You Ain’t Woman Enough

yall better be just as outraged about this as you were about notre dame

Reblog if you think asexuality is a legitimate sexuality.

I'm trying to prove something.

Frankie’s Barber Shop

Summary: After his time in service, Frankie relies on routine–but you arrive to shake things up.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating: PG (minor language and suggestive thoughts)

Tags: FLUFF, reader washes/cuts Frankie’s hair and beard, meet-cute, Frankie is an anxious boi but he’s trying, this is pure tooth rotting fluff and an ode to Frankie’s hair

Notes: Every day when I drive from work I pass ‘Frankie’s Barber Shop’ and wish it was Frankie Morales’ (but we all know he’d call his like, 'Catfish Cuts’ or something)

I picture Frankie a bit younger here, done with the military but before the events of TF!

For my non-US readers, Great Clips is a chain of discount hairdressers!

Frankie Morales is a simple man; a man of routine. He puts his shoes on right-then-left, even when it means he has to teeter precariously on his bad knee. He brushes his teeth for exactly 2 minutes, as timed on the toothbrush. He wears the same grey t-shirt and jeans combo that has followed him since high school. So when he left Great Clips with a particularly bad $7.99 haircut, buzzed uneven and patchy to the point that the guys ribbed him for it for weeks, he dreadfully set to Google to find a new place.

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To all the fic writers out there that are not currently writing. Either it's because of RL, health, writer's block or something has happened that have disheartened you. Thank you for what you've written, and don't ever feel pressured or stressed - fanfic should be something good for all of us; both reader and writer. You're more important than what you do, but thank you for what you've done!

Pedro Fandom

People are leaving in droves. Driven away by hatred and rude comments. Fighting and constant turmoil. It’s disheartening. It’s maddening. 

There is no need to impose your hostility on another. There is no need to compare works or even critique works shared. This is a free site, no one is profiting off the stories. They are shared with you because of the authors love of the character or story line. If you don’t like it, scroll on past. 

So many wonderful creators have had their love of an amazing man snuffed out by the pure rancor they receive. Their creativity crushed under the weight of stress because of ignorant, rude people who have obviously never learned proper social etiquette. 

This needs to stop. Be gentle. The man you are a fan of said the exact same words!

Gif credit @thewaythisis

Had a long talk with a friend about tumblr after going on hiatus. I didn't actually know if I'd ever touch my beloved hellsite again.

Because... I'd hit a breaking point. I couldn't stand it anymore.

There's so much bullshit everywhere you look.

So much goddamn drama.

I'm an observational person by nature. I watch and I pay attention. I'm always cataloging information whether I mean to or not. It's just how my brain works.

And all I saw was... Pain.

Everyone hurting each other for no reason other than a difference in opinion on FICTIONAL PEOPLE. That exist in a world that is also FICTIONAL. Or about CELEBRITIES that they will never know on a personal level.

We can all feel close to an actor or musician, etc.

But in the end?

We don't know these people.

We get shown a side of who they are.

They're actors. Some of them so mind-blowing at it that it's breathtaking. Wouldn't you think they could present a certain persona if they wanted to? Anytime they wanted to?

I'm not saying what we're seeing isn't real. That who they're presenting to us isn't true to them.

I'm not saying it isn't organic.

What I'm saying is that we don't know them on a personal everyday life level to be able to properly evaluate what kind of person they are.

Belittling and torturing someone with emotional trauma? Because of that?

That mentality is in need of a sharp hip check.

When I say that what I mean is this:

Sometimes you get so deeply immersed in a world and a way of thinking that reality slips away a little. You stop seeing things as clearly. As rationally. You stop seeing people as people.

I've personally had to hip check myself many times in the last year. Many, many, times. Because I got caught up in the euphoria of it all.

I acquired blorbo vision.

Several times I had to pull back, take those blorbo vision glasses off, and take a breath.

Reevaluate.

I would take time to consider if the things that were upsetting me were something that merited it. If it was something of any actual consequence.

And every time?

It wasn't.

It didn't matter in the face of human decency.

It didn't matter because fandom is make believe.

Every inch of it is fiction. Even the ones that revolve around real people. It's all fiction.

But what isn't fiction?

The person behind your favorite blog isn't fiction.

The person behind the blog that makes you feel like screaming and cursing isn't fiction.

But the arguments?

That goes back into fiction land.

There's dissecting a film because it's fascinating or vile.

Then there's thinking that moment of fiction is worth someone taking their life. That we need to argue over the merits of something that happens in fiction like it's on our own front porch. That something happening in fiction has any bearing on real life ideals.

I have been in fandom for over twenty years.

I am a card carrying elder at this point.

And this shit? This new wave of toxic mental warfare?

Fuck that shit.

All of it.

I would say that fandom in it's current form can go to hell but, it already is hell.

My friend did talk sense into me about the situation, though.

Going forward it's gonna be idgaf land:

I'm tried of censoring my opinions.

I'm tired of fandoms bullshit politics.

I'm tired of the drama.

I'm tired of being told what I should think and who I should be and what is acceptable for me to feel.

That shit? Can get fucked. I'm done with it.

Fandom is for fun.

Fandom is for screaming yourself hoarse to your friends about how much you love a character, a show, a book, a graphic novel, a band; anything and everything that makes you feel like a four year old with your brain all lit up like it's fucking Christmas morning.

It is not about being pushed into a goddamn box and being told to behave.

It's not about being shunned for having your own opinions and emotions.

It's not about being told you'll have your privileges removed if you step out of line.

A line that someone else has drawn with invisible ink.

That shit? Can also get fucked.

Say goodbye to censoring and hello to idgaf I'm here to enjoy my blorbos and be stupid. 👋👋👋

Fandom is for fun.

My Side of the Fence

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Fem!Reader (no Y/N) Word Count: 6685 Warnings: Swearing, fluff, a small touch of angst, brief mention of death, brief mention of a terminal illness, drinking. Summary: When you move in next door to help take care of your ailing aunt, you and Frankie form a budding friendship as you live out your lives on opposite sides of the fence line, that maybe could be something more. A/N: Unbeta’d. Also, any Spanish is courtesy of Google Translate, so I profusely apologize to any native speakers if something is incorrect. This series has a Spotify playlist that you can find on the Series Masterlist. Some suggested listening for this chapter would be: Forever’s Gotta Start Somewhere by Chad Brownlee, Unbreakable Heart by JJ Heller, and Shallow by Lady Gaga & Bradley Cooper.

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist

Next

It’s a quiet Saturday afternoon. The baby is down for her nap. Santiago is inside getting the two of them drinks. Will and Benny, as always, are late to arrive. It’s game day; the Marlins versus the Phillies. The countertops of his kitchen bogged down in an array of chips, dips, and other snacks. Frankie could be inside, relaxing in the coolness of the air conditioning instead of the buzzing heat of a Florida summer. But he’s not.

For the last fifteen minutes or so, he’s been sitting on a patio chair under the shade of his front porch. Watching you. As you hoist cardboard boxes from the dark green Chevy Trailblazer parked haphazardly in front of the house next door. The front passenger tire is rolled up over the curb, the guts of it stacked ceiling-high with moving boxes, baskets of laundry, and totes of random kitsch. A rickety trailer filled with mismatched bedroom furniture is hitched behind it.

He’s been watching, partly out of curiosity, while he’s been fumbling to string together the right words in his head. Words that would entice you to accept his offer of help without him coming off as some creepy old man. They taunt him, glued at the tip of his tongue, while he sits and broods over his continued silence.

“Your new neighbor is kinda cute, Fish,” Santiago comments offhandedly as he pops out of the front door, gawking over the top of the fence at you. He’s got two longneck beers fisted in one hand, the condensation dripping down the brown glass in thick beads while he stares. He diverts his attention back to Frankie, letting the screen door shut with a squeak-thunk as he strolls over. He drops into one of the wicker patio chairs beside him, holding out one of the beers.

Frankie grabs it as Santi takes a long swig from his, watching as you bound back towards your vehicle.

Santiago quirks an eyebrow and points towards the neighbor’s house with the mouth of his bottle, “What happened to the sweet lady who lived there? I liked her.”

“She’s still around,” Frankie shrugs, sipping his beer. The lady in question, Miss Robin, has lived beside him since he moved in, right after he got out of the service. A little eccentric, she’d quickly earned herself the title of his favorite neighbor. She’d cemented the sentiment further when she’d staunchly supported him after the spectacular failure of his marriage. They’ve had so many conversations he’s lost track of most of them.

She’s old school. Classic. Kooky, but fun.

He’s never seen her go a day without donning ruby red lipstick, an ornate flower crown in her hair, and cat-eye glasses attached to a chain around her neck. She and her wife, Virginia, used to throw the wackiest themed parties for their friends that carried on until the cops came out to shut them down. And every Christmas or birthday, she mails him a handwritten card, even though there’s, at best, ten yards between their houses.

Of course, the parties stopped when Ginny passed away from heart complications just before his daughter Viviana was born. The cards are shorter now, the penmanship less clear. Miss Robin’s health hasn't been doing so great lately. She used to greet him at the fence line when he’d get home from work. Give Vivi a smooch on her chubby baby cheek. A bright red lip print left behind. Matching giggles floating between them as they babbled together.

These days he’s lucky if they get a wave from the picture window out front. She’s gotten frail. Lipstick sloppy and flower crown askew from her shaky hands. She can’t go anywhere these days without a tank of oxygen. It was a shit hand she’d been dealt and he hated watching as her exuberance faded.

She didn’t have any kids of her own, but she had siblings and nieces and nephews aplenty. As her illness progressed, it was getting too hard for her to manage the dishes, laundry, yard work, and other chores by herself. He’d done what he could for her: mow the lawn, bring up her mail, haul her trash bins back and forth from the curb. It was kind, but in the long run, he knew there was no way he could manage both his side of the fence and hers. That’s why you were there.

She’d told him you were her favorite niece as he brought a bundle of bills and junk mail to her door one day. She’d ushered him and Vivi into her flower-laden backyard to explain the new face that would be arriving soon. She knew he would worry about a stranger flitting around her house every day. She’d sat with him on the back patio, sipping ice tea and soaking in the late afternoon sun. Vivi chased butterflies and bugs on her wobbly toddler legs while she told him near everything about you. By the time she was done, the pitcher of tea was empty, the sun was dipping below the horizon, and his daughter was dozing off in his lap. He’d left that day feeling like he knew you almost as well as she did.

That was part of the reason he felt like such a dick right now, watching you fumble with a too-large box as you twisted to fit it through the front door. He eyes the furniture in the trailer critically, wondering how you planned to get it inside by yourself.

“Where the hell are Ironhead and Benny?” Santi questions, checking his watch and glancing both ways down the block, “First pitch is in twenty minutes and-” he trails off when he realizes Frankie isn’t paying attention. He stares between his best friend and you, observing how Frankie’s eyes follow you with each trip you take from the car to the house.

He hums to himself thoughtfully and then chugs the rest of his beer. Smacking his lips with a satisfied “Aah,” before leaping to his feet with a clap of his hands. Frankie watches, dumbstruck, as he saunters to the fence line, leaning against the chain-link as he calls out to you, “Hey gorgeous! You need some help? I promise we don’t bite.”

You’re half-in, half-out of the backseat, reaching for a laundry basket of clean clothes when you hear him and turn his way. He’s handsome with his sharp jaw, dark wavy hair with streaks of silver, and five o’clock shadow. He’s got an almost cocky smile broad on his face while he waits for your answer.

You throw back a grin at him, “Uh, sure. Thanks!”

Aunt Robin has mentioned her neighbors to you. To give you the lay of the land, so to speak. Most were ho-hum, but there were some compelling characters mixed in. There was the nosy biddy three houses down, who eked out her old age gawking at everyone from her windows and reporting “persons of interest” to the neighborhood watch. Then there was the middle-aged couple across the street with two mischievous teenage sons. The boys like to swipe lawn ornaments and set them up in wildly inappropriate scenes across the neighborhood. Lastly, and Aunt Robin’s most-loved neighbor, was the divorced father who lived just next door. He always looked out for her, his daughter was sweet, and she found his friends to be such interesting young men.

You’ve heard a lot about him, actually. More so than any of the others. If this is him, though, he’s different from how you pictured. Cheekier and less reserved than what had been described to you.

“Catfish!” Santiago turns to shout at Frankie, “Let’s help the lady out!”

Leave it to Santi to throw around his swagger and resolve the issue he’d been mulling over for too long.

Unlike his friend, Frankie abandons the barely drank beer in his hands on the deck of the porch. Broad hands swiping the silent baby monitor from the railing beside him as he shuffles down the steps. He’s still clipping it to a belt loop as Santiago is rounding the fence, swinging around the end post into the next yard.

“Pendejo,” Frankie mutters, lifting his well-worn hat off his head to card through his hair, and replacing it before he follows after. He loiters a few paces behind Santi, as you hand his friend one of the boxes from the backseat of the SUV.

He shifts it so he can hold it one-handed, flashing a charming smile as he extends a palm out to you in introduction, “Santiago Garcia.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say, offering him your name in return and then glancing over his shoulder. The man behind Santiago is handsome too. He’s a bit taller and more broad than his friend, with coffee-brown hair that winds up around the edges of his ball cap in soft-looking curlicues. You can see a thin silver-white scar just under his left eye that stands out against his tanned skin. He’s got rugged salt and pepper scruff and a matching mustache that twitches along with his upper lip as his eyes meet yours. They are a warm, rich brown and they roam over you, examining your features the same way you did his. Between the two, you think he’s the more attractive one.

Santi follows your line of sight to Frankie, a little amused at being so utterly forgotten, “Fish, stop lurking back there and say hi.”

With that, he readjusts the box in his arms and heads towards the front door, not even asking where that particular parcel belongs. Frankie takes a reluctant step forward, scratching nervously at the nape of his neck. You’re damn pretty. He already knew that, sort of. Miss Robin had shared a few old photos with him, but boy, were they poor comparison to the real thing before him now. It sure as fuck made him more jittery as he reached to shake your hand, too.

You notice how your whole hand is engulfed by his palm and the curves of his fingers. Rough and work calloused, his hand seems a perfect match to the man before you. Beat-up ball cap, red t-shirt stretched out at the neckline from wear and washed out jeans. He has all the appearance of a hardworking, easy-going man. And you like that.

“So...Fish, was it?” you question, raising your eyebrows in unison when he remains silent.

It’s mostly because he can’t stop thinking about how beautiful you are.

“It’s Francisco,” he replies, clearing his throat and finally speaking, “or, uh, Frankie. Morales,” then he points to the house behind him with a jerk of his thumb, hoping you don’t notice the weeds in the flowerbeds or the porch rails with their chipping paint, “I live next door.”

As if that wasn’t fucking obvious. He mentally groans at his own stupidity, but you don’t notice as you hit him with a million-watt smile that shoots right to his heart.

“So, you’re the neighbor!” you say excitedly, pulling him into an unexpected hug that leaves him reeling as you continue, “Aunt Robin told me about how wonderful you’ve been to her since she got sick. You have no idea how worried we’ve all been about her being in the house by herself.”

“U-uh,” Frankie stumbles for a reply before one catches on his tongue, “I-It’s no problem. Neighbors are supposed to look out for each other.”

“Well, I really appreciate it,” you beam, pulling back to look him earnestly in the face, “Not enough people feel that way these days.”

Admittedly, he probably has an outdated view of urban Americana and maybe it might be suitable if he lived anywhere else. The neighborhood he lives in isn’t the greatest. Thirty or so years ago it was the ideal with its cookie-cutter houses and tree-lined streets. Nowadays too many families have been pulling out of the city for suburbia and the country. The houses ended up sitting vacant or converted to rentals, leased to sketchy college students looking for cheap rent off-campus. The ones that stayed behind were either too attached to their homes, like Miss Robin, or couldn’t afford to move, like him.

He offers you a lopsided grin that pulls a dimple into his right cheek as he motions to the back of your vehicle, “What should I grab?”

“Anything is fine,” you say, sweeping up the basket of clothes you had set down when Santiago had called out to you. Frankie pops open the tailgate to grab one of the larger boxes stacked back there and follows after you up the front walk.

The house is a quaint single-story two-bedroom affair, the outside a muted pastel blue with white trim and a dark gray roof. The age of its owner is more evident inside, with retro scalloped wallpaper, wood paneling, worn shag carpeting, and faded linoleum. A bright mix of tangerine, canary yellow, and walnut that would have been in vogue when the home was purchased.

Your aunt is seated in a plush velvet lounge chair across the room. Santiago kneels beside her, leaning on the armrest as she pats his cheek affectionately. He whispers something to her that makes her eyes go wide before she bursts into laughter. You give them both a wave as you and Frankie pass through the living room and take a left into a short hallway.

The first door on the right is ajar, the room lit by an outdated ceiling fan that swirls lazily overhead. You step inside, wiggle an elbow towards a pile of boxes in the far corner, and tell him, “Over there is fine,” as you plunk the basket in your arms into the bottom of the closet on the other side of the room. He stacks his armload with the others before the two of you retreat back through the house.

“Francisco,” Miss Robin coos at him as he passes, waving him over with her hands, “You come over here and give me a hug real quick.”

You linger at the doorway, watching as he crosses the room without hesitation, wrapping her petite frame in the broadness of his own. He’s careful of the tubing and nosepiece for her oxygen as he embraces her and you can’t help the grin that spreads ear-to-ear as you brush past Santiago as he’s heading in with another load.

“How’s our Vivi?” she asks Frankie in a soft voice as he pulls away again, “I miss her sweet face.”

He tells her all about how big his daughter is getting. Tall for her age. Her features seem less baby-like every day he picks her up from daycare. Growing into a miniature version of him, as his friends would tell it. Then there are the new words and colors and songs she’s learned.

Aunt Robin smiles softly, watching as his eyes flick up to look at you each time you cross the room with another load.

“The two of you will have to come have dinner with us sometime,” She pats the back of his hand excitedly, “My girl is a good cook. She’ll take care of us,” and then a sly grin pulls at her lips, “I hope you’ll look out for her like you have for me.”

“Of course I will,” he promises, pecking her on the cheek as he stands again, “I should get back to helping before Pope accuses me of slacking.”

With three of you put to the task, it’s quick work emptying out the back of the Trailblazer. A few small totes and a crate of bathroom essentials are all that remain, which are easy enough for you to get later. Frankie and Santiago make the decision to start hauling in the bedroom furniture next, unloading your dresser from the back of the trailer as a souped-up truck rolls into Frankie’s driveway.

All three of you shoot looks over the fence as Will and Benny hop out of the cab. They’re bickering about something as the doors slam behind them. As you watch them you wonder if your new neighbor and his friends have cornered the market on good looks.

“Pope! Fish!” the younger of the two shouts, holding up a six-pack of fruity beer, “What are you boys doing?!” before he motions dramatically towards Frankie’s house, “The game’s already started.”

“More of your friends?” you question Frankie, as he and Santi gently set down the dresser on the walkway. The older one has already jogged over to where the three of you are standing, relieving you of the empty dresser drawer you were carrying.

“Will Miller,” Frankie introduces you to the man in front of you, “and that’s his brother Benny.”

Benny is still standing in his driveway, passing belligerent looks between all of you before his brother barks, “Get over here and help Benjamin!” and he heaves an annoyed sigh before setting his beer on the truck’s hood and hustling over.

You are a little taken aback by all of the unexpected help, as the four of them manage to unload your entire bedroom setup into the spare room in no time flat. Aunt Robin is thrilled over all of the extra visitors, who all greet her with kindness and familiarity. You glance at Frankie, who is laughing as your aunt pinches Benny's cheeks, and are overwhelmingly grateful for the fact that he has clearly done more than just check-in on her every so often.

You’re walking the four of them back to the fence line when a navy blue Kia slips into the driveway behind you, your best friend behind the wheel.

“Turns out I didn’t need you after all Liv!” you crow as she exits the vehicle, taking an appreciative look at your newfound company before nearly being barrelled over by your large Goldendoodle as he charges towards you in excitement.

She lets out an exasperated noise as he trots away, “I’d have been here an hour ago if your furry friend here would have gotten his ass into the damn car when I told him to.”

“My Gatsby?” you fuss, leaning over to scritch him as he prances circles around you before he skirts past you to investigate your neighbor and his friends with inquisitive snuffles at their legs, “Sounds about right for you, you hairy monstrosity.”

Liv takes a few moments to get through some introductions while you try to wrangle in your canine companion.

Gatsby decides that out of the four of them, Frankie is the most interesting subject. His two large paws scrambling up onto his chest, so he can sniff at Frankie’s scruff and slobber at his chin. You tug at his collar with an authoritative, “Get down!” but your neighbor takes it all in an easy stride, rubbing Gatsby down with both hands.

“I probably smell like my dog,” Frankie says aloud, talking to your dog and not you, “Little shit is going to be jealous if he finds out I’ve been petting you.”

As if on cue, a brown and black foxhound pops up into one of the front windows next door, a boisterous yowl sounding through the baby monitor at Frankie’s hip. You hear him groan moments before a shrill cry of “Papa!” carries over the sound of the dog. He nudges Gatsby back down onto all fours and waits for you to get a hold of him before he locks eyes with you, “That’s my baby girl. I gotta go.”

“No, of course,” you tell him, “Thank you so much for the help. I owe you.”

“It’s no trouble,” he smiles at you one last time, before retreating with his friends towards the house.

There are dishes in the sink that need washing. Laundry in the dryer, growing wrinkled and cold. The counters need to be wiped down and the floors swept. But you are in the backyard instead, enticed by the beauty of the day. It’s temperate and bright, dappled sunlight glimmering through the leaves of the maples, oaks, and cypress that spackle the neighborhood. The air is rich with the heady sweet florals of Aunt Robin’s garden and the resonating sounds of joy that drift over the fence.

Frankie’s back deck has been invaded by his friends. They take turns cracking jokes, choosing songs from a classic rock playlist, and rolling in the grass with his beautiful daughter. It’s heartwarming, watching these burly grown men love on that tiny, sweet girl. Which is part of the reason that you’re out here, planting blush pink chrysanthemums in the already overcrowded beds and letting the housework wait. You’ve been drawn in by your neighbor and his friends from the moment that you met them.

You’ve gleaned a lot, observing them from the quiet corners of your yard. Sometimes getting details straight from Frankie. Or through sly comments made by your aunt, who delivers them in breathy whispers against your ear when she catches your lingering looks when they turn up next door.

There’s straight-laced Will, with his clean-cut, all-American appeal. He’s tall and laid-back, with a no-nonsense take on life. Steady and cool no matter what chaos breaks out. His brother, Benny, is cut from a similar cloth, though his personality skews into goofiness. You get the idea he likes to be the loudest person in the room, dropping wise-ass remarks or instigating tickle wars with Vivi until she’s red-faced and lost in a giggling fit. Santiago, well, you could tell from the get-go that he fancies himself as some suave casanova. Full of honeyed words and cheeky grins, strutting around like a peacock looking to mate. He likes to crow to you over the fence, dropping saucy flirtations that always fail to bait you. Then there’s Frankie. He’s warm, smart, and uncommonly kind with a quiet, soft-spoken charm. In the last few months, he and Viviana have managed to stitch themselves into your life as if sewn in by an expert seamstress. It’s a delightfully unexpected symbiosis.

It started small. He’d bring up the bins on trash day if you got home late. Casually remind you as he leaned on the fencepost that you should park in the driveway at night not the street, otherwise the cops will ticket you. You would sneak Alamo, his hound dog, treats threaded between the gaps in the chain-link. Sit out on the back patio with your Bluetooth speaker blasting Disney songs, so you and Vivi could serenade each other while she blew bubbles or splashed in her kiddie pool.

It grew, with him offering to continue to mow the lawn when Aunt Robin’s ancient contraption refused to start. In exchange, you took his daughter on adventures to the neighborhood park where she would burn off most of her excess energy. Afterward, he’d sit at the back patio with you, downing an icy beer while you and Vivi sipped pink lemonade, watching the dogs sprint through their respective yards. You once spent an afternoon clearing his flower beds of weeds and coaxing his dying coreopsis and zinnias back to life. Carefully pruning and watering them over weeks until they bloomed in bursts of gold and garnet and magenta. He canceled a night out with the boys to sort out your washer when the drum refused to spin and it puddled water down the hallway. Sending you next door to use his, watching cartoons with Viviana while the clothes went through the wash.

It evolved into Monday movie nights at his. Some PG thing playing on the flat screen while his daughter wedged herself between the two of you. Gorging on popcorn and pretzels and soda. Then Wednesday night dinners at yours. You’d cook, he’d set the table. Vivi would read stories with Aunt Robin while you both cleaned up. She’d fall asleep on Gatsby's wispy haunches while Frankie waltzed with your aunt in the living room as Eric Clapton and Barry White played on her old 45s. You’d snap pictures of it all with a vintage polaroid camera you found gathering dust in the back of a closet. You’d walk them to the fence, twisting Vivi’s curls around your finger while you kissed her sleepy head goodbye.

There was hardly a day that went by that you didn’t spend at least a few minutes in each other's company. Conversation between the two of you seemed easy, passed back and forth as you went about the routine of your days. It wasn’t hard to see why Aunt Robin was so fond of him. He was the best sort of neighbor to have and an ideal kind of man: respectful, honest, and hardworking. An EMS helicopter pilot for one of the local hospitals, who talked proudly about his job without being arrogant. A devoted father and friend. It was no great wonder that you were hiding a hopeless crush on him.

For all the time the two of you spent together, it felt like there was still a barrier between you, like the fence that separated your yards. Something unbreachable that kept you firmly apart from the realm that encompassed him and his friends. It was likely that Frankie was just doing the neighborly thing, looking out for you as he had your aunt and nothing more. Which only made you feel ridiculous when you imagined being invited into their inner circle. Instead, you would simply pretend you belonged as you eavesdropped on his life from here.

Across the fence, Alamo has been making a pest of himself, stealing snacks from Vivi’s tiny fingers and begging for handouts from the grill. Santi shoos him away with a stern, “¡Vete!” and a clack of the tongs in his hands until the dog retreats. He makes another round of the deck, nearly tripping Joanna, Benny’s fiancé, as he nudges against the back of her knees seeking to be pet. Then trying to scramble into Laura’s lap as she drops to sit beside her husband, until Will pushes the pooch down and playful swats at his hindquarters as he sulks away.

Thoroughly deflected by everyone in the nearby vicinity he skitters down from the deck and trots to the fence line. He plants himself inches from it, yowling dejectedly in your direction until you turn to acknowledge him.

“What’s the matter, pup?” you coo, setting aside your trowel and packing soil around the roots of your freshly planted chrysanthemums. You spread out a new layer of mulch around the stems before giving him a sympathetic look, “Are you being ignored?”

Frankie spots you as he’s returning from the kitchen, a Capri Sun in hand to soothe away his daughter’s tears since his furry troublemaker had gobbled up the last of her goldfish crackers. He watches you toss aside your gardening gloves and scoot up to the chain link to dote on the offending beast, sliding the patio door shut behind him. You beam him a radiant, pearly smile as his gaze lingers and catches your notice as he crosses the deck towards Viviana. You only break it when Alamo summons your attention back to him with a throaty whinge.

Still, he can’t look away as he passes the drink pouch to his daughter’s waiting hands, dropping into a deck chair. You let out a laugh as the dog licks at your fingers through the gaps in the fence. It’s a bright, tinkling sound that makes a tightness pull in his chest. To say that he’s infatuated by you is an understatement. You’ve engraved yourself into his quiet life. Though you may have come along to care for your ailing aunt, he’s found himself and his daughter often the equal recipients of your adoration and kindness.

There’s always a small part of him that feels unworthy of it. Despite regular visits with his therapist, he struggles to accept that he deserves the life he has, with his beautiful daughter, his strong friendship with the boys, and this newfound connection to you. He’s haunted by the demons of his past and a gnawing sense of inadequacy. Still, he tries to remind himself to be grateful. Especially where Vivi is concerned; his baby girl thriving with how you devote your free hours to her. It’s a tempered joy that makes his heart ache when he realizes how much she’s needed more than just his presence in her life.

He thinks about the way you teach her the names of the flowers in his yard, leading her slowly around the perimeter as her tiny hands brush across petals and fern fronds while she repeats them back in her soft toddler stammer. Or how you sit on the front porch with him in the cool hours of early morning as he takes groggy sips of black coffee. Pulling Vivi’s hair up into fancy ponytails, french braids, and poofy buns before he carts her off to daycare, while he listens half-awake to your instructions on how it’s done. You’ve even taken up your aunt’s place at the fence, waiting for them to get home in the evenings so you can smooch her cheek and tell them both goodnight.

It feels so perfect and natural at times that he’s constantly looking for more ways to be near you. To take a stroll around the block with him at sunset, take a day with him and Vivi at the beach, or to have you join in when the boys and their ladies come for a weekend barbecue. But just like the day you moved in, he’s hopelessly tongue-tied and unable to parse out the words, worried it will come out wrong or that his feelings will be on full display when he’d rather keep them close to the chest for now. His divorce has left him with a residual vulnerability that’s made him averse to emotional displays for fear of censure.

“Okay, I’ve got to get back to it, buddy,” you tell Alamo as you rise to your feet, wiping his slobber onto your jeans. He pouts and begins to pace in front of you, stopping to gaze expectantly at your back door and make small whimpers. You know he’s looking for Gatsby to keep him entertained, now that you have to leave him. The two of them like to run each other ragged, sprinting up and down the fence line together with reckless abandon for hours.

Normally your canine would already be out here with you, but he has a penchant for rolling in freshly tilled dirt, so you’ve kept him inside under Aunt Robin’s supervision while you did your planting. The hound dog seems disgruntled by this fact, continuing to pace and making a series of upset sounds at you. You murmur a “Sorry pup,” as you gather up your tools and move on to another section of the garden where you’d spotted some weeds poking up through the mocha brown mulch. He’ll just have to get over his disappointment.

You turn your back, plucking at the offending weeds as his pouting cries go quiet. You assume he’s gone back to being a nuisance to the people in his own yard until a loud bark shatters the quiet hum of insects and softly spoken chatter from Frankie’s deck. A cacophony of voices rise in alarm as you swivel back just in time to see Alamo take a flying leap over the chain link, paws nearly grazing the top as he crests to the other side. His body makes a soft whump as he lands in the grass.

“Jesus!” you shout at the sight of it before the dog is bearing down on you, his wet nose snuffling at your ankles as you try to grab a hold of him. He skirts from your grasp, backing away a few feet before leaning into a bow, rump raised playfully in the air as his tail swishes furiously behind him. You crouch and try to summon him to you, “What’s gotten into you, hm?”

Frankie stares, dumbfounded, for only a moment before he’s jogging in your direction to help. When the dog refuses to come to you, you step towards him instead, but he bolts at your approach. Meanwhile, your neighbor scrambles over the fence and into your yard much less gracefully than his pet. His brows furrow in irritation as he tries to sneak up on him, but the dog turns at the last second, spotting him and darting away as Frankie curses, “Alamo! ¡Maldito perro! Get your ass over here!”

The hound likes this game of cat and mouse since it means the both of you are now giving him your full attention as you pursue him through the grass. Baiting you in by letting you get mere inches from him before he zips off at the last second.

“Mo!” you holler and he turns his head back at the use of his nickname but doesn’t slow down as you continue to follow him, “This is my side of the fence, not yours. Get over here!”

He’s unfettered by your statement, slipping through Frankie’s fingers as he loops back around the yard, stopping briefly to jump on your back door and paw at the glass. The excitement of it all has drawn Frankie’s company from the deck for a closer look and your aunt to the door to watch it unfold. You see Gatsby from the corner of your eye, fogging up the glass as his snotty nose presses against it. You can hear him whine, displeased that you’re out there having fun without him.

“Honey?” Aunt Robin asks through the screen of the door, “Everything okay?”

“It’s fine, Auntie,” you reply with a breathless huff, side-eying Frankie as he dives unsuccessfully towards his dog again, “Alamo just...came for a visit.”

He moves beside you, leaning onto his knees to recover from the chase, as Alamo pauses several feet from the two of you, grumbling an apology, “Sorry about this.”

“Not your fault he’s a pain in the ass,” you smirk, trying to form some kind of game plan to lure him in, “We could try to bribe him?”

Frankie gives you a nod as you quick-step towards the house. You keep treats on a shelf just inside the door as a reward for Gatsby when he does his business and doesn’t destroy any of Aunt Robin’s flowers. The pup in question is still watching you through the glass, alone now that your aunt has confirmed nothing is amiss, and returned to the other room.

“Back up Gats,” you warn, cracking the door open just enough to reach into the box without giving the Goldendoodle space to escape. Alamo hasn’t missed out on this though, yapping at him in an effort to incite his friend to join him in terrorizing you and Frankie. Which successfully spurs Gatsby on. He wedges himself against your legs, pushing with his full weight until you are stumbling back and he is barging out the door. You let out a sigh as you walk back to Frankie’s side, “And now there’s two.”

The both of them are running laps through your yard, letting out barks and yips and playful growls as they zip by at breakneck speed. Frankie takes a lunge towards Alamo as he passes by, but his reflexes aren’t a match for the canine. The hound easily avoids him at the last second, but Gatsby doesn’t pick up on his friend’s detour soon enough to do the same, trying to zip between Frankie’s slightly splayed legs and knocking him off balance. He throws his arms out for stability and you instinctively reach for him, but it only ends up in throwing him further off-kilter as his weight pulls you both down.

Frankie lets out an aggravated groan as his back slams into the ground, having tried to twist in a way that his body ends up as a buffer between you and the dirt. He takes the brunt of the fall, as you end up half across his chest, your head knocking hard into his chin. He tilts his head to look you over as you sit up, rubbing softly at the crown of your skull, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod, brushing your hair out of your face. He watches as it cascades over your shoulder, dogs forgotten, as he’s struck by the thought of how easy it might be from this position to curl his fingers in the strands at the nape of your neck and pull you down to kiss him. Curious about what your skin might taste like if he were to pepper kisses down your jaw and lave at the pulse point of your neck.

His eyes bore into yours, rich orbs of hickory blazed with amber flecks as the sun catches in the iris. He smells of spicy cologne, charcoal smoke, and sweat. You give him the softest smile as you glimpse briefly at his lips and wonder if they’re as warm and soft as they look. Then up to his mop of curls that have come loose from underneath his cap in the fall. You briefly consider trying to twist them into ringlets like you’ve done with his daughter's hair, just as someone nearby clears their throat loudly. You both look up to see Benny leaning on one of the fence posts, a cheesy grin scrawled across his face.

“Fish!” He prods at his friend, “If you wanted to sweep her off of her feet, there are better ways to do it.”

“Fuck you, Benjamin,” Frankie spits as he flips him the bird, rolling onto his side before standing, his back and knees complaining at the effort. His other friends, at least, had the decency to keep their teasing comments to themselves. He leans down and offers you a hand up before scooping his hat off the ground and replacing it on his head. The dogs are still completely caught up in their game, tearing playfully through your backyard. He doesn’t want to impose on you, but after that last disastrous attempt, he doesn’t want to try and wrangle Alamo again until the furry beast has gotten this burst of energy out of his system. He pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance as he glances back to you, “Can he just, I dunno, stay over here until he gets bored? I’m too old to be chasing him all over hell and back. I’ll come back for him after he wears himself out.”

“I don’t think Aunt Robin will mind,” you agree with a small shrug of your shoulder, just as resigned to let them entertain themselves as he is. You’ll just have to go back to weeding the garden and gazing longingly into his yard. You try not to let your disappointment read on your face, plastering on a teasing smile as you motion towards the fence, “Are you planning on hopping back over that way, or do you want to go the long way this time?”

“I’ll go around please,” Frankie chuckles quietly, “My back can’t take any more abuse.”

Leaving the dogs to their own devices, you walk side-by-side with him towards the back door. You lead him through the house and out the front, a silent wave to your aunt as the two of you pass by. Just out of the front door he turns to you suddenly. He stumbles on the words for a moment, pink tongue peeking out between his lips before he speaks, “Listen, do you, maybe, want to come over for a bit? I at least owe you a drink for putting up with my menace of a dog. I promise the company isn’t terrible either. Benny’s a pain but the rest of them are decent enough.”

You beam him one of your million-watt smiles at the offer, “I’d love that! Let me just pop back in to let my aunt know.”

His eyes follow you as you disappear back inside, heart fit to burst. He’s not sure what this is between the two of you or where it might go, but this seems as good a first step as any.

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Next

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EVERYTHING TAGLIST: @green-socks @dihra-vesa @patternedlantern @writeforfandoms @ezrasbirdie @salome-c @kirsteng42

FRANKIE TAGLIST: @thegreenkid

MSOTF TAGLIST: @javierpinme @frankie-catfish-morales

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Oof okay this is just me being a tad frustrated overall but:

I'm... pretty fed up with the situation on tumblr right now, not gonna lie. Yes this is about fics, and yes I do have the right to complain about it.

Because yes, I write for myself. That's absolutely true.

But I write everything what's happening in my head down for you, and writing takes a LOT of work. I would not be staying up late at night, typing sentences away on my phone or on my laptop if it wasn't for readers.

I would not be trying to make pretty sentences and come up with metaphors and check over grammar again and again and again if not for you.

I would not be editing my fics so much I almost cannot stand to look at them anymore to the point I question the quality of my writing if not for you.

Don't tell me stuff like "yes but we are reading it! There is no reason we should be forced to leave feedback" because that's not what I'm asking of you. That's absolutely NOT what I'm asking of you. I don't want to force you to do anything and in the end I cannot at all because I'm just a simple blog in my corner of the internet but it all boils down to this:

Give your writers exposure.

We work harder than you readers would ever know to get those stories you love out and it's so freaking hard to get it on paper. It takes so much energy and yes it also takes energy to comment, I understand.

But I assure you, taking the time to write a 20 word long comment is WAY less energy than the writer did to get 9000 words out with cohesive plot and creative writing.

So please, reblog. Reblog the fics you read. We writers depend on you.

first person fic: I-

me: I did nothing. you are not me. fuck you.

second person fic: 

YOU

me: oh shit maybe i did do that