Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: When the Bureau's Secret Santa goes amiss, Agent Pike does everything he can to make it right.
Word count: 3.2k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, (Christmas) fluff, mild hurt/comfort, vague descriptions of food, some allusions to drinking alcohol, no use of y/n, Reader is a blank slate (she has a nickname related to a TV show, you get a gold star if you know the one). I've never watched The Mentalist.
A/N: Happy Secret Santa to @alwaysbethewest! I hope you will enjoy this slice of Pike fluff. When I read your wish list, it reminded of this glorious idea I had last spring after @penvisions sent me an ask and I expanded on the idea so I hope you'll like it as much as I do! Thank you to @pedrostories for organizing the event! I'm not a native speaker, this is unbeta'd, I haven't watched The Mentalist, I hope you'll all enjoy this little story :) Please leave it some love if you do!
Wrapping paper of all colors start to litter the floor as people dig in their Secret Santa gifts. The pile on the table next to the festive holiday drinks is getting smaller and smaller. As it does, the tapping of your nails on your plastic cup is getting louder and louder in your ears. An uncomfortable ringing that covers up the music from a speaker someone brought along.
The tapping of your foot on the carpet also gets sharper, your legs trembling with embarrassment and your eyes flicking left and right. Everywhere. You want to disappear. For no one to notice you. To become a speck of dust and fly out of the Bureau building and onto the Mall. Out, away in the freezing air.
Because as you watch your colleagues ooh and aah and guffaw at what they were gifted, it’s becoming clearer and clearer that there is no gift for you to open. No gift for you. That you were forgotten. But you did put your name in the box, you’re sure of it. First thing when the email popped in your inbox. You love Secret Santa. You love silly gifts that are still meaningful. You love watching the person you drew unwrap their present and witnessing their reaction.
You miss it this time around. Too busy in your own head. Too busy trying to swallow the tears and trying to control the faster beating of your heart. How hot it feels, blood rushing to your cheeks and you gnaw on your lip, your grip strong but shaky on your drink.
Because you’re invisible and no one has noticed your predicament. Silly, embarrassing situation and then there’s one louder shriek and bout of laughter that make you wince and feel truly out of place and you don’t think you can keep it all bottled up for much longer.
You bump into someone’s shoulder on your way out but you don’t even stop, the pain sharp for a second and fading with each step you take, away from the noise, out of the blinking lights. In the darker hallway, empty, where you can finally breathe stupid, more shallow breaths to get a hold of yourself before you join the others again. Or not. Right now, it all feels like the evening was ruined. Which is so silly, grown-ups shouldn’t feel such big feelings for something so small, something with no incidence. A gift which would have probably been useless. Still.
It’s cooler in the hallway, away from all the body heat. The chair you sink into is sturdy against your back and you don’t have to worry about your legs giving out. They’re still shaking, fists balled on your thighs.
It’s cooler and quieter there until there’s the shoulder that you bumped into which comes closer and closer on your right. That and the whole man it’s attached to, blurry on the edge of your vision and then clearer and clearer and in a desperate attempt, you try to hide your face behind a hand. To shield your shame.
“Hey, are you okay?” Marcus asks, frowning, rolling his shoulder from the brute force you’ve collided into him with. Unlike you to keep going without apologizing. He wasn’t even sure you’d noticed.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
It comes out shaky, tremors in the words. Gasps and one lone tear manages to escape as well now that you’ve talked out loud. Marcus doesn’t miss how you wipe your face, your weak shield cracking in mere seconds. You don’t sound like yourself at all. And he should know. You spend most of your time when you’re working cases together talking. Chatting. About art, about coffee, about those TV shows you were apparently both obsessed with, the one that has landed you your nickname. That one about archaeology and adventure and so many inaccuracies yet it’s addictive.
Marcus is the only one who gets to call you by that nickname. Others have tried but it just doesn’t ring the same when it’s them.
“What’s wrong, Foxy? What’s happ—”
“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.” You wave him off. Or try to. “How do you like your gift?” you deflect, pointing at the novelty socks and the tie he’s holding, half in their wrapping paper still. Little elves on the gifts.
“I love it, very seasonal, but—”
“I’m glad,” you clear your throat and that makes him pause.
“Wait. You’re my Secret Santa?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, then, now I really can’t let that go. Who’s done that to you? Whose ass do I need to kick?”
This does make you chuckle and it’s only a quick glance but you do look at him. Red eyes and heaving shoulders. He does look as concerned as he sounds and it’s a bit of a relief, that someone has noticed indeed. Even if it’s you making a fool of yourself.
“We’ve all had the same training as you, you know.”
“Maybe I’ve been taking extra karate lessons.”
He squares up his shoulders, hands on his hips, meaning business and ready to take down the guilty indeed. He could perhaps look menacing, he often does when he means it, but right now, his tie is loose around his neck and he’s still gripping his gifts. The socks an odd contrast from the dark of his pants. It’s endearing, though, how fast he’s jumped to your defense, how fast he is to try to comfort you and you can’t think of a better person you’d have wanted to see you so vulnerable.
Marcus deems it a small victory when you crack a tiny smile at his joke. He hasn’t been taking extra karate lessons at all.
“Not that I think you can’t fight them on your own,” he adds, serious again. “I saw you last month. Rock star.”
Going against orders and jumping the guy you were tracking because he was right there next to the surveillance van and he would have gotten away otherwise. No other choice, truly. It’s landed you on desk duty for the time being. It’s snowing and freezing in the field right now, though, so it’s not that much of a hindrance. For now.
The praise gets him another weak smile and an embarrassed sniffle.
“Thanks. But it’s—it’s silly, really. Embarrassing even.”
You rub at your eyes.
“More than that?” Marcus shoots back and this time, it’s clear peals of laughter that reward him. His new tie around his neck, bright red and green and the naughty little creatures getting up to all sorts of shenanigans on the shiny fabric that had caught your eye in the store. So out of place and yet it suits him perfectly. With the spark in his eyes, from mischief or from the drinks he must have had. With his dazzling smile and how proud he seems to be, arms and palms wide open for you to assess his new look.
It’s ridiculous but it’s cute and you surprise even yourself, warmth bubbling in your heart at the sight and his eagerness to put whatever dark thoughts you’re having aside.
He chuckles, looks down at his chest.
“Think the boss will let me wear it tomorrow?”
“That’d make for some interesting arrests.”
“Are we arresting anyone tomorrow?”
“Who knows?” You shrug. “You’ve got more chances than me to do so.”
That’s true and even though Marcus does see you at the office, it’s been making his job and his days duller, to not be able to truly work cases together. Not just because your conversations brighten his days, an added perk to a job he loves. To spend time with you.
He sighs and sits down in the chair next to you, fiddling with his new gift. The tie and then the socks that dangle from his lap he sets them on. Those, he could probably wear tomorrow without getting into much trouble.
He eyes you, waiting for you to answer his question, or not. To tell him what’s bothering you and he could press once more but he’s learned that you do things on your own terms and there’s no surer way to be shut out than to badger you relentlessly. For this and for everything else he’d like to ask you. He’s been learning to pause and take time and not rush through things yet it’s eating at him, whenever he looks at you but he’s bidding his time. You do enjoy his company and for now, that’s enough.
There’s more music at the end of the hall yet you’re quiet now, listening to it, listening to Marcus’ breathing. Your head thuds against the wall with a tiny thunk when you throw it back. One long sigh and you close your eyes.
“I didn’t get a gift,” you eventually confess, the words biting like frost in the open air.
“Uh?”
When you open your eyes, his head is cocked, trying to make sense of what you just said. Eyebrows pulled together.
“I didn’t get a gift,” you repeat, making a vague gesture towards his chest and his lap. “It must have been a mix-up or—I don’t know.”
You shrug, a fruitless attempt to try to hide how upsetting the other alternative is. That someone drew your name and didn’t bother to get you anything. That is so much worse and quite probably not what happened but it’s taking so much space in your guts and in your heart that it constricts your lungs once more, choking you. You heave loudly.
“I’m sorry, it’s—I know it’s pathetic to get upset ab—”
“It’s not.”
“—about a stupid gift but it’s not really the gift, it’s—Thanks.”
Wet, overwhelmed tears run down your face at the relief of letting it all out in the open, of being heard and you chuckle, the sound almost like a squeak when you realize the handkerchief Marcus hands you isn’t one at all but the navy tie he’d been wearing today before trading it for his brand-new, festive one.
“It’s the thought that counts, right?” he finishes your thought for you and you nod, hardly daring to dab your eyes on the fabric that smells like him. “And for the record, there’s nothing pathetic about it. And nothing stupid about those gifts. This is spectacular. I’m gonna be such a hit with my nephews.”
“Thanks, Marcus.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry you didn’t get anything though.”
He winces, sympathetic. Sincere tone which warms your heart. Kind eyes strained on you in the silence which falls on both of you as you calm down and listen to the raucous of the party going on. His jacket brushes your arm when he suddenly checks his watch.
“What are you doing after this?”
You shrug.
“No idea. Probably going to drown my sorrows in chocolate and cheesy Christmas movies.”
“Far from me to take you away from those perfect plans but how—how about some dinner?”
“Uh?”
“Dinner. You and me. To make up for the missing gift.”
You tilt your head, taken aback. Far beyond surprised. Feeling warm for reasons which do not include embarrassment or shame anymore. Because it does sound enticing and time alone with Marcus is always valuable. Rare and to be cherished. You’d like to spend a lot more time with him.
“Dinner would be way above budget.”
Not that it seems to deter him, the idea already in his mind as he’s standing up, all ready to go.
“Your drink then? There’s this super chill pub that has some great comfort food. I’m thi—”
“That’s exactly what I need.” You’re hungry. Blinded by the Secret Santa omission, you’ve barely touched the food at the party.
“There you go. Let’s go.”
He’s smiling and chattering the whole way out of the building into the cold winter evening. Bent on making you forget the ruined office party. All bundled up in your big coats and giant scarves and the winter hat he wears so proudly to keep his ears warm.
Frosty puffs of air accompany every word you exchange, your heartbeat settling from how upset you’ve been feeling but pulsing wild for different reasons now.
For the company you didn’t think you’d crave but actually welcome. For how attentive Marcus is, forever checking that you are all right, opening the door to the quaint pub indeed. Decked in gold and green and red.
For the incredible turn a miserable night by yourself is taking. You can hardly believe this is happening to you. That someone would care so deeply about you and your feelings to put whatever plans he may have had aside to lift your spirits.
It feels like you’re on cloud nine, even when you snort in the yummy cocktail you ordered (candy cane syrup, cranberry juice and lime) when the waitress compliments Marcus’s tie. More at how he puffs out his chest, so proud. A large smile splits his face above your drinks and your plates and the European football game on a TV nearby.
With his never wavering attention and his dizzying eye contact that you have to break a couple of times, how intense it feels, there’s blood pumping so fast in your ears you’re pretty sure he has to hear it over the noise of the other patrons and the music.
There’s laughter and jokes that come so effortlessly, it’s always been easy to talk with Marcus. You don’t even think what you said was that funny, except he wheezes in his beer and when there are fresh tears in your eyes, it’s because you can’t stop laughing either. Using your napkin to dab them dry this time. You can’t even remember why you were so upset, your stomach now hurting from being too full from the excellent food, and from the happy butterflies. Genuine delight.
You’re so pretty when you’re worry-free, Marcus is glad you took him on his offer. So glad to get you to himself that he wishes the evening would never end.
“We’re splitting the check, right?” You start to fish your wallet out of your handbag when the waitress comes to clear the table from Marcus’s Irish coffee and your, more reasonable given the late hour, decaf. Except she only gives you an odd look.
“It’s already been taken care of.” She tilts her head towards him and you pause, his long trip to the bathroom now making more sense than the urgent phone call he claimed he had to take on the way back.
You try to give him a dirty look at the realization. He’d only call it adorable. He almost says that out loud and bites his tongue instead.
“We said we’d split, Pike.”
“Did we? Eh,” he shrugs, “must have slipped my mind.”
“You’re insufferable.”
You bump into his shoulder as you’re walking out, more gently that in the office earlier, quite annoyed he paid for you but in hindsight, you should have expected it. When he’s got an idea, it’s hard to make him let go.
“If you’re so upset about it, you can always pay next time,” he blurts out.
The words are sort of muffled by the bell above the door and the cars driving by on mushy roads so for a second, you believe you imagined them.
“What?”
With his hat low on his forehead, his scarf high up his chin, plump lips resting just above the wool, you can’t help but be drawn to his eyes once again.
Marcus is baffled he’s thought it out loud, hardly blinking, staring at how stunned you look.
“I mean, I had fun tonight.” He steps aside to let people breeze by you both, the window decked with holly behind him.
“Me too.”
“So, I don’t know, I thought—I thought—I’ve always thought you were really pretty and I like spending time with you. Would love to spend time with you outside of work. Why—what?”
“You think I’m pretty?” You shake your head at the compliment, smiling so wide your freezing cheeks are starting to hurt.
“Of course I do. You are. Pretty and smart and badass.”
“Right back at you, you know.”
“Yeah?” Marcus rubs the back of his neck, smile matching yours. Delighted by the turn of the tide, the hand that fate has dealt him tonight, even if it started with tears.
“Yes,” you breathe, having to take a step closer to him to avoid the large group of college students taking up the entire sidewalk. His gloved hand tentatively brushes your coat when you’re close enough. “And spending more time with you sounds like something I’d very much like to do.”
“Fantastic.”
The beard he hasn’t shaved from his last undercover mission and that you do adore, not that you’ve ever told him but maybe now you’ll get the chance, that beard feels coarse under the kiss you press to his cheek. Coarse and cold but it smells like Marcus. Like liquor and braised meat and vanilla and the fading trace of his cologne. The smell that always tells you Agent Pike is coming your way well before he comes into view. Addictive and familiar and warm under your lips.
His palm against your hip, even through layers of clothes, it’s foreign but it’s welcome. It’s exhilarating. So is the way you hear him breathe you in when you stay pressed up to him, the itch in his breath reverberating against your lips and then the quiet inhale before he speaks.
“Hey, Foxy. You know what?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry you cried, but I’m mighty glad you didn’t get a gift.”
What hurt hours ago now only makes you laugh quietly, the tip of your freezing nose rubbing against his as you pull back a bit to dive into his eyes again. Unabashed and no longer having to hide, the butterflies in your stomach loose and flipping their wings all over your body.
“You’re my Secret Santa,” and then you make a face, scrunching up your nose, aghast in the lights adorning the streets and Marcus’s feet may turn to ice blocks but he wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world. “Oh, Gosh, that was so cheesy, forget I said that.”
You make a show of gagging and he laughs out loud, the brightest sound in the world.
“No, that’s perfect. You got me novelty socks and I got you me. I’d say that’s a fair trade.”
“Meh, might have to throw in a bit more for it to be truly fair.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you have in mind?”
You’re so close, breaths mingling as you flirt, heart jumping out of your chest that this is what you’re doing with your colleague, with someone who’s becoming more. It’s so soft, the press of both his palms on the small of your back to bring you impossibly closer. The glide of his nose against your cheek, erasing all trace of troubles and tears. The touch of chapped lips against yours. Resting there, all the time in the world.
Your first kiss tastes like gifts and mirth. Like hope and joy in the cold December snow.
Thank you @saradika-graphics for the super festive dividers!!!
Happy Christmas if you celebrate, happy holidays if you celebrate something else, happy day if you don't celebrate anything. I hope you stay warm and hydrated and surrounded by people and pets that love you xxx
I'd love to hear what you though of this little story :)
Summary: Frankie reads his family a Christmas story while waiting for Santa Claus to visit.
Word count: 2.3k (but some of those aren't my own, you'll see)
Warnings: FLUFF, dad!Frankie, established relationship, Christmassy Christmas, I may be 34 I will forever believe in Santa. No physical description of reader, no use of y/n.
A/N: This is in response to a drabble request I got for my cozy celebration: reading out loud to each other with Frankie. Needless to say it got out of hand and I tweaked it a bit when I got the inspiration. This is unbeta'd, written in a couple of house by someone whose native language isn't English. I hope you enjoy this slice of Christmas a week in advance. Consider reblogging if you enjoy it!
Taglist | Main Masterlist
Frankie turns on the lights on the Christmas tree, a little warm hand clutching his fingers and awwing. The same reaction she's had every time he's done it this December. Hypnotized by the colors and the ornaments and the sparkles.
Crumbs dot the space where she's rocking on sock-clothed feet. Snowflakes on them. Crumbs around her little mouth from the cookie she gets to eat, so late at night. After dinner even. One cookie for her, one for Frankie, one for you. The rest left for Santa on the coffee table.
This morning baking activity which was pure estactic chaos and there's still fondant that has dried on the counter that neither of you has had time to clean yet.
Cookies for Santa and a glass of cocoa because that's what Ophelia is also drinking tonight, in the little fort she's built with her dad in the hallway. The door to the living-room half-open so she can see the tree and when Santa comes, she may catch a peek of him.
You're already there, sitting on the floor, soft blankets and pillows from upstairs everywhere and a few candles out of reach from tiny hands that cast pretty shadows on the wall. In your Christmas-themed pjs, matching sets you got for the four of you with different holiday designs.
Reindeers on Frankie's, antlers stretching on his shoulders. Candy cane on yours. Gingerbread men on Ophelia's. Snowmen on the baby's snuggled against your chest. He's on the verge of drowsiness and probably won't finish the bottle you've been feeding him.
There's a chocolate moustache around his sister's mouth after she's slurped down her cocoa, hands tiny on the tall glass that she hands Frankie who finishes it when she's not looking. Forever intrigued by the baby and looking at him fuss and how you hum to settle him.
She's still looking as Frankie sits down under the sheet he's secured to the banister to act as a roof. He pulls her into his lap where she burrows willingly, the warmth of her little body seeping through his skin.
Curls like his that tickle his chin when he drops a kiss to the top of her head. He smiles on top of yours when you press into his side and rest your head against his shoulder. Half of the cookie in his hand that he feeds to you. Spices and sugar.
“Santa's coming when?”
“Soon I'd say, Bug.” Will said he was leaving fifteen minutes ago. “It's all dark so it's almost time.”
“And we've got the best cookies, he won't be able to resist.”
“And choco milk!”
“And choco milk, thank to you, sweetie.”
“How about we read a story before he gets here?” Frankie suggests and he feels the little nod on his chest. You feel the muscles strain when he reaches for the Christmas story book.
He props it half on his thigh, half on yours, balanced between you two so she can look at the pictures and the jumble of words she's too young to read yet.
“Twas the night before Christmas,” Frankie starts, only to be interrupted at once.
“Now!” she chimes in and he chuckles, hums in agreement.
“Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.”
You close your eyes, holding the baby close, asleep or not far from it. Lulled by the deep rumble of his father's voice. Warmth tone and comfort in every word.
“The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds...”
“I'm not,” she giggles and so does Frankie.
“...while visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; and mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap...”
“Well, look at that,” you're the one interrupting now, “we're not doing that either,” you tease and she giggles, so excited to be staying up so late. The best idea Mom and Dad have had, to try to catch Santa when he comes to bring presents.
“...When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.”
“Can you hear anything, Bug?” you whisper and it's adorable, how she leans forward in her father's lap, ears strained to outside noises but it's all relatively silent.
“No Santa,” she pouts.
“Not yet. We've got time to finish the story. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, when, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeers!”
Frankie gasps dramatically and so does she and love fills all fibers of your being at the sight.
“With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagle his coursers they came, and he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name...”
Babbles from the baby which interrupt Frankie, included that he is in an activity he'll never remember but you'll do it again with him when he's older. It's fun and cozy.
“Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”
Frankie's voice stays low for the baby yet more animated. Huskier, raspier to mimic the one of St. Nick's in the story and Ophelia covers her mouth to laugh and yawn.
“As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; so up to the house-top the coursers they flew, with the sleigh full of toys, and St Nicholas too. And, then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof...”
Perfect tilming from Will, you'll buy him more than a round of beers, when suddenly, not on the roof but on the porch, you all hear heavy footsteps and Ophelia gasps, scrambling in Frankie's lap, clutching his pjs, bracing herself on his thighs to get as close as possible to the door left ajar to see their visitor.
“Shshsh,” you whisper. Frankie holds a finger to his mouth, love flooding his heart and his lungs and his soul, to see his little girl so excited. Sparkles in her eyes when she looks up at him, at you. Upside down. Crumbs down her shirt and a smile splitting her face. Dimples only mirrored by those on Frankie's cheeks, on full display for you to kiss, pressing even more to him.
A tight fit for his arm to sneak around your waist and hug you. Rough fingers which brush the baby hair on your son's head.
“It's Santa!” Ophelia gasps, a little too loud and you do see how Will shakes his head, full Santa costume and beard on to hide his grin.
Exactly like the pictures in the book forgotten on the blanket. Exactly like the one she saw at the little Christmas market. The same one. There's only one Santa, he's magic and can be everywhere he wants. Thanks to all the reindeers her dad just read about. She wonders if they'll all come inside. That's a lot of animals.
They must be in front of the house, looking at the decorations Dad put there. Maybe looking at the stickers she helped Mom decorate the windows with.
They brought Santa to her house, those reindeers, and Frankie can feel her buzzing against him, mouth open in delight at how their friend fills the stockings with the gifts Frankie dropped at his place a few days ago. A couple of bigger wrapped gifts placed at the foot of the tree. Frankie will take care of the rest when the kids are actually in bed.
“Ah, choco milk. My favorite,” Will says out loud, fake beard so freaking annoying and it's so hot in the costume that most of the drink misses his mouth and drips onto synthetic white.
He doesn't miss the giggles and the happy clapping that Ophelia can't suppress, so over the moon and it makes it worth it. To have been wrangled into this when Frankie had come with the embarassing request that when his daughter had seen Santa in town, she had wished out loud that she didn't have to be in bed and would actually get to see him on Christmas Eve. A cute idea and the promise of no photo taken to seal the deal. That and the fact that Frankie had stressed he'd owe Will one (or several) for the rest of his life.
No way he could refuse making the little girl's night then. And your cookies are always a marvel. He gobbles one. Two.
“Santa likes your cookies, Mom!”
“The best in town,” Frankie praises and there are tired crinkles around your eyes when you smile. Chocolate and sugar in the quick kiss he gives you.
“Oh, Santa saw me!” Ophelia gasps because indeed he has. Turning on his heels, giving them all a small wave before she whirls her head to hide in her father's pjs.
“Merry Christmas, Ophelia!”
“He knows my name,” she mumbles, astonished.
“Of course, he does. He's brought you gifts. Say good bye? And thank you?”
Timidly she does, hiding behind a hand, elated when Santa reciprocates before he leaves.
“Wanna go see if we can catch him?” Frankie suggests but she's already scrambling, barreling to the window while he helps you to your feet, takes the sleeping baby from you. Soft breaths in his neck that could keep him awake after a long, eventful day.
“He's gone,” she says quietly, peering at the lawn.
“He's got the best reindeers in the world. They can fly so fast.” You smoothe her hair, joining her by the window.
“Santa came!” She bounces in the armchair she's climbed onto, not even upset anymore.
“Wanna see what you got?”
The stocking Frankie hands her is heavier than she expected and she plomps on the rug, empties it all. Trinkets and chocolate. A puzzle and crayons. The new plush frog she carries to bed. Yawning and rubbing her eyes with her wrist when you draw the bedcover to her neck.
“Santa came, Mom.”
“He did.” You smile at her, smoothing her hair, so happy for her. “You're so lucky, Bug.”
“Thank you, Mom.”
“You're very welcome.” One kiss to her forehead. “Do you want me to read the rest of the story to help you go to sleep?”
One nod as an answer and you hear Frankie lean in the doorway, the baby now snug in his crib.
“And then, in a twinkling,” you start again, her eyes closed and she doesn't care if she can't follow the pictures now, “I heard on the roof, the prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot...”
“He came by the door here.”
“He did, baby.”
She yawns, smacks her lips.
“A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, and he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. His eyes – how they twinkled! His dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow and the beard of his chin was as white as the snow...”
“Santa's like that.” She yawns again and the crystal clear sound of your laughter draws Frankie further int the room. Not a lot of space on the tiny bed but he makes do, his palm gentle on your back as he listens to your calm storytelling. How very talented you are at it.
“He sure is. But listen, he didn't have the stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; he had a broad face and a little round belly, that shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself...”
“I'm in the story, Mom.”
The words drag out, eyes firmly shut. Frankie drops a kiss to your shoulder, feels the cover until he finds her little foot and rubs it affectionately. So precious that she is.
“A wink of his eyes and a twist of his head, soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; he spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, and laying his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; he sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like the down of a thistle.”
No more comment from Ophelia fast asleep that she is now and you turn to Frankie to finish the story. Peacefully.
“But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”
Plush, sweet lips that rest against yours, the large palm that cradles your cheek when he peppers kisses against your mouth and rests his forehead against yours, smile against against.
Two children finally asleep in their own bed, even if one has his crib in your bedroom. Parenting done right as you're aware that's the only thing Ophelia will be able to talk about for the rest of the break.
Frankie's feet are freezing when he joins you in your bed, all the presents under the tree. Another cookie he's still munching on when he drags you to his chest to snuggle and breathe a Merry Christmas, I love you, in your neck.
Divider by the amazing @saradika-graphics !!
I've always found this story so soothing, especially this reading
Please consider reblogging if you've enjoyed this little story. Comments and questions are always welcome. You can still request drabbles for my cozy celebration!
AHHH this was such a precious story and I love love looove this softie dad frankie with all my heart, this story really had some of that christmas magic woven into it!!! 🥹🎄🎅🏻💛
Summary: You come up with with a new idea for dinner. In the bedroom.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, pwp, food play, come play (i guess), nipple play, oral (m receiving), piv (unprotected), edging, fingering, dirty talk, terrible food jokes (and I kept the worst ones in my head), established relationship, reader has no physical description whatsoever, no use of y/n
A/N: This is technically a sequel to Kiss Here featuring the same Frankie and Reader but it's PWP so no need to have read it to understand the plot since there is none. It's still a pretty nice story if you'd like to follow their first adventure. I'm not a native speaker, this is unbeta'd. Enjoy ;) And consider reblogging to spread the joy.
Let's try something new tonight
The text comes in some time in the afternoon while Frankie has got his elbows deep in grease. Not the best spot for dirty thoughts and yet the second he reads the words, his mind starts to wander to the last time you sent a similar text. What a great evening that was. But before he can truly begin to wonder what new, sexy idea you may have come up with for your bedroom today, his phone buzzes again.
For dinner
Love you
Accompanied by a kissing emoji.
Ah well.
Except when Frankie does get home a few hours later, there's no cooking that seems to be happening. Nor any baking. The kitchen looks as tidy as when you both left in the morning, no smell of food in the air. Hardly any light on except at the end of the hallway, door open from which you emerge, a cute spring in your step and forever that enticing smile that pulls Frankie to you.
You who's wearing those white silk pj shorts and matching white top. Not an outfit for lounging. The same outfit from that night, the one you wear when not much sleeping is on the agenda and Frankie frowns, confused, toying his shoes off.
"Hi, honey," he greets you nonetheless, letting you kiss him hello again, your hands pushing his jacket off his shoulders.
"Hi! How was your day?" You take off his cap for him, flinging it on the counter that it misses, landing with a soft thud on the floor and you wince, apologetically.
"S'okay. We're getting the new flying schedule tomorrow. I'll make you a copy."
"Thanks."
"How was your day?"
"Pretty good! Got some nice ideas while I was at the store."
You smile, more of a mischievious grin, pressing another kiss to dry lips.
"Is that so?"
"Yes. You hungry?"
"Always. What's for dinner then?"
Your mouth trails a wet path along his patchy beard, kissing that heart-shaped spot. Gliding up till you can rest by his ear, both hands flat on his chest and one that brushes lower, so low on his stomach that Frankie feels the muscles react and clench at the ghost touch. It pauses at his belt, feeling the heat from his body and how it bucks against your palm when you press it against his crotch, the tip of your tongue licking his ear when you speak next, in a sultry whisper.
"You."
A nip to his ear and the frown that was on Frankie's face melts away as you pull back with a wink, massaging the bulge that's calling your name already, his lips moulding around yours for a deeper, hungrier kiss indeed. You taste like the drink you had while you were running errands. Lime and watermelon and mint on your exhale after Frankie pulls back to breathe and you chase after him.
"I was hoping it was that sort of text," Frankie admits, hissing at the rub of your hand against him, even through clothes, unrelenting and so gentle, coaxing him up. Not that he needs it much, the sight of you barefoot in that special outfit that you love so much, because it makes you feel cute and sexy and confident, that sight alone was enough to grab his cock's attention.
"But you got me, with that dinner deflection."
"Did I now?" you giggle and he's grinning, bucking into your touch.
"Yeah, you got me good, baby. Come here."
He grabs you by the back of the neck, closing the gap between your faces once more, licking against your tongue and letting the sound of your quiet moan at the hand skimming down your back to caress your ass echo in his head. Mixed with his own groan, the zipper such a nice, added feeling against hot skin.
"Wanna see what I got?"
Frankie nods eagerly, your hand already pressed into his as you lead the way, the shimmy of your hips and the fact that he doesn't think you're wearing any panties underneath those shorts. They're so tiny and he can catch glimpses of the curve of your ass cheeks with every step. His belt buckle is already unfastened when you reach the side of your bed and you show him your purchases, all laid out on top of it.
"Dessert for dinner!" You shake the can of whipped cream and Frankie is momentarily distracted, popping a strawberry into his mouth. A little appetizer of sorts.
"All right, now you're talking. That's gonna be fun." His hand smoothes down your arm, only the edges of his blunt nails trailing on the skin, appreciative. Looking at you beaming at him. So proud.
"But I....I should probably wash off before, though," he realizes, sniffing his tee-shirt, his armpit and being met not with a foul smell per se, but he did spend the entire day working and the least he can do to not ruin your idea is to be as clean as you smell and taste.
"Nah, that's ok."
The whipped cream is tossed back on the bedcover, both of your hands needed to grab the hem of his tee-shirt and pull it above his head. You're already stroking his chest by the time it lands on the floor, one of Frankie's hands back on your ass. Feeling under the elastic waistband and being indeed met by nothing but the softest skin he's ever gotten the priviledge of tasting.
"I love the smells of engines and oil and sweat on you."
To prove your point, you drop a loud kiss to the middle of his chest, right between his nipples, inhaling deeply, dexterous fingers already popping open his jeans and Frankie helps you, pushing them down his legs, stepping out of them. Hissing when your fingers come back to trace the outline of his cock through his boxers.
"I love how manly you smell," you continue, peppering kisses on rough scarred skin, feeling each sharp inahle on your lips and how much he's coming to life in the palm of your hand. "That's how you always smell in my mind. That'll add some Morales flavor to it."
Frankie has to chuckle at the quip and the teasing and so he relents, drops the idea of a shower for later. Whatever makes you happy. You'll need one, too, and maybe you can take it together. Yeah, that's better.
"Ok, baby. How are we doing this?" Frankie licks his lip, reaches for the small pearl buttons on your chest, revealing hypnotizing skin. "You got a plan or are we freestyling?"
The top floats down to join the coarse denim of his jeans and Frankie's gaze locks in on your breasts, all the pink lace that engulfs them. So pretty. Just like the nipples that he thumbs slowly, watching them, feeling them harden, poking the bra and begging to be released. It makes you squeeze his cock in response, the simplest touches that light a fire in your belly and make you want to consume all of him.
"I ha-had some ideas. If that's all right with you."
"'course it is. Love your ideas."
One giant hand kneads one breast, pulling the cup down to massage bare skin, Frankie's lip sucking on your own in a messy kiss that makes the rhythm of your hand on his boxers falter a bit. He's growing so big and so hard and you can't wait to taste that strong and powerful smell. His other hand dances up your back, looking for the clasp of your bra, letting it join the rest of your clothes on the floor.
Naked that you both are from the waist up.
"How do you want me?" Frankie whispers along your cheek, down your neck when you tilt your head, pushing your chest and your breasts more into his warm palms.
"On the bed," you remember, shivers coursing down your spine, filling your blood with tingles of anticipation. "Lying down."
"Yes, ma'am."
Always that cheeky tone and that glint of mischief in your husband's eyes, even when he's sporting such a tent in his boxers and he scrambles to do just that. Getting comfortable and letting his hand replace yours on his clothed dick while you get situated too. Bringing the strawberries and the whipped cream.
It'd be so easy, taking his underwear off now and getting some of that relief he's suddenly craving, hot skin and fast heartbeat and thighs shuddering with excitement that he doesn't quite know what's going to happen. But it's much better to make it last, to stretch it for as long as he can and to let you do what you like.
Straddling him, hot, silky crotch on his lower stomach, Frankie's hands coming to rest on the top of your naked thighs, massaging the skin, fingertips venturing as high as they can to the apex of your thighs. Making you quiver and moan, thumbs brushing as close to your pussy as he can and yet barely touching you there. Your shorts are growing so wet already. The only barrier that stops your slick from dripping down on Frankie. Not that he'd mind it.
"Hi," you whisper suggestively, holding a strawberry to Frankie's lips, letting him suck on your fingers as he accepts it, munching and moaning while you chew on one too.
"Those are so sweet."
"I know, right? You hungry?" you ask, pulling another one from the bowl. "Want another one?"
You bite down on it slightly, bending forward, almost lying on his chest, so that when Frankie holds his head up to meet you and the fruit in a juicy, messy, red kiss, his hands have to move to your ass, sneaking under the shorts and he squeezes, two handfuls of juicy skin too to hold you there. Keep you close.
There's a drop of juice that escapes Frankie's mouth after he swallows the fruit, your hand petting the sweaty, dirty hair that has been squashed under that hat for the better part of the day. Frankie makes little noises of appreciation at the attention, the drag of nails on his scalp and down his neck to his shoulder. Itching to touch and graze lower still.
Your tongue flicks the bit of juice that was hiding in his beard. There's another drop that you missed, one that is already running down his chin to his neck. One that you have to chase after, the flat of your tongue licking a long, wet stripe up the side of his neck. That vein that pumps and always, always makes Frankie putty in your care when you suck on it. That soft spot that makes him keen and grind up his hips. To be met by almost nothing. Your ass that his cock kind of pokes from behind.
You rub yourself on his stomach, back and forth and then back completely, indulging him but frankly giving you that sweet release of finally feeling his cock pressing against your core, even with the meager clothing that separates you from your prize. It's there and it's pulsing and you're salivating.
Frankie shudders at the thorough lapping you give his skin, tasting all those smells you said you cherished. Those that make you go weak at the knees. He grinds up harder at the nip of your tongue on the shell of his ear.
"I'm gonna do the same to you everywhere. How does that sound? My tongue licking everywhere?"
"Fuck. Yes, please."
"Excellent. You're gonna add so much flavor to the whipped cream."
Your breasts are heaving when you pull up, sitting back down on him, feeling around the bed for the whipped cream. Frankie is practically buzzing with anticipation, his legs trembling against the back of your thighs and he jerks up a tiny bit at the first feel of the cream that you apply, as gently as you can, to his chest.
"Not too cold?"
"Perfect."
"Great." You collect it on the tip of your finger, that test run, before you press it to his lips, pushing inside so he can lick it clean, tongue swirling eagerly.
"How do you taste, soldier?"
"Not that bad."
"See? I told you. My turn."
Two dollops to his nipples. No baker precision and no symmetry but enough white cream to hide them completely. Freckled skin all over the little piles of sweetness. The sight that makes you wish your phone was nearby because Frankie looks so absolutely delectable that you can't wait to sink your teeth in him.
You smack your lips, fingers light on his side, the others selecting another strawberry that you dip carefully in some of the cream on his chest. Juices flow down the sides of your mouth as you suck on it, biting down, flicking your tongue around the next one you dip on his other nipple, making a show this time of licking the fruit clean, holding his stare and you watch Frankie's adam's apple bob down with the loud gulp that he sucks in.
Both hands flat on his stomach now, tracing random patterns, tracing the elastic of his boxers, rubbing up to draw circles around still hidden nipples before you lower your head once more, strawberry flavoured lips closing on one and sucking hard. Swallowing the cream and applying the flat of your tongue to his flesh.
"Mmmmm," you hum around him, hearing him curse somewhere above your head, hips rutting into you a bit more at the new sensation, that index which is still circling the bud your mouth can't attend to which is driving him wild too. You lap out all the sugar from his skin, suckling and slurping loudly, before you do switch sides, your thumb coming to tease the sticky, hard nipple and Frankie's back arches under you, pushing more into your mouth and against your tongue. So hot and wet and pulling all that pleasure and desire to the surface.
"Yum."
You pop off with a loud smack of your lips, watching his nipples glisten with saliva and sugar. Frankie grabs your hips, holding you down against him a bit more, wet shorts dragging against a rock hard cock, his own wet spot forming on the grey boxers and you throw your head back, let him play with your own hardened nipples for a while. Soft rubs of his fingers on them. Tweaking and pulling and he hisses at how beautiful you are.
Such a phenomenal body on display for him to touch and feel and enjoy, all those inches of skin that awaken under the smallest of his touches, feather ones down your stomach and the front of your shorts, only a tiny bit of pressure that makes them stick more to your flesh and your arousal, making you moan, throwing you off your rhythm, before they travel down to smoothe over your thighs.
"You feel so good, baby. You're so beautiful like that. So sexy," he praises, dark pupils observing you choosing your next move, the hint of a smile on your face at the compliment, the little spot of white by your cheek that you have missed that he reaches up for with his thumb, sucking it clean. A fire under heavy eyelids that smothers your insides.
"You taste even better, Frankie. And I'm not even close to being finished."
You wink, whipped cream back in hand, shuffling lower on top of him, leaving behind the hot bulge that has been begging to thrust inside of you. To be freed from its cotton prison and buried in your heat. But not yet. You've got some more ideas you want to explore first.
What you do next, you truly wish you could take a picture, Frankie glancing down to check what's happening. So much cream that you squeeze out on his stomach. A circle around his belly button. Two dollops neatly set up above it, not as wide as his nipples. One large arc under it. It looks like a triangle finding shelter under some roof.
It looks like...the silly grin that spreads on your face as you giggle, so close that you are from him that they're like waves of happiness rippling on his skin.
The large smile from your resting place right by his crotch, the pointed look focused on the emoji face and purposely ignoring the throbbing heat you can make out of the corner of your left eye. The one which twitches in his underwear at the wide strip of your pink tongue on his stomach to lick along the mouth you've drawn.
Your nails dig a bit in Frankie's sides, quick to soothe the sting, kneading that stomach that you've always found so yummy, so inviting. The one you adore because it's such a phenomenal cushion to watch movies or rest your head on for a nap. Because it's a fantastic anchor whenever you fuck, whenever you're on top and that's your favorite place to kiss. Whenever.
Suction noises as you swallow the eyes and an avalanche of open-mouthed kisses on Frankie's skin. Not an inch of it left uncared for. All traces of the whipped cream disappearing so fast, your nose brushing sticky skin, the occasional graze of your teeth that makes him grunt. That and the casual way your hand has started skimming lower down his body. To his inner thigh.
Passes of a lone finger climbing higher and higher with each one, toying with the grey cotton of his underwear and Frankie groans, low in his throat, for long seconds, at the nail that sneaks under it. For a second before it disappears. Up and down his thigh again. Lips and tongue ravishing soft skin and dropping smaller kisses along the elastic band of the boxers.
Lower on the actual fabric. His scent so strong from where you are, the shudders at trying not to rut up against your chin and your cheeks taking up so much of Frankie's self-control, his fist clawing at the bedcover, the other one flinged over his eyes when you look up at him quickly.
He can't help but buck at the wet feeling of your open mouth kissing along the length of his cock, even through fabric. Loud, smacking kisses and some sucking ones that leave the imprint of your lips down the front of his boxers. His cock throbs at the pressure and the closeness, the lick of your tongue when it encounters the outline of the head, the growing patch of darker fabric there and Frankie hears himself practically sob when you purse your lips around it, suckling.
"I need those off, soldier."
You drum your nails on his hip, a gentle glide of them against the clothed length one last time before Frankie pushes his ass off the bed, kicks the underwear down and reclines back against the headboard, in a more seated position, so he can get a full-front view of what's happening. You shuffling back up to hover between his legs, gaze fixed on his cock.
How it's bobbed out of the confines of the underwear, finally, hard and hot and already glistening with a drop of pre-come. The one that pulls you closer and closer.
"Hi, handsome."
You curl your hand around the hot length, giving it a couple of gentle strokes, smearing the drops on the tip down to the base and then up again. Firmer strokes after that, tips of your fingers dancing on the sensitive skin that are driving Frankie's wild. You haven't even put your actual mouth on him and his entire body is on fire from the anticipation, jerking into your touch.
"Whipped cream popsicle, if that's okay?" you ask, shaking the can and Frankie doesn't know what he wants to do more. Laugh at the terrible joke and just come on the spot from what you're suggesting. He nods instead. One sharp move of his head, eyes fixated on the look of concentration on your face as you try to squeeze whipped cream that won't just fall all the way down his cock with the force of gravity. The hand not holding the can comes to rest on the base, and it all happens so fast. The cream that squirts down on his cock. One side and then the next. How the can gets tossed close by because you may need it again, and before he knows it, your mouth descends on him.
It swallows as much as it can, tongue licking and loud slurping that echo against his cock and the veins there. The plush of your lips dragging up to the tip, kissing it, barely pulling away so you can swallow all the white in your mouth before you give it little kitten licks, fueling that spreading fire in Frankie's stomach which is choking up his lungs and rendering him speechless.
"Fuck. Baby! That's so good, that feels – I - ugh."
The flat of your tongue against him before you swirl it around his cock, pink, gorged up length disappearing inside your mouth. Sweet and salty tastes mixing in your throat in the rapid bob of your head, cleaning him. The musky scent of his cock invading your senses. That and all those smells of effort from a day at work and the arousal underneath the sugar and the fluff.
Your hand draws wet sounds as you pump him where your mouth can't reach, fluids and sweetness making it glide as you squeeze him a bit more forcefully. Being rewarded by those deep groans that Frankie makes when he lets go completely and surrenders to you and to the pleasure that you're aching, always aching so much to give to him. Head cocked to the side so he doesn't miss a second of the show you're giving him.
You kneeling between his legs, nose brushing the hair around his cock from time to time, the velvet of your lips swirling around the head and humming your approval against him. Humming at the hot hand that skims down your own back to grope for the tit Frankie can reach. Massaging tingling skin.
The silk of your tongue swipes wide down on him. The smallest kisses being peppered up the length. Down. So low that they tease his balls and Frankie jerks so hard that it makes your nose bump into him. And giggle a bit.
"Eager," you tease, glancing at him. Winking. One hand curling, or trying to, on his thigh, finding leverage there.
"Sorry."
"Don't be."
"You just-yo-you suck cock s-so well."
He feels the stretch of your lips on him as you grope around for the can, applying just the tiniest bit on the tip of his cock, going a bit blind. Down the entire length again but not stopping like before. Lathering his balls with it. Some of it is already sliding down on the bed and there's no choice but to lap it clean.
"Fuck! Fuck! Oh no, fuck, baby, I – I – you're the best, I love – just like th-, I – this is – I..."
It's heaven on Earth, the soft feeling of your mouth closing gently on his balls and sucking him clean. Delicate tongue that toys with the most tender of his skin and draws his orgasm so up to the surface that it's all ready to burst, the saltier taste that mixes on your teeth when you come back up to the head, red under the white.
"Can you hold it? Coz I'm not quite finished with the menu."
With a sly smile, you slow down the strokes on his skin, lips abandoning him behind for a moment, but his length pulsing in your fist, all the tell-tale signs that you know so much and you'd love nothing more but to feel his come slide down your throat and truly nourish you but there's an ache between your legs, desperate to be touched too and you need that hard cock buried as deep as it can. Pounding inside your pussy and feeding you nonetheless.
"You're okay, Frankie. You're okay."
Whispers which wash down on him, how you rise up the bed, still stroking him slowly, to reach his lips and rest yours against them. To breathe in his gasps of air and you feel the shudders running through his body when you press a gentle palm to his shoulder, caressing rugged skin there.
Small kisses dropped to his cheeks, the corner of his mouth, those dimples when he smiles at the care and the love, your hand still on his cock. His nose bumps into yours. There's so much to smell in your breath. Himself and the fruit and sugar. Heady mix that he sucks in when he goes in for another kiss.
"Not quite finished with dinner, uh?"
"Yup. That was just the appetizer."
"What's the main course?"
"What do you think?"
His fingers dip to the front of your shorts this time. The first real touch to your soaked folds and the easy glide of them down your clit and to your entrance. The tip of one plays with it, little circles and barely pushing inside. So easy that it would be to do more than tease and just slide in your heat. Worked-up that you are. Slick gushing at the faintest touch, how he collects it to lather your clit in it, making it easier to go faster against it. Still tantalizing slow, feeding on the little moans that you drop against his mouth, against the moustache that rubs on your cheek. Down your chin.
"So wet. Just from sucking me off?"
"Yea-yeah."
He looks so boyish when he rubs back up your jaw, forehead resting on yours, noses and eyelashes almost brushing together. The slow grin that spreads at the joke you can feel coming.
"Want me to stu-"
"Don't say it." You hold a finger to his lips, silencing him. That joke is terrible and on the verge of making you have a full on laughing fit just from thinking it, too, Frankie's surprised chuckle reverberating on your index. Distracted by the sharp tug on his cock, bringing him back to you. "But yeah, that. I need you to fuck me."
Ruined shorts discarded on the floor as well, the last piece of clothing between the two of you, you plop on the bed by his side, fingers as loose as you can on his cock, urging him to crawl to you and inside of you. Your knees drawn up to your chest, feet firmly planted on the bed, legs spread wide, the same finger that sports the evidence of being pressed to his mouth crooked to invite him in. That and the glistening folds Frankie thumbs between your legs. Hot skin that makes you throw your head back, mouth slightly parted at his probbing touch, opening you to his gaze and to the warm atmosphere in the bedroom.
Frankie watches his finger disappear inside of you so easily. Sliding in with no resistance. Tight pussy and the shudder from the apex of your thighs to your toes that curl when he crooks his finger against that spongy spot that makes you see more stars. Encompassing heat that surrounds you, Frankie pushing as deep as he can, groaning at the feeling of being in you. The move bringing him back to your mouth and the messy kiss he devours you with. Tongues rubbing in your mouth and the head of his cock that replaces his finger when he withdraws it, attends to your clit instead.
Slow little thrusts of his bare cock that barely breach your entrance. Little teasing circles of his hips that make your heart thud in your chest and your hands claw at his neck.
"How d'you want me, baby?"
"Hard."
"Hold on, then."
The hand that was curling on the sheet shoots behind you to reach for the headboard, the other one still holding on tight to his neck and the curls there. Frankie's hands are splayed on your knees, pressing them more into your chest, bottoming out in one swift drive of his cock. One cry that you can't keep in at the sheer force of it, the grunts right in your face and the way Frankie looks for your mouth and your taste every time he thrusts back inside. Same hard driving cock that makes your breasts bounce and your pussy tingle with the sharp edge of pleasure in your blood. Being split open and you tug on the hair that you're gripping. Frankie hisses and groans when pain shoots up his scalp with the tight hold you have on him. Spurring him on.
"Like that?"
"Harder, please!" you plead, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. Curls flopping back down and sticking to the skin a little.
"Copy that."
The hair at the base of his cock rubs against your folds and your clit with every roll of his hips. The one he gives when he's sheathed as deep in your cunt as he can make it, throbbing cock touching all the most sensitive parts of you and there's nothing slow in the way he goes, fucking you as hard as you like, even harder now that you're used to his thickness, tight that you always are, even more in that position.
"That good, baby?"
"Fuuuck, Frankie. Just-Just like that. Shit. Do that again. Please."
Stars behind your closed eyelids for a second as he hits deeper in a harder thrust before you snap them open, desperate to look at him, the creases on his face at his focus, the wild breathing that mixes with your panting. The same spot he keep hitting, pressure building in your clit and in your stomach, breasts heavy that need release and Frankie forever stoking it with his mouth.
"You feel so good. Pussy so tight. Always so tight."
"I'm so hot, Frankie, baby, I'm so-"
His mumbles clash against your tongue, a mess of saliva in your mouth, pushing you further down into the bed, feet sliding from your position and Frankie a broad shadow in the dimmed light above you. Cock still rutting in your pussy, feet pushed up to his shoulders now, the angle so deep that your lungs choke up on impossible air. Impossible to breathe anything else that isn't your husband. His pants and his praise and his filfth.
His mouth that he can't quite keep shut.
"How does you stuffing taste, baby?"
"Fuck you!"
But so much laughter at the joke he couldn't help but crack, yours, and his carefree grin while his fingers play with your clit to distract you enough from losing the plot too much. But enough laughter to make your pussy squeeze him tighter than ever and Frankie grips your thighs, claws that keep you where you are so he doesn't tumble out of you.
"How's yours?" you eventually manage to quip, rhythm more erratic now, thrusts that he drags out until almost all his cock is out of you before pushing fast inside, never letting you recover from the loss.
"Could use some moisture."
"Oh my God, that's terrible. But, oh shit, oh shit, that's good. Oh fuck right there, Frankie, yes!"
Zings of desire that shoot from the rapid rub of his fingers on your clit, brushing sore lips and even down to your hole, the slight touch on his cock he feels that makes him grind his teeth and stutter in the way he fucks you. Hardly any time to breathe, your entire body pulsating under him.
"Come on, baby," he coaxes, folding you more into your chest, finding some other angle to hit spots he hasn't touched yet, which you don't think is possible, you're stuffed so full of him that there is no part of you that feels neglected. No idea where the roots of your orgasm are. From the cock dragging in your pussy to the pads of his fingers making squelching noises on your clit, to the way your thighs press into your chest and hard nipples. To the voice that drips inside your ear, moans and grunts and encouraging words. Along with the loud drumming of your heart.
"You're so close, baby. I can feel it. Choking my cock so well, I'm so close, I need to come, please come with me. Come with me. There you go. Yes, that's it. Come on, come for me, baby."
It's like a simmer that boils over, how it releases quickly from everywhere. The pressure in your clit and your pussy that snaps and squeeze him. The waves of pleasure that tingle in your veins, never letting up, each new one more intense than the last and liquid warmth that settles in your limbs. Legs that tense up before they turn to jelly, only Frankie's strength to hold them up and to him.
His cock lets you ride through your orgasm, making it last, his balls slapping your skin more with the increased rhythm of his hips before he falters too, with a loud grunt by your cheek and your ear, his lips biting down in your neck as he fills you up.
He stays there for a while, even when he's helped you lay completely down, legs that you can't feel anymore and he lies there on top of you. Cock softening inside of you, Frankie reluctant to let you go. There's something soothing in the gentle way you card your fingers through his hair, letting you both come down from your high.
"Best meal ever," you decide, a nod that you can feel in the hollow of your throat before a soft kiss to sweaty skin and Frankie pushes off of you. Slipping out of you, making you wince in the process. Always a bit sore that you are after having him but the most fulfilling sensation in the world.
The best grocery store run you've ever done.
Frankie braces himself on an elbow, admiring the puffed out lips of your cunt, brushing the pad of a finger up and down, looking at the fluttering hole recovering from the hard fucking it's just gone through. How beautiful you are, everywhere. With come and slick slipping out of you and he needs to go get you something to clean it all up.
You're not the only one who can have ideas, though.
"You still hungry, baby?"
"Always," you manage to gasp, the caring touch lighting up ambers in your loins. Remains of an orgasm that is still clouding your brain and that you wouldn't mind rekindling for another round.
It's a stretch for Frankie to reach the bowl of strawberries and an even more foreign feeling for you, when you watch the hand holding the fruit dip between your legs. Press delicately to your pussy to gather your married juices. It's dirty and yet it makes you moan.
"Could be topped with whipped cream but I don't know where the can went." Probably tossed on the floor with the force of Frankie's thrusts. "Open wide, baby."
The strawberry is smeared with come, white on the bright red of the fruit. It smells like you and Frankie and sugar and fun and it's some of your favorite tastes as you bite down on it. A drop of it that Frankie collects with his finger. A taste that he tries as well.
"And that's dessert."
Do not, and I cannot stress it enough, DO NOT do what they do and wash that dick before you stick it in or you're gonna end up with a rash or infection or worse, idk.
Comments, thoughts and reblogs are always appreciated!!!
I no longer use a taglist, please follow @frenchiereading-notifs if you would like to know when I post new stories and/or chapters.
Warnings: Explicit (like so much, 18+, minors do not interact, this is not a drill), PWP (a teeny bit of plot to get them going), stripping, oral (f receiving), p in v, unprotected, SO MUCH kissing, gentle, soft, sweet loving, dirty talk, tattoos, light sub!Frankie if you squint, naughty pics, established relationship (Frankie and reader are married), no physical description of reader except that she has semi to long hair, it’s up to you
Summary: You find out if Frankie can follow instructions in the bedroom. He can. Sort of.
A/N: Activate all senses, this sent me over the edge like I’d forgotten what writing smut was like. It was so much FUN! I love Frankie, okay? Inspired by this photo and Prompt 3 of this list
I haven’t written something so explicit since 2017 so be merciful and I’d love to hear what you think of it Be kind please
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Warnings: Explicit (like so much, 18+, minors do not interact, this is not a drill), PWP (a teeny bit of plot to get them going), stripping, oral (f receiving), p in v, unprotected, SO MUCH kissing, gentle, soft, sweet loving, dirty talk, tattoos, light sub!Frankie if you squint, naughty pics, established relationship (Frankie and reader are married), no physical description of reader except that she has semi to long hair, it’s up to you
Summary: You find out if Frankie can follow instructions in the bedroom. He can. Sort of.
A/N: Activate all senses, this sent me over the edge like I’d forgotten what writing smut was like. It was so much FUN! I love Frankie, okay? Inspired by this photo and Prompt 3 of this list
I haven’t written something so explicit since 2017 so be merciful and I’d love to hear what you think of it Be kind please
Warnings: Explicit (like so much, 18+, minors do not interact, this is not a drill), PWP (a teeny bit of plot to get them going), stripping, oral (f receiving), p in v, unprotected, SO MUCH kissing, gentle, soft, sweet loving, dirty talk, tattoos, light sub!Frankie if you squint, naughty pics, established relationship (Frankie and reader are married), no physical description of reader except that she has semi to long hair, it’s up to you
Summary: You find out if Frankie can follow instructions in the bedroom. He can. Sort of.
A/N: Activate all senses, this sent me over the edge like I’d forgotten what writing smut was like. It was so much FUN! I love Frankie, okay? Inspired by this photo and Prompt 3 of this list
I haven’t written something so explicit since 2017 so be merciful and I’d love to hear what you think of it Be kind please
Summary: When the Bureau's Secret Santa goes amiss, Agent Pike does everything he can to make it right.
Word count: 3.2k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, (Christmas) fluff, mild hurt/comfort, vague descriptions of food, some allusions to drinking alcohol, no use of y/n, Reader is a blank slate (she has a nickname related to a TV show, you get a gold star if you know the one). I've never watched The Mentalist.
A/N: Happy Secret Santa to @alwaysbethewest! I hope you will enjoy this slice of Pike fluff. When I read your wish list, it reminded of this glorious idea I had last spring after @penvisions sent me an ask and I expanded on the idea so I hope you'll like it as much as I do! Thank you to @pedrostories for organizing the event! I'm not a native speaker, this is unbeta'd, I haven't watched The Mentalist, I hope you'll all enjoy this little story :) Please leave it some love if you do!
Wrapping paper of all colors start to litter the floor as people dig in their Secret Santa gifts. The pile on the table next to the festive holiday drinks is getting smaller and smaller. As it does, the tapping of your nails on your plastic cup is getting louder and louder in your ears. An uncomfortable ringing that covers up the music from a speaker someone brought along.
The tapping of your foot on the carpet also gets sharper, your legs trembling with embarrassment and your eyes flicking left and right. Everywhere. You want to disappear. For no one to notice you. To become a speck of dust and fly out of the Bureau building and onto the Mall. Out, away in the freezing air.
Because as you watch your colleagues ooh and aah and guffaw at what they were gifted, it’s becoming clearer and clearer that there is no gift for you to open. No gift for you. That you were forgotten. But you did put your name in the box, you’re sure of it. First thing when the email popped in your inbox. You love Secret Santa. You love silly gifts that are still meaningful. You love watching the person you drew unwrap their present and witnessing their reaction.
You miss it this time around. Too busy in your own head. Too busy trying to swallow the tears and trying to control the faster beating of your heart. How hot it feels, blood rushing to your cheeks and you gnaw on your lip, your grip strong but shaky on your drink.
Because you’re invisible and no one has noticed your predicament. Silly, embarrassing situation and then there’s one louder shriek and bout of laughter that make you wince and feel truly out of place and you don’t think you can keep it all bottled up for much longer.
You bump into someone’s shoulder on your way out but you don’t even stop, the pain sharp for a second and fading with each step you take, away from the noise, out of the blinking lights. In the darker hallway, empty, where you can finally breathe stupid, more shallow breaths to get a hold of yourself before you join the others again. Or not. Right now, it all feels like the evening was ruined. Which is so silly, grown-ups shouldn’t feel such big feelings for something so small, something with no incidence. A gift which would have probably been useless. Still.
It’s cooler in the hallway, away from all the body heat. The chair you sink into is sturdy against your back and you don’t have to worry about your legs giving out. They’re still shaking, fists balled on your thighs.
It’s cooler and quieter there until there’s the shoulder that you bumped into which comes closer and closer on your right. That and the whole man it’s attached to, blurry on the edge of your vision and then clearer and clearer and in a desperate attempt, you try to hide your face behind a hand. To shield your shame.
“Hey, are you okay?” Marcus asks, frowning, rolling his shoulder from the brute force you’ve collided into him with. Unlike you to keep going without apologizing. He wasn’t even sure you’d noticed.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
It comes out shaky, tremors in the words. Gasps and one lone tear manages to escape as well now that you’ve talked out loud. Marcus doesn’t miss how you wipe your face, your weak shield cracking in mere seconds. You don’t sound like yourself at all. And he should know. You spend most of your time when you’re working cases together talking. Chatting. About art, about coffee, about those TV shows you were apparently both obsessed with, the one that has landed you your nickname. That one about archaeology and adventure and so many inaccuracies yet it’s addictive.
Marcus is the only one who gets to call you by that nickname. Others have tried but it just doesn’t ring the same when it’s them.
“What’s wrong, Foxy? What’s happ—”
“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.” You wave him off. Or try to. “How do you like your gift?” you deflect, pointing at the novelty socks and the tie he’s holding, half in their wrapping paper still. Little elves on the gifts.
“I love it, very seasonal, but—”
“I’m glad,” you clear your throat and that makes him pause.
“Wait. You’re my Secret Santa?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, then, now I really can’t let that go. Who’s done that to you? Whose ass do I need to kick?”
This does make you chuckle and it’s only a quick glance but you do look at him. Red eyes and heaving shoulders. He does look as concerned as he sounds and it’s a bit of a relief, that someone has noticed indeed. Even if it’s you making a fool of yourself.
“We’ve all had the same training as you, you know.”
“Maybe I’ve been taking extra karate lessons.”
He squares up his shoulders, hands on his hips, meaning business and ready to take down the guilty indeed. He could perhaps look menacing, he often does when he means it, but right now, his tie is loose around his neck and he’s still gripping his gifts. The socks an odd contrast from the dark of his pants. It’s endearing, though, how fast he’s jumped to your defense, how fast he is to try to comfort you and you can’t think of a better person you’d have wanted to see you so vulnerable.
Marcus deems it a small victory when you crack a tiny smile at his joke. He hasn’t been taking extra karate lessons at all.
“Not that I think you can’t fight them on your own,” he adds, serious again. “I saw you last month. Rock star.”
Going against orders and jumping the guy you were tracking because he was right there next to the surveillance van and he would have gotten away otherwise. No other choice, truly. It’s landed you on desk duty for the time being. It’s snowing and freezing in the field right now, though, so it’s not that much of a hindrance. For now.
The praise gets him another weak smile and an embarrassed sniffle.
“Thanks. But it’s—it’s silly, really. Embarrassing even.”
You rub at your eyes.
“More than that?” Marcus shoots back and this time, it’s clear peals of laughter that reward him. His new tie around his neck, bright red and green and the naughty little creatures getting up to all sorts of shenanigans on the shiny fabric that had caught your eye in the store. So out of place and yet it suits him perfectly. With the spark in his eyes, from mischief or from the drinks he must have had. With his dazzling smile and how proud he seems to be, arms and palms wide open for you to assess his new look.
It’s ridiculous but it’s cute and you surprise even yourself, warmth bubbling in your heart at the sight and his eagerness to put whatever dark thoughts you’re having aside.
He chuckles, looks down at his chest.
“Think the boss will let me wear it tomorrow?”
“That’d make for some interesting arrests.”
“Are we arresting anyone tomorrow?”
“Who knows?” You shrug. “You’ve got more chances than me to do so.”
That’s true and even though Marcus does see you at the office, it’s been making his job and his days duller, to not be able to truly work cases together. Not just because your conversations brighten his days, an added perk to a job he loves. To spend time with you.
He sighs and sits down in the chair next to you, fiddling with his new gift. The tie and then the socks that dangle from his lap he sets them on. Those, he could probably wear tomorrow without getting into much trouble.
He eyes you, waiting for you to answer his question, or not. To tell him what’s bothering you and he could press once more but he’s learned that you do things on your own terms and there’s no surer way to be shut out than to badger you relentlessly. For this and for everything else he’d like to ask you. He’s been learning to pause and take time and not rush through things yet it’s eating at him, whenever he looks at you but he’s bidding his time. You do enjoy his company and for now, that’s enough.
There’s more music at the end of the hall yet you’re quiet now, listening to it, listening to Marcus’ breathing. Your head thuds against the wall with a tiny thunk when you throw it back. One long sigh and you close your eyes.
“I didn’t get a gift,” you eventually confess, the words biting like frost in the open air.
“Uh?”
When you open your eyes, his head is cocked, trying to make sense of what you just said. Eyebrows pulled together.
“I didn’t get a gift,” you repeat, making a vague gesture towards his chest and his lap. “It must have been a mix-up or—I don’t know.”
You shrug, a fruitless attempt to try to hide how upsetting the other alternative is. That someone drew your name and didn’t bother to get you anything. That is so much worse and quite probably not what happened but it’s taking so much space in your guts and in your heart that it constricts your lungs once more, choking you. You heave loudly.
“I’m sorry, it’s—I know it’s pathetic to get upset ab—”
“It’s not.”
“—about a stupid gift but it’s not really the gift, it’s—Thanks.”
Wet, overwhelmed tears run down your face at the relief of letting it all out in the open, of being heard and you chuckle, the sound almost like a squeak when you realize the handkerchief Marcus hands you isn’t one at all but the navy tie he’d been wearing today before trading it for his brand-new, festive one.
“It’s the thought that counts, right?” he finishes your thought for you and you nod, hardly daring to dab your eyes on the fabric that smells like him. “And for the record, there’s nothing pathetic about it. And nothing stupid about those gifts. This is spectacular. I’m gonna be such a hit with my nephews.”
“Thanks, Marcus.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry you didn’t get anything though.”
He winces, sympathetic. Sincere tone which warms your heart. Kind eyes strained on you in the silence which falls on both of you as you calm down and listen to the raucous of the party going on. His jacket brushes your arm when he suddenly checks his watch.
“What are you doing after this?”
You shrug.
“No idea. Probably going to drown my sorrows in chocolate and cheesy Christmas movies.”
“Far from me to take you away from those perfect plans but how—how about some dinner?”
“Uh?”
“Dinner. You and me. To make up for the missing gift.”
You tilt your head, taken aback. Far beyond surprised. Feeling warm for reasons which do not include embarrassment or shame anymore. Because it does sound enticing and time alone with Marcus is always valuable. Rare and to be cherished. You’d like to spend a lot more time with him.
“Dinner would be way above budget.”
Not that it seems to deter him, the idea already in his mind as he’s standing up, all ready to go.
“Your drink then? There’s this super chill pub that has some great comfort food. I’m thi—”
“That’s exactly what I need.” You’re hungry. Blinded by the Secret Santa omission, you’ve barely touched the food at the party.
“There you go. Let’s go.”
He’s smiling and chattering the whole way out of the building into the cold winter evening. Bent on making you forget the ruined office party. All bundled up in your big coats and giant scarves and the winter hat he wears so proudly to keep his ears warm.
Frosty puffs of air accompany every word you exchange, your heartbeat settling from how upset you’ve been feeling but pulsing wild for different reasons now.
For the company you didn’t think you’d crave but actually welcome. For how attentive Marcus is, forever checking that you are all right, opening the door to the quaint pub indeed. Decked in gold and green and red.
For the incredible turn a miserable night by yourself is taking. You can hardly believe this is happening to you. That someone would care so deeply about you and your feelings to put whatever plans he may have had aside to lift your spirits.
It feels like you’re on cloud nine, even when you snort in the yummy cocktail you ordered (candy cane syrup, cranberry juice and lime) when the waitress compliments Marcus’s tie. More at how he puffs out his chest, so proud. A large smile splits his face above your drinks and your plates and the European football game on a TV nearby.
With his never wavering attention and his dizzying eye contact that you have to break a couple of times, how intense it feels, there’s blood pumping so fast in your ears you’re pretty sure he has to hear it over the noise of the other patrons and the music.
There’s laughter and jokes that come so effortlessly, it’s always been easy to talk with Marcus. You don’t even think what you said was that funny, except he wheezes in his beer and when there are fresh tears in your eyes, it’s because you can’t stop laughing either. Using your napkin to dab them dry this time. You can’t even remember why you were so upset, your stomach now hurting from being too full from the excellent food, and from the happy butterflies. Genuine delight.
You’re so pretty when you’re worry-free, Marcus is glad you took him on his offer. So glad to get you to himself that he wishes the evening would never end.
“We’re splitting the check, right?” You start to fish your wallet out of your handbag when the waitress comes to clear the table from Marcus’s Irish coffee and your, more reasonable given the late hour, decaf. Except she only gives you an odd look.
“It’s already been taken care of.” She tilts her head towards him and you pause, his long trip to the bathroom now making more sense than the urgent phone call he claimed he had to take on the way back.
You try to give him a dirty look at the realization. He’d only call it adorable. He almost says that out loud and bites his tongue instead.
“We said we’d split, Pike.”
“Did we? Eh,” he shrugs, “must have slipped my mind.”
“You’re insufferable.”
You bump into his shoulder as you’re walking out, more gently that in the office earlier, quite annoyed he paid for you but in hindsight, you should have expected it. When he’s got an idea, it’s hard to make him let go.
“If you’re so upset about it, you can always pay next time,” he blurts out.
The words are sort of muffled by the bell above the door and the cars driving by on mushy roads so for a second, you believe you imagined them.
“What?”
With his hat low on his forehead, his scarf high up his chin, plump lips resting just above the wool, you can’t help but be drawn to his eyes once again.
Marcus is baffled he’s thought it out loud, hardly blinking, staring at how stunned you look.
“I mean, I had fun tonight.” He steps aside to let people breeze by you both, the window decked with holly behind him.
“Me too.”
“So, I don’t know, I thought—I thought—I’ve always thought you were really pretty and I like spending time with you. Would love to spend time with you outside of work. Why—what?”
“You think I’m pretty?” You shake your head at the compliment, smiling so wide your freezing cheeks are starting to hurt.
“Of course I do. You are. Pretty and smart and badass.”
“Right back at you, you know.”
“Yeah?” Marcus rubs the back of his neck, smile matching yours. Delighted by the turn of the tide, the hand that fate has dealt him tonight, even if it started with tears.
“Yes,” you breathe, having to take a step closer to him to avoid the large group of college students taking up the entire sidewalk. His gloved hand tentatively brushes your coat when you’re close enough. “And spending more time with you sounds like something I’d very much like to do.”
“Fantastic.”
The beard he hasn’t shaved from his last undercover mission and that you do adore, not that you’ve ever told him but maybe now you’ll get the chance, that beard feels coarse under the kiss you press to his cheek. Coarse and cold but it smells like Marcus. Like liquor and braised meat and vanilla and the fading trace of his cologne. The smell that always tells you Agent Pike is coming your way well before he comes into view. Addictive and familiar and warm under your lips.
His palm against your hip, even through layers of clothes, it’s foreign but it’s welcome. It’s exhilarating. So is the way you hear him breathe you in when you stay pressed up to him, the itch in his breath reverberating against your lips and then the quiet inhale before he speaks.
“Hey, Foxy. You know what?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry you cried, but I’m mighty glad you didn’t get a gift.”
What hurt hours ago now only makes you laugh quietly, the tip of your freezing nose rubbing against his as you pull back a bit to dive into his eyes again. Unabashed and no longer having to hide, the butterflies in your stomach loose and flipping their wings all over your body.
“You’re my Secret Santa,” and then you make a face, scrunching up your nose, aghast in the lights adorning the streets and Marcus’s feet may turn to ice blocks but he wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world. “Oh, Gosh, that was so cheesy, forget I said that.”
You make a show of gagging and he laughs out loud, the brightest sound in the world.
“No, that’s perfect. You got me novelty socks and I got you me. I’d say that’s a fair trade.”
“Meh, might have to throw in a bit more for it to be truly fair.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you have in mind?”
You’re so close, breaths mingling as you flirt, heart jumping out of your chest that this is what you’re doing with your colleague, with someone who’s becoming more. It’s so soft, the press of both his palms on the small of your back to bring you impossibly closer. The glide of his nose against your cheek, erasing all trace of troubles and tears. The touch of chapped lips against yours. Resting there, all the time in the world.
Your first kiss tastes like gifts and mirth. Like hope and joy in the cold December snow.
Thank you @saradika-graphics for the super festive dividers!!!
Happy Christmas if you celebrate, happy holidays if you celebrate something else, happy day if you don't celebrate anything. I hope you stay warm and hydrated and surrounded by people and pets that love you xxx
I'd love to hear what you though of this little story :)
Summary: Marcus has a plan. For it to work, he'd very much like you to get to the bottom of your morning coffee. But life keeps getting in the way.
Word count: 3.7k
Story warnings: 18+ MDNI, tooth-rooting fluff, light references to adult situations, established relationship, pictures are for illustration only: reader is a blank state (she has hair long enough to get messy but is otherwise not described), no use of y/n
A/N: This was supposed to be a Valentine's Day fic, life happened. I'm still really happy with it! Kind reminders that I've never watched The Mentalist, I'm not a native speaker and no one has beta'd this fic. I hope you enjoy it, do let me know what you think!
Marcus hears the sounds of you being awake long before he sees you shuffling your feet to the kitchen. He hurries to pour coffee into your brand new mug and there’s a groan when you round the corner and suddenly, because it’s later than you usually wake up, there’s bright sunshine flooding your shared apartment. Bright sunshine in your face and as you rub at your eyes and try to make sense of what is happening, you take his breath away.
Your sleepy grumbles and how there are some cracks in your knees and you yawn, stretching a little. Making his shirt that you’ve thrown on instead of pjs ride up on bare thighs. Ride up so high it doesn’t even hide the fact that you’ve foregone underwear. Hardly any buttons done at all and it’s primal and he’d almost be ashamed of it, how that sight of you in his clothes makes all his insides growl with pride. How it stirs heat low in his blood.
There’s some coffee that splashes on the otherwise perfect tray he’s been assembling and he woke up at dawn for. Marcus ignores it, doesn’t even notice it. Too busy snapping his gaze up at your puffy face and the slow blinking and how blurry he must be until you focus on him and the smile that illuminates your face, it’s bigger than the sun and it makes him fall in love with you over and over. He could spend the rest of his life looking at that smile and that face and truth be told, he’d like nothing more.
“’morning,” you croak.
“’morning, sleepy head.”
He rounds the corner, abandoning his preparations for now. Huge hands roam down your arms, feeling the fabric of the dress shirt. Up your sides, squeezing and then cradling your face to kiss you hello and you sink into how, somehow, he tastes like fresh air and the cherry trees outside already.
“How’s the birthday girl doing?”
“Good. Would be better if she’d woken up in bed with you, though,” you pout, ready to resume how last night ended with a flourish.
The birthday celebrations Marcus had carefully planned for you. A whole weekend of them. Dinner and the show you’d been dying to see. Fantastic seats even. Champagne and that night stroll with your arm hooked with your boyfriend’s, his jacket draped over your shoulders. How it had been so romantic before it turned a bit depraved once you’d gotten through the front door and had stumbled into bed but really, it’s the combination of it all that makes you want to drag him back to the cold sheets you woke up to. To warm them up and dirty them a bit more. Sweet and spicy, why you work so well together.
“I was planning on that. You woke up too early, love.”
“Uh?”
“I’m not quite finished with breakfast.”
One arm around your waist, one twirl so he can show you what he’s been up to. The rose from your bouquet yesterday plucked and gently placed on the tray. The orange juice and the coffee mugs. The cut fruit, what he means is not quite finished, one apple with the knife sticking out of it on the counter. The heavenly smells of that bakery that you adore and can’t resist stepping in anytime you walk past it. Which you try to avoid but really, it shouldn’t be at such a convenient location.
“You went to Rustic Hearth?”
“Yup. Got your favs. Pistachio croissant and the strawberry brioche.”
“And your chocolate muffin?”
Marcus nods, eyes glinting at your happiness.
“And my chocolate muffin so you can steal half of it.”
“You’re amazing, you know that, right?”
“Amazingly lucky to love you. Happy birthday.”
He reaches for a kiss again, allows your own confession to flow down to his heart.
“I love you, too.”
“Off you go to bed again, then.” He pats your ass fondly, nose rubbing your temple and a sweet kiss to your cheek. “I’ll be right there with it.”
“Marcus, babe.” You raise an eyebrow, wiggle them, presses closer into his white tee-shirt and his gray sweatpants. “The only breakfast I want to have in bed is you.”
“That can be arranged. Coffee might get cold, though.”
“True. And I do kinda want that pistachio croissant now.”
He clicks his tongue and it’s so endearing, you could really swallow him whole for breakfast and wouldn’t need more sustenance. Perhaps. But there is your kryptonite right there on a plate.
“Should’ve known it’d be it over me.”
“Never. Ok. Maybe for the next five minutes. On the couch.” You shake a finger right in front of his face, eyebrows pulled together at the change of plans. “I’m not fishing crumbs out of our bed all day.”
The flaw in his plan he hadn’t anticipated as he watches you reach over for a piece of pineapple, a large grin plastered on your face that makes him follow your skipping to the living room and the couch you do plop in with a delighted sigh. More at the soft music Marcus turns on, your favorite, before the couch sinks under his weight. The coffee table pushed close so you can make yourself at home, food within reach as you nestle against the armrest. Legs outstretched on his lap and the smooth drag of his palm on your bare calf. Knee and thigh.
There are crumbs around your mouth and down his shirt once you dig in your unexpected treat, how lucky you are that he’s so attentive and romantic and would go out of his way for you.
“That’s new,” you comment, sipping on coffee which is exactly to your taste. Flavors rolling on your tongue and hands curling around the colorful mug that you inspect. Shiny glaze and hand-painted patterns.
Marcus hums, pats his pocket before he snaps out of it, reaches for his orange juice instead.
“Birthday gift from that ceramic shop you like in Georgetown. You like it?”
“It’s beautiful. But you’re—you’re spoiling me, babe.”
“Nonsense, you deserve it.”
It’s all in your head, you’re sure, how somehow the drink tastes better in that new birthday present you’ve just gotten. Eyes closed to appreciate it and you miss how Marcus observes your every move, breathing and heartbeat quickening at every sip you take. Only to be interrupted by the loud buzzing of your purse, abandoned somewhere.
You’re a flurry, getting up, going to fish your phone out of it to answer the call. Screen already full of messages from friends and family and Marcus shakes his head when you mouth a sorry at him. A second and a third as the phone call drags on and gets interrupted by someone else calling you. You’ve got nothing to apologize for, he thinks. So blessed that your special day is being celebrated from all sides of your life, even if it’s made you neglect the coffee now growing lukewarm and eventually cold in the brand new mug back on the breakfast tray.
You find that out once you plop down by Marcus’ side to snuggle under the arm he fits around your shoulders. Munching on the one bite of chocolate muffin he’s saved for you. The one he hasn’t eaten because it’s yours. The piece you always claim from his treat. Your little tradition.
Phone tossed out of sight, turned off for now so you can give him your undivided attention. You scrunch up your nose in disgust at the cold coffee, tongue sticking out and it’s adorable, Marcus can’t help but chuckle and you barely hear his offer with how you rub your face into his tee-shirt. As close as possible.
“I can heat it up for you.” He’s already making to stand up as he says so and that won’t do. He’s the coziest spot. Warm and soft.
“Is it microwave-safe?”
“Should be.”
“Meh. Better not risk it then. I’m okay. Thanks.”
Hair ruffles against his clothes and you shake your head, needing him, and above you, distracting himself with how he cushions his cheek to your hair and listens to your hums and purrs, he tries not to be too disappointed, eyeing the mug and how full it still is. But he doesn’t want to insist. Doesn’t want you to realize he’s up to something. Even if it means his carefully laid out plan is not working out like he imagined.
It’s staring him in the face, what he wanted you to see but you didn’t, not that much coffee left yet enough black liquid to hide it, once you’ve both finally decided to get a move on and he empties it in the sink. Rinses the mug and puts it upside down to dry in the rack. There’s still plenty of time for coffee and the mug and he snatches his fingers back up so quickly when they once again glide to pat his pocket and the square content and Marcus’s eyes flicker to you to make sure you haven’t noticed.
Too engrossed in the flyer that was pinned to the fridge to have paid attention to his little secrets and he smiles to himself, listening to your enthusiasm. The exhibit he’s been raving about for weeks and how mildly disappointed he had been to not be able to attend the opening because of work. How you’ve both been swamped since then and haven’t had the occasion to go to the museum.
A no brainer then that it should be included in the weekend you’ve both made a point to clear to spend together. Because going to museums with your boyfriend is one of your favorite things to do.
His hand in yours as he stirs you to the artworks he’s bookmarked on his phone and the rumbles of his voice that make him better than any official guide. The sparks in his eyes and how serious he can turn when he studies one intently. How he’ll point and listen and laugh at your silly comments and the hand you’ll sometimes stick inside the back pocket of his jeans. Safe and comfortable and hot.
The ghost imprint of your palm in it after you’ve jerked it away, one nail catching on his belt and you hiss, shake your hand to dull the sharp, unexpected pain.
“Coffee?” you perk up, pointing at the little café by the gift shop after Marcus has bought the commemorative book of the exhibit and one magnet for your fridge. Carefully selected to join your collection and your home library.
“We’ve got coffee at home, love. Even a new mug to break in.”
“Sure. And I love it. But do we have coffee with…,” you’re not even stopping in your strides, failing to notice how Marcus would rather have you go back home indeed and finally finish coffee in your mug. The way your clothes highlight all your curves in front of him, it’s almost enough to bury how it’s slipping away from him, the last surprise he had planned for you today. The most important one at that. “...coffee with brown sugar whipped cream and…roasted hazelnuts?”
It’s blinding, the smile you flash him, that man standing in the museum. The only one who matters to you, making the rest of the small crowd of art enthusiasts blur at the edges when Marcus relents, coming to kiss your cheek soundly.
Your nose when somehow, a dollop of whipped cream ends up on the tip of it. The comfort that the touch fills your skin with. How unabashed he is in his love and his display of affection, regardless of where you are. Heart brimming with love, a gentle and resolute simmer whenever your thoughts drift to the man you’ve been loving for years. He says he’s lucky to have met you but you are even more.
A detour to see the vibrant colors on the cherry trees for yourself, cooing at geese and their babies, a couple of pictures snapped in the sunny spring day, Marcus’s cheeks turning the cutest shade of pink with the gentle breeze, and after a long afternoon, the perfect birthday Sunday you could have imagined, it feels nice to take off your shoes and snuggle into his spot on the couch.
Marcus doesn’t want to risk it. Doesn’t want to sound suspicious. To suggest coffee again right as you’re making yourself comfortable, browsing for a movie. Not after the coffee you’ve had at the museum. Even though he has serious doubts that there was any actual caffeine in it. It tasted so sweet it went straight to his head after you’ve let him have a sip of it.
But he’s racking his brain to have an excuse to get that mug back in your hands, to have you finish its content and read what’s etched at the bottom. Tea maybe, then? But it won’t be as dark and will reveal the surprise not in the way he wants it.
Hot chocolate? Would look great in your new mug. He’ll pop some marshmallows in it.
“Couldn’t swallow anything else, thanks, babe.” You shake your head when he suggests it, missing how he frowns and chews on his lip. Hands on his hips in the doorway and he’s not that quick to scold his features once you whirl your head around with a brilliant new idea. “But bring the marshmallows anyway!”
Fluffy sugar that melts on your tongue and on Marcus’s, he can’t refuse how you feed him the small squares. Lying that he is on the couch, legs dangling from the armrest, head resting on your chest, hearing the steady rhythm of your heart against his cheek. That and the drag of your fingers, of your nails through his hair once you’re indeed fully sated, they’re lulling him to sleep. Sticky finger pads that you should probably apologize for but he doesn’t seem to mind and he smells so good. No cologne today. Only Marcus, the best blanket and if it weren’t for his occasional commentary of what’s happening on screen, you’d drift off to sleep.
So much time spent on your feet. Long hours spent in museum rooms and along cobbled paths.
It’s the hushed voice of Marcus meaning business, how the couch rises around you and how empty your arms feel, that make you realize you must have drifted off to sleep. Dozed off. Eyelashes blinking open slowly. Movie muted on TV. The living room darker than it used to be, sun moving on, waiting for no one.
Marcus is on the phone, his work phone, the one that can’t quite be turned off, even on days like these, even on Sundays. The one he constantly apologizes for when it interrupts your life, like he’s doing right now, noticing you getting your bearings. Hair mussed and the imprint of the pillow you buried your face into on your cheek. Cute. He has to hurry over and kiss the faint marks.
“Shouldn’t be long. Sorry.”
“’s okay.”
You don’t mind his job. How impressed you were when you met. How it always makes your inside go fuzzy when you see him all dressed up with his tie and his badge and how sometimes you worry, when there are missions that make him stay out overnight or even for a few days and there can be no contact but he always comes back to you. Even if he’s not injured, you take great care in checking every inch of his body for any sign of him being hurt and your close ministrations, Marcus looks forward to them. Would almost yearn for more missions if it meant you’d strip him naked more often. Not that you need him to come back from missions for that.
“I’m here, yes, I’m listening,” Marcus redirects his attention to whoever’s on the phone, leaving you to yawn and groan and stretch your arms. High, high above your head. One check of your own phone tells you you have even more messages to reply to than in the morning, a couple of missed calls to return.
Too late in the afternnon for the coffee you do have at home, waiting for you in the pot. It’ll still be there come morning.
There are little tea bags neatly arranged by your collection of mugs. Marcus brings back magnets, you bring back mugs but there’s no other than the one he’s gifted you in the morning that you’d rather use for the herbal tea you’ve selected. Mango and pineapple and passion fruit. The tastes of summer in your nostrils and in the steaming water that rises from the ceramic beauty as you pour it in, you almost miss that it’s not been properly cleaned.
Black stains from your morning coffee at the bottom. The sloppy job that Marcus has done rinsing it and on any other day you’d grumble at it but not today. Today is a good day. Especially when you empty the mug in the sink, plenty of water in the kettle for another drink so you can clean it thoroughly.
Heart stuttering and the mug almost slipping from your slippery grip when you realize they’re not stains, what has caught your eyes. Hand-etched words in what obviously is a custom-made mug and your hands shake so much you could hardly read the question again if it hadn’t been seared into your mind.
Will you marry me?
It’s sort of a blur, the short walk to Marcus’s home office, the door left ajar and how he’s bent over his desk, files open and phone glued to his ear as he’s scribbling something on paper. His colleague talking his ear off about details which could well have waited until the meeting at the office tomorrow morning. Valuable intel but not worth leaving you home alone. Not today.
“Marcus?”
Your voice quivers with emotions, not even realizing you’re interrupting his work because it’s so loud, how your blood pumps in your ears that you can hardly hear anything else. When his gaze snaps up to you, he freezes. Forgets there’s someone waiting for an answer. Because there you are, in the glow of the light behind you. Clutching your new mug, staring at it. Hypnotized. Fuck.
“Listen. Something came up at home. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Snappy and he hangs up before his colleague can argue otherwise.
Rounding the desk, pen clattering on it and encompassing your trembling hands with his. Looking down the mug the same way you are to find out that it’s as empty as he feared. Up to how shiny our eyes seem to grow. Astonished and hoping.
“That’s not how I wanted you to find out. I had this whole plan and—”
“Is that—I should have—Is that why you kept trying to make me drink out of it?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry I ruined it.”
His hand rubs up your arm, clothes ruffling, so it can cradle the side of your face, thumb dragging back and forth on your cheek and there’s a tear you can’t stop rolling down to wet his skin when you close your eyes briefly. He swipes it away. Kisses your other cheek, lips pressing and resting there for long seconds, his body crowding yours and there’s a tremor in his voice, one that courses through his whole body.
“You didn’t ruin anything. Life with you is unexpected and I’d rather like to keep being surprised for the rest of my life, if that’s something you’d like too. I’d rather like to marry you and spend my whole life loving you. What do you say?”
As if you could ever hesitate about something like that. The man that makes you feel safe and loved and cherished and listened to. Your equal. Dark brown eyes that crinkle with his smile and singing in the shower and culinary experimentation in the kitchen. Exceptional care every day of your life. The man who can let his guard down with you and who’s been feeling renewed hope about love and companionship from very early on in your relationship. With your jokes and how hard you thrive to always be positive and silly. And how he likes to burrow into your hugs when he’s had a hard day.
As if there could be any other answer than your squeaky Yes once you’ve swallowed. The Yes you repeat, steadier, after you’ve cleared your throat and there are stars in Marcus’s glistening eyes. Stars you could drown in.
“Fantastic,” he whispers, a lopsided smile slotting against yours. Swallowing your I love you and his. Little kisses peppered on sticky lips. A marshmallow-flavored kiss, you joke, when sugar and saliva make you stick a bit to each other and Marcus barks out a hearty laugh right in your face. “Stay right there, beautiful.”
Rooted on the spot, still holding on to the mug for dear life, you watch him rummage in drawers for the little black box he flashes you with a grand gesture.
“I had this ready at breakfast but—”
“I almost feel like the mug would be enough,” you quip, heart nonetheless thudding, tingles in your belly, and he raises a curious eyebrow.
“Would you carry it around every day?”
“And why not?”
“Might not be very practical, love. This, on the other hand…”
It sparkles in the light, the green stone that greets you. How it somehow looks like it turns into shades of blue when Marcus moves his wrist and it catches the light differently. The thin gold band and the little sparkling diamonds and it’s so absolutely exquisite as he effortlessly slips it on your finger, his own shaking and sweaty against your skin. A work of art as you both admire it. How nice it feels when you press your hand on his chest to give him another kiss. The only item on your agenda for the night.
Herbal tea and dinner forgotten. One mug and one engagement ring and the man of your life and his arms sneaking around your waist to hold you close and to never let you go and you don’t even think about moving for a while, heavy breathing in your neck and giggles whenever you realize the amazing turn your weekend has taken. Best birthday ever.
Thank you @saradika-graphics for the great divider!
Summary: Joel didn't think he'd ever feel at peace again, but you and your books, you've brought it back to him.
Word count: 1.1k
Warnings: +18 MDNI but honestly, nothing more I can think of? QZ and Jackson-era Joel, fluff moments. No description of reader and no use of y/n.
A/N: @nerdieforpedro asked for a domestic prompt with Joel (reading out loud to each other) for my cozy celebration and I know 1k is not a drabble but if you know anything about me, you know this is as short as my writing can get. I'm not a native speaker, this is unbeta'd and written by someone who has never played nor watched TLOU yet has read plenty of fics and has a fantastic Joel adviser (love you forever @avastrasposts). Enjoy!
Taglist | Main Masterlist
Books. They're what made Joel realize he cared about you more than just as a smuggling partner.
He used to badger you, that there was no need for them, nobody bartered for them except to use as kindling. They took precious space in backpacks. But you were unrelenting. Books were little treasures and escapes from the grim reality. It's not like new ones were being written or published in the apocalypse.
You cherished every single one you found and could keep in that sorry excuse for living quarters in the QZ. What you called your living room the space where Joel huffed and grumbled and ultimately stayed the night that one time you'd stumbled upon a bookstore on one of your trips. It had ben ransacked yet some shelves were still filled to the brim with generous amounts of novels and you'd lost track of time.
Your place closer than Joel's after curfew and no point in risking being caught. Terrible springs in the couch which had kept him up all night and begrudgingly, he'd found a distraction in the pile of books in the corner of the room. Squinting, trying to read with only the moonlight shining on the pages and he'd grunted at your smirk when you'd woken up. To find him engrossed in the book. He'd gone home with that novel. Maybe books weren't so bad after all.
Joel still didn't bother looking for them on purpose back then, he could still borrow yours.
Until that time he'd slipped out of the QZ without you, sick and bed-ridden and he'd said he'd trade for pills, worried more than he should be about someone who was just a friend. Perhaps not even that. A business partner.
He'd found the pills and then, there it was. In the pile of junk the other smugglers had accumulated. Torn cover and soaked yellow pages. The romance novel Joel could tell may lift your spirits more than expired meds.
A useless trade he'd beaten himself up for on the way back, regretting it until he saw the shocked, sick glimmer in your eyes, peeking from under rough sheets in your bed. Weak smile and genuine thanks that he'd go against his own rules. Usefulness in all things, no room for the rest. Yet a new book brought for you.
Weak limbs and a strong headache behind your eyebrows as you'd pleaded for him to read out loud to you.
Stilted voice not used to it anymore. The Southern drawl which had seeped through with each new sentence as it was coming back to him. His weight on your bed by your side and his words dissolving into agitated dreams.
His warm weight lying next to you when you'd startled awake, book abandoned on the floor but his hand slipping from your hip. Oblivious to how he had shifted closer to you in his sleep, sharing body heat.
Him and the book and the meds and his care, not leaving you alone in your sickness, the explosive cocktail that had healed you.
And made you realize Joel Miller wasn't just a grumpy, frowning, ruthless guy.
Softness in the lines on his forehead that you'd ghosted with a fingertip, not quite daring enough to touch him. Eyeballs moving restlessly under frail eyelids and such a grip on your waist that it had taken Joel a handful of seconds to relinquish you when he'd stirred. Everything had felt and smelled so good so close to you. Years since he'd experienced such calm and in his drowsiness, he hadn't been able to really hide the peace that had washed over him at finding you pressed to him. Observing him. Not long before he'd scolded his features into a scowl.
Not long before you started sharing a bed with him on a regular basis, even when not sick. Especially then. No longer just a smuggling partner.
A reading partner too. Reading to him when every inch of his body ached from work and the melody of your voice, all those stories truly an escape from nightmares and horrors. You had beed right to collect and protect these gems.
Joel doesn't think he's seen you happier than the day you got to Jackson for good, able to have a house of your own, with a decent bed and a decent couch, given the circumstances. Finding out on the tour you were given of the town that they had a library.
All your books left in Boston. A couple you've unearthed on the road, one that you weren't finished with which got lost in Salt Lake City. The one you're still bitter about, because you used to read it out loud to Joel and Ellie around the campfire and there was a sense of bonding in it.
It's not one of the titles in the little library in Jackson. Many more that you haven't heard about or read yet, though. Salvaged over the years.
Classics and poetry. Books about gardening and sewing. History books and thrillers. Cookbooks and biographies. Books in Spanish. Erotic novels that made you snigger when you encountered them and cackle when you thrust one in Joel's hands so he could read it out loud one night.
Headache too potent that begged for your eyes to be closed.
Stuttering above you from where you were lying against his chest on the couch. Stammers and pauses that you thought meant Joel was embarassed until he puffed and swore and your body rattled as he squinted and held the book out as far away from his face as his arm allowed.
Age which hasn't been so kind to any part of his body, eyes tired and he's probably been needing glasses for years, if not decades. It's taken you weeks to convince him that there was no shame in going to check the stock at the hospital because there may very well be a pair there that fits him and could make his life easier.
Such a sight. Scowling Joel Miller with small, round reading glasses for your eyes only. He's not letting anybody else see him like that.
And besides, it's one of the moments he looks the most forward to. Being just with you.
Evenings by the fire or afternoons with no other duties. Cuddled inside away from the winter and the snow. Snuggled under a blanket and you carving yourself the safest, warmest, coziest spot in his arms. The rumble of his voice reading the tales of fictional characters.
A respite from the harsh outside world, those hours when nothing can go wrong and you hum and laugh and tut at whatever's happening on paper. Joel didn't think he'd ever feel at peace again, but you and your books, you've brought it back to him. If only for a little bit.
If you would like to request a drabble, you can head over here!
Please consider reblogging if you've enjoyed this story. Comments and questions are always welcome as well!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: It's the FBI 4th of July party and Agent Pike comes to your rescue.
Word count: 2.7
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, fluff, Reader wears a dress and wedges but is otherwise a blank state, self-deprecating thoughts and feelings of inadequacy (on Reader's part), no use of y/n, this is my first time writing Marcus I have never watched The Mentalist
A/N: Written for @iamasaddie 's writing challenge 2.0. My genre was pining and my prompt was "You're so full of shit" (I just yeeted this one in the story, I don't know, man). Like I said, I've never written for Marcus but I wanted to do something different than Frankie so here it is, thanks for giving me inspiration to do it! I'm not a native speaker, this is unbeta'd. I hope you enjoy and I'd love to hear what you think of it!
It seemed like a good idea at the time. To buy a dress with pockets. A cute, flowery summer outfit. Also practical. You should probably have tested the depth and width of said pockets beforehand.
Because right now, it’s a struggle to pull your phone out of it, stuck at the seams.
Desperately trying not to rip it open, in the middle of the 4th of July party with the entire Bureau there, or almost. The first time you even put the dress on. The bottle of soda in your other hand is close to spilling on it and let’s not talk about the plate you precariously balance, two fingers holding on to it for dear life.
What a stupid idea it was, to find the flower blooms on the edge of the lawn so breathtaking that you just had to go take a picture of them.
You tug on your phone again, thumb stuck between it and the dress. A sharp tug and you feel and hear the food tumbling down to the grass. And you curse. Tug again.
“Here! Wait! Hold on. Let me help you.”
Your savior. Making a quick jog to your side. Not in shining armor but in a crisp white tee-shirt and some shorts. The most casual you’ve ever seen him dress. Sometimes after work, when you go out for drinks with your colleagues, he’ll loosen his tie and forego the jacket and that’s already a pretty sight. And that’s without including the evening he even popped the top buttons of his shirt open and rolled up the sleeves for a game of pool and you’d lost track of your conversation with the girls.
Today is different, muscles flexing as he takes the soda from you, a helpful smile on his face, those same sunglasses that always drive you insane and you feel your face heat up, blood pumping underneath the skin. And not just from embarrassment.
Somehow you’d have preferred it if he’d chosen to help tug on your phone. Those hands, those fingers, so close to your skin, flimsy dress that would have let you feel his touch as if it had been on your naked skin.
That would have been better.
Still your savior, clicking his tongue at the food at your feet.
“Can’t do much about that, though.”
“Dead on impact?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Feast for the ants.”
He chuckles at the quip, at the triumphant “ahah” as finally, finally, your phone is free.
“Thanks, Marcus.”
“No problem.”
They do touch you, his fingers, when they brush yours, taking your drink back from him. Sparks through your veins, up your spine to the small hair on the nape of your neck. Beads of sweat in the hot summer afternoon and he’s so close still. Smells like fresh laundry and the barbecue he was helping with, swirls of the scents surrounding you as he stays there, watches you snap your pictures.
“I’ve always wished I could have a garden like that.” Your boss has a fantastic one. And a house. And the pool where the children are having their best life. “Instead I have a windowsill and try as I might, I’ll never have room for that many,” you sigh.
Too small, not enough pots and not enough space, and real estate doesn’t care if you’d like tulips and dahlias and daffodils on end, prices are still through the roof.
“I had a plant,” Marcus supplies, hands in the pockets of his shorts, “and it just….didn’t survive my last mission.”
Months away without really being able to check back home, if he can even call it home, and also he’d forgotten to leave a window open and perhaps he should have invested in the cleaning service the bulletin board had advertised. Perhaps then it wouldn’t have been left in the dark. It could have been watered.
“Ouchie,” you sympathize but he only shrugs.
“But we got the bad guys so I suppose I can live with its sacrifice.”
“Yeah, congrats on that by the way. I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet.”
“I know. It’s been crazy busy.”
Marcus sighs, rubs a hand down his face. So much paperwork after the arrests and it’s been a couple of weeks and yet, he’s still getting his footing back, trying to keep his head above water and not drown in all the files on his desk.
The long weekend, it’s more than welcome then. The breeze under the shade of the tree, the pink and orange and yellow and purple sprawled at his feet and the beer in his hand.
Not having to pretend anymore.
He scratches at his beard.
“I haven’t even had time to shave.”
You almost swallow wrong, sputter. What a shame it would be if he did. And you almost blurt that out. Before your brain catches up on your tongue.
“I think it suits you,” you squeak instead.
“Yeah?”
He rubs at his chin, takes a swig of his beer and it’s hypnotizing, the way his throat bobs and the facial hair on his jaw. Around his mouth when he wipes a runaway drop and what you wouldn’t give to do the same. How soft his lips must feel and how coarse his cheek would be against yours. It wouldn’t sting, though, you don’t think. And if it did, he’d soothe it all, Special Agent Pike. He’s sweet like that.
Always the highlight of your day when he drops by your desk. Sweet and nice with everyone, you’re no one special, just a colleague, which makes it even more inappropriate, how you’ve been feeling about him. Almost from the moment you were introduced.
But it’ll be a shit show, when you let him know and he’ll be polite and kind when he lets you down. Except you won’t ever be able to talk to him again so you’d rather swallow it all down, bury it deep, if it means you can still see him on a regular basis.
“Maybe I’ll keep it then,” Marcus ponders, thumbing at his beard. “If you like it.”
“It’s nice.”
“But I may—”
“Shut up! Jeez, you’re so full of shit, Denvers! Yo, Pike! Get your ass over here!”
Perfect synchronization in how you both turn towards the barbecue and your colleagues in charge of the food there. The men who have so rudely interrupted you and the white cotton, it stretches on Marcus’s shoulders when he sighs, gives you an apologetic smile.
“Sorry, duty calls.”
“I didn’t know you were an expert at barbecuing.”
“I’m full of secrets like that. Can I get you another hot dog while I’m at it?”
You barely got a bite or two of yours before dropping it and your stomach is starting to rebel at the lack of food. Butterflies at talking to him can’t sustain you forever.
“Oh, no, I can get it my—”
“Ah, my pleasure. Anything for my favorite analyst. Hang on tight, enjoy your flowers.”
The crinkles around his eyes, peeking at the edge of his sunglasses, they stretch with his wide smile and his wink. They leave you flustered, staring at his back, eyes daring to dart lower to admire how he walks back to argue about cooking and charcoal and seasoning.
Flustered and enthralled and you hardly notice someone has taken Marcus’s spot by your side until they bump their shoulder against yours and grabby fingers tug at your sleeve.
“So, do you think today might be the day?”
“Uh?”
“When you finally ask Agent Handsome out?”
“And have to quit my job? I’d rather not. Hi, love, how was your nap?”
The baby in her arms smiles big at you, tug a bit more on your dress and refuses to let go until his mother distracts him with the shiny rings on her fingers.
“Always so dramatic, I’d forgotten about that.”
“Is there something you haven’t forgotten? Like, do you even remember your password?”
“Nope. And I couldn’t be happier about it.”
“Not coming back anytime soon then?”
Your work buddy who’s spent the last year or so having a baby and caring for it and hasn’t set foot in the office ever since. But you forgive her, the little boy is extra cute and claps as she lowers him and herself so he can look at all the bright flowers and the colors and then she groans, sits down in the grass.
Soft and warm and weight off your legs and your wedges when you join them and you could probably lie down and fall asleep, the lull of conversations everywhere a lullaby. Somewhat. Like the chirping of birds in the branches. Hidden.
“Not if I can help it. But don’t change the subject. Pike?”
“He’s very nice.”
“He’s hot.”
“Aren’t you married?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” She shrugs. “He’s still hot.”
“He is,” you agree dreamily, fighting the urge to steal a glance at him. “But it’s—it wouldn’t work. He doesn’t like me like that.”
“Has he told you that?”
No. Because you’d die of shame before admitting your feelings. It’s only a crush. A silly crush you’ve harbored for months and the stings of envy you’ve felt when you caught him talking to another woman at the bar, weeks ago, they were so real that you went to bed crying at how pathetic you were. A silly crush you wish could pass and yet here you are.
No way Marcus Pike could ever be interested in you. Not when he can have anyone he likes. He’s so gorgeous, way out of your league.
You tut instead of a proper answer, because he doesn’t need to tell you for you to know he can do better. You tut and play with blades of grass instead. Your soda gone and that’s a good thing, with how she shoves your shoulder again. Roughly.
“Ouch!”
“For a behavior analyst, you’re really shit at it when you’re off duty, aren’t you? Look at him!”
A quick glance towards the end of the backyard, your eyes directly finding his, already gazing at you. Not dropping when they meet. Sunglasses dangling from the collar of his tee-shirt and paper plates in his hands. He holds one up to you, inquiring silently and you nod so fast, something cracks in your neck. Dizzying.
“I’m telling you. He’s into you. I’m sure if you ask him to show you his hot dog, he will.”
She wiggles her eyebrows, giggling at how you scrunch up your nose, annoyed that you can’t retaliate with a shove of your own, that would upset the baby. Instead, you dramatically cover his little ears, glass bottle tipping in the sunshine, the last drops spilling in the grass. Refreshment for the ants.
“Don’t listen to your mom, she says the grossest things.”
“That doesn’t make them any less true,” she whispers hastily, already scrambling back up, white petals in her son’s little fist. “Hi, Marcus!”
“Hi, Cora! I—do you want this one? I’ll go get another one.” He offers her his plate and could he be more attentive, you’re melting. And not from the bright sun.
“I’m okay, thanks. This one’s in need of a diaper change. I’ll see you later? Enjoy your hot dogs!”
You throw her a dark look as she scampers off, children a wonderful excuse. A dark look that Marcus can’t see while he’s kneeling and sitting by your side. A groan at how low the ground is but then a contented noise at kicking his shoes off and feeling the grass against the soles of his feet and you think he may actually be trying to kill you.
Blissed out and carefree and so attentive, you don’t even have to pretend he didn’t get your hot dog right because amazingly, he did.
You hold the plate out, gaping. At it. At him. Astonished, not touching any of it.
“Did I forget something?”
There’s the mustard and the ketchup spilling from the bun. Onions and pickles on two little piles by it, not touching. And the bun is wholegrain. Where did he find it? It wasn’t an option when you first went to get some food or you would have hoarded a couple.
“It’s perfect, Marcus. How—how did you know?”
“That’s how you take it when you go to the food truck by the water, isn’t it?”
Lunch break in the city, when the trees are blossoming, when it’s sunny enough to eat outside. The ripples of calm on the river, how refreshing it is. Away from phones ringing and artificial lights and the clink clink clink of typing on keyboards. What you most look forward to after winter.
“Have you been spying on me, Agent Pike?”
You dip your head, a teasing edge to your smile and the way he adverts his gaze from your mouth to your eyes, maybe Cora isn’t that wrong. Or maybe the sun is in his face. How he squints and clears his throat.
“It’s a peaceful spot, isn’t it? I go there, too, sometimes. For coffee. Saw you a couple of times. Always on the same bench.”
“Far enough away from the geese.”
“I figured. But I—for the record, I wasn’t spying. Just happened to see you there and well, you’re—you’re pretty to look at.”
He mumbles it really, around a mouthful of hot dog, the pink of his tongue darting out to lick the mustard and the salt and the grease at the corner of his mouth, eyes never leaving yours, boring into your very heart. How it beats wild against your rib cage and you can’t seem to be able to break the spell.
The deep tone of his flirting, you think, at least you hope it’s what it is and not delusions that Cora has planted in your head. You can’t quite hold your plate steady, fingers sweaty.
“You’re just saying that,” you reply eventually and as you cast your eyes down you miss how Marcus frowns. You hear his confusion, though.
“Why would I do that?”
“Well, because you’re you and I’m...I’m just me.”
“Yes, you’re pretty. The first time I saw you there, by yourself, I meant to ask if you wanted company but you were reading and I didn’t want to bother you.”
Adding some beauty to the marvelous scenery. Making it more serene in how unbothered you were by your surroundings, how captivated you were by the story on the pages and it’d have been a crime, to interrupt that.
“Oh.”
They’re heavy, your eyelids, scared to bat open and up to catch him looking at you. A weight on your shoulders that hold them down, because what if he’s making fun of you. But it’s Agent Pike and Agent Pike doesn’t do that. You don’t think. He’s never let his hand wander so close to you either. Fingertips hovering by the hem of your dress, the soft skin of your thigh and it’s almost like an electric shock, the barely there brush of a nail. Enough to make you snap your head up.
Blood pumping under your cheeks and in your ears and hot dogs completely forgotten.
“You’re real pretty,” Marcus says again, lips parted and sincerity pouring out of his eyes, whispered into the world by velvet lips.
“Thanks. You too.”
A stupid thing to say, you can do so much better, there are so many things you like about him and yet, your brain is frozen. Not that it upsets him, judging by how his face lights up and how it emboldens him, the simple words. How his fingers creep closer to you again, toying with the hem of the dress again. A longer brush of his skin on yours and that’s certainly not going to help you find better vocabulary.
“Do you think next time I see you on that bench, I could come keep you company? I can’t promise I’ll be as good as your book but—”
“You will be.” Not doubt about it.
“Good. Monday?”
You’ve always loved Marcus’s dimples, how they shine when he laughs or genuinely smiles and right now, they’re all you can see. And they’re here because of you and it almost seems too good to be true.
Except it is. True. How warm his hand is when you cover it with your hand. Greasy and clammy.
Summary: Frankie gets a pep talk from his best girls before a very big day.
Word count: 1.6k
Story warnings: 18+ MDNI, post-TF, domestic fluff, dad!Frankie, references to movie-related angst, no use of y/n, reader is a blank state, established relationship
Numbers and lines and footnotes, they all seem to shrink and blur on the pages that Frankie has been studying for weeks. Diagrams and grids distort as he blinks the weariness and the stress away under the weak light bulb in the kitchen. His pencil taps on the table on the same erratic rhythm as the bouncing of his knee.
He screws his eyes shut, scratches at his beard and wills his memory to conjure the correct answer. It does, but it doesn’t do much to relieve the tension bubbling in his veins. Neither does the tick on the mock exam sheet that joins the long series of checks tonight.
“Nicely done, handsome!” you praise, peeking at it on your way to the fridge to collect the juice boxes you’ve promised your energetic daughters making the most of a rainy day inside.
Frankie sighs, barely sounding satisfied with his performance.
“Thanks.”
He’s an obligatory stop on the way back to the living room. To drop a loving kiss on messy curls.
“Why don’t you take a break? The New York ballet’s got nothing on us, if you want to know what’s up.”
Frankie chuckles, straightens from his hunched position, ears now accustomed to the music and the TV and the chiming toys that they’re not being that much of a nuisance to study. It’s a comforting background noise instead.
“I don’t know I—”
“You know, they do say you should not study the night before a big test anyway.”
“Really?”
“Yup.”
“Who says that?” He quirks an eyebrow at your loving smile, the fingers that have stayed in his curls and are playing with them.
“Wise people, I’m sure. And me. You’ve got this, pilot. You know this stuff.”
He knew it years ago. Decades ago almost. When he first learned how to fly and all the regulations. So much seem to have changed now, even if flying was pretty much all the same up until they suspended his license.
Somewhere in his heart, Frankie is inclined to feel the same as you do. To realize as he was reading the new material and the questions, most of it is familiar. But he’s more messed up than all these years ago. Decades. Life hasn’t been kind and he’s fucked up royally. A few times. He fucked up his job and missions and your trust and his health and his body and it’s been a rocky road, it still is.
It’s been a rocky hike uphill with some large pits of hopelessness and mostly darkness and the little thread of needing to do what’s right for his family, because he was not going to leave any of you behind like Tom’s death had done for his family. It’s been the sole force propelling him forward, even if some days or some nights, it only felt like he had moved a couple of millimeters. That’s still progress.
And taking the flying exam again, it’s the last step in getting his life back on track completely. Clean and a clear mind and help and love and support.
So Frankie doesn’t want to screw it up. Even if he could take the exam again if he failed tomorrow. But failing would be the worst. To come back home and let you know. How can he fail though, he got a perfect score yesterday and the day before and tonight is gearing up to be another landslide as well. He’s got this. He knows this stuff. Flying is everything to him. As easy as breathing. Most of the time.
He sighs, a longing look at the wall and what’s happening behind it and he sags into your hand a tiny bit more.
“Just—five more minutes, querida?”
“Sure thing.” You drop another sound kiss to his hair, half on his forehead and you squeeze his shoulder. “We love you, Frankie. We believe in you.”
It grows louder somehow, the sounds of their happiness at you joining them with their drinks. Cheering and clapping and your laughter and who is he kidding, you’re probably right. You often are. What’s in the manual hardly makes sense the more he looks at it and he’s got this. One last question just for the hell of it and then the book thuds shut. The pen clatters on the table and the chair drags on the floor as Frankie stands up.
“Daddy!” Gabby shrills, noticing him, arms high above her head, her tutu ruffling around her legs and bare feet surrounded by an array of toys that it’s a miracle she hasn’t stepped on one and hurt herself in her games.
One little body collides with Frankie’s leg, claws on his sweats and a grin on his younger daughter’s face as he looks down at her.
“Up!” she demands and he’s never been able to refuse her anything, not when she was so young when he left and almost didn’t come back. He’s never quite been able to refuse his daughters anything.
So he does pick her up, socked feet thudding against his ribs in her happiness and how she claps at her sister, pokes him in the face to make him see what’s happening.
“Dancing, Daddy!”
“I can see that. Can you give me another twirl, ballerina?”
Gabby giggles and does. A twirl that ends with a flourish and a stumble into the couch her parents pretend to not see as you clap merrily and the little girl shakes her rattling toy, so close to Frankie’s ear.
“You playing the orchestra, Chacha?”
“Yeah!”
“I told you, we’re all ready for New York.” You wink and Frankie laughs, a sound you’re grateful has made your way back into your home. Long months with only tears and hushed whispers and worries and snarls sometimes that you can’t forget, they’re part of your past and who you are together, but grateful indeed you’ve managed to learn and move forward.
The toy drops to Frankie’s lap when he sits down by your side and the juice box you’d been holding demands all of your toddler’s attention. And his. So it doesn’t all end up on his tee-shirt.
“We got you something, Daddy,” Gabby appears in front of him, clutching a homemade envelope and his eyes widen. He casts a quick glance at you and how you bite your lip and try to hide your smile.
“You did? How—why?”
“So you can be reminded that we’re so, so proud of you and, here, let me take her, come here, Chacha, let Daddy open his gift. And so you don’t forget that you’re going to nail that test tomorrow,” you continue over the fussing of your daughter now deprived of her father, even if Frankie is still frozen, looking at Gabby’s hands, the envelope she’s delicately putting on his knees. “And soon enough, Daddy’s gonna take us all where?”
“High, high in the sky!” she shouts, excited and her sister joins in with squeals, orange liquid ending up on your clothes in the end.
“Wow, look at that,” Frankie marvels, trembling fingers pulling out the drawing of the four of you, stick figures and stick houses and the attempt at a helicopter in the top right corner.
“I made that! I chose blue because it’s your favorite color.”
“It is. Thank you, guapa.”
“Chacha made the heart,” she points to the shape by the little flowers at the bottom of the page, a scribbled mess of red crayon, right by the intricate handwriting which is yours, the one that tells him that you all love him. Frankie chokes up a little, feels the softness of your hand on his lower back.
“There’s something else inside,” you prompt and it feels like it in his palm.
A tiny weight that feels cold in his palm. Something colorful the size of a coin. It shines in the artificial light and it’s hard to make out what’s written on it with how you’re all three crowding him. Frankie can’t even feel like his hands are shaking, there’s no room for doubt when you’re all close.
“It’s a pocket hug. So you can carry us with you always. Even when you may feel alone.”
“For the test, Daddy.”
“I—you’re all amazing, you know that? I love you so dam—so much. You’re my best girls.”
It’s his voice that shakes now, his thumb rubbing on the smooth pink surface of the heart in the middle, surrounded by your names. It pressed into his fist when Gabby climbs on his lap, or tries not, to give him a real-life hug. There’s toddler droll and orange juice in his neck and your face pressed on his shoulder. Your arm around his to bring him closer and one that shoots to squeeze you closer and one around Gabby so she doesn’t tumble down the couch.
One giant Morales hug to give him strength tonight, the babies who don’t even realize how much they’ve done to help him heal and all that they do every day. And you who do know, all that you’ve done and all that you’re still doing to help him. By choosing him and choosing to stick by his side even when life got hard and it would have been the easy way out, to move on without him. But life is hard and he’s your man. You’re not going anywhere.
And he’s got this. Even if Frankie doesn’t sleep much that night, nerves getting the better of him, he finds himself looking at the pocket hug he puts on the desk in the exam room whenever he starts to get anxious or frustrated with a question. He’ll graze it with one finger, close his eyes and think of your smiles and your laughter, his three girls and it makes it all easier, to pass the exam with flying colors.
Thank you @saradika-graphics for the divider!
While I have you here, icymi, there's a little giveaway happening until May 26 if you'd like to win a cute little magnet :)
Summary: After South America, it will take everything for Frankie to get his life back on track. Completely dedicated to his daughter, she unknowingly introduces him to what will turn his life around: plants.
Word count: 5.2k
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, angst (mentions of drugs, death, depressive and self-deprecating thoughts), dad!Frankie
A/N: I started writing this in the winter, left it be for a while and then @morallyinept announced a fun Flora and Fauna Challenge that the story perfectly fits and it gave me the boost and motivation to finish it. I've never written Frankie with an OFC but it fit the story. So it's a first for me and I'd love to hear what you think about it! Thanks to @nerdieforpedro for the read-through and the kind words. As always, I'm not a native speaker, this is barely edited. Enjoy!
Frankie is alone.
It feels like it at the very least.
When he drags himself home in the dead of the night, bruised and cut and battered. Empty-handed and shattered, inside and out, he finds her in their bed.
The woman that he loves, how he doesn’t think it's an emotion he's capable of anymore. Broken and vaporized. And yet. Her beautiful face that scrunches up in her troubles. Frowns and whimpers and how his breath catches at the sight.
At what he's done to her, what he's made her go through these weeks when he was absent and even before that. It's a little miracle in itself that she's still there actually. The tremors in the fingers that Frankie flexes in the dark. That she's still around.
Curled up with their baby girl. Serene that his child is, unaware of what's happening. How he can never offer her what she truly deserves. The bad hand life has dealt her, him as a father.
Absent and drowning in problems that he creates for himself and how he can't seem to stop. Can't seem to get a grip on life. Until the point of no-return. Can't get his priorities straight when there they are, sleeping in his bed. These two girls who deserve the world.
No more room left for him.
So the couch it is.
Sleepless mind despite the exhaustion of traveling and the toll of it all. Grief and anger and anxiety and pain. Deep and overwhelming. Cushioning his mind when he dozes off before dawn.
Giving Joe quite the fright when she eventually wakes up and finds him there, the man she thought she'd never see again.
Relieved that he's alive actually. For their daughter more than anything. Because she still loves him, she tells Frankie after the shock has passed. She does but she can't do this anymore. It's not healthy and it's self-preservation really. To have to let him go. She can't live on the edge. Not unless he truly gets some help and gets his shit together.
But oh, so relieved, that he's alive and back and warm in her arms, sobbing and breathing heavily on her shoulder.
Frankie can't even find it in himself to fight. Not now. He understands. Can't blame her. He's ruined it all.
He finds some solace in babbles and clammy little hands and bright smiles and curious eyes instead. Days spent with his daughter, catching up on those days he's lost.
A neatly placed envelope by the door. His name on it but it was already opened. License revoked indefinitely and job lost and so he stays on the couch for a few more nights to figure what's next.
Joe can't just throw him out in the street like that. She knows him, and given the state of him, it'd harm him further. She couldn't live with herself if something did happen to him. Lilla deserves a father. However difficult it seems to be.
Nights on the couch. Bits of conversation here and there yet their relationship crumbling, thin threads Frankie can hear snap with less eye contact, less touches. Stilted voices and sniffles even with the bedroom door closed and he didn't think it was possible for his heart to break into tinier shards. That it's his fault.
The only glimmer's his child. And the hug, longer than Joe intended, when Frankie has all his stuff packed to go check into a motel. Clippings of job ads in his wallet. Apartments to visit because that's what he needs to get back in the game, to keep seeing his daughter. To provide like he hasn't been able to in months.
Every other weekend he sees Lilla at first. What they decided one evening in the dimly-lit kitchen. All the love they held, and still do, somehow, all this love redirected to the little person they created together.
Every other weekend that Frankie gets her but otherwise, he's alone.
In the motel and then the tiny studio. Not even space for an actual bed. All the money he has left for a crib so she can at least sleep decently. What use would a bed make anyway? All the twists and turns and nightmares he's plagued with, they'll happen regardless of the place he crashes on.
Alone in his new place and at work. The first job he's found where they didn't ask for recommendations or why he left his previous position. Which he didn't.
Alone in not being able to share about his life. Those dark parts of it. Would he want to anyway? No contact with the guys, not really, because what good would it do? To brood and trigger more flashbacks.
Alone even with the group meetings he tries. Desperate to at least try to connect, to get better. For his daughter. She didn't ask for him, it's his responsibility. He's burdened her mother enough, he won't do it to her as well.
Glimpses of Joe Frankie gets when he comes to pick up his daughter. Tired and troubled. More crinkles and less smiles and it eats at him, that he's not there to help. Not every day. Not during the week. The money he gives her will never be enough. Will never replace the fact that in the house, she's a single mom. His fault.
A few months after he's left the house, having gotten his bearings a little better in what is now his life, Frankie asks to come inside. Tidy as ever. To change the terms of the deal. If she'd agree. That he can have their kid stay with him during the week. That he wants to have her stay with him. Actual co-parenting.
Relief that flashes in Joe's eyes, assessing his eagerness and his resolve. Hints of a better, healthier man through the cracks. Worrying his lip, ready to argue with her if she'd say no.
Because he's changing. Slowly. The pain is duller, fading yet burrowing in what makes him who he is. He won't fly, not anymore. He won't get in trouble for passing drugs, he couldn't even if he wanted to. No more opportunity.
He may not share much with his coworkers, they nonetheless are friendly and sometimes he goes out with them. Even got invited to watch a game at someone's house. Too much chaos yet Frankie is starting to belong.
In the group meetings he's usually quiet, reluctant to share but also smart enough to realize how they help. That his troubles aren't just his own. Others are plagued as well and they're still trying to function and that's what Frankie craves. To make a better life for himself, for their little toddler now.
For Lilla.
And besides, it's all handled with work already, if she were to agree to the changes.
Also, a large sum of money has made its way into his bank account, courtesy of Pope he supposes. He'd have to check with the Millers but the thought alone makes Frankie's stomach lurch. Better to focus on the future instead.
Most of it in a college fund and the rest of it to rent a bigger place. A more functional one. Two bedrooms. Closer to Joe's because Lilla's not even two yet kindergarten is right around the corner somehow and Frankie wants to make it easier on everyone.
How Joe picks at her nails, weighing the pros and cons, not wanting to antagonize him and thrilled actually, that it doesn't seem to be an act and there he is, the man she fell in love with. That she still loves, she can't shake it off. Nor does she want to.
Responsible and ready to fight. Practical and protective. One hand shooting out even as he looks at her, to keep their girl from hitting the table in her stumble.
Plans for the future, a sure sign that he's got a better handle of things indeed. A good partner in all things, reminding her why she fell for him in the first place, all these years ago. When life was lighter.
How it's different now, to have the house to herself every other week. Silent and quiet. No longer burdened by it all. Not alone in it. Although she's never truly been. Except for these weeks in South America that have changed everything.
It's different for Frankie too.
A room for him and one for his child.
Less alone that he feels now. But really, starting to realize he's never truly been. Sparse questions Joe has always asked, not moving forward with her personal life either, so it seems. Interested in him, always. Words of encouragement here and there.
He's a bit hesitant the first days, Frankie. To do a good job as a dad. Renewed admiration for Joe to have handled it alone for so long but he powers through. All his focus on the little girl. All his energy too and when silence used to bother him, those weeks without her, even if he misses her, he relishes in it. Sleeps better somehow and the first time he realizes it, it actually jostles him awake and he curses himself.
More time spent in cookbooks and parenting websites. Wanting to do what's right. Sharing his own experiences whenever he drops Lilla back at her mom's and her giggles, however tentative yet genuine. To be able to relate. Longer conversations. Sitting on the steps by the front door.
More time spent exploring his new neighborhood. Slightly bigger, still chubby fingers grasping his as Lilla toddles by his side. Slowly. Taking her time. Enthralled by simple things. The bright cartoon of a smiling to-go cup on the board in front of a coffee shop. The sticker of a dog on a trash can as they wait for the light to turn red for cars.
Pointing at everything and little gaze up at him. Eager hands to be carried for the rest of the walk, a higher vintage point.
The rays of sunshine and the rustling of the leaves and the quick thud of small sneakers against his ribs, one longer curl of his stuck in her fist.
"Pwetty! Dadda, pwetty!"
The makeshift stall Frankie is ambling towards, a couple of streets down from his new place. The dozens of plants on it, what has caught her eye.
The leaves with some pink on them and right next to it, Lilla discovers another one with shades of white and Frankie has all the pains in the world to stop her from wiggling all the way down to the pavement too fast.
"It's rather beautiful, isn't, sweetheart? Hi."
A kind smile up at him from the woman sitting in her lawn.
"Hey, hey, now. Those are delicate. We gotta handle them with care."
Frankie's warning is met by a whine, holding both of her hands high above her head in his, small shoes stomping on the ground in her frustration to get to the pretty plant.
Only for her eyes to widen once the woman stands up, hand curling around the pot to pluck it out from the cluster.
"Why don't you take it home. She seems quite fond of it."
And she holds it out to Frankie who's only blinking. Shaking his head. Gaping.
"Oh no, I don't–"
"It's free. You're doing me a favor, really."
"Free?"
What the sign propped against the fold-out table says as well.
"Those come from my plants." One jerk of a thumb behind her shoulder, towards the house. "Propagation's really good this time around. So go on. If she likes it so much."
Little jerk of her wrist towards Frankie, leaves fluttering. A tug on his hand from between his legs.
"Dadda! Give the pwetty plant!"
It's hard, to say no to her. Big bright eyes full of innocence and also the hint of a bigger tantrum that could peek its ugly head, Frankie can just feel it, cold sweat dripping along his spine.
"How am I— How do I—" He hangs up his head. "I've never had any plants."
He doesn't know anything about it. He might just kill it and that'll be a sure meltdown from his daughter.
Even what the plant lover tells him, what she mercifully writes on a little cardboard piece of paper for him, compelled to help, seeing how at a loss Frankie is, he doesn't quite understand most of it.
One plant with white-streaked leaves in his hand, the other clutching his daughter's. Even slower walking than earlier, her tiny palm carrying the little plant with the pink leaves.
One plant for her and one plant for Dadda and Lilla is happy.
One unplanned trip to the store to get pots and a watering can and fertilizer and soil and how they both sit on the floor in the middle of the kitchen, hands turning dirty and then cheeks and nose and it's so precious.
It warms Frankie's soul. The press of her tiny body against him once they've chosen where the plants will live. By the window next to the TV.
He can't quite believe it when she stays still for longer than five minutes, describing every single leaf. Hugging him as tight as she can when she goes down for the night.
Her plant stays at Frankie's even when she goes back to her mom's, to keep his plant company.
And just like that, even the weeks when his daughter isn't in his care, it no longer feels like he's completely alone.
Other living things that depend on him. Silent but growing. Yearning for more sun until he moves them and it's actually a nice spot to drink his morning coffee and reflect. Basking in sunshine with the plants, eyes closed and deep sighs. That it all seems to be coming together.
More home decor that Frankie buys, furbishing the place more and more, because this is where he lives now and not just survives. Not anymore.
The itch in his breath one day when he comes back from work, goes to say hi to the plants, the kind woman mentioned it and Lilla insisted. Even if he thinks it's silly. But he pinky swore.
The way his breath catches when there's a brand new leaf. Greener than the others. Slowly uncurling with each passing day. How eager Frankie realizes he is, to keep track of it. And when he hears himself praise it, that budding leaf, without being prompted because it felt natural, he simply shrugs it off and carries on.
He pays more attention to plants and flowers whenever he goes grocery shopping. He didn't kill those two plants, they seem to thrive actually and they do calm him. When he gazes at them.
Better than the therapy the volunteer at the group meetings suggested after they'd noticed how little Frankie shared with the others. Maybe groups aren't for him.
Cheaper also.
Something he can share with Lilla because he always waits for her to stay with him to go shopping for more.
A couple of bigger, more tropical plants that she adores because they move. Sort of. Leaves opening up in the morning and folding back up in the evening. Little tags with the names she chooses for them that Frankie writes and sticks to the pots.
One plant with a hanging pot that overflows down its side that he nails, high, high by the window, exactly like she instructs him to.
Carefully. Everything that they learn, caring for their growing jungle. To handle it all gently. To check the soil before watering, to wipe the leaves for dust and to mist them sometimes, with the pretty vaporizer they got from the nursery.
The patience that Frankie learns from them. That it takes time to get better, to sprout and bloom and you can't do it alone. It comes from within sure, from your roots, but outside forces, they help too.
He branches out after a while. For Lilla's third birthday. He gets her a plant with large flowers. Almost bigger than she is. Tricky to carry it and lead his daughter out of the flower shop once she's decided what she'd like. The florist rushing to help him and so much giggling in the car, Frankie carefully securing the gift on the passenger seat with the seat belt.
A splitting smile in the rearview mirror at the faces he makes for his little girl.
Feeling lighter and happier. Grounded in all things. Sometimes wishing he hadn't screwed up his family, torn it apart. But that's the past. No point dwelling on it.
A little tag that reads Lilla on the new flower, how serene it feels to take care of them all.
How easy it is to say yes to one of the guys in his group meeting, when he invites Frankie and some others for a bbq. More space to open up a bit more in that backyard than in cold rooms. After all these years and the pain dulling to the point that some mornings, Frankie will wake up and forget about the bad he's done in the past.
Hardly a tremor in his heart the afternoon his phone pings with a text from Will and it's almost like old times, to catch up over drinks, to hear about his friend's life. To commiserate about what they've both lost but mainly to ask for news and to make plans for later.
One large orange flower which blossoms on Lilla's birthday gift in the middle of the week when she's staying with her mom. The picture Frankie snaps and sends to Joe because who knows how long it'll hold, he doesn't want his kid to miss out on this beauty.
An unexpected text that he receives in return.
I know it's Wednesday and not your week so no pressure but she'd like to come over and see it herself. If it's ok with you. If you can. No worries if you can't. X
The first time Joe comes to his new place, even if it's already been more than a year of him moving in. He's always the one to come to her. Except today. Because he could never say no to his daughter. Bursting through the door, hurtling towards her flowers, forgetting to say a proper hello.
Leaving her parents to face each other awkwardly. Her still on the threshold, him with the hand that shoots up to rub the back of his neck. A shy smile that she's always found endearing, along with the longer, grayer hair these days. The one she gets to peek at every Sunday at her house.
Feet shuffle when he finally remembers to let her step inside.
"That's a nice place, Frankie."
Her eyes roam the space, the jacket on the back of the chair, the hat by the front door after it's closed. The shoes by the kitchen counter. The abundance of green and other colors that fill the space between furniture. On top of it. Curtains on top of actual curtains. Her little girl barreling back to her to tug on her hand and make her move along.
"I had no idea you had such green thumbs."
"Yeah, turns out I don't screw up everything after all," he mutters and scowls and so does she, whipping her head back but he's already turned on his heels. "Coffee? I don't have any creamer, though."
The way she takes it but he'd have never imagined he'd share one with her here.
“That’s all right. Thank y–”
"See, Mommy? They're my plants!"
"They're beautiful, baby."
She kneels by her daughter, by the orange flowers, much more elegant in real life than on the photo she received earlier in the day. Behind them, there are the sounds of Frankie fixing their drinks.
"You and Dad take pretty good care of them, don't you?"
"We do!"
And Lilla starts listing it all. Names and supplies, butchering most of it. Joe doesn't even know where to look. It's colorful and bright and lively, even the air around Frankie feels better and shinier because of it. She was not prepared for this.
In the setting sun by the open door leading to the balcony, Joe's amused smile at their daughter's antics, it takes Frankie's breath away. More when her eyes meet his and it turns a bit shyer. A bit bigger.
Happy crinkles around her eyes, shinier hair and that hint of make-up she doesn't need. How beautiful he's always found her. Love and appreciation that have been simmering in his soul even when he thought he wasn't capable of these emotions anymore. That he didn't deserve someone like her. That he was only a wreck. Only worth tossing by the side of the road. Out of sigh, out of mind, not bothering anyone. Not worthy of attention.
It's not what he believes anymore. Those dark days, they're mostly behind him.
The little girl skips to her toys now, because flowers sure are pretty, but they're delicate and it's no use playing with them. She tried once and her Daddy wasn't really thrilled about it.
Cubes and dolls are much better. And the juice box Frankie gets for her, the cute way she merrily wiggles her butt as she sips on it.
His coffee is getting lukewarm so fast as he sits on the couch by Joe's side, watching their daughter. The unexpected appearance that she's made in his week, how at home she is and no plan on her little agenda to leave anytime soon.
"How's life? Found a date to celebrate yet?" Frankie has to ask, watching Joe purse her lips on coffee that isn't to her taste but in a warm mug she cradles to her chest.
They never talk anymore. Not really. When they do it's about Lilla, about money and daycare and updates on new food she may have decided were yucky while she was staying with one parent. Clothes and who's going to buy her the new shoes or the new jacket that she needs. Expenses and friends and maybe a playdate during the weekend.
They don't really talk about each other. There's barely enough time. But last Sunday, when he dropped their kid off, she was bouncing a bit, Joe, so happy and excited that Frankie had found his face splitting into a smile before she even announced she had gotten a promotion at work.
There had been genuine happiness in the boom of his voice as he congratulated her and it had been so endearing, the way she’d smiled at him, tucking some hair behind her ear in that nervous gesture whenever someone pays her a compliment, how hard it is for her to receive them.
And she had felt so good in his arms once he'd offered a tentative hug to celebrate with her. Not sure if she’d welcome it except she had, brimming with pride and the dimples on his face, no more hint of sadness for a while, it had made her want to be closer. Less and less sadness in his gaze whenever she sees him now. Only once a week and it’s amazing how much change can happen in between those few minutes they spend together every Sunday.
Joe had smelled like joy in Frankie’s hug and a few days later, there's still the ghost feeling of their embrace on his neck, on the tips of his fingers, on his back, where she'd pressed both of her hands for long seconds. Words of thanks on his skin.
“Saturday next week. We're going out for drinks, yes. With the girls,” she adds hastily when right as she tells him, the screen of her phone lights up on the coffee table. A notification from a dating app. How Frankie has noticed it too, from the way his gaze flickers from it to his coffee so fast and he takes another sip. So long. The bob of his Adam’s apple.
“I'm not seeing anyone,” Joe feels like she has to justify. She doesn’t and yet somehow, it feels better to hear her say it. Even though she could. She should. She deserves happiness in everything.
“Me neither.” It’s only fair that he tells her as well.
There's no time. Frankie thinks he has friends, believes it, but it's too much work to build a new relationship, especially given the shambles of his last one, how it'll never really be over, he believes. They're both in his apartment right now after all. Talking about more than their daughter. More and more talking every time he’s dropped Lilla off over the last months, he has come to realize. More ease and more to share now that his own life is brightening up.
He did meet some women, he’s not going to lie about that. In all the years they've been separated, to scratch an itch and to try to fill the void with meaningless sex. Unsatisfactory at times. For him. Not those women’s fault he was struggling.
Not on dating apps, though. That’s too modern, too cold and detached. He’s not good enough with words to flirt like that. If he even can do that. Sometimes in bars. But it wasn't meant to last, never. Not when his heart wasn’t truly in it. Where’s the emotional connection in that?
“I did–there was someone but it–it didn’t last.” Joe continues, Frankie too busy in his own head to tell her she's allowed to move on. She’s trying to, if the dating app is still on her phone.
A pause then, a quick hesitation in her sharing. No idea why she’s doing that, but now she’s started and it’s been years since they’ve gotten so personal and there’s something cozy, something that’s been missing in her house that is unfurling in Frankie’s living room. Warmth and home, toddler chatter, clunks and chimes from toys and some wonderful smells from the flowers. From the plants and all the peace they exude. The calm and tranquility. What used to be missing from the last months of her relationship with Frankie. From him as a person.
He’s a different man now, frowning right now but underneath it all, hints of the man she fell in love with. Hints of the man she could not imagine her life without.
“He wasn't you,” she admits softly, looking down at her mug, looking back at him from under her eyelashes.
That brings him back, bitterness in the back of his throat and the coffee mug thuds on the table, by the phone, now black again.
“Better than me, for sure.”
“Frankie, hey. No. Don't do that.” He sees it from behind his frown. How she makes to place her hand on his folded arm before she slowly pulls it back, not sure if it's welcome and it rests on her knee. So close to his. Does he even deserve her affection? He’s the reason their life was so completely re-arranged.
“Sure, you've made your fair share of mistakes but look around. You're doing so great now. You’ve been working so hard. You're a good dad and a good person and I'm proud of you. I'm sure she's too. Aren't you, Lilla? Proud of Dad?”
She looks up from her toys, cocks her head, already nodding.
“Yeah! He makes soup with As and Bs and Cs! It’s yummy!”
“See? Best dad.”
“Thanks, I'm trying.” It's still there, his scowl, but it softens as he watches his daughter go back to her toy and from so close, his shoulders drop a little. A tiny bit only. At the sight of Joe’s comforting smile, how she plays with the mug, scratches at some stain on it.
“And that's all that matters. That guy I was seeing? He sure was a nice man but what I meant is–every time I was with him, I couldn’t help but compare him to you and there never was that– I don’t know. That spark, I guess? How excited I used to be for our dates when we were younger and how my heart would get all topsy-turvy whenever I thought about you? Never with him and it wasn’t fair on him. So yeah. Haven’t really dated anyone since then.”
“I–Fu–Heck, I think a lot about you,” Frankie dares to admit out loud. Her confession, it has emboldened him a little, that the feelings he’s still feeling, those he believes he’s not truly entitled to, perhaps he is after all. They’re not unrequited, not anymore. Unearthed from the darkest corners of his mind and his heart, worth something once again. “I know I’ve fu–messed everything up between us and I’ll forever be sorry about this–”
“You’re making amends. Every day that you’re here and spending time with her and getting better. For yourself and for her.”
“For you too. You didn’t choose this life.”
“I chose you. And I chose to look after myself and say stop but it wasn’t–it never was because I didn’t love you anymore. I love you, Frankie. So much. It doesn’t hurt as much as it did when you moved out and I’m–I liked it when you hugged me on Sunday.”
“Yeah? Me too.”
A crooked smile that illuminates his face, heart beating against his ribcage. Not from fear or distress. Yearning with hope and there’s a tinge of flush in the way Joe’s eyelashes bat so quickly. The hitch in her breathing when he dares brush his finger against the back of her hand. She watches knuckles and pads move on their own, playing with Frankie’s index. Dancing quietly between their two knees.
“I can’t date other people because I don’t think I’m over us, Frankie. I wanted to be, for so long, just the thought of you away from me made me sick and I–”
“I’m sorry.” His heart will forever clench because of this. The one sting he will never be able to soothe completely, how unfair it’s all been for her.
“I cried so much over it, over you but –”
“Me too.”
“Do you think there might be hope for us, Frankie?”
A shaky whisper and Joe’s finger hooks with his. Tightly. Eyes flicking briefly to their daughter. His eyes follow. The toddler chatter and the endless imagination and how she grins at them both when she notices, helping herself up and coming to climb on the couch with them both. Sharp nails in Frankie’s arm, the coffee almost splashing out of Joe’s mug before she puts it far from harm’s reach by the little plant with cacti on its pot.
Lilla burrows close in their embrace, making them release the hold they had on each other and yet somehow, they have to huddle closer, so much strength in the two fists grasping Frankie’s tee-shirt and Joe’s blouse. Huddling so close together that when Joe kisses the top of the giggling little girl, her hair brushes Frankie’s chin, down his neck. Shivers.
“I like when it’s Mommy and Daddy with me.”
A breathy, innocent confession that makes Frankie crowd the girls even more. Those two girls who deserve the world and should get it, and as he drops his own kiss on Lilla’s head, to her forehead, above her whines that his beard is scratchy, there’s all the answer that Joe needs in his gaze. Diving within the pool of brown sincerity that it may take time and patience and work, like everything in life, like everything that Frankie has been learning as he’s been learning to live again, he sure hopes they have a future all together. Him and Joe and Lilla. His family again. Always.
Dividers by the great @saradika-graphics!!
Comments, questions and reblogs are always welcome! Thank you for reading!
Warnings: fluff, first meeting, dad!Frankie, daydreaming thoughts, some borderline ones, mild swearing, lots of flowers talk, miscommunication which leads to a lot of pining, allusions to adult situations if you squint real hard, happy ending
Summary: Three times Frankie visits your shop to buy flowers for three different women in his life while you hope you could be one of them. But he’s taken. Or is he?
A/N: This is the first fic I’ve written since 2019. This is also my first time writing from this pov and my first time writing for Frankie so you know, enough to make me go hide far from the Internet once I’ve posted it. English isn’t my first language, this hasn’t been beta’d.
The sound of the bell jingling as the front door opens pulls you from the catalogue opened on the counter in front of you. Rows and rows of pictures of flowers that you could pick from to create bouquets to sell in your shop. Your soon-to-be shop. Technically it still belongs to your parents but it’ll be yours when they retire and they’re trusting you enough to leave it in your care while they’re enjoying a much-deserved vacation.
You raise your head to greet the customers stepping in the otherwise empty little shop. A quiet late afternoon, the sun still shining through the windows and bathing the bouquets and plants on display. They seem to captivate the little girl snuggled in the strong arms of who appears to be her father.
“Wow! It’s like a garden!” she exclaims and you can’t help but feel pride that the atmosphere you wanted to achieve is recognized for what it is. You mark the page you were on, set the catalogue aside and stand up taller.
“Now, I’m going to set you down but remember, we only look with our eyes, ok?” The man says, words firm and voice deep but still kind and the little girl nods eagerly.
Summary: When you first met Frankie, you were terrified of flying. Even years later, after he's helped you overcome your fear, there's no other place you'd rather be than on the open road with him by your side.
Word count: 4.2k
Story info: +18 MDNI, not too many warnings necessary otherwise: minor references to the movie, to drug use, to PTSD, to adult situations. Alcohol consumption. Dad!Frankie. Descriptions of a career in the Army. No physical description of reader, no use of y/n.
A/N: Happy Secret Santa to @joelmillers-whore ! I had a lot of fun writing this, I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I loved plotting it! Have a very nice holiday time, sending you lots of love!! Thank you to all the amazing humans at @pedrostories for organising such a fun Secret Santa!
Thanks to the Hornado Watch for their help (vocab, military technicalities, graphic design input), you know who you are! This was inspired by this song. I'm not a native speaker, all mistakes are my own. Enjoy!
Taglist | Masterlist
When you first met Frankie, you were scared of flying. Terrified. Hadn't even come close to a plane. No business being so far up in the air with no solid ground under your feet.
Now, four wheels, this you could happily do. You loved driving. Still do. As a kid, you were obsessed with the big wheelers, the shots of them in movies and commercials where they trucked through those vast, desertic landscapes. Nothing but wilderness as far as the eye could see. Freedom.
So when you met Frankie at the outdoor festival a few towns over from the military base where he was stationed at the start of his career, when he told you what exactly it is he was doing, you thought you had heard wrong. That the music was too loud that evening and your friends sure were laughing loud enough to entertain the other soldiers that had caught their attention. Loud enough to cover the quiet discussion you were trying to have.
To this day, Frankie still remembers the face you made that night. Even all these years later. Because, first of all, it was absolutely gorgeous. Hypnotizing. A smile on it which had started polite at being introduced and had turned to genuine, warm, inviting once you had struck up a conversation. Before it devolved into a scowl at his actual job.
The sparkles in your eyes, those that lit up your face in the twinkering lights hanging above your heads in the twilight, they had vanished with how wide your eyes had gotten with horror you couldn't possibly hide even if you'd tried. That he was a pilot. That he obviously enjoyed it tremendously. That it was the whole reason he had enlisted. Too fresh out in his early 20s back then to think that the Army may not always be such a blessing.
He was cute, though. That boyish young guy with dimples when he laughed and perfect lips that moulded around his beer, not that you had looked too intently. At least you'd tried not to. Not to mention those giant hands that wrapped around the bottle or that he rubbed down his pants as if he was nervous. He had been. A tiny bit. To have met someone so beautiful who didn't gravitate towards the louder men in his group but towards him.
So how devastating it had seemed, that his passion was the very thing you abhorred with all your being.
Except Frankie had been so esctatic, so enthralled in his descriptions of the planes, the choppers, of how exhilirating it felt to see the world from above, to be in charge of the aircraft, that you had found yourself captivated by his tales. Hours spent at the picnic table while your friends had gone dancing.
Such a smooth, caring, rumbling voice. Big brown eyes delivering the same words straight to your soul that Frankie had gone back to the base with your phone number in his pocket and the promise of a date soon, whenever he'd be allowed.
Perhaps you were willing to overlook the flaw in his character because there was so much else that outshone it.
Deep laughter, rugged skin against the palm of your hand on that first date. The softness of his eyes at how attentive he was at all you shared about your life and what you liked. Those plush lips that perfectly fitted against yours, too, as you said goodbye that first evening and every time you met up afterwards.
Talks of flying never quite mentioned on those dates, Frankie respecting how you felt and sometimes, there wasn't much talking involved at all after all.
Until the Family Day at the base. One that his actual family couldn't possible attend, with how far away they all lived. Your absolute pleasure to be invited and go, a few months into seeing each other so he wouldn't be by himself while most of the others had people who had come to visit. A true improvement from the picture he kept by his bunk bed, to have you in the flesh to be able to show you around.
Aircrafts on the tarmac that he'd steered you towards, so proud to show off his skills to impress you and so bent on reassuring you that there was nothing to be afraid of. Choppers were a feat of engineering. You remember clutching his hand, examining it from the outside, tone and the rub of his thumb soothing at the shudder Frankie had felt coursing through your blood at the offer of climbing inside.
Summer dress floating around your knees and his comforting presence detailing it all. Passion and love and professionalism in his voice that it was all all right inside. Still on solid ground. Frankie in the pilot seat, you in the other one as he pointed to buttons and levers and arrows.
Quite a long time after this first successful attempt before you got into an actual helicopter that flew off the ground, yet quite the swelling of pride in your heart and in Frankie's to have overcome a little bit of the fear plaguing you. To challenge yourself because it was so clearly important for him and he was beginning to be for you too.
Much more in Frankie's heart for you as well than pride. All these feelings quietly growing. Waves and waves of affection and love that grew deeper with each letter he wrote and received during his first deployment. The day-to-day tales of your life back home, menial activities which clashed with the harshness of Frankie's reality. Danger and tension. Calming thoughts of you that constantly brought back memories of your times together. How carefree you looked in the pictures you enclosed with one letter.
Of you while on a roadtrip with your friends. Nature and camping, so many dreamy places a car could take you to. No need for a plane.
One picture of you in a bikini by a waterfall that Frankie spent way too many hours staring at in the dead of night. Precisely what you had intended, if the press of your red lipstick on the back of it was any indication.
It's in your next letter, after Frankie had thanked you for the photos and the meticulous story of your vacation, that you had suggested you take a road trip with him, once he'd be back stateside. Just the two of you. To get away from it all. To relax and unwind and forget about the Army and fighting and obeying orders, if only for a short time.
The first road trip of many.
For all the years you've been together, dating, engaged, married, there have been so many peppered here and there. Life got in the way a couple of times, when you got pregnant mainly, but you couldn't blame your angels for making you take breaks from exploring the country. You love them dearly, the sunshines of your life.
Before or between their births, now after, road trips in the summer, the winter, whenever Frankie had enough leave and could spend his days dedicating all his attention to you. To the baby, later toddler and baby, who were too small to be left with family and were brought along to treck the wilderness.
Your first real, in person I love you without an audience happened on that first road trip, after the written ones, this specific letter still pressed into the pages of your favorite book.
This first road trip was also the moment the thought made its first appearance. That maybe with Frankie as a pilot, there would be no real fear to be had. Besides, you were kind of curious to experience the world through a bird's eye and not just through an IMAX movie at the Park you'd stopped at, but through your own. Your boyfriend preferably an arm's length away if you needed an anchor to feel safe.
The idea had wandered in your mind for a bit before you'd shared it with him, voice hardly shaking then, emboldened by the beer you were sharing, watching stars dot the cloudless sky.
You didn't fly in a miliary aircraft, no way they could justify using taxpayers' dollars just so that Frankie could help his girlfriend, not that he even asked. But there was a flight school around where you could rent aircrafts for a day. One which gave him a nice discount when they saw that his pilot's license came from the Army.
Apprehension in your heart regardless that morning, stomach clenched with worries but with such a great pilot, you were almost sure he wasn't going to let you down. Or fall. Not with you as a copilot, he'd assured you with a gentle smile and a wink. Not if you could be in charge of hitting some commands when he asked for it. Giving you something to do, making you one of the people directing the helicopter, even if your input was minimal. It was something and it'd taken your brains off the potential catastrophes that could befall you.
So competent that Frankie was anyway, narrating it all out loud, his voice a buzz in your ears. A focal point to tune out the rest and you almost hadn't felt dizzy as you'd risen up in the air for the first time in your life. Barely a few minutes at first then a bit longer until at one point you could actually pay attention to the world that was spreading under your feet.
Frankie had celebrated by drawing you a bath so that your legs could return from their jello state. Bathtub not large enough for the both of you yet he'd stayed by your side the whole time, popping snacks into his mouth and feasting more on your body than on the food and you'd fallen asleep crushed in his arms. You haven't been able to find a safer place to be in yet. You don't think you ever will.
Not that you've ever flown much since. The next time in an actual plane on which you didn't know the pilot, the best you knew sitting by your side, holding your hand and letting you sleep on his shoulder, humming in your hair, on the way to meet his family. The third time you got on a plane was to get to your honeymoon where only a car was involved after landing, new landscapes to discover and never happier than as you sat behind the wheel, Frankie by your side.
By your side on so many road trips before you tied the knot. After. Happy to take a backseat, or in that case a passenger seat, to let you steer him in the direction you had planned, old-fashioned map opened on his lap, some essentials never getting old, despite the digital playlist on the speakers. Nothing to accommodate the burned CDs you still have somewhere in your house, from when cars could still play them.
Frankie happy to be your copilot on those drives, listening to the enthusiasm and the laughter droning all his worries, all those which have accumulated throughout the years. God knows, you've been his copilot often enough. In that chopper, on the occasional dates you let him fly you.
Throughout life. When he retired and it came crashing down, the return to civilian life. The feeling of not fitting in. When he found coping mechanisms which didn't work, which were harmful and in spite of your pain, you wouldn't let him destroy himself, guiding him to better, healthier places.
When he came back from missions that harmed him further. If not physically then emotionally, which was worse, to have to watch him withdraw into himself. Supporting and helping however best you could. Packing his stuff and yours and once the baby's so you could take him away from his troubles. Away to unknown places. Fresh air and open nature. To show him all the great things that he still had, that you wanted him to let himself have. He deserved it so much. You loved him greatly, both of you, then the three of you a little later and those were things worth fighting for.
But before those bittersweet road trips, there had been hopeful ones. Carefree ones. When you were younger, starting your life together.
More milestones than you deciding to face your fear of flying have happened on them. Long talks about your future, stretching as open as the road under the wheels of the car.
The discussion for Frankie to join Delta Forces as you were cuddling in the bed of the truck, watching the sunset overlooking the ocean. What would change for him, for your relationship, if he joined. The selling point that he'd be allowed to always grow his hair and his beard, luxuries he could only afford on leave back then. You adored the scratch of patched facial hair on your skin, all over your body, and the fistfuls of hair you could hold on to as he made you melt beneath his warm, naked body.
Once, when the motel where you'd intended to stay couldn't accommodate you despite your reservation, in your exhaustion after a long day in the wild and quite a drive, you'd loudly complained to Frankie, loud enough for the clerk to hear, that it was such a shame he couldn't have a decent bed to rest in before being deployed again, after all his sacrifices to his country. The cheek of you and how it had worked, employees miraculously finding you a room to stay in.
Later that night, lying under the busted ceiling fan you weren't going to complain about, the A/C was working, you'd joked that perhaps you should ask Frankie to marry you, that him serving could get you out of tough spots even when he wasn't around. Years later, you wouldn't joke about that at all, witnessing the devastation that it had left in the wake of him quitting. All the suffering and pain and all the obstacles you're still trying to help him overcome.
In that motel room, though, with mischief in your eyes and a giggle escaping your lips as he'd propped himself on an elbow to get a better look at you, you had been miles away from thinking that any of that could ever befall you both.
“Is that the only reason you're keeping me around?”
There was a smile tugging at his lips even as he'd tried to look offended.
“That and your tongue.”
He'd pounced on you, tickling your sides without mercy until shrieks had dissolved into gasping laughter, sturdy arms holding you flush on top of him, heaving chest pounding against yours and how he's always closed his eyes softly at the drag of the pad of a finger along his jaw. Always.
The sharp intake of breath he'd taken at your question had reverberated from your nail to your heart.
“Will you, though? Marry me?”
“Depends on the size of the ring you've gotten me.”
Some part of you wanted to retaliate in the tickling match. Some part of you was too overwhelmed by your words that you'd silenced his teasing with a loud kiss and there hadn't been much talking for the rest of the night.
Spur of the moment proposal even with the gentle rhythm of your heartbeat as you came down from your high that there was not an ounce of doubt about wanting to spend your forever with Frankie. A not-at-all planned proposal but the next day, Frankie had scouted the area you were visiting to find a ring. For you. The one that still shines and catches rays of sunshine whenever you move your hand on the wheel, all these years later.
Not often that Frankie found himself in the driver's seat. His love for flying was only matched by your love for driving and not much could rival with the sky but you could. And he positively strived to make you happy. God knows you deserve it. Sometimes he can't quite understand that you're still here, sticking with him. He's cherishing all these moments, thanking his lucky star that you didn't grow apart when he was deployed, long months away. Or when he came back and couldn't or wouldn't share much about what he did. Cherishing the fact that you still hug him, kiss him, snuggle with him.
He'll do everything and anything to show you that you didn't make the wrong choice, to show you how much he appreciates you.
There was one time on a road trip when you did relinquish the steering wheel to him. Back hurting from sleeping in a tent and too tired even after a long night of sleep because the sunrise snuck through the synthetic material way too early. A stomach bug from some food you had to clearly have undercooked for dinner, except Frankie felt as fine as ever and he'd eaten almost more than you did. Perhaps there was some ache in his back as well but nothing that some stretching wouldn't handle.
So he'd taken over, feeling terrible for the ball of you in the passenger seat, trying to get comfortable and barely making it out of the car before you'd thrown up on the side of the road.
An extra stop at the pharmacy for some painkillers and gums and the pregnancy test the woman behind the counter had suggested when Frankie had gone in to get supplies in the hope of making you feel better and he'd described your symptoms.
How spot-on she'd been and Frankie had declared you were both going to find a cabin to rent for the rest of the trip. He wasn't going to let you sleep in a tent when you were pregnant. There was a swing seat by the rustic door, a cozier spot than the forest ground for sure, to discuss the rest of your life with your husband.
The couple of months away he'd have to go to a couple of weeks after being back home. Frankie had truly hated it, for the first time. He'd been reluctant lately but now, to leave you by yourself like that? Bile had risen up in his mouth at the thought. More than ever before. He didn't want to be robbed of these precious moments. He didn't want to only live vicariously through your letters. He wanted to be by your side.
You'd had breakfast munching on toast while watching the sunrise and that's when you'd taken the decision, together, that he would quit. That this would be his last mission and then he'd be all yours.
Funny how it never truly left him, though, the Army, and he's brought back more than just discharge papers. More baggage than he expected and when he had trouble keeping his head above water, when he wouldn't be able to sleep or stay asleep, he'd watch you peacefully do so. Or later on he'd stay up to watch the baby. Feed her, sing her lullabies, rock her. Or he'd take on more hours at work, so you wouldn't lack for anything.
Less time on the road just the two of you. A couple of days here and there, a different kind of adventure with a baby but the same Frankie who sometimes managed to shine through the clouds and the fog and the damage of life, forever bent on being the best version of himself that you loved and admired deeply.
Kid music now that has replaced the playlist you kept adding on to every year since that first road trip you took together. Boyfriend and girlfriend then.
Husband and wife and mom and dad now.
Still the same silly car games you used to play with Frankie that you're now playing with the toddler gleefully cheering in her booster seat, her little sister sleeping in hers, a nap you wish you could also take. They woke you up so early this morning. They technically woke Frankie first but as soon as you'd felt his warmth desert your side so he could slip out of bed, you'd stirred too.
A few months since he's come back from the ill-fated mission to South America he's been reluctant to talk about yet aware he was the luckiest son of a bitch he wasn't greeted by an empty house and his family gone.
More struggles than before he'd been sweet-talked by his friend because he was the man who could help, the one who was needed. Cravings in his heart to be able to fly since he'd shot himself in the foot at the job Frankie was pretty positive wasn't going to be his much longer. So hard for him to give up bad habits which brought in much needed money, especially with two kids under five.
More struggles and yet you'd been so relieved when he'd finally called. Too many days after he'd promised he would. Old fears from when he was overseas rising up in your chest. Worrying your nails. So relieved that he was back because you didn't want to navigate life without your pilot by your side.
You've been having a hard time sleeping without him since. Mind you, you didn't sleep much when he was on his mission.
No wonder the squeaky motel bed this morning woke you up when Frankie got up.
Your first road trip since the birth of your second daughter, one that Frankie suggested. Late at night as he was doing the dishes and you were trying to shush the baby back to sleep, bouncing her and pacing the kitchen. The perfect occasion to reconnect and leave troubles out of the car door for a while. The baby's first road trip, a little family vacation. Not long, but enough for you four to make new memories.
The smile that had lit up your exhausted face had been all the motivation he's ever needed. How happy he was to let you lead in the planning and driving, those two things you excelled at, so he could simply point out directions.
Except you're glad your new car has a GPS since Frankie isn't being the most helpful copilot right now, snoring in the passenger seat, hat dropping dangerously low on his eyes and his cheek cushioned on his palm. A futile attempt at softening the vibrations of the car.
Not a deep sleep after you've slowed down at a stop, nearing your destination. Crumbs of your conversation with the little girl weaving their path in his mind. Slowly.
“Daddy play?”
“Daddy's sleeping for now, Nugget.”
“Daddy tiwed?”
“He sure is! But look where we are!”
“Ooooooooh. Sea!”
The ocean. The most exciting part of it all for her. You've showed her pictures last night, what to look forward to and she's excited. By the sand and the waves and the wind through the open window that gently blows on your face and your sunglasses. A faint stirring in the passenger seat and then Frankie's hand twitches on his thigh, relaxes as you rest yours on top of his, the gentlest way you can think to wake him up without startling him.
“Daddy! Sea!”
Shrills that will do the trick for you.
“We're here already?”
Voice hoarse that he clears.
“Probably the only time we'll hear that in this car.”
A tilt of your head towards the excited girl behind you.
“Didn't mean to fall asleep like that.”
Frankie clutches your fingers, yawns and rubs a stiff hand over his face. Hat effectively tumbling forward. Sunglasses too that he forgot he was wearing. He takes in his surroundings nonetheless. The dunes and the almost empty parking lot. You've always been a pro at finding recluse, remote places where it'll be peaceful. The clear blue sky and the seaguls.
“It's ok. We had fun! Tried to spot different colors.”
“Daddy's blue hat!”
“That's right! Let's go make sandcastles with Daddy now, what do you say?”
She claps happily covering your that way I'll get to take a nap too, only for Frankie's ears.
A wink of those eyes that he could get lost into, little sneakers thudding with excitement in the backseat and upset noises of a baby who has been awoken not on her own terms.
Bless Frankie's practical skills for wrangling two kids and everything that you need to keep them entertained on the beach. Or that he needs. Shaking off sleep, one child on his hip and one holding on to his hand as he approches the tiny, lapping waves. Shrieks of delight that reach you from the beach umbrella you're lying under.
Laughter and how he fully sits in the water, the little feet of the baby brushing the water and a louder shrill at the surprising feeling in his ear. Her big sister plops down by his side, splashing water with her hands, clapping against the sand. The blue hat on her head flutters on top of the mass of curls the same as her dad's, before it falls over as she cranes her head to point to the birds flying overhead.
One day Frankie will take her up there. He's feeling better enough, confident enough to try for it again.
He'll take them both. The little girls testing wet sand and clinking small shells together. There's a handful of his swim trunks the baby is tugging on. Such strength in her tiny fist that she could almost pull them down. A death grip that Frankie gets her to loosen when he boops her nose with a wet finger.
One day, he'll take the three of you up there with the birds. Always special moments from that first day you've trusted him enough to follow him up there. You'd trust Frankie with your life. And you have.
Divider by the great @firefly-graphics!!
Please consider reblogging if you've enjoyed this story! Comments and questions are always welcome!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: Frankie reads his family a Christmas story while waiting for Santa Claus to visit.
Word count: 2.3k (but some of those aren't my own, you'll see)
Warnings: FLUFF, dad!Frankie, established relationship, Christmassy Christmas, I may be 34 I will forever believe in Santa. No physical description of reader, no use of y/n.
A/N: This is in response to a drabble request I got for my cozy celebration: reading out loud to each other with Frankie. Needless to say it got out of hand and I tweaked it a bit when I got the inspiration. This is unbeta'd, written in a couple of house by someone whose native language isn't English. I hope you enjoy this slice of Christmas a week in advance. Consider reblogging if you enjoy it!
Taglist | Main Masterlist
Frankie turns on the lights on the Christmas tree, a little warm hand clutching his fingers and awwing. The same reaction she's had every time he's done it this December. Hypnotized by the colors and the ornaments and the sparkles.
Crumbs dot the space where she's rocking on sock-clothed feet. Snowflakes on them. Crumbs around her little mouth from the cookie she gets to eat, so late at night. After dinner even. One cookie for her, one for Frankie, one for you. The rest left for Santa on the coffee table.
This morning baking activity which was pure estactic chaos and there's still fondant that has dried on the counter that neither of you has had time to clean yet.
Cookies for Santa and a glass of cocoa because that's what Ophelia is also drinking tonight, in the little fort she's built with her dad in the hallway. The door to the living-room half-open so she can see the tree and when Santa comes, she may catch a peek of him.
You're already there, sitting on the floor, soft blankets and pillows from upstairs everywhere and a few candles out of reach from tiny hands that cast pretty shadows on the wall. In your Christmas-themed pjs, matching sets you got for the four of you with different holiday designs.
Reindeers on Frankie's, antlers stretching on his shoulders. Candy cane on yours. Gingerbread men on Ophelia's. Snowmen on the baby's snuggled against your chest. He's on the verge of drowsiness and probably won't finish the bottle you've been feeding him.
There's a chocolate moustache around his sister's mouth after she's slurped down her cocoa, hands tiny on the tall glass that she hands Frankie who finishes it when she's not looking. Forever intrigued by the baby and looking at him fuss and how you hum to settle him.
She's still looking as Frankie sits down under the sheet he's secured to the banister to act as a roof. He pulls her into his lap where she burrows willingly, the warmth of her little body seeping through his skin.
Curls like his that tickle his chin when he drops a kiss to the top of her head. He smiles on top of yours when you press into his side and rest your head against his shoulder. Half of the cookie in his hand that he feeds to you. Spices and sugar.
“Santa's coming when?”
“Soon I'd say, Bug.” Will said he was leaving fifteen minutes ago. “It's all dark so it's almost time.”
“And we've got the best cookies, he won't be able to resist.”
“And choco milk!”
“And choco milk, thank to you, sweetie.”
“How about we read a story before he gets here?” Frankie suggests and he feels the little nod on his chest. You feel the muscles strain when he reaches for the Christmas story book.
He props it half on his thigh, half on yours, balanced between you two so she can look at the pictures and the jumble of words she's too young to read yet.
“Twas the night before Christmas,” Frankie starts, only to be interrupted at once.
“Now!” she chimes in and he chuckles, hums in agreement.
“Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.”
You close your eyes, holding the baby close, asleep or not far from it. Lulled by the deep rumble of his father's voice. Warmth tone and comfort in every word.
“The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds...”
“I'm not,” she giggles and so does Frankie.
“...while visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; and mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap...”
“Well, look at that,” you're the one interrupting now, “we're not doing that either,” you tease and she giggles, so excited to be staying up so late. The best idea Mom and Dad have had, to try to catch Santa when he comes to bring presents.
“...When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.”
“Can you hear anything, Bug?” you whisper and it's adorable, how she leans forward in her father's lap, ears strained to outside noises but it's all relatively silent.
“No Santa,” she pouts.
“Not yet. We've got time to finish the story. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, when, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeers!”
Frankie gasps dramatically and so does she and love fills all fibers of your being at the sight.
“With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagle his coursers they came, and he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name...”
Babbles from the baby which interrupt Frankie, included that he is in an activity he'll never remember but you'll do it again with him when he's older. It's fun and cozy.
“Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”
Frankie's voice stays low for the baby yet more animated. Huskier, raspier to mimic the one of St. Nick's in the story and Ophelia covers her mouth to laugh and yawn.
“As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; so up to the house-top the coursers they flew, with the sleigh full of toys, and St Nicholas too. And, then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof...”
Perfect tilming from Will, you'll buy him more than a round of beers, when suddenly, not on the roof but on the porch, you all hear heavy footsteps and Ophelia gasps, scrambling in Frankie's lap, clutching his pjs, bracing herself on his thighs to get as close as possible to the door left ajar to see their visitor.
“Shshsh,” you whisper. Frankie holds a finger to his mouth, love flooding his heart and his lungs and his soul, to see his little girl so excited. Sparkles in her eyes when she looks up at him, at you. Upside down. Crumbs down her shirt and a smile splitting her face. Dimples only mirrored by those on Frankie's cheeks, on full display for you to kiss, pressing even more to him.
A tight fit for his arm to sneak around your waist and hug you. Rough fingers which brush the baby hair on your son's head.
“It's Santa!” Ophelia gasps, a little too loud and you do see how Will shakes his head, full Santa costume and beard on to hide his grin.
Exactly like the pictures in the book forgotten on the blanket. Exactly like the one she saw at the little Christmas market. The same one. There's only one Santa, he's magic and can be everywhere he wants. Thanks to all the reindeers her dad just read about. She wonders if they'll all come inside. That's a lot of animals.
They must be in front of the house, looking at the decorations Dad put there. Maybe looking at the stickers she helped Mom decorate the windows with.
They brought Santa to her house, those reindeers, and Frankie can feel her buzzing against him, mouth open in delight at how their friend fills the stockings with the gifts Frankie dropped at his place a few days ago. A couple of bigger wrapped gifts placed at the foot of the tree. Frankie will take care of the rest when the kids are actually in bed.
“Ah, choco milk. My favorite,” Will says out loud, fake beard so freaking annoying and it's so hot in the costume that most of the drink misses his mouth and drips onto synthetic white.
He doesn't miss the giggles and the happy clapping that Ophelia can't suppress, so over the moon and it makes it worth it. To have been wrangled into this when Frankie had come with the embarassing request that when his daughter had seen Santa in town, she had wished out loud that she didn't have to be in bed and would actually get to see him on Christmas Eve. A cute idea and the promise of no photo taken to seal the deal. That and the fact that Frankie had stressed he'd owe Will one (or several) for the rest of his life.
No way he could refuse making the little girl's night then. And your cookies are always a marvel. He gobbles one. Two.
“Santa likes your cookies, Mom!”
“The best in town,” Frankie praises and there are tired crinkles around your eyes when you smile. Chocolate and sugar in the quick kiss he gives you.
“Oh, Santa saw me!” Ophelia gasps because indeed he has. Turning on his heels, giving them all a small wave before she whirls her head to hide in her father's pjs.
“Merry Christmas, Ophelia!”
“He knows my name,” she mumbles, astonished.
“Of course, he does. He's brought you gifts. Say good bye? And thank you?”
Timidly she does, hiding behind a hand, elated when Santa reciprocates before he leaves.
“Wanna go see if we can catch him?” Frankie suggests but she's already scrambling, barreling to the window while he helps you to your feet, takes the sleeping baby from you. Soft breaths in his neck that could keep him awake after a long, eventful day.
“He's gone,” she says quietly, peering at the lawn.
“He's got the best reindeers in the world. They can fly so fast.” You smoothe her hair, joining her by the window.
“Santa came!” She bounces in the armchair she's climbed onto, not even upset anymore.
“Wanna see what you got?”
The stocking Frankie hands her is heavier than she expected and she plomps on the rug, empties it all. Trinkets and chocolate. A puzzle and crayons. The new plush frog she carries to bed. Yawning and rubbing her eyes with her wrist when you draw the bedcover to her neck.
“Santa came, Mom.”
“He did.” You smile at her, smoothing her hair, so happy for her. “You're so lucky, Bug.”
“Thank you, Mom.”
“You're very welcome.” One kiss to her forehead. “Do you want me to read the rest of the story to help you go to sleep?”
One nod as an answer and you hear Frankie lean in the doorway, the baby now snug in his crib.
“And then, in a twinkling,” you start again, her eyes closed and she doesn't care if she can't follow the pictures now, “I heard on the roof, the prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot...”
“He came by the door here.”
“He did, baby.”
She yawns, smacks her lips.
“A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, and he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. His eyes – how they twinkled! His dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow and the beard of his chin was as white as the snow...”
“Santa's like that.” She yawns again and the crystal clear sound of your laughter draws Frankie further int the room. Not a lot of space on the tiny bed but he makes do, his palm gentle on your back as he listens to your calm storytelling. How very talented you are at it.
“He sure is. But listen, he didn't have the stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; he had a broad face and a little round belly, that shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself...”
“I'm in the story, Mom.”
The words drag out, eyes firmly shut. Frankie drops a kiss to your shoulder, feels the cover until he finds her little foot and rubs it affectionately. So precious that she is.
“A wink of his eyes and a twist of his head, soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; he spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, and laying his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; he sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like the down of a thistle.”
No more comment from Ophelia fast asleep that she is now and you turn to Frankie to finish the story. Peacefully.
“But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”
Plush, sweet lips that rest against yours, the large palm that cradles your cheek when he peppers kisses against your mouth and rests his forehead against yours, smile against against.
Two children finally asleep in their own bed, even if one has his crib in your bedroom. Parenting done right as you're aware that's the only thing Ophelia will be able to talk about for the rest of the break.
Frankie's feet are freezing when he joins you in your bed, all the presents under the tree. Another cookie he's still munching on when he drags you to his chest to snuggle and breathe a Merry Christmas, I love you, in your neck.
Divider by the amazing @saradika-graphics !!
I've always found this story so soothing, especially this reading
Please consider reblogging if you've enjoyed this little story. Comments and questions are always welcome. You can still request drabbles for my cozy celebration!
Summary: Three times you and Frankie watched the sky change together.
General info: +18 MDNI, fluff, mutual pining, references to movie-related angst/struggles, feelings of not being adequate/enough, a little bit of dad!Frankie. Reader is Will and Benny's sister, no physical description of reader, no use of y/n.
Part I - Sunrise Coffee
Part II - Sunset Beer
Outtake - Pitch Black Whiskey
Part III - Stormy Tea
Sequel - Amaretto Clouds
Sequel - Lemonade Sparkles
Conclusion - Champagne Snowflakes
Taglist | Main Masterlist
iownloki writes @frenchiereading - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook
