#Sergeant Benny | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

xxanaduwrites · 5 months ago

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⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ a residue series installment ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

honey, are you comin’?

previous part: sweet talkin’ | from the hive: session 1

✎ elementary-teacher!reader (miss.honey) x biker!benny 🏍️

summary: in which benny finds honey again. this time near a honeycomb, hopin’ for a taste on the road ;) (p.s.: if you were wonderin’, yes — the title of this was so inspired by måneskin)

warnings: not much of anything besides some minor talks of cruelty towards children, peeps being judgmental as hell, & smoking. they’re subtly flirting here basically. it’s cute! that’s really it. x

author’s note: oh my goodness! you have no idea how STUNNED i’ve been by all the love miss.honey!benny have been getting so far. fully was not expecting this. deadass wrote sweet talkin’ for fun. no thoughts, head empty type beat. just wanted to thank you honeys so so much. i can’t thank ya enough i fear! i literally still can’t wrap my head around this, but i love you all sm & can’t wait to share more with you! 🍯🐝🫶

word count: 2.7k

💌 requests are open, send ‘em honey 💋

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Another unbearable wave of heat managed to remain the very next day. Your students squirming against their metal chairs, antsy as ever for a reprieve. And so were you too. Thankfully, it just so happened to be your turn as fellow recess monitor with one or your fellow co-workers, Miss. Margie. Marge just so happened to be a newly breaded fresh faced teacher just like yourself. You enjoyed her company, more so than the older teachers who were rather cruel to the students. Especially when they did something wrong. Marge wasn’t cruel so to speak but she was a tough cookie, putting her foot down when needed. You two as a duo were rather perfect for the school grounds. You as the comfort go to when a knee was scraped, and Marge as the tough love go to when a particular student needed a stern talking to.

You worked well together, and it showed. Your relief was rather prominent when you stepped out the back door near the playground. An immediate swarm of giggles and chatter from small voices buzzed about, and you couldn’t help but smile as you adjusted your eyes to the sun, protected under your heart shaped sunnies. It didn’t take you long to find Marge who was already planted near the monkey bars with her arms crossed over her chest like a drill sergeant. Considering her father’s status as a war vet, by no means was it shocking to you or anyone else for that matter to see her in such a state.

“Hi Margie,” you greeted her once materialized next to her. “How’s it goin’?”

Margie's clear concentration dropped at the sound of your voice. “Oh no wonder,” she commented without looking at you. Her brows shot up in genuine intrigue.

Your honey coated lips parted in confusion instantly. “Huh?”

“Your three o’clock, Hun.” Margie tilted her head to the right subtly, directing you to her line of sight. A sight that made your heart curl into itself in a warm beat. Right behind those chain-linked fences that kept the kids contained was Uncle Benny. Yet, today his status as Uncle appeared to be rather amiss. Instead of Johnny’s car flanked near the curb, he was leaning against a neat Harley Davidson. The same one you saw him on that mornin’. You figured he was dropping off the girls or somethin’, but your curiosity got the better of you when you saw Mrs. Davis with them instead.

Now in the no parking zone, he stood out like the sorrest of thumbs. Practically a puzzle piece thrown into the wrong box. With no thoughts behind those pretty blue eyes of his besides you.

“That biker of yours stood up like a torpedo as soon as you walked out,” your co-worker added.

You took a moment to adjust your glasses, moving them to the tip of your nose to get a better look. Sure as shit, you weren’t having a heat stroke. It was really him. He was still here. Had he been out here since the mornin’ or left to come back? And if he was here for you like Margie said — why? You were certain he wasn’t much of a fan of you the day prior.

“He’s — He’s not my biker,” you mangled out, words twisting off your tongue as butterflies danced around your tummy.

Margie snorted. “I hate to break it to you, Hun. Lookin’ like he is now.” She paused a moment, shifting her footing as she spotted a youngin’ running roughly across the pavement, almost banging into another student. “Hey — watch where you’re goin’. Don’t push it Mikey!” She reprimanded before fixing herself upright and asking you, “What was all that about yesterday anyways?”

“What y’mean?” You questioned, not quite sure what she was going on about.

“You know — lettin’ the Davis girls go with ‘em. Caused a bit of an upheaval with the parents apparently. Heard all about it in the break room this mornin’. Doesn’t sound like Principal Rubs is real happy about it either.”

Your ears couldn’t believe what you were hearing. What business did the parents have putting their two cents in about somebody else’s family members? As for Principal Rubin, well, she was Principal Rubin after all. There wasn’t much to it there. The damn woman was a stickler with the sprinklers yesterday after all. Never a ball of fun as far as you were concerned.

“Why wouldn't I?” You challenged, becoming rather defensive.

“The guy pulled up like a maniac all greasy and shit. Almost gave everyone a heart attack,” Margie reasoned, her features churning in disgust.

You knew if he was some clean cut military guy in full uniform, she wouldn’t have made a comment at all, which kind-of pissed you off. Sure his clothes were lookin’ as if they hadn’t seen a washing machine in a cycle of days, but hey — what did that have to do with character? There were plenty of people who gave this outward canvas of perfectionism, far off from who they truly were deep down inside. You knew that, and you saw it every single day within the cruel clusters of your modern society. You saw it in the faces of your Ma and Pa when you didn’t fit the supposed mold they were trying to conform you to.

“So? He’s their Uncle, Marge,” you countered, defenses climbing high. “Did you ever think that maybe the man was runnin’ late? Worryin’ about the girls. That’s why he was speedin’.”

Margie sighed. “Not with that Vandals shit on his vest, but whatever you wanna believe, Hun.”

It went quiet between you two then. A clear indication that this conversation wasn’t gonna get the two of you anywhere.

“I should go talk to him,” you announced, snapping the awkward silence in half. There was no denying that you were now suddenly eager to find out what all this was about.

“Yuh should. If you don’t I will, and I doubt that will end well,” she joked, her eyes sparkling in amusement. Oh and she was right about that. Knowing Margie, you knew the idea of her approaching Benny would formulate a recipe for disaster.

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, the mental image of such a scene. But also — you were utterly glad for this newfound banter popped open from a bottle of tension. “Alright Colonel, I’ll be back,” you quipped, before heading across the playground.

You could feel his eyes burning across your form on your journey to the edge of the property, your tummy flipping again in a bit of nerves and excitement. A part of you felt somewhat disappointed when you found yourself coming to a halt — stuck behind the monstrous fence that separated you from him, while another was glad for some security. You weren’t quite sure what his motive was, but knew it couldn’t be anything bad. He was just sitting here, smoking and minding his own business. Well — minding you.

“The girls don’t get out of school for another few hours, y’know,” you said matter-of-factly, eyeing him through the grates of the fence that reminded you far too much of a honeycomb.

He didn’t say much of anything, just raised a brow as you as he took one last drag of his cigarette. You watched as he put it out against the pavement, amongst a garden of other buds with his boot. Your suspicions were coming into fusion then, the realization that he’d been planted here for as long as your delusions imagined.

What could he possibly want from an innocent elementary school teacher like you?

He reached for that packet of Marlboros in his vest pocket all over again, clearly on a chain smoking spree. “Y’want?” He asked, stopping in his tracks. Those lean fingers of his calloused to the bone holding out a fresh cigarette in your direction. A cigarette that he’d been saving for you just in case.

You looked around for a moment, not quite sure what to do. The coast seemed to be clear though. Margie looked busy with some of the kids. Had a cluster of ‘em around her with her finger wagging about in every which direction. With her eyes no longer trained on Benny and you, and your form more than halfway across the school yard, you figured it wouldn’t hurt. Besides, you were having a day and could really use a cigarette. “Sure.” You shrugged nonchalantly.

Benny re-adjusted his stance, shoulders straight as he sauntered the sidewalk to meet you against the fence. His rough knuckles brushed across your polished ballet slipper fingers as he passed you the cigarette though the honeycomb, a sweetness shooting up your arm in an instance. You left it sticking out for a moment so he could light it up for you, and you could feel his hot breath fanning against your face. The casual interaction felt rather intimate in the moment, and you were more than happy when you got to take a step back on your first drag.

“Thanks,” you voiced your appreciation as he popped a fresh cig against his lips, now lighting up his own. You couldn’t help but notice that he had a sweet little freckle etched into his bottom lip. No wonder he had beautiful lips, you thought.

Surely, they’d be sweet to the kiss.

Jutting your hip out, you tapped your foot against the dry grass in impatience. “You stalkin’ me or somethin’?” You ripped off the bandage then, getting right into the real stuff. It was too hot out to sugarcoat anything any longer. Plus, the more you stood here the more Marg would get curious, and you’d be caught slacking on the job.

His lip curled up to the side naturally, just like it had yesterday when you introduced yourself to him. “Ain’t a stalker,” he confirmed, re-pocketing his lighter.

You found his candid response refreshing’. Naturally a honey rumblin’ laugh tumbled out of you “Good to ‘ear. My co-worker y’see ‘round over there?” Flicking the residue on the end of your cigarette out of the way, you pointed at her simultaneously. “She thinks ya are. Doesn’t appreciate the loitering.”

He shook his head then, long pretty eyelashes fanning his lower lids as he puckered his lips against the cig. His eyes squinted across the campus for only a second until his gaze landed right back on you. You in another denim overall number with a whole new canvas of embroidered fun. This time, knowing that you were gonna be out in the yard come afternoon, you opted on a classic jean overall. There was always the possibility of having to kneel on the grassy ground or near the sand pit, having to scoop up a youngin’ that refused to leave the playground. You learned your lesson rather quickly within your first few months of teaching. Tripping over yourself in such a situation left a tear in your favorite skirt. A skirt you still frowned about every time you found a certain piece in your closet that would make the perfect pair.

Funnily enough, if Benny knew of such a thing he would’ve made sure the same exact piece of clothing was at your doorstep and back in your closet before the thought crossed your sweet little mind.

But you didn’t know that. Not yet, that is.

And Benny — well Benny wasn’t payin’ as much attention as he would’ve liked to what you were sayin’, and he wasn’t quite interested in Margie anyways. His interests lied with you, and in his defense, the sight of you in your heart shaped sunnies wasn't helping the cause one bit. It was hard to take you seriously when you looked that stinkin’ cute. Made him wanna put you in his jacket pocket for safe keeping. And hell was he itching to just drive his bike right through the fuckin’ fence to break the barrier between you two. He was still beatin’ himself up for not taking your hand when you offered it to him yesterday. Hence why he was here, stakin’ you out. Hoping to fix his mistake.

Because the last thing he ever wanted to do was fuck this up with you.

Instead of enertainin’ your comment or makin’ a move to leave upon your far from subtle hints, far from linear to your own wishes, he changed the topic completely. “What time y’get outta ‘ere?”

You took a long drag of your cigarette, to calm your anxieties. The smoke circled ‘round your face for a moment before it traveled across the fence, reachin’ for Benny. Ironically, it was as if the smoke mirrored your desires of clinging onto the man in front of you. “‘round the same time as the girls, a little after,” you replied, curiosity adding, “what’s it to ya?”

“Wanna go for a ride?” He inquired casually. As if he was just stoppin’ by and hadn’t been sitting here for a good three quarters of the school day waitin’ for you.

The simple question spilling from those pretty lips of his made you melt in an instant. If it wasn’t for the obvious heat as a buffer to such a state, your mind would’ve found him as the culprit. “Where?”

“‘round.” He shrugged, not offering much of a plan. His casual demeanor remained concrete to his form.

An innocent smirk stretched across your face, blooming the apples of your cheeks and creasing the plane of your forehead. Now you were the one to flex amusement against a cylinder wedged between honey glossed lips. Now Benny was the one to be somewhat grateful for the honeycomb — if you will. Cause if the fence wasn’t there, he knew he wouldn’t be able to contain himself. He’d have your honey gloss all over his lips, tasting your sweetness without a second thought. Without caring about Margie or the students on the playground. Without caring about anyone really, but you.

Always you.

Perhaps anyone else would be rather suspicious of a plan with really no plan at all. Sure Margie would need a bulleted itinerary on fresh stationary, color coated and attached to a clipboard respectfully. But you — no, you appreciated his carefree mentality. It was peaceful in comparison to the stressing atmosphere that surround you on a daily basis, dotting on the kiddos in your classes, worryin’ constantly about ‘em.

Two could play this game, you thought.

Just at the end of your cigarette, your pretty fingers reached between a ring in the honeycomb, motioning it back to him. “Would ya put this out f’me?” You asked sweetly, mascara coated lashes batting about behind those obvious heart eyes of yours. “Don’t want the kids to find it in the grass.”

“Mhm,” Benny hummed, finding your concern for this children too fuckin’ cute. How could he ever say no to a sweet thang like you? He just couldn’t.

Your fingers grazed his as he took it from you, a touch that you found yourself thanking your faith for allowing you to bask in again.

This time he not only put out his cigarette, but yours too in the garden of buds that would blossom into a metaphor. A metaphor that had you joining his crew. Becoming a part of the club, joining his family, and fulfilling your wifely duties of planting a seed or two more along the way. Growin’ Benny some baby honeys of your very own.

Your lack of a reply to his offer didn’t sway him by any means, only fueled his fire tenfold. Turning on his heel then, you couldn’t help but frown, thinkin’ your hesitance turned him impatient and over the prospect completely. Especially when you watched him mount his bike and rev the engine, ready to ride away without another word. But Benny — no he still had somethin’ to say, and he was gonna say it alright. “I’ll see ya out front after school, Honey.” He decided, “I’ll be waitin’.”

The sound of your nickname rolling off his tongue — as smooth as honey sliding down your throat in a soothing tea — was all you needed to make your decision.

With your fun little backpack — straps resting against your shoulders — absolutely decked out in pins and keychains alike, you’d spot him at dismissal, and he’d be waitin’. Waitin’ for you to come. Wonderin’ if you were comin’.

Askin’ himself ‘Honey, are you comin’?’

Of course you would. You always would with Benny, no matter what.

And when you mounted his bike, your body molding into his like you were made for him, and your hands wrapping around his waist, Benny’s mistake proved to be no more. Suddenly, everything felt right in the world.

Right because you were one step closer to being his honey.

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hi-ya, i hope you enjoyed part 2! there’s so much more to come. expect a from the hive 🎙️🐝 installment real soon :)

also to note, my requests are open for any miss honey x benny cross works + any convos about these two in general. don’t be shy honey, i’m all for yapping in the asks.

+ don’t forget to comment if you’d like be added to “da bee hive” (my version of da tag list)

smoochies. all da love xanadu 💋

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#miss honey x benny cross #benny cross x reader #the bikeriders fanfiction #benny cross #johnny davis #the bikeriders #austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #tom hardy #residue da series #johnny the bikeriders #benny the bikeriders #da bee hive 🐝#from the hive 🎙️🐝

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bbyhellfire · 4 months ago

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playing the part

eddie munson x reefer rick's ex!fem!reader

[series masterlist] [e.m. masterlist]

➠ summary: eddie gets distracted during a prison call from rick

➠ word count: 1.6k

➠ warnings: 18+ only, smut, outdoor sex, p in v, oral (r receiving), misogynistic/sexist comment from rick, flashbacks in italics

“And those cock sucking COs took it! Y’know how long I spent makin’ that batch?”

Five days. It took Rick five days to ferment his most recent batch of hooch. Two weeks if you include the time spent waiting for the commissary to restock oranges.

“Five days! Not to mention waitin' for commissary to bring back oranges. Lazy fuckers. Two weeks for some goddamn fruit…”

Eddie mutters a lifeless “That’s fucked up, man”, but Rick is already lamenting about prison contraband. In about two minutes, he'll transition to complaints about his cellmate, a young kid who is horrible at prison poker.

He knows. This isn't the first, second, or even third time they've had this conversation. But once Rick starts, he doesn’t stop. No matter how little time is left, which inmate is yelling at him to stop hogging the phone, or what excuse Eddie has. Nothing works. All he can do is play along until Rick drops the charade.

“I tell ‘im, he’s gotta show me respect. He can't bet my toilet paper 'cos he lost his...”

Running a hand through his hair, Eddie flops back into his chair as his patience ticks away with each passing second.

It's not like they were close before Rick's sentencing. Sure, they were friendly, but they were never friends. They were as close as a drug supplier and their dealer could be, but even that isn’t enough to justify these biweekly calls. Rick claims it's so he remains connected to the outside world, which may be partially true but it's not the complete truth. He doesn't call to shoot the shit, and he doesn't act without an ulterior motive. Eddie has something he wants.

“You have one minute left.”

The automated message has Eddie bolting straight up as if there is a drill sergeant breathing down his neck. Thank fuck, he thinks as he taps his rings against the linoleum table top.

"Well, that’s my cue to go. Good luck with your celly, man.”

“Wait, wait! We got time. How’s my girl? She staying out of trouble?”

He bites the inside of his cheek, slumping back in his seat with an exasperated eye roll. She’s not your girl. That's what he wants to say.

“As far as I can tell.”

“She still working at Benny’s?”

“Yeah, saw her there last week," His eyes flicker towards the kitchen clock, the minute hand creeping past the number 4 as another minute is consumed by Rick's yapping. “Rick, I really–”

“Any customers making a move?”

Now that makes his mind white out, only the memory of his last visit to Benny's Burgers flashes behind his eyes.

“Eddie, I don’t have a lot of time.” Your warning was at odds with your actions. With your skirt shucked up to your waist, you pulled your underwear to the side to expose your puffy pussy.

“Relax, sweetheart,” His words dripped like honey as he tugged down his own pants just enough to get his cock out. “We’ve got ten minutes.”

Fucking in the woods behind Benny’s wasn't ideal, but with his band’s equipment taking up the back of his van, your options were limited. It wasn't ideal, but it would do. The woods offered enough coverage to keep your lewd actions hidden, but close enough to hear Benny calling for you if there was a rush of customers.

“I’ll need to fix my ha–” Your words were interrupted with a rush of breath as he fed you the first inch of his cock. “Hair! Oh, fuck, Eddie.”

“I know. Just let me take care of you, ‘kay?”

Every nerve in his body thrummed as he pulled back before pushing back into you. While you scrabbled for purchase into the tree in front you, Eddie clung to you like an anchor, both arms wrapped around you as he thrust into you.

It's when you choked on his name that he knew he was dragging against your sensitive spot. He pushed a hand down so his fingers could rub quick circles against your clit.

“There you go, baby.”

The lewd, sweet slaps of his hips against your ass echo through the trees. He’s almost hoping someone hears. It's a perverted show of pride, one that would make him cringe if not for the suffocating cloud of pleasure. But he wants people to know that it's him, the town freak, that is making the pretty waitress feel good.

Another automated warning comes to pull Eddie back to his uncle's trailer. The familiar feeling of lust creeps in his lower abdomen.

“Not that I've seen. She’s keeping to herself.”

“Well, what about at night?” Rick presses. They have less than 30 seconds left and he is intent on using every last one. “Maybe she's got some limp dick keeping 'er warm at night?"

Eddie can't help put raise his eyebrows at that. Well...

He wasn’t planning on spending the night, but the Indiana weather had other plans. A storm rolled in, thundering with such chaos that it knocked out the power and flooded most of the major roads.

Not that he was too upset.

All that was waiting for him back at the trailer was a can of soup and the ten o'clock news. But here, he got to revel in the sight of you laid out on Rick's your living room floor, your pretty legs spread open to invite him in. Tender and inviting, he pressed slow and respectful kisses down to your cunt, acting as if he wasn't the messiest pussy eater in Hawkins.

“That feels nice,” You breathed, watching him with blown out pupils. His stomach twists, and he hopes it's because of him and not the downed power lines.

“I want it to,” He murmured, his messy curls tickling your inner thighs. “Fuck, you taste so good.”

He closed his eyes to feast like you were a delicacy. He took his time, licking and prodding, until another wave of arousal coated his tongue. You mentioned Rick rarely went down on you, and if he did, it wasn't anything extraordinary. Eddie was determined to make up for that.

“Y–yeah?”

“Mhmm. Like candy. Messy too. Think I’m gonna have to stay here a while, make this little hole all drooly. Maybe get your clit to come out and play, too." He trailed the tip of his tongue through the mess you were making, warm and wet, moving up to flick against your clit.

"She loves it when I play with her, doesn't she?" – kiss – "Likes it when I kiss her" – kiss – "love her."

“Oh God,” Your hands covered your face, but your giggles still seeped through your fingers. “I can’t believe you refer to my pussy as its own person.”

“Gotta give her the respect she deserves, sweetheart.”

“Eddie? You there, man?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, just a bit…distracted.” He stammers, palming himself through his boxers. No way is he chubbing up while on the phone Reefer fucking Rick. His heartbeat speeds up to a heavy thumping that he hopes can't be heard through the phone. "No, I drove by last night and didn’t see any cars.”

But Rick just can't take no for an answer. "You check inside?"

Now Eddie's patience is running on empty. "Jesus H. Christ, no man. Fuck no! The town already thinks I'm a satanist, don't need to add Peeping Tom to it."

"Yeah, yeah you're right," Rick concedes, although the disappointment is palpable. "I know she's not doin' anythin', she loyal. But you never know with females. It's their hormones, makes 'em stupid. But shit man, you gotta lay off the weed! You're spacin’ out like that, no wonder you’re still in school.”

Yeah, no. Eddie is done. His fingers tighten around the phone, squeezing tight until his knuckles turn white. He shouldn't. He really fucking shouldn't.

“...You know? Repeating senior year isn’t gonna attract the ladies. How you gonna find a good girl like mine if you’re still in school? Gotta be a man and finish. Don’t wanna turn out like your daddy or your uncle–”

“Fifteen second remaining. Please hang up now.”

He should bite his tongue, just grin and bear it, but Eddie isn't exactly known for keeping his head down. Just yesterday Uncle Wayne was joked how he needs a padlock installed on his mouth because right now, his mouth is moving too quickly for his common sense to catch up.

“You know what? You're right. I need to find a good girl. I actually have one in mind. You might know her, really pretty. She works at Ben–"

Click!

"The call has ended. Thank you for using Securus Calling Service."

"Jesus H. Christ," He mutters. It's a surprise the phone isn't ripped off the wall considering how hard he slammed down the receiver. He runs his hands over his face, rubbing hard as if he can scrub away his words.

It was a dumb move, childish impulsivity at its finest.

So why doesn't he care?

A few months ago, he'd be spiraling. Piercing stabs of anxiety poking him all over until his skin felt raw. Chain smoking until there was a mountain of cigarette butts he could bury his head in.

But now.

Now the needles of anxiety are more of an annoying pinch. It's been months since you and Eddie started...whatever this is between you. The strict rules you initially set have relaxed from a mixture of exhaustion and simply not giving a fuck.

Eddie parks his van right out front where anyone driving along Holland Road could see. You're no longer quiet when Eddie is on the phone with Rick. Hell, last time you stood in front of him dressed in only a Hellfire shirt, calling his name like a song and curling your finger towards his room. Rick still thought it was bad reception that abruptly ended the call.

It's stupid dumb how obvious you are. Something straight out of an afternoon sitcom, all that's missing is a laugh track. And, sure, the logical thing might be to re-evaluate the situation and remember that the both of you are playing with fire, but it's too much fun. You're too much fun. And beautiful and funny and clever and kind and —

And if it means Eddie's life is now a tv show, he just hopes it ends with a happily ever after and not tragedy.

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hellishjoel · 5 months ago

Text

uneasy hearts weigh the most

7.3k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Main Masterlist | Notifications Blog

summary: Benny hosts the party of the year where broken pieces of Frankie's past are unearthed. warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), smoking and drinking alcohol, reader is described to have hair (not descriptive of what color/length/etc.), house party, explicit smut, oral (f!receiving), swearing, pet names, allusions to bad parenting/parental abuse, vivid writing of a mental disorder [capgras syndrome] and an accompanied nightmare, descriptions of violence against a parental figure, descriptions of a parent abusing drugs and alcohol (please heed these warnings and do not read if you are concerned these may be triggers) A/N: I know this has been in the works for a while and I thank you for your patience! special shoutout to @thetriumphantpanda who beta'd this for me!! I owe her a 100 grand bar now! listen to the song uneasy hearts weigh the most and I'll kiss you on the forehead

Yeah baby, keep fuckin’ my fingers. “Do it again,” he mutters. You moan louder as you gyrate your hips once more against his fingers, grinding your core against his knuckles. “Fuck, baby,” he whispers with adoration.

The last time Francisco Morales saw his father was when he was punching his face in.

It was a blur.

Blood splattered across his face, neck, and shirt. His fist was crimson, his knuckles ached. But he couldn’t will himself to stop.

Frankie would draw his arm back, using as much force as his little twelve-year-old body could muster, and plunge his whole body forward as he landed another hit. He couldn’t stop himself from crying, even when he was at his angriest.

Why was he crying? Why couldn’t he stop crying?

Frankie’s dad wasn't exactly father-of-the-year material. More like a drill sergeant with a drinking problem. When things got tough, he’d ditch his family for drugs and booze and only ever circle back when money turned to dust.

His mom was falling apart before his eyes. His younger siblings were fearful because their mom, who was supposed to take care of them, couldn’t, and their father, who was supposed to love them, hurt them.

Frankie was the oldest; he felt an obligation to protect everyone. But what can you do when you’re not even five feet tall?

If his father hadn’t been so strung out that night, Frankie wouldn’t have been able to tackle him to the ground like he did. He wouldn’t have been able to pin him down by fisting his ratty t-shirt and hit him like he did. As hard as he did. As many times as he did.

Then, his father lay lifeless. Frankie blinked away his tears and let out a shaky sob. He got scared because he thought he had killed him. After all those puny hits, he laid limp. He wasn’t smart enough to know that he had just passed out from the drugs in his system.

Frankie was so torn because how can you hate someone you’re supposed to love? How could his father leave the family he was supposed to be the foundation of?

The Texas Department of Family and Protective Services intervened not long after. And he doesn’t like to think about it, any of it.

Not growing up, not his family, nothing.

But now he’s staring at a letter from his father. It’s his handwriting; the slant in the L’s, and the hook of his Y’s. Slightly smeary, written in pencil with eraser shavings damn near burned into the lined paper. He wrote this letter over and over again, trying to author the right words, to say the right things.

Frankie’s heart stops, and all the memories rush back in a flood. It hits him like a fucking hurricane.

Tommy’s Diner settles after its Friday night dinner rush. The hour before closing was always erratic, putting together to-go orders and ushering stacks of dirty plates from the tables to the back sink.

Your shoulder blades collide with the swing door connecting the kitchen to the rest of the diner, using the force of your body to swing it open as you balance the ceramic plates in your arms.

“Sorry, Lou. Just a few more.” You mutter tiredly as you set the stack beside the teenage dishwasher, hearing him sigh loudly before putting his earbuds back in place. He wasn’t one for many words. The most you knew about him was he listened to cringey, whiney rappers.

You close your eyes for just a moment and lean back into the counter, craning your back and feeling each vertebrae realigning with anguish. Tina called in sick and you offered to work a double to pick up some extra hours this week. Besides, on days you didn’t work with Frankie, you were more… productive.

The hum of customers gradually subsides, their chatter tapering off until the bell above the door chimes, signaling their exit. It’s nicer like this, when you don’t have to be the charming server who keeps up with all of their conversations from table to table. Especially after pulling a double, and your brain feels like it might melt.

The staff worked diligently throughout the rest of the night, tidying up the tables and floors, not letting up until the countertops gleamed, the coffee pots shined, and the strong smell of cleaning fumes mingled in the air.

You grow a fond smile thinking about spending the summer with Frankie. He adores being outside far more than you do. It’s impossible not to imagine how stupidly sexy he would look with his skin glowing a golden tan and a pair of sunglasses sitting lazily on the bridge of his aquiline nose. Loose, flowy shirt and a pair of shorts. Curls lost to the wind.

He talks about taking you on nature walks through his favorite trails and driving you further out of your nowhere town so you can stargaze at midnight. Or maybe you could hit the beach and spend your days under the sun drinking margaritas and Coronas.

Summer could change things for you.

Admittedly, you’ve been fantasizing—romanticizing. You think about him even when he��s not around. You miss the home you’ve made on the open side of his bed, where you’d curl around his orange tabby cat with his arms circled around your waist.

Worst of all were the nights you were back at your place, where there was no one around to cook you dinner or dish out goofy conversations. Having to snake touches over your own body, over the curve of your belly, and sinking your fingers past your panties where the only remnants of Frankie is you muttering his name at the peak of your orgasm, wishing it was him showering you with his affections rather than your fingers or toys.

God forbid you enjoy solo sessions anymore because Frankie has totally ruined that for you. It wasn’t as fun knowing you had a brown-eyed, curly-headed man across town who would beg on his knees given the chance.

Anyway. Enough of that.

You count the till’s cash, level out the profit, and put it all in a small bank bag before your manager, Carla, tucks it inside the safe. The metal keys on your carabiner clip jingle upon flipping the lock, the cool night air tickling your skin as late spring shows its face under the velvet night sky.

A truck rumbles up the drive, and you know the signature death rattle all too well.

“What are you doin’ here?” You lean against the driver's side of Frankie’s truck once he pulls up to you, your sneakers shifting gravel, his mouth tilted in a smirk. He leans past the truck’s frame and kisses you, cradling the back of your head to keep you against him.

“Mmm,” he hums against your mouth, tasting cherry chapstick as he glides his tongue across your lower lip. “Get in. Benny’s having a house party.”

Eyes narrowing, you run your thumb up his beard scruff and gently scrape your nails down the dark hair. “I need to go home to change. Plus, I need a shower. I smell like grease, and I have grime under my nails.”

“Fine, I’ll take you back to your place. I can wait.”

A breath stalls in your lungs, eyes unblinking as you stare at him for a moment.

Frankie has yet to visit your place — your dungeon, a basement-level one-bedroom apartment made up by a measly excuse of a kitchen and a tiny living space. You’re by no means embarrassed of its appearance. You’re rather clean, and you’ve made it as homely as you possibly can with bright-colored rugs and wall art. But it was sort of your final boundary. He was literally about to pass the threshold. Master the final boss.

He’s let you have your space and never pushed you. The least you could do was say,

“Okay.”

A contagious grin catches his lips, pulling you closer by the hand still cradling the back of your head, and he takes you in for a few more slow kisses.

A car’s honk and bright lights jolt your heart, and your eyes squint until the flashers go down on the car Frankie has parked in.

“Can you two lovebirds hurry it up?” your manager, Carla, yells from the driver's seat of her rust-red 2006 Honda Civic. “You’re blockin’ me in, Francisco.”

You purse your lips with embarrassment, heat flushing the back of your neck. Carla was going to find out one way or another that you two have been sneaking around. She knows everything about everyone.

“Hey, sorry, mama,” Frankie nods as she shakes her head slowly, mouth tainted with a smirk.

“I’ll follow you back to your place,” Frankie whispers and you nod shyly, wrapping around the front of his truck and letting him tail you home.

Frankie takes two steps at a time down to your basement-level apartment. His boots thump against the cold stone, and you push the front door open with the force of your shoulder.

His eyes drag along the different pieces of the apartment that make you, you. Soft blankets that drape along the back of a loveseat accompanied by little, fluffy pillows, different pairs of sneakers sit stacked beside the front door, and a small table for two holds random clutter in the criminally tiny dining room.

He follows your lead and kicks off his shoes, watching you unfold into your natural routine: you drop your bag on the kitchen counter, and your fingers are already tugging a black hair tie loose. He trails you down a narrow hallway, squinting as you turn on the harsh overhead lighting to the bathroom.

Out of your clothes without a second thought, Frankie can’t help but laugh at the way you fling your bra past his head, tunneling down the hallway and landing in what he presumes is your bedroom. The shower curtain is something abstract, most likely purchased from the Target down the road.

“I’ll be quick if you wanna wait outside,” you offer, body shielded by the curtain.

Frankie shrugs, eyes glancing to the toilet opposite the shower.

“I don’t mind waitin’. Wanna tell me about your day?” Frankie asks, taking a seat on the closed toilet lid. He sees you fight away a timid smile and slink behind the shower curtain. The beads of water hit your body and change the tune inside the bathroom. He can tell each time you shift and twirl. It takes you a moment to become acquainted, but you retell the details of your day in a sweet lull.

“I, uh, I usually listen to music when I shower,” you admit between the spray.

“Oh, so you want me to start singin’?” Frankie asks with a smirk, to which you quickly shout no!

It doesn’t stop him from breaking into a pitchy rendition of a song by the Bee Gees.

After a fit of laughter, you both settle down, and Frankie is back to smiling at the sheer, cheaply-made shower curtain. He can see your silhouette dance under the shower head, gathering your hair and rising out the suds, grabbing a loofa to scrub away the worst of the grime from Tommy’s Diner.

Holy shit, Frankie thinks, you smell like heaven. Oh my god, he likes you. It hits him like a bullet to the chest, the impact rippling through his veins and making his heart beat so loud that it rings in his ears. It’s a silent reminder that feeling things are beautiful when they are about you.

The bathroom grows steamy, fogging up the glass of your medicine cabinet mirror. His skin grows clammy and his knee starts to jump in anticipation.

“I’m almost done!” Your voice sing-songs as he slips off his jacket, his eyes still cast upon your body beyond the curtain. He’s in love with the way your body moves, fluidly and without intention. You’re just taking a shower and he thinks you’re beautiful.

Just as you’re about to flip the water off, the curtain rings screech to open.

“Frankie,” you breathe, eyes falling to his exposed tan skin. No other words come to mind other than another breath of his name.

His lips attach to your neck, slow but faltering. Like he’s searching for the one spot to push you over the edge and join him in oblivion.

The tension in the air rises as the water cascades down his back and soaks his dark curls. His frame, large and broad, protects yours as his arms circle your waist like wild vines.

Your eyes slowly fall closed, lips parted as your head eventually tilts back and rests against the shower wall. It exposes more area for Frankie to explore, his palms kneading at your lower back, arching your torso into his own.

His teeth skim along your skin, the steam already forcing your flesh to glow and rise under the growing pressure of his hunger for you.

He begins to navigate a new path, his lips finding purchase above your breastbone. Your fingers start at his biceps, feeling the strong muscles protruding underneath. He’s so unbearably handsome, and you can’t believe his body is fitting in the small shower stall with you.

Finally, a heavy breath slips, something that resembles a moan. After that, he’s starving for you.

The teeth that were once just grazing your skin, now nipping and sucking. His hands fall lower down the curve of your ass, squeezing and lifting as you gasp into his ear. You're dripping with arousal that sits achingly between your legs.

You place a slender hand over his more muscular one, guiding it between your legs and gently cupping your mound.

“Please,” you whisper, like the only thing Frankie needs to hear.

He paints your mouth in a wet kiss, drowning any better judgment that may have resided.

Intertwining your feelings together, the steam buckles heatedly in the small space.

His fingers curl in your hold, swiping between your folds and feeling you. There’s a whimper let out against his ear, nipping at his lower lip once his fingers push past your threshold.

And he groans.

You’re so fucking tight, so fucking perfect for him. His forehead lays against your temple, your nose brushing against the coarse hair of his beard. Frankie sinks his fingers into you, knuckle-deep, and leaves you squirming under his hold. His fingers are so thick, it’s a bittersweet symphony the way your moans mingle in the air.

He’s got you cornered in the shower, body pressed against the hot mold. Two fingers move fluidly inside, stretching your core and stoking the burning embers that rest low in your stomach.

“There,” you breathe, gasping as he adds more pressure to one spot that makes your legs nearly collapse out from under you. He still has you locked with an arm around your waist, holding what’s left of your presence.

He’s skilled, his thumb finding your clit, and you want to scream at the way his fingers are long enough to fuck into you and massage your aching pearl at the same time. He’s the only one who can make you unfold like this.

“Christ,” he mutters into your ear as he feels your walls desperately clench around him. “You can take another, can’t ya, baby?”

His brown eyes melt you, waiting for your confirmation. You sigh weakly but ultimately nod. It’s all you can think about.

He groans as he works a third into your entrance, and it burns, the way your pleasure mixes with the pain.

You wrap an arm weakly around the tops of his shoulders, nails etching into his skin in a last-ditch effort to keep yourself able in his arms.

“Fuck, Frankie,” you whine, long and bratty almost. You’re so close already, he knows just how to get you to the brink.

You tingle at his touch, your muscles going numb as he fucks his fingers at a now unrelenting pace within your tight core.

He works you to the edge, feeling the tick of the timebomb slowly begin to set off inside you.

With all the energy you have left, you swing your leg up and hitch it on his hip.

He looks bewildered for a moment, shocked eyes meeting your own as you rest your shoulder blades back against the shower wall with enough room to move your hips. You begin rolling your core down onto his fingers and he makes a noise resembling praise.

Yeah baby, keep fuckin’ my fingers.

“Do it again,” he mutters.

You moan louder as you gyrate your hips once more against his fingers, grinding your core against his knuckles.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers with adoration.

He watches your body with fascination, Frankie’s eyes obsessively taking in your movements. His lips are quick to bow down at your alter, lips latching onto your exposed nipples that perk up in his mouth with all the attention. It makes a tingle shoot down your spine, only making your hips move faster as you fuck yourself down onto his fingers.

Frankie kisses down your body until he’s sunk down onto his knees, damn near growling as your hips grind against his awaiting mouth. He latches his lips to your clit and harshly suckles, causing a high-pitched whimper to leave your mouth.

You’re so close and he knows it, he can feel your thighs trembling under the heat of his palms. It’s the only thing holding you up at this point. Weaving your fingers into his watered-down locks, you grip them tight and keep Frankie close.

He chuckles lowly, eyes flicking up to yours and seeing the desperate look cast over them.

“You wanna come?”

Like he even has to ask.

“Please,” you say, desperation leaking from your voice as you feverishly nod.

Frankie tsks playfully, humming lowly against your clit. “Love when you beg for it, sweetheart.”

Frankie circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, making out with your pussy and lapping away at your sweet juices. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, allowing his fingers to move with more precision.

You can feel your muscles contort as he starts to massage your spongy sweet spot. It’s enough to make your jaw drop and heat to spill down your spine. Your fingers clench his curls tighter between your fingers, holding him against you as your orgasm finally breaches.

The leg hooked onto his shoulder shakes with each uneasy wave of your orgasm. The shower’s heat leaves you breathless, crying out in pleasure as your body shudders.

Frankie smirks as he slowly loosens his fingers from your entrance, taking each finger into his mouth, one, two, three. His tongue swirls around each digit before he inches your leg back to down to the shower floor, planting your feet on solid ground before he stands and twists the shower’s handle.

It only takes a few seconds, but the high of your orgasm and the heat of the shower makes you lose your sense of self. Your legs tremble and your hands feverishly grip Frankie.

The ringing in your ears slowly fades away as he snaps the handle on the shower, letting the room calm into gentle silence.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers as he wraps you in his arms, feeling weightless as he talks you down. “Wow,” he breathes, “never had a woman faint from how good-”

“Stop,” you laugh breathlessly, peaking your eyes open, and seeing the glittering haze of the handsome man in front of you. Water droplets run down his face, cascading down his neck and gliding horizontally across his shoulders.

“I like hearing you talk about your day.”

Innocent eyes meet his own and you nod. “Okay.”

Frankie wasn’t joking when he said his friends threw a house party. They threw a goddamn party.

After winding down a long gravel road about thirty minutes out of town, you arrive at a two-story classic country home. It’s surrounded by acres and acres of green grass and tall trees in the distance. The most action this house has seen in years is most likely deer or coyotes.

And now it was seeing the house party of a lifetime.

“Frankie,” you breathe out in disbelief once he parks his truck in the grass and kills the engine. “Whose house is this?”

His mouth tilts in a smirk as he peers forward up at the house, not sure if he’s staring at the long string lights that reach from one side of the home to the other, or the drunkards climbing onto the roof.

“Will and Benny’s, after their grandfather passed away. Pretty sweet, huh?”

The crunch of a beer can under your shoe is the first thing you hear, other guests quick to park their vehicles and rush inside with cases of beer on their shoulders. The echoes of the partying inside could be heard from the dirt driveway, Frankie wrapping his arm around your shoulder as he escorts you in.

A chorus of people bump against your shoulder as they step outside, laughing hard and obviously tipsy.

“What is this place?” You mutter in slight amazement and curiosity.

“Come on, I’ll give you the tour,” Frankie whispers against your ear, making a tingle slip down your spine as you playfully nudge your elbow somewhere between his ribs.

He walks you through the living room, easily the most filled room in the house by the looks of it. All the furniture has been pushed aside and a band resides at the forefront of all the chaos. The lead singer and guitarists stand on the sitting area of the recessed mantle. The cheering rings in your ears and the bass thumps through the floorboards, electrifying everyone’s bodies to move and dance.

Off the dining room is the kitchen. You can’t really tell how modern or outdated it is due to the sea of people making drinks. Frankie reaches through the hoard and retrieves two beers, popping the top off yours and slipping the cold bottle into your hand.

“Thanks,” you mutter as you clink your bottle with his.

Aside from the noisiest parts of the house, there were chill places where people were talking and sharing ideas or the latest things that were happening in their lives. You try not to laugh as a woman swaying in a hammock accidentally falls out, landing with a thud. Thankfully, her friends in the bean bags below caught her with bellows of glee.

“Best part,” Frankie whispers to you as he opens the door to a nearly pitch-black room, only lit by two lanterns at the very front of the mostly wood study. People are sat on the floor, whispering and shushing each other as you and Frankie fill in quietly towards the back.

“And now, may I present to you, Santi, the Significant!”

Your eyebrows furrow as Santiago steps in front of a white flashlight’s spot, bowing ridiculously as everyone laughs.

“Santi the Significant?” You whisper as Frankie chuckles quietly and nuzzles his nose against your temple.

“He thought Magnificent wasn’t spectacular enough, or kitschy.”

“He performs real magic? Isn’t that kind of…” At the risk of offending one of his best friends, he fills in the blank for you.

“Nerdy?” Frankie snidely smirks and shakes his head. “Works better than you think. Watch.”

You're skeptical about the magic act, but you can't help but be impressed as the confident Santi pulls roses from his jacket sleeve and hands them to the most eligible ladies in the audience, eliciting gasps and enthusiastic applause.

“No way,” you shake your head as Santi continues a few close-up magic tricks, enough to keep his drunk audience convinced. After a few more card tricks and cheesy jokes, the crowd applauds and whistles.

“That’s all from me today, folks. If you want my number, please see me after the show.”

“Dear god,” you mutter, hiding your face in Frankie’s shoulder. “How is this working?” You ask as a group of young women circle Santi with praise and lusty eyes. “Should I go ask for his number? I was pretty wooed back there.”

Frankie tuts as he ushers you out of the study. “Absolutely not.”

The entire night thrives on high energy with a constant flow of surprises. The decor of pink plastic flamingos and a surprise disco ball is making this everyone’s night one to remember - as long as the guests don’t drink too much.

You’ve let Frankie go to mingle with his friends while you keep an intoxicated Benny at bay sitting at the top step of the staircase that looks over most of the party.

“Quite the bash, Benny.”

“Thank you, m’lady. You’re enjoying yourself?” He slurs and sways, even while sitting.

“I didn’t even know this many people our age live around here.” Your head rests against old yellow wallpaper, the design mostly faded and lightly curling at the floorboards. Your finger plays with the exposed edge, fighting the urge to tear it off or keep peeling it.

He hums and throws an empty beer bottle behind his shoulder, hearing it clatter against the wall. “The best distraction for someone like me is people. I like people. And everyone needs a good distraction.”

You narrow your eyes on Benny curiously, the disco ball flashing along the bedazzled beads hanging around his neck. “Distraction from what?”

Benny seems like a very happy person, but it’s moments like these that reveal one's vulnerability. He slowly shakes his head with a very telling smile, gently squeezing your shoulder as he sighs. “It’s okay,” he slurs, “it’s why our friend group gets along so well because we all need distractions.”

He speaks so knowingly, almost like a prophet speaking in riddles, so you decide to amuse him.

“Yeah? What about Frankie? He needs distractions too?”

Benny hums and points at Frankie down below. You peer through the wooden balusters, seeing Frankie mix and mingle with a drink in one hand and a lit joint in the other. He takes a hit and sputters up a cough as he laughs at what his group is saying, making you smile.

“Frankie… is a very special case. He’s uh,” Benny’s eyes droop, his head resting on your shoulder as he closes his eyes and relaxes with your presence.

“He’s what?” You whisper, reassuringly running a hand up and down his back.

Benny lets out another sigh, breath reeking of alcohol. “You’re a good distraction for him. ‘Nd I don’t mean a distraction like a bad thing. You’re… You’re very good for him. He’s had a hard life and y’know, I’m sure he’s told you. But now he’s happy again.”

Your heart hammers in your chest and you’re afraid Benny might be able to hear it. The large grandfather clock standing by the front door chimes, and you can’t read the time from this distance, but by the multiple rings, it must be midnight.

And before you can stop him from spilling, Benny shares maybe more than he should.

“Y’know with his dad. His whole family, really. His mom has capybara… no, not capybara syndrome.” Benny pauses to laugh before finishing.

“Capgras syndrome? She just wasn’t all there when he was growing up and she didn’t get the help she needed until later in… in life. Frankie was just a kid and all of his siblings were, y’know, younger than him. Plus his dad wasn’t around to help her, drunk asshole that he was probably wouldn’t have been much help anyway.”

You stare straight ahead, watching your happy goofball down below with a new view.

“So his mom was there but not really there. He hasn’t seen his dad in years, but now, he’s back around and sent Frankie a letter or some shit. I don’t know what about. But everything has just sort of sucked for him for a long time.” Benny scoffs and lays his forehead against your shoulder, muttering now. “Especially that damn letter. ‘Nd his damn dad. But you know about all of this already.”

No, you didn’t. You’re stunned into a soft silence, the hand on Benny’s back slowly falling.

“This party and you, good distractions. But Frankie told me he started having nightmares again.”

Suddenly very awake and alert, Benny sits up straight and looks you in your eyes. “Don’t let him drink too much tonight, okay? He’ll start spiraling if he thinks about this shit too much. Keep… keep being a good distraction.”

Benny pauses and clenches his stomach, his face turning a little pale. “Fuck,” He mutters as he quickly shifts onto his knees and crawls up the opposite side of the staircase, pushing himself to his feet and rushing towards the bathroom.

The buzz of the party slowly fades, like the sound of snow falling outside. It’s a silence that isn’t silence at all. Everything falls into slow motion, the confetti falling and the disco ball gleaming all halting mid-air.

You weren’t supposed to know this much, or Frankie would have told you if he wanted to. But now as you stare down the staircase to Frankie, seeing him throw his head back in laughter, it’s hard to imagine someone like him had a past like that.

Benny was drunk. Maybe he was mixing Frankie up with someone else? You didn’t know why, but instead of your usual instinct to flee, one of protection starts to come over you.

“Hey,” Frankie breathes out with a big smile, his eyes glazed over and a little red from smoking as he watches you step down the staircase.

“Hey,” you say with little to no masking of your emotions.

He tilts his head adorably and rests his hand on your hip, pulling you in closer to him. “You alright?”

After nodding quickly with wide eyes, you know it’s more important for Frankie to believe nothing is wrong.

“Yeah! Yeah, all good. Do you think we could head out soon? I’m getting pretty tired, worked a double and all.”

Frankie smiles and pulls his truck keys out of his dark blue jeans, doing the responsible thing and putting them into your very capable hands. “If you’re tired, I’m tired. Let’s go.”

He’s cross-faded for sure. At one point on the drive home, Frankie hung his head out of the passenger-side window and stared at the stars, giggling, as the wind whipped his face. But he never let go of your hand.

The exhaustion from the night seems to hit you both once you return to the comfort of his apartment, a small orange fluffball hopping off the couch to run his body against your lower calf.

“Hi, Leo,” Frankie whispers, squatting down to gently scratch the cat’s chubby cheeks.

After stripping your clothes and turning on his television in the bedroom, the lull of a sitcom settles him into slumber. You lay with Frankie in bed, his arms slung low around your waist and his head nuzzled into your chest. He snores quietly as Leo curls up between you two.

Sleep seems to escape you, because every time you close your eyes, you picture a young Frankie with a tortured past. A shit father, a not all there mother. How was he so seemingly pieced together as an adult?

With one hand gently stroking his hair and massaging his scalp, you use the other to search capgras syndrome on your phone.

The National Institutes of Health describes it as, the most prevalent delusional misidentification syndrome and is characterized as a delusion of doubles. Patients falsely believe that an identical person has replaced a person close to him or her… CS symptoms may result in intrapersonal and interpersonal conflicts, along with poor social relationships. An individual with this kind of disorder is prone to self-harm and violence. There are also implications for the patient's family, as the stress on the caregiver and stigma-related stressors could further compound the issue.

Clicking the lock on your phone as fast as you can, you shakily sigh and wrap your arms tighter around Frankie.

It’s like nothing you’ve ever heard of and Frankie was at the center of it all. It felt like your stomach bottomed out thinking of what he had seen.

Was his mother ever violent with him? Or to herself?

And this letter from his father that Benny mentioned, what did it say?

You manage to exhaust yourself to sleep, but it doesn’t last long.

Frankie sweats bullets, his body rustling against the bedsheets that now make him feel confined. His heart hammers against his chest and pounds in his ears.

These dreams would be just dreams if they were happy, but there’s nothing happy about what he sees.

On a stormy night, his mother cries. The sobs fill the house, his younger sister fears it’s a ghost by the shaky howling that sways down the hallways to their bedrooms.

“It’s okay,” his uncertain voice reverbs as he fluffs her light pink princess pillow and tucks a lilac quilt over her small body. He smiles convincingly and closes the doors to his closet.

He walks alone down the dark hallway, his eyes anxiously peering from left to right. He spies his father downstairs drinking alone at the dining room table. The glass bottle shimmers as lightning strikes outside.

Is he passed out or impossibly still?

His mother lets out another wail.

“Goddammit,” his father curses to himself, shaking his head and finding a coat from the closet before slipping outside and into the rain.

It’s okay, Frankie thinks, because it’s easier to take care of her when he’s not around to intervene.

With a breath of relief, little ten-year-old Frankie walks downstairs and gets a glass of water. He’s so scared, his hands won’t stop shaking. No matter how much he tries to fill his lungs with air, the shaking doesn’t stop. Dribbles of water slide down his hand and wrap around the outside of his tiny wrist.

He follows the cries with hesitant steps, lightly pushing open the door to his mother’s bedroom.

“Mom?” He asks into the dark, his voice soft and squeaky.

“No! No, get out!” Her cries have turned to yelling, scrabbling up to the top of the bed and flushing her back against the bed frame.

“It’s me, mom, Frankie,” he whispers, slowly walking forward with an arm extended with the water.

She lets out another wail and shakes her head, causing Frankie to lurch back. He thinks the lightning strikes and the thunder booming outside is scaring her, and all he wants to do is soothe her panic.

“D-do you want some water?” He asks as she sniffs, her wide and unblinking eyes enough to keep him awake at night.

In a wake of reality, she wipes her face and whimpers. “Is that really you, Francisco?”

His bottom lip trembles as he nods feverishly. “Yeah mommy, it’s me.” Can’t you see it’s me?

She slowly lowers the covers that she had previously clutched to her chest, nodding slowly. But then she freezes again, horrified, unconvinced.

“I-It’s not you.” She says with uncertainty, shuddering at another clap of thunder.

“Momma,” he whispers as he moves closer, reaching out and touching her arm as he stands at her bedside. “Drink some water, momma.”

He offers the glass, her eyes shifting from Frankie to the glass and back.

“No-no! Your smile is bigger! That’s not my Frankie, his smile is bigger! Stay away from me!” She yelps, harshly smacking the glass of water out of his hands. Frankie jumps but can’t pull away, the grip of her hand wrapping around his wrist burns.

“You need to stay away from me, you hear me? Stay away from my family!”

Frankie tries to pull away, his own tears sprinkling along his eyes as he yanks yanks yanks and finally he’s free, running out of her room as adrenaline pumps through his little body. He quickly closes her door on the way out, sobbing erratically as he runs to the safety of the staircase, black funneling around his imagery.

Frankie’s eyes pop open, feeling the tight hold of your arms like the one of his mother. He shoots up and pushes your arms off, seeing your sleepy eyes tiredly open.

“Frankie?” You whisper, soft eyes meeting his own.

Fear still possesses him, it was overwhelming like a heavy weight sitting on his chest. It was all-encompassing, his manifestations of terror and panic being linked to the feeling of being chased by something from his past.

“It’s me, it’s me!” He shouts, his throat feeling like something was clawing at it.

You nod your head and reach out for his arm to which he instinctively rips away from you.

“It’s me!” He shouts again, causing Leo to scurry off the bed. His stomach felt uneasy, dread pounding a dent into his head.

“I know it’s you, I know it’s you, Frankie,” you breathe out, pushing yourself up fully as you take his hand and reassuringly squeeze.

He swallows down an impossibly large lump in his throat, catching his breath seems impossible. He couldn’t escape it, overwhelming helplessness nesting itself deep inside. It’s always the same nightmare or similar variants from his childhood. He used to think that he had blocked them out, shoved them away to a teeny tiny part inside him, locked away inside a vault. But recently, they’ve been coming back in swarms.

The reality that his nightmare is over suddenly hits him and his back slumps weakly. Like a human no longer possessed, his physical existence slowly turning from mush back to something concrete. Suddenly, a sense of relief washes over him. It wasn’t real, he was safe, he was with you.

“Frankie, you’re crying,” you whisper, slowly moving your hand up to wipe away the streams on his cheeks.

Frankie’s shaky hand holds yours, tight, and brings it to his heart, letting you feel the impossibly strong beat.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, putting his head in his hands, “I’m sorry, I’m s-so sorry,” he quickly shakes his head, feeling his body subtly relax from the strong heat that was tingling from his head to his toes.

“It’s okay, you’re safe now, it was just a bad dream.”

He knows now and he nods, but he still feels lost between his past and his present.

He shouldn’t have drank as much as he did, and he certainly shouldn’t have smoked. He knows that now, but he was hoping it would help him sleep, keep him at bay until you were gone in the morning. But now you were here and he felt so exposed, his open wounds now out and in the open.

Please don’t run.

“I’m sorry,” he says on repeat as you slowly run a hand up and down his back, his body leaning into yours and nodding; he needed this, he needed you.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” you whisper, “can I hold you?” You ask so sweetly, your voice dripping in kindness lined with concern.

He’s already nodding as you gently wrap your arms around his broad torso. He puts his arms over yours and sighs weakly, his fingers interlocking with yours.

Comforting energy exudes from you, the thing he desperately needs the most right now. Your soothing voice is nothing like his mother’s anguished cries, breaking him into reality with the honey drip of your sweet whispers.

“A nightmare?”

Frankie nods and closes his eyes, wiping the stray tears that still fall down his cheeks.

“I never wanted you to see me like this,” he tries to laugh, but it just comes out wrecked and thick from crying.

Why was he crying? Why couldn’t he stop crying?

Your chin rests on the dip of his shoulder and he can feel your slow breaths against his back. He aligns his wrecked breaths with your calm ones, your bodies slowly becoming in sync.

He’s so tired. He wants to close his eyes, but every time he does, he sees the flashes of lightning outside his mothers window and hears her untrusting words.

It’s not you!

You sit together like this for fifteen minutes and he’s becoming grounded again. He strokes the blankets and relaxes the clutching hold he has on your hand.

“I’m gonna get a cold washcloth, you’re burning up.” You whisper. He doesn’t want you to go, but he knows it will help - something his mother never understood. Help was good.

“Leo wants to sit with you,” you whisper as you round the bed, Leo already leaping up onto the bed and circling himself between Frankie’s parted legs.

“Sorry buddy,” he whispers, his voice raw and still shaky, but no longer feeling like he was choking on the air his body was desperately craving.

With hazy eyes, he watches your body move in his bathroom, the light making his eyes squint. Your soft legs tucked under his large t-shirt was a sight. He was definitely here again, in the present.

Benny had warned you, but nothing could have prepared you for that. But again, your usual feeling to run wasn’t here, because Frankie really fucking needed you right now. Your own concerns about this relationship were pushed aside. He needed comfort and reassurance, love where there wasn’t any before.

You soak a washcloth in cold water until your fingers turn numb under the streaming faucet. Squishing out the excess, you return to his bedside and gently dab at his neck. His honey-amber eyes have never looked so dark and lifeless.

He blinks slowly, he must be so tired. Frankie rests his hand on your upper thigh, fingers sinking into your plush flesh. He’s trying to ground himself, you think. A reminder that this was real.

“It must have been really scary,” you whisper as you bring the washcloth up to his rosy cheeks, then to his temple and across his forehead. “Does this feel good?”

He nods and squeezes your thigh reassuringly. “Really good.”

“Okay, baby.” You whisper, running the washcloth slowly down both of his arms. The cooling sensation should help him fully awaken. You rest the washcloth on the back of his neck and rest your hand on his now cool cheek.

His words ring through your ears, begging to be heard that he was real, that it was him. It was a dream about his mom, it had to be.

He lets out a breath of relief, smiling weakly. “You must think I’m insane.”

He grapples to find the right words, and you think it’s best to come clean.

“Benny told me,” you whisper, seeing his eyes harden at your truth. “About your mom, Frankie. Is that… is that what your dream was about?”

He sits impossibly still, but something in his gut must condemn him to tell you the truth. “Yeah, it was.”

You nod and run your fingers delicately across his cheek, giving him a reassuring smile. “You can tell me what you want when you’re ready. But it doesn’t scare me off, and I don’t think you’re insane.”

An exhausted breath of relief mingles between you both and he agrees. He’ll tell you when he’s ready.

“My dad, he sent me a letter and the nightmares started again,” Frankie whispers, brokenheartedness laced in his words.

You press a gentle kiss to his lips, one of understanding.

“I wanna read it to you in the morning.”

You give him a tight-lipped smile, nod, and kiss him again.

After making Frankie a sleepytime tea in his favorite mug, he settles back into bed. He was so vulnerable tonight when he really had no other choice. He falls asleep with his ear to your heart, and his arms wrapped loosely around your hips.

You stay awake and watch the television for as long as you can, hoping the comforting vibes of a sitcom will calm your racing heart. Gentle fingers draw shapes over Frankie’s back and you share a look with his cat. One that said you were both in this together. As the sun slowly slips across the horizon, your eyes finally close knowing this night of terrors is over.

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zepskies · 9 days ago

Text

The Honorable Choice - Part 3

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC

Summary: June 1872. Captain Dean Winchester of the U.S. Cavalry is tasked with one job: break a wild mustang. He just didn’t expect the woman who infiltrates his camp, intent on freeing her tribe’s horse.

AN: The last chapter! Hold on, it's about to get bumpy...

Disclaimer: I got inspired after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (literally a perfect movie), as well as having Yellowstone in the back of my brain. I’ve done extensive research for this one, both on the American Indian Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s (AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars and the Sioux Wars). Of course, one of my main goals is to avoid inaccuracies, both historical and cultural.

**Pronunciation guide at the end!

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: @jacklesversebingo Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 5.7K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Protective Dean, survival situations, smut (mutual masturbation, fingering, and more), angst, and fluff.

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

🎙️ Listen to the podfic version here!

Part 3: Worthy

They travel together for two more days. Dean isn’t really a talkative man, but inevitably, he finds himself speaking to fill the comfortable stretches of quiet plodding across the grasslands.

He tells her about growing up on his family’s farm, where his father was firm but fair, and a larger-than-life presence when Sam and Dean were kids. His mother though, she was the only one who could ever go toe to toe with John Winchester and win.

“She tamed him,” Mila remarks with a smile. Dean’s lips quirk in response.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he chuckles, “but he knew he couldn’t pull a whole lot of shit with Mom. She’s a real pistol when she’s gotta be.”

Talking about them makes his heart heavy and sobers his mood, so he deflects with other stories, other chapters of his life.

He talks about going through basic training alongside Benny Lafitte. As privates, Dean pranked his friend by filling his lumpy old pillow with raw eggs and chicken feathers. In retaliation, Benny swapped Dean’s morning coffee with actual dirt and hot water. Their boyish games escalated until they were nearly kicked out of the military.

Dean managed to smooth things over though. He’s always had a way of charming people, even the gruff Sergeant Major, Bobby Singer.

Mila admits that she and her cousin Šóta used to sneak out of the village when they were younger. He taught her how to climb trees, how to fight and protect herself, and how to ride a horse astride, like a man. He was the only one who ever encouraged her to have the “free mind” her mother dreamed about.

The more she confides in him, her eyes sparking with life and her hands gesticulating along with her words, the more Dean listens.

On the third day, it’s nearing mid-afternoon when Dean slows Baby to a stop. After miles and miles of forest and grassland covered, they’ve finally approached a large, wide river. Mila stops beside him.

“My tribe lives beyond the river,” she says, “but the current is strong now.”

Dean looks over at her. A question he hasn’t wanted to ask crops back up. He feels that now is the time to voice it.

“Yeah, about that…I’m thinking your tribe doesn’t take very well to outsiders,” he says. “White men in particular.”

Mila presses her lips together. He can tell she’s been thinking the same thing, but she turns to him with a determined set to her features.

“I will protect you,” she says.

Dean frowns. He doesn’t like the sound of that. On one hand, it warms him that she seems to really mean it. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to know what it’ll take for her to protect him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

She turns her face away and doesn’t seem to want to answer at first.

“Mila…”

“The Chief is my uncle,” she says at last. “He will listen to me.”

Dean blinks. Well, that changes things…maybe.

He’s still not convinced, but at this point, he really doesn’t have many options. It’s either take his chances with her tribe, or become a vagabond. He’s not sure how long he could survive in wilds of the West alone, especially while trying to dodge military patrols.

In the past three days, it’s taken Dean all that time to come to terms with a simple fact. He’ll likely never see his brother again, or his mother. It’s a pain that cuts into him deeply, down to his bones. It stings behind his eyes.

But if he only has two choices, then he at least wants to make sure Mila gets home safely…even if that means he won’t be.

He’s come this far. If his career is worth the price of what he feels is right, then his life is worth it too.

With that decision made, Dean expels a long, somewhat faltering breath. He locks away the rest of his uncertainty, his apprehension, and even his grief. He hides deep inside, where she won’t see it.

“All right, the current doesn’t look too bad over here,” he says, pointing to farther north along the river. “The horses can make it.”

Mila nods in agreement. She still looks uneasy, though she tries to hide it too. She ventures ahead into the river. Dean follows close behind.

The water is shallow at first, but it all too quickly gets deeper. The horses plod over the river stones and vegetation under the surface, and the humans are led deeper, until they’re submerged into the water up to their waists.

It’s good that Mila rides that giant mustang; if she were on a mare, like Dean, she’d already be sunk up to her shoulders. Baby’s a big girl, to be sure, but Mila is nearly a foot shorter than him, with a smaller frame. He watches her carefully as she makes her way ahead of him.

That’s why he’s able to act fast when Mato slips, dunking Mila under the water. She gasps and tries to cling onto him, but the current is fierce. It pushes Mato down the river no matter how much he scrambles and kicks at the water, braying wildly in distress.

Shit! Dean tugs sharply at Baby’s reigns and strives to catch up to them. He grabs Mato’s reigns and pulls and pulls, until he and Baby are able to drag him to the other side of the river where he can get a foothold with his hooves.

Mila is starting to fall off his back. She struggles to cling on while the river pushes at her, with her wet hair falling in her eyes. Dean leans back as far as he can to try and pull her up.

“It’s okay, I’ve gotcha,” he calls out, even though his heart hammers with alarm.

She reaches out for his hand in turn. Just as his fingers begin to close over hers, a wave from the current crashes into her. A short scream tears from her throat after she loses her grip on Mato’s neck. Without her weight, he’s able to pull himself back up onto the bank along with Baby.

Damn it! Gut-wrenching alarm spears Dean into action. He leaps down from Baby and removes his gloves, his hat, and his uniform jacket, so he can dive into the water. Thank God he’s a strong swimmer.

Mila seems to be too. She carves through the water against the current the best she can and tries to keep her head above the waves, but Dean can see it’s a losing battle. He manages to grab hold of her arm, and then wraps an arm around her waist to keep her close. Both of them work together to try and cling to any passing rock or low-hanging vine as the current sweeps them out toward an ultimate end.

A waterfall.

Of course. Goddamn it. Dean doesn’t know how steep it is on the other side, and he doesn’t want to know. All he’s trying to do is keep himself and Mila above the water.

She hooks her hand around a sharp rock. It bites into her hand, making her cry out, but she clings to it for all she’s worth. She holds onto Dean just as tightly, even though the current wants to take him. She tries to pull him closer, close enough for him to get a hold on the rock as well.

This time, it’s Dean who loses his footing. The rocks slip beneath the soles of his feet when he attempts to gain some leverage.

A shout of surprise escapes from him when he fails, and it gets swallowed up by water rushing down his throat.

“Dean!” Mila yells, for the first time using his name. The last thing he registers is the fear in her eyes—afraid for him.

The river takes him over the edge of the abyss, and he falls.

He never expected that he would get to open his eyes again, let alone to the sight that greets him. Mila’s familiar face, framed by the dark, drying waves of her hair, is bright with firelight. It dances in orange-gold across her features. Her eyes are warm like rich molasses when she looks down and finds him awake.

She smiles in relief.

He realizes that he’s lying on soft grass with his head pillowed in her lap. She’s taken off his boots and half of his white undershirt; she tore one of his sleeves to wrap around a mercifully shallow gash in his shoulder.

The horses are drinking from the river nearby, with a pile of apples split between them. There’s a fish roasted over the fire, but all Dean cares about is the way her fingers are running through his hair. She sings a soft song under her breath while she passes her other hand over his injured arm without touching it.

He doesn’t understand the words, but he thinks she might be trying to heal him. He’s heard plenty of stories about the Sioux people, most he’s taken with a grain of salt. He does remember Cas saying that their healers are different from doctors.

Dean’s never given their hoodoo much thought, but right about now, he hopes it works.

“Mornin’,” he croaks.

Mila’s relieved face becomes touched with amusement.

“It’s night,” she says. “You slept for a long time.”

Dean wants to sit up and take an inventory of his injuries, but he can’t make his body move just yet. He’s too tired and bruised. He also likes being in her arms. He likes her fingers in his hair, now moving to his cheek. He sighs through his nose in contentment as her thumb drifts over his overgrown stubble.

“Thank you,” she says. Emotion is thick in her voice.

Dean meets her eyes again, and he smiles. He raises the back of his hand to touch her smooth cheek, gently. He lets his fingers glide across her tan skin, down the column of her neck. Her breath hitches.

She takes his calloused hand in her slender one. Her long hair falls like a curtain over her shoulder, almost like it’s shielding them from whatever is left to come for them beyond the forest. Dean wraps an ebony strand around his finger, just to feel it fall loosely again.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he says.

Mila graces him with another smile from her lips. He wants to know what they taste like.

“I guess you are pretty, for a White Man,” she says teasingly.

Her fingers trace his brow, his jawline, even the tip of his chin. She seems to be avoiding his plush mouth, even though her gaze keeps dropping there. Dean pretends to frown.

“Sweetheart, that’s not the way you talk about a man,” he says.

Her brows raise. “No?”

“Handsome. Strong. Toothsome, if you will,” he says, enjoying the way she begins to blush. “That’s what you wanna call a man.”

“Toothsome. I don’t know this word,” she admits. “Am I supposed to eat you?”

Dean resists the urge to say the first incorrigible thing that pops into his head. Instead, his body shakes with laughter.

It’s difficult at first, all his muscles pulling at him in protest, but he raises himself into a sitting position. He cups Mila’s cheek, dragging his thumb across her lower lip. Her lashes are dark and long. They move when she looks up at him. He knows the look in her eyes, wanting, desiring, but also unsure of what she should allow him.

Dean leans in slowly, giving her time to decide.

She tilts her face up to his. He noses at her cheek, his eyes falling closed along with hers.

He finds her lips with his own on instinct and feeling alone. Soft and tender movements, testing, asking.

She answers him. Her fingers tangle in the front of his tattered shirt as her lips begin to move against his. Dean wraps an arm around her waist and gathers her against his chest. His other hand glides down her arm, down her side and along every soft curve. Her clothes are still damp, and so are his.

“It’ll be faster to dry our clothes if we’re not wearing ‘em,” Dean rumbles. His voice is deep with desire. He presses kisses along the side of her jaw, behind her ear, down her neck and shoulder. He earns her pleased hum, her heavier breaths, and her fingers once again in his hair.

“I can’t,” she gasps. She says something in her native tongue, too fast for Dean to even register. He slows down so he can meet her eyes.

“What was that?” he asks. Her face falls, and she starts to trip over her words.

“I am not…how you say, married. I have to be…”

Dean smiles ruefully, sliding a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Chaste?” he offers. She nods, her brows furrowed. Her grip on his shirt tightens.

“Yes,” she says. “In the eyes of my people, it is…”

“I get it,” Dean says. When she still seems conflicted, he presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Really, I understand,” he says.

His problem is that he stares into her eyes too long, and at her kiss-swollen lips. He dives back in for another taste.

This time, he’s a little less gentlemanly than he promised. His tongue sweeps along her lower lip, begging entrance. She makes a sound of surprise, but she opens up to him. Her gentle hands slide up his chest to hold his face, and her thumbs stroke his cheeks. He holds one of her wrists to keep her there as his tongue dances with hers. She tastes like the river, and like salty tears.

Had she cried for him? How long did she sit with his body, waiting to see if he would wake up?

Despite those worrying thoughts, Dean knows this feels right. More right than he’s ever felt.

It’s harder than he might’ve imagined, but he still pulls away, before he won’t be able to stop himself. Mila pants for breath. She seems to feel she should let him go, but also doesn’t show any sign of wanting to. Smiling, Dean caresses her cheek one more time before he turns to the fish she roasted.

“This looks good,” he says, clearing his throat. “What kinda fish is this?”

With a sigh, she attempts to steady herself and moves to join him by the fire.

That night, Mila dreams.

She dreams of wings, white and beautiful. She hears the cry of an eagle before she sees his great wingspan take off in flight. He soon finds his mate, and they dance together in the sky.

When she wakes, the fire has gone out and it’s still dark in the night. It takes her a moment to realize that she’s safe. Finally safe.

And she’s lying securely in Dean’s arms.

She’s no longer conflicted when she stares up at his face.

She will bring him home to her tribe, and she will explain. If they still don’t welcome him, then she prays for the strength to keep to her honor. Because now, she begins to realize…

Her heart has already chosen.

“Kimmímila, what have you done?” her uncle asks in the language of their people.

He is Tahatan, Chief of their tribe.

Mila’s father, Chatan, and her cousin Šóta have tied Dean Winchester to a post in the center of the Chief’s large tipi. Dean kneels with his head bowed in respect, even though he keeps sneaking looks at Mila to try and gauge what’s happening. He doesn’t understand a word of any of it.

“You’ve brought this outsider into our village, this White Man!” Tahatan shouts, his voice deep and resounding.

Mila steps forward, despite her mother’s embarrassment and her father trying to grab her shoulder. For the second time in her life, she defies her father for what she believes is right. The first was to rescue a member of their tribe—because even a horse’s spirit should not be broken by greed.

“Uncle, I’ve told you the story, though you don’t want to believe it,” she says. “Dean Winchester saved me when he could have killed me, or worse. He defied his own people. He is dead to his own people, for me, and because of me. You may think they lack all honor, but this man is different.”

She looks over at Dean, and he meets her gaze. He wears an anxious frown as he looks between her and the chief, but she has a feeling that his fear is for her, not for himself.

She kneels beside him, then looks up at her uncle with all the stubbornness she’s ever possessed in her life. She feels it’s led her to exactly this moment.

“And we are one,” she says. Nerves trill up her spine as she says it. She predicts the way shock falls over the room. The way her father curses out loud, angry. The way her mother covers her mouth in dismay. The way the Chief takes a step back, tilting his head at his niece.

“You would take it that far?” he asks.

Her face doesn’t change. “It’s already done.”

Tahatan is beside himself, both angry and perplexed. He goes back to his chair of wicker and wood that lies centered in the room. He drops heavily into it. After a long while, in which he thinks in silence…he releases a heavy sigh. He gestures for his brother and his son to untie Dean. The men do so, but they don’t let him go free. They force him to stand and bring him forward to kneel again before the Chief.

“Dean Winchester,” Tahatan says.

“Yes, sir,” Dean replies.

“You prove yourself to be a man with honor,” he says in English. “Kimmímila has chosen you. She claims you have chosen her in return. Do you deny this?”

Dean glances over at her. She bites the inside of her lip, a bit worried about how he’ll react. She’s not sure he completely understands what Tahatan is telling him, but he nods, regardless.

“No, sir. I don’t deny it,” Dean says.

“Then, you will be allowed to stay, and live among us,” Tahatan declares. "We will see for ourselves what you are. We will see if you are worthy."

Dean gives a nod, crossed with a bow of some kind. He obviously isn’t sure of what he’s supposed to do, but he does say thank you. Mila wraps her hands around his uninjured arm and helps him to his feet. She smiles at him to let him know that the worst is over. He blows out a breath in relief.

“Is that it?” he whispers. He expected more of a thrashing, if he’s honest.

“Almost,” she replies. The two of them stop short before her father, Chatan.

Dean straightens up and holds out his hand. “Sir.”

Chatan glances down at the white hand extended toward him. His gaze raises back up to Dean.

He grunts in acknowledgement, but he turns on his heels and storms out of the tipi. Her mother comes forward next. She examines Dean from all angles. She takes his face in her hand, somewhat squishing his cheeks, so she can look deeply into his startled eyes.

She seems satisfied by what she finds, and she lets him go. Afterward, she takes Mila’s hand and heaves a deep sigh.

She kisses her daughter’s hand and says nothing else, leaving them to find her husband and calm him down.

Dean turns to Mila with a look that says, please tell me that’s it.

She smiles more genuinely.

“Come,” she says.

She leads him by the hand out of the Chief’s tipi and through the village. Dean takes in the rows of other tall, cone-like structures covered in buffalo skin, as well as all the faces that turn to stare at him in a mix of curiosity, wariness, and even fear. Some of them whisper to each other, taking their children by the hand and keeping them close.

Dean’s still on guard himself, even when Mila takes him to a smaller tipi. It’s been closed up for a while now, by the look of it. Weeds have grown right outside the entrance.

“This one’s yours?” Dean asks.

She pauses, giving him another small smile. “Ours.”

Dean raises a brow. Ours. Really?

She opens the flap in the front and beckons him inside. There’s still enough daylight to shine through the outer lining. Inside, his gaze flits over the old pile of stones in the center for heating, clothes folded in the corner, some cooking pots and utensils, paintings on wood and clay, and a couple of beaded decorations. Buffalo skin bedding is laid out on the other side with a couple of soft looking furs.

Son of a gun. Dean doesn’t even blink as he processes it all. He’s in a damn tipi. This is really about to become his life.

Shaking his head a little, he forces himself to focus on Mila. She’s his anchor, and she seems to sense that he’s reeling. She guides him to sit beside her on the bedding, holding his hands in hers. After a moment, he reaches up to tuck a curling strand of hair behind her ear.

“You didn’t get in too much trouble because of me, did you?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “No. My father and uncle are very similar. Strong to anger, but it is quick to run out. At least with me.”

Dean thinks he understands. Short fuse, quick fizzle.

“There is just…one thing,” Mila says. Her eyes fall away from his, like she’s embarrassed. He squeezes her hands.

“What?” he asks, his brows furrowing. It gets her to look at him again, but she seems worried to tell him.

“To convince my uncle to let you stay, I told them that we…” she trails, trying to find the right words in English. “That we are married.”

Dean’s brows raise high. His heart trips up faster. Okay, “ours” makes a lot more sense now.

“I am sorry,” she says quietly. “I didn’t want you hurt—”

“Sweetheart,” Dean says, cupping her cheek. Even with the hammering of his heart, he grins. “I’m pretty sure that’s where this was going anyway.”

In fact, this is a best-case scenario, as far as he’s concerned. He leans in to kiss her, and it doesn’t take long at all for her to sigh in relief, melting against him.

“We’re married, huh?” he asks. “No ceremony? No white dress?”

“We are bonded,” she replies, nodding as she meets every one of his kisses. “Or, we will be.”

She tugs him closer and revels in the feeling of his hands beginning to roam her body, sliding down her waist, her hips and thighs.

“Guess that means we have to seal the deal,” he grins. His lips drift away from hers to burn a familiar path across her cheek. He takes to nibbling her ear, making her flinch and laugh as it tickles.

“Seal-the-deal. What does that mean?” she asks.

Dean chuckles lowly in her ear. “Oh, I think you know.”

He guides her onto her back, over the comfortable mess of furs. He wants to take his time exploring every inch of soft, tan skin, but he first sweeps her hair away from her eyes, the back of his hand brushing against her cheek. She smiles up at him softly.

“Do you regret?” she whispers, reaching up to touch his chin with two slender fingers. “Do you regret helping me?”

Dean considers her question. He knows he’ll carry his family in his heart until the day he dies. His brother, his mother, the memory of his father. Benny and Cas, even Jack, and so many others.

It’s already a heavy burden, but he had always been prepared to lose his life on the battlefield, in service of his country. At least this way, he gains a new life.

“No. Never did,” Dean replies. “Not even once.”

He bows his head toward hers, and he proves it to her. His lips capture hers, fueled by passion and wanting. Mila’s hands slide over his shoulders and down his back. Maybe without her realizing it, she implores him to let go of the weight heaped on his shoulders.

When he begins to bunch up the hem of her dress, she sits up to help guide his hands. Her quickening breaths mesh with his as the first layer of clothing drops beside the bedding. His tattered shirt joins her dress, along with pants and shoes and boots, until all that’s left is skin against warm, bare skin. He lays on his side right beside her and explores wherever she lets him begin.

“Beautiful,” Dean murmurs, as his lips follow the column of her neck, down between her breasts. Her breaths rise to meet him, especially when he begins to toy with a dark, pebbled nipple. Her fingers slip through his hair, and his name falls from her lips. He palms one breast while kissing and gently teasing the other, exploring sensitive flesh and grazing her sensitive fleshwith his teeth.

“No man’s ever touched you?” he asks, despite knowing the answer.

She shakes her head, her fingers gripping his hair tighter as his lips and tongue move against her skin.

“No,” Mila gasps a reply. Her hand slides down the back of his neck, and the more he teases her, her nails soon create faint red lines down his back, her thighs squeezing together. She feels a throbbing ache at the very center of her. Despite her inexperience with men, she knows what it means, and she knows what she wants.

Dean’s mouth drags away from her breast. He pulls back so he can meet her eyes. A smile curves his lips, and he takes one of her hands from his shoulders.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” he asks. He guides her hand down her body, brushing over a wet, sensitive nipple, down her stomach, and between her legs. This time, Mila nods in answer. She stares up at Dean with eyes like molten honey. He leans in to kiss her neck.

“Show me,” he says.

She shudders at the depths in his voice. It increases the flood of wetness she already feels, even before she slips two fingers between the folds of her sex. She gathers some of that slick and circles it over the source of her pleasure, the small nub above her entrance.

Dean takes his hardened length in his hand. While she writhes by her own hand, he drinks her in with his eyes. A soft groan falls from his lips as he pumps himself a few times, sliding a thumb across the weeping head of his cock.

He can’t be a spectator for long though. He nips tantalizingly at her neck, creating a zing of added sensation across her skin. She whimpers, though she tries to stifle it, her knee bending further.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Dean says. “Let me hear you.”

He releases himself and replaces her hand with his own. He slips two long fingers inside her drenched entrance, earning a gasping moan from her. She latches onto his shoulders and buries her face into his neck. She whispers fervent things he doesn’t understand, but it only spurs him on.

His thumb circles insistently over her clit as his fingers pulse inside her. Her hips buck a needy rhythm against his hand, until her thighs begin to shake, and her inner walls squeeze even tighter around his fingers.

“Shit, that’s it, baby,” he pants gruffly against her cheek. “Let go for me.”

Warmth snaps and floods from her throbbing core, and she cries out near his ear, her nails biting into his skin. Her release coats his fingers.

Mila drops her head back against the furs underneath her. Her chest rises and falls quickly while she tries to catch her breath, her eyes tightly shut. Dean surprises her with a soft kiss.

“Mila,” he prods. He wants to see her eyes again, so pretty and wanton when she comes. He veers away from her lips to kiss her cheek, and then the other side of her neck. “Let me see you, sweetheart.”

She huffs a small laugh. Opening her eyes, she gestures to her bare body. “This is not enough?”

Dean’s lips tug at a smile. He shakes his head. “As a matter of fact, no.”

He shifts over her, finding his place between the cradle of her thighs. His elbows come to rest on either side of her head. She feels trapped by his body, even as she welcomes his weight and the feeling of his arousal, long and heavy and hard, trapped between their bodies. This man fills every corner of her world in this moment.

“If I’m your husband now, that means I get all of you,” he says with a grin. She gazes up at him, both in blushing amusement and affection.

“All of me,” Mila repeats. She takes his face in her hands and brings him closer, until her lips are a whisper from his. “Then I want all of you.”

Dean chuckles. “You sure about that?”

She smiles in satisfaction, and her lips claim him this time. One kiss turns into many, each one mounting in passion and desire. Dean groans into her when she begins to touch him. Her hands are soft, but direct in their seeking; they caress his shoulders, run down his chest and stomach, and then, more tentatively explore the now painfully hard length of him pressing against her.

He makes a grateful sound of pleasure when her hand wraps around his cock, squeezing gently. His fingers bury themselves in her hair.

“I want all of you,” she says, this time a plea and a demand all at once as she strokes him.

Dean nods in agreement. He’s come this far. He can do that for her too.

He spreads her thighs a bit wider and encourages her to adjust the angle of her hips for him. His hand glides down her plush thigh and gets a healthy grip. Then he slides his hand under hers and guides his cock through her folds, first just holding himself at her warm, wet entrance.

He manages to wait for a second, in order to meet her gaze. She’s already holding onto his arms tightly, like he’s become her anchor. Her thighs wrap around his hips and beckon him closer.

Slowly, he pushes inside. He takes care in how he works her open. She winces at the sting of his girth stretching her, but his fingers once again massage her clit, stroking her arousal back into a keening flame. He swallows her gasps and moans as he bottoms out inside her, fully sheathed. Tears prick at her eyes, but not from pain.

Mila’s dream flashes like a waking vision behind her eyes. Wings take flight, along with the gleam of a golden beak and a sharp eye.

She blinks, and the image disappears. She’s left with the man who has become hers, making love to her with every stroke of him deep inside her. She presses grateful kisses across his neck and shoulder, wherever she can reach while she clings to his strong arms.

The thick head of him brushes a sensitive place over and over, one that tightens the coil in her lower belly and makes her core tremble again with warmth, until her body convulses against him, pulsing in pleasure, gripping him tight from the inside. Mila’s fingers clench in his hair just as tightly as her release hits her in a powerful wave; even her voice becomes lost to it.

Gritting his teeth, Dean grips the soft flesh of her hip and chases his own end. The way her inner walls choke his cock, he has no choice but to come hot inside her, his spend mixing with her own release. A strangled shout tears from his throat.

He has to brace himself before he crushes her. With his forearms resting on either side of her head, he lowers his forehead against hers. Her legs slip from where they’ve been tightly molded to his hips, her feet meeting the floor. Eventually he slips out of her. He watches his seed drip out and create a mess on the dark furs. The sight of it satisfies something primal deep inside him.

Later he’ll ask her about washing up (and about supper), but for now, he just turns onto his back beside her. She inches toward him, and he raises an arm so she can splay out against his side. They both lay there for a moment in the quiet, just catching their breath together. It marks the end of a long journey, and yet, the start of one too.

Mila turns to raise onto her elbow. She reaches over to wipe the sweat from his brow in a tender touch. Dean smiles up at her. He takes her hand and presses a kiss into her palm.

“I could get used to this,” he says.

Her eyes widen in surprise, but then she laughs softly. “Yes.”

Her hand moves down to his chest, over his heart. She sobers as she considers her people, and how much trust has yet to be bridged—not only her own father and uncle, but the entire tribe. When she led him through the village, they called him wašíču.

Fat-taker. Greedy White. Not one of us.

“It will be hard for you here,” Mila says. She worries it will be too hard for Dean.

He just squeezes her hand, earning her attention through tumultuous thoughts.

“I’m not afraid of a little hard work,” Dean replies. His usual confident charm is infused in his smile, but she has a feeling he’s just trying to reassure her.

Sensing she’s not convinced, Dean reaches up to hold her cheek, guiding her to look at him and not the floor.

“Listen. I made my choice, and I’m sticking it out, come hell or high water,” he says.

Mila’s brows knit together. “Hell-or-high… What does that mean?”

Dean sits up on his elbow along with her. He takes her chin between his fingers and meets her gaze.

“It means if you want me, you’ve got me. The rest, we’ll figure out as we go along,” he says.

A smile slowly lightens Mila’s face. She tilts her chin up to meet him with a kiss.

“I will be with you,” she says. It’s a promise.

Dean smiles back.

“Good,” he says. “Because that’s just about all I need.”

AN: There we have it, friends. 💜 I really, truly hope you enjoyed this mini series! To be honest, I have more ideas for this little world (like how Dean might try to assimilate into this culture), but I'll leave it to you guys to let me know if that's something you'd be interested in reading.

Until then, I would love to know what you thought of this chapter!

Pronunciation Guide:

Šóta ("sho-tah") Chatan ("chat-tan") Tahatan ("ta-hat-tann") Wašíču ("wash-ee-jew")

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cornycopeia · 2 years ago

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bennie got her elaborate suit jacket from a bunch of drag queens she met on Naboo public transport

the suit jacket in question

hey team this is ur sign to tell me something completely random about ur oc (whether by rbing this post or in an ask - up to u) I love seeing people’s creations

#sergeant bennie #bennie and jet squad #jet squad #corny ocs

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itstheheebiejeebies · 5 months ago

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The Benny DeMarco Cut of MotA for @ktredshoes

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thewhimsyturtle · 11 months ago

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A very nice person gifted Mom a fancy holiday box of Swiss chocolates with a card in my favorite color! These are MY chocolates now, Mom! ✨🎁🍫😋🐢🎅

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latibvles · 15 days ago

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THE TASTE THAT YOUR LIPS ALLOW.

this week on longform ficwriting that nobody asked for — june & benny first kiss that has been rotating in my head like a rotisserie chicken for the past few months. a special thanks to @flipfloplogic & @upontherisers for lending me two lovely girls who get some name drops in this (Missy Campbell and Henrietta Hobbs, namely)! No warnings for this one besides yanno, June being dramatic as per usual.

[ Read it here on AO3! ]

The lipstick’s out in the hut tonight.

Fern’s singing, so it’s a given. They flew a practice mission today while the other three squads flew over the channel — she went right to the Red Cross girls to ask about hair rollers after the fact. Her hair’s long enough for that now, and she was brimming with excitement about the prospect of “dolling herself up.”

As usual, the beds are alight with conversation.

“And you all better be on your feet,” Fern declares from her spot by the mirror, near the door. “Or I’ll never forgive you for it.” She’s dappling rouge onto her cheeks, soft and subtle enough to get past uniform regulation.

“Yes ma’am,” Missy Campbell, one of Rivera’s girls, affirms from her spot on Jo’s bed, where she’d been showing Jo a letter she’d gotten from her husband down in… Australia? Something like that.

“Oh I know you got me, Soup,” Fern hums, June can practically hear the wink that accompanies the affirmation. “I’m talking to that little rain cloud in the corner over there.”

June lifts her hand, and gives Fern the bird from her spot laid out on her bed, staring up at the curved ceiling. Fern giggles still, and June feels her cheeks burning.

“Come on, Juney,” she pleads in that sing-song tone that she so often uses to get whatever she wants, whenever she wants. June’s resolved to not give in this time. Instead she scoffs, rolling her eyes from her spot and letting her hand fall unceremoniously onto her stomach.

“Hm. No. I could say it in Polish if you want.”

“Nie, right?”

“Well somebody better call the General, Sergeant Carmine’s trilingual!” June announces sarcastically, raising her hand in a faux-triumphant fist before letting it fall once more. That garners a laugh, although it might just be because of the ridiculousness of their current bickering.

“So mean,” Fern counters, more than likely faux-pouting in the mirror, which garners in a few scattered, quiet laughs.

“S’fine,” Lena hums. June can see her crossing the room to sidle up behind Fern, patting her shoulders. “Just send DeMarco after her. She’ll sing a different tune then.”

June’s head snaps up.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” She asks — or rather, demands — her voice raising in pitch. She can see Lena’s smile in the mirror’s reflection, watches her shrug her shoulders and June has to fight every urge to cross the threshold and shake the woman around until she fesses up her secrets. As if Lena can sense June’s current urges, her grin only grows infuriatingly wide.

“You just seem to be spending a lot of time together is all,” Lena hums, but June scowls.

“We do not.”

“Very convincing,” Lena counters, “It’s like he’s got Meatball on a leash and you’ve got him on a leash. Making sure he doesn’t wander off or something. Like he’s gonna get lost and wind up in France.” June hates that it’s a good joke. There’s another round of laughter from the other girls, she even sees Willie in her corner of the hut running a hand over her mouth, trying to maintain a level of composure. June has half a mind to shove her head beneath her pillow and call it an early night. She doesn’t though. She rolls her eyes, standing up and crossing over to swat at Lena’s head. Lena ducks out of it and grins, sticking her tongue out.

“Missed me.”

“I was doing you a favor. Trying to knock your goddamn screws back into place.” June declares, cheeks burning as she glowers at Lena, who’s unsurprisingly all smiles.

“If you two mess me up, I’ll tell Benny you’ve both got the hots for him and started a cat-fight in the barracks over it,” Fern declares as she sweeps a brush over her upper lashes, drawing attention to the vibrant green of her eyes as she paints her eyelashes black. Lena takes a couple steps back, hands in the air in mock surrender. She's still snickering and June thinks her head might just light on fire.

"He's all yours, Junebug," she offers, and June scoffs, throwing her hands up in the air before making her way out of the hut into the waning twilight. Sometimes the clouds break and make for a half-decent sunset out here — orange and purple broken up by chunks of white clouds and wispy chem-trails.

A few feet off, she hears a dog barking, and elects to ignore the beat of butterfly wings once again making themselves present in the pit of her stomach.

—

It isn't that she has a problem with liking Benny DeMarco.

Okay, that's not exactly the truth, either. She does have a problem with it. Mostly that she doesn't want to like him — didn't want to before, but for some reason he wasn't deterred by her habit of snapping at whatever and whoever inconvenienced her in a day. It made him a good friend, and presumably, a great pilot to his boys. That patience of his that has him dragging her to the nurse's station after dark to tend to her torn knuckles. That keeps him from being mad at her when she does something admittedly dumb.

She knows that she is, innately, hard to swallow. And while June isn't especially ashamed of that fact, she also knows that there are easier girls to be around — even in the influx of female crews coming to replace the ones lost. Nice, pretty girls, who he doesn't have to scruff like a stray kitten trying to take out someone's eyes.

So maybe it's not a problem with liking Benny DeMarco, and more like a problem with the nearly-impossible chance that he could like her, too. There's a war on, which is much more pressing than whatever inconveniences she could thrust upon him. And either way: he never would, a fact that has her stomach twisting in a knot in a weird mix of rejection and relief.

"Juuuuuuuney," Harrie's waving in her face, pulling her from her thoughts. She's sat between Jo on her left and Henry on her right. Across from her, Harrie's looking at her puzzled, with Carrie right next to her and an open seat right next to the younger girl. "You hear a thing I jus' said?"

June clears her throat, looks down at her beer.

"Repeat?"

Harrie smiles, seemingly unbothered by June's poor listening skills.

"Cap's birthday's next month, s'what I was sayin'. Wanna know what t'get 'er."

"We still do birthdays?"

"I'm still doin' birthdays," Harrie declares, tilting her nose up proudly into the stuffy air of the O-Club. "We did your birthday. N' we did Fern's in Iowa," she points out. Harrie casts a look across at Fern, who's talking to the conductor over by the band with her megawatt smile, made impossibly brighter by her red-painted lips. She claps and bounces on her feet, which is how June knows she's got her way again.

"So what're you gonna get her?" June asks, resting her fist on her cheek.

"I was thinkin' maybe a nice scarf or somethin'. Could ask my mama to knit it. Gets cold up here 'round fall," she explains, and June's listening, but she's also taking in the space around them. Lorraine and Lena are over by the bar, shoulder-to-shoulder. Willie's by the Bucks. Inez is listening to some conversation Croz and Payne are having that she can't hear from over here.

No Benny yet. She elects to ignore the urge to get up and go sniff him out, not wanting to give anyone at the table ammunition.

"Dunno what I'll get her. I'll sign the card, though," June leans back in her seat. Over on the other end of the room, Fern giggles into the mic and greets everyone with her signature: You all miss me?

Scattered clapping, a couple loud whistles and a Hey Fernie! from Dougie, somewhere else in the room. June feels a hand on her shoulder, and nearly jumps three feet in the air. She whips her head around, tilts it up.

Benny smiles down at her apologetically. There's a stray curl brushing his forehead, falling out of place.

"Didn't mean to scare you," he offers as the other girls start getting up, understanding the assignment given to them back in the huts.

"You didn't scare me," June huffs. "Just… surprised me." She feels warm again. Can see Lena's traitorous grin and Fern's half-baked threat about telling Benny she's got "the hots" for him.

"Alright. Didn't mean to surprise you then," Benny corrects. She thinks he'll make a move to sit, but he doesn't as the music kicks up again and Fern starts singing; loud and proud and melodic in a way that Bucky knows he's not. She recognizes the song, too — Harry James, Helen Forrest, she'd heard it a couple times stateside. His hand is still on her shoulder, a paperweight pressing her into her spot.

She thinks, briefly, that if he retracts it she might melt into the floor. It's a thought that bruises her ego, if nothing else.

Benny looks like he's debating something before he says it, hand moving to run through his hair instead of ensuring she doesn't run from him. The strand just flops back onto his forehead defiantly.

"Dance with me."

June pulls a face.

"Get turned down by a Red Cross Girl or something?" she asks, brows furrowing. Benny puts his hand over his chest, still smiling even as he feigns hurt.

"Low blows, Juney. You mad at me?"

"No," she counters, suddenly feeling embarrassed. "Just think you got options, is all." Easier ones, at that. Benny shrugs, lips pulling into a contemplative pout, nodding slowly.

"Maybe," he counters. "But I'm askin' you," he then casts a look towards Fern, over by the band. "And maybe saving your skin." June snorts at that, rolling her eyes.

"My hero," she chuckles a bit, looking down at the floor for a moment before meeting his warm, dark eyes once again.

"Yeah well, I'll be here all night." Benny grins, teasing, and offers his hand to her. She stares at it for a long second — a couple torn callouses on his palms. She's been yanked along by him enough times to know they're warm, rough. She tries not to shudder at the idea of those hands pressed into the small of her back.

She sighs, and takes it.

"Thanks for sparing my feelings," Benny teases again, half-tugging her towards the floor where people are already dancing.

"Sparing your feelings would be declining." June lets him tug her towards him, her hand finding his shoulder to steady herself. "The real victim here is gonna be your toes."

"I can forgive it," he offers of her. His hand is warm on the small of her back. June glances down at their feet, self-conscious in a way that's foreign to her. His thumb traces a small circle where it presses against her uniform. "I've gotcha though. Think I'm a halfway decent lead."

"You think?"

"I've got three sisters and a ma who all like dancing and I think at least one of them would tell me if I was bad by this point."

She laughs at that, looking up at him instead of fixing her gaze on the floor. He's laughing with her, breathy and still managing to crease the corners of his eyes.

"Well I'm trusting you, then." She offers and elects to ignore the weight of a sentence like that.

Benny nods, moving with her around the floor, and she tries to keep looking at him to ignore the feeling that she's being watched in some regard. Like there's something to laugh at right now. She preferred being the center of attention when it came to her crew's flying, not so much her own shortcomings. Benny spins her and is grinning like a madman when she settles back in his arms, wondering if he grew a second head.

"Your brothers never teach you?"

"And give boys another excuse to talk to me? Hell no. Think my dad would throw a fit," she admits after she gets her bearings once more. Benny chuckles at that, nodding slowly.

"And what would they think of it if they were here now?"

Why are you asking me that?

"Piotr would be whisking me away and Antoni would be taking you out back to have a word." It's an immediate response, one that has Benny whistling low and has his brows raising, slightly nudging that hair that she can't stop staring at.

"I'll keep that in mind when I visit."

"When you visit?" June fixes him with an odd look, but he just smiles. She thinks, briefly, about how Meatball stares up at the two of them sometimes — mouth open in a pant, tail wagging without a worry in the world.

"Well if I'm allowed that is. You banning me from the residence, Juney?"

"You don't even have my address."

"Well can I have it?" June blanches at him. She can't really tell if he's kidding or not when he asks that. He spins her again, a little slower, like he's giving her time to think about it without him staring at her. June sighs, reaches up to tuck that stray, defiant hair back into place, and rolls her eyes.

"You're ridiculous." She can feel her cheeks burning, and Benny chuckles.

"That wasn't a no." He points out, and he's right. No, it wasn't. But if she thinks too long about the idea of him showing up on her apartment building's front stoop in his dress uniform, she'll wrench herself out of his hold right now and run for the hills before she does something stupid.

"My mother likes violets," she says instead, tilting her nose up. He nods again.

"Hope that keeps me from getting thrown out on my ass, then."

"No promises," June declares.

And there it is again, butterflies in the pit of her stomach. She wonders if he can feel the sweat forming on her palms, which leads into her wondering if he's disgusted by the warm dampness of it.

When the fuck has she ever cared so much about what a person thinks of her?

The song ends and another begins, this one much slower in nature. For a moment, June's breath hitches, and she swallows hard, feeling shy for once.

"I can go sit if you— if you wanna sit this one out," she points out, feeling obligated to give him that chance to maybe get another girl on the floor. Benny's smile turns almost shy. His hand presses a little firmer into her back, the other giving hers a squeeze.

"Do you want to?" She hates when he asks that, bouncing the ball back into her court and leaving her to make the decision. Because her brain's telling her yes, I want to, this is getting ridiculous, but that stupid desire to be near him is screaming no, no, no.

So maybe Lena's had it wrong the whole time — Benny's the one who's been holding the leash, and she's the dog that might just wander into occupied France if he doesn't tug it with stupid, unassuming questions like this.

"I… don't know," June answers, feeling dumb. He smiles, arm looping around to rest on her hip, pressing her closer to him and leading them in a sway. He leans forward and she feels like she might light on fire with his lips so close to her ear.

"I'll let you figure it out then. Feel free to run whenever you want."

Whenever I want, June parrots internally, ruefully. Sure, Benny, you're really making a great case for me running for the goddamn hills.

He's so warm like this, solid beneath her hand on his shoulder. June wonders if he can feel the powerful hammering of her pulse in her wrist, if he heard it when he lent down to mutter in her ear near that spot by her neck. Fern's still singing, low, smooth and sweet, a proper showgirl if there ever was one. It makes her want to hide, press her face into the crook of Benny's tanned neck and pretend that they're not here.

A dance hall in Chicago would be nice. One of the ones her friends from high school would drag her to begrudgingly — she never liked going to them, because she was no good at this. And she didn't want to give anyone an excuse to laugh at her.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" he asks after a beat of quiet between them.

"First he wants to know my address and now he wants to read my mind. Anyone ever tell you that you're nosy?" June asks, just to feel that rumble of laughter against her.

"Mostly my sisters," he admits.

"Well they're right. And I was thinking of, uh, high school."

"Yeah? What about it?" June swallows, wondering how much she could share before she ends up as the butt of a joke.

"I used to hate dances. But I don't anymore. That's all."

He hums in that pensive, thoughtful way he always does when she says something that's more loaded than she means for it to be. Putting a little bit of space between them, he looks her over, and June tries not to squirm beneath his gaze. His lips part on a sentence she doesn't get to hear before the shrill sound of someone whistling pierces the room.

"C'mon everybody! Race in the Mess Hall!" she doesn't know who said it, but Benny tilts his head before letting go — not entirely, because he takes her hand in a familiar way and tugs along as people start flooding out of the O-Club. June makes a noise of protest, halfway between a whine and a shout of his name as they follow the flood of people.

"Didn't you eat dust last time?" June points out as the guys who have bikes start tugging them along towards the mess, from where they were lined up outside the club. Benny gives her a wide set grin, tugging her with one hand and his bike by the handles with the other.

"I did not, we had that bomb raid before we could call it. Have a little faith in me Juney," he counters, insistent as they stop in front of the mess. He pauses, swathed in the warm glow of the light from inside. It makes his hair look so much darker, his skin even more warm than before. His smile is blinding, the only thing between them being the bike handles. "Do I get a kiss for good luck?"

"What?"

"Benny! You in or what?" Benny looks into the room, then back at her. He hesitates, then walks into the room, still giving her that smile before he goes.

June feels like she's just been knocked in the chest, had all the oxygen siphoned from her lungs. Dizzy, she leans up against the entryway, watching all the guys shouldering and nudging at each other from their bikes, and her knees feel shaky. Her hands curl into fists.

He wasn't serious, she scolds herself, trying to shake it off. No way he was being serious.

And yet her feet can't move those couple steps to walk fully into the room — forcing people and, on occasion, their dates, to squeeze past her. She can't see him past so many people with dark hair and uniforms, and she doesn't even know if she wants to. What if he looks at her and she really does fizzle into dust, right there in the middle of their makeshift bike track?

She can't. She can't do any of it. She's stumbling back, until her feet hit the grass, and then she's standing there with cool summer wind piercing her clothes. It doesn't do much in way of cooling down her pinkened cheeks, but oxygen fills her lungs good and proper again as she turns her back to the door, hugging herself.

Her heart is still pounding, like it had when they danced, and when he'd touched her shoulder, and—

June could come up with an alphabetized list of all the times Benny DeMarco's made her heart race. She wishes it was something she could indulge happily, but really, it just makes her feel mad and dumb like a little kid with a school crush. Like he knows it and does it all on purpose to rile her.

She shuts her eyes, lets the wind brush against her face like it had a month ago when she'd laid in the grass and he'd watched over her to make sure "no other jokers let their dogs off the leash." The thought makes her squeeze herself tighter, like she could force the memory from her brain.

But she can't. He's embedded himself there.

June feels like she's been waiting there forever, but it's only maybe twenty minutes before the night swells again with laughter, people cheering and bemoaning losses, and of course—

"June! Hey, thought you went to—"

She's walking off before he can finish the sentence, towards the gravel road and down it, hoping that maybe Bucky's decided to go for a drunken nighttime drive and will run her over with a jeep. No such luck, the roads are empty and he can hear Benny behind her still.

"June? Slow down, would you?" Benny asks, and she feels the tips of his fingers brush her shoulder before she's turning around and trying to glare.

More hair brushing his forehead, expression so clearly puzzled.

"Your joke's not funny," June declares with a huff. His brows furrow.

"My… joke? What are you talking about?" June points an accusatory finger at him, face burning as she pokes his chest and crowds him.

"Your- your joke! That whole… kiss for good luck, visiting me stateside thing? It's not funny. It's mean!" She's thankful that they've moved far enough away that no one can pay much mind to her words, or her actions. "Did Lena put you up to it? Or was it- was it one of the Red Cross girls? Since it's so damn obvious, right? I'm just—"

"June, what are you talking about?!" Benny hasn't moved her finger from where it pokes at his chest, over his pilot's wings. The metal is cold against her finger tip, a sharp contrast from the warmth of him. She swallows hard.

"That I— That I like being around you! That I like you! It's all just a joke to you, right? That's why you asked that before that stupid bike race!"

"It wasn't a joke!"

Silence between them, heavy and only broken up by the distant murmurings of others. She stares at him, wide-eyed and flushed, finger still pressing into his wings. She feels like she's just run a marathon around the whole of England — heart pounding in her chest, ribs aching, face burning. She wants to bury her head in the dirt.

"What?"

She doesn't have any time to process it before it's Benny's hands on either side of her face. It's Benny, pulling her forward. It's Benny pressing his lips to hers, firm and insistent and warm. He's so warm. His lips taste like whiskey, and they're soft, and her knees are going weak — hardly registering what's happening here beyond that urge to kiss him back, which she does. Eyes fluttering shut, trying to match the pace he's set — insistent and hungry, like he's trying to convince her of something right now.

It's working, she thinks, feeling dumb as she reaches up to card her fingers through messy dark waves, ruining them further.

They part once her lungs start aching, but he hasn't let go of her. His finger traces a line against her jaw, and she stares up at him dumbfounded.

"I wasn't joking," Benny repeats, and June's well of words has run dry in the wake of it. Like in kissing her he's just stolen coherent thought from her as well. "Jesus Christ, June, you really think I'd be that mean? To you?"

She can't tell if she's really hurt him with that or not. She assumes that she has, and she stares at him for a long moment.

"I-I'm sorry.It's just—" June's lips press into a line. "…I'm pessimistic," she starts out. "And… and I'm not patient, not like you. And I hate losing, bad. And I'm really bad at staying up late and I suck at dancing and being all romantic and all that stuff that girls are s'posed to be good at and—"

"June," Benny cuts her off again, thumb sweeping over her cheek. "Makin' it real hard for me to follow you here, honey."

Her stomach twists at the nickname. She wants to kiss him again.

"I'm giving you a warning," June breathes out. Benny chuckles, searing a kiss between her brows.

"Don't need one. I know what I'm getting into," he insists. "S'why I like you."

Benny's smiling like he's just said the best pickup line of all time. And it works, because June is tilting her head to kiss him again and taste the last bits of whiskey on his lips.

#*poet writes #ch: june cielinski #ship: june/demarco #benny demarco x oc #benny demarco #masters of the air oc #masters of the air fic #hbo war fic

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therealslimshakespeare · 19 days ago

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Jack (finally had it with the chit chat) Yeah, fun’s named Steve and Donny and they’re sergeants apparently and they get paid to do it too…chase tornados, that’s what they get paid for- ouch! Now why did you hit me?

benny is like 😧😧😧

The way Tilly is slapping her husband assures Benny that there were even more juicy details that got lost and he really just sorta wants to…go push one of their million kids in the swing or maybe even share a beer with Bucky in the porch

#Jack x Benny

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reallylilyreally · 6 months ago

Text

Fic masterlist

Here be a full accounting of my fic endeavours (ReallyLilyReally on AO3)

Masters of the Air

second string (series) (Canon era, Brady/DeMarco)

nine mothers sons

John Brady should have been a fighter pilot. Or a music teacher. Or anything apart from this.

2. breathe through the bruises

John Brady goes home. He picks his life up. He tries. It's not enough.

3. better than flying

John Brady has everything he needs right in front of him, for the first time maybe ever.

4. in tune, in time

Keeping Johnny steady becomes something Benny does without thinking about it. It’s easy, comes natural, simple. They make a lot of sense, standing next to each other, and most days that’s all it takes.

proximal damage (series) (canon era, Blakely/Douglass, Everett Blakely/Margaret Blakely

at your heels (canon era, canon compliant, Everett Blakely focus, minor Blakely/Douglass)

He's a god. He's a motherfucking bomber pilot. He's a genius with a B-17. He's the king of the god damn world. He's got a fort full of the best men in the airforce, and he's getting them back to England.

He's gonna give them a miracle.

2. at your feet (canon era, James Douglass focus, minor Blakely/Douglass, minor Douglass/Helen)

Jamie Douglass has stopped pretending he isn't in love with his pilot.

It would probably be the thing that killed him, if the Germans weren't definitely going to get there first.

say it (like we're coming for you) (canon era, canon divergent, MotA/BoB crossover, Clegan, Winnix, Winters/Nixon/Talbert, Brady/DeMarco, DeMarco/Speirs)

companion piece to say it (like you'll come back) by @euph0riacc, follows the plot from ch2 from Easy's POV:

What would happen if Bucky got sick during the Stalag march? What would happen if Easy Company were close enough to help?

Band of Brothers

go farther in hope (series) (canon era, multiple ships) (joint project with @escrivoir)

all the strangest things keep happening (Canon era, Winters/Nixon/Talbert) (joint project with @escrivoir)

After Sergeant Floyd Talbert and Lieutenant Lewis Nixon meet for the first time, two things become immediately clear:

1. They're both hopelessly in love with Lieutenant Dick Winters, and they both know it.

2. He will never, ever love either of them back.

The above becomes the fundamental truth of their war, and to give them credit, they make the best of it. For a while, at least.

2. the sound of a soul in tune (canon era, Muck/Penkala/Malarkey)

It's a war story. It's a love story. It's something.

Skip Muck, Alex Penkala and Don Malarkey, Bastogne and beyond.

Pulling heartbreak out of hats (series) (Canon era, Winters/Nixon/Talbert)

Break everything but patterns

If he’s completely honest with himself, Tab thinks the worst thing about Bastogne is that Dick isn’t there enough. It’s also the best thing about Bastogne. Dick doesn’t have to go through it with them.

Tab would follow Dick anywhere, he thinks to himself more than a few times, but he’s very glad that these days Dick isn’t going many places too dangerous. Of course, that just means that Tab’s going dangerous places without Dick to lead him. Tab and everyone else.

2. Like that's something we could be

If he’s completely honest with himself, which he isn’t much, Nix does his best to avoid thinking about Floyd Talbert. He’s got more than enough going on without having to analyse the vague, floating guilt that comes with thoughts of Bunny. He does pretty well ignoring it, and then the idiot nearly drowns and all bets are off.

Alternate POV to 'Break everything but patterns'

3. Moving backwards (just to move forwards)

If they're completely honest with themselves, they've got much bigger problems than whatever just happened in that foxhole, but it doesn't mean they're not still thinking about it, despite everything else.

Follows 'Break everything but patterns' and 'Like that's something we could be' - multiple POV

4. Let's call this the calm

Now they really are being completely honest with themselves. It's all on the table. The war is over and all they have to figure out now is the rest of their lives.

5. A universe that you can live in

There's months to wait, but they've been through worse.

6. Little better than the one

The men they were are an ocean and a continent and a whole god damn war behind them. The men they are now are new, sort of, and everything they fought for is stretched out ahead of them. Some of it's obvious, and some of it is not.

7. Tough luck (Luz/Speirs)

It's not like George Luz had anything better to be doing, once the war was over, than following various members of his company backwards and forwards across the country. He's a paratrooper, he goes where he's needed.

In the desert again (series) (AU - Iraq War, Winnix)

A compass and a weapon

It's a three-day mission. Simple, straightforward, over in 52 hours or less, and then Nix will be back, in camp, safe and sound, with a man who's refusing to admit is in love with him, and 100-odd paratroopers, most of whom are placing bets on the outcome of this little melodrama. It should have been nothing. Should have been simple, straightforward, over in 52 hours or less. That's not what happens.

2. Cannot win this war

There is something surreal about the way the tour continues once they have Nixon back. It feels like his return should be the end of it, that now they’ve retrieved him they should all be heading back stateside. They’re not.

The Man on the Mountain (Canon era, gen)

If you look at it closely, this isn't actually just Leibgott's story, or Webster's. No one seems to realise that.

Once upon a time, three men drove a truck up a hill to kill a bad man.

The Pacific

If you try sometimes you just might find (series) (AU - Iraq War, Hilldane, Sledgefu)

The Long Roadtrip Home

The phone rings one night, and peace and quiet has to wait. No Marine left behind.

2. Beyond the usual

In the end, they don't share the details. It might be an epic love story, but it's theirs, and there's something sacred about it, after all that.

3. We are trying to accomplish something

OR: The Jones-Haldane guide to not letting your epic love story kill your boys

4. Nice day for a

When the crisis is over, the AAR is finished, and the Epic Love Story has been laid bare, there are things to be done. Some of those things include weddings.

5. Waylaid

Sledge writes a letter. He never gets a real answer, not one written down, but it doesn't seem to matter.

Companion to The Long Roadtrip Home

#ao3 #archive of our own #band of brothers #masters of the air #the pacific

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swifty-fox · 4 months ago

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Hiii! I love your priest!Gale fics! (I have reread them way too many times 🙈💗🙈) Are you working on part 4? Can't wait for the angst in it

am i ACTIVELY working on them? No I got really caught up in kfak verse!

Right now I',m ending out the chapters of my brady/benny fic. Then finishing Bikeriders smutfic because its ALMOST done (part 1 at least)

and then after that it will be LB part 4

But plans for it are some rough angry car sex (consensual) and maybe we'll get John's backstory

a snippet for you:

“You’re really hitting me in the ‘yes daddy harder’ places with that face you’re pulling right now,” John says, swirling his finger through the over-complicated mess of a coffee in front of him.

It tasted awful, but he ordered it just to see if the kid behind the counter could actually pull it off.

Chick continued to keep his ‘yes daddy harder’ expression, which was in fact a look of profound exasperation and disappointment. And didn’t really awaken anything in John, but he found it plenty amusing to see the way the older mans eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“I could have you thrown in jail today if i wanted, you know,” Chick Harding takes a sip of his own soy latte, “I could make up a reason, I hold your life in my hands.”

“That’s a misuse of power and a miscarriage of justice, and also you like me. I’m your favorite little POW just admit it.”

“Someone’s going to pop you one in the mouth, mocking veterans like that.”

John spreads his hands wide in a dont shoot the messenger sort of gesture “hey, I can claim it. My great gandpops was a POW. Got his flight jacket and everything hanging in my closet. This is my history.”

“I think I should arrest you.”

John grins at him.

“You been meeting with Brady?” Chick asks, setting his coffe down with a pleased hum, begins folding his utensils wrapper accordion style until the cheap paper has become nothing more than a little square. It’s the same thing he does every time, restless fingers the only betrayal that the parole officer wasn’t just a robot.

Which John already knew was false. He’d looked the guy up the moment he’d had access to internet again. Had a neatly sealed Juvenile record and an exemplary military record which meant the guy was both secretly interesting and also probably a little batshit.

“Every couple weeks just like those fascist fucks tells me too. Just like i meet you every six weeks and we pretend I’m in need of babysitting and you pretend you’re not hoping that college boy will finally write his number on your coffee cup.” John leans forward on his elbows,the table creaking under his weight “I could do it for you, if you’re too shy.”

Chick doesn’t give him the satisfaction of blushing, but John can see the way his sholulders straighten slightly.

“He even looks like me a bit too. Curly brown hair,” John smooths his fingers across his mustache, “ the sexy landing strip. You sure you’re not displacing some sexual attraction?”

“You are the devil incarnate. That barista means nothing to me.”

“You shouldn’t be so grumpy, meeting your favorite little felon.”

“Only person around here that seems grumpy is you, Egan.”

“Me?” John stretches, tilting his chair back with one foot until he nearly topples backward, “Whay’ve I got to be grumpy about? I’ve got a shitty dead-end job, a dying grandma who, by the way, isn’t actually even my grandma, and i’ve got to check in with some middle aged drill sergeant with a thing for some guy who looks like Sean Cody’s next up and coming.”

“I don’t know what that even means.”

“Oh you so do.” John smiles.

#swiftywrites #clegan #buck x bucky #little beasts

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wexhappyxfew · 4 months ago

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IM HERE !! give the people (me) ❛ promise me you’ll still be here when i wake up. ❜ for… Margie and Benny! :)

HI POET!!!!!! thank you *so* much for sending in this!!! it is highly appreciated in my lil corner of the world and terribly sorry it has taken me quite some time to get to as well!!! my summer has been so chaotic and busy - but! we are here now!!! THIS WAS SUCH A GOOD PROMPT!! I ATE IT UP!!! and plus benny and margie are both just being absolute sweethearts here! set in the time period where margie takes a nasty hit in Silver Bullets and it basically sends everyone spiraling. here's a look at the first night she's awake :) enjoy!!!

it was a wonder

(a/n): margie and benny being the sweetest peaches out there around each other, despite margie's clear and evident pain and benny's want to take all that pain away from her. absolutely. sobbing. them them them. anyway......im surviving the end of an internship so please enjoy my rare appearances here and there lmao. AND -- please enjoy for the margie x benny enjoyers!! <3

Despite being so far from the States, she almost felt like a small child again. In the way of, when she was sick, her mother and father doted on her life incessantly in a way that had made her for more loved than ever.

Caring for someone at their worst. Despite anything else.

Margie hadn't moved in over a day after coming out of the coma - at least they had said it was a coma. The nurses and the Doc hadn't been entirely sure what had been going on but assumed her body had been defeated after the prop blast that had exploded on top of the turret.

Everything hurt, her vision felt a little fuzzy still, and there was a persistent, deep ache in her shoulder and hip area that made her entire right side feel like it was entirely detached from her body.

"Here we are." Margie looked up and found one of the nurses - Charlotte or Charlie, one of the sweetest nurses there was on base - coming towards her with a plate, piled with eggs and toast, despite the fact it was nearly 2100. Margie couldn't fathom anything more than simplistic food on her churning stomach and was grateful for the sight.

"Plain scrambled eggs, some toast with some butter, should settle your stomach," Charlie said, settling on the edge of her bed with a smile, "how are you feeling?" Margie gratefully shifted her head with a weak smile and nodded.

"Thanks, Charlie," Margie managed out in a hushed whisper, voice hoarse, "I'm doing okay." Charlie gave her a knowing look and Margie dropped the facade.

"Do you have any more pain meds I can take?"

"I'd eat something first," Charlie said with a gentle smile, her face glowing even when she'd clearly been working all day, "we can give you a stronger dosage without you feeling queasy. Eat up, and then I can give you some more. That stuff from earlier should be wearing off soon anyway." Margie looked to her and nodded, shifting a bit uncomfortably and evidently with twinging pain. Everything hurt. That's just what it was at this point. All over.

"Sir, visiting hours are over." a loud voice called from the edge of the Med Bay - it was Virginia Stellhorn - one of the older and more experienced nurses on the ward, who clearly was not enjoying someone trying to disrupt her rules at this time of hour. Margie turned her head a bit to see a figure entering through the doorway and an angry looking Virginia Stellhorn behind him.

That being Captain Benny DeMarco.

"It's 2100, sir! Our patients need their rest, not all this ruckus-"

"I understand." Benny said turning to her as Charlie curiously peaked at Margie with a raised brow. Margie instead couldn't turn her eyes away from the sight of Benny there. "I just need to speak with a Sergeant M. Harlowe."

"Harlowe's in an immense amount of pain and would evidently not enjoy the likes of someone bothering her at this hour, now, would you please, sir-"

"Just for a minute." Benny said, quickly, "I….I visited and she wasn't awake yet, so-"

"Ginny!" Charlie called standing to her feet with Margie's plate of food, "I think Sergeant Harlowe wouldn't mind a guest, even though it's pretty late. It'd probably help her feel better, too." Margie watched as Benny turned to Charlie and then looked behind her. In an instance, Benny's face lit up with a smile and he raised a hand as if to wave.

If Margie's arms weren't wrapped, with one in a sling, she would've waved back. Instead, she attempted the weakest attempt of a smile that there was and watched as worry dawned his features.

"Charlotte Tarvers, we have rules and regulations to follow around here-"

"I know that, but-"

"Margie!" Benny was calling, moving past the two nurses, eyes set on Margie specifically as he hurried over, slowing down as he got to her cot in the lantern-lit darkness.

As he came to a pause there by the side of her cot, his eyes caught on her legs. Her one leg was covered with the blanket - completely fine - her other leg was wrapped in a makeshift cast, piled with ice along the sides, wrapped tightly and firmly. His eyes slowly crawled past her chest where she wore a loose button up, exposing the wraps around her stomach, slightly bloodied and stiff as she had shifted, before they traveled to her wrapped wrists and arms and shoulders. Her one arm slung in a sling, hands bruised and cut and covered in bandages.

It was a wonder that by the time his eyes had risen to her face, she was smiling - trying to convey the message that she was alright, she was fine, she was alive. She had a nasty cut along her chin, but Charlie had rewrapped it in the morning and she had said it was already healing nicely.

Margie was trying to stay positive. She was determined to get back out as her crew's flight engineer - she wanted to get back to Silver Bullets. Benny slowly took to crouching by her bedside, watching her with those big brown eyes, focusing solely on her face.

"Hey." he said quietly, a smile perking up on his lips.

"Hi." Margie said quietly with a smile, "Someone's quite the eager-beaver." Benny stared at her, the corner of his mouth poking up, eyes filled with a tinge of relief - as if to say, she was okay, okay enough to still make light-hearted jokes. Benny let out a chuckle and shook his head before leaning up against the side of her bed, looking at her with soft eyes.

"Kennedy told me you woke up today, wanted to at least visit before I bedded out," he said quietly, "sorry about the surprise and me, well, barging in back there." Margie grinned at him.

"Don't be sorry," she said with a wider smile, pained slightly as she shifted, "I'm glad you're here. You're quite the sight for sore eyes anyway." Benny tilted his head with a small smile and nodded to her.

"That bad, huh?" he asked her, his voice dripping into a suddenly slightly worried and serious tone, "A face like this?" Margie let out a laugh, before wincing and cringing slightly at her side, her one arm that wasn't as battered going to her ribcage.

Clasping a hand over the bandages, she uncomfortably shifted, before looking at Benny who sheepishly looked at her before looking to where her hand was covering.

"You okay?" he asked her, a tinge of nervousness to his voice, "Beside the….." Besides the obvious, she thought. She nodded.

"Yeah, yeah," she said, "I'm fine. Honestly. I'll heal up in no time. Get back out to Silver Bullets. I'll be flying soon - I know it." Benny gave her a look - he wasn't convinced.

"You'll heal up first before any of that." he said, giving her a smile, "And make sure you can both walk and have full function of your shoulder, too, alright?" Margie smirked at him.

"Since when did you become so worried about me, Doctor DeMarco?" she asked with a chuckle, wincing again at her side twinging, noticing a tender look cross his face as she took to staring at him.

"Hearing that you were knocked unconscious thousands of feet in the air because of a Kraut prop blast isn't the most comforting thing." Benny said to her, catching her gaze. Margie let out a small breath and then attempted a small smile. If she didn't know better, she could see the tension releasing a bit from his shoulders and the stress lines on his face, loosening up a bit when he was finally sitting there with her.

"What have you been up to since you woke up?" he asked, eyeing the plate of eggs and toast, along with the small bucket beside her, "Eating I hope?" Margie shrugged and then glanced at the plate of food, stomach turning.

"Trying," she said, "stomach's a bit funny-feeling, but it's probably a bit of the pain-meds, too, so….and Charlie's been great. So. Yeah. Afraid not much." Benny watched her warmly before slowly reaching up a hand and trailing her rather poor-looking blonde hair behind her ear, her sweat-lined forehead hot to the touch as he gave her a smile. He did that again, the touch so welcoming to her body that she was sure if he continued doing that, she'd fall asleep.

"I'll visit everyday, you know," he said quietly, and she stared up at him with a smile and shook her head, "you know I will, silly."

"You don't have to. You have other things going on."

"And this is one of those things." Margie smirked at him. He grinned.

"C'mon, let's get a bit of this in you," Benny said, retracting his hand and moving to the plate, sitting on the edge of the bed before facing her, "we'll go slow. I know your stomach isn't doing the best so, better we take it bit by bit."

"You sound like my mom." Margie said with a wincing chuckle, noticing his face brightening, "Listen, I was home sick a lot. Too many times I took the chance of going out without a coat, ya know? Lake Michigan was cold in those winters - all that wind and snow. Shoulda listened."

"Honored to be in place of a woman like that then." he said and picked up the toast, "Here." Margie looked between the toast and Benny's eyes and then took a small bite. The butter actually tasted really nice.

"Good?"

"Really good, thank you." she said, taking another rather eager bite and then looking up at him as she swallowed the piece down, "I've never loved bread more, I'll be honest." Benny got a laugh out of that as she took another bite.

"Remind me of that again when Christmas rolls around."

"Huh?"

"That you like bread. I'll buy you a loaf."

"Really?" Benny chuckled.

"I'm only kidding," he said with a smile, before meeting her gaze, "but I'd get you a bread loaf if that's what you really wanted." Margie let out a laugh, going to grab at her side again as she looked to him and smiled again, smaller this time.

"The way to my heart, Benny, truly." she said and she noticed Benny looking at her more fondly than he ever had, but took to taking another bite of the toast instead, relishing the feeling the felt good inside her. Actual food inside her stomach that didn't leave her feeling crappy.

The eggs were slightly less appetizing, as they made her stomach turn a bit, but she took down her fill and washed it down with water, all with the dutiful help from Benny who sat by her side and spoon-fed her bit by bit with that quiet smile on his face.

By the time Benny had returned the plate to Charlie and had come back over, Margie could feel herself fading. She felt bad - Benny had come to visit and all she had done was say she was okay (she clearly wasn't), eaten (in which he had spoon-fed her), and now half-fallen asleep (she was telling herself it was fine). Benny came and crouched by the side of her cot again and slowly leaned forward to pull her blanket further up over her body.

"Thanks, Benny." she said quietly, eyes half open as she looked over at him, tucking in the sides and grinning at her.

"I'm your……friend. Margie, it's what you do." he said with a smile, a bit of hesitancy, "Now, you focus on healing up. With food in you, get some rest and focus on taking it easy."

"I fear I'm not one to take it easy." she said with a joking tone. Benny watched her and quirked up a grin.

"Would you for me?" Margie let out a quiet laugh.

"Maybe for Lieutenant Bradshaw."

"Bradshaw ain't here right now." Margie laughed softly again, wincing at her side.

"Then that's a no." she said and Benny grinned at her with a quiet look. Margie watched him and then felt the smile on her face drop.

"Can I tell you something, Benny?" she asked him quietly. Benny's concern was never one he masked well and within an instance he was nodding and coming to sit on her bedside again.

"Hit me."

"I don't remember it happening. The hit I took." she said quietly, "I remember one minute I was there. The next, waking up today. I….Kennedy said I was talking a bit when she pulled me from the turret, but I don't…." Margie's eyes welled with tears and that was all it took Benny to lean forward and gently wipe the few strays tears away.

"Don't worry yourself thin on it, Margie," he said quietly, "just focus on getting some rest. You just need some time to heal up. Don't think on that too much, okay?" Margie looked at him, his warm hand pressed there on her cheek and she nodded.

"I'm tired." she whispered and he nodded with a smile.

"Focus on getting some rest." he whispered back to her, "I'm right here. Nothing bad's gonna happen." Margie watched him.

"Promise me you'll still be here when I wake up?" she whispered back to him, "Please?"

"I ain't leaving, Margie." he said quietly. Margie slowly nodded at his words, his hand there on her cheek and drifted off, fading into a black abyss of slumber.

And when she came out of it next, her eyes focused on what was at the foot of her bed - the outlined figures of Judy, Kennedy and Bessie and then looked towards what was next to her. There, curled rather uncomfortably on a chair, was an unconscious Benny DeMarco.

If there was anything Benny DeMarco did, he kept his promises.

And he was there when she woke up.

Right there.

"What's he doing curled up like one of those Renaissance statues?" Kennedy said with a chuckle, coming over to Margie's other side and wiping at the hair awkwardly splayed against her face, "How you feeling?"

"Good, good," Margie said with a small smile, "Benny just….kept me company last night. Came to visit. Almost got in trouble."

"He's a sweetie, isn't he." Bessie said with a grin, looking to Judy who watched Margie with shining eyes.

"A real sweetheart, for sure." Judy said, "That chair isn't doing him any favors though." The four girls chuckled, Margie wincing again. It told her a lot about a guy who would sit in a chair for the night, next to her as she lay in a cot, half-alive, looking like she'd just been pulled it felt, from six feet under. And in Margie's mind, someone's actions were always louder than words.

Always.

#BENNY DEMARCO U WILL ALWAYS BE FAMOUS!!!!!!#he came he fed her some toast with butter and fell asleep like a renaissance statue #king shit fr #ANYWAY #margie and benny deserve only the best in their future and in their life so yes i will be sobbing over them for the indefinite future #am i normal about them? def not but hi hello how is everyone?!?!?!!#FINALLY had time to post #literally exhausted but the vibes are GOOD!!!!#and i was very excited to put this out!#ONE MORE PROMPT LEFT AFTER THIS TO PUT OUT AHHHH #margie x benny #margie harlowe #benny demarco #silver bullets #mota writings #masters of the air #masters of the air fic #THEM THEM THEMMMMM #thank you poet!! <33333

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