what do you think abt frankie with an avoidant reader? like she’s stubborn and is all “no frank, m’fine” and hates opening up or especially crying in front of him. she would love to be held by him but doesn’t like for it to be with her all vulnerable
I actually love this dynamic because Frank is so well built for it. Frank has the keenest sense for how long you need to indulge a feeling for ... and when he needs to coax the rest out fo you.
Listen, Frank is a guy who murders when he's mad lmao. He's a big believer in getting the feelings OUT. So he's not gonna let some bad feelings fester in you for too long. Sure you can pout a bit, you can isolate, you can go silent a bit buuuuuut that's got an expiration date on it. Feelings are coming OUT. And then he's giving you Feelings Aftercare lmao.
So if you've been giving him half a day of avoidance-- not really leaning into his touch, insisting nothing was wrong, saying you don't wanna talk about it -- AT FIRST he's giving you space. "Ain't feelin' it right now huh doll? I understand that." However, there's a teensy bit of authority snuck in there too. Like, "Listen, you ain't gotta tell me right now but you can't skip breakfast too sweetheart. That one's non-negotiable." But as the hours tick by and you're no closer to processing or getting over the issue, he forces your hand a bit.
"I'm still not really ready to talk Frank," you say in a clipped tone.
"Try again sweetheart," he replies, the first time all day he hasn't indulged you.
"Excuse me?" you ask, sort of stunned.
"You heard me. Try that again doll," he replies, his tone calm, his eyes flicking up to you from his task of sorting through the cuttlery drawer before flicking back down.
You scoff, saying "No, I don't think I will."
"You will," he says, tossing a knife into it's slot and closing the drawer to face you dead-on. He senses you're a flight risk so he walks over to the doorway and leans against the frame, arms crossing over his chest.
Your eyes flick to where he stands and your heart beats a little faster. "I don't have to do anything I don't want to," you retort indignantly. You stand up and walk toward him, your nose upturned but refusing to make eye contact with him. "Let me pass Frank."
"That ain't happen' just yet sweetheart," he says, his tone still calm but firm.
"Frank I mean it" you say, your tone more insistent.
"Or what princess? You gonna use the silent treatment to get through? Is that how you solve your problems?" he taunts you just a bit but there's no escalation in his tone.
Meanwhile, your tone pitches up, color rising in your cheeks. "Oh that's real mature Frank," you reply.
"Oh we're talkin' 'bout bein' mature now huh? That's curious sweetheart," he says, another jab at how you've been acting all day.
You scoff at him again, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?!" you reply, feeling that tightness in your chest-- the one that threatens to pool tears in your eyes. It's what Frank wants -- for you to finally release a damn emotion besides anger.
"I'd tell ya but I think I'd rather keep it bottled up for half a damn day instead," Frank replies sarcastically, his head lowering a hair so he can look you in the eye more directly, arms still crossed across his chest.
You sputter out a series of sounds, but no thoughts seem sufficient enough to defend your behavior. "Whatever, just move Frank."
Frank remains, still as an oak.
"Frank you're pissing me off," you add. You're standing inches from him now, as if waiting for him to slide out of the way.
Frank only gives a small shake to his head.
"Frank I'm fucking serious," you say, the heat in your cheeks spreading to your ears. Your chin quivering. It's panic. Not because you're trapped-- not in the traditional sense. Frank would never hurt you and there's a back door mere steps away. But you feel it-- Frank's insistence. Frank's demand for your participation. Frank's refusal to indulge the maladaptive strategies that "worked" for years before him.
"Frank PLEASE," you say-- a plea now.
"Ain't gotta fight me on this baby," he murmurs, his tone low and warm as he watches you but still doesn't touch you. He's waiting for an invitation to be let in.
"Fuck you Frank," you spit out while you give a shove to Frank's chest, a final attempt at stopping the damn of tears from breaking.
He barely sways, saying quietly and without patronization, "It's ok sweetheart," his head still bowed and locked on your eyes. And that's what did you in. His softness in the face of your ferocity. His unrelenting commitment to your goodness.
You burst into tears, your hands going up to your face to cover it while you sob. All the bravado drops from your shoulders and it's like you shrink six inches. And with that, Frank finally opens himself, his arms unfurling and pulling you, pressing your front to his chest, peppering your head with kisses. You runs huge circles on your back, murmuring, "I'm sorry I had to do that sweetheart. Hate makin' you upset."
He holds you like that until your sobs subside and you mumble through whatever you were holding back all day. When you pull away from him, your eyes are red and puffy and you're hiccupy and your stomach growls and you look like you could sleep for a whole day.
And then he indulges you in care.
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