former-ghost-of-the-internet

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

Counting Sheep

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: friends to ???, soft! Frankie, insomia mention, anxiety mention, mental health talk, bad inside jokes, slow burn, comfort, unresolved tension

summary: Two insomniacs who met by chance share a late-night coffee, an almost kiss, and the quiet kind of connection that lingers long after the sun comes up.

word count: ~ 3k

Happy Frankie Friday, my loves <3

It was one of those nights where everything felt a little too loud inside your head. You were bone-deep exhausted, but your mind refused to quiet down. It kept looping through every worst-case scenario on repeat, like a broken record you couldn’t turn off.

You blew a few wild strands of hair out of your face and stared at the ceiling, hoping if you just looked long enough, something might change. Spoiler alert: it didn’t.

You tossed and turned, from your back to your stomach, desperate for sleep that wouldn’t come. The digital clock on your nightstand glared back at you — 1:45 a.m., stuck somewhere between too early to be morning and too late to be midnight.

Your eyes were shut, but restlessness clung to you like a shadow.

Then your phone buzzed, the screen flooding the room with light.

Frankie: Tell me how many more sheep do I have to count before I can fall asleep? Because I’m at 633 and still wide awake 🥱

Your lips twitched into an involuntary smile. Typical him.

You: At 633, you’re probably part of the flock by now. Maybe you should stop counting and start naming them? 🤭

A moment later, his reply came, quick and cheeky:

Frankie: Naming sheep sounds like a full-time job. I’m not sure I’m ready for that kind of commitment. But I could try naming one like you. Maybe it’ll help me drift off 😙

You rolled your eyes, but your heart did that little skip you weren’t entirely ready to admit.

You: Smooth. But don’t flatter yourself if you want to sleep, try imagining me kicking you off the couch at 6 a.m

Frankie: Ouch. Harsh, but fair. I’ll take my chances if it means one less sheep to count 🐑

You: Hey, if you fall asleep, you owe me a coffee tomorrow ☕️

Frankie: Deal. But only if you promise to be my personal barista 😉

You laughed, despite the heaviness in your chest.

You: Fine. But don’t expect any gourmet lattes. I’m more of a ‘stir and hope for the best’ kind of barista 😅

Frankie: Perfect. Imperfect coffee for two insomniacs 😴

You smiled again, feeling that little weight inside you ease just a bit, grateful for the quiet company in the middle of the night.

You: You’re good at distracting me, but the noise in my head doesn’t quit so easy. Feels like it’s always just one step ahead, no matter what I do 

Frankie: I get that. Some nights it feels like your own brain is a wild animal you can’t calm down. But you’re not alone in it. I’m right here, in the middle of my own chaos 

You: It’s crazy how much easier it feels just knowing someone else gets it. Like, you don’t have to pretend to be okay…

Frankie: Yeah, no pretending. No masks. Just… two wrecks trying to hold it together. I trust you with the messy parts. You ever feel like you can say that about anyone? 

You: Not really. You’re the first person I haven’t felt like I had to hide behind words with. It’s weird, like we’ve only known each other a little while, but I already trust you more than some people I’ve known for years 🫣

Frankie: Same here. It’s like we found each other in the middle of the chaos. That kind of connection doesn’t come easy 

You paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

You: Maybe… maybe we should stop texting in the middle of the night and actually meet up? I mean, I know it’s late, but there’s that shitty 24-hour coffee place downtown. Could be nice to sit in a real chair instead of my bed 

Frankie: You serious? I was thinking the same thing. Could use real caffeine and a break from my couch jail 🛋️

You: Only catch is you gotta pick me up. I’m not about to haul my exhausted self through the subway at 3 a.m, also I am pretty sure I’d get murdered 🔪

Frankie: Deal. I’ll be your designated driver for the night. No subway for you — I got you covered. Need you alive 😉

You: Okay, don’t expect much tho. Might look like a racoon on drugs. 🦝 But maybe some terrible coffee and even worse pastries can fix our insomnia ? 

Frankie: Good thing I love racoons. Shitty coffee, questionable pastries, and zero judgment. Just two insomniacs trying to catch a break, got it 

—

The city was hushed in that strange 3 a.m. way—dim street lights casting golden pools on the concrete, everything muted except the occasional car sweeping by. You heard the low hum of Frankie’s engine before you saw his headlights.

He pulled up to the curb like it wasn’t the middle of the night, like this wasn’t something a little ridiculous and a little intimate. You tugged the sleeves of your oversized pullover down over your hands and climbed into the passenger seat, the soft interior light flicking on the second you shut the door.

Frankie glanced at you, and you caught it—his expression soft as melted sugar, eyes lingering a moment longer than usual. You knew you looked a mess, hair up in a lazy bun, your favorite pajama pants covered in tiny constellations. But there was no judgment in his gaze. Just that quiet calm he always gave off when you needed it most.

“Nice look,” he murmured, lips twitching up in that boyish grin of his. “Didn’t know I was picking up a raccoon princess.”

You laughed, heat rising to your cheeks. “Royalty and insomnia. We’re full service over here.”

The light above dimmed out, plunging the car into a soft twilight glow from the dash. You realized you were still looking at him—eyes dragging over the slope of his jaw, the worn hoodie stretched across his chest, the way his hands looked so steady on the wheel. Too long. Definitely too long.

He arched his brow without turning his head. “See something you like, or just making sure I’m real?”

Your stomach flipped, but you played it off with a smirk. “Just wondering how you manage to look so annoyingly composed at this hour. Unfair, really.”

Frankie shrugged lightly. “Veteran of the night shift. Plus…” —his tone dropped slightly, just enough to make your breath catch— “kinda different when you’ve got good company.”

You tried to say something, maybe joke back, but it caught in your throat.

So instead, you buckled in.

“Where to, Captain?”

“24-hour coffee stop, as promised,” he said, pulling away from the curb with one hand on the wheel and the other tapping softly to whatever lo-fi track was playing low through the speakers.

You looked out the window, trying not to notice how your whole body had started to relax the moment you got in his car. And trying even harder not to notice how much you didn’t want this night—this feeling—to end.

—

The silence in the car wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t exactly easy either. It was that in-between kind, like both of you were waiting to see who’d crack first.

Outside, the city rolled by—streetlights, shuttered stores, a few late-night wanderers bundled against the cold. Inside, the soft hum of the engine and lo-fi beats filled the space between you, and still neither of you spoke for the first few minutes.

Then Frankie cleared his throat.

“Okay,” he said, glancing at you with that sideways grin, “I gotta ask. Those pajama pants—are we talkin’ a celestial theme because you’re deep and mysterious, or because you were too tired to find the other pair?”

You snorted, grateful for the break in tension. “Excuse you. These pants are a lifestyle choice. I contain multitudes.”

He laughed, that warm, real laugh that made your chest flutter in ways you tried not to examine too closely. “My bad. I should’ve known I was in the presence of intergalactic fashion royalty.”

You smiled at your hands resting in your lap, then glanced at him. “Honestly? I just didn’t want to wear jeans.”

“Strong choice,” he said solemnly. “Jeans at 3 a.m. are a crime.”

Silence settled again after that, but something about it felt softer this time. You watched the glow from passing headlights move across his face. He looked different at night. Or maybe just more himself. Less guarded. Like the world was finally quiet enough for him to breathe.

He glanced over at you again, more tentative this time.

“Hey,” he said, voice quieter now, “can I ask you something kinda weird?”

You turned to him. “We’re on our way to drink bad coffee in our pajamas. I think weird’s fair game.”

He huffed out a laugh, rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Yeah, okay, true.” A beat. “Did you really mean it earlier? About trusting me?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. But then you nodded. “Yeah, I did.”

He nodded too, eyes on the road. “Good. Just… wanted to say same. You’re like. I don’t know. One of the only people I don’t feel like I have to wear the ‘everything’s fine’ face with.”

That pulled something in you—gentle and aching at the same time.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he murmured. “That’s what scares me.”

You turned your head toward the window again, pretending you didn’t hear the weight behind his words.

And then—

“So…” he added, playful again but softer, “if I ever spiral so hard I show up to your place in my own galaxy pajama pants, you won’t judge?”

You cracked a smile. “Only if you promise to wear matching socks. Raccoon royalty standards.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “But no promises. You know I live on the edge.”

—

A little while later, you pulled into the parking lot of the shitty 24-hour coffee shop. The flickering neon “OPEN” sign buzzed above the door like it was fighting for its last breath, and inside, the place was lit with the kind of cheap fluorescence that made everything look a little too honest.

The guy behind the counter didn’t even blink when you walked in. He looked like he’d seen every version of rock bottom come through that door. Just gave the two of you a lazy once-over and gruffed out, “What can I get for you?”

You glanced at Frankie, suddenly realizing—you didn’t actually know how he took his coffee. But you knew him well enough to make an educated guess. No fluff. No syrupy distractions. Just real.

You ordered a black coffee for him, a cappuccino for yourself.

While you waited, Frankie wandered into the sad little store section in the back—magazines, old candy, cheap trinkets. You watched him drift through the narrow aisles, squinting under the flickering lights, his brows knit like he was hunting for something important in a place that didn’t sell much worth finding. He looked entirely out of place, and at the same time, exactly where he needed to be.

You walked over, careful not to crowd him. “Hey,” you said softly, offering the cup. “Got you some coffee.”

He startled slightly, eyes flicking to the cup and then up to yours.

“How’d you know how I like it?” he asked, a smile curling the corner of his mouth.

“Took a wild guess,” you said, smirking. “Tell me if I got it right.”

He took a sip, paused—then raised his eyebrows like you’d just performed a magic trick.

“Are you a witch or something?”

You shook your head. “I wish. Just good at reading people.”

He gave you a look, one that lingered. “Well, guess I’m readable.”

You smiled and tilted your head toward the booth tucked in the corner, cracked plastic seats and all. “Come on, let’s sit.”

You slid into opposite sides, the table wobbling a little when Frankie leaned his elbows on it. Outside, the streetlights painted the windows in tired gold. Inside, the world felt paused—just the two of you, awake in the hour where everything quiets down and nothing pretends anymore.

—

At first, the conversation was all nonsense. You pointed out the absurd headlines in the magazines (“Apparently celery juice now cures loneliness?”), and Frankie lamented the loss of pretzels in the vending machine like it was a national tragedy.

It didn’t take long before you were laughing—real laughter, the kind that shook your shoulders and made you momentarily forget every shadow trailing your thoughts. And every time you laughed, you noticed how Frankie’s eyes softened. How the weight he carried seemed to lift, just a little, like your laughter helped him breathe.

He leaned back, stretching out in the booth, his coffee cup between his hands.

“You know,” he said eventually, glancing at you with a crooked grin, “this is still the weirdest way I’ve ever met someone.”

You mirrored the grin. “What, you don’t usually bond with strangers over mutual insomnia and spiraling anxiety at 3 a.m.?”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, yeah, not usually. But it worked out. I mean… what were the odds? Both of us just lurking in the comments of that anonymous thread about sleep deprivation and somehow ending up here.”

You smiled at the memory. That thread. Some stranger had posted something like "Why does 2:41 a.m. always feel like the loneliest minute in the world?" and the replies were flooded with people sharing half-awake confessions. Your comment had been dry and half-joking—“because 2:42 is booked solid with existential dread”—and his had come right after.

“Alright, you win. Let’s co-host a late-night radio show for the mentally unwell.”

And something about that had made you reply.

“I almost didn’t answer you, you know,” you said, nudging your cup between your hands.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I thought you were either a serial killer or some guy who’d try to impress me with unsolicited guitar covers of ‘Wonderwall.’”

He let out a laugh that startled even him, warm and genuine. “Wow. You really had low expectations.”

“I was being realistic,” you said with a shrug, then added, “but I’m glad I answered.”

Frankie looked at you over the rim of his coffee, his expression softening like you’d just said something important.

“I was real close to deleting everything that night,” you admitted, your voice quieter now, maybe a bit guarded. “Like... just done with people. But your dumb little radio comment? It made me laugh. And that was enough to keep me talking.”

His smile turned gentle, almost boyish. “Guess I’m glad I said something stupid, then.”

You raised your cup to him in a mock-toast. “To dumb jokes in the comments section.”

He clinked his coffee cup lightly against yours. “And to insomnia bringing weirdos together.”

You both smiled, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside that booth had fallen away.

—

The hours slipped by without either of you noticing.

At some point, the coffee went cold, the vending machine buzzed like it was haunted, and the sky outside started to shift—inky black softening into gray, then blue. A quiet kind of light began to creep across the city, brushing over the buildings like a secret. The world was waking up, but inside that booth, it still felt like night. 

You didn’t talk much after that—not because there wasn’t more to say, but because everything that needed to be said was sitting in the air between you. Easy silence, soft glances, a shared kind of tired that wasn’t just from the hour.

Eventually, Frankie stood and stretched with a groan. “Alright, raccoon royalty,” he said, voice low and sleep-rough. “Let’s get you home before the sun fully exposes us to the judging public.”

You smiled, grabbed your empty cup, and followed him out to the car. The seats were cold when you slid in, but his presence warmed the small space fast.

The drive back was quiet again—comfortable, half-drowsy silence. The city looked different now in the early light. Less lonely, less haunted.

When he pulled up outside your place, he didn’t kill the engine right away. Neither of you moved at first.

You turned toward him. “Thanks for the coffee. And the kidnapping.”

He chuckled softly. “Anytime.”

You hesitated, then leaned over the center console, arms wrapping around him in a sleepy, lingering hug. His arms came around you just as gently—no tension, just warmth. Safe.

But when you pulled back, you didn’t go all the way.

You were close, too close. So close in fact that you could smell him, the faint trace of smoke, some cologne from a different day and slight sweat.

The shift in the air was instant, inevitable.

His eyes were on yours, wide and unsure but somehow hopeful. His breath was shallow, yours caught.

You could kiss him. Right now. You could close the space and see what this strange little thing between you really was.

But then your heart stuttered—too fast, too loud—and you panicked.

You blinked, mumbled something that wasn’t even words, and practically scrambled out of the car like it was on fire.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

—

A few days passed. Not a word from either of you about what almost happened.

It was a normal afternoon when your phone buzzed with his name—no late night, no shadows to hide in this time, which somehow made it all the more terrifying. Because in the bright light of day, the almost-kiss felt even more like a mistake. Like you’d nearly ruined the one steady, grounding thing you had right now. The thing that kept you tethered when the floor felt like it might open up and swallow you whole.

Frankie: Can I ask you something?

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering for a moment before you started typing.

You: Sure

There was a pause before he replied.

Frankie: Did I imagine it? The other night in my car. I thought… I don’t know. I thought maybe you wanted to kiss me

Your stomach dropped.

You: I did. I wanted to. I just got scared…

And then, almost immediately, his reply came.

Frankie: I would've loved to kiss you, just so you know.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until you let it out.

The message sat there, glowing quietly on your screen, and your cheeks burned, pulse picking up.

You didn’t know what to say—not yet. But something in your chest ached in the sweetest way, like a door had been cracked open, just enough to let the light in.

thanks for reading 💌

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tags: @speaktothehandpeasants @jolapeno @sxnnimoon @kungfucapslock @felix-enthusiast @bergamote-catsandbooks @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @jolapeno @cuteanimalmama @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze @misstokyo7love @pascalispunkczechia @pasc4lfuzz @cheekychaos28

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

I ain't a wimp when I get writers block I STRESS ABOUT IT FOR A WEEK STRAIGHT, and not to ChatGPT like a coward. I face writers block like a man, laying in bed hours crying.

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

Gremlin.

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

PEDRO PASCAL for the 'Materialists" press shoot

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

PEDRO PASCAL, CHRIS EVANS & DAKOTA JOHNSON Materialists promo | ph. Charlie Clift

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

taste the fashion: a celebration of luxury + creativity - paola buratto caovilla (2001)

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

Prompt number 9 with Din Djarin? I want to be hurt right now and you write him in the best possible way 🫡

Mistakes

character: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

prompt: "I know, I know it hurts." (@promptsbytaurie)

main masterlist • prompt masterlist

You cursed as you turned the corner and lost your footing, stumbling into the alley. You failed to regain your balance, instead tumbling down to the stony ground. It tore at your skin underneath your tunic and pants as you at least tried to roll out of the clumsy maneuver, but it was no use.

As soon as you managed to get back to your feet, you were already pinned down by your three pursuers.

Great. You kept your blaster raised even as your shoulders fell in defeat.

You had tried to tell him you were no good for his crew. You didn't have enough training. Hells, he was still training you in any spare time the two of you had, which wasn't much by any means.

Now, here you were, no doubt about to force him into a bargaining position that would make him choose between you and the kid. Thank the Force you had decided to leave the baby in the Crest for this outing.

"Drop the blaster." The hunter snarled as he gestured with his own blaster to the ground. "Now."

You let out a huff and bent down until you were able to set the blaster onto the ground. You kicked it forward, sending it skidding across the stony surface until it found its place underneath another one of the hunters' boots. You kept your hands lifted in surrender, expecting one or two of them to come and cuff you, but they didn't move.

They were waiting, and they were right to, because he would come. He had already been on his way when you had last commed him.

It didn't take long. You could see the reflection of the alley's dim lighting on his armor before he was even fully in view. Din held his blaster out, but two of the hunters still had theirs trained on you, and the third was aimed at Din.

"This is how it's going to go, Mandalorian." The hunter that had spoken to you sneered and pointed towards Din's blaster. "You're gonna put that blaster down and tell us where the asset is, and we won't shoot and kill your friend here."

One of the hunter's blasters clicked. You closed your eyes and let out a shaky exhale, forcing yourself to be calm. It was your own fault you were in this position, anyway.

"I don't think so."

Din's voice was hard, cold, and dangerous. It was so low that it rumbled through his vocoder, threatening enough to bring a chill to your skin. You wouldn't want to be on the other side of his words.

One of the hunters suddenly shot the ground just beside your foot. You gasped in surprise, jumping at the jarring action before making yourself freeze again.

"Don't think we won't shoot, Mando."

Din's helmet tilted slowly. "Don't think I won't shoot, either."

The hunter chuckled. "You take one shot at us, and two of our own go right through their heart."

Finally, for the first time since appearing in the alley, Din's visor met your gaze. You pleaded with him, even if you didn't know what you were asking for. Of course, the human part of you wanted to be saved, but you were the one who had gotten yourself into this mess. He should protect the kid and leave you to your fate.

Din gave his helmet a subtle shake, as if he had somehow been following along with your own thoughts. You grimaced, but weren't given any more time to get anything else across.

"Where's the asset?"

Din adjusted his grip on his blaster, but otherwise remained perfectly still. He didn't respond, instead assessing the situation further as he let his visor scan over everyone.

"Answer," the hunter also clicked his blaster and pointed it towards you, "the question."

Din growled. "Don't..."

He couldn't even get the rest of his hostile warning out. The hunter's blaster lowered and he fired a clean shot straight at your leg.

The force of it instantly brought you to the ground as you cried out in both shock and pain. The air was also knocked from your lungs as you landed awkwardly, unfortunately unable to move due to the fiery agony that sprouted from your thigh through the rest of your veins like wildfire.

You half-gasped and half-sobbed as a pain like nothing you'd ever felt before consumed you and muffled the rest of the galaxy around you. It took several heartbeats, made audible with the blood rushing in your ears, for you to even consider paying attention to everything else that was going on.

You tried to lift your head and look up, but a gentle hand eased it back down.

"Easy, easy." Din's voice was breathless, but also more gentle than you had ever heard it before. "Breathe. Just breathe."

You winced and still tried to move, despite his reassurance. "But... the hunters..."

"They've been dealt with."

The pure vitriol in Din's words was a stark contrast to the caring way in which he helped you roll out of your awkward positioning on the hard ground. You were soon laid out on your back, looking up only to find his helmet staring back at you with concern that no amount of beskar could ever hide.

"You're safe now."

You wished you could have controlled the pitiful whimpers that left you as more of your adrenaline faded and made room for the pain to blossom even more, but it wasn't something you could control. Your lips trembled as you lifted your fists and lowered them upon your closed eyes.

"I'm sorry." You were still gasping and sobbing as you spoke, something that both pain and shock were no doubt responsible for. "This is my fault. I'm—."

"Don't say that." Din was firm, but no less gentle as he brushed a gloved hand over your head. "That's not true."

He had no time to reassure you further. Din let out a steady exhale, and as you lowered your fists from your face, you saw him giving the alley a quick glance.

"The shots drew attention. We need to leave."

Din looked down to carefully maneuver his arms underneath you, with one steadying your legs as the other supported your back. As soon as he lifted you, your injured leg was jostled, making you cry out as you grasped onto his cowl.

"I know, I know it hurts." Din remained careful even as he swiftly began to move away from the scene. "Just breathe. It'll be over soon."

You closed your eyes and did your best to obey his command. Darkness pulled at the edges of your swimming vision whenever you tried to reopen your eyes, and though you wanted to warn Din that you were falling under, there was no way for you to speak. Your tongue grew too thick for your mouth, and before you knew it, you had succumbed to the darkness wholeheartedly.

When you woke again, you were already on the Crest. You let out a quiet groan as the cargo hold's dim lights burned your eyes that had adjusted to total darkness. It took a few confused seconds for you to remember what had happened, and when you did, you instantly lifted your head from the soft material supporting it and looked around.

Din was nearby, but he was pacing the floor of the hold beside the makeshift cot he had set you upon, his gloved hands pulling tight into fists over and over again with each long stride. You tried to speak to get his attention, but all your dry throat had to offer was a series of coughs.

That at least accomplished your goal of getting Din's attention. He abruptly stopped pacing and instead hurried over to your side. He picked up a canteen and set his other gloved hand on the back of your neck, helping you to drink until you were able to reassure him with a nod.

"Thanks." You steadied yourself with a breath as you sat up fully.

Din's visor never once left you as he gave you a worried once-over. "How do you feel?"

You blinked a few times and honestly assessed your body. The fierce burning agony that had been blossoming from your leg was now reduced to a dull ache, the kind that indicated healing. You nodded at Din.

"Better."

Din let out a visible breath that eased the tension in his armored shoulders. "Good." He hesitated. "It was... they got you good."

You huffed and ran your hand over your head. "Sure, but blacking out from a shot to the leg is still pretty embarrassing."

Din's helmet tilted at you incredulously. "You got shot."

You scoffed. "You get shot every other day."

"I have armor. That's completely different."

"Still. Din..."

You inhaled a breath and willed the exhale to be just as steady, but it wasn't. Your gaze fell to the Crest's floor as you shook your head.

"Something worse could've happened all because I couldn't stay upright, and because I couldn't adapt after the shot went off." You held your arms as if you were trying to make yourself smaller. "I told you that bringing me into your crew was a mistake."

Din didn't respond right away. The silence that hung in the air was tense, and you focused on the way your hands fumbled in your lap as you waited for him to say something. Instead, he moved closer, still remaining silent as his glove brushed against your chin.

Your gaze rose to meet his visor, and Din's grasp on your chin tightened as he held it with his hand. Only then did he speak, his voice so soft that it barely even passed through his vocoder.

"I didn't make a mistake." He gently tugged on your chin until your forehead met the cool beskar of his helmet. "I chose you." His gloved thumb ran over your lips. "You."

You closed your eyes and let out another breath, too overwhelmed by the weight of his honest and vulnerable words to say or do anything else. Din also exhaled, though it was more relieved than anything else.

"All that matters is that you're okay. I couldn't... I wouldn't be able to live with myself if you weren't."

You reopened your eyes at that. Din was never one to admit to anything like that, especially as someone who had seen the worst things the galaxy had to offer—and who had dealt some of the most vicious himself.

"I'm okay." Your voice was light as air as you nodded at him. You gently pulled him closer with your arms wrapped around his neck, resting your head upon his cowl as you kissed a small sliver of his skin. "I'm gonna be okay."

Din just let out another breath, though the weight of his helmet against your head spoke for him. For as responsible as you felt in all this, he felt that weight just as much, if not more. It was a burden you both had to share, lest it consume you whole.

If only he knew how many more blaster bolts you would take if it meant keeping him, and the child in his care, safe—and how much his words of reassurance healed your heart.

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

PEDRO PASCAL as JAVIER PEÑA Narcos (2015-2017) 2.05 "The Enemies of My Enemy" | requested by @gothcsz

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

The Princess Bride (1987) dir. Rob Reiner

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

They should invent a method of asking for reassurance that nobody secretly hates you that doesn't make people secretly hate you.

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

Dakota and Chris FaceTime Pedro

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

Do yourself a favor. Sound up. Enjoy.

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

scribbellz

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

Pls, pls, pls, pls! Can you do a Y/n whose never been in a relationship before and is close with Frankie to the point that they can do cuddles for warmth in one of them is freezing? Y/n is lying on top of Frankie on the coach whilst her fingers are combing through his locks, dosen’t say anything, staring at him. And Frankie knows that something is on their mind. Y/n slowly asks if he thinks that maybe she'll get married to somebody one day, maybe even find love. She's never had anybody look at her before, so can't help but to feel that she isn't good enough for love and anything.

You're enough

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader Summary: While resting on Frankie, you quietly admit your fear of never being loved — and he tenderly assures you that you’re more than enough and always have been. Warnings: slight angst, insecure reader, reassuring Frankie

The old couch creaks slightly under the weight of two bodies, though neither of you move. The blanket draped over the both of you has slipped down a little from your shoulders, but you’re too warm now to care. Not from the fabric — that had barely taken the edge off when you came inside shaking from the cold — but from the solid, steady heat of Frankie beneath you. His body long and relaxed, stretched out across the couch, and yours draped over him, lying fully on top, your cheek resting on his chest.

His arms had come around you the second you’d curled into him. No hesitation, no comment. Just warmth. Just Frankie.

You can feel the slow, unbothered rise and fall of his breathing beneath your ribs, the quiet scratch of his hoodie fabric under your cheek. It’s one of his older ones — soft and worn — and smells faintly like laundry detergent and something a little woodsy. Him. His fingers had rubbed slow circles against your back for a while, your shivering spine slowly relaxing against him, your muscles unwinding, the tension in your jaw unclenching. Now, he just holds you there. Steady. Warm. Home.

Your hand is in his hair.

You don’t remember when that started. Maybe a few minutes ago. Maybe longer. It’s soft, messier today, those dark curls a little mussed from when he’d pulled his baseball cap off. You’d buried your cold hands into the strands at first, needing the heat of his scalp. But now you’re just... playing. Stroking gently through the curls with the pads of your fingers, letting a few twist around your knuckles before you smooth them back.

He hasn’t said a word.

He’s just letting you lie on him, letting you touch him like that, one arm still anchored around your waist, the other draped lazily along your thigh. Like he knows what you need without asking. Like he always does.

And yet…

He knows.

You can feel it. He hasn’t said a word, but you can feel the way his thumb brushes your side just a little more deliberately now, the way his breathing has shifted from relaxed to a quieter sort of attentive. Frankie Morales knows when something is pressing against your chest like a weight. You can’t hide things from someone who’s memorized the shape of your silence.

Your fingers keep moving through his hair. Slow. Gentle. As if it helps you keep the thoughts from pouring out too quickly.

The heat from the moment is sinking deeper into your bones, but that cold ache is still somewhere inside you. Not physical anymore. Something lonelier than that.

He shifts beneath you slightly, just enough to angle his head so he can look at you, but not enough to break the hold around your waist.

You don’t meet his eyes.

You’re still staring at him — but not really. Your gaze is a little distant, lips parted like there’s something on the tip of your tongue, but it’s too heavy to let go.

“…You ever think I’ll get married?”

Your voice is so soft you almost don’t recognize it. Raw around the edges. Like something inside of you has cracked just enough for the question to slip through.

Frankie doesn’t say anything right away. You feel his thumb trace a slower path against your back, patient. Grounding.

You swallow.

“Not like I’m planning it or anything,” you murmur quickly, fingers twitching against his scalp before continuing their absent path through his hair. “I just… I’ve never had anybody look at me like that. Like they’d want me like that. Not once. Not even close.”

You draw in a shallow breath, and your throat feels tight.

“I know I’m not… I’m not exactly the kind of girl people notice. Not the one who turns heads when she walks in a room, or makes guys stumble over themselves to get her attention. I’ve never had someone want me. Or love me. Or even ask me out, not seriously. So sometimes I just… wonder.”

Your voice drops to a whisper.

“If maybe I’m just not the kind of person love happens to.”

Frankie’s fingers press a little more firmly at your back — not hard, not urgent. Just steady. Reassuring. Like he’s anchoring you to this moment, to him, while you tremble your way through it.

You can feel your face burn, ashamed of how childish it must sound. You’re not a teenager anymore. You shouldn’t be crying over this. But it still hurts — that ache of never being seen the way you so desperately wish you could be. Like someone worth choosing. Someone worth loving.

You finally look up at him.

Your fingers are still tangled loosely in his hair, but now your eyes are on his. Really on his. And he’s already watching you.

Not pitying. Not surprised.

Just seeing you.

There’s a quiet sort of gravity to his gaze, those warm brown eyes holding yours like they’re not going to let go. His mouth parts, but he doesn’t rush his words.

“Hey.”

Just that, soft and solid. A sound that grounds you.

Then his hand comes up, slow and careful, the pad of his thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone. Not wiping away a tear — not yet — but as if getting ready to, just in case.

“You’re not the kind of person love happens to,” he repeats slowly, as if tasting the weight of it.

Then, his voice lowers.

“You’re the kind of person someone stays in love with.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re the kind of person someone would fight for. Someone they’d build a life around. I don’t know who told you different, or if it’s just the silence making you believe that, but I need you to hear me right now, okay?”

He shifts just enough to prop himself a little, so your face is closer, the space between you almost nothing.

“There’s nothing wrong with you. Not one thing. You’re not too quiet. You’re not too strange. You’re not invisible. You’re… you. And anyone who doesn’t see what I see when I look at you…” He exhales, voice thick. “They’re just not looking close enough.”

Your chest stings. And when you blink, your eyes are damp. Not crying. Not yet. But close.

His fingers are in your hair now, mirroring you. Brushing slowly through the strands at the back of your head. And when he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

“You’ll get married if you want to. You’ll fall in love. You’ll be loved. I believe that.”

He smiles a little, crooked and real.

“And if they’re lucky… they’ll get to fall asleep with you lying on top of them like this every night.”

You huff something between a laugh and a sob, your forehead pressing gently into his chest, your shoulders trembling.

He doesn’t say anything more. He just holds you.

Your hand finds his hair again and stays there, and his thumb draws lazy, slow circles against your spine like a quiet promise.

And for the first time in a long while, the ache in your chest feels a little less lonely. A little more understood. A little more loved.

Even if he hasn’t said it aloud.

Not yet.

But something in the way he looks at you — the way he always has — makes you start to believe that maybe, just maybe, he already does.

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

things you DO NOT need to be a man

a dick

he/him pronouns

XY chromosomes

things you DO need to be a man

the swiftness of a coursing river

the force of a great typhoon

the strength of a raging fire

the mysteriousness of the dark side of the moon

^this post was brought to you by LGBT^

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To defeat the huns

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

i LIED im not horny for sex. im horny for a soft domestic life. extremely horny for stealing kisses in between cooking dinner. extraordinarily horny for curling up together and watching something funny and talking about our days. off the charts horny for having my hair played with while we snuggle