Summary: You and your fiancé, Frankie "Catfish" Morales, get into a car accident.
Warnings: No use of Y/N, mentions of SA, child abuse, child SA, mentions of abusive relationship (not between Frankie and reader), mentions of drug use, allusions to murder (self-defence), mentions of military, mentions of divorce, mentions of depression, mentions of suicide, mentions of anxiety, drugs, no happy ending, barely edited, I think that's all? If I've missed something, let me know
A/N: I kind of stole this idea from a friend of mine, @/ramblers-let's-get-ramblin. She said she sort of dumped all of her trauma into a google doc and made it a fic, and I did the same thing. This is kind of a mopefest, and I've never written anything and posted it before, so I hope you enjoy, as much as you can, anyway.
Word Count: 2.5k
Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader
You remember sitting in front of a fireplace.
Winter had come in the lashing of wind on the windows, glass shaking and a roof made of heartbreak and filth barely withstanding the cold it had withstood many times before.
You had held your sister close, your blood, your only love, to your chest, whispering in her ear as she cried over her first breakup.
When her sobs had eased, and the spot of your skin her shoulder dug into had grown numb, you whispered, “You will find the right one.”
You whispered those words a lot.
Whispered them into your pillow, into the mirror, into your own hand to muffle your cries as the second, then third and fourth stepfather took what he wanted from you.
You needed to remember those words.
If you were being completely honest, the first time you let a man put a ring on your finger, you knew he had not been the right one.
You knew because you did not know him.
All you knew was that he had a house without the echo of your mother’s vicious screams and a bed for you to sleep in that would not be tainted with the hands of men who never asked.
At least marrying him was something akin to permission.
At least a wedding ring would stave anyone else off.
And so, you married him.
The man you did not know, the man who believed to love you but truly wanted to possess you, you married him.
With time, you came to love him.
Professionals would have called it something like Stockholm Syndrome, but for you, then, it had been love.
You never left the house—simply were not allowed to.
You studied online, but only in the dark, hiding your laptop screen from the man you loved.
You justified it, merely saying he would support you when the time came.
He worked, he slept, he ate, he fucked, though not always you, and it hurt when it wasn’t you, but in the darker part of your mind, you knew it was best.
You forgot what it was like to leave the house, to live under a sun and to live with love and laughter and friends.
Your sister stayed in touch, but she was the only one.
Eventually, through a sequence of unspeakable events, of bruises all over your body and blood on a nightgown that barely fit, you would sit in a courtroom for months, and, finally, listen to the judge call it “self-defence”.
The judge said a lot of things, as did the lawyers.
You didn’t listen to any of them.
There was this harrowing silence within you, it drew in the things of everyone around you, melting them, turning them into puddles of distance, where their faces blurred and their words, sometimes accusations and sometimes comforts, fell on ears that weren’t yours because surely if they were yours you would be able to use them?
You had thought, during those months, that perhaps no pain or silence would ever live up to that.
You had been wrong.
Now, you lie in a hospital bed, a few years later.
Years spent healing, loving, learning, studying, and now, finally, dying.
Your sister had said it with such relief.
“You won’t die. You’re going to be fine.”
No. Lie.
You were dying. That’s what this feeling was.
It had to be death.
You had not answered, staring ahead, waiting for one person to step into your line of vision.
Frankie. Your Frankie.
It was a coma.
Your Frankie locked in a coma.
How he would hate to ever be such a thing.
You knew it, because you knew him.
Loved him, as he knew and loved you.
You had healed together, learned together, loved together, grown together.
You had met when he and a horrid, filthy drug pierced his system, and he needed it to.
You had “cut right through his bullshit”, as he always said when he told the story, refusing to go out with him.
He always said he changed because you didn’t ask him to.
You had not given him conditions, you had not asked him to grow or be someone new, you had looked at him, seen him for what he was, and denied him.
You had needed him to be someone he wasn’t, so you had said no, instead of asking him to be different.
And thus, he had changed.
Changed because he had needed you, exactly as you were, and would not stop until you could be his as much as he was already yours.
He joked in the years after the first kiss, joked that his heart had buried itself behind your ear the first time his fingers had brushed yours as he handed you a drink.
For Halloween, you had asked to go as Morticia and Gomez Addams.
“It fits us,” you said, grinning broadly, wooden spoon in your hand as you stirred his favourite.
You always made his favourite, he always whispered that anything you made was his favourite, so maybe you were cheating.
But still, it was his favourite.
That was all that mattered.
Frankie shook his head. “No.”
You were dumbfounded. He never said no to you.
The first few months you’d scolded him for it, telling him he needed to tell you when he wasn’t okay, when he needed to say no.
He promised he would, but he never said no.
This might have been the first time, so you nodded. “Okay. Sure.”
He shrugged, moving around the kitchen island, coming up behind you, his arms like puzzle pieces fitting around your waist.
Perfect.
The two of you were perfect together.
He pressed a kiss to the back of your head. “I just think we should save Morticia and Gomez for when we get married.”
You leaned back into his words, smiling a smile you thought your lips would never be capable of. “When we get married?”
“When,” he promised into your scalp, smile matching yours.
The ring wasn’t on your finger now.
Someone else was keeping it, you weren’t sure who, but it wouldn’t fit on your left hand, aching and swollen and bandaged.
The doctors would not say anything to you at first, then they said he was in a coma.
When they finally told you his condition, you had screamed.
Screamed so loud you knew the sleep of some of the other patients had been disturbed.
You had sobbed and wailed and one of the nurses had tried to calm you, explaining that the vicious pain all throughout your torso was from your injuries, but you deserved it.
Deserved the cuts and scrapes and stabs and stitches because you were here and he was not and there was nothing that could right that wrong but the pain of your body was a step.
Eventually, they called your sister, and your other sister who was not yours by blood but yours all the same and they had held you.
Flowers sat at your bedside table, flowers for the wounds, oh, but the wounds meant nothing.
Nothing next to the pain inside.
The injuries, you supposed, were a happy coincidence.
Because they kept you bedridden, and the only thing that had kept you from suicide was the fact that you simply had not the muscles nor movement to do so.
The nurse had come in later, when the tears had stopped but not dried, when the screaming had stopped coming from your mouth but still echoed in your mind, and told you to sleep.
You didn’t.
Your eyelids were so heavy, your body so stiff, your head aching.
You didn’t close your eyes, lest you miss it.
People talked about hallucinations, about losing a loved one and seeing them afterwards.
So you kept your eyes open.
Waiting. Looking. Watching.
You needed to see him.
You needed it.
Craved it.
But he wasn’t there.
And that wasn’t fair.
You had been through so much, so many hands, so many locked doors, so many tears, surely you were insane?
Surely you saw things that weren’t there?
He wasn’t here.
So you had to see him.
You didn’t, though.
You didn’t see anyone.
Your sisters came again the following morning, with soft smiles and softer words and the softest hands.
They said your mother wanted to visit.
Your chest was too tight to say anything, but your sister who shared your soul and not your blood touched your hand—not gripped it, for fear of broken bones and split skin—and promised she would never let that happen.
Frankie’s brothers, his military brothers, came to visit you, too.
You cried when you saw them, they cried with you.
Santiago had sat next to you as everyone else began to filter out.
He’d opened his mouth, and you knew what he’d been about to say.
“Don’t,” you whispered, tears burning their way up your throat. “I don’t care. I just—I can’t, please. Not—not right now.”
He had nodded, tears in his own eyes, holding you to his shoulder carefully as sobs so violent they ripped stitches wracked your broken body.
Santiago had gone with Frankie that day, many days ago, now, to change his will and leave everything to you.
Frankie and Santiago had both thought it a secret, but Frankie’s beautiful, little girl had come running to you, and you had known for months.
You didn’t want to hear about the will. Not now.
Not ever.
You talked about it often, the money Frankie had come into when his absent, Scrooge McDuck–type of father had died, and, for some unknown reason, left it all to Frankie.
It was a running joke; the rich, older man you’d swindled, the money you’d ultimately have because of the ring he was always planning to put on your finger.
Truthfully, the money had always meant shit to you.
Growing up poor as dirt, money had been a luxury, and you would never take it for granted.
But around Frankie?
Money meant nothing.
There was no richness to compare to the richness of the laughter he gave you when you cracked a foul joke, no amount of swimming in pools of gold to compare to swimming in pools of water with his arms around you and your legs around him.
Money was four letters short of happiness, because you needed nine letters to spell Francisco.
When Santiago left, Frankie’s ex trundled in, having stayed good friends with Frankie after the divorce and hitting it off with you.
There had been something special about it, exchanging stories and tears and memories with her, while Frankie’s daughter napped with her head painfully digging into the ruin the car had left of your thigh.
Then the nurse had ushered them out, and you’d asked if your sister could come back.
The nurse couldn’t say no, not to you, not with a ruined body and a worse heart, so your sister had come back briefly.
You had asked her to bring your laptop.
“You can barely type,” she had said.
You shook your head. “I need to. Please. Please let me put this somewhere.”
Your words slurred, either from the drugs coming through the IV in your hand or the cuts on your face.
Your sister had nodded, kissing your forehead, avoiding your damage, and the nurse handed you the laptop about an hour later.
She was right.
You could barely type.
Still, you had to write something.
Something broken. Something unfinished. Something sad. Something lonely.
Something like you.
Writing was never your thing, it was just something you did.
In your room, in between school and homework and nights you didn’t speak of, you wrote.
You wrote a lot in the time you spent locked in a house with a ring on your finger and not a soul who knew you but a sister you couldn’t see.
You’d lost it, getting out, turning to studies that consumed your time, turning to Frankie.
You found it again now, with hands that can barely type, a body in pain but barely noticeable.
You know you don’t really feel it.
Not yet.
The realising will come later.
You doubt you’ll survive.
You won’t have to leave the hospital, not for a good long while, and that’s the biggest relief you could possibly get.
You don’t have to eat. You don’t have to think.
You can just lie here, pain eating away at every muscle you own, half-curled into yourself as your tears refuse to let your pillow dry, thinking about Frankie.
Every memory you have, every smile he gave you, every moment, you lie there and stare at nothing while you think about him.
You may never think about anything else ever again.
You don’t know if you have the strength.
Everyone around you is waiting for you to snap. For the ball to drop and for you to start screaming and throwing blame.
You can’t.
Anger takes energy, anger requires for there to be something within you.
There’s nothing left.
You’re a hollow shell of a creature, the only thing you’re capable of doing is remembering.
You messaged a few friends online. You’re grateful for all of them. There’s this understanding between you, that you’re going to act like a normal person with a normal life, and they’re going to let you. They don’t avoid it, but they don’t mention it, not unless you do.
That means more than they think. For them to let you pretend, for them to pretend with you.
Sometimes they help bring you back to reality, telling you it’s going to suck and nothing will feel right.
That helps.
You don’t know what else could possibly help you, but you think you might have a suspicion.
So you get someone to bring you a pillow, put it on your lap and place your laptop on top, like a makeshift desk.
You start typing.
Stories, memories, Frankie.
You’ve heard of people who avoid the names of their spouses but you can’t. Won’t.
You can’t stop saying it, writing it.
He needs to be alive, he has to be, or else whatever remains of you will fade into nothing.
He has to be alive somewhere.
So you write.
Tomorrow, you don’t think you’ll have the energy to do such a thing.
You find you don’t have much energy, not anymore.
For now, you write.
It’s all you can do.
Someday, what’s left of your resolve will drip away into the hollowness of where Frankie should be.
Then you’ll wither away into a shadow, into a broken doll forgotten under the bed.
Either that shadow will regrow into a person, or it won’t.
You have no idea which it might be, and you’re scared.
You wrap yourself in memories and tears so you might continue to feel, but wrapping yourself is so tiring.
You’re so tired.
You’ve been hospitalised for four days, awake for two, maybe three.
You have no idea how you’re supposed to live past midnight tonight.
Maybe you won’t.
Maybe your injuries and your hurt and your hollowness will carry you away in the night, never to be seen again.
Maybe all that’s left of you will be the words on paper that you give to Frankie.
Maybe that’s all you want.
To be with Frankie.
Whether in his arms, or two words on a page, or in the ground, you just want to be with him.
Maybe you’ll live.
Maybe you won’t.
The doctors had come into your room three times.
The first, they refused to tell you anything.
The second, they said he was in a coma.
The third time—
True happiness was nine letters long, while death only four.
no because i’m breaking my silence. hate me if you want, that’s fine, but me personally, i don’t stand for blatant lying and manipulation, ESPECIALLY bullying.
@gracieispunk is gone because she claims people are spreading misinformation. please explain to me why they would leave all of their fics behind and all of their followers rather than address the situation? this is a big teller that she was guilty in the first place because why would you risk all of that for an ‘accusation’ that hasn’t gone public? a private ‘accusation’ that has not met the public eye until you went out of your way to run away from the situation? secondly, i just saw the post about the whole situation and what’s being said. the ‘fabrication’ that’s being said is that you guys are in a group and sit in it while shitting on other writers. you just confirmed and told EVERYONE yall are in fact in that group, the ones ACCUSED are in that group. the fact of the matter is not that you guys aren’t publicly praising writers, it’s the sheer fact that you guys are SHITTING on them and making fun of them behind their backs.
chloe, i’m really disgusted in the fact that you’re manipulating your fanbase and pretending as if you never engaged in this behavior. it’s disheartening that you’re lying to your followers and friends to save your own ass.
papipascal, it’s kinda gross that you’d talk down on a piece that you’re editing for somebody. i hope you don’t get paid for editing fics because that’s absolutely fucked.
we do this for FREE. we are NOT celebrities, these are people with REAL feelings. you have victimized your own fellow writers. why ask for people to ‘be adults’ when none of you guys have addressed your wrongdoings? tell the truth, apologize, and move on. to say it’s stemmed out of insecurities and jealousy is RICH considering you guys shit on other writers, big and small. i’m not jealous, trust when i say that. in fact, i was HURT when i heard of this little group you guys have as i am a fan of ALL of your works. why would i risk my own enjoyment for a lie?? your actions hurt other people yet you’d rather run away from them.
here’s me being a big girl and putting my big girl pants on! how about you do the same and tell the truth about how you’re being a bunch of mean girls and he-he ha-ha-ing about other writers?
i’m disgusted in the lying and manipulation that is going on. tell the truth and get it over with, forgiveness is closer than you think.
for the followers and friends that are upset and hurt, i’m sorry. i know it sucks and ‘high school drama’ is fucked but i cannot sit and watch you guys be manipulated by creators who you idolize or believe to be perfect.
this post may cause an extreme drop in followers or a mass amount of haters, but i simply do not care. i’d rather be hated for standing up for what’s right than be silent. i write for my enjoyment and to make others happy. as a small creator, knowing about this situation sickens me and angers me to no end.
There's been so much talk and discussion of tropes, and plagiarism, and I feel like It seriously needs to be put to rest.
So what exactly is plagiarizing?
By definition: to steal and pass off (the ideas or words of another) as one's own : use (another's production) without crediting the source
What exactly is a trope?
By definition: a common or overused theme or device
The fics, or art, or any work that you create is entirely your own. You own that material, because you created it. If someone were to directly use your art, or copy your writing word for word, without consulting you beforehand, or at the very least crediting you, that is plagiarism.
Someone who decides that a trope is interesting, and they want to try it out on their own. Is not plagiarism. Being inspired by things is just a normal part of life. We all do it.
If I want to write a silly fic with a weird trope, and then someone else decided to write something with the same trope, that is not plagiarism.
Think of it like this. We are all using the same characters for these fics. It is only natural there may be some overlap with how saturated the fandom is with fics, and writing, and just content in general.
I think there's been a lot of confusion on the difference between plots, and tropes.
You own the plot you write, but not the trope.
Its like going to an ice cream shop, everyone can pick a different flavor (plot) but at the end of the day its all on a cone (trope)
Summary: Din Djarin picks up a mysterious job at the Bounty Hunter’s Guild from a high paying client that specifically requested him. Once he tracks down the bounty, he discovers two things— you tracking the bounty for different reasons entirely and a lot more than he bargained for.
Series warnings: canon divergent (long live the Razor Crest), no Grogu in this universe, haunted/cursed object, enemies to lovers, eventual smut (part two), monsterfucking (I think??), Star Wars lore, canon typical violence, character death, no use of y/n
Chapter summary: Din receives a mysterious bounty from an anonymous client who specifically requested him. Once he tracks down the bounty he feels… different to say the least.
Word count: 2.6k
Chapter warnings: cycles = years, this part is entirely in Din’s POV, haunted/cursed object, light canon typical violence, restraints, reader gets captured (in order to not be marooned)
It’s a typical day on Nevarro. Din walks through the marketplace, heading towards the Bounty Hunters Guild to pick up another job as part of his normal routine.
Typical. Normal. Ordinary.
That is unless he steps into the Guild.
“Mando!” Karga shouts, beckoning for him to come to his booth. He seems frantic… urgent. Before Din even has a chance to speak, Karga continues, pulling out a tracking fob and setting it on the table.
But for once there’s no bounty poster hologram, no flickering blue lights.
“No poster?” Din asks, cocking his helmet to the side.
“No… But the reward is quite large.”
“How much?”
Karga scans the room, eyes bouncing from person to person. He leans forward, lowering his voice and saying, “A million credits.”
Din can’t believe his ears. There’s no way this is legit. No one on Nevarro or in the Outer Rim for that matter has that kind of credits.
“Sounds like a scam,” Din says, leaning back in the booth.
“It’s not. Droid came here this morning and dropped off the fob. Said they’d back with the reward once the bounty was captured.”
“You know I don’t care for droids.”
“You can’t pass up this reward.”
“…No one else wanted this job?”
“The client specifically requested you.”
Din’s hairs stand on their ends. A shiver runs down his spine. The fact that someone did their research… Someone who knows who he is and specifically chose him for the job is suspicious but also intriguing. And the reward is too prosperous to pass up. This bounty must be dangerous if the client is willing to pay this much.
“Fine. I’ll do it,” he sighs. He takes the fob from the table and slips out of the booth.
“Good luck,” Karga says with a strange look in his eye.
Din isn’t one to get scared, but the circumstances here are undeniably ominous. Between Karga’s strange behavior, the missing bounty poster, and the absurdly high reward, Din has an unsettling feeling coursing through his body. He heads back to the Crest, his mind wandering with the possibilities of what exactly he just got himself into.
He plugs in the coordinates from the fob into the control panel of the Crest. And the location is an immediate red flag…
The bounty is located on Malachor of all places.
Malachor is a barren wasteland of a planet. Din knows the planet means bad news but he doesn’t know why exactly. Something about the Empire or the Sith. The Empire he’s well acquainted with but the Sith? The Jedi? Not so much.
At least if it’s a barren place, the bounty shouldn’t be too hard to find, right? He’s not too worried about the potential Sith connotations just yet. Din’s a capable warrior, raised by the best of the best in the galaxy. He should be able to hold his own without too many troubles.
He sets a course for Malachor and takes off. Nevarro gets smaller and smaller underneath him and the unsettling feeling returns. He just keeps reminding himself of the life-changing reward he’ll receive if he succeeds.
Not if but when.
-
It doesn’t take too long to get to Malachor from Nevarro. Both are Outer Rim planets. So thankfully, the journey there was rather uneventful.
But when he lands on Malachor? That’s a different story.
He lands the Razor Crest on the desolate surface, grabs the fob and heads outside. Barren would be an understatement to describe this planet. It’s empty. There’s not a single soul around for miles. It feels like the planet is absent of all light sources. Thick, gray, clouds coat the sky above him. The ground beneath his feet is a rocky wasteland. It’s not hard to understand why there’s no life here; why no one comes here. All of this begs the question; what is the bounty doing here?
He follows the signal of the tracking fob, feeling like he’s walking in circles for ages. His surroundings are the same, with no identifiable landmarks or features around to let him know he’s making progress. He feels his sanity start to slip. The tracking fob keeps beeping monotonously, showing no signs that he’s getting closer to the target. It’s driving him insane. For an uninhabited planet, this bounty is a lot harder to find than he originally thought. He starts to wonder… Is this even worth it anymore? Is it worth his time and frustration?
He interrupts his own train of thought.
Yes. Yes, it is worth it. For a million credits, you’ll spend however long it takes to find the bounty, he tells himself.
Good things come to those who wait. In the distance just over the horizon line, he spots something odd. As he gets closer he can slowly make out what it is– four top-heavy, pyramidal stones situated in a square formation. The tracking fob beeps faster and louder as he gets closer to the stones. Once he’s up close and personal with them he sees just how massive they are. They tower over him and etched in the stone is a language he can’t understand, written in bright red. One of the stones is surrounded by an opening in the planet, a deep hole descending below the surface. The tracking fob only goes crazier as he draws closer to the crater. Only way to go from here is down.
He uses his jetpack to carefully lower himself into the hole, using the lamp attached to his helmet to see where he’s going. Once he feels the ground beneath his feet, he looks around and can’t believe his eyes.
A vast field of stones is buried underneath the surface, each of them etched with the same red lettering he saw up above. And in the center of the field is a black stone pyramid, the tip of it glowing red. He looks beneath him and he’s standing on a cliff. He lowers himself deeper into the field of stones, his hairs standing on their ends. This is unmistakably a bad place.
Something ominous looms in the air, a feeling of dread brewing in Din’s stomach. But he persists, following the trail the tracking fob is taking him. He inches closer and closer to the temple? The tomb? Whatever that pyramid-looking thing is. As he gets closer to it, a disembodied voice calls to him.
Come closer.
…Is it the bounty? The voice didn’t sound like it was speaking out loud… It sounded like it was inside Din’s head.
But how is that possible?
He’s at the opening of the pyramid and it all happens so fast. The tracking fob is ballistic, beeping, and flashing lights rapidly. Everything is a blur around him. It’s like his mind isn’t in control of his body.
All he can hear is the fob going off and the voice talking directly in his ear.
Come find me.
A large box stands before him, blackened stone etched with red, just like everything else in this strange place. He’s not sure what this place is exactly but he feels like he has to be standing in some sort of temple. The box looks more like a tomb, long enough for Din to fit inside of it lying down. This place definitely belongs to some sort of religion. Maybe even a cult. Could this place belong to the Sith? What is he getting himself into?
Open the lid, the voice commands.
He does as he’s told, lifting the heavy stone lid and revealing… an amulet.
Put me on. Don’t be shy, the voice says.
He looks down at the fob in his hand, the beeping is incessant. It can’t be any clearer that this… this thing is what he was sent to look for.
Put me on, the voice commands again.
He takes the silver chain in his hands, the red pendant glowing red just like everything else here. He really shouldn’t put this strange, seemingly bewitched object on but he feels compelled to. The voice is convincing, talking to him like this is what he’s supposed to be doing.
He lifts the chain above his helmet pulling it down around his neck.
Protect me. Keep me close to your heart.
Without thinking he tucks the chain into his flight suit, feeling the cool metal contrast against his warm skin. All of a sudden he feels… different. He’s not really sure how to explain it but he feels better, like he’s more in tune with himself. He feels stronger, more alert, almost like he’s on another plane of existence. It’s exhilarating like someone just gave him the best drugs in the galaxy.
The beeping on the tracking fob finally subsides. Could it be that he was after all this time? That doesn’t make sense. He was sent to track down… an object? No, that can’t be right.
But it does make sense why there was no bounty poster. It makes sense why the client was so mysterious.
Another question crosses his mind…
Why was the reward so high?
His mind swirls with questions and possibilities as to what this all means—the voice buts in, interrupting his train of thought.
It doesn’t matter how or why. It happened for a reason.
He decides the voice is right and revels in his newfound heightened state. Listening to this voice that seemingly comes from nowhere feels right, almost like he’s complete.
As he exits the pyramid a shout rips him from his bliss.
“What have you done?!”
He turns around to find a woman. That woman is you, your brow furrowed and your face aghast. You storm over to him, your eyes looking past him and into the pyramid; into the open tomb.
Din’s speechless, unsure of what exactly your problem is. He was just completing a job. What’s it to you? Mindlessly, his hand gravitates towards the chain under his flight suit, almost feeling the need to protect it.
“You didn’t put it on, did you?” you ask, turning your gaze back towards him.
“What does it matter to you?” he snaps.
“You have no idea what you just did.”
“It’s a necklace. I put it on. It’s not the end of the world,” he deadpans.
“You don’t know what that is?”
“…No?”
You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. Din doesn’t understand what’s going on, he doesn’t understand why you’re so pressed by this. It’s just an object. It can’t hurt anyone.
“That amulet is cursed by one of the Mortis Gods… the Son.”
“…Who?”
“You don’t know who the Mortis Gods are? The Ones?”
“It sounds familiar?”
Don’t listen to her, the voice chimes in.
“The Mortis Gods were a powerful family of force-wielders. The Son embodied the Dark Side. The Daughter embodied the light side. And the Father held the balance between them until the Son grew too powerful. And then- Actually you know what? I’m not here to give you a kriffing history lesson. The bottom line is the Son cursed that amulet you’re wearing.”
DON’T LISTEN TO HER.
“Why is that a problem?” he asks, getting defensive.
“You don’t feel… different?”
Deny. Deny. Deny.
“No.”
In one swift motion, you’re grabbing a dagger hidden in your boot and reaching for the cowl of his cape. You rest the flat side of the blade against the fabric, glaring into his visor.
“So you don’t mind if I cut the chain off of you?”
Some innate instinct comes over him, the primal urge to protect what is now his. He swats the dagger from your hand, his arm looping around your neck and placing you in a headlock. His other hand reaches for the handcuffs on his belt, grabbing them and enclosing them around your wrists.
Good. This is good.
“What the”
Leave her here.
“What’s stopping me from leaving you here?” he says, tightening the headlock.
“Be my guest. But I’ll just say this– You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
“And you do?”
“Yes. I’ve been researching this for many cycles now. You leave me here? You sabotage yourself.”
His grip around your neck softens and he slowly releases you, grabbing your upper arm.
What are you doing? I said leave her here. Stop-
“Fine, but you’re coming with me.”
He bends down and wraps his arms around your thighs, hoisting you over his shoulder. Din’s always been a strong man but everything he does feels so effortless. His senses are heightened. His reflexes are swift. He feels like he’s at his peak; the best version of himself.
You protest, banging your fists into his back but it doesn’t matter. He’s drowning out your angry shouts and listening to the voice.
Fine. Take her back to your ship and keep her as a prisoner. She’s nothing but a loose end.
He makes his way out of the underground cavern and back up to the surface, completely tuning out everything you’re saying. When you try to wiggle free he just tightens his grip, keeping you firmly pressed up against his body.
Once he’s on the surface again, he sees what must be your ship— or what’s left of it anyway. You crash landed here. In actuality, without Din you’d be stranded here. And he doesn’t miss the opportunity to remind you that.
“Quit complaining,” he says, cutting off your shouts of protest, “Without me you’d be rotting away here.”
You sigh and Din feels like he could almost hear you roll your eyes. His comment worked, though. Because for the rest of the journey back to the Razor Crest, you’re silent. Only muttering a few words under your breath as he sets you down on a crate in the storage area.
His helmet snaps towards you. He acts like he can’t hear what you said but the truth is he did. You muttered something about how he only cursed himself in the end.
“What was that?” he asks, crouching down in front of you.
“You have no idea what you just did to yourself.”
“And you do?” he counters, “Why is this necklace such a big deal to you?”
“Like I said before, it's cursed.”
“Cursed how?”
“It makes the wearer immortal. But if they were to take it off, they’d die.”
Don’t listen to her. It doesn't matter. No one is taking me from you.
“Did you say… immortal?”
“Mhm.”
“But… how can that be?”
“You really don’t know anything about this? You didn’t mean to put it on?”
“No. I was sent here to track down a bounty. I was expecting a person, not a piece of jewelry.”
“Who sent you here?”
“The client was anonymous.”
You lean back against the metal wall of the Crest, eyes wide and lost in thought. Din’s had enough of your questioning, though. Who are you exactly to question him while he’s just trying to do his job and get paid?
“Who are you?” he asks.
“Does it matter?”
“It does. Clearly you know what this is. Were you after it for yourself?”
“No! That’s not it at all. I wanted to destroy it. I-”
She’s lying. Silence her.
Surely the voice isn’t telling him to kill you… Right?
Even if that’s what the voice is insinuating, he doesn’t do it. Instead, he grabs you by the arm again and hauls you to the carbonite freezer. You beg and plead for him to reconsider his actions but he doesn’t listen, drowning out your voice and following his instincts again. Soon enough, you’re encapsulated in the carbonite. Without a second thought, Din climbs the ladder to the cockpit and sets a course back to Nevarro. He sends a transmission to Karga, letting him know that he secured the “bounty” that way the mysterious droid will be back with the credits.
There are only two things on his mind; collect his reward and learn more about his newfound power.
hello party people and welcome back!! part 2 is finally here and i have to say i am really happy with the way this came out!!
deepest thanks to @pedgito for beta reading this late last night for me, i owe you a thousand kisses!! also thank you to my friends who i yelled to about it, u know who u are!!!!
more thanks to @chaotic-mystery AGAIN for the wonderful moodboard for this series!! dividers are from @saradika
taglist is at the end, and as always, if you would like to be added or removed please let me know!
pairing: frankie morales x f!wife!reader (no use of y/n, minimal descriptions of reader: has hair, implied to have thicker thighs and ass)
word count: 5.8k (again, idk what happened i'm SORRY) (me when i lie)
rating: 18+ explicit IF YOU ARE A MINOR DO NOT READ FURTHER, THIS CONTENT IS NOT FOR YOU
summary: after a long day at work, you do your part help frankie relax, and you try something new together
warnings/content (let me know if i missed anything): SMUT, porn with minimal plot, DUBCON: reader and frankie both smoke weed at the beginning and throughout the fic and are described as being high; consent is implied and given when asked for, and while not stated, a safeword is in place for both parties, established relationship (married), oral (m receiving), thumb sucking (briefly), very light degradation, PRAISE, dirty talk (like WHEW) verbal teasing, moderate dom(frankie)/sub(reader) dynamics, light talks of kink exploration, deep throating (with very light gagging), a lil ball squeeze, brief f!masturbation, m!masturbation, light choking, BOOT RIDING, cum swallowing, facial (kinda, cum gets on her cheeks a little), squirting, god they just love each other so much, fluff and sappy shit at the end, frankie remains a soft sweet husband man
pet names used (for reader and frankie): baby, honey, querida, good/naughty girl, cariño
From the way the front door slammed on his way in, you could tell Frankie’s day did not go well. He rarely took his frustrations with work home with him but sometimes they became too much to hold in. His footsteps made their way through your house to the back porch where you were sitting, heavy and loud.
“Rough one, baby?” you asked softly as he slipped through the screen door and gently closed it behind him. Frankie closed his eyes and sighed heavily, leaning against the door and lightly tapping his forehead against the screen in frustration.
“You have no idea,” he breathed out, moving away from the door and practically throwing his body on the couch next to you. You sunk back into the cushions as you lit your joint, puffing at it to make sure it stayed lit, and extending your hand to Frankie.
You pulled your legs up to curl underneath you and angled your body to face Frankie as you passed the joint to him and dropped your hands into your lap. He mumbled a thank you and brought the joint up to his lips, taking a long drag from it and tilting his head back to exhale upward into the rapidly darkening sky. You could see the tension still tightening his shoulders start to unfurl in the slightest just as your own muscles began to relax along with his.
Frankie rolled the joint between his thumb and middle finger as he stared vacantly into your backyard, doing his best to allow his mind to turn off for the night but finding it harder than he had hoped to leave his day behind him. He took another long hit and took a quick moment to hold in the smoke while he passed the joint back to you, exhaling outward as he turned his head toward you.
Your breath hitched as you watched him, the soft warm glow of the string lights above you casting one side of Frankie’s face in shadow and creating a halo along the edges of his face. He looked ethereal like this, like nothing you’d ever seen or ever would see, you thought. He had you wrapped around his finger more than he could ever know, and it was nights like these when you needed him to know just how devoted you were to him.
You swung your legs out from under you and slowly inched closer to Frankie on the couch, pressing your chest against his bicep. Your lips wrapped tightly around the joint between them, taking one last rip from it before handing it back to him. He took it from you and held it loosely between his index and middle finger as his thumb lightly flicked the ash into the small glass tray on the coffee table.
Frankie turned his head to look at you, the brim of his hat just brushing against your forehead and causing you to both giggle softly. You reached up and pushed it off his head and ran your hand through his flattened curls while your other hand drew large circles along his back. You could feel the muscles under your fingertips starting to unwind, the stresses of his day slowly dissipating with each pass your hand made. Frankie hummed and closed his eyes, pressing back slightly into your touch and taking your other hand in his.
“Let me help, baby,” you murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his temple. You let go of his hand and placed yours on his thigh, squeezing gently. You moved it to rest on the inside of his leg, your thumb rubbing gently along the seam of his worn jeans.
“No, baby, I gotta take a shower, I gotta wash this day off me,” Frankie protested, furrowing his brow as he shook his head. You scoffed and rolled your eyes as you moved your hand further up his leg, the tips of your fingers just barely brushing the crotch of his pants. Frankie leaned forward and gently placed the joint in the ashtray, careful to keep the filter tip hanging on the edge.
You took your hand off Frankie’s back and moved it to his jaw, gripping it tenderly and forcing him to look at you. As your own hazy eyes met his, you felt a rush of wetness pool at your cunt, mesmerized immediately by Frankie’s deep brown gaze. His dilated eyes held such a softness to them that you were sure your own mirrored, and you couldn’t help but smile at the lining of hunger beginning to form around the edges of his pupils.
You bit your bottom lip and leaned in to kiss him with more force than you wanted, Frankie melting into you anyway. He cupped the back of your head and held you to him while you moved to straddle one of his thighs. He slid his hands down your body slowly, feeling the curves and contours of your shoulders, waist, and hips before settling on the backs of your thighs just under your ass. His hands squeezed your soft flesh and you hummed into his mouth as yours both melded together.
Frankie tipped his hips up and lifted his thigh to press it against your covered pussy, feeling the heat coming from you even through his jeans. You released your mouth from Frankie’s and started a trail of wet kisses to his jaw, sucking a spot right at his pulse point and drawing a long moan from him. He squeezed your ass and tilted his head back to open his neck up to you, silently asking for more.
You smirked and dragged your tongue down the column of his throat, stopping to press a line of kisses along his collarbone. Frankie was nearly squirming now, his fingers pressing so hard into you that you thought he might leave bruises. You kept teasing his skin with your mouth while your hands gripped his shoulders and dug into his solid chest.
Your mouth continued its track down Frankie’s torso as you slid off the couch and onto the floor of your patio, thankfully covered by a soft carpet under the couch and coffee table. Frankie whined at the sight of you, eyes dilated and wild, on your knees for him and desperate to do whatever you could to help relieve him of the stress of the day.
Frankie licked his lips and reached down to cup your cheek in his large hand, brushing his thumb against the seam of your lips. You opened your mouth and lightly kissed the rough pad of his thumb while you stared up at him through your lashes. You kept eye contact as you parted your lips further and took his thumb into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tip and flattening your tongue against it.
Frankie let out a stuttered breath as he stared at you, shaking his head and gripping your chin with his thumb still in your mouth. He sat up a little as he pressed his thumb against your tongue with minimal effort, then forced your mouth shut with his fingers under your jaw. You hummed in surprise but kept your eager eyes on his quickly darkening ones.
“You like having your mouth full, huh, honey?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper. You nodded your head and hollowed your cheeks a bit to suck on Frankie’s thumb, dipping your head slightly to take the digit all the way to the knuckle. Frankie groaned quietly and nodded along with you.
You pulled off of his thumb with a quiet pop and reached forward to run your hands along his thighs. You could feel yourself getting wetter with every second that passed with Frankie’s dark, bloodshot eyes on you as he picked the joint back up and took another hit. Your cunt clenched at the sight of Frankie exhaling into the air, the column of his throat exposed to you. You made a desperate sound high in your throat, silently praying Frankie didn’t hear it.
Of course, he heard it loud and clear, his head snapping down to look at you, your eyes wide and jaw slack in awe of him. You looked nothing short of fucking angelic to him, knelt in front of him with pure adoration in your gaze. Frankie found himself falling in love over and over again every time you gave him that look, one that told him you would be happy to do whatever he asked. And you showed him time and time again that that was absolutely true.
“What’s wrong, baby? You want something?” he asked, tilting his head to the side and feigning ignorance. He knew what you wanted, and he was more than glad to give it to you, but he also knew how you liked to be teased sometimes. And who was he to deny you? You looked so beautiful with the soft lights around your patio illuminating your form before him, and he was in the right mood for being in charge.
You bit your bottom lip and nodded at him, wrapping one of your hands around his calf as you scooted closer to him. You situated yourself completely between his knees, bringing your hands up to rest on his thick thighs and squeezing.
Frankie hummed and reached down to hold the joint out to you, nodding at you and indicating for you to take a hit while he held it in front of your mouth. You kept your eyes on his as you leaned forward and wrapped your lips around the filter tip, taking a long inhale before Frankie pulled it out of your mouth. You exhaled off to the side, the haze behind your eyes melting quickly into the rest of your body as gentle waves rolled over your muscles.
Frankie held the joint between his lips, bringing his hands down to his belt, swiftly undoing it and pulling it through the loops before tossing it off to the side. “You want my cock, honey?” he asked, words slightly muffled with the joint in his mouth. “Wanna help me relax after my long day, huh?”
You nodded almost frantically, watching as his deft fingers made quick work of his button and zipper. You were anxious to get your mouth on him, make him forget about his shitty day and focus on you for a while. You also selfishly wanted to make him feel good just to see and hear him lose his composure a bit, something that always drove you crazy with need.
“Anything for you, Frankie. Wanna make you feel good,” you murmured, eyes fixed on the bulge in his boxers before he pulled them down his thighs with his jeans. His thick cock sprung free, the sight of it instantly making your mouth water and your pussy drip. Frankie wrapped his hand around it, giving himself a couple gentle strokes while you watched.
You swallowed and licked your lips hungrily, pulling your lips between your teeth to keep from moaning out loud. Frankie could see your eagerness, making his cock impossibly harder and causing a bead of precum to drip from his tip. It made you whimper with how bad you wanted it, your pussy almost throbbing with need.
Frankie looked down at you expectantly, taking the joint from his mouth and holding it between his index and middle fingers with his opposite hand. He draped his arm across the back of the couch casually, as if he didn’t have his wife at his feet, impatiently waiting to wrap her pretty lips around his cock. “Go on querida, make me feel good, yeah?”
You sucked in a quick breath, nodding and sitting up on your knees at Frankie’s instruction. Your mouth hovered over the fat head of his dick, gathering some saliva on the tip of your tongue and sticking it out to let the spit drop onto it. Your right hand circled his base, replacing Frankie’s own. You spread your spit down the length of him and leaned down to place small kisses to the head and underside.
Frankie hummed and let his head fall back against the couch as your mouth engulfed his cock, the warmth a near instant comfort after the day he’d had. He let his eyelids droop with the high of the weed and your mouth, sending him into a state of what he could only describe as bliss.
As you took Frankie deeper into your mouth, you had to clench your thighs together to try to relieve some of the pressure that had built up there. Your clit was screaming for attention, but you were determined to push through and give Frankie what he needed before anything else.
The tip of his cock met the back of your throat, nearly causing you to gag but you caught yourself, taking in a deep breath through your nose and sinking even further down. The tip of your nose met Frankie’s thick curls at his base as he pressed into your windpipe and took up the whole of your mouth.
Frankie groaned above you, planting one of his hands in your hair to hold you down on him, drowning in the feeling of his cock buried in your throat. The heat of your mouth felt like it was enveloping his entire body as you obediently stayed in place, eager to please him in any way he wanted.
Frankie pulled you off of him with a tug on your hair, suddenly pulling in a heavy breath you didn’t realize you needed. “Easy, baby, don’t wanna pass out with my cock down your throat,” Frankie commented, tilting your head up so you were staring right at him.
Your eyes were hooded and red, and a fucked out look took over your face as you smiled at him hazily. You licked at your swollen lips as you stroked Frankie’s length, twisting your wrist in just the right way to pull a meager whine from him.
Frankie’s head lolled back against the cushions again, and you dipped your head back down to take him back into your mouth. “Shit, I love the way you look down there on your knees for me. Such a good little wife you are.”
You didn’t hesitate this time; once Frankie’s cock was back in your waiting mouth, you were enthusiastically bobbing your head and swirling your tongue around him. You were relentless in your movements, using one hand to pump the length you couldn’t fit in your mouth, and the other coming up to caress his balls in your palm.
Frankie’s moans grew louder, his voice thinning out with each pass of your mouth over his cock. He stared down at you as you worked him and kept his hand tight in your hair, guiding your movements gently. You moaned at the feeling of him taking over your controlled pace, happy to let him move you how he wanted and claim your mouth as his own.
“Doing so good, baby, such a sweet little mouth you’ve got,” he mumbled as your eyes met his, silently begging for more from him. The praise went right to your pulsing core as you took him to the base once again and pulled a deep groan from Frankie, who seemed to be unaware of your heightened arousal.
You gave his balls one more light squeeze before subtly slipping your hand down between your thighs to cup your pussy through your thin shorts. You kept your focus on Frankie’s leaking cock, making a show of swirling your tongue around the head and hollowing your cheeks out while you sucked on it.
You tried your best to relieve some of the ache that had built between your legs, being only partially successful. You spread your knees apart a few inches to give your fingers a little bit of room to move over your clit as subtly as you could while still laser focused on the thick length of Frankie’s cock now nudging more forcefully against the back of your throat as he lifted his hips.
You stopped moving your head, opting instead to use your lips and tongue to work him over as much as possible, your other hand stroking him continually. Frankie must have noticed the change in your movements as he sat up more to get a better look at your whole body, bringing the joint to rest between his tight lips.
His eyes trailed down your form beneath him, thighs spread and your fingers making small circles over your clothed pussy. Your face and neck instantly set aflame in embarrassment, you pulled your hand away and rested it on your thigh. You pulled your mouth off and dared to look at Frankie, your eyes swimming with guilt.
Frankie, however, looked more fucked out than you’d seen him in a while. His face was tinged a deep red, tiny beads of sweat pooling at his temples and the hollow of his throat, begging for you to run your tongue through it. A tiny smirk played at his lips still holding the joint, the sight of him pulling a weak whimper from your throat.
“What’s this, baby? Are you touching yourself while you’re sucking my cock?” Frankie asked, his smirk growing as he pulled the joint from his lips and placed it back in the ashtray on the table. He gripped your chin and forced you to look up at him as you swallowed hard and clenched your jaw.
You weren’t sure if you wanted to admit it to him openly, regardless of if he’d actually seen it or not, even if your pussy was practically screaming for attention. You kept your hand slowly stroking the length of him, his smirk only growing the longer he went without an answer to his question.
Frankie gave a light chuckle and pulled you by your jaw to sit all the way up on your knees to bring your face closer to his. The look in his wide brown eyes was enough to make you melt as you felt your clit throb with need. You squeezed your thighs together again, desperate to make the ache subside in any way you could.
“Answer me, querida, were you rubbing your pussy just now?” Frankie repeated, his gaze dragging from your eyes down to where your thighs were clenched tightly together. “You were, weren’t you? Naughty fuckin’ girl, huh?”
You whimpered and nodded, biting your bottom lip as you felt Frankie’s cock pulse in your hand, another drop of precum oozing from the tip. He groaned softly as you swiped your thumb over the head and spread it down his cock as much as you could. “Only for you, Frankie,” you whispered, twisting your wrist again and making Frankie hiss.
Frankie’s hand moved from your chin to circle your neck, his thumb pressing ever so gently against your pulse point. You stared at him, waiting for him to make a move or say something, but he just stared back at you seemingly in awe. He still sometimes couldn’t believe you were his, and more that you were his forever.
Frankie hummed and nodded, planting a quick but sweet kiss to your lips, then another to your nose and forehead. He nuzzled his nose against yours and kissed you again, this time for a few beats longer. When he pulled away, he had a look in his hazy eyes you could only describe as mischievous. You scrunched your brows and tilted your head to the side a little, silently asking what he had in mind.
“You wanna cum, baby?” he whispered, humming at you. You nodded and licked your lips, leaning in to give him another kiss but he held you where you were. “I’ll let you cum, but you gotta cum how I want you to, can you do that for me?”
You had little to no idea what he was planning, but you knew he would never force you to do anything you were uncomfortable with, and you trusted him to make you feel as good as possible. You nodded again, this time a little more enthusiastically, taking a deep breath in as he spoke. “I want you to rub your pussy on my boot, baby.”
That was new. You’d heard of people doing things like this before and it was always something that had appealed to you in some way, but you never thought Frankie would be up for it. While he did tend to be more dominant in bed, and you eagerly slid into a more submissive role, this was a big jump in your dynamic. You had to admit, the thought of grinding on Frankie’s boot to get yourself off while he watched thrilled you to no end, though.
Frankie could see a tiny bit of hesitance in your stare, and he briefly let go of your neck to bring you back to him. “You don’t have to, baby, we can talk about it more or try it another time if you want,” he assured quickly, his eyebrows raising in concern that he may have crossed a line.
“Frankie, baby, it’s okay,” you giggled, placing your free hand on his cheek and smiling softly at him. His gaze immediately softened with your reassurance as he exhaled in relief. You dropped your hand to rest on his chest, then down to his thigh as your other hand gave his shaft a gentle squeeze. “I want to, I wanna be good for you.”
With your confirmation, his cock twitched in your hand as he reached back up to place his hand back around your throat, squeezing just the smallest bit. His eyes fell back to their hazy, hooded state as his wide pupils darkened and coasted down your body.
“Alright, baby, alright,” he murmured, nodding his head while he guided you to center his boot between your spread knees. Frankie used his leverage on your neck to gently push you down until your covered pussy made contact with the hard toe of his boot. The contact made you shudder, your eyes slipping shut momentarily.
Frankie tutted at you and squeezed your throat a little tighter, forcing your eyes open and up to him. “I wanna see you ride it, baby. I wanna see those eyes of yours on mine the whole time, yeah?” His voice took on a tone of authority, one that you had come to respond to easier and easier every time he used it.
You hummed and nodded, starting a slow roll of your hips to match the pace of your hand on Frankie’s cock. He raised his hand to his mouth and spit into it, replacing your hand with his own and setting his own tempo. Your gaze flicked from Frankie’s face to his dick, now slick with his spit and hard as a rock.
Frankie leaned forward and grabbed the joint and a lighter from the table, bringing it up to his lips and lighting it up again. He took one long drag from it as he stared down at you, the movements of your hips picking up just slightly as you looked back at him.
He was impossibly sexy in a way you could never explain to him, and from your view at his feet, you were overwhelmed by him. Your cunt leaked into your shorts, the pressure of his boot against it unlike anything you’d felt before. You’d rubbed your pussy on pillows, blankets, hell even Frankie’s thighs before, but the hard material of his steel-toed boots was something completely different.
You moaned out loud as you ground your hips in small circles, grabbing onto Frankie’s tensed calf for leverage. Frankie’s pace on his cock matched yours, precum seeping from the tip in fat beads. He pulled the joint from his lips and reached down to offer it to you again, holding the filter to your lips as you leaned forward to take a hit.
“Such a good girl for me, querida, getting yourself off on my boot,” Frankie cooed, taking the joint back from you as you exhaled, a long moan accompanying the smoke leaving your mouth. Frankie put the joint back in his mouth as he reached out to brush his thumb along your cheekbone, his gaze as gentle as ever.
He leaned back again and stroked his cock a little faster, and you picked up the back and forth of your hips to match him. Your clit was pulsing with need now, the buzz rolling heavier through your body and making you feel euphoric and grounded all at once. You rolled your head back in ecstasy, making sure to keep your stare on Frankie’s dilated eyes.
“Feels so good, baby, I wanna cum on it,” you whined as your clit dragged against the seam of your shorts pressed against the toe of Frankie’s boot. Every pass you made over it sent you closer and closer to the edge, just hanging on by a thread. From the look on Frankie’s face and the thrust of his hips up into his hand, you knew he was close too.
As he lifted his hips, his heels dug into the floor of the patio, pushing the toe of his boot up against you harder and making you see stars. You were trying to hold back on coming just until Frankie did, almost feeling like you wanted his permission before letting go, but with every grind of your hips, you found it more difficult to keep yourself away from the edge.
“Oh, fu- you wanna cum, honey?” Frankie breathed out, his eyebrows and nose scrunched up, and his mouth hanging open as he fisted his cock faster. He used his free hand to toss the finished joint into the ashtray while he kept his eyes right on you. “Yeah, cum for me, baby, lemme see you soak my boot.”
You whimpered and dug your nails into the side of Frankie’s thigh, now nearly unable to control the movement of your hips as you chased your high with new intensity. Your eyes slipped shut as your orgasm quickly took over, your muscles locking up and stuttering your movements. You could feel your release coating the inside of your shorts, your inner thighs, and Frankie’s boot but you couldn’t bring yourself to care with the level of euphoria coursing through your veins.
Frankie watched as you came harder than he’d seen in a while, and he felt his own release building even quicker at the sight of you coming undone for him. He sat up and scooted himself to the edge of the couch, his hand lightning fast on his length. “Come here baby, I wanna cum in that sweet mouth of yours,” he mumbled, wrapping his free hand around the back of your neck and moving you to settle between his thighs.
Your hooded eyes peered up at him as you gave Frankie a sly smile and stuck your tongue out. Frankie groaned at the sight of you, a devious little angel he gets to call his wife, completely fucked out and waiting patiently to swallow his load. With a few more deft strokes of his cock, Frankie came with a loud moan, resting the head on your tongue as his release coated your mouth and cheeks.
You kept your eyes on Frankie as you felt the last of his cum land on the back of your tongue, and he pulled away with a soft groan. You closed your mouth and swallowed his cum down, licking your lips to get anything that didn’t land on your tongue. Frankie watched with a heavy gaze as he reached out to gather any spend on your cheeks and push it into your waiting mouth with his thumb.
“Did so good for me, honey,” he praised, bringing a soft smile to your face. You pushed yourself up to sit on the couch, but stopped when you looked down and realized just how much you came. Your slick was all over your thighs and the toe of Frankie’s boot, which shined with the evidence of your actions. “Came nice and hard, huh? Just like I wanted.”
Frankie smiled up at you, a tinge of pride swimming in his deep brown eyes. He tucked his cock back into his pants, but didn’t bother buttoning or zipping them up just yet. He looped his arm around both of your thighs and pulled you into him, straddling his thigh but making sure to hover so you didn’t make a mess of his pants.
You placed your hands around the back of Frankie’s neck, nuzzling your nose against his as you both took a moment to breathe each other in. Frankie’s hand came up to gently stroke your back, and your hands played with the curls at the nape of his neck.
Moments like these reminded you exactly why you married Frankie; his tenderness always won out over anything else when it came to you. His hard exterior crumbled in your presence, turning him into a puddle of a man that would move mountains and part seas to make you smile. You felt your own walls come down around Frankie, and you found yourself giving into your own version of softness, reserved just for him to see.
“Was that okay, honey?” Frankie whispered, dropping feather-light kisses to your cheeks and forehead. You smiled and nodded, pulling him in to you to give him a delicate kiss on his pouty lips. You hummed against him and felt his arm tighten around your back to hold you close, his other hand coming to rest on the side of your face.
You pulled away, planting one last kiss to his mouth and threading your fingers through his hair. “More than okay, Frankie, I promise,” you responded earnestly, “I actually kind of loved it, if you couldn’t already tell.” You turned and gestured toward his boot, reminding him of the remnants of your orgasm still shining in the dim light of your back porch.
You both laughed and turned back to each other, the hand on your back slowly making its way down to rest on the meat of your ass, his other one resting high on your thigh. “Okay, okay, I just wanted to make sure so I could see if… maybe you’d wanna do it again? Maybe?”
You could feel the hesitance in Frankie’s words but you were quick to reassure him that you loved every single bit of it and would be more than enthusiastic in trying it again. “Frankie, my love, I wanna try anything you wanna try. I trust you. Always,” you told him, holding his face in your hands and forcing him to look at you so he really absorbed your words.
Frankie blushed and let a shy smile cross his face as he pulled you in for another kiss. His hands on your ass and thigh kneaded your flesh as the heat rose between you again, and he pulled your hips down to sit you square on his thigh. You gasped quietly and tried to pull your soaked shorts away from Frankie’s pants, not wanting to ruin them.
Frankie sensed your reluctance and broke the kiss, trailing soft kisses down your neck to your shoulder. “I don’t wanna get your pants dirty, Francisco,” you explained, biting your lip to hold back a soft moan at the feeling of Frankie’s lips on your sensitive skin.
A hum vibrated from Frankie’s throat as his hands sat on your hips, nodding in acknowledgement. “That’s okay, baby,” he started, his eyes trailing down your body and back up to your own, “I know something else you can get dirty, though.”
“Francisco!” you scolded, playfully smacking his chest as he laughed at his own joke. You tried to wiggle out of his grip, but he held you tight as you broke out into a fit of giggles and hid your face in his neck, nipping at the skin there teasingly.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he conceded, planting a kiss on the top of your head before you looked back up at him. “Unless…” His words trailed off as his hand slid down to cup your pussy through your wet shorts, his fingers tracing your seam lightly.
You sighed and rolled your eyes, running your tongue over your teeth and grinding gently into his hand. Frankie’s fingers slid under your shorts to run along the dripping folds of your cunt, bringing a quiet groan from both of you. His middle and ring fingers found your clit, smoothing slow circles around it with ease from the amount of slick that had poured from you earlier.
A quiet mewl fell from your lips as Frankie circled your still-sensitive clit, your hips bucking against his movements. “Baby, please,” you begged, not sure if you wanted more or wanted less. The euphoric haze that had gripped you so tight before starting to wane, and you were left with a soft buzz behind your eyes and every nerve ending in your body.
With every ounce of self control he had, Frankie pulled his fingers away from your pussy, tapping your hips with both hands. “How ‘bout this, cariño,” he murmured, “you clean up out here and make sure the house is locked up. I’ll go upstairs and shower. You get naked for me and get in bed. I’ll take the rest from there, hm?”
A bolt of arousal shot through you at Frankie’s instruction as you nodded and stood up from his lap. You glanced down at the wet spot that had formed on his thigh, silently scolding yourself for making a mess on his pants as if you didn’t cum over the toe of his boot not ten minutes before. Frankie shook his head and stood up after you, placing a kiss on your lips and assuring you that he could put the pants in the hamper and wear another pair for work the next day.
He slipped past you to head into the house as you steadied yourself to clean up the scattered rolling supplies and weed littering the table, tossing the finished joint into your trash can by the door. You caught Frankie’s gaze from where he stood at the door, and neither of you could help the bright smiles that crossed your faces or the heat that crept across your chests.
“Hey, baby?” you called as Frankie turned to go inside. He turned with a questioning look on his face, cocking his head to the side. “I love you,” you told him. Not nearly for the first or last time, but you always needed to make sure he heard it and he knew.
Frankie’s expression settled into what could have been relief, but you knew it was more than that. It was confidence, it was happiness, it was ease. You put him at ease, no matter the situation. You were his home. He smiled brighter than he had all day, and held your gaze like a vice.
“I love you more.”
taglist (pls let me know if you would like to be added or removed!):
Warnings: Anxiety. References to panic attacks. Bad dreams. Talk about real life drug lords (Narcos TV interpretations). References/Ilusions to Trauma, PTSD, grooming, & abuse. some angst? no comfort?
Words: 2,446
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He raced through the comuna adrenaline pumping in his veins. He chased and chased the figure, never catching him, never gaining any ground. His heart pounded in his chest. Sweat dripped down his head. The shirt he wore clung to his skin. He rounded a corner, but there was no perp. He wasn’t in the winding maze of the comuna anymore. He was back in Texas in a spacious backyard. He could hear her panicked gasps for breath, a crumpled ball on the ground, Anna running past him, his feet frozen to the ground. He struggled to catch his breath. It seemed to play on a loop: Emily was always there on the ground, Anna always rushing toward her, his feet unmoving.
His breathing sped up. Panic started to overtake him. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t look away as Emily choked for air. It took him longer to realize he did the same. Darkness edged at his peripheral creeping inward. He couldn’t catch his damn breath. He felt lightheaded. The last thing he saw before the darkness took over was Emily on the ground.
Javier sat up. His chest heaved. Crickets chirped outside his bedroom window. Bedsheets twisted around his waist. His skin was sticky with sweat. The sheets felt damp beneath him.
He froze. Javier Peña didn’t freeze, and someone suffered for it. How many more had to suffer because of the drug war? Even removed from it, the scars still shone red and angry.
He still couldn’t face Emily. It had been months since Escobar was killed. She brought Alejandra for riding lessons every week. He always found a reason to be gone. He’d passed them in the driveway a handful of times. He couldn’t even look her way.
-
Journal Entry
April 8, 1994
5 years feels like a lifetime and just yesterday.
Dad thinks we should celebrate. I just want the day to pass without thinking about it. The kids are grumpy, even Mateo. It’s like they just know somehow.
We’re going out to the Ranch tonight for Alejandra’s riding lesson. I usually leave the boys at home, but I’m going to bring them this time. I think it will be good for all of us.
Dust drifted around the car as they filed out. Alejandra darted straight to the riding rink. The boys pooled around her. Emily expected to find Chucho in the rink, but instead landed a figure in jeans a size too small.
“Mr. Javi!” Alejandra smiled brightly.
Javier turned from saddling Hurricane. He smiled, but his movements were stiff. “Alejandrina!”
Ale asked if they would see him before every lesson. Emily usually changed the subject. The closest she’d come to laying eyes on him since December was when they passed each other in the driveway.
Emily tried to put it out of her head. It shouldn’t bother her. They weren’t friends, but it had felt like maybe they could’ve been. He knew more about her than most people. Apparently, he drew the line at panic attacks. That was good to know.
“Are you doing my lesson this week?”
“I am.” He pushed his sunglasses up on his nose. “Pops is out of commission for the next few weeks.”
“Good lord, Javier.” They heard Chucho before they saw him. He hobbled out of the barn on crutches. “I’ve hurt my foot, I’m not completely useless.”
“What happened?” Ale asked.
“I stepped in a hole.” The older man rolled his eyes. “Doc says I fractured my foot. Lucky for you, Javier is quite the horseman.”
Javier forced another smile. The light lens of his sunglasses allowed Emily to see his eyes. He looked around her and past her. Emily pretended not to notice and crossed her arms. It shouldn’t bother her. They weren’t friends. She shouldn’t be hurt by his reaction.
“Chucho, can I practice with the lasso?” Miguelito said. Mateo bounced on his feet next to his older brother.
“Of course, you know where to find everything.”
“Thank you.” He took off, Mateo hot on his heels.
“No hog-tying your brother!” Emily called after them. “Or tying of any kind!” She wasn’t sure they even heard her.
Chucho laughed. “He's getting quick with it.”
“Too quick.” Emily narrowed her eyes at the older man. “Maybe I’ll send him out here. He can put those skills to good use instead of chasing his brother around the yard.”
“Perfect, he can help Javier out while my foot gets better.”
“Miguelito, give it back!” Alejandra said.
Emily’s head snapped toward the barn. Inside, her eldest held the riding helmet above his head, just out of his sister’s reach.
“Miguel.” Firm and simple, her command was clear.
He jumped. Emily hated the look that flashed in his eyes. Their power struggles had mostly dissipated, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t return. She had a feeling he knew what that name felt like on her tongue. She prayed she was wrong.
He handed the helmet to Alejandra, not meeting his mother’s eyes.
“I found it!” Mateo lifted the lasso above his head and Miguelito dashed after him brushing past her and narrowly avoiding Javier.
Emily cursed internally. She fought the urge to run after him. She couldn’t approach him around others and pull him away from the group. That never worked. He would shut down. He needed the stillness of a quiet house just the two of them.
“Sorry-”
“Don’t apologize. They’re kids.” Javier said. She still noted the way he looked past her.
Emily pulled Alejandra in front of her. “We’re all in rare form today,” she sighed, quickly sectioning Ale’s hair into two, then braiding the first one.
Chucho hobbled in, a sympathetic smile on his face.“Don’t worry about it, dear. We know.”
Emily forced a smile as Alejandra fidgeted. “Hold still, Mija. I don’t want to pull your hair.”
Javier looked at his father for answers. What exactly was he supposed to know?
Chucho pointed to the calendar on the stable wall. Javier looked at it still not making heads or tails of his father’s cryptic message. Chucho hadn’t written anything on the calendar. Did it have something to do with the date? Most of the time, Javier wasn’t sure what day of the week it was.
He’d gone into the supply store on Wednesday. That was two days ago. His eyes scanned the calendar. April 8th. A small pang settled in his chest. Everyone in the damn DEA knew April 8th.
“Okay, all braided up,” Emily said.
Javier’s head snapped her way. He finally looked at her. Sunglasses sat on top of her head revealing dark circles under her eyes. She looked comfortable enough in her environment, but her shoulders sagged. Tension creased her forehead. Her eyes flickered out toward the yard where the boys played. She twirled Alejandra’s braid.
She knew April 8th too. Of course, she did. She probably knew it better than anyone. Had she been there when they captured Felix? What had it felt like? She looked up, catching him dead in the eye. Javier swallowed, feeling like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Emily’s head titled to the side.
“Are you ready, Mr Javi?”
He looked down at the girl. “Sure am, Alejandrina.” He clapped, forcing a smile onto his face. Suddenly aware of the delicate space he’d been brought into. How did he keep getting pulled into this? He proved himself unworthy last time. He couldn’t be trusted.
“Helmet, Mija.” Emily remembered before Ale could dash out of the barn.
Alejandra grabbed it rushing out. Javier followed close behind.
Emily sat on the mounting block as Alejandra rode around the rink watching as Alejandra diligently followed all of Javier’s instructions. She was becoming quite the equestrian. Emily didn’t have the words to describe it, but there was nothing like watching your child grow into their own in a hobby that brought them life.
Her eyes flickered over to the boys nicely taking turns with the lasso. Chucho had shown them to the shed where they’d rolled out barrels and stands to practice their aim. An argument had yet to break out between them. She was convinced Miguelito was only sharing so nicely to one up his younger brother.
“I pulled a few extra steaks out for dinner.” Chucho settled next to her, observing the lesson.
“You didn’t have to-“
He waved his hand in the air as if he was shooing her off. Emily bit back a smile. “You’re staying for dinner, Mija.”
Emily knew there was no room for argument with Chucho. It was oddly relieving. He made the decision so she didn’t have to. “Okay.”
-
Chucho wouldn’t let Emily help him in the kitchen. Try as she might, he simply shooed her out everytime, even kicking her away with his crutch once. She felt useless as the kids played a card game contently at the table. She didn’t know how that happened. They’d been at each other’s throats all day.
“Chucho, please let me help you.” She sighed. Her hands itched to do something. It was the anxiety.
“Why don’t you take Javier a drink? That boy was wound tighter than a stripped screw when he went out.” He looked back at her. “You could use one too.”
Emily huffed glancing out the sliding glass doors. Javier stood over the grill, waiting for the charcoal to get to temperature. He was hardly a boy. This would be a great chance to talk to him, figure out what’s going on. She looked back at the kids,
“I’ll call you if they get into trouble,” Chucho said.
It was enough for her. She grabbed two beers from the fridge and headed outside.
The patio felt different under the golden sun. Not in a bad way, but just different. Javier didn’t look up from the grill. He caught sight of her from his peripheral.
“Here.” Emily held out the bottle.
Javier accepted, eyes still trained away from hers. He popped the top off with relative ease, letting it wash down his throat.
Emily shifted her weight around, waiting for him to say something. It didn’t come.
Popping the lid from her bottle, she sipped the beverage. Beer wasn’t her top choice, but it isn’t awful. The grill sizzled as Javier moved the steaks from the plate to the hot metal.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
His attention wasn’t pulled from the task at hand. “No, I haven’t.”
“Bull shit and you know it.” She could feel the hurt beginning to set in. She didn’t like being hurt. There was no reason to let her feelings get involved.
“You have a standing appointment every Friday.”
“Who says I don't?”
“Then why won’t you look at me?”
Javier’s heart sank. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he heard it in her voice. He had.
She stared out at the field, sun setting in pink and gold. Emily’s heart raced with the unspoken words just sitting on the tip of her tongue. She didn’t do things like this. This was scary. This was asking to be hurt, but she let the words slip anyway.
“I felt safe with you, Javier.” She locked eyes with him. “That doesn’t happen often- especially not with men and I-“ Emily bit her lip. “I don’t want to lose that.”
Javier watched the steaks sizzle. How could she feel safe with him when he didn’t feel safe with himself? He couldn’t be trusted. He proved that when he worked with Los Pepes, when he failed to protect so many from the drug war.
“You shouldn’t.” He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. “I’m not a good person- I’m not safe. You know that.”
“You keep saying that-“
“Because it’s true.” He took a long swig from his beer, flipping the steaks.
Condensation cascaded down the side of your Amber bottle until it hung from the bottom, slowly increasing in size until it finally fell to the patio beneath your feet.
“I’m sorry.”
Emily cocked her head to the side. “For what exactly?”
“For-” Javier stuttered. A lump formed in his throat. “For the panic attack.” He couldn’t bring himself to look at her, watching the steaks as if they might burn at any second.
“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”
He shifted from foot to foot, hand on his hip the other scratching his neck. He looked unsure of himself.
“Javier, you didn’t cause my panic attack.”
His head snapped up as if that thought never occurred to him. She read disbelief through his orange-tinted glasses. She’d said it so matter of factly and without hesitation. “What?”
“I have trauma. Sometimes I can fight the memories and latch onto the real world. Sometimes, they take over despite all rationalization. Escobar’s death, it just made everything a little more raw.”
“I asked you what you were thinking about, I started the spiral. It-”
“And I obliged. You didn’t force me to do anything.” Emily sighed, threading her fingers through her long curls. A dry chuckle left her throat. Confidence surged through her, a rare occurrence. Suddenly, the 5th anniversary of Felix’s arrest strengthened her. Five years was a long time and she was still here.
“God, I wish people would stop acting like their actions control me! You don’t. Just because I can’t always control myself doesn’t make you responsible for me! Or anyone else for that matter!”
Javier felt a slight smile overtake his face. The guilt relieved but didn’t go away completely. She seemed more self-assured than he’d ever seen her, not that he had a lot of history there.
“I’m not some inept, helpless foal.”
“You’re right.”
Emily looked back at him almost stunned by his response. Her eyes were wild like he’d grown to know, but there was no fear right now. This was different. This was bold and unbridled like a horse once caged, branded into submission, but now free. Musteña.
He wasn’t going to use the nickname. That felt too intimate. He didn’t want to spook her.
Were they even friends? He thought he may want that. His friend, Emily. It sounded good in his head, had a nice ring to it
“I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you.” He adjusted his sunglasses with his pointer finger. “Maybe we could try this friend thing.”
“Friends, huh?” Emily crossed her arms.
Javier chuckled. “Can’t promise I’ll be a good one. Don’t have a lot of practice.”
“And you think I do?” Emily cracked a smile. “I’ve got one friend, and it’s my boss.”
“That’s one more than me.”
A laugh slipped from her lips pulling a smile across his face. Yeah, he could get used to this.
As my friend Ashley put it, “The hip really is the main character.”
Comments are always welcome! I love hearing your thoughts and reactions!
Rating: Mature (Again probably more like pg-13 but with language)
Chapter Warnings: death, celebration of death (Padblo Escobar’s), brief mentions of the violence in Colombia, mentions (no descriptions) of rape, kidnapping, & abuse. Mentions of power dynamics and underage- age gap, anxious stream of consciousness, anxiety/panic attack
Words: 2,817
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Journal Entry
December 3, 1993
Pablo Escobar was killed yesterday. Dad’s having guys from the office come over tonight for drinks.
It seems weird to celebrate death like this, but I also understand it. Escobar was responsible for the death of countless people. I wonder if I would sleep better at night if Mig He was dead.
Warnings: talk of suicide/suicidal thoughts (is fairly brief), things Javier did in Colombia (Los Pepes, holding his weapon on child, again is fairly brief), underage; grooming, age gap.
Words: 3,743
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Journal Entry
October 23, 1993,
Last night was weird. I don’t know how else to put it. I don’t tell people anything about Mexico.
Javier blinked awake, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His back ached from sleeping on the couch. His eye lids fell heavy, but the smell of coffee and hushed voices pulled him toward consciousness The spring digging into his back kicked him off the couch.
He shuffled toward the kitchen. The voices grew louder as he did.
Alejandra sat at the kitchen table leaned over a coloring book. Mateo sat next to her, nodding to her string of consciousness. He was equally focused on his coloring book.
“Buenas Dias, Mr. Javi.”
He stopped and shifted his weight. Children weren’t exactly his strong suit. Did this make him responsible for them? Should he even be allowed around children? He pushed those thoughts away. They only brought up memories he wanted to scrub from his brain. ”Buenas dias, Alejandra.”
Warnings: brief references to non-con, abuse, manipulation, underage; grooming, age gap.
Notes: Javier makes his appearance! Lots of references to Narcos: Mexico. Also on AO3 under the same title. Pen name: emilythepemily.
Words: 3,383
Series Master List | Author Master List
Journal Entry
October 22, 1993,
We’re going to visit a friend of Dad’s, Chucho. He owns a ranch. I’ve met him a couple of times. He’s very sweet. I like him. The ranch isn’t that far out of town, but Dad insists on staying the night. For the experience or something like that. Everyone will be there: Dad, Anna, the kids. I haven’t spent a night away from home since I came back. Dad says it’ll be good for me. So does my therapist (the new one, Trisha). Apparently, it’s a safe environment. Nothing feels like a safe environment. I expect to have nightmares both nights we’re there. Dad said the kids can stay in his and Anna’s room. I’m thankful he offered. I hate feeling like I need to accept, but I don’t want to scare my kids.
Miguelito remembered he hates me. I don’t know what to do. It’s been 4 years. He still blames me for his dad’s arrest.
I know the kids will love the ranch. Dad is already thrilling Alejandra with tales of horseback rides. Mateo is excited to get so close to the cows. I hope Miguelito has fun. He seems to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. I think he remembers too much…
Description: “No one who went through it, even the survivors, came out intact.” - Walt Breslin
Javier and Emily experienced the drug war on different fronts in very different ways. Maybe, they’re what the other needs to heal.
Warnings: non descriptive non-con; references to non-con, abuse, manipulation, underage; grooming, age gap.
Notes: No Javi in the first chapter. please don’t hate me. Lots of crossover with Narcos: Mexico (This chapter is all Narcos: Mexico.) Also on AO3 under the same title. Pen name: emilythepemily
Words: 1,994
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Journal Entry
April 8, 1990
It’s been a year since his arrest. 365 days without him. I should feel better. I should be relieved. I should be happy, but I feel more anxious than ever. It was supposed to be easier without him. I used to dream about getting away, how good it would be, but I feel 10 times worse. I wake up to nightmares all the time. I wake Mateo up constantly. It’s getting harder to get out of bed in the morning and fall asleep at night. Dad thinks I should go to a therapist. He says it’ll help. I’m not sure anything can help me.
Happy New Year, love!!! I would love to know more about 🎉 and 💥 for the ask game if you haven't received these yet!
happy new year to you too! <3 thank you for sending these in!
🎉 how are you going to be kind to yourself if you don't meet your goals?
i won’t, i’ve never been kind to myself in my life lol. writing has been one of my greatest joys in the past few months and i’m trying to keep it like that - so i’ll just do whatever feels fun and that really is the main goal :) (and if i don’t finish dress soon i’ll cry and definitely not be kind)
💥 is there a chapter, scene, or WIP you're most excited to write? share a snippet or tell us about it!
i’m particularly looking forward to writing my version of dark!joel, i wanted to try my hand at something dark and this will be based on an idea from @maximoff-forevermore (ella you’re an icon 🫶🏻), it involves kidnapping and memory loss and just loads of smut.
here’s a tiiiiny snippet (content warning for nsfw and non-con!):
it will probably take a while until i’m done with it but I’m very excited about it 🫶🏻
i don't typically do this because it's an infrequent (frustrating lol) hobby and i feel very strange sharing my art but in honour of me finally picking up a pencil again after months, here's a pencil sketch i made today of pedge, inspired by the esquire shoot.
