its not even funny.. i need trailertrash!frank so bad.. in a worn white t shirt with his fat dad bod and tattoos on every inch of his skin, his stubble rubbing my face while he fucks me missionary style with no prep... and he would never even think of touching my clit... ugh.. ❤️❤️❤️❤️
hi hi LOVE ur trailertrash!frank fic im foaming at the mouth… can i be 🧩anon AAAND can we pls get a story on frank forgetting their anniversary and being a dick in general… #needthat sorry
── ୭ ˚. Anniversary ₊ ֹ ˖
a/n: hello dear anon ! I'm so sorry this is so late, inspo hits me at weird times. hopefully you're still around and see this. i had a mf ball writing this. idk hopefully this is how you pictured it..(?) | wc: 1024
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ August 2008. ⊹ ࣪ ˖﹒
It was 4:47 a.m.
The trailer park was quiet. No meth-head neighbors arguing outside, no stray mutts barking at shadows, no bass thumping from someone’s busted car speakers. Just the hum of the shitty AC unit and your husband’s soft snores. Everyone was asleep, except you.
You’d been awake for an hour, too excited to shut your eyes again. One year. Three hundred sixty-five days since that sticky August afternoon at the courthouse. Frank in his cousin’s menthol scented suit, tie just as crooked as his grin. You in a white sundress from the Kmart clearance rack, the $9.99 tag you’d forgotten to cut off swinging against your thigh with every step. It was the happiest day of your life.
You wanted your first anniversary to be special. A grand gesture that screamed ‘I am the best goddamn wife in this whole shitty park’. You’d brainstormed everything. Fancy dinner? Too basic. Matching tattoos? Too expensive. Something homemade? Too juvenile. Nothing felt big enough.
You were on the verge of giving up—until two nights ago, curled up on the scratchy living room couch watching The Girls Next Door. Kendra, all tan and bouncy in lingerie, giggling as she wheeled a silver tray of sunny-side-up eggs and fresh strawberries to Hef in his king-sized bed. Her hair was teased to high heaven, and her makeup applied flawlessly. She was every man's dream, and she knew it. She looked so happy. So perfect.
That's when it hit you.
Nothing says “Happy Anniversary” like a sexy breakfast in bed.
You’d blown half the weekly grocery money on the good shit, stashing the bags in the back of the fridge behind the case of Milwaukee's Best and the Tupperware of questionable leftovers. Frank never looked past his beer.
Before sunrise, you snuck into the bathroom with the stealth of a cat.
Phase One: glamour.
You worked with the precision of a surgeon crafting your face, using techniques from a Cosmo magazine you borrowed from a girlfriend. Glittery smoky eye, pink glossy lips, hair teased and curled until it looked like something Holly Madison would be proud of. The pièce de résistance was hidden under the sink, a baby-pink babydoll from Fredericks of Hollywood. It was a small secret splurge, but you justified it. It was a special occasion, plus, it cinched your waist and hoisted your tits up like a grade-A pornstar. You turned sideways in the mirror, admiring your done-up appearance. You looked like you were about to be awarded Playmate of the Year. It was perfect.
Phase two: cooking.
Every pop of hot oil made you flinch. Every pan sizzle made you glance toward the hallway. Frank could sleep through a natural disaster, but you still feared the possibility of waking him before the grand surprise.
You worked as quietly as you could, arranging everything on the tray just right—strawberries positioned into a lopsided heart, two pancakes stacked neatly, eggs sunny-side up, a mug of black coffee still steaming. You glanced at the kitchen clock. Seven o’clock. Showtime.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, you lifted the heavy tray and nudged the bedroom door open with your hip.
“Good mornin’, baby,” you sang with sugary cheer, setting the tray on the nightstand with a little clink, “Happy Anniversary!”
Frank didn’t move. A deep, rattling snore was his only reply.
Your smile didn’t falter.
Time for phase three: morning blowjob.
You crawled onto the bed, the springs softly groaning as you moved closer. You sank into the familiar warmth of him, kissing your way down his chest before your fingers slipped into the waistband of his boxers.
“Got an extra special present for my hard-workin’ man,” you giggled softly, reaching inside to wrap your hand around the soft, warm flesh.
That’s when he moved.
Not the sleepy stir you’d scripted in your head. Instead, it was a violent, full-body jerk.
“The fuck?” He snarled, swatting away your hand as if you were a pesky mosquito in the summer heat. "The hell you doin'? Middle of the goddamn mornin'."
You froze. He just needed to wake up; that was all. He hated mornings. You could still fix this.
"Baby... it's our anniversary. One year today."
He propped himself up on his elbows, squinting in the early morning light. His eyes raked over you—the glittery makeup, the overly decorated babydoll, the tray of food on the nightstand.
Confusion flickered.
Then realization
Followed fast by the ugly rush of anger.
He’d forgotten. Completely.
And being reminded of a failure, no matter how small, was the quickest way to piss him off.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re fuckin’ kiddin’ me. I was out bustin’ my ass ‘til three in the goddamn morning, tryin’ to keep a roof over our heads, and your big idea is to wake me up after four hours of sleep for… for pancakes?
Your bottom lip began to tremble, the waterworks coming in hot. The facade of the sexy, loving wife crumbled into dust. “I… I bought the fancy good syrup…” was all you could manage, your voice a pathetic squeak.
A tear escaped, tracing a glittery path through your carefully applied foundation. That did it. The sight of your tears, the proof of his shittiness, twisted the knife. He couldn’t look at it. Shame always turned to anger in him.
“It’s a fuckin’ Saturday. Not a goddamn national holiday.”
He swung his legs out of bed and stomped toward the bathroom, scratching at the tattoos on his stomach. He didn’t look back at you, at the tray, at the mess he knew he made. The bathroom door slammed shut, the sound final and absolute, shaking the thin trailer walls.
You sat there, perfectly still. The pancakes went soft and soggy under the thick syrup. The coffee turned lukewarm. The baby-pink lace that made you feel so beautiful hours ago now felt cheap, like a costume you never should’ve put on. All that excitement, all that effort...for an anniversary he barely remembered.
Your first anniversary, and he couldn't even smile.
