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Always open to submissions, HOWEVER disclaimer there is no gurantee your submission will turn into something written/published. I primarily write Frankie Morales but have also written for Din Djarin and Jack "Whiskey" Daniels (no longer published-will not appear on masterlist).
I'm open to writing pretty much any character- though some of the more niche character requests may take longer.
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Frankie "Catfish" Morales
❥Eight Days - REWRITTEN [SERIES- IN PROGRESS]
Chapter One
❥Birthday Girl [ONE SHOT]
❥Girl Dad [BLURB/REQUEST]
❥In the Clouds [REQUEST]
Ilya Rozanov has ADHD and I need people to get on board with me on this ASAP, so here's my explanation for why I'm right:
He struggles with boredom & impulse control (just look at his behavior in the showers or when Hayden called at the cottage)
Also, despite being the number 1 draft pick, his father refers to him as lazy. I know a lot of people just see this as an example of how his father is an asshole (he is), but it could also very well be a sign that Ilya has had issues with attention or completing tasks that prompted his father to believe this about him. Inattentive ADHD is often viewed as laziness, particularly in children.
He’s constantly stimming (see him playing with his ear when he & Shane are hanging out, him shaking his leg at the airport or so many other examples of him picking or fidgeting)
He functions best under pressure or in a crisis & is constantly looking for something to stimulate him (see hockey, but also see how level-headed he is when Shane’s dad catches them or how he immediately comes up with a plan for Alexei when confronted at his dad’s funeral)
He also thrives in a very structured environment that simultaneously offers a lot of variety (hockey being very very organized & routine, but also having him traveling a lot & playing different games/teams continually)
He engages in a lot of dopamine seeking behavior (hockey being a big one combining both the dopamine release of exercise with the high stakes pressure of competition, but also he is constantly working out, and when he isn’t he’s partying, smoking, drinking, gambling, and having casual sex, all behaviors associated with dopamine seeking. And then there’s his sports car obsession)
He also eats food that are classic ADHD cravings, like greasy fast food, or things rich in carbs or sugars, and he uses food as emotional comfort (this is more in the books than the show)
He works best as part of a team where he has external accountability to push him to accomplish tasks.
He’s very very social but struggles with keeping long term relationships except with a select few people, who he notably has irregular contact with.
He arguably has RSD, although this is more apparent in book 2, but I think the way he works so fucking hard to keep things casual in the early part of their relationship & then is so hurt over the Rose Landry of it all really shows how he struggles with emotional attachments.
Notably, his depression also gets increasingly worse when he's isolated and no longer as intensely in his fight or flight mode, like he was while he was dealing with his family in Russia and the constant fear of his relationship with Shane being discovered (and subsequent thrill of hiding it). Once the majority of the threat is removed and he has less reason to keep things hidden, he begins to crash, and his depression becomes a much more serious concern. Notably, he also has fewer of his classic dopamine fixes to comfort him (he's quit smoking, he's not partying as much or having casual sex anymore, and he's not experiencing the high of winning games anymore) and he leans much more heavily on food and playing with Chiron to get his dopamine fix.
Also, this has nothing to really do with his behavior, but he's statistically more likely to be neurodivergent due to being queer and by having a neurodivergent partner, and the fact that he understands Shane so well & they have such a deep & meaningful relationship feels like an argument for it imo. He doesn’t have to be neurodivergent to be with Shane, but it makes sense to me that his understanding of Shane comes from his own neurodivergence.
All of that to say, Ilya is my ADHD king, and I will not be hearing otherwise.
Ok but Frankie would have a think for an ankle bracelet and would freak the fuck out watching jt dangle and shake on your ankle while he’s on top of you with your legs on his shoulders
Happy Frankie Friday, mi amores. No tags for this one, we're going in blind.
word count: ~ 350
Adorned for Him
He had you bent in half, pretzeled beneath him, every thrust brutal and deep enough to steal your breath. And then he saw it: the anklet. The little string of shells you’d bought on your first trip together, rattling against your ankle with every snap of his hips.
His control faltered. His eyes darkened. “Fuck… you’re still wearing it,” he rasped, voice guttural. “Our first trip and now you’re begging me to finish inside you with it shaking like that?” His hips drove harder, deeper, jaw tight like he was holding back, but the sounds spilling from him were wrecked, feral.
“Please, Frankie,” you begged, clutching around him, whimpering. “Inside, give me everything…. I want it….Need it.”
That tore him apart. His control snapped, every thrust ragged and desperate as he groaned against your mouth, words spilling unfiltered.
“Gonna fill you up—fuck, give you everything,” a plea and a promise all at once. “You’d look so good with my cum dripping out of you. You’ll look so beautiful carrying my baby, all round and glowing with me inside you.”
The thought tore another guttural sound from him, his pace erratic now, every thrust a surrender to the feral hunger that owned him. He buried himself to the hilt, grinding deep like he could make sure none of him ever left you, chest shuddering as the need to mark you burned hotter than anything he’d ever survived.
His moan was ragged against your lips, body trembling as he pressed in deep and came hard, each thick pulse spilling inside you until he shuddered with the ruin of it.
And then softness. His body relaxed, forehead still pressed to yours as his breath slowed. He carefully lowered your legs, his hand sliding down to catch your ankle, rough fingertips against your soft skin.
His lips lingered on the shells, a prayer against your temple, so soft you almost misheard it over the pounding in your ears. “I can’t wait to make you a mama soon,” he murmured, almost to himself. “And I’ll never stop worshipping you for giving me that.”
So I need 44 year old Frankie, just a few days shy of his 45th birthday that has decided to give up and love and accepted it’s not for him, that he’ll be sad the rest of his life. He’s hesitant to go out and celebrate because he’s the only one of his buddies who hasn’t found their person but he does and just when he thinks the night is over, he meets you and gets the wind knocked out of him and now maybe, just maybe he’s not ready to give up on love just yet
Hey anon, I love that! So I rolled with it, hope you like it. I adore a nice meet-cute :) Title shamelessly stolen from my queen TS.
they say that if it's right, you know
pairing: Frankie Morales x gn! reader
tags: meet-cute, fluff, angst, some self-deprecating thoughts, man really needs a hug, birthday depression, dad! Frankie, alcohol mention, soft!/slightly grumpy!Frankie, some flirting
word count: ~2,3k
Frankie hated his birthday.
It wasn’t always like that. Back before the army, before the trauma, before loss and heartbreak, he used to love it. The candles on the cake, the feeling of being cherished—it was one of the few bright, untarnished memories left from a life that hadn’t yet been painted gray.
Now he didn’t even bother to mark the day on the calendar, didn’t bother asking for time off. After everything—Brazil, the divorce, the funeral of one of his best friends—he didn’t see the point. Birthdays felt like a cruel joke, another reminder that he’d made it one more year when so many didn’t.
But Santi insisted on dragging him out tonight, so here he was.
Standing in front of the fogged-up bathroom mirror after a shower, staring at a reflection he barely recognized. Dark shadows carved under his eyes. The scar splitting his cheekbone, a souvenir from the helicopter crash he wasn’t supposed to walk away from. He scrubbed a hand through his unruly curls and sighed. He was two seconds away from bailing, but he knew better. If he didn’t show, Santi would barge through his front door with that infuriating grin and a “You deserve some fun, hermano.” And as much as Frankie knew his friend meant well, tonight he felt like punching that grin clean off his face.
With just a towel slung low on his hips, he wandered into the bedroom and opened his closet, searching for something that didn’t scream I gave up three years ago. His fingers landed on a light denim button-up he’d picked up at a secondhand shop. He pulled it on, huffing when the button around his middle strained uncomfortably. He needed to hit the gym again. He rolled up the sleeves—he was always running hot anyway—and, for once, reached for the cologne that collected dust on his dresser.
At the bar, the boys were already there. Will had a wedding date coming up, Benny was working through another girl who might be the one, and Santi—Christ, Santi always seemed to land on his feet, somehow. He watched from the sidelines, like a passenger on a flight he didn’t remember booking, nursing his beer while the others talked. Fiancées. Rings. Mortgages. Words that used to belong to him once, back when he thought he’d made it. Back when there was a wife waiting at home and a baby he loved more than his own life.
But all of that flew out the window when he came back from Brazil with new ghosts stuffed in his luggage and grief so heavy it suffocated everything in its path. Not just him, her too. He couldn’t even blame his ex-wife for leaving, for taking their kid with her. Hell, he didn’t want to be around himself either.
Now he only saw his kid on birthdays, on holidays—brief snapshots of a life that used to be his. He watched the woman he once promised forever to fall in love with someone else, watched her build the family they were supposed to have. Watched her give that man the baby that might’ve been his too.
The sting dulled with time, fading into a steady ache that never really went away. He told himself he was glad for her, because he was. She deserved love, stability, all the things he couldn’t give. Still, there was a bitterness tucked beneath the acceptance. A quiet knowing that his chance had passed, that he’d missed the window to build something lasting. He hadn’t lost it for lack of trying. He’d simply run out of time. He’d just turned forty-five, and what did he have to offer? Nothing but the weight he dragged behind him: unresolved trauma and sleepless nights haunted by ghosts he couldn’t outrun.
Somewhere along the way, he’d stopped believing in love, or anything close to it. The handful of dates he’d forced himself into after the divorce only reminded him why. The first ones were shallow, women looking for someone to cover the bill. The few who stuck around past a second date bolted the moment he let even a sliver of his past show through. One glimpse of the darkness he carried, and they were gone.
So he stopped trying. Deleted the apps. Buried himself in work, dulled the edges with liquor, and told himself he didn’t need more than that. Love was a younger man’s game, not for someone patched together with scars and second chances.
Funny then, how it had a way of finding you the second you swore it off.
—
By the time the third round hit the table, Frankie was already regretting letting Santi talk him into this. The bar was loud, warm, full of laughter that didn’t quite reach him. He nursed his beer while the others swapped stories and bragged about wedding plans, new houses, anniversaries.
Benny clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to jolt him. “Jesus, Fish, you look like you’re at a funeral. Loosen up.”
Frankie grunted. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the single old man at the table.”
“Old?” Benny barked a laugh. “You’re not old, you’re… seasoned.” He smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “Besides, not like you’re invisible. That one at the bar’s been glancing this way all night.”
Frankie followed his line of sight—casual, or so he tried. Sure enough, there was someone perched at the bar stool, drink in hand, laughing at something the bartender said. Tipsy, maybe. Cute, definitely. The kind of person who looked like they belonged in the moment, not dragging a hundred pounds of baggage behind them.
“Not happening,” Frankie muttered, taking another sip.
Benny rolled his eyes. “C’mon. Go say hi.”
“No.”
“Fish,” Benny drawled, leaning in, “you’ve flown helicopters into war zones, but you’re scared of talking to someone at a bar?”
Frankie shot him a look. “That’s not the same thing.”
“Exactly. This is easier. Hell, I dare you.”
“Jesus Christ,” Frankie muttered, but Santi was grinning now too, which meant there was no way out. He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re all a bunch of assholes.”
“Maybe,” Benny said, grinning wide, “but we’re assholes who are about to watch you get off your stool and walk over there.”
The beer buzz in his veins made him reckless enough to stand up. He muttered something about regretting this already, ignoring their whoops as he crossed the floor. The music was loud, the air smelled like spilled whiskey and too much perfume, and for a second he almost turned back.
But then he was close enough to bump shoulders, close enough that your drink sloshed, splashing onto his sleeve.
“Oh shit—sorry!” you said quickly, eyes wide, words tumbling over yourself. “I didn’t mean to—”
Frankie shook his head, lifting a hand. “Hey, it’s fine. My fault. Should’ve watched where I was going.”
And without having any control over it, the evening shifted.
You were still fussing with a napkin, blotting at his sleeve, when Frankie finally cracked a smile. A real one. Boyish and a little crooked, but honest.
“Relax,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “This shirt’s from a thrift store. Probably deserved it anyway.”
That earned him a soft, unguarded laugh and God, it did something to him. Heat crawled up his neck, a warmth he hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever.
“Still,” you insisted. “Let me buy you another drink to make up for it?”
Frankie shook his head, leaning an elbow on the bar. “You don’t owe me a thing. But if you insist, maybe consider not wasting good whiskey on my sleeve next time.”
“Deal,” you grinned, lifting your glass in mock salute before taking a sip.
—
It could’ve ended there, but the bartender slid another round in front of you, and Frankie found himself lingering, the buzz making him braver than usual. His eyes flicked to the dartboard across the room. “You play?”
You followed his gaze, then snorted. “Badly.”
“Perfect.” He straightened, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I play badly too. Makes us even.”
Which wasn’t true, not even close. Frankie’s aim was steady, still sharp from years of needing it to be. But he wasn’t about to tell you that. Not when you were smiling at him like this, like he was someone worth saying yes to.
“Fine,” you said after a beat, sliding off the stool with a little wobble. His hand was there instantly, warm at your elbow, steadying without crowding. Respectful, careful. “But don’t laugh when I lose.”
“No promises.”
Your laugh followed him all the way to the dartboard, lighter than the weight in his chest had felt in years, brighter than the fluorescents overhead could ever manage. He watched you line up your shot and miss spectacularly, biting down on his knuckle to smother the laugh threatening to break free.
“I said, no laughing!” you protested, spinning on your heel.
Frankie lifted both hands in mock surrender, smile tugging at his mouth. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry.”
You narrowed your eyes, pretending to pout, before your whole face broke into a grin—all teeth, unguarded joy. And it hit Frankie like a jolt of lightning. Sharp, unexpected. Disarming him in ways he hadn’t felt in years.
Frankie lined up his shot next, half-distracted by the curve of your grin, and let the dart fly. It hit dead center. Your jaw dropped. “You said you can’t play. That was clearly a lie!”
Frankie chuckled, taking a slow sip from his beer. His eyes locked with yours over the rim of the glass, intense but controlled, like he was holding back something deeper. “Beginner’s luck,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
The two of you went round after round, your misses met with his muffled laughter and mock scolding, until you were both doubled over in the kind of easy fun that drew attention. Frankie barely noticed the boys at their booth, watching with quiet amusement, until you glanced over.
“Who are they?” you asked, tilting your chin toward the group.
Frankie hesitated, then sighed. “Old friends. We… served together. Army.”
He braced himself for the usual—the shift in expression, the too-curious questions, the awkward silence—but you only nodded, eyes warm, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Relief washed through him, subtle but heavy, loosening something in his chest.
The night stretched endless. The bar thinned out until it was just the faint hum of the jukebox and the clink of glasses being stacked. Conversation between you flowed easy, like you’d known each other way longer than a few hours. When closing time rolled around, Frankie finally cleared his throat. “Can I bring you home?”
You shook your head, wobbling a little as you grabbed your coat. “I’ll take a cab.”
“At least let me pay for it,” he insisted.
—
Outside, the cool air kissed flushed cheeks, both of you softened by liquor and the lateness of the hour. Frankie shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, searching for something to fill the silence, and it slipped out before he could catch it.
“It’s my birthday today.”
Your head snapped toward him. “Whaaaat? Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
He shrugged, ears burning. “Didn’t think it mattered.”
“Didn’t think it—” You shook your head, incredulous, then leaned closer, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, birthday boys get a kiss.”
Frankie barely had time to react before you pressed your lips to his cheek. Lingering. Warm. By the time you pulled back, his cheeks heated up, his chest tight, and his heart pounding so hard he was sure you could hear it. He was done for, and he knew it. For all the ways he thought he’d grown numb to things like this, you proved him wrong in a single breath.
The cab rolled up just in time to save him from embarrassment. Frankie opened the door for you, still dazed by the kiss.
“Wait— can I ask you for your—?” he blurted, suddenly terrified this was about to vanish into nothing.
You grinned, already half in the cab. “Give me your phone.”
He fumbled the phone into your hand, watching your fingers move quick over the screen before you pressed it back into his palm. The moment he saw your name typed into his phone next to your number something clicked. When he looked up again, you slipped into the cab, and he shut the door gently after you. Through the darkened window, you waved, and he stood there, rooted, watching until the taillights disappeared.
—
By the time Frankie got home, his apartment was quiet. Too quiet. He kicked off his boots, shrugged out of the denim shirt that still smelled faintly of smoke and beer, and collapsed onto the mattress without bothering with the light, staring at the ceiling.
Sleep didn’t come. His mind replayed the night in flashes — your laugh ringing across the dartboard, the heat that crawled up his neck when your lips brushed his cheek. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Forty-five years old and he felt like a teenager again, undone by a smile and a number in his phone.
He stared at the screen until his thumb moved of its own accord.
Frankie: Thanks for making my birthday suck a little less
For a second he hovered, tempted to delete it. Too much, too soft. But he hit send anyway and set the phone down on his chest, waiting. It buzzed almost immediately.
You: That’s the grumpiest “thank you” I’ve ever read
A low laugh rumbled out of him in the dark, surprising even himself. He typed back.
Frankie: Guess I’m better at darts than gratitude
Your reply was quick and playful.
You: Lucky for you, I’m willing to teach you gratitude, as long as you teach me how to not embarrass myself at the dartboard ;)
Frankie lay there, phone glowing against his chest, smile tugging at his mouth in the dark. For the first time in years, the ache in his chest loosened just a little. And before his eyes finally drifted shut, one last thought settled heavy but sweet: maybe timing hadn’t given up on him after all.
Keep losing track of my tag-list so please leave a note, reblog or like if you wanna be added! The taglist for now will consist of Frankie Morales x Reader but may be expanded later on!
tags: MDNI 18+, straight up pwp, bodily fluids, face sitting, Frankie talks you through, filth, praise, male masturbation, we love whimpering men
notes: Inspired by this reblog.
word count: ~ 670
You blinked at him, half-laughing, half-disbelieving, when he tilted his head back against the couch and said it.
“Go on. Take a seat on my face.”
You’d thought he was joking. The crooked grin, the casual shrug. But then his dark eyes pinned you in place, the gravel in his voice leaving no room for teasing.
And that’s how you ended up here—knees planted on either side of his head, thighs trembling as you lowered yourself until his stubble grazed your most sensitive skin. He peppered the inside of your thighs with soft kisses, before his nose pressed against your clit. His breath fanned hot and filthy against you as he groaned into you like you were the only air he’d ever need. You hesitated at first, afraid you might crush him with your weight, but he only shook his head, voice rough as he said, “I’m a grown man, I can handle that.” Somehow, the words made you feel lighter and you lowered yourself down until you were literally sitting on his handsome face.
His hands clamped to your hips, not to guide you—no, he let you move—but to keep you there. “You okay?” he asked, voice muffled between your thighs and you nodded. The coarse drag of his beard was maddening, wet tongue flattening and circling around your clit until you couldn’t tell if you wanted to grind down harder or run from the overstimulation.
Every time your hips rocked, you felt the hard ridge of his nose where you needed it most, saw his eyes roll back like he was the one being undone. And god, he was—his cock straining thick against his sweats, twitching as he moaned into your heat.
“Please—fuck—I need—” his voice broke, desperate, muted against you. “Let me—just let me touch myself, baby, please.”
You looked down at him, blinking, hands still fisting his curls. The way he begged, ragged and wrecked, nearly undid you right there. He was trembling, holding himself back like it was torture, like the only thing in the world that mattered was you riding his face until you broke, like your pleasure was a prize to be won.
When you finally gave him permission, the low, guttural sound he made vibrated straight through you too. His hand flew down, pulling his sweats down, groaning when he finally freed himself. You didn’t even have to look, you could feel it in the way his hips bucked, the way his moan broke against your pussy when his fist wrapped around his cock. A sharp, broken whimper escaped him and it made your stomach twist tight with heat.
“Fuck, baby… you’re so good to me,” he gasped, his nose grinding against you as his tongue dove deeper, messy, desperate. “Taste so fucking sweet—ride my face, come on, give it to me. Wanna feel you soak me while I jerk off like a pathetic fuckin’ man under you.”
Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging when he pressed harder, seemingly burying his face in you. “You’re everything, baby. God, I’m so hard for you… gonna come all over myself if you keep grinding down like that.”
The obscene sounds of his fist working his cock mixed with the wet, hungry slurps of his mouth between your thighs was dizzying. He didn’t stop, not even when your hips shook, not even when you whimpered his name like a prayer. He was relentless, driven. Every reaction of you just seemed to spur him on more.
“That’s it, fuck, that’s my girl. Make a mess on me.” His voice was wrecked, trembling. Then, low and urgent, “Come with me, please. Wanna feel you fall apart while I ruin myself for you.”
You were already teetering on the edge, thighs trembling around his head, his nose and beard rubbing you raw as you finally shattered, thighs squeezing his beautiful face tight. Seconds later he followed, whimpering into your cunt as hot streaks painted his soft belly and you were catching your breath.
It was that moment you realized there was nothing sweeter than Francisco Morales begging to come while worshipping you like this.
tags: ANGST, infidelity, unprotected PinV, desperate sex, hurt and no comfort, intoxication, struggling!Frankie, self-destructive behavior, a lot of negative feelings, pining, longing, pregnancy mention, wedding vibes
summary: War didn’t break him, loving her did.
notes: This one only exists because of my ride-or-die @rhapsodyofdarkness, who handed me the spark for it. I’ve missed writing pure angst, and trust me, you better keep the tissues close, because this one cuts deep. Moodboard & dividers done by my incredibly talented friend @holbrk <3
word count: 2,6 k
Frankie had been to war. He’d seen men blown apart, blood soaking the earth until the dirt turned black beneath his boots. He’d walked through it and somehow lived. He carried shadows, chased highs to quiet the ghosts of killing for money.
And yet this—watching her walk down the aisle in white—was worse.
His palms itched in the stiff rented suit, the tie choking him no matter how many times he adjusted it. Beside him, Tom shifted nervously, face breaking into a smug smile when she reached the altar. Frankie stared hard at the floor, because if he looked too long at her, it would be written all over his face. The feelings no drug had ever been able to drown out.
He’d loved her for years. Quietly. Hopelessly. In the spaces between deployments and cheap beers with the boys. He told himself it was enough, that she was happy, and that was all that mattered. That Tom, for all his faults, could give her something Frankie never could. Stability. A man less haunted, less heavy. They’d all carried the aftermath of serving differently. Tom built houses and sold dreams, steadying himself on blueprints and commissions. Frankie stumbled from one shitty job to the next, always a step behind the life he thought he might have had.
While she was a vision in white, radiant and beautiful, his thoughts drifted back to the night that changed everything.
It hit him in waves, crueler than the organ music echoing through the church.
It was late when she knocked on his door, mascara streaking down her cheeks, whispering “he doesn’t love me, Frankie, not really.”
He tried to comfort her, like any good friend would. Hushed her inside, pressed tea into her hands, rubbed her shoulders gently, told her she was overthinking, that she didn’t need to cry. But all that friendship went up in flames the second she leaned into him—clutching his shirt, burying her face in his neck, hot tears soaking through the cotton. He held her, stroking circles into her back, whispering soft words, until the air around them shifted.
Charged. Dangerous. Like the second before a match is struck.
The want was alive under his skin, crawling, clawing to be let out. His nose brushed through her hair as he inhaled her, savoring the closeness that burned him alive; salvation disguised as damnation. And when she finally lifted her head, blotched and tearstained, his heart kicked hard, because even like this she was strikingly beautiful.
He cupped her face. His thumb caught on a tear, her cheek leaned into his palm, and then she pressed the barest kiss to his wrist. His breath caught—gone.
Their foreheads met, a trembling half-step from a fall, sharing the same air. And then she closed the distance. Tentative lips against his, trembling, soft. He pulled back instinctively, trying to spare her soul where his was already damned but she chased him. Tangled her fingers in his curls and tugged him closer until he caved, until he kissed her back, helpless to the pull.
She kissed him like he was the only solid thing left in her world. Like oxygen to someone drowning. And he submitted, because how could he not?
She straddled his lap like he was a magnet. Urgency lived in the tremble of her hands as she tugged at fabric, but it wasn’t thoughtless. It was desperate. Needed. The kind of need born from loneliness and the ache of being unseen.
He let her undress him piece by piece, even as his chest heaved with the weight of everything unsaid. Every brush of her fingers scorched him, every inch of skin revealed felt like a confession he had no right to make. His own hands shook as he touched her—not from hesitation, but reverence. Memorizing. Like if this burned them both, at least he’d know he had held her once.
Her lips sought his again, frantic at first, then lingering, as though she was trying to memorize him too. His name broke against her mouth in a low groan, half warning, half surrender.
“This isn’t—” he started, but the words died the second her hips rolled against his. The second her tears mixed with his breath, salt and want blurring into something he didn’t have the strength to stop.
So he sought the connection instead, the intimacy he had no right to hold. But with her moving above him, he was a lost cause. Hell had never looked more like heaven than when she was his ticket. She held onto him tightly, pressed against him until there wasn’t an inch of air left between them. First she rode him, then he flipped her, laying her on her back as he moved inside her. Deliberate at first, one hand holding her thigh steady as his thrusts deepened, grew rougher.
In another life, this would have been his view every night. But in this one, he only had tonight, so he made it count. Whispered filthy, reverent truths against her skin while he made a home deep inside her. She arched beneath him, nails tracing red lines down his back, marks he’d carry with pride, proof this had been real if only for one night. He watched pleasure bloom on her face, her hair fanned out on the sofa cushion, lips parted, and thought: she is art. Simple as that.
Every inch of him strained under the war inside—instinct screaming he had no right to this, to her. But her sobs had turned to whimpers of pleasure, her cries to broken whispers of his name, and he was helpless. Helpless to anything but giving her everything he had. He didn’t last long—not with all the pent-up emotion, not with the way she clenched around him like she’d never let him go.
When they came, it was earth-shattering. His release tore through him in hot waves, spilling into her as his whole body seized, then collapsed. He buried his face in her neck, groaning her name again and again, muffled and desperate, as if it could anchor him in the wreckage. And she held him too, trembling, catching her breath as they slowly drifted back down to earth.
She fell asleep in his arms that night. By morning, she was gone. And the silence that followed told him she meant for it to stay that way.
And now, standing there in that suit that felt like a costume, Frankie had to watch her look at his friend—his brother in all but blood—the way he’d spent years wishing she would look at him. The softness in her smile, the quiet devotion in her eyes hollowed him out. He swallowed down the bile rising in his throat and forced himself through it. Through the vows. Through the photographs. Through the clinking of champagne glasses and the endless laughter that grated like knives against his skull.
He told himself he could make it. That if he just stayed back, kept to the shadows, he could fade into the background until it was over. Until he could breathe again.
But then came the dance.
Someone called it tradition—the bride sharing a dance with each of the groomsmen. Frankie’s pulse spiked, heart slamming against his ribs as the words landed like a sentence. And when she turned toward him, veil lifted, eyes glossy in a way that wasn’t only from the wine, he knew there would be no fading into the background. Not from her. Not from this.
When they stepped onto the dancefloor, he set his hands carefully at her waist, leaving space between them. Too much space and still not nearly enough.
For a minute, they just swayed. The music dulled around them, everything else blurring until it was just the two of them. Frankie couldn’t breathe. Every breath he took felt like fire in his lungs. He couldn’t stop staring at the curve of her mouth, the way she wouldn’t quite meet his eyes because somewhere, deep down, she must’ve felt it too. This thing between them that wasn’t named, but still very much alive.
After a few more undecided steps, she said, soft enough he almost thought he imagined it:
“I’m pregnant.”
The floor dropped out from under him. If there ever was a moment that Frankie wished the earth would swallow him whole, it was this. He involuntarily tightened his grip on her waist without meaning to, looking around as if to check if someone was listening, until he searched her face. “What?”
Her gaze finally flicked up to his, guilty and frightened. “I don’t know if it’s Tom’s or yours...”
The song swelled. From the outside it seemed like nothing had changed, but here, in this little pocket of time, everything slowed down. People clapped around them but Frankie’s throat closed up. His mind was fire and static, flashing back to her body beneath his, the sound of her whispering his name in the dark.
For the first time in years, Frankie almost fell to his knees under the weight of her confession.
The song ended, applause swelling around him like static in his ears. Frankie released her hands before he could splinter right there in front of everyone. His breath came rough, words tumbling out under it—maybe a “sorry,” maybe just “need air,” he couldn’t tell. And then he was moving, walking off the floor on legs that felt anything but steady.
He pushed through the crowd, people turning their heads, eyes boring into his back but all he could think about was to make it out the door before everyone could see him losing it. The faint echo of laughter and clinking glasses followed him until he finally pushed the exit open. The heavy wood groaned when he shoved it open, and the night hit him like a fist.
The cold air slapped his face, stinging enough to hurt, sharp enough to almost steady him. He dragged in a breath that scorched his lungs, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing would be enough.
His hands fumbled at his jacket, pulling out the crumpled pack of cigarettes. He managed to get one between his lips, but when he flicked the lighter, his fingers shook so badly the flame wouldn’t catch.
“Fuck,” he hissed, voice breaking. The word fogged in the night air. He tried again, thumb scraping raw against the wheel, but the tremor in his hands made it useless. He gave up, sliding down until he was sitting on the damp concrete, head buried in his palms, silent sobs shaking through his body.
The truth pressed down all at once, brutal in its clarity. How was he supposed to move on from this? The woman he’d loved for years now carrying another man’s name. Maybe carrying his child. What kind of sick cosmic joke was that? How could the universe be so cruel—giving him the smallest sliver of something he’d longed for, only to rip it away?
Tears burned down his cheeks, but they didn’t wash her out of him. Frankie had never felt the world collapse so quietly, his surroundings unchanged, laughter still drifting from inside while his entire inner world tilted off its axis.
Under a night sky vast and steady, so unlike the wreckage inside him, he wished for the numbness of war. For drugs. For the high that used to make the pain recede. The itch prickled beneath his skin, an old enemy returning, and he almost welcomed it. Because it was better than the black hole yawning wide in his chest.
Loving her. Losing her. Watching from the sidelines while she was raising a child that could’ve been his with a man that used to be his brother in arms.
It was something he couldn’t fight his way out of. And knowing that this was his new reality, was what suffocated him most of all.
He sat outside a minute longer, head in his hands, letting the night air cut at him until the worst of the sobs dulled to a raw throb in his chest. He couldn’t stay there without raising suspicion. Not without someone coming to find him. So he scrubbed at his face with rough hands, shoved the useless cigarette back into the pack, and forced himself upright.
Inside, the lights were too bright. The laughter too sharp. He headed straight for the bar, ordered whiskey neat, and downed it before the glass hit the counter. Then another, and another. If he could drown himself, maybe he wouldn’t feel the pieces of himself grinding together like broken glass.
He was halfway through the fourth when Tom appeared, flushed with drink and joy, clapping Frankie on the back hard enough to jolt the glass in his hand. “There you are, Fish! Thought you’d gone AWOL on me.”
Frankie managed a tight smile, eyes glued to the amber liquid in his glass. “Wouldn’t miss it, man.”
Tom leaned in, conspiratorial, grinning so wide it hurt to look at him. “We haven’t told everyone yet, but you’re family, so… she’s pregnant. Can you believe it?” He laughed, joy bubbling over. “I’m gonna be a dad.”
The words twisted in Frankie’s gut like a blade. He swallowed down the ugly jealousy that rose, muttered, “Congrats,” his voice flat, a ghost of sincerity in it. He had no right to feel that way.
But Tom didn’t notice, or simply didn’t care. He kept talking, twisting the knife without knowing it. “She’s glowing already, isn’t she? God, I’m so lucky. She’s gonna make the best mom. Our kid’s gonna have her smile. Hell, maybe even her wit.” He chuckled, pride dripping from every word.
Frankie’s jaw locked until it throbbed. He kept his eyes fixed on the bar top, on the warped reflection staring back at him, while his chest caved in piece by piece. He didn’t dare open his mouth, afraid of what might spill out. Instead, he tipped the glass in his hand, watching the whiskey swirl, searching the amber depths like the bottom might hold an answer he could live with.
“Tom.” Her voice cut through the haze, sharp but quiet. She appeared at her husband’s side, slipping her hand into his, tugging gently. “Come on, they’re waiting for us.”
Tom grinned down at her, squeezing her hand, but Frankie only saw the way her gaze lingered on him. Just a second too long. Too heavy, and too much for a night that belonged to her and Tom, where Frankie didn’t have a single square inch of space.
And then she was gone, pulled back into the whirl of music and clinking glasses, into a love built on lies. Frankie was left with nothing but the hollow ache, drowning what was left of him in the burn of liquor and the weight of regret.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, time lost its meaning, drowning himself glass after glass until the room tilted and blurred. The burn in his throat was the only thing keeping him upright.
“Jesus Christ.” A strong hand gripped his shoulder. Santi’s voice, low and sharp. “You’re a fucking mess, Frankie.”
Frankie blinked up at him, eyes bloodshot, lids heavy. “M’fine.” He lied. His stomach churned as Santi hauled him to his feet. The motion alone made him gag, and before they even made it far, he was bent over in the bushes, vomiting until his throat was raw.
Santi kept a steady hand between his shoulder blades, grimacing but firm. “What the hell is going on with you?”
Frankie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, breath ragged. He tried to answer, words slurred, broken. “She’s…she’s not mine.”
Santi frowned, leaning closer. “What?”
But Frankie was already sliding down the wall, his body giving out like a puppet with its strings cut, the world tilting too far for him to catch. Her words echoed in his skull, the last thing he heard before the dark swallowed him whole.
tags: ANGST, infidelity, unprotected PinV, desperate sex, hurt and no comfort, intoxication, struggling!Frankie, self-destructive behavior, a lot of negative feelings, pining, longing, pregnancy mention, wedding vibes
summary: War didn’t break him, loving her did.
notes: This one only exists because of my ride-or-die @rhapsodyofdarkness, who handed me the spark for it. I’ve missed writing pure angst, and trust me, you better keep the tissues close, because this one cuts deep. Moodboard & dividers done by my incredibly talented friend @holbrk <3
word count: 2,6 k
Frankie had been to war. He’d seen men blown apart, blood soaking the earth until the dirt turned black beneath his boots. He’d walked through it and somehow lived. He carried shadows, chased highs to quiet the ghosts of killing for money.
And yet this—watching her walk down the aisle in white—was worse.
His palms itched in the stiff rented suit, the tie choking him no matter how many times he adjusted it. Beside him, Tom shifted nervously, face breaking into a smug smile when she reached the altar. Frankie stared hard at the floor, because if he looked too long at her, it would be written all over his face. The feelings no drug had ever been able to drown out.
He’d loved her for years. Quietly. Hopelessly. In the spaces between deployments and cheap beers with the boys. He told himself it was enough, that she was happy, and that was all that mattered. That Tom, for all his faults, could give her something Frankie never could. Stability. A man less haunted, less heavy. They’d all carried the aftermath of serving differently. Tom built houses and sold dreams, steadying himself on blueprints and commissions. Frankie stumbled from one shitty job to the next, always a step behind the life he thought he might have had.
While she was a vision in white, radiant and beautiful, his thoughts drifted back to the night that changed everything.
It hit him in waves, crueler than the organ music echoing through the church.
It was late when she knocked on his door, mascara streaking down her cheeks, whispering “he doesn’t love me, Frankie, not really.”
He tried to comfort her, like any good friend would. Hushed her inside, pressed tea into her hands, rubbed her shoulders gently, told her she was overthinking, that she didn’t need to cry. But all that friendship went up in flames the second she leaned into him—clutching his shirt, burying her face in his neck, hot tears soaking through the cotton. He held her, stroking circles into her back, whispering soft words, until the air around them shifted.
Charged. Dangerous. Like the second before a match is struck.
The want was alive under his skin, crawling, clawing to be let out. His nose brushed through her hair as he inhaled her, savoring the closeness that burned him alive; salvation disguised as damnation. And when she finally lifted her head, blotched and tearstained, his heart kicked hard, because even like this she was strikingly beautiful.
He cupped her face. His thumb caught on a tear, her cheek leaned into his palm, and then she pressed the barest kiss to his wrist. His breath caught—gone.
Their foreheads met, a trembling half-step from a fall, sharing the same air. And then she closed the distance. Tentative lips against his, trembling, soft. He pulled back instinctively, trying to spare her soul where his was already damned but she chased him. Tangled her fingers in his curls and tugged him closer until he caved, until he kissed her back, helpless to the pull.
She kissed him like he was the only solid thing left in her world. Like oxygen to someone drowning. And he submitted, because how could he not?
She straddled his lap like he was a magnet. Urgency lived in the tremble of her hands as she tugged at fabric, but it wasn’t thoughtless. It was desperate. Needed. The kind of need born from loneliness and the ache of being unseen.
He let her undress him piece by piece, even as his chest heaved with the weight of everything unsaid. Every brush of her fingers scorched him, every inch of skin revealed felt like a confession he had no right to make. His own hands shook as he touched her—not from hesitation, but reverence. Memorizing. Like if this burned them both, at least he’d know he had held her once.
Her lips sought his again, frantic at first, then lingering, as though she was trying to memorize him too. His name broke against her mouth in a low groan, half warning, half surrender.
“This isn’t—” he started, but the words died the second her hips rolled against his. The second her tears mixed with his breath, salt and want blurring into something he didn’t have the strength to stop.
So he sought the connection instead, the intimacy he had no right to hold. But with her moving above him, he was a lost cause. Hell had never looked more like heaven than when she was his ticket. She held onto him tightly, pressed against him until there wasn’t an inch of air left between them. First she rode him, then he flipped her, laying her on her back as he moved inside her. Deliberate at first, one hand holding her thigh steady as his thrusts deepened, grew rougher.
In another life, this would have been his view every night. But in this one, he only had tonight, so he made it count. Whispered filthy, reverent truths against her skin while he made a home deep inside her. She arched beneath him, nails tracing red lines down his back, marks he’d carry with pride, proof this had been real if only for one night. He watched pleasure bloom on her face, her hair fanned out on the sofa cushion, lips parted, and thought: she is art. Simple as that.
Every inch of him strained under the war inside—instinct screaming he had no right to this, to her. But her sobs had turned to whimpers of pleasure, her cries to broken whispers of his name, and he was helpless. Helpless to anything but giving her everything he had. He didn’t last long—not with all the pent-up emotion, not with the way she clenched around him like she’d never let him go.
When they came, it was earth-shattering. His release tore through him in hot waves, spilling into her as his whole body seized, then collapsed. He buried his face in her neck, groaning her name again and again, muffled and desperate, as if it could anchor him in the wreckage. And she held him too, trembling, catching her breath as they slowly drifted back down to earth.
She fell asleep in his arms that night. By morning, she was gone. And the silence that followed told him she meant for it to stay that way.
And now, standing there in that suit that felt like a costume, Frankie had to watch her look at his friend—his brother in all but blood—the way he’d spent years wishing she would look at him. The softness in her smile, the quiet devotion in her eyes hollowed him out. He swallowed down the bile rising in his throat and forced himself through it. Through the vows. Through the photographs. Through the clinking of champagne glasses and the endless laughter that grated like knives against his skull.
He told himself he could make it. That if he just stayed back, kept to the shadows, he could fade into the background until it was over. Until he could breathe again.
But then came the dance.
Someone called it tradition—the bride sharing a dance with each of the groomsmen. Frankie’s pulse spiked, heart slamming against his ribs as the words landed like a sentence. And when she turned toward him, veil lifted, eyes glossy in a way that wasn’t only from the wine, he knew there would be no fading into the background. Not from her. Not from this.
When they stepped onto the dancefloor, he set his hands carefully at her waist, leaving space between them. Too much space and still not nearly enough.
For a minute, they just swayed. The music dulled around them, everything else blurring until it was just the two of them. Frankie couldn’t breathe. Every breath he took felt like fire in his lungs. He couldn’t stop staring at the curve of her mouth, the way she wouldn’t quite meet his eyes because somewhere, deep down, she must’ve felt it too. This thing between them that wasn’t named, but still very much alive.
After a few more undecided steps, she said, soft enough he almost thought he imagined it:
“I’m pregnant.”
The floor dropped out from under him. If there ever was a moment that Frankie wished the earth would swallow him whole, it was this. He involuntarily tightened his grip on her waist without meaning to, looking around as if to check if someone was listening, until he searched her face. “What?”
Her gaze finally flicked up to his, guilty and frightened. “I don’t know if it’s Tom’s or yours...”
The song swelled. From the outside it seemed like nothing had changed, but here, in this little pocket of time, everything slowed down. People clapped around them but Frankie’s throat closed up. His mind was fire and static, flashing back to her body beneath his, the sound of her whispering his name in the dark.
For the first time in years, Frankie almost fell to his knees under the weight of her confession.
The song ended, applause swelling around him like static in his ears. Frankie released her hands before he could splinter right there in front of everyone. His breath came rough, words tumbling out under it—maybe a “sorry,” maybe just “need air,” he couldn’t tell. And then he was moving, walking off the floor on legs that felt anything but steady.
He pushed through the crowd, people turning their heads, eyes boring into his back but all he could think about was to make it out the door before everyone could see him losing it. The faint echo of laughter and clinking glasses followed him until he finally pushed the exit open. The heavy wood groaned when he shoved it open, and the night hit him like a fist.
The cold air slapped his face, stinging enough to hurt, sharp enough to almost steady him. He dragged in a breath that scorched his lungs, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing would be enough.
His hands fumbled at his jacket, pulling out the crumpled pack of cigarettes. He managed to get one between his lips, but when he flicked the lighter, his fingers shook so badly the flame wouldn’t catch.
“Fuck,” he hissed, voice breaking. The word fogged in the night air. He tried again, thumb scraping raw against the wheel, but the tremor in his hands made it useless. He gave up, sliding down until he was sitting on the damp concrete, head buried in his palms, silent sobs shaking through his body.
The truth pressed down all at once, brutal in its clarity. How was he supposed to move on from this? The woman he’d loved for years now carrying another man’s name. Maybe carrying his child. What kind of sick cosmic joke was that? How could the universe be so cruel—giving him the smallest sliver of something he’d longed for, only to rip it away?
Tears burned down his cheeks, but they didn’t wash her out of him. Frankie had never felt the world collapse so quietly, his surroundings unchanged, laughter still drifting from inside while his entire inner world tilted off its axis.
Under a night sky vast and steady, so unlike the wreckage inside him, he wished for the numbness of war. For drugs. For the high that used to make the pain recede. The itch prickled beneath his skin, an old enemy returning, and he almost welcomed it. Because it was better than the black hole yawning wide in his chest.
Loving her. Losing her. Watching from the sidelines while she was raising a child that could’ve been his with a man that used to be his brother in arms.
It was something he couldn’t fight his way out of. And knowing that this was his new reality, was what suffocated him most of all.
He sat outside a minute longer, head in his hands, letting the night air cut at him until the worst of the sobs dulled to a raw throb in his chest. He couldn’t stay there without raising suspicion. Not without someone coming to find him. So he scrubbed at his face with rough hands, shoved the useless cigarette back into the pack, and forced himself upright.
Inside, the lights were too bright. The laughter too sharp. He headed straight for the bar, ordered whiskey neat, and downed it before the glass hit the counter. Then another, and another. If he could drown himself, maybe he wouldn’t feel the pieces of himself grinding together like broken glass.
He was halfway through the fourth when Tom appeared, flushed with drink and joy, clapping Frankie on the back hard enough to jolt the glass in his hand. “There you are, Fish! Thought you’d gone AWOL on me.”
Frankie managed a tight smile, eyes glued to the amber liquid in his glass. “Wouldn’t miss it, man.”
Tom leaned in, conspiratorial, grinning so wide it hurt to look at him. “We haven’t told everyone yet, but you’re family, so… she’s pregnant. Can you believe it?” He laughed, joy bubbling over. “I’m gonna be a dad.”
The words twisted in Frankie’s gut like a blade. He swallowed down the ugly jealousy that rose, muttered, “Congrats,” his voice flat, a ghost of sincerity in it. He had no right to feel that way.
But Tom didn’t notice, or simply didn’t care. He kept talking, twisting the knife without knowing it. “She’s glowing already, isn’t she? God, I’m so lucky. She’s gonna make the best mom. Our kid’s gonna have her smile. Hell, maybe even her wit.” He chuckled, pride dripping from every word.
Frankie’s jaw locked until it throbbed. He kept his eyes fixed on the bar top, on the warped reflection staring back at him, while his chest caved in piece by piece. He didn’t dare open his mouth, afraid of what might spill out. Instead, he tipped the glass in his hand, watching the whiskey swirl, searching the amber depths like the bottom might hold an answer he could live with.
“Tom.” Her voice cut through the haze, sharp but quiet. She appeared at her husband’s side, slipping her hand into his, tugging gently. “Come on, they’re waiting for us.”
Tom grinned down at her, squeezing her hand, but Frankie only saw the way her gaze lingered on him. Just a second too long. Too heavy, and too much for a night that belonged to her and Tom, where Frankie didn’t have a single square inch of space.
And then she was gone, pulled back into the whirl of music and clinking glasses, into a love built on lies. Frankie was left with nothing but the hollow ache, drowning what was left of him in the burn of liquor and the weight of regret.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, time lost its meaning, drowning himself glass after glass until the room tilted and blurred. The burn in his throat was the only thing keeping him upright.
“Jesus Christ.” A strong hand gripped his shoulder. Santi’s voice, low and sharp. “You’re a fucking mess, Frankie.”
Frankie blinked up at him, eyes bloodshot, lids heavy. “M’fine.” He lied. His stomach churned as Santi hauled him to his feet. The motion alone made him gag, and before they even made it far, he was bent over in the bushes, vomiting until his throat was raw.
Santi kept a steady hand between his shoulder blades, grimacing but firm. “What the hell is going on with you?”
Frankie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, breath ragged. He tried to answer, words slurred, broken. “She’s…she’s not mine.”
Santi frowned, leaning closer. “What?”
But Frankie was already sliding down the wall, his body giving out like a puppet with its strings cut, the world tilting too far for him to catch. Her words echoed in his skull, the last thing he heard before the dark swallowed him whole.
I had a idea, like from my very own mind, about like a fic about getting high with Frankie…. Don’t know where it came from….. my mind is just that good
In the Clouds | Frankie Morales x Reader
Warnings: Mentions of Addiction, Drinking, Smoking the Devil's Lettuce, Angst/Comfort, Unrequited (or so they thought) Love, Reader is not in a great headspace (Read with Caution besties <3), Fluff, No Smut, Friends to Lovers, Dealer!Frankie (Feels like that needed a warning), No Use of Y/N for Reader Insert
Words: 3.8K (WOOOOOW on a streak here)
A/N: OHH BOY, jokingly asked my moots to write this prompt and they UNO card reversed it onto me... Thought I had no ideas... thought I would struggle to get 500 words in... Here we are almost 4K words later. <3 #noregrets! As mentioned in the warnings, there's some heavier topics in this one regarding substance abuse/addiction so proceed with caution & take care of yourself. It's almost midnight btw so consider this my contribution to #FrankieFriday!
Also pls comment if you want to be added to a taglist for any future Frankie Morales series/one-shots/requests! Ily all and hope you enjoy. <3
---
Usually you got high alone, the reasons too many to list. Mainly though, because you always got so fucking needy when you were high, didn’t matter how. Weed, edibles, even your cheap shitty pen from the dispensary made you a liability, especially when your best friend was your dealer, and your *almost* decade-long crush.
You’d usually “buy” from him during one of your group hangouts, when you were less likely to drown in his presence, but it’d been a while and you were out of everything that was usually in your stash. Buy was a strong word, given he rarely let you pay full price for anything, if at all.
Any other day, you may have said fuck it and gone to bed early, sober and miserable, but today of all days was a Monday. You couldn’t possibly imagine making it through the week alive before dragging yourself to the dispensary on Saturday.
You whipped out your phone and drafted a text to Frankie, knowing he’d be willing and awake.
You scoffed as his response lit up your screen.
You felt your face heat up at the comment. You hated when he called you baby, and he knew it too. It reminded you of a time when you relied on him, when he was your only safe space.
A time before you lost him and relied on weed instead.
-
Two Years Ago
You’d been invited on the annual camping trip as Frankie’s plus one, which you were more than happy to take time off work for. The guys had told you all about their campsite, huddled in a forest-ey beach town, where there was something for everyone. Whether you liked fishing, hiking, laying in the sun or just all around being disconnected, they made it sound irresistible.
You arrived to the campsite after a long day of travel, choosing to ride with Frankie in his pickup truck, the tents and necessities for the weekend sliding around in the bed while music blasted in the cab.
Days like these were easy. Your social meter around the guys would, of course, run out often, but with Frankie it was endless. You didn’t have to try, you didn’t have to fight for his attention, you just were, and that was enough for him.
You watched as the men argued over setting up tents, Santi’s new girlfriend making an effort to help yet stay out of their way, which she hadn’t found out was worse quite yet.
You knew if they left it to you, you’d have the tents up in no time, but the amount of testosterone in the air was too heavy to interfere.
Benny’s girlfriend on the other hand, seemed to know better than to get involved. You watched as she dug through a backpack, balancing it on the tailgate of his truck. You’d only met her once at Will’s birthday several months back, but she seemed quiet, far more reserved than anyone else you’d seen Benny bring home.
She walked over to you, a small tupperware in her hands.
“Want a cookie?” She asked, the first words you’d heard her speak, maybe ever, other than her introducing herself.
“Sure.” You smiled, grabbing a cookie from the tupperware as she leaned it down to you.
“They’re my special recipe.” She winked, biting into her own before retreating back to Benny’s truck.
You weren’t sensitive to any allergies and usually enjoyed other people’s baking more than your own, so why not?
-
Within about half an hour, the guys had finished setting up the tents and were rallying to walk down to the beach to set up a bonfire. The walk was about 5-10 minutes from the tents, and a 2 minute drive at best.
The weather was warm yet not as humid as you’d expect, a light breeze picking up as the sun set quickly behind the horizon. It wasn’t until you’d reached the edge of the beach that your feet felt unsteady on the sand.
Your arms flailed out to your side as you tried to balance yourself, trying to find your footing while also keeping as much sand out of your shoes as possible. You muttered quietly as you felt your socks turn to sandpaper.
It was darker now, much darker than the campgrounds, but the moonlight reflecting on the water made it easy to find your way and stay close to the rowdy group you had with you…as long as you focused.
“Hey,” You heard from next to you.
The voice itself sounded muffled, like you’d imagined it, but when you turned, you were met with Frankie by your side.
“Frankie!” You greeted him excitedly.
His face changed as you met his eyes, confusion struck across his face.
“What?” You frowned slightly, wondering if you’d done something to upset him.
Your eyes felt heavy as you held his gaze.
“Fuck,” He muttered, turning back towards the group who had moved on without the two of you.
“Frankie, what?” You questioned again, swaying slowly with your shoes planted in the sand.
“You didn’t like, take anything… did you?” He questioned.
You were confused by his question, unsure again if you’d done something wrong or were acting differently than usual.
Your silence must have gone on longer than he’d liked, next you knew his phone’s flashlight was shining in your eyes.
You squinted and winced at the immediate headache.
“What the fuck, Frankie! What was that for?” You groaned, the pain in your head diminishing as quickly as it’d arrived.
“I was checking your eyes, wanted to make sure that’s all that was wrong with you. You’re high.” He chuckled, amused at your frustration.
“What? I didn’t take anything, I don’t even- I’ve never been high- I would know if I was high, Frankie.” You muttered, your words slowed, though maybe that was just in your head.
He laughed again and pinched his nose in disbelief, stress even.
“I know you don’t smoke, you won’t even come near me after I’ve smoked. You must have eaten something, Benny always brings his edibles to these fuckin’ things.” He explained, holding out his hand to guide you to the rest of the group.
“Oh,” You laughed. “Yeah, that makes sense now.”
He smiled as he watched the realizations strike across your face.
“What’s her name? Brooke? She gave me one of the cookies she brought, said it was her special recipe! Didn’t fucking tell me she meant… that kind of special.” You facepalmed.
“Don’t worry about it, amiga. I’ve got you, I won’t let you out of my sight tonight.” He promised.
You’d think with a friend group of potheads, you’d have given in at some point. Up until now, you tried not to rely on much. With a family full of addiction and not enough time for a slow-moving hobby like that, you’d just never taken an interest in it. Frankie had even offered to be your supplier if you did decide to try it, just to cut out the anxiety-inducing act of finding a dealer or making your way into a dispensary.
“Thank you, Fish.” You hugged into his side as you stumbled closer to the growing fire Santi was stoking.
If there was anyone you felt safe with to get high, it was Frankie.
“Finally! You guys alright?” Benny questioned as you both approached the group, Brooke cuddled next to him with a blanket around their frames.
“She’s high.” He said, shooting a glare to Benny.
Of course he blamed Benny.
A look of glee filled Brooke’s face, who was clearly also buzzed at the very least.
“She doesn’t usually… if you guys could just help me keep an eye on her?” His voice filled with concern as he looked at you, your eyes fixed on the glimmering water nearby.
And he did as he promised, he never left your side that night.
He laughed with you, held you, did whatever you needed to make you feel seen, even in your current state. Even when the others in the group had eventually found their way under the influence, smoking or drinking, Frankie refused to partake, afraid if he let his eyes off you, your high would take a turn for the worse.
-
When the time came to return to camp, your legs felt unsteady beneath you.
It wasn’t that you felt like you couldn’t walk, you just couldn’t feel anything.
Frankie attempted to help you up from your place in the sand, but ultimately failed as you whined for him to join you once more to keep you warm.
You watched mindlessly as he peeled his flannel from his body and came close to drape it over your frame. He remained crouched by you to hug you from the side as he rubbed your back lightly, causing the warmth of his flannel to seep into your cold skin.
Before you could find the right words to speak, he’d moved over to where Santi and Will were standing. You smiled in their direction as you wondered what they were discussing.
In what seemed like short seconds, he was back at your side, spooking you slightly.
“Sorry, you still doing okay?” He questioned, crouching down to your level before placing his hand on your back once more.
You nodded happily, leaning into his touch.
“Pope is gonna grab the truck, that way you don’t have to walk all the way back to camp. Sound good?” He questioned as he studied your body language.
You nodded again, quietly yet happily.
He chuckled as he steadied himself to sit next to you, your frame falling to meet his once he was settled.
His arm wrapped around you warmly, holding you tightly by his side as the sounds of your friend group disappeared into the distance.
The small beach waves were quiet, the breeze even quieter now. Your eyes felt heavy as you focused on the light of the moon, fighting to keep them open.
Your mind felt - dark, partially from the darkness surrounding you, the rest from the silence holding you still, fighting to drown you in it. You felt… alone, more than anything.
Frankie adjusting next to you pulled you from your thoughts, reminding you that at least you weren’t truly alone.
Fear of the coming night shook through you as the breeze picked up.
“Frankie?” You spoke quietly, unsure if your voice could be heard at all.
Your voice seemed to startle him as he adjusted again.
“I’m here, you okay?” He asked, his hand holding your unsteady, tired head.
“I’m scared.” You explained, willing yourself not to let your emotions overtake the high you were still very clearly feeling.
“I know, I’m sorry.” He apologized, scooting his frame impossibly closer to yours so he could full wrap his arms around you.
“Can I… would it be okay if I sleep in your tent tonight? I’m…nervous I’ll wake up, don’t wanna be confused and alone.” You rambled, feeling afraid of the possible rejection you’d face.
“Anything you need, as long as you’re comfortable.” He smiled, pressing a small kiss to the top of your head.
Your heart jumped in your chest, propelled by the heightened emotions you were feeling.
“I love you, Frankie, thank you for taking care of me.” You leaned up to press a small kiss to his cheek, unafraid of the consequences in your given state.
He smiled and laughed lightly at the sentiment.
“Anything for you, baby.”
-
Present Day
You sighed happily as you put your phone down, thanking the gods that he didn’t ask you over first. You’d gone over to his apartment dozens of times in the over eight years of friendship you’d shared, but anytime weed was involved things tended to get…messy.
Hours would pass, your body begging for his attention, though you never needed to, he was always glued to your side. Your limbs would end up tangled on his couch as you watched movies on his shitty VHS player that was older than you, the smell of weed still filling the air around your bodies. You’d fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat as he held you close in his bed.
Yet the next day you’d wake up before him, leave unannounced, and go back to your smaller, lonelier apartment until the next time you needed him. If you were lucky, you’d see him every couple of weeks, sometimes with the guys, or at the bar downtown, but you could never think about him too long, it was more hurt than it was worth sometimes.
After the camping trip, you’d realized getting high wasn’t so bad after all, in fact, it was great. It was like getting drunk without the hangover, forgetting your days before you’d even had a chance to cry about them. It was exactly what you’d been needing all along.
Frankie usually only acted as your “dealer” if you happened to see him in between visits to the dispensary- or if you were desperate, like tonight. Desperate not just for the weed, but for his presence. All you wanted was for him to make you feel better, to make you forget.
That’s what you missed most about him. He was always there, you never had to ask or beg he just…was. He was everything to you, more now than ever, if possible. You dragged yourself through work weeks and shitty one night stands just to crawl back to him, hoping one day it would hurt less to wake up without him.
You didn’t feel the need to tidy your apartment, or yourself for that matter, before Frankie arrived. You hoped he’d keep his visit short and simple, though you loved to see him, your body felt like it was on fire when he was around. Like if you were around him too long you’d actually combust or melt at his feet. It felt like your heart beat so fast your body would refuse to keep up until he was gone.
It started as soon as you heard a soft knock at your door.
He had a key or at least - you thought he did, though he may have gotten rid of it in the years since your friendship began, you weren’t as close as you had been when he’d helped you move in.
You unlatched the lock on the door and was immediately met with his charming smile.
“Hey!” He reached out to hug you immediately, not uncommon, just a bit surprising.
“Thank you for coming over,” You smiled as he released you, your stress from the day melting away under his touch, yet covering your body in gasoline as it did. “Sorry, come in” You opened the door wider to reveal your space.
It had been months since he’d been over, maybe even a year, yet he still fit the space perfectly. It felt as though everything came to life around him.
“Y’know, I still have a key… if you want it back-I mean” He offered as he looked around, studying the area, testing his memory of what had changed in his absence. To his relief, not much.
You laughed slightly at his comment.
He turned to you, “What?” He questioned, matching your small bit of laughter, he always told you it was contagious.
“Nothing, just thought maybe you’d lost it… it’s yours if- I mean, if you don’t want it I can definitely take it back.” Your words spilled out faster than you could think of them.
He scoffed lightheartedly as he approached you again.
“It’s not that, I…just… I don’t know,” He dug his hands into his pockets as his shoulders shrugged.
The anxiety building in your chest was creeping through your body like wildfire. This was a mistake. You never should have reached out.
“I just… was surprised to hear from you.” He explained, attempting to meet your eyes, though you redirected yours to your hands as you picked at your nails.
This was all your fault.
“Hey,” he lifted your chin gently to meet his concerned face. “Talk to me, please” he pleaded, moving his hands to hold yours between your bodies.
“I know when you’re not okay and- well, I know you haven’t been okay for a long time.” He confessed, your eyes watering as he spoke.
“Was it something I did? I feel like we were…we were great and then…I don’t know.” He backed away, peeling the baseball cap from his head temporarily to run his hand through his hair.
You’d never seen him look so…scared, is the only way you could describe it.
Tears spilled from your eyes as you fought to speak.
“If it’s not me you want to talk to-” He started, holding your hands once again.
You tore your hands from his, feeling the burn on your skin where he’d touched.
“Stop! Just stop, Frankie. I can’t talk to you, even if I wanted to. In fact, you’re the only fucking person I want to talk to and… I can’t, okay? Just drop it, please. Tell me how much you want and this can be over, I won’t reach out again.” You were breathing heavy by the end, unsure how you were still speaking clearly, your pulse ringing in your ears.
“Seriously?” Frankie sneered angrily, a tone he usually lacked in your presence.
“All I’ve wanted, all I’ve hoped for, is that some day you’d want me back in your life, the way we were… I don’t know what I did to push you away…You…” His palm met his face, hiding the pain in his eyes for a brief moment.
“If you really want me gone, just say it.” His voice was stern, his eyes beating into yours, you felt small next to him.
“Frankie…” You tried.
“I need… to hear you say it.” His voice was breaking more now. “Please.”
“You can’t expect me to believe you. You were… we were everything to each other and then one day you just…left. You left me. Never told me what was wrong, never asked me for help, what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to cope?” He cried.
“I…I love…you.” You choked out, it was the only thing you knew how to say, how to explain the space that had ruined your friendship.
“If you love me…tell me what to do… how to- how to fix this, please.” He begged, holding your face in his hands as he spoke.
Silence filled the room as fear ate away at you, eventually willing you to speak.
“I… need you.” You spoke quietly.
“You have me, baby. I’m right here, I’ve always waited for you…I-” You pressed your lips to his before he could finish, your faces so close you’d hardly had to move.
His lips trembled beneath yours, the words waiting to spill out.
When you finally parted he spoke again, “I’m not going anywhere.” He promised.
As another tear spilled from your eyes, you backed away from him slowly. “I-I’m sorry if that-” You began.
“Don’t be, I… I’ve needed you too.” He smiled.
You felt relief overtake your body, you were getting somewhere, you felt…normal. For the first time in years, you didn’t feel like you’d lose all the air in your lungs if he left, though you hoped he wouldn’t.
“Do you…” you motioned to your small couch. “Do you want to stay?” You asked before you could ponder the repercussions.
“As long as you’re comfortable.” His hand met your cheek again, wiping away the streaks left from your tears.
“We don’t have to- I mean- if you don’t want to smoke anymore I won’t be upset.” He reassured, knowing you’d be worried about his “wasted” Monday night.
You chuckled at the sentiment, “Fuck that, definitely need something after the day I’ve had.”
His head dipped down as he smiled.
“Enough said. Why don’t you find a movie for us and I’ll roll you one?” He offered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
You couldn’t believe the life you were living.
He hugged you to his chest as you thanked him.
-
Your movie had been forgotten faster than ever as you curled up next to him on your small two-seater couch, the TV becoming white noise in your clouded mind.
“Am I too close?” You asked as he took another hit, coughing slightly.
“Not at all.” Smoke filled the air as he spoke.
Thankfully you’d learned to disable the smoke alarm when you first started smoking.
“Sorry if I asked already, just nervous, my body takes over when I’m high.” You explained as he passed you the shrinking joint he’d rolled for you.
“Don’t be, what’s making you nervous?” He questioned, leaning his head back and turning it to face you.
“You.” You whispered as the smoke escaped your mouth.
He laughed, harder than he would have if he was sober. Sober Frankie would have assumed he’d done something wrong.
“I don’t bite, y’know?” He took the joint from you once more as he joked, pulling another hit from it before leaning forward to crush it on the ashtray he’d gotten you. Living on your coffee table was his gift to you on “National Best Friends Day” after the camping trip, when you’d decided to take up smoking. “Everyone needs at least one good ashtray!” He’d exclaimed to you as you unwrapped it.
You laughed at the memory.
“What is it that your body wants?” He questioned, leaning back against the couch once more.
“Huh?” Your mind had lost the topic at hand, your memories of him playing in front of you like a movie. The smoke in the air a projector, for all that had been.
“You said your body takes over when you’re high… what does it want?” He questioned, curiosity carrying his face as his eyes fell slowly into blinks.
“You, Frankie.” You whined.
Your head took over for the next minute, or maybe it was your heart, spilling out the unsaid truth he’d been searching for.
“It’s always you. ‘S why I couldn’t be around you when… when I was high...always wanna be too close.” You rambled.
Something in his eyes changed then, a confidence, a comfortability.
“Come close then.” He spoke quietly, as if the words could escape the room and vanish into the smoke.
You scooted your body into his side as you giggled.
He pressed a kiss to your temple when you were close enough to.
“Close enough?” He joked, squeezing you closer to him.
You shook your head no as he raised his eyebrow.
He sighed teasingly before quickly grabbing your frame to place you on his lap as you burst out laughing.
After what felt like minutes of catching your breath your eyes met his as you adjusted to straddle him.
Okay but… what do you think is something Frankie absolutely hates ? May it be food or a character trait or something?
Girl Dad | Frankie Morales Blurb
Warnings: Mentions of Drinking/Alcohol, Mentions of High Risk Pregnancy, Family Drama, Fluff, No Smut, No Use of Y/N for Reader Insert
Words: 690
A/N: Ty anon for this prompt! I enjoyed writing about #girldad Frankie and hope you enjoy it! I'm happy to try out any other submissions I receive, though I've only ever written for Frankie Morales, Din Djarin, and Whiskey so beware if you submit for anyone else! Love you all and happy #FrankieFriday.😍🥰
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If there’s one thing that Frankie hates, it’s people who assume.
He didn’t realize how much other people's perception of him pissed him off until his first daughter, Ximena, was born.
She was more perfect than he’d ever thought possible. She was so tiny, so fragile, but so strong, he could see it in her eyes.
He was so proud. Before becoming a dad, he didn’t know you could be proud of someone so small. Which is exactly why it pissed him off when his family came to visit for the holidays and his cousin Marty apologized to him, “Sorry about - you know” as he gestured with the drink in his hand to Ximena being held by you, his partner.
“What?” Frankie questioned, unsure of what he was referring to.
“I jus’ figured you were hoping for a son., always said you wanted a Frankie Jr.” He’d placed his hand on Frankie’s shoulder sympathetically.
Frankie let his anger boil quietly within his head for a moment as he kept his gaze on you as you swayed slowly. He couldn’t even begin to explain the fear, the anxiety, the mental turmoil he’d gone through preparing for Ximena to be born. Not to mention, the high risk pregnancy you’d endured while you both spent every second hoping you’d come home with a healthy baby by the end of it. Whether Marty knew the whole story or not, it pissed him off to bring up something that he didn't think he’d said since they were kids.
“A healthy baby is enough for me.” He replied, taking a sip from his beer to keep himself from saying anymore.
“Everyone says that shit and you know it, nobody wants a daughter except these women, they just want to use ‘em against us or some shit.” Marty scoffed as he stood from the shared area they’d been sitting on the fireplace.
Frankie jumped up next to him before he could think of what to do next. He grabbed the collar of Marty’s shirt, causing him to drop his beer bottle and catch himself on the fireplace, now behind them.
The loud sound of glass shattering was enough to startle Ximena, her wails instantly filling the room.
Frankie instinctively turned to her, watching her fight within your grasp as her upset took over.
“You need to leave.” Frankie spoke sternly as he released Marty from his gasp.
“Chill the fuck out, primo. Fuck man, what’s gotten into you?” Marty adjusted his shirt as his boots crunched on the glass beneath him.
“You either figure out how to respect my family, my daughter, or you get the hell out of my house.” His hands were on his hips now, a clear sign of his frustration mixing with his lack of patience.
Marty removed himself from the space between Frankie and the fireplace, fearing what would happen if he didn’t. Before becoming a dad, Frankie would have reminded Marty that he’s always been able to kick his ass, and he would have proved it to still be true. Instead, the cries of his six month old daughter made the anger in his heart dilute, leaving nothing but a man wanting to be worthy of her love.
He glared at Marty angrily as he shuffled into a group of their older cousins, hoping he’d choose to leave for his own sake.
He couldn’t let the best thing that had ever happened to him be reduced to an apology.
Ximena continued to cry, unhappy with your pleas for silence as you rocked and shushed her. He was by your side in a couple quick steps, scooping her from your arms.
“Come here, chiquita, it’s okay, daddy’s got you.” He rocked her gently next to you, her wails quieting with each passing second in his arms.
You knew that whatever had happened between Frankie and Marty was something of the past now, his entire being solely devoted to the tiny human in his arms.
“I always knew you’d be a good girl dad,” You reassured him as she fell silent, “She’s wrapped around your finger, baby.”
wordcount 4.2k | can be read as a standalone but pt1 is here | about me + masterlist | a harry castillo x single mom!reader here| a joel miller x single mom! reader if anyone’s interested here.
reblogs and comments are appreciated!!! comment if you want to be tagged! send me asks about this! asks/ideas/anything! inbox is always open :)
summary: frankie is out with his wife and child, dragged to a space exhibit because his daughter's obsessed with moon rocks, when his wife passes out </3 the hospital is scary, but to everyones surprise they get some good news.
warnings: FLUFF...SO MUCH FLUFF....the fluff....the fluffiness...oh my god its so fluffy it makes me GIDDY how much fluff there is. you WILL have cavities by the end of this. also angst!!! reader is hurt and is in the hospital for a bit, also mentions of addiction and ptsd from frankie's past. also sort of spoiler but unplanned pregnancy!! (they take it in stride) there was an age gap of like 10 years in my head when i wrote this (frankie being 37 and reader being 21) but it can honestly be anything.
authors note: GOD i was on a flight for like 12 hours straight and all i could think about was fanfiction. like finally there is an update to the harry castillo fic in sight, AND...i wrote another idea that i'm just finetuning rn to post for harry too...heavily airport inspired LOL, pov you meet the love of YOUR life at an airport....but no...i cant spoil that anymore. frankie being a father and a husband....god he would be so soft and so kind. but his past....his past that weighs on him so heavily. this flight is really messing with my sleep schedule LOL so i'm just posting this on very little sleep....even if it's not midnight. if anyone knows how to help with jet lag HELP. REBLOGS ARE SO VERY APPRECIATED, SO ARE LIKES AND COMMENTS!!!! FRANKIE IS THE CUTEST DAD IN THE WORLD......ok i'm....like going to bed now.....like the baby fever has just taken over me i NEED to give frankie morales a baby. NO READER DESCRIPTION btw...like YOU are married to frankie <3
the day is one that’s filled with sun, sun and light and a soft breeze that flows through the trees lining the car park. carmen drags him by the hand, clutching his hand tight as she rushes into the museum, entirely too excited for a three year old to see some rocks. she’s got her little hand in his, pulling him towards the exhibits.
he tilts his head back, and spots you walking a couple of steps behind, beside santi and yovanna, you’d organised this meet-up, all for him. they’d been in the city, a two day layover, and your house was close by.
that night, when santiago had texted you instead of your husband, asking to catch up over brunch you’d quickly agreed. except carmen was all too interested in space and stars to not go to the museum, and so the day trip was planned.
he’d tilted his head at you as you’d tapped his nose, and told him to socialise more, because “you can’t have your wife as your only friend.”
he’d been quick to point out that carmen was his friend too, and that just had made you laugh some more over the ice cream you were eating, strawberry cheesecake flavoured, straight from the tub. something so mundane and sweet and yet it lit up his world.
you’re talking to the two of them about something or the other, in that yellow summer dress that had a tie detail in the front, the one you did a little bow on this morning. it’s floral, fits right into the theme of the natural history museum all of you are going to, he knows you’d love the exhibit on butterflies, even if you say you’re icked out by bugs.
but that’s just a bonus, you were all here because carmen wanted to see the exhibit on the moon, they even had one of the capsules from the apollo missions on display, and a moon rock. the moon rock was quite integral to the whole museum trip.
“she’s got stars in her eyes, just like her papa.” that’s what you say, every time she starts talking about space to you, and you know frankie doesn’t fly all the way to space, but he goes up pretty high, and isn’t that enough?
he’s dragged away by carmen into the museum, and before he knows it, he’s in the space section. a tiny hand squeezing his, and he crouches down to better hear your daughter.
“is the moon, ‘ook!” and she points at the LED moon they’ve mocked up, perfect down to every little detail, all the familiar divots and shades. “isn’t she sooo the pretty?”
that makes him smile out of habit, carmen always insists that the moon is a girl, and that the moon is “the pretty”.
he tilts his head, and then smiles at carmen, his own wide brown eyes in her, now mirroring the display of the moon in front of her. “the moon is the second prettiest girl in the world.” he smiles, pressing a kiss into her curls, “the first one is you carmen.”
“and mama?” she grins that wicked grin, turning back to him and she’s got a smudge of chocolate spread from today morning in the corner of her mouth, a special day had a special breakfast. he’d insisted, and so the three of you had pancakes and chocolate spread instead of cereal or eggs.
“hmm.” his lips twitch, she’s caught him there, and she’s already turned back to trying to read about the moon with her three year old’s reading skills, clearly not getting past the first sentence.
“mama is the second prettiest girl in the world then,” he presses another kiss to her hair, and runs a hand over her forehead, brushing the bangs that stick to her face from the run.
“but wait carmen,” he pretends to be shocked, a hand over his mouth, and she turns back to himz
“…ya?” she scrunches her face, disgruntled that her father’s pulled her away from her reading (attempted reading, mind you.)
“moon’s not in the world, right mija?” he smiles, standing up to his full height again to read a plaqucsrd that was more geared towards adults about the moon. something about the dangers of the apollo mission, he knew all about dangers in missions, he gave up that life for this instead. “it spins around the earth.”
and this is now his daughter running circles around him (literally), twirling once in a while, “jus’ ‘ike the moooon!”
you show up into the room a few minutes lates with santi and yovanna in tow, face red, like you’d been worried and running. “frankie! we thought we lost you two, gosh, here i was running all over the museum trying to find you.
he laughs when you cough, but offer you his bottle of water. you take a small sip, before handing it back to him. he knows your stomach had been upset these past few days, nausea and you couldn’t keep anything down. what he doesn’t know is that you gave your daughter your pancakes too this morning, when she was so happy to see them, and you couldn’t stand anything.
he stands behind you, the other two reading up on the apollo missions and whatnot, but his eyes are only on you and your daughter, running up to the moon rocks. she’s talking a mile a minute, and he is so ridiculously proud of her. the space exhibit is one of her favourites, and she’s the reason the five of you have shown up to the museum today.
his cap is not on his head, instead he gave it to carmen when they were standing in front of the moon display, and it stays on her head, keeping her messy dark curls tucked underneath the large cap.
you stand up, watching your daughter smile at the moon rocks, displayed. pretty, a souvenir from something out of this world that you would never get to see.
your head hurts. it’s been hurting all day, and you can’t keep anything down these past few days. your head hurts, like there’s cotton wool stuffed in it, and the world goes a little blurry for a few seconds, dizziness throwing your body off kilter. you should tell santi that you haven’t eaten anything all day more than a few bites of pancake from your daughter, and the few sips of water from his waterbottle.
you turn to talk to him, to call out his name, but you can feel your heart in your skull for some reason. it’s dizzying and overwhelming, and suddenly. suddenly, you feel yourself fall, eyes rolling back as your body feels faint.
you’re out before you can feel yourself hit the floor, the nausea taking over your entire body.
he catches you with strong hands around your middle, and sinks to the floor with you. his voice shakes as the two of you fall downwards, and he panics, panics like he never has before. “carino?” he taps your soft cheek with his hand, the other caught in the soft cotton of your floral dress. behind him, your daughter stands with her big brown eyes, inquisitive once, now scared.
she paws at his shoulder, but all he can think about is you, head pillowed in his lap, hair lose from your delicate braid, falling around you like a halo.
“mama?” she says, and he doesn’t know what to do, his hands have a tremor that doesn’t leave as they ghost over your face. santi leads her away to the side, a smile on his face as he tries to keep her distracted. frankie’s throat goes dry as he hears him explain something to her, but his heart is rushing in his ears, thinking about you. the wedding band on your left hand sparkles in the light, mockingly. there’s a crowd forming, and he knows you’d hate that. hate being the center of attention, and yet you’d just dropped mid conversation, like a sack of potatoes. his chest feels small, like he could explode, but not now, not when you had fainted on his lap, not when your daughter was panicking over you. not when a crowd was forming around you.
he just needs you to be okay.
you have low blood pressure, he’s seen your dizzy spells, but you’ve never outright fainted like this before.
yovanna does a pretty good job of keeping onlookers away, he thinks it’s the challenge in her eyes. and santi’s eyes don’t leave the two of you as he speaks to your daughter. words that dont have any relation to this, “look at the moon rocks, your mama will be okay.”
a beat, and santi’s placed your daughter in front of a screen doing a little montage of photos from the apollo 11 mission. you’d probably laugh, and tell him that he was letting the screen raise the kid, that is if you were awake right now.
you’re not awake. you’re in frankie’s arms. and his hands are shaking as he holds onto you, hand on your pulse point immediately. it is there, but it’s a little too fast.
the army, this is reminding him of the army, jungles and brothers being lost in his arms. the weight, the weight of bringing people back home, hearing them lose their spirits, their lives. whilst he could do nothing but fly.
trapped in the cockpit whilst everyone else was there, could help. and all he could do was fly.
the fear, the fear of loosing someone like this again. not this again, god this was what he needed cocaine for. the spirals that he couldn’t quite handle, the heartbeat that thudded in his chest.
it sickened him, but he missed it. sober for five years and yet he missed it, how efficient it would make him in moments like these.
now he can do nothing but watch, he feels like he’s underwater, each movement of his weighed down and slow. everything he sees and hears is blurry.
his, your, daughter is by his side again, and a tear is slipping down carmen’s face. she’s never scared, he loves that about her. never scared of anything, she’ll pick up earthworms with her bare hands, pat every dog at the park. but now she sounds so scared, his baby, wrapping her small arms around his neck. he can’t even turn around to face her, his eyes never leaving you, but he can feel tears running down her cheek and onto the back of his tshirt, dampening it.
a bystander calls security, 9-1-1 is being called, but he can’t heart it over the rush in his ears and the feeling of your pulse getting faster.
santi is coaxing him to let go, take care of carmen, the medics can take care of you. but he can’t seem to let go of your hand, curled around his, all too cold for his liking. blood pressure, he reminds himself, anemia, whatever the hell you have going on in your body. it’s fine he has to tell himself, if not for his own sanity’s sake, then his daughters.
carmen’s face is a mess of tears and snot when he looks down at her again, and he picks her up. she looks a lot like him, but now that he’s seeing her, all he sees is you. your soft cheeks, tears caught in her long eyelashes, her - your - nose red with her rubbing at it.
“mama, will okay?” she asks, whilst you’re being loaded onto a stretcher to be taken outside, into the ambulance.
god you would have hated this if you were awake. everyone’s eyes on you, you hated attention. you were sure everyone would see all your tiny insecurities. if you were awake. now all frankie sees is his wife being loaded onto a stretcher, seeing the mother of his child being whisked away.
he looks down at carmen, stilling his nerves. “mama will be okay, papa promises.”
“pink promise?” she asks, looking up at him expectantly, and he knows what she means. he holds out his pinkie finger for her, and she curls her own tiny pinkie around it, so small compared to his, fingernails painted a iridescent blue this week. she bites them, and it had been your idea to paint them to get her to stop.
you, you. he needs you.
when one of the emts offers him to ride in the ambulance with you, he doesn’t waste a second to think about it. carmen curled in his arms, soft and snug against him, he’ll go to hell and back for you.
the ambulance would be expensive, but that doesn’t matter, not for you, not this.
“amulance.” carmen claps as he sits down beside you, you’re hooked up to a few machines, the heart monitor beeping steadily. she’s finding something fun here, at least, and his heart melts, that is his brave little girl.
“yes carmen, see? these are all the emts helping fix mama.” he rambles, giving a small nod at the two emts, one of which was nice enough to offer him the ride to the hospital.
the other one asks for your pre-existing conditions, and he lists them off, your blood pressure runs on the lower side usually, and you’ve had a dizzy spell or two from dehydration, but nothing like this. never anything like this.
he feels ill. he should have been a better husband to you, noticed that you were feeling woozy all day instead of it coming to this
“neenaw!” carmen shouts, before hiding her face in her father’s shoulder, “is ok papa, amulance make mama all better.”
she’s reassuring him, three years old and so full of love it hurts. he wants to hug her and cry, so out of his depth here, and so he does. she pats him on the head with her little hands, rubbing her hands through his hair, fluffing it up. “it ok papa.” she repeats, before playing with his ears, tugging at them.
the hospital is close by, they are in the city after all, st martins is huge. and you’re carted out, leaving frankie and your daughter in the ambulance.
the hospital is sterile, so full of antiseptics and white lights that it reminds him of rehab. rehab and army hospitals, both of those messes. both when he was a mess.
standing there it feels like he’s seeing past versions of himself, where he wasn’t strong enough to fight the urges of addiction.
he swallows roughly as a nurse leads him to the waiting room, carmen sitting on his lap. she tilts her head, and looks at him curiously. she doesn’t know who her father was before he was her father, never will know.
and yet, “papa ‘ook like he seen a boo.” she squishes his face again, pulling him away from his thoughts. she reads him too well, pale and haunted by the place.
“no, not at all, papa is 100% a okay.”
“a okay?”
“a okay.” he holds up his hands in the okay sign, and she eases down. the wait is an hour long, and it’s the worst hour of his life. he’s been through withdrawal, and this is decidedly worse.
“mr morales?” a nurse calls out, and he stands up, amidst the other worried family members waiting for their own loved ones names to be called out. carmen has finally fallen asleep in his arms, “you can go in and meet the doctor now.”
the doctor is a greying old man, and he meets him outside the room where you’re in. he can see glimpses of you through the door, hooked to some more machines, a blue hospital gown, material you’d hate to wear. where was your cotton dress? did they have to cut it?
a smile on his face is mildly reassuring, and his heart calms down a little, “um…how is she doctor?” he says, softly, not to wake carmen up.
the doctor places a hand on his shoulder, “your wife is fine mr morales, her blood pressure dipped and her iron levels dropped too, but that was the most of her worries. that combined with the clear lack of food in her stomach led to her collapse.”
a pause. it was nothing serious, nothing so serious that it made his heart stop. nothing so serious that it threw him back to the jungles where he’d fought.
you were fine, but you’d been dizzy before.
“what made her collapse though?” he asks, a little too harshly, as if the doctor has all the answers, human bodies do weird things, like get addicted to coke. still he asks, “she’s had dizzy spells before…?”
“oh but combined with the stresses on her body with her current condition, i think it just exacerbated her dizzy spells.” he hums, looking down at the chart on the clipboard.
“stresses?” he frowns, “i mean we both split our time between work, chores and carmen, it’s been like this since forever, is any of that adding to her stresses?”
he’s already thinking a mile a minute, he knew you wanted to work fiercely, financial independence and all that, and you had a corporate job. maybe he’d cut some of his hours at the flight school.
“what?” the doctor looks at him incredulously, “i mean…the stresses with the pregnancy.”
and his thoughts screech to a halt, what the fuck?
he must clearly look blank, because the doctor repeats himself, and he’s still got no dice.
“what?”
“oh,” the doctor laughs, “oh i thought you knew, congratulations mr morales, your wife is nearly three months pregnant.”
he chokes on his own breath for a second, not making anything more than a splutter. like sure you’d been trying, but you two had just not given too much thought to it.
and with carmen and work and…everything really. how much time did you have to yourself? would you have paid attention to a skipped period, yours were sort of irregular anyway.
“oh my god…” a pause, and he swallowed, “is the…well is the baby okay too?” but it’s a silly question anyway, and he knows. the doctor would have said something if the baby was harmed.
the doctor just looks at him, a little exasperated, “your baby is fine mr morales,, if your wife had fallen forwards, now that would have been an issue, or if her head had hit the ground.”
carmen mumbles something incoherently in his arms, and he nuzzles her a little closer to him, you would be fine. everything was okay, there was no reason for him to slip back into his old ways, he had people depending on him in a way that they had never before.
the doctor lowers his voice, and pats his arm, “you can visit your wife, know that this isn’t a huge deal, however, please tell your wife to keep her blood pressure in check, pregnancy can exacerbate conditions, and any worse it could lead to premature birth, not to mention the blood loss and the strain on the mother which could lead too…”
his heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach again, seeping danger. you weren’t free of it, but he could do something, he couldn’t just watch in helplessness like he had done all these years.
the doctor smiles as he opens the door to your room, and frankie carries carmen into the room where you lie. hooked up to some monitors, that blue gown on you. a pause, overwhelmed to see you like this, you who were so full of love and light and movement, now lying still on hospital bed.
his hair is mussed, sticking up in all directions, and he holds carmen tight against his chest, like she’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold her tight enough. the chair is uncomfortable, plastic and hard, his hand is on yours, rubbing circles, and he waits.
he doesn’t have to wait long, your eyes flutter open, and you feel his skin on yours. a swallow, “frankie?” you say, sleepily, blinking up at him with sticky eyes.
your voice is so dry, you cough, and there’s a paper cup of water in your hands immediately.
“carmen?” you ask out, blindly, before your bleary eyes land on her curled up in your husbands arms, soft and cuddly. “i didn’t scare her, did i?”
“carino, you scared both of us.” scared is an understatement, he thinks, you made him loose his mind.
another sip, and you blink up at him, “frankie, i’m not made of glass, i’m not some vase.” you sigh, before finishing the water and placing the cup beside you.
“you scared me though,” he says, his voice is so small and so lost. like he’s a little boy, “you scared me so much, carino, i thought…”
“it’s okay,” you’re gentle, and you hold the hand that was holding yours. “i’m here babe.”
“but it reminded me so much-“ he cut himself off, no reason to remember. remember the desperation in the army, the fear, the blood on his hands.
“you’re not there anymore.” your hand squeezes his, “i’m here carino. i’m here, with you.”
the two of you sit like that, slumped against each other, with your daughter between you, softness.
“so, what happened?” you ask, your eyes never leaving carmen, “blood pressure too low? i’m sorry, i shouldn’t have eaten so little this morning, but carmen was hungry for pancakes.”
you shake your head, “i’ll make more pancakes in the morning, i promise i’ll have something to eat in the mornings, i’ve just been feeling so sick these days.”
a gentle squeeze to your hand, and you look away from your daughter to frankie’s brown eyes. so wide and brown and full of love.
“ah, i think i know why.” he says, shyly, face going red as he looks at you like you hang the stars and the moon in his sky.
“it’s probably just acid reflux-“ you say, rolling your eyes, but the sincerity in which he looks at you scares you.
scares you and makes you love him even more.
“mi vida,” he swallows nervously, his fingers tapping a rhythm on your fingers, “you’re pregnant.”
your jaw drops, heart stuttering in your chest, tears filling up in your eyes. you’d entertained the idea of another kid, a son that frankie insists would be a mini-you, but…
“frankie, baby…” you choke out your words, but your hands are shaking like you’ve been stuck in the cold for hours. “frankie…”
“two months along too,” he wipes away your tears with the hand not holding carmen, his thumb is rough from all the years of holding a pilot’s stick, but it’s the softest thing you’ve ever felt.
“two months…?” your voice is faint, how did you not notice for two months? two months of this, all the dizziness and the nausea and the missed period all made sense now. you’d just chalked it up to stress, but a baby?
“two months my vida, carrying our little baby.” his hand hovers gently over your stomach, and the other arm wraps around carmen, a hand in her curls.
“do you think he’ll have curly hair?” he asks, and you smile, booping him on the nose.
“how do you know it’s a he.”
“i just know,” he has a huge grin on his face, “carmen looks just like me and this little boy will look just like you. mierda, i’ll have to take some more hours at the flight school to save up for the nursery.”
camen takes that very line to start stirring, “ ‘as a bad word papa.” she scrunches up her little nose, before she starts biting down on his broad shoulder. her teeth are very sharp, like little razors, and he pulls her off him to turn to her mother. you can see her dark brown eyes are bright, even if she’s just slept, shining in the fluorescent lights of the hospital.
what a cute baby, the two of you have made, with her perfect wide eyes and her perfect tiny mouth and her perfect little nose. a moment, before tears slip down your eyes again.
“right, papa said a bad word.” he agrees, rocking her in his arms, but she just frowns from the jostling, and calmest to sit still.
“why mama is the crying?” your daughter asks, and her hands go to swipe the tears from your cheeks, palms splayed over your face. “is ‘ou sad?”
“no no, mama’s not sad.” you take a shaky breath in, “mama is fine.”
“but you crying.” she frowns again, pushing at your cheeks, trying to make your lips turn up into a smile.
“these are happy tears, see?” you smile up for her, and frankie does the same, she learns by seeing.
“how would you like to be a big sister?” frankie asks, so gently, and she thinks about it. or you guess she’s thinking about it, with the way her eyes squint thoughtfully.
“mm, i’d like that.” she says after a minute, her hands still on you like the clingy toddler she once was never left.
and yeah, you would like that too, have your family grow a little larger.
clearly i had no idea how to end this HELPPPP,,, ok this is live me reaction (running away) byeeeeeee lots of love angie!!!
Birthday Girl | One-Shot | Frankie Morales x Reader
Summary: Reader is left alone on her birthday, which Frankie and the guys learn is NOT okay. Chaos ensues.
Warnings: Drinking (Everyone but Reader), Mentions of Sex/Spicy moments if you squint, Birthday sadness, Tom "Redfly" as public enemy #1, Lots of fluff, Physical Violence (blame Tom), Hurt/Comfort, No Use of Y/N for Reader Insert
Words: 4.6K (WOWIEEE this is a personal record)
A/N: Hi everyone! Thank you for all the support on Eight Days! Taking a break from the rewrite (which you can find HERE) to dedicate this one-shot to my lovely new bestie, @berryispunk! She recently celebrated her birthday and since we are both Frankie Morales Diehards I thought it best to celebrate her existence with our favorite man. Hope everyone enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it! <333
---
8:43AM
“Happy Birthday cariño! At a work thing, be back soon. Frankie.”
You looked around your usually-shared bedroom in confusion.
No decorations, no balloons, not even flowers.
“Seriously?” You said, unintentionally out loud as you flipped around the small handwritten note in your hand. You were hoping there was something.
You laid your head back onto your pillow and faced the emptiness next to you, your bed missing the warmth of your boyfriend.
Why did he have to leave? Today of all days especially.
You never thought you’d become someone who despised their birthday, hell, when you were younger your birthday was the only day you didn’t despise.
Somewhere along the way, you got older, shit got harder, and all of a sudden - age was just a number. A number you’d spend an entire year trying to figure out if it was going to be a lucky one or not.
So far… this one was off to a shitty start.
Well… not entirely true.
Your memories of the night before rang through you as you covered your bare skin with your still-warm comforter. Now that was a good start to your birthday, you’d honestly hoped it would be how you started your morning too.
You let a small tear escape your eye.
After the mess that was last year’s birthday, you’d really hoped Frankie would go all out this year. Sure, you didn’t need the decorations, balloons or flowers, but at this point you were wishing there was something, anything to prove someone celebrated you being alive another year.
You took a deep breath as you decided you were gonna do whatever you could to make your day bearable. As you tried to plan your day, you knew your first hurdle would be getting ready. Not only was finding an outfit you felt comfortable in a huge fucking struggle, but you’d be dealing with it alone. It’s not that you depended on Frankie, you’d just gotten used to his sweet demeanor and reassurance when you were overwhelmed with outfits or how you looked.
He was your anchor.
You peeled yourself out of bed and made your way to the bathroom, irritated at the soreness in your thighs from the night prior.
Not necessarily a sign of getting older, just an inconvenient consequence.
Your shower would have been fine, if you hadn’t slipped, that is. It wasn’t a bad fall, you’d landed mostly on your backside, which was painful, but you preferred it to a face-plant or any broken bones.
You hissed in pain as you carefully dragged yourself up off the shower floor and turned off the water. You knew there would be a bruise somewhere within the next day. At least you’d gotten all the shampoo out of your hair.
The next hour was spent getting ready, hoping that any minute now your front door would swing open and your mood would brighten. Except it didn’t.
In the name of the August weather and your overall discomfort for the day, you’d opted for minimal makeup. Light mascara and chapstick it is, no way you could have messed that up.
Next was tying your hair up in a bun, leaving some pieces free in the front to frame your face, though if Frankie were here he’d try to tuck them behind your ear as he always did.
At some point, you’d decided you were going to dress up, not to go anywhere in particular, just so something about your day could feel special. You pulled a dress from your closet, bright red with small white flowers spaced across the fabric which from far away, one might assume were polka dots.
You finished off your outfit by pairing your dress with small moon shaped earrings and your favorite necklace with a strawberry pendant.
Staring at yourself in the mirror was definitely your next hurdle, trying to will yourself to leave the house was your next. You wanted to have a plan. You could expect a plan. A plan wouldn’t lead to disappointment.
In fear that Frankie would return in your absence, you thought it best to call him and let him know your plans if he was thinking he would still be gone for awhile. It was almost 10:30 by now and the day was definitely not waiting for you.
You pulled out your phone and tapped CALL under your boyfriend’s contact listed “Frankie <3” since well before you’d actually been together.
One ring went by, then two, then three, you weren’t sure what he was doing but couldn't help but feel frustrated at the lack of his voice on the other line.
“Hi this is Francisco Morales, please leave me a message and I will do my best to get back to you, thanks.”
You laughed lightly at his irritable voicemail box message, knowing his job had asked him to record it off a script.
“If they want us to sound all professional they should give us work phones! Fuckin’ stupid.” He’d complained.
You decided to leave a message in place of a text, at least you wouldn’t expect a voicemail back.
“Hi, baby. I saw your note- I…was just wondering if you knew when you’d be home? I’m gonna go for a walk I think…maybe the bakery for some breakfast? I don’t know just- uhm trying to fill the day you know?”
You sighed as you debated erasing the message.
“Anyway, I love you. See you later, bye.” You hung up before letting yourself think farther into it.
Your plan so far consisted of walking down the street to your favorite bakery, maybe going to the park, probably just coming home once you got overwhelmed.
-
10:37AM
You’d only made it one block away when your phone rang, your heart jumping at the hope of it being Frankie returning your call.
To your disappointment, it was Santi, Frankie’s best friend you’d come to know throughout the years as a pain-in-the-ass. He was more of a brother to both of you, but that never stopped him from getting on your nerves, in fact, it usually encouraged him.
“Hey, Santi” You tried to sound excited.
“Hey! Just wanted to call you and see how your birthday was- happy birthday!” He wished you.
“Thank you, Santi. It’s been, fine, I guess, Frankie is at work so I’m just walking to the bakery right now. I haven’t had breakfast so… yeah. That’s my plan for right now.” You sighed.
“The bakery? The one by your house?” He questioned suspiciously, you’d think he was panicking if you didn’t know any better.
“Yeah?” You hadn't meant to respond like that.
“Is that like- a good idea? Maybe you should go back home or, or go to the movies! They’re probably super busy around this time, no?” He questioned.
What the hell was going on with him?
“I don’t mind waiting, it’s not like I have anything better to do.” You quipped, irritated that you were having to argue with him about your plans.
If you wanted me to do something else, maybe someone should have planned something.
You wouldn’t say that to him, but that wouldn’t stop you from thinking it.
“C’mon, you could come here instead! Not right now I mean, but, soon!” He offered.
You rolled your eyes, hanging with Santiago for your birthday wasn’t the most thrilling idea, but maybe they were onto something.
“Maybe later, Santi. I’m getting to the bakery now so I gotta go.” You hung up, not leaving room for him to keep talking.
You felt bad, but knew your mood was already in the trenches for the day. Another minute of that phone call would have had you turning your phone off for the rest of the day to avoid any other unpleasant conversations.
As you went to pull open the bakery door, it swung open, almost hitting you.
Before you could scold anyone, the person was apologizing.
“Sorry! Sorry, excuse-” He looked at you.
“Me.” He finished, looking defeated.
“Frankie?” You questioned, your voice sounding hurt.
“Hi mi amor, happy birthday!” He exclaimed, also a panicked tone in his voice. He quickly lent down to place a kiss on your cheek, moving aside the large white box he was holding so as to not crush it between the two of you.
You hadn’t realized you’d stayed quiet until he spoke again.
“I’m sorry, this- you weren’t supposed to see me here.” He confessed.
And suddenly… your phone call with Santiago made sense, he was trying to buy Frankie time.
“Don’t be, I- I’m sorry I just was alone and you were at work and I didn’t know what to do.” You rambled, still standing outside of the bakery attempting not to make a scene.
“Did you even have work?” You continued.
He shook his head.
“Fucking Santi, he told me to write that, said it would be the easiest. I never should have left you, I’m sorry baby. The guys they were-” He sighed.
“They were trying to decorate for you, at Santi’s, but they kept sending me these pictures, fuckin’ useless at decorating, all of them.” He scoffed and you let out a small giggle at his frustration.
“I wanted it to be perfect for you.” He said, placing his hand on your cheek briefly.
“I’d ordered this cake for you, strawberries on it and everything, they made it custom. The guys didn’t wanna be responsible to come get it, knew I’d kill them if they fucked it up, so I came. I’m so sorry.” He looked disappointed, not at the situation, but himself if possible.
“It’s okay, Frankie. I promise. I don’t- I don’t need any surprises, I just wanted you today.” You confessed.
Looking into his eyes was like a death sentence. They’d melt you, whether he was sad, angry, disappointed, happy, all of his emotions bubbled up his body and into his eyes.
“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” He apologized once more, placing a kiss on your head.
He pulled away from you, thinking a moment before speaking again.
“Let’s… yeah- let’s drop off the cake- go to Pope’s and drop off the cake and then you and I can go be alone today, mi amor. The guys can finish what they wanna do and we can drop by later if… and I do mean if…you are feeling up for it.” He held your hand as he balanced the cake box in his other arm.
You smiled as he spoke. You wanted to stay mad, you wanted to ask what he would have planned if the guys hadn’t taken over, but it didn’t matter anymore. All you wanted for your birthday was Frankie and that’s what you’d gotten.
“Okay.” You nodded, “That sounds perfect.” You smiled at him.
He took your hand in his free one as you walked the short distance to the bakery parking lot, hidden behind the building. You quickly spotted Frankie’s truck, a sore thumb from the nicer cars in the lot.
You winced as you stepped up into Frankie’s truck, him by your side as he always insisted on opening and closing your door for you.
“You okay, baby?” He asked, concern immediately taking over his face.
“Yeah I uhm- I slipped earlier in the shower, landed on my ass actually.” You laughed.
He dipped his head down in relief, laughing with you.
“Had me scared, mi amor. Thought maybe I broke you.” He winked.
“Frankie!” You slapped his chest.
He smiled and laughed as he shut your door.
Maybe today wouldn't be so bad after all.
-
11:15AM
You stayed in the car as Frankie delivered the cake into Santi’s house, you could see Will’s truck and Benny’s even bigger truck in the gravel outside, ruining any curb appeal his front yard may have had.
Guilt filled your chest, it’s not that you had been purposefully ungrateful or meant to ruin the one surprise party you’d ever been thrown, you just hadn’t expected it. You expected to be disappointed, disregarded, overall just depressed, as every other year had proved you would be.
You’d known Frankie for three and a half years now, the boys for two, he’d been so afraid they would scare you off or that letting you be part of his life, his family, would make you realise he wasn’t good enough.
The guys had become your friends too of course, besides Tom, he was always a dick, you silently hoped they’d failed to invite him to whatever they had planned for you.
Frankie pulled open the driver’s side door and scared you from your thoughts, though he didn’t notice. He settled into his seat, placing his left hand on the steering wheel before turning to you.
“Ready, cariño?” He asked, placing his right hand on your fabric-covered thigh.
You smiled at him before leaning over to plant a kiss on his lips.
“For you? Always.” You said as you interlaced your fingers with his.
-
1:30PM
Your day had definitely turned around for the better, after leaving Santi’s you realized it was close to noon and you’d never ended up eating breakfast, so Frankie drove you to your favorite breakfast bar downtown, Yolk’s on You.
“I just got that.” Frankie laughed when you walked out after having eaten. He pointed at the neon sign outside the front door, displaying the name of the restaurant.
“What?” You questioned.
“Yolk, like joke, it’s a pun, or something.” He explained, seemingly embarrassed.
You stifled a laugh with a fake frown, “Aw, baby…” You caressed his cheek. “Did the yolk go over your head?” You broke your frown, laughing at the smile spreading on his face.
“You’re gonna pay for that one!” He pulled away from you, faking offense.
You both laughed harder than you had all day.
-
Your next stops included a new-to-town stationary store you’d been wanting to visit, a florist, and a jeweler.
You should have known he would make it up to you.
As you arrived home, the only thing you could feel was loved. A bag full of goodies, a bouquet of flowers so big Frankie had to carry it inside for you, and a new necklace resting next to your strawberry one, with a silver heart locket and “F” in the center.
The day, however fun, had been exhausting, physically and emotionally.
You beelined your way to the bedroom as soon as you’d gotten home. You sat on the edge of your shared bed, removing your shoes.
Frankie appeared in the doorway, leaning against it with his hands in his pockets.
“You okay? We don’t have to go tonight if it’s too much, I know the guys can be assholes.” He offered, moving to sit next to you.
“I want to go, just thinking maybe I’ll rest for a while before we go. Is that okay?” You pleaded, turning to him once you’d completed your task.
“Of course, cariño, it’s your birthday, no rules for what you can and can’t do. Have at it.” He motioned to the bed.
“What will you do?” You questioned, resting your hand on his chest and your head on his shoulder.
“I can lay with you, if you want.” He kissed your forehead.
“Yes please.” You were glad to not have to ask.
“It’s only…” He checked his wrist watch, “4:30 right now, we can head over to Pope’s at 7. Gives us time for a nap and getting ready after.” He explained.
But…
“What if I wanted time for something else too?” You teased, kissing his neck where you could reach.
“What did you have in mind?”
As if the change in his breathing hadn’t been obvious.
You trailed your hand down his chest and onto his lap.
“Nevermind baby, it can wait. We have til’ midnight after all.” You winked before standing up and walking to the other side of the bed.
Before you could make it, Frankie had flopped onto his back, covering most of the bed with his torso.
“Whatever you want, birthday girl, I’m all yours.”
You leaned down to kiss him, your face upside down in his eyes.
He shuffled to his side of the bed, taking off his baseball cap and hanging it on his nightstand before laying down completely. You climbed into bed next to him and clung to his frame, your side of the bed virtually empty as you rested into his shoulder.
“Are you having a good day, baby?” He asked, hugging you tightly.
“Better now that you’re here. Never wanna wake up alone again.” You whined.
“I know, I’m sorry. I was stupid,” He apologized as his grip on you softened.
“Don’t be, I love you and thank you for trying to make today perfect for me. You did.” You craned your neck up to kiss him.
“I would do anything for you, mi amor.” He promised.
-
7:20PM
“Hey! You made it!” Santi exclaimed as he wrapped his arms around you. “Happy Birthday, hermana. Sorry about this morning” He apologized.
“Don’t worry about it, Santi. Sorry if I was an asshole, bad morning.” You confessed.
“Got something to do with this guy?” He laughed as he slapped Frankie on the shoulder.
“Fuck off, Pope. Your note is what got me in trouble!” He scoffed as he walked by to chat with Benny and Will as they waited for your attention.
After greeting everyone, you were told Tom would also be in attendance, maybe, eventually. You sighed at the thought as Frankie passed you a light white box with a bow wrapped around it.
“Part of the decor,” he explained.
You tore apart the ribbon and opened the small box to reveal a folded up sash reading “BIRTHDAY GIRL” in large pink letters.
“C’mon, put it on! Neighbors need to know who we’re celebrating.” Benny exclaimed.
You dipped your head in defeat and laughed as you watched the four men around you smile.
You never thought you could feel so loved, not just romantically, but platonically. Your birthdays had always been spent alone, in tears, in disappointment, and now you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
Until of course, Tom arrived.
When he arrived you’d all been outside in lawn chairs, sitting around the makeshift firepit Santi had built a couple of summers ago.
“Where’s this party at?! ‘Fuck are you guys doing just sitting around, where’s the beer?” He beelined for the sliding door from where he’d entered the backyard through the side gate.
Frankie seemed irritated, Tom always had a way of making you feel small or even invisible at times. Now was definitely an invisible time, or at least you could hope.
In the past, the guys had gotten along with him just fine, some still did, but Frankie hated the way he treated you. He’d usually only refer to you with pronouns, she and her, like he hadn’t ever known your name.
You didn’t care that he hadn’t said happy birthday, you were just irritated to have to spend your birthday with him around.
Will followed Tom inside as the other three stayed behind, each with a beer in hand.
“I’m sorry, he asked me over for some fuckass thing he was working on, told ‘im I’d be at Pope’s, didn’t think he would show.” Benny apologized.
“Don’t worry about it, Benny.” You reassured him, smiling.
“Hey,” Frankie called from his seat next to you.
It was dark now, his face illuminated only by the fire next to you.
You turned to him, a smile on your face as you reached out, offering your hand to hold, which he accepted.
“You let me know when you wanna go baby, no questions asked.” He squeezed your hand.
“Thank you, Frankie.” You smiled.
The two men returned from inside the house, Tom with three beers in his arm.
“No music? C’mon, Pope let’s get this fuckin’ thing started.” He demanded.
Santiago sighed as he went inside to retrieve his phone and blue tooth speaker.
“What’s up with you, Catfish?” He kicked some dirt up next to Frankie’s chair, tapping the brim of his baseball cap with the beer bottle in his hand. “You look like someone pissed in your corn flakes.” He continued.
Frankie stayed silent, you could see his jawline clench with the fire light lining his shadow.
“Ben? C’mon what kind of fucking party is this?” Tom continued to prod.
“A birthday party, Tom. Stop being an ass.” Will spoke up from his chair across from you, shooting you a sympathetic look.
“Some fuckin’ birthday party. Lame as shit.” Tom commented.
“Makes lotta fuckin’ sense given who it’s for.” He flashed a look at you.
Not invisible tonight.
You could see Frankie’s hand forming a fist on his armrest from your peripheral.
“Watch it, Tom.” Santiago warned as he returned to the group, setting up his speaker on the small table between Will and Ben.
Tom made his way to your side of the firepit, pulling up Santi’s still abandoned chair next to yours.
“Mi amor-” Frankie started.
You looked at him and shook your head. You didn’t want him to start something he’d regret.
“So, birthday girl, why is it that this whole party is meant for you, yet you’re sitting here looking fuckin’ miserable.” He spat out, waving his beer around in his hand as he spoke, like he was giving a presentation.
You never thought someone could make a birthday so condescending.
Frankie was visibly falling apart next to you.
“Tell us Fish, what’d you get your lady for her birthday, huh? Flowers? Diamonds? A good fucking? Or is that it?” He turned back to you at his last question.
“Tell me, did our Frankie give your greedy ass what you wanted for your birthday this year? God knows he fucking failed last year.” He scoffed, bringing his beer towards his lips.
Needless to say, he never got that drink in.
Next thing you knew, Frankie was on top of him, both falling backwards with Tom’s chair as Santi and Benny jumped at the action. Will rushed to your side, afraid you’d try to intervene.
Your eyes watered as you fought to keep space between yourself and the fight happening below you.
“It’s okay, c’mere.” Will hugged you tightly, pressing your head into his chest, muffling the sound temporarily.
Even muffled, you could hear Santi shouting, mostly at Tom, though he hadn’t thrown the first punch, physically that is.
When you finally faced the noise again, Santiago was holding back Frankie with his hands on his chest.
“Hermano, hey, Frankie!” He was shouting. “That piece of shit is not worth it” You heard him say.
Frankie watched Tom before looking in your direction briefly, his angry expression softening even the smallest bit at the sight of you.
Tom on the other hand, was getting dragged out from the side gate where he’d first appeared. He wasn’t wasted by any means, but wouldn’t leave even if you begged him. You were almost sure Benny would get a punch of his own in before he let him go.
You slowly crept closer to Frankie and Santi, Frankie’s wounds becoming more evident the closer you got. His face had several scratches and cuts, mixed with what you could assume was dirt and beer.
You wanted to be mad. You’d wanted to avoid a scene.
How can you be mad at someone for caring? For loving you?
You raised your hand to his cheek once you reached him, his demeanor softening under your touch.
“Baby…” He started, his voice filled with hurt.
“Don’t, it’s okay.” You cried as you wrapped your arms around him in a hug.
You pulled away as you heard Ben return, announcing Tom’s departure.
“Sorry about…tonight, today I guess. We’re gonna head home.” You apologized, the three men looking guilty about the night’s happenings.
“Don’t worry about it. Get home safe. We’ll celebrate you without that fucker any day.” Benny told you, wrapping his arms around you.
“And you…” He pointed to Frankie as he moved toward him.
“Good job, man. I seen that right hook, fuckin’ had him!” He laughed.
Frankie’s face refused to laugh, offering Ben an indifferent smile and small hug instead.
“Get home safe you two.” Will said as he hugged you again.
Santiago walked with you and Frankie to your truck outside the gate.
“You gonna be okay, hermano?” He asked Frankie, placing his hand on his shoulder supportively.
Frankie nodded, yet maintained his silence.
“We’ll be okay.” You promised him.
He smiled at you and gave you a hug before walking back through the gate.
Frankie hadn’t drank enough to be impaired, you’d still offered to drive but he quietly insisted that he do, opening the passenger side door for you in response.
The fifteen minute ride home felt painful. You could tell he was hurting, but didn’t want to be reminded of his actions, his actions that had affected you. Your birthday party.
When you finally pulled into your driveway, he spoke as he put his truck in park.
“I’m sorry.” He muttered, his voice sounding weak.
“Frankie…” You scooted closer to him on the benched car seat, hugging his arm as he held his gaze out the driver’s side window.
“Tom is…” You sighed.
“A fucking asshole, for one.” You continued.
“He’s a fucking asshole, but he doesn’t affect me. Before you… the guys I’d talk to… they treated me the same way, I’m used to it.” You finished.
“But-” He tried.
“But- I know, I shouldn’t be used to it. It’s not in the way you think, I just… don’t hear anyone but you.” You explained.
He turned his head to you, a tear slipping down his cheek.
“All day, all I could hear was you. Any negativity… it just washes away when I’m with you.” You continued as you wiped away his tear under your fingertips.
“Tom gets on my fucking nerves, believe me, but all I could think about was how perfect you made today.” You offered him a smile which he tried to return.
“I ruined it.” He said quietly.
“No, baby. It’s not ruined. I hated to see you in a fight but…” You hesitated.
“But what?” He asked, afraid of what might come.
“You looked really fucking hot out there. I could tell you wanted to rip his head off.” You let out a small laugh.
He scoffed and allowed himself one small sad smile.
“You’re my girl, I couldn’t let anyone hurt you.” He cried.
His forehead met yours as you also let a tear fall from your cheek.
“Let’s go inside, baby.” You offered, resting your hand on top of his, still squeezing the steering wheel.
He didn’t budge.
“It- It’s still my birthday, after all.”
His body relaxed at the statement, accepting that there was still time to make things right, to give you everything you deserved.
As you made your way inside, Frankie dismissed himself to the shower as you undressed from your second outfit of the day.
Your eyes darted to the digital clock on your nightstand, 11:34PM, almost over…
You figured at best, Frankie would throw on one of your favorite shows to watch in bed, or you’d get to spend the rest of the night scrolling TikTok with him cuddled into your side.
As you slipped into your pajamas of choice, Frankie emerged from your bathroom, his hair wet in a pile and only a towel wrapped around his waist.
The sight alone made for a great gift.
“What time is it?” He asked, squinting slightly to read the digital clock.
“11:36” You answered coyly.
“Good,” he answered. “I wasn’t done celebrating you.”
Oh?
“What did you have in mind?” You teased, hoping you knew his answer.
tags: YEARNING, pining, slow burn, friends to ???, Benny is a bit of an ass in this, soft! Frankie, mild angst, kissing, love confession, fluff
summary: He’s spent months loving you in every way but the one that counts. Until one night you knock on his door, and the line between you finally starts to blur.
word count: 5,7 k
read on ao3 too
Benny was the easy choice.
Easy in the way Frankie never was—lighter, less burdened, less bruised by life. Less haunted.
Frankie had watched him coast through the aftermath of their service like it was a chapter he could close. Watched him succeed with women, with work, with moving on. Maybe it was because Benny was younger. Or maybe it was because he always had Will—someone tethered to him by blood and laughter and that kind of ride-or-die closeness Frankie never quite got to have.
Sure, Santi and the others were his brothers too. But it wasn’t the same.
Frankie had always been the quiet one. The one people liked, but never quite reached. Not like they reached for Benny. Benny was sunshine and easy grins and boyish charm. Frankie was a man stitched back together too many times to still believe he was whole.
It hadn’t mattered much—until you.
You came into their lives on an ordinary Friday. Just another night at their usual bar, darts and tequila and the comfort of routine. You walked in with a friend, and everything else faded for a second. You didn’t quite fit the place, and maybe that’s what caught his eye. Or maybe it was the way you sat with one foot hooked under your barstool, trying to look comfortable but glancing around like you weren’t sure you belonged.
Benny noticed you too, of course. Made some comment about “dibs on the one with the curls” and strutted across the bar like it was a stage he’d performed on a thousand times. Slung an arm across the counter near you. Said something Frankie couldn’t quite hear but it made you laugh.
And God help him, that laugh.
That laugh changed everything. It rooted itself in his chest like a seed that would never stop growing.
You joined their booth, polite and radiant. Your friend was already eyeing Will, and the table buzzed with overlapping conversation and tequila shots. You didn’t give Benny your number that night—not like the others before you. When you left, Benny pouted about it, muttering under his breath about “a missed shot,” but Frankie let himself hope.
He told himself maybe, maybe you saw through the charm. Maybe you didn’t fall for it.
But he was wrong. You found Benny on social media a few days later. And that’s how your story started.
Frankie told himself it was fine. Benny never lasted long with women anyway—they burned bright and fast and then fizzled out. But you didn’t fizzle. You stayed.
You kept up with the boys. You matched Benny’s energy. You had a smart mouth and kind eyes and you became a part of them. A fixture.
And somehow, in the spaces Benny didn’t fill, Frankie did. He became your confidant. Your ride home whenever Benny was too drunk. Your safe place.
He gave you advice about Benny. Listened when you vented. Memorized your favorite drink and the shape of your laugh. You were the only person who ever made him feel human again. Like he was more than the wreckage he carried. You made him laugh when he didn’t think he remembered how.
He watched it all unfold from the sidelines. The flirting, the late nights, the texts. The way you started showing up at game nights and BBQs. How easily you melted into the group. How you brought snacks that became everyone’s favorite and remembered how he liked his coffee. Even if you were Benny’s girl, you still looked at Frankie when you said his name.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t your fault either.
You were kind to him. Always, too kind.
You treated him like someone worth knowing, not someone broken by war and addiction. You asked about his work. About his music. You brought him books you thought he might like and rolled your eyes when he said he didn’t read much—then grinned when you caught him thumbing through the pages anyway. You laughed at his dry, self-deprecating humor like it was something charming instead of sad.
You hugged him every time you saw him.
And every time, he felt like you were giving him something he wasn’t allowed to have.
——
The nights Benny wasn’t around, you’d still show up. Still sit on the porch beside him and sip your beer slow, talking about everything and nothing. Once, you dozed off on his shoulder and Frankie didn’t dare to breathe for minutes. Just sat there, frozen, letting himself pretend.
You never treated him like a backup plan. Never made him feel like an afterthought.
That’s what made it worse. Because if you’d been cruel, if you’d been careless—he could’ve let go. Could’ve buried it deep. But you weren’t. You were light in a place he thought had long gone dark. And he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t not care. Wasn’t able to stop dreaming about what it would be like if you had picked him instead. Laying awake night after night, being chased by you in his dreams like a ghost.
Frankie wanted you so badly it ached. Not just in the obvious ways—but in all the quiet, aching places that mattered most. The silence that felt unbearable everywhere else always settled into something softer when you were near. Like peace. He bit his tongue every time you laughed at someone else’s joke. Smiled through the sting when Benny kissed you in front of him. Let you lean on him without ever leaning back—because he knew.
If he reached for you, even once, there’d be no going back. And some part of him feared what would happen if you reached back.
Your voice haunted him in the most unexpected moments like a punch to the ribs.Your warmth? It lingered in his clothes long after every too-long hug, like a scent he couldn’t wash out. He was a man starving for something he knew he couldn’t—shouldn’t—want.
But the mind is a cruel thing. It replayed every interaction, every smile, every brush of your hand, like a punishment.
It was a special kind of torture, loving someone who trusted you with everything but their heart.
Who called you at midnight to say, “You’re the only one who gets it,” but still fell asleep in someone else’s arms.
—
And then there was that one night—the one he never talks about. Not even to himself.
You were tipsy. Warm. Laughing soft. Benny was off arguing with someone at the bar. You were beside Frankie, curled close. You said his name—quiet, careful. Like it meant something. And when a curl slipped across your cheek, he reached out. Tucked it behind your ear. His knuckles grazed your skin, and your breath hitched ever so slightly.
That second? It burned.
Lit something that never went out, simmering just under his skin and just now exploded like a firework.
But you blinked—startled, just for a second—before you straightened, offered him a small, almost apologetic smile.
And that’s when he knew.
This feeling wouldn’t go away, not even if he begged it to.
—
Frankie noticed it the second you walked in.
You were late—later than usual. Not that anyone else seemed to mind, but he did. He always did. It was hard not to notice you, even harder not to watch you.
Tonight, something was off.
You smiled, sure, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. You sat at the edge of the group instead of folding into Benny’s side like you usually did. Your laugh was quieter, shorter. You nursed your drink like it was a task instead of a treat. Benny didn’t seem to notice—he was busy reliving some old mission story with Santi and Will, animated and laughing, completely unaware of how your body had curled in on itself.
But Frankie?
He saw everything.
The way your shoulders stayed tense. The way your eyes flicked toward the door every few minutes like you might bolt. The way you barely touched the nachos, even though you always stole the ones with the most cheese.
He tried not to stare or to read too much into it.
But it wasn’t just that you were distant from the group.
It was that you were distant from Benny.
And that was new. Because if Frankie had learned one thing about you early on, it was this—touch was your language. Your anchor. Even when you were anxious, it grounded you. You reached for connection like it steadied your heart.
Usually, that meant Benny. You’d lean into him, and he’d sling an arm around your shoulders without a second thought.
But tonight, you didn’t. Tonight, you sat stiff beside him, eyes glued to the bottom of your beer bottle like it might hold answers. You swirled the liquid absently, searching for something it couldn’t give you.
And so, Frankie did what he did best.
He watched and waited. Held space for you in case you needed it.
Hoping you’d eventually let him in.
—
Later—when the others were too caught up in their pool game, when the bar had dimmed into that late-night lull, Frankie slid into the booth beside you.
Not too close, but close enough that your perfume filled his nostrils immediately and the grip on his bottle tightened.
You didn’t look at him at first. Just picked at the condensation on your glass.
“You okay?” he asked softly, voice low like it didn’t want to press too hard.
You nodded once, too quickly. “Yeah, just tired.”
Frankie tilted his head. “Tired like you’ve had a long week or tired like you’re pretending you’ve had a long week.”
Finally, you looked at him. Eyes blinking, like waking from a bad dream. You wiped beneath one, as if brushing away a tear that had slipped out without permission.
That’s when he recognized it.
Not the tiredness, or even the sadness.
It was that look. The one he sometimes saw in the mirror. A quiet kind of ache. The one that comes when you’re holding too much in your chest and pretending it’s fine.
You tried to smile, but it was weak. Unlike your usual beautiful smile, the kind that lit up your whole face and made your eyes crinkle at the corners. “Frankie…”
But he just shook his head. “You don’t have to tell me. Just don’t lie to me.”
And God, the way your eyes softened. Like you were grateful someone finally noticed. Like you’d been carrying something too heavy for too long and were only now realizing it.
“I’m not lying,” you whispered. “I’m just… trying not to ruin tonight.”
Frankie swallowed. His fingers twitched on the table, itching to reach for yours, but he didn’t.
“You won’t ruin anything,” he said. “You being quiet is the loudest thing in the room for me anyway.”
Your breath caught audibly and you looked away for a moment. Like the fact someone really cared for you like this, was too much for you to handle.
You didn’t say much after that—just slipped out of the booth, pressing a fleeting kiss to Benny’s cheek. He barely noticed, too wrapped up in his pool game to even glance your way. You gave Frankie one small nod, eyes tired and unapproachable.
Frankie’s eyes followed you until you disappeared into the crowd. It felt like there was a shadow clinging to you, something dimming the light he’d come to rely on. Where had you gone? The woman who could make him laugh on his worst days, who had this uncanny ability to make the air feel less heavy?
—
The rest of the night blurred past without you returning. By the time last call came, Benny was too drunk to drive, so Frankie grabbed his keys and steered him toward the truck. He was heavy and clumsy and Frankie slightly annoyed by the time they made it into the car.
The ride was quiet at first, save for Benny humming some tuneless melody under his breath. Frankie kept one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against his thigh—a tell he always had when he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He debated whether to ask what was gnawing at him. Realistically, he had no right to. But it was starting to blur the edges of his restraint, eroding whatever was left of his rationality.
“What’s going on with her?” His voice came out sharper than he intended.
Benny frowned like he didn’t understand. “What?”
“You barely looked at her tonight. She left early. Something happen?”
Benny leaned back in the seat, eyelids heavy. “I don’t know, man… I just think I don’t love her anymore.”
Frankie’s grip tightened around the steering wheel. “The hell are you talking about?”
“And—” Benny’s laugh was careless, almost smug. “—maybe she saw me flirting with the bartender. I mean, it wasn’t a big deal, just—”
“Not a big deal?” Frankie cut in, voice low but burning. “She’s your girl, Ben. You think it’s nothing, but that shit sticks. It hurts. You don’t get to treat her like she’s—”
“Oh, give me a break,” Benny slurred, rolling his head toward him. “You’re acting like I cheated on her.”
“You might as well if you keep going like this.” Frankie’s tone was all bite now, the kind he reserved for when someone crossed a line. His teeth were clenched.
Benny snorted, shaking his head. “Jesus, Fish… you know what? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re in love with my girl.”
The words hit like a gut punch. Frankie’s jaw flexed, a dozen retorts clawing to get out, but he forced his eyes back on the road. “Watch what you’re saying, Ben,” he muttered, voice tight, dangerous. This was too close.
Benny just chuckled under his breath, sinking deeper into the seat—like this was nothing more than idle chatter, not something that twisted in Frankie’s gut at the sheer carelessness behind it.
“I’m just saying…”
Frankie didn’t answer. He gripped the wheel and drove the rest of the way in silence, pulse pounding, Benny’s drunken accusation hanging thick in the air between them.
When they pulled up outside Benny’s place, Frankie finally spoke. “Wait…”
Benny paused mid-step, leaning back into the cabin, one hand braced on the passenger door.
“If you really don’t have feelings for her anymore,” Frankie said, his voice steady but edged with something sharper, “tell her. She deserves to know.”
Benny’s smirk faded for a beat. “I know, man. I’m not a monster.”
And with that, he shut the door hard enough to rattle the frame and walked away, leaving Frankie alone with the echo of it.
He sat there with the engine idling, headlights casting pale gold over the quiet street, hands stayed on the wheel long after Benny disappeared inside.
Not a monster. The words echoed, but they didn’t stick.
Because to Frankie, love wasn’t something you tossed aside when it got inconvenient. It wasn’t something you let wither because you got distracted by a pretty smile behind a bar. And it sure as hell wasn’t something you treated like it didn’t matter when it belonged to someone like you. He watched the story between you and Benny unfold—the way your edges seemed to soften around him, the way your smile gentled, the way your eyes found him like he was the only person in the room. Frankie would’ve given anything to be on the receiving end of that look, even just once. There was no mistaking it—this was love. Or at least it had been, from your side. And the fact that his friend could throw it away so carelessly, while Frankie ached for it every waking second, felt like the cruelest joke the universe had ever played.
He shut his eyes, jaw tight. He could still picture you from earlier—shoulders hunched, eyes too far away, the ghost of your smile stretched thin. And the worst part? You’d looked like that before Benny had even opened his mouth to him tonight.
Frankie’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as he made his way back to his place. He told himself it wasn’t his business—that you weren’t his to protect—but the thought of you sitting at home, wondering if you’d done something wrong burned. It got under his skin, seeped into the cracks he’d tried so hard to seal. It pressed against every part of his soul he kept hidden, the parts that had no right to interfere with you, or with one of his closest friends since his army days.
—
By the time Frankie got home, the night had stretched thin. The kind of quiet that should have been a relief only made him restless. He tried the TV, aimlessly flipping through channels, but every voice sounded hollow against the static hum in his head.
He kept replaying the way you’d looked at the bar. The hollowed-out version of yourself. The way you’d slipped out without fanfare, like you were hoping no one would notice. Like you wanted to disappear before anyone could ask why.
And then Benny’s words: I think I don’t love her anymore. He’d said it like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t a sentence that could gut a person if it landed in their chest. Frankie shut the TV off and sat in the dark, elbows on his knees, trying to will himself to let it go. You weren’t his, and it sure as hell wasn’t his place to do anything.
A sudden knock at the door made him flinch. It was late—well past one in the morning—and no one came by unannounced at this hour unless they had a damn good reason. The sound was hesitant, almost unsure, and for a moment he wondered if his tired brain had imagined it. But then came two softer knocks, quick and quiet, and that was enough to get him moving.
He opened the door to find you standing there—hair mussed from the wind, eyes swollen and glassy, jacket pulled tight around you like armor. You looked smaller somehow, stripped of the light he’d come to know in every version of you since you became Benny’s girl.
“Hey,” you breathed, voice soft and frayed around the edges.
Frankie’s stomach dropped. He didn’t even ask before stepping aside, autopilot. “Come in.”
You hesitated only long enough to toe off your shoes before stepping into his apartment. The air between you was thick with too many things unsaid, pressing in from all sides.
When he turned to face you, you were already unraveling. That first broken sob hit him like shrapnel—sharp, sudden, and straight to the heart. Before he could think better of it, he closed the distance. His arms came around you, instinct more than choice, and you folded into him like you’d been holding yourself together just long enough to make it here.
You shook in his hold, your hands fisting in his shirt, and Frankie held on tighter. Tight enough to feel your heartbeat through your jacket, tight enough to imagine that he maybe could keep all your broken pieces from spilling onto the floor.
“’S okay,” he murmured, voice low, barely above the rasp of his own breath against your hair. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
The words were for you, but the promise lodged somewhere deep in him, dangerous and immovable. Because this close, he could feel everything—the faint tremble in your breath, the soft scent of your shampoo, the way your body fit against his like it had always belonged there. And it was killing him.
Every part of him screamed to press his mouth to the crown of your head, to tell you how long he’d wanted to be the one you came to. But this wasn’t his moment to take. It was yours to fall apart in, and his to keep you safe while you did.
Your voice was a whisper against his chest. “Benny called me.”
He felt his jaw tense before he even processed the words. “Called you?”
You nodded against him. “Didn’t come by. Didn’t… look me in the eye. Just called to tell me he’s not in love with me anymore.” Your voice cracked, the last word barely holding together.
Frankie froze. For a second, it was like his mind split in two—the part of him that wanted to keep you wrapped in warmth and quiet, and the part that wanted to slam his fist through a wall, through Benny’s front door, through anything between him and the man who could treat you like that.
Not in love anymore. The words echoed like gunfire. He told him that you deserved the truth, but he didn’t expect him to do it so soon.
He forced his breathing to slow. You didn’t need his rage, you needed his steadiness.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice low but steady, even though every syllable scraped like glass in his throat. “You didn’t deserve that. Any of it.”
And in his head, behind the calm, the thought roared: If he didn’t love you anymore, I would have.
You didn’t pull away after that. If anything, you pressed in closer, curling into him like you could disappear into the space between his ribs and find some shelter there. Frankie shifted just enough to guide you inside, closing the door behind you with his free hand, the other still keeping you anchored to him.
“Sit,” he murmured, nodding toward the couch. He crouched in front of you for a second, searching your face, then straightened. “I’ll get you some tea.”
You shook your head immediately, eyes still glossy. “Don’t want tea.”
He hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Okay. No tea.” He sat beside you instead, letting you lean into his side, one arm coming around your shoulders automatically. You fit there like you’d been meant to, your cheek pressed to his chest, your hand curling against the seam of his hoodie. He could feel the damp heat of your breath through the fabric, and it short-circuited something deep in him—because all he’d ever wanted was this, to be the one you trusted enough to fall apart on. And now that it was happening, he had to keep every part of himself locked down so you didn’t feel how hard his heart was slamming against his ribs.
He rubbed slow circles between your shoulder blades, the way you sometimes did for him when his anxiety got bad, and felt your sobs slowly lose their sharp edges.
After a long silence, he exhaled through his nose. “You know,” he said, voice low and a little dry, “if you want, I can go over there right now and hit him.”
It earned him the smallest huff of air against his chest—almost a laugh, but not quite. “Don’t,” you murmured. “He’s not worth it.”
“Maybe not,” he said, tightening his arm around you just enough to make the point, “but you are.”
You went still at that, and for a heartbeat he thought he’d said too much. But then you sank into him again, and he let the quiet come back. Let you have all the time you needed, even if every second was killing him in the sweetest, cruelest way imaginable.
Frankie didn’t mean to offer the bed.
He’d told himself you’d take the couch—hell, you’d even nodded when he gestured toward it—but somewhere between finding you an old T-shirt and blanket, and watching you fold into yourself again, the words slipped out.
“You can take my bed. It’s warmer.”
You didn’t argue. Just gave him that small, wrecked nod, and disappeared into his room while he lingered in the living room, trying to convince himself this was fine. Normal.
When he finally went in, the moon was already spilling silver light through the half-closed curtains, painting long stripes across the floor. You were curled on top of the blankets, hair mussed, eyes barely open.
“I can take the couch—” he started.
“Don’t,” you interrupted, voice soft, not quite pleading. “Stay.”
Two syllables, and his pulse tripped over itself.
He hesitated in the doorway, every instinct screaming at him to be careful. But then you shifted, pulling the blanket back like it was the most natural thing in the world, and he gave in.
The mattress dipped under his weight, the air between you warm and tense. He lay on his side, leaving space, but the moment your fingers brushed his arm, it was like a fuse lit inside him. His breathing stuttered, loud in the quiet.
You inched closer, tucking yourself into the curve of him with a trust that was both a gift and a knife. “Is this okay?” you whispered, almost like you were afraid he’d say no.
God, yes.
He wanted to say yes and then show you just how okay it was, every way he’d been imagining for months. But instead he swallowed, made his voice steady. “Yeah, ’course it is.”
Silence stretched, broken only by the rustle of fabric when you shifted against him. The moonlight caught the curve of your cheek, the slope of your jaw, and he thought if I just leaned in—
But then you spoke.
Your voice came so quietly he almost thought he’d imagined it.
“Why is it that I feel safer with you than with him?”
Frankie’s chest went tight. He stared at the ceiling, willing himself not to react, not to let his hand tremble where it rested between you. Every part of him wanted to answer with the truth: Because I want you, because I’d never let you feel small, because I see you.
Instead, he forced a slow breath. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “But you do, that’s what matters.”
You curled in even closer, pressing your forehead to his chest. And while you exhaled like you were finally able to let go, Frankie lay there wide awake, pulse hammering, his body fighting against reason.
—
The morning after you slept in his bed, nothing had changed on the surface. He made coffee. You made a joke about his terrible taste in cereal. He walked you to your car and watched until you turned the corner.
But something had shifted. Frankie could feel it in the marrow. You still weren’t Benny’s anymore — that part was clear — but you weren’t his, either. And so he stayed in that no-man’s-land, where the safest thing he could do was show up for you without ever reaching too far.
Weeks slipped by like that. You came over often, sometimes with takeout, sometimes empty-handed, sometimes with that little crease between your brows that told him you’d had a bad day, haunted by heartbreak and whatever ghosts were chasing you and just needed somewhere to be. And he gave you all of it. The couch, the quiet. The beer you liked coldest. His ears, without judgment.
He’d even fixed the leaky tap in your kitchen, after you’d teased him about being handier than you’d given him credit for and he’d just shrugged, like it was nothing. Change your oil without being asked. Let you commandeer his remote, even when you made him sit through that cooking competition show he secretly hated.
And every time you laughed, head thrown back, hand on his knee, he felt the edges of himself fray a little more.
And then there were the moments that gutted him most. Like the night you fell asleep against his shoulder during a movie, breath soft and steady, your hand resting loosely on his chest like it belonged there. For him, it did. Or the way you’d hum to yourself in his kitchen, hair in a loose bun, swimming in one of his sweatshirts and how good you looked there. The afternoon you leaned over his shoulder while he worked on the old car in his garage, your chin nearly brushing his temple, carrying the faint scent of your shampoo mixed with engine grease, your body heat seeping into every crack in his restraint.
Every single one of those moments rewrote him a little more.
He never touched more than he should. Never let his hand linger when he passed you something, never leaned in too close. But the want was its own kind of burn now — steady, consuming, impossible to ignore. Like an itch beneath his skin he couldn’t scratch without shattering everything.
It was late again, a random Thursday, one of those nights that seemed to have no natural end. You’d been on his couch for hours, legs tucked under you. The TV was still on, but neither of you were really watching.
You’d been talking about nothing — work, the weather, the ridiculousness of Santi’s group texts — when you leaned your head back against the cushions, looking at him with that small, soft smile he always admired when you gave it to Benny.
“Why are you always so good to me?”
Frankie froze. The words were light, but they landed like a weight on his chest. You were so close, knees brushing his thigh, the smell of your perfume lingering in the air like smoke. He looked at you for a long time without speaking, blinking, breathing and you tilted your head like you were trying to read him.
“You really have no idea, do you?” he said finally, his voice rough.
Your brows knit. “Idea about what?”
“That I’ve… felt this way for you for longer than I should’ve.” He exhaled hard, rubbed the back of his neck like maybe that would buy him time. “That every time I’m good to you, it’s because I can’t not be. Because I’ve been—” He broke off, shaking his head. “—been in love with you for so long it’s just part of who I am now.”
The room went unbearably still. His own heartbeat loud in his ears.
“I know I’m not supposed to say this,” he murmured, voice dropping low, eyes fixed on his hands. “And I’d never expect you to feel the same. But I can’t keep sitting here, night after night, pretending I’m not already yours in every way that counts.”
For a moment, you just stared at him. Like the words had taken a second to sink in, like you were replaying them in your head to make sure you’d heard them right. You didn’t look scared. If anything, you looked stunned.
“I—” you started, then shook your head, a wry, almost disbelieving smile tugging at your lips. “You know what’s funny?”
Frankie’s brows drew together, wary but waiting.
“I was interested in you. Back then. Not Benny. But I thought you weren’t into me, so…” You let the unfinished sentence hang between you, a shrug filling in the rest.
For a second, he just blinked at you. Then a laugh—boyish, almost incredulous—broke from his chest. “Are you kidding me?”
That made you laugh too, both of you shaking your heads at how the timing had been so catastrophically wrong. The sound softened into something quieter, the air between you shifting.
Frankie felt your gaze before he saw it—like a hand on the back of his neck, warm and pulling.
When he finally looked up, you were watching him already. It knocked the air out of him. There was no wall in your eyes tonight, no easy smile to hide behind. Just you.
Your lips parted slightly, and Frankie swore his pulse skipped. His gaze dropped to your mouth before his brain catched up, hunger and hesitation warring inside. He didn’t even notice he’d stopped breathing until you moved.
You crossed the space between you like it was the most natural thing in the world—swinging a leg over, settling into his lap. Knees bracketing his hips, thighs pressing in close. Frankie’s chest tightened with the sharp, involuntary inhale it pulled from him.
He froze for half a second. Not because he didn’t want it—Jesus, he wanted this more than anything else—but because he had to be sure. Had to know you weren’t going to regret this the second it happened.
His hands found the softness of your hips, tentative at first, then firmer, holding you like you might vanish. The heat of you sank through his palms, straight into his bones.
He looked up at you from beneath the brim of his cap, voice rough when he managed, “You sure?”
Your nod was all it took. You reached up, plucking his cap from his head like it had no right to be between you, fingers sliding into his hair. The slow rake of your nails through his curls sent a shiver down his spine.
Whatever thin, frayed thread had been holding him together gave way in that moment. Every ounce of restraint he’d clung to unraveled, spilling into the space between you until there was nothing left but the need he could no longer keep buried.
The kiss deepened like neither of you had a choice in the matter. Your fingers tugged at his hair, just enough to pull a low sound from his chest.
Frankie’s hands traced up from your hips, over your ribs, thumbs brushing just under the swell of your chest before he caught himself, palms flattening against your back instead. He pulled you closer anyway, like it still wasn’t enough, like all the pining had left a hollow in him that only you could fill.
You shifted in his lap, and his breath stuttered against your mouth, his restraint hanging by a thread.
“Fuck…” he murmured into the kiss, like it was a prayer, like it was the only word he could manage. You pressed your forehead to his, both of you breathing hard, the room spinning slow with the gravity between you.
“I should’ve told you,” you whispered.
His thumb brushed your jaw, eyes on your mouth like he wasn’t ready to let you go. “We’re here now, that’s all what matters.”
You kissed him again at that, slower this time, like you were both memorizing the feel of it—and all the missed chances fell away. The quiet between kisses was filled only with the sound of your uneven breathing and the distant hum of the city beyond the walls.
The rest could wait. But for now, you stayed tangled in his lap, his arms around you like you both finally found the place you were meant to be all along.
thanks for reading 💌
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Summary: After the death of Tom during the group's mission in the Andes, reader is left picking up the pieces. Her partner of four years, Frankie, has disappeared after his recent relapse with substance abuse. It's been eight days since he walked out the door and reader is now left to worry if he'll be coming back, and if so, how much of him.
Warnings: Drinking, Substance Abuse, No Smut, No Use of Y/N for Reader Insert
Words: 1.5K
A/N *PLEASE READ: Eight Days was originally written in 2020 and crossposted to AO3 and Tumblr. The original work was 9 chapters and less than 15K words total. This rewrite will be an undecided amount of added chapters and content, starting from the very beginning. Updates will be posted at least once every 1-2 weeks if all goes well!
Taglist: @rabb1tcult
___
Chapter One
“This is Fish, sorry I couldn’t get to the phone, leave me a message and maybe I’ll get back to you, no promises.”
BEEP
“Fuck. Jesus Christ Frankie I wish you’d just answer your fucking phone, okay? I’m worried about you, the guys are worried, we all just want to know that you’re alive. I know it’s been hard since, fuck, since Tom died, but you can’t do this to me Frankie… please.”
You sighed loudly as you dropped your phone from your ear momentarily.
“What you’re doing, you have to know it’s not just hurting you, it’s hurting all of us. We want to help you so please… let us.”
Your eyes and throat began to burn, you fought to keep your composure as you rattled off the last of your messy thoughts.
“You have to be okay you…you have to promise me that you’ll be okay, Frankie. I promised myself I would never settle for more than what I deserve…And I don’t deserve you when you’re like that, when you...” You trailed.
“I love you and I want you to be safe but I cannot keep trying to help you when the damage has already been done. So please… promise me you’re done using.”
Tears fell as you took a deep breath - almost there.
“I can’t- Fuck.” You stopped, hold it together.
Come on….
“I can’t be with someone who’s always going to choose…to choose drugs over me.” You turned your face away from your phone to hide your sob.
“So please, I am begging you, please come home. I miss you and I-“ You paused once more as your tear dropped onto the frame you were holding in your hands. You, Frankie, Santi, Ben, Will, and Tom at your favorite bar just a year ago.
“I just want you to be okay baby. It’s been eight days… please come home to me. Please let me know you’re okay.”
You lowered your phone and ended the call, hoping your voice mail would be listened to before it reached the DELETED folder.
-
Four Years Ago
“Can I get one more please?” You didn’t hesitate as you slid your empty shot glass back towards the bartender.
Your neighborhood bar was unusually busy for a Tuesday afternoon, seemingly from the definitely not regular group of men huddled around one of the pool tables in the usually empty corner. You didn’t frequent the bar per se, but definitely recognized the people you commiserated with at 2PM every Tuesday.
You weren’t sure of the reason for your extra dose of Tequila tonight, but felt compelled to keep them coming as long as the noise in the bar was at it’s painstakingly high level.
In fact, you had to focus to remain composed as you planned your next move. Home? Not the best option, sitting at home alone may as well be sitting at a bar alone. Different bar? Don’t think so.
The men cheered at the sinking of an eight ball.
You winced at the noise and shot a glare in their direction.
Fine. Just this one, then I’ll go.
The bartender slid over your 4th shot of the night before disappearing behind the bar once more.
Maybe a walk back home? Wouldn’t hurt. Hell, paying for an Uber after a likely $60 tab would hurt worse.
You threw back the shot, wincing at the growing burn in your throat before hopping off your barstool and beelining your way to the bathroom.
You fought to keep your eyes on the floor, knowing if you gazed over the group of men you’d be… invested, to say the least. It’s not that you minded the possible attraction, just that you were aware of how painfully impossible it was to leave the bar with anyone before sundown. That, and given their rowdiness level, you weren’t sure they’d be your type anyway, though you claimed not to have one.
See? No reason to get your hopes up.
-
On the way back from the bathroom, you stole a quick glance at the group as one of them caught your eye.
In the darkest corner was a taller-than-you, broad man wearing a baseball cap and dark-colored flannel, holding a pool cue upright with his massive hands wrapped around the thinned top. His gaze was fixed on you, as if he’d already been watching before you’d decided to give in.
As one of the other men caught his attention, he smiled before diverting his attention back to the game at hand.
That’s a rough one to leave behind.
If you’d stopped walking to stare, you hadn’t noticed until now. You quickly resumed your short-journey back to the bar where you flagged down the bartender to close out your tab.
You’d only waited to make sure you were REALLY done for the afternoon, as you’d made that mistake before. Sometimes a short trip to the bathroom was all you needed to realize you weren’t quite… ready, to call it a night that is.
After that interaction you definitely weren’t thrilled to go, but knew it was probably in your best interest to leave before you learned any names.
“C’mon, Fish! God damn cheater or something, man. How the fuck do you keep winning, you asshole!” You heard one of them holler as you waited for the bartender to make his way back to you.
You slowly peeked over your shoulder at the group once more as they laughed.
Definitely time to go, there’s not enough time in the world to wonder how someone ended up with the name Fish, though you secretly wondered who in the group that name belonged to.
Dan, the bartender, finally appeared in front of you, pulling you from your eavesdropping state.
“Headed out?” He questioned as he wiped the counter between the two of you.
“Yeah, I think I’d better get going.” You said with a small yet indifferent smile.
“Well you’re all settled up here already unless I can get you anything else.” He mentioned slyly while pointing his eyes in the direction of the pool-playing men.
You followed his gaze and saw him again, looking in your direction, but this time redirecting his gaze once he realized he’d been caught.
Oh. Oh.
“Baseball cap came over while you were in the bathroom, thought maybe you knew him” He continued.
“Starting to think maybe I should.” You quipped as you turned back to Dan.
“You seen him here before?” You questioned.
Dan was your confidant, he was older, a lot older actually, probably old enough to be your dad, but there was something about him that could make him fit in with anyone who walked into the bar. You weren’t sure how long he’d worked there or how often he worked, just that he would always be there to serve you at 2PM on Tuesdays.
He’d helped you more than once too, and not just with the… dating portion of your bar visits, if you will. He’d often fend off aggressively drunk men as they tried to win your heart by not leaving you alone, as if that had ever worked in the past. There was also once that he helped order you an Uber home when your phone had died. He seemed like too good of a man to have to deal with bar patrons.
“Not ‘im, but the taller blond ‘as been in here before, not much lately.” He confessed before reaching back behind him.
“Need one on the house for courage?” He offered as he lifted the Don Julio in his hand.
You laughed quietly at the gesture.
“Not tonight, Dan” You offered him a small smile in gratitude.
He shrugged as he returned the bottle to its home on the shelf.
“But…” you continued, “if they need another round, consider it covered.” You winked to him as you slid cash across the table.
“You got it, girl.” He nodded as he stored the money under his register insert.
You knew if they didn’t use it he’d probably leave it for your return next Tuesday, he always refused a tip, saying “No need, I’m just doin’ my job.”
“Thanks, Dan.” You said before focusing your vision on the door.
Go. Just go. It’s not too late.
You stood fixed in your spot for several seconds, staring towards the door, the light of the outside washing away the reality you were slowly building inside these four walls.
“You sure that’s all?” Dan chuckled as he looked between your frozen body and the group of men.
You shot him an amused glare, trying not to reveal how utterly phased you had been by the situation at hand.
Fine.
“Fuuuck alright, okay, IF he asks…” You snatched a napkin from one of the counter-top dispensers and a left-over pen from someone’s signing of their tab.
You scribbled your phone number onto the napkin before folding it up and offering it across the bar.
“Am I right to assume he is Mr. Baseball cap?” Dan questioned as he steadied an empty bottle atop your crumpled napkin next to his register.
I guess any of them wouldn’t hurt…
You shot a small look back in their direction before turning back to Dan, your eyes only focused on the man in question.
“Baseball cap it is. See you next week.” You tapped your hand on the bar before heading for the door.
