mywordhaven

[mywordhaven]

[mywordhaven]

faking it

loose change | previous chapter | chapter index

everyone has a price - even suguru geto

synopsis: with no friends and a wallet full of cash, you concoct one last idea to make your final semester one to remember. paying everyone's favorite pretty playboy to pretend to be your boyfriend to complete your college bucket list before you start the life your family is forcing you into. but you might be buying far more than you bargained for.

pairings: broke!Geto x rich!Reader x dropout!Sukuna

content: mdni, angst and fluff, college au, fake dating, pining, yearning, Geto is a bit of an asshole, reader is VERY awkward lol, sexual harassment (not from either guy), protective sukuna, uncomfortable situations, emotional hurt

art by @aransmind !!

Geto didn't like you, but he was damn good at acting like it.

Worth every penny.

His palm was warm in yours, thick fingers pressing into the back of your hand while your stuff was tucked under his arm. Shoulder and side brushing against you while he leaned down to murmur casual observations in your ear, ignoring the people staring in the halls, whispering between each other like they were baffled someone like him was with someone like you.

How had the composed and considerate Suguru Geto gotten wrapped around your conceited finger?

It hadn't quite been two full weeks, but it felt like longer. It wasn't that you savored every second of him being on the clock with you, but they still stuck with you anyway. Daydreaming about a guy who'd point blank told you he wasn't interested, that only stayed because you paid him to be there. He'd taken you to a movie last weekend, a place to be seen without having to actually speak to each other, but other than that, he'd mostly just been showing up between classes, walking you back to your car at the end of the day or taking the seat next to you to study in the library, only making occasional conversation when other people were around.

Putting on a show of pretending to be the best boyfriend a girl could dream of.

"You still nervous?" He asked, unfairly smooth, his low honeyed voice tempting you to forget the fact he didn't care if you were.

"A little," You admitted, palms clammy enough that you had to pull away, wiping them off on your skirt and about hold it back out before he slung his around your waist instead.

Your body went rigid, awkward in his arms before one of his friends called to him, choking on your own anxiety when suddenly a head of white hair popped out.

You knew who he was.

Who didn't?

Still, you'd never actually shared any classes or held a conversation with him.

"'Sup Suguru?" Gojo grinned, his face faltering for a second before he noticed you next to him, then quickly resuming his friendly facade. He stuck his hand out towards you, smiling big enough you could see his tongue stained blue, a sucker dangling from his lips. "Don't think we've met. Satoru Gojo."

"We have actually," You corrected him, the words slipping out before you could stop them, inwardly cringing and hoping you didn't sound like a bitch while you shook his hand.

Geto's fingers were stiff on your side.

"My parents had dinner with yours last year," You awkwardly added. He'd sat across the table from you texting most of the time, only looking up from his phone to eat his food and slipping out the second he finished his dessert.

"Really?" He cocked his head to the side, squinting at you and searching his brain for the memory then chuckling when he shook his head like he didn't remember. "Sorry, I was probably on something."

"I wish I was," You dryly shrugged, completely serious just for him to laugh and crack a genuine grin.

"They're insufferable, aren't they?" He stepped closer, eyes sliding over you to properly assess you.

And yeah, you weren't Geto's actual girlfriend, but part of you wanted his best friend to like you. To still be seen as a person by him and not just the cash in your purse.

"At least you got to leave," You shrugged, forcing your lips to curl up in a small smile, despite the urge to chew on them. "My parents probably would've strangled me before I could sneak out the door."

They barely even let you live in your own apartment.

"Have you met Suguru's mom yet?" Gojo chirped. You shook your head, sneaking a peek up at him, his dark hair tied up so you could see the clench of his jaw, the discomfort in his face at his family being brought up.

"No, but it's not-"

"You'll love her, she makes the best-" Gojo started rambling, so easily warming up and consequently talking over you.

You shifted on your heels, unsure how to signal to Geto you hadn't intended to lead the conversation this way and that you weren't trying to insert yourself that deeply into his life.

All you thought was maybe people would like you more if he did. That he could open the doors that had been slammed in your face. Your last few months of freedom until your family tried to tie you to someone else you had no say in.

Sometimes though, you couldn't help but wonder if it'd be so bad to be taken care of. For someone to feel obligated to protect you.

"I'm running a little late, but uh, it's nice to meet you. Again," You laughed, short and light, pulling away from Geto and glancing between them.

For a second, you almost tricked yourself into thinking there was the slightest resistance there, that Geto hesitated over releasing you.

"What time do you want me to pick you up tomorrow afternoon?" He asked instead, dark brows furrowed, studying your face like if he looked hard enough, he could find the answer there instead of having to listen to your voice.

"I can't, actually," You reluctantly admitted. "I'm working all day tomorrow."

Which was, well, interesting in itself.

You'd started working as Sukuna's receptionist almost as long as you'd been fake-dating Geto, and you hadn't decided which man was more challenging. You spent almost every night with the former, taking the late shift and helping him close up the shop, working on your assignments when there weren't any clients after you finished everything else he wanted you to do.

You liked feeling needed. Liked the simple work of scheduling appointments and ringing people up, breezing through the list of tasks he asked of you and bringing him a sandwich every day despite him scoffing at you that he hadn't been fucking serious.

At least he only ever scolded you if he had a reason. He was snippy and rude, grumbling at you over small mistakes, sure. But you'd been treated like shit enough times to know when someone meant it. And Sukuna was the kind of guy who wouldn't let anyone else disrespect you even if he'd call you a brat in the same breath.

Geto didn't have to say anything for you to see the question he'd surely be asking if Gojo wasn't there in the arch of his brow and his narrowed stare. You had a job?

"You should come to my party afterwards," Gojo eagerly invited, like he actually wanted you there.

"Yeah?" Your breath hitched, excitement you were a little embarrassed of burning through you.

Your first actual college party. Getting drunk and crawling into bed in a daze. Migraine-inducing music and crowded bodies. Whatever it entailed, you wanted it.

It was also item number one on your list of experiences you were trying to finish before your graduation date.

Some were easier. Skinny dipping. Playing a cheesy drinking game. Getting a piercing.

Others you were less confident in your ability to accomplish.

Losing your virginity without being wasted would probably be a tough one. You'd been kissed before, felt up by a few pricks in private school but had never made it past second base. You weren't delusional enough to think Geto would ever be interested in you like that. But you sorta hoped he'd make you more approachable, that someone else with at least half a heart would give you a chance if they thought he had.

"What time do you get off?" Geto asked, still playing the part of the good boyfriend. The type of guy who'd go out of his way to include you despite this being the first you heard about this party. "Want me to pick you up?"

A group of people started to squeeze by, and you had to step closer so they could get past, one of Geto's hands reflexively grabbing your wrist to tug you back into him. His other waving, a relaxed smirk on his lips, casually cool, but a piece of you was beginning to think all of it was practiced.

"I'll meet you there," You nodded, untangling yourself, the heat of him lingering on your skin even after you put more space between you. "Just text me the address."

"Don't you wanna go in together?" He asked, staring at you with yet another expression you couldn't read.

It was a little ironic, honestly. He sometimes left you with the impression he thought you were vain, stuck in your glass castle and looking down at everyone else. But from where you were standing, he was the one preoccupied with appearances.

"Your girlfriend is cute."

Geto huffed, barely containing his groan, eyes shut as he covered his face with his textbook.

He'd heard it a hundred times the past twenty four hours.

"Yeah?" He wryly replied.

Gojo could have you. Probably would've been happier to pretend to be whatever you wanted. Would've milked it and made a fool out of himself just to please you.

But Gojo didn't need money.

Wasn't that why you asked him instead? You knew Suguru was too broke to say no?

It wasn't like it was a secret he wasn't rich like Gojo. That he actually needed the scholarship he had - unlike you.

"Never seen her at a party before," Gojo commented, scribbling doodles where he was supposed to be taking notes.

"Don't think she's ever been to one," He shrugged.

It was painfully easy to see how eager you were to accept. To accommodate him like you were convinced one wrong word would make Gojo revoke the invitation.

He'd almost forgotten that you and Gojo were of the same breeding stock. Both of you just indulging in him because you could.

Geto knew he shouldn't be bitter about it. That neither of you could control your circumstances any more than he could control his.

But logic had nothing to do with the jealousy gutting him watching you chat with Gojo so casually when you were still so stilted with him.

He could admit some of his assumptions about you were off. You weren't snobby. It was closer to spacey, always distracted, off in your own head than right there next to him. Turning your face while you talked, catching yourself from biting and picking at your manicure every time you were nervous, which was a lot.

There were times where it was almost endearing, when you'd squeeze his hand for reassurance and didn't even realize it, or when you'd get excited over something simple, like him brushing the hair out of your face outside your class.

Still, you were spoiled. Noticably sheltered. Awkward in a blunt sort of way, sharp and rude without meaning to. Saying what you thought regardless of how it'd come out to others.

It wasn't hard to imagine how you'd ended up coming to him just for a human connection.

Which was why he really couldn't believe you had a job.

Was it some kind of internship set up by your parents? Another perk courtesy of nepotism? Or maybe you were an influencer or something?

He wouldn't know.

He'd blocked you on everything a few years ago.

Still, you chose to spend your Saturday working rather than with him.

"I'm a little surprised you started dating someone so close to graduation," Gojo noted, ripping out his sheet of notebook paper and tossing it across the table at him. "Especially her."

"She's different than I thought," He murmured. That much was true.

You weren't who he imagined.

Gojo opened his mouth, probably to mock him some more, but Geto spoke up again. "I bought my plane ticket."

Thanks to you.

"Good," Gojo grinned. "I was getting worried you changed your mind."

"Nah," Geto tried to sound unbothered. "Counting down the days."

"The fuck are you wearing?" Sukuna scoffed the second you pushed open the door, glancing up at his unimpressed scowl as his eyes slid over you.

"Is it too much?" You frowned, looking down at your admittedly short skirt and the low cut of your shirt. It clung to your skin, cleavage pushed up, but it wasn't like you were wearing lingerie. And he did tell you on your second day that he didn't give a shit what you wore - only after you showed up in business casual attire at first. "I'm supposed to go to a party tonight."

Sukuna sucked in his teeth, mouth twitching as he cocked a brow up.

"So you're trying to get laid?" He grumbled, his eyes flickering back down to your breasts like he'd forgotten you had them.

"No," You pouted. "I just thought this was cute."

"Close enough," He shrugged. It didn't sound like a compliment when he was grimacing at you one last time before glancing back over whatever folder he had spread out in front of him.

You walked around to his side of the counter, peeking over at his portfolio. His sketches were detailed, carefully drawn and even more beautiful when it was actually inked. Thick and thin lines expertly crafted and precisely placed, surprisingly nimble for someone who looked like they'd have a heavy hand.

So skilled and somehow still striving to be even better.

"I like that one," You murmured, pointing out a design you hadn't seen before. Probably a custom request.

"You like everything," He rolled his eyes.

"Not true," You protested, pulling it out of his hands and flipping through the pages to find the sketch of an ugly bird someone had paid him a criminal amount of money to permanently ink on their skin last week.

He threw you an annoyed look, pulling out the stool by the counter for you to sit on before grabbing the book and walking back to set up his station.

"You have three clients today," You called out, glancing over the names and times you had written down before digging out the sandwich you'd made him before heading over. He'd never told you how he liked it, only giving you varying nods or grunts of approval you used to judge his preferences.

And maybe it was just your good mood, but you'd added a slice of cake, something you'd stress-baked the night before, sitting pretty with pink icing in a glass container. You put both in the tiny fridge underneath your desk, having to move energy drinks out of the way to make both fit.

You'd fallen into your own routine here, distracting yourself from real life while you worked, answering phone calls and filling up Sukuna's schedule. Usually there was another guy that worked the shop with him to handle walk-ins, but Choso was out, so he had you tape a sign to the door just to comment on your shitty handwriting and re-do it himself.

He didn't take a bite until after his second client was finished, sitting on your stool and watching while you cleaned the windows, doing hand exercises to help his cramping fingers before he snagged the food from the fridge.

"What's this?" Sukuna grunted, scrunching his nose up as he examined the pink cake as if it was something he found in the trash.

"You don't know what cake is?" You huffed back sarcastically, your nerves already starting to fray from overthinking your plans for tonight, constantly glancing back at your outfit and wondering if it was too much after his previous comment.

"Why is it here?" He asked instead, and you could feel those intense eyes burning into your back.

"I made it," You mumbled.

And despite his attitude, he still finished both, only a few crumbs left and even washing the container in the sink after he finished.

He dug some quarters out of his pocket and slotted them into an old vending machine in the waiting room to get you a cold soda in return, setting it on the counter in front of you and popping open the tab before the walking away without a word.

"I can bring more if you liked it," You offered, barely hiding the hint of a smile creeping up on your face. You picked up the drink, taking a slow sip, the carbonation leaving a tingle on your tongue as you stole a peek over your shoulder at him.

He wasn't looking at you anyway, focused on wiping down his chair instead.

The bell attached to the door dinged, and your head snapped back to the front, already plastering on a smile and pushing through the greeting you practiced in the mirror a hundred times at home.

But the guy was the too busy staring at your tits to hear you.

"Um, hi?" You spoke louder, shifting uncomfortably in your seat as you looked over at the time. "You're the three o'clock, right?"

"Uh-huh, sure," He brushed you off, clearly not listening. "You the new girl?"

"I started last week," You muttered, getting more apprehensive the closer he got, stopping only when his belt buckle was pressed against the opposite side of the counter. "I think Sukuna's almost ready for you."

"Yeah? You have a few minutes for me, sweetheart?" He propositioned you, positioning himself to get a peek down your shirt, and you almost gagged at the thick stench of cigarettes when he got too close.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I understand," You played dumb, pretending to scratch an itch on your collarbone just to try and cover up.

"I bet your boss wouldn't notice you taking a bathroom break for a few minutes," He chuckled, reaching over to graze fat fingertips over the back of your other hand, playing with the charms on your bracket before you pulled back. "Could make you feel real good, princess."

You physically recoiled back in repulsion, barely keeping your face straight when suddenly you felt the heavy presence of Sukuna behind you.

You didn't know how much he heard, but he scoffed.

"Get the fuck out of my shop," Sukuna snapped at him.

The guy groaned, already making some excuses and gesturing towards your tits before Sukuna was rounding the corner and grabbing him by the collar to toss him out.

"Asshole," He grunted under his breath when he shut and locked the door, ripping off the note and flipping the sign from open to closed.

"You didn't have to do that," You muttered, but he just waved it away.

"You're my employee."

Yeah, employee.

It was just one of his responsibilities.

You didn't know what to say. Or if he was just waiting for the guy to go or if he'd rather you just start closing up everything else.

Before you could ask, he was moving his keys and phones off his hoodie and tossing the thick bundle of fabric at you.

He didn't have to tell you to put it on before you were pulling it over your head, thankful to feel less vulnerable, less exposed.

It was stupid to think that showing even a sliver of yourself to anyone would bring anything other than trouble.

"I'll give it back Monday," You exhaled, drowning in the warmth of it, the spice in his cologne and the hint of sweetness under it.

"Keep it."

[mywordhaven]

ᴀɴᴅʀᴇᴡ "ᴘᴏᴘᴇ" ᴄᴏᴅʏ ᴘ!ʟɪɴᴋꜱ – ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪ

– ATTN: THERE ARE DIRECT LINKS TO SEXUAL VISUALS BELOW THE CUT. DO NOT OPEN IF AROUND OTHERS/IN A PUBLIC SPACE. +18 CONTENT/MINORS DNI.

˚ 𝜗𝜚 pope fucks you after you confess your love for him.

˚ 𝜗𝜚 you join pope in the shower.

˚ 𝜗𝜚 with his brothers on a job and j out with smurf, pope takes advatage of your time alone.

˚ 𝜗𝜚 pope letting you overstimulate him after he made you cry.

˚ 𝜗𝜚 pope making you squirt.

˚ 𝜗𝜚 you help pope wind down after a wild day.

[mywordhaven]

The Silent Sister ✶ Chapter 1

King!Aemond Targaryen x Septa!Little sister

In an effort to keep her second daughter away from the court's schemes, Alicent sends the young Naerys to Oldtown. Raised to become a Septa, the girl is called back to King's Landing to marry her brother Aemond when he comes out the sole victor of the Dance of the Dragons.

Wordcount: 4,945

Tags: arranged marriage, p. in v. sex, religious themes, mutual yearning, misunderstanding

Masterlist

Chapter 1 ✶ The Veil of Duty

The Throne Room was eerily silent as Naerys stepped through its magnificent doors. She had never thought she would ever cross them again, and yet there she was, stepping under its arch and going down the stone steps that led into the large hall.

It was empty, void of any presence and any noise, and yet she felt as though a shadow was waiting for her as she made her way forward in slow, measured steps. Ahead of her, the Iron Throne loomed, frightening in the tragedy it carried.

Princess Naerys, child of King Viserys and Queen Alicent, their fourth child, born merely a year after the royal couple's second son Aemond, was now their last remaining daughter.

Her mother had sent her to Oldtown was she was barely a girl—she had learned to read and write upon her arrival, her greatest joy since the separation with her mother had been devastating, and her only enjoyment during childhood had been their letters.

As the years passed and she was raised in the Faith of the Seven, she found comfort in the rituals of prayers and good deeds, and the letters became fewer. The Queen had her own troubles to mind, and Naerys made sure to keep them in her prayers. Faith was her calling, as it was the only life she had ever known, and it made perfect sense to her that she would grow up to become a Septa.

It seemed the Gods had had a different plan for her, and as war broke out over the realm, one by one the Stranger came for her siblings, to the point that she became convinced she was next. And yet, as peace finally settled, there was still life in her and she was alone.

Alone, except for one. Her older brother Aemond, barely a year her senior, and now the undisputed King of the Seven Kingdom. From the moment she had learned of his survival, she had been filled with joy and sorrow both, as she knew what it meant for her future.

Naerys, daughter of Viserys and Alicent, would marry her brother Aemond and bring new life to the Targaryen Dynasty.

As the newly crowned king stepped into the Throne Room, he was struck by the sight he found.

It had been nearly a decade and a half since Aemond had set eyes on his younger sister Naerys. The last memory he had of her was that of a little girl dressed in gray, clutching their mother's dress, tears streaking her porcelain cheeks.

Now, she was as still as a statue, wearing the same dull shade of gray and a veil over her white locks, on her knees in front of the throne. Hands crossed over her lap, her head bowed, she seemed deep in prayer as her Sworn Shield was guarding her from an appropriate distance.

"Sister," Aemond called after a minute of silent observation, and he watched as her lashes fluttered before she raised her gaze to him.

Her eyes were clear, so much so that he felt he could gaze into her very soul as she rose gracefully. She took a few quiet steps towards him, and he met her halfway.

To his surprise, she lowered herself into a deep curtsy, her knee grazing the floor , and she held the position for a long second before standing again. She waited another heartbeat before tilting her chin and looking up at him.

Aemond was very much like he had been described to her on the way from Oldtown; tall and lean, with an elegance to the way he held himself, his arms crossed behind his back.

“My King,” Naerys greeted in a melodic tone that flowed through the silence hall, making Aemond shiver.

Despite his grief and his fury, he felt the tension in his bones loosen slightly at the sight of her and the sound of her voice; she was lovely and full of grace. She would make a fine queen, he decided.

Deep inside the pit of rage and sorrow that had taken residence behind his rib, it seemed part of him recognized her as kin even though they were strangers to one another, and it brought him a small amount of comfort.

“There is no need for such formality, Naerys,” he answered, his voice smooth like silk, and it drew a shy smile onto her face. Her eyes settled onto his properly and she nodded timidly. “You may call me Aemond,” he instructed and her smile grew.

“Of course, Aemond,” she replied with warmth and took his arm gratefully as he offered it.

Her guard followed them as he guided her through the hallways and stairways, walking her to her chambers in slow steps, accommodating her short strides and her distracted curiosity as she looked around.

“It must feel like an eternity since you stepped foot in these halls,” he remarked.

“To be honest, I barely remember it,” she confessed, and it made it hard to swallow for a moment.

He allowed her to stop as they arrived upon the first floor and she let go of his arm, walking to the railing of the round staircase and looking down, then up where the smoke of the chandeliers was rising in the air. It was as though she was walking these halls for the first time, although it had been the place of her birth, of her first steps and first words, of her first name days.

As she turned again to face him, Aemond hesitated, finding himself at a loss for words. He was weary these days, the end of the war bringing less peace than he'd have thought, and being back within the red brick walls was less of a comfort than he had anticipated.

The comfort of home was no more, and so had vanished the comfort of family—except for her, if she would allow it. She looked more of a Septa than a young woman, an austere look to her slender face, and Aemond felt guilty as having ordered her to be pulled from this life. She had still been a novice, barely of age, but her duty to the Crown came before her duty to the Starry Sept.

As the doors of her new chambers closed slowly behind her, Aemond's face disappearing behind the dark wood, Naerys released the breath she had been holding.

She reached for her chest, flattening her hand on it in an effort to calm her beating heart. 

Looking around the chambers she would now call home, she recognized nothing; not the tapestries that hid the rugged stones, not the rugs that muted her steps, not the carefully arranged furniture.

It was made to be welcoming, as the bed was facing a seating area warmed by a large hearth where a blazing fire cast a glow upon the whole room, and tucked below an arch, a dining table was facing a large window where Blackwater Bay gleamed in the afternoon sun.

The colors were muted but the rooms were tidy and clean, and her trunk was waiting for her at the foot of the bed. Naerys sat upon it and toed off her shoes, heart in her throat—she closed her eyes as she settled her bare feet on the cold stones.

In the silence of her chambers, she prayed in murmurs, losing herself in the comforts of her Faith.

Naerys held onto her certainties all through the fourteen days that led to her wedding. When the day came, she was wed to Aemond according to the plans that had been discussed without her knowledge and the arrangements made without her accord. 

Barely a fortnight after her arrival in the Red Keep, Naerys went from estranged siblings to husband and wife, and their whole world narrowed to the bond that now tied them together.

The ceremony was short and simple, but still tears rose to her eyes as she had recited the ancient vows. Her education had been strict and an emphasis on High Valyrian had been made, despite the fate that seemingly awaited her. Even if she had been raised to become a woman of the Faith, she still remained a Targaryen and carried their heritage in her blood.

"You seem preoccupied," Aemond remarked, offering her a cup of a rich, dark wine that permeated her senses for a second as she dipped her head to smell it.

"I have hardly seen you since coming here," she replied, eyes lowered to the deep pool of red.

"Do you lack company?"

"No," she answered simply. "I am accustomed to silence and loneliness, they are agreeable companions to me."

"What troubles you so, then?"

"As I said, I have hardly seen you and—" she trailed, unsure how to voice her concerns.

She knew it to be the lot of many ladies and young wives across the realm, to share little contact with their intended before the wedding; she should have felt fortunate that she knew her husband at all, that he was her brother and not some older lord who had bought her from her father through a handsome dowry.

"I thought it best to allow you space and peace,” Aemond answered, and his face was so contrite she could not find the words to rectify the misunderstanding. “I apologize if I offended you. I will not neglect you again."

"You did not,” she assured, but once again she lacked the words to reassure her husband. Perhaps the warmth of her embrace would serve this purpose better, and in that spirit she reached out to him, curling a hand around his forearm.

Aemond looked down at the touch and she allowed herself a simple caress, her thumb drawing soft circles on the thick material of his doublet. She wondered if he could feel it at all, but she supposed the intent mattered just as much.

"I realize you are as much a stranger to me as I am to you," Aemond said as he looked down, almost intrigued by the gentle gesture she was bestowing upon him. Her wrists and hands were small, thin, almost fragile as a bird.

"Indeed," she answered, her eyes still looking down at her own hand, as though the point of contact was the only thing anchoring her to the present. She appeared lost in thought, no doubt lost in a yearning for the past, or a future she would never have.

"I am sorry fate has brought you here and robbed you of the life you had been destined to," he said sincerely, but there was no reaction on her beautiful face; no smile, no tear, anger.

"The Gods deemed it so, and I go where they lead me," she replied, and Aemond was struck by her certainty. She seemed to find, if not comfort, purpose in her faith.

He sometimes wished he shared that same faith, those same beliefs, but the war had robbed him of every certainty he ever held, along with all the people he had been devoted to. Part of him knew it was his punishment for shedding the first blood—and now he suspected the second aspect of his torture would be to watch his sister be dragged down to his level.

"It is my understanding that you were betrothed to a daughter of house Baratheon, during the war?" she inquired as her hand slid down his arm and grazed his wrist.

"The betrothal could not be honored. Our house needs stronger blood," he replied through his shame.

"Indeed," she trailed again, then her eyes finally rose to his face again, and the neutral expression she always wore only served to push Aemond further into his misfortune.

She was beautiful and graceful, and for that he should have considered himself fortunate, but instead a dull ache that he knew to be the premise of self-loathing was filling his stomach at the thought of defiling such a pure creature.

Or perhaps it was shame at the pleasure he knew he would take in it.

"I am not sorry fate has brought me here," she said with a small smile, a clumsy attempt at reaching out to him with her words, but she instantly saw that they did not have the effect she hoped. "I have often been told that a dragon alone in the world is a terrible thing."

Aemond grew even more austere, his mouth curling unhappily as he brought his cup to his lips again, and Naerys felt her throat tighten again. "I am aware I am not the dragon queen you would have surely wished for yourself, but I will serve you well, you can rest assured of it,” she tried again, but Aemond didn’t answer her smile. Instead, he looked even more forlorn.

"Were you taught about wifely duties?" he asked almost curtly, finishing his wine in one gulp.

"I was taught how to become a teacher for noble ladies. I know what a lady's duties to her husband are," she replied just as curtly, and Aemond felt he had offended her with his question. As she had said, it seemed she preferred silence and tranquility.

As he put his cup down, she mirrored him, and without being prompted, she walked to the nearest dresser and reached up to tug at the pins keeping her veil in place. Her back to him, she unveiled her white hair, which had been styled in a simple braid that reached past her waist.

“Would you help me with my dress?” she asked over her shoulder, and Aemond stepped forward silently.

Without a word, he lifted her braid over her shoulder, and as she caught it, their fingers grazed. He reached for the clasp at the back of her collar, then popped the tight row of buttons until he came to the laces at the middle of her back.

As she reached back and took over, her slim fingers sliding through the laces with practiced ease as he turned his attention to his own clothes—the buckles were loud in the otherwise silent room.

Aemond turned as she reached down to remove her shoes and went to drape his doublet over the back of a chair and unlace his own boots. A steadying breath leaving his parted lips, he found his bare feet rooted to the cold stones as he turned to find Naerys entirely bare.

Standing in the nest of her unlaced clothes, she had draped her arms over her chest in shyness, baring the rest of her body to his gaze. Aemond licked his lip as he looked his fill, unable to tear his gaze off her pale skin, smooth porcelain stretched over thin bones, freckled with dark spots that he wished to follow with his mouth.

His loins stirred and the loneliness of the last two years of war made itself known.

Naerys' belly quivered under his intense gaze, and she swallowed nervously. She hoped Aemond was pleased with her appearance, although she couldn’t bring herself to reveal her breasts.

She shivered and tightened her ankles and knees, hoping to hide as much of her privacy as she could. She had never been taught to care for her body in a way that would keep it pleasing to a husband; it was a vessel for her soul, for her faith, and no more.

Now it had to be a cradle of pleasure, a source of relief for her husband's passions.

She knew it lacked the curves men enjoyed, as she was not one to indulge in luxurious foods, but in only enough to keep her body healthy. Her breasts were small and her hips bony, but she hoped the Gods would have granted her feminine parts pleasing to her husband between her thin thighs.

"You do not have to bare yourself to me," Aemond reassured her as he saw her tremble, aware that his tone was much colder than he had wished to make it, but he could not contain his own tension—he did not want to frighten her with his eagerness, but he was already straining against his trousers. "You may keep your shift."

"Of course," Naerys answered, pink staining her cheeks; she quickly reached down and pulled it back over her body, crossing her arms over her chest again. "How should—" she asked hurriedly, her voice quiet as a whisper.

"You may sit at the foot of the bed, and lay back," Aemond instructed as he unlaced his trousers and she obeyed, heart beating wildly in her chest. 

The bed was soft but a bit cold under her as she laid on her back, her breathing deepening as she heard him walk towards her and she closed her eyes, her cheeks flushing. "I will guide you," Aemond said, his voice slightly strangled, and she nodded feebly, grateful for his offer. "You need only be patient, and it will be over soon."

"Thank you," she whispered, inhaling deeply as she felt Aemond part her knees and step between them. She shivered as rough fabric and soft flesh touched the inside of her thighs and one of her hands gripped the sheets at her side.

Naerys focused on her breathing and recited prayers to the Mother in her head, asking for her guidance and blessing as Aemond pressed against her—warm flesh came to rest against her, at her most intimate place and her mouth dropped in a silent gasp. She opened her eyes as she felt the bed dip and Aemond’s silky hair dropped around her like a veil. 

He pressed himself closer and Naerys' thighs instinctively rose over his waist. The feeling of being in the cradle of her hips made him throb, and he hummed apologetically when she startled as his fingers grazed the inside of her thigh. She trembled slightly as he touched her most intimate place, searching with his fingers for her entrance. 

He found it with surprising ease and she wondered how many women he had bedded before, how many had flushed and sighed in his embrace—she suddenly imagined a dark-haired woman, and her heart rose in her throat as she thought of the possibility that his betrothal with Lady Baratheon had been consummated. 

She shook as he followed the crease between her folds and gently parted them—she never touched herself there, aware it was a place of sin and suffering, a place where men came to lose themselves, and a place where children came to the world in great screams.  

Aemond grazed his fingers up and down her folds tentatively and Naerys gasped as he pressed gently at the top where they met and where a firm nub laid hidden beneath the thin skin. She angled her hips away, flushing in embarrassment as she shivered, oversensitive; she knew what pleasures her flower could bring, and that it could lead to great passion, but she was his wife and not a common girl brought to his bed to partake in sin. 

Naerys pressed her lips together, closing her eyes again and hoping Aemond would not bring her down this path, debasing them both. She thanked the Mother as he abandoned his endeavor, his name passing her lips in a whisper when she felt a great pressure then a burning stretched as he pushed slowly inside. 

Aemond groaned as she was tight and tense, and for a second he thought he wouldn't be able to enter her. He took a deep breath and used a bit more force, pushing his hips harder and eventually the pressure eased; he met a small resistance but he pressed on, and after a few shallow thrusts, he was buried completely inside of her. 

Her breathing had turned erratic, quiet noises of distress coming from her, and her hand was fisted in the sheets tightly. "I would not hurt you," Aemond murmured, one of his hands coming to rest on hers.

"You're not hurting me," she lied, hoping to make him comfortable and spur him on. "It is merely... new."

She focused on controlling her breathing again, gripping her shift at her hip as he started thrusting into her, bringing his hips down purposefully but gently, mindful not to jostle her too much.

She was almost overwhelmingly tight around him and she made a choked noise every time he thrusted into her; he closed his eye and dropped his head in the crook of her neck, focusing on the tightness and pressure at the pit of his stomach. 

To his shame, his need for release took over and he lost himself in the sensation, sparks of heat blooming in his abdomen, pressure building at the base of his spine—it would not take long, he knew. A familiar pull made itself known in the pit of his stomach, like a hook tugging at his lower abdomen, signaling the first waves that lead toward release.

His head spun with it and as her erratic breathing echoed in his ear and he held on to his composure for as long as he could, but the tight drag of her body around him proved to be too much quite quickly. 

He warned her with a groan intended to be her name, and within a few seconds he spilled inside her with a quiet grunt followed by low hums as each wave of ecstasy passed through him. 

It had happened so suddenly and had been so brief, Naerys could hardly comprehend what had taken place. Her core was throbbing in pain and she felt strangely empty—she would have thought the loss of her virginity would have been a revelation of some sort, or a tragedy, but instead it had been almost unnoticeable, save for the pain.

Quiet settled around them as Aemond focused on retaining his breath, then pushed himself up, slowly pulling out of her body, making her wince.

"The Maester will have brought tea and an ointment for the pain to your chambers," Aemond said as he pushed himself up from the bed, lacing his trousers with quick, practiced movements.

Naerys sat up almost too quickly and her head spun. She pulled her shift back over her legs, tears burning her eyes, although she could not say why.

"May I take my leave?" she pleaded, great sobs making her chest tremble and her throat constrict, but she would not allow herself to cry in front of her husband.

The wife to a king needed to be noble and strong, and she would not shame him with such weakness. To her relief, Aemond nodded his ascent and she forced herself to walk to the door in measured steps, the stones almost freezing under her feet.

"Good night, your grace," she murmured before she opened the door, and as she stepped into the cold hallway, she was relieved to find a young maid waiting with a robe for her.

Upon arriving in her chambers, she collapsed to her knees in front of her bed, and joining her hand in fervent prayer, let the storm of her anguish wrack her body.

As the days passed, the morose atmosphere in the Red Keep did not lift as the lords and councilors had hoped. Instead, a heavy fog seemed to have settled over the hallways, and where the young Naerys and her ladies went, no ray of sun appeared.

"How are the queen's moods?" Tyland Lannister inquired one morning as the Small Council discussed matters of the Targaryen dynasty. They had received word that Baela Velaryon had married to a cousin of hers, and they expected the good news that a child with pure Valyrian blood would be born within the next two years.

"They are stable and she shows no outward sign of distress," the man said politely.

"She still wears a veil and walks the ground as though she is some kind of spirit haunting them," the lion lord said with a mocking edge to his tone.

"Let us not forget that as of a few moons ago, she was a Septa."

"A novice," another councilor corrected.

"A woman of the faith, nonetheless," the Maester insisted, but before he could add anything more to his defense of the queen, the king walked through the large doors of the Council Chambers.

Although they all rose and greeted him with respect, Aemond did not answer and instead walked to his chair and sat down solemnly, his thoughts preoccupied with what his men surely had been discussing.

"Is the Queen settling well?" he inquired, eager to close the topic and move on to graver matters. The lords watched him in silence for a moment, no doubt thinking that as the king, he ought to be privy to his wife's mood.

The obvious failure that was the few days of his marriage burned the back of his throat and he waited for the answer.

"She seems to be struggling," Tyland finally said, almost hesitantly.

"Might I suggest a course of action that will certainly help her grace settle in her new role and environment?" Lord Royce Caron proposed.

"I'm listening," Aemond said.

"The Queen's household is currently composed of Septas. It is my certainty that replacing them with ladies of the court, wives or daughters of prominent lords of the kingdom would lift the young queen's spirits and assist her in her duties.

"See it done," Aemond ordered swiftly and the old lord nodded, and the whole Council seemed relieved that the matter had been resolved, and they could move on to more concrete matters, such as finances.

As the day progressed, Aemond's own mood did not lift. He was still preoccupied by Naerys. From what was reported to him, it seemed the young woman spent her days in prayer and had no interest in duties she could attend to.

Aemond was still struck by the way she had left his chambers hurriedly after the consummation of their union—he had not expected overt warmth or interest in closeness, but the sight of her on the verge of tears had anchored his self-loathing.

Therefore, he had not called upon her again despite the loneliness that tugged at his chest and the deep wish he had of being pleasing to her. She was his wife, and his first duty as husband was ensuring the flourishing of their marriage, a task he seemed particularly unsuited for.

As the hour of supper came to a close and the young king was readying himself for rest, hoping to lose himself in a book of histories before slumber eventually took over his weary bones, a quiet knock was heard at his door.

He called the prospector inside, hoping it was not a lord's squire informing him of unrest or a political matter that required his attention as it had happened in the recent past.

But instead it was the subject of his thoughts that walked through the door, dressed in a pale blue robe, a polite greeting on her lips.

“Naerys,” he said in surprise. “Is there anything the matter?”

“No,” she replied tentatively, crossing her wrists in front of her. “You haven’t called on me once since we wed, but it was my understanding that—”

Her breath lingered in the air as she searched for his words, but Aemond had understood what her intent was. To his shame, pressure tugged between his legs and the day's tensions made themselves known. In that instant, the book seemed like a poor solution for his preoccupied mind, and the softness of her skin called to him.

“I was wondering if you required my presence,” she said with her eyes lowered. “In your bed.”

Heat crawled up his spine and he shivered, arousal curling in the pit of his stomach. He longed for a familiar touch, for proximity with his own blood, but instead of a sister where he could find solace, he was faced with a young woman that bore him no affection nor interest.

Yet he knew what his duty was, and the reason why she had been called to the capital. It was best to get her with child as soon as possible, to spare her the pain and discomfort.

“It’s considerate of you. You may lie on the bed," Aemond instructed, and she repeated the motions she had done on the night of their wedding.

She contemplated the ceiling as Aemond laid atop her, the smell of musk and dragon permeating her sense, and she tried to find comfort in prayers as the act took place.

As she walked back to her rooms after the act was completed, she tried to make sense of her hardships. She had lost her purpose, but holding on to her faith she had hoped this marriage would bring forth another purpose, one that would fill her with pride and joy. Instead she was more alone than ever, bound to a man that had no interest in her.

She was his blood, but nothing more.

In his own chambers, Aemond laid across the sheets that had been soiled by their duty and he wondered whether he had made the right choice in selecting her as his bride. Longing tugged at his chest and so did shame and pain—which he saw reflected on her own face every time he laid eyes on her.

Naerys was seemingly too pious to resent him, but he would still allow her as much quiet and peace as he could.

Perhaps it was the punishment for his sins, to have shackled himself in a marriage where he would never find love and passion—but he would rather spend the rest of his life making amends for his crimes in utter loneliness than see her suffer his company.

Dividers by @saradika

Aemond taglist: @darkenchantress @bellameshipper @itscatlien-blog @yentroucnagol @castellomargot @cardi-bre91 @avengingangelfanfic @malfoytargaryen @mari0302 @iamfandomnerd @diosademuerte @hb8301 @serrhaewinn @mariannnavao @pasta-rask @svtansdaddyx @its-sam-allgood @amarillys92 @i-mushi @namgification @anditsmywholeheart @dahlias-and-marigolds @valleyof-goldenlilies @elleclairez @esmeralda-tupi @merovingianprincess @marvelita85 @partypoison00 @nina2697 @helaenaluvr @llearlert @666cherrybby666 @m1tzifa1ry @girlwith-thepearlearring @llearlert @greenowlfactif @babyblue711 @moonmaiden1996 @yentroucnagol @sunphyre @drakonflames @solisarium @mysteris-things @aemondsbabygirl @toodlesxcuddles @xxxkat3xxx

[mywordhaven]

Hey everyone!!!

Thank you so much for the support for the last 3 chapters of my first ever fic!!! Its been an awesome journey so far and I am glad people are enjoying it !!! I wanted to let you all know that the 4th chapter should be up by Sunday and that I will be transferring my fic to a brand new blog!!!! I've been having trouble with this one as it's a secondary one, so I decided to change it!!! Also I wanted my new blog to link with my Ao3.

You can now find me and the story (and all future stories as I've got a couple in the work) at:

I will be reposting all of the chapters and am also finishing up a masterlist so that'll also be up later tomorrow. I will be closing down this blog (MywordHaven) by Next Friday the 23rd.

[mywordhaven]

The Road Ahead - ch 3 | Frankie Morales x female reader

Previous Chapter

Throughout most of your married life, you've dedicated yourself to waiting for Frankie. After each deployment, you patiently anticipated his return home, longing for the moment when he would be by your side once again. You yearned for him to open up to you during those nights when nightmares consumed his thoughts, hoping that he would find solace in sharing his pain with you. And as his addiction spiralled out of control, you hoped that he would recognize his problem and seek help. Yet, despite your countless protests and pleas, you now find yourself waiting for him once more as he ventures off to Columbia doing God knows what.

But this time is the last. Resolved, you make a solemn promise to yourself: You will never wait for Frankie again.

Rating: M for Mature (18 + / no minors allowed)

Word Count: 6.9K (wut)

Warnings: Applicable to the entire fic / PTSD, drug use and addiction, postpartum depression, abusive familial relationships, self-hatred, hard relationship to food, unhealthy coping mechanism, explicit sexual content, violence, mentions of suicidal thoughts, super angsty guys (more warnings will be added if necessary).

Summary: Everything comes to a head after Tom's memorial.

Notes: Hey everyone, thank you so much for the comments, likes and reblogs! I am really happy that this little story I had in the back of my mind is resonating with people! Also, sorry for the delay for this chapter, I got busy with dealines at work and essays to write for my summer semester at Uni. Hope you all love this one, these is some smut in this chapter but I've marked it down with asterixis so if it's not your vibe, feel free to skip it! Hope you all enjoy!!!!!

Ao3 link

Tangled Truths

The early morning sunlight pierces through the window, its bright rays assaulting your eyes and causing you to instinctively furrow your brow. You raise your arm to shield your eyes from the direct light. As your gaze slowly adjusts, you sit up and rest against the headboard. Automatically, you turn to the nearby clock which displays 8:30 am. Christ, you haven’t slept this late in forever!

A surge of adrenaline courses through you as the realization hits you like a bolt of lightning. 8:30 am!?! With no time to spare, you spring from the cozy confines of your bed, your feet carrying you quickly toward the bassinet where Ella sleeps. Yet, as you reach the crib, your heart sinks. The crib is empty. Panic seizes you, causing your hands to start trembling.

Frantically, you cast your gaze around the room and seize the robe laying on the back of the rocking chair. You hastily drape it over your shoulders and make a dash towards the door. Your sprint comes to an abrupt halt as you catch a glimpse of movement emanating from the kitchen. You cautiously approach the corridor, peering into the open space kitchen. And there, right before your eyes is Frankie effortlessly holding Ella in one arm while expertly flipping pancakes with his free hand.

You release a breath, the weight of recent events hanging heavy in the air. That’s right, Frankie had returned just three days ago you think to yourself, hardly believing it still. It still feels surreal to see him moving about the house as if nothing had happened. Whatever transpired during his absence, Frankie kept it tightly locked away within himself. And while you knew about Tom's death, as that would have been rather hard to hide, the rest of the story remained veiled in mystery.

Frankie's usual tendency for secrecy seemed amplified this time around, even compared to his previous tour. When he had first stepped foot in the door three days ago, you had resisted the urge to overwhelm him with questions, knowing he needed space to process and readjust. The sheer happiness and relief that flooded your heart at his homecoming had been so overwhelming that all you wanted was to hold him close and never let go. And, truth be told, that's precisely what you both did.

Seated together on the couch, abandoned Chinese takeout containers scattered on the table, you cradled Ella in your arms while Frankie enveloped both of you in his embrace. It was a moment frozen in time, his arm securely holding you close to his chest, creating a cocoon of love and comfort. The minutes and hours blurred together, fading into insignificance as you basked in the warmth and contentment of being together again.

The following day, however, had been fair game. Determined to unravel what happened during Frankie's time in Peru (Columbia?), you persisted with your questioning, probing deeper and repeating inquiries throughout the day. Yet, Frankie remained resolute, his responses akin to a redacted document, the black sharpie obscuring sentences and leaving only vague fragments of meaning visible. Anger coursed through your veins, an emotion that still lingered within you, but a single glance into Frankie's sorrowful puppy eyes caused you to falter. In the end, you relented.

However, there was one matter you refused to back down on. You had made it abundantly clear that Frankie must resume therapy as soon as an appointment would be available. This demand was non-negotiable. If Frankie was unwilling to seek professional help, then he could pack his belongings and go camping on Benny's couch. The ultimatum silenced Frankie and he reluctantly agreed to schedule a therapy session for the following week. And while you hoped this waiting period would encourage him to open up, deep down, you knew not to hold your breath.

Frankie seemed to think that money would cure all of the fresh wounds that had been inflicted and a deposit of $17,000 had been made into your shared account. But, this sum failed to justify the pain Frankie’s absence had wreaked in your marriage. Yes, you were now $17,000 richer financially, but your heart, once overflowing with love, now felt impoverished.

You cautiously step out from the corridor, crossing the threshold and entering the doorway. Almost immediately, Frankie whirls around, his sudden movement accompanied by a disconcertingly vacant expression in his eyes. It's a look that sends a shiver down your spine, a flicker of something unsettling that vanishes almost as quickly as it appears. Frankie’s face transforms in an instant, the familiar contours rearranging into his usual kind and gentle smile.

As you observe him, a realization hits you. Despite Frankie's cheerful smile, something feels off – his eyes don't reflect the same brightness as usual. It's as if there's a mask, concealing a multitude of emotions he's keeping hidden. The air between you grows heavy with unspoken words as your eyes meet, creating an undeniable tension. “I think your pancake is burning,” you say after a beat.

“Mierda!” Frankie flips back towards the stove and moves the smoking pan from the stove. The sudden commotion startles little Ella, who responds with a piercing cry, her distress echoing through the kitchen. Reacting swiftly, Frankie brings his second hand to encircle his baby girl, attempting to soothe her with soft words, "Shhh muñequita, you're alright. Papa didn't mean to startle you. Shhh, you're all good, my little princesa." Despite his best efforts, Ella seems to be in one of her moods this morning, and she remains unrelenting in her growing cries. Panic creeps into Frankie's eyes, his plump bottom lip nervously caught between his teeth, as he watches his attempts at calming her go in vain.

“Give her here, you know she gets extra cranky when she is hungry. Just like someone I know.” It’s a feeble attempt at teasing, but it manages to pluck a small laugh from Frankie.

“I guess having a bottomless stomach is hereditary” Frankie quips as he starts cooing at the fussy baby. His smile slightly dips as his eyes lock back with yours, "I wanted you to sleep in and recover a bit, after all the time I’ve been gone and all the trouble I cause. I'm sorry you have to deal with a dumbass husband," Frankie says hoarsely.

You extend your arms towards Ella, gently reaching out to comfort her. "Don't say things like that, Frankie. You know I’ve never thought of you like that and if I am going to be honest, I am afraid that Benny got you beat in that department" you jokingly retort. You focus your eyes back on Ella, "We have a brand-new baby, and it's natural for babies to cry when things don't go exactly as they want. It's nothing personal; she does the same to me."

With care, you cradle Ella in your arms, your fluffy robe cascading open as you adjust your cami top. Slowly, you expose your breast and guide Ella towards your right nipple. After a few attempts, Ella finally latches on, her tiny mouth finding solace in your embrace. "Someone's a hungry little peanut," you whisper affectionately, observing her now peaceful expression as she feeds. "Good job, my love. You're doing so well," you softly coo.

As Frankie clears his throat, your gaze lifts, meeting his intense gaze directed towards you and Ella at your breast. In his eyes, a flicker of desire ignites, and something deep within you twists, causing your thighs to involuntarily clench. The realization of the tension between you two fills the air, and you can't ignore the fact that it has been a long time since you were last intimate. Between the demands of the birth and Frankie's absence, you had either been unable or unwilling to revisit that more carnal aspect of your relationship.

Yet amidst the difficulties of your current situation, there is an undeniable longing within you for Frankie. More than anything you yearn for him, you yearn for his words to ease the doubts and insecurities of motherhood, you yearn for his touch to bring you back to life. You yearn for the fire that would consume you whenever your lips met. When you kissed, it was a display of fireworks, an unstoppable blaze that burned bright.

As you reflect on everything that you miss, a warm sensation stirs within you, causing your tongue to instinctively glide over your lips. Memories flood your mind, vividly recalling the countless moments when Frankie would skillfully guide you to the height of pleasure, one that you had never been able to reach with anyone else. Frankie was always centred on you, deriving his own pleasure from your own. He was a man who revelled in pleasing you, never content until he knew you were fully fulfilled.

"Mi cielo..." Frankie's voice escapes as a raspy breath, sending a shiver down your spine. Your own breath becomes trapped within your lungs, and a small whimper escapes your lips. In an instant, Frankie crosses the distance, closing the gap between you. With utmost tenderness, he cradles your cheeks in his large, warm hand, his touch cautious and gentle, mindful of Estrella who continues to nurse at your breast, blissfully unaware of the charged atmosphere that envelops her parents.

"Dios mío, eres tan hermosa," Frankie whispers softly, his words filled with adoration. Carefully, he leans down and gently presses his lips against yours. In that moment, a burst of fireworks explodes within, engulfing you both in a passionate embrace. You melt into his touch, longing to run your fingers through his soft curls and deepen the kiss, but the presence of little Estrella reminds you to be cautious. As you part your lips to guide him further, Ella interrupts with a frustrated cry, likely displeased at no longer being the center of attention.

Frankie and you share a chuckle at Ella's adorable outrage. His smile lingers on your lips as he suggests, "After our little princess Estrelita has had her fill, maybe we should put her down for a nap. What do you say, mi cielo?"

"It's not even 9 am, Frankie," you giggle, playfully nudging his nose with yours.

With a longing gaze, Frankie whispers, "There is nothing I desire more right now than to hold you in my arms, in our bed. I've missed you so much, mi cielo, and I don’t think I’ll be able to contain myself any longer.” As he speaks, each word is punctuated by a tender kiss to your lips. "You have no idea how incredibly" kiss. "irresistible" kiss. "And utterly perfect" kiss. “You truly are.” Frankie starts peppering your throat with affectionate kisses, you playfully guide him backward, gently interrupting “Let me put her to bed, my love, and then I'll let you show me just how much you've missed me."

As you enter the tiny nursery, you observe Ella, her eyes drooping and a serene expression adorning her face. It seems, for once, your little peanut's sleeping pattern is aligning with your needs. Carefully, you place her in the large bassinet, a gift from your mother who, upon hearing the news of your and Frankie's pregnancy, had sent it as your baby shower gift. That day, she had bragged how she knew what would be best for her first granddaughter. She had even gone further and declared how unsure she was that an ex-military man and a librarian could afford anything for a newborn like she could. Little did she know that you seldom use the overpriced cradle, opting instead to keep Ella close to you. During Frankie's absence, it was more convenient to have her in your room, and Frankie's mother had gifted you a cherished family heirloom—a cradle crafted by Frankie's grandfather. And since this gift held no ulterior motives, except for love, it had felt right for little Ella. So, your mother’s cradle remained for the most part, untouched in a nursery that also remained mostly untouched. However, today you were willing to make an exception.

As you gently lay Estrella down, you whisper, "Now, my love, be good for mama and papa." Planting a kiss on her tiny nose, you quietly retreat from the room, mindful not to disturb her. As the door softly shuts behind you, a hand suddenly grabs you from behind, gently pushing you against the opposite wall. Frankie's mouth hungrily seeks yours, and you feel yourself being enveloped in his embrace. His towering presence dwarfs your smaller frame, and you melt against him, surrendering to his large comforting presence.

***“Mie cielo, amor de mi vida” Frankie pants against your lips, his hands caressing up and down your sides before he eagerly grasps a handful of your breast. You instinctively hiss as your breasts remain tender from nursing.

Concern fills Frankie's eyes as he stops, asking, "Am I hurting you?" Shaking your head, you reassure him, "They're just a bit tender, that's all." A lazy smile spreads across Frankie's face as he murmurs, "I'll never tire of them." He bends his head toward your open cleavage, lavishing hungry, open-mouthed kisses upon them. "They were amazing before, but now they're simply breathtaking. I could spend a lifetime between them, and it would be a life well-lived."

A smile graces your lips as your head gently meets the wall behind you. Frankie's words wrap around you like a warm embrace. "You are a charmer, Mr. Morales," you remark with a hint of playfulness. In response, Frankie loudly releases your nipple with a loud pop and whispers against your now wet breast, "Only for you, Mrs. Morales.”

Frankie's lips caress your sensitive nipple with a gentle puff of air, eliciting a shiver of pleasure that courses through your body. His lips continue their tantalizing journey, gradually trailing down your front as he peppers your skin with tender kisses. Each touch ignites a fire within you.

You let yourself surrender to the intoxicating sensations of Frankie's lips. Every nerve ending awakens under his touch, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. His kisses create a symphony of desire, each one building upon the last until you're consumed by aching longing.

"Please, Frankie," you plead breathlessly, the urgency in your voice echoing your desire. Frankie pauses his ministrations, his face level with the apex of your thigh, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of longing and adoration. Despite the satin fabric of your pyjama shorts separating you, you know he can smell how wet you are right now.

“What is it mi cielo? Is this too much for you? Do you want me to stop?” Frankie teases as he grasps the waistband of your shorts with his teeth. Your breath hitches, caught between a gasp and a moan, as Frankie slowly lowers the fabric, revealing the mound of your sex. The cool air kisses your exposed skin, while his nose softly nuzzles against your soft flesh, his warm breath cascading over you.

"Don't you dare, Francisco," you shakily breathe out. The only response is Frankie's chuckle which resonates in the air. His eyes, filled with desire, never leave your face as he slowly drags your shorts down your trembling legs, exposing your most intimate self to his hungry gaze. Frankie’s steady hand moves toward your dripping sex, his fingers brushing against your slick folds, collecting the evidence of your arousal. Frankie brings his glistening fingers to his mouth, his eyes locked with yours, amplifying the raw intimacy of the moment. His lips part, and his tongue swirls around his own digits, sucking them in with an obscene sound that sends shivers of anticipation coursing through your entire being.

“You taste so good mi cielo. Even after all these years, there is nothing sweeter than you. Fuck you drive me crazy. I can’t escape you, you’re in my thoughts all the time; you haunt every corner of my mind. You consume me entirely, body and soul. I am nothing without you, and I don’t want to think about the kind of man I would be without you. I promise mi Cielo that It’ll never happen again. This is it, you, Ella and me. Tell me you believe me, mi cielo. Please, tell me you believe me, I need to hear you say it.”

Your mind struggles to function properly as his lips explore every inch of your body, except the one place that aches with desire. The maddening anticipation builds as he teases you.

"Frankie, please," you whimper, your hands tangling in his soft curls, desperately trying to guide him to your dripping core. But Frankie remains steadfast. Instead, he positions himself at the junction of your thigh and gently implores once more, "Tell me you believe me, mi cielo. Please, tell me you believe there is nothing I need more than to be with you until the end of time."

"IbelieveyouIbelieveyou. Ohhhhhhhh I believe you Frankie I swear!" you chant, and as soon as the words escape your lips, you sense Frankie's smile against your fevered skin. "I love you, mi vida" he whispers softly before finally burying his head between your thighs.

Frankie eagerly laps at your core like a man starved. With previous lovers, you had never encountered one who genuinely enjoyed giving oral, treating it as a burdensome chore. But Frankie was different. Expertly, he locates your engorged clit, playfully teasing it with a few licks, while slipping his index finger inside you. Your walls tighten around his finger, and you release a quivering breath of pleasure.

"That's it, buena chica," Frankie whispers. "You know I'll give you exactly what you want. You need to take it slow and steady. We can't rush this. Be a good girl and take it the way I give it to you. I want to savour every moment of this perfection." Frankie always enjoyed guiding you through sex. In another life, dirty talk would have felt embarrassing, but with Frankie, his words only intensified your craving for him.

Frankie steps back from your core, his face wet with your pleasure. A whine of discontent escapes your lips, but he quickly grabs your buttocks, lifting you slightly and positioning your legs over his shoulders. As he lifts you up, you feel the air being knocked out of your lungs, and Frankie resumes his work like a man on a mission. Using the wall for support, you feel weightless on Frankie's strong shoulder.

The most obscene sounds escape Frankie as he swirls his tongue around your clit.

"Frankie, I'm so close! Oh my God, Frankie!" you whine, still trying to stay quiet with the baby asleep literally next door.

"Buena, mi cielo! Come on, mi vida, you know what you need! You know what I need!" Frankie pants against your core. As he watches you helplessly thrash over him, the coil deep within you tightens. Frankie sneaks one of his hands up to your belly and presses hard, intensifying the coil even more.

"Oh my God! I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming!" Your orgasm nearly knocks you out, and you feel yourself slump forward. But Frankie is there to catch you. He embraces you warmly, his patchy beard still wet from all the attention, and he whispers sweet nothings in your ear.

"Te amo, mi cielo. I've made so many mistakes in my life. I've wronged you and Ella. I wasn't there when I should have been, and I made choices that I'm not proud of. But now, I'll be here. I'll be a better man for you and Ella, and I'll do everything in my power to keep you both safe." He speaks these words into your ear, and you feel his warm tears landing on your shoulder.

You reach out and grab him by the neck. "I love you, Frankie, and nothing will ever change that." You softly pet his beard “Take me to bed my love.”

__________________________________________________________

3 weeks later

Black was never your colour, or so you once confided in Frankie. Every time you wore it, you felt like an old Matron from those black-and-white Italian movies you both love. Frankie had playfully quipped while nipping at your ear "If I start misbehaving are you going to punish me with a wooden spoon? Slap me right on the ass with it? That’s a scenario we could explore" You had been overheated the entire day after that.

But today was a different matter altogether. Laughter was absent from the scene. Frankie stood at the front of the room, wearing his most formal suit, sporting a distraught expression mirrored by the others in attendance. On either side of him stood the Miller brothers, Will with his arm resting on his shoulder and Benny standing solemnly to his left.

The sight of the typically strong and capable trio so devastated struck you deep in your gut. Particularly Benny, who had always been like an overexcited puppy—confident, golden and a touch cocky. You remember how Benny had been the one who approached you all those years ago at the bar while you were celebrating the final submission of your master's thesis with a friend. That night, Benny had confidently strutted over to your table and struck up a conversation. Although you could see that your friend had been drawn to him, Benny had gone all out to convince you to dance with him.

And even though he was one of the most handsome guys you had seen in a long while, Benny wasn’t really your type. You didn't feel that spark with him—the one they all speak of in movies or in magazines. So, you did the sensible thing and tried to gently let him down by using the classic excuse of not wanting to leave your friend alone. But Benny had been undeterred. He turned around and excitedly shouted, "Fish, get your ass over here!" Your eyes followed Benny's call, and your throat went dry. Frankie ambled over to your table with a shy smile on his face. Sporting his signature cap and a faded gray Henley shirt accentuating his broad shoulders. Frankie immediately captivated you. And as Benny grabbed Frankie by the neck and introduced him as his brother from another mother, you hadn’t been able to tear your eyes away from him.

Your gaze met Frankie's. Everything around you faded, and an electric volt charged the air. For the first time in your life, you decided to take control, disregarding anyone else. Turning to your friend, you suggested, "You love '80s pop. Why don't you go with Benny and take a turn on the dance floor? I'm still recovering from today’s excitement, so I think I'll sit back and grab another drink." Your friend needed no further encouragement and swiftly took Benny's arm, rushing to the dance floor before anyone could intervene.

Frankie looked at you, appearing somewhat dazed. "I think Benny wanted to dance with you. I'm usually the one on call when he needs someone to look after the friend of whomever he's interested in," he remarked. You smiled and replied, "Maybe, but Benny isn't the one I'm interested in.” You playfully played with the obnoxious parasol on the rim of your glass “I think Benny shouldn't use his handsome friend as his wingman. It kind of defeats the purpose of getting the girl, don’t you think?" Frankie bashfully smiled at your words, raised his glass, and clinked it with yours, his confident smile shining through. "To drinking with the most beautiful girl here." And from that moment, you became Frankie's, and he became yours.

Shaking yourself out of your reverie, you turn to Molly, who is tearfully expressing gratitude to the guests for attending the memorial. People offer their condolences and share kind words about Tom. Some of them you recognize from Frankie's time in the army, having crossed paths at various functions. Others are unfamiliar faces. Sensing that Molly was growing overwhelmed, you start rubbing comforting circles on her back.

When the latest person pays her their respects and leaves for Tom’s casket, you whisper in Molly's ear, asking if she needs a moment. She shakes her head, her voice filled subdued but resigned.

"I just want all of this to end. The girls need to start healing, and I know this is the first step. But it’s so hard and it won't get easier. It feels like the pain won’t ever end. I know I have to be strong for the girls, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold it together.” She quiets a moment “At least we got to say goodbye."

You offer a sad smile. "It’s ok to be sad Molly. No one expects you or the girls to bounce back after that. You need time to heal and if you ever need anything, you know I'm here, right? We are all here for you, don’t think for a minute that any of us will let you go through all of it, alone. If you need Frankie and me to take care of the girls for a little while, we'd be more than happy to."

Molly tearfully looks back at you, her voice filled with grief. "Thank you. I appreciate it. Honestly, you've cooked us enough food to sustain the three of us through a nuclear winter. You've done so much already."

"Don’t even think about that Molly. Right now, you and the girls are most important, and I am right here for whatever is to come. I am not going anywhere, I promise.”

"Thank you. I don't know what I would've done without you, Frankie, Will, or Benny. You've all been so helpful. Are the boys still planning to go to Robinson’s Sport after the service?" She asks.

You let out a quiet snort. "Yeah, Frankie said it used to be their favourite spot to get drunk when they were back on leave. They thought it would be fitting to say their own goodbye to Tom in their own way. You're welcome to come if you want, you know. I'll be the DD, and I know they'd all be thrilled if you joined."

Molly shakes her head. "Tell them thank you, but after the day we've had, the girls and I will fall asleep the moment we get home."

You nod in understanding, but your conversation is interrupted by a distant relative offering their condolences to Molly. Your eyes search the sea of black until they find Frankie in a corner, fidgeting with his tie. When your eyes meet, he offers a sad smile that you return.

You really hope that tonight will bring some peace to him.

______________________________________________________________

You rub your temple tiredly, attempting to focus on the story Benny is telling at the table. The bar is unusually loud for a Wednesday evening, and after the day you've had, it's becoming increasingly challenging to concentrate.

Seated at the table are the five of you—the original trio, along with yourself and Will's new girlfriend, who has proven to be a delightful addition to your little group. Emmy had entered the picture barely 2 months before Will had left to do God knows what in Colombia. It hasn’t seemed to faze her as now, she sits quietly, attentively listening to Benny's tales from back in their army days while holding Will’s hand and sending loving looks his way.

"And then guess who the fuck came out of the barn with his pants around his ankle, getting chased down by a fucking chicken!" Benny paused for dramatic effect. "Fucking Will 'Ironhead' Miller! More like Leadhead, am I right?" Will could only shake his head affectionately. "What can I say? The chicken literally caught me with my dick out. Couldn't even take a piss in peace." Everyone starts laughing at the story, even Frankie, who had been quiet for most of the night, managed a smile.

"Tch, I'm pretty sure you were doing something else behind that barn." Benny accompanied his words with a crude hand gesture, eliciting audible groans from everyone at the table and a giggle from Will’s girlfriend. "Fuck, Redfly was pissed that day. Dumbass over here gave away our position and we had to hike through the fucking jungle for 10 days. No coms, no food, no prep time, N.A.D.A. Just because Will Miller wanted to rub one out."

Benny's words bring silence to the table. Frankie suddenly down his beer and speaks up. "I'm gonna get another one. This round is on me. Anyone want a refill?" Everyone at the table nodded in agreement, even Benny, who looked subdued after receiving a scathing look from Will. Frankie turned to you and asked, "Want anything, mi cielo?" You tap your empty glass with your finger and smile softly at him. "Another Shirley Temple, please, mi love." Frankie nodded and planted a kiss on your forehead before making his way toward the busy bar.

Silence stretched over the table as you absentmindedly fiddled with your paper straw. Will cleared his throat before offering you a smile. "Thank you again for being the DD tonight. We all really appreciate it."

"It's my pleasure, Will. Today was tough for all of you, and you need to bid farewell to Tom properly. And there is no better way to say goodbye than by getting drunk out of your mind, then I am more than happy to provide my driving services.” You smile teasingly “I'm sure he would have loved tonight." While you hadn't been particularly close to Tom, you knew the man had at least loved two things: football and beer. And you think that yes, he would have definitely enjoyed getting drunk with his brothers (minus one) with ESP reruns in the background.

Benny flashed you a smile, his eyes gleaming playfully. He then proceeded to toss one of the tiny napkin balls he had been crafting all night. With a quick reflex, you ducked to the side, evading the incoming projectile. You burst out laughing at Benny’s childlike antics.

As you regained your composure, you playfully pointed a finger at Benny. "Nice try, but you'll have to do better than that!"

Benny chuckled as he raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you think you're quick, huh? Well, let's see if you can dodge this!" Swiftly, he crumpled another napkin into a ball, before launching it in your direction. The napkin ball connected with your face, eliciting laughter from everyone at the table. Playfully nodding your head at Benny, you vowed, "You might have gotten me this time, but I'll get you later!"

Benny grinned, proudly flexing his arms. "You can't beat this, baby! I'm the strongest and fastest one here!" Will interjected with a fond tone, "Sure you are, bro, sure you are."

A momentary lull descended upon the table as each person searched for something to say. Suddenly, Benny's expression turned serious. "I wanted to thank you too." Uncertain of his intent, you replied, "No worries, Benny. You know I never mind being the designated driver..."

"Not that," Benny interrupted, "I meant with Fish." Perplexed, you wondered where he was going with this. Benny continued, "Yeah. It was real hard for Fish, what happened to Tom and all that shit that went down in Colombia. He took it the hardest out of all of us. So, it was good to know that he has a woman like you to look after him."

Chewing on your lips, you say. "I love Frankie, Benny. I'll never stop loving him, and I'll always do my best to care for him when I can. You don't have to worry." Benny smiled back; his relief evident. "Yeah, I know you are. Fuck, we were real scared that you were gonna bounce on Fish after this one. But I'm so glad you didn't."

"Even if I wasn't 100% on board with him going with you guys, I respected his decision to go. It wouldn't have been fair to him or Ella to just leave. And anyway, I know you guys are a package deal. Wherever one of you goes, you all go," you replied, trying to sound confident.

"Yeah, but still, with the coke thing, I was sure that was going to be it, you know," Benny admitted, a tinge of guilt in his voice.

"Benny..." Will interjected, his tone urging caution.

You observed the silent conversation between the two brothers, sensing there was more to the story. "What are you talking about? You don't have to look so worried, Will. I know about the coke. You know I was the one who found him after his license got revoked." Discomfort settled in the air, and your gaze shifted to Will's girlfriend, who seemed determined to occupy herself with her now watered-down vodka soda.

"Yeah, that's what Benny meant. Don't pay attention to him," Will interjected, attempting to diffuse the tension that hung in the air as Benny looked guilt-stricken.

"Are you two lying to me?" you asked after a brief pause. "Is there something you guys are not telling me?"

"Look..." Benny started, but Will cut him off abruptly. "Shut up, Benny. It's not your place to involve yourself where you don't belong," Will said with displeasure.

"Bullshit! Fish told us he was going to tell her! How could I have known he wouldn't tell her? This ain't my fucking fault! She has a right to know!" Benny's frustration spilled out; his words laced with anger.

"This is none of your business, Catfish will talk when he is ready," Will interjected once again, his teeth clenched in frustration.

"SHE would really like to know what the fuck is going on!" Tears welled up in your eyes as you pleaded, "Benny... Will... You have to tell me what's going on. Is Frankie okay? What should he have told me that he hasn't?"

Will shook his head, but Benny appeared undeterred. "Fuck you, Will! You don't get to tell me what I can or can't tell her. She's my friend too, you know!" Benny's voice trembled with a mix of anger and concern. He took a deep breath, his expression softening, "After the mission was over, the day we were flying out, we found Frankie in his room. He was half passed out on coke. He completely lost the plot for a bit you know. We were real worried, but after we got him down his high he promised us he would tell you, that you would figure it all out together. He felt bad about it all, kept crying about you and Ella and shit. I know he didn't mean to take it, it's just... with Tom's death, he blames himself for what happened, and I guess it just got too hard for him, you know?

The world comes to a screeching halt. Your head spins incessantly, threatening to make you sick or collapse right there on the floor. Then, a comforting hand lands on your upper back, and Will's soothing voice cuts through the chaos, finding its way to your ears.

"I know Fish was planning to tell you. I apologize for Benny putting his nose where it doesn’t belong.” His words are accompanied by a glare in Benny’s direction who flinches “You know how difficult things can be for people like us, especially with everything that happened with Redfly’s death... It was just too much. But you know Frankie loves you more than anything in this world. He never intended to hurt you or Ella. It’s just sometimes, our inner demons overpower us and we are helpless against them."

Frankie promised.

"If he truly loved me, he wouldn't have done that," you manage to whisper. Breathing becomes a challenge—either too fast or barely happening at all. You refuse to have a nervous breakdown in the middle of a bar on a Wednesday night! Hastily reaching into your purse, you snatch your keys and turn to face Will. "I have to leave. You guys can take an Uber, and I'll cover the cost. I'm really sorry, but I just can't stay."

Will gazes at you with a tinge of sadness. "It's all right. We'll be okay. I just think you should wait for Fish. I don't think you should drive in your current state."

Frankie lied.

"I'll be fine. I can't stay, Will. I can't," you repeat before abruptly rising from your seat. You offer a fleeting wave to the table before sprinting toward the exit, tears streaming down your face.

Frankie promised. Frankie lied.

"Nice going, Benny!"

"Shut up, Will! How was I supposed to know?!"

______________________________________________________________

Frankie impatiently taps his fingers against the countertop, frustration building as he watches the bartender cozy up to one of the girls at the bar, completely ignoring him for the past 15 minutes.

"Excuse me, how much longer is it going to take?" Frankie asks, trying to conceal his annoyance.

"Busy night, buddy. It'll take however long it takes. If you don't like it, find somewhere else to go," the bartender retorts, not tearing his eyes away from the seductive blonde perched on the barstool.

Frankie lets out a sigh, his fingers fidgeting restlessly. He starts to reach into his pocket but stops himself halfway through. He knows nothing good would come from that. "But no one would find out, just a quick one in the bathroom. Not enough to get fucked, but enough to survive today," Frankie's mind tempts him. Damn, today had been tough. Seeing Molly and the girls, seeing you trying to console them, knowing it was all his fault. Like always, his mind starts going down that bleak rabbit, telling him how he should have stood firm with Tom, how he knew that damn plane wouldn't make it. But he had been weak, spineless. Greed had clouded his judgment—the allure of money too strong to resist. Frankie takes a deep breath, counting backward from ten to calm himself.

Finally, the bartender sets the glasses down in front of Frankie, then turns back to the blonde, who appears to have unbuttoned even more of her shirt, if that's even possible.

Frankie makes his way back slowly, careful not to spill anything, maneuvering through the crowded sea of bodies until he reaches the table where everyone is seated—everyone except you. Probably in the bathroom, he thinks. Frankie places the drinks on the table, tension rising in his body as he gazes at his brothers. Will buries his face in his hands, his girlfriend rubbing his lower back, while Benny stares straight ahead, anger etched on his face.

"What the hell is wrong with you two?" Frankie asks, pushing Will's drink toward him.

"Ask Benny," Will replies curtly. Benny's scowl deepens, and Frankie raises an eyebrow.

"What's going on, man? Is everything alright?"

"You're such a fucking idiot, Fish!" Benny explodes.

"What the fuck is your problem, pendejo?"

"My problem is that out of all of us you have it all: a wife who loves you, a little girl who looks at you like you hung the fucking moon, a nice place but you can't help to do everything to fuck it up!" Benny rages. Frankie feels himself grow pale.

"Where is she, Benny?"

"How was I supposed to know you didn't tell her anything?! You're always preaching about how open you are with her! About seeing a shrink and going to your meetings and all that bullshit! Were those all lies, Fish? Have you been lying to your own brothers like you’ve been lying to your wife?

"That's enough, Benny," Will interjects, attempting to diffuse the situation. "You've said enough."

"WHERE IS SHE!" Frankie's voice booms as his hands slam loudly on the table, causing drinks to topple and spill everywhere. The bar falls silent after Frankie's outburst.

"Go back to your drinks, there is nothing to see.” Comes Will’s voice filled with the authority of a man who spent years in active service. “She went home, Fish. I told her to wait for you, but she wouldn't listen. I'm sorry," Will tries to reach out, but Frankie shrugs him off.

"You always wanted her, didn't you, Benny? And now you thought that because we were going through a rough patch, you could just swoop in?! I have a child with her, you fucking bastard! I love her!"

"You TOLD us you were going to tell her! How was I supposed to know you were a lying asshole on top of a goddam deadbeat?"

Frankie springs out of his seat, grabbing Benny by the collar of his dress shirt. "Go fuck yourself, Benny." Frankie storms out of the bar and opens his phone. He finds your contact and hovers over your picture, where you're smiling widely, holding Ella in your arms, looking directly at the camera—directly at him. Frankie presses the call button, but it goes straight to voicemail.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck." As Frankie orders an Uber, he can only hope that you'll give him another chance, even though he knows he's far from deserving it. Far from deserving you.

After a 35-minute ride, Frankie arrives home, 15 minutes longer than he would have liked. He leaps out of the car and forcefully opens the door.

"Mi cielo?! Mi cielo?!" Frankie shouts frantically, searching around desperately. He doesn't have to look far though. You're sitting at the kitchen table, three small bags filled with white powder in front of you. Frankie's face drains of colour.

"I want you to explain whatever the hell this is, Frankie. And no lies this time."

[mywordhaven]

I just read both chapters of the road ahead. oh. My. word. this shit is TOO GOOD. Bravo to you because I can’t wait for chapter three!! wheeeeew.

Oh my God! You are so sweet, thank you so much for your comment 🥰! I am so happy to hear that you liked the first two chapters. I've started working on the third chapters and I hope you like what's to come.

[mywordhaven]

The Road Ahead - ch 2 | Frankie Morales x female reader

Previous Chapter

Throughout most of your married life, you've dedicated yourself to waiting for Frankie. After each deployment, you patiently anticipated his return home, longing for the moment when he would be by your side once again. You yearned for him to open up to you during those nights when nightmares consumed his thoughts, hoping that he would find solace in sharing his pain with you. And as his addiction spiralled out of control, you hoped that he would recognize his problem and seek help. Yet, despite your countless protests and pleas, you now find yourself waiting for him once more as he ventures off to Columbia doing God knows what.

But this time is the last. Resolved, you make a solemn promise to yourself: You will never wait for Frankie again.

Rating: M for Mature (18 + / no minors allowed)

Word Count: 4.8K

Warnings: Applicable to the entire fic / PTSD, drug use and addiction, postpartum depression, abusive familial relationships, self-hatred, hard relationship to food, unhealthy coping mechanism, explicit sexual content, violence, mentions of suicidal thoughts, super angsty guys (more warnings will be added if necessary).

Summary: Frankie breaks the one promise he swore he never would.

Notes: Hey everyone, thank you very much for the sweet comments/reblog/liked, I appreciate it so much :D I was totally not expecting it. I really hope you enjoy this one, it's got that sweet, sweet angst that I think we all love. After this chapter, we are getting ourselves right into the nugget of the action between Frankie and his cielo. Lmk what you all think xxx

Ao3 link

Broken Promises

You’ve never been this tired before. It’s a strange feeling like you are experiencing a sort of out-of-body experience, looking straight at your bone-tired self barely holding on. “My kingdom for a full night of sleep,” you think, before scanning the room. A rumpled bed, a mix of dirty and clean laundry scattered over the floor, and a half-eaten pack of Oreo cookies on the nightstand “Not much of a kingdom” you sardonically judge. As the minutes tick by, exhaustion takes further hold of you and your eyes begin to shut. You start to nod off, but just as your chin touches the top of your collarbone a small fist slams onto your left cheek, and a loud cry pierces the silence of your bedroom.

"Shhh, Ella, shhh, sweetheart, please be good for Mommy," you softly plead. Weary from the ongoing battle to lull your baby girl back to sleep, you slowly rise from the rocking chair nestled in the quiet corner of your dimly lit bedroom. It's been a relentless night since the clock struck 1:30 a.m., and Estrella seems to have taken it upon herself to ensure you stay awake for as long as possible.

You had hoped that the rhythmic motion of the chair, the gentle sway, and comforting whispers, would coax her back into the land of dreams. Yet the soft lullabies and soothing strokes proved insufficient in settling your little girl. The minutes ticked by, and the hand of the clock slowly etches its way into the night.

You slowly stroll around the room, swaying back and forth while cradling the warm bundle in your arms. As you gaze down at the tiny face nestled against your chest, you tiredly ponder, "Perhaps I should start calling you peanut, don't you think, Ella?" Your fingertips delicately trace the contours of her tiny, discontented face. The sight of her scrunched-up, red face reminds you of those spicy peanuts that Frankie enjoys munching on.

Frankie. It has been an agonizing seven days since you last heard from your husband. When he informed you about his departure on one of Santiago's reckless ideas (damn it all Santi), you pleaded with him not to go. You had tried everything, even resorting to playing dirty by reminding him of his promise to never leave again! And how it would surely negatively impact Ella considering her formative age. You emphasized how important it was for Ella to have her papa with her. How much you needed your husband. You had kept going until the morning, and your voice had faded to a hoarse whisper, but Frankie did not budge.

Instead, Frankie had held you close. Listening to you argue and rage while whispering reassuring words about how everything would be just fine. And as the argument heated up, he switched up his strategy. Instead, sternly stretching how thin money was right now. Like an artist, using his words as brushstrokes, he painted a clear picture of the challenges you were both facing, reminding you of the growing financial strain. Ella, remaining in the background of the conversation, both acutely aware of your responsibility as new parents. He’d coaxed, cajoled, and did his best to persuade you that his leaving was the right course of action. He stressed that, although Pope needed him for this mission, the money he would make would provide the opportunity for you to finally take time away from work to be with Ella. When he saw you start to relent at his words, he doubled down and further pressed how, upon his return, there would be enough funds for him to both appeal his drug sanction and for you to stay home with the baby.

Frankie knew exactly what he was doing. With the precision of a former military man well-versed in analyzing and exploiting the vulnerabilities of his enemies, he exerted pressure in the very areas he knew would make you yield. Nobody understood you better than Frankie, after all. He knew that the prospect of staying home with Ella would be sufficiently alluring. You had returned to work a mere two weeks after giving birth and with Frankie grounded from flying, you hadn’t been able to take any additional time off. At the time, you had bitterly thought that if Frankie had opened to you instead of falling heads first into a puddle of cocaine, he would have never been suspended in the first place. You could have stayed home with Ella, and you wouldn't be so exhausted. You wouldn’t be so sad all the time.

Estrella's piercing cries escalate, reverberating in the air, and echoing through the room. With every decibel, her frustration intensifies, mirroring your own mounting agitation. You struggle to steady your breath, attempting to reclaim a sense of calm amidst her loud wails.

"Please, please, Ella," you implore, your voice quivering with weariness and desperation. "Mommy needs to sleep tonight. Mommy has a long day at work tomorrow."

Estrella's cries momentarily ebb, her searching gaze locking onto your face, her innocent eyes reflecting what you think is a flicker of comprehension. But before a heartbeat passes, her tiny face contorts once more, the weight of her frustration crashing upon your ears like a tidal wave, each cry more piercing than the last. Desperately, you put Ella back in her crib at the foot of your bed and you quickly flee the room, the weight of your emotions propelling you forward. As the door shuts behind you, you let out your own loud sob. You are so tired of always crying.

As you attempt to regain control of your breathing and try to halt the now-intensified flow of tears, a wave of nausea overtakes you. You only just manage to hastily make your way to the nearest bathroom. Sinking to your knees, your grip on your own hair tightens as waves after wave of nausea engulf you. Dry heaves wrack your body, futilely attempting to expel remnants of a dinner that never met your lips the night before. The searing pain of acidic bile creeping up your throat only serves to intensify your desire to blink yourself out of existence, if only for a fleeting moment, escaping the overwhelming cries and suffocating anxiety. As soon as the thought arrives, however, the tears start to swell even further. What kind of mother are you, you silently question, your self-doubt echoing in the quiet corners of your soul. What kind of mother entertains the notion of vanishing from their own child's life? A wretched one, you conclude.

You rise slowly, mustering the strength to rinse your mouth, eager to rid yourself of the repulsive taste of bile. Spitting out a blob of toothpaste into the sink, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror and recoil from the sight of that hollow husk staring back at you. “What the fuck," you whisper to yourself as disbelief floods your thoughts. You hadn’t found the time to look yourself over in the last few weeks, too busy with the baby, work, and Frankie’s license appeal. You kind of wish you hadn’t looked yourself over right now. You look like a ghost, an exhausted ghost at that—gaunt and fatigued, your skin stretched thin and devoid of life, bearing an ashen hue. Dark circles encircle your eyes, stained with redness from endless weeping. Your hair hangs greasy and limp, the last time you washed your hair was likely before Frankie left, you speculate.

Your mind drifts back to that night, two years ago when Frankie returned home for good (or was supposed to return for good). The unfolding reality had completely shattered the idyllic story you had woven into your mind that night. Frankie tried; goodness knows he tried his hardest. But even within the comfort of your shared home, he couldn't elude the relentless demons that haunted him at every turn. It pained you to witness his withdrawal, but he insisted, left and right, that he was fine—that it was normal for discharged soldiers to struggle with readjustment. He assured you he wasn't the first, nor would he be the last, and that all he needed was a little time for everything to work itself out. "You worry too much, mi cielo," he would say before leaving the house each morning, following yet another night plagued by nightmares.

The whole facade of “getting better” quickly lost its lustre when, in an uncharacteristic fit of rage, Frankie had aggressively confronted a young man who had set off firecrackers on your street, nearly beating the poor guy. You had seen the anger and fear contort his normally gentle features, and you were certain that if you hadn't intervened, the situation would have turned violent. Afterward, with tears streaming down both your faces, Frankie held you. With his face tucked in your chest, he had apologized and begged for your forgiveness, promising that it would never happen again. And, in a rare moment of vulnerability, Frankie quietly shared how it sometimes felt like a dark presence consumed him from within—he could be walking down the street, only to be transported back to whatever hellhole his mind had conjured especially for him.

He had gone on about how he couldn’t do any of this without you. In the end, you had forgiven him. But not before making him promise this kind of violence would never happen again as you wouldn’t tolerate it. To his credit, Frankie never exhibited any violent behaviour again. Well, at least not in your presence.

After that day, you tried your best to be firmer with him. You had pleaded with him to seek therapy, thinking that the moment he opened to you was an overture. But Frankie mostly shut it down. Always founding excuses to delay by finding new reasons for not making an appointment each and every day. The cycle persisted with you nagging and him delaying until one afternoon when you returned home to find him on the couch, a distant and ashamed look in his eyes. The mere sight of him caused your heart to plummet. It turned out that Frankie had chosen to self-medicate. At that point, you were three months pregnant with Ella, and to this day you wonder if you would not have been better to walk out that sunny afternoon.

You knew Frankie carried immense guilt from that day. You could see in his eyes how much he despised himself for what he had done. He vowed never to touch cocaine again, promising to put in the work and pleading for you to stay. He wept and wept, and in the end, you chose to remain by his side only if he finally committed to therapy. This was the last strike, you told yourself, and had decided not to give up on him. In sickness and in health, right?

But to your joy, throughout your pregnancy, Frankie's support had exceeded all your expectations. He not only tended to your needs but also went above and beyond to ensure your comfort. From keeping your favourite snacks within reach to massaging your tired feet without even needing to be asked. Yet, among all the beautiful moments, one memory stood out as the most cherished. It was when the two of you would settle on the couch, engrossed in a shared TV show. During these tender moments, Frankie would lovingly rest his head on your gently rounded belly, hoping to connect with the little life growing within. Softly, he would speak to your baby, already creating an intimate bond that filled your heart with warmth.

Those blissful months, both during the pregnancy and in the ensuing months, were magical. Despite the challenges, what mattered most was that Frankie was with you, supporting you and sharing in the journey which made every hardship feel insignificant. It was in those moments that you truly felt that Frankie had come home. As if on a rocket launch, Frankie also seemed to have gotten his mind together following his suspension. He had managed to secure a job at a garage, but the hours were minimal, and the pay meagre. But, despite it all Frankie had been determined to persevere and make the most of this opportunity, all the while preparing for his license appeal.

 However, everything crumbled a week ago. Like every second Friday, Frankie joined his friends to watch and cheer on one of Benny's fights. But as Frankie arrived home late that night, his expression of guilt etched across his face sent an unsettling shiver down your spine. The following day, Frankie was gone.  The only detail you could scrounge from him was that he would contact you three days after the mission concluded. Now, seven days have passed, and anxiety gnaws at your core more violently with each passing day.

After splashing water on your face, you make your way back to your bedroom, where Ella's cries have diminished, leaving behind traces of fatigue on her tiny, reddened face. Bending down, you scoop her up into your arms and begin to hum a gentle lullaby in Spanish. It's the only one from Frankie's repertoire, a sweet melody he had learned from his Abuela during his childhood. As you hold Ella close, her cries gradually subside, replaced by the comforting rhythm of her soft breath against your shoulder. It soothes your heart to witness her drifting back into slumber. So sweet and innocent.

"Oh, my poor little star," you whisper, your voice filled with tenderness as you gaze at Ella. "You miss your daddy, don't you? I miss him too, and I know he misses you just as much." Leaning in, you plant a gentle kiss on her tiny forehead. "I'm so sorry, Ella. It breaks my heart that you're stuck with me. You deserve so much more."

Placing one final kiss on her tiny nose, you carefully lower her back into her crib. As you slowly tread back to your own bed, you feel its emptiness and coldness, a constant reminder of Frankie's absence. Yet, in this moment, you're uncertain if you would even welcome his presence. Slipping beneath the covers, you glance at the clock: 3:30 am. A sigh escapes your lips. Four more hours before you must get up for work. It's not much, but it's better than nothing.

______________________________________________________________

You are abruptly awakened by a jarring, high-pitched beep. Unsettled by the noise, your drowsy eyes struggle to focus on the clock, revealing the time: 5:15 am. You hastily spring out of bed, desperately hoping that Estrella won't stir from the ruckus. Clumsily grabbing your phone, you stumble out of the bedroom, nearly hitting your head on the frame.

"What kind of deranged person calls at this hour?!" you vent, frustration mounting as you spy a string of numbers on the screen that holds no significance. "Hello? Hello?" your anger is met with silence. "Seriously, if this is some sick prank, it's not fucking funny! Some of us have babies who are trying to..." Before you can finish, a voice on the other end of the line interjects.

"Mi cielo..."

"... Francisco?" you gasp, barely able to catch your breath.

"It's so good to hear your voice, cariño," Frankie softly replies, his tone strangely subdued.

" Oh my God, Frankie are you okay?! Where are you?"

"Somewhere in Peru," he quietly responds after a pause.

"Peru?! My God are you safe?" you ask, concern lacing your words.

"I am, mi cielo," he replies, but his tone betrayed him. You know he isn’t okay.

"What happened, Frankie? Are the others with you? I was worried sick, you told me three days, it's been 7!" you cry out, your worry pouring through your words.

"I know, mi cielo, I know. I'm so sorry. Shit went from bad to worst. I never wanted to worry you like that. The others are fine, I mean..." Frankie stumbles over his words before weakly admitting, "Redfly is dead."

"What? Tom is dead?!” you interject, shock and confusion mingling in your voice. You had seen Molly just 2 days ago, she was with the girls at the grocery store. Tom’s oldest had even played peekaboo with Ella while you were confiding your worries to Molly. She had assured you that for all his faults, Tom was a devoted CO and would look after your Frankie.

"While we were making our way back through the Andes, we encountered..." Frankie begins to explain.

"What do you mean you encountered? What were you guys doing walking through the Andes?! You said it was going to be a simple in-and-out!" you interrupt, baffled.

After a weighty pause, Frankie reluctantly continues, his voice laced with culpability, "Our transport failed, it was my fault. There was an accident, and Redfly didn't make it. We carried his body so that Molly and the girls could say their goodbyes."

"Oh, Frankie I am so, so sorry,” you whisper, overcome with a mixture of grief and sympathy.

"I should have listened to you! This entire mission was doomed from the beginning, a disaster waiting to happen. I never should have gone. Maybe if I hadn't, Redfly would still be alive, and I would be home with you and Estrelita," Frankie ranted, his voice quivering with tears.

"Frankie..." you begin, the weight of his words sinking in.

"I'll make it up to you, mi cielo. I'm never leaving again. I never want to leave my girls ever again."

"You said that before..." you quietly whisper. You know it’s unfair after everything he’s been through, but you can’t help yourself. Pain and resentment have made themselves at home deep within your heart, and it’ll take more than a phone call to dislodge them.

"Cariño..."

Wiping away the tears that have started to traitorously stream down your face and with exhaustion seeping into your bones, you keep going, "Estrella is well. She still can't sleep through the night, but Mrs. Hu says she is the loveliest baby she has ever seen. She misses her daddy though." After a brief pause, you add, "We both do."

"I'm so sor..."

"Please, Frankie, I beg you, stop apologizing. Just make sure you come home as soon as you can, alright? We'll figure it out when you're home safe with us," you plead, vulnerable.

"I promise mi amor, I'll be home as soon as possible. I'll be on the first flight today and be home before you know it."

"Good. Please be careful, Frankie."

"Cariño..."

His words are cut off by Estrella's cries from the bedroom. A tightness grips your throat as a lump forms, and you speak with a strained voice, "Can you hear her? It looks like she's ready for her daddy to be home." You tightly press your fist against your mouth, attempting to stifle your sobs.

"I'll be home soon, mi cielo, I promise," Frankie pleads. "Te amo. Te amo. Te amo." He repeats it like a prayer, softly uttered at your altar.

You are unable to speak, your throat too constricted. "Me too," you weakly respond. "I have to go check on Ella. Please be careful."

You end the call and take deep breaths, attempting to steady yourself. The room spins around you, and Estrella's cries echo in the background. As in a trance, you make your back to your bedroom.

"Daddy is coming home, my sweet love," you softly coo, your voice filled with anticipation. Estrella's tired eyes meet your teary gaze, and you can't help but laugh through your tears as Ella sucks on her tiny fist. "My little peanut, Mama will always take care of you. No matter what comes our way, even though you deserve so much more, I promise to be there for you and do my best," you pour out. As Ella drifts back into the realm of dreams, you reach out to the bed and grab Frankie's worn green blanket, hastily tossed aside in your haste. Holding it close, you settle into the rocking chair in the corner, with Ella snuggled against your chest, softly snoring. You drape the scratchy duvet over both of you, the feeling of the coarse blanket bringing some comfort amidst the whirlwind of emotions. Enveloped in its warm embrace, you surrender to drowsiness, cradling Ella in your arms and gently whispering sweet nothings into her ear as you drift off to sleep.

______________________________________________________________

Frankie's gaze remains fixed on his phone, staring at the now empty screen as if willing for your phone number to appear. He yearns to hear your voice again, to hear you reassure him that everything will be okay. He longs for the warmth of your embrace, your fingers gently caressing his hair while he tenderly kisses the back of your neck. The more he stares at the phone, the more a sense of desperation and self-hatred wells up inside him. It's not directed at you, never at you. You and Ella are the only sources of goodness in his life, and he feels he's managed to ruin it all, just like he always does. He has always strived to be a better man for you, always felt unworthy of your love.

He is a man hunted by years of military service and he is acutely aware of his shattered spirit, his inability to adapt to the mundane civilian life. At the VA, he had witnessed the procession of broken men and women, who sacrificed their very beings for their nation, only to be spit out by a system that didn’t give a shit. If not for you and Ella, he fears he would have joined their ranks.

After retiring from active duty, which feels like a lifetime ago, he lived in a perpetual state of limbo. But you were there, his beacon of sweetness, compassion, and patience. For half a year, he held his breath, anticipating the day you would wake up and realize the mistake you made when you said yes and married him. You would finally leave him then and Frankie would be alone, as he deserves. But you never did. You stayed, defied his expectations, and shattered his self-inflicted prophecy. He knows you want him to open his pain to you, to unravel his sadness at your feet, but he is trapped in a prison of his own silence. Unable to be the man you need him to be for both you and Ella.

His subconscious tortures him with these anxieties every other night through relentless nightmares. In some of the worst renditions, he finds himself behind you, following you from a distance unable to touch you. As he tries to catch up, he must crawl through mud, blood, and gore, dragging him down as you seem to float away from him. He screams, but you can’t hear him. When he finally catches up to you, he reaches out his hands and notices their bloodied state, realizing how repulsive he is and how he doesn't deserve to hold you. He always lets his hands drop, watching you walk away with that radiant smile of yours that still brightens his heart, even after all these years. You always call out to him, "Come on, my love, you're falling behind." And he knows he is. But he can't take your hand, can't subject you to his darkness.

His grip on the phone tightens as the tormenting voices in his head grow louder: "She'll leave you now, for sure," "You're unworthy of her," "She'll take Ella and walk away, and you'll deserve it," "Good-for-nothing addict." He hurls the phone across the room, shattering it into pieces. The room feels too small, Frankie feels himself suffocating by the 4 walls, a perfect representation of his dark thoughts closing on him. Quickly, Frankie rises and heads downstairs. In the lobby, his eyes catch sight of the open café bar. He enters and makes a beeline for the imposing counter. Taking a seat on an unsteady stool, he addresses the man behind the counter:

“��Todavía estás sirviendo alcohol?”

“Sí, lo estoy.¿Qué te puedo servir?” responds the burly bartender.

“Un café y 3 shots de whisky.” Answers Frankie.

“¿Noche difícil?” the bartender asks.

“Vida difícil.” Frankie replies.

“Jajaja, ¿asumo entonces que estás casado?” he queries, as he places the three shots in front of Frankie and begins preparing the coffee.

Frankie swiftly downs the first and then the second shot. Taking a deep breath, he responds:

“Ella y el bebé son lo único que hace que esta maldita vida valga la pena. Y lo arruiné.”

Shaking his head, the bartender goes on, “Dile cómo te sientes, discúlpate y ruega. Si la amas tanto como dices, al menos te escuchará.” Frankie looks away guilty at those words. He knows you and he knows he is being unfair to your love.

“Gracias por el consejo.” Frankie acknowledges.

“De nada, es un placer. Va incluido con el café.”

Frankie lets out a laugh before finishing his last shot, while the bartender attends to the bustling morning crowd. There is no sign of Will or Benny, not even Pope who lives in these kinds of places.

From the corner of his eye, he notices a slick, well-dressed man settling onto the stool beside him, promptly ordering a large black coffee. The man's gaze falls upon the three empty shot glasses before emitting a sly chuckle, locking eyes with Frankie.

"Rough night?" the man inquires, his voice laced with a sleazy undertone.

"You could say that" Frankie responds, attempting to shield himself by burying his face in his cup of coffee. He'd rather not air his problems for all of Peru to see. The lingering buzz from the shots slowly warms him from within. God, he's so exhausted. Sleeping on the cold ground of the Andes for the past week has taken its toll. He isn’t as young as he used to be, age crept up on him. Now, all he craves is to be back home, wrapped in your loving embrace with Ella between you two. Damn it, he even misses that green itchy blanket.

Unfortunately for Frankie, the man seems oblivious to his cues and continues to pry.

"Well, my friend, I think I have just the thing for you," the man remarks, reaching into his side pocket and producing a small baggie overflowing with white powder. Frankie's body freezes.

He hasn't touched that shit since the day he got busted. He promised you he would never use it again, and he has kept that promise. The only one he has kept so far.  A cold droplet of sweat glides down his spine as he becomes entranced by the sight of the little baggie, its contents tempting him with the promise of quieting the voices in his head, numbing the guilt he carries for you, for Ella, for Tom, and for all the other fucked-up things he has done.

"So, you interested? You look like you need it. I'll even give you a discount, my man!" The man slaps Frankie on the back while jiggling the baggie as if to intensify the allure.

"Take it," his conscience whispers, taunting him. "You've already screwed up; what's one more mistake for the road? She won't even find out, and you know what they say, ignorance is bliss.”

Frankie shuts his eyes, and in the darkness, he envisions you—holding Ella in your arms with that disappointed frown of yours. But the moment his mind conjures your image, it fades away, replaced by the haunting sight of Tom's lifeless body sprawled on the ground. A bullet in his head.

The conflicting scenes play out in his mind, like a relentless tug-of-war between his love for you and his hatred of himself.

“Final chance, my man. If you're not interested, I'll find someone else," the well-dressed man leers, his voice oozing with sleaze. The allure hangs in the air, teasing Frankie. Should he yield to one more mistake?

Frankie's trembling hand reaches out, fingers quivering as they inch closer to the small bag before him. At that moment, a surge of regret and guilt floods his senses, clawing at his conscience like relentless demons. His heart aches with the weight of his past mistakes, the pain he has caused, and the promises he has broken. The promise he will break.

Frankie clenches his fists as he seizes the bag, his fingers tightly closing around it. Doubt swirls in him as he wrestles with the bitter truth—he wasn’t a good man and he sure as hell wasn’t worthy of redemption. What difference would one more mistake make?

So, Frankie surrenders. He abandons the fight and lets himself fall. As he pays for the chemical release that will soon free him from himself, he feels your arms holding him tightly and your mouth planting gentle kisses on his face, providing the comfort he so desperately craves. But reality sets in; you're not there to catch him. So, he makes his way to the nearest bathroom, and three words echo incessantly in his mind, like a broken record: “Ignorance is bliss”.

He fucking hopes that it’s true.

[mywordhaven]

The Road Ahead - ch 1 | Frankie Morales x female reader

Next Chapter

Throughout most of your married life, you've dedicated yourself to waiting for Frankie. After each deployment, you patiently anticipated his return home, longing for the moment when he would be by your side once again. You yearned for him to open up to you during those nights when nightmares consumed his thoughts, hoping that he would find solace in sharing his pain with you. And as his addiction spiralled out of control, you hoped that he would recognize his problem and seek help. Yet, despite your countless protests and pleas, you now find yourself waiting for him once more as he ventures off to Columbia doing God knows what.

But this time is the last. Resolved, you make a solemn promise to yourself: You will never wait for Frankie again.

Rating: M for Mature (18 + / no minors allowed)

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: Applicable to the entire fic / PTSD, drug use and addiction, postpartum depression, abusive familial relationships, self-hatred, hard relationship to food, unhealthy coping mechanism, explicit sexual content, violence, mentions of suicidal thoughts, super angsty guys (more warnings will be added if necessary).

Summary: Now that Frankie is finally home for good, you can start looking to the future.

Notes: Hey everyone, I am super happy (and anxious) to be sharing my first-ever fic! I hope you like this deep dive into character growth with a lot of angst and a healthy side of fluff. The story will be told in the 2nd POV, but there will be no use of Y/N, ya'll get multiple nicknames instead. Hope you guys enjoy!

Ao3 link for those interested is: Here

You find yourself immersed in the itchiness of the comforter draped across you, its green, worn fabrics scratching your sensitive skin. Surprisingly, today you welcome this uncomfortable sensation, as it anchors your mind to the bed you are currently lying on. In this moment, as you struggle to catch your breath, the scratchiness of the duvet is grounding, preventing your mind from flying away.

Your hands glide slowly across the rough fabric, savouring its familiar prickle. As you trace the worn contours, memories start to flood back— The day when Frankie introduced that horrid green monstrosity was when you first moved in together some years ago, right before his second deployment. And although you despised its discoloured hue that clashed with your envisioned home's colour scheme, you kept silent. Frankie was leaving, and you didn't want your last moments together marred by a pointless argument over a green bedspread, no matter how dreadful it looked.  

Now, ten years, 2 home relocations and a marriage later, that green duvet stubbornly remains an integral part of your bedroom decor, painfully clashing with the soothing blues surrounding it. Cornflower Blue, as the home improvement store employee had labelled it. You recall the days of indecisiveness, tirelessly seeking the perfect shade for your bedroom— A place you hope would be a peaceful haven for Frankie. Weeks were spent deliberating between countless swatches until finally settling on the current hue. Still, the green persists, clashing with the blue. Perhaps sage green would have been wiser, you think. But you had refused to admit defeat to an old, worn duvet and instead, had stubbornly gone with your first idea, horrid green be damned! Now, to your frustration, the bedroom remains an enduring battleground of colours, an ongoing struggle where shades of blue and green vie for supremacy in their quest to dominate the mood of the room.

Yet Frankie was unfazed, never commenting on the jarring combination of green and blue or their blatant mismatch. Perhaps you were making a mountain out of Molehill as you always seem to do. After all, your tendency to dramatize insignificant matters had been a subject of teasing within your family for as long as you could remember. Your brother had a habit of remarking on how seriously you took trivial matters. For your entire lives, nicknames like "Miss Prissy" or "Your Majesty" had been thrown your way to highlight your over-sensitiveness. And while your family saw it as innocent sibling teasing, these remarks had a way of leaving you feeling bruised, unable to brush the comments off as easily as everyone expected you to.

Your hands pause above your bare, sweat-dampened chest, shaking your head to dispel the unwelcomed and intrusive thoughts. Instead, you focus on the blissful moment you’ve just shared with your husband. The memory of that bothersome, green eyesore and all its associated baggage swiftly retreats from your mind, vanishing as fleetingly as it arrived.

At long last, a sense of savouring the simple joys of life begins to envelop you. With Frankie by your side, you envision a newfound freedom to engage in playful bickering, loud laughter, and the sheer enjoyment of each other. The mundane moments hold an allure like never before, beckoning you to revel in their ordinary beauty. It's a longing for a life that seems quintessentially American, relentlessly depicted on daytime television—an idyllic portrait of a family, complete with devoted parents and their brood of 2.5 children, nestled in a cozy backyard. PTA meetings, a simple 9-to-5, soccer practices after school, and piano lessons on weekends create the repetitive rhythm of this picture-perfect existence. In your vision, the pinnacle of concern revolves around selecting the ideal flowers for the summer flowerbed. While some may deem it mundane, for you, it represents an exquisite slice of paradise.

Your husband Frankie, having endured years of military service, deserves nothing less, you think. Your hands still from their exploration as you reflect on the vivid nightmares, anxiety, and overwhelming fear that would sometime consume Frankie. Even here with you, it sometimes felt as though he was still back there, never truly able to be completely present. You think of the many nights when he was on leave these past few years, and he would wake up screaming and trashing in the middle of the night covered in cold sweats. Or when you guys would be out and about, and his eyes would shift with practiced zeal as if he was assessing for possible threats. Never really “turning off”. No amount of sweet reassuring words was ever able to soothe him when he found himself stuck within his own mind. Every time you tried to discuss these concerns with him, your husband would respond with calm reassurances, followed by a tender kiss on your forehead, urging you not to worry about him.

You shake your head, a resolute movement meant to, again, brush away the intrusive thoughts lingering on the periphery, refusing to let them dim this precious moment. You shift your gaze, fixating on the horizon of possibilities that stretches before you. It is a horizon where love acts as a healing balm, gently tending to the myriad wounds etched upon your husband's past. Your heart, though cautiously guarded, brims with a glimmer of hope, eager to embark on this journey together.

However, despite your best efforts, thoughts of your mother insidiously infiltrate your mind. Over the years, you've clashed with her on countless occasions, yet now, as a married woman, you think back on her warning before you got married. The resonating echo of her stern voice lingers in your thoughts, admonishing you to unwaveringly stand by your husband, regardless of the circumstances, and emphasizing that his happiness must always take precedence over everything else. Strangely, she never mentioned the reverse. With Frankie's return, you resolve to be more present, leaving daydreams behind and focusing on him and solely on him.

As you think of Frankie, you can clearly see his body and how it bears the evidence of his service, a map of scars, some worn openly, while others hide beneath his weary flesh. Deep wounds that bleed and pain him more than any bullet ever could. Words alone seem insufficient in the face of everything he has sacrificed. But now, Frankie is finally home, all of this is behind you two. And isn't all this what marriage vows were meant for? In sickness and in health, through the lows and the highs, you pledged to be there. As you remind yourself, supporting your husband doesn't diminish your strength and independence. It's merely an expression of love and partnership, you firmly resolve, even though the words ring somewhat hollow, as a voice in the back of your mind whispers, "But what about you?"

You slowly redirect your attention to the persistent itchiness on your skin. Taking three deep breaths, you allow each inhale and exhale to anchor you firmly into the present. As the air fills your lungs, you feel your shoulders slowly ease from the tension you always seem to put yourself under.

Now that Frankie is here to stay, you want nothing else than to provide the emotional solace and respite he needs to rebuild and find peace within himself. After everything Frankie has endured, you decide that he deserves a life that is predictably dull yet safe and warm. You want to build that life for him.

As your imagination runs rampant with visions of the life you're now free to construct together, Frankie emerges in the doorway. Clad in nothing more than a familiar, well-worn pair of briefs, he exudes an aura that is unmistakably his own—a blend of warmth, comfort, and a sense of home. In that instant, as you gaze at each other, it feels as though every small longing you held during Frankie's absence has converged into this singular moment. Nothing else matters to you right now except being with him.

In Frankie's hands, he carefully balances a tray, on it a tall glass of ice-cold water adorned with glistening condensation. The hunger stirs within you and your gaze falls upon two perfectly crafted PB and J sandwiches, invitingly prepared. It's evident that even now, the precise conditioning instilled by the army remains ingrained in Frankie. The unwavering precision, tidiness, and discipline persist, even amidst post-coital bliss. Sloppily prepared sandwiches? Never on Frankie’s watch.

Fondness envelops your heart, causing it to flutter with an intensity that threatens to burst from your chest. At this moment, a culmination of experiences floods your mind—the countless sleepless nights spent anxiously awaiting a call, the fear that gripped you while scouring the news for any shred of information, and Frankie's inability to share the depths of what he went through all race to the forefront of your mind. Now, as you reminisce about those moments when others would claim that being with Frankie wasn't worth the pain or hardships, a profound sense of satisfaction fills your heart. You're grateful for having ignored their words, as every single challenge and difficulty encountered along the way—the long-distance separations, the emotional uncertainties, and the sacrifices made—has ultimately proven to mean something. A smile mirrors your own overwhelming happiness as Frankie starts to walk toward the bed.

"I thought you'd have an appetite after all that exercise," Frankie says, his voice laced with a playful tone. His eyes, warm like melted chocolate, cradle you in their soft gaze. They speak volumes, no words needed, telling you just how much he cares.

A mischievous smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you playfully quip, "Guess it doesn't help that we skipped dinner either, huh?"

"I apologize, mi cielo. I suppose I let my excitement get the better of me," Frankie admits, a touch of boyish bashfulness colouring his tone. "After eight long months apart, how could you expect me not to pounce on you, especially when you look so breathtaking?"

With utmost care, Frankie gently places the tray on the tiny side table, taking special care to move aside the book you're currently engrossed in. With the task completed, he turns his gaze towards you, slowly making his way to your side. Your eyes lock, and in an instant, he tenderly captures your mouth with his own. The kiss is unhurried yet filled with an intense passion, a promise of all that is to come, a fulfillment of the multitude of promises you have made to each other. Now, you have all the time in the world to embrace those promises.

As the kiss deepens, Frankie's hands begin to explore your naked body, their touch igniting a fiery desire that resonates deep within you. It engulfs you in a passionate longing that intensifies with each passing second. Frankie's wandering hands halt at your hips, where he gently strokes your sides while deepening the kiss even further. Breaking the kiss, he presses his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily, his warm breath mingling with your own. A playful glimmer dance in Frankie’s brown eyes as he firmly grabs your hips, effortlessly flipping you both into the deep plushness of the bed.

A delighted squeal escapes your throat, and you find yourself on top of Frankie, straddling his warm hips. His devilish smile meets your gaze. Like a tidal wave, a rush of excitement cascades through you, electrifying your senses and igniting newfound energy within.

"I thought we were supposed to have dinner," you playfully tease, your hands resting on the firm planes of his pectorals.

Frankie's eyes glisten mischievously as he responds, his voice filled with playful affection, "Don't worry, hermosa. Dinner can wait another minute. Right now, all I want to do is admire you." With a tender touch, he grabs a handful of the fleshy part of your hips, gently massaging your sides. His voice carries on, laced with adoration, "You know, this angle is my favourite. When I see you from above, naked, and sweaty, you look like my very own Amazon. My fierce warrior queen whom I can’t wait to worship." His grip tightens possessively, playfully swatting your behind, causing your flesh to softly jiggle.

You can't help but snort with amusement, firmly grinding down in a slow sensuous movement Frankie exhales a low moan, his eyes closing in pleasure. Yielding to the temptation, you momentarily cease your ministrations and whisper, "Well, last time I checked, librarians weren't renowned for their battle prowess.”

Frankie's smile stretches, his eyes opening and locking with yours, while his hands gently secure your hips. His soft voice echoes sweetly, "Physical prowess is just a fraction of true strength, mi cielo. It's a mindset, a spirit that radiates courage and perseverance. Believe me when I tell you, you possess that strength in a way that surpasses anyone I've ever encountered."

His words envelop you in a comforting embrace that floods your being with warmth. Reflected in his eyes is an unwavering conviction, a faith given to you unlike any you've experienced before. Such belief, one you've never even held for yourself, captivates you. The weight of his words resonates deeply, shaking the core of your being, even as you strive to maintain a facade of nonchalance. But Frankie effortlessly sees through your charade, knowing you better than he knows himself at this point. He slowly pushes his upper body upward and starts peppering your collarbones with tender kisses. You feel your cheeks heating as you shyly avert your gaze, unable to resist the sweetness of his praise and the even sweeter ministration.

A brief moment passes, during which you nibble on your lower lip, contemplating your next words. Finally, you muster the courage to meet Frankie's eyes once more, you push him back down on the mattress and ask, a mischievous glint shining in your eyes, "If I am to be your queen, does that mean you're willing to obey my every command?”

A playful smile dances on Frankie's lips as he replies, "Well, mi cielo, let's just say I'm more than willing to embark on the thrilling adventure of fulfilling your every desire, one command at a time." With those words, Frankie softly grabs your right arm, the very arm that had been holding him down, and he punctuates each word with a tender kiss upon the palm of your hand. As he does so, his eyes gently close, allowing his lips to linger in their affectionate embrace, locked in that sweet moment.

Frankie surrenders to the present, savouring every precious second that slowly passes between the two of you. The ache of longing for you these past months had been insurmountable, a void that only you could fill. Amidst his world engulfed in chaos, pain, and the remanence of a haunting trail of death that seemed eternally imprinted on his very being, your presence at his side has always been the sole beacon of meaning and coherence. The only thing that ever truly mattered to him. Screw everything else; he should have chosen to stay home long ago, before feeling trapped in the abyss he felt he had dug himself into over the years. In an attempt to dispel the encroaching darkness threatening to envelop him, Frankie inhales deeply, pushing away those grim thoughts, before swiftly flipping you over.

Everything else fades away again, and only the two of you remain. As you draw in a deep breath, the air fills your lungs with a trembling intensity, causing a burning sensation. Your chest tightens, not just from the weight of Frankie's presence, but also from the weight of everything that surrounds you, suffocating you in its bittersweet grasp. Tenderly, Frankie gently presses his nose against yours, once, twice, before planting a soft kiss upon its tip.

"I promise you, mi cielo, there is nothing that can ever come between us. No war, no ruler, no divine power could ever separate me from you. I am yours for eternity, and as long as I get to spend my life with you, cariño, it would have been a life worth living."

Your eyes well up with tears, and with a quiver in your voice, you whisper, "I love you, Frankie."

"Te amo, mi cielo, te amo para siempre," he replies, his words carrying the weight of a vow between you two.

With intertwined fingers and hearts overflowing with love, you gaze into each other's eyes. As you lie there, wrapped in the afterglow of passion, you savour the tranquillity and completeness that permeates the room. You vow to cherish each day, to embrace the ordinary moments that always become extraordinary when you are with Frankie. Together, you will face the world with open hearts, ready to create this future you’ve always yearned for with Frankie. As Frankie peppers kisses down your throat, you smile, and a shuddering breath escapes you. Food can wait you think giddily. Your hands gently glide along the broad expanse of his back, savouring him in all his glorious being. Nothing else matters now, for Frankie is home.