#i'm sorry i am overflowing with thots | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

intheorangebedroom · 2 years ago

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First, I am so sorry that tumblr is systematically breaking the Keep reading cut in my re-reblogs, it's awful, apologies for the long post 😱

Second: YOU HAVE SO MUCH TALENT. Do you think I'd be able to create edits the way you do??? NOPE. I don't ever want to hear you say you've not enough talent, because you are overflowing with it. You are very good with words too. You draw like a goddess. You are very good with EVERYTHING SHUT UP.

Ok, now that I've screamed at you, come get your hug, my little koala!!! 🐨 Your comments are NEVER unintelligible and I love both them and you 🧡 Girl, I can never thank you enough for the time and effort you put into them. For your insightful, attentive reading. I'm sorry I fucked up your focus, but also very grateful!

The structure was always going to be this back and forth journey between past and present. These two people have lived their entire adult lives up in their respective heads, stuck in the past. And so should we, to get a more profound understanding of who they are. Plus, they are potentially going to hurt a lot of people, potentially lose friends and take decisions that would be frowned upon irl. So I had to make excuses for them... I had to give a sense of that surreal bond and fairy tale connection between them so that everyone could forgive them.

I've lived and worked a little in NY, not long, but with the plan of settling there, and I could never adjust. I just missed Paris far too much, and what kept striking me is that beyond Paris, I missed Europe as a whole. That came easy for me to write (and no, she doesn't feel home ANYWHERE without Frankie, she's just more confused lol). As for my general knowledge, shut up bestie, I know shit!!! Literally!! I'm just ancient, is all.

Yes, WILL! This king!!! I think by now everyone who cares has guessed that he's my second favourite character in TF. That talk about his body count is my favourite scene. And I'm quite proud that it's not whore thots related 😅 He's like a brother to her and she's like a sister to him. I think I will write and post the Miller's backstory shortly, actually. She was always more scared to lose him than Benny, however awful this may seem. She has deeply rooted trust issues and Rosie and Will have trampled them with such ease. About Rosie. Fear not. Have faith in Dolores 😉 (imagine her grabbing the two girls by the ears and knocking their dumb heads together).

Now this sentence about the missing puzzle piece, HOW GLAD AM I that people like it so much, because I was peacefully (or not so peacefully I guess) SLEEPING when it popped into my restless brain at around 5am on a fine Saturday morning, and I had to get up to write it down. So it was worth being so tired the entire day afterwards.

This is my favourite part 😂 I hate-love that cap, and its stunts days are not nearly over...

Fanna, I fucking love you 🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡

Pleased to meet you, chapter 15

Summary: You eventually made up your mind, but acting on it is a whole different story. Time is ticking on you. An afternoon at the museum with Will precipitates everything.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: So yeah, Plainsong became Flaming June... Don't ask! You'll see. If you'd like a song to go with this one, may I suggest Maps, by Yeah Yeah Yeahs? And if ever you're interested, @deadmantis (my favourite enabler) sent me an ask (thank you 🧡) that has allowed me to ramble discuss Reader & Benny's relationship further.

A million thank you Fanna my darling for making this gorgeous gif of those two kings. I am still giggly from it and I promise next time I won't ask on such short notice 🧡

@meandorla I don't know where I'd be without you... Thank you for your time, your help, your enthusiasm, your sharp understanding of them and their story. For bearing with me, and helping me find my way as I'm approaching the end of this story 🧡 Ily 🧡

Word count: 5.7k

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Chapter 15: Flaming June

Time is such an odd thing. A social construct, as they say.

And you have spent so much of it reading on the subject, from nebulous scientific essays in specialised publications that left you questioning your intellectual abilities, to popular articles in mainstream media, trying to understand how two days and three nights in an orange bedroom could have contained all of your past and your entire future.

How the fifteen years that followed could have lasted longer than ten life sentences.

How it violently collapsed in on itself as you walked into a dingy New Jersey bar, only to be propelled into an ascending spiral, gathering speed and momentum, yet still endlessly stretching on.

Monday morning finds you rested. With the heavy curtains blocking the early morning sun, for the first time in months, you’ve slept soundly until your alarm rung.

Benny snoring lightly next to you.

Rested but restless, hating yourself because you couldn’t find it in you to say “no” when he asked if he could stay the night at your place. It took his massive presence in your small apartment for you to realise you own only one pillow.

But he didn’t mind, of course he didn’t. In appearance unfazed, undeterred, cheerful and patient as always, even when you pushed away his hands under the sheets with a bullshit excuse.

How you’d wanted him to call you out on the obvious lies, confront you about your distance, the fact that you hardly ever let him fuck you anymore when you two used to get down to it in his brother’s pick-up parked on the side of the road.

Are your lies so expertly hidden, or is Benny so well-trained to your recurrent distance? The persistence of his affection just another blemish on your conscience, another blame for you to carry on your own. Besides, you have no right to wish for him to make this any easier for you, anyway.

When you set off for work, he left with you, to swing by his house before his morning run and when he pulled you in for one last hug, holding you flush against his firm, wide chest, you let him. You strengthened your hold, threading your fingers through his thick blond hair, incapable of holding back your words, laced with guilt and regret. “You’re so good, Benjamin.”

Time is ticking on you. As loud as the clock back in Rosie’s kitchen when you got up to leave. Relentless, no matter how hard you dig in your heels, how desperately you try to stall for more. One more day. One more night. One last kiss, one last fuck.

And now it’s 10am again. Forty-eight hours since you’d sat in Frankie’s truck with the unreasoned, remorseless desire to let him know that you’ve never stopped waiting, that you have always cared. That to you, he’s still the same. You could swear it’s been forty-eight years.

Twenty-four hours since you opened your door and let him in. Twenty-two since you’ve felt his lips on your neck, his skin etching your skin.

And how long exactly until you can’t pretend any longer that it never happened? That your thoughts are only of him; your sole concern the fate that awaits him when he goes back to work today?

Tomorrow, you reprise like a chorus. Tomorrow, you’ll act. Tomorrow every week.

And in the meantime, you hide in the cracks, seeking physical discomfort to lull your sadness to sleep.

The noise of the bookstore metallic shutters winding up that fills your brain like boulders made of lead tumbling down a cliff.

The sweltering atmosphere in the small, quaint shop when you get inside. The drop of sweat that rolls down your spine with every ample movement, until Suzanne walks in after lunch and turns on the antique AC unit that has only two positions: cold and freezing.

The rasp in your throat from the frigid, artificial air.

The unpleasant customers, the chatty ones and the obnoxious, the ones you hope will never visit again.

The burn in your lungs when you draw another drag, Fayçal’s words adding a guilty flavour to the tar aroma of the nicotine. “Tu fumes trop, cousine.”

The proximity of hot and smelly strangers' bodies on the 7pm bus.

And when you finally make it home, well, another day has passed. Time your unlikely ally. Monday an unexpected truce.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you’ll act.

The plastic handles of your heavy grocery bag is cutting off the blood circulation in your fingers and your key jams in the front door when you try to unlock it, winded from the four floor climb.

The muffled ringtone of your phone has you cursing loudly at first, before your body stiffens at a sudden thought.

Rosie. Could it be Rosie? Tomorrow is Tuesday. Could she be reaching out to you? Hope rattles your heart in your chest, the grocery bag dropping to the floor when you grab your phone from the back pocket of your short denim overalls, your other hand frantically jiggling the key.

The lock gives as you read the caller ID on the screen.

Ironhead

Will doesn’t text. He calls. You hate it, speaking on the phone makes you uncomfortable, you need time to think over your words. But where Benny can be flexible, Will never caves. You text, he calls. And that’s the end of it.

However, you don’t hesitate before picking up, kicking the bag inside your apartment, groceries scattered and rolling on the carpeted floor.

“Allô?” you answer in French, locking the door behind you.

“I thought you were going to send me to voicemail there for a second,” he taunts. “How are you?”

“No, no, I’m only just getting home. What’s up?”

Will marks a pause, and you grimace at your poorly performed deflection.

“Right,” he answers in his measured drawl. “Calling about tomorrow. Shall we meet over there, or should I come to pick you up? Did you finally buy that car?”

Tomorrow.

Fuck.

—

The GPS promises an hour’s drive from your place to 1 East 70th Street, but you’ve lived here long enough to know that the constant traffic will nearly double that, even on an early Tuesday afternoon. Reaching the destination is only the first part of the adventure; finding a parking spot there is always the real challenge.

You’d be fine riding the subway but Will systematically insists that it’s faster this way. Deep down, you don’t really mind the drive. The New York City skyline appearing on the horizon of the New Jersey Turnpike is a spectacle you have yet to tire of. Growing up in Paris meant learning early on to make the best out of the busy, stressful capital, in particular by preserving your ability to marvel at its postcard landmarks.

Despite the increasing tension running through you since early April winding you up like a power line, you welcome this opportunity to spend the afternoon with Will, certain that his self-possessed, even demeanour will soothe and balance your own.

As the car takes the last U-turn before entering the Lincoln Tunnel, where more traffic awaits, you offer to give him cash for the toll, knowing full well he will turn it down.

“I choose the route, I pay the toll,” he tells you with a half smile. “You can pay for the first round.”

The midnight blue, tight polo he’s wearing darkens his eyes. Your gaze lingers affectionately on the large tattoos adorning his brawny forearms, before you become aware that you are trying to memorise them, and you push back the nagging thought that this might be the last time the two of you hang out together.

The tickets have been booked months in advance, Will sharing your excitement, with only slightly less exuberance, at the prospect of seeing Flaming June, on loan from the Museo de Arte de Ponce and presented at the Frick Collection. One of your favourite pieces by Frederic Leighton, whose work you’ve only seen printed in books or badly reproduced on postcards, save for a painting in Orsay and one in the Tate Gallery in London.

Booked before your world was tipped off its axis, and you completely forgot about the exhibition.

Now, there’s a spring in your step when you get out of the car. You got dolled up, and enjoyed doing so, for the first time in what feels like a long while. Red lipstick and loose hair, you even put on a dress, sleeveless with a deep V-cut in the front and in the back, pretty knots tied over your shoulders. If this is a funeral, let it be one worth remembering.

You can barely pace yourself as you make your way through the mixed crowd of tourists and art enthusiasts across the Garden Court of the Frick. Will’s heavy boots resound on the marble flooring as he lengthens his strides to catch up with you. You step into the Oval Room like others walk into churches for mass, with reverent apprehension, devotion, and respect.

And then, it’s there.

Leighton’s masterpiece punches the air out of your lungs. You stare at it in stricken silence, mouth agape, Will standing behind you to your right, arms folded on his chest.

There’s a small, wistful smile on his lips, as he lets the painting bring him back to his college years and resurfacing lessons on academic style, Victorian era, aesthetic considerations and concepts. Seemingly unproductive yet essential hours spent debating perspectives and artists’ intents, the reminiscence an indulgence only you and your friendship can provide. A futile and necessary contentment only you can share with him.

You two have discussed it in the past, early in your relationship, when you had asked him if he had any regrets. He had none, he claimed with dignified resignation, save perhaps for the lack of recognition for what he had sacrificed to accomplish his duty.

After a moment spent in silent contemplation, he takes a step closer to you, and he’s about to share his thoughts when your absent expression stops him in his tracks. You’re standing a few inches from him, yet you are miles, or rather years away from the Oval Room.

Time has recoiled and wound back like a reversed mechanism. The woman at the centre of the painting, sleeping languidly and with a trustful, serene abandon, is draped in a sheer orange gown, her long, luxuriant hair parted on both sides of her body like a cascading, lush blanket. Above her, the sun sets on a placid sea, under a pastel pink summer sky.

The gown leaps out of its frame to grip at your throat, its colour louder than any copy you’ve ever seen in art catalogues, Wikipedia page or websites, and you recognise it instantly. This particular shade has been seared into your flesh and your soul. It’s your past and a lost promise. It is love and safety. It is desire and trust. It’s two worlds colliding on a sunny and warm Sunday morning in July.

There’s a prickling sensation at the corner of your eyes. Will sucks his teeth in and his stare sharpens. Propping his hands on his hips, he takes another step closer to you, and whispers, “You alright, there?”

You run your hands over your arms to hide the shivers that won’t leave your skin. When you speak, it’s in a distant voice, your eyes locked on the rumpled gown hugging the model’s figure.

“You know, my grandparents had curtains just like that in their living-room,” you start. “My grandma was a seamstress. She had made them herself.”

Will nods in silence.

“Why couldn’t you stay with your grandfather, after she died?” he asks bluntly, albeit in a soft tone.

You love his forthrightness and have always appreciated his lack of pretence. It puts you at ease, and grants you the freedom to provide him, or not, with an answer.

“I did, for a couple of months, but he was too overwhelmed with grief. It was as though he couldn’t function anymore, without her. He got very depressed, very quickly, and, well, you know what happened next.”

Will knows, if not in the darkest details, about your difficult relationship with your mother, and your grandfather’s passing within two years of your grandmother’s death.

“What about your father? You never talk about him.”

“Ah yes,” you can’t keep the bitterness out of your scoff, “him. Said he wasn’t ready to be a father. Then went on and married another woman, who got pregnant, like, fifteen minutes later.”

You keep facing the painting, your spine a rigid metal rod, because you don’t think yourself capable of withholding his astonishment and the question you know he’ll ask next.

“You mean you have siblings?”

“No,” you reply a little too fiercely. “As far as I’m concerned I’m an only child. These people are not my family. I found out about my father’s death two weeks after they’d buried him.”

Behind you, Will exhales slowly, deeply, and you realise he’s standing closer to you than you thought.

“My father loved art,” he says, eventually. “His parents wanted him to learn what they called a ‘real trade’, but he never stopped reading and learning about it. Pretty sure I got it from him. And he certainly never objected when I said I wanted to study it.”

In turn, you sigh and let your hands fall to your sides.

You stand in silence side by side for a while longer, before he asks again. “So? Is it everything you hoped it would be?”

“It’s more,” you murmur.

“McSorley’s?”

“McSorley’s,” you reply with a nod, drawing away from Flaming June.

—

Ever since you had landed in Newark, you’d been more than conflicted regarding the transient nature of your stay here. The part of you that hated to be away from Paris for longer than a summer vacation considered the move transitory. An internal countdown was permanently ticking in the back of your head towards the end of your three-year sabbatical, and you had failed - if not refused - to adjust to your new home in more ways than one. Your stubborn use of the metric system being just the comedic tip of the iceberg.

Yet you had had all your books and belongings shipped to your new address the very day you got the keys to your apartment. You had never even raised the subject with Rosie, let alone with Will or Benny, instead slipping deliberately into a comfortable routine to neutralise your homesickness.

Will had first taken you to the historical ale house, an East Village institution, after you had confided in him that you missed Europe as a whole. “It’s not that I feel French when I’m here,” you’d said, “I feel European. I can’t explain.” The Irish pub had been his answer, his own vision of good ol’ Europe, and the bar had quickly become a mandatory stop whenever you visited the city together.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dimmer light inside the pub when you follow him in, but the wood chips on the floor, catching on the leather sole of your huaraches sandals, feel comfortingly familiar.

Will places the order at the bar while you take a sit at one of the round tables, glancing at the hanging wishbones covered in a hundred years worth of greasy dust, wondering, as always, if any of them belonged to a pilot, only this time you know yours has returned from his wars, if not entirely sound and safe.

Once the waiter has brought in four half pints of McSorley’s ale, you start sharing your impressions on the exhibition, digressing to the importance of the pre-Raphaelites avant-garde in the Victorian Era before the conversation naturally dies.

The strong ale has given you a pleasant buzz, you’re light-headed, but nicely so, and you prop your elbow on the thick wooden table to rest your face in your hand. Staring emptily at the floor, you’re unaware of Will’s gaze fixed on you. The man is twice your mass and it takes more than a pint of beer to get him remotely tipsy. His next question falls on your neck like a guillotine.

“So, where do you know Frankie from?”

Your cheek glued to your palm, you pivot your head on your arm to face him, eyes as wide as saucers giving away your alarm.

He leans back against the back of his chair, his forearms on his thighs, impassive, his steely blue eyes plunged into yours, and you feel like a field mouse that fell prey to a hawk.

You want to answer, you really do, but your teeth are stuck together and all you can do is frown, conceal the panic beneath pretend outrage, knowing all too well he will not let go. Sure enough, he seems to rethink and tilts his head to the side, sits up and leans forward over the table.

“Wait… maybe the better question is, when do you know Frankie from?”

Would it be so bad if it ended here? With Will? The man already knows more about you than his brother does, would the damage be greater if he knew it all? Panic turns to capitulation, and capitulation reshapes into relief.

The dead weight of weeks of dissimulation slowly slides off your shoulders. You straighten up, eventually, and look your friend in the eyes when you answer, in a flat tone, “1999.”

Whether he didn’t expect such an easy win or didn’t suspect such a long time, Will is visibly taken aback, and you ponder if you should speak first or wait for him to question you further. The man has been trained in interrogation techniques, you might want to take the lead in that conversation. Is he still your friend?

Your voice is hoarse, and the prickling sensation is swelling again under your eyelids, but your mind is clear. Deep inside your chest, a foreign feeling flares up, one that you fail to identity at first.

“We met at a party I went to with Rosie. It was in July. Just before he joined the Army. We-” your words get stuck in your dry throat, your eyes flicking down to your empty glasses, fuck this is harder than anything, “we spent the weekend together.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek, that you only register when it reaches your jaw and hangs there before it falls on your forearm. Anger. What you feel is anger.

“So it was just a one-off thing?” he prods.

More tears threaten to spill and you look upward to try to hold them back, breathing in through your nose and exhaling shakily through parted lips. When you look at him again, your face conveys so much pain and disillusion, he falls back against his chair, as if to avoid the ripples of your sadness.

“What do you think, William? Would you be here, asking me those questions, if it was just a one-off thing?”

You take in the embarrassment on his face when he hangs his head, running his tongue other his teeth.

“Yes,” he concedes. “So what happened?”

“We got separated by dumb fucking bad luck, is what happened. I lost his number, that’s the short version.” You let the implications sink in. “Does Benny… suspect anything?” you add in a small voice, hoping you don’t sound as despicable as you feel.

“No. No, he doesn’t,” Will answers slowly. “But he’s worried. Said you were growing distant.”

Tears are freely rolling down your cheeks, now, but your brow remains knitted in anger. You can’t shake that off, nor do you want to, because it might be the last thing keeping you upright.

Will’s voice is considerably softer when he asks, “What are you going to do, then?”

“I don’t want to hurt him, you know,” you reply aggressively, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand.

“Oh you’re gonna hurt him,” he shoots back matter-of-factly, “I know you don’t want to, I believe you. But you will. I don’t know what you…” he trails off and reaches across the table to cover your hand with his, encircling your wrist with his strong fingers, giving it a hard squeeze as he continues in a tone of confidence.

“Look. I’ve known Frankie for a little over 10 years. To me, he’s always been like- like a puzzle with a missing piece. And then- then I see you together, in the same room… you’re not even talking… and I see the missing piece.”

A repressed sob shakes your chest and you pull your arm back to free your hand from his grip, so you can blow your nose, dry your cheeks, anything to give the illusion of composure, but he doesn’t let you.

“I don’t know what you’re gonna do, but I can’t imagine you staying with my brother, now. So whether you leave him for his best friend, or you just leave him, he’s gonna hurt.”

Letting go of your hand, he leans back again, shrugging his bulky shoulders, “It’s gonna be rough, probably on all of us but, I mean, that’s life. It’s not on you. This clown is lucky he didn’t get his heart broken earlier.”

It’s not on you.

A couple of days ago, his words would have triggered the imperious need to go home and give up, once more take it out on yourself, smoke a pack of lung cancer sticks, get shitfaced and blackout.

So that you can keep soldiering on and show the world that you haven’t let your traumas and your losses define you.

Will moves to stop you from digging your nails in your forearm, but you recoil from his touch, angry tears spilling out.

“Hey,” he calls, his palm extended toward you, his brow knitted in concern, “hey, I mean it. It’s not your fault. It’s a shitty situation. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

The image of Frankie’s cap on your countertop flashes through your mind, the ghost sensation of his hand spanning your body raising a new trail of goosebumps on your skin.

“I’m gonna need you to tell me that you’re hearing this,” he tries again. “It is not your fault.”

Slowly, his right hand reaches your forearm, grabbing it and pulling it gently away from your other arm. His grip on you is almost tender, and after a few seconds, you register the little circles his thumb is tracing on your skin.

“I hear you,” you articulate, eyes closed, before swallowing thickly, “I hear you,” you repeat, giving him the reassurance of eye contact.

“Do you have any idea of what you’re gonna do?”

The depth of his insightfulness causes your head to spin a little. Around you, the bar has filled up, people stepping in for drinks after a day of work, tourists with thick annotated guides on their tables, happy chatter and laughter bouncing off the walls covered with framed pictures of patrons from yesteryears, their solemn faces looking down on you.

“Yes,” you start, aware that speaking your plan out loud will give it substance and compel you to put it into motion, “I’m going to leave Benny.”

He gives you an encouraging nod, but his expression remains neutral, enabling you to continue, “I’ll speak to him tomorrow. I have to see Frankie, first, make sure he doesn’t tell him anything. I’ll tell Benny I met someone else, or that I’m not in love and things are getting too serious, I don’t know, he can hate me, it’s probably better, as long as he doesn’t lose his best friend.”

Will folds his arms on his chest and remains silent for an excruciatingly long moment, visibly weighing his next words. You know him well enough to understand that your willingness to shoulder the blame on your own forces his admiration. You’re not being entirely honest, however. Benny’s not really the one you want to protect. So when he speaks next, his words shoot through your body like a stray bullet.

“And where does that leave us?”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper inaudibly under the cacophony of the pub, your throat closing up, and you clench your eyes shut to hold back a new wave of tears, hiding your face in your hand.

His heavy sigh sounds like defeat. He leans forward, hesitant, reaching for your hand once more, before changing his mind and sliding his napkin towards you across the table.

“Ok, let’s go, I’ll drive you home,” he offers, standing up and placing his hand on your shoulder.

“I need you to give me Frankie’s address, Will,” you say, dabbing the corner of your eyes with the tissue, removing small flakes of black mascara from your eyelids.

His grasp on your shoulder tightens.

“He’s up north. Come on, it’s late, I’ll drive you.”

—

Six months of probation, with weekly drug tests. Any refusal to comply and he’s welcome to seek employment elsewhere.

Frankie slams the front door of his house behind him and throws the keys onto the console table next to it. It’ll be six months until he can fly again, working as a mechanic under tech support supervision, with this asshole Giovanni who ratted him out bossing him around. Back to square one, and for what. A stupid, minor coke bust.

Storming into the open kitchen, he gets a bottle of beer out of the fridge, uncaps it and tosses the cap on the table, where it ricochets and falls on the tiled floor. The cold glass pressed against his right cheek does little to temper his mood, but he leaves it there for a minute, until the condensation runs down his hand and into his beard.

They had him drive over first thing Monday morning only to keep him waiting around all day, and have him come back again today to inform him of the conditions of his reinstatement, adding humiliation to injury. Well played.

He falls heavily on a kitchen chair, his blood boiling over the fast downward spin his life has recently taken, and the six months freshly added to his sixteen years of penance.

“You gotta get back on your game, pendejo. It stops now,” he mutters to the bottle in his hand.

Just because you’re not his doesn’t alter the fact that he doesn’t want you to bear witness to his fuck-ups. You’re here. You’re real.

Two days later, he has barely come down from the intoxicating sensation that came with the smoothness of your skin under his fingers, the weight of your breast in his hand, your scent between his lips, he could almost taste you as he ran his tongue over them, rushing back down the stairs.

And the elation, the vengeful rightfulness he felt, taking the passenger seat of the Mustang next to Benny. The thought ugly and rampant, stifling his lungs, envy, near hostility, as he glanced in his direction from under the brim of his hat with ill-concealed fury. Resentment over his happiness, simmering and threatening to choke him until he had to remind himself that he would never have found you again if it wasn’t for him. Wouldn’t even be alive, for that matter.

But fuck. You are his.

You chased his mouth with yours. He didn’t imagine that. Reached out for his skin, moved by the same frantic need that made him seek yours. Dug your nails in his arms and your scent on that pillow…

“FUCK!”

The chair crashes with a clatter onto the floor when he stands up.

The last time he experienced this level of irritation was on the field, calling out Pope for challenging Redfly’s orders while they were under enemy fire, and his fingers flex around nothing, around the ghost presence of a gun.

His doorbell jolts him out of the traumatic memory, his dark eyes flicking up to the front door. He’s in no mood to entertain visitors. He’ll sit this one out, he decides, falling still and silent, until your muffled voice comes in from outside, hesitant and apologetic.

“Frankie?”

He’s at the door in two steps and swings it open so forcefully your hair flies with the pull of air.

The first thing he sees is your dress, long, black and with a deep cleavage plunging down to your midriff, dragging his thoughts along the way, but when his eyes flicker back up to your face, dread flares up in his gut.

Small red spots linger tellingly around your swollen eyes, and there’s a shadow of wiped lipstick on your lips.

“What happened? Are you ok?” he rasps before noticing Will’s pickup doubled parked in the street behind you.

His frown deepens when his friend nods in his direction, starting the engine, and his puzzled gaze follows the vehicle until it turns right and disappears around the block.

You’re left standing here, on his doorstep, silently looking up at him, and he doesn’t know what to do with you.

“Come in,” he mumbles, stepping to the side to let you pass, but not enough that you won’t brush his arm with yours.

Seeing you in his home is disorienting, and guilt makes him wince, thinking about what he put you through two days ago.

You seem lost in the large open space, trying to decide between the living-room and the kitchen, so you turn around and face him, a few feet away from his standing, rigid figure. For a brief moment, he thinks you’ll ask him for help, but instead you take your purse and position it in front of you, so he takes a step back away from you.

“I have to talk to you,” you start in a breathy voice.

“What happened?” he asks again.

“Nothing happened, not like that,” you add. “Last Saturday I told Rosie I saw you again. And she won’t talk to me anymore,” you explain shakily. “And Will knows. We went to the city together today, and he asked… Well, anyway. He knows.“

“Surprised he didn’t find out before,” he grumbles.

“I think he’s suspected for a while.”

“Yea, sounds like him,” he agrees.

His understanding stands between you, an overwhelming reminder of their enduring friendship, of their history and their bond. You deflate, suddenly, fiddling nervously with the strap of your bag, averting your eyes when Frankie lifts off his cap and combs his fingers through his dark curls.

“Do you have any alcohol?” you ask.

He sighs heavily before asking, “What do you want?”

“Something strong. Whiskey. Do you have whiskey?”

“I’m not giving you alcohol. What do you want?”

His voice is loud and clear. It travels around every surface of the room until it comes crashing into your ears. It’s not a question, not really, it’s an injunction to decide, a desperate demand to set him on his next course, whatever it may be, and as your silence stretches between you, time slowly swirls into a million eternities.

“I want you,” you answer soberly, your shoulders sagging with the confession, and the sadness he had vowed to chase away forever ago in the orange bedroom dims your wide eyes. “I never taught myself to want anything else but you, Frankie. But that’s not possible. You will lose too much. I’ve seen you together. He trusts you. And you love him. I can’t destroy that.”

His frustration is palpable, it makes the air thrum around him. Everything in his body, in his posture, betrays his state of mind, from the nervous grind of his teeth to the hard grip of his fingers on his hip, from his corded neck to his glaring eyes.

He wants to tell you that it’s too late. That his fondness for Benny was irredeemably tarnished the minute you stepped into that bar with your hand wrapped in his, probably longer before that, at the very second Benny deluded himself into thinking he could ever give you what you needed.

That you are not to blame for his resentment. That your self-hatred and your culpability make him want to scream until his vocal cords snap. That he can shield you from it, if you only let him, please, let him protect you from it, and from the rest, from anything and everything.

“I wish you would let me decide,” he says as gently as he possibly can, but the restraint in his voice remains audible, and threatening.

And through it, you hear everything he cannot tell you. And you believe him, believe he would keep you safe, from the world and from yourself, that he holds that much power. But how can you possibly choose your own happiness over his?

Defeated, you let go of your bag, let it sway over your hip before it stills and hangs by your side.

“I am going to leave him. Tomorrow. I mean tonight,” you state. “And then I’ll go home.”

Frankie straightens up, raising to his full height, lips parted, hardly breathing, for the word has hit him in the chest.

“Home,” he repeats huskily.

“Home. Paris.” The familiar name catches in your throat like a large bone, and you clench your teeth with all of your strength, giving yourself the illusion of a will power you fear you don’t possess.

“No.”

You’ve never heard him speak this loud, and the determination in his voice makes you flinch, your bag falling on the tiles. What happens next unfolds so fast you don’t even think to recoil, your feet are riveted to the floor and all you do is watch, watch Frankie grab his cap and throw it in the room at random, watch him march towards you with heavy footsteps and stop abruptly, an inch short from your trembling body.

His right hand curls at his side, once, twice, before he reaches up and places it at the base of your neck, large and firm and burning. His thumb is on your pulse point, where your heart is leaping in a frantic, erratic thrum, the exposed expanse of your skin a siren song to his lips.

He stands so tall and solid, you have to tilt your head up to look at him, and times stills, at last, your whole world contained in the dark pools of his eyes. You feel so tiny under his palm, once again the urge to fit you inside him overthrows everything he has ever stood for.

“I’m so tired, Frankie,” you implore.

He lowers his face over yours, his lips brushing against your lips.

“Stay,” he says, and his entire life vacillates on the tip of his plea.

****

Bonus: Flaming June, Frederic, Lord Leighton (British, Scarborough 1830–1896 London), 1895. Oil on canvas, 119.1 × 119.1 cm. Museo de Arte de Ponce.

Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts

#fantastic Fanna #pleased to meet you #frankie morales

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wonderlander-i · 5 years ago

Text

Happily Ever After

Pairing : Oliver x F! MC

Warnings : none ( well it's not like I can write anything NSFW I'm such a disaster 😂)

Word count : 1.9k

Author's note : I didn't play distant shores just to spend the rest of my life between theatres and parties only because I'm a thot for Oliver. Hell naw.

Here's a quick rewriting for the diamond scene because I got extra emotional today and I'm not ready for the finale!

Also this is a repost because the tags weren't working on my original post is this normal?

“Now what” Oliver locked his eyes with her, gently taking her hand his.

“We could always be the high society couple and settle in London” She smiled widely, covering the back of his hand with her palm.

“I doubt that’s what you want to do” He arched an eyebrow

“How about we run away?” She smirked, her eyes glinting mischievously.

“I guess I should pack some extra pants then” He grinned, kissing the back of her hand.

“A feisty one, isn’t she?” An old sailor smiled, wiping the sweat of his forehead with a dirty cloth.

Oliver chuckled at the sight of Evelyn standing in the center of the deck of their new ship giving orders to the men around her to move and put things in the places she desired.

“Aye, she’d boss his majesty the king around if she’d got the chance to”

“Didn’t she persuade him to make her an ambassador of England?”

“She’s quite the charmer” He shook his head, a proud smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“You’re a lucky man, ya know?” The man patted Oliver’s shoulder before walking away to carry on with his work.

At this moment, Evelyn turned her head in his direction, beaming. She smiled warmly at him. Her smile held a hundred words of unspoken promises, of eternal happiness, and of wishful dreams of sailing together to the unknown and never turning back. And in that crowded place, between all the bustling movements, the loud upbeat chatters, and crashing of the waves, nothing mattered to him except keeping that grin drawn on her face forever.

“The luckiest” He thought to himself.

“Where are you taking us” Oliver asked as she dragged him through the alleys of a busy market in a village. The rich smell of sweet and spice tickled his nose as he looked around to the million colors that surrounded them, like they were escaping from a painting, coming to life.

“Patience, Oliver” She giggled, her voice barely reached him above all the sounds of the merchants calling out their merchandise and the children playing, still running and parkouring between the food stands and the rolls of silk.

He shook his head, the corners of his lips turning up as he took in the beautiful traditional emerald green dress that she wore. She was utterly fascinated by the fashion of the world in their era. She wanted to try everything, to experience everything. Her eyes lit up with the brightest glimmer at every clothing shop they came across and he swore to himself to order her a traditional dress from every country they were sent to next. She always found her surprises wrapped in a beautiful box under her bed, and the way she’d dance in it around the room made him wonder, how could happiness be only one piece of fabric away?

Shaking his head to chase his thoughts away, his eyes widened when they emerged into a larger alley which led to a golden temple. Majestic, bold, and his books could never do he view in front of him justice. She stopped running and turned to face him, her hair flying around her like every strand of it danced to the rhythm of the overflowing music bursting from everywhere, studying his curious expressions with satisfaction.

“Well, this is worth almost tripping on a basket of cumin” He stated.

“Evelyn?” Oliver called calmly as he studied a letter with the scarlet royal seal on it. Sitting at his desk in his study room, he patiently tapped his fingers on the wooden surface until she appeared by the doorframe.

“Yes darling?” She stepped up behind him with two steamy cups of tea in her hands.

“Some papers came while you were out” He spread the letter on the table in front of her, his eyebrows furrowed. “Would you explain why this says that you had been assigned as a navigator on my ship?”

“Well they couldn’t say no to the commodore’s wife” She replied, setting the cups next to the letter and taking a closer look at it.

He turned his chair to face her, his composed expressions replaced by an anguished look.

“You don’t understand the risks” He pleaded her to change her mind, taking her hand in his “It’s a war! I don’t doubt that you can fight better than half the men the navy will ever have, but-”

“I do understand the risk” She interrupted him, determined “and that’s why I will never let you go to a war alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I will have hundreds of men, a whole royal navy unit behind me”

“And the best navigator these waters have known, with the most beautiful eyes to lead you” She smiled, leaning down to plant a kiss on his forehead. “I know you will be taking good care of all your men, but who will take care of mine?”

He sighed, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her closer. He rested his head on her chest and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. She smelled like sweet cinnamon, sunshine, and safety.

“It was bold of me to think that I can go that long without those cups of tea of yours”

Oliver linked his arm with hers as they took their usual evening stroll by the seaside, a picnic basket dangling from his other arm. They somehow found their peace in walking barefoot on the ivory sand, filling a glass jar with curiously colored seashells and well rounded pebbles. They earnestly deserved this undisturbed tranquility after all those years of combat in the open sea. It’s been a year since his father, the disgraced admiral, passed away. They were both astonished to learn that Oliver was to inherit his estate which was barely a quarter of a mile away from the coast line. It was more of a castle than an estate. Old fashioned, charming, and one hour later Evelyn was setting the admiral’s portraits on fire.

She grasped her shawl tighter to shield herself from the autumn breeze as they walked hand in hand. They subconsciously reached for each other’s hand frequently, constantly, all the time, everywhere. As if their linked souls sought to manifest their bound in every questionable way.

And in a matter of moments, they were already sitting on the red stripped blanket, admiring yet another sunset together. Evelyn sighed deeply, glancing sideway at the man whom she almost worshipped. He was the perfect evidence of God’s perfectionism. How could such a flawless divine creature be…human? She pursed her lips into a thin line, fearing that she might explode from all her swirling emotions. His presence filled her with the most extraordinary feelings. It was outrageous, overwhelming, yet intoxicating in the most enchanting way.

“Oliver” She whispered, taking the glass of wine from his hand and setting in on the sand.

“Yes?” He hummed

She didn’t reply. Instead, she handed him and envelope. His name was written on in with big neat letters. He recognized the handwriting to be hers. He arched an eyebrow at her unusual behavior, but he opened it with no furthermore questions.

Dear Commodore Cochrane,

I am very pleased to inform you that you have been promoted to be father

Yours truly,

Your wife.

His jaw dropped and his eyes widened, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe. His eyes darted between Evelyn and the paper in his hand for several times, and not even a word slipped from his mouth. It’s not until he saw that something was dripping on the letter, and he realized that these were his own tears, that he was pulled back to reality. His lower lip trembled as he reached with his hand to frame the side of her face, as the other moved to rest on her belly very delicately, fearing that if he presses harder she might shatter like a porcelain doll. Neither of them dared to break that sacred silence, nor knew how to. They sat there, lost in each other’s eyes as the sky changed its colors to a soft lavender hue. And if eyes were the windows of the soul, she saw pure love pouring from his. She would’ve sworn that she can’t fall for him harder, until that one moment.

Only then she knew that loving him was an endless fall, and it’s a long way down.

Evelyn sat on a bench in their little garden, her one year old son sleeping peacefully in her arms. He was carefully wrapped in a warm blanket, snuggled to her chest. She gazed at him adoringly.

“You’re the perfect replica of your father aren’t you” She hummed softly, her finger caressing his little rosy cheek. “You’ve got the same golden hair that captures the sun” Her finger moved to twirl the small blonde curl that fell on his forehead. “The same olive eyes, like the morning of a spring day encapsulated in a honey jar” And she poked his nose “And the same look of mischief, you’re always up to something aren’t you?” The little boy yawned in his sleep, and she smiled.

She felt a strong pair of arms wrap around her and her baby, and she flinched instinctively, protectively holding her son closer. But as soon as she recognized the familiar scent of morning dew and the sweet sea air, her shoulders relaxed and warmth flooded her chest.

“For how long have you been here” She asked, turning to face the grinning man.

“That’s a question which I shall not answer”

“You realize that your answer is implied, right” She rolled her eyes playfully, and the threw her head back to lay on his shoulder. “Hello there, commodore”

“I think you kind of started developing feelings for me. I’m sorry madam, but I’m a married man” He mused.

“Oliver, we are married”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong, you must’ve mistaken me for someone else”

“Oliver!” she groaned, trying her best to not wake the baby up. “Sir, we’ve married for eight years. We have a son together, we’re expecting another child soon, and if you wake him up I’ll send you on a pleasure cruise with the edge of my sword”

“Still as feisty as the day I first met you.” A deep chuckled rumbles in his throat, as he let go of her and walked around the bench to face her. He kneeled in front of her and placed a soft kiss on the forehead of their son. And out of the blue, his expressions turned grave and serious.

“Evelyn, I may not be the best at showing it, but you truly made me the happiest man in the world. I’m sorry if my time can never rise up to match the comfort of yours, I would’ve given you the whole world if I could and-”

“Shush” she effectively stopped him by placing her finger on his soft lips, her heart aching with undeniable love.

“You are my world”

“And to think that you’ll ever be any less cliché”

#oliver x mc #oliver cochrane #distant shores #playchoices #Choices #choices fanfiction #choices stories you play

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