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His hair sticks up in every direction, sleep still clinging to him. He smells like home—like himself, warm skin, fresh sheets, and just the faintest trace of sleep-sweat—as he pads barefoot into the kitchen, yawning, rubbing at his eyes.
He’s wearing nothing but his boxers, which do absolutely nothing to hide the generous package underneath. (😏)
Still half asleep, he reaches blindly into the cabinet for his favorite mug while you chirp from the little diner table, “Good morning, baby.”
Frankie doesn’t even look at you. He just lifts a hand.
“Shh, mi amor. Please… let me have my coffee first before you ambush me with your alarmingly positive energy this early in the morning.”
You laugh, stand, and slip your arms around his soft middle before pressing a kiss between his broad shoulders.
“If you’re done being grumpy and blind, find me in the bathroom. We could shower together.”
Frankie pauses. Then he promptly starts chugging his coffee with the determination of a man on a mission before following you down the hallway like a hopelessly lovesick puppy.
Sorry, I had a small delulu moment and had to share this with y‘all
The mechanic had said it would take at least four days.
Four days to replace a part that hadn't been manufactured in years and apparently had to be sourced from somewhere halfway across the country. Santi had nodded, accepted the explanation, and immediately assumed it would take at least a week.
His truck seemed to operate under the same laws as the rest of his life. Nothing was ever simple. Nothing was ever quick. Which was how he found himself sitting on a crowded subway train on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, surrounded by strangers and stale recycled air, wondering for perhaps the hundredth time if Frankie was right.
Maybe it was time.
Not for retirement. He wasn't sure men like him ever truly retired. But maybe it was time to stop pretending he could keep doing this forever.
Frankie had been on his case for months.
You should quit while you're still breathing.
You should find something normal.
You know, something where people don't shoot at you.
The suggestions changed every time they talked. Security work. A mechanic's garage. Construction. Anything that involved a predictable paycheck and significantly fewer bullets.
And maybe Frankie wasn't wrong.
The thought had been following him around lately, lingering in the quiet moments. During sleepless nights. During long drives. During those strange hours before dawn when the world felt suspended between yesterday and tomorrow.
The problem was that Santi had never been particularly good at imagining a future. Not a real one. Not one that stretched years ahead. His life had always existed in smaller increments. One job. One week. One mission. One day at a time.
Every time he tried to picture himself settling somewhere permanently, putting down roots, building something stable, the ghosts showed up.
Some belonged to him.
Some belonged to people he'd lost.
All of them followed him anyway.
The train slowed as it approached another station, pulling him from his thoughts. The familiar announcement crackled overhead. Around him, people gathered their bags, shifted toward the doors, prepared to leave.
Santi barely looked up. The doors slid open. Passengers stepped out. Others stepped in.
And somewhere in that ordinary exchange of bodies moving in opposite directions, his eyes landed on her.
At first, he wasn't entirely sure why. She wasn't doing anything remarkable. She simply stepped into the carriage and stopped near one of the poles, wrapping her fingers around the metal bar as the train lurched forward again. A backpack rested against one shoulder. A few loose strands of copper hair had escaped whatever attempt she'd made to keep them in place that morning.
Nothing unusual. Nothing that should have caught his attention. Yet a few seconds later he found himself looking again.
And then again.
The realization annoyed him immediately. He turned his gaze toward the window. A few seconds passed. When he looked back, she was still there. Of course she was. Where else would she be?
Santi suppressed a sigh.
It wasn't just that she was pretty, what she undeniably was. It was something harder to define. Something he couldn't quite put into words. There was a sadness about her. Not the dramatic kind, not the kind that demanded attention, but a quieter thing. Something soft and worn smooth around the edges.
The kind of sadness that had learned how to coexist with laughter. The kind that lived in a person's eyes even when they smiled.
For a brief moment she glanced up. Their eyes met.
Santi looked away immediately.
Dios mío.
Smooth.
He focused very intently on the subway map above the doors, studying it as though he had suddenly developed a passionate interest in public transportation.
A minute later, curiosity got the better of him.
When he risked another glance, he discovered she was looking at him again. This time she looked away first. Something unexpectedly warm settled in his chest, not because it meant anything, it probably didn't. But after that, it kept happening. A glance. Then another. A few seconds stretched between stations.
Neither of them smiled. Neither of them spoke.
Yet the awareness remained, like a thread neither of them acknowledged but both could feel.
Santi caught himself wondering if he should say something. Offer her his seat, maybe. Ask if she needed one. Ask literally anything.
He was still trying to come up with a sentence that didn't sound completely ridiculous when the train began slowing once more. Another station. The doors opened. She stepped off.
And just like that, she was gone.
The crowd swallowed her before he could even properly register that she was leaving.
For a moment, Santi found himself staring through the window as the platform drifted away behind them. Waiting. For what, he wasn't entirely sure.
He wasn't sure of what he felt either. Relief, perhaps. Embarrassment, maybe. Or the certainty that whatever strange spell had briefly taken hold of him would disappear now that she was gone.
Instead, he spent the rest of the journey wondering why he could still picture her eyes.
***
By the fifth day, Santi was officially annoyed with himself. Not because he missed her, that would have implied there had been something to miss.
A conversation.
A name.
A memory worth holding onto.
He had none of those things. He knew nothing about her. Not her name. Not her voice. He wasn't even entirely sure he would recognize her if he passed her on a crowded street.
Yet somehow he kept thinking about her.
The more he tried to push the memory aside, the worse it became. A glimpse of copper hair in a crowd would make him look twice. A familiar posture would catch his attention from across a station platform. Every afternoon, without meaning to, his eyes searched the subway carriage before he could stop them.
It was ridiculous.
Embarrassing.
The behaviour of a man twenty years younger than him.
The behaviour of someone who still believed in things like fate.
One afternoon, while waiting for the train, he caught his reflection in the station window and actually laughed at himself.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he muttered.
The reflection offered no answers. The train arrived. He boarded. And despite everything, his gaze immediately drifted toward the place where she had been standing that first day.
Empty. Of course.
The truck was fixed by then. He'd picked it up two days earlier. The sensible thing would have been to drive. Instead, every afternoon he found himself descending the station stairs and boarding the same train at the same time.
He told himself it has become a habit.
Convenience.
Curiosity.
Anything except the truth. Because the truth sounded pathetic even inside his own head. The truth was that a small, stubborn part of him hoped she might be there.
Some days he almost convinced himself he had imagined her. That perhaps she hadn't looked at him nearly as often as he remembered. That perhaps the entire thing had grown larger in his mind simply because he had nothing else to occupy the space.
Then he would remember her eyes, and the certainty would return.
Beautiful eyes.
Sad eyes.
The kind that seemed to carry entire stories behind them.
Maybe melancholy souls recognized one another.
The thought slipped into his mind before he could stop it.
Santi immediately grimaced.
Jesus Christ.
Now he really was losing his mind.
If he had been the sort of man who knew what to do with words, he was fairly certain he would have been writing poetry by now.
Bad poetry.
The kind Frankie would never let him live down.
Poetry about a girl whose name he didn't know and whose kind, world-weary eyes had somehow taken up permanent residence in his thoughts.
Fortunately for everyone involved, he wasn't that kind of man.
Unfortunately, that didn't stop him from thinking about her.
Somehow she remained lodged somewhere in the back of his mind, refusing to leave. He would catch himself thinking about her at random moments. While waiting for his coffee. While walking home. While standing in line at a grocery store.
Always the same brief memory. A pair of quiet and haunting eyes looking back at him across a crowded subway carriage.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
It was ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous. Which was precisely why he didn't mention it to anyone.
Unfortunately, Frankie was Frankie.
That meant he noticed things. Far more things than he had any right to.
The realization came some days later. Santi was leaning against a workbench at Frankie's garage, absentmindedly turning a wrench over in his hands while Frankie explained something about an engine neither of them particularly cared about.
"... so if we replace the belt now, we won't have to deal with it again next month."
Silence. Frankie frowned.
"Santi."
No response.
"Santiago."
Still nothing. Frankie followed his gaze. The man wasn't even looking at anything. Just staring into space. Thinking.
Frankie immediately smiled. It was the kind of smile that should have been classified as a weapon.
"Oh."
Santi blinked, finally reacting.
"What?"
"Oh, this is good."
"What is?"
Frankie's grin widened.
"Who's she?"
The wrench nearly slipped from Santi's fingers.
"What do you mean? There isn't a she."
"Sure."
"There isn't."
"Of course."
Santi rolled his eyes.
"Frankie."
"Santi."
The familiarity of the response made him groan. Frankie folded his arms.
"You've been distracted all week."
"I've been tired."
"You spent ten minutes staring at a wrench yesterday."
"I was thinking."
"Exactly."
Santi pointed at him.
"That's a completely normal thing for people to do."
Frankie barked out a laugh.
"Not you."
"Thanks."
"You hate thinking."
"I don't hate thinking."
"You absolutely hate thinking."
"I don't."
"You literally spent most of your twenties solving problems by throwing yourself through them."
"That's not true."
Frankie raised an eyebrow. Santi considered it.
"...Okay, sometimes."
"Who's the girl?"
"There is no girl."
Frankie waited. Santi waited. Neither moved.
The silence stretched.
Eventually Santi sighed. Frankie immediately looked victorious.
The bastard.
"I saw someone on the subway."
Frankie stared. Then blinked. Then stared some more.
"That's it?"
"What do you mean, that's it?"
"You saw someone?"
"Yes."
"A stranger?"
"Yes."
"You are like that because of a complete stranger?"
"Frankie."
Frankie looked genuinely amused.
"Santi, you survived Colombia and now you're getting emotionally compromised by public transportation."
"Nobody is emotionally compromised."
"And now you're gonna take the same train every afternoon until you find her again."
Santi froze. Frankie's grin became insufferable.
"You've been taking the same train every afternoon."
"You don't know that."
"I absolutely know that."
"Damn it, Morales."
Frankie laughed so hard he nearly dropped the rag in his hand. For the next five minutes he refused to let it go. Santi endured every joke. Every comment. Every exaggerated prediction about wedding invitations and future godchildren.
By the time he finally escaped, he was seriously considering finding a new best friend.
Unfortunately, Frankie was right about one thing: he had been taking the same train. Every day. At the same time.
Not because he expected anything.
Not because he believed in fate.
And certainly not because he was hoping to see her again.
At least that was what he told himself.
The lie became harder to maintain with each passing day.
A week went by. Then another. Nothing. No sign of her. No familiar face among the crowds.
No glimpse of sad eyes across the carriage.
Nothing.
Eventually even Santi began to feel stupid. The entire thing had become embarrassing. A grown man rearranging part of his routine because of a woman he had never even spoken to.
The realization settled heavily in his chest as he boarded the train one Thursday afternoon. This was the last time. Seriously. No more. After today he would drive his old truck everywhere, as he had always done. He would stop looking. Stop wondering. Stop acting like some lovesick teenager.
Shaking his head at himself, he dropped into one of the seats and rested his elbows on his knees. The train pulled away from the station. People entered. People left. The familiar rhythm continued around him.
Santi kept his gaze fixed on the floor. One stop.
Then another. And another. The train slowed again. The doors opened. More passengers climbed aboard. Someone settled into the empty seat beside him. He barely noticed. Until a voice spoke.
"Good afternoon."
Soft. Warm. Unexplainably familiar.
His heart stumbled. Just once, hard enough to hurt. Slowly, Santi lifted his head… and there she was. Looking at him with a small, shy smile, as though she wasn't entirely sure she should have spoken either.
For a second neither of them said anything else. The noise of the train faded into the background. The crowd disappeared, everything narrowing to her eyes.
The same eyes he had spent more than two weeks trying and failing to forget.
"Hi," he answered softly.
Her smile widened.
And suddenly, impossibly, Santi found himself wondering if maybe he hadn't been the only idiot taking the same train every day.
tags: broken!Frankie, angst, addiction, relapse, established relationship, hurt/comfort
summary: Loving him was never the hard part. Letting him go was.
word count: ~ 1,1k
Your whole relationship with Frankie had been like chasing a storm from the beginning. Despite living in Florida, the sunniest place either of you had ever known, the rain always found you faster than you could prepare for it.
Some storms arrived quietly.
Others kicked the front door off its hinges.
This one had come in the shape of a tiny plastic bag tucked inside the pocket of his jeans.
***
Frankie was dead silent the whole drive. While the first traces of sunrise bled orange into the sky, turning it into something that looked like a watercolor painting, you couldn't bring yourself to appreciate it today. His knee bounced the entire drive, his foot tapping relentlessly against the floorboard. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat despite the air conditioning blasting at full volume.
"You know, you don't need to do this. You could just... drive home."
You shook your head immediately. "And then what?"
"I can do the rehab at home."
"Like the last time?"
He flinched at the memory, just a little.
"I don't do this to punish you, Francisco."
He scoffed, thumb rubbing over his bottom lip as he stared out the window, watching the landscape blur by.
"I don't see what's gonna be different there than when I lay in my own vomit at home."
"They're professionals, Frankie. You can talk to someone who can really hold you through this without falling apart alongside you."
"Mhm."
"Frankie..."
He shook his head. "Don't use that tone on me."
"Which tone?"
"The pity one."
"I don't—" You exhaled. "I'm sorry."
"'s okay." And he sounded honest. "I'm the one who should be sorry."
"You're sick, Frankie. You didn't choose this."
"I am a fuck up, cariño."
Your eyebrows furrowed. You bit your lip before blindly reaching for his sweaty hand, squeezing it while keeping your eyes fixed on the road—even as your vision began to blur with uninvited tears.
"No, you're not. You survived things most people couldn't even imagine surviving. Somewhere along the way your brain found something that quieted all that noise, even if only for a little while. It may have chosen the wrong thing but that doesn't make you wrong. You're still you."
"What if this is all I'm gonna be now?" His voice barely rose above a whisper. "This washed-out version of me. I'm farther away from the man you fell in love with than ever..."
"Hey, hey," you reined him in gently. "No, that's not true. He's still in there. He just needs a little help finding his way back to shore, hm?"
You squeezed his hand again. "And there's nothing wrong with needing help sometimes. The strongest people do. And you, Frankie Morales, are one of the strongest people I've ever known. I'm so so proud of you."
You weren't able to look at him as the sun climbed higher, promising another day of scorching heat. But you heard a small, broken sound that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. Without thinking, you took the next exit, still twenty minutes away from the rehab center. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as you pulled onto the shoulder and finally looked at your boyfriend.
Despite his broad frame, he suddenly looked so unbearably small in the passenger seat of his own truck. He looked hollowed out by the weight he carried. By the guilt clawing at him for failing you. He looked lost.
You unbuckled your seatbelt and leaned toward him, still holding his hand before pressing a kiss against his knuckles.
"Look at me," you pleaded.
He shook his head stubbornly. So you cupped his cheek with your free hand, gently guiding his face toward yours. His soulful dark eyes shimmered with tears, red-rimmed and exhausted. The sight hit you straight in the chest.
"How can you..." His voice cracked. "How can you still stay? Why didn't you just leave already?"
A watery smile tugged at your lips. "Because, unfortunately, I love you a shit ton."
A weak laugh escaped him before his face crumpled again. He took your hand between both of his and kissed it with all the devotion only he had ever shown you.
"I'm scared."
"I know you are."
You brushed your thumb across his cheek. "I am too."
Silence settled between you for a moment. "But I think we just need to do it anyway. Even if we do it scared."
He closed his eyes. "I can't do this for you. God, I wish I could." Your voice wavered. "But this is something you need to do for yourself. For the man you've always told me you want to be. Not only the one scarred by war and loss."
You rested your forehead against his. "And I believe in you."
A tear slipped down his cheek.
"I'll always be here, rooting for you."
"You're truly too good for me, mi amor."
You smiled—a real one this time—and shrugged. "Maybe."
Another shrug. "Guess you're just a lucky bastard then."
"The luckiest on this fucking planet," he murmured.
Like magnets finding their opposite, you drifted toward one another. Your hand rested against the back of his neck, your thumb brushing behind his ear, tracing the small letter tattooed there for you. Matching the one you wore in the same place, even if you'd gotten yours weeks later. Your foreheads touched in a grounding gesture.
He let out one long, shaky breath. "I love you."
And you knew he meant it. God, he meant it with every bruised piece of his heart.
"I love you more," you whispered. "Always more."
You smiled through tears. "And now I'll drop you off for your very expensive extended holiday."
That earned you the smallest huff of laughter.
"I'll be right here picking you up when you're ready, okay?"
You felt his nod more than you saw it.
***
A few minutes later, you watched him disappear through the doors of the rehab center. Only then did you realize your hands were still gripping the steering wheel so tightly they hurt.
For a long moment, you couldn't make yourself put the truck into gear. Watching the biggest part of your heart walk away was hard. Trusting that he was walking toward himself again was harder.
The whole drive home you cried, singing along to your shared playlist between shaky breaths, selfishly wishing that, when all of this was over, you'd get the love of your life back whole instead of only living with the fragments addiction had left behind.
Right from the opening lines "Your whole relationship with Frankie had been like chasing a storm from the beginning" you set the tone so perfectly. That metaphor carries through the entire chapter, and by the time we reach "he just needs a little help finding his way back to shore" (what if I sob 😫) it feels like you've quietly transformed the storm into hope. It's such a beautiful thread running through the whole piece 🥹
And your descriptions, especially this one "While the first traces of sunrise bled orange into the sky..."??? That image is gorgeous. The wording was ✨perfection ✨
What hurt me the most while reading it was Frankie. The way he genuinely believes he's become nothing more than his addiction 😭 "I am a fuck up, cariño." and "What if this is all I'm gonna be now?" absolutely broke my heart because it feels so painfully real. You let us sit inside that shame with him without ever making it define who he is 🥹
And O absolutely loved reader. She never minimizes what happened, she never pretends everything will magically be okay, yet she refuses to let Frankie see himself only through the lens of his relapse. Telling him that surviving unimaginable things doesn't make him broken, that asking for help isn't weakness, that she's proud of him... it felt so incredibly compassionate. There's something deeply comforting about reading characters who love each other enough to stay through the deep waters, trusting they'll find the shore again (we all need someone like that in our life 🥹)
I also loved that she tells him she can't do this for him. So many stories fall into the trap of making love "fix" addiction, but this doesn't. She stands beside him instead of carrying him, believing in him while still acknowledging that recovery has to be his choice. That's such an important distinction, and you handled it beautifully 💜
And then... the little details: the matching tattoos. Him kissing her hand. Their foreheads touching. Her joking about his "very expensive extended holiday" just to make him smile for a second. Those tiny moments of tenderness somehow made everything hurt even more because they remind you exactly what they're fighting for
Finally, the ending... watching him disappear through the rehab doors while she drives home crying, hoping she'll get her Frankie back instead of only the fragments addiction has left behind... 😭😭😭 *sobbing again*
This is heartbreaking, but it's also strangely comforting. I feel like it's about choosing hope when hope feels terrifying
Thank you again for writing Frankie with so much empathy and humanity, and never flinch to show us his broken (still deserved to be loved) version. I loved every single word 💜
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That's what I tell people when they ask why Frankie Morales knows my drink order better than I do. Or why the quiet man with the soulful eyes finally loosens up in my presence.
Just friends.
That's what I tell myself when he calls me on his drive home because he saw a sunset and thought I'd like it. When he leaves little voice messages that say absolutely nothing important but still do.
When he texts me that he made it home. As if I was waiting to know. As if he knows I was.
Just friends.
When he remembers things nobody else does. The anniversary that makes me quiet. The song I always skip. The way thunderstorms make me nervous. The fact that I need the TV on to sleep when my head gets too loud. That I am the only person who knows about the ghosts he carries like luggage.
Just friends.
When I find myself looking for his truck before I even get out of my car at any gathering. When a room feels wrong until he's in it. When something good happens and his name appears in my mind before anyone else's. When no one apart from me knows the shape of his loneliness.
Just friends.
When he says my name in that soft, careful way he does that makes my stomach flip. Like he's holding something fragile. Something far more than words. And when I say his, his eyes crinkle in a laugh bright enough to feel like sunlight.
Just friends.
Until one night we're sharing a bed because life has a funny sense of humor and we're adults who can handle it, right ?
Just friends.
With a pillow between us that feels like a whole ocean. I fall asleep facing the wall and he falls asleep facing the other direction. Until somewhere in the middle of the night, while the world is quiet enough to tell the truth, our bodies betray us.
Just two tired people reaching for comfort.
And when we both wake with only the sun as our witness, neither of us moves. His arm is still around my waist. My hand is still curled against his chest. Neither of us says a word.
Because suddenly just friends feels like the biggest lie we've ever told. And yet neither of us is brave enough to call it anything else.
This is a little different than what I usually write, but my bestie @rhapsodyofdarkness gently nudged(read: bullied) me into publishing this, so there you go.
I absolutely LOVE the way this is written. The repetition of "Just friends" at the beginning of every sectoon is such a clever choice because each new paragraph becomes another piece of evidence proving the exact opposite 😮💨
And I think writing it in first person makes it hit even harder. It feels intimate, almost confessional, like we're sitting inside reader's head while she desperately tries to convince herself of something she stopped believing a long time ago. Every "Just friends" feels a little weaker than the last, a little less convincing, until it becomes impossible not to see the truth hiding between the lines 🥹
Also, the way you focus on all those little things instead of grand declarations? Those tiny everyday acts somehow feel more romantic than a hundred love confessions
And THAT ENDING
"Because suddenly just friends feels like the biggest lie we've ever told. And yet neither of us is brave enough to call it anything else."
EXCUSE ME????? 🫨😭💔
This felt so soft, painful, tender and so very you
-`♡´- tags: soft!Frankie, safe love, a lot of feelings, fluffiest fluff
summary: While a storm rages outside Frankie recognizes the saftest place is in your arms.
word count: ~ 460
a/n: Happy Frankie Friday from the sidelines! I hope this little fluff warms your heart just as much as it did mine writing it. Btw, I am working on something bigger behind the scenes involving our favorite pilot. Hopefully I can tell you more about it soon. 😉
The storm was raging outside, throwing itself against the windows hard enough to make the glass shudder in its frame. There had been a time, not even that long ago, when sounds like that made Frankie tense instinctively. Sweat gathered at the small of his back while ugly memories flickered behind his eyelids like lightning. A life carved open by violence had a way of following a man home, even years later. It never mattered much that the things he had done were in the name of a country. That kind of reasoning didn’t quiet the ghosts. Didn’t help him sleep either.
The only thing that ever truly silenced the noise in his head was you.
Your body tucked against his, his arms wrapped around you tight enough to feel real. Face buried into your hair while he inhaled the familiar scent of vanilla and something warmer underneath it. Something impossible to bottle up into words because it was simply you. Home in a way Frankie had never allowed himself to believe existed for men like him.
In all the years Frankie Morales had spent dragging himself across this godforsaken earth, he had become terrifyingly good at running. Never staying anywhere long enough for roots to catch around his ankles. Movement was easier. Easier than explaining himself. Easier than letting anyone look too closely at the wreckage. “No strings attached” had become less of a preference and more of a survival tactic he wore like armor. Or at least that was what he told himself.
Then somewhere along the way, there was you.
You made him pause long enough to wonder if the life he’d been living was actually freedom or just another kind of prison. Frankie had been buried so deep inside himself for so long that some days he couldn’t even see the sky anymore. Days blurred together. Time passed without him noticing. Survival became muscle memory.
But you came into his life like sunlight through storm clouds, soft and stubborn and impossible to ignore. And for the first time in years, he realized he would move mountains just to keep that warmth close to him.
Now peace looked like this: the two of you tangled together in bed while rain battered the world outside. You complaining sleepily about him taking up too much space while simultaneously stealing the blanket for yourself. Frankie smiling quietly against the curve of your shoulder blades anyway, because somehow this became his favorite thing in the world.
To be loved gently.
To be held without expectation.
To learn, little by little, that not every touch had to hurt.
Wrapped up in your softness, Frankie was finally beginning to understand that staying still wasn’t weakness after all. Sometimes it was the bravest thing a person could do.
The way you write Frankie never fails to amaze me since the very first time I read you (a long time ago 🥹💜)
I love that this isn’t really a story about a storm outside the window, but about the storms he’s carried inside him for years. The contrast between the man who spent his life running and the man slowly learning how to stay is so beautiful and so deeply Frankie.
“Freedom or just another kind of prison” is such a powerful way to describe him. Because that’s exactly what makes your version of him so compelling: you understand that beneath the charm, the jokes, and the easygoing exterior, there’s a man who has spent a long time believing that distance is safer than connection, even when secretly craving for it
And then there’s reader. Not as some magical cure, but as someone who gently gives him a reason to put down the armor and rest for a while. The softness of this piece is what makes it hit so hard. The blanket stealing, the sleepy complaints, him smiling into her shoulder while the storm rages outside... it all feels so intimate and lived-in
My favourite line might be:
"To be loved gently. To be held without expectation. To learn, little by little, that not every touch had to hurt."
Because at its core, that’s what makes Frankie so special to me. Not that he learns how to love, but that he slowly learns he deserves to be loved too 🥹🥹
Absolutely gorgeous, as always. How much I had missed you writing about him 💜
pairing: Frankie Morales x Fem! Reader
summary: You left for a bar not expecting much and end up with permanet fingerprints on more than your heart.
tags: sexual tension, first meeting, public sex, Frankie the consent king, alcohol mention, some negative thoughts
wc: ~2.2k
a/n: Long time not publishing so which better moment to rescue this silly thing I had buried on my drafts than Frankie Friday?
You didn’t usually go to places like that.
Bars felt loud in a way that didn’t invite you in, only reminded you how out of place you were. Too many bodies. Too much noise. Too many versions of yourself you no longer recognized reflected in dark windows and half-empty glasses.
That night started with two mojitos and zero expectations. Just the need to keep moving. To stay out. To exist somewhere that wasn’t your apartment, your couch, your thoughts.
Your ex used to say you were too much. Too loud. Too impulsive. Too emotional. So you learned to shrink. To soften your edges. To become agreeable, quiet, careful.
By the time it ended, you didn’t know what was left of you.
So you stood there, leaning against the bar, the glass sweating between your fingers, feeling like a ghost wearing your own face.
And then he appeared.
He didn’t enter the room loudly. He didn’t demand attention. He simply took up space in a way that felt solid and calm. Broad shoulders stretched beneath a worn jacket. Dark curls escaped from beneath a faded baseball cap, the kind that looked like it had been with him for years. His stubble framed a mouth that seemed used to holding back words, and his eyes, warm and steady, moved through the room with quiet awareness.
Frankie Morales.
You didn’t know his name yet. You only noticed how the air shifted when he sat on the empty stool beside you, how suddenly you felt less alone in your own skin. There was something about the way he carried himself, quiet, solid, like he’d learned the hard way how heavy the world could be. It pulled at you before you even realized it.
He didn’t open with a line. Just a glance. A small, crooked smile.
“Long day?” he asked.
His voice sounded calm. Grounded. Like he wasn’t in a hurry to be anywhere else. You laughed, surprised by how easily it came out.
“Long… life.”
That earned a soft huff of amusement from him.
“Yeah,” he said. “I get that.”
You talked. At first about nothing. The music playing too loud. The bartender who kept messing up orders. How neither of you had planned to stay out late. And then, without noticing when it happened, the conversation drifted into softer territory. More honest ground.
You told him things you didn’t usually say out loud. About feeling hollow. About missing the version of yourself that laughed easily. About how you barely recognized who you had become.
You expected him to fix it. Or joke it away. He didn’t. He listened. Really listened. When he looked at you, there was no pity, no judgment. Just something steady and attentive, like he saw you clearly without trying to reshape you, and that quiet attention made your chest feel warmer than the alcohol had.
“You don’t sound gone to me,” he said gently. “Just… tucked away.”
The words settled deep in your chest. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the way he said it, like he meant it. But you felt it: a small, sharp spark waking up inside you.
Alive.
You caught him looking at your lips more than once. His gaze would linger for a second, dark eyes softening, before he dragged them back up to yours, almost like he was scolding himself. That small struggle in him made your stomach flutter in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. It made you feel somehow wanted… but not hunted. Desired, but respected. And that felt dangerously addictive, so much so that, without even realizing it, you started flirting back. You leaned in a little closer when you spoke, let your smile linger, touched your hair without thinking. It surprised you how easily it came, how naturally your body responded to his quiet attention.
God, he’s dangerous, you thought. Not because he looked like trouble, but because he didn’t. Because for the first time in a long time, sitting next to someone didn’t feel exhausting, or performative.
When he suggested going somewhere quieter to talk, you nodded without thinking.
The moment you stepped outside, the cool night air brushed against your skin. The noise of the bar faded behind you. You laughed again at something he said, lighter this time, freer. Like the version of you that existed before everything became so careful.
You didn’t make it far.
The alley behind the bar felt narrow and strangely intimate, cut off from the streetlights and the noise. A single lamp flickered above, casting soft shadows across the brick walls. You turned to say something, and Frankie was suddenly very close.
Too close.
His tall presence filled the space without overwhelming it. You caught the scent of him then: clean skin, faint soap, and something warm underneath. His hand brushed your arm, slow, almost tentative.
You didn’t pull away.
For a second, the responsible voice in your head warned you this wasn’t smart. That he was a stranger. But you were so tired of being smart.
So when he leaned in, slow and deliberate, giving you time to stop him, and you didn’t, he kissed you.
The kiss hit like a release. Deep, grounding, hungry in a way that felt controlled rather than reckless. His mouth moved against yours with quiet intent, his tongue sliding in like he already knew you’d let him.
And you did.
Your hands fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer. The kiss grew heavier, breath turning uneven, bodies pressing together in the narrow space. You felt the solid heat of him, real and unmistakably affected, and instead of panic, you felt powerful.
Wanted.
You broke the kiss only to catch your breath, forehead resting against his. His thumb traced your jaw, gentle despite the tension humming between you.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
You nodded, already breathless. Already past pretending.
His hand slipped lower, sliding beneath the hem of your black top with unhurried certainty. Warm fingertips traced the skin of your stomach, then moved higher, cupping your breast through the thin lace of your bra. He brushed his thumb over your nipple, slow and deliberate, feeling it tighten under his touch. You shivered, a soft sound escaping your throat.
He didn’t rush. His fingers explored with quiet focus, learning what made your breath hitch, what made your hips press forward instinctively. Then his hand drifted lower, slipping under the hem of your skirt. His fingers brushed the sensitive skin of your inner thigh before he paused.
“Can I touch you here?” he murmured against your lips, voice low and rough, but patient.
You managed a shaky “Yes” and that was all he needed.
He touched you like he was listening to every reaction, sliding his fingers beneath your underwear, finding you already slick and warm. He circled your clit with steady, patient strokes, then slowly slid a finger inside you, curling it just right. The rhythm was unhurried but sure, building heat with every movement. Your legs trembled. Your fingers dug harder into his broad shoulders as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.
That was what undid you. Not just the touch, but the way he paid attention. The way he asked. The absence of pressure. The permission to simply fall apart.
You pressed closer, the brick cool against your back, Frankie’s body warm and solid in front of you. His mouth returned to yours, slower now, deeper, swallowing the gasps and whimpers you couldn’t hold back.
When it crested, it caught you by surprise. You gasped against his lips, thighs tightening around his hand as the pleasure rolled through you, sharp and overwhelming, wave after wave. Frankie stayed with you through it, murmuring something low and soothing against your skin, his fingers still moving gently until the last tremor faded.
Your breathing gradually slowed, but the heat between you didn’t fade. He stayed close, so close you could feel the hard line of him pressed against your thigh. Then he shifted, hips rolling forward once, slow, deliberate, letting you feel exactly how much he wanted you.
You felt him fully then. How hard he was. How much he was holding back.
Another rush of want bloomed low in your belly, hot and insistent. Your hands, which had been fisted in his jacket, then grew braver. You slid one down his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt, the way his breath hitched when your palm pressed lower, cupping the hard line of him through his jeans. He groaned softly into your mouth, hips pressing into your touch, and the sound sent a rush of heat through you.You stroked him slowly over the denim, amazed at your own boldness. But right behind it came the familiar voice:
Be good. Be careful. Don’t want too much. Don’t take up space.
The voice that sounded like this every time you’d been chosen only when you were easy, quiet, undemanding.
For a split second you wanted to silence it. To stay reckless. To let your body decide.
But you couldn’t. Not yet. So you pulled your hand back, breathless and a little stunned, resting your forehead against his chest.
“Wait. I-”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Frankie didn’t push. His hands stayed warm and respectful at your sides, his breathing measuring. He simply waited until the silence felt safe again.
“Okay,” he said softly. “That’s okay.”
He didn’t move away immediately. He stayed there with you, letting the moment settle instead of break.
“I should go home,” you whispered.
“I can walk you,” he offered gently.
You shook your head. “No. Not tonight…”
He nodded, understanding. “Then at least let me call a taxi and wait with you until it arrives. I’d feel better knowing you got in safely.”
You hesitated only a second before nodding. The walk back toward the street was quiet. Too quiet. An awkward silence settled between you, thick with everything that had just happened and everything that hadn’t. When you reached the curb and the taxi was already on its way, Frankie finally spoke, voice low and careful.
“Hey… I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to push or make you feel like I was taking advantage of you. I just thought… you wanted it too.”
“I did,” you admitted, voice low. “I do. It’s not that. It’s just… I’m not like this… anymore. Or… I don’t know. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and regret it. Not because of you, I mean, but because… oh god, I don’t even know how to do this without overthinking everything.”
The words came out messy and half-formed. You kept talking, trying to explain feelings you barely understood yourself. Frankie listened without interrupting, his thumb brushing slowly over your hand in a soothing rhythm.
“I get it,” he said softly when you trailed off. “More than you know.”
When the car pulled up, you reached for the door handle and lingered a second longer than necessary. The night still clung to your skin, your body still humming faintly, reluctant to let the moment go. Frankie stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets, dark curls tucked under his cap. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t ask you to stay. He simply looked at you, steady, contained, like he understood that this was something meant to pass.
Something brief. Something that would not survive daylight.
But then, Frankie’s voice stopped you one last time, just when you opened the door.
“Wait-” He gave you a small, hopeful smile, when you turned to look at him again. “Can I at least have your number? So we can do this right next time. In daylight. Without the chance of morning regret.”
You hesitated only a second before pulling out your phone. When you handed it to him, both of you were smiling. Small, a little shy even, but real.
He typed his number and gave it back, fingers brushing yours.
“Text me when you get home safe?” he asked.
You nodded and whispered a farewell.
Once inside the taxi, as the city blurred past the window, the warmth slowly receded. What remained wasn’t longing or regret. It was awareness.
You hadn’t gone out looking for anyone. You hadn’t wanted disruption. But you had found proof.
Proof that you were still capable of reacting to the world. That laughter could still escape you. That desire could still bloom, sudden and inconvenient, inside your chest.
That the version of you who felt alive hadn’t died. She had just been kept small. Contained. Taught to wait.
And in a bitter kind of irony, it took someone fleeting, someone who arrived without promises and left without staying, to return your pulse to you.
It had been only a spark. But sometimes one brief flash is enough to light up everything you thought had gone dark.
Jud thought hell would come in the form of punishment.
A crack of thunder.
The wrath of God poured down onto the unworthy.
Not this.
Not the way your perfume lingered in the empty church long after midnight prayer.
Not the sight of your hand disappearing beneath your dress just enough to reveal skin that no righteous man should notice. And yet — his eyes found it anyway, every single time, like a wound seeking the knife that made it.
He had devoted his life to God so completely that he once believed himself untouchable. Holy in the way lonely men mistake themselves for when they simply deny every human thing inside them.
Then you smiled at him once in candlelight.
And suddenly devotion felt less like salvation and more like standing barefoot in a fire and refusing to move.
Because wanting you was not gentle.
It was ruinous.
The kind of hunger that made prayer sound thin and useless in his own mouth.
“Devotion felt less like salvation and more like standing barefoot in a fire and refusing to move” EXCUSE ME?????? That is SO good, I am obsessed with that line
Also “prayer sound thin and useless in his own mouth”, Jud, baby, the catholic guilt is NOT winning this round 😈
A little different from what I usually post on this blog. A little less structured, a little more soul than story. But sometimes a piece settles inside me so heavily that keeping it to myself feels almost wrong.
wc: ~230
There is something cruel about loving you.
Not cruel in the way people think love is cruel — not screaming or shattered plates or hands that bruise the other.
Cruel in the way the ocean is. Powerful and endless. The way it keeps returning to shore no matter how many centuries pass. The way I think maybe God made me with too much longing in my ribs and then let me meet you anyway.
Maybe that is the tragedy of us.
Not that we are forbidden.
But that we keep finding each other at the wrong time.
As if the universe keeps testing whether love can survive devotion.
Sometimes I lie awake beside you and listen to your breathing in the dark, steady and soft and wonder if your soul recognizes mine with the same terrifying certainty.
If somewhere beneath all that restraint, beneath the scripture and guilt and trembling hands, you feel it too. That unbearable feeling of coming home to someone you were never supposed to touch.
So tell me: Can I devote my soul to yours and can we find each other again and again until we finally stay?
Until there is no more running. No more loving through locked doors and trembling prayers. No more hiding.
Just you.
Just me.
And whatever merciful thing exists beyond this world finally letting us keep what we suffered for.
want more ? main masterlist
tags (tell me if you wanna out or in!) @rhapsodyofdarkness @judasjud @rosetintmworld @likedovesinthewnd @ch3rrybl0ssomtree @poetrypoesblehhh @sidelit @knives-out-boy @soealt @explorerof-theunknown @post-apocalyptic-rebel-leader @strawberrymochi07 @peelfreshapple @sea-eyed-dream @roryheartz @prxncess-gestirn @doomprincesswrld @dumb-blondeee
The ocean metaphor in this absolutely destroyed me btw 😭 “Cruel in the way the ocean is” is SUCH a gorgeous way to describe a love that keeps returning no matter how impossible it feels 🥺💜
And the first person voice in here makes everything feel so intimate, like you’re being let directly into someone’s soul while they’re unraveling in real time
This is forbidden love and yearning ultimate goodness, I am obsessed with it
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something so special about someone who takes their time to make you come. not edging you, but showing you patience and eagerness in learning how to unravel you. mumbled sweet words to coax your attention back on them when you're getting into your head about 'taking too long'. if anything they just scoff, maybe getting angry on your behalf for whoever made you feel this way in the past. as if getting to taste and feel and worship you for hours isn't the best thing that ever happened to them. their intention is not to push you over the edge in record time but to get to know you inside out, no matter how long it takes. they rather come untouched in their pants than to stop giving you everything you deserve and more. your pleasure is their pleasure.
summary: He has survived war, loss, and loneliness before but nothing prepares him for the silence waiting at home.
word count: ~540
author's note: This is angst with a side of angst. It's one of the many things in my graveyard of docs and today on Frankie's day, I thought why not make you all suffer with me? 'Happy' FF >:)
Frankie doesn’t even remember the drive home.
He knows Santi was talking beside him, trying to be gentle, trying to keep him tethered. But it all blurred together—the sound of tires on pavement, muffled crying somewhere two rooms down, the smell of antiseptic still clinging to his skin.
He stares at the apartment door longer than he should.
The key doesn’t turn right away. It never does.
When he steps inside, the silence cracks.
There’s your favorite mug in the sink. The one with the chipped handle you refused to throw away. Your fuzzy socks are still kicked under the couch, the ones with little crescent moons. The jacket you swore you didn’t like when he bought it for you hangs from the back of the chair—worn in all the right places.
It’s your home.
His home.
Yours together.
But now it feels like a stranger’s life.
Frankie makes it as far as the bathroom before the shaking starts. His hands fumble with the buttons on his shirt, pulling it over his head, the fabric damp where your tears soaked into it. He turns on the water and doesn’t wait for it to heat up. Just steps into the cold, hoping it might numb something inside him. He presses his forehead to the tiled wall and finally lets the sob tear out of his chest.
One loud, wounded sound.
Then another.
After that silence again, just the sound of water falling.
His hand slams against the wall once, hard enough to sting. His voice cracks in the mist.
“She doesn’t remember me.”
His eyes squeeze shut as the memories hit like lightning.
The first time you said I love you.
The time you danced in the living room in your pajamas, singing into a wooden spoon.
The way your eyes sparkled when he called you his girl.
The yes you whispered into his mouth when he slipped the ring onto your finger.
The way you looked at him like he was the safest place in the world.
Now you look at him like he’s a stranger.
And the part that hurts the most is that you don’t know you’re breaking his heart. Because how could you, when you don’t even remember him or the love you shared?
He sinks to the floor of the shower, arms wrapped around his knees, water running down his face like it’s trying to drown the ache. He cries until he’s hollow. Until there’s nothing left but steam and the sound of your name echoing inside his chest.
He’ll show up again tomorrow at the hospital, watching the woman he loves drift somewhere between her past and her future.
And the day after that.
And every single day as long as it takes.
Even if he has to make you fall in love with him all over again.
Even when, right now, he’s a stranger wearing the shape of someone you once loved.
You were the warmth in his winter. The light in every version of the dark he had ever found himself in. So whatever happens, Frankie would hold you close to his heart and honor your light while you try to find your way back.
