@ Porn Blogs Who Keep Following Me

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.

-----

Next

-----

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

FRANKIE TAGLIST: @thegreenkid

MSOTF TAGLIST: @javierpinme @frankie-catfish-morales

If you want to be tagged in future chapters, send me an ask or if you're interested in getting onto the list for everything/specific characters, fill out my taglist form.

Hi,

It’s your friendly neighbor fanfic author here. In the light of this apparent new trend of people feeding unfinished fics to AI to get an “ending,” and some people even talking about “blanket permissions,” let me just say this:

I EXPLICITLY FORBID ANYONE TO FEED MY FICS TO AI. DUDE, THAT IS ABOUT THE LEAST RESPECTFUL THING YOU CAN DO. IF YOU DO IT, SHALL YOU BE EXCOMMUNICATED FROM YOUR FANDOM AND WALK ON LEGOS BAREFOOT TILL THE END OF DAYS.

That is my anti-permission.

Thank you for your attention.

the long way around - epilogue

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader Rating: M Word count: 2,930 Notes: We’ve finally made it to the epilogue! I’ve loved the feedback on this fic and I want to thank everyone who’s left a comment on it. I hope you love this concluding part as much as I do! The immersive Van Gogh exhibit is a real exhibit that I highly recommend going to, it’s beautiful. Reblogs appreciated! Warnings: Non-descriptive sexual content, swearing, food mention, feelings 

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Please sign and share this petition, please, please for this unarmed man who was shot at 95 times by POLICE OFFICERS.

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Justice for Jamarion Robinson

A Work of Art

Pairing: The Mandalorian/ Din Djarin x Reader

Warnings: None

A/N: @mandowhorian posted a prompt that came across my dash and goddamn it, I had to write it.  Why does my brain do this to me when I got another fic to finish?  

Also @amarvelousmandalorian wrote a ditty that gave me the jump I needed.  Won’t ever be as good as some people’s but whatever, I had to get it out on paper, so to speak.

Reminder:  I ain’t ever seen Pedro Pascal in FUCK ALL, I’m just coming up with this as I go along, using imdb.com, wiki, and 84,000 tabs I got open to plan out this shit.  I also write soft versions of his characters so if you’re craving asshole vibes, I ain’t got any but my own to offer.

Tags:  @zeldasayer , @romanticgumchewer, @beskars​ , @coolmaybelateruniverse , @the-feckless-wonder, @lavenderl3mons , @pascalisthepunkest , @mandoandyodito​ , @randomness501 , @fioccodineveautunnale  

—***—

When she heard footsteps coming up the walkway, she rose from her chair to open the door.  She had just finished setting the table up for a meal, wondering if the man coming to her was going to enjoy her baked goods.  At least the house smelled of warm sugar rather than the bitterness of oil paint that usually permeated the space.

“Mandalorian!”  She called, waving at him with a large smile on her face.  She made a small note that his arms were empty of the little green being he had taken under his wing.  “I didn’t think you’d reach me by sundown, the rains have made the forest roads a little treacherous.  Come in, the tea is almost ready!”

He stopped in his tracks, confusion radiating off him and she laughed. She was his bounty and she was inviting him in for tea?  As he began to walk again, his steps were less certain as if he expected her to ambush him.  He kept his hand near his blaster and continued up the stone pathway.  

When he entered, the room seemed to shrink to half its size and for a moment, the Mandalorian felt awkward and unsure.  He mentally berated himself for letting these odd thoughts invade his mind.  She was the damn bounty and who cares if he was practically a bull in a china shop in her home?  She was coming with him and it wouldn’t be hers for much longer.

“Where is the little one?  I hope you haven’t left him on the ship unattended.  I thought you’d have learned not to do that.  No matter, we can make up a basket for you to take back.  I’m sure you hardly have anything homemade in your storehouse.”  She busied herself preparing plates of food and motioned for him to sit as she poured tea into heavy cups made of local wood.  He didn’t move, completely unnerved by her comments.  In the blink of an eye, he drew his blaster and pointed it at her.  She merely smiled and his irritation grew.

“How do you know about the kid?”  He growled at her, the hairs on his neck standing on end.  What the hell was going on?  Nothing about this seemed right to him.

“Exactly how I know about you, Din.  And why you’re here.  Please sit. I know you won’t eat with me around, but we can at least chat a bit.”  When he didn’t move, she looked at him pointedly.  “You sat on this job for four days even though you knew it could be done in twenty minutes.  Sit down.”

She had him there.  He sat down with a large thump and she worried he would break the wooden chair, sending himself sprawling into the stone wall behind him.  She giggled a bit at the image, wondering if he’d knock himself senseless in that helmet of his.  He pointed the blaster at her again.

“Talk, bounty.”

“I am Force sensitive, much like your little one and I know the Empire wishes to use us to regain power in the galaxy.  That’s why you were sent after us.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t tell me how you know me or my name.”  He still sounded hard, but he wasn’t growling at he any longer.  Only a select few knew his name and no one since Mandalore had fallen had spoken it directly to him until Moff Gideon said it on Nevarro.  And now this woman was speaking his name as sure as if they had been paired all their lives.

“I’ve always known you.”  Behind the mask, Din’s jaw dropped and his hold on the blaster wobbled a bit.

“How?”

“The Force.  Come with me.”  When she rose, she skirted the table and laid a hand on his shoulder.  Even through the layers of cloth and beskar, he could feel her warmth.  He angled his helmet to look at her before standing up.  He towered over her, his suit of armor crowding her out.  She turned and walked through a small door and motioned for him to come in.

When entered he stopped and in his state of shock, the blaster fell from his hand.  He was surrounded by… himself.  The walls covered in images of his face in different mediums – oil, chalk, crayon, pastels, acrylics, ink, and even embroidery.  No two pictures were the same and he slowly began to walk around the studio, taking it all in.  

He saw his face as a child before it went under the helmet and there in a pencil drawing was his face after a night out with Ran’s crew.  He looked up and saw a small portrait of himself holding the kid with the mudhorn insignia behind them.  All around him his face – his history – was charted on these walls.  Goosebumps broke out on his skin as he turned, seeking answers.

“When was I was ten, the Force began to grant me visions and sight.  By the time I was fourteen, I saw your face for the first time.  I was so in tune with your essence that I begun to draw you, to try and figure out who you were to me.”

“What did you discover?”

“You’re my soulmate.”

“Your what?!”  He barked out a laugh, utterly shocked at her words.  Soulmate?  People really believed that tripe?  He shook his head.

“How else to do you explain any of this?”  He shrugged until she pointed to a picture on the mantle.  He walked over and his breath hitched in his throat.  It was his face on Nevarro, right before he nearly died.  It was a harsh painting, dark with heavy blots of paint.  The image was almost grainy, and he could feel pain radiating from it, but he wasn’t entirely sure if it were his or hers.  He shuttered as he turned away.

“I watched you nearly die, Din.  I felt it in my very core as your life force leaked from you and a part of me was taken with it.”  She walked up to him and raised her hand. She tapped the back of his helmet, right over where the scar was.  “Here. Right here is where my life nearly ended had it not been for a droid.”

There was no way for her to have known what transpired on Nevarro nor where his scar was. And yet, she did and when she touched his helmet, it was as if there was no metal between them.  He could almost feel her soft fingertips along his skin.

“I do not know why the Force thought a Mandalorian would be good for me. But it did.  And I have been haunted for years as you were reckless with Ran.  I watched with pride as you became the most feared bounty hunter in the galaxy.  My heart clenched when you showed what a good man you are Din Djarin when you went back for that little one and saved his life. And I know you have thought about me.”

“What?  I’ve never seen you before in my life and certainly I haven’t felt anything like you’re describing.”  His goosebumps were turning to shivers that he tried to ignore – little fissures of truth coming out of the darkness to shame him.  This was too weird, and he shook his head as if to clear everything.  A simple bounty, that was all this was supposed to be.

“Give me your hand.”  She looked at him and he looked down at her.  When he didn’t move, she asked again.  This time he complied and held it out to her.  She looked at him while removing his glove, exposing his calloused hand to her. She laid her own soft hand on his and closed her eyes.  Din stood rock still as he could feel her in his mind, in his soul.  Her voice sounded in his brain.

“Din.  Remember.” His eyes closed and suddenly a rush of memories came to him.  Gut-wrenching tears as he laid dying.  A smile that rang with laughter that he heard on the wind after receiving his sigil.  A horrified gasp as he shot IG-11.  A small caress filled with warmth as he laid in the Razor Crest while tracking a bounty on Hoth.  A voice telling him to go the other way as he got lost in the jungles of Byss.  A pair of eyes staring at him with love as he renounced Ran’s crew and left.  Even further back to days on Mandalore when a girl made eyes at him that he didn’t return because the specter of a face in his mind told him to wait for her.

He gasped loudly as these broken images formed together into her. His bounty.  She had always been there and yet she hadn’t.  He opened his eyes to watch her staring at him with a calm look on her face.  Those eyes, her voice, that face.  He knew something about her bounty puck photo seemed familiar to him and yet he couldn’t ever place it.  Now he knew why.

“How is it that you see me fully, but I couldn’t see you?”  His voice was quiet, and he curled his hand around hers.  Her smiled returned.

“You’re not Force sensitive to tune into the connection.  But it was there for you, and it showed itself when it could or when your guard was down enough for you to feel.”  She stopped smiling, brows knitting in concern.  “Are you going to turn me in?”

“Hell no.”  She let out a laugh.

“So, you’re just going to go around collecting Force-sensitive beings and protect us all from the Empire, then?”  He stood there and dropped his head back, groaning.  Oh Maker, he was in it now.

“Yeah, sounds like it.”  He pulled his head forward to look at her.  “I don’t know what this is between us, but I need more answers.”

“It’s a lot information, though, Din.  It’ll take some time.”

“Come with me.  We’ll make the time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”  He knew that despite the helmet that she could see his grin.  He knew because her smile looked just like his.

and if you turn to ur left you’ll see the emos

Urgent Care

A/N: Okay, so I wrote this loosely based on this post that @imagine-assembling-the-avengers reblogged a little over a month ago because I couldn’t help myself. I think it may have gotten a little out of hand, but I’m p happy with the way it’s turned out! I just hope you guys feel the same way lmao

Pairing: AvengersxReader

Word Count: 5185

Warnings: Slight angst?

“Margaret Carter?”

“Yes?” The woman lying on the hospital bed manages to rasp out. Her breathing is labored and she’s fighting to keep her eyes open. “Who…” She trails off, trying to catch her breath. “Who are you?”

“You don’t know me, but I know how to help you.”

She lets out a hoarse laugh. “How could you help me? I’m dying, dear. There’s nothing to be done.”

“There’s always something to be done.” I shake my head and step towards her. “I have… well, I have powers. I can restore you to the way you were in the forties; young, spry and healthy.”

“How is it that you have these powers?” She asks, wary of the newly presented information.

“I’m an Inhuman, Ms. Carter. When Terrigen mists were released in my city, I was lucky enough to have the necessary alien genes to form a chrysalis and develop powers. Now,” I place my hands on my hips. “Do you want my help or not?”

“Why do you want to help me?”

“Because your idiot godson and too-pretty-for-his-own-good ex are about to do something so stupid that it’ll destroy the balance between supers and civilians as we know it.”

Her eyes widen. “And how do you happen to know this?”

“Not illegally, I can promise you that. I just happen to have Inhuman informants on the inside.”

“Alright… but how do you expect to explain my sudden, miraculous transformation to the hospital staff?”

“Oh, the hospital won’t know. They’ll think you’ve died.”

“And how do you expect to pull that off?”

“Tetrodotoxin B, Ms. Carter. It slows the heart rate to one beat per minute. Dr. Banner is quite brilliant, regardless of whether or not his inventions work the way he intended them.”

“So, I’ll be dead, will I?”

“Legally, yes.”

“And when I wake, I’ll be young again. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

She’s silent for a moment, staring at something directly in front of her. She purses her lips and turns back to me “Do it.”

“Cool,” I smirk and produce a syringe of the tetrodotoxin b and take a step closer to the woman on the bed. “I suggest you get comfortable. You’re gonna be out for a while.”

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POST PLUS IS COMING, WHETHER YOU WANT IT OR NOT!

Despite the fancy survey, changes to the UI and TOS reveal we’re getting the service in the future whether we want it or not. Obviously, Post+ is a terrible idea that is trying to bank revenue on user content. Unlike patreon or onlyfans, tumblr’s primary focus is on FAN content. The legality of this is NOT in the users favor and as the new tumblr TOS states, said users will be entirely liable for whatever legal matters arise.

SO WHAT ARE WE DOING?

Besides filling out the survey, it’s time to show tumblr we mean business and show our displeasure by hitting them where it hurts.

Ad revenue.

We’re proposing a 24 hour log off as phase one of this protest.

WHEN IS THE PROTEST?

AUGUST 6th, 2021        12 am Eastern Time (US)          5 am Greenwich Mean Time          6 am Central European Time          8 am Moscow Standard Time          1 pm Australian Western Time          2 pm Japan Standard Time          3:30 pm Australian Central Time          4 pm Australian Eastern Time

AUGUST 5th, 2021

11 pm Central Time (US)          10 pm Mountain Time (US)            9 pm Pacific Time (US)

THE END TIME IS 24 HOURS FROM START TIME!!!

So no posting, no queues, no likes, and no reblogs!

WHAT IF I CAN’T/WHAT ELSE CAN I DO?

Like this post and share it AS MANY TIMES AS POSSIBLE. Use the hashtags #tumblrlogoff2021 or #postplusprotest on ANY and ALL social media.

WILL THIS WORK?

Maybe, maybe not. It’s an attempt at doing SOMETHING.

BECAUSE I’M A TIRED IDIOT, USE THIS TO DOUBLE CHECK YOUR TIME ZONE!!!!

timeanddate.com

Event Time Announcer - Log off protest 2021

Event Time Announcer shows time for Log off protest 2021 in locations all over the world. In New York it happens on Friday, August 6, 2021 a

La Belle et La Bete

Ghost!Ezra Prospect x F!Reader

Word Count: 5.7k 

Warnings: angst, mentions of death/poisoning, enemies to lovers, AU, cursing, brief mentions of NSFW, angst with a semi-happy ending, crying, lots of fluff

Summary: You’d been able to see ghosts for the entirety of your life, but the last thing you ever expected was to fall for one.

Beautiful ghost!Ezra fanart by @honestly-shite

You don’t remember when you began seeing the specters in your day to day life, believing them to be just oddly dressed people up until a certain point. You remember the day you realized that the people you saw were not living, however. You had pointed at a rather odd looking man in a top hat that towered over you, exclaiming to your mom about the funny hat. The man had smiled at you and given you a little wink, but your mother had gawked at you like you were the one with a two foot tall hat perched on your head. It became quickly apparent that you possessed a gift that those around you did not; a gift that you would have to keep a secret unless you had a wish to spend the rest of your days in an asylum.

They were everywhere, and the only way you could truly set them apart was the slight translucent quality to their skin and their often time-inappropriate clothing. As you grew older you realized that it was not, in fact, normal for adults to walk around in Victorian era garments, and for young men to be adorned in shiny metal armor.

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Cry To Me

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: cursing, friends with benefits, reunited best friends, general fluffiness, allusions to sex

Rating: M

Summary: Frankie and you have reunited after losing touch for years. Fresh off of his divorce you propose a friends with benefits situation which he accepts. The problem is you’re still very much in love with him, but you want him to enjoy his single life after being married for so long.

A/N: In which a person who doesn’t know how to write gets stuck with the thought of dancing with Frankie in the kitchen and writes it. 😅 I saw a tik tok of a couple dancing to Cry to Me by Solomon Burke this morning and this happened. It was supposed to be 500 words, but here we are at over 1,000+. Had no plan for this one, just me churning out nonsense as I went.

AO3

Frankie and you were inseparable growing up having been present for both of your trials of life; his going into the army and you taking the plunge into starting an Etsy business after high school. Your friends defined the two of you as a living definition of bad timing. He had a high school sweetheart that he ended marrying shortly after coming back home from the army. You would have been happy for him if you weren’t so in love with him and it got hard to be around him which is why you had drifted apart.

The next time you saw each other was shortly after his divorce from his wife and you could see how raw it still was for him. You spent the whole night catching up on old memories, delicately skipping over the topic of his ex-wife, and new things going on in your life. That was also the night you had your first kiss, but considering how fresh his divorce was you didn’t want him to jump into another relationship. That’s when you had proposed friends with benefits as a solution. It gave him time to figure things out and you wanted him to be able to enjoy his single life after being married for so long. You didn’t want to be the rebound and you both still got what you wanted out of each other.

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