very self-indulgent; unnamed reader - afab/uses feminine pronouns; reader is an age regressor, and cg franco (however disastrous that might be). modern au.
warnings - vulgar language/lots of swearing (it's franco), platonic yandere if you squint.
(part 1 here ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. )
By the time she awoke, she still felt Franco’s arms trapping her against him, yet the young woman chose not to struggle from his grasp. If anything, Franco was quite the possessive confidant, so she simply accepted the situation for the moment and rested her head back onto his chest. The action caught the half-awake mobster’s attention, and he smirked lightly.
“Not ready to leave yet? I get it…big world for a little thing like you.”
The woman cocked her head, though she was unsure if she was still regressed at the moment.
“I gotta go to class, Franco…”
“You don’t have to go, though…we can stay here for a bit.”
Franco’s voice was…surprisingly soft, and he carefully brought a hand to his friend’s hair to card his fingers through the bed-tousled strands. Perhaps the haze of the early morning allowed him to forget the man he always tried to be: bigger, sharper, and meaner than his father ever was. At this moment…he could simply let himself be.
With a sleepy sigh, she attempted to roll out of bed. However, Franco’s hold on her only strengthened further. He buried his face into the crook of her neck with an irked huff and a retort mumbled between sleepy curses. As she thought about it, seeing Franco this deferential was a rare sight in itself. It might not hurt to take the day off and see how it goes…besides, the two hadn’t spent much time together since the second semester of college started up again. She, having this in mind, sighed and gave in, and Franco practically lit up at the victory.
“Oh, doll…you’re too kind to me, y’know that? Makes me wanna be all sweet with ya in return. A bit of lagniappe.”
For a moment, she had begun to expect something unseemly after his well-disposed comment. Franco caught on, and he shook his head against her collarbone.
“You think I’m jokin’? Nah, girl. I’m gonna keep ya safe and sweet—just the two of us—and yer gonna forget about all the bad shit that happened yesterday.”
Then, with a pause and a knowing glance,
“Yer gonna stay small for me, okay? Just for a bit longer.”
The mobster leaned back and pulled her against his chest with a wolfish grin. He held no sexual intention, however—if he wanted that, he could just hire someone later—as he was with his girl right now, and he was intent on taking care of her. Said girl, on the other hand, wasn’t sure how to feel about this turn of events; she wanted to go to her classes, but arguing with Franco looked like trouble from a mile away. If he said “stay,” she didn’t risk moving an inch…just in case. Although the two were close, she still acknowledged his volatile behavior.
“Franco, I don’t feel small…I can’t force it—”
“Ah-ah,” Franco cut her off, “You’re not forcin’ anything. Yer just gonna let me take care o’ you like a good girl.”
He leaned down and placed a light kiss against her forehead. A gloved hand brushed the imaginary lip stain left behind as a small huff leaving his throat.
“Just…lemme do this.”
In truth, part of his wanting to care for the woman stemmed from last night; the guilt that one of his only friends had been fearful of him stung, and Franco felt obligated to make it right. Throwing money at her as an apology didn’t sound right, though, so this seemed a bit better.
As she gave in to Franco’s insistence, she found herself by his side constantly. If she attempted to wander off, Franco would simply snatch her hand and keep her within arm’s reach. Occasionally he would simply rock her, mumbling sweet nothings in Italian and keeping her against his chest. Bit by bit, she found herself slipping until she simply curled up by his side with no resistance, no thought of school or the outside world…just a fuzzy head and warmth against her. When Franco didn’t have her attached at the hip, he would watch her draw while carving his teeth for bullets. It felt…nice, to be soft like this. Now, he didn’t forget to treat himself—while she drank some hot chocolate in her favorite mug, Franco had his Wolf’s Milk in hand—but he found it soothing to care for his little one once again.
“Kiddo, you wanna watch something?”
For perhaps the sixth time now, Franco placed her onto his lap with a firm grasp. He wouldn’t acknowledge it, but he was quite touch-starved—being able to embrace his companion like this, especially when she was partially reliant on him, made him feel like King fucking Kong—and he was going to soak up this moment for as long as he could.
Shrugging, she gave a soft nod as a response to Franco’s question. She had a few shows she liked to put on in the background, but, knowing they weren’t Franco’s cup of tea, she didn’t say anything more. That way, she hoped that he would choose something he liked so that she wouldn’t be burdening him too much…but after about a minute of silence, Franco grew impatient, and he tilted his head with a condescending “well?”.
She attempted to answer, but all she could muster was burying her head in Franco’s chest. With a sigh, he let her return to his embrace, patting her back while he murmured,
“What about that fuckin’ cartoon you like to watch? Octo…somethin’ or the other.”
A shake of the head was her response as she replied,
“Don’ want to…I know you won’t like it..”
“So what if it ain’t my thing?” Franco scoffed. “I’m askin’ what you want, not me. I’ve dealt with worse than some dumbass kid’s show.”
Unfortunately, she couldn’t argue with his logic, so she gave him the name of the show for him to find on their TV. She sat in his lap, plushie in hand, and fidgeted a tad with the pacifier that hung from his shirt collar.
“See, doll? That wasn’t so hard. Now just cuddle up with ol’ Franco and watch the show, alright?”
She nodded gingerly and wrapped her arms around his neck. Listening to him ramble was about as interesting as the show the two were watching.
“I like the cat best,” Franco mused, taking a swig from his drink, “He doesn’t let anyone give him shit, and he likes things fast—that’s a fun sonofabitch right there.”
His little gave a hum in agreeance, though she replied,
“My favorite is Shellington—” upon noticing a raised eyebrow at the unfamiliar name, she backtracked. “—the otter. He’s silly.. I like it.”
With this light response, she rested her head on his chest, watching the children’s cartoon with a contented expression before she turned to Franco curiously.
“Mr. Franco..?”
That title alone allowed Franco to parse where the regressed woman was in her head. He nodded in response, silently telling her to continue.
“Do I bother you too much? You can…” she took a breath, attempting to ground herself before continuing, “…you can always leave, if it gets too much…”
“Too much” was a nicer way of saying, “If you’ve gotten bored of me, or if I’m not enough—whether it’s because I don’t provide sexual favors, because of my clinginess and emotional dependency (as much as I’m trying to work on those), or something else I haven’t figured out yet—then I’ll understand if you just…disappear one day.” Such a small thing shouldn’t be having to deal with big thoughts like this, Franco thought with a scowl. The fact that she was even thinking this bothered him; it seemed like, no matter what was going on, self-doubt followed his little like a damned spectre.
To answer her question, Franco gave an audible grumble and held her tighter to his chest.
“Don’t fuckin’ say that.”
“Huh..?”
“You heard me. Don’t say shit like that. You ain’t “too much”. If you were, I wouldn’t be wastin’ my fucking time here. I’m choosing to stay with you, doll.”
He took a breath, shaking his head.
“What’s got you doubting stuff like that recently? Someone been sayin’ shit?”
With a shake of her head, she sighed, leaning in closer to the mobster. In response, Franco’s hand climbed to the back of her head. He carded his fingers, albeit tentative, through his companion’s hair.
“…’m just.. I’m worried you’re gonna leave soon, an’ I’m tryna figure out what ‘m doing wrong before you do…”
“Whaddya mean, I’m gonna leave soon? I ain’t leavin’ any time soon, so don’t think you’re getting rid o’ me.”
Before she could apologize or say that’s not what she meant, Franco placed his chin atop her head and wrapped his legs around her, trapping her fully in his presence.
“Yer mine, and I don’t let what’s mine go that easy. If I’m goin’, then you’re comin’ with me, got it?”
A shy “m’kay” affirmed his words from beneath him, and the girl tucked herself further into his embrace. He smelled of cigarettes, blood, and his questionable choice of drink, but…Franco being around meant that she was safe, so any unease turned into mild discomfort at most when compared to the security she felt in the moment.
“I’m sorry…for always worrying about one thing or the other.”
“Don’t apologize—“ he huffed, keeping her face hidden in his chest. Nothing was going to get either of them, not even the anxiety that plagued his girl, “—I know your head can be fuckin’ mean to you sometimes, but remember that none of that shit is true.”
Another nod in reply. She simply closed her eyes with a soft yawn, mumbling something about nap time. This earned a chuckle from Franco, yet the idea of a midday nap with his little one—his friend—didn’t sound too bad. There had been enough stress for the day, so ending it on a calm note felt just right.
borders by @s-silk, graphics/divider above by @kodaswrld
They would never be able to have children. That wasn't the issue.
Skipper could never view the others as potential mates; Kowalski was a brother, and Private had the characteristics of a younger cousin that trailed behind the others like a lost puppy.
Rico, however…
God, that volatile penguin always kept Skipper on his toes. He was always full of surprises, not just from the random items he regurgitated occasionally, but from the sultry gazes he would sneak, aimed at Skipper, during missions. Skipper found a way to distract himself from his true feelings: marriage. The bobble head that "stole his heart," whom he affectionately dubbed "Dollface," was nothing but cheap plastic—literally and figuratively—in comparison to Rico. Even so, it got the job done on lonely nights, where Skipper would sulk away and imagine the face of his teammate on the inanimate piece of junk. Maybe he imagined it, in the dark of whatever place the group was staying in that night, but Skipper could have sworn he heard the familiar grunts of the penguin he yearned for from around the corner. He was losing it, surely…
Rico, on the other hand, knew exactly what he was doing. Although limited in vocabulary, he wanted to serenade his boss in other ways. The idea of having to wear a muzzle, getting down on his knees and serving Skipper in any ways he was demanded, excited him immensely. He could feel the burn of a leather collar as Skipper tugged this way and that, and Rico would crawl along obediently, trying to ignore the burning at his core until his master allowed him release. These were all, in the end, just fantasies. How could he convey these things—much less his want for more in their relationship—to Skipper? He tried to give Skipper a part of his rations, hoping that the latter would notice. Nothing. Leaving the heads of small animals, prey in Rico's eyes, by Skipper's nest. Even though Rico received a lovely scolding each time, as well as a tasteful slap across the face, he couldn't feel any real emotion behind the punishment. Disappointment, maybe, but…he couldn't sense anything else.
That was, until he met the bobble head.
Oh, that homewrecker.
Rico may have clapped at the wedding. Sure, he was happy that Skipper was happy, but he shed no tears of joy. That damned bobble head had been given a name that Skipper should be calling Rico, not her. Dollface. What a joke. He watched Skipper have his way with the thing while Private and Kowalski were asleep. It was…aggressive, desperate, and almost concerning. Rico would have intervened if he had the words to express his longing, but he simply watched. And watched. And watched.
Until the watching wasn't enough.
Rico wanted, no, needed, to be in her place; he did the only thing he knew how to do.
Her head showed up in the middle of Skipper's nest one night.
"Rico!"
Kowalski and Private were out on a separate mission, as the self-proclaimed leader had some choice words to say to his aggravator. Little did he know, Rico had waited for this moment for a long while. Just them, together. While rage burned in Skipper's mind, he couldn't deny that a small part of his fervor was comprised of need, built up after weeks, months, even years of repressed yearning.
"What kinda stunt do you think you're trying to pull? You killed my fucking wife! Do you have anything to say, you psycho?"
Although his fury extended through his entire body, Skipper didn't raise his flipper to smack Rico just yet. Rather, he continued to berate his cohort:
"You know how long I've had to deal with you with that fuckin' look in your eye? I see it, you know. I see those damn looks you give me when we're out as a team. Do you like pissing me off, you sick fuck?"
As Skipper stepped forward to get into Rico's space, he realized that it took standing on the tips of his toes to truly meet his colleague eye to eye. Rico simply smirked in return. Nothing was said, and yet that only served to rile Skipper up some more.
"What I wanna know is why you're doin' this! We've known each other since we were hatchlings, Rico. You've stuck by my side, so why are you doing this now, after I've given you my trust? What're you getting out of me yelling at you and gettin'—"
Before he could finish his sentence, an unabashed grunt left Rico's throat. Looking down, Skipper saw that he had accidentally stepped on Rico's foot, yet there was no resistance. As a test, Skipper pushed a bit harder. It was as though the action stole all the air from Rico's lungs, and his knees nearly buckled at the pressure…not necessarily due to the intensity, but because he had only thought this scenario possible in his dreams, never a reality. Now that it was truly happening, Rico couldn't predict what would happen next, and the suspense added onto his desire. Skipper found himself astonished as the dots began connecting. Disgust and confusion—for the situation as well as his own boiling emotions—swirled in his complexion, yet he attempted to put his thoughts to words with a furrowed brow.
"What do you want, Rico?"
In response, Rico gestured back to Skipper. He wanted Skipper. How much more obvious could he make it? He lived off of the attention Skipper gave him, and he wanted it all to himself. It seemed as though this fact had gotten across to the object of his attraction as Skipper stepped off of Rico's foot. A disappointed whine was cut short as Rico felt the intoxicating burn of Skipper's flipper against his cheek once more.
"You're disgusting, you know that?"
Yes, Rico could almost moan. I'm disgusting. Punish me. Make me yours. Hurt me. Whatever it takes.
Another slap. This time, the thwack from the harsh contact echoed from the two heated penguins.
"You really want this? Want me?"
Rico opened his beak to reply, only able to cough out a garbled cry. He wanted this—wanted him—and the pressure between his legs ached with a need no other being could satisfy. Skipper pushed Rico down onto his knees, a quick demand following after. It was a simple order, but Rico was always good at following orders; when Skipper told him to get down on all fours, he did so with a pleased hum. Two flippers found themselves traveling across feathers decorated with dried blood and the occasional missing patch. Skipper gave no comment to his companion's hygiene. The only thing he did give Rico was a sharp tug to the back of his head as Skipper thrust into the bird below him. This was the burn that Rico had been craving. It was finally happening. Between pulls on his feathers and Skipper drilling into him, Rico could feel the bundle of nerves in his body begin to coil, ready to spring loose in a flurry of pleasure. He could only gasp, displaying a pathetic excuse of the madman he presented himself as before this:
"Ka…kaboom?"
A nod amidst the slapping of skin. A sultry flipper caressed Rico's spine as Skipper whispered,
