#fic: triple happiness

[bidisasterevankinard]

Triple Happiness

It’s bad. It’s so, so bad, Buck looks at the ultrasound that Dr. Reez is doing. He’s definitely pregnant. He can see it.

There’s definitely a baby inside him.

“Everything looks good. For 8 weeks all babies are exactly on point of development,” Dr.Reez smiles and Buck nods at her, thinking how the fuck he ended up in that situation, when the number of “babies” hits him in the face harder than the news about pregnancy.

“I’m-I’m sorry babies? As if more than one?” his voice breaks and he wants to run and hide from the truth.

Doctor just nods at the screen moving the ultrasound, “baby A. Next to them is baby B and here’s baby C. Congratulations, Mr. Buckley, you’re having triplets.”

Buck does what every adult man would do if he were to find out he is pregnant with triplets. He faints.

or, Buck finds out his pregnant with triplets soon after their with Tommy 6 months anniversary. What happens next to him, Tommy and their unplanned miracle?

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act ✦ series masterlist

Summary: All you wanted was to get to Austin, but instead of your brother, it's Frankie —Santi's best friend, the one you can barely tolerate— who shows up to pick you up in Dallas. He's just doing your brother a favor, but what seemed like a simple trip takes an unexpected turn when a stop on the road puts you face to face with your ex — The same guy who broke your heart three months ago, and in just a few weeks, is getting married. In a burst of pride, you blurt out a lie that changes everything: Frankie is your boyfriend. Confused but willing to go along with it, he agrees to play the part and accompany you to the wedding, ready to paint the perfect love story, but only if you return the favor by going with him to his mother's birthday. His goal is clear — to escape the endless arranged dates and prying questions his mother and sisters have been throwing his way for over a year. Rating: EXPLICIT (+18) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!! Paiting: Frankie Morales x F!reader WC: X

✦ fic content ✦

PART ONE (coming january 20th)

MORE PARTS TO BE ANNOUNCED

beautiful divider by @saradika-graphics <3

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 5

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. Time flies, in room number 2. How much longer do you have, just for the two of you?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange bedroom besties 🧡 It's been a hot minute, I sincerely apologise. Thank you to everyone who stuck around, I hope it was worth it, and thank you to everyone who just passed by 🧡 @frannyzooey my love, thank you for your help on the Americanisms, invaluable as always 🧡

Word count: 13.8k

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Chapter 5: Time in a bottle

It’s late when you pull into the parking lot. Dusk cloaks the motel in its fuzzy veil, the surroundings fading in diffuse shadows. The single-story building stands out in the twilight, akin to an old ship. Wooden poles for masts, hanging lamps swaying gently in the briny breeze, their lights blurry in the muggy air. Tacky and warm, it wafts in through your car’s open windows, dampening the exposed skin of your forearms and the back of your neck. 

On the passenger seat, your iPhone’s screen glows in the semi-darkness with an incoming call. 

Adrian.  

“What now?” you sigh, through clenched teeth. 

Your eyes dart up to Frankie’s truck parked in front of you. The word FORD stretched in chrome letters on the tailgate, shining bright in your headlights. 

The familiar pull awakens between your constricted lungs. A pounding, greedy little tug compelling you to get out of your car and cover the distance to the room as quickly as your step will carry you. But you want to calm your nerves first. Slow down your heart rate, deepen your breathing. 

That discussion you had with your father, earlier this afternoon, still clings to your frame. The humiliation conveyed by his carefully chosen words like tar, black and viscous. You can almost smell its foul stench. And you don’t want to bring any of it inside. 

It’s only the third time Frankie gets here before you, if you count that very first Friday back in September. And the second, since you came back from Colorado earlier this month. The pressure in your rib cage eases at the memory of that sweet evening. 

All day long, you had rushed through your counting routine. Through the long, icy corridors of your glass prison. Rushed on the 589 northbound. Rushed to strangle the uncertainty of his presence there. 

It was a few minutes past 7pm when you parked next to his truck, his early presence cranking up your anxiousness. You got out of your car with an anguished scowl, and you all but ran toward the porch, toward the brass number 2, shoes scuffing the gravel. 

The door swung open the very second you stepped under the overhang. A flash of dimple, and his arms wrapped around your waist. He scooped you up from the floor, swift and easy, carrying you inside. Hungry kisses, teeth scraping at your jaw, down the line of your neck. A throaty husk of Happy New Year, Lee Abbott, as he tugged your clothes off your body that thrummed with his scent and his voice and his arms and his taste. 

With the density of him. 

He lifted you again, your short, giggly yelp bouncing across the room as he hauled you over his shoulder with an easy force. His steps long and balanced, as if your weight was inconsequential to his strength. 

In the dim bathroom, he put you down directly into the tub. There, he unbuckled his belt and slid down his jeans, looking at you with a mischievous grin you’d never seen before and that fitted his gorgeous face a little too well. 

“Told you I’d fuck you in this shower.” 

Thirty seconds later, you were standing together under an aggressive stream of scalding water, his broad back shielding you from the high pressure, steam blurring the tiles and the mirror. You pressed your face into his neck, hands splayed over his chest, feeling it heave with his low, rumbling chuckle. 

“ That’s the best I could do. This place is trash,” he scoffed, lips grazing your ear. 

“ It’s perfect,” you laughed. 

Another notification lights up your screen, yanking you back into the stifling cab of the sedan, to the nagging cramp poking your rib cage, to your hindered breathing. 

It glowers at you, bold black letters over a steel gray rectangle. 

MESSAGES 

Adrian

Your eyes flicker back to the red truck, your face crunching into a grimace. 

“Shit,” you grit, grabbing the phone and quickly pressing the home button before you can change your mind.  

The lock screen fades as the message app pops open. You squint against the brightness of the glowing white screen. 

I made it, babe. I fucking made it. You’re talking to the new senior partner of Balmer & Steigt.  Fuck yeah. I finally get what I fucking deserve.  

The gray ellipses start blinking underneath the bubble. You frown, bracing yourself. 

I couldn’t have made it without you. This is your victory as much as mine.

You scoff, but the dread-inducing ellipses keep bouncing happily. Fantastic. There’s more coming.

I got you something. Something fancy for my fancy girl.

“Oh, hell no.”  

Leaning down, you pick up the roomy I ❤ NY tote bag Ava got you as a Christmas present and dump your phone into it, before stuffing the bag under your seat. 

If only you could take a full breath. If only your chest would expend. It’s not that bad, really. A few months back, you would have been physically unable to keep going with your day after that conversation with your father. Let alone drive. You’d have suffocated, chocked up on your panic, until you’d been left with no choice other than to gulp down a pill, or two, or three, topped off with a swig of gin. The bitter taste of surrendering. 

Is that what it means, to give oneself some grace? You’re doing good, you’re doing better, you’re doing your best.

Closing your eyes, you exhale through pursed lips and ease down your shoulders. 

He had you called into his office by his secretary, as you were about to leave, bag in hand, counting steps. 

But you were expecting it. In all honesty, you’re surprised it’s taken him this long. Four weeks since you came back from Beaver Creek. Four weeks of defying his strict, outdated, misogynistic dress-code. 

The very first morning, you stepped out of the mirror-lined elevator on the 15th floor wearing high-waisted, wide-legged slacks and a loose button-up, the sleeves folded high on your forearms. And flat derbies.  

Nervousness, sitting heavy and queasy in the pit of your stomach, beating loud against your eardrums. Prickling under your armpits, raising the hair on your nape. 

Kaytee’s eyes widened as she caught sight of you walking by her office, before she remembered to police her expression. The shock on her face turned into something else, something worse. Lurking in the lift-up corner of her lips, in the smugness coloring her cheeks. Something sardonic. Condescension. 

“ You can’t spend your life trying to be someone else. ” Ava’s words through the receiver the previous night were a dizzying swirl inside your head, as you walked down the glass corridors, coworkers and subordinates watching you with a similar shocked expression, that blurred their features into one subdued, frightened face. 

But who the fuck am I, Ava? you wanted to ask, the only sound on the line that of your short breathing. How did you know who you were? Always. From the very beginning of your life. How did you know how to be so unapologetic about it? 

Had it been your gift to her? Does self-confidence require love? Or guidance? Is it innate? 

All you know, at this point in your life, is that wearing clothes that you chose for yourself seems like a sound first measure. One that you can actually undertake. 

And with that in mind, you stepped into your father’s office, your heart pulsating in your throat, to take a seat across from him, his clear desk standing like a wide canyon between you.

Now, your steps are nearly silent on the shifting gravel, as you walk across the parking lot, fingers brushing along the cool metal of the truck as you pass it by. That pull toward Frankie propelling you forward, inescapable, irresistible despite the nasty sensation oozing down along your legs like thick-flowing tar, weighing your gait. 

On the porch, you pause. On Friday evenings, this is when you shed your old skin. Healing wounds, scar tissues. When you set your eyes on the canopy as it swallows the sun, pink-orange dusk fading to dark. Grainy photographs, forgotten vacations. This is when your spine straightens, when you take in the horizon and let it deepen your breathing. When you ready yourself for the life you’ve chosen, between the brown carpet and the yellow curtains and his arms. 

But it’s already night. The darkness has erased the horizon and your old skin won’t shed. 

The door opens, a draft ruffling your hair.  

The first thing you see is the crease between his brow. The tick of his whiskered jaw, and then, his dark brown eyes, appraising the tension that winds up your body, appraising your silence. His grunt, like an echo, distant. 

“You sat in that car forever. I was about to come out and get you.”

The concern in his voice rattles something deep inside your belly. You’re not bringing any of it inside that room of yours, you think, as he pushes away from the door to let you in, as you cross the threshold, but it’s stuck to you. Your father’s voice. The tremendous power it still holds over you. His disappointment. Your failures, plural. All the wrong choices. 

His hat is set on the desk. His suede jacket is draped over the back of the angular wooden chair. Your gaze lingers on it, you can almost feel the comforting softness of the fabric under the pads of your fingers.

He stands a few feet away from you, giving you space. Dark mahogany searching your features, your posture. His hands propped on his hips, like that other night in the parking lot, after he’d seen the fresh scar in your hairline. 

You face away from him. The smell of the room is familiar, in a comforting way. Musty. Dust and the faintest perfume of industrial laundry detergent coming from the starched sheets. He’s pulled the bedspread off the bed. It’s folded neatly on the floor underneath the window. It rises tears along your throat, the idea of him prepping himself, prepping the place, alone in this room where you’ve waited for him countless times and hours. Guilt scrambles your brain, over what, you’re not entirely certain. Keeping him waiting? You failures, plural. All the wrong choices. 

“Lee.”

His voice seeps in through the blackness coating your skin, like warm and persistent little droplets of sweet amber.

You turn to face him, at last. An awkward upper-body twist, feet rooted to the brown carpet, teeth clenched around the lump in your throat. He’s wearing that gray threadbare t-shirt you love, the one with a v-neck, and your eyes find the dip at the base of his throat, the fireworks of freckles between his collarbone. Tears well up, too strong to hold back, and you shut your eyes to the muffled sound of his booted steps on the matted carpet.  

You’re drifting, enveloped in his warmth, his scent, leather and musk. The contact of his skin as he curls a large hand around your nape, tucking your face into the curve of his strong neck. 

His arm wraps around your waist, drawing you closer, flush to his chest, and he presses his chin to your temple. You let go, surrender, honey dripping thick and golden along your loosening limbs. 

His pulse beats solid and steady against your cheek. You breathe him in, a hindered inhale at first, and when your shoulders begin to drop, a deeper one. A single tear escapes. It rolls down the round of your cheek into his skin. Your palms skim up to the plane of his back, soaking in his heat, and he presses you in harder, his forearm aligning with your spine, fingers spreading at the base of your skull. 

Time stretches. He holds you. You lean in. 

Later, after he’s helped you climb into the cab of his truck, you keep your eyes on him as he rounds the red hood.

Sitting behind the wheel, he puts the key in the ignition and, looking at you, tilts his head to the left. 

“C’mere,” he says, and you scoot next to him, biting down a relieved sigh as you slide over the seat bench. 

He leans over your lap, grabbing the middle seat belt, and buckles you in, then himself. You settle in, with your head against his shoulder, and your hand on his thigh, soft cotton, worn denim. Under your touch, his firm muscles ripple as he drives you into the night, into oblivion. The steady motion lulling you to sleep.

Alongside the deserted road, trees and bushes roll out in the headlights as the truck swallows miles and miles of asphalt. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble after a while, fighting drowsiness.

“Don’t be. You wanna talk about it?” he adds after a pause.

“No.” 

You shake your head, your voice so low you’re not certain he’s heard your answer.

“Doesn’t have to be now,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Your head bobs with his bunching muscles as he releases the wheel to bend his arm at the elbow, fingers threading through your hair. Without lifting his eyes off the road, he leans in, and pecks a pointed kiss on the crown of your head. 

Your eyes close. The image of the bedspread neatly folded underneath the window flashes through your mind. You can’t seem to get used to his tender gestures, to his attentions. You hope they will never stop. You hope you will never get used to them. 

The emotion washes over you, a soft wave, and you float with it. In the cab of his truck, in his scent and his hold, you feel free of all doubts. Fear and pain cannot find you here. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced so far, a strange feeling, potent and all encompassing, albeit one that doesn’t need to be dulled or tamed. 

The words come out of your mouth as a surprise. 

“I think I don't want it to define me anymore. My family, I mean. Where I come from.”  

This is a new state of mind. Or perhaps it’s been there for a while, a mere shadow on the wall, something you couldn’t clearly discern. Suddenly simple to comprehend and articulate.

“Yea. I get it,” he says.

And you know he does. 

You open your eyes, and take in a deep breath, fill your lungs with that distinct old leather scent that clings about him, and the smell of vintage Bakelite from the dashboard, so specific to his truck.  

“Music?” you ask.

“Sure, good idea. You like Jefferson Airplane?”

You nod, brushing your cheek against the cottony fabric of his t-shirt, leaving a little bit of you there, for him to find later.

“Yes. I like them.”

“Jefferson Airplane it is, then,” he answers. 

Gently, he bends forward, mindful not to nudge you too much, and turns on the stereo. His thick fingers push the tape that’s already there into the slot, and your lips curl with an explicit thought, unlike any you used to have before meeting him. Crude, but welcome pictures that now constantly crowd your brain. 

He keeps the volume low, and with the round rumbling of his quiet humming, your mind slowly drifts off again. 

You’re about to fall asleep when a thought surfaces, skirting the edges of your consciousness. 

“Frankie?” you quietly call. 

“Mmh?”

“Are you… Were you in the military?”

The humming stops, his silence abrupt, and his shoulder tenses under your cheek. Pushing away from it, you risk a sleepy glance at his face, plunged in the semi-darkness. It’s not dark enough that you don’t recognize the cocking of his jaw. 

“Frankie?” you ask again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“I’m a pilot,” he cuts in, pausing to inhale deeply. “I was in the Army for nearly twenty years. I got a discharge a couple years back.” 

You remain silent. His eyes flicker quickly between you and the road, and you give his thigh a strong squeeze with your left hand, before resting your cheek against his shoulder, eluding his searching gaze.

Volunteers is crackling through the speakers, but you don’t hear the music. Fully awake now, your mind is reeling with those scattered, minute parts of him you picked up Friday after Friday to stash them away in your subconscious. His puzzle of shadows. All the things that now make perfect sense, and the ones you’re dying to unravel. 

His quiet assertiveness. His hands, quick and sure. His silences. His commanding tone. That long, sideways scar etched on his left flank. 

His early rage, and his anger too. The flight forward, dimming his eyes, where deep rich mahogany now glimmers. 

The zip ties. Your eyes grow wide, a gasping sound catching in your throat. You’re not ready to address how much you appreciate this particular skill of his, considering where he picked it up.  

Your imagination produces a clear vision of him in a US Air Force uniform, the fabric stretched over his broad shoulders, and you bite your lip, your entire body covering in chills. 

Frankie has yet to say another word. Something raises your consciousness, something in the scowl sharpening his features as he scanned your face for a reaction. 

Images flash through your head. The 8 × 10 picture displayed in your father’s office in its platinum frame, for every visitor to admire. Smooth faced and confident, his sleeves rolled up high on his lean forearms, your father’s shaking hands with Reagan in front of a colorful assemblage of containers, in the industrial quarter of the Tampa Bay Harbor, during the 1984 campaign. His coldly handsome face split by a smile, larger and more genuine than any of those he ever addressed you, let alone Ava. 

Recollections of those dragging hours you spent in church as a child, beads of sweat dripping along your spine as you sat in the sweltering heat on a hard wooden bench, rigid and still like a marble statue for fear of being reprimanded. 

The hateful, vehement speeches your father would burst into at random, your mother pinching your arm for you to listen, this is important. The uneasy feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach, like bile, like nausea. Wrong. This is wrong. A feeling, not an idea yet. It grew with you, expending, to become impossible to see past by the time you started high.

The list of names in your father’s neat handwriting, scrawled on a crisp piece of paper, that he handed you before driving the entire family to the polls for your very first election. The sheer terror, primitive in its hold over you, prickling on your nape as you systematically disregarded his instructions, choosing the names followed by the three letters DEM. 

The rare political meetings you secretly attended in college, the pamphlets in loud colors and bold letters, that you read hidden from your roommate’s prying eyes, as if they were satanic verses. Reproductive rights! Demilitarization Now! No to privatized prisons! End gun violence! 

Petitions you signed with a shaking hand, because what if your parents found out? What if they heard of it? A dread so profoundly anchored at the very core of your psyche that you have never told Ava any of it, even when she would chastise your lack of interest in politics, your lack of involvement, lest she’d reveal your treason to them in the heat of an argument.

Could this be when you started finding yourself? In your diverging convictions? Could it be enough? Could it count? 

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask tentatively.

He huffs a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. 

“You’re a hell of a fast learner, aren’t you?”

“I have a very good teacher,” you shrug, trying to ignore the sharpness in his tone. 

Curiosity overthrowing your ingrained fear to displease, you ask, “What kind of aircraft do you fly? Planes? Helicopters?”

He simply nods, and your cheeks heat again at the notion, your heart racing. 

“I’m very impressed,” you whisper. “I can barely parallel park.”

“I’m sure you got plenty of other skills,” he answers, softer. 

“No. I really don’t.”

—

Frankie walks briskly across the parking lot, carrying a take-away bag and a six-pack of beer. His head hung low to shield his face from the thin, mid-February drizzle. His denim shirt sticks to his back with humidity, and sweat from the drive. It’s pulled uncomfortably taut across his shoulders. 

He steps onto the porch, hands too full to open the door or even knock on it, so he gives it three light kicks. A tiny screw pops out from the curved top of the brass number two. The whole thing swivels upside down, swinging like a pendulum.

“Jesus christ, this fucking place,” he scoffs.

The door flies open, and you’re here, with that bright, earnest smile and your wide, luminous eyes. You’ve tied your hair up in a casual do, but you’re still fully dressed. He likes those slacks on you, snug on your curves, wide on your legs. It fits you so much better than the tight pencil skirts you used to wear when he first met you. Those made you look like an 80s porn producer fever dream. But these trousers transform your gait, your entire demeanor, into something more relaxed. More confident. He could watch you strut around the room for hours. If only there was more time.  

He catches a glimpse of the mesh fabric of your bra, peeking out from the cleavage of your open shirt, and he mentally curses the corporate fucks who get to work all week around you.

“Hey, Frankie.”

The sharp, familiar pang rips through his chest at the sound of your voice, light and cheery. That ache he waits for seven excruciatingly long days to experience again.

“Hey, baby.”

As you let him in, he feels the tip of your fingers brushing his thigh, as if you need to make sure he’s here in the flesh. The miracle of you wanting him, still. 

“What’s in the bag?” you ask, dragging the chipped chair away from the desk, so he can set down his bounty. 

His eyes fall on your graceful nape as you crane your neck to see what’s inside the bag, too well-behaved to touch it without having been invited to do so. 

“Didn’t have time to eat. I took something for you too, I hope you don’t mind. Did you eat? Are you hungry?”

“I don’t usually eat before I come here,” you admit. “I drive in straight from work,” you add, heat visibly creeping up your neck and ears.

He takes off his hat, ruffling a hand through his hair to conceal a smug smile. 

“And you’re not starving, by the time I’m finished with you?”

“Quite the contrary, actually. I feel pretty full when you leave.”

Your lips stretch into a wide grin you’re ineffectively trying to hold back. 

“That so?” he chuckles, propping his hands on his hips. For countenance. 

Pride glimmers in your eyes, as it does every time you make him laugh. He knows it’s mirrored in his eyes. Your levity is his reward. 

Everything about you is unbearably endearing. He’s not sure if he’s hungry for food anymore, or if he’s not going to go straight down on you. You’ve already prepared the bed, that ugly bedspread neatly folded under the window. He could lay you prone on your stomach, lower your trousers to your knees, perk up your pretty ass and eat your sweet cunt from behind.

His hunger for you sizzles along his spine, sparkling in his loins, imperious and distracting. The sensation is delicious, and for once, he takes the time to revel in it. He’s so used to barging in here and just taking. He doesn’t savor, not really, not until after he’s had you at least once. 

He’s not proud of his unbridled hunger, the consequence of seven days’ worth of pent-up frustration, chasing your perfume on his clothes and the ghost feeling of your cool, smooth skin under his palms. That ever-growing obsession for your scent, for your eyes, and that crippling craving for the sounds you produce when he moves inside you. That high he gets when he makes you feel good. Every time he gives you what you want. 

And there’s the absolute black-out on all communications between you throughout the week that drives him out of his mind. He knows that’s the tacit deal the two of you struck at the very beginning. No phone number, no address, no marks. Hell, he didn’t even know your name until you gave it to him at Christmas. Only, he’s left in the dark for seven consecutive fucking days, with no means to check up on you, and no way to make sure you’re safe. 

He understands the necessity for secrecy. But the more time passes, the less it makes sense. 

So come Friday night, he needs to crush you under his weight. Needs to feel your flesh gushing through his splayed fingers and hear you mewl his name, eyes rolling to the back of your head, your body tensing up in his hold before it shatters around his cock. 

He needs to fuck you deep and full, find you in that place within yourself and wreck you there. He needs to make sure you’re alright. Make sure you’re real. Make sure you’re his. 

And his control might be tenuous, but he sure loves the way you lean into it. 

You’re still smiling when he takes a step closer behind you. Lowering his face into the curve of your neck, he inhales you there, that spot behind your ear, where your subtle scent becomes heady. He feels your chest rising with your own deep breathing, and he pictures your eyes fluttering shut. His hand skims the curve of your hip, sliding up to the swell of your breast over the smooth fabric of your shirt, gripping you roughly as he takes your earlobe between his lips and sucks on it. His hips move against your ass of their own volition, his cock half-hard, fucking twitching.

“Frankie,” you whine.

“Yea?”

He licks a broad stride up your neck, collecting the tangy taste of your skin, mixed with the chemical one of your perfume. 

“What’s in the bag?”

“What bag, baby? Oh, right.”

It’s a beat before he can detach himself from you. His cock is beating hard and angry against the confining fabric of his jeans. With a light brush of his knuckles along your side, he reminds himself there’s also pleasure in the anticipation. The word sits in the back of his throat, like a knife ready to bleed him dry. Concupiscence. 

Ripping the paper bag open in the middle, he smooths both sides neatly over the desk, and points at the three rolls wrapped in tin foil.

“Took three burritos, and some fried beans. There’s one beef, one pork, and one vegetarian, in case you don't eat meat.”

You look at him with a twinkle in your eyes, your grin getting wider than he’s ever seen it. He braces a hand flat on the desk. 

“Oh, I eat meat, I thought you’d know that.”

The words have barely left your mouth that you burst into a fit of giggles, covering your face with both hands.

“Christ, woman!” he laughs. “Alright, sit down. Let’s get proper food into that mouth of yours, for once.”

Together, you unfold the bedspread and arrange it over the foot of the bed. The thing is already stained, and you mutually agree there’s no need to make a mess of the white sheet just yet. 

Letting you pick between the two richer ones, he takes the vegetarian burrito, and you start eating together, two open cans of beer at your feet. 

His bites are ravenous, while you nibble gingerly at your food, holding the burrito with two hands, the foil crackling between your fingers. After a few bites, however, you start eating in bigger chunks. 

“This is delicious,” you moan with your mouth full. 

Is he getting jealous of a fucking burrito now? Is that where he’s at?

“What, you never had a burrito in your life?”

You wince, and he immediately regrets the teasing skepticism of his tone. 

Setting the food down, you dab a paper towel to the corner of your mouth, catching a fleck of sauce. There’s grace in all your movements, even the tiniest ones.  

“My mother monitored everything I ate. God forbid I put on any weight,” you explain, a hint of bitterness in your voice. 

He lowers his hands, eyes trained on your averted gaze. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” you tell him, looking up at him.

There’s that quiet resignation painted all over your face. 

“Try me.”

“You’re thinking I’m a grown woman, old enough to make her own decisions.”

He shakes his head. “Was actually thinking your mother sounds like the exact opposite of mine.”

Your mouth curves into a sad attempt at a smile.

“I don't judge you, Lee. We all do what we can with what we got dealt with.”

A slight frown knits your brow, as you seem to consider his words. 

He has spent a lot of time, lately, reflecting over his own choices, and the many places where they’ve led him, for better or for worse. 

Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria. Libya and the most dangerous places in sub-Saharan Africa. Nearly everywhere in South America. Twice over.

Over the fucking Andes, and to Tom’s funeral. 

Choices that also made him Lua’s father. 

Crossroads that have taken him all the way to that shithole bar, last year at the end of August. Conscious decisions that brought him here, into this room. Into your arms. Into your life.

A chain reaction he wouldn’t alter, he knows it now, even if he was given the chance for a do-over. 

He used to consider things as definite. Choices as absolute and irrevocable. It took him becoming a father, and meeting you, to understand his mother’s words. Paso a paso, she’d say, watching him with a tender, knowing smile as he rushed toward his life. Paso a Paso, Francisco. 

You eat in silence for a while, and he keeps watching you. That sharp pain solidly entrenched inside his chest, blooming through his heart, he has to make a conscious effort to breathe around it. 

He bought you the food you’re eating right now. Drove to his favorite place, stood in line and placed his order with you in mind. And you’re enjoying it. In fact, you’re demonstrating an impressive appetite, hungrier, messier with every bite. Sauce dripping down your chin. Pink flashes of tongue licking it from between your fingers. 

He could get used to that. Providing for you. Taking care of you. In more than just one way. Sharing the mundane routine of a daily life together. 

But this is not real. Whatever is happening between the four walls of this shitty motel is not ground for life-altering choices. 

“Do you want to share the pork one?” you ask, crinkling the tinfoil wrapper into a compact ball. 

“I’m good, baby,” he answers with a soft smile. “You can have it. Just make sure you’re still hungry for more meat when you’re done.”

—

Adrian has gifted you a new purse from another French luxury brand. It’s a square-shaped thing cut from some grayish reptile skin, with a matching tag and a decorative lock hanging from its handle. It looks insanely expensive and ridiculously vulgar, its tackiness almost cruelly ironic. Like a rich people’s inside joke.  

Somehow, you’re vaguely aware this model is exclusive and can’t be bought online or even in stores, however high-end. It has to be ordered, and there’s a waiting list. Useless knowledge you probably gathered from one of your mother’s magazines. A family of four could most likely live comfortably for a whole year for the price of this thing. 

Incidentally, there’s a new perfume clinging to Adrian’s clothes when he comes home late at night. The first time you caught a whiff of the heady fragrance, intense vanilla and white musk, it reminded you of the stunning blonde with feline hazel eyes. 

The gift immediately felt less like an expression of gratitude for your support than like a reward for your silent compliance. But it’s of little to no importance. The bag sits idly at the bottom of your walk-in dressing. Unused, containing what’s left of the love and respect you once harbored for the man. 

Every so often, you think about it, as you cruise along the 589. It makes you smile. A wide, Cheshire cat grin, one that bares your front teeth, and you wonder if it’s cruel of you to smile about the end of something that used to mean so much. Something that meant nearly everything. You wonder if you’ve ever been cruel before. Intentionally, that is. 

Then, you conclude you don’t care. This particular kind of cruelty feels far too good. Too righteous. You could get used to it. 

And you keep cruising along the 589 northbound. 

—

“Mark Twain or Lewis Carroll?”

“Oh god, Frankie, I don’t know…” you moan, too distracted to think straight. 

Teeth ghosting a bite over your neck, he wraps a kiss around your skin, sucking on it. Not sharply enough to bruise, but enough for you to clench hard around him.

In the past few weeks, he’s become playful. It’s new to you. Was it always a part of him, constituent but buried underneath the scars and the years, or was it born from your touch? 

He’s become talkative, too. Talkative, and curious. But then again, perhaps he always was. Only, not with you. 

Thus, there are new rituals between you. Secrets exchanged behind the shielding partition of the yellow curtains. Murmurs shared underneath the droning of the ceiling fan, in the golden lighting from the quaint bedside lamps.

Some of his questions can pose a challenge. You’re not always certain about the proper answer. The right one. You were raised to say what was expected of you. Taught to speak to please, not to speak your mind. To wait for your cue, and hold your thoughts in between.

Frequently, you hesitate, afraid to trip on your words. 

But he doesn’t easily relent. He’s playful and curious. But above all, he’s patient and persistent.

“I don’t know,” you repeat.

“You know. Come on.”

“Okay, um… Lewis Carroll. I love– I love Alice.”

“Oh yea? You do? You like following big white rabbits to strange places, huh?”

His chest shakes with his raspy chuckle, and you laugh, until he pulls you in closer, sheathing himself deeper inside you, and your laughter plummets into a throaty groan.

Seamlessly, these new ceremonials have replaced the old ones, the ones that were carried out under wary gazes, in appraising silence.  

Now, you don’t always count your steps on Fridays, but you leave work earlier, and when you arrive at the motel, you try to engage Raul in conversation. His discomfort is obvious, bordering on annoyance, as you disrupt his concentration while he’s busy drawing charcoal landscapes of jagged mountains. But these past two weeks, he seems to have loosened up a bit. Either you’re wearing him off, or he’s trying to get rid of you faster. 

On the porch, in front of room number 2, you watch the sun slowly sink into the canopy of trees in an explosion of tangerine pink. Every week, the sunset creates a different palette of orange, but your emotion continues to be whole and unaltered. 

Before stepping in, you flick the upside-down brass number. It smiles in greeting, swinging on its one remaining screw.

You wish the place carried Frankie’s scent. It never does, of course. As you fold the comforter and prop it under the windowsill, the only smells wafting around are that of laundry detergent, dust, and the faintest hint of mold. 

There’s nothing tangible for you to hold on to in his absence, and this is by far the most difficult. It creates a vacuum, a fertile soil for foul, festering thoughts. Doubt, dread, agitation. During those seven days apart, there is no text or voicemail on your phone you can turn to for reassurance. No photo booth pictures stashed inside your wallet. No clothes of his to drape over your body and keep you warm and safe. Keep you sane. 

Every so often, when you cannot find sleep, you convoke the memory of his gray t-shirt, the one with the v-neck and the pilled fabric. The sensation of the slightly rugged cotton under the pads of your fingers. The immediate comfort gently lulls you to sleep. 

There is one thing, one thing only: the receipt from the burrito place, that you retrieved from the wastebasket after he’d left, that one time he brought you food. It’s tucked between two pages of your Moleskine planner. You’re not sure whether it’s cute or downright pathetic.  

You had thought the want, the yearning, would ease with time. It only kept spreading to every corner of your existence, every aspect of your life. Instead of only missing his touch, you now miss his voice, too. His choice of words, the cadence of his speech, the pace of his gait. His crinkled-eyes, dimpled smile. The way he rolls up his sleeves, leaves the top buttons of his shirt open, and the way he undresses. His three-finger hold on his glass. His long reflecting pauses before he speaks. The freedom and safety you experience with him.

You just became better at handling the longing. Recently, you have become very good at handling numerous things. Quietly but steadfastly defying your father’s injunctions to comply with his dress code. Adrian’s glaring eyes of blue, their silent judgement. Ava living a life of her own, far away from you. 

Reading helps. You hadn’t read in years, and you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it. Now, you carry a book with you everywhere in your I ❤ NY tote. In these last moments before he walks into the room, you lie on your side across the motel bed, your head propped on your hand, and you read.

And when Frankie arrives, everything makes sense again, everything is justified. 

The wooden door creaks open, the brass number swiveling frantically, and his relief upon seeing you lights up the dim room. Hushed greetings, his large hands curling at your waist, pulling you into him, a husk of Hey, baby, his lips barely leaving yours while he tugs at your clothes, undressing you already. 

There’s rarely any other form of preamble beyond an occasional variation of Fuck, I really missed you, Lee , his teeth trailing down the line of your throat, sinking in just shy of a bite. Out of breath, out of time. 

The wait is over. 

Does he still come here to escape? Does he come here for you? His urgency hasn’t abated. But his intent feels different.

Stop me, skin on skin, chest to chest, the weight of his body covering yours, calloused hands hooked on your shoulders for purchase, pounding into you loud and ruthless. 

Stop me, crouched over you like a devouring beast, his face buried into the crook of your neck, shallow breaths and gripping hands, grinding deep inside your heat. 

Stop me, and what you hear is, I trust you. 

Deep grunts thrumming out of his throat, tumbling from his plush lips into your skin, a searing branding, an invisible mark. 

His plea. Lee.

He comes right after you do, pulling out just in time to spurt hot and thick over your arching body, or inside your wanting mouth. 

Later, when his spend has dried on your skin, when he’s kissed the soreness better, when your breathing has slowed, he brings you a glass of water, and waits until you’ve drank it all to bury his face between your legs, or fuck your throat if you begged him to. 

And on some Fridays, he goes by the desk to sit on the rectangular chair. He positions it sideways from the framed mirror. Says the reflection distracts you. It’s true. 

You could spend hours watching him. Watching him move, watching him sleep. Watch the care he puts in the way he handles his clothes and his truck and your pliant body. Watch him button up his jeans or tie his belt around your wrists. Watch his curls catch the light as he combs his fingers through them, the working of his throat, the pulsating throb of his heartbeat in his strong neck. The dip in his collarbone. The darker scar on his side. The muscles of his shoulders and his back, rippling under his freckled skin. Watch, and map those freckles with your lips. 

You could spend the rest of your life with him.

“C’mere,” he beckons, with a little tilt of his head, and a light pat on his thigh.

You get up from wherever he left you lying, the bed, the rough carpeting, the bathroom tiles, and walk over to him on wobbly legs. There, he draws you into his lap in a face-away straddle, his hands on your waist guiding you, firm and gentle, as he makes room for himself inside of you. The tip of your toes barely reach the carpet once you’re seated, and you have to rely entirely on him for balance. You like that. 

He braces his strong arms around you, and you keep your fingers curled around them, reclining against him, against his warmth. You like the sticky sensation of your combined sweats gluing your loose bodies. Your back molds to his chest like it was shaped for this very purpose. 

Your head tips back onto his firm shoulder, and he props his chin in the curve of your neck. The slight swaying of your hips is languid and slow, barely perceivable, in the same way the earth’s revolution around the sun is imperceptible to its inhabitants. 

Time lingers, in long lazy stretches, infinite moments in the amber lighting of the room, in the friendly shadows. In the heart of the night, and the folds of your existence. The low husk of his voice like honey in your ears, his words vibrating from his chest to your back, to your core. 

You can hear the smile in his tone. If you close your eyes, you can see it.

He asks about your taste in books, music or movies, food and entertainment, and tells you about his. Silly games of Would you rather? and Never have I ever. 

Scrunching up your nose under your pinched brow, brain cells scrambling back together inside your hazy brain, you try to produce coherent answers as his lush lips trace intricate patterns along your skin, your throat, your shoulders, nimble fingertips rolling your nipples into hardened peaks. A scrape of his teeth, followed by the wet glide of his tongue, soothing over your flushed skin.

Sometimes, you feel so full it’s overwhelming. The sensation, the emotion strangles the air out of you. Your cunt flutters around the thick, stiff girth of him, and he lets out a gravelly groan, cock throbbing inside your snug walls. Your slick pools down onto the coarse curls at his base. It’s like a virtuous circle. Everything feels right with him. 

After a while, when you’ve melted inside, when amber twirls in your bloodstream and your thoughts have turned to swirling molasses, his hand slides down along your stomach. His calloused fingers parting your folds, he starts rubbing at your clit, telling you that it’s time to come for me, baby. 

And when you do, he comes with you, shoving you down and deep onto his pulsating length, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. His mouth pressed to that sensitive spot over your pulse point, his feverish grunts sizzling against your damp skin. 

When he comes inside you, when you come together, you are made brand-new. Anything’s possible. There’s nothing you can’t do. 

The elating sensation is your favorite daydream, sitting at your desk, over dinner, stuck in traffic, or in the blue hours before dawn. It sustains you throughout the week. The promise of it tingles in tense anticipation, from the crown of your head to the tip of your toes, when you watch him walk over to the desk and fold his tall, massive figure into the ugly chair. 

Week after week, question after question, you come into focus between his arms. It’s terrifying, and exhilarating. You keep getting better at it.

It’s a bittersweet ache, tender and addictive, to learn about his existence outside this room of yours. The borderless confines of his life. Of him. The details he chooses to confide in you, about his childhood, his past, and his present, in the dead of the night, his body wrapped around yours, chasing the contact of your skin. Chasing your touch, your softness, your understanding, when he used to grunt away from it. Like a threat, with bared teeth, and a shake of his head. A forbidding. A not yet. 

It makes sense to you now. There’s an absolute about him. An all or nothing. You’re not sure when it happened. The tipping point. Perhaps in the bathroom, on that sunny morning after Christmas, when he crowded you against the sink with a wolfish look turning his gorgeous face dark and threatening. You think it was meant to scare you. One last attempt. Your last chance to recoil and escape. 

You didn’t. You kept blooming, unfurling into your own limbs under the dark depth of his gaze, reflected in the black-edged mirror. You pressed back into him, the solid, steadying bulk of his body, of his broad chest. You pushed back and sunk deeper into his world. 

Today, he had to scoop you up from the floor where you were lying, boneless, in the wet mess he drew out of you. 

When he stormed into the room, you could still hear the engine of the truck revving. A scowl shadowed his face. Fidgety, tightly wound up, he began undressing you without a word. Unceremonious in his need, an echo of those early days, when he was imprisoned in his past, when his strength was unrestrained, when violence was his sole language. 

Fingers digging into the tense muscles of his shoulders, carding through his hair, you sought eye contact, softly cooing, I’m here, Frankie, I’m here, until your voice got through him. Until he heard you, slowing down, drawing you close. His forehead smearing sweat over your temple, his ragged breathing fanning the shell of your ear. His fist clutching the fabric of your shirt in a ball, with a push-pull motion, torn and primal, I need it, Lee. Please, I need you.

You relented, gave into it, lose and pliant as he bent you over the desk with a press of his palm, flat between your shoulder blades, as he pulled your panties to the side and lined himself up, as he thrust into you in one ruthless shove, down to his base. The clasp of his watch biting into your flesh. He was still fully clothed. 

Pulling on your wrists with an iron grip, he drilled into you at a brutal pace, skin catching at your entrance along his length, and you bit your lips through it, nearly drawing blood, until, at the very center of you, the pain turned into something blindingly pleasurable, bright and searing. A shockwave, erupting from your core, fast spreading along your limbs, lighting up every nerve-ending. 

Tensing under his constraining hold, bucking against his grip, you cried out his name, your back achingly stiff. Slick gushing out of you fast and hot, as your legs trembled uncontrollably, and through the din of it all, his rumbling growl, a guttural string of Fuck, before you slumped onto the desk and he fucked his own release into you. 

When he let go of you, he had to lay you on the carpet, where he collapsed next to you, chest heaving with exertion. Time blurred, you might have spent the whole night lying there, staring blankly at the popcorn ceiling, but he got up to undress.

He’s cradling you on his lap now, gently rocking into you. The slow and steady rhythm of his heartbeat aligned with yours, you’re bathed in his warmth, enveloped by his musky scent. You play along, searching your brain for answers. To his questions, and yours.  

There’s no evidence of his earlier outburst, saved for his thumbs drawing circles on your wrists where his fingers left a bruising indent. And of course, the wet spot on the carpet. 

Nuzzling your jawline, he trails a path of messy, lazy kisses down the column of your neck, capturing the tender skin between his plush lips, his tongue peeking through them.

“I should read it again. Alice. Read it so long ago. When I was a kid.”

Humming distractedly in agreement, your head lolls back on his shoulder. 

“Did I hurt you, earlier?”

Your eyelids fly open. His voice is barely a murmur, no more than warm breath grazing your ear, and you feel him throb inside you. 

“I don’t want to hurt you. I never want to hurt you.”

The vulnerability in his words shoots through your heart like a bullet. You free your arms to twine your fingers with his. 

“What happened today, Frankie?” 

His chest stiffens underneath you. 

“Nothing. Nothing happened. It’s more… It’s the date.”

The overhead fan hums over the room, louder than your breathing, louder than his. 

“A year ago, I agreed to a mission. With my former teammates. It was… It was bullshit. From the start. Nothing went as planned.”

He pauses and you wait, still and silent. 

“One of us got killed.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, squeezing his hands with all of your strength.

A chilling, bone-deep dread settles over your body in the sweltering heat, so cold he can probably feel it. You don’t want him to. 

“You said you resigned a couple of years ago?” 

“I did. I worked for the private sector, on occasions. It’s over now.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Fuck no,” he snarls. “But some of my friends did. I– I had to go.” He clears his throat. “I chose to go.”

“Do you miss him?”

He doesn’t answer for a while. Lifting his hand in yours, you give his knuckles a long, open-mouthed kiss. His forehead rests heavy against the back of your head, his eyelashes a fluttering caress on your nape. 

“For a long time, I felt responsible for his death.”

His words are dense with defeat. With sadness, and fatality. They sink heavily into you, into your bloodstream. You don’t need a mirror to know what his face looks like at this very moment. Your body will remember it, even if you live long enough to forget your own name. The pitch-blackness of his beautiful eyes, the stern crease splitting his brow, imploring for your touch. The tightness in his jaw. The downward curve of his plush lips.

That first night at the motel comes back rushing like a flood, like a wildfire. His roughness, the urgency saturating his actions, the anger in his grief. His bleeding wounds, invisible, evident, glaring. He reached for you through his despair, clutching your body, clinging to the idea of you. 

Are you real?  

I don’t know. 

A dry sob wells up in your throat, but you swallow it down. 

“What do you think now?”

“I think it doesn’t matter who’s responsible for his death. His girls are still orphaned.”

Between your lungs, the wild creature curls up into a ball. Its tears fill up your heart. There isn’t any pill or alcohol strong enough to numb this pain of yours. But it doesn’t matter. You want to feel what he feels.

You turn around. You kiss him.

—

“What about this one?”

He should be leaving soon. But your body’s soft and relaxed, curled into his side on the rumpled bed. Pleasantly cool in the muggy atmosphere of the motel room, in the dawn’s indigo hues. Your thin fingers hover gracefully over his skin, tracing the outlines of his scars, and it’s like you’re reshaping his entire body, all of his wounds, and his whole life, with the gentle touch of your fingertips.

“Frankie, what’s this one?”

He should be leaving soon. The sun’s about to come up. 

“Did you save it for last because it’s the largest?” he deflects with a smirk.

Folding an arm over his chest, you prop your chin over it, frowning exaggeratedly with your jaw shifting to the side. He laughs so hard that your head bobbles with his shaking belly.

“That supposed to be an impression of me?”

“You recognized yourself,” you smile, sitting up next to him.

He should be leaving soon. And you know it. You’re giving him the space he needs to get up and get out. He fucking hates it.

“Stay here,” he says, curling his fingers around your arm as you’re about to get down from the bed.

The look you give him awakens the pain in his chest. You peer through the curtains, into the blue morning sky, and your gaze returns to him with a silent question. 

“Come on. Please. Just a little longer.”

It’s not lost on him that he should be the one getting up. Not pleading.

The mattress creaks in protest as you move over it on your knees, sitting in a straddle across his hips. 

“Yea, that’s better,” he smiles, smoothing his palms over your thighs. His left hand slides up to palm your breast, and he notices he hasn’t taken off his watch, tonight. It’s the second time this month.

“What’s this one?” you ask again, entirely undistracted, measuring up your hand to the length of the darker patch of skin. 

“Okay,” he sighs, “I crashed a chopper near– wait, I can’t actually tell you that.”

“Jesus, Frankie,” you gasp, spreading both hands over the old wound, as if to stop a ghost bleeding. Your eyes have grown so wide, they eat up half your face.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s old. Wasn’t a big deal.”

It had been a big deal, at the time. There had been talks of awarding him a Silver Star for that mission.

“Did it hurt?”

“Mostly my pride. It wasn’t that bad, don’t worry. Nothing compared to what my sister threatened to do to me if I didn't leave the Army.” 

“I can’t say I blame her. I would have probably done the same.”

“Ok, my turn. What’s this one?”

His left thumb skims along the thin line on your inner thigh, and he feels you tensing under his touch.  

“It’s nothing,” you snap, taking your hands off his skin as if you just got burnt. 

He presses his thumb into your soft flesh. The pain in his chest accentuates, radiating down to his stomach. 

“You’re cheating,” he says, as softly as he can. 

You face away from him, gaze flickering up to the window again, and you start moving away, but he holds you firmly in place with both hands on your waist. 

“Lee. Tell me what it is.”

Seconds turn into minutes, the only sound in the room that of the ceiling fan’s motor, and the pain grows stronger, pulsating from his neck to his gut. Your eyes remain trained on the window, lost somewhere beyond the curtains. 

“I had several more like this,” you start. Your tone is detached, your voice distant. “Smaller ones. On the back of my arms. When I was 17, my mother took me to a dermatologist. He removed them with laser treatment.” 

You pause, and look down at him. 

“She got me fixed, so I could find a good husband.”

His fingers dig into your flesh. It��s a full minute before he remembers to breathe, through his nose, because he can’t unclench his jaw. The chest pain turns into blinding, white-hot rage. His truck is parked outside and in his mind, the sequence of actions is crystal clear. Get you dressed. Get you in the cab. Drive away with you as far as the road goes, and never come back here. 

“It burnt like hel—“

“You’re perfect, you know that?” he cuts in. 

“I’m really not, Frankie,” you calmly answer. “What I am is a coward.”

He sits up with a cinch, cupping your face so you can’t recoil from him. Somehow, this would be easier if you looked upset. If you were crying. Showing any kind of emotion, really. But you’re far beyond that. 

“I can’t let you say that. Not when you risk everything to come here every week.”

“Alright, so I’m a selfish coward,” you say with a joyless little smile. 

“No. You’re perfect. You’re my perfect girl. Say it.”

It’s there. Your unbending will, your steel-hard determination. In your defiant gaze and your pinched lips. In the distance you're trying to put between your body and his. 

“Okay, fine. Don’t say it. I’ll keep repeating it until you believe me. I can be fucking persistent, you know?” he adds, falling back onto the pillows.

“I know you can,“ you say, lifting a leg off the bed.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he nearly growls, a bruising grip on your thigh, “I’m not done with you.”

His clipped tone appears to be more effective on you. You sit back down, let your shoulders relax, and the palm of your hands find his skin again. Distant gaze, cold touch.

“What’s this one?” he asks, the blunt fingernail of his thumb grazing the grid-shaped scar on your left knee, his tone barely a question, and to his surprise, you come alive with a spark in your eyes. 

“Oh! This one’s a good scar. I like it.”

You adjust your position over him, slotting your folds over his resting cock, and a coiling heat stirs in his loin.

“I had a bicycle when I was a kid. The most beautiful bicycle in the entire world. Red, the exact same shade as your truck. With a round cushion protection on the frame, I don’t know how you call that, and the letters MBK painted in white over it, you know the kind?”

He nods, and you continue talking. 

“I would spend hours riding it. I would disappear for entire afternoons. It was heaven. And maybe you’re not going to believe me, but I was pretty reckless on that thing.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

You’re smiling again. 

“Well, one day, I was too reckless. I hit the brakes too abruptly and I skidded over gravel. I flew ten feet away from the bike and I tore my knee open. I got home covered in blood, my parents were furious.”

A vengeful smile curves your lips, one he’s never seen on your face.

“They confiscated the bike. My mother said it wasn’t ladylike, and my father said– I can’t remember his exact words, probably 'you can’t damage my property,’ or something along those lines. They never let me on a bike again after that.”

“How’s that a happy story?” he frowns.

“I didn’t say it was a happy story. I said it’s a good scar. I got to keep this one. It reminds me of what I’m capable of. Even when I want to forget.” 

The sun is rising. A new day colors the sky in vivid bronze. The light filters into the room through the yellow curtains, dust particles suspended in the air, suspended like Frankie’s life when he can’t be with you. 

He should leave, but instead, he’s going to fuck you one more time. Pump you full of his come. Brand you with his essence, mark you as his in the only way he can before he has to let you go back to face those people who put murder on his mind.

His hands skim along your thighs to the swell of your ass, roughly kneading the round of your cheeks. His grip settles on your hips, and he bucks up into you, ever so lightly, his length hardening between your lips. He sees it on your face, on your profile bathed in the first ray of sunlight. The moment when you register his intention. The shift in your body, the echo to his desire. So powerful, so immediate, it’s almost like black magic. Your mouth parts open, your back arches. You press down on him. 

“That serves him well, your father,” he says, sliding you slowly over his cock.

“How’s that?” you ask, voice laced with lust. 

“Look what you’re riding now.”

—

The pillow is damp underneath your back, sweat exuding from your every pore. The last days of March have been unforgiving. You find yourself longing for a room with a proper air conditioning system, instead of the motel’s weak, outdated fan that only swishes hot air. 

Frankie’s searing touch doesn’t help. Stroking the back of your arm in a repetitive up-and-down motion, he’s laying across the bed, his head resting heavy on your lap, his long hair curling in every direction in this sweltering atmosphere. 

Instead of shying away from the discomfort, you embrace it. With your fingers twined in his locks, you lean into his touch, focusing on his high forehead, and the crease in his brow. On his long eyelashes, the curve of his lips as he speaks, the working of his throat. 

Ignoring the dark blue rectangle of night sky, gradually lightening up behind the musty curtains.

Dawn used to be a deliverance. From your thoughts that the night painted black. From the wait, when Adrian wouldn’t come back. From a forced rest that never really came, another disappointment, another let down, another part of your life requiring the artificial help of chemicals. 

Now, you resent it. Dawn is when Frankie leaves you behind to go back to his family. Dawn is when he’s the happiest, with his child, without you, in a realm over which you have no grasp. 

A rational part of you acknowledges that it’s easier if he leaves before the sun rises. It prevents you from yearning for things you’re afraid to want. Things you cannot have. A life with him in broad daylight. A life without shame. 

Recently, he’s become increasingly reluctant to let go of you. Dawn finds him wrapped around your body. Last week, he stayed past daybreak, and fucked you in the sunlight. 

The brighter tone of his skin, the lighter shade of his curls, the depth of his mahogany irises hit by a sunbeam, everything was like a knife through your chest.

“Lee?”

The caressing timber of his husky voice brings you back to the soft amber light from the dusty lampshades, to the humming fan, and the blue rectangle. 

“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“I asked if you like it. Your job.” 

“God no, I hate it! Sales productivity statistics and accounting manager, can you picture me?”

He huffs his breathless chuckle, the one that sends tremors rippling through your chest. 

“Not really, no.”

“I’m terrible at it, and it’s a problem, but no one says anything because daddy runs the company. I don’t understand why he insists on maintaining me in this position. It’s like a power play. He needs me to be miserable.”

Frankie’s hand pauses, fingers digging into your flesh, and he cranes his neck to peer at your face. You give him a reassuring smile. A genuine one. 

“Is that what you studied at university? Accounting and statistics?”

You wipe your sweaty brow with the back of your hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Yes. But university was a golden parenthesis. I minored in Russian literature. Not a skill that easily translates to the employment market, but Richard was thoroughly pissed,” you say, wiggling your eyebrows. 

“My little punk.”

His smile is brighter than the midday sun. Your index finger darts to the dimple in his right cheek. 

“I really like this,” you whisper, your voice dropping, thick with heat and arousal. With affection. “And these,” you add, scraping your fingernail over the bare patches on each side of his jaw. 

“Mmh. I’ve noticed,” he says with a smug expression. 

“Oh, you have?” You try to laugh off your embarrassment, but what comes out is a quivering sound, betraying the want that hinders your throat. 

He grabs your hand and brings it to his mouth, closing his plush lips around your index finger, wrapping his tongue around it. Your belly quakes. You clench around nothing. 

He releases your hand, and you hope he’ll get up and move over you, but instead, he reaches for your arm again, resuming his rhythmic strokes. 

“So what would you do, if you didn’t do this?” he asks. 

You sigh, glancing up, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror above the desk. 

“I’ve no idea, really. I never allowed myself to consider the possibility.” And before he can prod any further, you add, “What about you? What would you have liked to do, if you hadn’t become a pilot?”

The diversion doesn’t fool him, you know it. You’re acutely aware of his gaze, scrutinizing your face. You picture the familiar, pensive frown. His hand leaves your arm as he suddenly gets up, air hitting your damp skin where his head was lying. 

A few strides, and he steps into the bathroom, disappearing behind the partition wall. The tap runs for a moment, and there’s the distinct sound of wrung out fabric before he comes out, holding the hand towel. 

You watch him walk back toward you, his naked body glistening with sweat, highlighted in shadows in the warm lighting. You think about how beautiful it is, about your extensive, intimate knowledge of it. How it feels under your touch, every single part of him. How this knowledge is now constituent of the woman you have become. 

You know the callousness of his palms that catches at your clothes. You know the silkiness of his curls around your fingers, the smoothness of his chest against your breasts, the taste of his mouth and the bobbing of his pebbled throat between your lips. The thicker skin of his shoulders, tanned and freckled. The coarseness of the darker hairs under his navel, and how they feel rubbing at your clit. You know the weight of his cock in your hand, on your tongue, inside your walls. 

And if you know all this, then, isn’t he yours? 

He circles the bed over to your side, by the window, and sits next to you. 

Delicately, his fingers circle your wrist. He lifts your arm, and brings your hand to his lips, nuzzling the relaxed curl of your fingers open, to press a kiss inside your palm. His eyes briefly flicker shut as he inhales the transparent skin of your inner wrist. 

Lowering your arm, he starts running the towel along it and you jolt at the contact of the cold, wet fabric, letting out a short whimpering sound.

The sensation is sudden, seizing like an electrical shock, but the relief is immediate. The coolness radiates on the surface of your feverish skin, soothing your thoughts. Eyes fluttering shut, you relax into it. 

“Maybe an architect,” he starts, the towel gliding up to your shoulder, “or a carpenter. Build stuff, for a change. Instead of destroying them.”

Goosebumps break out along your arms, on your nape, as he skims the towel over the plane of your chest in slow, meticulous movements. As he rounds your breasts with reverent care, one, then the other, your nipples tightening in peaked buds, the low rumble of his voice filling your mind, his words boring into your heart.

The towel brushes up, tracing your collarbone, left, then right. Higher along the column of your throat, curling to the side of your neck. A droplet of water rolls down between your breasts, running along your stomach to end its course into your navel. You sigh.

“I could… run a small business, building houses or crafting furniture. In a small town, somewhere up north. Somewhere with seasons,” he says. 

The towel wipes over your trembling belly, over your mound, down your inner thigh. He’s slow, precise, thorough. Careful and gentle with your limp limbs. You’re sinking into the mattress, and floating over it all at once. 

You lift a heavy eyelid, your dazed gaze landing on his gorgeous face. He’s solemn, focused on his task. 

He readjusts his position on the mattress, so lightly the bed barely moves, and twists his torso to reach down your leg. 

“You could be my accountant.”

Your eyes shoot open. He’s facing away from you, wiping the towel under the arch of your foot.

“The last thing you want is to have me as your bookkeeper,” you whisper, your heart beating in your throat. 

He turns around, looking straight at you. Soft sad eyes, cold hard stare. 

“That’s all I want for the rest of my life, Lee. Be with you night and day.”

—

Everything seems to hinge on you now. 

His balance, his happiness, his redemption.

You filled a void, a hollowness inside his chest, he carries you with him wherever he goes. A pale shade of yellow and celadon green. 

He tries to convince himself it’s harmless. That he’s not doing anything wrong. That it’s easier this way. Easier than the drugs, easier than placing that burden on his daughter’s shoulders. He tells himself the peace you bring him makes him a better man, and a better father. Makes him worthy again. There might even be some truth to it. 

He’s not so sure if he deserves the second chance. If he deserves the parts of you that you confide in him. Your past, your regrets, your secret victories. Your hindered aspirations and the shores of your inner island, within his reach. The touch of your cool skin. The strength of your embrace. The veneration in your eyes. Your trust, your faith. Your time. 

But he wants to believe it. It’s more of a fundamental need, really. 

And as long as he’s with you, the illusion holds. When you’re sitting next to him in the truck, singing along to the tunes playing on the old crackling stereo as he drives to nowhere, when his body’s wrapped around yours in the dark, when he murmurs against your temple everything and anything that runs through his mind, when you’re coming undone between his hold, with his name on your lips. He believes he can be as good for you as you are for him. 

But it’s a thin fabric. One that tears the very minute he steps outside the room, leaving your sleepy form tucked under the starchy sheet. 

Day after day, until the next week, he’s left on his own to fence off the thoughts that plague him. 

The voice inside him, relentless, somber, asking how much longer this can last. How long before the consequences on your life are irreversible? How long until that man who’s not your husband finds out, and takes action? What repercussions would you face, then? 

He knows what he’d be capable of if he ever met him. He doesn’t like to think about it. 

You won’t open up about your life with him, no matter how much he prods and pry. He knows your strength. And he chose to trust it.

Seven months, and one week. He sat down with the cardboard calendar hanging above Lupe’s desk at work, and counted. His mind crowded, overflowing with what ifs. 

What if he took you out of this shitty motel, for once? Not just to drive into the night, but on a proper date. Dinner. A movie. Fucking lunch. A weekend somewhere. An entire vacation. 

What if he took you out of your life? 

Lupe started dating this Marcus guy back in December. Now she’s staying at his place every other night. The man is decent, one of the best paramedics he’s worked with, honest, reliable and steadfast. The kind of man Lupe deserves, and that he doesn’t mind around Lua. 

He should move out of the house. Lupe hasn’t said anything yet, but it’s just one more grace she gives him that he hasn’t earned. Every time they see each other, Will hints at it, the allusions becoming increasingly less subtle. 

The truth is, he sees no point in moving forward with his life if it’s not with you. If it’s not to take care of you, and provide for you. Watch you thrive, keep you safe.  

A couple of weeks back, when he’d first thought about it, he’d deemed the idea crazy, painfully aware of all the frustrations a couple’s daily life entails. 

Now, it’s the only choice that makes any sense to him. 

—

The airport terminal is bustling with flocks of tourists. Noisy families with children too young to travel, transient businessmen and women, groups of youths of dubious soberness flying out after spring break. 

Ava stands out in the crowd, her tall frame topped with a short bob of bright purple hair, and you spot her immediately. Standing on your tiptoes, you wave at her until she sees you and starts running in your direction.

She all but leaps into your open arms, and you both grab at each other, leaning into the embrace, laughing. You inhale her scent, searching for that baby smell in the crook of her neck.

“Oh my god, pup, your hair!” you exclaim. “You look terrific!”

“Yeah? You like it?” she asks with a broad smile, running her fingers through her locks. 

“I love it! It’s perfect for you!”

In turn, she takes you in, looking you up and down, and lets out a low whistling sound.

“You look good, too. You look better than good. You look gorgeous!”

“Oh shush,” you gesture bashfully, but you can’t hold back your own smile.

The two of you walk to the parking lot to retrieve your car, immersed in bubbly conversation, oblivious to the moving crowds around you.

Driving out of the airport, you glance at the sign indicating the 589 northbound and smile at your precious secret, before making a left turn south.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks, “I’m hungry! Feed me! Feedmefeedmefeedme!” she chants, before breaking into a high-pitched giggle.

“Alright, alright! Hold tight, I’m taking you somewhere special. Do you like burritos?”

“Who doesn’t like burritos? Wait, what? Burritos? Do you even eat burritos? Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”

You had to type the address from the crumpled receipt into your GPS. Until today, you’ve never allowed yourself to go there. Not on your own.

It’s a small cantina with tiled walls and concrete floors, colorful trinkets arranged in pyramidal displays behind the counter, chalkboard menus and an endless list of drinks. Star-shaped lanterns are hanging from the ceiling, and the staff is busy but jovial.

Lunchtime on a Saturday, the place is packed with couples and kids, and your pulse accelerates. You hadn’t considered the possibility of running into Frankie and his family. 

You place your orders, and after a short wait, you secure a spot in the back of the restaurant. Sitting on high metal stools behind a round table, you catch up on the past three months as if you hadn’t texted every other day, speaking with your mouths full, sauce dripping down your fingers.

The life she’s built for herself in New York treats Ava better than anything you could have hoped for, anything you could have helped her achieve, had she stayed here. A job in a cutting-edge art gallery, where her vibrant personality and her flair for networking are not only recognized but valued, a bustling social life, more thrilling projects than you can keep track of, all of it balanced by Polly’s grounding presence by her side. 

Your choices and sacrifices, justified.

Ava puts down the crumbling remnants of her vegetarian burrito to wipe her mouth, and takes a sip of her margarita.

“You sure you don’t want to drink anything?”

“I’m drinking something,” you answer, pointing at your iced tea.

“Whatever you say, girl,” she shrugs.

“It’s too bad you’re not staying with me. It’s idiotic, you’re only here for a couple of days and you have to sleep over at Jules’.”

“Listen, even if your douchebag of a fiancé had agreed to have me, which I know he didn’t, I don’t want to see his ass face.”

“Alright,” you concede, “valid.”

She nearly chokes on her margarita. Setting her glass down, she gives you a pointed stare, emphatically scrutinizing your face.

“Okay, seriously, what’s going on with you? How are you? I mean, that’s obviously the wrong question, you’re fucking thriving. What happened? What’s happening? New medication? Are you finally leaving him?”

“I’m not taking any medication,” you answer with unexpected satisfaction. “But no, I’m not leaving him.”

You catch yourself before you can add another word. 

“Are you still seeing that other guy?”

You nod, dipping your head, heat creeping up your neck. Why are you like this?

“I take it he likes burritos, am I right?

“You are correct in your assumption, detective,” you quip with a grin.

There’s a pause as Ava seems to consider her next question. It’s always so easy for you to forget that she’s a grownup now. That she knows you at least as well as you know her. That she has the capacity to outsmart you. The notion flares pride in your chest.

“Is he married? Is that why you haven’t run off together in the sunset yet?”

“I’m not sure if he’s married or not.”

“What does he do in life?”

“I don’t know.”

Ava throws up her hands. 

“Girl! What do you know?” she exclaims with only half-feigned exasperation.

I know what’s important. He’s a father. He’s a friend and a brother. A pilot and a veteran. He's thoughtful and observant. He’s organized and practical. And a reluctant sentimental. He learned to swim in the Pacific Ocean. He’s capable of cold-blooded violence, but it will break him. He’s capable of infinite tenderness. And it will save him. 

You pull a face, communicating how little you care about what you don’t know. Your sister shifts on the hard stool. She frowns, and when she speaks next, her voice is low, her tone conspiratorial.  

“Adrian doesn’t suspect anything?”

“Of course, he does. Or he did. His attention is elsewhere, for now. Seems serious.”

“Again?”

“Again,” you nod. 

Ava squirms on her stool again, probably trying to restrain her temper. 

Your mind wanders, jumping back through time at light-speed, to when you first met Adrian. To the way he used to hold your hand when you started dating, squeezing your fingers with his. Letting you choose the wine, opening doors for you. To the affection in his smile, and how fast he started calling you babe . The glimmer warming his cold blue eyes when he introduced you to his family. The way he leaves the bathroom mirror splattered in toothpaste every time he brushes his teeth. The way he lets his alarm ring off forever after he’s gotten up even if you’re still in bed, even on weekends. 

The ease with which he admitted to all his flings, whenever you confronted him, but never confessed to the one with his coworker, the ambitious young lawyer. 

Would you admit to having an affair? Would you use that ugly word that make you crawl out of your skin? Would you deny it? Could you answer No, I’m not seeing anyone? Could you bear the betrayal of denying Frankie’s existence? The truth of what you share, but can’t define?

“Your fiancé is a bag of dicks,” Ava finally says, shaking her head. 

“His obliviousness suits me for now,” you remind her.  

“I don’t understand why you don’t leave him,” she snaps back, forsaking her reserve. “He got his big promotion, he got what he wanted! And Richard loves him, it’s not like he’s going to fire him just because you two broke up, right? You don’t really love him anymore, do you?” she adds on second thoughts.  

The words spill out of you unchecked, once more. Just like in the truck with Frankie, back in January. Months, years for the idea to mature below the surface of your conscious thoughts, the reflective process unbeknown to you. 

“I’m scared, Ava. I’m scared shitless. I want to leave. I’ve been wanting to leave for so long. Adrian, the company, that fucking ugly apartment.” 

“Well then fucking do it, Lee!”

“If I leave, I have nothing. No job, nowhere to go.” 

And if you could give up a relatively comfortable life, would you be able to renounce the refuge of your sadness? Of your life between the folds? 

“You have money,” Ava counters. “You have shares. Sell them. Richard can’t stop you. Get a lawyer, if you have to. One that’s not on Adrian’s payroll. And then you can fuck your man Friday every day of the week, how’s that?”

You think about the folded bedspread under the windowsill. About the wet hand towel brushing up your skin. The trucker hat on the desk, and his fingers splayed on the steering wheel. The pleading arch of his brow. 

You think about that space between Frankie’s chin and collarbone, that contains your safety, your desires, and all of your hopes.

“I don’t… I don’t know if I should leave a man for another one,” you whisper. 

Ava’s eyes widen. She sits up straight, a smirk tugging the corner of her lips. 

“I don’t know either, but it looks like this one fucked some sense into you. The irony.” 

She’s withholding something, you realize. It’s in her uncharacteristic pauses, her sideways glances. Surprisingly, human interactions were simpler when pills kept you numbed and oblivious. Being attuned to everyone’s minute expressions is a daily trial. 

“Why don’t you move to New York with us?” she eventually asks. “We can take you in until you find a job there, for as long as you need.”

There’s that we again. People talking about you in your absence, judging your choices, plotting your future. 

“I don’t know how to do anything, Ava. I have zero skills.” 

“First off, that’s not true,” she retorts, relentless with her well-rehearsed arguments. “And then, Polly can help you find something. Lee, if you can leave this company, there’s literally nothing you can’t do.”

Suddenly, you feel exhausted. Weary and old. A bone-deep lassitude. And at the heart of it, the realization that this is a liminal sequence in your life. 

“Is that why you flew here for the weekend? To ask me to come away with you?”

“Are you mad?” she asks with a face. A little girl’s expression, afraid of being scolded. Your little girl. 

“No, I’m not mad, pup. I can’t be mad. You came back for me.”

“Of course, I came back for you. I was never going to leave you behind, silly.”

****

[airas-story]

“Hey,” Tony said, wrapping an arm around Stephen’s waist. Around them the party was counting down the last minute of the year in raucous excitement. “Congrats on not dying this last year,” he said. “At least not permanently.”

Stephen laughed. “Most people don’t need congratulations on not dying,” he said.

Tony shrugged. “Yeah, you’re not most people. No, you’re special.” He paused. “Which is the nice way of saying you’ve got a problem.”

“Oh shut up,” Stephen said, shoving Tony gently. Tony moved with the push, unsurprised when Stephen immediately pulled him back.

“I never shut up,” Tony said. Thirty seconds left. “I have a goal for you.”

“Let me guess,” Stephen said dryly. “No dying.”

Tony laughed. “Apparently I’m getting predictable. No deaths. Absolutely none.”

Stephen’s lip twitched in a smile. “I’ll do my best,” he said.

Yeah. Tony’d believe that when he saw it. “Uh huh. We’ll see a year from now if you managed.”

“If you’re giving me a goal, then I have a goal for you,” Stephen said.

Ten seconds. “Go for it,” Tony said.

Stephen’s smile glinted impishly. “Your goal, should you choose to accept it...”

“Go on.”

“You need to… get a little stranger.”

Tony snorted. “Most people already think I’m strange enough,” he said. “Most people think I need to tone it down, actually.”

Stephen just smirked. “Not quite what I was thinking. I was thinking ‘Tony Strange’. It has a ring to it.”

The words took a second to really make sense. Tony gaped. Had Stephen just… Oh no he hadn’t.

“Five,” the crowd chanted. “Four.”

“You brat,” Tony hissed. How dare Stephen propose first!

“Three.”

Stephen laughed. “Well?”

“Two.”

Tony only had one possible answer. “I accept your goal.”

“One!” The crowd went wild.

Stephen kissed him.

Best New Year ever.

[raspberrybesitos]

let’s get outta here, baby | frankies morales x f!reader

Valentine’s masterlist | Main masterlist | Palestine

Please take some time to go through the Palestine links. If you enjoy my writing, I ask you to help Palestine in any way you can.

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word count: ~2.5k

Summary: Frankie whisks you away on Valentine’s Day for a romantic evening secluded by the water.

Warnings: established relationship, exhibitionism, oral (f!receiving), face riding, unprotected PIV (wrap it up y’all), creampie, fluff, pet names (baby, hermosa, querida, amor) after care, reader has no description, no mention of hair type/body type/skin color, NO USE OF Y/N.

A/N: let’s try this again. happy frankie friday! oh how i missed my Frankie so much omg 😭 he and Javi are tied for my favorite Pedro boys tbh. i love love love him sm. anyway, i hope y’all enjoy!! as always, not beta’d - all mistakes are my own. 🏃‍♀️

Translations: Te amo = I love you

Divider by @saradika-graphics

“Come on, baby. Get dressed, we have plans,” he said.

“Where are we going, Frankie? I just got comfy, plus I thought we were gonna stay in and watch a movie or a few episodes of our show?” You pout, already snuggled in on the couch, lounging in your leggings and one of Frankie’s hoodies.

“I know, but I thought we could do something else tonight. And what you’re wearing is actually perfect, just throw on some comfy shoes. I promise it’s nothing crazy. Now come on. Let’s get outta here, baby,” he says, car keys in hand as he extends a hand to you.

That was 2 hours ago, his left hand drumming on the steering wheel to the music that plays throughout the speaker, his right hand resting on your thigh, giving it an occasional squeeze.

After the two of you worked crazy hours the past week, work had finally given you a deserved day off, and it just so happened to be Valentine’s Day. Frankie opted to use his sick hours, giving you two the whole day to yourselves. You’d craved to sit at home and wait for your boyfriend to get home to enjoy a romantic evening at home with him.

Frankie had other plans it seems.

Your hand rests atop his, fiddling with his fingers as you hum along to the music. The road winds along the coast, the rind of clouds floating in the tangerine sky. reflecting off the water. Traffic was a bit heavy, but Frankie said it didn’t matter what time you two made it to the location, that it’d be open. 

Pulling up to a hill, Frankie drives upwards. Your brows furrow in confusion, head snapping to gaze at your boyfriend. He pulls his hand from your thigh as he maneuvers the car up the hill, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Where are you taking me, Francisco?” You playfully question him. 

“I told you, it’s a surprise, baby. You’ll see,” he says smugly. Jokingly scrutinizing him, you cross your arms and hum. 

Soon enough, he pulls the car to a stop and cuts the engine. He’s parked on a cliff overlooking the coast, the waves crashing in the background. Crickets chirping and a brisk breeze blows through the air. Frankie rushes out of the car and to the trunk.

“Don’t look back here yet, querida!” He shouts. He’d told you the same thing before you’d left, covering your eyes as he helped you in the truck and blocking off the backseat with some blankets. You hear Frankie grunting and shuffling around the trunk, smiling softly to yourself at the thought of him all flustered. 

“Need any help, baby?” You yell over the commotion. You’re met with a few more grunts and can feel Frankie crawling in the trunk.

What the hell is he doing?

Popping up in your peripheral, you jump slightly as he stands there - his cheeks flushed as he takes off his cap and runs a hand through his hair before putting it back on.

“Come on, querida,” he says, his hand extended awaiting your grasp. A suspicious smirk tugs at your lips, brows scrunched in question. He leads you to the rear of the truck, the trunk door open. Pillows and blankets strewn about the truck bed, a cooler and his laptop lay on the floor.

Gasping at the sight in front of you, tears spring in your eyes. You whirl around, hands still entwined as a cheek-splitting smile crinkles your face.

“Frankie. You did all this for me?” You ask quietly, Frankie mirroring your smile. 

“Of course, querida. I know we said no gifts this year and we wanted to stay in with work being hectic for both of us, but you still deserve something.” His voice growing hushed and timid, his free hand fidgeting as his neck flushes red. Smiling even bigger, you throw your arms around his broad shoulders, looping them around his neck and crash your lips onto his. Frankie cups your cheeks as you two smile into each other, soft laughter bubbling from both of you.

“You are the sweetest man alive, Francisco Morales,” you whisper, disconnecting from him. His cheeks flush with heat. “I don’t know about all that, querida,” he rasps against your lips, grinning bashfully.

“You are, Frankie. This is perfect. Thank you for this, amor - for loving me. I love you,” you utter sweetly, threading your fingers through his curls and giving his head an affectionate, gentle scratch.

“No need to thank me, baby. Loving you is the best decision I’ve ever made. I love you - so much, hermosa,” he affirms, his voice growing huskier. He stealthily sneaks his hands down your back, resting them on the globes of your ass. He leans in, capturing your lips in another tender kiss.

The tenderness doesn’t last long though as the kiss blossoms into something hungrier, thick with lust. Frankie walks you backwards towards the truck bed, carefully helping you inside.

Only breaking for air to scoot back and settle into the makeshift mattress. He slowly settles you on your back against the plush padding of the blankets and pillows. Yanking him down for another hungry kiss, moans and sighs grow louder. The area is so secluded, no one is around to hear.

He slides his tongue into your mouth, tongues entangled and teeth clashing together. Moaning into him, he brings his rough, warm hands to cup your cheeks, sucking your bottom lip in between his teeth.

“Frankie,” you moan softly, parting from his lips, panting. Frankie suckles on your neck, moving his way to nip at your jaw. Kissing his way down your body, you moan quietly when he presses a kiss above your clothed mound.

“Can I take these off, hermosa?” He asks softly, toying with the hem of your leggings. You nod, whimpering as he slides them off, not wasting a second. Peppering kisses along your bare thighs, you squirm beneath him - desperate for his mouth.

“Need to taste you, baby,” he rasps, kissing your mound before slipping off your panties, tossing them to the side to join your leggings. You lift your hips, aiding him in the process and lay back down as he licks his lips. Eyes blown black and wild, eager and hungry for you. The feel of his lips against your bare sex earns him a whine, a desperate plea for more.

“I got you, querida,” he grits, diving in and licking a long, languid stripe between your folds, moaning into you as he savors the sweet, salty tang of your slick. Moaning at the feeling of his hot mouth on your aching core, you tug on his soft curls. Frankie grunts into you, always loving the way you grip his hair, holding onto him for purchase as he unravels you.

A wanton moan tumbles from your lips, slick endlessly streaming from your weeping cunt as Frankie slurps up every droplet. Your back arching further into the air as your head sinks deeper into the plush mountain of pillows and blankets on the truck bed.

“So fucking good, Frankie, fuck, yes, baby." Your moans bloom into a cry as Frankie abruptly stops, pulling away and sitting up. His cheeks sticky with your nectar, and his eyes black and wild - vehement. He sits up against the pillows, bringing you to sit up with him.

“Wh-what? No, Frankie, please why’d you st-,” you whine, until Frankie cuts you off with his rough grasp. He drags you up his chest, leaving a trail of slick on his belly and broad chest, before coming face-to-face with your dripping cunt - groaning at the sight of your swollen clit. Without a word, he forces you to sit on his face, his strong nose nudging at your clit as his tongue prods in and out of your entrance.

Sucking in a sharp gasp, you clutch his curls, the new position throwing you off-kilter. Gasps morph into uncontrollable moans as he grips your thighs tightly, your hips rocking into his face. His tongue flicks your precious pearl swirling frantic circles around your clit before wrapping his lips around your swollen bud.

“Oh my god, oh my fucking god, Frankie,” you keen, your orgasm rapidly approaching - taunting you on a precipice that’s just within reach. Frankie moaning below you, the vibrations sending jolts of electricity throughout your entire body. 

You glance down with glazed eyes, catching a glimpse of him drunk off your pussy. Eyes shut in bliss, cheeks flushed and shiny, his scruff burning your thighs, curls disheveled as he moans while working his skillful tongue. It pushes you further to the edge, wailing above him as you cant your hips harder into his face.

“Yes, yes, yes, Frankie! Oh fuck, Frankie! I’m gonna come, I’m gonna - oh fuck!”

Twitching and writhing above him, he releases your clit from his lips and licks another long stripe through your folds before relentlessly flicking at your precious swollen bud again.

“Frankie, oh fuck! Frankie, Frankie, Frankie!”

You crumble, your body nearly folding in on itself as your orgasm sets your body aflame, rutting your hips into your boyfriend’s face. Screaming his name as you ride out your orgasm. Your heartbeat thrumming in your ears like the waves crashing in the ocean nearby.

As the rush of your orgasm slows, Frankie wastes no time to slide you off his face, licking his lips and eyes wide and feral. Your legs tremble as he settles you atop his stomach. The trail of hair brushing against your sensitive clit, hissing at the sensation.

Frankie grunts with his bottom lip sucked in between his teeth as he hastily fiddles with his belt, unbuttoning his jeans and yanking his briefs and pants down in one go.

“Need to be inside you, querida,” he grits. You love seeing him so needy, desperate - so wild. He drags you down his stomach, his weeping cock brushes against your folds - guttural moans bouncing off the confines of the truck. He lifts your hips slightly, just enough to slide you down on his cock. Your mouth agape in a perfect O as you slowly sink onto his heavy, hard length. Filling you to the brim, fluttering around him as he twitches inside of you.

“Frankie, s-so full,” you whisper, voice pitchy and desperate. He groans as you clench around him. 

“Fuck, don’t do that, hermosa. Or else this’ll end before it starts.”

He slowly grinds his hips, pushing his cock deeper into you. Shuddering as he feels impossibly deep, taking him is never an easy feat, but the reward is priceless. The stretch aches deliciously as he splits you open.

You slowly grind your hips into his, meeting him with his thrusts. Moans stream from your lips, an endless river of Frankie Frankie Frankie. Your orgasm cresting, the sensitivity still prevalent from the one he gave you just minutes ago. Lifting off him with what little strength you have, you slam your hips back down onto him.

The stretch of his cock makes your eyes roll to the back of your head as you sink back down onto him. He hits that spot just right as he fucks up into you.

“Sweetest fucking pussy ever. Mine, it's all mine, huh, querida? Who does this pussy belong to?” He grits, his hips canting upwards, thrusts growing sloppier every time.

“Y-yours, Frankie! 'S all yours, I'm all yours,” you slur, vision growing spotty.

“‘S right, baby. You're mine. All fucking mine," he moans, his cock punching your g-spot hard, wailing at the feel of him.

“Frankie! Oh god, Frankie,” you keen, bracing yourself on his clothed chest as he fucks you as if his life depends on it.

“Come on, querida. Come for me, you’re so close. Squeezing me so goddamn tight. Let go, baby. Soak my cock, baby, need you to soak my cock, querida,” he babbles, fighting off his own orgasm as you reach the top of yours.

His words send you crashing into your second orgasm, screaming as he fucks you through it. His own resolve crumbles as he watches you squirm and feels you squeeze around him.

Your hearing muffled as your orgasm drags you under the waves, you hear Frankie shout strings of profanities as you feel his cum coat your fluttering walls. The two of you ride out your highs together.

Your vision hazy, covered in a thick fog of bliss as you float back to the surface of reality from the waves of your orgasm. You collapse on his chest, the two of you full clothed, save for your bottoms. Laying on him for a moment, silence hangs in the cool air as you two catch your breath.

He traces patterns on your lower back, huffing as he regains control of himself. His rapid heartbeat returns to a steady thrum, calming your senses. Sex and sweat coats your bodies and the air in the trunk.

Carefully flipping you onto your back, he slips out of you slowly, hissing in tandem at the loss. He grabs one of the extra blankets he packed from the floor and wipes off the combination of his cum and your slick between your thighs. He cleans himself up before tossing the blanket on the floor behind the passenger seat.

Sitting up, you slide your leggings back on, forgoing your panties. Frankie tosses his belt off to the side and pulls his jeans up, leaving the button undone.

“You okay, baby?” He asks, sitting beside you.

Always a gentleman, always checking in with you. 

Bringing a hand to his cheek, you smile at him with heavy eyes. 

“I’m good, baby. Thank you,” you whisper. He smiles, placing a tender kiss on your palm before he lays beside you. 

“I am a little hungry now though. You didn’t tell me we’d be on the road for so long and doing strenuous activities,” you joke. His chest rumbles while he chuckles heartily.

“I didn’t expect to be doing any strenuous activities either… well, at least not so soon into our date.”

“At least wine and dine me first, Morales,” you giggle. He nips at your neck, your giggles blossoming into a belly laugh.

“Come on, amor. Let’s eat. Gotta make sure my girl is ready for round two when we get home,” he says with a wink. He sits up, pulling you up with him. You rearrange the padding and pull up a movie on his laptop as he digs for something in the cooler. 

He pulls out two beers, his toothy grin making you smile. Cracking open two beers, he hands you one and settles back on the fort. He throws a blanket over you two as you snuggle into his side, clinking your bottles together in a silent toast, grinning from ear to ear.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, hermosa. Te amo, baby,” Frankie rasps against your head, pressing a soft kiss to your hairline. Gazing up at him, eyelids droopy with love and admiration. You capture his lips in a sweet, chaste kiss as he pulls you in closer, squeezing you tight.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, mi amor. Te amo también.”

tag list: @honeyedmiller @gracieheartspedro @nostalxgic @harriedandharassed @loliwrites @pedrostories

[rainchyna]

𓆩♡𓆪 episode thirteen: Despite Everything.

it's me! despite everything, it's still me. we are so back.

1:34 am — hotel room. wednesday, sep. 4th, 1996.

You were still awake, despite being exhausted beyond belief, you still couldn’t fall asleep. The stress of not knowing where your career was heading was getting the best of you. You were just laying there, not moving as you watched life outside the bedroom window. Apart from a car driving by every once in a while, nothing was happening.

You were resting your head on Hunter's shoulder, his muscular arms around your waist loosely as he faced you in his sleep. He looked so peaceful, handsome, a tiny snore occasionally escaping his lips. Careful as not to wake him up, you untangle yourself from him, quietly tucking him in, and slowly, you make your way to the bathroom. You close the door behind you and sigh, then you sit on top of the toilet’s lid. Your mind began racing yet again, everything was going so well, and here comes Shawn Michaels. You wondered how many people have had that same thought as you.

That heel turn was really getting to your head, you were y/n y/l/n, the women’s champion. The most credible one Vince has had in years, but now, you were y/n y/l/n, Shawn Michaels’ ‘girlfriend’, then the women’s champion. How long will it be until your championship loses its value again? What if you can’t keep the promise you made to Alundra?

You look up, your reflection in the mirror looking back into your eyes.

It’s you.

A knock at the door startles you, you exhale, you must’ve been in here for a while. You get up and open the door, Hunter standing there shirtless, one hand rubbing his eye and the other running through his messy blond locks. “Where’d you go?” he asks quietly, voice heavy with sleep. You sigh, “I couldn’t sleep.” you admit. He gently caresses your cheek with his knuckles, his other hand coming to hold your hip through his t-shirt that you wore to bed. “What’s wrong, angel?” he coos, pressing a kiss against your head, as he pulls you against his broad chest.

“Stressed.” you say, voice breaking a little. Hunter frowns at the sound of exhaustion in your voice, he hated how defeated you sounded. He lifted you up, his big hands on your thighs, holding them around his hips. He turned off the bathroom light, not caring to close the door. He brought you back to bed, holding you tightly against him as he sits on the edge, “do you wanna talk about it, my love?” he asked, his hand gently massaging your neck.

You cuddle into him some more, burying your face into the crook of his neck. “Can we talk about it in the morning?” you quietly mumble into his skin, Hunter holds you tighter, “of course, baby. Anything you need. Tell me what you need from me now.” he says, voice still deep.

“Love me.” you mutter, and he immediately does as he’s told. Hunter laid you down on the bed, climbing over you and pressing soft kisses on your neck, then down between your thighs.

6:00 am— airport, germany to italy. Estimated time of arrival, 7:35.

The flight from germany to italy wasn’t a long one, under two hours. Everyone was at the airport, waiting for the flight to be called. Some were at a cafe getting breakfast, some were asleep in their seats as it was still early, some chatting and minding their own business. You were sat on a three seat bench by a big glass wall that showed planes on the outside, taking flight, landing, rerouting as the clouds rolled by. Hunter was laying his head on your lap, he was asleep and covered with your leather jacket. You ran fingers through his soft waves, gazing outside the window. On the opposite bench sat Shawn, Chyna asleep with her head on his shoulder, and Lita asleep on her shoulder.

Shawn’s eyes were burning holes into your body, but you completely ignored him, something you hadn’t done in a long time. You didn’t even give him the slightly annoyed ‘good morning’ today, oh, he knew you were pissed at him for the heel turn he forced on you. But he was also slightly mad, a little irritated when he had no right to be. You were wearing light wash, low waisted jeans which fit you like a glove, but also showed off your toned abs, and a black fitted cropped shirt.

 How fucking dare you look this good at six in the morning? What annoyed him even further was the fact that he could see hickeys on your neck, your poor attempt (if you could call it that) at hiding them with keeping your hair down being nothing but that. A poor attempt.

He looked down at his sleeping friend, yeah, well, he clearly was up all night. Shawn looked back up at you, wondering, is there a way, or even a world in which you’d get over the little stunt he and Vince pulled on you? Would you forgive and forget? Not forgive, nor forget? Forgive, and not forget? Not forgive, and forget-

His train of thought was cut by Chyna shifting a little, he gently patted her head. His eyes drifted back to you.

Hunter had sat up, stretching as he yawned. Hunter placed his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer to him and kissing your temple. “Do you want a coffee, baby? I can go grab us sandwiches, too.” you say, your fingers intertwined with his. “You’re such a godsend.” Hunter says, kissing your temple again. 

‘How clingy.’ Shawn thought, rolling his eyes a little then looking out the window. As if that wouldn’t be him, or even worse. 

You and Hunter got up, heading to a random cafe at your gate. Your hand was in his as you two sat in a booth after putting your order, Hunter sat next you and you leaned against him. You pulled out a small journal and a pen from your speedy bag, the journal you wrote all your wrestling related thoughts and ideas in. After talking to Hunter about everything that was flooding your mind earlier, you had felt significantly better. You actually felt a little silly for letting it overwhelm you as much as it did, and as you began writing down, Hunter teased you a bit. “Someone’s inspired” he chuckled, jokingly pinching your cheek. You smiled, writing down all the ways you could reinvent your character while doing that stupid angle with Shawn. Even if it was stupid, you were going to make it unforgettable, like you.

“Thanks to my lovely boyfriend.” you smile.

The waiter brought your order, two coffees and two breakfast sandwiches, you look at the dark brown drink in the white mug.

Your reflection on the surface looked back into your eyes, you smiled.

It’s still you.

9:37 pm — monday, sep. 9th, RAW.

You were sitting in the dressing room chair, obnoxious gear on. Tonight, you and Shawn wore white and gold, chains and jewellery adorned your skirt and halter neck top, along with your white cowboy hat. You had been slowly regaining your confidence throughout the day, thanks to your incredible friends, and more advice from the Undertaker. You were beginning to feel like the true star you were, unwanted heel turn be damned, you were going to do what you knew best. Be the best champion, like you always have been.

As you finished applying your makeup, you placed your championship belt in your lap, grabbing some tissues and cleaning it. As you wiped the leather and metal plates, someone walked into the dressing room. Shawn, of course. He didn’t really matter to you, you two had an interview with Vince coming up and some commentary duties, he was probably here to get ready, too.

Shawn, like always, shamelessly ogled you, staring at your legs, and the cleavage your top left out. His mouth went dry as he peeled his eyes away from you, always a sight for the sorest of eyes. 

He grabbed a hairbrush and sat in the chair next to yours, “are you ready?” he asked. You didn't even spare him a glance, continuing to clean up your belt. “Mhm.” you hum with a nod, Shawn looked at you for a second, damn, you didn’t even acknowledge his presence.

He applied some gel on his hair, absentmindedly brushing it as he looked at you through the mirror. You both sat there, in silence, and the tension was so painfully present between you. Shawn finished brushing his hair, then put on sunglasses, he looked at you again, trying to think of what he can say.

“Look-..” he began, only for you to immediately cut him off, “Don’t.” you say. 

He quietly slumped into his seat, “I’m not going to let you ruin my mood.” you add, finally looking at him. He quickly looked away, hiding behind his shaded frames. “Do you want us to work together?” you asked. He looked back at you, almost eagerly answering, “I do, I really do.”

“Then, don't ever do anything behind my back ever again. If you want to do something, you come to me.” you say, tone strict. He nods immediately, “Yes, okay.”

You exhale, you were going to make the best out of this heel run.

You look up at yourself in the mirror, confidence beaming through your eyes.

Despite Everything, It’ll always be you.

[jeewrites]

Hold Fast | Ch. 7 Coffee & Donuts

Rating: Mature for chapter (Series is Explicit, this blog is 18+ MDNI)

Summary: It's a rainy day and Frankie is bummed about everything going on with his ex-wife Vanessa and the impending change to the custody agreement. You convince Frankie to go with you for some coffee and treats. Reader has a car named Blue.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who's still reading the series! Life things, grief things, a lot happened since the last update, but I am going to see this series through with Sweets and Frankie. (I've actually written the last chapter believe it or not, but I just need to uh, get them there!) Thank you always for being the best beta @bloviating-vy <3

Word Count: 1.5k (it's mostly fluff y'all)

Chapter Tags/Warnings: TF AU, no y/n, fictional description of custody arrangements, aggressive driving, brief mention of wedding/anniversaries/honeymoon, Tom owns a bar called Redfly's, Pope owns a gym, alternating POV

Series Masterlist

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It seems like everyone has the same idea as you, crowding into the latest ‘it’ coffee shop, a warm beacon on this grey, drizzly day. Scrunched together at a two-top you could see the noise and crowd grating Frankie’s already low mood, despite the six shots of espresso over ice cradled in his hand. He picks at the pain au chocolate you’re sharing.

“You gonna pick out all the chocolate and just leave the pastry for me?” you joke, trying to lighten the mood.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, slouching back into his chair and taking a large gulp of his coffee. It is a damn miracle he is not vibrating out of his seat into another dimensional plane. Six fucking shots of espresso.

“Hey,” you say softly, placing your hands over his. “It’s going to work out. Might be hell for a bit, but we’ll get through it. I'm here for you, okay?”

Frankie perks up at the we. He hadn’t said it in so many words but you could tell the custody change demands from Vanessa were stressing him out on so many fronts. It was frustrating enough strategizing with his lawyer, not to mention his worry about being enough for Gabi, doing a good job as a dad, and the thought of juggling full-time custody along with his job. But also how it would impact your relationship. Despite the reassurances you'd given him that you considered him and Gabi a packaged deal, you knew he still harbored doubts, plagued by insecurity.

When someone jostles you hard enough to nearly spill your coffee, you abruptly stand up. The coffee and pastries are doing shit all to improve his mood, but you still have one trick up your sleeve.

“C’mon, let’s go,” you declare, chucking the half-mangled pastry into the trash. The poor lamination of the dough didn’t make this one worth saving. Frankie slams the rest of his espresso and shuffles towards the door behind you.

Even though you’re driving, Frankie hustles over to open the car door for you before sliding in on the passenger side. You know how defeated he’s feeling when he hadn’t insisted on driving this morning. Frankie always wants to drive.

Frankie quirks an eyebrow at you when leaving the shopping center, turning away from the direction of his house. You just shoot him a cheeky wink as you continue driving in comfortable silence. Trundling along in no particular hurry.

Eventually, you pull into the completely deserted student parking lot at the local high school. Puddles dot occasional parking spots and the air is thick with moisture. It’s no longer raining outside but the clouds hang heavy, occasionally spitting, threatening to pour again. You gently pull to a stop near one corner of the lot and grab your phone. He’s not sure what you’re looking for as you scroll through your music app and the car idles.

You finally look at him with a shy smile as you click your phone back into its holder. “You trust me, Frankie?”

“Umm, as long as you’re not about to murder me and dump my body in the ditch over there, baby,” Frankie responds looking around with hesitant but soft eyes, open to whatever you are trying to do to cheer him up.

“Awesome,” you exclaim, perking up, caffeine pumping through your veins. You flip off the A/C and traction control and hit play on your music app. Classical music starts to build on the car’s stereo system. “Hang on!”

You floor it.

Frankie is pretty sure you threw the car directly into second gear, screaming down the long side of the parking lot before executing a perfect pendulum turn around one of the light poles. Whipping the rear of the car around before accelerating towards the middle of the lot and pulling the e-brake briefly, deftly maneuvering the steering wheel before stomping on the gas. Your car dances with you in beautiful arcing donuts. Exiting the last revolution, you rev the engine, before charging towards another light pole at the far end of the parking lot. The tires squeal as you drift around the light pole and floor it again. Frankie’s gripping the oh-shit bar with his right hand as his left presses into the roof of the car. He can’t even let out a yelp as you punch the gas and the air out of his lungs.

He has enough of his wits about him to count the revolutions in the next set of donuts, an impressive 1440 degrees before power sliding around the perimeter of the parking lot for good measure. It suddenly occurred to him why you had red tape marking the 12 o'clock on your steering wheel. You finally drift the car to a stop in the middle of the lot.

You look over and grin at Frankie, looking far too much like a Benny grin, before asking him, “How ya feeling now, baby?” You reach over to take a sip of your coffee, not a drop spilled in the chaos. You eye him with such innocence as if you didn't just pull the ridiculous stunt you just did.

“Uh…” Frankie lets out a hiccuped laugh, still clutching the grab handle, slowly lowering his left hand from the roof. Adrenaline and caffeine coursing through his body, fizzing and sparking up his esophagus that escapes into a giggle?!? Perhaps six shots of espresso was a bit excessive. He feels a slow smile spread across his face, grinning like a maniac back at you, surprised, amused, touched at your antics to cheer him up.

“Better,” he punches, all air and no menace, trying to hold in more unruly giggles.

“Hmm, that's a no,” you smirk at him before pedaling the gas a few times, looking for any sign he wanted you to stop. When he continues grinning at you, you throw the car in reverse, dancing with the e-brake, clutch, and gas pedal, whipping donuts in reverse, once, twice, before throwing it into first and gunning it to drift figure eights around the light posts. The car slips and slides across the wet pavement, the smell of rubber and rain thick in the air, as you maneuver the car with absolute focus and control.

Frankie’s better prepared this time, enough to appreciate your agility and skill as you work, dance really, with your car. It is sort of like a dance, Vivaldi’s music swirling up and up, crescendoing, as you spin the car faster and faster. He lets out a whoop and you smile, alert eyes on the road, before letting one out yourself. As the song crests and falls, you powerslide the car around a light pole and cruise to a stop, allowing the car to idle, breathing heavily from wrangling all that torque and excitement.

“Better?” You glance at him again, eyes playful and sweet.

He grins wide this time, “Yeah, baby, much better. Always better with you.”

You reach out and slide your warm hand into his, squeezing lightly. “Good.” You pause for a moment before adding quietly, “Thanks for trusting me.”

“You know what would make it even better?” He smirks, dimples dancing, eyes bright again.

“What’s that?”

“Let me drive.”

You jerk your hand back from his and playfully shove him, “FRANCISCO MORALES. Blue is MY baby. Only I get spin her like this.”

Frankie knows better, but he presses you anyway with pouty lips and puppy dog eyes.

“Absolutely not, Morales. Maybe, maaaybe after we’ve celebrated our 5th wedding anniversary, THEN you can drive her.” Your eyes widen in panic at the slip of the word wedding. You hadn’t talked about the M word yet.

Frankie furrows his brows in mock seriousness and he can see your panic rise, worried he may have taken it the wrong way.

“How about after the honeymoon?” he negotiates, his voice like a purr. He knows what he's doing. You release a nervous giggle that sets Frankie off, laughter bubbling up from his throat until you’re both cackling with tears until one of you snorts. It was definitely you.

“First anniversary,” you giggle back, hiccuping and wiping away happy tears.

“Deal.”

You shake on it, but instead of releasing your hand, he pulls you in closer for an espresso-laced kiss.

When he finally pulls back, cupping your chin between his thumb and index finger, your soft eyes search him before asking, “You really feel better?”

“Yeah.” He offers a warm, touched smile. He tilts your chin up to him as he presses one more chaste kiss on your lips.

“Wanna dance one more time before we go home?” You arch one eyebrow, one hand on the steering wheel, one hand on the shifter.

Home.

“Hell yeah,” Frankie grins back at you. He thinks maybe you have an inkling, and know how everything is better in his life when you’re there. He’s already home. You’re his home.

Frankie hits play on your music app. As Vivaldi resumes over the speakers you launch Blue down the parking lot, full throttle, tires screaming, a blue streak of rubber and rain.

End Note: The song Sweets puts on is Vivaldi's Winter from The Four Seasons. She hits the gas at the 0:40 mark.

Example of Pendulum Turn Handbrake Turning in Rally Driving

Taglist is open: @katareyoudrilling @christinamadsen @rebel-held

@littlemisspascal @burntheedges @darkheartgatita

@enretrogue @titabel @copperhalfcent

@triplefrontier-anniversary @iamskyereads

[eddiemunsonsmum]

Just saw this comment on a story posted a month ago.

*cries in Eddie Munson Solo Series no one wanted to read, interact with or request for*

No shade to the person that commented this on their own fic if you recognize it. It's not their fault. I'm not mad at them. More crying in the tags.

[bidisasterevankinard]

New fic alert/wip Wednesday

Thanks to @hippolotamus @powersuitup @mmso-notlikethat @bewilderedbuckley for inspiration and support

Meet "triple happiness" bucktommy mpreg fic. It's based on this my 8x6 "spec":

It’s bad. It’s so so bad it’s all Buck can think looking at the ultrasound that Dr. Reez is doing to him. He’s definitely pregnant.

There’s definitely a baby inside him.

“Everything looks good. For 8 weeks all babies are exactly on point of development,” Dr.Reez smiles at him and he nods at her, thinking how the fuck he ended up in that situation when the number of “babies” hits buck in the face harder than the news about pregnancy.

“I’m-I’m sorry babies? As if more than one?” his voice breaks and he wants to run and hide from the truth.

Dr. Reez just nods at the screen moving the ultrasound, “baby A. Next to them is baby B and here’s baby C. Congratulations Mr. Buckley you’re having triplets.”

Buck does what every adult man would do when he finds out he is pregnant with triplets. He faints.

Np tagging @typicalopposite @wikiangela @diazsdimples @theotherbuckley @evanbi-ckley @saybiwithme @queerbuck @devirnis @repressedqueen @desert--moonchild @watchyourbuck @lavenderleahy @leashybebes @bigfootsmom @bi-buckrights @bucksbutt

[0nelittlebirdtoldme]

I need him so bad i -

Her teeth are bared, unsheathed blades and cutting fury, and yet his eyes are full of breathtaking adoration.

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me

Series, ongoing

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. 

Week after week, under the crushing weight of his body, you learn to find yourself. Week after week, under the reverence of your touch, he allows himself to heal. Why can’t this last forever, when you’re so good to each other?

Set a few months after the TF events. 

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC fem!Reader Written in reader format but Reader is an OFC. There are sparse but still present physical descriptions, she has a thorough background, and a name.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

TW: THERE WILL BE NO TRIGGER WARNINGS ON INDIVIDUAL CHAPTERS. So please tread carefully because there will be (blood) (kidding, just mine) mentions of: PTSD, death, infidelity, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, stomach bug & hospitalization, light bondage, rough sex, size kink taken to the next level, lots of bodily fluids (come spit and sweat, sweat come and spit, the usual suspects), questionable (very bad) decisions, unprotected sex like woa, intense darker Frankie, where’s my feminism at, this man, this man, this man. You know the drill.

A/N: alright orange besties, here we go again, I once more locked up Frankie in a bedroom with a girl... More or less an alternate exploration of my favourite tropes: love at first sight, soulmates, forever love, pleasure and pain, hard sex/sweet love, flourishing through a lover's care and attention, Frankie being a B I G boy... Are you in? 🥺 Also, I’ve never set a foot in Florida, bear with me, I'm trying my best. This is going to be a little rougher kind of Frankie, but still our Pilot™️. I hope you enjoy the flight 🧡 

A very special and heartfelt orange THANK YOU to my love @deadmantis for the moodboards & inspos that went straight into the header for this series 🧡 Deadmantis, I love you in every colour.

Chapters

Prologue - In The Beginning

Chapter 1 - Dirt

Drabble - Wrecked

Chapter 2 - Closer

Chapter 3 - The Man At The Frontier

Chapter 4 - Frankie

Chapter 5 - Time In A Bottle

Chapter 6 - ...

Epilogue - ...

Playlist

[shikai-the-storyteller]

Speaking of Megaman, someone just left a comment on one of my very old Megaman fics from 2018 saying they printed it out years ago, and when their anxiety doesn't let them sleep, they reread that story and it helps drain the tension out of them.

; ____ ;

[mywordhaven]

The Road Ahead - ch 1 | Frankie Morales x female reader

Next Chapter

Throughout most of your married life, you've dedicated yourself to waiting for Frankie. After each deployment, you patiently anticipated his return home, longing for the moment when he would be by your side once again. You yearned for him to open up to you during those nights when nightmares consumed his thoughts, hoping that he would find solace in sharing his pain with you. And as his addiction spiralled out of control, you hoped that he would recognize his problem and seek help. Yet, despite your countless protests and pleas, you now find yourself waiting for him once more as he ventures off to Columbia doing God knows what.

But this time is the last. Resolved, you make a solemn promise to yourself: You will never wait for Frankie again.

Rating: M for Mature (18 + / no minors allowed)

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: Applicable to the entire fic / PTSD, drug use and addiction, postpartum depression, abusive familial relationships, self-hatred, hard relationship to food, unhealthy coping mechanism, explicit sexual content, violence, mentions of suicidal thoughts, super angsty guys (more warnings will be added if necessary).

Summary: Now that Frankie is finally home for good, you can start looking to the future.

Notes: Hey everyone, I am super happy (and anxious) to be sharing my first-ever fic! I hope you like this deep dive into character growth with a lot of angst and a healthy side of fluff. The story will be told in the 2nd POV, but there will be no use of Y/N, ya'll get multiple nicknames instead. Hope you guys enjoy!

Ao3 link for those interested is: Here

You find yourself immersed in the itchiness of the comforter draped across you, its green, worn fabrics scratching your sensitive skin. Surprisingly, today you welcome this uncomfortable sensation, as it anchors your mind to the bed you are currently lying on. In this moment, as you struggle to catch your breath, the scratchiness of the duvet is grounding, preventing your mind from flying away.

Your hands glide slowly across the rough fabric, savouring its familiar prickle. As you trace the worn contours, memories start to flood back— The day when Frankie introduced that horrid green monstrosity was when you first moved in together some years ago, right before his second deployment. And although you despised its discoloured hue that clashed with your envisioned home's colour scheme, you kept silent. Frankie was leaving, and you didn't want your last moments together marred by a pointless argument over a green bedspread, no matter how dreadful it looked.  

Now, ten years, 2 home relocations and a marriage later, that green duvet stubbornly remains an integral part of your bedroom decor, painfully clashing with the soothing blues surrounding it. Cornflower Blue, as the home improvement store employee had labelled it. You recall the days of indecisiveness, tirelessly seeking the perfect shade for your bedroom— A place you hope would be a peaceful haven for Frankie. Weeks were spent deliberating between countless swatches until finally settling on the current hue. Still, the green persists, clashing with the blue. Perhaps sage green would have been wiser, you think. But you had refused to admit defeat to an old, worn duvet and instead, had stubbornly gone with your first idea, horrid green be damned! Now, to your frustration, the bedroom remains an enduring battleground of colours, an ongoing struggle where shades of blue and green vie for supremacy in their quest to dominate the mood of the room.

Yet Frankie was unfazed, never commenting on the jarring combination of green and blue or their blatant mismatch. Perhaps you were making a mountain out of Molehill as you always seem to do. After all, your tendency to dramatize insignificant matters had been a subject of teasing within your family for as long as you could remember. Your brother had a habit of remarking on how seriously you took trivial matters. For your entire lives, nicknames like "Miss Prissy" or "Your Majesty" had been thrown your way to highlight your over-sensitiveness. And while your family saw it as innocent sibling teasing, these remarks had a way of leaving you feeling bruised, unable to brush the comments off as easily as everyone expected you to.

Your hands pause above your bare, sweat-dampened chest, shaking your head to dispel the unwelcomed and intrusive thoughts. Instead, you focus on the blissful moment you’ve just shared with your husband. The memory of that bothersome, green eyesore and all its associated baggage swiftly retreats from your mind, vanishing as fleetingly as it arrived.

At long last, a sense of savouring the simple joys of life begins to envelop you. With Frankie by your side, you envision a newfound freedom to engage in playful bickering, loud laughter, and the sheer enjoyment of each other. The mundane moments hold an allure like never before, beckoning you to revel in their ordinary beauty. It's a longing for a life that seems quintessentially American, relentlessly depicted on daytime television—an idyllic portrait of a family, complete with devoted parents and their brood of 2.5 children, nestled in a cozy backyard. PTA meetings, a simple 9-to-5, soccer practices after school, and piano lessons on weekends create the repetitive rhythm of this picture-perfect existence. In your vision, the pinnacle of concern revolves around selecting the ideal flowers for the summer flowerbed. While some may deem it mundane, for you, it represents an exquisite slice of paradise.

Your husband Frankie, having endured years of military service, deserves nothing less, you think. Your hands still from their exploration as you reflect on the vivid nightmares, anxiety, and overwhelming fear that would sometime consume Frankie. Even here with you, it sometimes felt as though he was still back there, never truly able to be completely present. You think of the many nights when he was on leave these past few years, and he would wake up screaming and trashing in the middle of the night covered in cold sweats. Or when you guys would be out and about, and his eyes would shift with practiced zeal as if he was assessing for possible threats. Never really “turning off”. No amount of sweet reassuring words was ever able to soothe him when he found himself stuck within his own mind. Every time you tried to discuss these concerns with him, your husband would respond with calm reassurances, followed by a tender kiss on your forehead, urging you not to worry about him.

You shake your head, a resolute movement meant to, again, brush away the intrusive thoughts lingering on the periphery, refusing to let them dim this precious moment. You shift your gaze, fixating on the horizon of possibilities that stretches before you. It is a horizon where love acts as a healing balm, gently tending to the myriad wounds etched upon your husband's past. Your heart, though cautiously guarded, brims with a glimmer of hope, eager to embark on this journey together.

However, despite your best efforts, thoughts of your mother insidiously infiltrate your mind. Over the years, you've clashed with her on countless occasions, yet now, as a married woman, you think back on her warning before you got married. The resonating echo of her stern voice lingers in your thoughts, admonishing you to unwaveringly stand by your husband, regardless of the circumstances, and emphasizing that his happiness must always take precedence over everything else. Strangely, she never mentioned the reverse. With Frankie's return, you resolve to be more present, leaving daydreams behind and focusing on him and solely on him.

As you think of Frankie, you can clearly see his body and how it bears the evidence of his service, a map of scars, some worn openly, while others hide beneath his weary flesh. Deep wounds that bleed and pain him more than any bullet ever could. Words alone seem insufficient in the face of everything he has sacrificed. But now, Frankie is finally home, all of this is behind you two. And isn't all this what marriage vows were meant for? In sickness and in health, through the lows and the highs, you pledged to be there. As you remind yourself, supporting your husband doesn't diminish your strength and independence. It's merely an expression of love and partnership, you firmly resolve, even though the words ring somewhat hollow, as a voice in the back of your mind whispers, "But what about you?"

You slowly redirect your attention to the persistent itchiness on your skin. Taking three deep breaths, you allow each inhale and exhale to anchor you firmly into the present. As the air fills your lungs, you feel your shoulders slowly ease from the tension you always seem to put yourself under.

Now that Frankie is here to stay, you want nothing else than to provide the emotional solace and respite he needs to rebuild and find peace within himself. After everything Frankie has endured, you decide that he deserves a life that is predictably dull yet safe and warm. You want to build that life for him.

As your imagination runs rampant with visions of the life you're now free to construct together, Frankie emerges in the doorway. Clad in nothing more than a familiar, well-worn pair of briefs, he exudes an aura that is unmistakably his own—a blend of warmth, comfort, and a sense of home. In that instant, as you gaze at each other, it feels as though every small longing you held during Frankie's absence has converged into this singular moment. Nothing else matters to you right now except being with him.

In Frankie's hands, he carefully balances a tray, on it a tall glass of ice-cold water adorned with glistening condensation. The hunger stirs within you and your gaze falls upon two perfectly crafted PB and J sandwiches, invitingly prepared. It's evident that even now, the precise conditioning instilled by the army remains ingrained in Frankie. The unwavering precision, tidiness, and discipline persist, even amidst post-coital bliss. Sloppily prepared sandwiches? Never on Frankie’s watch.

Fondness envelops your heart, causing it to flutter with an intensity that threatens to burst from your chest. At this moment, a culmination of experiences floods your mind—the countless sleepless nights spent anxiously awaiting a call, the fear that gripped you while scouring the news for any shred of information, and Frankie's inability to share the depths of what he went through all race to the forefront of your mind. Now, as you reminisce about those moments when others would claim that being with Frankie wasn't worth the pain or hardships, a profound sense of satisfaction fills your heart. You're grateful for having ignored their words, as every single challenge and difficulty encountered along the way—the long-distance separations, the emotional uncertainties, and the sacrifices made—has ultimately proven to mean something. A smile mirrors your own overwhelming happiness as Frankie starts to walk toward the bed.

"I thought you'd have an appetite after all that exercise," Frankie says, his voice laced with a playful tone. His eyes, warm like melted chocolate, cradle you in their soft gaze. They speak volumes, no words needed, telling you just how much he cares.

A mischievous smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you playfully quip, "Guess it doesn't help that we skipped dinner either, huh?"

"I apologize, mi cielo. I suppose I let my excitement get the better of me," Frankie admits, a touch of boyish bashfulness colouring his tone. "After eight long months apart, how could you expect me not to pounce on you, especially when you look so breathtaking?"

With utmost care, Frankie gently places the tray on the tiny side table, taking special care to move aside the book you're currently engrossed in. With the task completed, he turns his gaze towards you, slowly making his way to your side. Your eyes lock, and in an instant, he tenderly captures your mouth with his own. The kiss is unhurried yet filled with an intense passion, a promise of all that is to come, a fulfillment of the multitude of promises you have made to each other. Now, you have all the time in the world to embrace those promises.

As the kiss deepens, Frankie's hands begin to explore your naked body, their touch igniting a fiery desire that resonates deep within you. It engulfs you in a passionate longing that intensifies with each passing second. Frankie's wandering hands halt at your hips, where he gently strokes your sides while deepening the kiss even further. Breaking the kiss, he presses his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily, his warm breath mingling with your own. A playful glimmer dance in Frankie’s brown eyes as he firmly grabs your hips, effortlessly flipping you both into the deep plushness of the bed.

A delighted squeal escapes your throat, and you find yourself on top of Frankie, straddling his warm hips. His devilish smile meets your gaze. Like a tidal wave, a rush of excitement cascades through you, electrifying your senses and igniting newfound energy within.

"I thought we were supposed to have dinner," you playfully tease, your hands resting on the firm planes of his pectorals.

Frankie's eyes glisten mischievously as he responds, his voice filled with playful affection, "Don't worry, hermosa. Dinner can wait another minute. Right now, all I want to do is admire you." With a tender touch, he grabs a handful of the fleshy part of your hips, gently massaging your sides. His voice carries on, laced with adoration, "You know, this angle is my favourite. When I see you from above, naked, and sweaty, you look like my very own Amazon. My fierce warrior queen whom I can’t wait to worship." His grip tightens possessively, playfully swatting your behind, causing your flesh to softly jiggle.

You can't help but snort with amusement, firmly grinding down in a slow sensuous movement Frankie exhales a low moan, his eyes closing in pleasure. Yielding to the temptation, you momentarily cease your ministrations and whisper, "Well, last time I checked, librarians weren't renowned for their battle prowess.”

Frankie's smile stretches, his eyes opening and locking with yours, while his hands gently secure your hips. His soft voice echoes sweetly, "Physical prowess is just a fraction of true strength, mi cielo. It's a mindset, a spirit that radiates courage and perseverance. Believe me when I tell you, you possess that strength in a way that surpasses anyone I've ever encountered."

His words envelop you in a comforting embrace that floods your being with warmth. Reflected in his eyes is an unwavering conviction, a faith given to you unlike any you've experienced before. Such belief, one you've never even held for yourself, captivates you. The weight of his words resonates deeply, shaking the core of your being, even as you strive to maintain a facade of nonchalance. But Frankie effortlessly sees through your charade, knowing you better than he knows himself at this point. He slowly pushes his upper body upward and starts peppering your collarbones with tender kisses. You feel your cheeks heating as you shyly avert your gaze, unable to resist the sweetness of his praise and the even sweeter ministration.

A brief moment passes, during which you nibble on your lower lip, contemplating your next words. Finally, you muster the courage to meet Frankie's eyes once more, you push him back down on the mattress and ask, a mischievous glint shining in your eyes, "If I am to be your queen, does that mean you're willing to obey my every command?”

A playful smile dances on Frankie's lips as he replies, "Well, mi cielo, let's just say I'm more than willing to embark on the thrilling adventure of fulfilling your every desire, one command at a time." With those words, Frankie softly grabs your right arm, the very arm that had been holding him down, and he punctuates each word with a tender kiss upon the palm of your hand. As he does so, his eyes gently close, allowing his lips to linger in their affectionate embrace, locked in that sweet moment.

Frankie surrenders to the present, savouring every precious second that slowly passes between the two of you. The ache of longing for you these past months had been insurmountable, a void that only you could fill. Amidst his world engulfed in chaos, pain, and the remanence of a haunting trail of death that seemed eternally imprinted on his very being, your presence at his side has always been the sole beacon of meaning and coherence. The only thing that ever truly mattered to him. Screw everything else; he should have chosen to stay home long ago, before feeling trapped in the abyss he felt he had dug himself into over the years. In an attempt to dispel the encroaching darkness threatening to envelop him, Frankie inhales deeply, pushing away those grim thoughts, before swiftly flipping you over.

Everything else fades away again, and only the two of you remain. As you draw in a deep breath, the air fills your lungs with a trembling intensity, causing a burning sensation. Your chest tightens, not just from the weight of Frankie's presence, but also from the weight of everything that surrounds you, suffocating you in its bittersweet grasp. Tenderly, Frankie gently presses his nose against yours, once, twice, before planting a soft kiss upon its tip.

"I promise you, mi cielo, there is nothing that can ever come between us. No war, no ruler, no divine power could ever separate me from you. I am yours for eternity, and as long as I get to spend my life with you, cariño, it would have been a life worth living."

Your eyes well up with tears, and with a quiver in your voice, you whisper, "I love you, Frankie."

"Te amo, mi cielo, te amo para siempre," he replies, his words carrying the weight of a vow between you two.

With intertwined fingers and hearts overflowing with love, you gaze into each other's eyes. As you lie there, wrapped in the afterglow of passion, you savour the tranquillity and completeness that permeates the room. You vow to cherish each day, to embrace the ordinary moments that always become extraordinary when you are with Frankie. Together, you will face the world with open hearts, ready to create this future you’ve always yearned for with Frankie. As Frankie peppers kisses down your throat, you smile, and a shuddering breath escapes you. Food can wait you think giddily. Your hands gently glide along the broad expanse of his back, savouring him in all his glorious being. Nothing else matters now, for Frankie is home.

[lit-in-thy-heart]

180 works for wolfgang/kala/rajan on ao3 i am being fed

[thawthebeez]

NEED to write a yuri on ice fic SO BAD but every time i go to write skating stories i always feel awkward DESPITE BEING A SKATER MYSELF. of all people to write about figure skating IT SHOULD BE ME. but alas. it feels awkward...

[laurfilijames]

Happy Birthday to Breathe, the first fic I wrote for a Charlie character 🥳💗

I love this series so much and am looking forward to continuing it soon!

Breathe

Pairing: Will "Ironhead" Miller x female reader

Rating: M but will be E as smut is definitely coming (I surprised myself and didn't write smut in the first chapter)

Words: 1,815

Warnings: PTSD. Anger issues. Almost passing out. Sexual tension. Mentions of previous assault (choking).

Summary: You've seen Will at the gym many times before, and he you, and today you finally share a moment, discovering your assumptions about him are right.

A/N: Here I was thinking my first character fic for Charlie Hunnam would no doubt be Jax Teller, and then this guy swooped in and floored me. (I also haven't finished SOA yet and feel like waiting to write for Jax until I do, and also my feelings about him are soooo conflicted) Will is an absolute MAN and I'm in love.

This will be a series and it will be smutty and indulgent.

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It had almost been a year, but he would always be known as the man who nearly choked a stranger to death in the cereal aisle of the local grocery store.

Will - as you overheard him be called by the man he usually came to the gym with who looked just like him and assumed was his younger brother - often cleared anyone away from any machine out of fear; the other patrons sacrificing their workouts in favour of not wanting to provoke someone who may snap if he didn't get his way.

He was solo today, grunting and groaning to the left of you as he worked through his second set of bench presses; your eyes often drifting over to him in the mirror in the event he needed a spot.

You blinked as he slammed the heavy barbell back on its rack, shifting your gaze back to yourself performing deadlifts as he sat up and rubbed a towel over his face to catch the drips of sweat running down his tanned cheeks and into his blond beard.

Distracted, you lost count of your reps, cursing to yourself internally as you suffered through two more than was necessary, your hamstrings on fire and barely able to complete the last one with proper form before dropping the weights to the floor with a huff.

You glanced in Will's direction, catching him staring at you where he nodded before you quickly averted your gaze. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him lay back on the bench and continue another set, his noises of effort making your heart rate increase possibly more than your workout was.

Passing him to go to the squat rack, you couldn't help but notice the way his muscles flexed as he worked, the way his cheeks flinched as he clenched his teeth together tightly, similarly to the way he did even when he was 'relaxed' and not straining through an exercise.

Happy to be facing away from him, you started through your first set, thinking you were keeping track of your reps, only to find your mind wandering back to thoughts of him.

You sympathized for him, hearing his fiancee had left him after the event at the supermarket, knowing he had likely seen and done so many things people could never fathom experiencing in his many years in the Special Forces, and on top of all of it, not even being able to go to the gym without every person giving him a wide berth and downcast stares when they passed by.

"Damnit," you breathed, realizing you yet again lost track, only to be startled when a deep voice sounded behind you.

"You're at 8," Will spoke, making you glance over your shoulder to see him as much as you could as you squatted through another repetition.

"Thanks," you puffed, trying to sound as genuine as you could, thankful for his attentiveness while you did your best to look effortless in completing four more squats at the heaviest weight you had ever done so far.

"No problem," he smiled, assisting the bar back onto the rack when you were done. "I notice you lose count a lot."

He stated it so matter-of-factly, making you knit your eyebrows together quizzically as you turned to face him.

"Sorry!" he raised his hands in defense, "I'm a numbers guy, I tend to notice shit like that, I'm not trying to be an ass."

"No, it's fine," you returned with your own smile, "I guess I just never thought anyone would pay close enough attention to something like that, especially to someone they don't know."

Will tilted his head to the side and shrugged, like he wasn't quite sure what else to say to explain his behaviour.

"I appreciate it, though," you added, seeing a sort of discomfort crease in his features. "Saved me from doing an extra one. I thought I was only at 7."

Your laugh seemed to relax him, bringing out a light in his blue eyes and his smile that you instantly knew you could become addicted to seeing.

"Well, I'm happy to have helped, then. I'm Will, by the way."

He held his hand out, and taking note of the size of it as well as the length of his fingers, you swallowed and extended your own, meeting his eyes as he shook it with a firm grip.

"I know," you answered, seeing your response immediately wash a shameful look over his face.

He quickly withdrew his hand and moved it up to scratch his head, coming to terms that everyone knew who he was and the reputation he had.

"I've heard your brother," you accentuated as a question, "say your name a few times here."

"Oh, uh, yeah, that's Benny, my younger brother," he confirmed, placing his hands on his hips with a sigh of relief that your recognition of him wasn't only due to his infamous incident.

"Was he in the Service, too?"

"Yeah," he nodded, biting his lower lip.

"Your family must be proud of you both," you stated, positioning yourself under the bar to begin another set.

"Some days more than others," he said quietly, watching without shame as you lowered yourself into a squat and powered back up again with an enticing thrust.

Will cleared his throat, "You've got great form."

The tone in his voice made you steel yourself before continuing with another rep, feeling adrenaline rush through you that wasn't on account of the weight-lifting.

"That's it, breathe through it," he purred, that voice of his making you lose focus.

You closed your eyes and exhaled deeply, trying to match your breaths properly with your execution but failing, your mind going to a place you couldn't deny it hadn't been before in all the times you worked out at the same time as him.

It was good to work until failure, you reminded yourself, but as Will counted you to your twelfth and final rep, you struggled to reach the top of your squat let alone get the bar back on the rack.

Will effortlessly took the weight of it in one hand, lifting it easily for you to set it back in place.

"You okay?" he asked, assessing you with concern as you wiped moisture from your brow while his other hand rested along the small of your back.

"Yeah, thanks."

He stood close to you, enough for you to smell the intoxicating scent of his sweat mixed with lingering shower gel or cologne, and when you turned, his hand fell away from you just as yours felt the intense need to touch the dampened cotton shirt that clung to his warm body.

Suddenly feeling dizzy, you shifted on your feet and reached out to grip his forearm for support, shaking your head and apologizing.

"Sorry, that's the heaviest I've lifted and I guess I didn't eat enough for breakfast before I came," you stammered, looking up at him to see his face screwed up with worry.

"Hey, it's fine," he soothed, his hands holding your shoulders in a strong, reassuring grip. "Just breathe."

You did as he suggested, closing your eyes and inhaling deeply and slowly, your hand loosening on his forearm only slightly while he remained unmoving.

"Good, that's good," he whispered, his face leaning closer to yours, and you didn't dare open your eyes again in fear you really would pass out.

"Keep breathing," he repeated, prompting you to continue what he was quickly causing you to forget.

Another slow, calming breath filled your lungs, and when you blew it out gradually through your parted lips, Will spoke again, his fingers pressing into your shoulders.

"Good girl."

Your eyes flashed open, his words making you feel like you were in a haze, his crooked smile and glint in his alluring blue irises creating the opposite effect this whole exchange was meant to have.

"It always helps me," he admitted, his eyes not shifting from yours. "Whenever I'm stressed or angry…to breathe through it."

"Does that happen often?" you asked, your curiosity getting the better of you.

"Hmm, sometimes," he began, not seeming offended at your question. "Less than it used to."

"You must have been through a lot," you spoke, letting your thoughts come out freely, your hand giving a reassuring squeeze over one of the tattoos covering his forearm.

Will licked his lips, leaning slightly closer to you, holding in a breath despite knowing he shouldn't in a moment like this.

"Hey, are you done with this?" a man asked, pointing to the squat rack that was left abandoned beside you, his unexpected voice startling you both.

"Yeah, man, go ahead," Will answered, nodding at the man once and giving him a curt smile.

You watched Will size him up as the man switched out the plates on the bar, like he was waiting to see if anything impolite would come from his mouth next or turn into a threat somehow. The veins in his neck bulged as he increased his breaths, his cheeks flexing again due to his teeth clamping down on each other forcefully. When the other man continued about his business, Will seemed to blink back to reality, his chest still heaving sharply as he struggled to find calm.

Not thinking twice, you reached up and placed your open palm on his chest, directly over his furiously beating heart, bringing his attention over to you along with a sense of surprise.

He blinked quickly and sighed, his eyes searching yours for something to help him until you spoke.

"Breathe, Will," you coaxed, reminding him of what he needed to do, seeing him close his eyes and begin to slow it down until his breaths eventually matched yours.

"Thank you," he muttered, reaching his hand up to cover yours that remained on his warm chest, giving it a gentle squeeze as he flashed you a weak smile.

"Hey, I was gonna grab a protein shake from that smoothie bar down the road after, why don't you join me?"

"I'd love to," you beamed, feeling more than okay with ditching what was left of your workout to go with him, the look on his face making it even more worth it as he grinned brightly and took your hand to lead you toward the change rooms.

"Grab your things and I'll meet you outside," he ordered gently, revealing his effortless ability to delegate, and your willingness to want to comply.

Will leaned against the side of his truck as he waited, sighing to himself while he attempted to sort out everything he was feeling; the mix of wanting to lean in and trust you overpowering his usual go-to of staying distant and playing it safe, all of which was confirmed when you walked out the doors and instantly brought an easy smile to his face.

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Part 2

Taglist: none!! Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in this series or any other Charlie Hunnam roles I may write for 💗