#mars n frankie have no choice in the matter.

[forever-rogue]

Camisado 1/2

A/N: Hey, hi, hello! Here is first part my little Frankie Royalty AU, written for @its--fandom--darling ‘s follower celebration. The second part will be here soon, but for now enjoy some pain and angst!

Pairing: Frankie x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: language, angst

PART 2

MASTERLIST

FRANKIE MASTERLIST

»»————-　♡　————-««

“Francisco?” your voice was low and gentle as you stepped into kitchens and scanned the room for any sign of life. A frown crossed your features when you thought he might not be here at all, but he quickly popped up from behind the counters with a smile gracing his features and a dusting of flour on his nose.

“Hello there,” he beamed as you bounced over to him, quickly reaching up and wiping the flour away before kissing his nose.

“Hello there,” you repeated, quickly looking around to make sure no one else was there before pulling him in for a quick kiss, “I’ve missed you.”

"Feeling cheeky today, Princess?" Frankie's hands found your face as he pulled you closer to him and stole a handful of kisses. You were left breathless and yearning for more as eagerly grinned at him. He stopped for a moment and studied you gently playing with a lock of your hair, in awe of your beauty as always, "you are so beautiful, my love."

"And just who is feeling cheeky now, sweet Francisco?" you teased, running a hand through his dark curls as his hands found purchase on your waist. You giggled as he picked you up and set you down on the kitchen counter. He grinned as he pressed his forehead against yours.

"I think its you, Princess. Coming in here and openly kissing the kitchen boy?" he asked before kissing along your jaw and down your neck, causing you to bite back a moan, "so brazen. Where anyone could see us...my oh my."

"Shut up," you pulled him back to your lips, "its because I happen to be in love with you, you absolute fool!"

“Are you?” he must have been feeling extra cheeky because he slowly started to lift your skirts and trailed a hand along your calf, a juxtaposition of calloused hands and delicate skin as he kissed you till you were breathless, “I happen to be in love with you too, Princess.”

“Call me by my name,” you whispered in his ear, knowing there was nothing better than hearing it slip from his tongue. There was no need for formalities when it was just the two of you, there was no barrier, no difference, just two people in love, “please.”

And then it came forth, delicate and gentle as he trailed his lips along your neck, stopping just before the shell of your ear. He nipped lightly at the soft skin, making sure to leave no marks; if any were seen you’d both be dead. One day, you’d always promised, one day he could mark you as he pleased for the world to see, to let everyone know you were his. But he was no fool - he knew one day would never come, despite your honeyed words and saccharine promises. He was a servant, no more, no less, and you were a princess, everything he was not. 

But he did love you, truly, deeply, and completely, and you loved him. That was no lie - but you could never be together. It was just...the way the world worked. People like Francisco Morales didn’t get the opportunity to be with royalty. People like yourself were not allowed the liberty of love and choosing your own happiness and destiny.

“Francisco,” it was a heady whisper as you started to tug at his shirt, slowly un-tucking it from the waistband of his trousers. His hands were roaming your frame as you closed your eyes and lost yourself in him.

Before it could get any further, you heard your name shouted from afar. Both of you froze immediately, a sense of terror bubbling up inside as Frankie pulled back and you hopped off the counter and straightened your skirts while he tucked his shirt back in. Deft hands help to smooth your hair back into place as you both took a few steps apart to appear as if you had been engaging in polite conversation, rather than about to have one another on the kitchen counter.

“Princess!” you rolled your eyes dramatically at Frankie before he shot you a quick wink as your father’s guard stormed into the kitchen.

“Calm down,” you huffed with a sigh that you didn’t even bother to cover up as you waved him off, “no need to alert the cavalry, I’m right here.”

“What are you doing in the kitchens?”

“I fancied a snack,” you lied, reaching for an apple in the bowl that was thankfully right in front of you, “and I came into the kitchen to look for something, as one normally does when it has been some time since they’ve eaten.”

He scowled, somewhere between annoyance and not quite believing you. You swallowed nervously, praying there was nothing to prove what the two of you had actually been doing. There was no evidence that anything happened, so he couldn’t do anything, “your father and mother request your presence in his study. Immediately.”

“Immediately?” you scoffed, “I’ve got plans for my afternoon - anything important can surely be handled by my sister, no? She’s to be the Queen after all, not me. I’m nothing to them, except another burden. Surely they meant Helena and not me.”

“They asked for you specifically, Princess,” he was quick to grow weary of your attitude. Normally you were polite, and mostly kept to yourself, but this particular guard was nothing but pain. Everything with him had to be by the book and he refused any levity, “you’re to come with me.”

“Fine,” you agreed, you took a loud, crunching bite of your apple as you walked over to him. Waving a hand at him, you ushered him along, “let’s go then, and get this over with. I have a multitude of things I’d rather be doing.”

He was silent as he led the way, allowing you to steal one last look at Frankie, who was almost red-faced as he tried not to laugh. You blew him a kiss followed by a wave as you put on your most neutral and disinterested face. You’d come back and find him later to finish what you started; if nothing else, you at least would get to spend time with him. There was nothing better than that.

»»————-　♡　————-««

“Ahhh, there she is,” your father stood up as soon as you walked into the room. Confusion marred your features as you look behind you to see who he was talking about. He walked over to you and put his hand on your shoulders and studied you, “I’m talking about you, of course. My youngest, my sweetest-”

“I’m not your youngest, father,” you reminded him, “I have two brothers, or have you forgotten about them? I’d also wager that-”

“Must you always talk back?” your mother’s face was set in a stern expression as she was perched on the edge of your father’s desk, “it’s unbecoming of a young lady. Husbands do not want a wife that’s always so haughty.”

“Bold of you to assume I want a husband,” you insisted as you crossed your arms over your chest, causing your father to sigh, “and if a husband does not want to listen to me talk or engage in conversation, then he is not a husband I want.”

“You don’t get a choice in that.”

“I refuse to marry a man I do not love.”

“You are not in a position to argue,” your father held up his hands, silencing the two of you, ever the neutral ruler. Rolling your eyes you waited for him to go on, “it is your duty, by birth, to marry a man of our choosing. You’re a Princess, you do not marry for love. You marry for relations, to produce heirs, for your people.”

“I am a second born,” you huffed, trying to understand what he was saying, “and a daughter at that. What does it matter? I’m not going to Queen, I’m just...me.”

“It does not matter,” your mother insisted, “you are a part of this family and you will do as we say. Your marriage is just as important as those of your sister and your younger brothers.”

“Fine,” there was no point in trying to argue, “should I ever find a man that I love that meets your standards, I’ll let you know. May I be excused now? I have other things I’d like to attend to -”

“That’s why you’re here,” your brow furrowed in confusion, but suddenly you felt like there was a lump in your throat, “you will get married and you will have a husband of our choosing. It just so happens that we’ve chosen one for you already.”

“What? No, no, no, no,” you eyes widened in shock as panic set deep in your bones, “you can’t just do that. W-with no warning-”

“We can and we have,” she raised an eyebrow, “you’re already older than you should be. Luckily, we’ve found a wonderful husband for you, the Lord of Easterly.”

“Easterly?” you repeated as you felt the life leave your heart, “he’s so much older, and he’s terrible! Everyone loathes him, surely you can’t be...you can’t be serious.”

“He’s a good match,” your mother insisted firmly, “and frankly are better than you could have hoped for. You should be thanking your lucky stars your father is king and could even arrange such a match at your age. You’re not getting any younger and you should have been married years ago.”

“Please,” your mind was already racing with hundred million thoughts, but they all went back to Frankie. You couldn’t get married, not to this man - a man you’d barely met and certainly didn’t love. No, no, no, this was all wrong. Suddenly your attitude went away and you were ready to beg and grovel, “please don’t do this. Please, you can’t force me to marry him...I beg of you. I will do anything, just don’t make me marry him. Please.”

“It also already done and settled,” her voice was cold and ice and if you didn’t know any better, you’d swear there was a pleased little smirk tugging on the corners of her mouth, “you’ll be married by the end of next month and then you will go to live with your new husband. You may be unhappy, but this is your duty. This has always been your duty.”

“No,” your lip trembled with effort as you tried not to cry, “I won’t do it.”

“There is no won’t, you will do this,” she crossed her arms over her chest and your father remained silent. You looked between the two of them, hoping, wishing, praying, that one of them would say something else. One of them had to be on your side, right?

“And if I refuse?”

“You will not,” her glare was cold as ice as she stared you down. You swallowed thickly but willed down all the ugly, vile things you wanted to say. You’d already angered them, and you needn’t poke the bear further...you didn’t want to know what else they could be capable of, “now go. An official announcement will be made at the end of the week and then we will plan your wedding.”

“I hope you know that I hate this,” it was the only thing that came to mind, “I will never forgive you for this.”

“We have nothing to be sorry for,” your father finally chimed in as he looked down at you, “you have always known that this was your duty, and now its your turn to fulfill that duty. Now run along and learn some manners and respect.”

You offered them a mock bow before storming out of the door, without waiting for it to be opened. Tears of anger and frustration rolled down your cheeks as you tried to still your racing mind. A month, you had a month. A month to figure out how to get out of this situation once and for all. 

»»————-　♡　————-««

You watched as rain poured outside your window, tapping on it gently as you cried and cried. At some point, you weren’t sure if it was the raindrops obscuring your vision or your own tears making it cloudy. As soon as you’d stepped foot back outside that afternoon the skies had opened and rain had poured down, covering the earth as if it was weeping with you. You’d been so caught up in your sorrow, you’d forgotten about anything else - including meeting Frankie at your secret spot in the gardens. 

You clutched the small stuffed bunny in your arms as you cried and hiccuped, wishing that this would all go away. You’d had the little stuffed animal for some time, a secret little present from Frankie because he knew how much you loved the small creatures. No matter how long you’d had it, it still managed to smell of him - a sweet, saccharine smell.

A soft knock came from the windows, startling you as you wiped away your tears and started at the large window. You weren’t sure if it had been your imagination or if you’d actually heard something, but as soon as you’d seen the shadow moving about, you were sure it was someone. 

Slipping out from the soft blankets, you padded over and slowly opened the window. You immediately spied Frankie as he finally looked relieved to finally see you. 

“Princess,” he whispered as he reached out and gently touched your face, grounding him in the fact that you were okay. But his heart wrenched when he realized that your face was wet, but not from the rain, “you’re crying - what’s wrong? Y-you didn’t come to our spot.”

“I-I-I’m sorry,” you sniffled as you took his hand in yours and pulled him inside the warmth of your rooms. It was silent while you made quick of pulling off his jacket and laying it on the back of your chair. Pulling him gently, you took him towards the warm, crackling fire, flopping down on the floor next to it, “I forgot, Frankie. I…”

And then it was silent for some time. Frankie sat next to you, silent as he warmed up and wanted for you to carry on with what you had to say. After some time, he pulled you in his lap as he studied your face. He brought a hand up, slowly, delicately as he traced over your features before pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“What’s happened, my sunshine?” he whispered as you wrapped your arms around him and buried your face into his shoulder. Before you could get out any proper words, you ended up crying again, tears quickly soaking through his tunic as you cried. He held you gently, rocking back and forth as he tried to get you to quiet down so you could speak to him, “shhh, my sweet love. It’s okay, it’s all okay...I’ve got you.” 

"Frankie," you finally managed to pull yourself together enough to spot the tears from spilling, "I received horrible news today...the worst thing that could possibly happen occurred today…"

"Whatever could it be?" he reached up and gently wiped away your tears from your cheeks and pushed a lock of hair behind your ear.

"I am to be married," you finally said the words out loud for the first time, shocking you both are vile they sounded, "by the end of next month. To Lord Easterly of all people."

"Oh."

“This is the worst thing to happen,” you whispered softly, “I-I don’t know what to do. Francisco, I love you - you’re the one I want to m-”

“You must marry him,” he stated; there was no emotion, no hesitation or anything. His voice was neutral - calculated to show no trace of emotion, “if your parents arranged your marriage to him, then you must marry him.”

“Frankie,” you pulled back, your face colored in hurt and shock, “I-I don’t love him, I don’t want to marry him. I love you…”

“It doesn’t matter,” he insisted, “it is your duty to marry him.”

Inside, his own heart was breaking into a million tiny pieces, mere fragments of a whole. He wanted to cry - to scream and argue and hurt everyone that had brought this upon you. But instead he just...shut down. In some ways, he’d spent the last few years preparing for this moment, knowing that eventually it would be inevitable. He was a stupid, foolish man to fall in love with you in the first place. He had no right, no reason to - he was of one world and you were of another. You could never be together. Never. And even though he’d always known that, locked away in the back of his mind, this didn’t make the crushing blow any easier. He was so in love with you, it was hard to believe that his love could ever die; sometimes it left him breathless just to think about how much he was enamored by you. 

But you could never be his. 

“Francisco,” you shook your head as you grabbed his face and turned his chocolate eyes towards you, “what on earth are you saying? I thought you...I thought you loved me? I can’t marry him, I will never be happy again if I do. It’s supposed to be you, my love. No one else.”

“Don’t be foolish,” his voice cracked as he took your hands and pulled them away, “we can never be together, we both know that. It was only a matter of time...we’ve always known it would come to this. You must do as they say.”

“I-I-I don’t understand,” you shook your head, blinking back tears as you pulled away from Frankie. He stared at the fireplace as he refused to make eye contact with you, “you want me to marry him?”

“I don’t,” he admitted quietly, “gods, of course I don’t. But there is no choice, no other way. We both know that. If I could, I would marry you right now, and take you away from this forever. But I can’t do that...we would never work. I know it’s not what you want to hear, and we’ve both been blissfully ignorant of that fact, but it was always bound to come to an end. That will never change how much I love you.”

“You want me to marry a man I do not love because I’m being told to,” you were crying now, fully bawling at blatant denial of...you, "you want me to subject myself to a life of unhappiness? You can't...you won't be able to go with me."

"You know your duty-"

"That is such shit!" you shouted at him, "you love me, right? We'll run away together - we can get married and live happily far away from here."

"And what? You'll just be found and brought back and I'll be jailed if not hanged," he threw his hands up in frustration, "or worse yet, we'll both be hanged. I can't...I can't give the life you deserve."

"We'll go far away," it was a meek protest as you contemplated dropping to your knees to beg him to stay and fight for you, "no one will know who we are. I swear it - please, Frankie. I don't want anything else but you. That's all I want - you. Just you. Please."

"I'm sorry," he stood up and crossed his arms over his chest as he deflected from the situation, "I can't do that. You have to do what you're told to do."

"So you don't love me...has this all been a lie then?"

"I do love you."

"It doesn't feel like it. Stay with me then!"

"I can't do that. You know that - we don't have a choice."

"Everything is a choice!" you shouted angrily, "everything!"

"Do you have any clue how hard this is for me too?!" you'd never heard him raise his voice this loudly before and took you aback for a moment as you pouted at him, "to see the woman I love every single day but not to be able to be with her? Having to see her in secret? I want to show the world I love you, I want everyone to know! But I can't - for your safety and mine. It pains me every day not to be able to love you as I want!"

"Then go with me," you reached for his hand but he quickly pulled out of your grasp, "we can run away together. Please don't leave me. Please."

"You know it has to be this way," his voice shook as a tear rolled down his cheek, "you know how it has to be. I will always love you. You have my heart, always and forever."

"Don't go," he started walking back to the window, refusing to look back over at you. You chased after him but he turned away, "please, Francisco. I'm begging you, I will do anything to get you to stay."

"Please don't…"

"W-we still have time," you were grasping at straws, but it was all you could think of doing, "we'll figure something out. What if I tell my parents we plan to marry? Or that I am with child?"

"They'll have me hanged before you could finish telling them and they'd force you to marry to cover up your pregnancy," you knew he was right.

"We can...we can make the most out of our time together," he turned to face you, and you met those eyes you'd fallen in love with one last time, "there is time...we can…"

"I don't think that's a good idea," he whispered softly, "we shouldn't make it harder than it already is. We can just end it now…"

"Please," you tried to grab his hand as he sidled along the ledge. Your soul felt like its light had been extinguished as he shook his head, recoiling from your touch as though it was laced with venom, "Francisco. I love you more than anything. You are my heart, my home-"

"Don't do this," his words cut like a knife at your throat as you realized he was serious. He wasn't coming back, "this ends tonight. If we keep going its only going to hurt worse. We'll cut our losses now. I love you, Princess, so damn much it takes my breath away. But this is the way."

"I love you," it was a strangled cry as you watched him go, "I will never love another. Only you."

»»————-　♡　————-««

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#frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #frankie 'catfish' morales #fem!reader #catfish morales x reader #frankie morales x you #pedro pascal x you

[sapphicscholar]

Pride Month Prompts Day 20: Confession (Grace/Frankie)

From this Pride Month Prompts post! I’m taking the opportunity to write some short fics for a variety of pairings that I haven’t written for as much. I’ll be sure to tag them all with #pride month prompts so you can find them later if you’d like!

Day 20: Confession - on AO3 as Absolution

Pairing: Grace/Frankie

A/N: As a once very Catholic, very closeted, very gay lady, my mind jumped straight to religion for confession, so I ran with it and also played more with form and temporality than I normally do… Figure that’s what these little ficlets are for!

Grace inhales deeply, fills her nose and mouth and lungs with the air that feels a little thicker than outdoor air, heavy with mysteries and promises and millennia of history. Incense wafts through the chapel—smoky and spiced in a way that lingers, just barely, in her clothes and hair for the first few hours after she’s left the church. Grace tries to let the familiarity of it ground her as she readjusts the pristine white lace of her chapel veil, thinking back to the days of elementary school, remembering little Katherine Agostino who had always forgotten hers, been forced by Sister Patricia to pin a tissue to her hair instead, blushed a bright red when the boys laughed at her as the line of girls was marched over to the church. Grace’s had always been in perfect order—none of the frayed edges or grayish tinges that had marred the other girls’ veils. No matter how tight money was, her mother always ensured that they looked respectable, neat, orderly; they would not be the children talked about in hushed tones at the market or after mass. The fact that they whisper about her now, the 26-year-old without any prospects for a husband and we all know what that means, isn’t lost on her, but she tries to focus on her rosary beads, repeats the well-known words silently as she waits for her turn in the confessional.

---

The beach house never smells like Clorox bleach and fresh linens anymore. It overflows with a bounty of smells. A different kind of incense—something with hints of hickory and jasmine and a heady combination of spices. Freshly toasted Eggo waffles and the slightly burnt smell of crystallized sugar from when Frankie had popped a syrupy waffle back into the toaster to see if she could make a creme brulée-waffle hybrid. A few times a year the vats of boiling yams that Grace has only recently admitted make an end product that’s worth the messy, smelly process of its creation. The acrylic paints that remind Grace of the studio but that have begun making their way into the main house too. That lavender chamomile organic soap Frankie buys—or, more often, asks Grace to buy for her—from the farmer’s market. Despite the years of complaining about it, when Frankie left for New Mexico Grace found herself missing the particular bouquet of smells that was Frankie’s presence, thinking the house smelled too sterile. Even after Sheree moved in and started filling the house with the aroma of melting cheese and butter and chocolate, it still hadn’t been right. And when she and Frankie moved back into the house after their stay at Walden Villas, she practically invited it, determined to rid the house of the lingering smell of the focus-group-approved candle that every fucking real estate agent in California seemed to burn. These days Grace’s bedroom is permeated by the smell of Frankie and her incense and her soaps and shampoos and paints, and there’s nothing fleeting about it.

---

After two decades of the rosary, it’s Grace’s turn to go back to the confessional. She kneels down and waits for the priest to finish with the person on the other side. She’s only been to this church once or twice, when she happened to be visiting family who lived across the lines for the neighboring parishes, but she doesn’t want to confess these things to Father Thomas who’s known her since he baptized her, who she just knows recognizes every voice even if he’s sworn to secrecy about the specifics of what she says. Then Father Patrick is there, the vague outline of his face visible through the screen as he tells her to begin. She clears her throat. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Her fingers tap lightly against her forehead, her chest, her shoulders. She feels the sharpness of the bone through the thin fabric of her dress and relishes in it. “My last confession was five weeks ago.” The last one where she’d been honest was about eight years ago, though. But today is about making that right. Today is about moving forward, about doing things right.

---

“Things need to be different moving forward.” Those were the first words out of Frankie’s mouth when Grace returned to the beach house, suitcase in hand, the rest of her belongings in the process of being moved out of Nick’s penthouse—not that she’d ever got around to bringing most of them over, their whirlwind marriage barely lasting a full two months before she caved and admitted it had never been what she wanted, had been a way to make her forget the things she really wanted. Grace had nodded, sworn to Frankie that she understood. She didn’t say anything, but she was fairly certain that going back to the way things were before would have killed her; she didn’t leave a marriage only to make the same mistakes again. Within three weeks of the divorce’s finalization, they’d found their path forward into that “different” in a way that Grace had never dared to articulate as a hope—not even to herself. But then Frankie was there, telling her these things were possible, telling her she understood even without the words, dragging her into an unknown future that Grace knows—a knowledge rooted somewhere deep inside herself—will be better.

---

Four. Four had always been the best number of sins to confess. Maybe you could get away with three if it had only been a week, but two was proof that you were lazy, hadn’t sat with the reflection questions long enough to evaluate your life and judge your past choices. Five was getting up there, but so long as most of them were venial sins, the kind you technically didn’t have to go to confession for, little things like fighting with your brother, it was probably okay. More than five, though, and suddenly you were trouble. But four was safe. Four sins. Four lapses. Four things to be confessed and forgiven, purged and forgotten.

She knows she’s supposed to start with any mortal sins, work her way into the lesser ones, but she needs to build up to things. So she takes a deep breath and begins, “Father, I have taken the Lord’s name in vain twice.” Times about 20. “I was unkind to one of my coworkers.” He’d deserved it, of course. “This past week, I missed mass.” She actually did feel guilty about that, but she’d thought about, well, about doing the very thing she’s finally doing the night beforehand and had drunk enough to wake up feeling like she’d already been to hell and clawed her way back out. “And…” She swallows heavily. “I, uh…” There had been a script. She had opted not to bring it with her, though, hadn’t wanted the small piece of paper fluttering to the ground somewhere people not sworn to secrecy might see it. But this is the whole reason she’s here. She’s trying to make amends, move forward, do right by her family and God. “There were indiscretions,” she finally manages, her voice sounding strangled and wrong to her own ears. “It was a moment of weakness.” That was what Margaret had called it the next morning, the warm haze of the previous night’s wine long dissipated in the chill New England morning air. “I am sorry for these sins”—her stomach churns, the swirl of grief and guilt making it hard to breath—”and all the sins of my life, and I ask for absolution and penance of thee, my father.”

---

The first time she and Frankie fight—and really fight, not the bickering that is its own love language between them at this point—after getting together, Grace can admit is her fault. They’d been out at a restaurant, Frankie determined to “court you properly,” as she’d explained it, and had run across two of Grace’s old country club friends out with their husbands. It only occurred to Grace after the fact that they likely would have assumed she and Frankie were simply out to dinner as friends—though they would judge her for the friendship with Frankie as much as anything. But in the moment, she’d panicked, pushed herself as far back into her chair as she could, laughed too loudly and nodded too eagerly when they asked if there might be another man in her life after Nick, ordered a few too many martinis once they’d gone back to their own table. She’d been able to see the hurt reflected in Frankie’s eyes through the rest of the stilted, silent meal, but when Frankie had called her on it later, she’d lashed out, yelled at Frankie for rushing her, told her it wasn’t fair of her to expect Grace to let go of the values she’d been raised on all in one breath.

The next morning, Grace wakes up  late, later than she can remember sleeping in ages, with a pounding headache and a stomach she won’t dare try putting food into, but even with the intensity of her hangover, she feels the guilt most of all. After a long, too hot shower, she makes her way downstairs, practically throws herself at Frankie’s feet. She’d intended to apologize for the night before—and she does—but then she can’t stop the words that come rushing out of her. There are apologies to be made for the years of judgmental looks and constant complaints, for the first few months after the first divorce and all the things she’d said about her one real friend to the women who were never really her friends, for the terrible drunken rant in front of Frankie’s whole family that had come back to Grace in flashes and snippets later, each returned memory making her hate herself more and more. There is forgiveness still to be begged for over every instance of doubting Frankie, of telling her, in word and in deed, that she was incompetent. There are still reparations to be made for the years of denying this thing growing between them, for running off and marrying Nick because it seemed easier, and now, for pushing Frankie away again because it seemed safer than being the one people talked about when she left the room.

By the time she finishes, she feels hollow and empty, her cheeks stained with tear tracks and her whole body trembling. But Frankie doesn’t leave her in anxious suspense as penance, doesn’t prolong the fight to make Grace earn her forgiveness; she sweeps Grace up in her arms and kisses away the tears and thanks Grace for the words, thanks Grace for meaning them—somehow she can tell, knows deep inside that they are sincere. With her head on Frankie’s chest, Grace lets out a deep breath, and she swears the next inhale seems to reach down to someplace new, filling her up with fresh air in ways her body had never believed were possible.

---

The Act of Contrition comes more easily than the list of sins. Long-memorized words recited into the stillness of the confessional. She’s been given her penance already; five Hail Marys and two Our Fathers, and she’ll be washed of the past, allowed to move forward, start clean, act as if there had been no night where everything felt good and right for the first time in her life. She will feel proper again. Better. She will never be that girl that gets whispered about before her family has stepped far enough away to miss the words. And then Father Patrick is reciting the old Latin phrases, comfortable in their strangeness, the language a welcome distance between her and the whole ordeal. “Misereatur tui ominipotens Deus, et dimissis peccatis tuis, perducat te ad vitam aeternam. Amen.”

---

Frankie doesn’t care when people stare. “Let them look!” she cries out, smile wide and open, an invitation to anyone around to share in that happiness with her. Sometimes Grace even manages to feel it herself. Somewhere along the way, she’d become the kind of woman who could stand on a college campus and hold up a vibrator that she designed, that she created, that she admitted, at least implicitly, to using. She’d become a squatter who slept beside pigs in a house she didn’t own, using electricity she didn’t pay for, while family members and strangers alike gawked down at her as if she were some kind of spectacle. She’d become someone who cried, albeit sparingly, in front of other people, admitted that she felt things, talked about things she wanted, even the things she wanted too much, the kind of wants that swept through her, leaving a burning trail of shame and unresolved need in their wake. And instead of laughing and scoffing and pushing her away, Frankie had opened her arms wider, told Grace she could want those things, told her she could give her those things, let her have those things in abundance without shame or judgement or guilt or apology.

---

Grace kneels in an empty pew as soon as she’s done to say her penance. When she’s finished, she sits back, the hard wood pressing up against her spine in a slightly painful way that has always felt fitting. She stays there and waits for the Sunday morning service to begin. She listens to the half-familiar Latin words, and gives the responses at the proper times, and sits and stands and kneels in turn, and lines up with everyone to receive the only carb she voluntarily eats (knows it must be sacrilege to call the Body of Christ a carb), and tells herself that it will all be okay.

---

Frankie is a firm believer in carbs. She swears they’ve got healing powers. Pasta in olive oil with salt (too much salt, Grace would tell her these days) and a bit of garlic for any illness because “The Italians sure did get that one right, Grace!” Thick-sliced challah bread turned into French toast for special occasions. Homemade cakes that Grace knows better than to question these days for celebrations. Donuts and croissants and cereal for ordinary breakfasts, as if such indulgences can be had daily. But still, when Frankie joins Grace in bed, slipping under the covers, the wool of her socks slightly scratchy against Grace’s bare skin, and offers her a plate or bowl with extra of whatever she’s chosen for the morning, Grace doesn’t push it away in the way she had with Robert or the children on Mother’s Day mornings. Instead, she takes small bites, lets herself relax into the buttery flakes of a croissant, even if she’ll never finish the whole thing, takes comfort in the knowledge that Frankie won’t push her on it, won’t purse her lips or scowl when she goes downstairs and fixes herself some fruit to round out the meal.

---

Grace doesn’t stick around to mingle after the service—being away from the crowds of too familiar parishioners back at Holy Trinity would have made the disappearing act impossible, but here she can manage it so long as she moves quickly. The fresh air hits her skin and ruffles the hem of her dress slightly. She’s been absolved. Done her penance. Sat through the service. But she doesn’t feel any better for it. That magic sense of purity, of some blank slate stretched out in front of her, is gone. She’s just a 26-year-old unmarried woman who’s gone and sworn to God that she’ll never again do the only thing that’s made her feel like a life worth living is before her. She tells herself it’s better this way, that she’ll find her path again. She hopes it’s true.

---

Trying not to wake Frankie, Grace slips out of bed, biting back a groan as her joints creak and pop, her skin still bare from the night before and coated in a thin film of dried sweat. She walks quietly to the bathroom and eases the door shut. Within an hour, she’s showered and dressed in one of her loose, soft sweaters—perfect for the overcast morning, the threat of rain hovering in the air but distant enough to allow Grace hope for a quiet morning on the beach. Downstairs, she measures out coffee grounds—from the Fair Trade-certified beans she buys now because Frankie has asked her to—and then the water, sets the pot to brew, and steps back. While she waits, she goes through her morning rituals. Vitamins. Supplements. A yogurt with fresh fruit. The two pills she isn’t supposed to take on an empty stomach. When the coffee is ready, she pours some into the mug Frankie had gotten her for Pride month and leaves a Post It note next to the pot to let Frankie know it’s fresh.

Once she has her coffee, Grace pauses at the stack of books. She knows which one she’d like to take, but there are the two graphic novels Frankie has bought for her, still adorned with a bright pink Post It note: “Grace! I need someone to talk to about these. Plz read them. P.S. I know how you feel about comic books, but old MacArthur swears she’s a genius.” Grace looks at them, finally grabbing the one on top, before making her way out the back door. It’s not quite chilly outside, but she’s grateful for the sweater and the hot coffee as she settles into one of the armchairs overlooking the ocean.

At some point—Grace has lost track of time—Frankie comes outside to join her, grinning as she spots the copy of Fun Home with the Post It carefully folded in half to be used as a bookmark—no dog-eared pages for Grace Hanson, no sir. “Move over. I want to sit with you”

“There’s a perfectly serviceable chair right there,” Grace grumbles, but she’s already moving over as far to one side as she can.

Frankie finally manages to find a spot that’s halfway comfortable, and she celebrates by taking one of Grace’s hands in her own. It’s not quite so easy as sitting side-by-side together in the beach chairs the way they once had, but Grace finds she doesn’t mind the change to their routine, not when it means Frankie’s thumbs rubbing soft circles against the backs of her hands, the warmth of Frankie’s body pressed right up against the full length of her body.

For a while, they watch the ocean together. The beach is still and almost silent in the gray morning—the only sounds the soft crash of the waves falling against the water and rushing up the sand until they fade to nothing but a thin foam and remnants of the ocean life left behind.

Grace drops her head to Frankie’s shoulder, gently squeezes Frankie’s hand. “I love you,” she says, still facing out to sea, her voice loud in the silence. But it doesn’t matter who hears. She wants them to know, has a delicate, smooth ring of white gold in a drawer in the desk in the old office neither of them use that will tell the whole world that Frankie is hers, and she is Frankie’s, and they are each other’s. She’s waited too long, denied herself for too many years, to sit back and refuse this small mercy she so desperately wants to last forever.

Frankie turns inwards, kisses her softly, her lips chapped and her breath smelling faintly of coffee and Fruit Loops. “Love you too.”

The words came easily for Frankie—much more easily than certain actions had, a different kind of openness, of vulnerability, of intimacy—but Grace has never doubted them, not even for a second. And day by day she’s learning to trust them, to let them find those dark, walled off spaces inside her and warm them with their insistent refrain of forgiveness given freely, of love gifted openly, of new futures opened wide before her.

#pride month prompts #grace x frankie #grace hanson #frankie bergstein #grace and frankie #fanfic #ficlet #queerness and religion and flashbacks oh my! #cw internalized homophobia and disordered eating