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loveharlow · 2 months

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SEVEN - 002

PAIRING ‧₊˚ JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS‧₊˚[6.5k] based on 1x02.

WARNING(S)‧₊˚ swearing, mentions of parental neglect, mild violence, mentions of death/grief, disturbance of a graveyard (?)

NOW PLAYING‧₊˚

A/N‧₊˚ I've been wanting to do an OBX rewrite for a very long time so here it is, the first chapter from yours truly.

˗ˏˋ series masterlist ˎˊ˗

“DO YOU REALLY THINK BIG JOHN COULD STILL BE ALIVE?” Kiara’s slightly digitally distorted voice came from the other end of the line. Your phone was pressed between your ear and shoulder as you searched the hangers in your closet, bath towel wrapped snug around your frame and your hair thrown up into a bun, which was presenting more like a mess of damp strands.

“It doesn’t matter what we think, Kie,” You made clear, eyeing a cute shirt you thought you’d lost. “We should just be there for him.”

“Yeah… but what if we’re just feeding into a fantasy? Wouldn’t that make us bad friends if we weren’t honest with him?” You could hear her shuffling around on the other end of the phone as well, dresser drawers slamming occasionally.

“Maybe you’re right.” You sighed, throwing your outfit onto your bed and heading back into the closet to find a bikini to wear underneath. Living in the Outer Banks meant you had a plethora to choose from. “But the way I see it? If it were my dad that went missing, I’d be looking for him too. I’d give anything to even have that small hope that my dad was still alive back, but I know he isn’t… so, I understand.”

“I didn’t think about it like that…” It was sad to hear her so conflicted, as if she’d said the wrong thing.

“Well, I wouldn’t expect you to. And I would never want you to be able to understand that feeling. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” You reassured, putting the girl on speaker to toss the phone on your bed and slipping the bikini you picked out onto your frame and tying the respective knots. “That’s why if John B thinks his dad is alive and wants to look for him? That’s what we’re gonna do. Because alive or not, John B is like a brother to me and leaving him to do this alone is what would make us bad friends.”

“I guess you’re right…are you still meeting up with the guys today?”

“Just J and John B for right now. Pope said he’d be around later after helping his pops.” You told her, slipping an oversized shirt over top of the bikini, eyeing your closet shelves for a pair of shorts.

“Alright, I might swing by if my parents aren’t up my ass about work.” She complained. “Talk to you later.”

“Later.” Was all you said before the end-call sound rang out in the expanse of your bedroom.

A swift series of knocks met your closed door from the other side, you shouted for them to come in, assuming it was either your mother or your dog Marley’s tail hitting the wood. The 2-year-old golden retriever had a knack for sitting outside your bedroom door on the rare occasion that it was closed and she wasn’t inside.

The knob twisted and in walked your mother, adorned in her signature navy blue pencil skirt and blazer, still a half hour to spare before she had to head off to her office for work. Rebecca Reyes was the Outer Banks’ most notable and renowned lawyer. Even when you still lived on The Cut all those months ago, she was still the island's number one defender. Moving to Figure Eight and getting rich, almost overnight, just gave her the resources she needed. You still questioned where all the money spawned from, chopping it down to your father’s life insurance coming through.

But the bank said that could take a while and you never assumed it was enough to buy a house on Figure Eight. But that’s adult stuff, you thought to yourself.

“You got home late yesterday,” She began bluntly, adjusting the diamond bracelet on her wrist. The smell of her expensive perfume already wafting into your space. “Where were you?”

“Just out with John B and the others.” You said with a shrug, walking out the closet with a pair of sneakers in your hands as you undid the tied laces.

She hummed, eyeing the space around you as if she’d never seen it before. “Did you hear about the boat they’re searching for? Scooter Grubbs’ boat?”

You side eyed her quickly, not quick enough for her to catch however. “Yeah, the whole island is losing their minds over it.”

“You and your friends haven’t come across anything, have you?”

“...I doubt we’d have any luck coming across a Grady-White, mom. Especially after the hurricane. That boat could be oceans away for all we know.”

“Right.” She agreed, but she seemed far away. Off. Why’d she care about Scooter Grubbs’ boat? “And what’s this I hear about some kid with a gun at The Point?” Your heart dropped.

“A gun?” You acted semi-shocked. “I don’t know, I wasn’t there.”

“Hm.” She droned. “Well, if you find anything don’t hesitate to tell me. Or Shoupe, for that matter. He said two out of towners showed up for the boat search yesterday, looked sketchy. So, be careful.”

You hummed in agreement, watching as the woman strutted out of the room without even a small ‘goodbye’.

You and your mother were nowhere near as close as you used to be. Your father’s passing caused a rift between the two of you that seemed irreparable. You just felt like she had become so cold and closed off, nothing like the woman who used to bake every weekend or plan family nights in the backyard. She was more secretive, dismissive. You couldn’t even remember what her smile looked like. She’d changed so much. She used to hate Sheriff Shoupe, said he was a dirty cop who worked under the rich snobs of Figure Eight. Now, it’s like they’re business partners of some sort and she is a rich snob on Figure Eight.

She even changed her last name back after your father died and wouldn’t tell you why. That was what made you feel the most alone. Rebecca Carter was now Rebecca Reyes but you were still Y/N Carter and your father would always be Owen Carter.

It was like she was trying to erase him and everything they’d built together.

You hated to admit that sometimes you wondered what your father would think of the woman she’s become. If she would be as unrecognizable to him as she is to you.

YOU SAT IN THE BACK OF THE VAN, legs bent as your journal rested atop your thighs while you scribbled down your thoughts and recent events — namely the events of yesterday. You had one earbud in, your playlist on shuffle as you half-listened into JJ and John B’s conversation that was happening in the front seat, the bumpy ride making your handwriting a bit chicken scratch-ish.

“I don’t understand why you don’t at least try with Kiara,” JJ started, his heavy boots kicked up on the dashboard. “She clearly likes you. She’s like ‘Oh, John B!’. She’s sketchy about you diving and then she kissed you, bro.” The blonde continued.

“She kissed me on the cheek. It’s not like we were makin’ out.” John B denied, brushing off the girl’s clear affections.

“Low-hanging fruit, bro.” JJ cut him off, the statement making you cringe in silence as you continued to scribble. “I see it in your eyes. You’re like ‘I kind of like that’.” JJ said in a mockingly low and seductive voice.

“Okay, you want to talk about me?”

“Yeah, bro, I wanna talk about you and your lack of game.”

“My lack- my lack of game? Okay, what game do you have, JJ? ‘Cause I haven’t seen any improvement in your case.” JJ’s head whipped between you and the boy in the driver’s seat within milliseconds before he was swatting John B’s arm.

“C’mon, dude...” He warned in a hushed tone. John B just chuckled.

“That’s what I thought.”

Moments of silence passed before their voices were heard again. “I gotta admit, your dad’s compass in Scooter’s boat? Freaky, man…” JJ claimed, twirling the newfound object between his fingers.

“That’s why we’re going to talk to Ms. Lana and figure this whole thing out. She’s his wife, she has to know something.” John B told him.

“And what makes you think she would want to talk to us?” You added, spooking the blonde boy in the passenger seat.

“How long have you been listen-”

“I’m always listening.” You spoke bluntly, a blank expression on your face as you averted your attention from your journal to him. “Anyway,” you dismissed. “A group of teenagers showing up to ask her about her dead husband, the boat that the whole island is looking for, and the compass we found inside of said dead husband’s lost boat? She’ll either think we’re criminals, FBI, or crazy.”

“Well, this is our first resort.” John B replied, eyes looking at you through the rearview. “We gotta try.”

“KNOW WHAT THIS HOUSE LOOKS LIKE?” JJ said, leading the group of us to the front yard of Lana Grubbs’ residence. “Whoever lives here smokes too much weed.” He observed the small, shack-like house — the walls were overgrown with weeds, the yard looked like it’d never been cut, the place was a mess from the outside.

The three of you stopped, more like flinched, in your tracks when you heard glass-shattering from the inside of the house followed by crash after crash. It sounded like the outside of a rage-room or a gun range.

“Maybe we should come back…” JJ advised, taking small steps back. But John B persisted, even as the two of you stood back in fear.

“No, no, shut up, JJ.” John B reprimanded absentmindedly.

“Tell me where it is or I’ll fuck you up!” A deep, brassy voice boomed from the inside. The voice so authoritative it made you shudder, but it didn’t worry you as when a woman’s scream followed. You could only assume it was Ms. Lana. “I’ll sink you in the fucking-” A crash, louder than the rest, cut off the sentence, almost covering the sound of Ms. Lana’s blood-curling screech.

“You’re hurting me!”

John B beckoned JJ and you on with his hands, urging the both of you to move forward. Reluctantly, and after a weary glance at one another, you and JJ followed the brunette boy who was edging closer and closer to the side of the house.

“Where the fuck is it?!”

“I don’t know!”

The three of you quickly dashed and ducked beneath the window seal on the only open window when you heard something hit the wall from the inside. You had just parted your lips to say that, just maybe, this was a bad idea. A terrible one, even, before a phrase yelled by the angry man inside had you shutting up.

“The compass wasn’t in the boat! Where is it, Lana?!”

“I don’t know!”

Your heart dropped as things continued to get thrown and slammed inside the house and you prayed those ‘things’ didn’t happen to be Lana. The paint and wood started to physically chip and fall off the walls outside, landing on top of the three of you crouched against the side of the house, wood particles falling into your eyes.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, man…” Another male voice commanded, followed by two pairs of heavy footsteps against the wooden floors inside. The three of you peeked around the corner to watch the two men disappear from the grounds through the front door, stomping angrily towards their boat.

The same boat that had been shooting at you only 24 hours prior.

“Those were the guys that shot at us.” JJ whisper-yelled.

“Go back.” John B commanded, pushing you all back behind the safety of the wall so they wouldn’t see you all. Once the boat sped off, the three of you slowly tip-toed your way into the house. The sound of Lana’s cries getting louder and more heartbreaking the more you entered the house, shoes crunching on wood and glass. Photo frames and dishes all broken into smaller fractions and littered on the floor, holes in the walls, kitchen cabinets hanging on by a single hinge.

“Ms. Lana?” You called out, voice laced with concern, eyeing the broken windows before they found Ms. Lana’s curled up figure on the bathroom floor right below the sink that was hanging on by a singular pipe. “Oh my God.” You gasped, kneeling right next to the woman and laying a hand on her shoulder that caused her to flinch and shrink in on herself.

She had tears running from her red, swollen eyes, curled up like someone’s child.

“She is tweakin’.”

“Shut up, JJ.” You hissed, shooting a mean glare at the insensitive blonde before turning your attention back to the feeble woman. “Do you need a doctor? We can call a doctor for you.” You assured, examining the multiple cuts adorning the woman’s face and arms.

“We can call the sheriff’s department-” John B was on the verge of suggesting before Lana cut him off frantically.

“No cops, please!”

“Mm, that’s not good. Let’s bounce.” JJ urged, weary of the woman’s persistence to avoid law enforcement.

“You shouldn’t be here...” Lana cried, her eyes focused on John B, speaking as her lip quivered and her voice shook.

The brunette’s face twisted, kneeling next to me to level his gaze with Ms. Lana’s. “Do you know those guys?”

“They were… looking for something.” Her voice wavered.

“...Does it have anything to do with this?” John B asked her, pulling the compass from the back pocket of his board shorts. You and JJ shared a glance, both knowing John B probably shouldn’t have shown it to her. “This was my father’s and Scooter had it. Do you know why?”

Why did John B think showing a woman his father’s compass and saying he copped it from her dead husband was a good idea? You had no clue. Interrogation tactic? Impulsiveness? Stupidity? Lana’s eyes were wide and teary, she looked like she was seeing ghosts.

“Scooter didn’t have it, okay? Don’t tell anyone that you have that. They can’t know that you have that!”

Your lips pulled themselves into a thin line and you were starting to feel less bad for Lana and more suspicious of the distressed woman. Maybe she wasn’t as innocent as she appeared. She didn’t seem to be a threat but she clearly knew things that she shouldn’t. You nudged JB’s arm, whispering in his direction even though the woman could most likely still hear you. “We should go…”

“You’ve gotta get out of here!” Lana cried, fearful gaze eyeing the compass in John’s grasp.

“What do you know about the compass?” John B raised his voice over her frantic one, still questioning Lana as JJ pulled him back and the three of you stood to leave.

“Go! Get out!” Was the last thing you heard as the hysteric woman yelled at your retreating figures.

“SO, YOU SAW THE GUYS THAT SHOT AT US, RIGHT?” Pope asked with his head in his hands, stressed after listening to JJ’s dramatic rendition of events. The three of you had returned to The Chateau and summoned Kiara and Pope not too long after, the events of today on the tip of your tongue. “Did you get a good description of them? Anything we can bring to a police report?”

You shook your head along with JJ and John B as Kiara and Pope sighed at you all's lack of response. There was nothing special about these guys. Sure, they seemed out of place but that’s because nobody on the island knew them. That was one perk about living in Kildare, everyone knows everyone. But these weren’t leather jacket, ski-mask wearing criminals. They didn’t stick out like sore thumbs.

“That’s not very helpful…” Kiara huffed.

“But, but,” JJ started again. “They were burly. Like the men I’d see at my dad’s garage. You guys know he made cargo hides for drug smugglers...” He reminded you all carelessly. “I can tell you with full confidence that these guys? They’re square groupers.”

“Like Narcos square groupers?” Pope questioned with little amusement, his face dropping as he watched JJ smoke against the brick wall.

“Like, Pablo Escobar square grouper?” You added on, just as skeptical from your seat on the patio floor, legs stretched in front of you and crossed over one another while you leaned on your elbows for support. JJ just nodded, blowing out smoke.

“You guys, not everything is a kingpin movie.” Kie reprimanded from her place next to Pope on the patio furniture.

“Okay,” Pope started. “What does a square grouper look like? Hm? Because clearly, you don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“Okay, you weren’t there! I wasn’t taking little mental polaroids the entire time, dude! I was under duress!” JJ whined to which you and John B rolled your eyes.

“Why would they want the compass?” Kiara probed, leaning forward in her seated position, resting her forearms on her thighs.

“That thing’s a piece of shit, you could pawn it off for five bucks if you wanted to… No offense, John B.” Pope claimed honestly, watching as John B flicked the object open and stared at it longingly, paying no mind to the boy’s insult.

“Well, clearly it’s worth something.” You popped in. “Considering these guys are willing to kill for it.”

“...The office.” You all turned to the scruffy brunette. A silent question on everyone’s face. “My dad’s office.” John B continued, shooting up and walking inside The Chateau as you all scurried to follow, shooting one another confused glances. “He always kept the office locked ‘cause he was worried about his competitors stealing his Royal Merchant research. Remember?” He directed at you and JJ, looking back but still walking forward. “We used to laugh at him like he was actually going to find it. But now that he’s…gone, I just left it as he kept it.” He said despondently.

“Yeah. For when he gets back.” Kie backed him up with a light-tipped smile. Keys jangled as John B unlocked the room you hadn’t seen in years. Not since before Big John went missing. Before all of this.

“I’ve slept over here like six-hundred times and I’ve never seen this door opened.” Pope said aloud, eyeing the office like a museum.

This was like being hit by a tidal-wave for you. And you’re sure it was the same for John B. You can remember the countless nights you’d slept over before and after Big John went missing. Before he went missing and you, JB, and JJ would peek inside just to watch him just write and type like his life depended on it. It even brought back memories of when your dad would stay a while after dropping you off to spend the night just to share beers in the backyard with Big John.

The nights after his disappearance weren’t as sweet though. Sleeping in a group hug around John B after his dad went missing. Then your friends all slept in a group hug around you after your dad went missing. Then they slept in another group hug around you when your dad’s body was found, washed up on the shore for the entire island to see. With the plethora of events, The Chateau became a haunted house in your mind.

“Look,” John B said, pulling you out of your stupor. He’d taken a bulletin board down off of the walls that was decorated with paper scraps and old pictures. His index finger pointed to the photo at the very top, a sepia-like tint to it. “This was the original owner of the compass.”

The paper pinned against the photo read ‘Robert Q. Routledge. 1880 - 1920’.

“There’s the lucky compass right there.” Kiara showed you all, pointing to the object clutched in the old man’s hand in the picture. You wouldn’t exactly call the compass lucky, though. And if it was before, it surely isn’t now.

“Actually, um. He was shot after he bought it…” John B informed. “Then the compass was shipped back to Henry.” He continued guiding you all through the timeline, pointing to the next picture. “Henry was killed in a crop-dusting accident when he had the compass.” You happened to look up at the exact same time as Pope, the two of you locking eyes with visible worry. “After he died, the compass was given to Stephen. Stephen had it when he died in Vietnam.” The boy ranted. “After that, Stephen passed the compass down to my dad.”

“This is painting a very bad picture, JB…” You warned, hand on the back of your neck as your face twisted.

“Yeah, he has a death compass.” Pope deadpanned.

“I do not.” John B denied, rolling his eyes and sitting down in the nearest chair with the compass still in hand. “My dad used to talk about this compartment here.” He explained, fiddling with the article between his fingers. “Soldiers used to hide secret notes.” He twisted the back of it off, revealing a word scratched into the top. He sat up with surprise as he spoke. “...This is my dad’s handwriting.”

Pope scoffed. “How can you know that?”

“He’s right.” You assured the doubtful male absentmindedly, squinting your eyes and craning your neck down to see the word written into the metal. “Big John had horrific handwriting and his R’s always had a point to them. I always used to think they looked like big-headed baby chicks, in a way. That’s definitely his handwriting.”

“Weird observation…but she’s right.” John B backed you up, his eyes going back to the compass. “Redfield…” He muttered. “What’s Redfield? Is it a clue?”

“A clue? C’mon that’s-” Pope began until you shot him a nasty glare, silently telling him to be helpful and supportive or shut up. His eyes widened as he gulped. “If it is a clue, m-maybe it’s an anagram?”

“Yes!” John B jumped up from his seat, beckoning you all to back up some. “Anagram. Perfect. You need paper.” He directed at Pope, eyeing scanning the cluttered space. Handing the boy an old, crinkled sheet of notebook paper, Pope got to work with the help of JJ and Kiara as John B and you scoured the desks for anything else of use.

Your ears were quick to pick up on the sound of an engine over the chatter of the brainiac bunch behind you. Eyes perking up to see a black truck pulling onto the yard.”...Guys?” You spoke, but not loud enough. “Guys!” You shushed them, all eyes turning to you. “Somebody’s here.”

The five of you crowded around the window, peeking through the blinds and peering through the dusted glass. Two males got out of the car and you recognized them immediately. “Those are the guys from The Marsh and Lana’s house.”

John B was quick to turn towards JJ. “Where’s the gun?”

“I don’t know-”

“Now you don’t have the gun? The one time we need the gun?” Kiara panicked.

“It was in my backpack and then I-...it’s on the porch.” JJ quickly realized, sighing before biting his lip out of frustration.

“Go. Go get it.” John B urged quietly but you were quick to step up, tugging the short sleeve of JJ’s shirt before he could open the door.

“No, no, we are not sending JJ out there to be pummeled by square troopers, square groupers, whatever they are-”

“We need the gun-” The bandana-wearing boy hissed.

“I don’t care. We stay put. We stay together.” You insisted. But JJ gently swiped your hand down and backed out of your reach, one hand up in surrender. “What’re you doing-”

“It’ll be quick, I swear. I’m like a ninja-”

“JJ.” You said simply, disappointed as you curled your fist in annoyance.

“I’ll be on my Batman shit.” He whispered before leaving the room quietly with the door cracked behind him, allowing you all to see him leave.

“John Routledge!” A country man’s voice boomed, causing JJ to turn around and slide his way back into the room quietly before he’d even made it two steps outside of the office. “C’mon out now!” JJ closed and locked the door as you all heard the pairs of footsteps enter The Chateau. The men began smashing and throwing things around just as they did Ms. Lana’s house. Was this their MO or something?

‘Window’ Kie mouthed, pointing to the window that led straight into the yard, towards the chicken coop and the surf shack. JJ and Pope rushed over to it as John B held down the door, which was just him standing against it with his hands above his head. JJ and Pope tried to lift the frame but it wouldn’t budge. Your face twisted in confusion, walking over to where the two boys were struggling and attempting to pull up the window seal yourself with no better luck.

“It’s painted shut.” You couldn’t help but smack your teeth, cursing under your breath as your eyes quickly scanned the room for something sharp as you patted the back of your shorts, feeling an object in your pocket. Digging your hand in to reveal a pen, the one you’d been using to journal that morning. You whispered for the guys to move before ejecting the pen and sliding it quickly along the seal to break it as quickly as possible.

Suddenly, one of the square groupers began kicking the door down, John B running across the room.

“Hurry!” Kiara whispered.

“I’m going as fast as I can!” You hissed. When the seal was completely broken, you wasted no time in opening the window, being the first to jump down into the backyard and making a b-line for the coop. The five of you piled inside one by one, the space surprisingly big enough for five fully grown teenagers as you crouched in tense silence. Just then, you heard a shot ring out from the inside of the house, assuming the man shot the door down.

Everyone could hear everyone breathing, shaky breaths all throughout the small enclosure. And the roosters. One rooster would not stop crowing. You were hoping, praying the damn thing would stop making noise. It wasn’t long before the guys were seen leaving the house, carrying at least two crates of books and research each.

“Pope, shut him up.” JJ demanded, referring to the rooster next to Pope that was making the most noise.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Pet it or something, I don’t know.” Kie cried. Suddenly , JJ got up and grabbed the rooster by its neck, pressing it into the ground until its neck audibly snapped and its clucking ceased. You couldn’t help but cringe and look away, the sight somehow prompting you to gag. JJ’s eyes met yours as if he was making sure you were okay, you giving him a sickly nod in return. One that wasn’t as reassuring as you hoped. Kie was crying silently and you didn’t miss the way John B grabbed her hand in comfort.

“WHAT BETTER PLACE TO HIDE A MESSAGE THAN A FAMILY HEIRLOOM?” John B tried to muse from the driver’s seat of The Twinkie.

“Maybe somewhere more easily accessible.” You said bluntly, laying back on the floor of the van, your foot on Pope and head in JJ’s lap, Kiara in the passenger seat. “Like a hidden jewelry box compartment or a locked drawer. Not inside of a death compass on a dead man’s sunken boat.”

John B simply ignored you. “He had to know it was gonna get back to me, right?” He spoke hopefully, referring to his father.

“It’s possible.” Kie agreed from the passenger seat next to him, not wholeheartedly however.

“It could also be possible that you’re concocting wild theories to help deal with your sad feels- Ow!” Pope was interrupted when you kicked his knee, shooting him a glance that said ‘what the hell'.

“You know how I process my sad feels,” JJ started, your eyes drifting to him as your head craned slightly back from its place atop his thighs. “Dank nugs and the stickiest of ickies.”

“Preach.” You agreed, dapping up the blonde boy.

“Look, I’m not concocting, okay?” John B nearly shouted in frustration. “My dad’s trying to give me a message.”

“...If it helps you believe, John B.” Kiara tried softly.

“I don’t need a therapy session. I’m not trippin’ out.” He dismissed the four of you. “My dad is missing, okay? Missing. You guys don’t know what it’s like to have the person closest to you vanish and have no idea what happened.”

Suddenly, the two pairs of eyes in the back of the van turned to you. You couldn’t help but curl in on yourself slightly. “Stop it.” You demanded, averting your eyes to the window, watching the palm trees pass by. You hated when they acted like you had to be shielded from things because of what happened to your dad.

“It’s been almost a year.” Kiara nudged JB, letting it go. “But fine. What do you think the message is?”

“Redfield.” The brunette reiterated hopefully. “Redfield Lighthouse. My dad’s favorite place.”

THE LIGHTHOUSE LOOKED A BIT DIFFERENT THAN YOU REMEMBERED. It looked older, more rickety. You could swear it was leaning now. The five of you stood staring up at it before John B turned around to face JJ.

“You’re gonna post up out here and look for bogey’s. Alright?”

“Wait, why me?” JJ asked pitifully.

“...JJ, there are independent variables and dependent variables. You’re an independent variable-” Pope tried to reason.

“Shut up.” The blonde-haired boy dismissed with a snarl.

“We don’t know what you’re gonna do!”

“Just shut up!”

“Listen to me,” John B broke the boys up, pointing an assertive finger. “Pope, you stand lookout with JJ. Y/N, you make sure they don’t rip each other’s heads off. If we get split up, we meet back at JJ’s house.” You watched as Kiara and John B hopped over the fence and onto the lighthouse property. You slid your back against a nearby tree, one earbud placed in your ear as you drummed your fingers against your thigh, playing with blades of grass between your fingers.

“I’m gonna work on my merit scholarship essay. I’m trying to keep felonies to a minimum.”

“All right, would you just shut up already?” JJ sassed, you rolling your eyes and scoffing at them both. A few beats passed before JJ spoke again. “They’re probably boning in there right now.”

“Jesus, JJ…” You breathed out.

“What? You don’t honestly believe they don’t have a thing for each other, do you?” He defended.

“Maybe you’re just jealous.” Pope offered from his place in the grass.

“Jealous? Of what?”

“Because John B’s trying to move in on Kie and you have a thing for her.”

“Listen, dude,” JJ started with his hands out in front of him. “Kie’s hot and all but she’s a kook. I don’t see her like that.”

“That’s what they all say.” You sang playfully, causing JJ to whip around to face you.

“Oh, really? And what about little miss pretty & popular?”

You visibly cringed. “Ew, don’t ever refer to me like that again.”

“You’re telling me you aren’t crushin’ on someone? No rich, polo-wearing kid swept you off your feet during you and Kie’s kook year?” He egged on.

“Knock it off, JJ.” Pope defended when he saw how your face fell at the mention of it. You hated when they brought it up. Technically Kie’s kook year was longer than yours, considering you’d joined her kook friend group when you moved to Figure Eight. That was an era of your life you’d love nothing more than to forget.

“Fine, fine,” He backed off, his hands thrown up in mock surrender as he backed some steps away. Just then, the three of your heads whipped to the dirt road behind you at the sound of police sirens. You snatched the earbud out of your ear and pocketed it, standing up from your place against the tree. They were clearly headed for the lighthouse.

“What do we do? Do we wait?” Pope asked frantically.

“We can’t, man, c’mon.” JJ urged, sprinting towards the van with you and Pope following close behind. He jumped into the driver’s seat, pulling off before you and Pope had even closed the side door completely. You could only have faith that your other two friends made it out okay.

“NEXT TIME YOU END UP AT THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE, YOU CALL ME FIRST. DO YOU UNDERSTAND, JOHN BOOKER?” Your mother reprimanded the poor boy, her heels clacking against the pavement outside of the department. You didn’t expect a call from John B after you all had run from the lighthouse, coming from the Kildare County Sheriff’s Station from John B saying he and Kiara had been “arrested”.

“Yes, ma’am.” He affirmed. By the time you’d arrived at the station, Kiara had apparently already left with her dad who’d refused to bail John B out as well, leaving the boy with only one other option. The three of you stopped in front of your mother’s car as she now turned to face the two of you.

“Shoupe already has enough to deal with. The sheriff’s office doesn’t need a couple of rowdy teenagers on their radar. I don’t know what you kids were doing up at the lighthouse that led to this, but drop it. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” You both blurted out simultaneously, your mother having a newfound knack for intimidating people. She didn’t hesitate to jump in her car and start the engine, giving one last look as a goodbye.

YOU WERE AT THE DOCKS WAITING ON JOHN B, SITTING ON THE WOOD AND SWINGING YOUR FEET. You’d gone with him when he realized it was time for him to work, an employee saying Ward was looking for him as soon as the pair of you had arrived. He was up on The Druther’s, Ward’s boat, talking to the man himself. You couldn’t tell what the conversation was from your seat on the docks, so you waited. It was only minutes before the boy himself came stomping down the marina, prompting you to get up and dust yourself off.

“Is everything okay-”

“I just got fired.” He blurted, not even making eye contact with you and he brushed past you. You stuttered at his passive nature, scurrying to follow behind him.

“What do you mean you just got fired?”

“Ward found out about the gear.” He scoffed, and even with his back to you as he breezed through the working people to leave the dock, you could almost feel his frustration. “I can’t believe her.” He muttered.

“Who? Who are you talking about, John B?” You soon got your answer as Sarah Cameron walked by, you and the girl making brief eye contact with a mutual snarl on both of your lips before her attention turned to John B, who she somehow saw after you.

“Hey, John B.” She greeted, her hands full of paper bags that were filled to the brim with groceries, a large, brimmed hat on the top of her head. You weren’t surprised when he continued walking as you followed without a word to the girl, but she persisted. “That’s it?” Sarah scoffed. “Not a ‘hey, how you doin’’? Not a ‘kiss my ass’?”

You didn’t expect John B to turn around and swiftly walk over to the girl, getting all in her face. With the noise of the busy marina in the back, their close conversation became hushed but it was still audible enough.

“Your secret’s safe with me? Really?” Your friend pressed the girl. “I just got fired because of you. And I know you can’t imagine that but some people need jobs, so they can eat.” Nothing shocked you more than when he smacked the bag of goods from her arms, leaving Sarah stunned as fruits rolled in front of her sandals. Her jaw slack and eyes wide.

“What the fuck?” She hollered.

“You are exactly who I thought you were, Sarah Cameron.” He reprimanded, turning and leaving behind a stunned kook girl. Although, you would’ve paid money to see that again, it was such an odd interaction.

You knew he worked on Ward’s boat so he was bound to come across her but you weren’t aware they really talked. If you didn’t know either of them, you’d assume they were a high school couple arguing out in public.

The brunette brushed past you once again, taking his time and seemingly building up the courage to break into a run.

“Wh- John B!” You called from your place in the parking lot. “John B, where are you going?!” But it was no use as he simply left you behind and continued sprinting away. You figured you’d just give him some space to himself.

YOU’D RECONNECTED WITH POPE AND JJ SOON AFTER BEING LEFT IN THE DUST BY JOHN B, meeting them on the docks in The Cut. The three of you had been there for some hours, you helping Pope fix a generator while JJ smoked unhelpfully to the side when John B pulled up in The Twinkie.

He honked, beckoning the three of you into the van with a finger and none of you questioned what was happening or where you were going as you hopped into the rickety vehicle. You were mildly pissed about being left at The Marina but you got in nonetheless.

THE SUN HAD SET AND YOU ALL STILL HADN’T ARRIVED YET. John B briefly explained the destination and plan but you half-listened. You’d been driving for a long time, picking up Kiara along the way, with no clue as to where the five of you were going.

“Do you mind if I sit this one out?” JJ asked tiredly. “It’s been a long, weird day…”

“Look, I know I was wrong about the lighthouse.” John B acknowledged. “And wrong about everything else. But I was right about one thing — my dad is trying to tell me something.”

Just then you pulled up to a graveyard, the five of you piling out of the van with a flashlight each in your hand. “This place is scary.” Kie voiced. “John B, what are we doing?”

“You know how you’re trying to remember a song but you can’t remember who sings it?” He started. “Redfield. This whole time, I thought it was a place.” He explained as you all followed him further into the mess of graves and tombstones. “But it’s not.” He held the lantern in his hand up once you all stopped in front of a tomb, one of the tallest ones in the yard, revealing “REDFIELD” engraved in the stone. “It’s a person. My great-great-grandmother, Olivia Redfield. That was her maiden name.” He spoke longingly, looking up at the stone letters. “Help me with the door. C’mon.”

Pope stepped forward as the remaining three of you flashed your lights in the pair’s direction as they attempted and failed to push the tomb door open.

“Are you pushing?” Pope said to the brunette.

“Yes, I’m pushing.” John B strained out. Then JJ was jumping into help but even with his addition, the boys had no luck opening the door. They all jumped back when a snake hissed, peeking its head out from a crack in the stone structure.

“Woah! That’s a moccasin, alright” JJ started, jumping back almost cartoonistically. “Ye-old cottonmouth. Death in tall grass. Roof! Roof!” JJ started barking at the snake. Sometimes, you questioned his sanity.

“JJ! Shut up!” You warned the erratic blonde.

“You’re gonna wake the dead.” Pope slapped him on the shoulder, grimacing.

“Dude, they’re afraid of dogs. Everybody knows that.” He breathed out, straightening himself back out.

“Look, John,” Pope sighed, turning his attention back to John B. “We’re not gonna get in there, it’s not budging. We should probably just go.”

You were examining the tomb carefully, flashlight trailing the structure up and down before you noticed something. “I think I can get through.”

“...What?” John B spoke.

“You think you’re gonna fit through that hole?” Pope asked, worried.

“I’ll do it.” You reassured them, ignoring their concerns. “Just help me up.” They all shuffled to help you up — Kiara and John B holding the vines away and to the sides while JJ and Pope intertwined their hands for you to use as a human step-stool.

“What am I looking for?” You inquired, eyes fleeting to John B.

“You’ll know when you see it.” Your hands slapped your thighs. Helpful, you thought, but you didn’t ask anymore questions. You put your flashlight in between your teeth, like a dog carrying a bone before laying a hand on each of the boys shoulders, you put your foot over their connected hands and boosted yourself up.

It was a tight squeeze but you made your way through, landing on your feet and removing the flashlight from your teeth. It took your eyes a minute to adjust, staring at the walls of the spooky space.

“You alive in there?” JJ called.

“Alive and kickin’.” You called back, aiming the flashlight everywhere, scanning over everything. But the space was much bigger than you thought and your one flashlight didn’t seem to be enough. “I need more light, please.”

“Gotcha’.” John B said, pushing his arm holding the lantern through the crack of the wall, illuminating the space by tenfold. And that light was just what you needed.

“Oh my God…” You breathed out. John B may not have led you all on a goose-chase after all.

feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading.

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 1 year

Text

Grays

Frankie Morales x f!reader

{ Grays Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Grays Part II }

Rating: M

Summary: Frankie wants you to cover up his grays. You want to knock some sense into his salt-and-pepper head.

Warnings: Insecure Frankie in need of self-love comes with his own warning, Reader is a hairstylist and has a related nickname, no physical descriptions other than that Reader has hair that can be dyed, not-quite-friends to *respectfully looking* dynamics, mentions of hair, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, sexual innuendos, lots of teasing and banter.

Word count: 4.8k

Notes: The origin story is here if you missed it. This is dedicated to my Frankie soul sister LJ @prolix-yuy who encouraged me to write this many months ago ❤️ As always, I’m an anxious mess writing for a new-to-me Pedro boy, so please be gentle with me (cos it's my birthday week) 🥺

I have a part 2 (with smut) in mind. I love where this leaves off, but who am I kidding. I probably won’t be able to help myself 😂

The bell on the door chimes with a sweet tinkle, cutting through the low, insistent purr of the hair clipper buzzing in your grasp. You don’t look up as you spy broad shoulders and a battered Standard Heating Oil cap crossing the threshold out of the corner of your eye.

‘Are you lost, Morales?’ you drawl indifferently, focused on the task at hand. ‘I have an appointment with Pope today, not you.’

‘He booked it under his name. Thought you’d take it as a prank if I called in myself.’

You look up to meet his gaze reflected in the mirror sitting in front of Greg, your current customer. ‘I wonder why he’d think that.’

Frankie shrugs, leaning against the reception counter with his arms crossed. ‘Beats me.’

You snort. ‘Really? You’ve insisted loudly and repeatedly for as long as I’ve known you that you don’t see the point of going to a hairstylist when you can have Pope cut your hair with kitchen scissors in his bathtub.’

‘C’mon, Shiv.’

‘Oh, he knows my name,’ you gasp sarcastically. You turn to Greg, who’s clearly amused by this exchange, and loop him in. ‘He usually just grunts at me.’

At this point, Ashton - your apprentice and all-round salon maverick - makes an appearance. Clearly having caught the tail-end of your conversation with Frankie, he glances between the two of you with an arched eyebrow. ‘Are we back to chasing customers away, boss?’

‘Sit his ass down but he doesn’t get a free drink,’ you instruct. ‘I’ll get to him when I get to him.’

Ashton goes ahead and ignores your orders point blank, per usual. After hanging up Frankie’s jacket and settling him at the station furthest away from you in the far corner of the salon, you see him sneakily give him a coffee. He can never resist the handsome ones.

You take your sweet time with Greg, cleaning up his sideburns, even though you’re basically done with him - just to tick off your waiting customer.

Not that it works, and you know it won’t. He just sits there, his wide frame filling up the chair, still as a rock. The dog-eared, months-old magazines strategically placed on the table for idle reading lie untouched. That’s Francisco Morales for you.

You’ve been orbiting each other since sixth grade, as all kids in your close-knit neighbourhood do. In fact, most of your customers went to your school.

You don’t even remember how it started - probably at a sleepover - you discovered one day that you’re handy with box hair dye. By freshman year, you were colouring your fellow classmates’ hair in the girls’ toilets after school, earning enough pocket money to keep your cabinet at home fully-stocked with new hair products on rotation.

Your ever-changing hair colour got you into trouble with the headmaster more times than you can count, who nicknamed you Shape Shifter. Your friends abbreviated it to Shifter, then over the years, whittled it down to Shiv, and it stuck.

After being gifted a set of styling scissors for Christmas one year, you started hanging out at the neighbourhood salon, hustling for an apprenticeship. You practised what you observed on your fellow students, giving out haircuts on the bleachers on non-game days for a couple of dollars (the fee waived if something went disastrously wrong).

That’s how you first met Benny - his then cheerleader girlfriend took him in for a haircut when it got too long for her liking. When you eventually opened your own salon years later, he was your first paying customer, having come home after being honourably discharged from the army.

During the early days, when you struggled to fill your appointments and he couldn’t win a fight to save his life, you made a pact. You would do his hair at a heavy discount for his posters and promotions, and in return, he would let you use his photos for the salon’s marketing.

And it worked. Well, not that you had anything to do with him turning his fortunes around on the MMA circuit, but he had everything to do with getting customers through your door. It only got busier when Santi joined the ranks a couple of years later, and even though Will only shows up when his hair gets really unruly, they both sit in front of your camera with no complaint in return for mate’s rates.

Having these guys on your salon’s social media keeps both the gents and the ladies booking up your appointments.

Frankie Morales, though, is a different animal.

When you finally appear over his left shoulder, his coffee is all gone and he meets your eyes in the mirror nonchalantly. He’s leaning his whole weight on his right elbow on the armest, his left arm outstretched and blunt nails tapping on the table, the only hint of impatience he’s giving away.

He’s good at that - he’s the laid-back one out of the boys, the one who hangs back and observes with arms crossed, but quick to crack a grin and throw in a wicked barb when the occasion calls for it. Nothing ever seems to faze him, and probably nothing does - you hear that makes a good pilot, and from what Pope lets on, he’s a damn good one.

It also makes for highly effective bait for the ladies. He’s a popular fixture on the local bar scene - let’s face it, all of the boys are. You’ve seen him in action more than once when Benny or Pope invites you along on a night out, more often than not without Will since he had a baby girl with his high school sweetheart last year. Frankie’s brooding, quiet, beer-sipping act often works better than Benny’s over-the-top flirting or Pope’s Casanova bit.

But that’s neither here nor there.

Hands on your hips, you goad him, ‘Alright Morales, how do I know you’ll pay up, you cheap bastard?’

‘Pope says to put it on his tab.’

‘Music to my ears.’ You tap him on the shoulder. ‘Sit up and off with the cap.’

With a grumble, Frankie lifts the cap up by the beak, ducking his head as he does so. He tosses it onto the table offhandedly and shifts in his seat, but you’re not fooled by his unconvincing air of indifference. From the way he plasters his palms to the top of his denim-clad thighs, as if to stop them from fidgeting, you know he’s feeling vulnerable.

You can’t say you’ve ever seen Frankie without his headgear - now that you think about it, he’s been wearing it since high school. Heck, he might have gone through several incarnations of that blasted hat in the years in between. You’ve caught glimpses when he lifts it up to fix his hair, but otherwise, all you see is what peeks out from underneath, the longer wisps that coil around his ears and the curls at the back.

As it turns out, there’s really nothing to hide - sure, the cut is blunt and his hair lacks shine, but both can be easily fixed. You step into his space and comb through his locks, starting at the base of his skull and working your way up the sides.

The contact startles him - he practically jumps out of his skin, and you don’t miss the way the veins on the back of his hands pop and he digs his nails into his legs.

'Easy, boy,' you soothe with a teasing undertone, earning yourself a glower from the pilot. As much as you enjoy needling him, you do want your customers to be comfortable. So you let slip a deliberate but genuinely appreciative hum as the dark tendrils, subtly tinged with grays, part softly at your prying fingertips. ‘Wow, your curls are really thick.'

He looks up, an unsure frown on his brow. ‘Oh. Is that bad?’

‘No, Morales, it’s definitely a compliment,’ you tell him encouragingly - your bark has always been worse than your bite. ‘What do you use to wash your hair? It’s a bit dry.’

He shrugs. ‘Shampoo.’ At your insistent stare, he snaps, ‘What?’

‘Don’t lie to me, Morales,’ you warn him in a stern voice.

He huffs and gives in. ‘Fine. It’s a 2-in-1 body wash. I get it at the gas station, happy?’

You shoot him a smug grin as he rolls his eyes. ‘Well, you’re using proper shampoo from now on, and conditioner.’ He opens his mouth, a complaint on the tip of his tongue, when you hold a finger up at him. ‘Don’t argue with me, mister. I’ll throw in a couple of bottles on the house to get you started.’

‘Fine,’ he concedes. Unfailingly polite even when grumpy, he adds, ‘Thanks, Shiv.’

Your trusty swivelling stool screeches in protest when you drag it over on its wheels, before you take a seat and address the elephant in the room. ‘So - I’m guessing you’re here because of the wedding.’

You get a grunt in response. Scratching a particularly scrappy patch of his beard that has turned prematurely silver, he says, ‘My ma says I should cover up my old man grays for it.’

You snort, shaking your head. ‘Ha! And you tell your mother I say - hell no, ma’am! I will do no such thing.’

Frankie blinks at your unexpectedly adamant response. ‘What?’

‘I said, hell no,’ you repeat. Turning his head to the side with two fingers on his stubbled cheek, you comb his locks upwards to study the way the grays blend in softly with the umber, matching the ashen flecks in his beard. He doesn't start as badly at your touch this time, but there’s a telltale tick in his jaw, and you can almost hear the tension that thrums just below his skin where a late summer tan still lingers.

‘See how your grays are mainly coming out on the underside?’ you point out. ‘I like the way they just peek through the brown, it gives more depth to your curls. Natural highlights, if you will.’

He looks unconvinced and swipes at a smattering of silver with dismissive fingers. ‘Dunno. Thought the grays make me look old.’

You chuckle. ‘You’re no spring chicken anymore, Morales, and I mean it in a good way. Grays are natural - they will look even better when you start using actual shampoo and conditioner. Trust me, the salt and pepper works on you. I’m not dyeing your grays, and that’s that.’

For the first time today, Frankie turns his head and looks directly into your eyes. ‘My mother’s coming back to town for the wedding, you know. And she remembers where you live.’

You laugh. ‘Go ahead and send her my way, you know I’m not scared of her.’

He scoffs at your big talk. ‘You should be.’

Your relationship with the Morales matriarch is complicated, to say the least. She was always hard on you when you were a kid, thinking you were too wild and undisciplined. Now that you’re grown, you’re still torn between your admiration for her as a single mother who raised a good man, and the woman who never tires of dishing out criticism, warranted or not.

You give him a reassuring pat on the back, solid and warm under your touch. ‘Leave your mother to me, Morales. The grays stay, and I’ll make sure you steal the show at the party.’

‘Your funeral,’ he quips.

‘You just worry about getting yourself to the wedding,’ you retort, cracking your knuckles. ‘Now, are you ready for some pampering?’

Frankie rolls his eyes, but you see the corner of his mouth tick up in a vaguely upward direction - and you take it as a win.

‘Relax, Morales.’

‘I am relaxed,’ he insists through gritted teeth.

‘You’re about as relaxed as a cow on the butcher’s block. Unclench.’

For someone as economical with words as he is, his body certainly says a lot. Every single part of him seems hellbent on making his discomfort known. He breathes a frustrated exhale through his nose, brow deeply furrowed, his glare burning holes into the ceiling.

The leather seat of the backwash barely contains his tall build, his t-shirt stretched to the seams across his chest as he leans back into the basin. He’s bouncing his left leg irritably, the tight denim straining against his lap.

You try - valiantly - not to gape too obviously at the conspicuous bulge nestled snugly between his thighs under his belt buckle. But you can’t avert your eyes from something of that size. It’s against the laws of physics. Or something.

Even from where you’re standing, at the top of the basin peering down the slope of his body, its heft is clearly testing the structural integrity of the zipper of his jeans. Imagine the view from the other side -

Clearing your throat, you bodily press down on Frankie’s shoulders which are coiled up like the hood of an angry python, forcing them to loosen up. He jerks as if he’s a copper wire and you’re electricity. You tease, ‘So sensitive. You act like you’ve never felt a woman’s touch before, Morales.’

‘You know that’s not true,’ he growls at you, the prominent vein in his neck starting to pulse in frustration.

‘No, you’re right - I do know,’ you smirk, dragging out your syllables.

Your tone has him frowning at you, upside down. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I mean - I know,’ you repeat with a conspiratorial wink.

He narrows his eyes at you. ‘What do you know, Shiv?’

You wriggle his eyebrows at him suggestively, enjoying yourself far too much. ‘I own a salon, Morales. I hear things from the ladies about town.’

One large palm reaches up to shield his face in embarrassment, a pained groan escaping between the gaps of his fingers. ‘For fuck’s sake - kill me now.’

You laugh, wrestling his hand from his face to with an impish grin. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve only heard good things so far - Frankie big boy Morales.’

He blushes so hard that his ears and neck go a livid red, and for a minute, you’re actually worried that he’d pass out from not enough blood reaching his heart. Not keen on the prospect of having to explain to the emergency services that you teased the poor man into an aneurysm, you turn on the water and cut short your little chinwag with a good-natured chuckle.

His hands are still tightly clamped around the armrest when you carefully run the shower head along his hairline and behind his ears, soaking his curls. His biceps flex from the tight grip and the lean muscles strain against the sleeves of his t-shirt.

At least he closes his eyes when you start with the shampoo. The velvety lather froths as you patiently wash his hair, which clings to his wet curls like vanilla frosting. The deep crease between his brows eases with each gentle swipe into his locks, and the invisible force pulling his lips downwards slackens. By the time you rinse out the bubbles, you don’t miss the way the tension in his body unwittingly goes with it down the drain.

When your nails slide slickly into his hair with the conditioner, his stubborn body finally, slowly unfurls. His head tips back of its own accord, baring the column of his strong neck as he leans inadvertently into your touch. Colour returns to his knuckles when he releases his death grip on the backwash.

You smile to yourself, scraping your fingertips along his scalp in a firm massage, watching his chest rise and fall as he teeters on the brink of consciousness.

As your thumbs trace a confident path down the back of his skull, they appear to find a particularly sensitive spot near the base of his neck, and it's as if a switch is flipped. You witness the exact moment he breaks - his back arches off the leather seat, his obstinate lips part with a strangled half-sigh catching in his throat as he yields his full weight into the palm of your hands.

If you're not careful, you could get used to this.

‘Still with me, Morales?’ you tease quietly.

He garbles incoherently, and you grin.

Frankie practically molds into the chair like warm wax when you shepherd him back to the styling station. You’re so chuffed with yourself that you don’t even feel the need to gloat at the way his eyes are glazed over and how his head lolls into the soft pressure when you run a fluffy towel through his hair. The man recoiling at the mere brush of your fingers a distant memory.

You run an assessing eye over him, brushing out his locks to gauge your game plan. ‘I like this length on you, so I’ll just trim the split ends and tidy up your sideburns. You’ll benefit from some layering too - it’s a bit heavy on top right now.’

From the way he blinks owlishly at you, you know he doesn’t catch a single word. He shrugs and says matter-of-factly. ‘You can’t do worse than Pope.’

The salon is quiet this afternoon, as it tends to be on Wednesdays. You let him enjoy the peace for a little bit and tap your foot to Ashton’s playlist as your styling scissors move over his curls in metallic snips.

‘Tip your head forward for me,’ you instruct, sliding around the back of his head on your wheels as you probe, ‘So - how are you feeling about the wedding?’

The fabric of his t-shirt bunches over his shoulders as they quirk noncommittally.

‘It’s just a few days away.’

He makes an indifferent noise. But you’re not so easily dissuaded from conversation, and he knows it.

‘Can’t be easy - watching your ex get married.’

Frankie pins you with a long-suffering stare in the mirror. ‘We broke up a year ago.’

Getting onto your feet, you ruffle your fingers through the crown of his curls. ‘Yeah, but you dated for years. She sure moved on quick.’

He huffs a sardonic laugh. ‘Thanks, Shiv.’

Swapping out the styling scissors for blending shears, you argue, ‘What? It’s a legitimate observation. I’m just making conversation here.’

‘Or we could just sit here quietly.’

Ha. As if you ever listen to him. You press on, ‘Why did she invite you anyway?’

Frankie’s sigh sounds a lot like surrender as he humours you. ‘It’s a damned if she does, damned if she doesn’t kind of situation, I guess. The whole town’s invited.’

‘You sure she isn’t trying to flaunt it in your face or something?’

‘Flaunting implies I still care. I don’t.’

You give him a juvenile nudge nudge, wink wink. ‘Well, on the bright side, you’ll definitely get laid, being the heartbroken ex and all. Chicks love that shit.’

He dispatches a side-long stare in your direction. ‘I’m not heartbroken, and that’s not why I’m going. And you know none of this is any of your business, right?’

‘You’re no fun,’ you pout.

He quips, ‘As a professional hairstylist, you really should be better at making polite conversation.’

You snort. ‘Do you really think it’s a good idea to call me rude when I have scissors in my hands?’

Frankie watches you work in the comfortable lull that’s settled between you, gliding the blades along strands of his curls pulled taut, before running a fine-toothed comb through to brush out the loose tufts. Soft coils land on the floor around his chair as you work your way methodically through his layers.

‘Are you going to the wedding?’ he asks eventually.

You shrug. ‘Maybe, depends on my schedule. I gotta say, I’m kind of curious to see how tacky it will be.’

At his eyebrow sternly cocked, you argue, ‘I know she’s your ex and all, but she’s always been a bit tacky. I mean, that remodel of your house was just tragic.’

Frankie frowns. ‘How do you know all this? You’ve never been to my house.’

You wink. ‘Benny tells me everything when I do his hair.’

He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Of course. Benjamin fucking Miller.’

You give him a pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, I’m on your side, if it helps.’

‘I don’t need you on my side.’

You flash him an insufferable grin. ‘Too bad, Francisco. I am and there’s nothing you can do about it.’

The hairdryer drowns out any further conversation, and Frankie quietly studies you as you cord your fingers through his hair, ruffling it as it dries.

It’s still a bit damp when you switch off the hairdryer and reach up to pull a couple of jars from the shelf above. ‘On the day of the wedding, I want you to wash your hair just before you style it. You have a hairdryer at home, right?’

He throws you a pointed look. ‘I’m not a heathen.’

You grin. ‘Down boy, just checking. Now, you’ll dry your hair until it’s still a bit wet, like so.’ Presenting the styling mousse to him, you say, ‘Then go on and grab some product - you only need a dollop.’

He dips his index finger into the pot, scooping up a generous blob. Your attention is unexpectedly piqued at the sight of his hands.

Have they always been so big?

Realising he’s staring at you in wait, you shake yourself out of it. ‘Ok, rub the mousse onto your fingertips and run them all over your hair, combing from root to end.’

Frankie does as he’s told, face set to a serious scowl as he impeccably goes over each section of his locks, staring into the mirror to make sure he gets every strand. For the first time, you see the pilot in him up close, and you wonder if he’s this thorough about other things, like -

Laundry, your mind interrupts as it careens on the brink of the metaphorical gutter. Get your shit together, Shiv.

‘Good,’ you smile when he’s done, hoping he doesn't see the strain in it. ‘Now, I want you to rake your fingers through the roots when you dry your hair all the way.’ In demonstration, your nails burrow into the base of his thick hair, then you wriggle your fingers upwards towards the ends. ‘It will give you lots of volume and really show off this cut.’

Passing him the hairdryer, you watch him critically in the mirror. He imitates your movements, a bit clumsily and far too cautiously. Leaning down to his ear so he can hear you over the whir, you instruct him, ‘Don’t be gentle, Francisco. C’mon, harder, deeper - don’t hold back.’

He chokes and pins you with a wide-eyed stare in the mirror that glances right off your oblivious self. Along with your words, nothing about this exchange would register in your head in any other way until much, much later tonight, when you replay the conversation in your head in that limbo between sleep and wakefulness.

It may or may not have you squealing into your pillow in latent embarrassment - and something else.

But for now, you’re happy with the way his hair has set, and you gesture for him to switch off the hairdryer. Turning his chair towards you and away from the mirror, you scan your eyes over him and make small adjustments - tucking a couple of strands behind his ear here, a couple of final snips there.

As a final touch, you bury your fingers into his locks, dragging your fingertips through the roots to impart a final tousle so that the curls are loose and soft. You preen at the way he sways into your contact, all shyness gone, his hooded eyes half-closed - before he seems to catch himself and sits up with a self-conscious ahem.

Grabbing a small bottle from the shelf, you say, ‘Last thing - your beard is a bit dry as well. This oil will keep it nice and moisturised, just two or three drops after you wash up in the morning will do.’

Tipping his face up by the crook of your finger and opening up his neck to you, you smooth the ointment along both sides of his jaw, rubbing circles into his neatly trimmed whiskers and all the way up his sideburns. Sliding downwards, your hands seek out the closely shaved stubble tucked beneath his chin. Then, by sheer momentum, your palms continue down his throat in a slow, sticky descent, until the pads of your thumbs slot into the hollow between his collarbones, your fingers resting at the base of his neck where you feel his pulse rabbiting underneath.

The air thickens and shifts between you. When he swallows, you feel the ripple of the moment against your fingertips.

His eyes are on you, and suddenly he’s too close, his skin too hot under your hands. To your horror, something akin to shyness rears its head and you almost stumble backwards to put a safe distance between you.

Scrubbing the oily residue from your hands on a towel, you break the moment with a wink and a steadier smile than you actually feel. ‘You look good, Morales. Ready to take a look?’

‘As if you would take no for an answer,’ he mumbles under his breath. Fondness might be too strong of a word - but you don't think you're imagining the faint trace of amusement in his voice.

With a dramatic ta-da, you spin his chair around with a flourish.

Frankie Morales is obviously not a vain man - he most likely owns five pairs of jeans that he’s worn on rotation for the past fifteen years, his t-shirts are washed ragged, and his trusty leather boots have seen better days. He probably doesn’t use a mirror other than for purely utilitarian purposes, like checking if there’s something stuck in his teeth from his last meal.

But right now, by the way he’s holding his breath as he meets his own eyes in the reflection, you can tell that he’s really looking at himself for the first time in a long while.

You pretend to busy yourself with tidying up the styling station as you discreetly sneak glances at him, feeling strangely bashful for intruding in this moment. When he remembers to breathe again, he tilts his head left then to the right, and back again, even swivelling his chair from side to side so he can peer round the back.

You’ve parted his waves to the side, the lighter cut allowing his curls to carry their natural shape. The healthy sheen, courtesy of the mousse, tempers his grays to a softer, burnt silver that catches the light fetchingly as he moves. Reaching up, Frankie pushes back a stray curl that falls over his eyes, and his back straightens in a quiet show of confidence.

Running a salon is hard work and often thankless. But on days like this? You know you’re meant to do this.

A dramatic gasp draws both of your attention. Ashton is clutching at his chest, backed up against the neighbouring styling station, gaping at Frankie. ‘Mister - you look good enough to devour. Look at that salt and pepper, I’m living for the grays. Doing the Lord’s work, Shiv!’

You laugh as Frankie flushes, scratching an invisible itch on his forehead. You brush the loose hairs off his shoulders with a towel and give him a nudge. ‘See? I’m not the only one who thinks you look good with the grays. You better stock up on the condoms, Morales, the ladies will be all over you at the party.’

He shakes his head self-deprecatingly as he stands up, rubbing his palms on his jeans, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. ‘I doubt it, but - thanks. I appreciate this, Shiv.’

He shrugs on his well-loved burnt yellow jacket, the one with the sleeves perpetually folded up above his wrists and grabs his cap. You hold out a paper bag with the free shampoo and conditioner you promised him, throwing in a jar of hair mousse for good measure. ‘You’re welcome, and you better not put your hat on again this afternoon after all that hard work.’

His fingers brush yours when he takes the bag from you, then, as if it’s the logical next thing to do, he leans down to press a chaste kiss to your right cheek, his stubble coarse against your skin - and you know without looking it’s the gray patch in his beard that brushes against your jaw as he draws back. You fumble, feeling heat prickle the back of your neck and blooming in your rib cage.

He flashes you the most self-assured smile you’ve seen on him this afternoon, which has you biting your bottom lip. ‘I won’t. Maybe see you at the wedding, Shiv.’

It takes you five full seconds to regain motor functions. By the time you unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, Frankie’s already out of the door with a spring in his step.

In companionable silence, you and Ashton watch the pilot strut - because that’s what he’s doing, he’s strutting with a confidence that becomes him - across the road through the glass front of the salon.

‘What a dish,’ Ashton sighs dreamily, flopping into a chair as if his limbs have given out. ‘I hope he comes back soon.’

You smile. A girl could always hope.

Notes: It's the first time I'm using a nickname for a Reader, but I have a real soft spot for Shiv, and I think she deserves one. I'm not sure where the fandom stands on this, does it disqualify the fic as a reader insert? If anyone has an issue with this, please let me know! For me, Shiv has no physical descriptions so to me she's still a reader insert.

I don't know if anyone expected this kind of dynamics between these two, but it's been so much fun to write with a bit of antagonism in the mix. I hope you enjoyed this, reblogs and comments are so, so appreciated as always. Thank you for reading ❤️

#frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #francisco morales #triple frontier fanfic #frankie friday #queue

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princessbrunette · 2 months

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how do you think pope and deer!reader meet :3

༄˖°.🦌.ೃ࿔*:･

a real meet-cute, like some disney movie shit— which makes sense considering pope thinks you’re the closest thing to a real life disney princess he’s ever seen. like, he’s convinced birds start to sing and animals start to speak when you come around. he’d be surprised if there’s not an evil step mother you’re not telling him about.

you were volunteering after a particularly bad storm, the outerbanks seems to always have one or two as summer starts — and the year you met was no different. you had been tasked with walking seemingly every dog in kildare, taking care of them whilst their owners got their affairs in order. you stumbled along the beach, a comical amount of dogs practically tugging you along on a leash. pope was headed back to his fathers grill when he saw you.

he originally looked because of all the dogs, the way you were struggling to keep up with them making him chuckle to himself— but his gaze remained because you were beautiful and he couldn’t help it. just as his gaze was about to tear away from you, he watched as a small fluffy white dog escapes its harness — bounding up the beach to sprint past pope.

you shriek, panicking — which sends all the dogs into a frenzy as they watch their tiny furry friend disappear into the distance. pope takes one look into your tearful, helpless eyes — finally noticing his presence, and he drops his plastic bags full of his dads supplies — taking off into a full sprint after the dog that ran free. you watch as he disappears, catching your breath and trying to calm the chorus of alarmed barking dogs.

not even two minutes later, pope returns with a struggling, scrappy white dog in his arms, a hole in his shirt and small tooth marks in his hand. he jogs over, panting from the chase.

“oh my goodness.” you touch your chest as he allows you to take the dog from him, shoving him back into his tightened harness and placing him back on the ground. “thank you so much, are you okay?”

pope is doubled over, breathless when he lifts his hand in the air, showing you the bite on the back of it. “you can’t get rabies from dogs, right?”

“oh i— i don’t think so? i can’t believe he bit you, i feel terrible.”

“you’re good, it’s not your fault. i know a kook dog when i see one.” he waves you off and you giggle, closing in on yourself a little. it was clear you were rather shy the same way he once was, and he’d have to do more of the work in making conversation— but that was okay, he understood. you seemed skittish, like you were curious about pope and simultaneously wanted to bolt in the other direction. your general demeanour kind of reminded him of a baby deer on trembling legs. “do you uh, need any help with those dogs? i could see you kind of struggling there.”

“i couldn’t ask that of you.” you shake your head and he scoffs, kissing his teeth and taking some leashes off the giant conjoined one you’d created.

“please, i got nowhere to be.” he was lying, but he was sure his dad would understand that he simply needed to help a pretty girl on the beach. “oh, i’m pope. can i… ask your name?”

༄˖°.🦌.ೃ࿔*:･

#anon #u need to think of sexy confident s3 pope for this one #pope heyward prompt

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sweatervest-obsessed · 5 months

Text

Spencer Reid Masterlist: Fics

In order from Newest to Oldest. Last Updated: 02/26/24

Spencer Reid Series

Key: Personal Favs:✨ Requested:🔹 Angst:🔴 Fluff:🟡 Smut:🟣

You 🔴✨ a small fic inspired by the loss of someone, and how Spencer feels about it.

Truth or Dare 🔹🔴 Request!: "okay so i'm thinking post!prison reid and reader break up bc he's not ready to be in a relationship after everything that happened in prison. they just don't get back together bc when spence is finally ready it's been a while and they both think it's too late and no one makes a move and they remain as friends UNTIL jj's love confession brings some feelings back onto the surface - reader finds out about it and (cue jeid and their weird, longing glances🥲) has a whole it's all really over moment and then there's distance between her and spencer until there's a confrontation about it and BAM a love confession and second chances😁😁"

Lucky Me 🟡 Just a cozy scenario where the reader is a wee bit drunk, and has a phenomenal idea, maybe inspired by a true story or two.

Symphonic Kisses 🟡 You give Spence a pretty damn good anniversary present.

Cold Feet 🔹🟡 Request!: "could u do Spencer Reid and childhood friends fem!reader with heavy pining and " it's always been u" at the end hurt/comfort ?"

Loving You 🔹🟡 Request!: "hiii!! congrats on the 500 followers 🤍 for your celebration, could i request 7 and 13 from the fluff prompts for spencer reid? thanks :]"

Never Let Me Go 🔹🔴 Request!: "hello !! rn i'm in the mood for some angst with a happy ending so can i request something where reader's got really bad abandonment issues? 🥹 maybe they fight over something which makes r leave ++ spence is confused bc it's so sudden n unlike them but it's all bc theyre scared he'll leave first n then it's just lots n lots of reassurance🥹🥹 thank you!!"

Unexpected Visitor 🟡 There are some things that the team does not know about, like you, for example. Some good, quick, Christmas fluff for your holiday enjoyment.

Pope and Circumstance 🔹 🟡 Request!: "Heyyyy!!!! I read that you were taking requests so I was wondering if you could write something for non BAU nerd reader and Spencer. Something sweet and comforting with a reader that’s a nerd but more on the language and literature side."

Birthday Present 🟡 You and Spencer enjoy a night in together.

New Shade of Green 🔹🔴 🟡 Request! "Hey idk if you're taking requests but I'd love to read a fic where Spencer Reid and reader are in established relationship and on a case it happens that reader's best friend since childhood assists. And Spencer gets really jealous of their close friendship but is in denial. A lot of angst but a fluffy ending."

Black Dog 🟡 Mornings with Spencer feel so good. Based on Led Zeppelin's Black Dog.

Cramps n Comfort 🔹🔴 🟡 Request! "Okay, Spencer comforting reader who has really bad period cramps and is just crying"

To Make Sure I Stay Sane 🔴 Based off of Six Below by Flipturn. What happeneds when your cover is blown? What do you do when you can never really recover from the shit you endure? pure angst.

Barbenheimer! 🔹 🟡 Request! "Reader takes Spencer to see Barbie, and he might just enjoy it more than he thinks he will."

Wired Frames 🔹 🟡 Request! "Spencer request: The team meets at a bar after they returning from a case and Spencer comes in looking dramatically different (like a nice new haircut and casual outfit and glasses) and the team / OC lose their minds"

Bad Day 🔹 🟡 Request: "spencer just comforting reader after a bad mental health day and helping them to take a break and shower/or bathe🌼🫶🏻"

Something Old, Something New 🔴 🟡 takes place during S7 Ep1, The Gang goes to court! Lawyer!Reader! Spencer is really over the senate committee, but something cools his head when he bumps into an old friend.

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spnhits-blog · 1 month

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Never Enough

Request: "Can you do 7 and 9 from prompts list for John b? Angst with happy ending. An idea for plot: John b is in love with insecure reader, who can't see why he is in love"

Prompts:

7. "Please just leave me alone,” “I can’t.”

& 9. "I got your message.”

I hope this is something like you were imagining, I had fun writing this one! Thank you for requesting!! Sorry for the delay I just finished finals, hoping to get out some more requests soon. <3

Warnings: angst, fluff, insecure!reader, female!reader, arguing, kinda long

______________________

“She was so hot bro. What’s wrong with you?”

Y/N’s hand was raised in the air about to open the Chateau door but you stopped yourself after hearing JJ and John B talking.

”Nothin man,” John B groaned, fidgeting with bandana around his neck as JJ teased him.

”No seriously, what was it?” JJ wiggled his eyebrows, bouncing around the front room with energy.

John B sighed knowing JJ wouldn’t quit unless he was satisfied with his answer. “She was..”

Y/N held her breath in anticipation. You've had your eyes on John B since you were all kids, but always thought there was no way he'd feel about you in that way. Even before the no pouge on pouge marking rule started. And why would he? You weren't anything special, you’d been convinced of that.

”She couldn’t keep a conversation.”

JJ scoffed, “And? You don’t need to be having a conversation with her when she's - “

“JJ.” John B cut him off, giving him a stern look. JJ took a pause and caught what John B was trying to say. He wasn’t interest in any of the girls on the island, only one girl had his heart. And all of the other pouges knew but you.

But you weren’t paying attention to anything going on inside after JJ implied how gorgeous this random girl really was. Prettier than me, you thought. John B deserved someone like that, someone like Sarah Cameron status. There was no chance he’d feel the same way about you; you didn't even think you were as funny or carefree as someone like Kie, someone who actually has a shot with him.

And it wasn't like you wanted to compare yourself to your other best friend, but it was something you couldn't help. You've always done it with everything. Whether it was being smart or having the right body type, it was like you could never amount to any other person. It's gotten to the point that you couldn't fathom any guy on the island looking in your direction. Unaware to John B mad dogging any guy who tried to flirt with you at any of the annual boneyard parties or got into literal fights with guys who talked about you vulgarly in school.

”Y/N, hey!” John B opened the chateau door and saw your surprised face seeing him appear right before you. “What you waiting out here for?” He gave her a bright smile and never looked away from your e/c eyes.

Y/N let out a shaky breath and quickly put on a tight smile. “Just waiting for you girls to finish getting ready.” You joked her heart fluttering hearing John B’s big laugh. Y/N peered over his shoulder to see JJ staring at the two with mischievous eyes. “You got the cooler, right?”

You turned around quickly, hoping that you covered your uneasiness well. You never wanted them to know the kind of thoughts you had swirling around in your head, it would be just another thing to be seen as less than.

JJ carelessly grabbed the cooler off the ground and began to follow after the girl who already started walking down to the HMS Pouge. “Yes, Mrs. Rout -“

John B elbowed him in the gut causing JJ to stagger with loud groans. He smirked to himself before jogging down the grass to catch up with you.

He untied the boat before climbing on and offering a hand to you. “You look beautiful today, sweet girl.”

Your checks turned a bright red, causing John B’s smile to widen even further. You held his hand and stepped up onto the boat giving him quiet “thank you”.

John B say himself in the drivers seat, heading off to meet with Pope and Kie once JJ finally hopped on. He was coming up with ways to finally come clean and tell you how he feels. But was so oblivious how your sad eyes focused on the water, thinking how there was no way John B was serious.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

Once you all met up with the other two pouges at the Wreck, you excused yourself to use the restroom. The other four pouges continued eating the free food Kiara's dad reluctantly gave them after some convincing.

"So," Kiara faced John B, the other two boys following as well. "How are you going to tell her?"

He froze and the french fry in his mouth went limp. His eyes darted to your figure entering the women's bathroom. "I'm not sure yet."

"You're not sure yet?" She scoffed. Pope nodding along next to her.

"I think you should do it pouge style." JJ shook John B's shoulder, grinning like a fool.

"I think JJ might be onto something," Pope paused to give JJ a look. "But not in a stupid way like he's thinking."

"Oh, come on man. Girls love adventure."

John B chuckled, pursing his lips once he swallowed his meal. "What are you guys suggesting?"

"Well, we were thinking you could take her out on the Pouge for a late night boat ride." Kiara spoke for both her and Pope. John B's eyebrows rose in shock, they really had been thinking about this.

"And then when the time is right you just tell her how you feel." Pope finished.

"Do you guys really think she'll say yes to being my girlfriend? I mean we've been friends forever - "

Kie cut him off, "You've been in love with her forever. And it's no secret."

He rubbed his mouth and jaw as he took in what she said. John B was so deeply in love with you and the only thing holding him back was the fear of you not wanting him. Once the pouges start pointing out your own feelings towards him, he began seeing it himself so he knew he was being silly. But it still was a fear regardless.

The boy looked down the hallway to see you finally making your way back towards them. The sun shining through the windows of the restaurant lit up your unique features he spent countless nights dreaming about. You caught eyes with him and both of you couldn't stop the shy smiles and subconscious thoughts from forming.

God, she's everything.

I wonder if he's thinking about that girl.

_ _ _ _

7:08 pm

Bird: Hey wanna go out on the pouge, just us?

Bird: I'll bring snacks

Y/N let out a laugh as the texts popped up on your screen. All five of you had gone out the day before, but the hot sun beating down on you was making you miss it already. Plus you just got done from a day of delivering groceries.

7:10 pm

Sweet girl: Sounds good to me!

7:11 pm

Bird: Sweet :)

You got ready, throwing all your clothing around your room as you tried to find a good outfit and just decided you'd pick it up once you got home. John B said he'd be there in just twenty minutes after his initial text, so you were rushing to fix your hair and makeup next.

Once you were finally ready you walked down your unkept backyard to wait for him to come by on the Pouge. Which wouldn't be long since you could already see him heading towards you, with one hand waving in the air.

You laughed again, he was such a goof. Plus so easy on the eyes, and always made you feel like you had a place in the world with him. It was what made you start to fall for him in the first place.

"You ready?" He called out while pulling to the edge of the bank so you could get on. Trying to gently park, even though it bounced off the bank a little bit.

Y/n laughed, "Y'know I always am." Looking inside the boat you saw the snacks in picnic baskets you've never seen at the Chateau. You didn't even think John knew where they would be sold on the island. Also some blankets that weren't brought out often, only for when you all stayed out after it got dark. You stepped on with a smile and took a seat on the bench nearest to his seat.

He sent you one back before he sped off into the marina.

_ _ _

The two of you spent the next hour, almost two now, just swimming, eating and dancing. You both hadn't just hung out alone together in quite some time since all of the pouges had mostly the same schedule. But it was really nice, didn't help your crush one bit but you'd always be able to see him as your friend first. No matter how upset that could make you.

You wrapped the blanket around your body, now dried off and wore John B's shirt he offered you. And he insisted through all your, "no, it's okay," or "I'm fine."

"So.." He started to say, sitting on the floor of the boat shirtless. He looked up at you, squinting just a little bit from the sun setting behind your figure. "There's something I've been needing to tell you."

"What is it?" You bit your lip, you could see his nervous but serious body language and it scared you a little bit to be honest.

He sucked in a deep breath, sitting up a little bit straighter as he gained the courage. "We've been friends forever, you're one of the most important people in my life and I wouldn't want anything to mess that up. And so I just need you to know that no matter what, that's what I care about most, okay?"

Oh god, he knows. Y/N's body froze. Hundreds of thoughts crossed your mind, but thinking that he knew about your unrequited crush was the most present. You couldn't help but dread the rejection that was coming. "Look, John - "

"Y/N, please.. Just - you understand that, right?" He interrupted her, slowly moving closer to her to put a hand on yours. The other one holding the blanket in death grip around yourself.

You sighed, fighting off the tears you felt making their way to be seen. "Yeah, I understand."

He awkwardly let out a sigh of relief and a smile, still not letting go of your hand. "I love you, Y/N."

You furrowed your eyebrows, and shook your head in confusion. "O-okay..? I love you too John B but I don't get - "

"No, Y/n. I'm in love with you, in that 'love you' type of way. You've been the only one on my mind for so long and I've just been scared - I don't even know why really. But I was and I felt I needed to say it now before it was too late."

Your mouth dropped at the rambling confession. What? You tried to form words but your lips just shaped "O" before falling back to it's shocked state. He had to be lying, someone must have said something to him and now they're all making bets to whether or not she'd think he'd be capable of loving someone like her. How could I be so stupid. No one on the island has been interested in me, now John B says he does? I don't buy it.

You moved your hand away from his to push your hair out of your face as you tried to figure out what was going on. "Wh-why are you doing this? It's not funny."

"Funny? What are you talking about, sweet girl?" He asked, shifting his weight to his knees as you began to get up and walk over to where the rest of your clothes were. He watched as you faced away from him to peel off his shirt, throw it to the ground before putting on your big t shirt and jean cut off shorts. He quickly tried to keep up and jumped off the floor. "Y/n, talk to me."

You huffed, rubbing your hands on your face. You could feel his warmth behind you, but it just made you even more sad. You'd expect this kind of behavior from some random kook on the island, but John B was supposed to be your safe heaven. He had always protected you from the bad things in life. But this? Pretending to like you to see what you'd say, making you feel like someone out there could love you? This was just plain cruel.

"This is a new low, John B.."

His heart shattered, what was so wrong of him? He knew if he said anything there was a chance you'd freak and actually not like him back. Now the girl of his dreams rejected him and he lost his best friend. Great thinking, guys.

"Y/N please, can we just talk about this - "

You turned around, brushing past him to take a seat further away from the driver seat. You spared him no look, oblivious to the way you broke his heart back. "I just want to go home."

He stood broken, tears shinning in his eyes as he realized you couldn't even look at him anymore. John B swallowed the lump in his throat before bending down to grab his discarded shirt to put it on. Once on, he started the boat and headed back towards your house without a word.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

10:49 pm

Bird: Please answer me

Bird: I can't just leave things like that

6:52 am

Bird: I know I freaked you out but I can't lose you

3:33 pm

Bird: When we were kids I promised I'd never lie or hurt you intentionally. I haven't broken that

3:35 pm

Bird: You're killing me sweet girl..

14 missed calls from Bird.

You tossed your phone on your bed for the umpteenth time today. John B wouldn't stop calling or texting you ever since you basically jumped out of his boat the night before.

He knew your sleeping schedule and had the decency to not call you from 12 at night to 9 in the morning to not bug you.

You just didn't get it. None of it made sense, really.

1. There was no crowd of people to be in on the joke. And 2. John B was so apologetic and concerned for you - why would he agree to do something like that?

But you couldn't wrap your head around him being genuine either. That was just a fairy tale dream of yours you drilled into your head years ago.

Your phone lit up again.

8:14 pm

Bird: Screw it

Bird: I'm coming over

Not even ten minutes later, the Twinkie came flying down the uneven road towards your house. He jumped out of the van, before stomping through the grassy backyard. He started to make his way up to your bedroom window, remember exactly which step to take to make it in undetected by your parents.

"I got your message." You spoke first, standing a quite few feet away from him near your back door with your arms crossed. "Did you really need to come all this way?"

"I'm sorry I - " He stuttered, letting himself drop down to the ground so he wasn't scaling the side of your house anymore. You startled him, and to be honest with himself, he didn't think you'd even let him go near you nonetheless be waiting outside for him. "I don't know exactly what to say except that I never want you to look at me the way you did yesterday. I never wanted to hurt you."

"Yeah well think of that before you try to pull something like that ever again."

He started to take cautious steps toward you, careful not to scare you off again. "Pull what? Tell you that I love you?"

You shake your head, your arms swinging in front of you exasperated. "God, stop saying that!"

"Why, huh? You think this is some sort of joke to me?"

"Yes! And you don't have to keep pretending, I already see through your bullshit."

"Bullshit?" His eyes are teary and wide, stepping even closer to you now. You're too caught up in your distraught emotions to notice. "You think how I feel is bullshit?"

You gulped your response. You were so blinded by your own insecurities that you ignored this man practically yelling back at your face that he loves you. You blinked and took in his clearly upset form. At the end of his sentence his voice was wavering and it made your heart clench seeing him this sad and angry. It was too late anyways.

"I know it is. Someone like you couldn't love someone like me.." You sniffled and turned around to head towards the back door. "Please just leave me alone."

Your hand grabbed the doorknob but his bigger hand fell on top of yours before you could twist it open. You felt his body warmth right behind you. You stared straight ahead as tears started to fall down your cheeks, and his hand slowly lifted yours off the handle.

"I can't." John B slowly turned you to face him once more. He raised a hand to wipe the tears off your face, and kept it holding the side of your face up to look at him. "You don't think I could love someone like you?" He spoke as if you burnt him. As if you were the one hurting him all this time. "How could you think that?"

You couldn't help but be honest now. "Because I don't deserve it.. You deserve someone much better than me."

"Y/n, love, you are much more than you think.. You're everything to me. I think you're the most talented, smartest, funniest, beautiful girl I've ever laid eyes on. I mean that." His words were so genuine you couldn't help but blush. "And it breaks my heart you don't think that about yourself."

"I'm sorry," You whispered trying to lower your gaze but he lowered himself down try to keep eye contact with you until you looked back up at him normally.

"Hey, hey, hey.." He cooed doing so. "You don't ever have to apologize to me for something like that. I just want you to know just how perfect you are."

One of his hands came up to wipe the tears under your eyes, causing you to crack a smile. He mirrored your expression, the other hand going around your mid back to hold you closer to him.

"And that smile of yours makes my heart skip every time." John B whispered. "Will you let me try to make you see what I see?"

You blinked your tears away to see his big doe eyes stare into your own. You quickly take a glance at his plump pink lips, before looking back up at him again. You gave him a shy nod, blush creeping on your cheeks from how close the two of you were.

He slowly leaned down, giving you an opportunity to back away or say that this wasn't what you wanted. But it was, it's been something you've wanted for so long.

You closed your eyes, leaning in until you felt his lips on yours. You wrapped your arms around his body, as he kept one hand on your cheek and jaw and the other around your back.

It felt like everything fit perfectly between you two. Your lips moved against one another in sync, and you held onto his strong frame to hold yourself up. The warmth he provided melted away all your worries and left you stunned from the reality of it all.

You pulled away to gasp for air, your mouths still just inches away from each other.

"I'm in love with you too, John B." You whispered, looking up into his beautiful eyes.

He let out a breathy laugh before landing a few kisses on your mouth. "Been dying to hear you say that, sweet girl."

You giggled and wrapped your arms around him to pull him in a tight hug. Right before you pulled him up the stairs to your room..

#john b routledge #john b x reader #outer banks #angst with a happy ending #jj maybank #kiara carrera #pope heyward #john b prompt #john b obx #john b angst #john b fluff #john b x fem!reader #@mirellef2001

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noxturnalpascal · 12 days

Text

Happy Ending [I]

Masterlist (with all warnings)

A/N: tía - aunt, tío - uncle, primo - cousin, dios mío - my god, chulo - pimp, bonito - pretty (masculine), mala - bad, cariño - darling, guapo - handsome, mi amor - my love

🩷 🌅 🌴

Friday nights at the boardwalk with you. He buys all the tickets and you buy all the snacks. A corn dog you alternate bites of. A funnel cake he knows is getting powdered sugar all over his poor excuse of a mustache. Stale popcorn you pop in his mouth in-between throws of his darts. He watches you lick your fingers clean before he hands you the stuffed toy he won you. Your prize.

He makes you ride the ferris wheel even though he knows you’re terrified of heights and pretends to tease you when you sidle your body alongside his, grabbing at him to hold you because you’re scared. You retaliate by making him ride the carousel with you, a ride he hasn’t been on since he was a child, but when he looks into your eyes, how can he say no? He can’t.

You ditch your friends in the middle of a skeeball game and drag him towards the beach. Pulling his hoodie down until your head pops out of the neck hole, your hair mussed around your face but your smile peeking through. You always get cold when the sun goes down but you never bring your own hoodie, opting to steal his instead. Every time.

The sound of your voice coming from his right is almost drowned out by the roar of the ocean coming from his left. Cold sand kicks up on the back of his calves with every step and he fights the urge to grab your hand, so close to his that your pinkies keep brushing each other as your arms swing back and forth. Just Friends.

A thump to the back of his seat interrupts his dream, waking Frankie from the nap he didn’t mean to take. He hears a whispered apology coming from the parent of the offending kicker. He turns to look at them through the crack in the seat cushions and tells them not to worry, that he has a kid himself and understands how it goes. And just those words kick him in the gut, since he hasn’t seen his kid in almost a year.

He pulls the shade up halfway on his window seat and admires the fluffy white clouds floating below him, casting shadows on the sparkling blue water further down. If they’re over water like this it’ll be the gulf, and that means they’ll be landing on the island shortly. Maybe this weekend will be good for him, give him a chance to catch up with family and get his priorities straight.

It’s been almost a year since his old friend Pope showed up with an idea in one hand and a stack of money in the other, asking for favors. Almost a year since he went against every voice screaming NO in his head, and agreed to follow a promise of riches beyond his wildest dreams. Almost a year since they came out of that jungle laden with the weight of their friend’s body and the guilt of a monumental fuckup.

As a recovering addict, Frankie thought he’d already hit his rock bottom but it turns out he could go so much lower. He subjected his girlfriend, Stephanie, to further heartbreak and himself to further humiliation, coping with the consequences of his time in South America by shoving more white powder up his nose. His job wasted no time in firing him and Stephanie just as quickly took their infant son and moved back to Arizona to live with her mother.

The plane begins to shake with turbulence, causing the can of coke zero on the tray table of the person next to him to undulate towards the edge. Reaching out to grab it before it falls off, Frankie notices they have their eyes clenched shut.

“This is perfectly normal,” Frankie soothes.

The young man’s eyes fly open and meet his, relaxing slightly at his words.

“It is?”

“Yeah, it’s just like hitting some potholes while driving.” He sets the soda can back in the center of their tray table. “Perfectly normal.”

“You fly a lot?”

“I’m- I used to be a pilot.”

He remembers telling you the same thing about turbulence the first time he flew with you. You were such a nervous flier. He’s able to grasp onto the last remaining tendrils of his dream before they slip out of his hands. He remembers that he was just dreaming of you. That’s been happening a lot lately, waking up with the ghost of you on his mind, hazy dream-thoughts swirling like fog around his brain, impossible to hold and harder to focus on the more he tries to. He’s not sure why you’ve been on his mind so much lately. Probably because he’s lonely and pathetic.

He’s got at least 45 more minutes until the plane lands in paradise, his home for the long weekend. He wonders if maybe he can get another quick nap in, pick up where he left off in his dreams of you. He thinks you were mid-laugh; your head thrown back and the shine of the moonlight reflecting off the water, highlighting your pinched eyes and wide smile. He just has to think of you hard enough and maybe he can make it happen.

---

He was just starting his junior year at the technical college on the other side of the state from where he’d spent his whole life. It was far enough away that he could revel in the freedom of getting to be an unsupervised adult but close enough that his mother didn’t cry (too much) when he told her he was going.

He was 20, wouldn’t turn 21 until mid-December, but he and his friends had been drinking at this bar for well over a year. His fake ID was pathetically bad but he’s pretty sure at least half the people in this place were underage. This bar was known to let anyone in, and that’s why they all came here. The bathrooms were filthy, the bartenders were rude, the floors were sticky, and the whole place seemed to reek of Axe body spray. There was a small dance floor in the back illuminated only by black lights, playing thumping music and giving a place for people to grind on each other once they’d plied themselves with enough cheap alcohol.

He was sitting at the bar with two of his roommates, drinking their quarter drafts and talking about the syllabus for their Vibrations and Controls course, when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He will never forget the moment he turned and locked eyes with you. He knows that time didn’t slow down, the bar didn’t get fuzzy and quiet, slowly spinning like it was only you and him in the world. But that’s how he remembers it. You adjusted the glasses on your face and opened your mouth to speak, a giggle spilling out. Your laugh was adorable. You were really pretty. And you looked way too young to be in a bar.

“Hi,” you manage to get out before another giggle spills from your lips.

“Hi,” he answers back.

He knows he should be playing it cool but your laugh is infectious and has him smiling, awaiting your next words. He really can’t believe how pretty you are. This is a technical college and most girls who go here aren’t focused on their looks. Not that Frankie thinks he’s hot shit or anything, but the small amount of girls on campus definitely don’t look like you do. And you don’t look like you’re even trying.

Unlike the majority of girls in his high school you haven’t flat-ironed your hair, you aren’t wearing makeup, and you aren’t dressed in tight, revealing clothes. You have natural beauty. Your hair is shoulder-length and has a slight wave to it, your skin is smooth and supple and there’s a sparkle in your eyes, peeking out from under long lashes behind your wire-rimmed glasses.

“My friend over there wants to know if you wanna dance?” you finally manage to say.

“Oh yeah? Your friend?” Frankie pulls confidence out of his ass, hoping that you’re actually the ‘friend’ who is interested in him.

“Yeah, her,” you point your thumb behind you to a table of two girls who look even younger than you do. “The one in the pink shirt.”

Frankie’s eyes land on the girl in the pink shirt. She has almond-shaped eyes, long dark hair, and she covers her mouth, erupting in laughter with her friend beside her when he makes eye contact. That’s more like what most of the girls on campus look like, he thinks. Not ugly but not cute. Boring. Plain. Blah.

“Uhhhh,” he starts, wondering what he can say to keep you standing here talking to him. Should he ask more about your friend? No, he doesn’t give a shit. He runs his hand nervously through his hair. Should he ask if he can dance with you instead? No, that would probably earn him a slap. ‘I can’t dance,” he blurts out. Way to go Frankie, smooth move. That’s gonna spark a romance to last the ages.

“Oh,” you say, looking taken aback. You recover quickly. “Well maybe you and your friends could just buy us some drinks?

You point to the bar, covered in five dollars worth of quarter drafts and he feels his friends poking him in the ribs from behind him, urging him to say yes and give them all a chance to talk with a girl tonight. All he has to do is nod his head, and he gets to keep talking to you. There’s no way he’s gonna give up this opportunity.

---

The shuttle van from the airport was mostly empty, just one other couple from his flight joining him on the short ride to the dock. Once at the marina they board a boat even smaller than the van, a speedboat that just barely fits him, the couple, their luggage, and the guy standing behind the wheel. The captain’s name tag says Charles and he wears a pair of blue linen shorts with a white button-up shirt; long-sleeved but rolled up to his elbows. The resort’s logo is stitched in blue script over the pocket. Paradise Cay.

Charles tells them to hold on to their hats once they’re out of the marina, and Frankie takes his off, holding it tightly in his lap. Charles revs the motor on the sleek little boat and cuts through the water, the wind whipping through Frankie’s uncovered hair. When the boat docks thirty minutes later at a tiny barrier island, they’re greeted by several smiling resort staff. Frankie shakes Charles’ hand, thanking him for the ride, and attempts to smooth his wind-blown hair before plopping his Standard Oil cap back on his head.

Two men dressed like the boat captain pass by him to grab luggage out of the back of the boat. Two women stand in front of him wearing similar outfits; instead of shorts they wear skirts that hit mid-calf, and their shirts are short-sleeved. One of the women steps forward - her name tag says Kiki - and she welcomes him to Paradise Cay, greeting him with a tropical flower that she tucks behind his ear and a brown-husked coconut that she places in his hands. He looks down at the pink straw and tiny yellow polka-dotted umbrella sticking out of the coconut.

“Ohh I- I don’t drink-,” he starts.

“It’s coconut water, Mr. Morales,” she says.

Well shit, he didn’t realize Kiki knew who he was. He looks over at the couple who exited the boat after him and sees they are sipping out of pineapples, slurping down a white frozen slush that he can only assume is a piña colada. His family must have told the resort already that he’s maintaining his sobriety. Don’t give Frankie any temptations. He’s just over four months sober now and he’s doing really well. He takes a sip out of the coconut.

“Follow me, please,” Kiki says, and he trails behind her retreating figure, hearing the footfalls of the employee carrying his bag behind him.

He wishes he could take his dirty, stained army duffel out of this poor man’s hands and carry it himself. This resort is super fancy. He’s probably used to pushing expensive roller luggage, the kind with hard metal sides and combination locks. Or hand-stitched leather bags, the kind with the letters L and V patterned across them. He probably gets crisp twenties pressed into his hand when they arrive at the room and Frankie’s not even sure he has a five dollar bill in his wallet.

Through the trees he saw a large building, stretching along the beachfront, but they turned on a trail that took them away from that building. He watches as they pass several smaller buildings, each one surrounded by dense palms and looking identical to the one before it. After passing nearly a dozen, they go down a short path leading to a side door on the left of one of the smaller buildings. Kiki opens the large wooden door and directs him inside. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust from the bright sun outside to the relative dim inside.

There is a king-sized bed against a wall of dark, rich wood while the foot of the bed faces four large sliding glass doors that open up to a small patio and private plunge pool, and look out onto the crystal blue waters of the Caribbean, seemingly just steps away. There is no ceiling, instead exposing the beams of the high roof, making the room feel even bigger. The side walls are a light-colored stucco and the room is dotted with plants, both large and small, that seamlessly blend the outside with the inside.

A plush sofa sits on the near side of the room while a small table and chairs sit in the middle past the foot of the bed. Kiki is walking around the room, motioning to the near wall, where there are bookshelves filled with some reading material, hand-crafted decorations, and some sleek electronic devices glowing with blue lights. She walks to the far wall where there’s a countertop with a small sink and a coffee bar. She opens an empty minifridge and then a double-drawer beverage refrigerator packed full - complimentary and non-alcoholic - she informs him.

Frankie is still taking in the sight of the incredible - and definitely expensive - suite before him when Kiki explains that there is a walk-in closet and a large bathroom at the back of the villa. She points to a door on the far side of the room.

“....and the outdoor shower is right through-”

“I’m really sorry but there’s been a mistake,” he interrupts

“A mistake? I don’t think so.”

“No, there's definitely been a mistake. This can’t be my room.”

“You are,” she pulls a small device out of her skirt pocket, flipping it open to double its size, “Mr. Francisco Morales, yes?”

“I- I mean, yeah, that’s my name,” he shakes his head. “But this is definitely not the room I booked. I just booked a regular room. Like one with a view of the parking lot.”

“No, we don’t have a parking lot,” she quickly corrects.

“Right, no… Sorry. I just meant whatever room was cheapest is the room I booked. And that’s…” he looks around, “definitely not this room.”

She presses several things on her tablet now, seeming to go back and forth on several different screens, scrolling and reading and trying to get to the bottom of this obvious mix-up. He most definitely did not book an oceanfront villa for his stay here. The rest of his family has been here all week, turning this destination-wedding into a vacation. He can’t afford that luxury. He can barely afford to be here at all.

Today is Friday. The wedding is tomorrow and his flight out would have been the next day if it hadn’t been two hundred dollars cheaper to fly out on Monday instead. With the wedding group-rate, the room cost him $180 a night, so even having to shell out one more night’s worth on the resort he still saved twenty bucks by staying the extra night.

“No, this is your room, Mr. Morales,” she finally says.

“But-”

“The outdoor shower is through that door,” she points again to the door and the sweeps her arm over to the bookshelves. “Please message me on your dedicated device if you need anything at all, Mr. Morales,” she finishes.

She passes him walking towards the door, causing Frankie to turn around and face the man who stands there, having been holding his stinking old duffel bag the entire time. Sorry, Frankie mutters as he juggles the coconut in his hands to pull his wallet out of his pocket, attempting to fish out as many crumpled ones as he can find.

“All gratuities have already been paid, Mr. Morales,” Kiki says as she slips out of the room.

The man gingerly sets down the duffel bag by the front door and follows Kiki out, seemingly not wanting to tarnish the spotless perfection of the room with Frankie’s filthy, well-traveled bag.

“Thanks?” Frankie manages to call out just before the heavy door closes, the sound echoing around him in the air-conditioned air of this gorgeous resort room.

---

Three hours later Frankie is walking through the double doors of the hotel’s main lobby bar. There’s a sign just outside the door set up for the private event that says: Thank you for attending the wedding of Rogelio Garcia & Liliana Schneider. Enjoy some drinks on us!

Rogelio - Elio - is Frankie’s cousin, his mother’s sister’s son, and someone he grew up living just two blocks away from, spending every holiday and most weekends playing with him and his brothers. Frankie knows Elio has been dating his fiance Liliana for many years, he’s heard her name out of his mother’s mouth countless times, but he’s never met her. Frankie’s been kind of a shitty family member for longer than he can blame his addiction for and he was honestly surprised to be included on the invite list of this destination wedding.

The decor inside the bar is bright and tropical, maintaining the island-vibe with steel-drum music playing over the speakers. Not putting enough foresight into his method of packing and the formal nature of the weekend’s events, Frankie is forced to wear an embarrassingly wrinkled outfit. He aimed a hair dryer at the khaki pants for a half hour and it didn’t make much of a difference. Luckily the busy pattern on his tropical shirt is forgiving enough to hide any imperfections there. He weighed wearing his emotional support hat versus having hat hair and left the hat in the room when he thought how his mamá would give him that look if he showed up with a ballcap on.

Frankie is sipping cranberry juice and talking to his mamá and some of his tías, waiting for the rehearsal dinner to be over and the wedding party to spill out of the private room at the side of the bar. Despite his mother’s dirty looks and attempts to change the subject, his one aunt keeps asking him questions he’s not even remotely interested in answering.

Do you miss your old army days? Are you ever gonna be a pilot again? Where are you living these days? Have you spoken to Steph recently? Do you know if baby Leo is walking yet?

The questions are grating on his nerves and he’s trying to remain polite but the clinking of ice in everyone’s glasses sound like cymbals in his ears. The too-loud laughter from his tíos, who are already over-served, is grating at the frayed edges of his composure and each question feels like a hundred pound weight being piled onto his shoulders. He keeps raking his hand through his hair, self-conscious without his hat on, missing the ability to lower the brim and hide his face away.

The side door opens and the wedding party spills out, a distraction of bodies and murmured conversation. He looks around for an exit, then back to the group, then back towards a door looking out over the beach. Wait a minute - for a split second he thought he saw you, coming out of the side room among a large group of other women. You’re decades older, sure, but it looked just like you. No, it can’t be. Jesus, his dreams have got him fucked up. He drags his eyes across the faces of the crowd spreading across the room again. He doesn’t see you. Of course he doesn’t, cuz you were never there.

Elio, the groom, bounces up to Frankie, pulling him away from the old hens he’s been surrounded by and introduces him to his bride-to-be, Lili.

“Lili-baby, this is my favorite cousin, Francisco.” Frankie takes her smaller hand into his massive one and they share a smile.

“Woah now Elio, we have a lot of cousins, that can’t be true.”

“Oh no primo, it’s definitely true, you’ve always been my favorite.”

“I’m so surprised I haven’t met your favorite cousin before, babe,” Lili teases him slightly.

Frankie winces, here comes the part where he has to explain why he’s been so absent all these years. The army. An addiction. His life falling apart. And then all the follow-up questions that come afterwards. He drags a hand through his hair before he responds, but before he can even open his mouth Elio is answering for Frankie, explaining how Frankie was in the service traveling the world and now he goes around to military bases helping to repair and maintain the same helicopters he used to fly.

At first Frankie isn’t sure if Elio was told this flowery-version of events by his own mamá or by Frankie’s, but when Elio winks at him over his fiance’s head, Frankie knows that he’s giving her the G-rated version to keep Frankie from having to get stuck in that inevitable uncomfortable situation he always finds himself in. Frankie smiles and nods slightly. He thinks Elio might be his favorite cousin too.

The happy couple break away for more introductions and shortly after the women all file out of the bar, heading to the spa for their evening of bachelorette activities. Once they’re gone the men gather around the bar, his uncles ordering shots of tequila, forcing them down all his cousin’s throats, and shouting loudly in Spanish. If Elio is too drunk to get married tomorrow, at least Frankie can say it’s not his fault.

Eventually he slips away from the raucous crowd and heads to the outside porch of the bar, which sits just above a large expanse of beach. He sits on the short staircase leading down to the sand and sips his third cranberry juice of the evening, watching the waves reflect colors from the setting sun. He can’t help but think about you again.

---

He’d spent that whole first school-year getting to know you, growing closer. Wednesday quarter-draft nights became a regular thing. Then you added Thursday study hall, Friday movie nights, Saturday evenings at the boardwalk, and Sundays at the laundromat. Pretty soon you were spending more days of the week together than apart, and on the days you didn’t see each other he was calling your dorm phone to talk to you for hours or chatting with you on AOL instant messenger into the wee hours of the night.

And yet you were nothing more than friends. The whole semester went by, and then phone calls and AIM chats all summer, but you never indicated you were interested in more and he didn’t dare make a move. You were just going to be friends, and that was okay. He wasn’t upset about it. He figured that you probably knew what he’d known since the moment he laid eyes on you - that you’re too pretty for him. The more he got to know you the more he learned that you were also probably too smart for him, too funny for him, and too outgoing for him. Too good for him.

He’d see the way people’s faces lit up when they met you and you smiled for them, made them laugh, made them feel like a friend, made them feel special. That’s exactly how you made him feel. You made him want to be the best version of himself. He felt lucky to be your friend and if that’s all you ever were, it was more than enough. His senior year was about to begin and after graduation he’d be getting his posting assignment and shipping out for training as a Lieutenant in the U.S. Army. He knew he had to soak up every minute with you these final two semesters.

He remembers move-in day his senior year, the Saturday before classes began…

You resumed your previous year’s tradition of going to the boardwalk with a combination of some of your friends, some of his. When you get there the sun is still setting and you grab his hand and drag him into the still-warm sand, saying that you have something important to talk to him about. Standing in front of him, wearing his sweatshirt, the pinks and oranges from the sky cast your face in a beautiful glow and you look like you’re illuminated from the inside out. Did you get even more beautiful over the summer?

Your hands feel cold even before the chill of the night air settles in, and he envelops them, trying to warm them as you begin telling him in a shaky voice the thing you’ve kept from him for months. Your mom caught your dad cheating and it blew up into a huge fight that ended with her kicking him out. He stopped paying the mortgage on the house and your mom had to sell it at a loss and find you all a new place to live. Their divorce still wasn’t settled and was already very contentious, your dad leaving your mom to pay for your school without his help.

Knowing how badly you wanted to go to this school, she took out some loans to cover the tuition for both semesters this year but the room & board bill as well as your bookstore account was on a payment plan that she needed help paying for. You’re trying not to cry as you tell him this story of how your life has been turned upside down over the last three months and he wants to ask why you hadn’t told him any of this sooner, but he can see how you are bearing the shame of your dad’s infidelity and your mom’s newfound poverty. This is a lot for you and you’re clearly still processing it.

“How can I help?” he asks.

You tell him that you need to get a job for the semester and he immediately takes over the conversation, offering to get you a job at one of the labs his professors maintain. They’re always looking for lab assistants, he assures you. You tell him that you already looked into that option and they only pay $6 an hour, you can only work 12 hours around classes during the week, and it would take almost two week’s worth of work to pay for just your $114 Statistics book.

He exhales in defeat, but you quickly tell him that you’ve already found a job. He wonders what you need from him if you’ve already found a job but then you tell him what it is. You’d be working downtown in a call center as a phone sex operator. He balks at this. You’d be working 3 nights a week, late at night, and you’d make $50 each shift, paid in cash. He’s not sure what to say until you laugh at his shocked expression, squeezing his hands.

“You okay, Pancho?”

Your pet name for him. On a late night phone call at the beginning of the summer he’d accidentally let slip that his whole family used to call him Pancho - a nickname for Francisco - before he turned eleven. The day of his eleventh birthday he got embarrassed about being called it in front of all his school friends, who knew him as Frankie, and insisted everyone switch to the more anglicized stylization of his name. Hearing that old nickname used to make him cringe, but now it felt like something just between the two of you. It was easier to hide his blushing when you were on the other end of the phone, but now that you’re face-to-face, he has to fight a bashful smile from settling on his face.

“Yeah I’m just…. are you sure about this?”

“Not really, but it’s good money and it’s not real sex, just talk.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

“I need your help,” you squeeze his hands again.

He can feel the flush creep up his neck and settle in his cheeks. How could you possibly need his help for phone sex? He gulps loudly and manages to grunt out a noise that sounds like, “Hm?”

“I need a ride into the city to work my shifts, I’m too scared to ride the bus that late.”

He exhales a breath he was holding. “Ohhh,” he says. You just need a ride. He’s the only person you know with a car, having been given his pop’s old Ford Ranger to drive last year when he and his roommates got a place off-campus. “No problem.”

“Really?” you squeal.

“Of course, anything you need.”

You usually worked three or four nights a week, earning more money than you would have working any on-campus job. Frankie would drive you twenty minutes into the city every shift you worked, helping you to avoid the hour-long late-night bus ride you’d have to take otherwise. Then at the end of your shift, sometimes three or four in the morning, he’d drive back and pick you up, making sure you were safely returned to your dorm.

You constantly offered to pay him for gas but he always refused. His tuition, room, and board was completely paid for by the ROTC program he was enrolled in, and he was fortunate enough to have a job back home that he worked all summer and every break, saving up spending money to use during the semester. He’d call you every night you worked, dropping $25 for each 15-minute phone call, paying with the debit card his mamá helped him get the summer before his Freshman year, and hoping she never looked too closely at his bank statements that got sent to their address each month.

He never wanted you to do your typical routine and talk sexy to him when he called, he just wanted to talk to you about regular things. How is Calculus going? Did you get your Chem homework done? What are you doing in your Systems Design lab? You’d tease him about waiting until after work so your conversation would be free but he’d say that’s 15 minutes you didn’t have to talk to some creep. You’d tease him by saying better the creep you know than the creep you don’t, and then have to stifle your laugh so you didn’t get in trouble.

---

Elio slaps him on the shoulder, drunk for sure but more sober than Frankie would have expected, breaking him from his reverie. He sits down next to him and asks how he’s doing. Frankie goes to give the scripted answer but Elio says no, seriously. Frankie tells him some of the truth, trying to balance being honest about the state of his life without overwhelming his inebriated cousin. Elio says that Frankie’s always been the smartest among all the cousins and he’s sure Frankie will find a way to turn things around.

“I think I’ve done too many stupid things at this point to feel smart anymore,” Frankie laments.

“Well I can’t speak to that, but at least you’re here in paradise and you can have a nice vacation,” Elio pokes him in the ribs.

“Oh shit that reminds me, they put me in the wrong room. They accidentally gave me an oceanfront villa!”

“Holy shit!,” Elio shouts too loudly, “See primo? Things are already turning around for you!”

“Sure,” Frankie laughs, clinking his empty glass with his cousin’s half-full pint of beer.

“Hey did you know Lili has three sisters?”

“Oh yeah? That’s coo-”

“You should totally hook up with one of them this weekend.”

“Dios mío, Elio,” Frankie huffs. “I don’t think a woman is interested in taking on all of this mess,” he motions to himself from head to toe.

“Three sisters though,” Elio repeats. “Well one of them is married… oh and one of them just got engaged.”

“My chances are rapidly decreasing, primo.”

“No, the third one is divorced and totally single,” Elio assures him. “Maybe you can take her back to your oceanfront villa, papi. Show her the front of your ocean.”

“What the fuck are you even talking about?” Frankie laughs and Elio joins him, both of them dissolving into hysterical wheezing. Elio recovers first.

“I don’t know man, I just think you should have a good time. It’s my fuckin’ wedding, chulo!” Elio shouts, and they dissolve into a fit of laughter again.

Frankie helps him up off the steps and carries him inside - putting Elio in the seemingly capable hands of his father and eldest brother, who appear to be the most sober out of everyone - and heads to bed.

#francisco morales #frankie catfish morales #happy ending #noxturnalpascal #frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #Frankie Friday #writing challenge 2.0 #iamasaddie prompt

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romana-after-dark · 5 months

Text

Coming soon...

Hi everyone! This winter break I'm hoping to get a lot of writing done and wrap up some series!

Special thanks to @hon3yboy or helping me sooooo much with this series!!!!

That being said, once I feel more caught up, do I have a series for you...

Untitled Triple Frontier cult fic

Dark below the cut

Years after the world fell apart, various communities have established themselves, one of which is ran by four men who claim to be divine.

When they decide it's time to and heir to be born, they chose a virgin from their cult and make her their wife. Reader is offered a choice, of course. She doesn't have to marry them. But if she doesn't, the savior won't be born. She choses to become the Madonna. She is wed to all four of them, and moved into their home where her body is open to use whenever her husbands desire (free use au), in the hopes of getting her pregnant. It doesn't matter whose baby it ends up being, because they are all part God, so it doesn't matter... right?

M/M dynamics

Santiago Garcia: The leader, their Pope, son of the founder, mommy issues (duh), obsessive with his men and with his wife, reader. Pope is particularly obsessed with his right hand man, Frankie. Was told his whole life he was a god-like figure, and acts like it. Dangerous.

Francisco Morales: Right hand man. Quiet, not particularly thrilled with the plan but can't speak out. Only participates in group sex or when Santiago involves him. Is in love with Benny, but can't say as much because of how volatile and possessive Pope is.

Benjamin Miller: Charming, charismatic, slut. Benny is part of the reason they have a lack of virgins to choose from, he's fucked most of them. Insatiable in bed, fucking like a dog in heat. Outside of bed, however, he's fun, nice. Except when he's drunk or high. Loves Frankie.

William Miller: Soft. Gentle. Will treats her like a queen, like their Madonna. He loves her. He says so, after all. Will helps keep her safe, help's her navigate Santi's mania and Ben's addiction and Frankie's coldness. He's just there to take care of her. He promises.

Meet the OC's

Reyansh

Rey is one of the home's security, living in the servants quarters. Reyansh works a lot in the stables and the landscaping, a gentle soul the horses love. Rey befriends our Madonna and although she is initially suspicious of him, she learn that he is trustworthy. Reyansh is in love with the housekeeper, Iris, and they hope to have a family together one day. Faceclaim is Dev Patel

Jonah

Jonah is the head of the guard. He still answers to Will for military decisions, but for the most part he leads the men. Jonah is in charge of keeping the house and the Madonna safe, so he assigns Reyansh to look after her, knowing he's harmless, but capable. Jonah is the father of Iris, but their relationship is strained. Jonah becomes a father figure to Madonna, helping her navigate the world she's found herself in. Faceclaim is Timothy Olyphant

Iris

Iris is the housekeeper and cook for the house. Being stuck as a servant and working long hours in a dangerous household where one wrong move can mean your death, Iris has learned to keep her head down in the hopes that if her and Reyansh behave, they may be allowed to have a life together. She is not fond of reader. She does not think she is the Madonna and thinks she's stupid for getting caught up in the men's lies. She worried that her friendship with Rey will cause problems for them, not because she doesn't trust him, but she knows how possessive and controlling all the men are.

Hoping to debut in January, when after I at least wrap up BBTF and at least 1 or 2 stories on my main.

Comment if you are intested!

Warnings not a ful list, but here are themes and content you should be aware of before start

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

DUB CON MOSTLY but there WILL BE NON CON. Major character deaths, forced breeding, physical abuse, brainwashing, manipulation, violence, gore, alcoholism/addiction, BIG OLE BLASPHEMY WARNING like this cult appropriates a lot of religious themes and they call reader their Madonna, Santi is called the Pope, like all that stuff. However, this is a cult so I mean. It happens. None of it are my thoughts on religion or meant to make fun of religion or demonize religious people. Disgusting views on virginity. Attempted rape outside the boys. T*m warning. Age gap.

A lot of themes and dynamics accidently ended up as kinda a fanfic of Charnellhouse's Watch Your Step, which is now taken off tumblr and AO3 but she's publishing it as a book now so I'll be promoting that book too.

Comment if you are intested and I'll tag you when the first chapter comes out!

Name still TBA ;-;

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the-case-book-of-fanfiction · 1 year

Text

A Job Unfinished

Ship: Santiago "Pope" Garcia x fem!reader

Summary: It's been days since you last saw Santiago, days after he promised he'd be back. One last (very illegal) mission in Colombia, and then he'd be yours forever. But Santiago is five days late.

Word Count:

Warnings: language, back-breaking relationship fluff, the plot of the movie is basically explained, Santiago has emotional baggage, plot-related angst

☟ Continue below the fold ☟

Christ, I'm tired.

Santiago could think of nothing but his tiredness, an exhaustion that lingered so heavily he didn't think he'd ever be able to sleep again. He'd been awake too long, he'd discovered that he could push himself this far and still stay awake—he'd not even slept on the plane home.

Home was a place Santiago hadn't been in three years. His mother's country was as close as he could get to a physical home, but the woman he'd left behind in Florida with their golden retriever was true home.

It was three in the morning before he reached the apartment. He had fully expected you to be asleep, but the little light you kept on the side table was still on, and the light of the TV was glowing on the back wall, visible through the shades.

I'll have to replace those for something a little more private, he thought distantly as he unlocked the door.

You looked up immediately, at first alarmed, and then realization crossed your face.

"Santi, oh my God—"

Before you could even move off the couch, the golden—who Santiago had dubbed Lion on their first meeting—gave an excited bark and threw herself at him.

She pawed at him, placing her front paws on his shoulders.

Groaning, Santiago sank down on his sore knees, wrapping his arms around her torso and scratching.

"Hey, girl, hiya. Hi, oh, thank you," he said as she licked his face. "Ahhh, come on, Lion, relax. It's okay, I'm home now."

You had thrown off your blanket and had come to stand close by, waiting for their moment to end. Santiago struggled to push the dog off his lap and get to his feet. You took his hands helped him up, burying your face in his chest the instant he was on his feet again.

Santiago kissed the top of your head gently, cupping the back of your head with one hand. You hugged in silence, squeezing each other tightly, breathing in each other's scents.

You pushed away from him far too soon. He leaned closer, chasing your touch. You cupped his face in both your hands, smoothing your thumbs over his cheeks, wet with tears he hadn't realized had fallen.

"Oh, God, Santi," you whisper. "I thought I lost you. It was an illegal mission and I thought I lost you and I'd never get confirmation because the government wasn't backing you this time and they'd never know what happened and—" You took a deep breath. "I thought I lost you for good."

"I know, baby, I know, I'm so sorry," he whispered. He kissed your forehead. You whined, the sound barely more than a whisper, your tears falling down your cheeks in the next blink.

"Five days," you said. "It took five days more than you thought. What happened?"

Santiago hesitated. He wanted to tell you everything, wanted to just lay in your arms and tell the whole story and not care when he inevitably started to cry. But it was late. Would you really want to deal with all that?

"Santiago," you said, voice gentle. "Come on. Get out of your head. Tell us what happened." You looked down at Lion and scratched her head and she weaseled her way between you and Santiago, twisting herself between your legs. "That's what we're here for."

He shook his head. "You're not my therapist, querida, you're more than that."

"We got Lion for this reason, sweetheart. C'mon. Talk to me. I know you need to."

You guided him to the couch, sitting him down and pulling him close to your side. You pull the blanket over the both of you. It takes Lion only a second to jump back up and settle herself across both your laps.

"I remember when she could stretch all the way out and she'd still only fit in one of our laps," Santiago said softly, rubbing Lion's head. She responded with a heavy sigh. "What've you got to sigh about, not-so-little little one?"

You kissed Santi's cheek, turning his head toward you with just a light touch of your fingers to the side of his face. "It's been four, five years since we got her. She got big."

"I missed three of those years," he said, his usual frown already coming back to his face.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing gentle kisses to his face. Eventually, he pressed his mouth to yours, pulling you into a long, satisfied kiss. You sighed softly into him as his tongue caresses yours. He tasted of coffee and alcohol, a pleasant mix you'd come to associate with Santiago. You always knew when the mission had been difficult when he tasted like that.

Santiago huffed when you pulled away from his mouth. You ran your thumb over his lips for a moment.

"What happened out there?"

He sat back against the couch. "Too much," he said, at last. You waited, giving him all the time he needed to talk. Sure, it was nearing four in the morning, but you didn't care about your lost sleep. Your boyfriend had come home at last, and something in him had very clearly broken.

Santiago leaned close once again, placing kisses along your neck that started out gentle but soon left marks you knew would be a deep shade of purple when you woke up. You threaded your fingers through his curls, relaxing against the touch of his mouth.

"It went wrong...almost immediately," he began, after several minutes of his kisses. "We had to...take unnecessary lives. Lives we thought we could spare. Lorea's guards."

"Ah." You knew enough about the mission from Santiago's quick explanation when he'd showed up to explain what his last job would entail.

"Then we couldn't find Lorea. Or the money, at first. It was in the walls. The whole damn house. And T...Tom wanted all of it, as much as we could take. I'll admit, I wanted it all, too. I just kept thinking...we'd finally be able to afford a bigger apartment in a better part of town, I could fix your car, we'd be set for...for a long time, at least. We missed the hard out."

You startled beside him. You'd heard stories of Delta Force from before you'd met them all, before you'd started dating Santiago—back when the only ones you knew were Benny and William, your neighbors from across the street when you were kids. And you knew they never missed a hard out.

"Why?"

"The money. Greed. We just wanted more." He rubbed his forehead, grimacing. You knew he was still in his head, knew he was hating himself for every decision he'd made in the past week and a half. "We burned what we couldn't take, and drove out of there with more than we planned to take. Killed more guards on the way because we'd missed the hard out and still didn't get out before Lorea's family got back from church."

You stilled. "Santi, please tell me you didn't—"

"The family's fine. We didn't do anything to them. That was one rule I wouldn't break."

You kissed his hair. "Oh, thank God."

He nodded. "We stole too much. The helicopter couldn't take it. Went down as we reached the mountain ranges. A bunch of villagers got ahold of the money and... Tom, he..." Santiago squeezed his eyes shut. There was pain buried deep there, you could tell. Twice now he'd stumbled over Tom's name. An ominous feeling settled in your chest. "He got angry. Possessive of it. We killed a couple of the villagers, him and Frankie and me." He sniffled. "We paid for their deaths and the mules we borrowed from the village. Made as much of the trek as we could with the mules, then cut 'em lose and strung all the bags together to carry it ourselves. Over a hundred bags, carried by five men." He chuckled, the sound full of self-loathing. "God, I was a fucking idiot."

You kissed his temple. "Hey. I hate it when you say that, you know that."

"You haven't heard the worst of it yet."

"Then tell me."

"We didn't notice we were being followed for days. I don't know how none of us knew, but we didn't know until it was too late, until T..." He paused, clenching his jaw tightly. You knew what he was going to say before he said it. "Until Tom was shot."

It felt like all the air had been sucked out of you. Tom had never been your favorite guy on the spec ops team, but he was the one with a family.

"He's gone. Tom's gone. Instant. Benny and Ironhead got into this huge fight about it, and I...I kinda lost my head after that. Couldn't think straight. We lugged the money and his body as far as we could, but then...we knew we couldn't get it all home with us, so..." He sighed. "We left it in a fucking valley. Left it there to rot and get covered in snow and never be seen again." He laughed, the sound painful and mirthless, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes as he did. "And Benny took the coordinates. I didn't know at the time, but they're sitting in my pocket now, and it's practically burning a hole through my pants."

You cradled him in your arms. "We'll worry about that later. Not now, not tonight. Not until you've had some proper rest and have a clear head. Why don't we get you—"

"I'm not done yet," he whispered.

You nodded. "Okay."

"We only took money that could fit in our packs and then we took Tom home. Five days late, because we had to walk the whole thing." He covered his eyes with one hand. "We walked through the fucking Andes. We're insane. God, we're insane." He rubbed his face. "And then we left all the money to Tom. To his family." Finally, he looked at you for the first time since he'd told his story. "I can't even face his girls. Molly'd kill me. His daughters would kill me. But at least they can pay to go to college."

You thumbed away the tears in his eyes. "Santi, I want you to listen to me, okay?"

He nodded.

"It's not your fault."

"I offered them the job, I brought them down there, I—"

"Santiago. Listen."

He quieted.

"You know how jobs like these go. There are things you can control, and things you can't. The guy who followed you? That wasn't something you could control. I know for sure you did your best to keep everyone safe. I also know how Delta Force can be. You're all headstrong and full of yourselves and you get so angry with each other so easily, especially when money's involved. Especially when it's something so near to you." You took his hand in yours, squeezing it reassuringly. "This mattered to you. The boys knew that. It's why they agreed to it. It didn't go the way it was supposed to, but you've all worked similar jobs before. You all knew the risks, even if this time was a little...riskier."

Santiago buried his head in your shoulder. "What you were worried about. Losing me in an illegal mission. It's what Molly's going through right now. That's on me."

You hugged him tight to your chest. Lion whined as she was squished between your bodies, shoving her nose between you and up to lick Santiago's chin. Through his tears, he let out a small laugh.

"Hi, girl. I know, I know I'm upset. I know you just wanna help."

She wriggled, her dog-smile appearing at the playful tone in Santiago's voice that contrasted his words, the voice he always used to speak to her.

Lion flopped against his chest, rubbing against him and urging him to pet her.

"See? She says it's not your fault. She says death isn't something you can control, Santiago."

"She's a good therapy dog, but I don't think she's saying that," he said, fixing you with his sad stare. "I'm pretty sure it's just you."

You kissed his temple again. "One day, you'll realize I'm right. You'll admit one day that you can't control everything, try as you might."

"I got him killed," Santiago whispered.

"You didn't pull the trigger." He gave you a look. "Come on, Santi, let's get you to bed. You've been through a lot, and you need a clear head to deal with it all."

You stood and pulled him off the couch with you. Lion followed you down the hallway and waited outside the bathroom while you pulled Santiago's clothes off, the same ones he'd been wearing for days as he and the boys trekked through the Andes, and got him into a quick shower. You waited with Lion while he showered and dried himself off.

You tugged him into bed and curled up in his arms. Lion jumped up and curled up at your feet.

"Feel any better?" you whispered, tracing your fingers across his face.

"A bit," he admitted. He tightened his hold on your torso. "I've missed this. Holding you. Actually being in the same bed."

You hummed your agreement. "Don't you ever go away for three years again."

He brushed your hair out of your face and tucked it behind your ear and kissed you softly. "I told you—that was my last job. I'm never leaving again."

"I hope to God you're right." You snuggled closer, kissing him one last time. "Get some sleep, Santi. You need it."

"I know," he whispered.

But his thoughts turned, again, to the paper William had shoved in his hand, still sitting in the pocket of the pants on his bathroom floor, and he knew he wasn't completely done.

Delta Force never missed a hard out. And they also never left a job unfinished.

☞ ❊ ☜

Triple Frontier // Santiago "Pope" Garcia

☞ ❊ ☜

Translation: (I don't speak Spanish, I hope this is right.)

Querida = darling

#santiago garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia #santiago garcia #triple frontier #fem!reader #santiago garcia x you #oscar isaac #santiago garcia fluff #triple frontier fluff #triple frontier spoilers #post movie

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