one youâre standing outside of. Noticing the differences in how theyâre dressed, how subtly was more one style and perfectionism the other.
This house looked entirely different. And, even if your fingers shook as you clutched your phone, a smile still managed to cut through. Your mind concocting images of the boys all banding together to hang lights, orders being flungâreminiscent of when theyâre all attempting to train Benny (all at fucking once).
Biting down on your lip, you blow out a nervous breathâbecause youâre here now. No point in dwelling. You just need to walk up, rap your knuckles on the door and say hello. Simple. Easy.
Yet, it takes another minute to place one foot in front of the other. Hand stuffing your phone into your pocket as youâthe heels of your boots catching on the stone path, cautious not to smudge the prints that lead the way to his front door.
It had Benny who had told you the more the merrier. But would more mean you?
You who barely knew much about them. Outside the version of them you see at the gym.
The one you had inherited, been given, had handed to youâitâs what your dad would have wanted being said when the keysâall heavy and scaryâwere placed in your palm. No business knowledge, just given the tip to be good to the regularsâthe regulars mainly being Benny, his brother and his friend.
It had begun with letting him in at odd hours. Then youâd gotten Willâs number, for when he was in town, for when he needed access to the gym to help his brother train.
Then, when their visits became more routine, thatâs when you began staying later to do âadminââcode for wanting to be around just in case.
The just-in-case is the reason half your wardrobe is dumped on your bed and your nerves are frantic from the cab ride over.
Teeth nipping at your lip, you second-guess the bottle in your handâthe little paper bag of treats youâd managed to grab before the store closed. You begin to re-question your outfit, whether you were over or underdressed, whether heâd be mad that his friend just invited youâ
A flurry of thoughts, all rushing around like snow in a storm. All landing, thickening at your feet, burying you deeper and deeper in doubts and worries until youâre shrouded in light.
Itâs warm, almost pearlescent as it illuminates the wooden porch youâre standing on.
It was cliche, very romance-novel the way the two of you met. Him having stepped through the gym door, lit up by sunlight, hands stuffing his t-shirt into the back of his jeans. All broad, loose curls and dark featuresâand a shy smile that only slowly broke out across his face.
From there it was little waves. Your eyes linger on his fingers, the length, the way they appear worn, weatheredâand sometimes accompanied by a band-aid, sometimes close to skin colour and others with cartoons on.
Itâs a while until names are shared and exchanged. Until you can put together an idea of the man who always wears a sun-scorched hat and clothing from a colour palette youâve named him.
Then, you learn little things. That he likes listening to vinyls, that he has a son, that he likes the idea of working out but prefers to keep fit by building things.
What kind of things?
Anything.
Anything?
Anything.
Itâs how the conversation first began when heâd offered to build you a bookcase. A small oneâeasily tucked away behind the counter youâre often perched at and heâs often leaning against. Pointing out that he always sees you with a book, and that you must have a pile of them at your feet.
Thatâs when you learned he was astute, too.
All of that led to this. The now.
Eyes staring at him as he stands in front of you in a moss-green shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, curls not buried by a hat.
âHi.â
âHi,â you reply, before heâs ushering you in.
You hear the laughter from another room before the door is closed. Frankie hovers, taking the wine and the paper bag as you slide off your coat. His face flushed, eyes staring at you before you watch him swallow, mouth opening, but you beat him to itâ
âThank you⊠for not minding that Benny invited me over.â
Nodding, he smiles. âWell. I asked him to invite you.â
âOh?â
Looking at his feet, he smilesâsoft, more sly. âMâreally glad you could make it.â
"Well, Merry Christmas Eve?"
Licking his lips, he seems to swallow. "Merry Christmas Eve."
Thereâs something intimate about photographs, especially in frames dotted around a home.
A sea of memories displayed, the stories there, but not quite heard. Not until someone is willing to share them, to animate the frame and allow it to make sense.
Your fingers trace the air close to them, lingering on unworried smiles, spotting the beginning signs of the lines youâve come to admire.
In your wildest fantasies, you never thought youâd be here. Not as the hours ticked on, not even when the brothers bid their goodbyes, and you suggested going with them.
You donât have to.
No?
No.
So you didnât. Hovering in the living room as Frankie bids them goodbye. You hear the sounds of claps on the back, and boisterous goodbyes quickly hushed before they exchange plans for tomorrow. Youâre distantly aware the door closes, and that there are approaching footsteps, but you donât drag your eyes from the set of photos on the shelves.
âIâm sorry for⊠them.â
Grinning, you sip from your glass. âYou donât have to. I like them.â
Nodding, Frankie folds his arms, leaning in the doorway, your fingers still ever so close to one of the photo framesâone of five men, him in the middle, three out of the five recognised, the other two a mystery.
âYour son is adorable,â you say, glancing up at him, finding his eyes creasing as a grin adorns his face. âHe has your smile.â
Letting the words wash over him, you take another sip, letting the taste coat your tongue, and smother over your bottom lipâall the while holding his gaze. The one unmoving, all unwilling to tear itself away from yours. It charges the air, and makes it vibrate. Forces the hairs on the back of your neck to stand up, and knots something in your stomach. All as heat blooms across the rest of you, up your neck, smearing itself across your chest.
Because heâs given you this stare a few times. But, never for this long.
Not this constantly, either.
It hasnât ever made your throat feel this dry, not able to quench it even as you pour more liquid down it; it hasnât ever quite made your ears burn, always just cheeks.
âYou want to see my garden?â Narrowing your eyes, you watch him walk backwards, heading to his coat hook. âHeard you can see a lot of stars tonight.â
Smiling, you nod. Simple, fucking easily. Taking the jumper outstretched to youâfingers brushing over his, just lightly, a spark of something streaming up your wrist as his lips part.
A part of you, one full of longing and need, hopes he felt it tooâwishing for it. More so, as you pull his jumper over your head, trying not to noticeably inhale as the warmth settles on your skin, and finds a home in your bones. Youâre coated in him, both physically in his clothing and his scent. The one which lingers when he leaves your desk and you have always wished to bottle.
âCâmon,â he whispers, a twinge of nervousness to his tone.
So you do follow. Jacket under his arm as he grabs two bottles from the sideâyour hand placing your glass down, twirling the ends of his jumper around your fingers, letting him lead the way out, his foot propping open the door so you can head out first.
And heâs not wrong.
The sky is littered with them, soft twinkles thousands of miles away, looking down on the two of you as your warm breath makes spirals appear in front of youâslow wisps of steam that carry themselves to the few clouds floating past.
âYou doing much tomorrow?â
You donât know why you ask it, cringing inwardly. Because tomorrow is the twenty-fifth, and itâs obvious, even more so the more you think about it, that heâll have his son. Likely to be somewhere for dinner from the conversation overheard.
Frankie steps closer, shoulder practically close to yours, recalling what youâd overheard, layering more informationâsharing how heâll pick his son up at lunchtime, bring him back to open presents, and then theyâll be off to Bennyâs. He goes overboard, surprise, surprise.
Your laugh fills the air, somehow unsurprised until Frankie asks you what youâre doing.
âUm, well. Iâm usually alone for Christmasâwell, except for the other gym goers who also hate the holidays.â
Snorting, Frankie slides the jacket in his hand around your shoulders. Your eyes glance from the swings and slide to meet his gaze.
Iitâs warm when you do. All warm cocoa, digging into you, soaking you in something youâre trying to translate. Whatever it is, it makes your heart flutter in your chest, forces heat to rise up your neck againâkissing your cheeks, your ears.
âYou shouldâŠâ his hand rises, rubbing the back of his neck as he sighs. âShouldnât be alone.â
Rolling your lips, you gaze back over his gardenâthe small space you imagine only looks this good because of him. A small paradise, perfectly painted. Lit up by more strung lights and little lanterns plunged into different flowerbeds.
You smile at the swingsetâthe one made from mismatched wood. Your thoughts concoct an image of him building it, brushing his curls back from his forehead.
âYou look really pretty,â he whispers.
And the words make your head turn, tentative, wary.
âWish there was mistletoe.â
Your heart pounds and it distils the nerves. You donât have to force it, it bleeds naturally over your lipsâa smile which smudges over your face, and makes your hand place your bottle down on the ledge.
Itâs quietâoh, so quietâas you turn to face him fully. Body turned, heart thundering in your chest, all suddenly empowered, awake, bold.
The thrum of one chance dancing with the blood in your veins.
âYou donât⊠you donât need mistletoe, Frankie.â
âNo?â
Shaking your head, you let out a breath.
Letting it fog the air, swirling itself out into the night as you clutch his jacket around your shoulders, watching him move.
Itâs breathless the way he says okay. Itâs swallowed by the soft slant of his mouth over yours. Itâs instant, the way warmth spreads out through you. Made all the more powerful by accompanying fairy-light touches to your skin, allowing your body to curl into him.
Then, it deepens, your lips finding his with more purpose, more intention. His palms cup your cheeks, and like his gaze, his mouth is like fire. It rushes into your mouth, filling your chest and fanning its way out to your outer edges. Itâs dizzying, magicalâalmost worthy of a foot rising off the ground or floating away into the clouds.
Your hands clutch at his shirt, balling it in your fingers as it turns messy, needyâall heated and desperate.
Then, you both part. Barely a slither of space between both your faces, his eyes opening, smothering you in something which makes a tangled coil of need tighten inside of you.
âWanted to do that for a while,â he whispers, the tip of his nose brushing against yours.
âIâve wanted you to do that for a while.â
His fingers lightly skate over your cheek, thumb drawing light circles on your chin.
âYou got any plans for the 27th?â
Shaking your head, you smile. âJust the gym.â
âOkay. Iâm taking you out on our second date.â
Frowning, you begin to grin. âSecond?â
Dropping his hand from your face, Frankie places a chaste kiss on your lips. One that makes you want to chase him for more, but the growing gap following it prevents you.
âYeah, the first is me going inside, grabbing us a plate with some pizza on, and sitting under the stars. If⊠if that sounds okay?â
Biting your lip, you nod. âIt sounds perfect.â
He grins, hand brushing over his chin as he takes a step back. Your hand digging for your phone, the screen illuminating, as you hear him pull open the back door of his place.
âOh, and Frankie?â His eyes look over at you, wide, beautifulâa mixture of sudden worry and dread filling them. âMerry Christmas.â
Turning to flash him your phone, the minute just passing midnight, you smileâremoving the fear in his eyes, making them widen, and grow.
He thinks. Ponders.
Can see it in the way his eyes narrow and a line appears between his brows. Then, the door in his hand meets the frame, and the soles of his boots hammer on the decking, before he closes the gap to you within four strides, your face in his hands, lips pressed to yours.
âA kiss from you is the best gift I could have ever have gotten,â he whispers, between stealing your breath.
Swallowing, you roll your lipsâtasting the beer from his lips on your own. âAnd a date with you is all I wished for.â
an: i really want a pizza under the stars with frankie now
ADHD at night: I could write a book. I could get my Masterâs Degree. I could go to the club and come home with 12 new friends. I could get a job at that club and meet the mother of my children. I could cure every disease and use my wealth to bring world peace.
ADHD during the day: Fold laundry too hard :( Come back next week
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