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roosterforme · 2 months

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Aim for the Sky Part 13 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley contemplates just staying in Mexico with you forever. Vacations look good on him, and you seem happier than ever before. But a return to San Diego means the final countdown to the baby is on.

Warnings: Fluff, smut, oral sex, adult language

Length: 3400 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Aim for the Sky masterlist. This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order.

There were no alarms set for work, no meals to cook, and no interruptions of any kind. Other than the occasional text from Cam letting you know that Tramp was being the best boy imaginable, you were solely focused on your husband and your daughter.

"She's kicking up a storm," you said from your lounge chair on the beach, and Bradley almost fell out of his own seat where he'd been dozing off and on to get his hands on your belly.

"Where's my little Nugget?" he crooned as he knelt in the sand. You felt her do a somersault as he looked at you over his aviators, and his smile grew. "There she is. I swear she knows when I'm nearby, Baby Girl."

You ran your fingers through his wavy, sandy hair and down along his scarred cheek. "She absolutely does." He kissed your arm without moving his hands, and then he pressed a sassy kiss to your chest through your bathing suit. "Vacations look good on you, Roo. You look very relaxed."

The dark circles under his eyes were virtually gone after a few days in Mexico. He was still chasing you down with the blood pressure cuff several times a day, and he was constantly trying to get you to eat or drink something, but he was obviously feeling very good at the moment.

"Yeah, well what do you expect when my wife lets me cum all over her tits as soon as I wake up? And then I get tacos and margaritas for breakfast? Honestly, I'm thinking maybe we could just stay here? Rose could grow up bilingual. I could fly some charter planes back and forth to the peninsula. You can lounge in your bathing suit and look pretty. What do you think?"

You were cackling as you reached for the tube of sunblock that you never let out of your sight when you were with him. "Let me think about it while I reapply." You sat up, and Bradley sat on your chair between your legs, and you smoothed the lotion all over his broad back and shoulders before continuing down his arms. "We did just finish the attic at home," you mused as you massaged his bicep. "But moving to Mexico does sound lovely."

Bradley grunted as you kissed the back of his head. "You're right. One of those rooms will be Rosie's someday. Can't let that shit go to waste. Gimme," he said, holding out his hand, and he had you sit on his lap while he put more sunblock on you as well. You bit back a moan as his hands smoothed down your back to the top of your bikini bottoms, and his fingers dipped deliciously into the fabric.

"Do you ever think about how you put sunscreen on me at the cliffs beach? The day we had our first kiss?"

"All the time," he replied easily, rubbing circles along your shoulders. "Best day of my life up to that point. But don't forget, we didn't kiss, Sweetheart. You kissed me. And then I reciprocated with enthusiasm."

You looked out at the water and smiled. "You were pretty enthusiastic. And you were so sweet and sexy. How was I supposed to keep resisting you?"

"You weren't."

When you turned to face him, he was smiling, and you put a dollop of sunscreen on his nose. "Vacations really do look good on you."

He shrugged and leaned back in what used to be your seat. "Well, you would know better than anyone else. I never really took them before you." He coaxed you back so you were curled up in his arms, and he ran his thumb reverently along the valley between your breasts. "Can't wait to go somewhere with both of my girls. Maybe Disneyland? Rose can get one of those fancy princess dresses."

You moaned at his touch and his voice. "You're going to spoil our child rotten, aren't you?"

"Haven't I already made that abundantly clear?" he asked with a laugh. "Nothing's too good for the Nugget."

"You're as bad as my parents," you muttered, letting your eyes drift closed.

"Okay, they might actually be worse than me."

"It's a tie," you whispered as you fell asleep.

--------------------------

"I don't want to go home tomorrow," you complained with a little pout.

You looked like an absolute goddess at the moment, and Bradley wished the two of you could stay in Mexico longer. He watched you get dressed from the bed where he was lounging in his shorts and tropical print shirt. His stomach was growling loudly for dinner, but he was very distracted by how you looked as you pulled your dress over your head.

"Jesus," he groaned as you wiggled it over your bump and down your hips. "Could that thing be any tighter?"

"It's a bodycon dress, so no, probably not."

He had no idea what a bodycon dress was, but he really liked this one. "Fits you like a damn glove," he muttered. He could even see your nipples peaked against the fabric, and he started to sit up in bed.

"That's the idea. It's stretchy and comfortable, which is good, because my belly feels tender today," you said as you smoothed the dress over your body.

Everything was exciting to Bradley. You looked smoking hot. And a tender belly was just a reminder that the baby would be here soon. And he was about to eat more tacos and give you a little surprise after dinner. He just kept winning.

When you slipped your feet into your high heels, Bradley jumped up from the bed. "I don't want you walking around in those unless you're holding my hand."

"Why not?" you asked, looking at him with concern.

"I don't want you to trip. No more falls. And we're not going to dinner until I check your blood pressure."

He led you to the edge of the bed, got you seated, and kissed your belly before going to retrieve the blood pressure cuff. With a sigh, you held out your arm and said, "I've been eating and drinking plenty, Bradley. And getting some sun has been really good, too."

He grunted and got you all set up. "Maybe I just want to be sure my girls are alright. It's February now, Sweetheart. The Nugget will be here next month, and the last thing I want is for you to have to go back to the hospital any earlier than is completely necessary. But if your blood pressure isn't holding up, we need to know about it right away."

You reached for his face as he knelt in front of you, and he looked up to meet your eyes. "Rosie is the luckiest baby in the world. And you're already such a DILF. The gray hairs are definitely helping with that."

Bradley ducked his head in embarrassment. "Your blood pressure is normal. You ready for dinner?"

You moaned as he helped you back to your feet, and you let him hold your hand the whole way to the restaurant. "I need more tacos drenched in hot sauce," you said.

"I can make you tacos when we get home, and we can use the hot sauce you made," he promised.

"Oh," you gasped, wrapping your arms around him as he gave his name to the host. "I almost forgot you can cook things now."

He wasn't about to remind you that he was going to have to follow up with your mom again to be sure he remembered how to brown the ground beef. Not when you had that hazy eyed look on your face with your tits practically exploding out of your dress. He was suddenly so horny, he was considering skipping dinner, but he needed you to eat. He needed you to have energy for later.

As the host called out Bradshaw, Bradley leaned down to kiss your ear. "I need you to stop looking at me like that. At least until after dinner," he whispered. But you had been correct when you said that this vacation was doing something good for him. He felt incredible. The hotel room was comfortable, and you'd been wearing him out just enough that he was getting some solid sleep and waking up very refreshed.

"Literally as soon as we get back to the room later, I want your pants off," you informed him in your bossiest voice. You didn't care who heard, because a second later, you were accepting a menu from the waiter with a smile.

------------------------

Your belly was full of tacos, and you just watched your husband eat roughly his body weight in seafood, but he still looked sexy. He always looked sexy. Maybe it was your hormones, or maybe you were high on quality hot sauce. Or perhaps you were just hopelessly in love with him. But when he paid the bill for dinner and tucked his wallet back into the pocket of his snug shorts, you wanted nothing more than to fuck him.

"The moon looks pretty," he mused as you left the restaurant hand in hand. "Let's walk down to the water."

"But it's pitch black outside," you told him when you realized there was barely even a crescent moon visible.

"Humor me," he said with a little laugh. You didn't argue when he started to tug you in the direction of the beach while he played with your rings. Before you got to the sand, Bradley knelt down to help you out of your shoes, and then he carried them for you. The soft sound of the waves mingled with music playing further up the beach. The pitch of the guitar was pretty, and the closer you got to it, the more familiar the song sounded.

"Hey," you said as your steps slowed to a stop. "It's our wedding song. They're playing Everything!"

You could hear Bradley in the darkness more than you could see him, and his voice made you shiver. "It sure is. Nothing's too good for you."

Your lips parted in surprise. "How did you get them to play it?" Just then, the song changed to a slower guitar rendition of Roses by Outkast, and you bounced on your feet in excitement. "Bradley!"

"Sweetheart!"

"How did you do this?" you asked again as your cheek settled against his chest.

"I asked very nicely."

You laughed, because that was such a typical answer from him. If he wanted something badly enough, he'd go to the ends of the Earth for it, but he could usually get his way just by asking.

"Do we have to go home tomorrow?" you whispered as he wrapped his big hands around your biceps, keeping you warm against the chill of the night air. "This is more fun than going to work."

He kissed the top of your head and said, "Spending time with you in any capacity is more fun than going to work, but we do need paychecks so I can spoil our kid."

You buried your face against him as you laughed. "It's all about Rosie."

"No," he corrected, giving your arms a little squeeze. "It's all about you and me and Rosie. Us against the world. A new era for the Bradshaws."

His words made you warm inside. "We're officially out of the honeymoon phase and in the baby phase."

"Well," he rasped, "I don't think we'll ever be completely out of the honeymoon phase, Baby Girl. Let's be real here." His hand slid down your backside over the tight fabric of your dress. "Not when you wear shit like this with your magic tits."

"You wanna see them?" you asked.

An hour later, you were in bed, sweating and whining Bradley's name. Your dress was pulled up above your hips and also down below your breasts, and he was absolutely worshipping you. You could feel the fabric of his discarded shirt and shorts next to you as you tried to wrap your fingers in the bedding to keep you grounded, but it was no use.

"Roo," you gasped, letting yourself get completely lost in the feel of his mouth on your pussy. He had one big hand splayed on your belly like he was protecting both of you, but his other hand was keeping your thighs spread wide for him. The wet sounds were delicious as he ran his nose over your clit.

"You've got the prettiest pussy," he crooned. "So fucking tight." His tongue slipped down until it dipped inside you, and he groaned as he sucked before pulling his lips free. "My god, you're perfect."

Your thighs were shaking slightly, and it kind of hurt to arch your back. All you could do was whine and hold onto whatever you could reach as you sucked in shallow breaths. You needed to come, badly. But he kept you right there on the brink as if he was trying to decide exactly how to finish you off.

"Roo," you whined.

"I know," he replied softly. "Me too." You were convinced he could read your mind by the way he shoved his cock inside you a minute later. It was such a different sensation, and then his mouth was on your breasts as he fucked you. His voice was aggressive as he whispered, "Your nipples are fucking delicious right now. I can't get enough."

If you weren't already pregnant, you were convinced you would have been tonight. He toyed with your breasts, rough hands and mustache everywhere. You were sore and tender, and he made everything feel better and also more pronounced at the same time. Your orgasm was building now, and while part of you wanted to crawl away, the rest of you couldn't get enough of him.

"Fuck," he grunted, his hard abs pressing against your belly as he buried his face to your chest. "Come on. Come for me!"

He pressed himself against your clit as he fucked you hard enough that your breasts were bouncing, and you closed your eyes as you finally clenched around his cock. The relief was immediate, and you let the needy sound of his orgasm wash over you.

Sticky cum coated up your thighs as he sprawled out next to you, his chest rising and falling rapidly from exertion. "You'll be the death of me, I swear," he muttered, eyes closed while you worked your dress up and over your head. He cracked one eye open and peeked at you. "Let's go skinny dipping."

You laughed as he helped you down into the private plunge pool a few minutes later. It was late, but you knew the two of you would have hours to nap on the flight home, so you let him hold you and talk to Rose. You let him tell you for the millionth time how excited he was while you could barely make out his face in the moonlight.

-----------------------------

Bradley jerked awake as the plane touched down with a bumpy landing in San Diego. "Pilot must be retired Navy," he muttered to himself as you woke up next to him with a little pout on your face. The sky outside looked dark and cloudy for southern California, and he already knew what you were going to say.

"I don't want to go to work tomorrow. I want to eat tacos."

"I'll make tacos for dinner if you're well behaved," he promised as he turned his phone on again. A flood of texts from Nat came through just as it started storming outside. He scrolled through them and said, "Nat wants to know what you're doing on February fourteenth."

You stretched your arms over your head and gave him a funny look. "I don't know, Roo. You tell me. That's Valentine's Day."

"Oh," he replied. "Right." It wasn't like that day was particularly important to him. Other than the fact that he liked the color red, he could do without all of the chalky candy hearts and overpriced cards. The date never stuck in his mind like your birthday and November 28th did. That was the most romantic day of the year for him. His wedding anniversary was more important than pretty much anything else. "Well, how do you feel about having a baby shower on Valentine's Day?"

"A baby shower?" you gasped, a bright smile breaking out on your face. "I get to have a baby shower?"

"My god, you're adorable. Yes, you get to have a baby shower. I know your mom said she and your dad would rather wait until the Nugget is born to come out and help, so Nat is planning it."

You burst into tears, and Bradley's eyes went wide as rain pelted the airplane window as it taxied along. "What's wrong, Baby Girl?"

He was already reaching for your belly as you wiped your eyes on the sleeve of his tee shirt. "Nothing's wrong," you sobbed. "That's just so nice of Phoenix to do that. Especially since she's really your friend."

Bradley kissed your forehead and swiped away your tears. "She's a lot more likely to do something nice for you than for me, and you know it, Sweetheart." Now you were laughing as you cried. "And keep in mind that you'll have to deal with Jake and Javy and all the guys being there. So is it really all that nice? It'll honestly probably be a shitstorm."

You nodded. "But it'll be our baby shower shitstorm."

"You're the only person I want to share a shitstorm with," he promised, helping you to your feet as the plane finally stopped at the gate. "Pretty soon we'll have literal diaper shitstorms, too."

You giggled as you wiped at your remaining tears while he reached down the carry-on bag. "You need to stop saying shitstorms."

He shook his head and reached for your hand. "I can't. I got started, and now I just can't."

It was nice to arrive at San Diego International and have you by his side for once instead of waiting at baggage claim. You and he walked slowly through the airport while you counted up how many times he could use shitstorm correctly in a sentence, and then Bradley drove home where Tramp was waiting.

"I heard you were a good boy," you crooned, scratching him behind the ear while Bradley made you a snack of hot sauce and carrot sticks. When you turned to him and asked, "Can you look at your calendar? We have a lot to do in the next few weeks."

He knew you meant the calendar on his phone, but he just smiled and said, "Absolutely," before heading out the back door toward the garage. He grabbed the dirty calendar you made for his birthday last year and brought it back inside where you were casually dipping a carrot into the hot sauce.

"Seriously?" you asked with a laugh when he held it up.

"This is the only calendar I use," he said, turning the page to February where the photo of you smiled back at him, mostly naked. "Holy shit. Six weeks until Rosie!"

"That's what I'm saying!" You had your hand resting on your bump while you poked at your phone calendar. Tramp was begging for a snack while you crunched on your carrot, and Bradley had the urge to go sit quietly in the nursery for a while. Every time he thought about his daughter, he got more excited, and it just made sense that she would be here soon.

"We've got a baby shower, maternity photos and last minute shopping to do," you muttered. "We should probably go to Costco soon."

"You get horny at Costco," he replied. "Block off a whole day for that. And block off a whole day for you and me to snuggle on the soft rug in the nursery. And block off another day for me to organize all of the cute board books on Rosie's shelf. I want everything to be perfect."

"It will be."

---------------------------------

Roo is a sunny golden retriever husband even on a rainy day. They are well rested just in time for the baby shower and the Nugget's arrival. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 14

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witherroze · 8 months

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“Impulse and Scar both have grey skins because they got Demised”

WRONG. They both have grey skins because they open up their season 10 first episodes with Aviator!Scar crash landing his plane directly on top of Impulse, killing them both instantly

#namemc spoilers #hermitcraft #impulsesv #goodtimeswithscar #scar unlocks his third life and is a safari guide now. impulse tragically remains a ghost. rip #edit: SORRY FOR NOT TAGGING THE SPOILER ORIGINALLY. I FORGOR…

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topguncortez · 2 days

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f you’re still doing prompts : jake and shy wifey !

please. make me feel good. no one else can like you.

❛ you're mine, and i take care of what belongs to me. ❜

Body Love || Jake Seresin x Shy!Wifey

opposites attract masterlist || main masterlist

synopsis: Y/N has been having a hard time feeling confident since the births of her twins. Jake is determined to make her remember how beautiful she is.

word count: 1.4k

warnings: smutty-ish, cursing, negative self talk, mentions of c-sections

note: lmao not me going back to my graduation challenge requests. but think of this as a soft launch before whumptober gets started

She was doing it again. Jake had caught her doing it several times in the past couple of days. That look in her eye told him that what she was looking at, she didn’t like what she was seeing in the mirror. She furrowed her eyebrows as she touched her cheeks gently, poking at the skin on her face. Jake tried his hardest to stay out of sight to watch her.

Y/N was gorgeous. She was the most gorgeous girl that Jake had ever laid eyes on. Her body had changed a lot over the years from age, and carrying five of the most beautiful kids that Jake had ever seen in his life. Her thighs were a bit bigger, her stomach not as flat as it used to be, her breasts weren’t as perky, and her hair had some grays in it, all small changes of age and being a mother. But the scar that sat on her lower abdomen was the most noticeable to her. The scar wasn’t there a year ago, but it was now a permanent reminder of probably the worst day of her life.

The pregnancy and birth of Jasper and Maxwell Seresin had been anything but easy. Throughout the whole thing, Y/N was having problems with her blood pressure. One moment it was too high, and the next it would be too low. She had tried her best to remain as stress-free as possible, but it was hard with a naval aviator for a husband and three other kids running around the house. A c-section was the last thing she wanted, but when it came down to a life-or-death situation, Y/N agreed to it. The scar reminded her of the moment when she almost lost her babies. She didn’t like it, but Jake loved it.

He loved every single mark on her tummy. Whenever they were intimate, Jake would kiss every single stretch mark on her tummy, sending flutters through her body. But they hadn’t been that intimate since Jasper and Maxwell were born nearly a year ago. Y/N never liked to take her shirt off anymore when they would have sex. She would hardly show herself when they would get dressed in the morning, she’d either step into the closet or the bathroom. They didn’t shower or bathe together like they once did, in fact, she went as far as locking the door whenever she did to deter Jake from entering.

Jake didn’t like being iced out like this. He had spent years trying to break down her walls, to get her to let him. She slowly opened up to him, and gradually built up that confidence to let him know everything about her, to let him truly see her. But now, it felt like he had moved ten steps backward.

He sighed and pushed off the wall he was leaning on, as he watched Y/N lift her shirt gently and run her fingertips over the scar. She looked at the reflection of the scar in the mirror and frowned at it. Jake walked up behind her, and placed his hands on her hips, causing her to jump at the action. Y/N tried to push her shirt back down to cover the scar, but he stopped her.

“Why do you hide this from me?” Jake asked, looking at the scar in the mirror. He gently ran his thumb over the skin and leaned his head into the crook of her neck.

“I don’t like it,” She answered, “I hate seeing it. It’s ugly.”

“Yeah, but it reminds you of how much of a champion you are,” Jake said, and placed his lips on her skin, “Shows the sacrifice that you made to bring your babies into the world.”

“They were cut out of me,” She sniffled and looked away from the scar. “My last babies and I didn’t even actually give birth to them.”

“Stop that, yes you did,” Jake turned her body, so she was facing him. He gently lifted her head up, “You gave birth to Jasper and Maxwell. It wasn’t how you wanted it to be, but you still did it. It still means something.”

“Why have you stayed with me?” Y/N asked him honestly, looking up at his big green eyes. She could see the heartbreak in his eyes the moment the words left her mouth, “I-I’m not as pretty, or as confident or as smart as some of the girls you used to bring around the Hard Deck. So, why did you choose me? Why did you stay with me?”

“I stayed with you because you didn’t throw yourself at me, or any of the other pilots that walked into there. I chose you because you are a kind, gentle, old soul, who would rather stay home and eat strawberry cupcakes and watch Bob Ross paint ‘happy little trees’ instead of going out and getting piss drunk,” Jake explained, “I chose you, because when I saw you. . . I saw my whole future. I saw our wedding, I saw our first house, our first deployment, our kids, that huge ass flower garden you made me plant and sat by sipping on lemonade looking as good as a Sin on Sunday,” Y/N chuckled at his words. Jake caressed her cheek, and kissed both of them, before grabbing both her hands,

“If I could go back in time to the night that we first met, I would choose you, over and over,” Jake said and kissed her lips.

“Even though I look like this now,” She gestured to her body.

“Especially when you look like this,” Jake said. Y/N let out a gasp as Jake quickly turned them, and placed her on the bed. He climbed on top of her, and looked down at her body, “God damn, you look so fucking sexy. You looked sexy then, and you look sexy now. Your body has changed in the most delicious ways.” Jake pressed his hips into hers, and her eyes widened at the feeling of his semi-hard cock, “I get hard just thinking about you. Thinking about your ass, your thighs, your tits, your tummy.”

He moaned as his hands grazed the sides of her stomach, “Your tummy. . . fuck, it has to be my favorite place. I love it. I love seeing it stretch and grow with my kids.” Jake pushed the shirt that she was wearing up underneath her boobs, and started placing kisses down her sternum, to her belly.

“Please Jake,” Y/N panted.

“You don’t realize how crazy you drive me,” Jake shook his head, climbing back up her body, and placing kisses on her neck, “Fuck sometimes I feel like a fucking teenager, getting instantly hard when you walk into a room.” He pushed his hips against hers, his hard-on straining against his joggers.

“Show me,” Y/N whispered, grabbing his face in her hands, “Show me what I do to you. Make me feel good.”

“Yeah?” He asked, green eyes peering down at her, a hint of mischief in them, “You want me to make you feel good?” Jake’s hand slowly worked down her body, until he was cupping her covered pussy in his hand. Y/N nodded her head frantically, shamelessly grinding against his hand. He was hardly even touching her, and she was begging for him, “What do you want from me, Y/N? Tell me.”

“Your fingers, in me.”

“Like this?” Jake asked, feigning innocence as he slipped his hand down the front of the boxer shorts she was wearing. His fingers expertly parted her, sliding through her slick and gently into her. Y/N’s head tilted back with a loud moan.

“Yes,” Y/N moaned as Jake’s fingers curled in and out of her, his lips sucking gently at her neck, “No one else can make me feel good like you do.” Jake nodded his head, pulling his fingers out of her and gently circling her clit, “Fuck, Jake.”

“So naughty for me,” Jake chuckled against her skin, “I love it when you curse.”

“I love it when you touch me,” Y/N said back, her hand reaching down to palm him through his pants. She pressed her lips against his, her free hand gripping the back of his neck and playing with the hair on the nape of his neck. Jake’s hips bucked into her hand, as his tongue slipped into her mouth.

“Jake,” Y/N cried out, as his fingers slipped back into her, curling them against that sweet spot, “Make me cum, please.” “Don’t worry baby,” Jake cooed, grabbing her hand and pinning it above her. She whined at the loss of pleasure from him, “You’re mine and I take care of what belongs to me.”

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sarahsmi13s · 9 months

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Rocks Are Allowed to Crack, Stars Are Allowed to Dim

pairing: jake 'hangman' seresin x fem!pilot!reader

characters: jake seresin, y/n nivans, the daggers, pete mitchell, penny benjamin, diego and benny harding (oc father and son)

warnings: 18+ MDNI, angst, language, ptsd, description of accident, panic attack, injuries, descriptions of scars, flashbacks, fear of death, familial death (mentioned), crying, bottling up feelings, please please let me know if i missed any

word count: ~8.0k

a/n: this has been sitting in my docs and on my wheel for at least a year (please forgive the awkward moments). so i figured i'd take a sliver of the wheel and make him a little lighter! i've also been in a funk lately, so i thought getting something out there might help!

quick summary: everyone deserves someone to comfort them in their time of need, even the ones that always lend their shoulder

Ah, yes, dogfight football. Maverick’s way of creating a team. You play offense and defense at the same time. Tackling each other into the sand, sometimes into the water. It may be chaotic, but it’s fun and a great team building exercise.

Which is why you hated that you were running a little behind.

You sighed as you got out of your car and walked over to where Penny was sitting at the table.

You placed your aviators on your head, “I’m not late am I?” Penny chuckled and shook her head, “Just in time. Want a beer before you go?” You shook your head, “Nah, I’m okay right now. Care to watch my stuff?”

The brunette gestured to the items in front of her, chuckling, “I’m watchin’ everyone else's. I don’t see why not.” You chuckled and sat your wallet, phone, and keys down, as well as your sunglasses. You slipped off your shorts, folding them and laying them down.

“Nivans!”

You turned at the call of your last name, brows raised in curiosity.

It was Maverick.

“Hurry up and get down here!”

You turned to Penny, “This is gonna be fun.” You both laughed before you jogged across the sand to meet everyone by the water.

“Sorry I’m late, Mav.”

Maverick shook his head, “You’re not late, Rockstar. Can’t be late for fun.”

“Not gonna take your t-shirt off?” Phoenix asked when you stood beside her. You shook your head, “Nah, I’m good.”

Hangman sighed, “That’s a shame.”

You chuckled at him and bent down to throw a handful of sand at him.

“Watch it, Rockstar,” Hangman said, his voice light as he glared at you playfully.

“Or what, Hangman?” You challenged, eyes narrowed but a smile pulled at your lips.

Now, you and Hangman joked like this all the time. You considered each other best friends, which confused everyone else on base.

Jake Seresin was an asshole. He was cocky and arrogant. You, Y/N Nivans, were not an asshole. Quite the opposite, actually.

You were humble while still knowing your worth, but also showing anybody up if they proposed a challenge, and not being sour when you lost.

Jake went out looking for competition, you let it come to you.

You were also probably the sweetest thing to walk the planet. Most certainly the sweetest to walk the airstrip.

You were nice to everyone, always giving someone the benefit of the doubt until they truly proved they were an asshole.

You also took care of your team, they were your family. You always had the door open if someone needed to talk. Your arms were wide open when they showed up in the middle of the night because they had a nightmare and couldn’t shake it. You were their rock.

So, when you walked into the Hard Deck that first day of the Uranium Mission and hugged Hangman, everyone was confused — except Coyote who knew you from a year prior. But they didn’t verbally question you, choosing instead to ponder in private.

Hangman sighed, “Come on, Rocky. You're giving your enemy the advantage.” He tugged at your shirt and pulled you into his arms.

You laughed and pushed him away by his chest, “You’re gonna have to catch me first.” Hangman cocked his head to the side, “Oooh, that’s how it is?” You nodded, a smirk playing on your lips, “That’s how it is.”

You panted as you used your shirt to wipe the sweat from your face.

When you let go of your shirt you raised your arms, calling for the ball. They threw it to you and you took off for your endzone.

You felt the sand shift and you knew Hangman was behind you. You had to get rid of the ball, so you called out to your teammate, “Phoenix!” She ran ahead of you and you threw her the ball.

As soon as the ball was out of your hand, Hangman tackled you to the ground.

You laughed as you laid on your stomach, arms out in front of you.

“What was that about ‘catching you’?” Jake grunted from above you.

You didn’t have to look at him to know he was smirking. “Haha, very funny Hangman. Now get off, you’re heavy.”

“First, ouch. Second, nah, you’re comfy.” You laughed and shook your head, attempting to push off the ground and basically buck him off.

But, Hangman wouldn’t let you, laughing as he moved and made you fall back down.

In this new position, Hangman was putting pressure on a certain part of your back and panic shot through you.

“Seriously, dude, get up,” you tried to say with a laugh, not wanting to sound rude or like you were mad at him. He just smiled and rested his chin on his hands.

You closed your eyes and tried to control your breathing, but the waves hitting you pushed you over the edge.

“Jake, get the fuck off me.” You didn’t mean to sound harsh but you were panicking.

Jake was surprised by your tone, along with the use of his first name. He immediately got up and held out a hand for you to take but you just got up and ran to the table.

“Rockstar, where you going?” Maverick asked. You called out while still running, “I need a break for a minute.”

You got to the table, “Is it unlocked?” Penny nodded, “Yeah, why?” “Bathroom break.” Penny just nodded again and watched you take your sunglasses with you as you jogged inside.

Rooster ran over and hit Jake’s arm, “What did you do, Hangman?” Jake shook his head, “I’m not sure.” He put his hands on his hips and watched you disappear into the bar.

He felt bad, he wanted to chase after you and apologize but he didn’t know what he did.

“Well, you seemed to piss her off,” Phoenix said, shoving the ball into his chest.

Maverick looked at Penny but she just shrugged, meaning you didn’t say much.

You ran into the bathroom, throwing yourself into a stall.

You leaned over the toilet and waited to throw up. Tears had started running down your face the minute you stepped in the bar. You coughed and sobbed lightly as you tried to control your breathing.

After a few minutes of that, the nausea subsided and you slowly stood to go to the sink.

You turned the cold water on and splashed your face.

“Shit…”

You closed your eyes as the tight feeling in your chest loosened. You let out a shaky breath and looked in the mirror, cringing at the puffiness around your eyes. You grabbed your sunglasses and slipped them on before leaving the bathroom.

When you stepped outside you saw Maverick and Penny talking, and when you sat down they stopped talking and looked at you concerned.

“You alright? Gave Hangman quite the scare for a second,” Mav asked, squaring his shoulders to you. You nodded, resting your forearms on the table. “Yeah, I’m fine.” You rubbed your forehead, “Hey Pen-”

Before you could finish your sentence, a beer was sat in front of you, causing you to giggle, “Read my mind.”

As he continued to play, Jake still couldn’t get over the fact that you called him ‘Jake’ during a day out.

It wasn’t that you never did, but it was rare that you called anyone by their first name.

But it wasn’t just that, it was the way you said that really made him worry. He had never heard your voice sound like that before.

He looked at you from his spot on the beach, noticing you didn’t come back to join in the fun.

Hangman walked up to Phoenix, worried that he had really upset you and wanted help from the girl you were closest to. “You don’t really think I pissed her off, do you?”

She sighed, “I don’t know, Hangman. Even if you did, I doubt she could stay mad at you for long. She can't be mad at anyone for very long.”

Jake nodded and watched you stand up from your spot at the table.

You finished your beer and stood up, “I’m gonna head out.”

Maverick frowned, “You sure you’re okay, Y/N?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I just really need to shower. I’ve got sand in places sand shouldn’t be,” you said with a light laugh.

“Okay, drive safe. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.” You collected your stuff and headed to your car.

Jake noticed you leaving and tilted his head, “Hey…” He patted Coyote on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

He jogged up to the table to ask Maverick if he knew anything.

“Is she okay?” Hangman asked as soon as he came to a stop. Maverick shrugged, not looking up at the pilot, “She seemed okay. Said she needed to shower.”

Jake let out a breath, “So she isn’t mad at me?”

“I didn’t say that. But as far as I can tell, she’s just tired.”

Jake licked the sweat off his upper lip, putting his hands on his hips as he looked down.

“Hangman, honey, just go talk to her. If she’s upset with you, she’ll be honest about it,” Penny encouraged, giving Jake a small smile. He nodded and jogged to go find you before you left.

You were standing by your car, the door opened as you moved to get in when he approached.

“Hey, Y/N,” Jake called as he walked over to you. You smiled, “Hey, Hangman.”

Jake swallowed, “Look, I’m sorry about earlier. I was just messing around. I did-”

You held your hand up, cutting him off, “Jake, I’m not mad at you. I know you were just playing. But your tackle jump started my bladder and I wasn’t kidding when I said you were heavy.” You giggled a bit to show him you were teasing.

Hangman visibly relaxed at the sound, “Okay, good. I know I like to get under everyone’s skin. Sometimes I don’t know when to knock it off. I–”

You held up your hand, cutting him off. “Jake, I can handle your teasing. Yeah, you can get a little mean. But I know it’s all a big show. Come here,” you opened your arms and made grabby hands at Jake.

He just shook his head and chuckled, pulling you in by your outstretched hands and letting them find their place around his built torso.

He rubbed his hand on your back, nearly missing the slight tensing right beneath your shoulder blades before they relaxed. His brow furrowed but he didn’t mention it, thinking that maybe it was you tightening your arms around him.

He kissed the top of your head before you pulled away.

“Geez, Jake, you’re sweaty.”

“You’re not too dry yourself, Rockstar.” You laughed and playfully shoved him away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N.” You smiled and slid into your car, “I’ll kick your ass tomorrow Hangman.”

He scoffed leaning on the roof of your car and the open door. “Since when did you get so cocky?”

You smirked and placed your glasses on your head, forgetting that your eyes could still be red and puffy from earlier. “It’s not cocky if it’s the truth.”

Jake shook his head and looked back to the shore. “Uh-huh. We’ll see.” He leaned back and patted the top of your car. “Drive safe.” You nodded, and he closed your door.

He watched you start it up before driving away.

Jake shook his head and made his way back to the group.

Speaking of the group, they had all noticed the change in Jake when you showed up at the Hard Deck a few months ago.

While he was still his cocky self, having no shame in bragging and trash talking, he seemed to tone it down when you were around.

They also noticed how he always made sure to find you in the crowd, keeping an eye on you. Coyote joked that you had Hangman wrapped around your finger, that he would be at your side with a simple look.

Jake was painfully aware of the effect you had on him.

When he met you a year ago, he was starstruck by your dazzling smile.

So, naturally, in true Hangman fashion, he flirted with you.

With a toothpick between his perfect white teeth and his bright green eyes shining under the yellow lights of the bar, he walked up to you.

“I sure hope no one left you alone.”

When you turned, eyeing him up and down to take in the uniform, beer bottle popping as it left your mouth, his breath was ripped from his lungs.

“Well, you’re here now. I’m not alone.”

Seeing your smile up close caused Hangman to blush, and leaving him thankful that his tan could somewhat hide it.

“Well, ain’t I special.”

You nodded, giggling while looking down at the bar, “That you are. But, before this can go any further, I’m gonna be honest, I’m more dedicated to my work than anything else at the moment. And I have to be up by 5, so I’d hate to lead you on.”

Jake shook his head, but you continued, gesturing around the bar, “I’m sure there are plenty of girls here that would love to get attention from you and give you attention.”

Jake smiled –not smirked, smiled– while leaning on the bar, “Well, the only one I want attention from is you. Plus, I can’t stay out too late either. Gotta be at work early too, so I guess we’re both clocking in early.”

None of the feelings that day had been one sided. You also had been starstruck by Hangman.

He was broad shoulder, tall, tan, and had a voice that could make a girl swoon in a second. But you knew he was a pilot, his uniform gave it away, and you knew how they acted. Except, you liked Jake’s company and decided to talk all night with him.

Ironically, what you both did for work never came up.

So, imagine the look on Jake’s face when he saw you the next day in your flight suit.

“You didn’t tell me you were a pilot.”

You smirked, “You didn’t ask.”

He shook his head, biting his lower lip to hide his smile but failed.

You nodded to him, “What do they call you?”

“Hangman. What about you?” You smiled, “Rockstar.”

You were able to peg why he earned his callsign very early on but he couldn’t seem to figure yours out.

Until he had a close call and couldn’t shake it.

The last day of training had just ended, tomorrow you might not come home, and to say you were nervous was a major understatement.

As you changed to get ready to go out with the squad, you couldn’t stop shaking. You knew you needed a drink… okay a couple drinks.

While you changed, Hangman was walking around, looking for you.

When he walked past the locker room, he caught a glimpse of you reaching to pick something up.

He turned to walk in, but stopped when he saw that you only had your pants on. But, before he could stop himself, his eyes trailed up your back; starting from above your waistline on your pants and going up.

Then he stopped, his eyes widening when he saw the large scar that looked fairly new – maybe a year or so old. It spanned from the middle of your left shoulder blade to nearly below your ribcage and was positioned diagonally across your back.

Jake quickly looked away, realizing that you must have not wanted anyone to see it if you hadn’t told him.

His brow furrowed as questions ran through his mind. Was that why you freaked out during dogfight football, the other day? Why you always tense up when you get an unexpected touch there?

Shit… He thought, feeling like a horrible friend for never noticing and never asking.

Jake took a deep breath and walked away, choosing to approach the locker room differently and pretend he never saw you.

He put on a smile and walked back towards the locker room, “Hey, Rockstar! You almost ready?” He stopped just short of the door, leaning his back against the wall.

Your head jerked up as you pulled your t-shirt down. “Uh, yeah, Hangman. I’ll be ready in a second.”

You finished getting ready and walked out, jumping slightly when he pushed off the wall.

“Geez Hang, don’t do that!” You punched his arm.

“Gosh, I forgot how hard you punch.” He chuckled and rubbed the spot on his arm as you both walked to the parking lot.

You all sat in the Hard Deck, drinking and playing pool.

“Dude, she’s kicking your ass!” Payback laughed as he clapped Hangman on the shoulder.

You were, in fact, kicking Jake’s ass in pool. You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped as the blond narrowed his eyes at Payback.

“Yeah, you feelin’ okay? You’ve been off your game tonight Bagman,” Rooster commented, smirking as he drank his alcohol.

Instead of clapping back at the jab, Jake just rolled his eyes and lined up his shot.

That made you frown, Hangman always had a comeback. Always had sarcastic quips to embarrass the other person. But he was silent.

You made eye contact when he stood, silently asking if he was okay. He just nodded and moved to sink another pool ball.

You didn’t want to drop it, but you did for the sake of having fun before facing the chance of death tomorrow.

Sometime later, after a few rounds of pool and drinks, you all stood around and just talked.

“Hey, did you guys hear about that one pilot that saved her WSO’s life when they got shot down?” Bob asked, looking around the group.

You clenched your jaw slightly, but not enough for anyone to notice.

“Bob, that happens all the time. It’s kinda what we do,” Phoenix said, squeezing his shoulder.

Rooster stood up and sat his beer down. “No, not the way this pilot did. Bob, I know who you’re talking about. I read the mission file, the only thing that was classified was the pilot and WSO’s names.”

You swirled the beer in your glass, not looking up from the amber liquid. “Did the pilot survive?”

When you finished asking, you looked up, trying to ignore the watchful eyes of Hangman as you met Rooster’s eyes.

The latter nodded, “Uh, yeah. Yeah, she did. But she had a pretty serious injury. I’m not sure if she was ever clear to fly again.”

You nodded and looked back down at your glass.

“And the WSO?” Jake asked, eyeing you as you downed the rest of your drink before looking at Rooster and Bob.

“He survived. But I don’t know if he still flies,” Bob answered.

“Well, that’s good that they both survived,” you said, your smile returning to your face.

Rooster shook his head a bit, “Yeah, but that pilot pulled a risky move. Saving some like that…”

Your smile dropped a bit, “People have their reasons.” You raised your glass, “I’m gonna go get another drink.”

Hangman watched you leave as the conversation changed into something more light hearted.

Jake took a step to go after you but Coyote caught his arm. “Hey, come on. Play me in a round of pool. Let’s see if you still got your game.” Jake looked from his friend back to you and saw you laughing with Penny and Maverick at the bar. That allowed him to relax a little bit.

“Oh, I still got my game. Let’s see if you found yours,” he smirked. “There he is!” Coyote laughed and clapped Jake on the back.

As Jake played pool with Coyote, you talked with Penny and Maverick.

“Are you serious?”

You nodded, laughing at Penny’s reaction to you telling her how you and Jake met.

“Pen, why are you surprised? Hangman flirts with every girl,” Maverick said, using his hand to point the direction of the mentioned pilot. You and Penny both nodded your agreement.

“Sounds familiar,” Penny says, a playful grin on her face making Maverick roll his eyes.

You had become so invested in your conversation with Penny and Mav, that you missed Rooster coming up behind you.

He placed his hand on your back, right on your scar, making you tense and jump in surprise.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya’ Rocky,” he took his hand off and leaned on the bar.

“You doin’ okay? You seemed a bit…” He glanced back at the group, thinking of the right word. “...tense a minute ago.”

You bit the inside of your lip, had you really been that obvious?

Still, you nodded and gave him your best smile.

But to him, he could see that it didn’t reach your eyes. He may not have been your best friend, but he had seen plenty of your genuine smiles and this one did not make your eyes shine like the others.

Bradley decided not to press, “Okay…” He turned to Penny, “Penny, could we get another round?” The bartender nodded, “Of course, but you’re reaching your cut off.”

Penny had set a cut off for drinks for the pilots not wanting them to go into this mission hungover. You chuckled and glanced back at the group, all of them messing around and having fun. “Yes ma’am.”

You turned to Rooster and then back down to your empty glass. Penny hadn’t refilled it yet, having started a conversation with you as soon as you came over.

You glanced at your watch, seeing that you had been there for a couple hours.

Penny sat a tray down, placing the full glasses on top. “There you are, Rooster. Who’s tab?”

Rooster opened his mouth to tell her to put it on his, but you beat him to it, “Put it on mine Pen.”

“You got the last round, Rockstar,” Rooster argued. You shrugged, “I don’t mind. Plus, I’m closing my tab for tonight.”

“What? You’re heading out already?” You nodded, sliding Penny your card, “I’m hitting my limit, Roos.”

Bradley searched your eyes for a moment, looking for any indication that something was wrong.

You were usually the one that made sure everyone was okay to go home and if they needed rides; so leaving early rung bells in Rooster’s head.

Penny gave you your card and receipt, “Thank you.” “Thanks Pen,” you gave her a smile before turning back to Rooster.

“Tell ‘em I’m heading out. I know if I do it I won’t be able to leave.” You gave him a one armed hug and turned to Maverick, “See you in the morning, Captain.”

“See you in the morning, Rockstar.”

Penny gently squeezed your hand, giving you a small smile as you slid off the bar stool and walked out.

Rooster, Maverick, and Penny watched you leave the building before turning to each other, concern written all over their faces.

“Is she okay? She’s been acting a little off ever since dogfight football the other day,” Penny asked the two pilots.

They both shrugged, Bradley looking up at her. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“I’ve noticed, but I thought it was just because Harvard and Yale had to eject the other day,” Mav admitted. “We were all a little shaken up by that…”

It was silent for a minute.

“You know… if one person knows anything, it’d probably be Seresin,” Penny said, pointing over to the pilot, who was very invested in the game he was winning, and basically suggesting that they talk to him.

Bradley sighed, knowing that Penny was right and if anyone knew you the best, it would be him. He grabbed the tray, thanking Penny and walking over to the group.

They all cheered when he sat the tray down, taking a glass for themselves.

Jake noticed that there was an extra and he frowned in confusion before he realized it was for you.

He looked up, eyes searching for you in the crowd, panicking a little when he couldn’t see you, “Where’s Rockstar?”

Rooster sighed, “She closed her tab and left. Said she reached her limit.”

Fanboy frowned a little bit, “Why didn’t she just tell us herself?”

Rooster shrugged, “Said if she did it would take longer for her to leave.”

“Does she seem different to you guys?” Coyote asked, finally voicing his concern that had buit up over the last few days.

The group shared a look before making small noises of agreement.

“I mean, she’s still the same Y/N. Still lighting up a room and being there for us like she always has been… I just… I don’t know.”

Rooster looked at Jake, “Hangman, you’re like her best friend, do you know anything?”

Jake shrugged and shook his head, “All I know is she’s nervous for tomorrow and the accident the other day shook her up a bit, but she hasn’t said anything else.”

He took a large gulp from his beer, hoping to swallow the confession of seeing your scar that he wanted to bring to light. You trusted Jake and he wasn’t about to ruin that by telling the squad what he saw when he wasn’t even supposed to know it was there.

Meanwhile, you walked the beach, taking in the fresh and salty air. You just needed the quiet time before you went home.

You sighed and pulled out your phone, seeing a text from Hangman and laughing slightly at the message.

Hangboy: Hey, I get that I kicked your ass those last few rounds of pool, but you could have told me you were leaving. I would have walked you out. Text me when you get home.

Also, there was an extra beer. I assume it was meant for you, but you left so I drank it. Don’t worry though, I can handle it.

You shook your head and opened your phone, but not to text Jake.

You went to your contacts and pressed the caller ID, putting the phone to your ear as it rang.

“Hey, Rockstar, what's up? It’s been awhile.”

You smiled, sighing, “Sure has been, Tundra. How are you? How’s the little one?” “I’m good. Ben is great, he wants to know when you’ll be by again to visit.”

You giggled at the fact the 6 year old wanted to see you. “Soon… hopefully.” “Y/N, I know that voice. Is it happening again?” You shook your head, despite the fact that Tundra couldn’t see you.

“No, no. Well, sorta, but this is different Diego.” You heard him shift, presumably crossing his arms. “What do you mean?”

You sighed, remembering that you couldn’t share all that much about the mission, even if he was former Navy.

“I don’t know how much I can tell you. But I got called back to TopGun, and I could be flying out on a mission tomorrow. A dangerous one.”

“Y/N, do they know?”

You shook your head again, this time to fight tears. “No, but I’m scared that mid air, I’m gonna freeze. I don’t wanna freeze, Diego. I haven’t frozen since our incident. But I don’t know what’s been wrong these past couple of weeks. I can’t seem to shake off this dread… this-this fear. I do-don’t-”

He cut you off, “Have you talked to anyone recently?”

You were silent and he took that as a no. “Y/N, you have to talk about it if you ever want to move past it.” “I did though. I had mandated therapy for my entire time in recovery.” “And have you been since you recovered?”

You threw a hand up, frustrated, “I thought I was past it! I hadn’t had an attack in a year, not until we were playing football. I-I thought it was just a one time thing, and then something happened during training and I just-”

You were cut off by a small, tired voice.

“Is that Aunt Y/N?”

“It is. Do you want to talk to her? I think she needs to talk to you.” “Yes, please!” You smiled as you heard the phone go to speaker and then be passed to the little boy.

“Hey, Aunt Y/N!”

You smiled, tears finally falling, “Benarino, hey buddy.” “I miss you. When are you coming to visit?” You wiped at your eyes with a shaking hand. “Soon, buddy. Really soon,” you sniffled.

“Aunt Y/N, why are you crying?”

You laughed, coughing a little at the end, “I just really miss you Benny. I can’t wait to see you.”

You looked back at the Hard Deck, seeing your fellow pilots laugh and sing.

“I’m gonna bring a friend too. If that’s okay with your mom and dad?” “That’s alright with me, Rockstar. I’m sure Lila won’t mind.”

“Who is it?”

You brought playfulness into your voice, “You remember the pilot I told you about? The one that thought he could fly better than your Aunt Rocky?”

The little boy giggled, “Yeah!” “Well, I think it’s about time you brought home the boy that stole your heart.”

“Diego,” you hissed. “We are just friends.” “Mhmm, sure.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes, “You should probably get Ben to bed before Lila wakes up.”

You heard Diego grunt as he picked up his son, “Goodnight Benny Boy.” “G’night Aunt Y/N.”

“Call me when you make it back.” You nodded, hand sliding into your back pocket, “Yeah, of course. Night Tundra.” “Night Rockstar.”

The call ended and you slid your phone into your unoccupied back pocket.

You took in a deep breath, trying to relax again. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In, out.

On an inhale, the scent of smoke filled your nostrils and it made you hold your breath.

Quickly looking around, you spotted a bonfire a couple yards away. Realizing it was harmless, you let out the breath and tried to relax your shoulders.

But, despite knowing it was completely harmless, your body went into a state of panic. Your chest tightened, limbs went numb, pain spread through your back, and tears filled your eyes.

You held a hand to your chest, the air stopping just before it made it to your lungs, and stumbled to your car as fast as you could, hoping you weren’t seen by your friends inside the bar.

Jake looked at his phone as he left the bar. You hadn’t texted him, and by now you definitely should have been back to your on base bungalow.

Hangman wasn’t going to panic, he knew you well enough that you would have texted or called him if something bad happened. Of course he felt anxious, who wouldn’t, but he was going to remain calm.

The reason you hadn’t texted him when you got home was because the moment you fumbled yourself into your place, you booked it for the bathroom.

Your knees smacked into the tile and you threw up whatever alcohol you had consumed before the strangled sob ripped itself from your throat. You crumbled to the tile as your chest refused to let air in.

Your skin felt hot and sticky, sweat coating it as you laid on your bathroom floor. It wasn’t helping you, your damp, hot skin sending you back to one of the worst days of your life.

So, in a frenzy, you ripped off your shirt and kicked off your shoes and socks before yanking your pants off, not even loosening your belt.

You crawled over the tub wall, too dizzy to properly stand, before fumbling with the knob to turn the water on.

Once you got it turned on, you jostled the faucet switch, a desperate sob escaping as it kept falling down before it finally stuck, turning the shower on and drenching you in water.

And that was how Jake found you.

Jake decided to stop by your place and check on you, that being his only option to get his anxiety to go away.

When he pulled up to your place and saw your car there, he let out a breath of relief.

He parked his truck behind your car and ran to your door, his chest lighter than before.

But his chest became heavy again when he made it to your door only to find it unlocked. You rarely left your door unlocked, if ever.

He cautiously pushed it open, looking around to see if anything was out of place.

Your keys were on the floor, your phone and wallet not too far from them.

Jake walked further in, making sure to close and lock the door behind him.

He held his breath as he looked for you. But his search was cut short when he heard the shower running.

He exhaled and had to take a minute to calm the drumming in his chest.

He cautiously walked to the bathroom, making sure to knock before walking in. He kept his head down so he didn’t see anything he wasn’t supposed to… again.

“Hey I was-”

The door stopped, hitting something on the floor.

Hangman squinted his eyes in confusion. It was your shoe. He kicked it out of the way and pushed the door open enough for him to just step in and close it.

He stopped with his hand on the door, realizing that the room didn’t feel like a sauna. There was no fog covering the mirrors and steam wasn’t filling the small space. You always showered hot, and right now the bathroom was freezing.

Jake finally looked up and saw you curled in the shower, the water cascading from the faucet and hitting your back. It was obvious you had been there for a while because you were shivering.

Jake sat on the edge of the tub cautiously, not wanting to startle you.

His heart broke at the sound of your quiet crying and the puffy redness of your eyes was a sight Jake never wanted to see again.

The eyes that usually held the brightness of the stars and a kindness that was unmatched, were now red, distant, and constantly filled with tears that fell over and mixed with the water drenching you.

He hated it.

Jake held his hand under the water and recoiled at how cold it was.

“Shit,” he cursed as he quickly turned it off.

When you didn’t react, he knew you truly weren’t in this reality.

“Y/N,” he spoke gently and touched your arm. He sharply inhaled when he discovered how cold you were. “Y/N, darlin’, we need to dry you off and get you in some warm clothes. You’ll get sick.”

Jake wasn’t sure if you heard him because you just stared ahead, biting on your nail. He sighed and pulled your hand away from your mouth.

He moved to pull his hand back but you grabbed it, your freezing cold hand latching onto his warm one. “Please don’t… Jake, please don’t leave.”

Your voice was quiet and broken, raw with fear. And he was sure that sent a shiver up his back.

Jake quickly shifted to kneel beside the tub, his thumb rubbing back and forth on your hand. “I’d never leave you hangin’.”

He looked you over, “Can I pick you up?” You nodded, letting his hand slip from your grip and feel it wrap under your legs.

He awkwardly shifted to lean over and pick you up, grunting a little as stood up. He was too pressed about his clothes getting wet, he’s sure he’s got pants somewhere around here.

Jake managed to open the bathroom door and walked to your bedroom.

He sat you on the bed and quickly grabbed the towel on the back of your desk chair.

Wrapping it around you, Jake kissed the top of your head. “You’re okay. You’re safe,” he spoke gently against your hair.

He pulled back and watched you bite your lip to keep your tears hidden.

You avoided his eyes, looking at your shaking hands.

“I’m gonna get you some clothes, okay?” You slowly nodded, lip trembling before you bit down on it again.

Your eyes didn’t follow him as he walked around your room, but your ears were very aware of Jake’s noises; everything from his footsteps to his mumbling.

In under five minutes, neatly folded clothes were placed beside you and Jake kneeled in front of you, his large hands resting on your biceps gently.

“Do you want me to stay while you change?”

It took you a second to register what he had asked, but he was patient and rubbed reassuring circles on your arms with his thumbs.

You inhaled, the familiar scent of his cologne calming you down a bit.

You were tempted to say yes, you didn’t want to be alone but you also didn’t want Jake to see you any more vulnerable than he already has.

You shook your head, unconsciously pulling the towel tighter around you.

Jake noticed it and nodded, “Okay, I’ll go tidy up your bathroom and throw some blankets in the dryer to fluff them up and get ‘em warm.” He gave you a small smile and stood, leaving the room and the door open just a crack.

You managed to peel off the wet bra and underwear, drying off before changing.

That simple task was exhausting. It felt like your bones had turned to rocks and your muscles no longer existed. But eventually, you did it.

You haphazardly dried your hair, basically just dry enough to where it wasn’t dripping, and walked into the small living room.

You sat on the couch, deciding to occupy your hands with your oversized shirt while you waited for Jake.

Minutes later he was on the couch beside you, wrapping you in the fresh-out-of-the-dryer blanket.

“Thank you…” Your voice had a rawness to it that made Jake shiver, something was really wrong and he didn’t know how to help.

He nodded and rubbed your upper back, “Of course.”

He sat there for a moment, just listening to your sniffles and weeping exhales, before finally turning to face you.

“What’s going on? ‘Cause this-” He gestured to you and your current state. “-is way more than just nerves for tomorrow.”

“I’ll be-”

“If you say ‘fine’, I swear,” he sighed to control his volume. “Y/N, you are not fine.”

“Jake…”

The blond pilot took a deep breath, looking at the sliver of couch cushion between you. “I saw it…”

If you weren’t going to be honest, then he needed to be. Maybe what he saw is connected to what was shaking you to your core all of a sudden.

He finally looked up at you and watched your breathing halt as fear filled your eyes.

Jake continued, making sure to keep his tone even, “I didn’t mean to. I was just looking for you in the locker room today and I-” He stopped talking when you choked out a small cry.

He immediately pulled you into his lap, one hand going to the back of your head and the other arm wrapped around your lower back. “I got you… I got you.”

Jake closed his eyes and rocked you a little as his mind went back to the day these roles were reversed.

Jake had sat in the locker room, flight suit half off and tied around his waist. His knee bouncing as his eyes went in and out of focus.

“Hangman!” You called as you ran down the hall. But he couldn’t hear you with the blood still rushing in his ears.

“Hangman! Hang- There you are!” You jogged to him and saw that his emerald eyes were blank, not the playful or confident eyes you normally saw. “Hey, Hang- Jake what’s wrong?” You knelt in front of him, putting a hand on his bouncing knee to stop it.

Jake looked at you, the concern swimming in your eyes breaking whatever resolve he had left.

The tears he tried so hard to hold in finally spilled down his cheeks.

You instantly cupped his face in your hands, wiping them away, “What’s got you so shaken up? I’ve never seen you like this.”

He shook his head, pushing your hands away as he sat up and leaned against the locker. “You’re not supposed to.”

You sighed and leaned back on your heels, “What happened up there?”

Jake wiped the still flowing tears, shaking his head, “I don’t know. I guess- Fuck I don’t know, Rockstar.”

You stood, “Talk to me, Jake. Please, I’m your friend and I want to help.”

Your tone was desperate and worried. This was a new version of Jake that you would have never seen if you hadn’t followed him off the tarmac.

Hangman finally got the guts to grab your hand and squeeze it. He took a deep breath as he tried to collect himself.

“I almost lost you up there. You’re one of my closest friends, we’ve only known each other for a few months and I feel like we’ve known each other forever. I never let myself be that close to anyone, but you made it so easy.”

His voice was raw and shaky. He was scared, but you couldn’t blame him. What just happened to you both was really intense and it was scary. But you were both okay.

You squeezed his hand back, giving him a soft but encouraging smile.

“Can we just- Shit this is gonna sound so weird…”

You knew where he was going, so you straddled his legs and wrapped him in a hug. “I got you Jake, I got you.”

That was when Jake realized the backstory to your call sign. You were everyone’s rock. You kept everyone sane, even at the expense of yourself.

Which is why you were currently shaking and sobbing in his arms. You never sought out comfort for your problems, a bad habit you picked up in high school. You always put everyone first, and you had it in your head that you couldn’t be vulnerable.

You pulled away from him, not meeting his eyes, “I’m sorry…”

“Why the fuck are you apologizing?”

“Because I-”

“Because you’re being vulnerable in front of someone?” You nodded, unconsciously playing with your fingers. “Look at me, please.” You did, biting your lip to hold your tears in.

“You are allowed to be vulnerable. You are allowed to cry. You are allowed to be scared. You shouldn’t have to hide your feelings from your friends. I’m sorry if we ever made you feel like you couldn’t talk to us.”

You nodded, staying silent, focusing on how Jake had moved his hand from the back of your head to your cheek to rub his thumb back and forth on your cheekbone.

Your silence broke his heart a little bit, making him think you didn’t trust him. But he knew he had to be patient with you.

He goes to move his hand away but you hold it there. “I thought I was over it…”

“Over what, Sweetheart?”

“The accident…”

Jake pushed some hair behind your ear, “What accident?”

You took a deep breath, closing your eyes as a few tears rolled down your cheeks. He wiped them away as he spoke softly, “Take your time…” You nodded, swallowing as you tried to catch your bearings.

“A year before I was stationed with you, I was flying a mission. It was dangerous, but still fairly routine. On my way out, I got hit. It completely destroyed my weapons system. Before I could get back up, I was hit again. This time it took out my engine.” You took another deep breath, looking up at the ceiling.

“We were dropping altitude fast and my WSO and I had to eject. We landed on a beach, we unbuckled so fast,” you chuckled, remembering the relief you and Diego felt before the shit hit the fan.

Jake smiled a little bit at the sound, but dropped it when you started talking again.

“However the jet had also crashed onto the beach too. The fuel had leaked and caused an explosion. I covered my WSO, and a piece of scrap metal lodged itself into my back.”

Jake’s eyes widened, more dots connecting in his mind, “You’re the pilot the squad was talking about at the bar…”

You nodded, wiping your eyes, “Jake, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. It’s just… when I was in recovery, if I wanted to fly again, I had to go through therapy. And I haven’t had an attack in a year…” You got choked up again, hot tears rolling down your face, “Hang, I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head, using both of his hands to wipe your face, “Hey, don’t be sorry. Do I wish you would have told me sooner? Hell yeah, but I understand why you didn’t.” You just nodded and relaxed into his hands.

“What happens when you have an attack?”

You took a sharp inhale through your nose before sighing it out, “It depends. I sometimes get flashbacks of the beach, everytime I close my eyes I just see fire and it’s fucking terrifying. Other times, when it gets really bad, I can feel pain in my back, but that’s rare.”

You bit your lip a little as you looked away, and Jake knew, “That happened tonight didn’t it?” You nodded, coughing a little bit, “Yeah, uh, yeah it did.”

“Was it because we talked about-”

“No," you said quickly. "W-well, I mean kinda… yeah. But there was a bonfire happening on the beach, and just the two things… my brain went into panic mode. Before you ask, I don’t really know what triggers it. But during dogfight football-”

Jake’s eyes widened and he dropped his hands, “Fuck, Y/N, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“Exactly, Jake, you had no idea. It’s not your fault. It was just the pressure on my scar made me panic, and I was back on that damned beach. But I’m not mad or upset with you because you had no idea. So don’t beat yourself up, please.”

Jake nodded, bringing you into a hug again, being mindful of the scar. “Jake, you can touch it. I know I’m safe.” He said nothing and brought a hand to run over the covered scar before tightening his hug.

“Can you tell me about him? Your WSO?”

You nodded, “Diego Harding, call sign Tundra. He has a wife and a son.”

“That’s why you-”

“Yeah, that’s why I covered him. He had a family to go back to.”

“What about you?”

You sighed again, using Jake’s shoulders to sit up, “Most of my family served. My dad was killed in action when I was young. My mom died when I was a teenager, leaving Piers to raise me for a little bit. Then Piers goes and sacrifices himself… so I didn’t have anyone to come home too.”

You shrugged and got off his lap, but snuggled into his side.

He rubbed lazy circles on your bicep. “Well now you do.” You looked up at him confused, “What?”

“You’ve got me to come home to, and I’ve got you.” He placed a chaste kiss on your forehead. “Don’t get sappy on me, Seresin.” He just chuckled.

It was silent for a moment.

“Promise me that you’ll do your best to fly back to me,” he asked in a hushed whisper as if he were telling you a secret.

“Only if you do,” you whispered back.

He held out his pinky, “I promise.” You nodded, interlocking your pinky with his, “I promise too.”

“Can’t break that now, you know,” he chuckled, squeezing your pinky a little. You giggled a little before yawning, “I know, cowboy.”

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intheorangebedroom · 4 months

Text

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 4

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. Christmas on a Friday means you won't be meeting Frankie this week. This break away from each other might be just what the two of you need to consider if you should carry on with whatever this is…

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 @frannyzooey you mean more to me than you will ever know 🧡

Word count: 14.3k

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Chapter 4: Frankie

Frankie scratches the stubble on his jaw. Behind the green screen of his aviators, under his creased brow, his eyes are riveted to the red light in front of him. His grip on the steering wheel too tight for safety.

Something has to be wrong with this light because he’s been waiting at this intersection for ten minutes at least.

He takes in an angry breath. Loud, but constricted. Yet it’s enough for your scent to fill his lungs.

It might be a trick of the mind, because it’s been six days since you’ve been in here, and it’s still everywhere around him. It floats in the cab of the truck. It clings to the fabric of the seat. It’s woven into the suede leather of his jacket.

It’s probably what it is, just a trick of his brain, but he’d like to know for sure. If your presence has pervaded the whole space, or if he’s losing his goddamn sanity.

The light changes to green. His head rolls back on the headrest, eyes drifting close.

It’s a light fragrance. A pale shade of yellow, and celadon green. Orange blossom, citrus, honeysuckle. It’s the very last days of spring, when the air is still chill, but the sunbeams are warm and blinding. Before summer sets everything ablaze, the southern wind, the asphalt, the concrete walls and the bodies. It’s the first sunny day on a pale winter skin.

And there’s the sweet musk you exude, mixed with his own, when he’s fucked you hard and thorough.

The car behind him honks and he jolts up in his seat, knees knocking against the wheel. He puts the pedal down to the floor in less than a millisecond, tires screeching, engine revving up.

What the fuck is wrong with him? What is happening to him?

The route to Will’s place is a familiar one. He drives absentmindedly down streets and avenues lined with palm trees, his mind wandering. To Lua’s shot, that’s due next week; to his Thursday shift he has to swap with Felix. To the gutters that need cleaning, and the front door he should repaint. To the overnight diapers he has to restock soon.

To the feel of your smaller hands cupping his face, and the coolness of your touch. To that tiny pink wound on your forehead and the weariness in your eyes. To that scar on your knee in the shape of a grid, and that other one on your inner thigh you try not to let him see. To those two dimples above your ass and your scent, fuck, your scent, it does something to him. Something he didn’t ask for. Something he wasn’t prepared to deal with.

When he turned around, back in that dive, and his eyes met yours, he didn’t feel anything. Or rather, he felt everything, all at once. The end and the beginning. The sweetness and the pain. Blood and honey. It was all there, contained in your luminous, telling eyes. He saw something in them. Something frightened, but brazen. A hunger. A madness. A longing. Something he recognized, and wanted himself.

He took in your general appearance, the expensive clothes, the even more expensive bag, and he turned back around. Tried to convince himself you were just some corporate executive, bored with your life, looking for a cheap thrill and a quick fuck.

He could sense your gaze, burning holes through his shirt into the muscles of his back, those damn eyes, wide, exhausted. And they kept boring into him. Strong, determined. They wouldn’t let go. You wouldn’t let go.

So he left. He got up and stormed out. Went home to the guest room sofa, and his sleeping baby, and tried to forget about you.

Your eyes kept haunting his nights. And his waking hours too. And since he’s been clean, his days have gotten considerably longer.

No more drugs meant sleepless nights, followed by never-ending stretches of daytime, with nothing to sustain his focus but stress and coffee. It means going to work, and flying on three hours of nonconsecutive sleep, while his thoughts swirl in his overwrought brain. Nothing to take the edge off.

He hadn’t realized the weight he was carrying until Lua was born.

As long as he was in the military, he had kept his head straight. So many guys he served with were using; all kinds of shit. A genuine feel good hit of the summer. It was disconcerting, the ease with which they could score pretty much anything, in just about any country where they were deployed. As if it were made accessible to them purposefully.

But not him. He had never needed it. His focus was sharp, his mood even and leveled, his mind clear. Every fiber of his being striven towards one goal: to watch over his brothers. To leave no one behind.

Things started going south after he’d retired. They followed him. The ones he had left behind. Those times he’d been too quick on the trigger. All of them, soldiers and civilians. Faces without eyes. Deep, bleeding cavities, and dark gaping holes where their mouths should have been. Brothers and enemies merging into one big shapeless and viscous mass of casualties.

They came to him at night, and soon, he stopped sleeping. Exhaustion exacerbated his temper. His control became tenuous. But somehow, he still kept going.

When he met Lupe, he had told her everything. Five days a week, she was the voice in his headset, steady, constant, as she dispatched him and the crew of paramedics to wherever the emergency was located. She sent him to brutal, deadly pile-ups on the highway, burning high schools or heart attacks on remote hiking trails with an even tone that aroused his curiosity and inspired his trust.

When they’d started dating, he confided in her. The nightmares, the difficulty focusing. She understood, but she also didn’t want anything to do with it. She’d answered with a blunt warning. I have my own shit to deal with, Morales, I’m not in this to save you. He didn’t want her to, anyway. He wasn’t her responsibility.

He had stayed. And so did she. Things were good enough. They were in love. She was already well into her thirties, with a job that didn’t leave much time for dating, and even less for starting a family. She wanted a kid more than anything, and he thought normalcy would do it. That it would ground him enough to fix him.

After Lua was born, he resorted to drugs to numb out and function. At the time, he had considered it to be a momentary solution. He needed the energy to care for her, not to keep it together.

The drugs helped at first. It helped with the nightmares. It helped with the realization that flying had, for most of his life, been his sole purpose, main goal and greatest talent, and that he’d used it to destroy, ravage and kill. It helped with the guilt. Even as it generated more of it.

The benzos put him to sleep for dreamless hours, and then the coke kept him awake throughout the workday. He thought he’d find some sort of footing.

It didn’t help long, though. He got caught fast. Almost as if he wanted to be. And then it was all burning shame, and disintegrating self-esteem, with no means left to escape any of his feelings.

Lupe gave him hell, rightfully so. His sister said nothing, which nearly killed him. She wired him money so he could hire a good lawyer. She’d been the one to advise him in the first place to think twice about bringing a baby into his mess. He still hated himself for not listening to her.

What hit him the hardest was the suspension of his pilot license. Who was he, if not a pilot?

After the bust, he invested everything into being a good father. Lupe found it in her to forgive him, and things were pretty good for a couple of months.

Until Pope came back with his bullshit idea. Frankie watched his friends buckle and fold, one after the other. Ben, Ironhead and Redfly. Until he had no other choice but to follow suit. Watch over his brothers. Leave no one behind.

Flashes after that: Redfly coming back in a plastic bag, to join the mass of eyeless, gaping holes that kept him awake at night.

The cruel irony of his suspension being lifted within a mere two weeks after he’d crashed that fucking Mi-8. Pope going into hiding, perhaps dead himself. The rest of them left here to slowly fragment, standing amongst all the things they broke beyond repair, with nothing to show for it.

And then that one day, you collided into him.

When he came back to the bar two weeks after your first encounter, it was with the firm intention of giving you what he thought you wanted. Scratch your itch, and his. Fuck you once, use you as an outlet, same way you probably wanted to use him.

The very moment he saw you step inside the bar, he understood how wrong he’d been.

You were not out for a cheap thrill or a quick fuck; you were not a bored, cynical executive looking to mix with the very working-class you exploited.

You were in pain. Numbed out. Withdrawn. Absent.

For some reason, that fucked him up hard. He tried running away from you, but you came after him, headstrong. You sought him out. Without hesitation, or fear. And something held him back, prevented him from running away too fast or too far. He let you catch up with him.

You wanted him. You want him still.

The sounds you make when you come, that breathless moan, full chest, empty mind, he knew he was in trouble when he pulled it out of you that very first night in the parking lot, against his truck. You clung to him, cold hands with a feverish touch. He was greedy and you thrashed before you went slack in his hold and right away he had wanted more. He risked a taste, licked his fingers, and you were heaven. You were unreal.

He wanted to know so much more: what did you feel like from the inside when you came? How much of him could you take? What your voice would sound like after he’d fuck your throat?

How much of you really existed? How much of you had he made up?

He soon found out. About the sensation of your soft skin under his rougher hands. About your patience. About your scent. A pale shade of yellow and celadon green. Intoxicating.

At the beginning, he thought you were coming to him for degradation, as much as for pleasure. There wasn’t a single debasing act he could come up with that you didn’t let him do to you.

You’d take anything he gave you.

Week after week, you let him fuck you numb, fuck you rough, fuck you raw. Tie you up, fold you down. Cover you in come, choke you on his cock, spit in your mouth.

Friday after Friday, you kept looking at him like you couldn’t believe he was still here, pounding you blind into that shitty mattress. Not grateful. Surprised. Or relieved. He didn’t know what to make of it, of that dignity you forfeited when you crossed the threshold of that room that very first night. Of your surrendering.

In retrospect, you understood your dynamic much faster than he did. Back then, he was still struggling with the idea that you were real.

He grew wary, and in his head, a refrain started playing. Tonight’s the last night. There won’t be a next week.

He couldn’t stop, though. One last night, that turned into two, then three, then four. He finally started getting decent nights of sleep, a restful slumber of which he felt undeserving.

He had to put a stop to this. Just one last night, and there wouldn’t be a next week.

He knew even more when his curiosity started to drift elsewhere. To your life outside the room with the brown rug and the yellow curtains. To that inner island of yours, the contour of which he was only starting to make out through the fog of his blunt desire.

You kissed him like you knew he’d never be yours, so you’d be his instead. Like his breath was yours. Like your heart only beat under his hand. And yet, you kept eluding him, silent and slippery. The paradox drove him insane.

He grew restless in between Friday evenings, booking the room earlier each week. He forbade himself any other kinds of relief, and instead turned to books. Browsing, flipping pages impatiently, searching for words and concepts. Intellectual tools to rationalize the feeling of you, to understand your presence and describe your scent, because you wouldn’t let him name you, and probably never would.

He thought that if he didn’t come inside you, perhaps you’d keep coming back to him.

It only made him want you more. The relinquishing drop in your shoulders, every time he asked you to stop him. He became obsessed with the thought of giving you what you knew better than to want. And in his head, the refrain kept playing.

One last night. One last fuck. One last fix.

In comparison, it had been easier to quit coke.

He can’t explain your pull. The way his body gravitates towards yours. He can’t explain the visceral craving.

Aloof and soothing, with a will so hard and unbending it scares him, you take, everything that festers ugly inside him, and absorb it, making it disappear. You turn it into something beautiful, something that blooms and purrs and breathes. Orange blossom and honeysuckle.

What do you do with all his rage? How do you cope with it? Where do you get this strength from?

Your strength. He’s only beginning to fathom the magnitude and depth of it.

It’s hidden beneath the surface of you, dormant, nestled in your quiet resilience, your accidental resistance. The remoteness of your gaze. It’s in your plea for him to take, until he knows he’ll stop breathing if he stops giving in.

That place within yourself, where you retreat not to get hurt. That’s where he wants to find you. That’s where he wants to live.

When you didn’t show up two weeks ago, he should have been relieved. He’d got out easy. You’d taken the decision for him. Inside his chest, however, anxiety chewed up his heart and set his nerves on fucking fire. The possibility that your absence was unwilling. That something might have prevented you from coming. Something, or someone.

He had your plates written down in the little spiral notebook he kept in the glove compartment of his truck. He could’ve pull some strings, found out your address. Fuck, he could’ve found out your name. But it felt like a violation even thinking about it, no matter how sickly worried he was. Like a step too far into madness. Something he wouldn’t come back from.

And then, you did show up. Exhausted, wounded. Twice as determined. He felt the overwhelming urge to get you into his truck and drive away with you, and never come back.

He felt the familiar grip of wrath, a blinding surge of hatred for this man who’s not quite your husband.

Pulling in front of Will’s building, Frankie puts the truck in park. He grazes a palm over his face, eyes falling on the ugly condo to his left. The teal-colored, budget paint peeling off the sunburned walls in large flecks.

He sighs, remembering Will’s former house. The one he shared with his fiancée before she left him. Two stories, bow windows on the top floor, a white porch with a swing. Lilac trees in the front lawn. Conversations about having kids.

He readjusts his hat, fingers deftly combing through his hair, takes the six-pack next to him on the seat bench, and exits his truck, dark eyes quickly scanning the block for Ben’s car. The beat-up Camaro is nowhere in sight. He didn’t expect Ben to be on time anyway, but he’s hoping he won’t take too long to join them.

In the narrow corridor leading to Will’s apartment, a neon lamp goes off and on in a spasmodic, irritating blink. The damp stench of molded wood cloaks his tense frame. He knows that if he tilts his head down to his shoulder and inhales deeply enough, he’ll find you there.

He doesn’t.

Before he brings down his knuckles to the door, Frankie exhales long and slow. With closed eyes, pursed lips. It’s useless. His shoulders won’t relax.

When Will opens the door, Frankie’s taken aback by how good he looks. How normal. Thick blond hair kept short, with a carefully trimmed beard. Brawny shoulders, creaseless shirt, alert gaze. Seemingly unchanged, incomprehensibly constant.

Frankie leans a little longer than necessary into his friend’s full-body hug. When he lets go, the tall man briefly narrows his eyes at him, a steel-blue, surgical stare from behind long blond lashes.

“How are you doing, man?” Will asks in his lazy drawl.

The dim hallway feels too small for the two of them. Frankie’s skin is pulled taut under Will’s unblinking scrutiny. He lowers his head, tucking his face into the protective shadow of his hat.

“Good. Same,” he mumbles.

Benny’s buoyant entrance saves him, and it’s more hugs, bulky shoulders colliding, hands clasping and eruptive greetings as they slowly make their way inside the apartment.

“How’s my goddaughter?” Benny asks.

Frankie smiles at the question. A genuine smile, crinkled eyes and dimpled cheeks. The warmth of the younger man’s baritone spreads in his chest. It’s the care in his words.

“She’s good. Growing up fast. I think it’s just a matter of days before she walks, now.”

“The minute she walks, I’m gonna teach her how to throw a punch,” Benny grins.

Every time he visits, it takes Frankie a minute to adjust to the contrast between the exterior of Will’s building and the interior of his apartment, and tonight is no exception. The small, one-bedroom’s white walls look like they’ve been freshly painted. The sofa’s cushions are puffed as if no one has ever sat on it. Every surface is spotless, not a dust particle flying. The coffee table is bare, no glass of water, not even the remote control lying on it.

Matching frames lined methodically on the living-room walls display family pictures, chronologically arranged, as well as a couple of shots from their time together in the Army. Frankie catches a glimpse of his younger self, cropped curls, sharper jaw, smoother grin. His arm is wrapped around Pope’s shoulders. He averts his gaze.

In the kitchen, the stainless-steel sink is shiny and empty, clean dishes neatly stored away in the overhead glass cabinets. The stove looks like it was just delivered.

Frankie knows himself to be tidier than most. When they started dating, Lupe would often tell him it was one of her favorite traits of his.

But Will’s ability to inhabit a seemingly unlived place is unsettling.

They take their usual seats around the small, round kitchen table. The two brothers fill up the room. Benny’s presence is bright, cheerful, in complementary contrast with his brother’s density and observing silence. Frankie lands somewhere in the middle. Like a bridge. Like a common ground.

The conversation flows between them, effortless. It would be easy to believe nothing has changed. Up until nine months ago, they used to meet at least once a week. Fight nights, bar nights, gym nights... Pope was rarely in town, Tom busy trying to make ends meet, so it was often just the three of them.

Now, Frankie seldom sees the Millers more than once a month. But after thirteen years, ten of which they’ve spent serving side by side, he knows them well enough to notice the invisible changes.

There’s a new sort of gravity to Benny’s demeanor. His laughter isn’t as loud, not as immediate. A loss in spontaneity. There’s Will's unusual patience and leniency toward the young man. The nervous glances at his watch whenever his brother’s late.

Lately, Frankie has caught himself envying the two men’s bond. The many quiet ways in which they look out for one another. A tightly packed unit. Blood tied.

He could call his sister. Hell, he could even hop on a plane with Lua and fly across the country to visit her, Lupe could probably use the break. His sister would listen. She already has. And she never judged.

Will places three more cans of beer on the table. Frankie hesitates. He doesn’t need a DIU in his Christmas stocking.

“What are you guys doing for Christmas? Going back to Colorado?” he asks, stalling.

“Yeah, we’re flying tomorrow,” Benny answers with a slow nod. “Can’t leave mom alone.”

Frankie finds himself trapped under Will’s gaze again. It’s charged, with what, he cannot tell yet, but he’s ready to bet he’ll find out before the evening ends. That fourth beer is really tempting. Instead, his thumb finds the target tattooed on his left hand, blunt nail worrying at it.

“Say, Fish,” Will starts.

Here it comes.

“I met Lupe the other day at the grocery store.”

Frankie nods, steeling himself. Chin up, to meet his friend’s eyes. There’s the metallic crunch of a tall boy cracked open, followed by the bubbly, high-pitched hiss of the beer.

“Wanna tell me why she’s under the impression that we see each other every Friday evening?”

A second pair of storm-blue eyes dart to his face. If he wasn’t caught in the middle of it, Frankie could find the scene almost comical.

“Wait,” Benny cuts in, “you guys are back together?”

Frankie shakes his head. “No. No, we’re not.”

“But you still live together,” Will states, impassive, carrying on with his interrogation.

“For Lua,” Frankie says flatly.

Those two words have come out of his mouth for what feels like a thousand times in the past nine months, to family, close friends, colleagues, and acquaintances alike. Today, for the first time, he realizes how incomprehensible, how irrational it might have sounded to all of them.

“Why are you lying to her, then?” Will leans in closer, his face contrasted in harsh shadows under the overhead suspension.

“Look Will,” Frankie starts, his tone a notch too defensive, “I appreciate your concern, I know this comes from a good place, but I’m not on anything, ok? So you can– you can drop it.”

The request is rhetorical. Desperate, really. Ironhead is not known for letting go, once he has latched onto something. Across from Frankie, Benny drinks up in silence, eyes flickering between the two men and the growing tension that hangs like smoke between them.

An ugly apprehension creeps up along Frankie’s nape.

“I know you’re not using. I can tell. You look better than I’ve seen you looking in a while, aside from the fact that you’re wound up pretty tight. But we’re in this fucking aftermath together, Fish, so I gotta ask: what the fuck is it that you do every Friday evening?”

Frankie sits up straight, folding his arms over his chest, blood simmering.

“Are you saying you don’t trust me?” he asks, keeping his voice even.

“No. That’s not what I’m saying.” Will cocks his chin toward Benny as he adds, “I trust you with mine and my brother’s life.”

“But not with mine,” Frankie whispers, comprehension finally dawning on him, and somehow, his friend’s concern hits him harder than an unlikely lack of trust. Something snaps and goes slack between his shoulders.

Benny moves suddenly, his massive frame leaning forward. Propping his forearms on the table, he lets out a long, low whistle.

“Holy shit, man,” he says, “Fish got himself a new girl.”

Will frowns. His eyes do a quick back and forth between his brother and Frankie, who hangs his head, hiding under the brim of his hat, hissing an angered fuck.

Benny erupts in thundering laughter. Around them, the tension bursts open, the entire atmosphere dripping with it, the air moving again.

“No. No, I don’t,” Frankie mutters, shaking his head.

His denial is drowned under Benny’s booming voice.

“Come on! Look at yourself, old man, you’re fucking blushing! You got yourself some pussy!”

“Do you? Did you meet someone?” Will presses, trying to lock eyes with him.

Frankie gives it to him. Raises his head and looks him dead in the eyes, shaking his head still, a vein ready to pop in his corded neck.

“I didn’t meet anyone. She’s not a girl. I’m not talking about her here,” he grits.

Will leans back in his chair. It creaks loud and tired under his weight. He lets out a heavy sigh, of relief perhaps, or deepened worry.

“Come on, Fish! Give us something. At least tell us what she looks like,” Benny teases.

He opens another beer and slides it over to Frankie across the table.

Will’s eyes have yet to leave his face.

“Why don’t you tell Lupe about it? She’s the one who broke up with you,” he remarks.

“Less than nine months ago. After I fucked up, yet again. She’s the mother of my kid, Will, she’s been through enough on my account.”

Will nods in silence, apparently satisfied with this explanation.

“Anyway, it’s nothing. There’s nothing to tell,” Frankie adds, swallowing the bitter taste that sits at the back of his tongue.

Silence settles over the three of them. Frankie grabs the can and brings it to his lips, downing half of its content in long gulps.

Your scent is there, right there, meshed into the fabric of his jacket. It takes all of his willpower not to turn his head and breathe you in.

“She’s married, is she?” Benny asks with a shit-eating grin.

Will’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline in sheer horror.

“Is she?” he asks, plunging forward to look at him.

Frankie grinds his teeth, jaw flexing, eyes clenching shut.

“Fish, is she married?” Will repeats, a shrill undertone in his usual low drawl.

“Well, I, for one, am not judging you,” Benny declares, giving his brother a pointed look and raising his can as if to toast Frankie.

Frankie sighs.

He’s never going back to that motel.

—

You don’t like champagne, but that’s all Adrian’s parents ever serve you. It’s fine. For once, you don’t mind. You’ll be driving later today, so you need your mind clear and your reflexes sharp.

You cradle the tall glass in your hand. The taste has long gone stale, the liquid lukewarm in the warmth of your palm. The bubbles are flat. On your lap, your phone buzzes quietly with a new message. Across the table, Adrian’s eyes dart in your direction, annoyance darkening them.

You swipe your thumb across the screen, and a smile plays on your lips at the sight of Ava and Polly grinning for the camera. They’re sitting in the middle of a large group of women, you quickly count twelve of them, wearing a rainbow of paper crowns.

They’re gathered in front of a festive table. A small living-room, brightly lit, cluttered with art, lamps, and plants. A Christmas tree stands in the left corner. In front of them, the plates are loaded with what looks like turkey and roasted vegetables. Napkins, cutlery, candles, and decorative pine tree branches scattered on the table. There’s a large cake dish at the center, on top of which sits the highest lemon meringue cake you’ve ever seen, the topping at least three inches high, clearly homemade.

Some of the women are holding wine glasses, white or red, half full, lipstick smeared on the rim. The photograph has captured them mid-cheers, their lips pursed around a word that’s not yet a smile. The picture is all crinkling eyes, ringing laughter, colorful clothes and flushed cheeks.

You tap your thumb on the screen in fast motions.

Gorgeous! All of you!

Wait, is that turkey vegan?

You add a winking emoji to clarify your tone before pressing send.

The three dots blink briefly and the dark-haired, shrugging emoji pops up on the screen.

You chuckle.

It’s Xmas!!!!! Lexi’s filling is fkg delicious!!!!!

What abt u? U holding up????

The little round yellow face, with its mouth turned downward, stirs guilt in your gut.

Ava was tearing up again, when you dropped her at the airport two days ago, despite your many reassurances that you would be perfectly alright. It’s not your first Christmas apart, but it’s the first one with over a thousand miles between you. You want to put her mind at ease. For her to remain carefree as long as life allows her to be.

I’m good, pup ♥ But I’d be even better if I was about to eat that meringue cake, OMG!

It’s not a lie, not exactly. Of course, it’s the first time in decades you’re completely sober to face the ordeal that is Christmas diner at Adrian’s parents. It’s almost an outer body experience. But strangely, not the nerve-racking one you feared. You anticipated worse. For every sensation to be impossibly loud, blinding, sharp. For your mind to spiral downward at the first uncomfortable interaction.

It hasn’t. You’re nervous, but also focused. And that grip provides you with just enough balance. This year, you’ve got a clear course of action. At least for the upcoming couple of days. One step at a time.

Pinching the screen, you zoom in on Ava’s face, before your eyes flicker up to the dining table you’re sitting at and the people around it.

Everything’s beige. From the tablecloth linen to the leftovers growing cold on the plates. From the Christmas tree and the guests’ clothing to Adrian’s mother’s hair.

Beige, bland, boring. Ashen.

The only touch of color is on Adrian’s face. Those ruby-colored specks spreading to his cheeks from the neck, standing out in his pale carnation. A reaction you only seem to arouse when he’s furious with you.

His mother announces dessert will be served in the jardin d’hiver, which is how Beatrice insists on calling the back porch.

Your phone vibrates, signaling another text from Ava. You slide it in the pocket of your jumpsuit without opening it. Adrian glowers at you a second longer before walking over to the end of the table to assist his grandmother.

His brother nearly races him to it. You watch the grown-up man in his bespoke Armani suit get up so fast he nearly trips over the legs of his chair.

Their motivation is not honorable. Affection doesn’t play into their eagerness. There isn’t a member of the Mountcastle family who harbors love or respect for the 92 year old, acrimonious matriarch. In their defense, she’s a dried-up, nasty piece of bigotry, built on pure, solid hatred, even by their conservative standards and values.

But she owns the estate and she holds the money. And so the two Mountcastle spawns scramble to their feet to make a show of their devotion.

The whole clan gets up to form a procession behind the old woman’s frail, hunched silhouette. Parents, aunts and uncles, in-laws and cousins, children in ruffled dresses and short dress pants flittering around them. Your so-called family. You can barely tell them apart.

Detached, you stride slowly behind, toward the back of the house. You haven't worn heels in two weeks. It’s quite surprising how fast you got unused to them. Your slick, black pumps press uncomfortably on your little toes, rubbing your skin raw. But you won’t be wearing them much longer. So you suck in the pain. You let it ground you.

Your choice of outfit elicited a stern glance from Adrian when you slipped it on this morning. He hovered behind you, disapproving and silent, still riled up from your earlier confrontation when you had announced you’d be driving your car to his parents’ house, so you could leave early.

You stood in front of the mirror, rigid and hesitant, sliding up the side zipper. A sleeveless black jumpsuit with a V-cut cleavage in the front, and a deeper one exposing your back, bought in a thrift store ages ago, when you were still in college. You exhumed it from the depth of your closet, in hopes it would convoke the boldness you had briefly experienced during this short period of your life. You’re done dressing to please anyone but yourself.

The help walks briskly past you through the double, ornate-glass doors leading to the porch. She lays a porcelain tray on the console near the railing.

“La bûche de Noël!” Beatrice declares triumphantly, opening her arms to gesture theatrically at the brown mass on the tray.

A wave of blond heads undulates toward the console, blue eyes in every nuance darting at the dish where a log-shaped lump of a cake sits.

“What is this monstrosity?” her mother-in-law croaks.

The entire family falls silent. Your eyes grow wide and you bite down on your grin.

Beatrice instantly loses her carefully crafted composure. It’s never been obvious to you until now, how vacant her gaze turns whenever something upsets her. You briefly wonder what’s her drug of choice to escape. You sure hope she has one.

“Oh but it’s French, Abigail,” she murmurs. “It’s a delicacy. I bought it from Sucré Table, on Kennedy Boulevard.”

“What’s wrong with an American pecan pie?” the matriarch spits out without so much as a look for her daughter-in-law.

Beatrice smiles her empty smile, sharp yellowed teeth, hardened gray eyes. You can’t bear to look at her any longer. You turn your head, and your gaze meets Agatha’s.

The young girl instantly lightens up, straightening her back in her baby-blue seersucker dress, smiling at you with something you can only describe as relief. She raises a little hand and wriggles her thin fingers. The ten year old is your favorite. You love her dearly. Her bubbly personality and burgeoning sense of humor have seen you through many family gatherings.

Today, it hurts you to admit, you’ve kept her at arm’s length, selfishly preserving yourself from Beatrice’s favorite question: when will you have a child of your own?

With a slight wince, you blink away the vision of Frankie holding his little girl in the photo booth picture. Their full heads of curls. Their dimpled grins.

Charles, Adrian’s father, is the first to break the uneasy silence, with a playful albeit daring remark on his mother’s failing sense of adventure. The assembly lets out a collective breath. Beatrice takes a seat on one of the cushioned wicker chairs, curtly signaling the help to cut the bûche and serve it.

You exhale slowly through parted lips. If you wait any longer, courage will fail you.

Smoothing your palms over your belly, you make your way to Adrian, where he’s leaning against the railing at the rear end of the porch.

“I’ll be going, now,” you whisper, eyes not quite meeting his.

He sighs, something constrained and hostile, facing away toward the sprawling, lush garden, hydrangeas, willow trees. Tension rolls off his lanky frame. Your stomach turns, your mind swivels, grasping for words of reassurance.

Incomprehensibly, you want him to talk to you, even though you’re terrified of what he might say. The poisoned words he’s capable of, somehow preferable to his irate silence.

“I’ll excuse myself to your mother before leaving. I’ll be discreet. I promise. I won’t do anything to jeopardize your–”

He turns to face you so fast it startles you.

“You could at least tell me where you’re going.”

You look up at him, taken aback by his pained expression. Under his pinched brow, his features are twisted in an unfamiliar expression. He slithers a hand around your waist, drawing you close, and it strikes you: he’s pleading.

A breath hitches inside your chest. From this close, you can see the flecks of green in his pale blue irises. You had forgotten their complexity. Their refined beauty. He tightens his grip on you, fingers curling into your tender flesh. The lie tumbles out of you before you can hold it.

“I’m just going to check in on Ava. It’s her first Christmas on her own.”

You catch a glimpse of his mother in your peripheral, handing out Bone China dessert plates. The heady perfume of the hydrangea bushes is going to your head. The day is swirling inside your brain, around you, jardin d’hiver, French dessert, delicacy. Agatha’s desperate little wave, her loneliness, your cowardice. Adrian’s eyes of green and their angry plea.

Your lungs constrict, not letting you breathe.

Adrian tilts down his face, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath skates your skin when he speaks.

“What happened to us, babe?”

His lips brush against the edge of your jaw. Static scrambles your brain; your hand motions upward of its own volition to rest on his back. The pain, the remorse in his voice sits like a razor blade inside your throat. You have to talk around the taste of your blood, voice unrecognizable.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise.”

It’s not a lie. You will be back tomorrow. Facing a blank page, the rest of your life to figure out, to navigate with what you’ve learned about yourself.

His hand moves, sliding down to rest in the small of your back, the muscles of his back flexing under your light touch, and your palm, your entire body registers the difference. In sensation, in mass, in warmth.

“I miss you,” he whispers against your lips.

—

The car stereo plays a classical rendition of Let it snow. Ten minutes into driving, you gave up trying to find a station that would broadcast something other than Christmas tunes.

The traffic is fluid, the roads eerily deserted. The windows on both sides are cracked open, and the warm, late afternoon air that wafts in soothes your sore rib cage.

Your mind keeps wandering to the previous Friday, when you sat nestled into Frankie’s side as he drove aimlessly. To the smooth fabric of his jacket under your cheek, to the heat of his chest, to his solid breadth.

You stop it.

The memory is always a thought away. But it shouldn’t be summoned at random. You can’t risk its erosion. There won’t be another one.

You’re disappointed to find a lanky young man sitting in Raul’s place behind the counter of the motel’s office. His blond hair is tied in a bun on top of his head, and his phone blasts pop tunes in audio slices of fifteen seconds through revolving TikTok videos. You want to cover your ears. Or smash up his phone.

He hands you the key, and you all but rush out of the office, only slowing once you’ve reached the front door of your room.

Before stepping inside, you halt under the porch.

Beyond the parking lot, beyond the road, over the horizon, dusk descends in dark tangerine over the canopy of trees. Slowly, the sky turns saffron in seamless gradations. The air feels textured, grainy like an old photograph, like long-gone, sunny vacations, like faded memories. The evening breeze is pleasant. The night envelops you, violet-blue, regrets and losses.

Inside room number 2, you draw the yellow curtains. You stand still for a few moments, confused, your routine disrupted, since you’re not expecting him.

It’s too early to sleep, but the tension that has run through you throughout the week, culminating with Adrian’s kiss, is now flowing out of your body, leaving you limp.

Adrian hadn’t held you like that in years. With passion and intent. Perhaps even sincerity. He’d never done that, attempted to use your nostalgic heart to his benefit. Intimidation had usually sufficed.

Toeing off your shoes, you slowly undress. You fold your clothes in a neat little pile, similar to the one you found on the desk last Saturday. Military-like.

The questions you never asked Frankie flood your brain. All the things about him you will never have the time to learn. They form a lump in the dip of your collarbone. They prickle under your eyelids.

You clench your eyes shut, and invoke the image of his daughter’s face, trying to picture their Christmas celebration to strengthen your resolve. Pecan pies and half-nibbled, minute portions of roasted turkey. Red boxes wrapped in white ribbons under the blinking tree. A teddy bear. Jigsaw puzzles with large pieces. Plastic toys with pushing buttons and synthetic lullabies. A rocking horse, maybe.

The image of him with that little girl has plagued you, continuously, throughout the week. Pain cloaking you like mist, seeping inside you, breaching the molecular structure of your flesh. Redefining it. Until you woke up one night, drenched in cold sweat, with a certitude ringing out inside your head: you had to give him up. Give him back, back to his wife and daughter.

You’d go to the motel one last time, one last indulgence, to say goodbye to the idea of him, and you’d give him back to his family.

When your heart rate has slowed down, you walk over to the bathroom to wash your face clean. You’ll miss your reflection in that black-edged mirror. You don’t smile and say, “Stop me.”

The bedspread is gross. The polyester fabric, once a peach shade of orange, is darkened in multiple places by stains of various shapes and consistencies. You’re probably responsible for most of it.

Grabbing a corner of the heavy quilt, you slide it off the bed entirely. The white linen underneath seems clean enough.

You climb into bed, and repress a shiver. You switch off the lights and pull up the sheet to your chin. The fabric is threadbare, starchy.

How can you be so cold, in the mild evening?

Lying curled up on your side, eyes strained on the curtains, you don’t feel yourself falling asleep.

Soon, you’re miles away from the motel, your naked body drifting into the Pacific Ocean. You’re half-immersed, but afloat. The undercurrent is strong underneath the white crests of the violent waves, but you’re not scared. As long as you lie in the water, as long as you don’t try to resist, you’ll be fine. Ears beneath the surface, you’re isolated by the silence of the dark abyss, eyes staring up into the immensity above you.

It’s a different kind of sunset. Flamboyant, carmine, and the whole sky is ablaze with it. The horizon is on fire, but you’re safe in the water.

A vague intuition roils your peace. You’re supposed to look for something. How, you don’t know, because you cannot shift from your position, or you’ll sink.

Suddenly, something tailspins across the sky in a fast downward fall. Too small to be a bird, too slow for a shooting star. Thick streaks of ominous gray fumes trail behind it in its descent.

Should you be scared? Should you try to get away from it? It’s so far in the distance, it can’t be much of a threat. It’s too late, now, anyway, you tilt your head to the side in time to watch it collide with the surface of the ocean.

You feel the impact in the undertow. Something too big stirs between your lungs, and you gasp as the muted sound of the collision reaches you in a vibrating shockwave.

The ripples of the impact are crawling fast over the surface, in your direction. A sense of dread, of impending doom, scrambles your brain. You jolt upward to a vertical position, legs and hands beating against the current, pushing against the water.

The balance is fractured. You’re pulled under.

You’re sinking fast, as fast as that thing fell into the ocean, and above the surface, the crimson sky is turning dim.

Instinctually, you rebel against it, screaming for help but it’s water, not air, that fills your lungs. Salty, cold, abrading your throat when you choke on it.

You’re dying, or you’re dead already, because something firm and soft radiates heat against your back.

“Shhh, it’s ok.”

A strong arm bands firmly around your chest, warm palm, splayed fingers, pulling you flush against warm skin.

“I got you, baby.”

Your eyes shoot open. The dark bedroom materializes in your blurred vision, the silhouette of the bedside table and the lamp, the pale square of the window. Its shape detached from the wall, dancing in the darkness.

“Frankie?”

Frankie presses you into him, a short, strong squeeze of an answer.

But your dream is clinging to the edges of your consciousness, salty water sloshing at the bottom of your lungs.

“‘S that really you?” you ask again, words slurred through sleep, panic in the inflection of your question.

His hand wraps around your breast. He slots his face into the curve of your neck, the scruff of his jaw a tickle against your bare skin.

“Why, you were expecting someone else?”

You close your eyes, tears rising, sudden, like the tide of the Pacific Ocean.

“I’m not still dreaming?” you breathe out.

His response is immediate. His teeth graze the slope of your shoulder. The bite is shallow, but firm, and you let out a little sound, between a surprised gasp and a relieved exhale.

“See? Not dreaming. Go back to sleep, I’ll take care of you in the morning,” he mouths against your skin before kissing it better. A pointed kiss, plush, parted lips. A promise.

The impact of that thing on the surface of the ocean is still pulsating through you. Ricocheting around your rib cage. You wiggle into his hold to turn around and face him, your palms finding the plane of his broad chest.

Your entire body registers the difference. In sensation, in mass, in warmth.

In the semidarkness, you can only make out the outline of his sharp features. You scoot closer, tucking your face into his neck, taming the vibration with his scent.

“Will you still be here in the morning?”

You feel the thick swallow in his throat against your temple. It’s a beat before he moves, tilting his head to rest his chin on the crown of your head, both arms circling your waist. Engulfing you in his hold.

“I will.”

—

Frankie knew you’d be at the motel. Instinctually so. A gut feeling, unnerving in its clarity.

He hadn’t planned on going when he headed out. He had decided never to set a foot there ever again, and he was going to stand by his decision. After he’d put his daughter to bed, he just needed to get out of the house. Escape the charged atmosphere.

It was Lua’s second Christmas, and he hadn't even managed to keep his family together that long.

Lupe was watching a movie in the living-room. He’d leaned against the door frame, already in his hat and jacket. She hated his hat. She had forbidden him to wear it inside the house when they started dating, and he still abided by that rule. A belated mark of respect.

“I’m heading out,” he announced, as neutral as possible. “Not sure when I’ll be back, don’t worry, ok?”

She was done being worried about him. He knew this much. He understood. He accepted.

They still shared a roof, however. Bills, deadlines, and most importantly, responsibilities regarding the child they had brought into this world. He owed her basic information on his whereabouts. He may have lied about where he went, but he had always been back home before Lua woke up, as agreed between them.

“Yeah, ok,” she answered, without lifting her eyes from the TV screen.

As he pushed away from the lintel, she turned to face him, as if remembering something.

“Wait, Francisco?”

She hadn’t called him Frankie since she’d broken up with him.

“Yea?” he said, backtracking to stand on the threshold.

Her dark eyes glimmered, lit up by the TV screen’s flickering light. She was beautiful. A superior kind of beauty. Like gilded age Hollywood nobility. Dolores Del Rio, Linda Darnell. Even when tired, even with a bare face, and sitting in her pajamas with a bowl of chips between her crossed legs. Frankie hoped Lua would grow up to look like her. To be like her. And not take from him and his rough features. And his fucked up brain.

“Could you stay in to take care of Lua next weekend? I know Friday’s your night, but I— I’ve got an opportunity to get away for the weekend. I might not be back until the 2nd.”

He recognized it in her demeanor. In the way she tried facing him without being able to look straight at him. The discreet, unconscious fiddling of the hem of her t-shirt. The concealment. Handing out a part, but not all the truth. Only what’s convenient.

He briefly wondered if he’d been this obvious when he was running around on drugs. Probably even more so. How she didn’t kick him in the jaw was still a mystery to him. He owed her so much for her patience alone.

“No problem, I’ll be here. Happy to do it for you,” he said in earnest, hoping it didn’t sound too awkward. Hoping she’d get the meaning behind it: she deserved someone else. Someone better.

“Ok. Cool.” She paused before she added, “Appreciate it.”

He nodded in silence and turned around, walking toward the front door.

Originally, the plan had been to drive without a goal. Pop an old Jefferson Airplane album into the truck’s stereo and listen to the music, drifting into the night. Slowly ease down from the day’s tensions.

Your scent had eventually dissipated from the cab. It’d been eight days. He was never going back to that motel, and with her request, Lupe had just made his resolution easier to translate into action.

The words formed inside his mind. He pronounced them out loud.

I’m never going back to that motel.

And he knew. You were there, at this very moment. He couldn’t explain how, but he knew. You’d said you couldn’t come, but it was Christmas evening, not Christmas Eve. Most families were done with the celebrations, heading home, cleaning up, storing away the china until next Thanksgiving.

He pictured you sitting on the edge of the bed, a lonely silhouette peering out into the twilight beyond the yellow curtains, and a violent pain shot through his chest. He thought he was having a heart attack, the way his heart squeezed and sank.

It hadn’t been more than a split second between his vision and his decision. He hit the brakes, ignoring the white SUV honking and swerving behind him, and U-turned on Ocean to head toward the 589 northbound.

When he pulled into the parking lot, the night was pitch dark. Your gray sedan appeared in his headlights. He let out a sigh of relief as he parked behind it. The pain inside his chest was only starting to ebb.

He got out fast and climbed onto the porch in front of room number 2. You hadn’t even locked the door.

—

Dawn wakes you. The light gently tugging at your consciousness, little by little. Pale but insistent, nudging your eyes open.

The room looks so different in the daylight. A miracle you have yet to tire of. Dust particles dancing in the grazing sunbeams of an early winter morning. Quiet and peace.

It’s been a long while since you last slept this well. You sigh at the cliché. A good-hearted, full-chested sigh.

Frankie’s heat behind you is nearly too much. His chest pressed against your back, his left arm, limp and heavy, resting across your waist.

His breathing is deep. Slow, and steady. With each rise and fall of his chest, a thin sheen of sweat glides between your two bodies. His breath ruffles the thin hair on your nape in a gentle tickle.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, you try peeling his arm off you. You’ve almost made it when he suddenly brings it back down.

“Nope,” he mumbles with closed eyes. The word is sleep-heavy, but the corner of his lips are twitching.

You stifle a delighted giggle.

“I have to use the bathroom.”

“Mmh.”

There’s a pause as he considers it, as you vainly try to bite down on your childlike grin.

“Ok,” he finally says, with exaggerated reluctance.

He doesn’t move his arm, though. You have to wiggle yourself out of his hold.

When you exit the bathroom, he’s still in the same position. The room is flooded with light. The sun darts its rays into his sleep-mussed hair. From golden strands to darker depth, his curls are pointing in every direction.

You tiptoe in silence, doing your very best to climb back on the bed without disturbing his slumber. You want this. More than anything you’ve ever wanted. This tranquil moment to yourself, alone with his sleeping body.

Kneeled behind him on the mattress, you take in his breadth, impressive even in this position as he lies on his side. You breathe in his scent, leather, cedar wood, and the musk of his skin, warm from sleep, from the morning sun, from your own body.

There’s a larger freckle on the left side of his neck. Your fingers hover over it, curious, tempted. Drifting higher, your gaze uncovers a faded tattoo behind his ear. You can’t make out what it represents. The green ink is blurred, as if smeared underneath his skin. You doubt it was professionally done. It tugs at your heart with a sharp little pang of a pain to imagine him as a teenager. Tall and lean, smooth cheeks, smooth skin, a friend hunched over him with a needle and an ink pen.

There’s another one on his left hand. This one, you know well. You’ve kissed it. Licked it. Held on to it. It’s nestled on the muscle between his thumb and index finger. Two circles and a dot in their center. A target, you assume, but you can’t be certain. The pile of clothes folded in military fashion springs to mind.

Your eyes continue their exploration, flicking to his other wrist, with its inked arabesque, but it’s over in a second.

You let out a sharp gasp, and he moves so fast you can’t deflect. His arm seizes you by the waist, strong and unyielding. He drags you over his body, and you stumble onto the mattress in front of him.

“What are you doing, back there?” he husks, a smile in his tone, and you giggle, again.

He pulls you in close to him.

“I’m looking at my Christmas present,” you answer.

He lets out a low chuckle. You made him laugh. Pride flares up in your chest. He smiles a dimpled smile, and you suck in a shaky breath, more pain blooming inside your rib cage.

“You’re so pretty in this light,” you whisper in wonderment.

“You’re pretty in every light.”

“How would you know, you haven’t opened your eyes yet,” you tease.

You tease. Your levity makes you dizzy.

His eyebrows disappear in his soft curls. He lifts one eyelid, pursing his lips. The morning sun catches at the mahogany of his iris.

“You questioning my judgment here?”

Smiling, you move your hips closer to his, to where you want to feel him. The low rasp of his voice is dripping down inside you, slowly, surely. Swirling like honey. Thick, rich trickles of amber, sticky and sweet. Like the light playing on his freckled skin. Like his warmth under your hands. Too much and not enough, pooling down between your legs.

Reaching up, you scratch your nails in his beard, tracing the heart-shaped, bare patch on his jaw with your fingertips.

“Is it ok that you’re still here? At this hour?” you ask, focusing on the tip of your finger.

“I don’t know. I hope my truck is not gonna turn into a pumpkin,” he answers, giving your waist a little pinch.

“I hope not. I like your truck.”

Your fingers travel down along his strong neck.

“How’s your head?” he asks.

The bobbing of his throat is mesmerizing. It’s a minute before you’re able to answer.

“You still don’t believe I fell, do you?”

“I believe you. It’s him I don’t trust.”

You’re brought back, violently so, under Beatrice’s porch, into Adrian’s arms and his lips pressed to yours, prying them open. To his taste on your tongue, bitter like stale champagne. Yesterday afternoon. Forever ago.

Perhaps he sees the memory clouding your gaze, because his leg wedges between yours, his body curling around your body. Protective, possessive. He nuzzles into the curve of your shoulder, taking in a deep, full breath. His lips trail open-mouth kisses, tickling and wet, along the line of your throat. You burrow into his chest, into his hold, into his world.

The words bubble up from the depth of your chest, from where they formed between your lungs, where the creature is purring, lapping honey, warm and content.

“My name is Lee.”

Frankie pulls back immediately with a wide-eyed stare. You see, more than you hear, the name rolling around the tip of his tongue, as he tastes it on his palate.

“Lee. Lee. Lee.”

On the third occurrence, his hand circles your hip and slides down to the round of your ass, grasping your flesh as if to hold you down. Make sure you won’t vanish. There’s that perpetual crease between his brow. His heart is thrumming hard and fast against yours. You grow restless between his arms.

“I hate it,” you say.

“What?”

You swallow thickly, mouth cardboard dry.

“My name.”

He props himself up on his elbow to better face your scowling expression, eyes piercing you under his deep frown.

“Why?”

“They gave me my grandfather’s name. Lee Abbott. Lee Abbott & Son, import export,” you recite. “It’s not even mine.”

Your eyes flicker, scanning his face, trying to read the ticking of his jaw, the widening of his pupils.

“I think it’s perfect. Lee’s perfect.”

His voice is breathy, like he just took a punch to the gut, and it sends your mind reeling. Is this what he sounds like when he’s lying?

“How?” You wrestle the question out of your throat, and it’s still barely audible.

“It’s fearless. It’s fucking badass,” he answers without missing a beat, his tone softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“What?” you scoff incredulously. You shake your head on the starched pillowcase. “I’m not badass. I’m not fearless, Frankie, I can guarantee you that.”

The pink tip of his tongue darts between his lips as he narrows his gaze on you. His hand leaves your hip. He brings it up to your face, and he pauses. An inch from your skin, like he’s taming an animal, scared, wild or wounded, or all three, before brushing his knuckles to your cheek.

It’s overwhelming, his body hunched over yours. Crowding your senses. Filling your vision. His rhythmic strokes, rough hand, gentle touch. It’s something you had foreseen but weren’t quite ready to experience: his ability for tenderness.

You’re cornered. Entirely. You should probably be scared. To some extent, you are. But you know you’re safe, the feeling instinctive. You must trust the waves, trust the tide of this deep dark ocean. It’ll keep you afloat. Embrace the impact. Embrace its concentric ripples.

“Ok,” he starts. “Here’s how I see it. Marion… Marion, she’s hiding. She’s running away with something that’s not hers, right? Something she stole. Whereas Lee… Lee got out there and she took chances. She got what she wanted. She made it hers.”

Your heart beats inside your throat, blood flushing your face and rushing through your ears with a deafening roar.

“Did she?”

He nods.

“Yea. Yea, she did.”

He leans down, slowly lowering his lips to yours. His kiss is patient, reverent, slow-building. Plush lips wrapped around yours, tongue gently prodding, softly coaxing you open. Between your arms, his shoulders tremble under the force of his restraint.

When you ease into it with a quiet whimper, he draws you in closer. You arch up in his embrace, fingers threading through his curls, right leg brushing up along his.

His mouth crushes yours with a groan. He licks inside you, tongues entwined, swirling. Honey dripping down your spine, fire licking up your core, electricity tingling along your limbs.

Kisses that are more teeth than lips, when he trails the line of your jaw, the coarse hair of his beard scrapping your cheeks. Calloused hands spamming the expanse of your smooth skin, cupping your breasts, rough and needy, and you feel the hot press of his hard length against your belly as he rocks against you.

Your heart is impossibly light. Like it’s going to rip through your rib cage and fly away. Like you’ll be left without one, and the wild creature, always demanding more, will take its place. Because that’s what it’s been waiting for, since the very beginning.

Forgotten, your good will and resolutions, weak promises you made to yourself. Pushed back, pushed down, guilt and photo booth pictures of his dimpled baby girl. Drowned, intrusive memories, blue eyes, white porch, French delicacy.

He’s yours, he said so himself, didn’t he? For the first time ever, something’s yours, wholly. You got him, because of everything you surrendered.

And it matters not that you’re lying to yourself. That, really, he belongs to somebody else. It matters not when his mouth is all over you, greedy, taking. Devouring you. When his fingers are gliding through your soaked folds, breaching your entrance. When they’re buried inside you, thick and curled and pumping.

When you’re blooming sticky and wet, pretty and dazed, bursting open under his touch, moaning his name.

He’s yours now. In this room. In the gift of your name. In your heart that’s flying away from you as you clench and shatter on his hand.

He pulls up, blown out pupils, damp wild curls falling on his forehead. He drags his fingers out of you and the emptiness prickles at the corner of your eyelids. His eyes are trained on you as he licks them. As he smiles, a cocky grin stretches his gorgeous lips and dimples his pretty face, and perhaps this is as close as you’ll ever get to see him looking like his teenage self. That smug smile. All pride and confidence.

You’re sinking into that shitty mattress, weighed down by melancholy and pleasure and regrets. And something else. Something more stubborn than you, that you still cannot name.

Frankie fastens his mouth to yours, sharing your taste with you, wedging his body between your legs, spreading your hips with his waist.

Your emptiness is throbbing at the center of you.

“Frankie please, please.”

“Yes, baby. Told you I was gonna take care of you.”

Flexing his hips, he rubs his length against your scorching heat, coating himself in your slick. Anticipation tingles through the blunt edges of your previous release. You squirm under the weight of him, knees touching the mattress, cracked open, vibrating.

He lines up at your entrance, dark eyes focused on your face, and oh god, the fucking size of him. The fucking stretch. The burn as he inches in, excruciatingly slow. It has you blinking away tears of pain and gratitude, it has you whining his name.

He’s all blown-out pupils, taut muscles, and slack jaw, as he sheathes his cock inside your heat, all the way in. Round head nudging at your cervix. The sight of him, nearly wrecked, control waning, as he makes room for himself inside you rips through you.

“You feel so damn good, Lee,” he says, impossibly soft, and you feel it inside your chest, with the way he’s lying on you.

It’s a stretching glide, when he starts moving. A spreading grind. You can feel every vein, every ridge of him. He hooks an arm under your knee and folds you around him. He’s not fully pulling out, he can’t, he needs you wrapped around him, this much you understand, clearly, through the annihilation of his deep strokes.

Forehead to forehead, chest to chest, you can’t breathe and your body’s a thinning envelope between your heart and Frankie’s. It’s too much, his weight inside and over you, his breath in your mouth, his smell everywhere.

You’re overwhelmed, forced to surrender to the fire coiling inside you. With the coarse hair at his base scraping against the sensitive bud of your clit, with his cock, hot and heavy, dragging against your walls.

Your body jerks underneath him, fingernails digging into the meat of his shoulder to draw him closer, your other hand pushing him away and he moves fast, strong fingers circling your wrist and sliding your hand above your head, twining your fingers. You’re pinned down. Helpless. Willing. Unmoored by the intensity of the building impact.

He feels it, feels your frantic flutter around his cock and the frenzied racing of your pulse and he drives in deeper, faster, harder. The room fills up with the sound of his sweat-damp skin slapping against yours. Louder than the creaking bed, louder than the headboard’s thud on the wall.

“Oh god!” you cry.

“Come on, baby, give it to me,” he grunts into your mouth.

—

Frankie sees the plea in your eyes, shiny with tears, too wide, too glassy. Come with me, you’re begging him, come inside. He’s never fucked you like that, not you, not anyone, he’s never bared himself so fully. He’s gonna lose himself for good, this time.

You’re breaking up under his rolling hips, bucking hard against the press of his body. Eyes rolling to the back of your skull, clenching cunt, clenched eyelids.

Something blares up in the back of his head. A signal. An alarm.

He can’t even fuck you through it. You let out a broken cry when he pulls out, spurting dense ropes of come on your mound with a tense “fuck.”

A dry little sob rattles through your chest. Muffled, apologetic.

He untangles his fingers from yours, unhooks your leg from his arm. Pushes away from you on the rumpled sheets, and it’s etched on your face, in your pinched brow, in your quivering lip. The disillusion. The void he’s failed to fill.

That fucking heart attack of a pain squeezes at his chest again.

He rolls onto his back, freeing you, and you gulp in a large breath.

In the room, the air is stifling. Charged with the coppery smell of sex. The daylight is unforgiving with the chipped furniture and the moth-eaten curtains. With that ugly painting of the Appalachian.

“Let’s go clean you up,” he says, sitting up with a cinch. Unable to bear your silence.

“No,” you whisper. “I need a minute.”

You shut your eyes close. You retreat. He watches you disappear beyond the shore of your inner island. Where he cannot follow you.

There’s noise coming through the paper thin walls from next door. Several voices, a television, maybe. Further away, the low humming of a vacuum cleaner.

How long until room-service robs you from him?

He lies back down. Stares at your profile, still and absent, cut out in amber against the light from the window.

Lee.

The most beautiful name he’s ever heard. He briefly noted the similarities: three letters, starting with an L. Lee. Lua. A perfect balance.

It tastes like honey. You said, “My name is Lee” but what you meant was, “I trust you.”

What has he done with your trust?

How could he ever imagine himself capable of living without this? Without you? Without this room, even?

His mind drifts to his early morning routine, Lua curled up on his lap, drinking her bottle with those hungry, little grunting noises. Chubby little fingers wrapped around his thumb.

He was always an early riser. Which was practical during his time in the Army. The nightmares, the drugs, they disrupted that. He could be up, without being awake. Without being there.

But lately, he’s the first to rise again, no matter how late sleep finds him.

He loves that Lua seems to know he’s awake. She never cried in the morning. When she was just a newborn baby, she would make those quiet babbling noises. Now she calls his name. Papa.

He comes into her room with her bottle ready. Most mornings, she’s up, already, holding herself upright with the bars of her crib. That smile she gives him, when she sees him. That’s his morning sun.

He picks her up with one hand, she weighs so little, and yet so much. He covers her face in tickling smooches until she stops giggling and starts pushing him away, making grabby hand gestures at her bottle.

These moments of a peace he doesn’t deserve, in the early, blue hours, he owes them to you. You’ve smothered the nightmares. You’ve quietened his mind. Patiently chipped away at the walls he had erected between himself and happiness, with your quiet, determined strength.

Fuck.

You’re getting up. He watches you climb off the bed and saunter off to the bathroom. He doesn’t want to stay alone on this bed, in this room. Without you.

So he follows you, standing on the threshold, leaning on the door frame of the windowless bathroom, looking at you as you clean yourself with a towel.

The paint is coming off on the lintel. The small neon above the sink lights up shit. The shower head is crusty with limestone. Humidity speckles the ceiling in black, hairy dots above the bathtub.

He hates himself for taking you here.

Back in September, he had chosen the place because it seemed sufficiently remote. Because he hoped it would deter you. Scare you away.

He hates that you didn’t even flinch.

He hates that he’s grown fond of this shithole.

You turn and hand him a glass of water. He steps inside with you. You watch him drink up, head tilted and your big, searching eyes on him. The resolve that sharpens them, that he witnessed emerging, Friday night after Friday night, as resignation receded. That’s what guides him now.

There’s something intrinsically soft, a new kind of intimacy, about standing together in that bathroom. Soon, you’ll have to part. The imminent separation hangs heavy and silent between you. Tangible. He wants you again, already.

You’ve sensed the storm raging inside his head. He can tell, because it’s as though you’re trying to absorb it with your calm demeanor. He resents that. Doesn’t want you to. His moods are not your burden to carry.

You take the glass from him and run the water over it to clean it. As if the cleaning service won’t do it once you vacate the place.

His eyes flicker up to that mirror, to your dim reflection. Mussed hair, relaxed shoulders. Your face, solemn, illegible. And his, darker looking. A trick of the weak lighting. Pitch-black eyes, flexing jaw. Towering over you. Threatening.

The reflection is like an old photograph, a decayed daguerreotype that reveals a ghost. A girl and her demon.

He moves forward to crowd you, until your hips knock against the sink, his own pressing against your cheeks, his cock half-hard already. The glass falls into the sink with a clatter when he grasps the hinge of your jaw, twisting your head upward and to the side.

“You like it when I spit in your mouth, Lee?”

You nod. “I do.”

He gathers it inside his mouth, and you open yours, diligent, hungry, pulling your tongue out with a soft whimper, and his cock twitches in the small of your back. His spit rolls down his tongue to yours. You raise to your tiptoes with a needy little moan. He watches your reflection as you swallow.

His mouth crashes over your lips, sloppy kiss, scraping teeth. Hands kneading rough at your tits, rubbing their hardening peaks between his fingers.

“I want to fuck you in that shower,” he growls, teeth finding the edge of your jaw.

You arch back into him with a broken moan, but to his surprise, you say, “We can’t.”

His hand skates down your front, down the slope of your belly, fingers roughly parting your folds and fuck. You’re soaked. You’re dripping for him.

“Why?” he brushes against the shell of your ear. “There’s time. I want you again, Lee.”

“I want you too, Frankie, I—” you try to move away from the sink, your strength a poor match for his. “We can’t because we literally can’t, that shower is impossible.”

Your laughter startles him. Stepping back, he gives you room, and you move immediately, sitting on the edge of the tub to demonstrate. Smeared with your arousal, his fingers circle his cock, absentmindedly, brain fogged in a lustful haze as you run the tap.

“There’s no hot water. Well, there is, a little, but look, there’s only pressure with cold water. And…” you look up at him with a cheeky grin, “that’s kind of where I draw the line.”

There’s a glimmer of pride in your eyes as you deliver your joke.

His heart fucking sinks. He’ll get that heart-attack, eventually.

“You’ve showered in there, with that broken tap, all this time?”

You nod with a bemused smile before you shrug, comfortable, easy.

“Well, at the beginning. I haven’t in a while.” You pause before you add quietly, “I like to keep you on me.”

Frankie lets out a long sigh. His cock resting thick and heavy against his thigh. You make him so fucking hard. You make him stupidly soft. You drive him out of his goddamn mind.

The words come out of him before he gets the chance to think them over.

“I’ll bring my tools next time. I can probably fix it, if I can access the boiler.”

Getting up, you close the distance between you.

“You could fix it?” you ask, wide eyes gazing at him in amazement.

He chuckles, a velvety rumble from his chest, something assertive and low, the sound of which he had forgotten. He considers telling you about his engineering degree. Enumerating all the aircraft he can fly. Fucking boast about it. Because he wants you to know.

The memory of the crashed Mi-8 in the middle of the coca field invades his mind. Twisted rotor, broken hull. Smoking motor, shattered glass. He can smell the gasoline. Feel the sting of his own sweat and blood in his left eye.

You skim your hands up along his arms. Bring him back to you, to room number 2.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he grits through a clenched jaw.

“Like what?” you ask, voice honey sweet.

You curl your fingers around his biceps.

“Like I can ask you anything.”

“Why not? You can.”

He has to tell you. Tell you he cannot come next week, but that he’ll be back the week after. And the following. As long as you’ll have him.

Only he catches it before he has a chance to speak. That shadow that plays across your face. The beginning of your retreat, behind the clouding of your eyes.

“What is it?” he asks, and he has to swallow down the taste of dirt in his mouth.

You let your hands drop to your sides. You can’t even look at him.

“Hey, what is it?” he presses, cupping your face.

“Can’t come next week.”

You’re so quiet, leaning into his palm, no more than a whisper, and it fucking breaks him.

“I’m going to that— stupid ski resort. Every year, I– I don’t even ski. I hate it. I just hate it. All I do is wait around all day.”

Eventually, you raise your eyes to his face as he flexes his jaw. He sees you police your expression for him.

“It’s not that bad. I get time to read,” you backtrack.

Like you triggered the fury his eyes are burning with, and not that piece of shit of a man who takes you to places where you don’t want to be, just to keep you around fucking waiting.

But his anger subsides abruptly. Everything falls into place. Your presence here last night, your sudden sadness. Like him, you had decided not to come here again.

“Were you going to tell me?” he asks, trying to suppress the resigned sorrow from his tone.

He doesn’t need you to answer. He knows the refrain. He’s never going back to this motel.

“I saw the picture in your wallet, Frankie. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. But I did.”

Three letters. Starting with an L. A perfect balance.

“And what does it change?”

His grip tightens, hands sliding through your hair to the back of your skull, thumbs rubbing circles into your cheeks. You’re cold to the touch. You grasp his wrists, hold on to him, like you did last week in the parking lot. Eyes glimmering, a first tear dangling from your lashes.

“Listen,” he starts, “if you want to stop… this, obviously, I won’t hold you back. But—”

He has to pause. Rake his brain for words, words that fail him, words to express the sadness and the loss and the fear.

He breathes deep, and your scent fills his lungs. A pale shade of yellow, and celadon green.

“But I will miss you, Lee. I will miss you so fucking much.”

That tear breaks free. Rolls down your cheek, and he catches it on his thumb.

“I’ll miss you too,” you whisper.

“Then come back to me. Keep coming back to me, baby.”

There’s that pull. The violence of it like a blow. And you must feel it too, because you leap up to him as he leans into you, and your mouths collide. He’s crushing your lips, licking into you, cocking your head to deepen the kiss. Fingers digging into your waist, into your hips, down your thighs as they roam. A harsh, restless furrow. Looking to bruise, to leave a mark, an imprint of him.

Your arms fold around his shoulders, pulling him in, nails denting little red crescents into his skin, and he groans into it. A primal sound that rumbles around you and bounces off the dirty tiles.

His mouth drags wet and hard along your throat. Biting down, sucking in, teeth sinking into your pulse point. He follows it down to your heart. The beating thud, the flowing bloodstream. Hunched over you, lips trailing to your sternum, face burying between your breasts. He bites into the swell of it, pushing the flesh of it into his mouth, latching onto your nipple. A hard suck. Sharp. Painful.

You keen. Folding over him when he falls to his knees. Threading your fingers through his curls with a choked off moan when his teeth scrape the soft flesh of your belly, where you still taste of him. He can smell your sex, rubbed pink and raw from when he fucked you earlier, less than twenty minutes ago.

He bites into the tender skin of your inner thigh, around the long, thin scar you hide there, and you spread your legs wider.

“Good girl,” he grunts.

There’s a knock on the front door. Someone calling “room-service” from outside, and you gasp, hand flying to clasp over your mouth. He couldn’t care less.

“Don’t fucking move,” he growls into your skin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you answer, voice high and breezy, and it shoots straight to his cock.

He lifts your leg, slides it over his shoulder, and you grip the sink for balance with a little shriek as he dives between your folds, fingers curled around the swell of your ass. It’s not soft, it’s not tender, there’s no Stop me. It’s urgent and commanding. It’s messy, desperate, demanding.

His mouth is hard, wide open, cupping your cunt, his neck pulled taut. Tongue curling around your clit, flickering, plunging into your wet, hot center. Licking your slick straight from your walls, drinking you up. You buck into it, riding his tongue, your pleasure, his face, and he groans into your heat.

His face presses up into you until you nearly topple over. You’re all ragged breaths and wanton whimpers. He wants more, wants to feel you from the inside, and it’s a need, really. Your skin melding with his. Your sex scorching him raw.

It’s your louder cry, loud enough to cover the repeating knocking, when he pulls away.

“Gotta fuck you, baby,” he rasps, getting up, grabbing you by the waist to turn you around.

His voice sounds wrecked, as wrecked as he feels. Cock throbbing angrily between his legs.

“Fuck,” you pant, “I want— I want you to— want you to fuck me.”

He watches you, transfixed, as you face away from him, bracing your hands on the slippery porcelain of the sink. Back bowed, ass perked up. Offered. Waiting. Wanting.

“Oh shit,” he pants. “Fuck.”

He catches his reflection in the dark mirror. Black eyes, hungry. Lips shining with your arousal. A carnivorous expression. It scares him. Like he’s about to eat you whole, eat you raw. A girl and her demon. No one to stop him.

Circling his cock, he spits down on it, smearing the saliva down his length with a couple of strokes, and he’s at your entrance, hot like a fever, leaking wet and sticky for him.

Hand brushing up your arched back to curl around your nape, holding you still for him, he drives into you to the hilt with all his strength.

A broken cry rips through your chest. He pauses inside you, sweat breaking on his forehead, eyes trained on where he disappears inside you, forcing you open for him. Less to let you adjust than to revel into it, the feel of you from the inside, clenching around him. Gripping him, breathing heavily with the stretch of him.

“Good girl, good fucking girl,” he husks with an obscene smirk, something akin to pride at how well you take him.

Your head dips between your shoulders and he hears your breathless laughter.

He pulls out of you, cock catching thick and stiff at your entrance, glistening with your slick, and thrusts right back in. He keeps moving. Long, thorough strokes, fast and steady, dragging along your walls, bumping against your cervix. His other hand a bruising hold on your hip, and those little grunts tearing through your throat with every slap of his hips against your ass.

You’re standing on your tiptoes, legs trembling, but pushing back into him. Meeting him thrust for thrust, with your small hands braced around the edge of the sink in a white-knuckle grip, and he can’t take his eyes off it. Off that line pulled taut between your shoulders, your grip, your grit.

Your greed for him. Your fucking determination.

There’s that pull again, that hunger for more of you, all of you. He bands an arm between your breasts and draws your back flush to his chest. You’re always so pliant. His hand a careful wrap around your throat to hold you upright and fuck. You’re a sight to behold. In that black-edged mirror. You’re a fucking vision. The mess he’s made of you. Fucked out, flushed skin, cock drunk. Sweat-damp hair glued to your beautiful face.

You’re gripping his arms with both hands, holding on to him, and your eyes find his in the reflection, burning a hole through his soul like they did all those months ago, back in the bar. His heart trips. It swells furious and pounding inside him, how good you look together, how right this feels, your two bodies entwined, surrendering to each other.

“I feel so good, Frankie, so good when you’re moving inside me,” you tell him, eyes fluttering. Your voice trickling like honey inside him, your sweet slick dribbling around him, soaking the hair at his base. He can hear it with every one of his thrusts. Can taste it where it lingers on his tongue. Lick it from his lips.

It’s gonna fuck him up. How much he wants to be yours. Fuck up his sanity and everything he’s got that he hasn’t yet destroyed, just how fucking much he wants you to belong to him. Only him.

He will carve you into his shape if he can’t carve you out of him.

He skates his hand down to your mound, kneading your soft flesh along the way, the bone of your hip, the small slope of your belly. He finds the hardened peak of your clit, fingers gliding around it.

Driving into you in deep harsh strokes, he presses his lips against the shell of your ear, hot breath fanning your skin.

“Gonna fucking ruin you for him, baby. Won’t let you go until you’re fucked full of me.”

“Oh god yes!”

You clench around him, cunt impossibly tight when he shoves you down on it. He sees the tears streaking your cheeks. Feels the shallow bite of your nails into the tense muscles of his forearms when he grinds against your soft cheeks.

“Watch me, Lee. Watch me fuck you full of my come. Gonna fuck it so deep inside you, you’ll be leaking me for days.”

You suck in a sharp breath. Mouth gone slack, eyes locked on him in the mirror, wild and craving. Everything else disappears, the world fades around your two bodies. There’s nothing but your weight between his arms, the feel of you around him.

Hand wrapped around your neck, he angles up his hips, reaching deeper than he’s ever been, into that spot that makes you cry. His fingers rubbing at your clit, more slick gushing out of you.

There’s a fast coiling heat in his loins. A fire, licking up his spine, balls drawing tight, cock swelling.

“I’m coming,” you whine, “Frankie please—”

The words stretch out of you as you trash into his arms, crashing hard around him. He follows with a grunt, loud, primal, possessive. Pumping his come, thick and searing, deep inside your gripping cunt. His vision darkens.

There’s blinding pleasure. Your skin. Your scent.

The knowledge that you're his.

****

251 notes · View notes

applestruda · 1 year

Text

Aviator scar <3

#goodtimeswithscar #gtws fanart #new life smp #nlsmp #my art #namemc spoilers

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ofsappho · 2 years

Text

Heartless

🔞 Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader 🔞

Fake marriage/marriage of convenience, smut in the next chapter (and the chapters after).

Reader is disabled/chronically ill (and so is the author)

You need health insurance. Ghost is sick of sharing living quarters with the rest of the 141. Soap, your childhood friend, thinks the two of you can fix each other’s problems.

Or, Ghost and you have to convince his command that you didn’t just meet each other and your marriage is totally, completely, 100% legit. Not for any, more practical reasons. And, of course, your married-couple accommodations only have one bed.

Chapter 1:

This will either be the stupidest decision you’ve ever made or the greatest stroke of brilliance you’ve ever had. And there is no in-between.

When Soap ducks his head into the coffee shop, you’re more than a little relieved to see him in one piece, plus or minus a few silvery scars scattered across his face and peeking out of his sleeves, the collar of his jacket.

And the dumbass aviators you bought him as a high school graduation present hang from the dip of his shirt. You know Soap thinks he looks badass, but the placement reminds you more of ‘Patagonia dad who likes hiking’ than it does ‘mysterious hardened special forces dude.’

He’s so built that he has to carefully pick his way between crowded tables, just so he doesn’t knock over someone’s drink or trip into a random stranger’s elbow.

You more or less tackle him into the biggest hug you can. “Soap! You’re not dead!” Ever since he joined his super-duper-top-secret whatever the fuck, you’ve gotten used to the communication dead zones in your years-long friendship. The silence never stops worrying you, though.

Johnny chuckles and practically lifts you off your feet. “Neither are you! Congratulations!” You know he’s relieved to see you as well by the way he ruffles your hair.

You fucking hate it when he does that, which is, of course, why it’s become a tradition every time you see him.

He pisses you off, you piss him off. “Twinning!”

The glare he tosses your way has all the menace of a kitten attacking a curtain. “Fuck does that mean? You know I can’t keep up with your American slang.” You’re a good friend who pre-ordered his ridiculous caramel latte with extra caramel, and Soap sits happily in front of it.

He learned that he enjoyed heart-stoppingly sweet drinks on accident - a case of mistaken identity where you unintentionally grabbed Soap’s macho Americano, and he drank half of your caramel latte in revenge. And here you are, years later, watching him slurp down a milk foam heart.

“Awww, too much for the brain cells you have left?” Teasing him as easy as breathing and a welcome distraction for the anxiety attack-inducing question you must ask.

The general coffee shop ambient noise swells in your ears. An espresso machine malfunctions, almost loud enough to make you jump, and you try to disguise it by sipping your iced tea. No caffeine; you’re nervous enough without it.

“I could have you arrested for that,” Soap quips. Please. As if you’d let him try. One call to his commanding officer about his pre-service shenanigans, and you’d have his ass court-martialed.

“Abuse of the power of the Armed Forces? Very ethical.” You raise an eyebrow and lace your voice with haughtiness, even flicking some hair over your shoulder.

Then you need to pass Johnny a few napkins to mop up the latte dripping from his nose out of laughter. “I’m glad to see you,” He tells you, and the sober, knowing look in his eyes makes your stomach drop out. He doesn’t miss a thing. He’d probably be dead or fired from his job if he did. “Though I know this isn’t a social call.”

Well. You’re in for it now. “Yeah, unfortunately, it isn’t.” The words taste like dust in your mouth, and the lemony-black tea barely washes it out. Just to give yourself something to do, you pop the plastic lid off and tip a couple of ice cubes into your mouth before chomping down.

“What’s going on?”

How do you summarize the horrifically, brutally stressful whirlwind of the last few weeks without inspiring the annoying, patronizing pity you’ve gotten from literally everyone else you’ve vented to? You’re not a victim to be coddled or a child to be given advice you’ve already thought of, tried, and failed at.

“I’m losing my health insurance at the end of the month” is what you decide on in the end.

He knows exactly what that means for you. For your future. Soap shakes his head ruefully. “God, I’m so sorry.”

You’ve been sick for a while, diagnosed the year after the two of you graduated high school. The kind of sick that is simply a freak accident of nature, causing your body to attack itself over and over until the day you’ll drop dead from complications. It wouldn’t take much; maybe a regular infection burning you alive with a fever your crippled immune system can’t stop, or a benign cut from a kitchen knife that will bleed and bleed until you’re halfway to the coroner’s office.

And then there’s your shitty, damaged, degenerated spine that keeps you in bed for weeks at a time with crippling, numbing pain.

Without health insurance, things won’t look good for your quality of life. And you like your quality of life to be decent. You’d settle for passable.

Really, it sounds worse than it is, and you try to console him. “It’s okay. It was eventually going to happen. I had hoped to have a little more time, though.” You remember the call from the insurance company like it just happened yesterday. You were loading dishes into the dishwasher and listening to Fleetwood Mac on the radio. And some poor customer service representative told you they were increasing your monthly payments beyond what they knew you could afford, so they’d have to drop you.

You watch him open his mouth as if to tell you that you should’ve said something sooner. But he’s been deployed for the past four months. He pauses and resets to something a little more helpful. “How can I help?” That’s something you have liked about Johnny a lot since you were kids. He cares more about what he can do.

Your anxiety permits your lungs to take one big, fortifying inhale. “Well…” Dragging it out will only make this worse, you know, but you really, really, really hate that it’s come to this. “This is fucking embarrassing.” You tried to find a way to pay the premiums; you really did. But you work forty hours a week already and trying to get more shifts, maybe find a new job, do this, do that, appeal, all of that has been futile and draining. “Will you marry me?”

He drops his half-empty cup on the table, forceful enough that some of the coffee spills out. “What?”

Soap’s partially-scandalized shock is not what you hoped for as a reaction. But you suppose you shouldn’t have expected anything better.

The worst part of this conversation is over. It can’t get more nerve-wracking. “Marry me. Like. Get legally married. I could get on military benefits, and my meds would be covered.” He doesn’t swing your way, but surely signing some paper and standing before a judge is, like, not the most terrifying thing Soap has ever done. “And- and I know there’s stuff in it for you, too, like a better apartment or whatever. I can cook. Better than you, that’s for sure.” One of your friends had to teach him how not to burn water.

He just sits there in silence. “Please,” You add on softly. Desperately. This is your last-ditch attempt, your Hail Mary.

At last, Soap’s shoulders slump, and you know, from that alone, that he’s gonna say no. Miracles are rarely performed for ordinary people. “I would if I could, but… I’m sort of already married,” He sighs, then winces, waiting for your inevitable unhappy outburst.

…

You blink a few times, brain furiously recalibrating everything you know. John got married, and he didn’t even invite you? Or tell you? You’re supposed to be his friend. That’s so rude, ouch. You would have even gotten him some expensive shit off his gift registry.

A fucking Keurig, for God’s sake. “What? Who?” You demand, more outraged that he would leave you out of his life than you are over him declining your proposal

Underneath that deep, sunburnt tan, you see Soap blush. “Jeremy from final year.”

You’d throw your empty cup at him, but he’d just duck. “I knew you were fucking him! I knew it! You tried to gaslight me and say you weren’t, but I saw the hickies on his neck!” There were only so many times Johnny ducked out of a math classroom covered in sweat, followed shortly by your classmate, before you put the pieces together.

Oh, but the rest of your friends called you a conspiracy theorist and told you to mind your business. Now, who’s laughing?

Soap holds his hands up in the universal ‘don’t shoot’ sign. “He needed health insurance. We’re married on paper. Haven’t seen him in a few years, but I know he’s doing alright.” Naturally, he’s already selflessly committed marriage fraud. You honestly should’ve seen that coming; that’s why you wanted to propose in the first place and figured you’d have a slim chance of success.

“Shit.” Now you’re back to square one. And it’s a shitty square, with walls that close in around you with every passing second.

The regret in his eyes overflows when he sees your slumped shoulders, how you’re picking at your cuticles hard enough to bleed. “‘M sorry. If I wasn’t locked down, you know that I’d do it for you in a heartbeat.” The worst part is that you know he’s being sincere, not just parroting empty platitudes.

Right. Well. That’s it, then.

You rub at your closed eyes, then at the stress wrinkle between your eyebrows. “Fuck. It’s fine, I know. I will… I’ll figure it out,” You sigh. Less than convincing, but it doesn’t need to be.

There are probably options you just haven’t thought of yet. Or maybe you can work something out with your doctor, where you only get your meds every other month. “I got it covered. Don’t worry about me.” You instantly see Soap rush to shake his head, to tell you that he’s always worried about you. You want to chastise him, tell him that he has plenty of things to be worried about in his own life. “Shush. It’s fine.” But you don’t have the heart to rake him over the coals for it now, so you settle for that.

You should go. You have things to do, things that include crying in your bed with the curtains drawn and urgently refreshing your email to see if anyone's gotten back to you. New jobs, aid organizations for low-income people, any further bad news.

Soap catches your wrist before you can say the appropriate goodbyes and rush out of the cafe. “Look- hold on- let me… let me ask my… friends.” He wrinkles his nose as he says it with an odd, stilted tone. Like ‘friends’ is a replacement for something he can’t say out loud in a civilian setting.

You can put the pieces together. “Is that what you’re calling your coworkers?”

“That’s classified, shut up.” His Scottish accent pops out there stronger than good malt whiskey. Hope is an easily-caught flame and far more difficult to extinguish. When you smile at him, you find it’s not entirely false. “Let me ask around, okay? They’re good guys. You might need to do the heavy lifting with your sparkling personality, but I can try.”

‘Sparkling personality’ is sort of ominous. ‘Don’t give them shit,’ is what he means to say. That’s fine, you’ve worked in customer service before. You can be on your best behavior.

You’re not exactly sure what kind of dude would be willing to marry a stranger, even if that is the kind of dude you want to marry.

But desperate times, desperate measures. “Thank you. Really. It would mean the world and… would probably save my life.” You didn’t mean to get as choked up at the end as you do. No one else has been willing to help you, though, and Soap’s answering hug feels like desperately needed hope reviving itself in your chest.

“I’ve got you. And I hope I can help in the end, even if it’s not what you originally had in mind.”

Soap runs through his team members in his mind as he waits for the gate guard to scan his ID, trying to recall who’s tied down and who isn’t.

Captain’s got a wife, he thinks, and he’s a wee bit too old for you anyway.

It takes a second for the starry-eyed guard to hand him back the card and lift the gate.

You picked a good time to call him up; not only is he in town, menacing the local army base, but so is the rest of the 141—a rarity.

Vargas would certainly charm you, but Soap trusts Alejandro with you about as far as he could throw him.

Out of all the idiots he went to school with, you’re the only idiot who stuck around through the early years of his service, and you pursued your friendship like a hound after a fox even when he couldn’t properly reciprocate.

So John feels some responsibility for looking out for you, as you’ve always looked out for him.

Garrick wouldn’t be a half-bad choice. Dependable, responsible. Friendly, so your sham marriage would at least be enjoyable.

His mind drifts to his own errant mostly-platonic husband as he parks the borrowed car in his numbered space. Jeremy. The last time they spoke was over three years ago? Maybe four. Jeremy had found himself a new boyfriend and called to let him know, asking if Soap wanted a legal divorce. He was moving to some godforsaken corner of America. Florida? Maybe. That place has got too many fuckin’ states for him to remember them all.

They worked it out - they’d stay married, and Jeremy would keep out of his way. No love lost.

Roach could do it for you in a pinch as well. A little quiet, but maybe you’d work out something like him and Jeremy. Staying out of each other’s way.

Soap dismisses Lieutenant Riley without a second thought. On his best day, Ghost is about as inviting and amenable as a particularly hungry great white shark. And even if God himself came down from Heaven and changed Ghost’s heart to be interested, Soap would worry about you.

A lot. Even more than he already does, since the day you sobbed in his arms after school when you were first diagnosed. Since that day he had to help you out of bed because you could neither walk nor miss any more class.

Does he trust Ghost enough to fight alongside him? To have his back when there’s a gun against his head? Absolutely. Does he think Ghost would treat one of his oldest friends properly, befitting of the funny, kind, vibrant person you are? Abso-fuckin’-lutely not.

So that puts Gaz and Roach in his top choices for you and Vargas as a last-tier resort.

Armed forces worldwide, in Scotland and America, are all about efficiency. Eliminating redundancy.

And if that’s the excuse Johnny uses to justify blindsiding his whole team at once, so he doesn’t need to have this conversation three damn times and hear three separate rejections? That’s between him and God.

He herds them like sheep, plucking the Captain from his office, Garrick and Alejandro from conditioning in the gym, disturbing Roach’s book. Ghost appears out of nowhere as if summoned by the disturbance and falls in behind Soap. Not a single damn sound, of course. While that’s useful on deployment, he still has to tamp down on the instinct to jump every time he sees a skull mask hovering out of the corner of his eye in everyday life.

No matter. The lieutenant will likely wander out when the subject matter is revealed. It would raise more red flags if he told Ghost off.

He barely gets Lt. Riley through the pool room door before Captain jumps him. “Sergeant. What’s the trouble?”

That’s fuckin’ rude. “Why’d you assume I’m in trouble?” He indignantly replies. Except… yeah, there was that time he borrowed a humvee he had no permission to touch, and Captain covered for him to Laswell. Shit. “Well, I’m not.” At least, not this time.

Soap opens his mouth to argue this because it’s hardly fair for Cpt. Price to point fingers only to be cut off. “What is it?” At least Price has the decency to file the sharp edges off of his voice this time.

Right. He almost feels guilty getting sidetracked over something so stupid when he’s gathered everyone here for an infinitely more important reason.

Where does he start? How the fuck does he proposition them without sounding absolutely mental? “I… Hear me out.” Instantly, Garrick shakes his head ‘no,’ and Cpt.’s face remains as unmoved as a brick wall. Definitely not how he should have opened. “Wouldn’t be asking if the situation wasn’t desperate.” Soap opens his hands in the vain hope that the gesture will make them listen, at minimum.

You loathed hospitals and doctor’s offices when you first got sick. Now, you see the inside of them so often that it hardly fazes you. Still, Johnny always went along when you asked. So you wouldn’t have to be alone.

The countless memories of holding your hand as some faceless nurse sticks an IV in your elbow is the motivation that steps on the gas. “I have this friend,’ He tells them.

“You have friends?” If Vargas weren’t separated from him by the pool table, he’d reach over and stick an elbow in his side. What is it, official ‘piss off Sgt. MacTavish’ day?

They get in a laugh at his expense. “Shut up, you reprobate.” He puts enough bite in his tone to cut through the ruckus with the keenness of a knife. “I have this friend. Since I was a lad. She’s a good girl, good person. She needs our help.”

Everyone knows what he means by ‘good person,’ and the mere mention of a civilian girl in distress softens Gaz’s scowl and Alejandro’s scorn.

Their Captain nods, now significantly more amenable to this conversation than he was at the beginning. “Help?” Progress is progress, and for the first time, Soap allows himself to think he might be able to persuade someone.

“Yeah, well… you know these fuckin’ Americans. They don’t give a damn if people die like dogs in the streets. She lost her health insurance, and she’s… She’s ill. She’ll be ill for the rest of her life.” That’s something Johnny will never understand about this side of the pond. The NHS was never good, but at least it exists. All that freedom and shit, for what?

“Sorry to hear that. Fucking shame,” Price murmurs.

“I was wondering if any of you might be interested in marrying her. For the fuckin’... benefits. I dunno know what exactly they are, but she mentioned new living quarters for her soldier.” He really ought to have looked this up beforehand and found some other things to sweeten the pot. “I’m already married. Had to turn the poor lass down, and I told her I’d at least ask you lot.”

Their captain gets up and off his ass like the stool’s on fire. “Alright. MacTavish, I’m leaving the room now. I’m going back to my office, and do not disturb me until you’re done,” He orders, mustache practically fuckin’ bristling with urgency. “I didn’t hear or see a thing.” With his parting words finished, Johnny watches the man book it out of the pool room in double time.

While he understands and appreciates the discretion, was that truly necessary? They’ve all done exponentially worse things than this.

His first choice makes a break for it, too. “Sorry, Soap,” Garrick declines. “I’m out. I’m sure she’s a delightful person, though being friends with you doesn’t speak highly of her life choices. But that’s a big ask, and I just don’t know her.” The sergeant taps him on the shoulder as he walks out in a silent show of support.

“‘Course.” With each man who leaves, his worry increases.

What voicemails will await him after he returns from the next mission? That things went horribly wrong, and you’ll be hospitalized for the rest of your life, or maybe even dead?

Whatever it is, there won’t be anything he can do by then. That’s the worst part.

“Yeah, can’t do it either, Sarge. I got a girl already.” Right. There goes Sanderson.

At least Alejandro has the decency to look genuinely sympathetic. “Let us know if there’s anything else we can do.”

Soap watches him leave and wonders if you’re still awake. It’s not late for him, but who knows? Maybe you keep normal hours now. “Yeah, I will.” You’d prefer to hear the bad news as soon as possible, but he would hate to wake you for it.

But he can’t ignore the ghoul haunting the corner any longer. “What are you still doing here, Lt.? I’ve gotta tell her I can’t help, and I don’t think you’d care to overhear that conversation.” His voice is a little sharper than is nice and proper, overflowing with prickly irritation like too much tea in a cracked cup. Of all the times for Ghost to not mind his fucking business…

“…what she look like?”

“What?”

And Riley’s got the audacity to repeat himself, slower, as if he’s stupid. “What does she look like? Got a picture?”

“Is this a joke?” Simon should stick to shitty quips about goldfish. At least those are tasteful.

The man doesn’t laugh, shake his head, or leave now that he’s successfully rattled Soap. He just stands there, as grave as always. Motherfucker. He means it. “Fuckin’… yeah, hold on,” Soap sighs as he fumbles for his phone.

He’s desperate because you’re desperate. He tells himself that, over and over, as he looks for a half-decent selfie. You’re a big girl, you knew what you were risking when you asked him for help.

Ghost takes his phone in his gloved hand. “Not bad,” He murmurs after a while. “I’ll do it. Marry her.”

A beat passes. Soap lets another one go.

Alright. The grace period is over and done with. “This is a really shitty, serious thing to mess around about. Genuinely. Don’t do that to her or me. This is about her health. Her life.” Johnny likes Lt. Riley. Really, he does. Even under all the freaky mask shit.

But this is mean-spirited. It would almost be out of character. It’s one thing to be careless if his sparring partner walks away with permanent nerve damage. This is fucking cruel if he doesn’t mean it.

Ghost can read minds now. “I mean it.” His chuckle makes Johnny fix his surprised expression into something more stern and imperceptible. “She’s desperate, isn’t she? I’ll do it.” When he walks closer, the changing light makes that skull on his face flash in and out of existence.

“Why?” If he can’t come up with a somewhat satisfactory answer… Soap’s fist can probably reach him fine from here.

And in a rather remarkable show of humanity, he watches Ghost pinch the bridge of his nose through his mask. “Think I like listening to you snore? Or fuckin’ Roach chattering on Discord at four in the morning?” Johnny never knew Ghost was such a little princess about that. Who would’ve thought?

The other man huffs a laugh. “Need my beauty sleep.”

“Yeah, you do, the mask’s not doin’ you any favors,” Soap retorts as if on autopilot. That’s only their longest-running tiff. You’ve got your work cut out for you to deal with that ugly mug, he thinks.

“You want me to help her or what?”

Right. Right. “Sorry.” He examines Ghost’s body language, searching for any hint of dishonesty. “If you so badly want out of the shared bunks, how come you haven’t found someone else yet? Or some other way?”

“You think girls are lining up outside my door proposing marriage? You can’t even find me off duty. Now I ain’t gotta find… some other way,” He says before leaning back against the wall, at ease now that his argument’s been made.

“Fair point.” Fair, but fucking dumb. “I’ll tell her. She’ll say yes, I know she will.” Jesus, does he wish he’d been able to persuade Garrick.

Soap considers exactly how much you should know about your intended before this shit goes down. On the one hand, it might be better for you not to know much, other than that he’s found someone relatively trustworthy and willing. On the other hand… interacting with Lt. Riley is something that should only be done after signing a covenant not to sue.

“Whatever you do, don’t hurt her. She’s been through enough already. And I meant it when I said she’s a good person. Too good for either of us.”

Nobody gets through secondary school untouched. Especially not at that prissy international school you met him at, filled with over-privileged rich kids and army brats scraping the bottom of the barrel. Like the two of you.

When you were fourteen, you picked him up by the scruff of his Scottish neck with a smile on your face, then hit the bastard who hit him first. Thick as thieves ever since.

“And if you can’t find it in you to be nice, just… promise you’ll leave her alone.” At least you’re more than capable of making Ghost’s life a living Hell if he fucks with you. He takes comfort in that and a healthy amount of glee at the possibility of watching that play out. He’s got a front-row seat, after all.

Riley shakes his head. “As long as she ain’t a burden, MacTavish, no need to fuss and cluck.”

For a moment, Soap almost pities him.

“Don’t hurt her. Promise me that, right now,” He stresses. Just in case. At least eliciting this agreement might remind Ghost in the future to stay his hand.

The other man sighs. “I won’t,” He says at last. And Soap can tell he means it.

“Get out. I’ll let her know.”

1K notes · View notes

bradshawssugarbaby · 7 months

Text

Neon Moon - Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

summary: You're drowning your sorrows after calling off your engagement on Valentine's Day in a Mexican restaurant in San Diego. Alongside you, Bradley Bradshaw sits at the bar, going through a similar situation.

A/N: my first attempt at writing something a little angsty, I’m not overly confident in it but I was drunk on strawberry margaritas in San Diego last night after spending the day in Coronado so here we are. Also definitely inspired by my own past relationship 🌚 And inspired by Neon Moon by Brooks and Dunn. Also sorry for the whacky spacing because I’m posting from my phone! - not beta read or proofread bc I live life in the danger zone.

pairing: Bradley Bradshaw x f!reader

warnings/content: cheating (not Bradley or reader), failed engagements/breakups, mentions of divorce, drinking, angsty-ish with a happier ending.

word count: 3.5K

read the rest of my What’s Your Country Song mixtape series! 🩷

if you lose your one and only, there’s always room here for the lonely, so watch your broken dreams dance in and out of the beams of a neon moon.

You sat at the bar, sighing heavily as you snacked on the free, fresh tortilla chips and salsa, nursing your pink margarita, the notes of strawberry and tequila doing everything in its power to alleviate the pain of your latest breakup. You know alcohol isn’t a miracle worker, but by God, at this point you’re beginning to wonder. Your ex-fiancé just called off your wedding, and left you wondering why on earth you ever agreed to move thousands of miles from home to San Diego for a man who barely had his shit together.

You fiddled with the straw in your glass, sipping the strawberry-laden drink back, the tequila burning your throat slightly as it went down. It was getting late in the evening, but you were willing to stay here a couple more hours until closing just to get the most amount of time away from your apartment as you could. You knew you’d have to face the inevitable, but you dreaded it. How could you not? How could anyone in their right mind choose to haul their ass back to the apartment their ex just called off their wedding ceremony in, where the person they’d loved just confessed they didn’t share that feeling that was supposedly mutual, that they’d grown weary of the marriage ideal that they’d proposed to you.

Your bartender shot you a sympathetic look when you walked in that night, sensing that you weren’t here celebrating Valentine’s Day like most of the patrons around you. He slid you a basket of fresh, warm, homemade tortilla chips and a cup of the restaurant’s in-house salsa, alongside a drink menu with an encouraging nod. You appreciated the kindness towards you, even if it was just out of pity. As the bar side became less busy as the night went on, he asked how you were doing, if you needed anything else, if you wanted to order a meal. You hemmed and hawed over whether or not authentic Mexicali food was the solution to all of your problems when the seat to your right suddenly gained a patron - a single patron who looked just as downtrodden, if not more so, than you.

“Bradley!” The bartender said cheerfully, a hearty smile on the man’s face as he grabbed a pint glass, “Your usual, my friend?”

“Please, and just keep ‘em comin’, man,” said the voice beside you.

Bradley was a tall man, with a neatly trimmed mass of warm, golden-brown waves on top of his head, sun kissed skin and a pair of aviator sunglasses resting on the collar of his white t-shirt. Over the white undershirt, sat the loudest printed Hawaiian shirt you’d ever laid your eyes on - a bubblegum pink coloured background with an assortment of bright white, black and deep orangey-red palm leaves adorning it. A few faded scars scattered the side of his face, barely noticeable unless he tilted his head just so in the warm yellow-hued lights overhead. His fuller lips were resting in an emotionless line, a trimmed and styled mustache, straight out of an 80’s movie resting over the top of his lip.

As Bradley and the bartender, whose name you’d now forgotten after your second margarita, not that it was ever going to stick in your mind in the first place - you were stressing over how to tell 150 guests that a wedding was no longer taking place simply because the man who asked you had decided he no longer loved you, and despite having felt that way for quite some time, opted to tell you three months before your big day, after a majority of things were paid for, almost all of which non-refundable, meaning you’d be enjoying a wedding cake for 150 people at a venue by yourself, celebrating some other occasion in a couple of months.

You couldn’t help but overhear the bartender give Bradley the same words of encouragement as he’d given you - reminding you both that “que sera sera, whatever will be will be”, a direct quote from an old Doris Day song that you recognized from the times your grandmother made you watch her collection of Alfred Hitchcock VHS tapes, along with all the other classic movies you were subjected to. Bradley offered a weak smile, nodding his head along to the advice.

“I don’t know, man, she definitely isn’t coming back. I don’t think I want her to either. Came home from three months away to get told she was off base and in Coronado for the day, I decided to surprise her and find her having a lunch date with some lower-ranking officer.”

“That’s harsh, brother,” the bartender nods sympathetically before his brown eyes light up, as if Bradley’s cheating significant other has inspired him in some way.

“Actually, my friend, the lovely senorita on your left side has something in common with you,” he explained as he shot you a grin before nodding his head, “My friend Bradley here was married. You both are nursing the same pain tonight. Might not be a bad idea for you two to nurse that pain together, especially since we close in an hour.”

Bradley’s face flushed to a pinkish hue as he shot his friend a glare before turning to you with an apologetic, half-hearted smile.

“No offense, I’m sure you’re great, I just…caught my wife out with another officer over the bridge at Coronado and I really don’t know if drinking with another girl is the right thing to do.”

“Understood, my fiancé just called off our wedding because he decided three months before was a good time to tell me he’d fallen out of love with me nine months ago and no longer wanted to go through with it.”

“Ah, maybe Angel over here is on to something then,” Bradley let out a melancholic chuckle as he took a sip of his beer, the amber coloured liquid sliding past his lips, the froth at the top brushing against the edge of his mustache.

“I’m, uh, I’m sorry to hear about your wife,” you nodded, suddenly thankful as you realized if your ex hadn’t broken things off now, you could have easily wound up in the same position as Bradley is now in a few years.

“It’s alright, had a feelin’ she wasn’t really loving the military spouse life as much as she let on, but didn’t think that meant she’d find a different serviceman to try it on with while I was gone and stationed in the middle of the Pacific.”

“Jesus, that’s rough, I’m sorry.”

“Eh, not your fault. I’m Bradley, by the way. Normally I’d do the whole formal military introduction but…just Bradley is fine tonight. I kinda need a break from that for a minute.”

“Understood.”

You nodded again before giving him your name. An awkward silence fell over you both before you looked out towards the patio, the lights along the pier illuminating the San Diego Bay as you looked across to Coronado.

“That’s where I’m stationed,” Bradley nodded his head towards the island across the bay as he took another sip of his beer, “North Island.”

“You’re an aviator?”

“TOPGUN graduated, been flyin’ for just over 20 years now.”

“20 years?”

“Yeah,” Bradley blushed, nodding his head, “I’m 40 in June. I get told I look about 10 years younger than that. A lot. Especially by other guys over there. The one guy in my detachment’s about 5 years younger than me and everyone says he looks closer to my age than I do. Not as a dig to Hangman or nothin’, just as an observation that I kinda look fresh to the Navy, you know?”

“Hangman…?” You raised your eyebrow quizzically at the name he just called his friend, almost concerned about his parents' life choices.

“Real name’s Jake. Everyone calls us using callsigns over there - his is Hangman, but if we wanna piss him off, he’s Bagman. I’m Rooster. One guy’s just Bob, one girl’s Phoenix, another girl’s Halo, then there’s Payback, Fanboy, Coyote, Harvard and Yale, Fritz, my dad’s Navy buddy is Maverick, our Air Boss is Cyclone, it goes on.”

“Why is your callsign Rooster?”

“Eh, my dad’s sign was Goose. They asked me to pick one and I wanted to honor him, but I couldn't use the same one I figured, so I went for the first bird I could think of. They were gonna call me Boomer because I’m loud as fuck half the time, but I guess I have a bit of a reputation for waiting until the moment’s right to take action. One guy said that I sorta sit perched like a rooster waiting for the sun to rise, and it stuck more than Boomer did.”

“Gotcha. Are you from San Diego?”

“Sorta. I was born here, my dad was stationed up at Miramar which is on the other side from Coronado, but then he died when I was two in a training accident, my mom moved me back to where she was from in Virginia, it’s where she met my dad, actually. He was from Virginia but like, closer to the D.C. area, my mom was from Richmond. Then I grew up there, went to UVA, and got stationed at Virginia Beach, went to TOPGUN in Nevada and then got sent back to Virginia, then from there got called to North Island.”

“So you’ve lived in a few states then. I moved out here from New York a couple years ago. My ex is from La Jolla, came to New York for university, met me, got a job in the city, then got an offer to work here, and came back, took me with him.”

“So your family’s all back in New York?”

“Yeah, bit far, like a 6 hour flight home.”

“Jesus, I may not have much for family, but at least I know I’ve got my squad to kinda support me. And I’ve got Maverick, who’s like a second dad to me.”

“I’m still debating what to do - do I stay in San Diego and just make this my home now, or do I go back to Manhattan with my tail between my legs so to speak and move back in with my parents?”

Bradley nodded his head solemnly before letting out a sharp exhale, a smile forming on his face as he looked out at the bay and then back at you.

“Whatdya say we go for a walk? Catch some fresh air? Maybe we can help each other figure out our next moves so poor Angel here can close up for the night.”

Bradley must have sensed some apprehension in your gaze, because almost seconds after speaking, he held his hands up innocently and laughed.

“I promise I’m not suggesting this out of an ulterior motive. Just suggesting it as a guy who’s sorta in the same boat as you and could use some company.”

You looked at your watch and shrugged your shoulders. You certainly didn’t want to head home any time soon, and Bradley seemed genuine enough, plus, it was nice having someone who understood what you were going through, even if it meant both of you now had to completely reevaluate your lives. You set your credit card down on the table for Angel to ring up your bill, but before he could take it, Bradley shook his head and handed it back to you.

“It’s on me.”

“I can’t let you pay for my drinks, but thank you.”

“Listen, it was money that was gonna be spent on my wife for a Valentine’s Day dinner anyway. Least I can do is pay for your two…pink…whatever those are.”

“Strawberry margaritas.”

“Right, yeah, those. Pink tequila with fruit.”

He smirked as he closed out the tab for both of you before hopping off his barstool. He politely offered his arm out to you as you stood to your feet. Angel shot you both a knowing grin, waving you and his friend off as you headed out. The air on the pier was mild, a soft breeze blowing in off the water of the bay. As you headed down the street together, chatting about life and what you did for a living, Bradley’s rank in the Navy, his favorite sports, your favorite movies, you almost forgot about your ex and the breakup you’d been trying to numb with fruity heartache medication moments ago.

As it turned out, you and Bradley shared a fond love of baseball and romantic comedies, you’d both grown up watching classic movies with your grandmothers, both had a fondness for old music - Elvis, The Beach Boys, Jerry Lee Lewis, Neil Sedaka - it turned out that for two strangers with a 12 year age gap, you had much more in common than you could have expected. In fact, you’d actually argue that you and Bradley had more shared interests than you and your ex had.

As you both wandered up the street towards Seaport Village, the bayside shopping district set up alongside one of the piers, you basked in the glow of the streetlights over head, taking the time to appreciate the calmness of the bay, the sights and sounds of the water as it took your focus off the happy, lovestruck couples that walked around past you all.

The moon hung low in the sky overhead, glowing against the deep blackish-blue backdrop of the night sky, appearing to have a neon glow behind it. Bradley looked up at the sky, letting out a loud, exhaled breath as he shook his head.

“I don’t wanna head back to base and deal with the mess waiting for me there. Never thought I’d be filing divorce papers on Valentine’s Day, you know?”

“I have to call 150 guests and tell them that the wedding scheduled for May isn’t taking place but they can still come eat the cake that we paid for at the venue that I can’t get the 50% deposit back for.”

Bradley laughed softly, although the laugh wasn’t one of happiness - more one of pity for the two of you over your situations, and how neither of you wanted to go home because it would mean taking action with the hands you were dealt, no matter how unfair they were.

“Fuck, how’d we end up in this mess? I guess I should be thankful that she and I never had kids then, right?”

He laughed again, a dry, hollow laugh at his situation. “I wanted them, she didn’t. I just figured in my late thirties that it wasn’t really an issue worth pushing and it was probably best if I didn’t.”

“My dad was 44 when I was born, I never thought it was weird, if that helps.”

“Hey, means I’ve got 4 years, right? Can’t really adopt a kid when you’re in the Navy though, with not being home a lot and all that, and I don’t know if I see myself remarrying or anything. Besides, I feel like it’s asking a lot of a woman to settle down with me then have her waiting at home alone most of the time, or alone with our kids, if we have ‘em. Seems a bit unfair. I guess I could retire but, I don’t know if I’m ready for that either, you know?”

“You just have to find someone who wants to wait for you. You know, someone who doesn’t mind being a military spouse.”

“Good luck with that,” He said with a dry chuckle again, “I wouldn’t wanna be one if the shoe was on the other foot, it’s a lot of me to ask someone else to do it.”

“Well, I’m not suggesting you ask a random girl on the street to marry you, Bradley, I meant like, date, get to know the woman, find out from there if she’s cool with it.”

“I guess so,” He sighed heavily as he looked up at the moon, “You know, always thought I’d have a marriage like my parents did. I know my dad died before I was really old enough to remember, but I see pictures and you just…you knew they were crazy about each other. Maverick always said they flirted like they were a couple’a teenagers on their first date all the time.”

“Bradley, do you wanna come grab a coffee with me?”

“Coffee? It’s like nine at night.”

“Yeah, I could use some sobering up though.”

“Ah, what the hell. I don’t have to be anywhere.”

Bradley gestured in front of him, allowing you to lead the way. As you began to walk on the outside of the sidewalk, he shook his head and gently placed his hand on your shoulder to guide you to the inside.

“Sorry, force of habit. My mom always said not to let a lady walk on the outside of the sidewalk. She said my dad never let her risk getting splashed by a puddle when they walked down the street. Sorta trained it into me by the time I was 10. Maverick and my grandma both agreed. Think it’s an old Southern thing.”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind it,” you smiled softly at him, rolling your shoulders into a subtle shrug.

Bradley smiled at you, a genuine, proper smile. His previously stoic and reserved look had melted away momentarily, deep dimples forming either side of his mouth. Bradley’s caramel coloured eyes seemed to glisten as the moonlight caught them, amber flecks sparkling before he shook his head, an awkward chuckle escaping his parted lips.

“You know, I gotta thank you.”

“Why’s that?”

“You helped me forget temporarily about what I have to do tonight when I get home.”

“I guess I should thank you for the same thing.”

“I haven’t felt this at ease in…a really long time. I guess I always kinda suspected she was cheating, but I didn’t want to believe it. I mean, no one wants to think that way about someone they love, right?”

“No, no, I get it. I sorta knew my ex wasn’t feeling the same way. I just told myself I was overthinking it. He never said anything until today.”

“He told you today that he didn’t love you anymore? Today of all the days?!”

“Yeah, came home from a half day at work to spend the afternoon with him, just to come home to him doing the classic “We need to talk” line.”

Bradley hummed slowly and shook his head. He ran a finger through his caramel toned waves and sighed, trying to think of what the right thing to say in response would be.

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

Bradley silently opens the door to the coffee shop for you, once again gesturing for you to go first. You can’t help but admire the way everything he does seems like something out of a movie set in the 1950s - his mannerisms, the slight lilt to his voice, the way he holds doors open, offers you his arm, insists on walking on the outside of the sidewalk - all for a woman he’s only just met. It’s likely sympathetic actions towards you - feeling bad that you’re in a situation similar to his own, at least, that’s what you’re going to tell yourself.

“Pick your poison, I owe you one for the margaritas.”

“Nah, I’ll pick up this one. Like I said, it was set aside for a nice romantic Valentine’s dinner. I got it.”

“You know, under any other circumstances, this would have made for a cute date spot.”

“Margaritas and coffee?”

“I meant a nighttime stroll along the pier to a coffee shop, but now that you mention it, margaritas and coffee are one way to do it.”

“Hey, I mean, maybe this isn’t a date, I don’t think either of us are ready for that, but, it’s a nice first time hanging out.”

“Maybe the next time we hangout we can do it under less…distressing circumstances?”

“Maybe next time we hangout I can take you out for that nice dinner you and I both were expecting to have tonight,” Bradley shrugged as he sipped his coffee. “You know, as friends, or whatever.”

“You know what, I may take you up on that. You know, as friends…or whatever.”

Bradley slid his phone across the table to you, having opened it to the new contact screen. You quickly typed in your contact details, smiling fondly as you handed it back to him, along with your own phone.

“Next time you venture across the bridge, maybe text me? We can go for a coffee or something, or catch a ball game when the season starts.”

“I’d like that,” Bradley said with a satisfied smile as he sipped his drink.

“But this time, I’m buying.”

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