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plumforpersephone · 2 years ago

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okay! we're back. i'm not letting these chapters go without studying them under a microscope, dissecting their insides, and fawning over all of their parts. (❤ ω ❤)

i really don't want to say that i have a favorite guy with faire, because i love them all so much. but there is just something about will. there is just something here.

for as hot as their explicit scenes are, i think it's a huge testament to you as a writer that these scenes here - the training scene, the back and forth glibs, the teasing, the clear adoration they both have for each other, the way will follows her to the kitchen just to watch her work - are equally as powerful. they punch just as hard, they cut just as deep.

i fucking love this training scene here. it shows how their relationship is developing and maturing into something truly real. more than that, it lays the foundation for how they always are with each other. in love, natural, at ease, playful, teasing, flirtatious. it sets the present time but does so for the future of this story as well. as a reader, i see that how they are here is how they will be in the future, in scenes that take place far beyond the story itself. it's a beautiful thing, really. and i love how you've done it.

the detail here is perfect, as always. it's symbolic of how much substance there is for these two. as readers, we know this isn't just lust. this isn't merely sexual tension. this is soulmate, crafted by the gods and bestowed upon two lovers type love. and within that, there is still something melancholic; these two have yet to settle into their fully developed places next to each other. they have so much growing, learning, and maturing to get to how we see them in drabbles of their future together.

i can't help but read this scene with a little smile on my face, squealing and curled up into a ball. it doesn't matter how many times i've read it. there is blossoming magic, palpable in every visit.

his easy, pleased smile, like he once again finds her amusing, like it's his perpetual state of being when it comes to her.

this: she bucked her hips, which only made him grunt and go slightly cross-eyed. i mean ... my fuck? what the fuck? i'm going to smack him with a spatula. i'm going to read him poetry. i love that line. love is a word that never loses its meaning, no matter how many times i use it, okay? when i say love, i mean love. it's always powerful and it's always kicking my ass, here.

one of my favorite, favorite will x faire exchanges:

“use what you have available,” he suggested conversationally. god - he was fucking annoying. he was relentless with his training. she was exhausted. “i can’t move,” she hissed. “you’re too damn heavy.” “whose fault is that?” “yours,” she pinched his hip and it did nothing. he was thick everywhere. “nope,” he said. “yours. stop feeding me.”

it moves so fucking well. it's so funny. it's so sweet. the eye naturally follows each line like it's a normal and important part of a real-life conversation. and you know what? i actually don't feel silly for loving this scene so much. how can you not read this with a little smile? how can you not squirm and kick your legs?

i love reading the parts outside of characters, too:

it was overcast today - the clouds dark and gray as rhino skin. the lights from the city twinkled yellow-white through the floor-to-ceiling windows. the bay remained flat and dull as a dirty dime. she enjoyed it. she liked a storm - the kind of weather that felt as if it might cocoon you in its heaviness.

like ... you writer.

"you okay?" he touched her cheek lightly. her knuckles were sore. her muscles twitched and she was drenched in sweat. will had continued to push her and push her until she snapped at him which he actually seemed to enjoy. will could be mean as a snake because he didn’t bend under her whines. he didn’t submit when she complained about exhaustion or a hangover. get your ass up there, faire, or i will make you. she wanted to know what “make” meant. even if whatever it was scared her a little.

yeah, i wanna know what "make" means, too. ☝😶

he seemed to enjoy her snapping at him?! like he's once again amused by her?! like he thinks she's funny?! like her anger is a silly joke?!

and the way he's indulgent with her, but to a point. like he thinks there's a time to be tenderhearted with her, and a time to be stern with her, as well. like he knows her. like he instinctively knows what's best for her. i'm going to throw tomatoes at him. i'm going to file his taxes.

shut the fuck up: his huge hands enfolded around her with his long, tapered fingers and blushed knuckles. one of the sluttiest things will does in this story is have hands. i don't care! i think he's a little promiscuous for that! blushed knuckles. oh man. 🤦‍♀️

will & faire fall in love in this chapter.

no, but the way you write this:

there was tension between them. fat. red-hot. sour-candy tension that could not be cleaved or ripped apart. will and she circled each other - wound and twisted deeper into the other’s skins as they bickered and debated and joked.

there are so many descriptors here it feels like my mouth is tingling. like i'm a kid with rock candy on my tongue. fat, red-hot, sour-candy tension. i love how your work has such a distinct feeling to it. it transcends well and far off the page.

the love that grows taller and taller with every second they spend together:

it was terrifying how well they fit together - how she could talk to him for hours and never get bored. it wasn’t that she couldn’t talk to the others, but will was will. he was smart and devastatingly good-looking, but also someone who encouraged her peculiar trains of thought even though they changed from moment to moment. he always laughed about it - like she was amusing to him. an entertaining doll. he was killing her slowly with his charm and she did not know if he was completely unaware of it. her desire for him was now becoming its own nebulous magic - surging through her veins as he gripped her waist or pinned her to the floor.

it's like ... i need every part here. nothing here is superfluous, needlessly wordy, unnecessarily flowery. everything fits and exists for a reason. it was terrifying how well they fit together - how she could talk to him for hours and never get bored. it wasn't that she couldn't talk to the others, but will was will ... someone who encouraged her peculiar trains of thought even though they changed from moment to moment. it's like he's good for her. like he's healthy for her. like this love scares me but i need it to breathe.

and for him to always laugh at it - like he's her friend. like their connection, at its core, is based upon the need to take care of each other. before they want to kiss each other, before they want to f*ck each other's brains out, they want to take care of the other, to laugh with them, and make sure they're okay.

i'm not going to say that will is my favorite, because they're all my favorites. i cry for benny. i cry for frankie and santi, too. but will is will. maybe that's the best way i can describe him - how you do, by using your words.

and i have this headcannon that benny is the first one to admit his feelings out loud, and he's the first one to call it love by name. but i don't know, maybe it's will.

i also have a headcannon that benny is the best at coming to terms with his feelings for her, that he's the first to think of it as love. but maybe that's will, too.

and the way she goes to benny after these training sessions? 🥵💀

a growling kiss pressed into her throat? fucking kill me. he'd give her a smirk like he knew exactly why she was so needy. kill me dead. his voice was soothing and murmuring and thick with praise because ben was like that with her. break my kneecaps, please. i'm going to frame him for a crime he didn't commit. i'm going to fix his bed in the mornings.

and this? this i love: she knew that will was inevitable. she had begun to accept it.

it's also how this sexual tension is mutual, and how they both know it. she knows that he knows she wants him. he knows that she knows he wants her.

it was all the unsaid shit between them. the rippling tension. the eye-fucking. the excitement of brushing right up against the line before retreating. they were in it and they also weren’t in it. he wasn't sure what it was that kept her from fucking him. he was fairly positive she wasn't frightened of him.

like? get married? go down to the courthouse right now? i'm screaming my throat raw, here.

and this has me gritting my teeth bloody: will had assessed her. there was an intensity about her that claimed him. it howled beneath the surface of her skin.

will is learning to read her, in this chapter. he's growing into that protective, all-knowing role we see him take in sick girl and in knots.

i know it's pure indulgence on my part to have painted their earliest interactions with love, because when you fall in love with someone, haven't you always loved them?, but if i am being honest with myself, it all probably starts here, doesn't it?

will was hurt, which was a revolting and foreign feeling. she had managed to hurt him and still, he could not ignore her - he could not stop training her because it was the most obvious way he could be close to her. will was becoming consumed. he wanted her in a singular, frantic way. he was barely controlling himself as it was and will never wavered on that front. not until now.

and these weirdo fantasies he has of her, man. ☝😤 i'm— 😳👉👈

in his head, though? in his head she did everything. jesus. jesus. i wonder if he ever goes back to having these blood-tinged fantasies of her, in their future together. cos, um ... like can you imagine 😳 ... ? haha, jk ... unless?? 😶👉👈

and once again seeing just how pope plays fearless leader and puppet master, i mean ... god, you kind of just want to yank that control right from him? just to see what would happen?

and now, this:

santi’s little spies had told him that things seemed fine. all quiet on the western front. the apostles knew charles’s daughter was off the table.

i have a very specific headcannon as to what happens immediately after faire drives away with baron ... and it's, well. i keep trying to put it into words and it's somehow made itself well over, um ... you know ... 😶 ... a couple dozen pages. 😬 i keep trying to trim it down, but it's having none of it.

anyway - things seemed fine, quiet on the western front, apostles knew charles's daughter was off the table - like. somewhere in that, those rumors that the guys use faire as a s*x slave are beginning to float through the mob-mosphere, right? mobsphere? heard it through the mob-vine? charles's daughter is off the table because she's plated onto theirs, right?

and how pope is again from the outside looking in:

now - the question was what to do with her. improbably - she had become a piece of their home. she had certainly captured the boys’ attention though santi had yet to figure out how deep those attentions went.

he's truly at a loss about how faire is embedding herself into their lives, and she doesn't even know. it could be romantic if he wasn't so calculative about it, you know? like. :[ bro, you could be in on that. :[ you could be watching her cook, also. :[ you could like, hold hands and stuff if you weren't so standoffish and withholding of vital information. :[

i just feel like each guy has his own specific dynamic with faire. there are stylistic differences, unique manners of speaking and actions, with different tones. each relationship is capable of standing out on its own, with how fleshy it is.

and again, back to the detail you put into each scene - of course it makes a well-rounded, perfectly lit presentation, but it's symbolic of the nature of their relationship; extremely detailed, highly knowledgeable love.

they had run circles around each other - avoiding eye contact or conversation. she was clad in her workout gear - her arms folded defensively across her chest. everything was tight: her leggings to her seafoam green top. her clothes revealed the shape of her and he once more had to tap down that strong burst of desire - hungry curiosity. what would she taste like still covered in sweat? could he make her leak all over the surface of his desk?

i mean ... 😳 ... like, are you seeing this?

and a brutal, stone-cold interruption: 😭

he studied her now and when she looked at him she smiled before seemingly realizing that they were, in fact, sworn enemies and curled her lips down into a scowl. force of habit, he guessed.

they kind of have a tom & jerry-esque relationship. it's so different from how the others are. faire and santi drive each other up the wall, purposefully, knowingly. they're always a couple seconds away from ripping each other's throats out and/or holding hands. it's so funny.

it's also, unfortunately, fucking sad as shit: santi felt the first pang of envy. she barely tolerated his presence, but will seemed to make her melt. though it is kind of cute how jealous he is to see how she visibly melts when talking about will. :[ 👉👈 it's kind of cute how it hurts his feelings, or his at least pride, if nothing else. :[ 👉👈

see also: his tone was a bit too defensive. + she covered her mouth with her hands to stifle a laugh. his frown deepened and she thankfully changed the subject.

these glimpses into pope's perspective are so illuminating. when you go into the other guys, you see more of how they're softening and changing for her. you get the same thing with pope, but you also get to see the wheels and cogs and mechanisms of the mob world turning - more big picture stuff. it really does feel like pope has to be an intimidating figure for her, no matter how much they both want each other. he really does hold her fate in his hands. no wonder they find themselves on such opposite ends.

he felt as if there was a deep misunderstanding between them and yet they were not so different. there were unpleasant things that had to be shared, but santi did not know how to share them. her father resided in the wings of their conversation. he was shocked she hadn’t asked him further questions about charles - about his relationship to him. maybe - she simply didn’t want to know.

and the way her father is characterized as this ghostly elephant in the room, something that looms over them, and cripples them from truly coming together in a meaningful way. like. :[ you're so smart. :[

he could only guess what it had been like in that sad house with her sad, broken mother. yeah, cause you killed her dad, dude. 🙄😭

and the scene building at the restaurant? i've been here before, i'm sure of it.

i can't say that will is my favorite, because they're all my favorites, and right now my crying has focused its attention on frankie. like he's so hot?! and FOR WHAT?!

because it's like ... his lip twitches. fuck my whole life? he leans into her, warm breath hitting her shoulder. fuck me? HIS HAND PLACED RIGHT ABOVE HER ASS?! like, you cannot tell me he didn't place his hand exactly there, on purpose. and for what?! to show ownership?! possession?! like she's theirs?!

i've been obsessing over baron's whole "the mob world has been gossiping that the top cardinal guys use charles faire's daughter as a sex slave" ever since chapter twelve came out and i'm wondering how the hell that started, when the hell that started, and who the hell started it in the first place. cause i'm thinking, okay, the call has to be coming from inside the house, right? so somehow it originates within the main guys [pope, frankie, will, & benny], who then pass it along to their little mobster colleagues, and it just wildfires from there. and maybe it's just my reaction to that line, that pope did nothing to quell those rumors, but i'm thinking that maybe that sucked pretty bad for faire, having legit life-altering consequences for her. so like, maybe there's an undercurrent of dark symbolism there, and it's not as sweet as it should be.

and, um ... frantic conspiracy theorizing aside, um ... that is kind of cute, though? 😶👉👈

this chapter is a love letter to will & faire stans:

will was an enigma - a ripped-out page of hieroglyphics that she couldn’t transcribe. he would speak to her with all of his blunt sarcasm and innuendo and then there’d be nothing when they were in public. she studied him. his placid face - the tiny shifts in his expression. he did not give an inch.

the way she knows will, but also the way she doesn't. 😥

and then he touches her fucking knee! and fucking keeps it there! SLUT! he gives her a sidelong glance, lips twitching upward before once more tightening to a thin, unpleasant line! his thumb traces perfect circles into her skin! their secret! 🤭😂😶🥺😥😭😣😖🤮💀

laughing & crying & yearning & puking aside, let's talk about this:

she couldn’t even remember what her fear had tasted like - how traumatic watching him torture someone was. perhaps, she had buried it deep enough that it no longer mattered. maybe - she simply had to in order to keep going. she felt like she was happy at this moment - at this time. she felt safe despite there being all evidence to the contrary. she felt kind of fucking high.

and i think that's such a good point, because that's what it feels as a reader. going over the beginning chapters, i was truly struck by how angry i was at the guys, it like i'd forgotten how mean they were. they were hot, ofc, but that's beside the point. for faire not being able to remember what her fear had tasted like - i kind of can't remember what that anger felt like. i can recall it, sure, but it feels miles away from how these characters are now.

they just grew. maybe she moved on because she had to. it was just one of those things that happen, and all you can do is set it down, and continue on. you can think of it from time to time, but it serves no other purpose.

that's just such a good point to have in this story? it allows faire & the guys' relationship development make so much more sense? it's not that what happened - the guys kidnapping her, benny drugging her, faire getting punished for trying to escape - wasn't awful, that the guys weren't dirtbags for doing what they did. they moved on because that's all there was to do - they grew from there because it was their only move. it makes sense. it feels complete.

it doesn't come across as, okay, well that sucked, but i guess i have to make peace with it myself in order for this story to continue! it's my burden to bear! 🤪

it's more mature and real than that. it's like, i will follow the flow of wherever this river takes me. it's nature, it's natural, it's physics, it's gravity, it's fate. it makes sense. it feels deserved.

it's how you showed that dynamic to develop - first fledged in fear, yet immediately dotted with sporadic moments of teasing, of banter that we see reflected in how they talk to each other now. it was always there, brimming just below the surface.

after those initial traumatic events, what happens? time. as santi muses, she becomes part of their home, like she's supposed to be there, like she should have been there this whole time. she shrugs off benny, coming to accept his errant touching. she plays with him and laughs with him. she comes to be the same way with will. and, spotty as it may be, inches to be the same way with frankie & santi.

like? there are so many times where the reader's and faire's growth with the guys line up perfectly, where our interpretations mirror hers. and whether it's purposeful or not, it plays beautifully.

and i don't know! i just find this story so fascinating. i marvel at it. there are so many ways to look at it, i can find symbolism in everything. and why wouldn't i? this is a real story. why wouldn't i be able to explicate it so thoroughly?

all that being said, let me revert back to my feral, inconsolable, incomprehensible, crybaby self: she kisses frankie on the cheek. frankie stiffens.

and we get faire's first real term of endearment! VINDICAAATIOOON! ✊

god help me, this:

she’d grown close to them. there was an intimacy in living with them (fucking some of them). they were seemingly so damn guarded on the outside, but when it was just her and just the guys, they overflowed with stories. she ate them up.

i'm sniffling. as you should, girl, as you should. 💅

and would it be a true faire introspection moment without grudging up deep-rooted mommy issues? like. this girl, looking into the mirror and seeing her mother's criticisms. back to the horror of what sioban became, physically and emotionally.

i can't stop saying it. i didn't think it would happen. i really didn't. but here i am, and here's baron. utterly relaxed - languid. eyes focused on her with a very precise thirst. cataloging pieces of her to no doubt mull over at a later date. he was calculating. his curiosity didn't seem innocent. the arrogance. like he could be anywhere right now and he'd be just as calm. he's obviously omnipotent and a psychic, with how he's seeing her and seeing everything. he's terrifying and for what?! who the fuck is this guy?! i've accepted him into my soul.

i love how everyone's so obsessed over her. that's one of my favorite things. she stands out because she's 🎇different🎇 and in a very real, non-problematic way, not like other girls. or more accurately, she's nothing like the people they interact with in this dog-eat-dog, mobster world.

i love every part of this scene with baron.

i love how he greets her: "hey honey," he greeted her slyly, quiet - almost sibilant. he barely moved his lips. *through gritted teeth* honey? honey? you fucking idiot. (hatefully) you dumb bastard. fuck you. (lovingly)

i love how this happens: she matched his pose - leaning against the wall and crossing her arms over her chest. this seemed to amuse him. like, aw, you dumb little baby. like she's a tiny kitten squaring up against a lion, and that humors him.

baron's tone was nonchalant. his smile was dark and lazy. no, but maybe she should hook up with him, though?? like my first few read-throughs i wanted this creep to take a hike, but there's something about him, no? baron can live, as a treat. for now.

baron is full of suggestions. the fact that every time we meet him he's speaking in fucking riddles does so much for his characterization.

["they're just over-protective."] "not over women." so what is she?

"[this life] was yours," he had ceased smiling. he didn't look mean - just thoughtful. concerned, even. "it would have been yours if your father hadn't died."

"you haven't gone out. not since our meeting."

those last two pieces do wonders for my post-chapter twelve headcannon.

HIS GAZE FELL TO HER MOUTH BEFORE DARTING BACK UP. why am i clasping my hand over my mouth as i'm writing this? why is this one little action of is taking me out?

god, and this: "they seem very fond of you," he drawled. there was something disturbingly striking about him. he was smooth and yet there was a jagged roughness beneath his varnish. he was impossible to read.

this plays a big part in my post-chapter twelve headcannon: he stared at her again - his blue eyes inspecting her face. "you're too soft for this place. i'm not sure what they see in you." + she flinched and then hated herself for it.

listen, i know i'm quoting this part disjointedly. my formatting is for shit, as are my thoughts. but maybe that's how i'm supposed to be. maybe that is symbolic.

his brows lifted. "is that right?" his voice trailed slow and sensuous - scraping along her bones. she laughed and it was so obviously a reflex - a nervous tick. he seemed to enjoy it - his full lips curling into something deep and pleased because he'd managed to unsettle her. "i'm - i have to go." [then he just straight up grabs her fucking arm, oh my dear god] "you can leave that penthouse," he urged quietly. "you can ask questions. you should." she could not translate his expression. it was direct - alarmingly focused. she had no idea what he was talking about.

because what is up with his fucking concern? i get the feeling that it's genuine - it's the concern you or i or anybody would feel for another person. it is at least partially colored in genuine humanity. but how far does that sincerity go?

furthermore, i feel that this sincere concern - however big, however small - is paired with a fucking play here. he's banking on her issues and using them as currency. he has something to exploit to his favor. and what is it? why is it there? what is it worth to him? why does he pursue it so strongly? what will he do with it? where will that take her?

because this -

he had probably wanted to fuck with her. she believed that the fight was strictly between baron and pope. she had merely been a chess piece - something new to utilize in their long-standing rivalry.

- must carry implications far greater than she could have feared. baron. you little weirdo. you freak. you bastard.

jesus. 😶

when she slipped back into the room, every pair of eyes landed on her. she grew hot. it was a reflex - an automatic reaction to their attention especially when all four of them did it at once. it was electric and it stifled the air - snatched up the oxygen. it threatened to blow should she light a match.

have a little mercy on me, please. 😶

ben smirked at her - his long arms flung out over the tops of the chairs on either side of him. he lifted his eyebrows suggestively. she ducked her head, biting down on a giggle. he literally looked like he wanted to fuck her on the table. a part of her wouldn’t have minded.

no, but what? wait. can we stop here, for a moment? just for a second? like … actually tho? no, but what if? like … i'm going to start crying if i think about their future together, and one of them putting on a show with her in front of— 🤐

—let me stop here. let me, um, go ahead and put the headcannons down.

listen! i love women.

i do. i love women more than men. i'm a feminist. i do what i can to support women, intersectionally. i am constantly learning and evolving. i try to analyze and unpack my own internalized misogyny.

that being said, respectfully, fuck marissa. look, if i'm taking a step back here, i can be rational about it. marissa is in love with ben, because who isn't? that time one of ben's flings told frankie how addictive it was being the center of his attention, how much it hurt to find yourself out of it - it adds up.

i joke that it's not very boss babe, girl boss of me to hate on marissa so much, but listen. we do what we can in our real life, person-to-person interactions. we read fiction knowing that the world outside of it is different.

that being said, fuck marissa. no cause - okay. i saw in one of your replies to me ((also ty so much for replying to me, i am a squirrel hoarding them in my nest)) that benny subconsciously or quite consciously allowed that interaction with marissa to continue to prove to himself, to pope that he's not so wrapped up in faire. he can be with other women. he can be away from her. and that is so enlightening for his character - when i think of benny being the most emotionally cognizant out of all of them, well, maybe there's not much competition. and maybe he's just as locked inside his own head and fears just as much as will, frankie, and santi.

but also? very sleazy of her as well. he was clearly exhausted and drunk. and even now, he's visibly uncomfortable. if he could crawl away from her like a lizard he would.

so i've got this - some good old-fashioned jealousy, a bitter competition - paired with one of my biggest angst vices; a cheating!au. i, um ... i actually strongly adore infidelity. ((not in real life!)) i love seeing it tear another person apart. i love how rage and despair bleed out in the form of surfacing insecurities. and if there is moving on to be had, it's burdened with fear. i don't think on it too deeply, because aren't we all partly self-masochists here?

so while i find this to be so sad, what happens here - how it leads benny to smash the shit out of his glove box, how it hurts faire - i also kind of deeply fucking adore it.

and the other guys to immediately be annoyed by this interruption - like this is family time. and faire is included in this, it goes without saying. this is a closed-off moment. this room, for the time being, is theirs. these other women are not included in that.

i love the hostility exuding from the other guys. i love the shame and fear rolling off benny. he looks small. to clumsily quote an earlier piece: "are you mad?" asked genuinely, like a little boy caught doing something wrong. but this time he knows.

does ben's shame speak to his treatment of women, or does it speak to what he feels for faire? maybe both?

this agony. VINDICAAAAATIOOOOOOOON!!! 😈 👉👈

my god. respect to all parties involved - this clearly is an agonizing situation for everyone, and monogamy was technically never something ben & faire talked about, so if we are to be grownups about this, it's some unfortunate shakespearean-levels of miscommunication with disastrous consequences, so all that being said, fuck marissa, it's good that ben feels ashamed, i adore that he is hurt and enraged that he hurt faire, and i love that all the guys looked at faire and returned to marissa with open hostility. if they were any more obvious they would have snapped their teeth at her.

but this does wonders for my post-chapter twelve headcannons. this is faire's central insecurity - that while this may be real for her, this will never be real for them. she will never be enough. she holds the deed to her own hurt. all this guilt belongs to her alone.

i love this chapter. i love it so much.

and we get to see the reaction from will's perspective?!

will had chosen to ignore it simply because it was easier. he didn’t want to think about the reasons why she had gone to ben for intimacy. from will’s perspective, he was just as close to her. they talked all damn day when he wasn’t in the basement. ben was easy though. he was charming and fun and extroverted. will scrubbed a hand over his face. he was angry and he also wasn’t. he felt a strange sort of numbness. his assumption had simply been proven right. that had been it. he could yell at his brother, but it seemed as if frankie had that covered.

i love this chapter. and i know i keep saying will isn't my favorite, because all of the guys are my favorite, and i know i keep meaning it. but will is will. there is something about all of his buried-deep hurt, and how faire is able to innately understand it. he, along with the exception of maybe frankie - or maybe pope - or nevermind, benny also; these are some sad, sad boys - feels the saddest.

and yes. yes i do love this weird cat-and-dog argumentative dynamic that seems to pop up in ben & frankie's relationship only when it comes to faire. yes, i love how frankie absolutely lays into him. yes, i love how ben tries to hurt him right back with his own mistakes.

and santi, now amused and clearly fucking drunk reclining back and enjoying the show. and yes, i think santi looks cute drunk, the idiot.

i keep swaying back and forth on who's the most emotionally cognizant of their feelings when it comes to faire - who is the first, who is the quickest, to call it love by name. i often think of it as benny. but god, maybe it's will.

introverted, always in his own head. benny can be partially real with women, while will has only found himself honest with faire and faire alone.

maybe one day i'll be able to compile a comprehensive, organized list of my all-time favorite moments in Watch Your Step. if i ever do, this here would be in the top ten:

he should go after her - talk to her, at least. if she was crying, he would have to beat the shit out of ben. what the fuck was she doing to him? he wanted to ransack his entire life for her? she had somehow morphed into everything he considered beautiful. she had thoroughly rooted herself within him. he couldn’t cut her out. he couldn’t peel her off. he had had so many women before and yet it was her. it was this girl who was shy and darkly funny. mischievous and sarcastic. he did not know what to do with her or what to do with himself. he needed to go get her.

i feel like these highlighted parts are cornerstones of will. these summarize him so perfectly throughout this story, and well beyond it. this love is maddening, confusing, self/soul/mind/world-altering, terrifying, endearing, amusing, and irritating to will. and yet-

will just kind of got his heart broken. while he knows their sexual tension is apparent to both of them, he just had his worst fear confirmed - that despite all of it, despite how close he thinks they are, it is not enough for her to touch him. it is not enough and neither is he. all that, and he should go after her - talk to her at least.

he's thinking of punching ben if he finds her crying, and he just got his heart broken. will likely sees benny in a new light after he was tortured, and has already punched him once, and what's more, is thinking of doing it again. all over a girl who indirectly broke will's own heart. all over a girl he feels the overpowering need to find, after she just did exactly that.

i mean ... this is love. a big hole in my post-chapter twelve headcannon is left gaping by which of the guys verbalize their feelings for faire as love first. i tend to think of it as benny, but i'm not very sure. and one thing i find so deeply fascinating is that each time i read these chapters, i find myself coming up with someone else. so again, i think that in itself speaks to how thoroughly you've developed this story.

this is a central thesis in my post-chapter twelve headcannon: "the pretty, pretty whore of the cardinals. they really take turns with you? it’s what everyone’s been saying. they keep you locked up for it."

like, that is so sinister. i'll do what i can to constrain myself for a more appropriate time, but ... man. what baron says at the end of chapter twelve is true, isn't it? that's not something he made up for fun. and this foul freak here isn't lying, either.

fuck my entire life, i love this scene where will saves faire. fuck my entire soul. fuck my whole entire beating heart. again, if i can ever come up with an exact list of my favorite moments in this story, this is in the top ten. maybe, probably top five.

will and his rage. he was usually quite good at killing efficiently when it mattered, but right now he had the strongest urge to hurt. his hands in this scene kill me, pun absolutely intended.

i love the animalistic details - he snarled. running his tongue across his teeth - his canines. his teeth were bared.

i think it's cute how he mutilates these guys for her. ☺🤲

and the way his expression softened as he rushes to her after homicidally murdering a group of men. his rough hands wrapped firmly around her biceps as he tugged her upward. peering down at her - his head cocked, taking record of every injury upon her. his eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them, as though the black of his pupil had bled totally into the blue. he blinked like he was trying to clear his head. his breathing shallow. a frantic quality to his movements that she didn’t know he possessed. she felt as if he’d been cracked open. his sense and rigid control gone.

will and his hands. will and his stupid fucking hands. i'm going to give him a papercut. i'm going to wash, dry, fold, and put away his laundry.

i'm thinking very carefully here because tumblr keeps crashing on me due to what i believe is an absurdly long word count on my end, that they think is spam. i'm at a loss as to what not to bring up here because i've loved these last scenes in this chapter for a very, very long time. just know that it's every detail here, okay?

it's this: “jesus,” he shoved the heels of his hands against his eyes and made a low, ugly sound. “i’m sorry,” he muttered. “i didn’t mean to do that.” [do what? smear blood on her face? protect her? kill five fucking men for her?]

it's how he growls at her, how he can't be alone with her here. she grabs his hand and he allows it. he's trying to stuff everything back inside but he can't - he can't because it's her. mechanical. she watches & he walks away & she follows.

will just brutally killed five men for her and desperately needs her away from him before he loses more of himself, but he glances over his shoulder to make sure she's okay. like, i love you but please fuck off. he keeps telling her to leave him alone. he shortens his stride so she can catch up. he's had his heart broken, his worst fear when it comes to her confirmed, and he killed a group of guys for her, and she still knows him. she will not leave him alone.

i'm talking instinct. i'm talking knowing. i'm talking soulmates, here. his face pale with capped rage. he smells of blood, off his axis. and all she does is look at him and know.

the love he has for her - maddening, confusing, terrifying, endearing, self/soul/mind/world-altering, amusing, and irritating - he resents it, finds it incredulous. → "i took it too far. i lost fucking control and I don’t do that. it’s you, it’s about you - i can’t - i can’t think straight when i’m with you. the thought of you in danger burns everything away. it’s just you.”

she says, "i feel it for you, too" & before he allows it to touch him, sink into him, he uses it to scare her. she stays anyway. "what the fuck is wrong with you?" muttered more to himself than to her. she follows anyway.

this colors in so much for what i think about happens after faire leaves with baron: he wanted to explode and she wanted to allow him that - be here for him. she knew he was alone most of the time. she knew that he buried his feelings to cope or to move onward.

let me try to not get into all of it right now, but god that has to hurt will ... that has to cut him in a way that's different from everybody else

i feel like part of faire's impulsive bridging of the distance placed by the guys is spurred on by poking the bear, curious cat wonder, i will follow you into the dark, where you go i will go, and where you stay i will stay, i'll take care of you. [-it's rotten work.] not to me. not if it's you, but this - she wanted to understand him because he seemed to understand her - sums up that motivation perfectly.

what happens to will after faire leaves? i have so many ideas.

again, big fan of these animalistic descriptors applied to will in this chapter: will bared his teeth - his lips curled into a beastly snarl. glowering. “what can I offer you? i kill. it’s what i know how to do. i don’t know how to do anything else.” baby. baby boy.

chapter nine is actually one of my favorites. will & faire fall in love, here. it's sad and beautiful in the same breath. i love how his surrender to her is stilted and halted, in start and stop motions, and she's on the other side of it, waiting.

voice low, ugly, pleading, breath hitched, "leave. please. fuck. i don't need this right now. faire. c'mon." & "i'm with you. i'm not going." his brow furrowed. those moon-blue eyes softened.

even the way he touches her is soft, after he goes back in to kiss her the second time. he's so goddamn responsive, fuck this guy. i'm going to stab him. i'm going to wax his arm hair off in his sleep. i'm going to schedule doctors appointments for him. i'm going to tuck him into bed at night. i'm throwing him off a cliff. i'm going to make sure he's wearing a seatbelt every time he gets into a car. i'm stuffing ice cubes into his pillowcase right before he goes to bed.

errant physical touches are my favorite things to point out. they're my favorite things to pull out of a scene. all the little noises, the murmurs and whispers. the way you write this scene ... permission to be fucking stupid here, please? it's so good.

he made a low, feral noise + he said her name and it sounded broken like he couldn't get the word all the way out, like it was difficult to call to her + she's assuring him the whole way through + his tulip-pink mouth + every single fucking word he says to her + "you always take care of me, i want to do it for you" + every single fucking word he says to her

i want to mention this by itself, as it has always stood out to me: he was devoted - lapping at the altar of her cunt - her gorgeous, precious body that someone had tried to take from him. this fucking line. this fucking line. those fucking words. how you write love - bodies as nourishment, bodies as holy, bodies as sanctuaries, bodies as places of worship.

this: his desire for her inescapable. he could not believe that she had watched him lose control and kill in a way near monstrous and she still wanted him.

they've wanted each other for so long that when they finally succumb to it, it's not even just about the sex. he meets her with sad blue eyes, tearing her open. faire and her thousand pieces of suffering and self-hatred and he holds her weight. looks at her like he knows her. like they both could be something else entirely. not what he had been made to do. not what he had been taught.

& she went slightly limp - exhaustion taking her slowly from him. he groaned, lightly tapping her cheek to bring her back. he had never been this hard - this painfully raw and aching. + every fucking word he says to her.

heart to heart. lights on. she brushes the hair out of his eyes. he nudges his nose against hers. she had known this would happen. she had felt it. inevitable, cyclical, fate. broken people finding roots in broken places. i need to lie down for a little while. this chapter. this story. this art.

(❤ ω ❤)

watch your step (9)

Pairing: TF Boys x F!Reader Wordcount: 17.8K Warnings: serious gore. alcohol/drug abuse. kidnapping. eventual reverse harem. fluids. insecurities. angst. rough smut. bad men still being bad. Impossible things done with a chefs knife. bjs ruining people’s lives. Summary: She comes to a decision. Will loses himself. A/N: omfg this chapter absolutely nailed my ass today. i almost didn't post it because it was absolutely not working for me. this chapter was super important to me so i wanted it to be right. im not sure if it is, but here's hoping. i think people are going to be mad and sad and bad about dis. my biggest thanks to @frannyzooey who held my hand and edited this perfectly and @krissology for providing constant sex vibez.

Series Masterlist

Thwack

Her back collided with the padded mat along with Will’s enormous weight. She glared up at him - frustration like pebbles of grit beneath her skin. He’d once more proven that she was incapable of beating him in hand-to-hand combat. Even when he was going easy on her.

He panted with exertion, his breath warm and damp and puffing against the curve of her neck. His broad chest crushed her tits. The entire length of his body was plastered to her own as he pinned her against the floor. He lifted himself up and they were nearly nose to nose. His hair was in his face - beads of sweat collecting on his brow that dripped onto her. It was intimate and overwhelming. She couldn’t think straight. His skin was beautifully flushed and she must have been staring because his lips tugged up into an easy, pleased smile.

“Okay - how are you getting out of this one?”

She blinked at him before wriggling. Nothing. She bucked her hips, which only made him grunt and go slightly cross-eyed. She tried sliding her leg up to knee him in the groin, but their feet were tangled around each other. He had to have had sixty pounds on her at least. She huffed.

“Use what you have available,” he suggested conversationally. God - he was fucking annoying. He was relentless with his training. She was exhausted.

“I can’t move,” she hissed. “You’re too damn heavy.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“Yours,” She pinched his hip and it did nothing. He was thick everywhere.

“Nope,” he said. “Yours. Stop feeding me.”

She shoved at him and it was no use. Her head fell back with a thunk. Will frowned - displeased. “Fine,” she growled. “Fine. Fine.”

“You have a free body part that I don’t have under me right now.” He lifted his eyebrows - his expression direct.

“This is like charades.” She swept her tongue over her lower lip. His gaze followed. She was trying very hard not to feel him in his sweatpants. “I give up.”

He sighed. “Use that big head of yours. Literally. Break your attacker’s nose.”

“Oh - wow. Now - I feel dumb.”

He chuckled and lifted himself off of her. She was beginning to resent his laugh - it made her too warm. “You’re just tired.” He glanced at his watch and grimaced. “Damn I’ve had you here for two hours.” He sat back on his heels, using his fingers to brush away the loose strands of his blonde hair. “You’re doing better,” he offered. “I know you think you’re weak, but you’re not. Even if your opponent is heavier and bigger than you, you can use their weight against them. You can dodge.”

She nodded stiffly and gave him a thumbs up.

It was overcast today - the clouds dark and gray as rhino skin. The lights from the city twinkled yellow-white through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The bay remained flat and dull as a dirty dime. She enjoyed it. She liked a storm - the kind of weather that felt as if it might cocoon you in its heaviness.

“You okay?” He touched her cheek lightly.

Her knuckles were sore. Her muscles twitched and she was drenched in sweat. Will had continued to push her and push her until she snapped at him which he actually seemed to enjoy.

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“Don’t be a spoiled brat,” Will growled in that flat way he had. “You asked me to help you with this, remember?”

“Yes - but now I regret it.”

“I’ll make you do burpees.”

“No - fuck - I hate you.”

She said it constantly. I hate you. She didn’t mean it, of course. Every singular thought she had while training with Will was always: I want you I want you I want you. I hate that I want you.

She did not look forward to working out, but even she had to admit that it helped. She felt stronger - healthier. It had even eased her anxiety - her too-fast heartbeat and afterward, she found that she could breathe fully and with her entire chest. Her lungs expanded and deflated and cool air rushed through her synapses - fired up her brain.

Will could be mean as a snake because he didn’t bend under her whines. He didn’t submit when she complained about exhaustion or a hangover.

Get your ass up there, Faire, or I will make you.

She wanted to know what “make” meant. Even if whatever it was scared her a little.

She could be annoyed with Will and his authoritative, hard ass training, but then he’d gently caress her face and all was forgiven.

“I’m okay,” she finally answered him. “I’m good.”

They had been training every day now, Will in her head with his constant critiques and lessons and it all felt very Jedi/Yoda adjacent or the karate kid or Beatrix fucking Kiddo - but she couldn’t bring herself to be mad about it. She asked for it, and liked it.

She vaguely wondered if Will would give her a samurai sword, but he had yet to trust her with anything sharper than her fists. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of lust in her belly every time she punched into his open palm. The muffled thwack thwack thwack of her flesh meeting his. His huge hands enfolded around her with his long, tapered fingers and blushed knuckles.

There was tension between them. Fat. Red-hot. Sour-candy tension that could not be cleaved or ripped apart. Will and she circled each other - wound and twisted deeper into the other’s skins as they bickered and debated and joked. Their conversations shifted from ice cream flavors to which century would be the absolute worst to live in (he said 17th and she claimed 14th).

One word. Plague.

Seventeenth had plague and The Thirty Years War.

Big fucking deal, dude.

They finally had to google and ended up settling on the year 536. Failing empires. Political chaos. Famine. Volcanic eruptions. Ash that filled the sky.

“I still thinking bleeding out of all your orifices would be really fucking shitty.”

Will tapped his phone screen. “There was bubonic plague during the 500’s. Look - it says right there.”

“Oh - awesome.”

“Right?”

It was terrifying how well they fit together - how she could talk to him for hours and never get bored. It wasn’t that she couldn’t talk to the others, but Will was Will. He was smart and devastatingly good-looking, but also someone who encouraged her peculiar trains of thought even though they changed from moment to moment.

“What do you think of David Fincher?”

“We were literally just talking about the Spanish Flu.”

He always laughed about it - like she was amusing to him. An entertaining doll.

He was killing her slowly with his charm and she did not know if he was completely unaware of it. Her desire for him was now becoming its own nebulous magic - surging through her veins as he gripped her waist or pinned her to the floor. Every time she left him, she went to Benny. She’d slide down his length - tongue lapping into his mouth - sucking it as she rode him wherever she found him. He’d place a growling kiss to her throat, his fingers finding her utterly drenched between her legs.

He’d give her a smirk like he knew exactly why she was so needy and ready, but he’d never say it out loud. She was grateful for that. She was still navigating her relationships with each of the men - drifting into bends and dead-ends and too many one-way streets.

He bit the top of her breast before giving her a puckish grin that shaved the years off his face. “What do you want?” It was in her court - always - how do you want it? Do you want it here or here? Fast? Slow?

Most of the time she told him she didn’t know. She didn’t.

“Okay, baby,” he’d smile - caressing her with that golden arrogance. Baby-face Ben. “I’ll make it good.”

Sometimes he’d turn her over and pin her exactly as Will had (as if he had known or seen, but she was certain he hadn’t unless they shared some creepy brother telepathy). He was rough with her in just the way she liked - his hand gripping the hinge of her jaw and his thumb digging into her cheek as he thrust into her wet cunt - each jarring motion causing her tits to bounce and her mouth to go slack. His voice was soothing and murmuring and thick with praise because Ben was like that with her.

There was a part of her that felt like she was doing something wrong. She was fucking Will’s brother as a way to fuck Will because she was too scared that she’d lose him. She had a feeling Will knew about Ben. They weren’t exactly covert about it.

Benny was like peanut butter - comforting and familiar and delicious. Will was…not. He was uni or blowfish or some type of delicacy that had the potential to poison her, but taste fucking phenomenal going down. She knew that Will was inevitable. She had begun to accept it.

***

Will watched as she chugged the rest of her water. His eyes traced the line of her throat - the swell of her tits inside her sports bra. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She crinkled the empty plastic bottle and tossed it at him. “I think I’m gonna take a nap right here.”

Can I join you? It was right on his tongue before he swallowed it. He had things to do. The basement was calling to him. He’d been avoiding it long enough today. They also weren’t snuggling - kissing - screwing - just everything else -

It was all the unsaid shit between them. The rippling tension. The eye-fucking. The excitement of brushing right up against the line before retreating. They were in it and they also weren’t in it.

He wasn’t sure what it was that kept her from fucking him.

He was fairly positive she wasn’t frightened of him. She’d allowed him to manipulate her body into fighting positions - allowed him to hold her down while she bucked against him. She rubbed right up between his legs with his hands pinning her wrists above her head and it was sex and also not -

Will had assessed her. There was an intensity about her that claimed him. It howled beneath the surface of her skin. He could read her even when he didn’t want to. He knew when her smile was faked - when she was annoyed or angry or distracted.

She did not give a lot - preferring to present a cool reserve. She hid behind a wall of sorts, and because Will shared that same attribute, he could translate her features. At least, he thought he could. You’re sad, You’re happy. You’re smiling, but it’s your bored smile. You’re talking too fast and therefore you’re thinking of something melancholy - your childhood, perhaps your mother who she had only shared in small doses. Will remembered Siobhan Faire. She’d been out of her damn mind even then.

He wondered if his ability to read her was what kept her from his bed. He could see through her at times - peel her apart. She struck him as someone who didn’t want to expose her vulnerabilities.

Will knew about the drinking. He wasn’t an idiot and he also wasn’t her father. It had never worked with Frankie - trying to control his habits. He would just rebel against them even harder. He would drown in it rather than stop.

He’d leave her decisions up to her. He could, at the very least, grant her that independence. He hoped the strength training would fill her days - give her something to busy her head other than whatever else she did…like possibly fucking his brother.

He believed Benny had fucked her - was fucking her. He was jealous, of course. They weren’t exactly subtle about it and Ben was developing hickies despite not leaving the house.

Will was hurt, which was a revolting and foreign feeling. She had managed to hurt him and still, he could not ignore her - he could not stop training her because it was the most obvious way he could be close to her.

Will was becoming consumed. He wanted her in a singular, frantic way. He was barely controlling himself as it was and Will never wavered on that front. Not until now. After one particularly grueling sparring session, he trailed after her to watch her cook.

He honestly enjoyed her quiet sort of chaos in the kitchen. She was messy - spices and herbs and sauce splattering in every direction. She didn’t even use recipes that often. He’d ask her what was for dinner and she’d flash him some flustered smile as she passed him the wood spoon to lick. “I don’t know. I just made it up.”

And it was always fucking good. Well-seasoned. Complex. He’d scoot around her - subtly wiping down the counter or washing the pots she was done with. I’m here. Let me watch you.

She had chopped strawberries, running her tongue along the blade - swiping the mushy red pulp into her pretty mouth. Will’s chest had rumbled - fingers twitching on the cleaning rag. She had meant to do that and it had shot straight to his cock. He’d excused himself and headed to the downstairs powder room where he proceeded to jack off like he was in eleventh grade. He had fisted his dick - fucking into the dry, scraping texture of his hot palm. His other hand clenched around the bowl of the porcelain sink as he grit his teeth with her name on his tongue - the fantasy of her spread cunt in his head.

Will had a mental filing cabinet of very crude, disgusting images of her doing very crude, disgusting things to him that he doubted he’d ever share. He couldn’t imagine her in his space - in his basement where he delivered pain like he was conducting a symphony. He couldn’t see her actually getting on the floor and blowing him while he broke some poor guy’s fingers one at a time. He doubted she’d clamber onto his lap and ride him while he fastidiously pulled someone’s teeth with quick jerks of his wrist.

In his head, though? In his head she did everything.

“Fuck, Will,” she panted as her hips rolled against his - the wet clutch of her cunt soaking him. He’d never been with anyone who could get this slippery - this drenched. His mouth dragged over the nape of her neck - her back pinned firmly to his chest as he kept her knees wide with his thighs. He had his fingers between her legs - stroking where she was currently swallowing his cock. She placed her dainty hand on top of his - her baby pink fingernails sparkling against his black gloves and the glint of his favorite pliers. He hooked his chin over her shoulder to watch as the nameless, faceless victim twitched and blubbered. He gave her a lazy thrust and she throbbed - swollen and aching and tight. “Show me,” she murmured - soft as a secret- pussy clenching around him until he moved his hand to teach her what she wanted.

That image had tipped him over the edge. He had spurted over his knuckles - muffling his groan into his other fist.

Christ - he needed help.

***

Santi felt like he was slightly getting things back under control. It had been two weeks since the meeting with his brother and all of Santi’s little spies had told him that things seemed fine. All quiet on the western front. The Apostles knew Charles’s daughter was off the table. Now - the question was what to do with her. Improbably - she had become a piece of their home. She had certainly captured the boys’ attention though Santi had yet to figure out how deep those attentions went. He was positive Benny was fucking her. Ben had never missed his two-night-a-week visits to George’s and he hadn’t shown up there in quite a while. Sylvie had personally reached out to him - asking if Benny was on some other assignment. No - he’s just pussy-whipped.

Santiago had finally put his foot down and ordered Ben to do his damn job. It was odd for him to be so indifferent toward something he considered his baby. Ben prided himself on his work - his success. He’d always had that drive - that unshakeable confidence. Ben had grown from a lanky teenager into a suave, perceptive individual who Santi relied on because his clubs drew in an insane amount of business. Not to mention the fact that Ben could butter up the scariest of men - including Russian Oligarchs and Cartel leaders.

What could you possibly be doing every damn night, Benjamin? It’s not like you. Your life revolves around making sure your businesses do well. You’ve been dis-

“They’re doing well,” Ben protested. “It’s not like they’ve burned down or something.”

“It’s not about that,” Santi dragged a hand through his messy curls. “Louis DeVecchio showed up to George’s because you two had a meeting. You never came and Sylvie had to ply him with 1959 Dom. Two fucking bottles.”

“Whoops.”

“You’re supposed to be keeping these relationships in good standing.”

Ben frowned - his lips thinning to a flat line.

Santi’s gaze hardened - his voice pitched low. “If you’re doing what I think you’re doing then cut it back. You’ve never been this cunt-struck in your life and it’s messing up our business.”

That made Ben flush. He averted his eyes - fingers curling around the armrests. He was silent for a few moments - apparently debating. “Fine,” he finally snapped. “I’m going.”

“Thank you.”

Santi had to be blunt with him. It was the only thing that could reach Ben. Hit him where it hurts. Remind him that his entire identity was dependent on his clubs that he’d built - nursed - and made prosper. He had dropped out of college because he had found it a waste of time and Santi had to admit, Ben knew what he was doing. He was personable. He made willful people bend. He was disturbingly intelligent like his brother.

His words must have worked because Ben had gone out to George’s four nights this week. He’d made himself scarce at the penthouse.

Santi was grateful. One more thing he could check off his list. It relieved him - allowed him a sense of some control that he had sorely felt had been missing the last two to three months. He honestly couldn’t remember when they had kidnapped the girl. July?

There was a knock on his door. “Come in.”

It was her. Of course, it was her. He had asked her to come by. They had run circles around each other - avoiding eye contact or conversation. She was clad in her workout gear - her arms folded defensively across her chest. Everything was tight: her leggings to her seafoam green top. Her clothes revealed the shape of her and he once more had to tap down that strong burst of desire - hungry curiosity. What would she taste like still covered in sweat? Could he make her leak all over the surface of his desk?

He cleared his throat and motioned for her to sit. The sky was at sunset - high and faded out and going purple. It drenched her - set her in contrasting shades against his bookcases. She did as he said.

The girl wasn’t stupid. Other than the first time she had tried to escape, she had done nothing but be fairly obedient. The night at George’s had not been her fault, but Ben’s. He studied her now and when she looked at him she smiled before seemingly realizing that they were, in fact, sworn enemies and curled her lips down into a scowl.

Force of habit, he guessed.

“Will mentioned that you’re doing well with the self-defense training.”

She did smile then - an almost whimsical expression overtook her features. Santi felt the first pang of envy. She barely tolerated his presence, but Will seemed to make her melt. “He’s a good teacher.”

He steepled his fingers. “He is.”

More silence. Her gaze rolled over him - weighty and uncertain. She bit her lip - her fingers tapping her thigh.

“I thought it would be nice for us to go to dinner tonight,” Santi finally stated..

Her head whipped toward him - her eyes now deliberate and focused. “Like out out?”

He nodded. “I’ve confirmed that no one is looking for you. There’s no talk of kidnapping you - killing you. No more bounties. Mateo -” He caught himself. “Baron - held a meeting and said that you were off-limits.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have friends in high places.”

“You trust him to stick by his word?”

“I do.”

She opened her mouth before shutting it. She cocked her head - listening. “Is that smooth jazz?”

Santi’s face grew hot. He glanced at the Spotify open on his computer that he’d had playing all afternoon. “What’s wrong with jazz?” His tone was a bit too defensive.

“I don’t know.” she grinned. “I guess it does seem on-brand for you.”

“For a crime boss?”

“No,” she hummed - looking perfectly at ease as she sunk lower into the chair. She threw her leg over her knee - crossing them smoothly. “Just for you.”

He frowned. The stuff playing was akin to elevator music.

She covered her mouth with her hands to stifle a laugh. His frown deepened and she thankfully changed the subject. “You got a new painting.” She gestured over her shoulder where it hung. It was an abstract piece that combined digital film and paint - a shape-shifting innovation. A mess of color. It was hard to look away from. He’d bought it at a gallery show from a new up-and-coming artist. He had yet to see if it would be a good investment.

“You like art?”

“Yes,” There was a bright flicker locked in her gaze. “Took art history in high school and college.”

Santi watched her - devoured her from the safe distance of a few feet. She really was pretty. She reminded him of a Klimt painting - the mass of lovely entangling bodies and showers of gold. Precious stones.

“Favorite movement?”

“That’s impossible,” she scoffed before easily declaring: “High Renaissance and Baroque.”

“Baroque, huh?”

“They’re so beautifully dramatic. Intense. Emotive. The blending of light and shadows. Hazy contours.”

“Like smoke?”

She nodded. “What about you?”

“Impressionism.”

“Oh…”

“What?”

“I pegged you as either a modern art guy or neoclassical.”

“Those are completely different.”

“Exactly,” she hummed - her tone thoughtful. “I can’t read you so I figured it’s either one way or the total opposite.”

“I’m hard to read?”

“You hide out in your office all day.”

“I have work.”

“All day?”

He shrugged.

“You can’t even enjoy the fruits of your labor.”

He grit his teeth at that. His jaw locked. “There are other things I have to attend to. It’s not always about the money.”

Somehow the conversation had detoured from pleasant to heavy. He felt as if there was a deep misunderstanding between them and yet they were not so different. There were unpleasant things that had to be shared, but Santi did not know how to share them. Her father resided in the wings of their conversation. He was shocked she hadn’t asked him further questions about Charles - about his relationship to him. Maybe - she simply didn’t want to know.

“Right,” she replied dryly. “You were the unlucky prince who had to inherit his kingdom.”

She was baiting him and he would not bite. Instead, he cocked his head and punted it back to her. “Are you resentful?” Her brows knitted together. “Of the kingdom that you inherited?”

She balled her hands into fists. “Did you know my mother?”

There was an undercurrent behind her question - snappish and deliberate. He did not think she was asking if he had known her mother at a surface-level. Did you know about her behavior? The secrets? The pills and drugs and ugliness?

“I knew her.”

“Then there’s your answer,” she relied. “The albatross around my neck.” Her tone was wooden. Her hand went to her throat mechanically - resting there for a few seconds before she placed it back on her knee. He understood her. He could only guess what it had been like in that sad house with her sad, broken mother. “I suppose we’re both poor little rich kids.” She paused and then barked out a short brittle laugh. “Well - I wasn’t very rich anymore.”

Santi sat back in his chair. The leather was worn at this point. It fit perfectly to his shape. “When you stand in front of me and look at me, what do you know of the griefs that are in me, and what do I know of yours?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Kafka, huh?”

Santi smiled.

***

She would never have been able to pick the restaurant out from the street. It was tucked away within a hodgepodge of brick apartment buildings, art studios, and construction sites. There was a small green sign that said Christo’s Ristorante. It hung above a rust-red door.

The road was full of shadows. The cracked sidewalk was lined by a few thin street lights. It seemed as if The Cardinals had spots sprinkled throughout the city in the most unlikely of places.

“This place is old-line Italian,” Ben told her as they walked up to the entrance. “Red sauce. Scampi. Sausage and peppers. I always get sick from eating too much.”

“You always eat too much.”

“You’re as wise as you are beautiful,” he declared earnestly. She snorted.

Inside - it was exactly what she expected. Dim lighting. Starch white table cloths. Waxy red candles in deep green bottles. Leather banquets lined the sides of the space. Black and white photographs of all the famous patrons. There were so many that there was not a single empty stretch of wall. The chef was roaring from the kitchen. The plates bent under heaping servings of food. There were meatballs the size of Frankie’s fist.

The host greeted Pope like he was greeting his own son. He kissed him hard on both cheeks - cradling his face as he shouted something in Italian. Pope’s lips split into a disarming grin that thoroughly shocked her. She’d never seen him with such a smile. It lit up his features - his teeth bright against his black stubble. He glanced at her and she swiftly turned away to scope out the restaurant.

Oh.

Everyone was staring at them - her. Furtive looks and whispers dashed around the main room. The loud, pounding conversation had descended to a muffled hum. She shifted on her feet - feeling uncomfortable in her high heels and short powder-blue dress.

“C’mon,” Frankie pressed his hand to her lower back and guided her through the restaurant. It appeared relatively huge though it didn’t feel like it. The tables were packed together. There was the subtle stink of cigarettes though no one was smoking. She guessed that decades-worth of hard-drinking, nicotine-hooked patrons had stuck to the carpets. Ghosts of old mobsters. Jazz singers. Starlets. Heiresses.

As Frankie led her to the back of the place, incredulous gazes followed. She felt them on her - leaving imprints along her flesh. She wished she had brought a sweater. Finally, the volume gradually picked up. There was the distinctive music of clattering forks and knives on plates. A shout of laughter. Frankie shook his head, his lips twitching.

“What is it?” she whispered.

He leaned into her - his breath warm over her bare shoulder. His hand remained right above her ass. “I don’t think they’ve ever seen us bring a girl to dinner.”

She balked. “I don’t believe you.”

They had women hanging off them all the damn time. Much to her chagrin, there seemed to be no shortage of girls for the Cardinals’s inner circle. “They probably think I’m a relative.” He clasped her hip - his palm warm as he forced her to turn right. They were headed toward a private room.

“No,” he protested. His hair brushed her temple as he lowered his head to speak to her. He was close and she thought of his mouth again. His lips that crushed the stress from her - the languid stroke of his tongue on hers. God - he could fucking kiss. “They know who you are…at least by now.”

What did he mean? Like their sex slave? Their private chef?

Frankie must have seen the look on her face because he smirked. “You’re Charles Faire’s daughter. The world we're in is small - very fucking small. Santi-,” He cleared his throat. “-all of us bringing you out means something even if that’s not our intention.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say. She was still getting used to “their world”. It felt like everything had symbolism. Every word. Every act. It was exhausting. Maybe - they just wanted to feed her fucking pasta. Big. Deal.

“What does it mean exactly?”

But Frankie ignored her, his gaze glued above her head. He suddenly cursed under his breath - his hand flexing on her waist. He gently pushed her into the private room. “What?”

“Baron is here,” She moved toward him to sneak a peek, but he stopped her. “Just go sit down.”

“Whatever,” she sulked and dropped into a chair. He could be so pushy. She watched as Frankie grabbed Pope to tell him that his brother had also shown up here for dinner. Pope didn’t look bothered. He squeezed Frankie’s shoulder and took the seat closest to the door. Will sat on her right. Frankie on her left. Ben across from her. The room was intimate. Candlelight and lots of red. It was honestly a bit tacky with the cupids etched on the ceiling - the blown-up photographs of Jayne Mansfield, JFK, Marilyn Monroe, and Ava Gardner. The Rat Pack. Garland. She loved it.

“We didn’t get menus,” she noticed as she placed her napkin in her lap.

“That’s because Gino brings us everything they have,” Ben grinned - clapping his hands together. She laughed and he winked at her.

“Finally have a chance to impress our personal chef,” Pope teased. “We’ll have to roll you out of here. I guarantee it.”

There was a twinkle in Santi’s eye. For the first time since she’d met him, he appeared relaxed - in his element. She wondered if today’s conversation had cut out some of the tension between them.

Ben wasn’t joking about the food.

Everything was served family-style and the plates did not stop: seafood salad, tomatoes, and burrata, fried zucchini, lobster ravioli, spaghetti all’amatriciana. scallops al limone, chicken involtini with prosciutto and fontina, garlic and broccoli rabe. On top of that, there was endless wine. Pope continued to order the most expensive bottles on the menu. She swore the waiter blew dust off one of them.

The atmosphere was warm and celebratory. Ben forgot to pace himself, devouring far too much of the first three courses. Despite his own whining, he continued to shovel food in his mouth.

“You’re gonna get sick, Benjamin,” Frankie warned and Ben glowered in his direction.

The boys swapped stories. They told her about renting a cabin near the mountains because they wanted to ski. Ben broke his leg the first morning after drunkenly attempting a double black diamond. They’d taken too many tequila shots on empty stomachs.

“We literally sat in this luxury cabin for a week - just drinking. The altitude made us black out and we ended up all getting rashes from the hot tub.”

She wrinkled her nose and Pope crossed his arms over his chest - shooting Ben a mischievous smile. “Ben knows a lot about rashes.”

“Dude.”

“It’s true.”

“Uh - false. Not since college.” Ben’s eyes were on her, his tone almost reassuring. She ducked her head to stare at her pasta - twirling the noodles in various patterns. He was as subtle as a heart attack.

The conversation thankfully changed course when Frankie brought up Pope’s diva behavior.

“I took him to this hostel in France because it was the only place I could think of last minute,” Frankie narrated as he turned toward her - shifting his broad frame in the small chair. “He steps into the room. Realizes that we'd be sharing with three other guys and loses it. He called a car to come out to Lourmarin and take us back to Paris because he wanted to stay at the Ritz.”

Pope’s face scrunched up into what could only be called a pout. “I mean I could afford it. I have a bad back.”

“You were nineteen.”

“And?”

“Will was down to stay there,” Frankie pointed out.

“Will is Will.”

She turned to the blonde. “You were on that trip?”

Will nodded. He had been quiet since they’d gotten there. She wasn’t entirely surprised. He shut down in the presence of others. The public. Still, it was jarring to see him outside of the penthouse. It was as if he had fitted himself with a blank mask. She wanted to curl her fingers beneath it and pull.

Will was an enigma - a ripped out page of hieroglyphics that she couldn’t transcribe. He would speak to her with all of his blunt sarcasm and innuendo and then there’d be nothing when they were in public. She studied him. His placid face - the tiny shifts in his expression. He did not give an inch.

She sidled closer to him - her elbows on the table - her chin in her hands. “Did you go to the Catacombs?”

“Of course.”

“Did it reek of death?” She lifted her brows and widened her eyes - pressing all of her excitement into the question. It seemed to have surprised him because he huffed out a laugh.

“You’re so fucking morbid,” Benny accused.

“Yeah,” Will echoed. “She is.”

He placed his hand on her knee, gripping it under the table, she felt something warm ripple in her belly. He gave her a sidelong glance - his lips twitching upward before once more tightening to a thin unpleasant line. His hand remained, though. His thumb tracing perfect circles into her skin. Their secret. She understood why people feared him and at the same time she didn’t. She couldn’t even remember what her fear had tasted like - how traumatic watching him torture someone was. Perhaps, she had buried it deep enough that it no longer mattered. Maybe - she simply had to in order to keep going. She felt like she was happy at this moment - at this time. She felt safe despite there being all evidence to the contrary. She felt kind of fucking high.

“Faire,” Pope crowed - his cheeks were flushed. It made him appear young and striking. For a moment, she felt like she was seeing the Santi who demanded The Ritz. The Santi who was apparently a terror in Europe. Maybe, he was capable of fun. “Pick the next bottle,” he ordered and tossed her the leather booklet. She caught it, shooting Frankie a helpless look.

She didn’t know good wine. She knew wines by their labels - by sight, but not by names on a page. she definitely didn’t know the kind that Santi was picking.

“Help me,” she mouthed at Frankie before realizing he didn’t drink. She was about to apologize, but he smoothly took the book from her and glanced down at it.

“Go with the Malbec,” he said and tapped the sheet. “This one.”

“Thank you,” she whispered and leaned forward, kissing his cheek. It had been reflexive. She felt him go rigid under her - his thick fingers curling around his fork.

Great.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” she announced quickly - standing up and scooting around the table. She tossed the menu back at Pope and it flew over his head.

“Want me to go with you?” Ben volunteered..

“Ew no.”

He sputtered. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

“I’m fucking with you, babe.” She mussed his hair before heading out into the hall. She didn’t quite realize what she had called him until she left - the utter ease of her flirtation.

Oh well.

She’d grown close to them. There was an intimacy in living with them (fucking some of them). They were seemingly so damn guarded on the outside, but when it was just her and just the guys, they overflowed with stories. She ate them up.

The bathroom was just as tacky and dated as the rest of the interior. Old, off-white tile. More photographs of old Hollywood stars and big breasted women crushing grapes or twirling spaghetti - the sauce suggestively dripping from their lipsticked mouths.

She stared at herself over the sink. She had filled out - gained some shape from working out with Will. She was eating more -starved from the calories she was burning. Wills was always pushing protein shakes into her hands. Peanut-butter slick toast with sliced bananas. Açaí bowls that he picked up at some place down the street that was probably expensive.

“You can’t work out on an empty stomach.”

“Okay.”

She never fought him on it. She always acquiesced. Okay. Okay. Okay, Will.

She studied her face in the mirror. The lighting was yellow and dusty, but she had to admit she looked remarkably better. Her coloring had returned. She felt like she’d been washed out for years. She’d never been vain. She was the kind of girl who always found something wrong with her. Too much flesh under her chin. Lashes not long enough. Too much everything.

She’d fully put that on her mother. Siobhan had her own issues - a basket full of ED’s and Complexes in addition to her alcoholism. She’d snort coke, and sit in front of her magnifying mirror - picking at all her imperfections like she was performing surgery on a sand castle - tweezing each grain of sand until the rest crumpled. Siobhan would then direct all of those insecurities at her.

“You’re such a beautiful girl, darling, but…”

“You’d look so much better if…”

Her mother was thin-boned and fragile as a bird and yet she endured in her head - shaking her confidence beyond the grave. Towards the end, Siobhan subsisted on quarts of vodka, pills, maraschino cherries and cocktail olives. She didn’t realize that her beauty - her cold icy beauty - had blurred and stretched to something almost skull-like. Her gums receded. Her full lips rubbery. She had lost it. Terrifying. Melancholy. Siobhan had become a reflection of her own possible future, while also serving as a memorial to all of her mother’s wasted opportunities.

She sighed - gripping the edge of the sink. Her mind flickered to the boys - a safer topic though not by much. She’d kissed Frankie. She’d kissed him before that. She’d fucked him and he’d hurt her and she took it. It was so easy for her to slip into the rhythm of these men. They surrounded her - forming a protective barrier against life. It wasn’t real - it couldn’t be. She knew it had to pop at some point.

She didn’t own them. They didn’t own her. Benny had proven that he genuinely liked her though and Will…

She should go back. They were paranoid if she was missing for more than five minutes. They needed a generous amount of therapy or mood-stabilizers. She stepped into the hallway and immediately stilled - her breath catching in her throat.

Baron.

He was leaning against the wall - hands shoved into his pockets. He appeared utterly relaxed - languid. His eyes focused on her with a very precise thirst. They traveled up and down her body - cataloging the pieces of her to no doubt mull over at a later date. He was calculating. His curiosity didn’t seem innocent.

“Hey honey,” he greeted her slyly. His voice was quiet - almost sibilant. He barely moved his lips. She matched his pose - leaning against the wall and crossing her arms over her chest. This seemed to amuse him.

“What do you want?”

“To speak to you. You’re a hard girl to get alone.”

Baron’s tone was nonchalant. His smile was dark and lazy.

“They’re just over-protective.”

“Not over women.”

She opened her mouth before shutting it again. A muscle in his jaw worked.

“Do you like this life?”

She paused, confused by the abruptness of his question. She thought about her answer - wondered if he was searching for something. “It’s nice, I guess.”

Stay vague. Stay casual. Stay unbothered.

“It was yours,” He had ceased smiling. He didn’t look mean - just thoughtful. Concerned, even. “It would have been yours if your father hadn’t died.”

“Yes,” she replied - bewildered. “But he did.” She tightened her arms over her chest. “I also said I didn’t want it. I thought we cleared that up.”

Was he trying to get her to deny what she’d claimed? That she had lied? She didn’t want it. She didn’t want anything from him.

“We did - I believed you.” His brows knitted together. “You haven’t gone out. Not since our meeting.”

“You’re following me?”

He raised and dropped his shoulders. He really was burly - thick with muscle. “This life and the circles of people in it are considerably small. People talk. I know everyone that goes in and out of that house just as my brother knows everything I do.”

She chewed her lip and his gaze fell to her mouth before darting back up. “Am I in danger?”

“I said you weren’t,” he replied evenly. “I meant it. I never intended to kill you to begin with. My brother assumed I would. He tends to assume the worst of me.”

“Doesn’t he have good reason for that?”

He chuckled. “Ms. Faire,” He leaned toward her - his tone conspiratorial. “There’s a lot of fucking history between us - a lot of bad things have gone down. He has every reason not to trust me and I have every reason not to trust him.”

She considered his answer. “Makes sense. Families are complicated.”

“Thank God. I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t agree.”

“Maybe you should have group therapy or something,” she suggested. “Clear it all up.”

She was only half-joking.

His gaze hardened. “Some shit can’t be fixed.” Or maybe they were all just stubborn idiots. His teeth dragged over his plush lower lip before changing the subject. “I’m surprised you haven’t run off to them. I’m sure Miller is checking his watch.”

He didn’t clarify which Miller. “I doubt you’d try anything here.”

“They seem very fond of you,” he drawled. There was something disturbingly striking about him. He was smooth and yet there was a jagged roughness beneath his varnish. He was impossible to read, but Pope was the same. She ignored his comment. He was simply prodding her for information. She could do the same.

“You don’t look like Pope.”

“I wouldn’t,” he replied. “I’m adopted.”

Oh.

“He didn’t tell you that?”

“I didn’t ask.”

He glanced behind him before turning back. “It was all part of that second son nonsense. Our mother couldn’t have more children and dad wanted the reassurance that he’d have another son, in case Santi turned out to be a disappointment.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Is it?”

“I mean your futures were written out for you. You didn’t seem to have a choice.”

He stared at her again - his blue eyes inspecting her face. “You’re too soft for this place. I’m not sure what they see in you.”

She flinched and then hated herself for it. She didn’t know why she was still standing there and why she was willingly listening to him. She’d been scared of this man for months and yet she found him beguiling. She also had that irritating habit of wanting to be polite - wanting to please regardless of who was standing in front of her.

“I should -”

He cut her off. “You don’t call him Santi.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You call him Pope.”

“That’s just - that’s just what I call him.”

“That’s not what his friends call him.”

“We’re not friends.”

His brows lifted. “Is that right?” His voice trailed slow and sensuous - scraped along her bones.

She laughed and it was so obviously a reflex - a nervous tick. He seemed to enjoy it - his full lips curling into something deep and pleased because he’d managed to unsettle her. “I’m - I have to go.”

She brushed past him and his hand shot out to grasp her wrist. It wasn’t painful, but he jerked her back a step.

“What the fuc-”

He pressed close - the smell of him like burning wood - musk. “You can leave that penthouse,” he urged quietly. “You can ask questions. You should.” She could not translate his expression. It was direct - alarmingly focused. She had no idea what he was talking about.

“Okay?” She tugged her arm away. She responded like she did with Will: Okay. Okay. Okay. It was easier than saying no. She left him standing there.

Her head began to pound as she made her way back to the boys. She wasn’t sure what that had been, but she knew that if she brought it up, the night would be ruined. The guys would spend the next several hours trying to figure out what Baron had wanted or worse, they’d confront him. She was fine. She was safe. He had probably wanted to fuck with her. She believed that the fight was strictly between Baron and Pope. She had merely been a chess piece - something new to utilize in their long-standing rivalry.

When she slipped back into the room, every pair of eyes landed on her. She grew hot. It was a reflex - an automatic reaction to their attention especially when all four of them did it at once. It was electric and it stifled the air - snatched up the oxygen. It threatened to blow should she light a match.

She slid back into her seat and smiled. Everything was normal. It was all fine. Ben smirked at her - his long arms flung out over the tops of the chairs on either side of him. He lifted his eyebrows suggestively. She ducked her head, biting down on a giggle. He literally looked like he wanted to fuck her on the table. A part of her wouldn’t have minded.

Of course, then it was all ruined.

“Hey boys.”

Marissa walked into their private room. She was followed by two other women who looked familiar - she probably had seen them around the house. Weekly conquests. She was certain Pope had fucked the blonde one.

Marissa strode over to Ben immediately - wrapping her arms around his neck as she squished her cheek to his. Ben’s eyes widened. Pope seemed startled and then annoyed.

Marissa was dressed flawlessly as usual. Her dress was short and the color of violets. It fit her like a glove and contrasted wonderfully with her long dark hair. “Didn’t know you guys would be here tonight.”

“Really?” Frankie scoffed- crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back in his seat. “I thought you always had the host call you if we showed up.”

Her gaze narrowed, but she didn’t falter. “I missed Ben,” she murmured. Her lipstick was eggplant purple - a dark smear across the lower half of her face. Her eyes glittered with mischief and innuendo.

Ben chuckled and tried to disentangle himself from her. It reminded her of how he’d been at George’s when Marissa had embraced him, interrupting their night. Except now, he seemed slightly more nervous. “We’re sort of having dinner. I’ll let you know if we go out later.”

Marissa drew back before her eyes landed on her. She got the impression that that had been the brunette’s entire plan since she’d entered the room. She wanted to stare her down - make her sweat. “Good,” she grinned. “I had so much fun last night.”

Something tightened in her chest. What?

Will’s hand found her knee again - his thumb once more dragging against her skin in soothing, tiny circles. She schooled her features - picking up her fork and viciously stabbing it into her dessert.

“Marissa,” Ben warned as he turned toward her. His expression once tense was now darkly pissed off. “Get out.”

The other two girls had the decency to back away nervously, but Marissa didn’t. She seemed utterly satisfied - pleased as punch. “It was just a blow job, baby.” Marissa’s twinkling gaze found hers - bore down with intent. “I thought fucking girls in the club was your thing now.”

Benny winced. Her fingers clenched around her fork. Marissa’s words were blatantly directed at her and the guys followed her line of sight. The wine had swept her up and she had the liquid courage to meet Marissa’s glare with her own. It was out in the open now.

“You should leave,” Pope snapped with such irritation that Marissa actually flinched.

“Was already going, Santi,” She purred. Her fingers threaded through Ben’s hair and he wrenched himself away from her. He stared down at the tablecloth - visibly cowed. Will squeezed her thigh. He was looking at Marissa - his face no longer devoid of feeling - no longer sterile. He was angry and Marissa caught it. There was finally a hint of fear crossing her features - a wrinkle of doubt. She exchanged a look with the other women before stalking out of the room. The girls chased at her heels.

There was a bloated silence. Warmth rushed under her skin - prickling at the nape of her neck. She was shocked more than anything. Ben cleared his throat and began to pull away from the table. He was going to come over and touch her - wrap himself around her. That’s how he always fixed things. She’d seen him do it. He’d done it to her.

“Babe...” he began and she dropped her fork - it clattered against the tablecloth with a muffled thump. She grabbed her wine glass and chugged it - felt it slick her throat and tongue. Her mouth was cottony - not enough saliva.

“It’s fine,” She beamed at him and then at Pope who was looking anywhere but at her. They all knew now and he’d apparently gotten blown by Marissa and it didn’t fucking matter. It didn’t. He didn’t owe her shit and she had hooked up with Frankie anyway.

Don’t get mad. Don’t get mad. Don’t get mad.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Frankie was glaring at Ben. As if he had room to be pissed - as if he could suddenly defend her. She felt ashamed - slightly humiliated - okay, very humiliated. She knew - deeply and insistently - she knew that it had just been sex. Ben was Ben. All of them always had women throwing themselves into their laps and it seemed that was the most true for him. She certainly couldn’t be enough. He was used to having pleasure delivered to him on a nightly basis.

Her vision swam and, for one terrifying moment, she was worried she might cry. She needed some air. She needed to clear her head because the room was getting tinier and tinier. Ben said her name again. He was half out of his seat - seemingly trying to decide between going to her or remaining where he was.

“It didn’t - it didn’t mean anything.” Now - he sounded helpless.

Ben,” she replied stiffly. “I know. You can do whatever you want.”

She stood up and smoothed her dress down. Ben rose with her. She threw her hands out - stopping him. “I need to - uh - go out for a second.”

“You shouldn’t go out alone,” Frankie advised.

“I’ll be right outside,” She was already moving towards the door. Ben tried to intercept her and she shouldered past him.

“C’mon, baby,” he pleaded from behind her. “You’re thinking about fucking my brother half the time, anyway.” His tone was light and casual - playful even like all of it was a game - was just so damn easy. She was easy.

Oh. My. God.

She kept on walking. She wanted to go dunk her head in a vat of wine or vodka. She’d rather go sit with fucking Baron.

“What the fuck, Ben?” Pope hissed.

“What? I mean it’s true.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Frankie growled.

Will said nothing.

***

She did not know where she was going. The restaurant was so loud. The faces of the patrons blurred and distorted - colliding with the thousands of black and white framed photographs. The eerie carved cupids and fake ivy that snaked around artificial columns. She nearly ran into a waiter who was carrying a huge platter of sizzling steaks.

“Sorry!” She yelped before she dashed down another hallway. There was an ancient payphone hooked into the wall. Extra chairs piled up against a metal door. Storage boxes. A red exit sign hung like a beacon.

Thank fuck.

She slammed her shoulder into the heavy door and it swung open. She staggered out and found herself in a narrow alleyway. There was a sliver of light from the street. The stink of trash and asphalt. The air was damp with the promise of rain. Summer had hung on, but fall was coming. The chill of it pressed against her shoulders - the crown of her head. She leaned against the bricks and they scraped roughly across her bare back. She breathed deep - trying to recenter herself and clear her vision.

She had never talked to Ben about monogamy. That would have been a fucking joke seeing as she’d kissed Frankie without a shred of guilt. She did lust after his brother - she wanted Will so much it hurt. Still - she had to admit that him getting anything from that bitch had bothered her. She couldn’t help it. She felt like she was being pricked by a thousand tiny insects as her anxiety doubled and then tripled. She wanted a drink. She wanted an entire handle of vodka.

She wasn’t strong enough to be profoundly cool with just sex. Do whatever you want! I don’t mind. She was possessive and prone to jealousy and she had pretended she’d been living in her own fantasy the last few weeks. This was entirely on her. She should have known herself better. She should have known who she was getting into bed with. These men could be kind to her, but they were still selfish. They were still the center of their own universes. Sex to them could be totally without strings. It was a physics act. A release.

But, Ben had said things to her - opened up to her. I care about you. I want you to be okay. I want to be there for you. Let me tell you about the worst night of my life.

She dropped her face into her hands and groaned. This was a mess. She was a mess.

She heard something crinkle under a foot. A sharp breath.

“Damn,” A voice slid over her. “They actually left you out here all alone?”

She stilled. The air turned sweet with too much cologne. There was the sound of boots on concrete. She looked up to see a group of men headed for her. Five, she counted. Thick. Tatted up. Slicked back hair and balding.. She didn’t recognize any of them.

She squinted. “Do I know you?”

This was bad. She knew that. She felt it. Her entire life had now become something like balancing on the edge of a knife. She ran away from them and danger found her. Her stomach lurched as she backed up against the door. Why didn’t she just stay in the fucking restaraunt?

You always do shit that isn’t good for you.

The man at the center sauntered toward her. “No, but we know you,” he punctuated. “The pretty pretty whore of the Cardinals. Charles Faire’s baby girl.”

The words landed like hot spit - disgusting and shameful. She turned, wrapping her fingers around the door handle and pulled.

Nothing. It had locked. She couldn’t get back in unless she ran through these men, but how could she -

It was a flurry of movement. One second - the man was standing feet from her and then he was on her - pinning her to the wall. He wrapped his beefy hands around her throat - knocking the back of her head against the brick. Pain burst within her skull and she gasped - her fingers scrambling at the man’s wrists. It was no use. He was unyielding - a fucking solid column of muscle and bone.

“Do they really take turns with you?” He muttered. His breath was humid and foul against her cheek. “It’s what everyone’s been saying. They keep you locked up for it.” She could not hear the rest - he was speaking to her. His lips stretching over long words - his expression growing harder and hell-bent. There was a roar in her ears - a deep, unsettling buzz. Finally, she made out: “Pity Morales can’t be here to watch this.”

This was about Frankie?

“What the fuck?” she hissed between clenched teeth. She was struggling pathetically - her feet kicking up dust as he lifted her higher. Everything Will had taught her had left her - flown from her mind.

What had he said? If he grabs you by the wrist then you’re fucked? Go for their eyes, groin, knees? The softer, sensitive parts. He had her by the throat - what was there to do?

“I-I didn’t - I didn’t do anything.”

She didn’t. She had just stayed put as she was told. Her whole life had been uprooted - flipped to something else entirely. Her new future was laid out for her by her dead father and his followers - his enemies. Even her death had now been chosen for her because of Frankie and his actions. She didn’t do anything.

“I know,” he grinned. “But Catfish did - he fucking killed my brother.” The men Frankie had killed after the break-in? He tightened his chokehold and the tiny bones in her neck shifted - she could not get another breath in. “Baron may have ordered us to leave you be, but that’s just not gonna work. Life for a life and all that.”

She gagged - sputtered - her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her heart was behind her nose - thumping - fluttering - tiny white lights spurt and rippled across her vision. She could not die here in this sad fucking alley for things she didn’t even cause. Her mouth was so dry - her teeth clicked as he slammed her head back again. She did not know if there was sweat sheeting down the nape of her neck or blood.

“Please,” she tried to tell him. “Please.”

But everything that came out of her mouth was garbled gibberish. It was going dark. Her eyes rolled back - she couldn’t see the stars.

***

You’re thinking about fucking my brother half the time anyway.

That statement ripped through Will’s head. It made heat climb up his spine. Had she told Ben that she wanted Will? Was she fucking his brother to fuck him? That honestly made no sense since he had outright told her that he would wait for her…that he would gladly fuck her if that’s what she wanted.

Marissa had just confirmed what Will had already suspected.

Will had chosen to ignore it simply because it was easier. He didn’t want to think about the reasons why she had gone to Ben for intimacy. From Will’s perspective he was just as close to her. They talked all damn day when he wasn’t in the basement.

Ben was easy though. He was charming and fun and extroverted. Will scrubbed a hand over his face. He was angry and he also wasn’t. He felt a strange sort of numbness. His assumption had simply been proven right. That had been it. He could yell at his brother, but it seemed as if Frankie had that covered. He was absolutely laying into Ben.

“I fucking told you, man. You think with your dick.”

Ben scowled. “I didn’t think it was an issue. It was just a blow job. She was pushy and one thing led to another.”

“Yeah - I’m sure.”

“It didn’t mean anything. It was a fucking transaction.”

Frankie crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re digging yourself into a hole, pendejo. A damn grave at this point.”

“You certainly have room to talk, bro.”

“Bro??”

Will exchanged a look with Santi. The raven-haired man seemed almost amused as he covered his mouth with his hand and watched Frankie and Ben go at it. His curls were ruffled. His thick dark lashes fluttered, his lids heavy. He was definitely drunk, which rarely happened.

Will’s eyes wandered to the door. He wondered where Faire had gone. He assumed the bathroom. He should go after her - talk to her, at least. If she was crying, he would have to beat the shit out of Ben.

What the fuck was she doing to him? He wanted to ransack his entire life for her?

He had watched her tonight - memorizing her face. Her wide eyes and those soft lips. She had seemed happy at the table. She had smiled with all of her teeth. She had snorted with laughter - unafraid to be careless in front of them. Her beauty overwhelmed him and he didn’t even know if it was because she was objectively attractive or if she had somehow morphed into everything he considered beautiful.

She had thoroughly rooted herself within him. He couldn’t cut her out. He couldn’t peel her off. He had had so many women before and yet it was her. It was this girl who was shy and darkly funny. Mischievous and sarcastic. He did not know what to do with her or what to do with himself.

He needed to go get her.

The second Will stood up from the table, there was a startling shout from outside the door. A woman’s scream and the shriek of clattering metal.

Santi staggered out of his chair - knocking his wine glass over. “What the fuck?”

Ben threw the door open and stalked outside. There was chaos. Women and men falling into each other as they tried to avoid the center of the room where a brawl had apparently erupted.

“Fun,” Ben stated - his eyes lighting up at the possibility of a fight.

Will didn’t hesitate. He shoved past the boys and stormed out of the room. He made a beeline for the kitchen - shouldering past the panicked waiters and line cooks. The restaurant didn’t allow guns specifically for situations like this. There was always a fight or an argument - something always boiled to the top and exploded.

Will found what he was looking for: a razor sharp cleaver. Now, he had to find the girl.

***

Will hurried. He was sure the girl was safe. He hadn’t seen her in the fray. She was probably just brooding somewhere - anywhere - hopefully. He ducked down the hallway that led towards the bathrooms when a tall, blonde intercepted him.

Theo. Fuck.

“What?” He curled his hands into fists. He didn’t have time for this.

She rolled her eyes - her bright red lipstick seemed bloody under the dim lighting. She jerked her finger towards the left. “She went out the back.”

He turned around - storming towards the exit.

“You’re fucking welcome,” Theo yelled after him and he waved her off over his shoulder. He’d owe her later.

Will’s senses had started to turn. He was nervous - there was something snagging at the back of his head. A warning. A threat. He ran.

When Will smashed the door open with his weight and stumbled outside, he didn’t know what he was seeing at first. There was a huddle of men and then there was her and then he realized one of them had his hand around her throat. Much to his alarm, she had gone almost entirely slack - her fingers were fumbling against the man’s wrists. Her lids were drooping - her skin going waxy.

The man choking her recognized Will and then did a double-take. He cursed under his breath - his grip on her throat loosening an inch. She inhaled sharply. Good girl.

Will smirked - twirling the cleaver in his hand - letting the thin street lights catch on the blade. The man’s gaze darted between it and Will’s face. He’d seen these guys in the restaurant earlier, which hopefully meant none of them had guns. He could take five guys easy, but guns were a problem. He cataloged their tattoos - their clothing. They were Apostles. Baron’s men no doubt. Will fucking knew that Pope’s brother was not going to keep his word. Then why did Theo tell you where she was?

“Let her go,” he demanded. He didn’t yell, but his words carried a blunt menace to them. He had digested the situation - figured out at least three different plans of action depending on which move the guy choking her made. He caught Faire’s eyes and tipped his head. I’ll take care of you. There were tears streaming down her cheeks. He was sure that her throat would be bruised to hell. Something punched in his chest at the sight of her so vulnerable and helpless. He had been perfectly calm - so damn calm until he really saw her. A switch in his head flipped.

Rage began to stir in his belly. Emotions. He usually compartmentalized. He usually was quite good at killing efficiently when it mattered, but right now he had the strongest urge to hurt.

His fingers shook around the handle of his cleaver. He cracked his neck. “Drop her,” he snarled.

The man didn’t - he seemed to be torn between using the girl as leverage or having his arms free to defend himself. The other men were frozen where they stood. He wouldn’t win either way and Will was certain this man already registered that at a cellular level. William - Ironhead - had a reputation - a legend carved into him that trailed him everywhere he went.

He sighed - running his tongue across his teeth - his canines.

“Faire,” Will called to her. Her eyes rolled toward him - far from focused, but she was trying. “Go limp.”

It took her a second to realize his intentions. Her attacker’s brow creased with confusion just as she did as Will asked. She dropped her hands to her sides and fell back against the wall. Will charged.

He barrelled into the man’s outstretched arm - using his entire weight to hit it at just the right angle. It snapped. The man howled, stumbling backward. The bone protruded against the skin near his elbow.

“Damn,” he leered. “Wasn’t sure that would work.” He tossed his cleaver up and caught it by the handle. The man clenched his teeth in animal panic. He raised his other hand out to stop Will. “Look - there’s been a misunderstanding-” With a quick swing, he severed his hand. It fell - tumbling over the dirty asphalt. Discarded trash.

The man screamed. Will scrutinized him and then the chalk white hand on the ground.

“Huh,” he hummed thoughtfully before taking his cleaver and slashing it through the air. The arc of the blade went straight under the man’s trembling chin. Blood spouted. He felt it stain his shirt in warmth. “That was plan b.”

He checked the girl over his shoulder. She was backed up against the wall - knees tucked up to her chest. Her hand shook as she touched her throat. Her eyes were red. Fucking hell. They’d almost killed her.

“Stay there.” He told her. She nodded.

He felt raw - like he’d been flayed and his nerves were naked to the air. He did not lose control and losing control here would not be wise, but there was rage in him. Indescribable. Burning through him like he’d shoved his fingers in the barrel of a gun and was flooded with cordite. His anger had the consistency of liquid silver - iron. It smeared over the tracks of his veins - circulating through his system. Unbridled - galloping towards the next man who was searching for something in his jacket. Will’s lips curled. He would crush him.

***

She had forgotten about her throat - the dry rasp of her lungs attempting to flush oxygen through her system. She was distracted by Will. She had never seen him fight before. She’d seen him torture men already tied up, but not actually kill with quick, efficient brutality.

The four other men were on him at once and he didn’t even seem fazed. They lunged and he pivoted. He was tall and broad and muscular, but moved like there was no weight to him. It only became apparent when he made contact. His fists crushed flesh - the continuous thwap thwap thwap against cheekbones and noses, which was then followed by startled groans. It took obvious power to cut through another man’s throat. Force was needed to slice through gristle and muscle and bone and fat and he did it like it was nothing to him. There was no effort at all.

She felt slightly detached. Her eyes followed Will - making sure he was unhurt. There was blood all over him. Not his. She hoped. There were sounds. A man dropped. A second. Will stalked forward - the muscles beneath his thin white shirt spasmed and she was distracted by the shine of him. Rippling and grunting.

The man at his feet rasped. His eyes very pearly and wide with terror. The veinin his throat jerked as he tried to plead his case.

The blade made a zipping noise through the air. The noise echoed over and over and over. When Will tried to yank the cleaver back, it snapped - breaking off in the man’s - oh - blood was sheeting down the top of his bald head. It was deep red - reminding her of the wax candles in the restaurant. Another man - the last one - was screaming in horror or disbelief - it bounded through the alleyway - clattered against the dumpsters and the metal fire escapes that crawled up the brick walls.

She sucked in a breath and turned away from the rest. Her stomach flipped over. Now he was begging - scrambling - and she didn’t want to know. She was about to cup her ears when there was the ricocheting crack of a neck breaking. The man’s tears - his voice - his life snuffed out within a split second.

Silence.

Blissful silence.

She drank it in as she swallowed a lungful of air. She peeked at Will who was staring at the mass of bodies as if another would come crawling out of the asphalt.

His shoulders were taut and his head was lowered. When she caught his face, his teeth were bared. He shook his hand out - his knuckles doused in crimson. She coughed and he whirled around. His expression softened a hair as he shot toward her.

His rough hands wrapped firmly around her biceps as he tugged her upward. Wills was peering down at her - his head cocked. He took a record of every injury upon her. His eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them, as though the black of his pupil had bled totally into the blue. He inhaled sharply as he touched the skin of her throat. He blinked like he was trying to clear his head. His breathing became shallow. There was a frantic quality to his movements that she didn’t know he possessed. She felt as if he’d been cracked open. His sense and rigid control was now gone.

She wasn’t scared of him and yet…she didn’t know what he was going to do. She swallowed the bile that had climbed up her esophagus. She pressed her trembling fingers to his jaw. His beard was tinged pink.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was ragged. His expression seemed on the cusp of devastation.

Her throat stung, but she shook her head. She cataloged his body - her hands dragging over his clothes. Searching searching searching for anything. She would not think of what she had watched - what she had seen. He had protected her. It was just his way.

There was fresh blood seeping from his chest. A ragged hole in his shirt. Without thinking - she sealed her palms to the wound to staunch the bleeding.

“It’s fine,” he said and his own hands came up to her cheeks. He cradled her face - tilting it beneath the single dying light in the alley. His fingers smelled metallic.

Will stared at her for a second before immediately stepping away. “Jesus,” He shoved the heels of his hands against his eyes and made a low, ugly sound. Her skin felt sticky and when she touched her cheek and pulled it away there was blood on her fingertips.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Do what? Smear blood on her face? Protect her? Kill five Fucking men for her?

“Will,” she murmured - reaching for him. He jerked himself away from her.

“Stop,” he growled. “I can’t - I can’t be alone with you here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. Her head throbbed, but she continued to swallow lungfuls of air - terrified that it would suddenly stop.

She grabbed his hand and he allowed it. “It’s okay,” she reassured him even though it wasn’t. It wasn’t okay at all. She didn’t understand how she could just numb herself out to all that death, but she did it.

“Go back inside,” he ordered mechanically as he pulled himself from her grip. “Find the guys. I’m going home.”

She watched him walk away - the shadows devouring the blood-splattered planes of his muscular back - his firm shoulders and golden head. She followed.

***

She didn’t know where the other men were or what had gone down in the restaurant. She just knew that Will needed her. She knew that even though he was keeping her at a distance, he was constantly glancing over his shoulder to confirm she was okay. He shortened his stride so she could catch up. He was still taut with anger - drenched in what he’d done. To anyone else, he’d be shocking - frightening. Not to her. She knew him. She read him. She would not leave him alone.

They were silent as they entered their building. They were silent in the elevator. She watched his jaw clench and release - his face pale with capped rage. The space around him reeked of blood - the iron-rich tang sheathing the air. It had begun to darken - drying to a reddish-brown.

The second he entered the foyer, he deflated. Not a lot, but enough for her to notice him go a bit slack. He staggered to the bar, snatching a bottle of whiskey. He opened it with his teeth before downing a heavy mouthful. She had never seen Will off his axis.

“Go upstairs,” he demanded, pressing his forehead against the bottle. Her throat hurt. Her skin stung.

She bit her lip - crossing her arms over her chest. He shut his eyes momentarily and when he opened them there was something swirling there - something like resentment. “I took it too far,” he breathed before taking another sip from the amber bottle. “I lost fucking control and I don’t do that.” He cursed again - low and harsh. “It’s you,” His tone was incredulous. “It’s about you - I can’t - I can’t think straight when I’m with you. The thought of you in danger burns everything away. It’s just you.”

“If it’s any consolation,” she offered wryly. “I feel it for you, too.”

His eyes widened imperceptibly.

She’d said it. She’d told him. It’s you. I think of you.

He rounded on her - stomping forward into her space. She didn’t fall back. She didn’t budge. “Do you know what I do every day, baby? When you and I aren’t in the gym or cooking or playing fucking Leave It to Beaver, I’m killing people. I torture them. I cut them up into pieces and I don’t feel shit. I don’t feel anything.” His jaw trembled and she was eye-level with his blood-drenched shirt. He was baiting her - trying to intimidate her. She stuck her chin out.

“Of course, I know that,” she replied tightly. “You did it in front of me.”

He laughed - dragging his hand over his face. He seemed to deflate, already turning away from her. The bottleneck loosely hung between his thick fingers. He exhaled sharply. “I did do that, didn’t I?”

“And I’m still here.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

His face snapped to her - his brow knitting together. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he muttered more to himself than to her. She had to admit she had fully chosen to accept him as he was - to tail him on the current path he had taken. He wanted to explode and she wanted to allow him that - be here for him. She knew he was alone most of the time. She knew that he buried his feelings to cope or to move onward.

She watched him shake his head, his handsome features smoothing out. A blank slate. He was once more shutting down - sealing himself behind that composed mask he was so devoted to.

He turned, taking the stairs two at a time up to his room and she was compelled to follow. She’d stick to him until he physically shut her out. She watched as he stripped his shirt - uselessly trying to wipe away the blood smeared over his skin. He tossed it to the floor with a sound of disgust. He stormed into the bathroom, restlessness rolling off him in waves. She was willing to break herself against them. You do the things that are bad for you. You self-destruct. But oddly this didn’t feel like something bad. It felt - potentially- morally gray since he was still coated in the blood of several men. But he’d killed for her - to protect her. She had to change the parameters of what was right and what was wrong in this - their world

When he finally noticed that she was leaning against the doorframe of his bathroom, he grimaced. She didn’t care.

Her eyes drank him in. They lingered over the wide muscles of his torso, his flat abdomen that rose and fell with his breath. She had seen him shirtless before, but perhaps now she was well and truly looking. There were scars - puckered flesh from bullet wounds and knives. The gash in his chest was shallow, but still weeping red. The ink of his tattoos rippled and flexed over his arms - his shoulder blades. She would like to trace them - read them. She wanted to understand him because he seemed to understand her.

She had come to a decision. Perhaps - it had always been there. Perhaps it was inevitable, but she felt a desire for him now that simply could not be buried. He was too controlled. He compartmentalized - an iron-clad will binding every aspect of his life into clean, neat packages.

This was where the death goes. This was where the tears fit. The screams. The shame. The regret.

She had just watched him snap. She wanted him to snap further. He needed to.

“Get out,” he muttered.

She stayed rooted to the spot. “Do you want me to haul your ass out of here?” He rumbled.

“No. I want - I want to be here…in here…with you.”

A cruel smile twisted his mouth and he shook his head. He released a breath - the muscles in his shoulders bunching and rolling like he might burst at the seams. “You don’t know what you want, Faire. You don’t know shit.” He swallowed thickly - his throat bobbing. “I will break you.”

“You won’t.” She was being so stubborn. She knew it. She knew she was digging her heels in and pissing him off. It was a dangerous move on her part. He was shivering with his anger - still pulsating with adrenaline and she didn’t care. She’d watched him rip a man to pieces and she didn’t care. He was always alone - ready to lick his wounds in the privacy of his bedroom. She related to that. How often had she hidden out in her room as she shut her mother out? How many friends had she lost because she thought they couldn’t handle her life? The sticky, ugly mess of it. She had preferred to grieve alone and it had failed her - scratched marks into her that she was not sure would heal from.

Will bared his teeth - his lips curled into a beastly snarl.

“You know my brother has it right,” he glowered. “My brother takes you out - treats you well. He’s good at that. He’s good at making girls feel special - safe.” He shot her a bitter look. “What can I offer you? I kill. It’s what I know how to do. I don’t know how to do anything else.”

She skipped over the mention of his brother. She didn’t want to think about how fucked up it was that she was hopping from one to another. Then again she was in a fucked up, shitty situation. It didn’t matter. She’d nearly been killed tonight. She shook her head. He had it so wrong - the idea he had of himself. How he thought she saw him. “You make me feel safe.”

He snorted.

“You do,” she argued. “You’ve taken care of me. You’ve taught me how to de-stress through actual exercise. Do you know how little alcohol I’ve had this week? You’ve helped me even if you don’t realize it.” His jaw flexed. She itched to touch him - to feel him. She wanted him to feel wanted.

She stepped toward him - palms raised in earnest. He turned his head to watch her - something flickering in his eyes - his indignation - his rage - his self-hatred - beginning to settle as if she had covered a pot filled with spitting oil. She leaned into him with the smallest amount of pressure. The blood on him stained her pale dress. She reached up to take his face between her hands.

She drew him down and he went - the tendon in his neck jumping - his nostrils flaring slightly. When their mouths came together it was chaste. It was tender - a mere brush of lips before she pulled back to look at him. Her thumb circled his cheekbone where some blood spatter had dried. It cracked under her ministrations and she flicked it away.

“Will,” she murmured - eyes searching his. He was wound so tightly - his hands still flat atop the limestone counter.

His voice went low - ugly. “Leave,” he repeated. “Please. Fuck. I don’t need this right now.”

She shook her head and waited - a second - a moment.

“Faire,” He was pleading now. His breath hitched. “C’mon.”

“I’m with you. I’m not going.”

His brow furrowed. Those moon-blue eyes softened. It felt like time was funneling through a bowl of honey.

He huffed - his broad shoulders slouching. He turned toward her fully and she watched - holding her breath. He reached for her, gripping her face gingerly. He lowered his head and captured her mouth in a desperate kiss. It was heavy just as that first one had been when he’d bandaged her legs. He tilted her jaw to deepen it - licking across the roof of her mouth. She pulled him closer - snagging her fingers into his hair - her other hand finding his cheek where it scraped through old blood. He groaned and it vibrated through his entire frame - his heart thudding audibly.

She moved her head to trace her lips along the scrape of his beard. She flattened her palms to his chest - the humps of his pectorals. She traveled down - swiping her fingers through the dried blood - kissing the bare patches of his skin. He made a low, feral noise - a humming in the pit of his stomach. He said her name and it sounded broken like he couldn’t get the word all the way out - like it was difficult to call to her.

“It’s okay,” she assured him as she unbuckled his belt - unbuttoned his dark jeans. She stared at him as she rucked his pants down and his tulip-pink lips parted - his breath snagging audibly.

“You don’t have to -”

“Shut up,” she interjected. “Just let me do this for you.” She peeled his boxers down and he was hard - his gorgeous cock nearly smacking her in the face. She coughed - her eyes widening as she studied him. Thick and long and just his color - the head fat and red and leaking pre-cum. She peeked up at him - their gazes locked as he tried to smother a grin. An air of smugness that only she could catch. After all - she had listened to him fuck two women. She worried briefly if she’d be enough for him, but tapped it down. No time for it.

His fingers found her chin and he lifted it so he could stare at her. “I’ve wanted this,” he confessed. “Thought of nothing else since the night I met you.”

“I thought you wanted to kill me,” she teased - keeping her breath on his hip - his thigh - rustling the fine blonde hair - skirting her nails over the indents of muscle.

“I didn’t want to,” he corrected her. “I thought you were fucking hot - I was hoping Santi wouldn’t make me.”

She bit down on a laugh. It was morbid. The whole fucking mess of this was, but there was nothing to be done. She’d move forward with him. She’d envelop him if he’d let her.

“When I fucked those other women, I pretended they were you,” he admitted.

She kissed his stomach before sitting back on her heels. Her dress was probably going to rip. It was so tight. “What did you think about?”

“What fucking you would be like. How different it would be. How we’d laugh…”

She simpered - her skin growing warm and aching. “I take it you don’t want me to call you Ironhead during this?”

He growled - his hand found the bottom of her chin and his fingers dug into her jaw. It hurt just enough. “I want you to call me Will.” He let her go and she returned all her attention to his cock.

“I can do that.” She nuzzled him - dragging her cheek against his length - feeling him twitch. “You always take care of me,” she whispered. “I want to do it for you.”

There was nothing else to be said. She drew back, wrapping her fingers around his cock before pressing her lips to the head. He inhaled sharply and she took him into her mouth. She overdid it - nearly choking on his girth as it hit the back of her throat. She released him - a string of spit still lewdly interlocking them. “Fuck - fuck - sorry,” she stammered and he laughed.

“You okay?”

“Yup,” she replied - panting. “Just…my eyes were too big for my mouth. I overshot the mark.”

“We can - umpf-”

She had returned to him already, undaunted. She was desperate to please him like this and so she started slow. She placed open-mouth kisses to the shaft - tongue laving at the ridge that throbbed with his heartbeat. He was hot in her mouth - pulsing. She could taste his come - the briney punch of it enveloping her senses. He was velvet over steel and she jerked him in the tight circle of her fist before finally swallowing the rounded tip.

“Jesus, Faire,” he groaned - his palm found her scalp and he pressed down. She could feel that he was hesitant - like he was scared he might hurt her. She curled her tongue along the underside of his shaft before shoving him deeper. She wanted him to be rough. She had his dick in her mouth and his body was still coated in a thin film of blood - his calloused, torn fingertips were massaging circles into her scalp.

As far as blow jobs went, this one was messy. She was leaking drool as the head brushed against the back of her throat. She’d be on the brink of gagging before she’d draw back - a push and pull and still he kept his hand on the crown of her skull. She released him with a pop to stare up at him. His pupils were blown out - his nostrils flaring - his bottom lip tucked white between his teeth. She took account of every line and indent of muscle - the Pollock painting of blood splattered across his throat and chest. The flecks of it in his hair.

“Fuck my mouth,” she demanded. “I’m not going to break.”

“You were just choked out, baby,” he reminded her. “You shouldn’t -”

She scraped her teeth across the sensitive head and he bucked. “I’m not made of glass. Do it, Miller.”

His expression darkened - hardened. Razor sharp. Yes. That’s what she wanted. She wanted him to not have to be careful with her. She could handle it.

He tightened his grip on her head and forced her farther down his cock until her nose was buried into his groin - the tickle of the fine hair above the base of him. She choked and he made a low pitched noise in his chest. She kept her hands on his thighs - her nails digging into the hard muscle as each thrust onto her tongue made him spasm and flex. The air throbbed with the slippery wet sounds of her gagging on him - drinking him to the hilt. Sweat collected at the nape of her neck and sweat was dripping down the length of his torso - beading on her upper lip.

“You have the prettiest damn mouth,” he praised. Her knees hurt - there was something digging into her skin. She didn’t care. She could die like this - taking his fat cock from root to the tip.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Doing so fucking good for me.”

He was gliding along the plush of her tongue. More drips of salt sliding down her throat. She ached between her legs. “Will you let me taste your pussy?” he asked as he stretched her mouth - more more more - “Will you let me fuck you, Faire? Take what I want?”

She nodded frantically - no doubt looking utterly desperate as her eyes swam with tears while she licked and sucked his gorgeous dick. He was rock-hard - swollen and pulsing. His fingers curled tight around her skull. She suctioned her mouth - meeting his pace as he thrust further until his balls bounced against her chin . “Shit,” he stammered. “Gonna come.”

He tried to pull her off of him, but she didn’t budge. She hated swallowing. She rarely did it, but she wanted to with Will. She wanted to absorb him - engulf him. She wanted to show him that she found him beautiful and she’d take whatever he gave her. There was nothing dirty about it - nothing poisonous or broken.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he muttered once he realized that she wasn’t going to spit him out. He went rigid - his cock so heavy as it filled her mouth. It spurted on her tongue - warm and salty and she swallowed it with her gaze boring into his. The pain in her throat was temporary. She’d deal with it tomorrow.

“Fuck,” he said again before bending down and lifting her into arms. He ripped at her clothing - the dress in pieces as it floated to the floor. He kicked off his pants and shoes - winding one arm around her waist and hauling her roughly against him. “If that’s how you want it,” he husked before nipping her earlobe and she yelped, slapping his shoulder. He chuckled - low and full of taunt. He was about to destroy her. She could feel it - sense it in the way his hands on her were frantic and consuming. “Think you can just blow me like that…swallow my come with that wide-eyed, butter wouldn't melt in your mouth expression? I’m going to make you lose control, princess.”

He walked her back towards the shower, turning it on and the air grew thick with condensation - molten heat. The blood on his body turned the white tile pink as it swirled into the drain. He loomed above her, scrutinizing her upturned face. Slowly - he sank down to his knees. The air froze in her lungs as she trembled with want and he pushed her back against the wall. His hands spanned her waist - drawing her hips close to him. He pressed his face to her inhaling with a low pleased rumble.

She made a soft little sound that seemed to undo him. His eyes traced every bare piece of her. Her nipples pebbling beneath the spray of the showerhead. His palms flat over her belly before he took her breast in his hand and squeezed it roughly enough for her to groan.

She was soaked between her legs. He hitched her knee over his shoulder to spread her out for him - bare like the offering she was. His fingers were deft as they brushed through the seam of her pussy. She was so hot - burning against the syrupy fog and steam of his shower and he thumbed at her clit before sliding a finger into her. He added a second and her hips jumped against his hand, her eyes widening as she watched him. He observed the effect he had on her - the way his fingers were shiny as he drew them from her pussy. There was a soft wet noise with each pump and he pressed a kiss to her hip and then the mound of her sex. She was silky and beckoning and as she regarded him with drooping lids and fluttering lashes, he felt his cock bob against his stomach. He was hard again. Too much.

He didn’t think he’d have this. He didn’t think he’d have her, at least not in this way. This was possessing her - devouring every millimeter of her flesh. He was devoted - lapping at the altar of her cunt - her gorgeous, precious body that someone had tried to take from him.

He dropped his mouth to her - suctioning over the nub at the peak of her folds. He made a rumbling noise as she fisted his hair. Slippery and dripping and he could not get enough of fucking her with his fingers and his tongue - massaging her internally - ruining her with each molasses slow stroke -

He had told her that he understood bodies. It applied to sex, as well. He picked up on the minutiae - on every single tell that she gave him: the buck of her pelvis, the clench of her cunt, the way her hands curled into fists and her thighs trembled. The sounds that came out of her and his name - his actual name - that bounced off her tongue and echoed within the confines of his shower. The glass and tile and steaming hot water.

“Will…”she whispered - a beat of uncertainty in her voice. He was picking up the pace - crooking his fingers and rigorouslyfucking her with them. He could feel each contraction of her pussy - faster and faster and she gripped him hard by the hair. “Will - I don’t -”

“Just trust me,” he muttered as he stared up at her. “I’ve got you.”

He did. He had her. His desire for her had transitioned into something inescapable. It deafened him - drowned him. He could not believe that she had watched him lose control and kill in a way that was near monstrous and she still wanted him. She wanted him fiercely. He had snapped a neck with the hand she was currently fucking herself on.

“Let go,” he ordered. “Relax.”

But she could not - he was thoroughly spearing her open with his crooked fingers - hooking something deep - pushing up against a patch behind her cunt. The tight, harsh suction of his mouth on her was relentless. She worried her lip - her eyes anxious because the sensation was unfamiliar.

The pleasure coiled - ready to strike. Every moment that she’d thought she’d tip over the edge - she did not - she was bound on the very cusp - waiting waiting waiting as something blinding and brilliant brightened within her core. He drew his mouth from her and right as her orgasm crested, he yanked his fingers from her cunt. The pressure broke. She sobbed - hips jerking against his face - a very obvious push of liquid spurting out of her beneath the spray of the shower. She couldn’t breathe or think - lights bursting behind her lids - her thighs trembling as Will continued to pet her through it - his fingers returning to her. He buried them knuckle deep with a squelch. Finally - she glanced down at him and he grinned at her with all the arrogance she expected. His tongue swept over his lower lip and he once more lowered his head to lap at her puffy, fucked out pussy.

He’d made her squirt. She’d never fucking done that before. She would have died of embarrassment if he wasn’t staring at her like he could make her do it again - like he would make her - manipulate her to do it if he so wanted.

“Fine,” she growled. “You win.”

He stood up - back to his full height. He grasped her face roughly and crushed his lips to hers so she could taste herself. “I’m not done with you yet,” he promised against her mouth. “Not even close.”

Turning the water off, she clutched him as he lifted her up and carried her to bed. She was shuddering - limbs shaky and boneless as a foal. “We’re wet,” she mumbled as he dropped her on his bed.

“I don’t think it matters at this point.” He stepped back so he could watch her. He was naked as he stood at the end of his bed. The soft lighting of his room still revealed all of him to her. No shadows for him to duck into - no places to lose him. The cut on his chest was thin but had stopped bleeding. She caught her breath at the beauty of him. He was so sculpted - so lovely to look at. He pinned her with a hungry stare, taking himself in hand - fisting his cock tight as he moved toward her sprawled form.

She spread her legs for him - her center no doubt shiny and fluttering - gasping for him. She wanted to watch him as he pushed into her. He wanted to watch her. It would be done face to face and time paused - stilled - her breath tangled in her throat as he fed the head of his cock into the tight clutch of her slick sex.

Their brows met as he hovered above her - his thighs shoved up under the backs of her legs. She hitched her knees higher - crossing her ankles to wrap herself around him. He had paused - the head of his cock barely inside her - nudging into her soft heat - her walls pulsing and blossoming around the blunt fat of it.

He was waiting - needing to know - wanting her total consent.

“Will,” she begged and nodded at once - the tinge of frantic energy - the please please please spilling from her like a faucet.

Her nails scraped over the bulk of his shoulders. “I know, he murmured - soothing - coaxing. “I know - I will -” He drew his hips back before sliding forward to the hilt. The second he breached her, she gasped.

“Fuck,” she hissed as he filled her - stretching her. He gripped her waist - thumb turning circles into her dewy flesh. She whimpered in time with his thrusts and there was nothing, but the song of their coupling: the labored breathing, the wet slap of skin and his headboard rocking against the wall. She was perfect - fitting around him with scorching heat and pulsing muscle.

“Jesus, Will,” she cried out when he got a particularly hard stroke in - her cunt gripping him so intensely, he could crack.

“I know, baby,” he rasped. “I know. I know it’s a lot, but I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

The words were husky with desperation - as if she had suffered a great injury and he was attending to her. He was her caretaker in so many ways. It was no different here.

She could not remember what he was telling her - what he was saying to her now. Praise. Secrets. His mouth smeared wetly across the juncture of her neck and he bit down. She arched like a bow - breasts crushed to his chest -

Her body matched his movements - her hips fitting to his pelvis as she hooked her ankle around the back of his thigh. She was in sync with him - reading him - touching him all over as he ground into her - an oscillating pace - an even rhythm.

He shuddered - involuntarily - his groin drawing up tight - the muscles in his stomach clenching as he snapped into her velvet-hot cunt. She made a wounded noise - her lips dragging over the skin of his throat - his jaw.

“Relax around it, sweetheart,” he told her. “You’re taking it so well.”

The nature of the sex began to change rhythm - it began to swirl and spark - morphing into a far more frantic, furious coupling as he stole the breath from her with each rut of his cock - closing his mouth over her own so he could plunge his tongue behind her teeth. He kissed her like he was fucking her. Furious. Fevered.

He took her - hips moving in a circular motion - rasping his pelvic bone against her clit. Her eyes glistened and for a moment he thought she was crying, but she shoved her face into his chest - trembling - cunt spasming around him. She’d climaxed.

“Slow down,” She begged - holding tight to him as she trembled - whimpered. He stopped and readjusted his pace. He rocked upward - steady and balanced - inch by inch. She tangled her hands into his hair and pulled his mouth to hers. She kissed him for minutes - for an hour - he didn’t know. She didn’t either. He slid his hands over his comforter, catching hold of her wrists and entwining their fingers.

“Okay,” she choked out. “Okay - I’m good.” He kissed her again - tightened his grip on her. He started to move a little faster - he glanced between them to see where he was disappearing inside of her. She was so wet that he was covered in her - each spear of his cock was met with soaked, squelching noises.

It was too much - his cock filling her, the look on his face as he said her name - his mouth parting like he couldn’t quite believe what they were doing. He was fucking her in deep, bruising strokes. It felt as if he had carved her open - branded her insides. She was delirious with him - her eyes tracing his beautiful face as his brow knitted with concentration - with pleasure.

He whispered her name against her ear before easing his head back to look at her - to meet her with his sad blue eyes tearing her open as he rooted himself - plugging her up.

“I know,” she said as he trembled - as he groaned. “I know. I feel it.”

It was too much - it was bordering on dizziness. She was fucked up - she was broken - a thousand pieces of suffering and self-hatred and he held it - held the same - held her weight. He looked at her like he knew her – like she could be something else entirely. He could be something else entirely. Not what he had been made to do. Not what he had been taught. That perhaps he could have chosen a different path and used his talents to heal and build and birth. But - even so - even if those dreams had fluttered away with the rest of his possible futures, she had seen what he’d done - what he did in the basement. She had watched him at his worst tonight and returned to him - followed him - trailed him because she wouldn’t be scared away.

He held her more fiercely. He cradled her against his chest - keeping her anchored to him as they clutched at each other. He hitched her thigh higher up his torso - her nails dug into the swell of his ass to force him deeper - as deep as he could get and he could go on forever if she’d let him. She moaned into his mouth. His groans rumbled in his chest and dipped into her sternum and lungs. They flooded each other. The taut muscles of his abdomen flexed with every push forward - every jerk and snap of his cock breaching the tight seal of her perfect pussy. He wanted to merge with her. She wanted that. She wanted him to fuck her so far into the mattress, she’d never come out. She wanted to absorb him so she’d never stop feeling him. She wanted his scent - his sweat - his blood. He wanted her essence - her slick - her high-pitched whimpers that he swallowed - and took - and would never rid himself of. He hooked the crook of his arm under her knee to spread her further apart. He leveraged his weight and slammed into her with a few more overwhelmingly full strokes and he felt exactly when she came again - contracting around him - her voice too hoarse to cry out so instead she bit the hard line of his jaw.

Her eyes slid shut, her chest heaving. She went slightly limp - exhaustion taking her slowly from him. He groaned, lightly tapping her cheek to bring her back.

“I know, I know — just a little bit more, I need you to — fuck — I need you to take it for me”

Her brow creased - her lips parting in surprise. “No wonder you needed two girls,” she slurred, but she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him to her. It was hot and wet between them. Unbearable. He had never been this hard - this painfully raw and aching.

“Don’t make me stop— please, fuck, I can’t stop.” He panted the words right into her ear, his face buried into her neck, hand fitting over the crown of her head as he completely covered her with his body.

“Don’t stop,” she encouraged - her hips flush against his - meeting him thrust for thrust - easing forward and back as her tongue slid over his sweat slick chest - his collarbone.

“I'm gonna come inside you,” he husked - groaned - there was the spark of something animalistic inside him as he claimed her again and again. He wanted to fill her. Her cheek slid against his. He could feel her nodding frantically. “I want to mark you. I want to make me a part of you.”

She moved to face him - a breath shared between their lips.

“Do it,” she mumbled against his mouth before pulling him in for a kiss. He stiffened as his release crashed into him. He made a low, feral noise against her tongue. His cock spat and pulsed - her sex throbbing insistently - dripping with him and her and them. His vision darkened out as he fell against her.

He clutched her to him. Their chests were pressed heart to heart in his dimly lit bedroom. They’d never turned the lights out. The blankets beneath them were soaked in the water from the shower and everything else. She brushed his hair from his eyes. He nudged his nose against her - the act more intimate with their legs tangled - their sweat mingling. She had known this would happen. She had felt it. Inevitable and cyclical and all the other words she had for fate.

He could hurt her, of course. Emotionally. Mentally. But she’d already been hurt - already been properly shattered. She was going to do this. She wanted it. He cupped her cheek - his eyes round and young in the dark as he watched her intently. Broken people finding roots in broken places. She let him touch her mouth. She smiled around it.

#watch your step #charnelhouse #triple frontier #triple frontier boys x reader #will miller #will miller x reader #benny miller #benny miller x reader #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader

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