A/N:I have been wanting to challenge myself to write a drabble a day for a whole month for quite some time now, and I finally decided to just go for it. The goal is to fill every prompt on this listby@creativepromptsforwriting with a short one shot (500 - 2k words) by the end of June. Can I do it? I do not know. But let’s find out! - Today I am going WAY out of my comfort zone and taking a stab at Frankie Morales for the first time. This will eventually be linked to a longer series, but for now it can and should be read as a stand alone that takes place about two years after the events of TF. Any and all feedback on this would be very welcome as this is my first stab at Francisco, and I’d love to know your thoughts!
Word Count : 2k
Warnings: language, mention of drug use, mentions of violence, slight hint of zest, lots of smooching, Francisco cannot keep his hands to himself. nor should he.
Summary:A lot has changed in Frankie’s life since he and the guys returned from the failed mission in the Columbian jungle, and not all of those changes have been easy. But one major change has become the biggest constant in his life - you.
These goddamn things are fuckin’ heavy.
Frankie blew out a breath that turned into a grunt as he dropped the two bags of top soil he’d been carrying, the packages hitting the ground with a dense thud. He had already hauled four of them from where he was parked in the driveway to where he stood now, in front of the raised garden beds you’d helped him build the previous weekend. It was going to look great when it was finished - you were planting a combination of roses and lilacs - and he knew that he wouldn’t regret it once the work was done and the plants were in place. But there were another four bags in the bed of his truck that needed to be moved, and he already knew he would feel the ache of all the bending and lifting for several days.
I’m getting too old for this shit.
Brushing the palms of his work gloves together, he rid them of excess dirt. Clumps of dark brown soil fell as he used one hand to adjust his hat, specks of it landing on his cheek and sticking to the thin layer of sweat that glazed over him in the summer heat. A grinding sensation stuttered down from his scapula to the muscles in the middle of his back as he rolled his shoulder in a circular motion, and Frankie let out a sound that was somewhere between a huff and a groan as he prepared himself to move another hundred and sixty pounds of dirt across the yard.
