#frankieeee

But you. You showed him different, showed him how to live again. You found him, a broken man working to leave behind a drug-addled past, with a daughter visiting every other weekend and an ex-wife wanting nothing to do with him.

He finds it funny that you met him just outside of a church, at the Salvation Army store the next building over. Trash bags full of old clothes weighing down your shoulders, a grateful smile when he offered to help. And he swears, in that moment, he saw a glimpse of God in your smile.

And in the months since that day, between countless dates and fights and sex and sweet kisses in the morning light, Frankie thinks he finds faith again.

Frankie doesn’t pray much anymore, except between your thighs.

In the evening quiet, crickets chirping outside and soft sounds coming from the old television in your living room, Frankie finds salvation on his knees.

He whispers his prayers in sweet nothings against your skin, begging you for love, for your patience, for your saving grace. You’re happy to provide, a far more loving god than the one he grew up believing in.

He drinks up the wetness of your cunt like the blood of Christ, relishing in the taste of you on his tongue. You’re soft and sweet and forgiving.

You absolve his sins with your fingers curling through his hair, your praise filtering in his ears. He devotes his mind, his body, his soul to you as you suck in air through your teeth, letting him bring you to orgasm over and over and over again.

This is his penance, his confession. No priest or military general can hurt him here. He is safe, he is not alone.

So when you tug him up from between your legs to meet him in a soft, slow kiss, Frankie finally feels free. Free of pain and suffering, of responsibility and guilt.