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Dial Drunk - A Frankie Morales One Shot

Young Frankie x f!reader

Rating: Explicit 18+ minors dni, please read the content warnings on this one 

Word count: 7,700 

Summary: Home has always been the boy next door.

Content: This gets pretty dark so please do read the warning, but I promise there is a happy ending, modern day Triple Frontier AU, (mostly) soft!Frankie, some descriptions of reader but she is meant as a universal (however you would like her to be bub), she has hair and there are outfit references, no age gap, reader & Frankie either teens or early 20’s, specific content warnings: references to neglect/poverty, a parent death, references and consequences of domestic abuse, brief violence, drug and alcohol references, addiction, mega angst. The good stuff? we’ve got flirting, kisses and smut; protected PIV (reader is on the pill but not mentioned), oral (f receiving – this is Frankie, come on), fingering, very light dirty talk, pet names (sugar), Frankie POV. I’ve tried to remove any overt British-isms but some may have slipped in. Please note, we’re always Fleabag coded here. Let me know if I’ve missed anything, I know this one isn’t an easy read.  

A/N: This story just flew right out of me, I was like a woman possessed. When I say I listened to Dial Drunk by Noah Kohan about 40 times? I know it covers some really hard topics and I totally get it if it’s not your thing, but I hope the love reader & Frankie have for each other helps you get through it and I promise a happy, fluffy end for them. They’re best friends, idiots in love but we’re going big on the angst. I don’t normally let my reader be rescued by a man but this Frankie did something to me and I let him save the day. I LOVE HIM. 

HUGE thank you to @pascalssbabyy for letting me run one million ideas past her & being so amazingly supportive, and of course to my America consultant @katareyoudrilling. You two are the dream. Big kisses to @luxurychristmaspudding for being an incredible cheerleader! Dividers by @saradika/@saradika-graphics

Listen to: Dial Drunk by Noah Kahan, specifically the Post Malone version, and also there are references to Homesick as well.

DIAL DRUNK

You know it’s a fucking cliche, but you’re pretty sure you’ve been in love with your best friend since you were eight years old. He’s a fucking idiot. Always has been. But he’s your idiot.

Frankie Morales has been the boy next door for as long as you can remember.

It was never a particularly nice area, but as the years wore on, the yards became unkempt, the children more feral, the parents increasingly absent. By the time you were teenagers you were both used to going to school on empty bellies and nipping into each other’s houses for three minute showers whenever the water at home was shut off, again.

You never spoke about the indignities that came with being dirt poor, of the realities of parents that either removed themselves or were far too present. You hated when you weren’t able to scrub the filth from under your fingernails and he couldn’t stand when his Dad had money for liquor. But there was solace in the silence. Comfort in a shared nightmare that you never spoke into existence with each other.

It made you brittle, old before your time. It made him dangerous, impulsive, but also quick to seek out relief in an easy laugh. When you think of Frankie, it’s often a picture of him laughing, heavenly crinkles around his dark eyes and a single dimple which you loved so much, that pulls into your vision. He always saw it as his mission in life to make you laugh, sought it out at all times as he tried to take you away from the harshness of your shared reality and gift you some joy for a few brief moments.

It was easier when you were ten, got significantly harder once the hormones kicked in at thirteen and then downright near fucking impossible once you both hit eighteen. A lot less to smile about then.

Frankie washed through girlfriends like they were going out of fashion, seemingly a different girl squished between you and him on the bench of his ancient pick-up truck each month. You never bothered to be anything more than polite. The worst offenders were the shiny ones, the prissy ones that turned their noses up at you and treated Frankie like a novelty toy. A bit of rough that would fuck them in the parking-lot, behind the bar which cast only a cursory glance over your fake IDs.

He was almost impossibly handsome, it was stupid. Fully aware of the effect he had on women, he always used it to his advantage. You’d watch with sharp eyes as he gave teachers, social workers and truant officers those big brown eyes on full blast, lifting his cap quickly and smoothing his hair to the side in the way he did when he was nervous. Boy could get away with murder if he wanted.

You were hardly an innocent in it all. Maybe you and Frankie were more alike in that respect than you’d care to admit.

Your penchant was for the football boys, preferably rich and dumb, easy on the eye and light on the conversation. You got what you needed and then hot-footed it the fuck out of there. Something from their parent’s well-stocked liquor cabinet or a packet of smokes ‘borrowed’ on the way out. No one ever complained, let the trash take itself out.

It was a minor miracle you’d both graduated high school with no teenage pregnancies and only two or three suspensions between you. Your teachers couldn’t contain their glee that you were both off their hands, but also still in one piece. You’d bowled down those corridors with a capital T for Trouble; Frankie in his signature blue cap and more than a hint of mischief, you in your regulation black boots and permanent scowl.

The thing about your Frankie is, he’s a fucking idiot, but he’s also smart as hell. There was no fucking way he was going to stay in this no horse town forever.

There were plenty of opportunities over the years for your close friendship to cross over but you both held back, something sacred in the secrets you held together, a thread that ran through your lives that the promise of sex would have cut through and left you both dangling alone. It was all too tightly wound, and you were both too frightened to go it alone.

Until you had no choice, until he decided to up and leave you. The fucker.

“I can’t smoke weed no more Sugar, not if I’m gonna get into the army.”

You are stunned into silence, so you take a long drag of the joint you were supposed to be sharing, sitting together on a ratty blanket in the flatbed of his truck. You let the haze settle into your mind, feel your limbs soften, exhale into the night air. Your eyes are heavy already, your mouth dry. You swallow thickly. Take a sip of the cheap-ass can of beer you hated the taste of but was a necessary evil.

“You not going to say anythin’?”

“What do you want me to say Frankie? You’re abandoning me. Just like every other fucker.”

It would ideally have come out as a hiss, but your voice is too low, drowning in the weed and you can’t hide that you’ve had the air knocked right out of you. Your one constant, deserting you. Mother. Fucker.

You use the pot to blank you to nothingness, let yourself go entirely numb, so that you’re giggling like a fool by the time Frankie has to practically carry you out of the truck and up into your bedroom. The house is empty, cold. The lights won’t turn on so you’re in the dark.

Your feet are like lead; you let Frankie pull your DM’s off and you float back down onto the unmade bed, somewhere between this world and the next. You’re soft and pliant as he sits next to you with his knees firm on the bed, takes off your borrowed, too big, plaid shirt in an effort to make you more comfortable. It switches on something in your addled brain.

Maybe this is the right time. Nothing to lose now.

You undo the top button on your denim cut-offs, wiggle out of them in a way you hope is alluring, eyes closed so you don’t have to meet Frankie’s. You can feel his gaze on you. He’s completely still.

You’re just in a tight white tank and black panties now, but the room feels hot and clammy suddenly. A pulse of anticipation. You can feel it in your cunt, a beat of desire that you normally close your ears to. You open your eyes, taking in the look of confusion on Frankie’s face; you lift your hands up to him to stroke at the beginnings of a patchy beard.

“Sugar, what are you doing?”

“Come on Frankie, can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it?”

Your arms are too heavy, you let them fall back behind your head, a delicious stretch so you know your tank top will ride up, giving him a better view of your soft tummy, letting your chest rise and fall with a gentle desperation you know he can feel.

His hands almost, almost, reach to touch your face, but he leans back on his haunches instead, lets his hands fall to his feet by his side.

“You’re high as hell baby, we gotta stop. This… this ain’t right.”

You try to sit up on your elbows, but the movement brings spots to your eyes, makes you feel dizzy. You flop back down again. Instead, you reach for one of his hands, draw it up to your breast and place it on you; his eyes flick back and forth between your eyes and your tits, feeling your nipple pebble underneath his touch. He can’t help but let his fingers curl around you, the softest pinch that makes a gentle whine escape from your throat.

He licks his lips so slowly, runs his thumb over the wetness but doesn’t take his other hand from you. He’s a little stoned too, but not nearly as gone as you, his eyes still bright. Considering all the implications of what this might mean.

There’s a heat at your core you need him to feel, you’re practically burning for him and he needs to know.

“I want you to touch me Frankie.”

“I…”

Your hands are gentle but firm, you pull him down so he’s lying beside you, hand still at your breast, breath caught in his throat.

You watch lazily as he runs his fingers down your body, traces the outline of your waist and reaches your belly button, before hovering just above where your panties begin. Your breath in, so there’s a visible gap between the material and the softness there calling his name, beckoning him to let go of reason. He’s just a man after all.

You’ve never even kissed and all you can think of is what it would be like to have his tongue on your pussy, feel the heat that’s emanating from him, between your soft thighs. As if reading your thoughts, he dips his head down and places an almost chase kiss on your stomach, letting his tongue taste the salt of your skin for just the briefest of moments. Fuck. Your hands are heavy on him, rubbing against the thickness of his dark hair greedily and willing him to take you in his mouth, fuck away this pain you’re feeling with his tongue, make you forget that he ever mentioned leaving.

His hand cups your still clothed cunt and holds you tight, you swear he must be able to feel you pulsing beneath his touch.

“Fuck, I could come just lookin at you sugar, hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You don’t mean that Frankie. You’ve got with plenty hotter girls.”

He shoots you a hurt look, “You seen yourself Sugar? I gotta practically sit on my hands to stop me reaching out and touching that ass, squeezing those tits. You’re… fuck… prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

His hand is grinding against you now, you keen at the praise, lift your hips to meet his fingers and let the pleasure thrum through you. He lets one finger slip underneath the cotton and you know he’s going to find you soaking wet for him. He drops his face down so it’s an inch from you, works his finger into your wetness and looks deep into your soft, stoned eyes.

“This all for me Sugar?” He brings his fingers to his lips, licks your slick right off before he dives not one, but two, thick digits back into you.

“Fuck yes Frankie. It’s always been you.”

He kisses you then. So easy, it’s almost like you’re in a dream, wrapped in a lightness that both pulls you down to earth and makes everything feel unreal. Part of you wishes you weren’t quite so high but you know, as he pulls at your tongue with his own and sighs heavily at the way you instinctively twist together, that this never would have happened sober. He tastes like your sex and something else you can’t put your finger in. You hope it’s not regret.

His fingers don’t stop moving in you, his thumb now pressing against your clit, a jangle of nerves rushing through your spine and you can feel yourself tightening around his fingers, as he ruts his hips against you for some friction. Something clears in the fog of your mind for a second and you realise you want to feel him, desperately. You remove your hands from deep within his hair and undo the top button on his jeans so you can stuff your hands down his pants. It’s all a bit teenage but then that’s what you are? 19 and on the cusp of something, the precipice of forever.

Frankie’s dick is everything you dreamed; weighty, thick, so hard in anticipation. And already weeping for you. You wipe your thumb over the top and savour the wetness of his pre-cum, letting your hand trail down his length before taking him firmly in your grasp. He groans as you pump him languidly, but you can’t really concentrate; his tongue in your mouth, fingers in your pussy and dick in your hands, is all too much for your scattered mind to handle, it’s too much for your body to comprehend. It pushes you over the edge into bliss and you convulse around his fingers, an ‘oh fuck’ dropping from your lips and you turn your face from his as you feel heat crash into your cheeks from your orgasm.

Your hand is still tight around his cock and you marvel at how hard he is. Frankie stutters beneath you, “Sugar I’m gonna come right in your hand, can I… can I fuck you?”

“Please Frankie, I want to feel you, I need to feel you.”

He whips his top and jeans off and you’re still pulsing from your orgasm as he lines himself up and slowly pushes in the tip.

“Oh shit, you’re so tight Shug. I’m not gonna last a minute.”

“I don’t care Frankie, please.” You’re practically begging him, it feels so good, the burn of him, that it’s him. Frankie. Finally.

Inch by inch he invades your senses, makes you so full of him, moving slowly, experimentally, before his lips brush yours again. He rests his forehead on yours, skin burning with desire, stilled for a heartbeat so you can enjoy the connection of your bodies melted together.

It’s just about now that you realise this isn’t a crush, that you love him. Something that can’t be undone is ripping apart inside you.

As you stare into each other’s eyes, he begins to move in earnest, fucking into you at a pace that verges on desperate, the noises coming from him are wild; he paws at your breasts, nips at your throat and you lift your hips to meet him with each thrust.

“Jesus Christ sugar, I can’t…” He grits his teeth, stops moving so he can yank you down by the hips and have access to where you need him, your pussy stretched so beautifully around him. He uses your own slick against your clit, rubbing in tight, firm, circles, just the right amount of pressure, not daring to move lest he explode. The look on his face, it’s so serious all of a sudden, it takes you by surprise, his desire to bring you pleasure, the care that pours out of him and you almost feel hopeless at how pure he is.

The warmth rises in your belly and you tip into oblivion; it feels like love.

He comes as you tighten around him, unable to stop himself, crashing down against you in a wave of pleasure, lips searching for yours again in the dark. You lie together like this, entwined, hot and sticky, in a state of bliss and grief all at once.

“Shug, I’m gonna miss you so much.”

He still leaves; nothing changes except your whole world.

Four Years Later

Your mom died. Although it was a shock, she fell down the stairs dead drunk and never woke up again, it had felt so inevitable that your brain had taken months to comprehend it was real. A gradual decline you’d been a witness to your whole life. Something you’d been dreading forever and now the worst thing had actually happened.

Frankie sent flowers and you cried in the grocery aisle thinking about him.

Your much older half-brothers came home for the funeral, but they only stayed for one, very raucous and horrendously drunk, night. With your dad nowhere to be found, they said they wanted you to have the house.

It still had a big old mortgage, so it was a burden as well as a blessing, but the three of them promised to send a little bit of money each month and you had your job at the diner and working as a receptionist at the insurance place to keep you ticking over. It was doable and at least your home was still yours. You felt inexplicably tied to it, both the house and the boy that no longer lived next door.

This damn house was how Jason happened. Things kept breaking in it, years of neglect meant it was practically rotting from the ground up, and he was always offering to help out. Inevitably you fell into old patterns from when you used to make-out at parties in high school. It was fine. He was fine. Useful to have around until somehow, he seemed to have moved himself in and things started to change between you.

Slowly, a kind of cruelty crept back into the house. Maybe it was cursed, maybe you were destined to always be haunted by unhappy people searching for meaning at the bottom of a bottle, or the tip of a needle. Jason became your problem and no matter how many times you threw him out, he wormed his way back in with false hope and the usual addict’s playbook of tricks. You hated yourself for it. Although not nearly quite as much as you hated him.

You’ve checked yourself out of the hospital and there’s nothing to drink in the house. You crash about for a few minutes trying to find Jason’s hidden stash, but he’s drunk the house dry. Again. You let out a little cry of frustration.

The locksmith is coming in a few hours and you can’t bear to go through that process again sober. You know you’re not supposed to drink on the painkillers they’ve given you, but who would you fucking be if you didn’t spice up your pain meds with a little whiskey chaser?

You know you don’t have enough cash for a whole bottle without even having to look in your purse. A perfunctory glance and now you’re certain you’re going to have to go to the bar if you’re to drink anything stronger than some piss-weak beer from the 7-Eleven.

Your right arm is in a brace and you wince when you blink, with dark purple and yellowing bruises down one side of your face. It’s so clear to everyone in the bar what’s happened to you and you jut your jaw in anticipation of anyone saying a single word. One functioning arm or not, you will take any fucker down who says anything. You feel like a cornered cat; claws sharp, no fear, only rage and a snarl for anyone in spitting distance.

Darlene behind the bar shifts her weight uncomfortably, ventures a cautious, “Shit honey. You ok?”

“Fine thanks Darlene. I just need a drink, please.”

Darlene’s generous with her measure and a few extra coins fall into your hand as she passes you your change. It takes everything in your willpower not to break down and cry right there.

You grit a ‘thank you’ through watery eyes and take an empty booth to nurse your drink in silence. You thank the lord that no one comes up to you. You’ve set your bruised face to a firm scowl and stare off into nothingness as you let the whiskey warm your blood and take the edge off the anxiety that’s still coursing through your veins.

You’re aware Jason could have killed you this time. Very nearly did. You lift your glass up to your lips with a shaky hand.

That’s why you don’t see Frankie at first, you’re practically in a trance when he spots you and does an immediate double take.

You practically jump out of your skin when he slides into the booth unannounced, pushing another double whiskey over to you.

“What the fuck happened Sugar?”

You haven’t seen him in years.

There’s a new scar across his cheek, his hair longer than it’s been since he went through that phase at 16. You hate that you know that, still know that. Almost curls poking out from under his baseball cap.

“Jesus Christ Frankie, you can’t creep up on someone like that.” You take the drink without acknowledging it, add it to your already swirling system.

“I tried to get your attention Sugar, but you obviously didn’t hear me.”

“Yeah well, probably got a busted ear drum along with everythin’ else.” You shrug your shoulders in forced nonchalance but it fucking stings and you suck in your breath in a way that feels way too dramatic.

“Shit Sugar, what the fuck? This Jason? That son of a bitch, I always hated him.”

“You always hated him?” You are so sharp he needs to watch himself or you’ll cut right through him. “When he was sweet as apple pie in high school and you used to go out on benders with him all night, you hated him then did you? You didn’t know shit Frankie. Don’t tell me I should have known better.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant at all… I just… I… he was never good enough for you? None of them were.”

“Yeah, ‘cause whole armies have walked over me, ey? Dumb slut was bound to end up with a wrong’un, the way she gets through men? Think we’re done here Frankie. I gotta get back for the locksmith, try and keep your old drinking buddy out of my fucking house before he fucking kills me, or I get done on a manslaughter charge.”

You down the drink in one go, suppress the shiver it sends down your aching spine.

“Shug, let me help? Is there anythin’ I can do?”

“Frankie, you don’t even know me anymore? You haven’t been here for four years. Don’t you dare come riding back into town on a white horse thinking you can make anything better. You forgot about me before, I suggest you do the same again.”

You’d stalk out but it hurts too much, so you just kind of limp away in the saddest fashion. Fuck him. Fuck this.

Frankie’s POV

After watching you slink clumsily out of the bar, Frankie stares at your two empty glasses for longer than is sensible. A rush of thoughts chasing him in circles; this was not how he’d thought seeing you again would go. It was a lot more like a Hallmark movie in his head, all soft smiles and whispered ‘I missed you’s’. But your reality had never looked much like a warm focus, made-for-TV, romance. It was sharp and hard, no promise of a happy ending. He knew he was stupid for creating these scenarios in his own head without consulting the one person who would actually have been able to put him right, tell him to stop being such an idiot. You would have set him straight. You did set him straight; no white horse, remember?

Fucking Jason. He did always hate that guy. Although not for the reasons you thought; it was because it made him feel sick to watch Jason touch you. Jason was always a lowlife, although it was hidden under new, well-fitting clothes and shiny, clean hair. Fucking obnoxious. He can still remember that dizzying moment he’d first seen you making out with Jason at a house party all those years ago. He’d actually thrown up, blamed it on the disgusting home-brewed moonshine that was being passed around.

He meant it when he said none of those boys were good enough for you, but Frankie really, truly, still doubts if he is good enough.

These years he’s been away, he’s done things he’s not proud of. He’s not the man he once was, not the boy that you knew so well.

Yet… maybe that’s a good thing. His boys, his new, found-family of Benny, Will and Santi, they lift him up. Help him to believe that he can be something more, could be enough. Santi practically bullied him about it, always asking about you, getting him to pull out his treasured, somewhat tattered photo of you and warning Frankie if he didn’t make a move soon, he was going to have to come visiting.

You deserve so much; Frankie wants so desperately to be the one to give it all to you. This fear of fucking it up, making everything worse rather than creating a space for the life he’s always dreamed of for you both, it’s paralysing.  

So, instead of doing the right thing, swallowing his fear and marching right over to your place, he’s done as his father always did, and hidden himself at the bottom of a bottle. He was only supposed to be nipping into the bar for a glass of Dutch courage before he went to your house to find you, but as with a lot of Frankie’s plans, that’s been thoroughly derailed.

Four drinks in, he’s practically freewheeling by the time he staggers up to the bar, again. Darlene looks less than impressed. 

“Been a long time since we’ve seen you round these parts, Frankie. What brings you home?”

“My Pop’s going into a home, gotta help him move and sort out the house. And… well…” He nods his head to the door, as if you’re still standing there, scowling at him.

Darlene’s got a tight lipped smile, mouth set in a hard line; “Always been unfinished business between you two. I was surprised when you didn’t come home for her Mom’s funeral? Those brothers of hers caused quite the ruckus.”

“I was deployed, Darlene, couldn’t go nowhere.”

She just hmmms in response, pours Frankie one of her special measures, even with him already so unsteady on his feet. People don’t always know the best ways to show love and care.

He’s knee-deep into a nonsense conversation with some of the old timers around the bar, tongue thick with booze, when Jason makes an appearance. Frankie doesn’t doubt that Mommy dearest bailed out her golden boy without a word of reproach and now he’s tipped himself straight back into the nearest bar. Fucking typical. 

Frankie knew he would be mad if he saw Jason, but the force that descends on him, the pure rage that flows through his veins, it takes even him by surprise.

He’s been in plenty of bar fights before, hell, for a while it was the weekend’s regular entertainment. This is different, this is almost like an out of body experience; he’s watching himself as he literally launches himself at Jason. From 0 to 60 in as long as it takes Jason to clock it’s him and let out an, “Oh! Fuck, Frankie! I…” 

Last time he was in a fist fight with Jason they’d both been skinny delinquents, with only youth on their side. Now Frankie’s been honed into a literal fighting machine, whilst Jason has mostly sat on his ass drinking, when he’s not been picking on women half his size. Frankie knows it’s not a fair fight, that any judge would say Frankie attacked without even the slightest provocation, but there’s not a thought in his head as he pummels Jason. He has him pinned to the floor and there’s an awful wet crack when his fist connects with Jason’s jaw.

It takes three of the old boys to haul Frankie off and even then, he tries to go back, tries to twist himself from their grasp and get to the dazed, bleeding motherfucker sprawled out on the floor.

Frankie bellows at him, “You go near her again, I will fucking kill you. Do you understand?”

Slowly he comes back into himself, can hear Darlene shouting his name, see the blue flashing lights through the bar window. He stops struggling against the older men’s grip on his shoulders, lifts his palms up in submission, lets out a harsh, deep sigh.

Might just have made things a bit worse here. He mutters a ‘shit’, when two police officers come sauntering in.

“Frankie Morales! Long-time no see, buddy! Looks like you’ve been catching up with old friends.”

Frankie offers up his hands to Officer Danny with no resistance, his heart rate slowly coming back to normal. He gives Danny a somewhat sheepish smile while the officer handcuffs him. The other cop gives Jason a little poke with his boot to check he’s still breathing; he groans but no one makes a move to help him. There’s obviously very little community concern about Jason’s welfare.

“Officer Danny. Been a while.” 

It’s hammering it down with rain when they enter the darkness of the evening, Frankie is soaked to the bone by the time he’s sat in the back of the cop car. He leans against the cool of the window, wills himself to feel more sober, for his thoughts to become more ordered and not a jumble of regret, shame and fuck, such a longing to see your face.

Doesn’t think twice about giving you as his emergency contact.

Unfortunately, you have the police department number saved in your phone. It’s practically on speed dial. It flashes up and you pick it up almost instantly, still on high alert.

“Sugar, it’s me. Look, I might just have fucked things….”

You hang up.

You can tell by the slur in his voice that Frankie is wasted, and your stomach drops to your knees as you consider what it could be that he’s done. An uneasy feeling washes around your stomach, this is the last fucking thing you need.

The phone rings again. And again. And again.

You ignore it each time; you’re not here to clean up Frankie’s fucking mess. You’re in enough of a nightmare already without having to deal with whatever the fuck it is he’s done this time. You thought his years away would have at least straightened him out; he was supposed to be a military man now, not being picked up stinking drunk from seedy hometown bars.

A different number flashes up this time. Your old school pal, now a police officer, Danny, who you’re pretty sure is stood next to the drunk tank looking directly at a hammered Frankie sat between the usual reprobates.

“Hey hun, you not going to answer your boy Frankie’s call for help?”

“Danny…. He’s not my boy. He’s not my problem, I got enough of my own…” You pause and wait for Danny to fill the silence, but he offers nothing. “Fine. What the fuck did he do?”

“I believe he was defending your honour, hun. We’re going to let him sober up and then chuck him out, I doubt Jason will be pressing charges any time soon. Thought maybe you’d like to come pick your knight in shining armour up in a few hours? Can you drive with your arm?”

“I can drive just fine…. Jesus Christ.” You can’t help it, your lips curl into a smile. A feeling that might be akin to pride creeps under your skin, tingles in your chest. You wish you’d been there to see it. “Is he ok?”

“Jason?”

“No, fuck Jason. I hope he rots. Frankie? He ok?”

“Not a scratch on him.” You hear it in Danny’s voice too. He’s suppressing a grin and you let one take up residence on your face, it stings but it’s worth it. You haven’t let happiness in for months.

“I’ll come get him in a couple hours. Don’t tell him though, let him stew in his own juices for a bit.” You add a very unconvincing, almost too soft, “Fucking idiot.”

Danny’s still laughing at you when you hang up again.

You’re sat in the police station on the hard, purposefully uncomfortable, scratched plastic chairs. You’ve been here far too often recently, the ladies on the front desk give you an overly warm smile and you find yourself glowering at your black boots. Someone you don’t actually know brings Frankie out to you, deposits him on the seat next to you with his stuff in a brown paper bag resting by his feet. He pulls up his cap quickly, flattens his hair in one smooth move. You’re making him nervous.

He starts to speak, but you don’t want to hear it, don’t want to hear anything.

All you want is his arms around you, to be pressed up against his dirty, blood flecked flannel and smell Frankie, your Frankie. The sweat, the drink, the all of him. He envelopes you, holds you as tight as he can bear, so aware of your fragile physical state. You want to live here, want to forever be pressed up against his hard chest, soft belly, firm arms locking you in. You breathe it all in. 

“Sugar, I am so sorry.”

You don’t move away from him, shake your head into his chest, trying to dismiss any thoughts that he may have about needing to be sorry.

Your voice catches in your throat as you look into those beautiful, soulful eyes, “Frankie, I don’t want to die in the house I grew up in.”

“We’re not gonna let that happen, Shug. We’re gonna get you out of here, I promise.”

Suddenly, every phone in the place seems to be ringing at once, you look around at the frenetic energy that has appeared as if from nowhere. Danny is quickly by your side, frown firmly etched into his forehead.

“Hun, we’ve got reports there’s a fire back at your place, jump in my car with me I’ll take you there.” He tuts, “Don’t just sit there Frankie, you’re coming too.”

“Jason?”

“Jason.”

You’re in Frankie’s new home, a six hour drive from your own.

Even with four boys living in this apartment, it’s cleaner than you could ever get your house; it always had a residue of something unsavoury even after you’d scrubbed and scrubbed.

Not that you’ll ever be on your hands and knees trying to scour that kitchen floor ever again. Now it’s gone. Burnt to the fucking ground. Jesus Christ. It still doesn’t feel real.

Frankie’s bed is so, so, soft. After years of never having proper sheets on the bed you just know he’s gone out and got the finest cotton he could find, and you let yourself sink into it. You’re shaking, it must be the adrenaline leaving your body. You’d slept all the way here in the car. That’s what children do apparently, when they’re scared; they find somewhere to sleep, to escape fearsome things they can have no control over. You do feel like a child again, safe with Frankie by your side once more, letting him cocoon you away from the world.

You’re not tired now; on high alert, your nerves are rattling, and you wish, wish, wish you could stop your body from shaking so violently. You close your eyes and feel a few stray tears run down your face.

You hear Frankie come back into the bedroom and crawl slowly up next to you, trying to be as light as possible so as not to disturb you. He kisses the tears away, holds you against him, solid and warm, as you let the ripples of fear continue their travels through you. He nestles into your neck, breathes you in.

“I was always coming back for you Shug. I never should have left you so long, I just always thought I needed a bit more cash, to get myself more sorted, and then I could make everything better.”

“We never needed any money Frankie, why did you think I wanted that? I just needed you.”

“No… thing is Shug, we do need money. We do. Ain’t romantic, but I don’t want what we had before, I wanna keep you safe, keep you warm, have the lights always on if you want them.”

“I always felt safe with you Frankie. Always.”

“Even when we did stupid shit, like stealin’ Mrs Ramirez’s car?” He stutters a laugh, some of the dumbest shit you’d ever done.

You suppress your own laugh, try to keep your mouth set in a firm line. It may be his role in life to make you laugh, but it’s your job to try and maintain the facade that he’s not funny, doesn’t know exactly how to tip you into giggles even when the sky is falling in.

A simple, opportunist joyride in an unlocked car had turned into a nightmare when you’d both realised Mrs Ramirez’s fucking ancient cat was in the basket in the back. You’d practically wet yourself cackling as you’d abandoned the car and Frankie had slunk back to Mrs Ramirez’s house, making up some bullshit about finding Princess Diana (no word of a lie) abandoned on the side of the road. She was so grateful she’d given you both a load of homemade cookies, that you’re pretty sure were chock-full of her medical marijuana. You damn near laughed until you’d cried that evening; stoned out of your heads and replaying the moment you’d both clocked the fucking cat yowling from her basket, again and again.

“Princess fucking Diana.”

You give into the laughter, let your fingers twist into his hair and enjoy the flash of bright white, even teeth, contrasting so beautifully against his golden skin. You’ve missed the sound of Frankie’s laughter so much, but even more? The sound of your laughter melding together, you mirror each other in the pitch and volume, always. Somehow, over the years, it’s become the same laugh.

The chimes of your laughter, they quickly become tears. You try to hide your face in your hands, to stop Frankie seeing you, you feel so pathetic. But he won’t let you hide from him. There are tears in his eyes as well.

“You’re going to stay here with me Sugar.” It’s not a question.

You try and mull it over, find some way to protest, but you can’t land on a single reason not to. The house is gone, but with that will come insurance money and no monthly mortgage payments to make. You’ve never loved your jobs, won’t miss the town gossip that will surely be circulating for months while Jason awaits trial for his part in burning everything to dust.

You could just be here, safe, with Frankie.

“I’m gonna run you a bath. You’re gonna love the tub Shug, it’s enormous. Santi’s got some bubbles I’m gonna steal.”

He washes it all away.

This new beginning is clean, soft, with Frankie right beside you.

You sit in the bath with your knees pulled into your chest, water almost scalding, just how you love it. Frankie is squeezed in behind you, his large frame somehow wrapped around you and his legs must be uncomfortable, but he doesn’t complain, uses a sponge to sop your skin so you’re soaking. In another time it might have been sexy to have your wet skin slippery against each other, but this feels different. Almost ceremonial, there’s a hushed quiet between you.

He’s so gentle, knows you’re still hurting, cleaning every scrap of your skin until it’s practically shining. He uses a jug to wash your hair; you tip your head back and gaze at him, watch the frown etched into that beautiful face, he’s concentrating so hard he doesn’t notice for a few moments, tiniest hint of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, but when your eyes do connect he gives you a wicked grin.

That’s him, that’s your Frankie.

He uses his fingertips to run the shampoo through your locks, rubbing circles into your scalp with a pressure that feels as close to bliss as you can get. He rinses your hair clean and then repeats the process with the conditioner, twisting your hair into a tight coil to remove the excess water. You’re never felt cleaner in your life.

You let yourself lie back against his broad chest, eyes closed, hand now on Frankie’s knee. Thumb running against the dark hairs and hard bone. Frankie’s chin is resting on your shoulder, a tickle of his scruff against you as he lets his hand trail down your left arm, the right is hooked over the side of the bath as you try and not get the brace wet. 

Something flickers, the energy shifts almost imperceptibly; you stretch out your legs and turn your face with the tiniest of movements so that your lips are a breath away from him.

“Shug….” Whatever he was going to say, you kiss it away.

He carries you, wrapped in the softest of towels, back to his bedroom. Peppering kisses all over your face, naked as the day he was born, golden skin still shiny wet. You’re near hysterical in your laughter when you hear Santi exclaim a ‘holy shit Frankie’ as he catches sight of him in the corridor. Frankie just gives him the biggest grin you’ve ever seen and pushes open the bedroom door with his shoulder.

He carries you over the threshold like a newlywed, “Been dreamin’ about your pussy for four years Shug, I hope you’re ready.”

You wrap your arm tighter round his broad shoulders, lean into the shell of his ear, “Take me to bed or lose me forever Frankie.”

The laughter barrels out of you both, a thousand recollections of movie nights tucked up together to keep warm, empty tummies but the glow of the TV keeping you both distracted. No cable, you’d just had to watch whatever was on. Must have seen Top Gun thirty times.

This is you and Frankie; a quilt of memories that holds you together, wrapped in long, hungry summers, holding each other in the dark as a TV flickers, or hiding in the garden while a storm rages in your kitchen. Maybe you’d like to forget some of these squares, sown into your consciousness against your will, a patchwork of the depths of despair you’ve experienced together.

Frankie was always your light in the dark, you were his comfort in the chaos. Now it’s time to make new memories.  

For Frankie, being between your thighs is like an act of worship. He lets out a hum of pleasure that you can feel at your very core as he trails kisses down your tingling flesh, rubbing that fine nose deliberately against your clit and letting his tongue explore you. He’s taking his time, enjoying each pulse of his tongue, each graze of his teeth against the softness of you, swirling your slick with his own spit, so set on his path to make you come undone for him. He flattens his tongue, moving his head quickly from side to side and you buck against him, but he’s pressing you firmly down by the hips, not letting you wiggle free as a stream of almost incoherent obscenities escape your quivering lips.

“Jesus, fuck, Frankie, feels so good, please, please, shit, please, don’t stop.”

He laughs at the merest suggestion and it sends another wave of pleasure through you, you begin to mirror his laughter, but it disappears into the air as a gasp when he pushes two fingers into you, focusing his licks and nips on your clit as he works to find the softest spot in you, curling and pulsing so that you’re a mess of want and ecstasy underneath him.

You prop yourself up on your good elbow so you can watch him under hooded eyes, his eyes are glistening with delight, blown black with desire, pulsing his tongue in time with the rhythm of his fingers. You groan with pleasure, a warmth spiralling up your spine and the fucker actually winks at you as you fall apart.

Bliss on bliss, you clutch at his hair, pulling at it and letting your head roll back as your orgasm washes over you and you throb around his fingers. 

He kisses you deeply, your release wet around his scruff and you can’t get enough, feel desperate for more kisses, more sex, more Frankie. You reach for his hard cock and hook your leg over his thick thigh, dragging him into your heat. Fuck it feels good, it feels right. The stretch is divine, he has to stop kissing you to let out a groan of pleasure, snapping back his hips and diving deep into you again and again.  

You’re both panting by the time he pulls you up onto your knees, holding you tight against his chest across your breasts, fucking up into you from behind as he rubs his fingers against your soaking seam and you card your hand through his hair. He showers you with kisses at your throat, whispers into your ear.

“I fucking love you Sugar.”

“I’ve always loved you Frankie.”

He spills into you as you come around him, a heat that makes you both collapse onto the bed together. Soft, burning, blissful.

You’re sat curled up on Frankie’s lap, watching the three boys attempt to make you a slap-up breakfast around you. It’s absolute chaos. Santi is insistent that he makes the best pancakes ever, throwing you overly flirty glances as he cracks the eggs and promises the most delicious breakfast you’ve ever eaten with a smirk. You’re already half-full from the bacon Benny insisted you try and the protein smoothie Will forced you to drink. They’re shouting at each other, but it feels like music; there’s joy here and you? You already feel a part of it.

Frankie holds you close, arms wrapped around your tummy, skin hot against yours. You let your head lean on his shoulder, taking it all in.

You have never felt more safe; you are protected, warm, belly full and the lights are blazing.

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