#William Ironhead Miller x You | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

illusivelle · 3 months

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shake the frost / 2

pairing: william 'ironhead' miller x female reader rating: t (for now) length: 3,044 words content: established relationship with the triple frontier boys, cursing, bruises/cuts, tending to wounds (my jam) summary: you don't expect to find will waiting for you so late at night, and especially not for these reasons. a/n: just a sucker for one person taking care of another while they're hurt. really just feeding into my own agenda here. and also a sucker for some idiots who think their pining is unrequited. read part one link to ao3 here!

Next time.

Two words that had been ringing in Will’s ears, bouncing around his head. Words he’d been repeating to himself because he wasn’t sure you meant it, wasn’t sure what spurred it. Wasn’t sure why it awakened something in him that had been dormant for so long. Two words that felt like a promise of more – more time, more you.

It wasn’t as if it was something novel considering the way he’d looked at you, and caught you looking at him, too. All those fleeting glances you’d both share when he thought the other guys weren’t looking, tiny smiles and faint touches in passing. But this was something different, wasn’t it? A step in a direction he wasn’t certain either of you would make a move toward, or maybe he’d been overthinking the entire thing and it was just something polite you’d offered.

Either way, Will Miller couldn’t seem to get his mind off – nor wrap it around – the idea of ‘next time.’

If only said next time wasn’t under these circumstances, knocking on your front door in the state he was in, hoping that you were actually home.

You’d just pulled into your parking spot, locking your car door three times as you walked up to your apartment. The silhouette that’s slumped over your door is enough to have all the hairs rising at the back of your neck, one hand digging into your purse to clutch for something you could potentially use as a weapon. Shit, if only you’d listened to Frankie all those years ago, you might’ve been better prepared for moments like this. The only thing you could feel as you rummage in your bag is the dull handle of a switchblade, the one thing you did accept from Frankie if only to appease him and make him feel better about your safety.

And now you were kicking yourself in the fucking ass for not listening.

Tentative steps bring you closer to your door, your fingers grasping the knife tightly as wary eyes assess every inch you can see. In the darkness, you can only make out the fact that the person is a) much, much larger than you and b) hunched over like they might be sleeping. At your door, though? It doesn’t tell you much, save for the fact that you had to be very fucking careful about what might happen next. One more step brings you only a few feet away but the rustling of your clothes is enough to have the other’s head snapping up, and you whip out the knife from where it’d been hiding. “You should–”

“It’s me.”

You’d recognize that voice anywhere. Even in your haziest dreams, you could pick out that deep timbre and husky rasp that belonged to the one man that had no business occupying so much of your thoughts, especially as of late. “Will?” His name is a hushed whisper as you toss the switchblade back into your bag and quickly close the distance between you two. You’re crouching down as he’s pushing himself up, clumsily meeting halfway, your hands rising to settle on his shoulders. Not that he needed you to steady him, but you needed something to steady yourself, the sight of Will Miller sitting at your door something you’d never in a million years think would happen. “What’re you– is everything okay?” Immediately, your thoughts fly to all sorts of scenarios, a wary and assessing gaze raking over him as your palms work in a similar fashion, running up and down his arms like you might find a broken bone or a gaping wound.

It’s only when your eyes finally land on his face that you notice, in the small sliver of moonlight peeking through a break in the sky, how dark red has matted along his hairline and paired nicely with the cut slicing his brow. Icy blue eyes dance as they search yours and Will remains quiet while you continue your inspection, finding more surface wounds on his lip and jaw, one that clenches when you linger too long. “Come in,” are the only two words you can think to say, reaching past him to shove your key in and unlock your door.

Maybe it’s your imagination, or maybe there really is only just a few inches between you and Will, his heat seeping through your clothes and prickling your skin. You swear you can feel his ragged and warm breath fanning out across your nape, a subtle roll of your neck like that might alleviate some of the tension thickening in the air when you push open the door to let both of you in. “Thank you,” his hoarse voice cuts in before he immediately tacks on an apology, “I’m sorry. I can go if you–”

“No.” You interrupt him before he can spiral. “Stay.”

His reaction is physical. His shoulders sag like that one simple word washed away all of his worries, the divot between his brows smoothing as he takes one step further into your place and then another. You’ve already dropped your bags and shrugged off your sweater, shuffling to the bathroom to grab your first aid kit and wet a towel with warm water. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” Calling out to him, half expecting Will to remain planted where he stood because if there’s one thing about the stoic blonde man standing in your home, he always knew boundaries.

But when you close the medicine cabinet and turn on a heel, you nearly smack into a solid wall of carved muscle, one palm flying up to meet his firm chest to keep yourself upright. “Oh– Will–” blurting out his name while colour steals across your cheeks, “um, you can just have a seat there, then.” He takes orders so well, almost as well as he gives them. The only reason you know what that might sound like is because you’ve heard him bark them out to his brother Benny, even to Frankie and Santi. There’s no way it was anywhere near how he sounded when he’s on the field and you’re not delusional enough to think so, but it’s always been enough to strike a match in your gut. To spark that flame that burned for William Miller.

That same fire is ignited the second you lock your gaze with his pool of blues, tipping your head to the side with a cocked brow. Imploring him with your expression alone, hoping that he’d take the bait or feel comfortable enough to say something – anything – as you slowly and gently bring the edge of the warm towel up to wipe away the dried blood on his temple. “Benny got into somethin’ stupid after his fight tonight,” Will grumbled, those bright arctic irides breaking away from yours for a beat, “they didn’t like how he mouthed off too much in the ring. I told him one day it’d come to bite him in the ass, but you know Benny.” He huffs out a breath, one that tickles the sliver of skin peeking from your shirt, a lick of your lips to hide the way you noticed and zeroed in on the sensation so quickly.

“Mmhm. In one ear–” “Out the other,” he finishes with a dry chuckle.

Will barely flinches as you start to clean out his wounds, pressing damp alcohol-soaked pads to open cuts. It’s a testament to all that he’s endured out in the field, things far worse than you can ever imagine. Things far worse than what you’ve seen with your own two eyes at the hospital. You remember Frankie talking about a gunshot wound on their last ‘mission’ that Will simply patched up with a few pads of gauze, and even remembering the way Frankie told the story has your brows pinching together with distaste. “Is it bad?” Will murmurs, bringing your eyes down to his again.

“No, it’s not bad.” Were you really that easy to read, or maybe this close Will can just see right through you? “Are you feeling okay? Need a painkiller or something?”

“Probably just some water but I can wait.”

A hint of a smile teases the edges of your lips, wanting to lighten the sullen mood that’s fallen between you two. “I’ll make it quick, then.”

And you do, as much as you could. All of the open wounds were small enough that Will didn’t need any stitches; a few slips of the skin glue enough to close them, followed by pressing the thin adhesive strip bandages on top to make sure everything held. You lean in close when you get to the cut along his cheek, not wanting to mess up something that could’ve otherwise turned into a scar. Not that you thought Will would mind or didn’t have plenty of those, but you’d always been cautious about the face for any of your patients and he was no different. So focused on your work, steady fingers brushing back the small bandage, you don’t notice just how close your mouths are until you start to speak, the bristles of his beard tickling the edges of your pout. “Good as new,” you chime and without thinking, continue to say, “handsome as ever.”

If the ground could open you up and swallow you whole, you’d thank all your lucky stars and maybe even become religious. Had you really just said that? Heart hammering a bruise behind your ribs, you dare to steal a glance at Will’s face, hoping and praying and wishing you’d find something akin to indifference written over it. An indicator that he didn’t hear what you just said or maybe that he’d spare you and ignore it. Instead, you find a slick shine on his lower lip, a flirt of his tongue before he pulls it in while those thick, blonde lashes bat against his cheek. It’s silent for a few seconds, the weight of your words hanging over you like a blanket, and as soon as you open your mouth to say something, Will’s hand finds a home on your hip.

“It’s okay.” His tone stuns you, softer than you’ve ever heard it, swallowing thickly as you give him a shallow nod. “I didn’t mean to come here so late. Thank you for helping me. I was going to drive myself to the emergency, but Benny thought it’d be better to come see you directly. He all but followed me to make sure I actually didn’t go anywhere else.” All the while his thumb starts an absent sweeping motion, snagging on the hem of your shirt and sending goosebumps spreading fast on your skin.

“I’m glad you did, Will. You’d have been sitting in the waiting room for hours, you know.” Your fingers trail down until they brush over his knuckles, the same ones still holding you steady. “A heads up would’ve been nice, though, I guess.”

You’re not sure where this drop of courage is coming from. Maybe it’s the fact that Will took the lead here, the fact that his palm seems to press in more firmly where it lay. But as you search his eyes for a response, you can see the very second the moment splits into two. The moment where reality rears its ugly head and presents the staggering truth: too much. This is too much, too soon. There’s a faint quiver to Will’s lower lip, a muscle feathering in his jaw, and a few blinks is all it takes for those arctic blues to gloss over with something colder. Something you’ve seen in his eyes before, usually at the start of the night when he’s still had all his guards up and the others were around keeping a watchful and protective stance around you. Or when you’d overhear him and the guys talking about their pasts, especially their old friend. Or even the times you listened to Will’s speeches, recounting the eventful situation he found himself in at the grocery store when he all but lost his grip and sense.

“It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.” His hands drop as low as his voice, the words leaking of shame.

You won’t pretend to ever know what happened between Will and his ex, or even Will on the last mission, but it doesn’t take a genius to recognize the wheels turning behind those wary eyes. His entire face twists like he’s trying to hide the visceral need to run, and the warning signs flood the forefront of your mind as Frankie’s booming voice echoes between your ears: it’s a bad idea, he’s not ready, he’ll hurt you, you’ll hurt each other.

“It’s okay, Will.” Barely above a whisper, you say the three words you hope will settle in his bones the same time you step back to put a small gap between your aching bodies. His aching undoubtedly from the fight he’d put up for Benny and yours for different reasons entirely, emphasized by the fact that every fibre of your being is reaching out to return to his orbit.

His hands clasp together in front of him, another sharp breath slipping past those lips before he rises to his full height. It takes you too long to point out that his knuckles still have dried blood on them, but it’s clear he has no intent on staying any longer than necessary. Hiding the hurt from your face was easy enough but the way it stings the corner of your eyes is something that’s more challenging to tamp down. Twisting your body away from him and ducking your chin into your chest, you try to stride out of the bathroom, but his words have you faltering right at the threshold. “Do I owe you something for this?”

“What?” Brows bunching together into a frown, you peer at him over your shoulder. “No, Will. You don’t owe me anything.”

Is it relief you see as tension uncoils from his body? Like maybe the fact that he didn’t owe you anything meant he didn’t have to talk about this night, relive it, or see you again? Your mind is racing a mile a minute, your steps faster as you make it to your living room and leave him following behind. “Hey,” Will’s voice is strained and again, it has your resolve wavering, leaning against the back of the couch as you slowly turn to face him, “thank you. I’m not sure what else to say. I know seeing a man sitting at your door late at night probably wasn’t the most welcoming thing, and out of the blue, too. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.” You don’t mean to snap, the words falling out with a bite, but it’s too late to take them back. The only thing you can do is cast your eyes up at Will with a hint of regret flashing across your face. Because you did want him to stop saying sorry, to stop feeling bad for leaning on you when he needed help. Because you’re hit with the realization that refusing and turning him away at the door was never even an option. “It’s okay. Really, Will. I mean it. I’m happy to help you.” You admit softly, sucking in a breath to keep the momentum going, pivoting at the last second to turn the conversation into something less daunting as you murmur, “though I guess I thought the next time would’ve been under different circumstances.”

This seems to do the trick, lifting the veil of tension even for a brief moment, allowing you to catch a ghost of a smile when the lines on Will’s cheek deepen. “Mmhm, yeah. Would’ve been nicer if it were, I imagine.”

Fidgeting with your fingers yet unable to keep your attention away from him for too long, your eyes dance between your own hands and his. “Do you want me to take care of that, or…?” A little matted blood only needed a good wash, but you’d take the opportunity to tend to him if he allowed it.

Blue eyes dart down to meet where you’re looking, a quiet hum sounding in your apartment that feels like a ticking time bomb minutes before the inevitable crash. It comes far too quickly, and far too quietly, hitting you harder than you’re prepared for. “No, it’s okay. I should go.”

Whatever bubble you’d convinced yourself you were in pops, the moment once again splitting into pieces. This time, more than two, dropping around you helplessly and all you can do is agree with him as it slips like water between your fingers. “Okay.” After all, you'd have no right to ask him to stay. He’d already done that, and now Will’s decided it’s his time to leave. Palms slicking with sweat, you find yourself nervous. Find yourself wondering, not for the first time since you’ve known Will, why you were so nervous around him. It’s just Will, you remind yourself, something that’s becoming more of a mantra these days. “You drove here? You’ll be alright?”

“I’ll be alright.”

But would you be alright? It’s hard to tell because the longer Will lingers in front of you, the longer your mind strays. Is he second guessing himself? Is this all in your head? Is he going to shrug his jacket off and change his mind? Through the corner of your eye and in the dim light of your living room, you see the way his fingers twitch as it slowly rises. Inches before they can touch any part of you, it fades, your heart sinking into your stomach.

Only for it to crawl back up to lodge in your throat when the scent of Will threatens to overwhelm you as he steps in to press a kiss to the crown of your head, another muffled “next time, then,” before he’s skirting past you, opening your door, and leaving.

Leaving you with even more conflicted thoughts about Will Miller, ones that replay over and over again the entire night. Ones that blend into a flurry of emotions as you clean up and ready yourself for bed, ones that have you picking up your phone in the dark to type out a hurried text

'You should’ve stayed. Next time?'

#will miller x reader #william ironhead miller #william miller x reader #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fanfic #charlie hunnam fic #charlie hunnam fanfiction #charlie hunnam #william miller #will miller #will miller x you #william miller x you #triple frontier

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theunbearableweightofpedropascal · 5 months

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Best Friend's Brother

Will Miller x f!reader

Warnings: (infidelity, possible unlikeable reader/Will, fingering, p in v, creampie, no safe sex, dirty talk, cursing)

A/N: Don't mind most of my smut wear condoms. Also I needed more Will fics out there.

Summary: With enough liquid courage you tell your best friend's brother exactly how you feel about his fiance.

Word Count: 4.3K

“You know if you interacted with anybody here you wouldn’t have to read so many romance books.” Benny’s breath tickles your ear as your eyes are glued to the words on your phone screen. Your favorite author surprise dropped a new chapter and you retreated from conversation to read it.

“After I finish this chapter.” You barely pay any mind to your best friend.

“You said that 10 minutes ago.” For such a large man Benny has a talent for sounding like a whiney child when he wants.

You heave a deep sigh before placing your phone on the table. The moment your irritated eyes land on Benny he sheepishly slides two whiskey shots in front of you. Internally you’re already gagging but you shoot them back and grimace at the burning in your chest. The warm air of the bar did little to help the heat flourishing through your body.

“You couldn’t have grabbed me a soda.” Temporarily a frown is etched on your face until the bitter taste goes away.

“I drank it while you were reading.” His answer makes your head snap to him but before you could respond he abruptly stands. “Will!” His booming voice does little to disturb the patrons around you, but the name he calls makes the hair on your body stand up.

The two golden boys meet in the middle to hug each other and you try to calm your overactive mind. You could say you’ve had a lingering attraction to the older Miller brother, though it would be downplaying the amount of times you’ve thought about him.

When you first met Benny his brother was already away so you only knew him through the stories Benny would tell. From the way he described his brother, you thought he was too good to be true. But when you met him you were proven wrong, and soon you were under his spell.

“Hey, Buttercup.” Your thoughts halt when you feel Will’s hands squeeze your shoulders before taking the seat to your left. His nickname for you never failed to warm your cheeks, even if technically he had a fiance.

“Hi Will,” The cheery tone of your voice causes Benny to roll his eyes at your abrupt change of mood. You never brought up how you felt about his brother but it wasn’t hard for him to put together the pieces.

Benny checks his phone before telling the both of you he’s getting more drinks for when Santi and Frankie arrive.

“How’s the book going?” You playfully roll your eyes at the mention of your pipe dream from when you were 19.

“Still on page 3, inspiration has yet to strike.” His smile makes your heart beat so heavily in your chest you think he can see it.

“Hard to believe that,” His hands grab at the half-cold fries on your plate. “What genre are pushing for anyway?”

“Most likely historical romance,” The whiskey shots settle and you feel your body become lighter. “The old-timey English is hard to get into though.”

“Coming from the walking encyclopedia.” His words are slightly muffled by the fries he’s shoveling into his mouth.

“What’d we miss?” Santiago’s voice cuts through your conversation and you look up to find him and Frankie occupying the seats in front of you.

“Not much Benny’s getting the drinks.” Will rubs his hands on his jeans to rid his hands of grease.

As usual, the men around you dive into sports commentary as if they’re the analysts they watch on TV. In the meantime, you skim over the food menu trying to figure out what else you want. With two more people at the table, the heat from Will’s arm brushing against you makes you lean closer to him. If he felt the difference he didn’t let anything on.

Two pitchers of beer slosh against the plastic as it's being set down before a flight of whiskey is placed directly in front of you. An eager smile graces Benny’s face and you know exactly how this night is gonna go. As the two of you go shot for shot the three veterans look at you both in amusement.

“How’s the wedding planning going?” Santiago smiled as he nudged Will

“It’s going,” Despite his lack of answer the way he feels is written all over his face, and everyone at the table knows it.

“It can’t be that bad man.” Frankie tries to give the benefit of the doubt but he unknowingly releases the floodgates.

“She told her family to send pictures of what they were gonna wear to the ceremony,” Will gulps the rest of his beer before continuing, “Then she proceeded to veto her grandmother’s peach pantsuit because it was too close to white.”

Everybody has variants of shock written on their face except you, though your reasons may have more to do with animosity. Melody, his fiance, had first been introduced two years ago. From the start, you could tell they weren’t right for each other, but your mouth remained shut until Benny brought it up.

Leave it to your best friend to be the one feeding into your delusions.

“And don’t get me started on the flower girl fight, she had both her sisters send test shots of their daughters.” You adamantly aim to keep your mouth shut, knowing the liquor has loosened your lips. The last thing you wanna do is rattle down the long list of reasons you don’t like his fiance, namely because she’s his fiance.

“You sure know how to pick em’ Ironhead.” Santiago whistles while he thinks of all his previous relationships.

“Maybe it’s just the wedding.” His tone was even but laced with something like doubt.

“Maybe it’s a glimpse into your future.” Benny tries to bring the lighthearted energy back by wiggling his fingers and mimicking a ghost.

A smile cracks Ironhead’s exterior at his little brother’s antics.

“Drinks anyone?” You look around the table watching them nod in agreement before taking off to the bar.

The counter is busy when you approach so you take the time to go over what you want. Two pitchers of beer and two Long Island iced teas. A hand connecting with your lower back causes you to swivel your head to accost the perpetrator, only to find Will. Relief floods through you but not for long.

“You’ve been quiet all night, it’s not like you.” Will leans his other arm over the bar, caging you in.

“Your brother’s been force-feeding my shots all night what’d you expect.” You hope you can stir him away with humor but he knows better and so should you.

“What do you think? Am I setting myself up for failure again?” The sincerity in his voice pulls at your heartstrings. You know how he feels about this being his second engagement and nobody could blame him for wanting to be sure.

“Look if you’re happy what does it matter what those idiots are talking about?” Will’s eyes narrow and you give in to the voices in your head. “Honestly, she’s always lacked valuable character traits.” You avoid eye contact with the man next to you as you flag down a bartender to give the order.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” His blue eyes bore into yours and you find your eyes lowering to his lips.

“And how exactly am I supposed to bring that up in conversation?” Your conversation ceases for now as the bartender places your drinks in front of you.

A silence falls over the both of you even after you return to the table. Thankfully none of the other guys notice you averting your eyes from Will’s direction.

……………

All Will could think about was what you said.

Sure he noticed how self-centered Mel could be but it didn’t bother him because he had his fair share of baggage. Even when the guys were making their jokes about how she acted on a camping trip, he didn’t care. Yet the moment you opened your mouth he couldn’t shake the feeling that this engagement wasn’t right either.

For the past hour, he’s been looking your way, hoping to catch your eye, but you purposefully avoid it. He watches you engage with everyone else until you feel his gaze burning and return to sipping on your drink.

He checks his phone only to find a string of complaints from Mel.

“I should get going.” Will reaches for his wallet and places enough bills down for the tab and tip. Much to the dismay of everyone else at the table.

“We’re supposed to be treating you man.” Frankie scrambles to get his wallet but Will waves him off with a charming smile.

“Next time.” He promises.

“We should probably head out too.” You peer over at Benny with pouty lips

“I can take you.” William wastes no time volunteering to get you alone, he’s never been one to squander an opportunity.

For the first time in an hour you look up at him and he can see the panic swimming in your eyes. You want to object but that would look suspicious so you nod your head and gather your things. Each of the guys hugs you goodbye before Will’s hand finds its way back to your lower back to guide you through the crowd.

You know it’s a friendly touch still, excitement swirls within you.

Outside the bar is just as crowded so Will’s hands remain on you. In fact, he slides his right hand around your waist to bring you closer to him. People walking past would assume the two of you were together the way you were glued to each other.

“When you said she lacked character traits, which specifically do you mean?” Will’s rough voice shocked you with how close it was to your ear.

“This feels like a trap.” You look up at him with suspicion.

“It’s not, I promise.” He laughs at your hesitance, “You’ve just never said anything and if you had…” He drops his sentence but you know what he’s implying.

“You really care about what Benny’s best friend thinks?” You jab his stomach with your elbow.

“You know you mean more than that to me.” He leaves no room for argument and you’re left speechless at his side.

You take a moment to digest his words because it isn’t the first time he’s said them, but it feels like it.

“Sometimes it feels like you care more for her than she does you.” Your voice is quiet. “And it’s not like I would be telling you out of the purest intentions.” The words leave your lips before you think better of it.

“What intention would you have?” You realize too late that he’s slowed the pace and now you’re standing face to face.

“For you to break up with her.” You see no point in lying, and it’s not like you’re the only one who feels that way.

“And that’s it?” Will looks down at you like you're his prey. Clearly, he already knows the answer.

“Mhmm.” You lied. “How away far is your car?”

“It’s right there.” He tips his head in the direction of his truck but his eyes and body don’t move from you.

After a few seconds, you turn to make your way to the car but Will’s hand prevents you from leaving your spot.

“Is that all you’d want me to do? Leave her?” That gruff voice is going straight is going straight down to your core.

“No.” Your eyes are glued to the ground.

For now, your answer seems good enough because he pulls you back into him for the remaining three feet to the car. He opens the passenger door for you and you take a short reprieve to gather yourself.

Of course, Will could read how desperate you were for him. Dread settled in the bottom of your stomach when you think of how awkward this ride is gonna be.

“Look I’m sorry, here I am criticizing Melody for her character-” You spew out your thoughts hoping to do damage control.

“I’m not upset Buttercup, when the guy's rib on Mel’s antics it’s one thing but when you say it…” He plays with the scruff on his chin before continuing, “Santiago has yet to be in a serious relationship, Frankie is working his way back from the doghouse, and Benny is Benny.”

Your giggle rings through the truck's cabin despite the tense atmosphere and Will can’t help but join you.

“Seriously, I’m no better especially since I want to be in her position.” Your eyes are focused on your lap but you almost feel the wind from Will’s head craning towards you.

“You what?!” Based on his tone of voice he didn’t know that tidbit and you were the one to give yourself away.

“Shit.” You clasp your hands over your face as you feel the car pull to a stop.

“What do you mean you want to be in her position?” The fact that he softened his voice made this the stuff of nightmares.

“I think it’s pretty self-explanatory William.” You deadpan without bothering to look up.

“Indulge me.” You remove your hand from your face but keep your eyes locked in front of you.

You make sure he can see your eyes roll before you continue, “She’s worried about how everything’ll look to other people but if I were the one marrying you the only thing I’d be worried about is how much lingerie I could reasonably pack for the honeymoon.”

“How long?” The thought of your words causes pools of blood to gather below his waist. “How long have you felt this way?”

“Since I met you.” You say matter-of-factly. “I thought it was just a crush but it progressed over the years.”

“Why didn’t you or Benny say anything?” Will’s upper body almost completely faces you.

“Are you saying you would’ve been receptive?” You ask the question but you already have an inkling of what he’ll say.

“I don’t know-” Will feels like the rug was swept out from underneath him. He’d already had doubts but he was willing to settle, at least before you opened your mouth.

“Exactly.” You don’t let him finish in the hopes that he’ll pull back onto the road.

“To be fair I have a decade on you so legally speaking, it’s a little touchy.” Of all the times he graced you with his humor it was not appreciated right now.

“More like a decade and a half but okay.” Despite yourself, you smile while his drops at your statement.

“And yet that didn’t deter you.” Suddenly the cab feels small and you don’t know when but the two of you got closer.

“That’s because I never said it was a bad thing.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Tonight you were full of surprises. Will thought he knew everything there was to know about you but he hadn’t seen this side of you. Your blown-out pupils and plump lips call out to him like a siren’s song. The faint scent of whiskey and strawberry chapstick wafts his way. Intoxicating is the only way to describe how you’re making him feel because the beers he had did nothing.

He doesn’t register his hand reaching out to rub his thumb along your bottom lip. The moment you wrap your lips around his thumb and suck he loses every thought.

Will removes his thumb only to replace it with his lips. It doesn’t take long for you to kiss him back with even more vigor, this was your chance and it wouldn’t go to waste. You feel your bottom lip being sucked into his mouth but somehow he isn’t close enough. Your hands find their way to the back of his neck, bringing him closer while you tilt your head.

Your soft hands feel almost ticklish on the back of his neck and a deep groan passes his lips.

Will reaches out to your waist, pulling you closer until he feels your tits pressed against his chest. You make the lust-filled decision to swing your knee onto his other side and sit on his lap. The denim skirt you’re wearing rides up, almost showing him your panties.

A gasp escapes your lips when you feel what you thought was Will’s zipper. One look at his smirking face tells you you’re mistaken.

“Is that-” Your eyes zero in on where the two of you meet.

“Mhmm,” Will confirms your dream and arousal bubbles in your core. Before you can say anything he rolls his hips perfectly hitting your clit in just the right spot.

The sound that leaves your body is a culmination of all the years you’ve spent yearning for him, for a moment like this. You’ve never felt more desperate in your life. Quickly you lay your head in the crook of his neck and rock your hips back and forth. Your hands find themselves squeezing his biceps for purchase.

All of your breathless pants make him throb with need, as good as you feel like this he wants it all. Will inches his hand up your inner thigh, planting himself on your moving hips.

“Buttercup?” Will talks to you like he’s rousing you from sleep.

“Hm?” He watches you focus with your eyebrows furrowed and your bottom lip jutted out, there’s no better view.

“Want you to sit on it.” He can tell when you register his words because of the decline of your movement.

In all of five seconds, you’re clawing at his pants and all he can do is look at you. There’s no denying you’re gorgeous, sweet, funny. Now that he thinks about it he did care a little more for you than he should. Hell, sometimes you would go to him before Benny and he always felt great when he could problem-solve for you.

While he had been staring at you and daydreaming you managed to pull him out of his pants. If he thought your hands felt good before they feel even better now that they were stroking him.

“You’re so big Will.” Even your fantasies couldn’t live up to the real thing.

“Yeah?” Will rubs over your wet fold through your panties, “You’re gonna be a good girl and take it for me right?” He slides your panties to the side before teasing your entrance with his middle finger.

“Whatever you want.” And you meant every word.

He barely has his finger in and you’re already clenching around him. With your hands now on his shoulders, you impatiently rock your hips showing him you’re ready. Will groans when he feels your warm walls clenching on his finger. He takes his other hand to your chin to bring you closer before telling you, “You’re perfect.”

Before you fully realize what he said he adds another finger to your aching core. Your eyes meet his almost pitch-black ones, and again you feel like his prey the way they bore into his. When he curls his fingers inside you you involuntary buck your hips for more.

You wonder if you’ll leave bruises the way your fingers dig into Will’s shoulders. Suddenly his lips are on yours in a bruising kiss, his teeth slightly rub against yours before he deepens it. Dizziness fills your head from the way his fingers pumped into you to his warm tongue licking into your mouth.

You were ruined for anyone else after him.

The sounds in the truck consist of heavy breathing, moans, and squelching. A pit formed in your lower stomach and you felt like you were falling in it. You feel too much at once and you feel yourself pulling away from the kiss to calm down but Will moves to your neck. As he sucks and licks at your neck his fingers expertly pull you over the edge.

You would’ve fallen against the wheel if he hadn’t held you in his arms. He rubs his hands over your back until you come to. Somehow your orgasm felt like a shot of espresso and you’re right back on Will.

Without pause you sink down on his leaking tip and slowly inch him deeper. You watch his face while you do it and you almost miss his blue eyes, but he looks so much more hypnotizing. You couldn’t look away and neither could he.

Will couldn’t imagine his night would end up like this, not that he was complaining.

With you finally taking all of him you let out the airiest sigh before rocking your hips. Your knees were burning from the seats but you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. Will’s hands move down your back to grip your ass while you rock and bounce on him.

“Fuck,” He is the first to break eye contact but only to look at where the two of you meet. Your juices leave a ring on his dick and he almost cums at the sight. “I can’t wait to taste you next time.”

“Next time?” You try slowing your hips to comprehend what he just said but he picks up your slack. With his hips rutting into yours from below the pleasure must be clouding your brain to imagine things.

“You thought I was gonna let you go after this baby?” An unforgiving pace brings that familiar pit in your stomach that has you pawing at his covered chest. “You know me better than that Buttercup.”

Will’s hips sputter before you hear a guttural groan and warmth being shot into you. Even as he’s cumming he uses his hand to urge you to rock your hips against him. When everything slows to a halt all that’s left is heavy breathing from the both of you.

“Did you mean it?” You bring yourself to ask as you fiddle with your fingers

Will lifts his head from the headrest to look at you, “Of course I mean it.”

“You know you still have a fiance right?”

“You didn’t have to put off by that a few minutes ago,” His playful grin lets you know he’s only messing with you. “Seriously though it wouldn’t have lasted, I just didn’t think anybody else would want me.”

“I mean you make it easy.” You haven’t looked up at him yet.

“You’re one to talk.” Will tilts his head before giving you a kiss. “Let’s get you home.” Heat fills your face at his charm.

With a hiss, he slowly helps to lift you off his now softening dick. You’re quick to move your panties back in place before any of his cum drips out. He tucks himself into himself back into his pants.

Before he even turns on the car you’re lying across the the front seat and nodding off. He takes the jacket he always keeps in his car behind the seat and drapes it over you.

He takes a look at his phone and sees missed calls from everyone. It’s almost 3 in the morning and Will winces as he looks at the messages asking him where he is. Instead of staying here for another hour, he heads in the direction of your condo.

Your porch light is on when he pulls into the driveway in front of your house. One look over at you and he can see that you’re dead to the world so he searches for your purse. When he finds your keys he runs to open the door before circling back to pick you up.

Once in the house, he kicks the door closed then locks it. He already knows the way to your room since he basically set it up for you. In fact he moved most of your furniture for you, not wanting moving companies to take advantage of you.

Your room has clothes strewn on the floor in what looks like failed outfits you tried on. A laugh escapes Will when he realizes you ended up wearing a short jean skirt with a v-neck. It’s only two steps to the bed and he lays you down gently not wanting to wake you.

He tries replacing the jacket over you but your fingers have gripped it so he settles on laying the comforter over you. When he’s sure you’re settled he rounds your bed to sit on the other side, unlacing his boots. After that are his shoes socks, jeans, and shirt.

A relaxed sigh is let out the moment his back hits your bed. Although it makes no sense to cuddle, he saddles his body close to yours.

Bacon and potatoes infiltrate your nose the more awake you become. Last night quickly flashes through your mind as if your brain urged you to remember. Your room is exactly how you left it and the thought of Will seeing it sends shame through your body. Of the discarded clothes you pick up some lounge shorts to throw on.

Your hunger overpowers your drowsiness so you make your way to the kitchen. Will’s naked back is a welcomed sight anytime.

“Good morning.” He grins when you make an appearance next to him.

“Morning Buttercup.” The spatula he’s using to stir potatoes is cast aside so he can run rub circles on your lower back.

Now that the afterglow faded you wondered what direction this is heading in.

“I ended things with Mel this morning, she’s pissed to say the least.”

“I didn’t plan for this to happen.” Guilt creeps into you now that your chickens have come home to roost

“I know, but I’m glad it happened.” Without waiting for your reply he's back to cooking like our conversation never happened. “You can sit down if you want it’ll only be five more minutes.”

The debrief call with Benny will be one for the books.

#triple frontier fic #triple frontier smut #triple frontier #will miller #will miller x reader #will miller x you #william miller #will miller smut #william ironhead miller #will ironhead miller

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pimosworld · 7 months

Text

Santa’s a home wrecker

Pairing-Triple Frontier boys x f!reader

Summary- A little kiss leads to a Christmas morning misunderstanding.

CW-18+, Fluff, so much fluff, Kissing Santa, Pregnancy hormones, tf boys being great parents, polyamorous relationship, navigating a mixed family.

WK-1.6K

A/N- Set in the story of us universe but obviously in the future. We jumped way ahead here folks but I hope you love this fluffy snippet into their future lives.

Not beta read

[Series Masterlist][Main Masterlist]

It’s a little easier now since they let you sleep on the end, but it’s still a chore to roll out of bed with your heavily pregnant belly in tow. You sit on the edge for a moment trying to soothe yourself as the kicks come in quick succession.

You try as quietly as you can to make your way out of the bedroom, stealing a glance at Ben’s large form sprawled across Frankie in the most uncomfortable way.

You're wrapped up in your fluffy red robe, an early Christmas gift from the boys that you’ve been living in for the last month or so while you grow out of everything else you own.

The house is quiet and warm as you shuffle down the hallway and smells like cinnamon apples from the pies you made for Christmas Day.

A peek into the spare bedroom shows you a glimpse into most of your nights when it's Santiago’s turn to put the kids down for bed.

He’s snoring in the chair that sits between Camila and little Santiago’s beds. Both children slumbering away as they dream about the most exciting day of the year.

Some rustling is coming from the living room and you round the corner to a site that will never cease to make you smile. The boys take turns being Santa every year and they never do anything halfway. Your arms are crossed as you lean against the wall staring at the rich, dark red velvet material bent over in front of the tree. Deliberately placing gifts from the giant red bag in various spots.

You let out a low whistle as you make your way towards the bearded man. “Santa has a nice ass.”

He chuckles and stands gesturing with his arms for you to come to him. It’s a bit of a struggle now to be held but he still makes you feel all warm and fuzzy as you sway in the living room in front of the lowlights of the tree. You humm as he rubs your belly, somehow the kicking stops as if the baby taking up home inside knows whose hands are caressing you.

“How’s mama doing?” He asks as he kisses your neck, the fluff from his beard tickling you slightly.

“I’m tired…someone keeps kicking me.” You sigh into his touch as he drops to his knees, his fingers kneading that spot in your back that he knows pains you throughout the day.

“Hey little guy.” He speaks so softly in some adorable voice he’s made up.

“He’s a big guy, Will…a very big guy.” You know well enough having been told ad nauseum Miller babies are big.

“Hey big guy…I need you to give your momma a rest so she can enjoy tomorrow okay?” He holds his ear to your belly and nods. When he looks up at you all you can make out is those piercing blue eyes nestled between the red hat and white beard. “He said okay.”

A small tear escapes as he kisses your belly and stands again. You can’t even blame it on the hormones.

“Go lay down, I’ll bring you some tea when I finish here.” One last kiss to your lips and he’s shooing you away so he can complete his Santa duties and enjoy his peanut butter cookies special request.

****

Frankie stacks the pancakes high on the plate next to the stove, as he moves on to the eggs and bacon.

Ben hasn’t said a word just eyeing the food as you enjoy your morning tea, surprised the kids haven’t graced you with their presence yet.

Santi’s creaking bones enter the kitchen before he’s seen as he cracks his back in the hallway. Frankie laughs from the stove as he flips the bacon perfectly somehow never burning it.

“Laugh it up hermano.” He leans down and kisses your forehead before heading over to the fresh coffee pot.

“I’m not the one that keeps falling asleep in the chair.”

You hear the sound of hurried footsteps down the hallway as Camila quickly emerges into the kitchen beaming from ear to ear. She barrels into Frankie hugging him from behind as he reaches around and ruffles her long black curls. “Buenos Días papá.”

“Buenos Días mi amor.”

Frankie kisses her forehead and she makes her way over to you and Santi to say her good mornings and receive hugs and kisses.

She climbs into Ben’s lap forgoing an open seat as she waits for breakfast to finish. The way the two of them could eat you were worried about welcoming another Miller into the household for lack of food resources.

“Good Morning daddy.” She wraps her little arms around him and it’s a feeling he’ll never get used to.

“Good morning honey.” She stole your nickname early on when she could look so sweet at them and instantly get her way.

There was a rule from the beginning that there would be no distinction unless medically necessary between the fathers. They were all fathers and that’s all that mattered.

“Sweetie, where's Santiago?” She looks slightly uncomfortable as she leans in and whispers something in Ben’s ear.

“He’s not coming?” Ben looks over to you as Santi looks to Frankie now done cooking breakfast.

She leans in again whispering something as Ben’s eyes widen. He has to bite his cheek to keep from laughing at the situation that he knows will need to be handled swiftly.

“He doesn’t want to open presents from a home wrecker.”

You’re grateful you hadn’t taken a sip of your tea or it would’ve been all over your new robe.

Frankie flicks off the stove and heads over to the table. “How do you even know that word, young lady?”

Ben leans in whispering something in her ear and she relaxes slightly.

“Well…ugh.” She’s in the hot seat by way of Santi much like her father often does to other people. You lay your hand on hers and wince slightly cursing this baby for picking the most opportune moments to make himself known.

“Camila it’s okay, you can tell me…you’re not in trouble.”

“Tia Marí said Tio John kissed a homewrecker and that’s why they’re not together anymore.” It comes out all rushed and flustered and you're trying not to giggle at her panicked confession.

Frankie points at Santi while he still looks on confused. “Your sister is off babysitting duty for a while.”

Santi scrubs his hand down his face. “I'm still not following.”

Ben places his hands over her ears so she can’t hear. “Will was Santa last night.” He grits out as she giggles.

Santiago must have woken up and seen you kissing “Santa”.

“Daddy I can’t hear anything.” He starts tickling her as she squeals in delight.

“Good because if you did, you wouldn’t get any presents.” They continue their giggles as you let out a long sigh.

“We’re gonna eat breakfast while you two go handle that.” Frankie starts serving up plates as Ben and Camila clap in excitement.

****

Santiago is face down in the blankets when you enter his room. He was a deep sleeper so it was pretty obvious when he was pretending. His little breaths are coming in shallow like he just ran here and plopped himself down.

You have a seat on the edge as Santi sits in the chair beside him.

Santi rubs his back hoping to calm him a little before he speaks. “Hey bud, you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

Inaudible mumbles come from the pillow and you bite down on your tongue at the mirror image. Payback for all the time Santi made someone chase him for a simple misunderstanding coming back ten fold.

“I didn’t hear you mijo, que pasó.” He slowly rolls him over as Santiago rubs his red eyes.

“I…don’t want…I don’t want.” He’s sniffling and Santi tries to calm him so he can catch his breath.

“Deep breaths bud.”

He shakily inhales and wipes his little hands on the blanket. “I don’t want Santa to break up our home.”

You could kill Maria for almost ruining Christmas morning, but you know one day you’ll get to tell this hilarious story to your children when they’re all grown up. You let Santiago take the reins even though you did kiss Santa. This was not your mess to clean up.

“Santiago, no one is breaking up our home. I love your mama very much.” Santiago crawls over to you as you wrap him up in your arms, kissing his unruly brown locks.

“You promise?” Your heart breaks a little as those little puppy dog eyes look up at you.

“Yes we promise.” He exhales as he relaxes in your arms and you look up at Santi incredulously.

“Santa is my friend…he’s allowed to kiss your mama.” Santiago looks up at his dad with pure shock written all over his face.

“WHAT!” He balks at him as you burst into a fit of laughter.

“HO, HO,HO…” The boisterous sound echoes down the hallway from the living room.

Santiago scrambles off your lap as you fall back with an oomph. Your belly won’t allow anymore movements like that so you succumb to the comfort of his tiny car bed, as his father chases after him.

****

Camila is standing in front of the tree as Santa hands her the first gift.

“Well hello little boy, would you like a gift from Santa?”

He runs up to him with his hands on his hips as he pokes him in the surprisingly hard belly. “Next time just drop off the gifts and go.”

Will looks up confused by his son's words as Frankie and Benny are losing it in the kitchen.

Santi stands there in the same stance.

“Don’t worry I’ll explain later.”

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated

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floralpascal · 2 years

Text

Heartbeat - Part 1

Summary: When you cuddle up on Frankie to watch a movie, his rapid heartbeat makes you question if he has feelings for you, too.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

Word Count: 7k

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Warnings: kissing, (semi-public) dry humping, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, protected p-in-v sex (let me know if I missed anything)

A/N: This started out as a short fluffy fic and it turned into this. My mind goes straight into the gutter for this man. It’s my first time ever writing smut, so I’m a little nervous, but I hope you all enjoy!

Part 2

Friday night movie night at Benny’s with the guys was a rare treat that you thoroughly enjoyed, even if watching a movie with all four of them at the same time was a pain in the ass. Benny and Santi were always talking over the movie and if the movie had any sort of action, they would all start commenting on how unrealistic it was. If the movie had anything to do with the military, all you heard for the entire two hours was how every small thing was actually incredibly inaccurate.

Though you would feign annoyance every time, you secretly loved it. Even if you never actually got to watch the movie, you got enough entertainment from the guys.

Not to mention that you somehow always ended up sitting next to Frankie, the man you had a hopeless crush on for years. Even if you sat in a different spot for movie night, Frankie was there next to you. He would often lean over to you to whisper jokes about whatever movie you were watching, completely oblivious to the way it gave you goosebumps every time.

Tonight was no different. You sat down on the couch with the popcorn bowl, Frankie coming to join you not long after. He plopped down to your right, stealing a handful of popcorn as he did. The popcorn bowl gave you a reason to lean in close to him as Benny started the movie and Will turned off the lights. Santi took the seat on the other side of the couch from you and Frankie. Benny laid sprawled out on the loveseat like always and Will took his usual spot in Benny’s huge recliner.

Nearly an hour into the movie - and about fifteen different interruptions from Santi and Benny later - you had begun to shiver, curling in on yourself in an attempt to warm yourself up. Frankie noticed immediately.

“You need a blanket?” He whispered to you, only loud enough for you to hear over the blaring movie, leaning in close enough to send a shiver down your spine for a different reason. You nodded, setting the now-empty popcorn bowl on the table beside the couch.

He twisted to his right to grab the blanket behind Santi’s head on the back of the couch. When he brought the blanket closer, you thought he would simply hand it to you. Instead, he flicked the blanket out and draped it across the both of you. You smiled as he turned to you then, moving to lay his arm on the back of the couch behind you, arm open in a silent invitation for you to get closer. He met your smile with a polite, slightly bashful one of his own.

You readily accepted, curling into his side and laying your head on his chest as his arm wrapped around your shoulders to tuck you into his side. You had completely forgotten about the movie now, opting instead to focus on how the heat from his body soaked through the fabric of his clothes to warm your skin. After a moment though, you noticed that you could hear his heartbeat with where your head was placed on his chest, just above his heart. You wouldn’t have noticed if not for how fast it beat, going at nearly the same rapid pace as your own.

After a few minutes, you shifted to look at his face, a movement that drew his attention from the screen to you. He looked calm, his demeanor not matching the way his heart raced. The only thing that seemed off was how intense his brown eyes had suddenly become as he gazed down at you.

“Everything okay?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper. You couldn’t help but dip your gaze down to his lips as he spoke, a movement that did not seem to go unnoticed by Frankie.

You had wanted to ask him the same question. You didn’t want to broach the subject now, not with the soft way he was looking at you.

“Yeah,” you affirmed. You noticed his eyes flick down to your lips this time before meeting your gaze again. “Thank you, Frankie.”

“Anything for you.”

You both stayed like that, faces inches apart, staring into each other’s eyes. You couldn’t help but drop your gaze down to his lips again for a fraction of a second, his own following suit once again. His warm hand came to lightly press against your back. Frankie began to lean in-

BOOM!

You and Frankie jumped, turning to see the aftermath of the explosion on the TV screen.

“That would not blow up like that in real life!” Santi grumbled on the other side of the couch. Murmurs of agreement came from Benny and Will. They all seemed to be engrossed in the movie, not noticing the moment that had passed between you and Frankie in the dark.

You gave an awkward chuckle, shaking your head. When you turned back to Frankie, his eyes were already on you, a small smile on his lips. Maybe it was just the dark, but you thought he looked anxious now, a slight crinkle appearing in his brow.

You shuffled back into his side, once again laying your head on his chest. His heart was beating even faster than before.

Was it…you? Was his heart beating this fast because of you? Your mind wheeled from the moment you had shared with him. Had he been about to kiss you?

You spent the rest of the movie curled up against Frankie. You were no longer cold. In fact, you felt like you were burning up now with the way your body was pressed against his. Frankie’s heart rate barely slowed. You looked at the screen, but you weren’t really watching, your focus staying with the melodic beat under you, with the way that his fingers lightly fidgeted with the edge of the blanket that laid on your thighs, the way you could feel his breath rise and fall.

When the movie was over, you reluctantly sat up off of Frankie. Santi wandered off to the bathroom while Benny beelined it to the kitchen. When Will flipped the light back on, you could finally see Frankie completely again. He looked at you as if he wanted to say something, his eyebrows drawn and mouth open.

“Fish!” Benny called from the kitchen. “Do you want to take the leftover pizza home?”

Frankie rolled his eyes, deflating a little. “No,” he called back, “it’s all yours, man.”

Benny then called your name. “You want it?”

“No. Just take it if you want it, Ben.”

“Thanks, guys!”

You laughed, standing up from the couch. You stretched for a moment, feeling stiff from sitting for so long. Your shirt rose up as you stretched, a sliver of skin above your waistline exposed to the cold air. When you looked back at Frankie, he quickly averted his gaze from where he had been watching you, suddenly very interested in his phone.

Was he… checking you out now? You wondered if you were imagining everything that was happening between you or if you were just interpreting it all wrong.

Twenty minutes later, everyone was wrapping up for the night. Santi and Will left together, Will going to drop Santi off at his house on his way home. You and Frankie, inevitably, we’re the last ones to leave. He walked you out to your car in Benny’s driveway, making small talk with you about your week. He still looked so calm, no hints evident on his face that his heart had been racing for the past hour like he had been running a marathon.

When you arrived at your car, Frankie stopped, suddenly seeming nervous. Once again, he started to say something before deciding otherwise, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment. Instead of whatever he had wanted to say, he simply said, “Goodnight, hermosa.”

Hermosa. He had never called you that before.

You mumbled out a goodnight in response, your mind whirring. Frankie gave you a tight smile before turning to head towards his truck.

Your hand reached for your car door handle before freezing. Something was there between you two. It was right there, just out of reach. But if you let him go, you knew that the next time you saw each other you would be back at square one, as friends and nothing more. Neither of you would broach the subject again. You thought for a moment before whipping around to look for him again.

“Frankie?” You called, catching him as he was rounding his truck bed. His head snapped up from where he was looking at the ground.

“Yeah?” His wide eyes stared at you from the other side of his truck. You thought you saw a flash of hope cross his face.

You made the decision then. You ran around his truck, praying that your suspensions were correct and trying not to lose your nerve. As you approached him, he gave you a quizzical look. Before he could say anything, you were up against him, hands lightly cupping his cheeks as you pressed your lips to his.

It was a short kiss. You pulled away a few seconds later, Frankie chasing your lips slightly before his eyes snapped open again. You dropped your hands, too afraid that you had misjudged his feelings for you to stay close.

He looked utterly stunned. You could see as his mind worked to try to catch up to what you had just done. He blinked once, twice, before he closed the distance between you again, his soft, warm lips colliding with yours as he buried a hand in your hair and his other snaked around your waist to pull you closer.

Your own hands scrambled for purchase on his shoulders, grabbing onto his shirt in an attempt to pull him even closer.

It was a desperate, hungry, all-consuming kiss. Frankie kissed like it was the last thing he would ever do. He kissed like it was the only thing he ever wanted to do.

You broke the kiss, trying to catch your breath. “Frankie,” you whispered.

Frankie pulled back, both of his hands moving to cup your chin. His eyes were hooded now, the way he was looking at you sending a shiver of excitement down your spine. “I wanted to kiss you so bad. In there. I didn’t know if you… if you…”

You nodded, bringing your hands to grasp at his wrists. “I do. I have for a long time.”

“Me too, cariño,” he sighed. His thumb rubbed over your cheek and you leaned into his hand. “You were all I could think about tonight. Hell, you’re all I can ever think about.”

“I didn’t pay attention to the movie at all,” you admitted. “Just you.”

“I don’t even know what that damn movie was even about.”

“Whatever it was, it was loud.”

Frankie chuckled before becoming more serious again. “So where do we go from here?”

You shook your head slightly. “I have no idea. Just kiss me again, Frankie.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It didn’t seem that Frankie needed to be told twice. In one swift motion, he grabbed the hat from his head, tossed it on the top of the truck, and leaned down to kiss you again, now without the hindrance of his hat in the way. He kissed you so hard you felt dizzy within mere seconds. All that mattered was him, that he felt the same, that he wanted you.

You swore you hadn’t meant for the next kiss to turn heated. You couldn’t even remember how the kiss that followed had taken a turn from sweet to something more. But now you were pressed between Frankie’s chest and the cold metal of his truck as his lips moved against yours and his hands explored unknown territory.

Neither of you could get enough of each other. Every one of your senses were fully focused on one thing: Frankie. Kissing him, you were quickly finding, was an activity that demanded all of your attention. Everything else seemed to fade away, replaced only with the press of him against you, the way he moved, the way he pulled you against him. The insistence he kissed you with sent you soaring.

After a while, his lips strayed away from yours, teeth lightly nipping as he made his way maddeningly down your neck. One of your hands grasped at his shoulder, the other lightly tugging his soft curls as his lips found the tender space between your neck and shoulder. You gasped a soft Frankie when you felt his teeth graze against your skin there, your body slightly arching against his. You could feel him smile against your shoulder in response before he continued to kiss any bit of skin he could find.

As he pressed against you, you could feel the bulge in his jeans pressing against your hip. He was getting hard from this. It gave you the confidence you needed to roll your hips slightly against his, causing a small groan to fall from Frankie’s lips on your shoulder. He rasped your name as he gave a testing roll of his own, sending a spark of pleasure through you.

He moved back up to kiss you properly, a new fire behind his kiss now, and you pushed against him again. Another spark of pleasure spread through you, but it wasn’t enough. There were too many layers between you two, you so desperately needed-

“Hey!”

For the second time that night, you both jumped. Frankie’s hands locked around your waist as you both looked to see Benny standing on his porch, his front door wide open. From the light spilling out of the open door, you could see that he wasn’t even trying to hide the shit-eating grin he had on his face.

“I’m happy for you guys, kiss all you want, it’s about damn time,�� Benny yelled over to you both. “But you two are not gonna fuck in my driveway, okay? Take that shit home. Get a room. Something.”

You laughed, slightly embarrassed that you had been caught so close to doing something with Frankie in your friend’s driveway, and buried your face in Frankie’s chest. You had completely forgotten where you were, too caught up in Frankie to care.

“Fuck off, Benny,” Frankie called half-heartedly, chuckling a little as he pulled you closer. He turned his back to Benny and hugged you to him, as if hiding you from Benny’s view would save you from some of the embarrassment. It also helped to hide his surely-noticeable erection from his friend. His hands moved to your back, rubbing circles as you giggled into his chest even more.

“I’ve gotta draw the line somewhere, Fish, and this is it. It didn’t look like you two were slowing down anytime soon. You guys have a good night, just have it somewhere else.” Benny grabbed his door handle and started to go back inside. He yelled over his shoulder, “Also, Santi owes me $50 now, so thanks guys!”

The door clicked shut, leaving you alone with Frankie once again. You pulled away enough to see him. The smile that was still plastered on his face sent your heart soaring.

“They had a bet going on us?” You asked.

Frankie shrugged. “It’s news to me.”

You shook your head.

“Do you - Um…” Frankie started self-consciously, one of his hands leaving your side to scratch at the back of his neck. “Do you…want to come home with me?”

You almost couldn’t believe that the man you had been practically dry humping out in the open was asking you that like he thought you wouldn’t want to.

“I do, Frankie.”

“You don’t think it’s too fast? I don’t want you to think that I just want a quick fuck or just a one-time thing or-”

“Frankie,” you interrupted. You moved to whisper into his ear, “I don’t want just some quick fuck either. I don’t want a one-time thing. I want you. If you want me, take me home.”

The groan that came from the back of his throat filled you with excitement. He pulled back, his hand coming to your cheek, and kissed you hard.

“I want you. Fuck, I want you.” He kissed you again before telling you, his self-consciousness gone, “Hop in the truck, cariño. I’ll bring you back to get your car tomorrow.”

Benny would just have to deal with your car in his driveway for the night. You couldn’t bring yourself to care about it at the moment.

Frankie opened the driver‘s door for you, allowing you to step up into the truck and slide down the bench seat enough to let him into the driver's seat. On his way in, he retrieved his hat from the roof and tossed it in the back of the cab as he sat down. You had never seen him toss his favorite hat so carelessly before, like it was something that was only getting in his way at the moment.

You had been to Frankie’s house countless times before. You had even ridden with him in his truck on his way to his house. But you had never gone like this. You had never been able to sit right up against him. You had never had his hand on your thigh, his thumb rubbing light circles. You had never had this much anticipation between the two of you.

Frankie was the most focused you had ever seen him as he drove. You wondered if this is how he looked when he would fly: concentrated on his destination, his movements deft and calculated. The hand he had on the steering wheel was gripped tight, his fingers lifting periodically before curling tight around the wheel again.

You raked your eyes over him, bathed in the light of the passing streetlights. On a normal day, Frankie’s pants didn’t leave much to the imagination. They fit a little too well, which was something that had haunted you for years. But now you could see so much more as he strained against the confines of his jeans. He was big, that you already knew, but now you were starting to get an idea of just how big.

You began to play with his hair, carding your fingers through the brown waves of unruly curls while Frankie raced home.

“Cariño,” he rasped out, his voice strained, “if you keep doing that, I’m gonna have to pull over and take you on the side of the road. I’m barely hanging on here, baby.”

You gave him a mischievous grin, continuing to run your hand through his hair. “Why don’t you then?”

He turned his attention from the road to you for a moment, letting his eyes sweep you up and down. He looked hungry and disheveled, a combination that you had never seen from him before but already couldn’t wait to see again. It made your heart race. You could see him consider it, pulling over somewhere secluded and finally fucking you. For a second, you thought he might actually do it. But then he shook his head resolutely and answered, “Because you deserve better… and I’m gonna need a lot more space to work.”

The promise in his words filled you with anticipation.

After what felt like an eternity, you arrived in Frankie’s driveway. He ripped the keys from the ignition before he opened the door and scrambled to get out. He immediately turned to offer you his hand to help you out of the truck. You took it and hopped out, Frankie closing the door behind you.

Then, Frankie was on you, his hand cupping your jaw and his lips finding yours once again. He broke away, leaning back to see you, his rich brown eyes drinking you in.

“Come on, bonita,” he said, taking your hand in his. He led you up the old wooden steps to his front door. Of all the times you had followed him up those same steps, you never thought it would be for this reason. That your hand would be in his, the taste of his lips still on yours, with more to come. You took a breath to steady your own racing pulse.

He hastily fiddled with his keys before fitting one into the lock and turning. He shoved the door open, turning to walk backwards through the entryway as he pulled you closer to kiss you again. Once you had cleared the door, Frankie reached out blindly to grab the door and push it closed behind you.

You quickly realized that Frankie had been quite well-behaved in Benny’s driveway, all things considered.

You felt his tongue ask for entrance, which you immediately granted. He kissed you with a fervor that made you dizzy as his tongue met yours. His hands were on you once again, exploring and grasping at whatever they could find. One hand pulled your hips flush with his again and the other found the skin of your back under your shirt.

Your arms were thrown over Frankie’s shoulders, grasping at the back of his shirt and neck. You felt just as desperate as him, years of pining for him finally pouring out.

After a while, your fingers found their way to the buttons of his shirt, hastily undoing them one-by-one. Once you had undone the last one, he helped you shrug the cloth from his shoulders. Your hands came to rest on his bare chest, your right hand just above where your head had been laying just less than an hour ago. Under your touch, you could feel his heart race just as it had earlier.

Then, Frankie found the edge of your shirt and lifted it over your head. Though he had seen you in a bathing suit before, he took you in like he was seeing you for the first time. Then he looked you in the eyes, his arms wrapping around your middle. You felt his fingers hook onto the clasp of your bra and then freeze.

“Can I?” he asked, almost at a whisper. You realized it was a bigger question than just that. He was checking to make sure you still wanted this. That you still wanted your relationship to move past being just friends. He was giving you a chance to stop, to go back before you both strayed too far away from the friendship you had known for years.

Like you could ever go back after even simply kissing Frankie. You nodded, pressing a quick, reassuring kiss to his jaw.

Frankie worked the clasp undone and drew the straps down your arms. Once you were free of it, you saw the way his breath picked up as he took you in. He kissed you again, bringing your chest flush to his. Hands roamed your bare back as he walked you both backwards, his lips finding yours once again.

You hadn’t realized where Frankie had guided you until the back of your thighs met a hard object. Frankie broke only enough to speak, his lips still brushing yours, “Hop up here, baby.”

You turned to see that he had backed you up against his kitchen table. You did as he said, coming to sit at the edge and immediately making space for him between your legs. He connected your lips once again, one hand on your hip and the other coming to palm your breast.

“Can I taste you, cariño?” He asked breathlessly, his voice low.

You nodded, giving him an adamant and breathless yes automatically.

Frankie grabbed your hips and gently pulled you closer to the edge. You watched as he pulled back and dropped to his knees, his broad shoulders coming to rest between your thighs. He guided your underwear down your legs, throwing them to the ground once he had freed you from them. His brown eyes were blown black with lust as he took in the sight of your dripping core.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” he admired. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve thought about this. How you would taste. How you would sound…”

“You thought about it?”

Frankie smiled, leaning closer to you. “More than you know.”

“I have, too.” You returned his smile. However, it lasted only a moment before your eyes snapped shut and your mouth dropped open as Frankie’s tongue met your folds for the first time, licking a stripe from your dripping hole to your clit. He then moved to focus on your clit with a proficiency that already had your breath hitching, devouring you like a man starved.

You couldn’t have stopped the moan that fell from your lips if you tried. One hand came to grasp at his curls, the other moving behind you to prop yourself up on the table. He grabbed your shins and tossed them over his shoulders for leverage.

“Keep those pretty eyes on me, baby,” he cooed, his hot breath hitting your core. You opened your eyes to meet his gaze. “Let me hear you, don’t hold back.”

He kept his eyes locked on you as he brought his tongue to your clit once again. His brown eyes looked so sweet compared to the absolutely sinful way his mouth was working at you.

You let your moans run free. After he changed speeds, a high-pitched Frankie fell from your lips, eliciting a moan from him. The vibrations from it rocked through you. When you breathed out his name again, you got the same maddening response from him. You realized that he liked it when you said his name like this. No problem. You could already tell that you would be saying it a lot tonight.

Your cries of his name only seemed to spur him on, his pace increasing as his hands wrapped around your thighs to keep you in place. He seemed to learn from every moan and every movement of your body what sent you higher.

Soon enough, you could feel the red hot coil in your stomach building, pulling taut.

“F-Frankie, I’m close,” you gasped out. “Don’t stop.”

With a few more calculated swipes of his tongue over your clit, the tension finally snapped. You closed your eyes again as your head dropped back and you cried out. Waves of ecstasy washed over you as Frankie drew out your release, his head trapped between your thighs. As you came down, he moved lower to gather your slick on his tongue.

He passed his tongue over your sensitive clit a few more times, eying the way your muscles jumped from the attention. The lust and adoration evident on his face nearly leveled you as he stared up at you.

“Can you give me another like this?” he asked, his voice gravelly, mustache and beard glistening with your slick, before giving another testing swipe at your folds.

Oh, fuck. You hadn’t ever been with someone who enjoyed eating you out like Frankie seemed to. You were starting to see that Frankie had been telling the truth: he didn’t intend on a quick fuck. He was a patient and attentive man - you were beginning to see just how much.

In your haze, you mumbled out a yes. Frankie smiled.

“Lay back, cariño. Let me take care of you.” His hand came to your chest to guide you to lay back onto the table. The cold of the wood was in stark contrast to the heat of your skin and the heat of Frankie’s mouth as it met your folds again.

You were lost in the feeling of him, one hand gripping the edge of the table and the other finding its way back to Frankie’s hair. Just as you began to adjust to his speed and pattern, he would change it again, quickly sending you higher than you thought possible. Moans of oh fuck, Frankie and just like that poured from your mouth.

The tension began to build again, quicker this time. You lifted your head off the hard wood to watch as he closed his eyes and savored the taste of you. That was all it took to send you toppling over the edge once again.

He kept working at you until you had come down from your high and lightly pushed him away from your overstimulated clit. Frankie gave one last, savoring lick to your hole, savoring every last drop of your slick. He pulled away, licking his lips as he groaned, “Fuck, you’re so sweet.”

Breathing hard, you sat up and gently guided him up from between your legs, bringing his face to yours. You tasted yourself on his tongue, his lips still wet as they met yours. Frankie’s tongue moved against yours with the same skill as when he was eating you out.

“Frankie, that was-”

“Just the warm-up,” he finished for you, leaning his forehead on yours. He hadn’t even fucked you yet and you were already wrecked just from his mouth alone. You couldn’t imagine what you would be like later if that was just the beginning.

“Well, that was a hell of a warmup.”

You kissed him again, wrapping your legs around his hips, your arms once again over his shoulders. Frankie took full advantage of the position, pulling your lower half to his and snaking an arm under you to pick you up from the table. He carried you to his bedroom - a place that you had only seen glimpses of a few times before - without even having to break your kiss. He flopped you down onto his bed, causing you to giggle as he climbed to hover over you and kiss you again.

You reached up to pull at his belt, trying to undo the leather. Once you had gotten it undone, you switched your focus to his jeans.

“Need these off,” you panted against his lips. You weren’t unaware of the slight air of desperation that had slipped into your voice.

Frankie shed his pants and boxers and discarded them to the floor. And, shit, he was big. You had guessed from what you had seen and felt earlier that he would be, but it was another thing to see it confirmed.

You brought your hand to his weeping cock, giving him a few testing strokes. Frankie let out a small groan, his hips rocking forward in your grip a bit. You continued to pump him in your hand for a while, trailing kisses along his jaw before he stopped you, his hand coming to your wrist and his lips capturing yours.

“Querida, I’m not gonna last like this,” he said. ”I wanna be inside you when I come.”

“Please. I need you, Frankie.”

“Not yet, baby. I need to get you ready first. Don’t wanna hurt you.” Logically, with how big he was you knew that you should, but that didn’t seem to matter to you at the moment. You tried to protest, to tell him that you didn’t care, you just needed him now, but he shook his head, a wicked grin on his face. He drew out his next words teasingly, “Greedy, aren’t you, baby?”

Your brain shut off, butterflies stirring in your stomach at his words. Like there was anything you wouldn’t let him do when he talked to you like that.

You gasped as he slipped a finger into you and started to pump in and out. His finger was bigger and longer than your own, already hitting a spot you could never seem to reach with your own fingers. He started building up his pace as he began to kiss down your neck like he had earlier in the night. This time though, you could feel him suck lightly as he went, surely leaving bruises in his wake.

You bucked your hips up, his one finger no longer enough.

“Need more, baby,” you whined, all care for how desperate you sounded gone. All that mattered to you now was the drag of his finger inside you and the way he sucked at the tender area just above your collarbone.

He slipped a second finger into your heat as he murmured, “That’s it, baby. Fuck, you’re so tight.”

His fingers were so much bigger than yours, two of his feeling like three of your own, stretching you as he built his pace back up again. It burned in the best way, radiating pleasure through you.

You arched against him as he curled his fingers, hitting a spot that made your toes curl.

“Right there, Frankie!”

“Come on, cariño. Come for me again and I’ll give you what you want.”

You were so close, teetering on the edge maddeningly as he worked his fingers in and out. Suddenly, he added a third finger. It was exactly what you needed to push you over the edge. Your orgasm rocked through you as you clenched down on his fingers. He continued to work them in and out as much as he could with the way you were gripping him.

“That’s it, baby,” he cooed. “God, you’re so beautiful when you come.” Once your orgasm had subsided, he slipped his fingers out and brought them to his lips. He sucked your slick from them eagerly, like he hadn’t just tasted you earlier.

“Frankie, baby,” you panted, “I need you to fuck me.” You could feel his hard length against your hip and you bucked against him. He had made you come three times already and you were still desperate to have him inside you.

“I don’t think I could wait any longer if I tried,” he admitted. Frankie reached over to his bedside table and pulled a foil package from the drawer. He ripped it open with his teeth before taking the condom to roll over his length.

You reached out to take him in your hand again, giving him a few more strokes before you went to line him up with you.

His mouth came to yours as he made the first push into you. You both let out moans, your high-pitched one contrasting with his low one. He made shallow thrusts, each time sinking deeper into you. Even after trying to get you ready for him, it was a stretch to fit him. You had thought his fingers had stretched you. They were nothing compared to this.

“You’re so fucking tight, cariño,” he grunted. “Squeezing me so tight.”

“You’re so big,” you responded breathlessly.

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

“No, no,” you hastily whined. “Feels so good.”

After a few more thrusts, he finally buried himself to the hilt in you. Then, he stopped, pulling another whine from you. You rocked your hips, trying to feel the friction, but one hand came down to still your hip.

“Just a second. Fuck, don’t move,” he told you shakily. He took deep breaths in, squeezing his eyes shut. “Just give me a second or I’m not gonna last.”

You let him be for a moment, but then you couldn’t stop yourself from softly begging him to move.

He let out one last breath before nodding. He connected your lips again, starting to rock his hips into yours in long, slow strokes. You wrapped your legs around his hips, changing the angle of his thrusts. The hand that wasn’t propping him up came to grip at your ass and thigh over his hip.

His kiss started slow, but incredibly insistent. However, as his pace increased, so did the heat in his kiss.

“You feel so good,” Frankie mumbled against your lips. “You’re so fucking perfect, cariño. Like this pussy was made for me.”

He continued to murmur to you as he fucked you. About how badly he had wanted you all these years. How he couldn’t ever think clearly when you were around. How beautiful you were. You returned it, telling him that he was all you had wanted since you had met. He shuddered before his grip tightened on your skin, his next few strokes harder than before.

You moved to bury your hands in his hair as you gave him a bruising kiss. You ran your tongue along his lips and he quickly gave you entrance.

It was so good, but you needed more and you could tell Frankie was holding back. He wasn’t allowing himself to go as fast or as rough as he wanted. You could feel it in the way he would let up if he felt himself move a little too hard or a little too fast. But that’s what you needed.

“Harder,” you pleaded. “Fuck me harder. I can take it.”

Your previous observation about him had been right: Frankie wasn’t the kind of man who needed to be told twice.

Frankie nearly growled before he smashed his lips to yours messily. He snapped his hips against yours at a new, blistering pace. He hit that spongy spot deep inside you over and over. You broke from his kiss to moan out, your head tipping back into the pillow. He took advantage of your position to attach his lips to your neck once again, kissing and sucking wherever he could.

“Oh, fuck, Francisco!” You cried. You clawed at his back, searching for purchase over the muscled expanse, the way he was fucking into you absolutely devastating. “Just like that!”

His hips stuttered before he groaned into your ear, deep and desperate, “Say it again.”

Even through the haze, you knew what he meant, what he really wanted to hear.

“Francisco,” you whined. In the past, you had sometimes called him by his full name when you were joking around with him. You were the only person he even let call him that at all. With revelation that he liked it when you said Frankie, you now knew why he let you call him Francisco. The difference was that now you were completely serious, letting it drip from your tongue over and over like a prayer.

“I need you to come, baby,” Frankie grunted as he moved against you. “I’m close, but I need you to come first.”

Nothing that came from your mouth was comprehensible other than his name. You were so far gone, climbing higher than you had thought possible, the coil in your stomach continuing to tighten as he slammed in and out of you. Rather than snapping, the tension just kept building and building.

Suddenly, Frankie got a better grip against the thigh under his hand, moving your leg to rest higher on his torso, your other leg following suit almost automatically. He was deeper now, completely filling you as you cried out.

After a few more strokes, your orgasm barreled into you, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. The breath was knocked out of you from the force of it. You clenched around him hard as he worked you through it, your legs locked and spasming around his torso. Waves of pleasure rolled over you.

“That’s it. That’s it…” he murmured into your ear. He kept moving in and out of you as much as he could, drawing your orgasm out.

Once it had subsided, he began to build back up to his previous place, chasing his own high. You threaded one hand through his hair, the other grasping at his back as you held on.

You gave a tug on his hair and his rhythm faltered. You did it again, this time while whispering into his ear, high and breathy, “Come for me, Francisco. Let go, baby.”

That seemed to be all he needed to send him careening over the edge. He let out a strangled sound, fucking into you three more times before his hips stilled, buried deep in you, and he found his release.

Once he had emptied, he nearly collapsed into you, his face in the crook of your neck, breathing hard, his cock still buried inside you. His weight on top of you was a welcome one. You ran your fingers through his curls once again, lightly this time, as you both came down.

After a few moments, Frankie lifted up and pulled out of you. He took off the condom and secured it before discarding it in the small trash can on the other side of his bedside table. Then, he rolled over to lay beside you, totally spent, pulling you to lay with him. Your head came to rest where it had laid earlier in the night on his chest, just above his heart. You chuckled a little, listening to the familiar, hammering thrum of the beat as Frankie came down.

You began to leave small, light kisses on his chest. Then, Frankie’s forefinger hooked under your chin, guiding you up to meet his lips as he whispered, “C’mere, hermosa.”

Your lips moved languidly against one another, completely savoring the moment. Your hand came to his chin, feeling the prickle of the sparse beard under your touch.

“You weren’t kidding,” you told Frankie after you broke. He gave you a questioning look, adoration in his soft brown eyes. “That was just a warmup.”

He laughed, his head falling back before he looked down at you again. “You’re amazing,” he countered. “I don’t know how I’m gonna go another day without fucking you now that I know what you feel like… and what you fucking sound like.”

“Yeah? I may have a short-term solution to that problem.”

“I’m listening…”

You gave him a small smile. “We could leave my car in Benny’s driveway the whole weekend and not leave your house.”

A grin spread across his face. “Baby, you’re gonna be lucky if I let you leave this bed this weekend.”

“No problem. I don’t know if I’ll be able to physically walk after that.”

“That’s the idea.”

You laughed, collapsing back onto his chest, both of you spent and blissed out.

You both still had things to discuss, but you knew that you would figure it out soon enough. For now, all that mattered was that you both wanted each other, that he was here, his arms wrapped around you as he kissed the top of your head.

After a few minutes, you drifted off, the sound of his heartbeat lulling you to sleep.

#frankie morales #francisco morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier #frankie morales x you #francisco catfish morales #pedro pascal #triple frontier fanfiction #will miller #william miller #william ironhead miller #benny miller #benjamin miller #santi garcia #santiago garcia #santiago pope garcia #my writing

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darlingdekarios · 1 year

Text

keeping count.

eating: explicit. 18+ only. length: 3,470 content: William "Ironhead" Miller x f!reader, established relationship, angst, mentions of canon-accurate death and violence, smut [f receiving oral, unprotected p in v]

when William returns home far later than he was supposed to, it becomes his new mission to show you how worried he was he'd never see you again.

Your boyfriend was only supposed to be gone for a week, so on day eight when he still hadn’t walked through the threshold of your shared home the anxiety began to bubble in your stomach. By day ten, the anxiety had festered into full-blown trepidation, and by day fourteen you were practically hysterical on the phone with family – both yours and his, minus his brother of course, as they were supposed to be together. No one had heard from either of the Miller brothers in two weeks now, and that fact made any possibility of comfort for you impossible. William Miller, a man so tough you’d never fathomed that he could be in danger when he last walked out of the door, was officially missing.

It was always misery being away from him – it had been this way for the last few years of your relationship – but the feeling that this time he seriously may not come home to you was worse than any pain you’d felt before. The time passed so slowly, 24-hour days feeling double that until they all muddled together, each day bringing new and horrible thoughts about where he could possibly be. By Friday, 15-days after he’d set off with his team, you could hardly sleep, or even focus on anything other than when he was going to return home to you.

If he was going to return home to you.

The temporary reprieve for the day was a day off from work, a nice hot shower, and the bottle of bourbon that awaited you in the kitchen, eager to numb the pain and quiet your mind for a few hours. Keenly aware of the hour you’d already spent in the shower by the amount of music that had passed you resigned yourself to moving on to the next part of your evening after conditioning your hair. As your head tilted back to rinse your hair you closed your eyes, inhaling a deep breath to steady yourself once again.

Your mind occupied in that false semblance of a peaceful moment, you missed that the song playing through your speaker had stopped and that the heavy wooden door to the bathroom had swung open without a creak. The interruption was unnoticed for a moment before your eyes opened once again, immediately landing on the one thing you’d spent days hoping for through the glass door of the shower. You wanted to ask him if he was real or just your mind playing a cruel trick on you, but your mind betrayed your wishes and refused you the proper words to utter as he pulled his shirt over his head, his pants and underwear soon following.

His time in South America and whatever had, presumably, gone wrong had caused him to lose a bit of weight, and his eyes contained so many emotions encompassed by exhaustion that you had to wonder how he was even managing to stand. Your usually clean-and-tidy William was now disheveled, the evidence of a lack of access to a good shower for days presenting itself to you. As he moved closer to the shower and opened the door to join you the stitches on his side showed themselves to you, a quiet gasp leaving your lips at the sight. William had always been completely honest with you, something you loved about him, so while you had known why Santiago invited him on this mission down South, you never expected him to return home with that many stitches.

By the time he had climbed into the confines of the shower with you your mind was reeling with an entirely new set of questions – where had he been? What happened? Why did he have stitches? Why didn’t he call you the second he could? Why did he always let Santiago get him in trouble? Was he okay? The racing thoughts were overwhelming, and as always he read your expression perfectly as he stepped right in front of you, his arms wrapping around your waist to bring you forward to the warmth of his body firmly and his head lowered to press soft lips to your forehead.

��“I’m home,” he breathed out quietly, lying his head on top of yours to soak in the feeling of closeness to you once again, cherishing the way your arms wrapped around his neck instinctually as any remaining centimeters were closed between the two of you. Tears broke through the dam you had built against them for the day, spilling down your cheeks before you could stop them.

“Will,” was all you could manage back as a reply, his name leaving your mouth somewhere between a sob and a prayer, your fingers locking together on the back of his neck in an attempt to prevent him from pulling away before you were ready for him to.

“Sorry I’m late,” he whispered into your hair, his lips pressing into the freshly-washed area in a way they’d done thousands of times before, soaking in the coconut and orange scent that he’d spent hours wondering if he’d ever smell again. His hands slid to grasp your hips in a display that meant you weren’t going anywhere anytime soon, either.

“You’re eight days late, William,” you choked out, the anger boiling to the surface to cover the despair in your voice. There was no use hiding from him though – he saw through you now as clearly as he ever had.

“I know, I kept count,” he sighed, his fingers digging into your skin with the lightest pressure. When your face tucked into the crook of his neck as you attempted to quiet another soft cry from your lips, one of his hands slid to cover the distance from your hip to the back of your head. As he stroked your hair softly and held you against him his lips repeatedly pressed into your head. “I won’t do something like that again, sweetheart…I promise.”

Finally truly at home again back in his arms you allowed your emotions to continue spilling out, quiet and strangled whimpers soaking into the skin of his neck as he held you through your emotions. Taking a step back into the water he allowed the heat to work over his muscles, washing the dirt and grime and blood away from his skin. He knew he’d have questions to answer when he returned, and remained certain that they were an inevitability sooner rather than later, but he still found hope building that for today you’d allow him to enjoy what he had feared he’d never see again.

He was always the perfect source of comfort and soon you were satiated, your falling tears coming to an end as you pressed a light kiss to his shoulder. Nuzzling your face against the hollow of his neck in a quiet sign that you were happy he was home pulled a relieved breath from him, his arms wrapping to hold you tighter in silent communication that he was happy, too. As you released one hand from its hold on the back of his head to reach for soap your head dipped back at the perfect moment his reached for you, your lips meeting in a days-late kiss, the starvation of you evident in his heated kiss.

Finding his designated bar of soap that had gone unused for weeks you began to work it over his skin as he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue along your bottom lip to beg for entrance, an unnecessary gesture he knew you still always melted for. When you pulled away for a desperate breath his lips chased after you, his head ducking to capture the soft skin below your ear as your head fell back, a quiet whimper escaping your lips. You were always conscious of gentle, calculated movements with him, but he displayed a newfound level of appreciation for them as he placed small kisses down your neck. Doing your best to keep an eye on where your hands were taking the soapy cloth to avoid stitches and lighten over bruises you eventually cleaned his entire torso, leaning forward to press a light kiss to his chest.

“You’re filthy,” you remarked quietly, earning a quiet and missed chuckle from his chest as he nibbled lightly at your collarbone. He eagerly moved forward to claim your lips again and released a frustrated huff when you evaded him, clicking your tongue in disapproval. Turning your head you placed a light kiss over a bruise on his thigh, soaking in the quiet whimper that passed through his lips. “You’re not finished.”

The quiet words had hardly registered when you sank to your knees in front of him, your hands sliding down his torso and to his hips to begin work on his muddied legs. A quiet sigh passed through his lips as your hands worked over his thighs, down his calves and back up to slide back to his muscular backside. Soon your hands had made their way back to his thighs.

As one of your soapy hands reached to work over his slightly hardened cock, a light moan slipped through his lips as his head leaned back to soak in the feeling of your hand wrapped around him again. With several rubs of your hand he was satisfactorily clean everywhere and his cock was at full attention in front of you, his eyes once again staring down at you as though you may disappear any moment.

“Santiago is a bad influence,” you frowned, leaning forward to place a soft kiss to his hip, quietly appreciating the chance to have more moments like these given the two weeks you’d spent panicking about his well-being.

“I’ll tell him you said that, sweetheart,” he breathed out with the normal amount of honesty behind his voice, his fingers finding their way to your cheek to brush it gently as you kissed along the expanse of his waist.

“I’ll tell him myself,” you asserted, your hands sliding to the backs of his thighs again carefully. “Did Benny come home?”

You finally returned your gaze to his face, met immediately by his impossibly blue eyes. A nod from him lifted some of the remaining anxiety from your chest and you nodded in return, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. “Did…everyone come home?”

His silence and the hazy look that reached his eyes brought no comfort as you trailed kisses up his torso, standing once more to reach for his lips and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Your kiss brought him back to his current whereabouts, his hands once again finding your waist to hold you close as his quiet voice reached your ears. “Please…tomorrow. Let me just be home tonight.”

As the word home left his lips his right hand slipped downward, a long and skilled finger sliding along your folds to gather the evidence of your excitement to see your partner home again. A quiet moan of his name left your lips in agreement to his proposition and his lips claimed yours again as the same finger slipped into you, swallowing the next noise that came from your mouth as his tongue gained the entry it sought. Your body responded to him as it had done many times before, leaning into him as he curled his finger inside you to pull another moan from within you.

His lips moved in a kiss that communicated the fear he’d spent days feeling – the fear that he’d never have you again – until he found himself breathless, his solitary finger pumping in and out of you gently. When he withdrew for air he began his trail of kisses once more, making his way down your torso with a speed that reflected his lack of patience as he fought through pain to kneel before you, pushing you back toward the wall with a gentle hand on your stomach as he went.

“William, your stitches…” You barely managed to breathe out, your speech entirely uneasy as a second finger was added within you, his eyes once again finding yours through the steam of the shower. His free hand slid to one of your ankles, encouraging you to lift it over his shoulder which you fulfilled hesitantly as his lips kissed your hips one at a time. Any hesitation you felt melted under the heat of his voice.

“To hell with the stitches,” he essentially growled, his face moving forward to lick a thick line from the fingers he had buried in you to the swollen bundle of nerves he knew would send you over the edge. His reward was the quiet whimper released from your lips as your fingers found their way into his still-wet hair. “I’m starving.”

There was no further reasoning with him, not until he had completed the mission he set out on, and you knew that as his lips connected to your clit again, sucking lightly as his fingers curled in blissful unison against the coveted patch deep within you. The groan of appreciation that left his throat was laced with pure appreciation – grateful for the taste of your arousal for him, and grateful he got this again. Grateful that thanks to a newfound clarity of what was important in his life, he’d never risk giving this up again.

His free hand slid to grasp your hip, digging his fingers in and holding you in place as he pumped those two fingers faster, alternating his sucking and perfectly pressured licks to your clit perfectly. He couldn’t help himself from keeping track of each moan that left your lips; each perfect combination of his tongue and fingers causing your walls to tighten; and each time your grasp on his hair pulled his face just a little closer, often so close he struggled to breathe – not that he’d ever complain in his current position.

A particularly wanton moan and feeling your thigh shake beside his head signified his goal was in sight, his fingers curling and stilling within you as he tilted his head back to search your face, happy to see your loving gaze already fixated on him. He licked his lips free of your arousal painfully slow before telling you what he needed to hear.

“So delicious,” he praised as his lips found their way to your inner thigh, pressing a kiss to the soft skin there before wiggling his fingers back and forth slowly. “Give me one, princess.” He removed his fingers, eliciting a desperate whine from you before he coaxed the sound into a moan, licking along your folds and dipping his tongue inside of you before returning his tongue to your clit, flicking it back and forth. A few more sinful flicks of his tongue had you ascending, your fingernails digging lightly into his scalp as you moaned out his name, signifying you’d given into his desires perfectly once again.

Catching your hips in his hands to keep you steady through your orgasm he gathered what he could onto his tongue with a final swipe of his tongue before kissing back up your body. When his lips reached yours again he tasted of you, and you hadn’t returned your breathing to normal; and even still you hungrily swallowed his kiss with fervor, your hands sliding to the sides of his neck as you awaited whatever he asked of you next. Your kiss was too consuming to pull away from, and he whispered against your lips just long enough to plead you for more.

“I can’t carry you,” he panted, his voice strained despite its low volume. “I’d take you right in the shower, if I could. Let’s go to bed.”

The suggestion had barely left his lips before you were out of the bathroom, heading down the wood-floored hallway recklessly dripping water wherever it landed. Will didn’t waste time with a towel and followed behind you with slightly more cautious steps until his feet reached the carpet of the bedroom, his steps increasing to cover the distance between the two of you so he could reclaim your lips in his. Ensuring the pair of you made it onto the bed without damaging his stitches took more restraint than he needed to have right now, and by the time he found himself kneeling between your spread legs and stroking himself he could hardly wait to feel your warmth engulf him. Bending forward, his lips found yours once again.

His lips kept their connection to yours as he rubbed the leaking head of his cock around your entrance, his kiss faltering as he pushed inside of you, moaning out in profound appreciation at how you welcomed him home again. Your legs wrapped around his waist to pull him closer, your lips leaving his as your head fell back against the pillow he’d reached back to move beneath it, thankful as ever for your partner’s endless consideration toward you. Your hands grasped his biceps as his fingers dug into your hips, sliding thick inch after inch into you before there was nothing left to give and nowhere else to go, filling you completely.

Burying his face in the crook of your neck he sucked your earlobe between his teeth to lightly nibble before nuzzling his nose into your hair, breathing in the scent of your shampoo once again as he savored simply being inside of you. When a quiet “please” fell from your lips he ground his hips into yours, groaning deeply and the friction the movement brought. There was no amount of money worth the risk of never feeling this again.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he cooed, sliding his already-throbbing cock out despite his desire to stay buried in you painfully slow. Weeks in the jungle meant he had recently had other things on his plate and no access to you, and he knew no matter how laser-focused he attempted to be he’d never last long – you always made it so hard to last long after he was away. His back straightened again to look down between your bodies as he slid his cock back into you even slower than he’d exited, his fingers grasping your hips hard enough to bruise. “You should see how fucking pretty you look taking me in like this, you perfect thing.”

His praise was always rewarded by the most thankful cries and now was no different, your hands reaching to slide down his chest as your legs wrapped tighter around him in a desperate attempt to keep him closer. Eager to oblige you, he began a melodic pace, pumping into you with intentional and calculated yet rhythmic movements as he gazed down at you lovingly, enjoying the glow to your face and the way you only looked this messy and beautiful and perfect for him.

As he pondered his adoration for you his pace picked up, his hips occasionally grinding against yours as he bottomed out within you to rub the head of his cock within that sensitive patch deep within you. When he found the angle to hit it perfectly it became relentless, his right hand reaching between the two of you to connect his thumb to your clit. As he rubbed perfect circles around your clit his pace quickened to a possibly reckless speed in his current state, neither of you fully conscious of the risk as your thoughts only focused on the results of your reunion. The noises from your mouths combined with the sound of his balls slapping against your skin as he forfeited any grinding, focusing his efforts on pinpointed thrusts.

“Give me another one, baby,” he coaxed, leaning down once again to press a kiss to your lips as he adjusted his position to lay over you in desperation to be closer. “Please give me one more.”

You whined into his mouth and wrapped your legs tighter as your walls clenched around him, giving into his needs for the evening once more as your legs shook around him. Normally not one for messes, Will had opted to release onto your stomach or back in the past, but now he couldn’t bring himself to leave you as his own orgasm washed over him, painting your walls with thick white ropes with no regard to the potential consequences.

When he could bring himself to remove himself from you he repositioned onto his back, keeping the arm closest to you extended in a welcoming gesture for you to come to his side. In a way you’d done so many times before and you’d never take for granted again you curled into his side as the two of you steadied your breathing to normal, your eyes closing as your head found his chest as a pillow.

$5 or $5,000,000, he had everything he needed right here with him.

masterlist.

#william ironhead miller #william miller #triple frontier #william miller x reader #william miller x you #will miller x reader #will miller x you #william miller smut #will miller smut #triple frontier smut #charlie hunnam

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winniethewife · 4 months

Text

I walked with you once upon a dream

(William "Ironhead" Miller x F!reader)

Words: 539

A/N: For the Triple Frontier Write-a-Thon.

Will’s phone was ringing, the caller Id flashing that it was the woman he had been dating for just a few weeks. He was hesitant to call her his girlfriend, they hadn’t really talked about it yet. He reaches for his phone and slides to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hi! Will! Thank god you answered. I hate to bother you, but my car broke down on my way home from work and I need help. I don-” he could hear the tell tale whimper of tears in her voice and acted instinctively, interrupting her with a gently soothing voice. “Just send me your location, I’ll be right there.” He says with a reassuring tone, he could hear her sigh with relief on the other end of the line,

“Thank you so much. I owe you one.” She sounds significantly calmer when he hangs up the phone. When he gets her location he’s surprised because she shows up not so far from a suburban neighborhood. He thought she would be somewhere near town, but he realizes, he has no idea what she does for a living. As he gets into his car he ponders the possibilities. Is she a house cleaner? A Nanny? Door to door sales-woman? Will feels a little embarrassed, he hadn’t even asked her what she did for a living. He tried to rack his brain for anything that she might have said, not coming up with a single thing she had said. He pulls up behind her on the side of the road and gets out of his car. As he walks up to her door he was wracking his brain for a way to ask her what she does when he sees what she’s wearing. A full on ball gown, and a tiara. Will does a double take, this was not what he was expecting at all. She rolls down her window.

“Hey, thanks so much, I didn’t know who else to call.” She says with a smile.

“No problem…princess.” He says with a slight laugh before looking her over. “I will admit, I’m a little surprised to see you…dressed like that.”

“Oh, god. I forgot I hadn’t told you. I work for a party princess company.” She says as if that will explain everything to him. He looks at her puzzled.

“And that is?” he asks as he leans on her car looking at her.

“I get hired to dress as a princess and show up to kids birthday parties.” She explains. “Sometimes other events too, but mostly parties, hence Party princess,”

“Ah, I didn’t even know that was a thing you could do…” Will smiles and rubs the back of his head sheepishly. After getting under the hood and figuring out that this was not something he could fix on the side of the road they called roadside assistance and as they waited for the tow truck to some he asked her several questions about her job and she happily answered them. After the tow truck came Will drove her home. As he pulled up in front of her place she leans over and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you…prince charming.” She says with a cheeky smile. He chuckles slightly.

“Anything for my damsel in distress.”

Masterlist

Tag: @triplefrontier-anniversary @romanarose

#triplefrontier2019 #triplefrontier #triple frontier #x reader #Spotify #triple frontier fic #william miller #will miller #William “Ironhead” Miller #William Ironhead Miller #William Ironhead Miller x reader #female reader #william miller x reader #will miller x reader #will miller x you #charlie hunnam #charlie hunnman x reader #Charlie hunnman fan fic #x fem!reader

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navybrat817 · 3 months

Text

Grumpy!Will Miller with a Sunshine!Reader who just moved next door? ❤️😏🔥

#navybrat thots #william miller #will miller #william 'ironhead' miller #will miller x reader #william miller x reader #possible future fic #grumpy and sunshine #why not?#are you reading my tags?#go drink some water #stay hydrated my friends

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intheorangebedroom · 3 months

Text

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 3

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. What happens if you can't make it to the motel on Friday evening?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 @frannyzooey thank you for your help and beta reading, I fucking adore you so much it's downright obscene 🧡

Word count: 12.2k

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Chapter 3: The Man At The Frontier

Make us come, baby. Make us come together.

These words are yours.

Even if you never see him again. Even if you lose him before having had the time to map the freckles on his skin. To sleep in his arms. To hear him repeat them. They’re yours to keep.

He mouthed them against your skin, sunk them into your bloodstream in bright mahogany before coming undone, wrapped around your body.

They’re yours, right?

Even if you don’t get to see him ever again.

—

It starts with the cramps. That’s how it usually goes. A myriad of microscopic pliers nipping at your intercostal muscles.

Your eyes shoot open at the familiar ache. The early morning hues redefine the room in blue shadows. You blink your sleep-heavy eyelids a few times, confused, before your vision adjusts and you recognize the room around you. It’s your bedroom. Your nightstand, your lamp, your books. Your pills. Your tube of scented hand cream. The chair in the corner, that ugly, Louis XV style, transparent polycarbonate monstrosity by that French designer. The large windows. Those damn floor-to-ceiling windows that let in too much light, too much heat, too much open view. Nowhere to hide, in here.

It has to be sometime between 4 and 5 am, you assume, before another cramp seizes you. You curl up into a tight ball on the edge of the bed, pulling the comforter to your chin.

Not today. Please. Not today.

Friday.

Inside your abdomen, nausea streams densely, like liquid lead, from your ribs to your stomach, as cold shivers run up your spine. Sweat breaks on your forehead. You know only too well what’s happening, but it can’t be, there’s been no warning signs. No headache, no stabbing sensation in your lower belly, no spinning head.

Today is Friday.

You reject the obvious.

Were you so engrossed in the memory of him to pay attention? His hand wrapped around your nape, his forearm molded along your spine, pressing you into his chest, making you two as one. Closer.

Nausea is already lapping at your esophagus. The pliers bite harder at your ribcage and you know you have to move now if you want to make it to the bathroom before it happens. Shuddering, you push away the comforter, then get up and run.

Kneeled on all fours on the cool bathroom tiles, you dive headfirst into the toilet’s porcelain bowl as everything inside you collapses on itself, emptying the content of your stomach, mostly liquid. You should have eaten something last night.

You know you’re not pregnant. For an infinity of reasons.

Because you haven’t let Adrian fuck you in weeks. Because, when he does, he always wears protection. That’s your mutual, very tacit agreement. A silent understanding that you’re never the only woman, at any given moment. An unspoken confession on his behalf, implicit permission on yours.

Because your contraceptive pill is the only one you’ll never stop popping.

Because you’ve suffered through more stomach bugs than you care to count.

And of course, because Frankie won’t come inside you.

You stand up on fawn-like legs and flush the toilet.

You splash water on your face and grab your toothbrush with a trembling hand, shaking from head to toe. You know this is only the beginning, but it’s coming in strong. This one is most likely going to be a bad one. At least for now the pain is gone.

Above the sink, the woman in the mirror stares at you with unsettling, disproportionate glassy eyes. Her skin looks waxy, she scares you, and you have to lower your eyes. You brush your teeth as quickly as you can.

You haven’t made it back to the bedroom when the second wave of cramps squeezes your abdomen. The pain folds you in half, and you let out a low whine.

It echoes like distant thunder along the glass walls of the empty corridor.

—

On Fridays, you count. You break down hours and minutes and steps and heartbeats into small, bearable quantities, so that you can live through them without going crazy. Today, however, you’re counting trips to the bathroom, and the time between two attacks from the cramps, like you’re readying yourself to give birth to a terrible monster, feeding off you from the inside of your quivering body.

You’ve managed to spend most of the day hiding in your office, with the window cracked open, and the AC cranked up to the max. The clothes you wear are the same as yesterday. Your expensive formal blouse sticks to your sweaty skin in clammy patches. You’re cold, cold and hot all at once. In fact, you’re burning up, and a chill sweat has you shivering in the non-existent breeze.

You haven’t gotten any work done, to state the obvious. You’re just dozing in and out of consciousness between two crises, head like a rock sinking onto your arms on top of your shiny glass desk. Its surface fogs with every one of your short breaths. You’re running out of toothpaste.

Being the boss’ daughter has never granted you any particular privilege over your coworkers, except on days like this. At the first signs of sickness, you go home, or call in sick. Stay in bed for a couple of days, sleep it off, sip water tentatively every time you throw up until you can finally keep it down. No one has ever thought to comment on the frequency or duration of your sick leaves. Not even your father.

Kaytee has probably noticed something’s wrong with you. Her office is right by the bathroom, and you've run there seven times since you’ve arrived this morning, an hour late, which is uncommon, to boot. You look like a walking corpse, your eyes eating up half of your face and your lips pinched in a tight line. And surely, she will find a way to use this against you in the near or distant future. She’s been dying to take your place ever since she was recruited nearly two years ago, champing at the bit, waiting for you to slip so she can bury you.

If she only knew. How you are dying to let her have it all. That you are convinced she’d be so much better at the job than you’ll ever try to be.

With your last shred of energy, you push down the thought, like you push down the nausea and the shivers. On Fridays, everything that’s not him is irrelevant. At 6pm sharp, you’ll count your steps down to the parking garage and hop in your car. You’ll sit in traffic until you reach the 589 and you can finally cruise towards the motel in the protective semi-darkness of the Tampa suburbia.

You haven’t yet considered what will happen beyond this point. When he steps into the room and finds you sitting there, looking like an undead version of yourself, reeking of stale bile, rancid sweat and toothpaste.

All you have to do is make it there. You won’t give up, simple as that. You’ll suck it down.

Demonstrating resolve you never knew you possessed, you make it to sundown. You hold out through the pain, through the cramps, through the soreness on your knees and the abrasion in your throat and the stabbing sensation behind your eyes and the pulling of your gums.

At 6pm, you turn off the alarm of your phone and put it away in your purse. The room swirls around you the first time you try to get up. You wince, falling heavy on the simile leather chair you sweated on all day. You wipe your damp forehead and neck with a tissue, and you stand up again.

All the blood in your body rushes to your feet. There’s not a drop of it left in your brain. You swallow hard against the bitter taste clinging to your tongue and palate and start counting your steps toward the elevator, only to lose track somewhere after 18.

Dark, green circles flash in rapid succession across your pupils, narrowing your vision. You grip the strap of your purse harder, and register you can’t feel your fingers. Something is wrong with your balance, your whole body slants to the left. You try to correct its trajectory but you can’t feel anything below your calves either. What you can feel is your forehead and your nape, defined by pain, burning hot and somehow also freezing where beads of sweat run down your skin.

You’ve made it to the lobby when everything fades to black.

—

In your early 20s, you had genuinely tried to shake off the melancholia. An honest, hopeful attempt. You were away at college, and even though you didn’t get to choose your major, different and various paths seemed possible, within reach. A couple of years after graduation, when you had met Adrian, you had tried again, with renewed vigor and motivation.

You did want to get better.

You cut back considerably on hard liquor. You smiled broadly, at everyone. You said “please,” and “sorry.” Applied lipstick daily, polished your nails weekly. You went out to dinners and parties, wore high heels and interacted with strangers, drank wine in stem glasses and in reasonable quantities.

On your mother’s advice, you went to “see someone.” As your father prescribed, you read the news and followed sports results.

But the sadness kept settling down inside you, like the white particles inside a snowball. The vomiting spells became more frequent. Despite your willingness and earnest efforts, you kept falling short, and each fall hit you with increased brutality.

For your mother, you were too much. For your father, never enough. For Adrian, you would soon come to realize, you were a commodity.

Trying to please them in turn, learning your cues, anticipating their needs and wills and whims, torn up between their contradicting desires and expectations, smiling pretty and meek, you completely lost track of what you liked and who you were.

Anxious, confused, perpetually dissatisfied and unsatisfying, you withdrew within yourself. Hid away between the folds, detached and ready to flee, wishing for nothing more than to disappear.

As Ava grew up, her loud and unapologetic personality compelling everyone’s attention, she provided you with a reprieve and, most importantly, a purpose. But a diffuse sense of guilt soon arose, as your little sister’s struggles could hardly be instrumental to your self-fulfillment.

Inside of you, isolation and loneliness grew solid, like a second skeleton, keeping you upright.

Apathy soon took over. You resorted to medication to control it all.

And when it was no longer enough, you found your way to the Hole in the Wall.

—

The smell of rubbing alcohol floats around you in the chilled darkness, its rough acetone accents abrading your nostrils. There’s an undertone to it. Rotting perfume and decaying bodies. A faint beeping sound tugs at your consciousness, and as you begin to come to, pain strikes you in multiple places.

Something sharp stings the thin skin on the back of your right hand. Each one of your intercostal muscles is sore. Your throat is parched, rougher than sandpaper; your tongue too big for your mouth, stuck to your palate. Every single joint in your body is sensitive, but the worst, by far, is the piercing ache in your forehead. It glues your eyes closed.

Panic floods your brain with static when you stir, wincing against the shooting pain, and you don’t recognize the motel’s mattress. The one you’re lying on is too hard, the linen covering you too starchy, the darkness is closing in on you, you need to open your eyes, fence off the pain, find Frankie…

Frankie.

You never made it to the motel. Where the hell are you? When the hell are you?

“Ah. At long last, she wakes. How are you feeling, babe?”

Adrian’s honeyed voice hauls you through the darkness. Your eyelids flutter against the light until you open your eyes to a square room with a single, large window, blazing sun darting through.

Adrian is sitting in the corner by the foot of the bed. A hospital bed, apparently. A narrow, dark blue mattress, unusually high, encased with rails on each side and at your feet. You’ve never been hospitalized before.

He’s looking at you with a Cheshire cat grin stretching his thin lips, like he was just let in on a juicy secret. He’s dressed in his golf apparel.

The violent luminosity intensifies the splitting sensation in your forehead, it vibrates to the back of your skull, from within, from the sides.

Squinting, you turn your head to the side to take in your surroundings. On top of a beige, melamine nightstand are a black phone with a long twisted cord, an oval device with a red and a white buttons and another cord, and a metal kidney dish.

There’s a tray table over your legs, with a jug standing next to a hard glass already filled with water, and some paper napkins. There’s a needle in your hand. A drip. With a cord. You flinch a little at the sight. A white rectangle eats up the tip of your index, a red light flashing from inside it. Another cord. It’s linked to the source of the beeping sound, a square monitor to your right, displaying wobbly lines of green. Another two cords are plugged in, you follow their sinuous lines to your bed, where they disappear under the sheet, and you take in the two round patches taped to your chest.

So many cords. Too many sensors.

“Where’s my phone?” you mumble.

Your tongue feels like a piece of carpet. You’re not sure whether it’s even your voice anymore.

“You scared us this time,” Adrian says. His tone is cold, practiced, policed.

You reach for the plastic glass and bring it to your chapped lips. The liquid flows down your throat like a waterfall; you wince again.

“Can you pull down the blinds, please? The light hurts.”

He lets a moment pass before he gets up, then circles the bed, unhurried, pacing toward the window, but instead of shutting the Venetian blinds, he sits by your side. The mattress dips under his weight. You hold your breath, anticipating a new jolt of pain. Behind him, the daylight forms a halo, blurring the outline of his silhouette. Your eyes water against the brightness.

“What day is it?” you try again.

“One thing we don’t understand is why you didn’t go home. You got us all worried, you know?”

The beeping picks up pace, imperceptibly. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. The one with no cords linked to it. You know this dance, he won’t cooperate until you ask the right questions, the ones he wants you to listen to him answer. Better to give him what he wants, for now.

“What happened?”

“We don’t know exactly, that’s the thing. Well, you were sick, this you know,” he punctuates his words with a knowing grin and a wink, “but instead of coming home, you stayed at work, for some reason. We think you lost consciousness on your way out, and you hit your head on the elevator’s frame in your fall. We couldn’t help you right away because most employees had already left the floor. Jerry found you. He called your dad.”

You close your eyes, blocking the image of Jerry, of all people, finding you sprawled out and unconscious on the floor. And why would he call your father? Why not 911? You resent that collective we. Who the hell is we? Right about now, you could swear it’s the entire world versus you.

Besides, you’re fairly certain Kaytee was still in her office at the time. She never leaves before 8pm at the earliest and makes sure everyone knows about it.

“You split your forehead open. Apparently, you were running a pretty high fever, too. Oh, and you were critically dehydrated, according to the doctor I saw this morning,” he frames the words critically dehydrated in air quotes. “He also said something about a light concussion, I think.”

You lift a heavy hand to your forehead, the tip of your fingers gingerly testing what they find there, a gauze dressing, held in place by medical tape.

Having the clinical explanation behind the multiple aches throbbing inside your body somehow eases some of the pain.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you say, unable to look him in the eyes with the harsh light behind him. “I need my phone. Can you give me my phone, please?”

“What do you need your phone for?” he asks casually, seemingly absorbed by something on his pants.

It’s a dare. You know that tone all too well. Today, however, you find that you don’t feel like playing. You want your goddamn phone.

Frankie cannot possibly have tried to reach you as you never exchanged numbers, but you want to call the motel. Find out if he came. What happened then. You want to know what time it is, what day, how much of him you’ve missed. You’re craving his touch, his skin between your parted lips, your heart pumping on empty, racing madly from the need for him, and of all the sensations making your body known to you, this one by far hurts the most.

The beeping sound accelerates, drawing Adrian’s attention to the monitor, then to you. His cold blue gaze narrows on your face. You try to slow down your breathing, hoping it translates to your heart rate.

“I need to call Ava. She must be worried.”

“Ah yes, your sister, of course,” he exclaims, feigning a bright mood, as if you’d just reminded him you’re traveling to Hawaii together next week.

Getting up, he walks nonchalantly to the foot of the bed, leaning against the wall underneath the TV set, hands in his pockets. The black screen dwarfs his lean proportions. His red polo enhances his pallid complexion. You avert your gaze, lest the monitor picks up your disgust like it does your nervousness.

“Yes, it’s true, she probably got very distressed, when you didn’t show up at all last night,” he agrees with affected concern.

There’s a foul taste in your mouth. Acid, rubbing alcohol, and something else. The glass is empty, but you don’t think you can lift that jug. Each one of your muscles is vibrating, waiting for the axe to fall. If only that fucking monitor could stop beeping.

“Remember back in October, when Kenneth went to New York over the weekend for the symposium at NYU? Well you’ll never guess. He saw your sister there, in some uptown restaurant, making out with her…” his upper lip curls, “with this older woman, her girlfriend.”

So this is it. He knows. All this time, he’s known. Since October, practically since the beginning. And he let you believe you had him fooled, that you had the upper hand on the situation, that this part of your life was yours. He lured you into a false sense of safety, a deluded feeling of freedom. And all the while, he’s known.

It’s really your fault, for forgetting that’s how things are with him. That nothing truly is what it seems. That he likes you scared, anxious. Perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop.

There’s no point in trying to control the beeping, now. In fact, given its cadence, you expect a nurse to barge in any minute.

“Polly’s not old,” is your answer.

“Yeah, whatever, they’re degenerates, both of them.”

“Where’s my goddamn phone, Adrian?”

“What do you want your phone for?” he barks.

The words are spat in your direction, and the sheer volume of his nasal voice startles you. Red blotches erupt on his cheeks and neck, his eyes are blazing with contempt.

“You need to call your fucking dealer? Is that it? You think I haven’t noticed that you’re high half of the time?”

You remain perfectly still, holding your breath.You can feel your skin pulling at the medical tape in your hairline.

He doesn’t know shit. In fact, he’s scared. He’s so, so small.

“Listen, I don’t care what the fuck you do every Friday night, ok? But can you at least be fucking discreet about it?”

The poison in his tone and his words corrodes your confidence.

“They will announce the senior partners in January, I cannot fucking lose your father’s business until it’s done, do you understand me? So whatever you do,” he points his index finger at you and stabs it through the air to accentuate each of his following words, “you be fucking discreet. More fucking discreet than that shitshow you pulled, do you get it? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Should you nod? Is he waiting for you to manifest your understanding of the situation?

You hate yourself for thinking, ever so briefly, that he might have been jealous, that he might have cared. Held down on this bed with all these cords, you feel like a butterfly pinned in a glass case, on display in a cabinet of curiosities, a mere object amidst a multitude of other trophies covered in dust and mold. You’ve always hated butterflies. They gross you out.

You allow yourself to breathe again when his posture relaxes. Looking down at his feet, with his hands on his waist, he shakes his head and huffs. The stance reminds you of Frankie, the difference in their proportions almost comical, like a circus monkey aping the brawny horseman, the one who gets top billing in the show.

Frankie had you pinned on a bed repeatedly, without ever making you feel like a study in entomology.

“Your dad is waiting for me, I’m already late,” Adrian says, coming toward you, “I’d love to stay a little longer, but you know how he is about golfing. Don’t want to keep him waiting!”

He pecks a kiss on the crown of your head. The pain darts through your skull in all directions, all the way down to your spine.

“Where’s my phone, Adrian?” you call one last time as he strides toward the door.

“You don’t need your phone, babe. What you need is to rest. Get those magical hospital electrolytes. Doctor’s orders,” he adds with a wink.

And he’s gone.

Furious tears hang from your lashes. You focus on the plastic box on the tip of your index, and you begin to inhale and exhale, as deeply and slowly as you can. It’s shaky at first, but you’re encouraged by the decreasing cadence of the beeping.

Adrian and your father go golfing at 2pm on Saturday afternoons. Meaning you’ve been out for over fifteen hours. Without your phone, you have no means to assert the time. Your watch is nowhere in sight, neither are your clothes, shoes, jewelry, purse.

The room has a phone, but you have no idea if it’s connected. You don’t know the number to the motel. Hell, you don’t even know its name, only its location.

Frankie’s silhouette invades your thoughts, the size of him, the shape of him. His broad back, his strong shoulders, the line of his neck. The sensation of his hands grasping your waist. Their precision, their roughness. Their intent.

Is this how it ends?

Fresh tears swell under your eyelids. You quickly clench them close.

You did everything wrong. What an appalling idiot. You should have acknowledged you’d never make it there, not in the state you were in. You should have called the motel to leave a message, explain your absence, and promise you’d be there again the following Friday.

Now you have no means to reach him. You probably have lost him forever. The warm touch of his skin. His unique scent. His taste.

The beeping grows frantic. Heavy wet sobs heap up inside your chest. Your hand flies to cover your eyes. You anchor yourself to the throbbing pain in your skull and the prickling needle in your hand. To the faint clasp of the pulse oximeter on your index finger. Pursing your lips, you exhale.

Whether the phone is connected or not is just a detail. You can always signal someone with that little remote on the nightstand and have the option charged to the room. Ava’s phone number is the one you have memorized, she can come and get you, and when you manage to get out of here and get your phone back, you’ll replace Adrian’s contact info with hers as your ICE.

The point is: you’re not trapped. You’re not a dead butterfly in a glass case.

Your heart rate slows down.

Between the cords and the hospital sheets, you look up at the white ceiling, and do what you do best: you check out, slip back between the cracks, disconnect.

—

The pain from your head injury is overwhelming. You’d ask for painkillers, but that collective we still haunts you.

You expect Adrian to come back on Sunday. He doesn’t. Throughout the day, you fall in and out of sleep, a restless, feverish slumber crowded with violent dreams of flesh-eating monsters licking your bones clean.

On Monday morning, the doctor comes in to see you. A man in his early 60s with a thick mane of gray hair and a carefully trimmed beard, he calls you “sweetheart,” and when he raises his eyes from his tablet, he flashes you a perfunctory smile with blinding white veneers. He introduces himself as the head of the gastroenterology department. And a friend of Richard. He makes sure that you understand that his name on your chart is a favor to your father. His demeanor commands your respect, preferably by way of intimidation.

Whatever he tells you, you’ve already learned from the nurses who waltzed in and out of your room in a brisk and constant ballet throughout the weekend, to check with skilled, professional movements the multiple cords and tubes pinning you to your bed.

You suffered bacterial gastroenteritis, with severe dehydration, necessitating an antibiotic treatment, and, from your fainting spell, a minor concussion and a head injury. A thin split, on the right side of your forehead, perpendicular to your hairline.

You got sick. You fainted. You hurt your head.

After the doctor’s gone, you’re finally allowed to get up. Under the fluorescent ceiling light of the adjacent bathroom, you spend several minutes observing the seven stitches adorning your forehead. The thick black thread tied in neat little knots that look like dollhouse barbed wire. The visible indentation in your flesh underneath them. The kaleidoscopic and psychedelic coloration of your skin, spreading from your brow to your scalp.

One of the nurses assures you the scar will quickly fade and disappear. Just like you.

You find your belongings inside the narrow closet by the bathroom door. The slit of your pencil skirt is torn nearly up to the waist, and the blouse is bloodied. Your jewels are tucked inside your purse. You stand in front of the shelves, staring blankly at the black leather rectangle with the two gold C’s entwined on the front. One of the very first gifts you received from Adrian. You can’t remember if it was for Christmas, or your 30th birthday. Every Friday evening for the past three months, you’ve shoved it unceremoniously under your car seat. You hate that thing. It’s soulless, tacky, it begs for attention, it screams money.

Later in the afternoon, your mother comes to visit. She brings you magazines, In Style, Elle, Southern Homes, Vogue … At first, she doesn’t look at your face, and when she does, she crumbles into tears. You comfort her. You watch her pad the corner of her fake lashes with a tissue she pulls out of her Birkin purse, and reapply lipstick.

Adrian comes back on Tuesday, with a large bouquet of roses, a box of imported Belgian chocolates you’re not allowed to eat, and your phone. He doesn’t stay long. Before he leaves, he presses an open-mouth kiss to your lips. You wait until he’s passed the door to spit into the kidney dish.

Your father calls within minutes of his departure, with an apology for not visiting. Work, he says, the magic word that justifies everything, from the clothes on your back to his shitty behavior. You tell him the doctor has advised to rest for the remainder of the week.

In the evening, you finally text Ava. She calls you back immediately, which, beyond her audible concern, puts a lump in your throat. When she asks you how you’re feeling, it’s a minute before you can even speak.

You’re discharged on Wednesday, with a tube of antibiotics, a short list of food to favor and a much longer one to avoid.

Ava comes to pick you up. She brings you a change of clothes, a pair of baggy, distressed jeans and a white t-shirt that spells PRIDE in rainbow letters. You smile at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, and when you come out, she laughs like a child at her own joke. You laugh with her. It hurts a little, but the pain is worth it.

You’re still smiling when you ask her if you can keep the t-shirt, and her face drops. She hugs you, a bone-crushing hug with closed fists compressing your back, her face slotted into the crook of your neck. Her voice quivers when she answers that everything that is hers, is also yours.

You stuff the pockets of your jeans full of your things and leave your purse in the closet. With a little bit of luck, the person who will find it can get a good price for it.

On Friday morning, you drive back to the hospital to honor a 10:30 am appointment to remove your stitches. You’re led through a sprawling maze of corridors into a windowless room with baby blue walls, and instructed to undress to your underwear, which you don’t. Sitting on the examination couch, legs dangling in the air, palms rubbing on your jeans, you wait for the nurse to come in.

She doesn’t remark on your defiance. In fact, she makes a point of soothing your nervousness, introducing herself as Diane, complimenting the color of your sneakers. She promises that you won’t feel a thing, and you believe her. When she smiles, her irises nearly entirely disappear, and a wide-spanning arch of wrinkles appears at the corner of her eyes, like sunbeams drawn by a happy child.

While she prepares her utensils, she engages you in small talk, skillfully stirring the conversation toward the matter of your mental health and physical well-being. You’re well-trained too. You divert without shame or remorse.

True to her word, she makes quick work of it, and when she’s done, she hands you a mirror framed in a blue, rubbery material.

At first, you refuse to look, but she kindly insists. Her voice is gentle, angelical, her hands are warm when she lays them on your shoulders. She never once pronounces the word “scar.” She calls you “a beautiful and brave young woman.”

So you let her guide your hand upward until you’re faced with your image.

“See? Barely visible. Once the ecchymosis has faded, you won’t even be able to notice it. Just something that happened.”

As she stands behind you, her warmth radiates through your cold bones, and she smiles broadly at your reflection. You blink back your tears. You want to commit her words to memory, uncorrupted by emotions. Just something that happened.

Out in the street, a strong wind blows in gusts from the east, in an overcast sky. The damp smell scrunches up your nose. Even without the sun, the air is too warm for the season. When you get into your car, the first thing you do is crank up the AC.

That rotten hospital smell is still clinging to your skin and hair, you keep having these drops in blood sugar that leave you trembling like a willow tree and drenched in cold sweat. The whiplash from this morning’s anxiety does nothing to level your mood.

You glance at your watch. 11:30. You let your head roll back on the headrest. You can’t remember a time in your life when you were not exhausted.

You consider heading straight to the motel. Originally, you intended to go home first, change your clothes and apply some makeup. Cover up the giant bruise on your forehead, and do your best to look alive. It would be smart to put some food in you, too, and of course, to hydrate.

“Fuck it.”

You start the ignition, and merge into the midday traffic.

The drive is excruciatingly long. A week from Christmas, the traffic is terrible. Getting out of Tampa takes over an hour.

It’s the afternoon when you pull into the motel’s parking lot. Your eyesight’s unfocused, your nerves are raw, your shoulders pulled taut.

Of the three other cars parked in the lot, none look like the one you’ve always assumed to be Raul’s, an ancient white Jeep Wagoneer with a rusty back bumper.

As you try to ponder what to do next, the prickling of your healing tissues riles you up, convoking intrusive thoughts of your scarred reflection. The antibiotics drill a hole into your stomach, the discomfort creases your brow into a constant frown. Your right leg bounces continuously on the car floor.

You’re running on empty. Pure, solid stress is what’s holding you up.

Once again trapped, this time inside the carbon fiber box of your car, while the outside world is defined in movements. The course of the overcast sun across the pearly gray sky, and the ever-changing shades of the clouds chased by the eastern winds. The occasional vehicle driving past the motel on the secondary road. The trembling of tree leaves, birds flying over, lonesome or in flocks.

That decaying smell is everywhere in you, around you, but it might be your festering thoughts.

You’re too much, not enough, a disposable commodity.

Is this how it ends?

Sometimes before 7pm, the white Wagoneer pulls into the parking lot, followed a few minutes later by a red sedan. Raul’s short, bespectacled figure is recognizable through the windshield of his Jeep. Then, it’s the familiar sight of his blue overall as he climbs the flight of stairs to the reception. You slide down on your seat, you don’t need him to see you already stationed here.

Shortly after, a curvy young woman with a straight, blonde ponytail that goes down to her waist comes out and jogs to the red sedan. She gets in on the passenger side, and you wait until the car disappears on the horizon to exit yours.

The short walk from your car to the office should be muscle memory. Only today, the gravel feels steady under the flat soles of your Van’s, and your jeans allow you to take actual, proper strides. Carried by the momentum, you march into the room, opening the door so wide it bangs on the door stopper with an ominous sound of shaking glass panes.

Behind the desk, Raul lifts his head. It’s easy to tell by his puzzled expression that he doesn’t place you. And why would he? You look nothing like you usually do on every other Friday evening. Your clothes are casual, your face is bare, your features pulled taut by mental and physical exhaustion and an array of soreness and pains, your forehead shines in Technicolor, set off by a fresh, inch-long scar.

“Good evening,” you start with a tight smile. “I—“

A whole week. Seven days, and you haven’t thought this through. The liability that is your impractical brain appalls you, exasperation heating your temples. In the silence that ensues, the droning of the AC unit seems to grow louder. You smile again.

“I come in every week?”

Jesus.

“Oh yes,” he nods, his boot-button eyes boring into yours, “Friday nights, room number 2.”

“Yes,” you answer with a strained, cringy little chuckle, “room number 2. Is it–”

You wipe your sweaty palms on the sides of your jeans.

“I was wondering if the room was booked last week?”

“Yes, last week room 2 was booked. But you didn’t come, last week.”

“Yes, no, I was held back,” you hear yourself say. You wince before you add, “And, the— the tall man— the tall man who joins me, did he come, last week?”

“Yes. He came. He waited, two, maybe three hours. You didn’t come, so he left. No refund. Reservations paid in advance are not refundable unless canceled at least 48h—“

“Oh no, that’s fine,” you cut in, relieved he might have thought this embarrassing interaction was about money. “And is the room booked for tonight?”

Raul’s boot-button eyes linger on you for a beat before he lowers them to the computer screen on his left. The mouse clicks a few times, loud and suspenseful, as he operates the thing. You try to catch the reflection of something, anything in his round glasses. There are seven rooms, two cars beside his and yours in that parking, what can possibly take him so long?

If the bacteria hasn't killed you, the wait surely will.

“No,” he eventually declares, looking up at you, “it’s not booked for tonight.”

The answer falls on you like a guillotine. It rings out in your ears and you sway on your feet from the violence of the blow. You don’t know how to breathe.

“Do you want to book it?”

You shake your head slowly.

“No. Thank you.”

Back outside, in the muggy semi-darkness, your wobbling legs find the way to your car on autopilot.

He made no plans to come back. This time, he didn’t leave any note. This is how it ends. Between your lungs, the wild creature is bleeding.

You should turn around, ask if they have his full name, bribe Raul into giving you his contact info. You never thought of memorizing his plates, but you could always drive back to the Hole in the Wall, see if he’s been there, if he came looking for you.

You don’t. You won’t. You’re not entitled to any of it. He was never yours. Never yours to want, to long for, to miss, to hold.

All that’s left now is the abyss and the fear. You’re terrified. Of what lies ahead, the choices you’ll have to make, the answers you’ll have to give. The hollowness in your chest. The gap in your existence. The fracture in your years.

The before and the after him.

He has changed you. You changed yourself. You’ll never know if you changed him.

Stunned, you stand still by your car, cloaked in the velvety night, frozen in space and time. Your hand petrified on the door handle. Unable and unwilling to leave. Eyes riveted to the brass number on the door, glinting with a blurry glow in the soft yellow hues of the porch lights. Moths flutter fuzzy and silent into the light beam, oblivious to the drama of your story.

The rectangular window stands guard over your secret life. Behind the yellow curtains, your lonely silhouette awaits to come to life, poised and silent, seated on the edge of the bed.

That woman, young and brave . Want has made her bold and determined. In just a few moments, her trained ears will pick up the sound of an old truck engine drawing near on the empty road. Her existence will come into focus with thrilled anticipation. She will bloom out of her restraints at the sound of tires on the gravel.

“Oh god,” you whisper, whipping your head around, your grip on the handle white-knuckled as the red truck parks behind your sedan.

His massive silhouette comes out, and you clasp your hand to your mouth to muffle a dry sob.

It’s a trick of your overwrought brain. He’s wearing a pair of worn-out jeans and a suede jacket over a dark t-shirt. The brim of his hat casts a long shadow over his face, but he’s moving fast, and in a couple of strides, he’s standing before you, hands on his hips. He’s smiling, a broad and bright smile. You catch a glimpse of a dimple you’ve never seen. A trick of the mind.

Oh but he’s here, in the flesh, your body knows before your brain comprehends his presence. The instant pull, the humming purr of the creature inside you, the blood level instinct.

“Hey!” he calls. He sounds out of breath. Like he’s been running. Running to you.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out through your clenched fingers.

“What?”

His smile drops when you take a step back.

“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t make it, I thought I could, but I couldn’t make it, and then I couldn’t—“

Your throat closes around the memory and you swallow hard, eyelids weighed by stubborn tears that refuse to fall.

He takes a step forward, tilting down his head. That scowl. That scowl, you know. You’re only too familiar with it.

“Then it was too late and I couldn’t reach you,” you finish.

“What happened to you?”

The low timbre of his voice reverberates inside your chest. His eyes flicker up to your forehead. Before you can think of anything to say, he cups your face with both hands and turns it to the side, towards the light. The whole sequence happens so fast that you trip on your feet and catch yourself on his forearms.

“Who the fuck did that to you?” he grits, leaning so close his breath fans your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat in a whisper.

“Did he do that to you?”

“What?”

“Your husband. Did he do that to you?” he asks again, louder, this time. Separating each syllable.

“Oh no! No, I fell.” You bring the tip of your fingers to the sensitive mark. “The nurse said it will fade.”

“How did you fall?” he presses.

He doesn’t believe you. Like you could lie to him if you wanted to.

The tension from his frame resonates through yours, where a week’s worth of suppressed emotions and tears are piled up, waiting for a detonator that will bring down the dam. You push away his hands, your frown mirroring his own.

“I fell, ok? I’m here now, so let’s go inside.”

“I’m not– no,” he huffs, hands back on his hips, shaking his head. His boots scuff over the gravel, the grating sound loud in the empty lot, in the stifling night, and despite the dimness you can make out that scowl, ever present, splitting his gaze.

“You can barely stand.”

However relevant, his rejection burns your cheeks. You raise your chin, leaning against the hood of the car for countenance. For balance.

“I’m fine. The room is free. Let’s go.”

“I said no. I’m not fucking you. Look, I don’t know what happened to you, but you’re clearly not well enough–”

“You don’t fucking tell me what I’m well enough to do,” you snarl with your heartbeat in your throat, pushing away from the car, sustained by your last shred of strength. “Don’t assume you know what I’m capable of.”

He stands in front of you, seemingly unmoved, impossibly tall, infuriatingly silent. Stoic, and you’re thrumming with frustration, standing stubborn and brittle in front of him. He gives you none of the myriad of micro-expressions that usually play across his face, that you read instinctually. You feel ugly, exposed, but you withhold his gaze, jaw clenched, breathing heavy through your nose. You might faint again.

The silence drags on. It’s a minute before he moves again, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice is calm, when he speaks next, low and quiet, almost soothing. You don’t want it to be soothing. You don’t want to be soothed, you’re not done with your anger. He didn’t book the room, and now he doesn’t want to go in. You are a swappable vessel, after all.

“I don’t. I don’t assume anything,” he says, “I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”

“I told you already, you cannot hurt me,” you snap, impatient.

“Wanna bet?”

You don’t need to. You know he could. Just not in the way he thinks he would. He’s already marked you permanently, deeper than any injury, any wound ever could.

“Listen,” he begins with a sigh.

“No, I get it, I look like shit and you don’t want to fuck me—“

“Alright, that’s enough!” he silences you with his index finger pointed at you. His voice booms in the dim parking lot, and you avert your eyes. Weariness washes over you, you fall back against the hood of your car.

His shoulders sink just a bit, the slightest drop in the tension pulling them taut. He steps closer to you, leans down, seeking your gaze, searching your face in the semi-darkness.

“Hey, why don’t we go for a drive?” he offers. “We can talk. Or not. We can listen to the radio. Or just drive in silence, if you want. Clear our minds. What do you think?”

Our minds.

He’s so close you can smell the clean scent of his t-shirt and the musk of him underneath it; you can feel your skin reaching out for him in feverish little tendrils you cannot control.

“Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Yes, ok.”

He smiles, a cautious, appraising smile. The light catches at the mahogany depth of his eyes. He reaches for you, placing a large hand in the small of your back, and whispers, “Alright, let’s go.”

—

The cab of the truck feels almost sacred. For months, it’s been your favorite daydream. Picturing him alone in the only private space of his you’ve ever seen, driving to you.

What are his thoughts, then? Are they of you? Are they happy? Are they hopeful?

On any other occasion, you’d relish the opportunity to be in here with him. You’d catalog and store up every tiny detail for future use in your fantasies of him. Instead, you’re sitting tight and rigid on the wide bench seat, pressed against the door, face turned toward the window, seeing absolutely nothing.

You hate yourself for that, too.

After a while, you risk a glance at the dashboard.

Judging by the analog dials, the truck has some mileage, but it’s visibly been well maintained. There’s no visible spots, no dust, no dents, only the patina of time. The vinyl bench seat is upholstered with a soft fabric whose colors have fainted after too many years under the Florida sun. There’s a cassette player and a cigarette lighter. The windows are manual.

The one on Frankie’s side is cracked open. The night air carries his scent over to your side of the cab. Leather, laundry, musk. You can’t escape it.

“Hey. You ok there?”

In the moonless night, you can only make out the sharp lines of his profile against the outside darkness of the country road.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

He looks at you, brow pinched, but his expression is soft. Compassionate.

“C’mere.”

The truck slows down to a snail pace, and he unbuckles your seatbelt. You scoot over near him. Without taking his eyes off the road, he reaches to your right and rolls out the middle seat belt across your lap, fastening it between your hip and his.

The truck accelerates to a cruising speed, and he wraps his arm over your shoulders, drawing you closer.

You let him, allow your body to slump against his, embrace his warmth, your cheek pressed against his chest. It’s solid and strong, a match for your skeleton of loneliness. The suede fabric of his jacket is smooth, worn in. You inhale him there. You rest a hand on his thigh, and slide the other under his jacket, to rest on his chest. It rises and falls with his breathing. If you lie real still, you can feel the steady thumping of his heart.

“I’m not married.”

“Ok.”

The word is felt through your cheek as much as you hear it.

“The man I live with. He’s not my husband.”

“Ok.”

The nodding motion of his head nudges you a bit.

“And I really fell.”

He remains silent, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. The leather lining creaks inside his fist.

“I got sick, last Friday. I get these stomach bugs all the time, but this was a mean one. I tried to make it through the workday, but eventually I passed out. Like a corporate rendition of a Victorian damsel, or something.”

You chuckle, diverting the humiliating memory. Just something that happened.

He tightens his embrace.

“That when you hurt your head?”

“Yes. On the edge of the elevator’s frame. At work”

“Fuck. Did it hurt a lot?”

“Actually it didn’t? I was out. It hurt when I woke up later, in the hospital, though. I had this terrible headache. I didn’t know where I was, or when I was.”

You feel him shake his head as he asks, “Were you scared?”

How to put into words, that the only fear you’ve ever had, is to never see him again?

“I survived,” you answer with a shrug and a little, empty laugh.

If you were brave enough, if you had some strength left, you’d ask. How did he feel, when he got to the motel and found the door to the room closed. Why he didn’t book the room again. Why he still came tonight.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks.

“No,” you lie.

“Mmh. And for real?”

You rub your cheek against the smooth suede, imprinting your soft smile into it. And maybe some of your scent for him to keep. In case, just in case he does care.

“A little. I’ll be fine.”

The truck cruises over the black asphalt, between the straight, stretching yellow lines.

Your next words come in quiet, but not hesitant.

“He wouldn’t hit me.”

“Ok.”

“That’s not what he does.”

He exhales slowly through his nose.

“What does he do?”

You bite your cheeks, already regretting this moment of weakness. The treason.

“He makes me doubt.”

“Him?”

“Myself. And him too.”

Your eyes clench shut. His chest flexes under your cheek as he hardens his grip on the wheel.

The truck drives past a gas station, through a small town. Neatly delimited square lawns, white houses with flags hanging on their porches, Christmas lights blinking through square windows, and you tilt up your head to look at him in the streetlights.

His outlined profile, his steady expression, everything about him feels safe and grounding. The beauty that radiates from him, from within him, sinks to your heart. It races madly, awakening the soreness in your bruised ribcage, and perhaps he can feel it, with the way you’re curled up into his side. Leaning down, he brushes a kiss to your forehead. You bunch up his T-shirt in your fist.

Soon, the yellow lines unwinding endlessly in the truck’s headlights weigh down your eyelids. In the safety of Frankie’s hold, your mind and body slowly drift into a peaceful slumber.

“You ok? Want me to close the window?”

His voice is a distant whisper skirting the edges of your consciousness.

“No, ’m good,” you mumble. “Wanna stay like this forever.”

Under your palm, Frankie's heart thumps loud and heavy.

—

When you wake up, the truck is still and silent. Engine cooled off, windows rolled up. The night is pitch dark. Frankie’s scent, heady, familiar, everywhere around you. Your cheek is resting on his lap, and his hand lies heavy on your waist. His breathing comes in even and slow. Both your seatbelts are unbuckled. Your feet are bare.

Aside from your legs, sore from being crammed into the length of the seat bench, you feel better than you have in a week, with your headache finally gone.

You sit up, take in your surroundings and his sleeping form, seated behind the wheel. He stirs, lifting an eyelid and glancing in your direction, the corner of his mouth tugged up into something that resembles a drowsy grin.

At some point while you were asleep, he drove back to the motel. Parked the truck so that the cabin faces away from the only source of light.

You stretch side by side, sleep-heavy limbs, comfortable silence. You watch him lift his hat and comb his fingers through his hair, a tender smile lifting the corner of your lips. You know the curls he hides there.

Of course, it cannot last forever. Nothing ever does. In a couple of hours, it’ll be daybreak. He’s always gone, by then.

You won’t make this uncomfortable or difficult for him. You slip your socks and shoes back on. You’re reaching for the handle when he stops you with a hand on your thigh.

“Wait. I need to talk to you.”

His voice is low and husky from sleep. You realize you have never woken up next to him. Never slept with him through the night. Probably never will.

You hum quietly, pivoting on the seat bench to face him.

“I can’t come, next week,” he says, searching your eyes.

Emotionless. That’s how you have to be. You know how to do this. Not when it comes to him, but you can try. You try your best, your very hardest.

“I understand.”

“I imagine you can’t be here either.”

No, you can’t. Thanksgiving at your parents’, Christmas with Adrian’s family. Always.

“No, I can’t.”

The following week, either. But you don’t share that.

This is when the two of you should discuss a practical means of communication. The awareness hangs between you, loud and unspoken. The consequences it would have on whatever it is that the two of you share. The shockwave, the shift in nature and intention. The names that exist to describe your situation, crass, overused, sordid. Tainted with lies and deception, secret texting, hushed phone calls, disgusting, undeniable guilt.

Frankie moves first, getting out of the truck and going round the hood to open the door for you. You slide out of the high cab into his arms, and when your feet touch the gravel, you wonder if this could be the last time he will ever hold you.

In the feeble porch lights, his face is a landscape of diffuse shadows. The dip in his collarbone draws you in, a beacon in a dark ocean. You nuzzle into it, inhaling his scent, taking in his fragrant warmth. You tuck your face in the crook of his neck, graze your cheek along his pebbled skin. What if you stayed there? Tucked away forever. Disappeared to the rest of the world. Would it matter? Would he let you?

Your fists bunch the sides of his jacket.

“Kiss me, Frankie, please.”

“Yes.”

His first kiss is tentative, the plush cushion of his lips a soft press over yours, but they return immediately, hungry for a taste, for more, the tip of his tongue brushing against your parted lips.

All that you crave, all that you need is here, in his embrace, between his arms and his hands tugging at your waist, beckoning your body closer to his.

Your arms circle his neck, the tips of your fingers seeking his curls. His hand spans your back, finds your nape. He molds you into his chest, and with the way he’s pressing you against him, firm and commanding, you know this will be one of these moments that feed into your hopes. The delusion you’ve been nurturing since the first time you’ve faced him. The dream that he wants you to be his above anyone else.

His third kiss opens you up, tongue swirling around yours, and you keen, rising to your tiptoes, angling your head to take more, more, more and he gives. Hands gripping, tongue licking, crushed lips and guttural moans, he gives you all that you need like he needs it too.

You’re floating above the gravel, there’s no time, there’s no space, his body has no end and there’s no beginning to yours as he kisses away your fears, your doubts, your darkness.

Together, you stand entwined between night and morning, linked by chance, need and hurt, bonded by will and desire.

There’s no urgent hunger in the spanning of his splayed hands across your body, no rage in his kneading of the soft of your hips, or the swell of your breast. His grip is strong, but studious and thorough. He takes you in, your curves, your dips, the slopes and slants of your figure. Like he’s storing up the feelings and memories of you for when there will be no more, when you’re far and gone, away with your husband who is not your husband. There’s despair in his touch, but most of all, there’s foresight, and intent.

He’s untucked your t-shirt, calloused hand skimming up to cup your breast, thumbing the hardening peak of your nipple.

Once again, you find yourself pressed against the hard, cool metal of the truck, and like the first time, you’re frantic in his hold, but he’s in control. His thick thigh parts your legs, offering friction to the coiling need between your hips, that fire pooling liquid down your core. You squirm against the firm muscles.

“Want me to make you come, baby?”

He’s breathing into your mouth, and you whine in frustration.

“No, I want you inside me.”

“Shit, you sure?”

“I’m not made of glass, you’re not going to break me.”

You push away to look at him, a demonstration of strength. All talk, but you’re that desperate. He pulls you back into him for another kiss, chuckling into your mouth.

“You think I don’t know that?”

So many simple things you had never done with him before tonight, after months of lying bare and naked, to his gaze and his touch, inside and out. Driving, falling asleep, walking, his steadying hand nestled in the small of your back.

Behind the reception desk, Raul seems unfazed by this new development. The drawing pad blackened in charcoal is back.

“Room number 2,” Frankie asks, “for the night.”

It’s so wild to consider that the two men have never interacted, when Raul plays such an important part of your Friday ritual. You’d try to get Frankie’s full name, real name, perhaps, but Raul doesn’t ask. This is not that kind of place.

“I can pay,” you whisper into Frankie’s shoulder, tucking your t-shirt back into your jeans.

“I know you can.”

When he flips open his wallet, a small color picture pops out, next to his driver's license. The photo booth format is easily identifiable. In the snapshot, a bare-headed Frankie is holding a very young child. The picture is that of a moment, seized through movement, the kid holding the Standard Heating Oil hat in her chubby hands, likely mere seconds after having snatched it from Frankie’s head, who’s looking down at her, with a bemused grin, tousled hair.

It’s him, his distinctive, sharp features unmistakable, only he hardly looks like the man you know. There’s no trace of the grief he carries like a cloak when he meets with you. No crease splitting his brow like when he looks at you. Instead, his eyes glint with pride, creasing with a smile that dimples his cheeks, large and genuine. And the child’s round, plump face is brightened by the same irresistible dimpled grin, the same head full of wild curls, the same mahogany eyes.

You quickly avert your gaze, but you’ve seen enough. The guilt is physical, visceral, it squeezes your ribcage harder than the pliers. The pain has you wincing and you grip the reception desk for balance, but Frankie’s arm is already wrapped around your waist and he’s leading you outside.

In a trance, you walk beside him to room number 2. Your room. That picture-perfect image of fatherly love dancing before your eyes.

He’ll never be yours. The wild creature shivers between your lungs. The certitude shatters your heart.

Stepping inside, you’re rooted to the floor. Limbs too heavy to lift. Your blood has turned into lead. The fire in your core is a pile of ashes. You can taste it on the back of your tongue.

Frankie flicks up the toggle switch, and the room lights up in amber hues. It feels too big, the satin quilt, the brown carpet, the yellow curtains, everything is foreign and distant.

Behind you, he sets his hat on the desk, drapes his jacket on the back of the chair.

“You ok?”

His voice jolts you up. You turn around to face him, unshed tears hanging round and heavy from your lashes. After a beat, he takes a step towards you, and you feel that absolute pull tugging from behind your midriff.

His gaze drifts up to your fresh scar, where your flesh is tender, swollen and bruised. Yours travel down along the pebbled skin of neck, to the dip between his collarbone. A firework of freckles springs from the V-shaped collar of his faded blue t-shirt.

Carefully, he slides your t-shirt out of your jeans again. You lift your arms like a docile child, let him undress you. He places a hand, warm and calloused, beneath your sternum. His palm heats your skin, warmth seeping into you. It untangles something, there. Something you didn’t know was still bruised. You lean into it.

He stays like that for a while.

Then his hand skates up to the base of your throat. His cold hard stare finds your soft sad eyes.

“Do you get wet, thinking I could hurt you?”

“I trust you,” you answer, a nod contradicting your words. His gaze hardens.

“Why did you think I wouldn’t come tonight, then?”

You shake your head, blinking fast. You never mentioned that. How would he know your thoughts?

“Don’t you know I would fuck you on my deathbed?” he grits.

But you don’t know. Of course you don’t know, and how could you? Nothing in your life has ever prepared you for him, for this, for the strength of that pull, inescapable, for this obsession that has uprooted your life, your body, your instincts. Nothing has prepared you for the magnetism of his skin, the things you’d do to be in his presence, to breathe the same air, what you’d risk for his touch, what you’d give up for his attention, what you’d destroy for his affection . Your comfort, your safety, your future, your health. Your family and his, nothing fucking matters compared to the insatiable hunger of this wild thing inside your chest and its incessant chant of him, him, him.

Your chest heaves, but his grip is firm. He leans down, lowering his lips to your ear, where he whispers, “What’s your name?”

You close your eyes, the wild creature is gnawing at your chest, eating you raw from within.

“I want you.”

His hand lingers, travelling higher, fingers splayed across the width of your throat in a loose grip. You hope he tightens it. Like he does sometimes when he’s inside you. Tune out your mind, toss you into white-hot pleasure. Into oblivion.

He doesn’t.

He’s never truly been gentle with you before. Tonight, his kisses are languid, his touch soft and slow along your ribs. Delicate, when he reaches the swell of your breasts and slides down the cup of your bra, replacing the fabric with the palms of his hands. When he leans down into you, wrapping his plush lips around your nipple, sucking in the peaked bud ever so lightly, flicking the flat of his hot wet tongue around it, lips pursed, suckling.

Against your belly, you feel him harden. You shiver with arousal and anticipation, with exhaustion. With the weight of this week and the burden of your life. With pain, ache and soreness. With your empty body, and your empty cunt. With that creature in your chest that can’t be tamed or satisfied. Can’t even be named.

You shiver in his hold, for fear that this’ll be the last time. For fear that he’ll never be yours, that he’ll never want you the way you want him, with determination, with madness, without a choice.

“I want you inside me, Frankie please," you breathe out, and he backs you into the bed to lay you down on the quilt.

The fabric is cold under your burning skin, you shudder at the contact. He takes off your shoes, rolls off your socks. He slides your jeans down and off your legs, then your panties.

You sit up to watch him undress, his eyes of mahogany brown never once leaving your face.

He stands before you, naked, erect, filling your vision with this breadth, and you want to rip your beating heart out of your aching chest.

The bed dips and he’s crawling over you. Leaning down, he drags the crown of his head up along your belly, along the valley of your breasts, his hair a soft caress on your quivering skin. Your fingers twine in his curls, you get lost in the sensation. For weeks he has barely let you touch it, kept it out of your reach. Now the abundance feels decadent, your head sinks back into the mattress with a faint exhale.

Cautiously, he parts your folds with two knuckles. You bite down a gasp, tensing up. You can’t shake off that chilling dread, the one that trickles inside you, cold and piercing, when you think you’re losing him. But your body knows better, that sticky wet slick pooled between your hips, the coiling heat at the center of you.

“Stop me,” he breathes into the crook of your neck, “don’t let me hurt you.”

He inches the tip of his length inside you with a strained groan, hooking your legs around his waist. He tries to work you open with a few shallow thrusts, panting against your temple.

“Fuck you’re tight.”

“Please, Frankie–”

His frame tenses up under your palms.

“I’m trying, you’re too— fuck, you’re too tight. Let me eat you open.”

“No!”

That’s not what you want, not tonight when you have no strength to spare, no time to lose, no patience left out.

“I can—“ You trip over your words.

“What?”

“I can sit on it.”

Heat creeps up your neck, setting your cheeks ablaze. He gives you a quiet chuckles.

“Yea. Yea you can.”

He grabs your wrists and lifts you with easy strength. A few swift movements and he’s lying on the bed underneath you, your folded knees a straddle across his lap. You feel dizzy, like your blood can’t course along your veins fast enough, like it’s no match for his strength, for your arousal.

“Spit on it,” he says.

You circle his cock, smooth, heavy. It throbs into your hand. You take it all in, with a trance-like gaze, the coarse curls at his base brushing your skin, the round head, an angry shade of red, the ridges and pumped up veins along the length, the tip of your fingers that don’t meet around it.

“Come on, don’t be shy, spit on it.”

Bending down, you lick a broad stripe along the thick ridge of his underside, from his balls to the fat round tip, where the skin is smooth and his taste heady, and he hisses something you can’t make out. It shoots through you, his sound, his burning skin, his taste. The curled tip of your tongue slides inside the small leaking slit, collecting the pearly drops he gives you. Your eyes flutter shut. His hands grip your thighs above the knees as you take him into your mouth, his fingers digging, a bruising furrow, something desperate.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Your lips slide along him, up and down, tongue wrapped around his girth. With hollowed cheeks, you take him deeper with each stroke until your head is spinning and you slip him out, rueful, glassy-eyed.

His breathing comes in almost as heavy as yours.

“Sit on it, now.”

His voice sounds wrecked, like you must look.

“Yes,” you pant.

Hands braced on Frankie’s chest, you’re not that flimsy, empty shell. You’re that fierce creature inside your chest, the one that claws and purrs and spits and demands. You tap into the bottomless pit of its life force, tap into the rumbling of Frankie’s ragged breathing under your palms, and you take.

Eyes strained on the solid breadth of his chest, on the expanse of his amber skin and the darker circles of his nipples, on the constellation of soft brown freckles that turn your insides into a sticky leaking mess, you slide up his lap, part your folds with his hard cock, rub your clit over it.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he murmurs, not for you, not really. To himself. Like the memory comes back crushing.

The bobbing of his throat, the low rasp of his voice, the wet sound of your slick smearing over his cock, it all builds up hot and prickly right under your navel.

Sweat breaks on your forehead, along your spine, down in the bow shape of your arched back.

You push away from the cradle of his hips, knees sinking into the creaking mattress. Raise yourself from his heat just enough to line him up, with his hands curled around your thighs, a steadying help.

You’re tight, but wanton-wet. He’s a gliding stretch along your walls as you sink down on him with all your weight, your cunt ready to collapse, fluttering frantically.

His thrashes back into the mattress, corded neck, strained muscles. Thick fingers bruising the tender flesh of your legs.

“Fuck wait, don’t move, don’t move. Stop moving, shit!”

You still, not like you can move anyway, the pleasure-pain has you numbed out, limp, blinded. Your head lolls back, your eyes roll shut. Your lower lip twitches with the tension and the stretch. He’s so big you forget how to breathe but this is what you wanted, for him to annihilate all the other pains.

A sound comes out of your parted lips. A grating against your vocal cords, a primitive vibration of the air that’s punched out of your lungs. It’s not you, it’s the creature mewling.

You can feel his cock pulsating hard and angry inside your belly. It’s a tidal ripple that travels up your chest. Your heart skips several beats.

His hands cup roughly around your breasts. You lean forward into his hold, hips swaying, slack mouthed. You keep him inside you, a deep roll, hipbones to hipbones. The coarse black hair at his base a harsh scrape against your swollen clit.

And suddenly, he fucks up into you. A hard shove, filling, merciless, into your cervix. You cry, nearly toppling backward and he sits up with a cinch, arms wrapping around your waist, catching you before you can fall.

“Too much?”

“Oh god yes.”

You’re crying, at last. Big, hot beady tears of salt rolling down your cheeks. Full, fucked out, filled to the brim. Everything that’s not him obliterated. Thoughts, emotions, sensations.

“That’s what you wanted, right? You want too much, baby?”

His voice is quiet and soft like silk, teeth raking along your throat. It’s almost a bite but not quite, tongue tasting your sweat, lips wrapping around your pulse point, barely sucking in. You can’t speak, your nails dig into his arms, forming little pink crescents you’re not allowed to leave behind.

You nod, you breathe out, “Yes, I want too much.”

He straightens up, your breasts are pressed to his chest, sweats mingling. His scent is overwhelming. That musk he exudes, a leathery spice, whenever you’re fucking. The scent of his desire.

His hand tangles in your hair. He makes sure you’re looking at him.

“Take it. Take what you want. Fuck, you’re beautiful, so fucking beautiful, you believe it, right?”

You try to tilt your face down, hide your tears, hide your scar. He doesn’t let you. So you give in. Because, what if you are?

“Say it again, please.”

“Look what you do to me, baby. Can you feel what you do to me?”

His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, and he grinds you onto his cock, a slow, thorough grind, splitting you deeper onto him. It’s coiling fast, hot and heavy, right at the center of you.

“I’m gonna come, Frankie.”

“Do it. Come. Use me, make yourself come on my cock. Make yourself feel good. Take everything you need.”

He talks you through your orgasm as you tremble and crumble in his hold. It’s a high that feels like a free-fall, like you’re unraveling, like you’re never landing. Like your skin’s burning and your mind is the horizon.

You’re sobbing quietly when he carefully eases out of you, still hard. He carries you in his arms and you think you’re floating. You’re drained, boneless, falling asleep already.

He lies you down under the covers, tucks you in. Places a glass of water on the nightstand. Folds your clothes on the desk.

You don’t hear him dress up. You don’t hear him leave.

And in a few hours, when room service wakes you up, barging into the room, you won’t remember his forehead kiss.

****

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charliehoennam · 2 months

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forever home

a/n: i rewatched the office and it was that episode where jim buys pam a house 🥰

pairing: william miller x f!reader

warnings: none (i think. i suck with tags, sorry), just fluff, not proofread so sorry for any typos

It's almost 11 p.m.

You're sat on the couch, trying to keep your tired eyes open as you watch a rerun of Hell's Kitchen.

With Gordon Ramsey's yelling and cursing in the background, you lift your phone once more to check for any new messages but there aren't any. You open up the chat with Will on the messaging app and reread his last text.

"Having one for the road. Be home in 20. Love you 💚"

You don't want to be one of those nagging fianceés, but the urge to text or call him is just bubbling inside. That was almost an hour ago and you're starting to get worried.

What if something happened to him on the drive home? What if he got into a fight at the bar?

It would be a surprise, but it wouldn't be the first time. Despite the progress he's had through therapy, you know how he can be impatient at times and a little hot-headed too. And maybe a little cocky too, although he would only let that side shine through at Benny's matches.

The trust you have in each other is the one of the main foundations that you've built your relationship on. Opportunities like these are essential to remind, not only you, but also himself of how far he's come.

You remind yourself of that when you hear a car pulling into the condo's parking lot downstairs. It takes all of your willpower to refrain from racing to the window to make sure it's really him. Truthfully, you just want to know if he's alright.

Will's tired legs slowly his heavy body up the single flight of stairs that led up to your small and shared condo apartment. His arms are so sore that he can barely hold the keys in his hand as he unlocks the door. He's never felt so tired, even on his deployments.

For the past 3 months, Will and his team have been working on a new house. He'd gotten into the business of buying and flipping houses which has been working out really well for him.

He loved being able to work with his hands and there is something just so gratifying to him about seeing something come together so beautifully after lots of sweat, work and a little bit of blood whenever he's accidently hurt himself. Will was usually very cautious, but accidents can happen to anyone.

You always supported him and his career since he'd expressed his desire to get into the business. You're thankful he did. Will's really good at what he does and he genuinely loves being so handy.

One of the other perks is getting to watch him in action. There's something so attractive about watching your fiancé slam a sledgehammer to a wall. Will knows you like watching him too, so he'll flaunt his muscles off whenever you come around to bring him some materials or sweet treats for the team.

However, this specific project has really been taking up most of his time and you just cannot wait until it's done and sold.

As usual, Will and the guys get together every Friday night to catch up, watch a game and shoot the shit. It's their own way of making sure everyone - particularly Tom ever since the divorce - are still hanging in there.

Opening the front door to the apartment, he steps inside and locks the door with a tired sigh before near the open plan kitchen to set his wallet and keys on the breakfast counter.

"Hey, baby. Sorry I'm late. Tom got a little carried away with the beers and I had to give him a ride."

"It's alright, honey," you yawn. "Did the guys get home alright?"

You look over the back of the couch and watch him kick off his dusty work boots at the door. His work jeans are tattered, splattered with dried old paint and wood varnish. The faded tan jacket is peeled off his body and hung up on a hook.

A mental note is made in your mind to convince him to buy new clothes when you go out the next time, although you know that'd be a bit of hassle since he's too stubborn to waste money on himself. It's nothing a batting of eyelashes can't handle.

"Yeah, sweetheart. The other guys just had a couple beers, but you know Tom," he struts over as he shares with you, bending down to kiss you hello and plops himself on the couch beside you, manspreading his legs as a arm drapes of your lap, hand stroking your thigh. "He's really going through it."

"I can imagine. You been talking to him?"

"I have, yeah. Invited him to the support group, but you know how he can be."

You nod adjusting to lean closer and thread your fingers through his hair. His blonde eyelashes flutter as he closes his eyes, instantly melting under your touch.

"Yeah, I know, baby. But don't give up. You never know. He might just show up one day."

"I know, sweetheart," he smiles before opening his eyes as his head turns to face you with a gentle squeeze to your thigh. "How was your day, beautiful?"

"Just the same ol'. Made your favorite for dinner though" you smile watching the exhaustion in his eyes slowly fade.

"Pesto chicken alfredo pasta?"

His blue gleam with hope. His pretty pink lips stretch into a wide smile behind the golden whiskers of his beard. You chuckle at how happy he gets when it comes to food.

You know it stems from the lack of indulgence during his deployments. Will's no fussy eater, but when he's home, he indulges when he can to make up for the barely edible chow he and the guys had to eat. Although tasteless and sometimes expired, Will never had any problems with it because he knew the purpose wasn't to be good, but to keep him alive.

That's why he quickly back up on his feet and striding towards the kitchen to heat a plate up for himself, leaving you to snicker at his excitement. If there's one thing that the Miller brothers share, it's their appetite for food.

"How's the house coming along?"

"We finally fucking finished, babe," he grins plating the cold food. "It looks so good though. I cannot wait for you to see it. You are going to love it." Of course. He built it with you and your tastes in mind. "Tomorrow, I'm taking you to see it."

"Really?" you grin.

Your opinion is very important to Will and he always comes to you when he's got doubts and is in need of a feminine point of view, so it's not exactly uncommon for him to bring you to his projects for a look-around.

The next morning, you find yourself in his car listening to No Excuses by Alice In Chains.

With nothing else to do, you sing along to the song as Will drives steadily

“Can I please take this thing off?” you ask adjusting the blindfold he’s got on you. “I don’t want cops pulling us over thinking you’re kidnapping me.”

“Baby, no one’s gonna pull us over” he chuckles at the thought. “We’re almost there.”

You try to focus on the sounds beyond the car in an attempt to locate where you are, but the catchy tune playing from the stereo makes it impossible. The only thing you know for certain is that you’re not in the city. The familiar salty scent strikes you as clear as day.

“Are we at the beach?” your voice fills with excitement.

“You’ll see soon enough. We’re here. I’m gonna help you out of the car, hold on.”

You can hear the smile he’s got plastered on his face. Will finds it cleverly adorable how you figured part of his surprise out already. it's not enough to ruin it though.

Just as promised, he opens the car door and takes your hand to carefully help you out of the car with kind instructions. You hold onto his hand as you settle on the stony driveway. Although from a distance, you can still hear the ocean waves quietly splashing on the shore.

"Take a look," he grins anxiously untying your blindfold.

Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the bright light of the blue sky but, once it does, you freeze in awe of the house before you.

The mediterranean-style house is simple but large and elegant. Red Italian tiles and cream-colored paint exude a rustic and mysteriously familiar feeling that makes you feel at home.

Colorful flowers strategically planted grow in the grassy front lawn. Behind it, potted flowers sit on the low wall that encloses the small garden along the gated pathway to the door.

You and Will had talked about buying a house for a long time. Little did you know, Will had made a list in his precise mind of every little detail that you desired in your forever home.

"Will, this house is beautiful. You might have finally outdone yourself!"

He chuckles filled with relief and joy as he listens to you swoon over every small and carefully thought out detail of the exterior.

"C'mon, let's take a look."

He takes your hand and leads you up the pathwalk to unlock the door. You step inside the empty home and marvel at the space.

"Wow... It looks small from outside, but it's pretty big huh?"

"I thought so too. I kinda liked that about it."

"I love it! It's like a little illusion and then, you come in and it's just so much space," you grin roaming around each room slowly to take everything in.

"Do you like the windows?"

"Yeah, they're lovely. They really add to the mediterranean/contemporary vibe you got going on here. Can we see the kitchen? You know how much I love kitchens," you giggle excitedly.

"Of course. It's right over here."

"The floorplan is really nice and open too, huh? Oh, the sink! You installed the farmhouse sink! Undermount, too! The owners will love that."

Will smiles as he gazes at you, watching your reaction lovingly as you wander around the house and notice every tiny detail that Will spent countless hours pondering over to ensure you would have the house of your dreams.

The project cost him a pretty penny, but every single cent and drop of sweat he had spent investing into this home was certainly worth to see your eyes light up with every nook and cranny.

He led you to the backyard compete with a pool and beautiful stones and bright green plants that made it feel like your own little personal lagoon, with a wooden pathway that leads to a private gateway to the beach behind the house.

In truth, you feel like you're in paradise. You could spend every day in this house without the urge to leave it.

"So? What do you think?" he smiles holding your hips.

"I think this is your masterpiece, babe" you grin holding his strong biceps. "Do you have any buyers yet? I bet this will be the most expensive house you've sold yet."

"Actually, someone's already bought the place... This is ours."

You stare up at him in shock.

"A-Are you serious? You bought this place for us?"

"Mhm," he nods with a shit-eating grin. "The farmhouse sink, the red italian rooftop tiles, the little garden... It's everything that was on your list."

As tears fill your eyes, you hug him tightly and sniffle as your arms tighten around him. You want to thank him, but you're too speechless to say anything although your reaction says everything he needs to know.

You think back to all the long pillow talks you've had, where he'd casually asked you about little bits and pieces he should add to the project. You would have never guessed the project he'd been working on was your new home together.

The mere fact that Will had gone through so much trouble to make this house perfect to every desire makes your swell. Being designed by the love of your life is the finaal cherry on top.

"Thank you, Will," you mumble still stunned as you stare at your new backyard.

"Welcome home, babe."

#william miller #william miller x reader #william miller x you #william miller x y/n #will miller #will miller x reader #will miller x you #will miller x y/n #will ironhead miller #will ironhead miller x reader #will ironhead miller x you #will ironhead miller x y/n #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #triple frontier imagine #triple frontier fanfic #charlie hunnam

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musings-of-a-rose · 1 year

Text

Build Me Up - Chapter 4 (Final Chapter)

Pairing: William “Ironhead” Miller x f!reader (inclusive - stock photos suck)

Word Count: 3200+

Rating: M for mature - 18+ only!

Warnings: Mature themes and some canon mentioned. Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story.

Notes: The last chapter! I never intended this fic to be super long, but I loved their meet cute(?) idea and had to write it. As always, I take asks for any of the fics I write for, even if it’s just questions or a little drabble! Thank you for waiting so LONG inbetween that first and second chapter. Y’all the real MVP’s!

❤If you enjoy the fic, please consider giving me a warm beverage! (It is not required in any way!)

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Will Miller Masterlist

<<;Chapter 3<<

Several months later, Will takes you out for drinks after a nice dinner, your usual Friday night date. It was a great chance for you both to catch up on what the other was doing during the week, as sometimes life got so busy you’d barely get a chance to speak. This last week, Will had been out of town at a few different bases, making his speech about joining the Armed Forces, so your conversations take longer than normal. Will places a drink order with the bartender, leaning against the bar on his elbow as he watches you talk about the kids archery camp you’ve been instructing, eyes lighting up as you talk about them, when his eyes glance over your shoulder and his smile drops, his eyes instantly becoming hard. You stop talking and follow his gaze to a really pretty women, tall, lean, and blonde.

His ex fiance.

She’s with a friend but splits from them, pointing to the bar directly where Will was standing. You try to drag him away but it’s like he’s frozen, unable or unsure of what to do.

“Oh. Hey, Will.”

He stares at her for a few moments longer than socially acceptable. “Ashley.”

She glances at you and back at Will, making the connection that you’re together. She sticks a hand out to you.

“Hi, you must be the new girlfriend. I’m Ashley. Will and I used to…well, we were engaged.” She says the last word like it holds some giant meaning, like she was hoping it would cause a fight between you both. You take her hand, gripping it firmly and shake.

“Oh so you’re the ex fiance? Amber?”

Her eyes narrow at you slightly. “Ashley.”

“Right, right. I knew it was something that starts with A.”

She glares at you for a second before rallying, schooling a look of indifference on her face. “So, how long have you two been dating?” She looks at Will but he seems incapable of answering her so you take over.

“About a year.”

She raises her eyebrows. “A year? You made it a whole year?” She sounds like she’s shocked, as if she wasn’t with him long enough to be engaged.

“Yeah. Will’s great.”

She smiles at you, but the look in her eyes, like she knows some terrible secret and is going to save you from something, makes you want to punch her even more. She leans in closer to you, but still speaks loud enough for Will to just hear it over the sounds of the bar.

“He can be…a lot. Did he tell you to say that?”

“What?”

She leans in closer. “Blink twice if you’re in trouble.”

The color on Will’s face drains and you square your shoulders, sitting up straighter as you turn the full force of your gaze on her.

“That’s really not funny. And honestly? I’m glad you couldn't handle him because that made him available for me. Will is the best thing to ever happen to me-”

Ashley waves her hand, cutting you off. “Yeah, yeah. Just wait until he finally shows you who he is in bed. A real freak. If you need help, just blink and I’ll call someone.”

You stand abruptly, your barstool wobbling dangerously on one leg as you do. “You know, I have to thank you.”

She blinks at you. “Oh? So you do need help?”

“Thank you for showing me exactly what a terrible person you are. It’s easy to see who the problem is. Now, unkindly, get the fuck out of our way.” You take Will’s hand and pull him up, Ashley staring at you open mouthed as you push past her, Will’s hand squeezing yours as you make your way through the crowd and out of the packed bar, heading straight for his truck. Will fishes his keys from his pocket and unlocks it, hopping in and you do the same. He starts it but doesn’t move, letting the ac cool it down.

“What a fucking bitch,” You say, half to yourself and half to Will.

He’s quiet a moment. “I never thought…I didn’t know she was still in town.”

“Well fuck her. She is so rude. I wanted to fight her but I didn’t want to ruin date night.”

Will chuckles lightly. “Now that I would’ve loved to have seen.”

“Oh? I can go in there and drag her ass out here,” You point over your shoulder with your thumb, pretending to go for the doorhandle. Will smiles, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes as he shakes his head.

“Hey…where are you?” You reach out and cup his cheek. Will leans into it for a moment, sighing deeply.

“She just…brought up a lot of memories. Ones that I didn’t want to think about again.”

“You’re a good man, Will. I know I say it all the time. I’m hoping it’ll sink in that Ironhead of yours one day.”

He smiles a little brighter this time, still not reaching his eyes. “I know.”

You watch him for a few moments before scooting close to him, pressing your lips to his and letting him lead. He responds after a second or two, kissing you back and pushing his tongue into your mouth. Moaning into him, you toss your leg over his lap, your hands sliding around the back of his neck, gripping and tugging on his hair. You tug a little harder, his head moving back and he smirks at you, that glint in his eye when he knows you’re about to sparkling in the dim light. Sucking at a spot on his neck, Will whimpers, fingers digging into your hips as you let go, a hickey quickly rising in palace of your lips. Will fumbles with his belt and you slap his hands away, quickly undoing his belt and jeans, pulling him out as he gasps at your touch, kissing him once more as you take him in hand and pump him a few times. Moving your panties aside you sit up and slide yourself down onto him slowly, which apparently doesn’t work for Will as he grips your hips and pulls you down quickly while thrusting up into you, chuckling darkly at your cry.

“Fuck, Will! You feel so good!”

He guides you as you fuck him, pulling you down harder as you chant his name, random words and sounds tumbling from your lips as he fucks you. One hand is gripping his arm and the other slaps against the window and it’s then you see her. Ashley, standing a car length or two away, staring directly at you and Will having sex. As Will leans forward to suck hard on your neck, you smirk at Ashley, giving her a small wave and flipping her off as Will hits that spot inside of you and you cum, screaming his name a little louder than you probably needed to. Will comes a moment later, grunting and panting your name as he spurts inside of you, biting you hard on the shoulder. Chests heaving, Will looks up at you, eyes still dark as he takes in your face, hair all askew and sweaty.

“I fucking love you, Robin.”

A smile spreads across your face. “I fucking love you, Will Miller.”

“Move in with me?”

“Was the sex that good?”

He chuckles. “It’s always that good with you.”

“Why don’t you ask me that when you’re not balls deep inside of me.”

He grips your chin lightly with his thumb and pointer finger and you meet his gaze.

“I mean it, Robin. I’ve been dying to ask you for a few months. I just…”

“You never have to be afraid to ask me anything, Will.”

He nods. “I know. So…will you?”

“Yes. But if you feel different in the morning, it’s ok. Just tell me.”

“Deal.”

—----

He does not feel different in the morning, and he proves this to you by burying his face between your legs until you beg him to stop, overstimulated and nearly crying from so much bliss.

“742,” Will says matter of factly.

“742? Really?”

He smiles proudly. “I love to make my girl cum.”

“I still can’t believe you track that.”

“Wanna know how many times we’ve had sex?”

You throw a pillow at him and he throws it back, expertly hitting you in the head.

–

Both of you take a couple weeks to pack your things and move them over slowly, since work was still super busy. Once you’re moved in, you settle into a comfortable routine, making Will a quick breakfast and coffee before he heads into work or off to the airport to make another recruitment speech. You can see his job wears on him, but when you ask him about it, he shrugs and says “It’s what I can do.” Once you pressed him more and he said a lot of places don’t want to hire veterans that have seen active combat. They don’t outwardly say it, but he’s been turned down for jobs that he interviewed great at, making it all the way through the process until they saw his forms, suddenly not so interested. He’d once asked a recruiter why and they mumbled something about “not worth the risk”.

He takes up archery with you as his coach and he takes to it well, which doesn’t surprise you in the slightest, considering his history. Will also pays very close attention to detail, making it easier for him to hone in on the target and how best to get there. He still loves it when you come and stand behind him, fixing an elbow here or a wrist there. You finally got him to snap out of concentration Will when you came up behind him and pretended to adjust something on his posture before he drew and ground your hips into his ass. Will burst out laughing, not used to being the one grinded on and you both laughed about that for a long while.

You’ve been together a year and a half and finally, Will gets to meet your family. They’re having their annual “2nd of July” celebration, as most of the family will be inside on the fourth, none of the veterans big fans of all the firework noise. They’d had to cancel last year and so were extra excited for this year, especially since you were able to fly in with the now infamous Captain William Miller.

“Do I look ok?” Will asks, fidgeting with his collar in the hotel mirror.

“Let me see.”

He turns to face you, arms outstretched to his sides. “Do I need to change?”

“As much as I’d love to take this shirt off of you, you look fine, Will. You don’t need to impress anyone.”

“Easy for you to say. Everyone loves you.”

“They have to. They’re family.”

When you arrive, Will knocks on the door, wiping his palms on his jeans that you’d convinced him to wear over business pants. He’s visibly nervous and you can see him getting in his head. So you lean up to him, speaking quietly by his ear.

“If you relax, we can stop at the store on the way back to get that stuff for that thing you’ve been wanting to try in the bedroom.”

Will’s eyes snap to yours, darkening instantly. His eyebrows raise but before he can say anything, the door opens and your dad is there, hugging you and grasping Will’s outstretched hand, a smile on his face.

“Will! It’s so good to finally meet you! You want a burger or a dog?”

“Whatever you have more of, sir.”

“Sir! You hear him? I like him already.”

“Dad!”

He chuckles. “Alright, alright. No need to call me sir. I’m fairly certain you outrank me.”

Will shakes his head. “Negative. You are the father of the love of my life. You definitely outrank me for bringing her into this world.”

Your dad stops, looking between Will and you and seeing the look of utter devotion on both of your faces. “That’s very kind of you to say, Will. Now come on - let’s get you some food before these heathens eat it all.”

Will’s eyes widen when you step out into the backyard and he sees the amount of people gathered here. Kids running around with sparklers, throwing snaps at each other and laughing, some people swimming in the pool, and others talking, some loudly and some not, red, white, and blue colors everywhere.

“I thought you said it was quiet?” He doesn’t look at you but the corner of his mouth ticks up.

“It is. We don’t do fireworks so it’s quiet for 2nd of July.”

You make the rounds, introducing Will to everyone, his shoulders relaxing more with every new person that he meets. “You weren’t kidding - almost everyone here has served or is serving.”

“Yup. I told you the truth that day in Publix.”

Everyone loved Will, but no one more than your mom. She fawned over him, squeezing his arm, making sure he had enough to eat and drink, that he knew where all the exits were and that there were no pets, the best places to stand with your back against a wall and clear line of sight to the door. The backyard was set up so you could stand pretty much anywhere and achieve this, but she wanted any excuse to talk to him. When your dad came over and pulled Will towards the grill to “help him”, your mom came up to you and gushed about Will, how he was so respectful and kind and a really nice man.

True to your word, no fireworks were had that night. Instead, your parents had put up a giant inflatable screen and played a video of fireworks with no sound effects, just classical music over top. Will and you sit on the ground, Will leaning back on his hands and you between his legs as you watch.

“This is amazing, Robin. I gotta tell the guys about this. We should do something like this back home.”

You lean back into his lap further, turning slightly to the side to look at him. “That’s a great idea! Frankie and Vanessa have plenty of room in their yard for this sort of screen. They aren’t too expensive. And their daughters would love to watch Frozen on this thing.”

The fireworks end and you sigh, stretching slightly as you stand up, finally able to make a full stretch. You turn to Will to offer him your hand, but your voice gets stuck in your throat when you look at him, kneeling on one knee, a ring box sitting in his hand.

“Robin, I know I’m not an easy man. Hell, you met me in the middle of a PTSD episode in the middle of a Publix. But somehow, even though I didn’t know you, you were able to pull me out. You saved me that day, but more than that, you’ve saved me every day since then. I feel…normal around you. Or as normal as I can be. You make me feel safe..safe to be me, all of me. I never thought that was possible. I thought that I would have to live my life half a person. You never judge me for the things I’ve had to do, any of the nightmares or quirks, none of it. Other women would’ve walked away, but you take my hand and guide me through the fog. And I hope I give you even an ounce of the happiness you bring me and I want to spend the rest of my life making sure that you’re happy and feel loved.” Will opens the little black box, exposing a beautifully crafted ring. “Will you marry-”

“YES!”

You launch yourself at him, cutting off his sentence to laughter and whoops all around, your lips crashing to his as everyone cheers. You take his face in both hands and pull back, tears falling not just from your eyes but his as well.

“I love you, Captain William Miller.”

“I love you so much, darlin’.”

On your flight home, you covertly join the mile high club, Will grinning from ear to ear watching you exit the bathroom and smoothe down your dress a few minutes after he’d left the same one.

—----

Everyone flies out to your parent’s house for the wedding, as they had practically begged you to have the wedding there. And Will enthusiastically agreed, as the yard was literally set up for veterans. Everyone was there, even Santi flew up from his job in Colombia and asked you to tell him who your single family members were with a wink.

The wedding was small but grand, flowers picked from your mom’s garden were woven into your braided updo, mathing the ones your mom had hand embroidered onto the outer layer of your dress, a matching embroidered handkerchief in Will’s coat pocket.

The reception went on long into the night, the kids all passed out on sleeping bags in the living room as they watched a movie. Will always had a hand on you at all times since you said “I do”, pressed to your lower back, lightly gripping your arm, or linking fingers with you and pressing a kiss to the back of your hand.

You’d both decided to skip the honeymoon and save that money towards a downpayment on a house of your own, a discussion of kids sometime in the next couple of years or so. “We can always go on some fancy trip later,” you say as you take another sip of the beer Will had brought you.

You did, however, take the week off anyway and spend it in bed, only leaving it to make food and use the bathroom, Will demanding that the only clothing you were allowed to wear was one of his shirts and nothing else. When you said “Yes, sir” he growled and chased you until he pushed you into the bed, both of you living out your now shared dark desires.

And in the morning, you woke before him, watching his sleeping face as the light hits it just right and you think about how lucky you were to have been in Publix that day and how much you love the man in front of you, even if he was snoring loudly.

—----

About a year or so later, Will and you are sitting on the couch cuddling, yelling out wrong answers to Wheel of Fortune, when his phone lights up. He leans forward and grabs it off the coffee table, letting you settle back into his side while he looks at the screen.

“Everything ok?”

“Yeah. I just got a text from Santi.”

“If it’s about some girl, I don’t need to know.”

“No. He says he has a job for us.”

—----

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