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✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
He hadn’t wanted you to know at first but it was one of those unavoidable things--- if you were ever going to sleep over, you were going to figure it out so you prodded as the question began to bother you.
At first you only noticed because he was up really late, the timestamps on the texts were erratic: 1:43 am Thinking of you and that time we saw the fair, they are coming back next month and then 5:11am If you’re up to it there’s a movie at the little theatre next town over, they’re doing Aliens. You weren’t even up until 6:45 and Frankie had somehow already planned several dates. You’d text him asking if he was tired and he was evasive just joking that he would sleep when he was dead.
Eventually when you realized he seemed to have been up for three or four nights straight and still wanted to do pizza with you, you demanded a little clarification.
“I just...don’t sleep well sometimes. Sort of a….service hangover. It comes and goes, it’s on a tear right now. I’m fine, really, I’m in no danger of falling asleep on you.”
You had smirked, “Not that I’d object.”
You two were definitely nesting into something more serious.
Then there was the night of the big storm.
The news had been warning about it all week and your apartment never had fucking power during those things and you just...mentioned to Frankie what a hassle it was, getting the dog up and down the stairs in the pitch fucking black to walk him, and Frankie had almost too casually said, “Stay with me, he won’t have to walk downstairs to get outside.”
“You sure?” You two hadn’t slept over yet. You’d fucked-- Lord but you fucked-- and you napped but someone always got up and left. Between both of your jobs scheduling huge chunks of time wasn’t terribly easy. You fucked in the car (oh the car), you fucked on the couch. That one time in the movie theatre. Nearly in the restaurant bathroom. The couch. Couch. Bed, yes, but like-- fast and furious as if Vin Diesel himself was having you audition. You both got up early for work and sleepovers just...hadn’t evolved.
Fred slept in the bathtub during storms, shaking the whole time. At least he did that in your apartment. You warned Frankie that the dog was a nervous wreck during storms and he sort of laughed, “Hey, he can join the club, who likes ‘em?”
So after work you had packed up Fred and gone over to Frankie’s just in time for the first giant raindrops to come cascading down.
A roll of thunder woke you and the bed space next to you was empty. You felt guilty--- maybe Fred had woken Frankie.
Frankie had left you a flashlight on the side of the bed -- Fortune favors the prepared sweetheart. Good thing too, the power was out, so you had to navigate by the flashlight and you still managed to stub your toe twice.
In the bathroom just next to Frankie’s bedroom you found Fred who, old and half-crippled that he was, managed to hop into the tub and was in the midst of his full-blown panic attacks, shaking like a leaf, belly securely on the floor, eyes big and wide and terrified and just willing the whole thing to end.
But Fred was alone in there...so...where was Frankie?
__________________________________________
“Frankie?”
He jumped a little but it startled you, made you put your hand over your heart and let out a tiny yelp.
“Jesus baby!” He also gave a light scream, “You scared me!”
“Likewise!” You scolded, then turned concerned, “Why are you on the floor?”
He was already getting up but instead you got down with him when a particularly gnarly crash of thunder struck. You couldn’t see in the dark but you felt him smile, a light laugh rumbling his chest, “Afraid of a little ol’ storm?”
“Fred took the bathtub, I just...was looking for you.” You nested under his chin.
He smiled, slung an arm around you, “We don’t have to stay on the floor.”
“Why were you down here?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
You cocked an eyebrow but remembered he couldn’t see it, “Don’t worry about what?”
“You don’t have to stay with me, you can go back to bed. Get comfy.”
You pulled him into the space between your legs, arms around his chest, and you made a little hmm in your throat as your fingers started tracing the tattoo that took up residence on a good portion of his back. You had seen it-- it was hard to miss-- but you hadn’t really talked about it. It was a decent size, between his shoulder blades, and all black and white. It had the thick lines and sweeping stylization of a traditional owl with a sugar skull for a stomach and patterning that mirrored the sugar skull on its own face.
You had seen it. But you had never languished here, tracing it with your fingers, studying the lines like they would reveal some sort of story about Frankie or whisper in your ear a reason that sleep eluded him.
You liked to think of yourself as a focused, involved lover.
Why hadn’t you ever done this before?
Because you two fucked in a fury-- pulling at pants, pushing up skirts. That one time in the car that you still couldn’t think about because it probably had put on quite the show for whoever was around and you couldn’t even think about that but like… a lot of times it was fucking on the couch. He enjoyed peeling your layers off but….
Yeah when you reached for his clothes he was always a little shy.
He had scars.
Shrapnel wounds, bullet wounds, a knife wound. Something he wasn't into talking about near the base of his throat.
And tattoos.
“I’m comfy right here….you?”
He’d been naked with you in bed but it was normally dark as hell and he was a bad sleeper so he was up before you. He hid.
"You don't have to do this."
"Do what?'
"Stay awake with me. Try to...comfort me through it."
He could get like this. Defensive. Like he was trying to pull away before you.
“I am staying here Morales so either get comfortable or pretend to be.”
He snorted at you and leaned down, kissing the top of your bent knee, a warm fleshy cage keeping him contained, and he sighed, breath hot against your skin, “I’m sorry, didn’t mean anything by it.”
He rested his cheek against your knee, then giggled a little as your finger traced a sensitive spot on his back and you leaned forward, kissed his shoulder, “Ticklish?”
“Nah I just have a giggling reflex.”
You bit down on his shoulder and then assaulted both sides of his tickle spot at once and he barked a laugh, going into the fetal position, then pulling some strangely fluid maneuver you attributed to the military and he spun himself around, caught you, and pinned you under him, “Told you, reflex.”
You curled your legs around his hips and he lazily ground into you, your fingers tracing the owl even though they could not see it.
“Can I ask about the owl?”
He let his head fall into your neck and the response was muffled, “You can ask me about anything.”
Lightning lit him up and you saw the softness in his eyes, and then he sighed, “They’re expert hunters. Amazing flyers. Smart. Sensitive too-- great to their little nests. Mate for life, most varieties. The males are smaller most of the time, did you know that? People have no clue why. Usually a trait like that, they figure out why. With owls? Nobody knows. Some people think it made the males more agile hunters because the females don’t leave the nests. Males have to be adaptable to keep food coming back. Some say the females are larger so they don’t starve as quickly if food is scarce, others say it's so they can rip their food into pieces for the babies.”
You nuzzled into him, “You do like strong women don’t you?”
“Uh, you have yet to meet my mom and all her sisters but short form answer, yes.” He returned the gesture to you, “Owls have good hearing and good sight--normally birds only have one. And they have particularly good vision for low light flying-- most birds do not.”
You watched what you could see in his face, he was mostly shadow and odd casts of light from a mix of the storm and the flashlight. He seemed enthralled and you smiled at him, “You really love flying, huh?”
“Oh baby...there’s nothing like it. I’ll take you up, you’ll see.”
“I’m afraid of heights.”
“Me too.”
You shook your head, “No way.”
“Yes way--heights and clouds aren’t the same, sweetheart. Trust me...you’ll get it. I’ll get you up there high as a bird and you’ll see it. Like the world beneath you could dissolve and you’d be left floating on all its most beautiful parts.”
“That sounds lovely.”
He made a happy little humming sound in his throat and your hands rubbed up and down by the owl design again, “Why does it have the skull?”
He stilled a little, rolled back onto his back and all the way over to his side, facing away from you again. It let you see the owl but that hadn’t been why he did it….he did it so he didn’t have to see your face.
You ran a hand down the line of his hip, “Frankie?”
“Todos los Santos...All Saint’s Day...” He offered and you sidled up behind him, kissed his shoulder gently, and kept soothingly running your hand up and down his hip until he expanded and said, “I...uh...in case. I needed help. Finding my way back. Ever.”
He was clumsy with the deeper meaning of his piece, something you could tell he was not practiced reciting to people. You could almost hear him drunkenly brushing it off to the boys Just looks cool man, fuck off. But...this was…
You slowly, sweetly pushed him onto his back and threw your leg over him. His body turned towards you willingly but he kept his head turned.
He was afraid if he died he couldn’t come back.
“Is that a rule? You can get lost after?”
You weren’t going to let him get away with it.
He shrugged, “People do. They get lost...get...forgotten.”
“Worried your mom will forget you?”
He actually managed to snort, “Uh, she would be insulted by the mere idea of the suggestion of such a thing...no it’s more...ah...generational, than that.”
You ran both hands up his chest, felt him inhale, exhale, then he put both hands over yours, “Go on.”
He tugged you closer and leaned up, pushing himself up on his elbows so he didn’t feel like he was shouting, but he wasn’t looking at you yet.
“I, uh….I never….”
He swallowed, leaned in, gave you a soft kiss. You didn’t rush him, didn’t force it to change pace, he kissed you lazily, pulling away when the thunder clashed and whispering, “I never had anyone who cared about me enough to remember me after I was gone. Never...like….thought I would, either. I just… I figured I would get forgotten about. When I got it. Nineteen year old Fish was real profound.”
You cupped his face in your hands, “I would remember you.”
“Hone--”
“No, listen...even…” You felt a mild choking sensation attempting to steal the words from you but it was so dark, and it felt like...two of you, tangled on the kitchen floor, it didn’t feel...real. Almost. Like it was a confession that could be made in the dark, “I… will always love you.”
“Alright Whitney Houston.”
You slapped his shoulder, “Don’t… I…”
He realized you weren’t playing around and he slipped both arms around your waist, drawing you closer, “What?”
“I love you. And I will even if you...don’t feel tha--”
He was shutting you up before you could say another word, kissing you sharply, like he was concerned if he didn’t and you finished that sentence he was condemned to live out its contents. Against you he pulled your legs over his hips and was deepening the kiss when thunder crashed so loudly that the panes of glass in the windows rattled and the doors creaked in their jams, and poor Fred howled.
It broke you two apart. Frankie smiling against your mouth, “I love you too.”
You kissed him quickly but Fred was howling, his claws scraping at the tub, and you warned, “He will go through whatever door is in his way, he’s going to try and dig through a floor or a carpet or hide under the bed.”
Frankie disentangled you two and helped you up, “Let’s go save Freddy.”
Frankie wound up carrying a massive, old, smelly, and terribly scared dog into his bed. The dog cowered between the two humans for the rest of the night, falling only asleep when he could rest his entire massive head on your chest and pant directly into your face.
“I’m sorry for this.” You indicated the dog but Frankie reached around the massive creature and found your hand, winding your fingers in with his and he squeezed it, “It’s alright...let’s all get some sleep, hm?”
“Alright...goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
After a moment you couldn’t help it, “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
He squeezed your hand again.
In the morning you wondered why you felt so light...was it because the chaos of the storm had lifted you and Frankie out of your own little Kansas farmhouses and plopped you squarely in Oz? Or was it just that in the night Fred had rolled over and was now the little spoon to Frankie’s big spoon? You stopped yourself from giggling-- you didn’t want to disturb them. Both were probably exhausted.
You crept out of bed. You liked the layout of Frankie’s house. Found yourself in the kitchen again, it looked different in different light. You made coffee. Crept silently back down the hall, sipping your cup, watching the boys sleep.
You were all sequestered from the world by the storm, safe with one another from all the things that most sharply frightened you...and despite being sequestered, you did not feel alone. Not anymore.
I do not speak Spanish nor am I terribly well versed in the idiosyncracies between Dia de los Muertos in Mexico and the general tradition as it goes in Latin America, I gathered that Todos Los Santos was more correct. I am a giant teddy bear please slide into my asks if I have remotely fucked it up-- it's your culture I'm just dabbling with it for fic aesthetics, you 100% have the better ground.
She was sorry about forsaking him, but could not bring herself to embrace such a maidenly future, bored, unchallenged, sequestered in a castle—however accommodating it might be, however prone to the lighting of fires and the laying out of meals—that offered by way of companionship only a monster obsessed with contemplating his own sins. She fled because life in the beast's castle was more comfortable but not, in its deepest heart, substantially different from the life she'd lived at home.
