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intheorangebedroom · 3 months ago

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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.”

****

188 notes · View notes

ghoulsbounty · 6 months ago

Text

Friend of the Devil

Lee Russell x Gamby!Reader

Warnings: smut (18+), office sex, oral (f receiving), face riding, interrupted fun times, cursing, angst, Lee is mean (but soft), secret relationship, power dynamics, power play, slight mentions of sub/dom, childish sibling relationship, competitive nature, frenemies, fluff/happy ending.

Word Count: 6.3K

A/N: Here's the Lee part to this anon's other request! I took a while going back and forth with this because I wanted to focuse on how Lee's personality affects everybody, and readers relationship/how you fit into that and in turn have effected him. There's a few Gamby sister requests similar to this going around, so I wanted to do something different but still follow the request. I hope you enjoy! I’d love to know what you all think to this, and feel free to send me more requests 💌

The lunchroom was alive with a vibrant cacophony of voices and the rhythmic clatter of trays, the air thick and rich with the mingled aromas of cafeteria offerings—overcooked vegetables, processed meats, and the ever-present scent of reheated pizza. Fluorescent lights flickered slightly overhead, casting a harsh glow over the busy scene. Teachers gathered in their usual enclaves, finding solace and camaraderie amidst the relentless pace of school life. At the corner table, under a particularly noisy air vent, a spirited discussion took place, the latest school gossip providing a welcome escape from the relentless mountains of essays to grade and detailed lesson plans to refine.

Ms. Abbott, always the central figure in these lunchtime exchanges, leaned forward with a knowing smile, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Don't look now, but here comes Tweedle-Dee," she whispered, her voice a blend of amusement and mock secrecy. Her comment ignited a ripple of subdued laughter that spread through the group. Eager heads turned discreetly, their curiosity piqued, all wanting a glimpse of the person who had become the unwitting protagonist of Ms. Abbott’s playful narrative.

Approaching with a brisk, almost frantic stride was Lee Russell. His attire, a meticulously tailored suit paired with gleaming shoes, barely concealed the unmistakable tension he carried. Since his promotion to principal, Russell had swiftly gained the unfortunate distinction of being the least favoured among the faculty. His unpredictable and often heavy-handed leadership style had alienated many.

"He must be lost without Tweedle-Dum," Ms. Abbott remarked, her voice laced with a sharp edge of sarcasm.

Seychelle, always ready to add drama to any conversation, pounced on the opportunity. "He and Gamby were so far up each other's asses they could tickle each other's tonsils," he declared, his smirk broadening as he theatrically adjusted his silk scarf, draping it back over his shoulder. The group burst into laughter, a sound filled with both genuine amusement and a cathartic release from their collective disdain. "I heard he's returning soon, so maybe it will put his boyfriend in a better mood," Seychelle added, his tone dripping with irony.

As the laughter reverberated around the table, a sudden hush descended when you cleared your throat—a soft yet unmistakable signal of a presence they had momentarily forgotten. Seychelle, caught mid-chuckle, turned as the directed gazes of his colleagues guided him to meet your eyes. Seated right beside him, you were struggling to suppress your own mirth.

"Oh, sorry, Miss Gamby," Seychelle stuttered, his usual confidence slipping as he managed an apologetic smile.

You nodded, acknowledging his apology while your mind briefly wandered to your brother, Neal, and his infamous collaboration with Lee Russell. Together, they had orchestrated a reign filled with both mischief and mismanagement, becoming the stuff of legend at North Jackson High School. Now, with Neal's absence, Russell appeared more adrift than ever—an observation that had not escaped the keen, sometimes merciless eyes of the faculty.

"It's fine," you said reassuringly, prodding the homemade leftovers in your container with a fork. "My brother's an asshole, but Lee Russell is the fucking devil."

The group chuckled, the tension melting away as they eased back into their conversations. You let out a sigh, then heard the distinct click of Prada shoes on the linoleum and the wafting, fruity scent of cologne—signals of the principal’s approach. Setting down your fork, you looked up just in time to see Lee Russell stop beside your table. "Speak of the devil, and he shall appear," you quipped with a tight smile.

Lee ignored the light-hearted jab, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized your lunch. "What the fuck is that?" he demanded, pointing at your container. "Is this what poor people eat?" His words cut through the resumed chatter, casting a silence over the table.

You rolled your eyes, your gaze taking in his perfectly tailored suit and meticulously styled hair—the stark contrast between his polished appearance and his coarse behaviour never failed to amaze you. "I don't know, Lee," you retorted, your voice mocking. "You pay my wages, so you tell me."

Russell's eyes flashed with irritation as a sneer formed on his lips. "Maybe if you spent less time eating garbage like a fuckin' pig and more time doing your job, we wouldn't have so many problems," he snapped.

Taking a moment, you looked around the cafeteria, observing the other teachers quietly watching the exchange, the rambunctious students that ignored it, then turned your weary gaze back to him. "It's lunchtime, Lee. Even school staff need to eat," you stated flatly, emphasizing the obvious.

Ms. Abbott's snigger echoed across the table, momentarily lightening the atmosphere until Lee's sharp glare silenced her amusement. Ignoring her, he leaned forward, pressing his knuckles against the table and fixing his gaze on you with an intensity that felt almost tangible. "Since when did you become so goddamn fuckin' familiar? It's Principal Russell to you," he growled, his voice low and menacing. "And it's lunchtime when I say it's lunchtime. You get your ass in my office and finish writing that grant proposal that was due this morning, or you'll be so fuckin' fired that dogshit will seem like a Michelin star recipe to you. Understood?"

You met his stare unflinchingly, the tension at the table palpable. You knew the importance of picking your battles, especially under the watchful eyes of your colleagues. "Understood, Principal Russell," you responded, your voice calm and measured.

Lee's smug expression deepened as he surveyed the now quiet group. "Good," he spat out, his tone dripping with contempt, pleased with his perceived control over the situation.

Mrs. Deets, unable to contain her dismay, addressed him directly, her voice filled with concern and a hint of defiance. "Don't you think you're being unfair, Russell?" she asked, her eyes flicking briefly to you in sympathy. "You've been loading Miss Gamby with extra work for weeks, and now you're disrupting her lunch break," she continued, her expression frustrated.

Her intervention brought a momentary pause, the air thick as everyone awaited Russell's response, wondering whether it would temper his approach or incite further harshness.

Lee's eyes hardened, turning towards Mrs. Deets with a menacing glint. "And what are you going to do? Report me to HR?" he taunted, his voice thick with arrogance. "I'd like to see you try. They're all in my pocket, just like you should be." His eyes narrowed as he scanned the table, issuing a silent challenge to anyone daring to contest his authority. The table fell silent under his gaze.

With a final sneer, he turned on his heel and strode away, the authoritative click of his polished shoes echoing ominously through the lunchroom. The oppressive atmosphere lingered for a moment before gradually dissipating, leaving displeasure behind but also a sense of unity among the faculty. They exchanged looks that communicated a shared resolve; something would need to change, but carefully and strategically, to avoid the fallout of a direct confrontation with a man who held too much power and too little regard for others.

Gathering your things, you stood and glanced around at the sympathetic faces of your fellow teachers. "Just another day at North Jackson," you remarked, trying to lighten the mood. You gave Mrs. Deets a grateful nod for her support. "Thanks for trying, Val," you added sincerely. Then, with a resigned breath, you turned and headed towards Lee's office, your mind already strategizing for the confrontation ahead and the careful navigation it would require.

Rounding the reception desk, you greeted Miss Swift with a nod, your eyes briefly scanning toward the office behind her. The blinds were tightly drawn, and the muffled sound of Russell's frustrated rant seeped through the closed door. Miss Swift met your gaze with a look of caution. "He's just got back," she whispered, her tone hushed. "He's been in a real bad mood all day. Made me cancel all his appointments and said he was going to tell Superintendent Haas to—well, it wasn't very nice."

You offered her a sympathetic smile. "Don't worry, Janice. You know he's always got a stick up his butt about something," you reassured her, your casual words drawing a reluctant smile from her. "You go have some lunch. I've got this." With a confident nod, you prepared yourself and approached the door to Russell's office, ready to face whatever lay ahead.

Lee Russell's voice was sharp as he commanded you to close the door, his tone betraying the strain of the day. As you shut the door behind you, the office felt suffocatingly small, filled with the tension that seemed to emanate from the man hunched over his desk.

Standing a respectable distance away, you maintained a neutral tone, despite the stress in the air. "You wanted to see me, Principal Russell?" you asked, watching as he slowly lifted his face from his hands, revealing a weary expression that briefly flickered to surprise, perhaps not expecting your calm demeanour. You waited, poised for his response, ready to discuss the grant proposal or whatever else he deemed urgent enough to interrupt your lunch. Deep down, you understood the true reason for this meeting, yet you couldn't deny the thrill it added to the encounter when you pretended otherwise.

"I don't have time for your smart-ass remarks today," he grumbled, slumping back into his chair with his legs spread wide. He shot you a pitiful glance, his face etched with frustration. "Everything's falling apart, and you're too busy cozying up to my damn enemies to be of any help." His voice was a blend of desperation and resentment, the anger he had shown earlier in the cafeteria now reduced to a needy whine.

You shook your head, unable to suppress a smile at his dramatics as you circled his desk, perching on its edge right in front of him. "They're my colleagues, Lee—your staff—and we need to keep things normal without you losing it and threatening me in front of everyone in the cafeteria," you said calmly, fully aware that it would take more to alleviate his irritation as he rolled his eyes.

"Losing it?" He scoffed, fixing you with a pointed look. "You've seen nothing yet. I'd line them all up and send them packing one by one, like a damn firing squad execution. The faculty are a massive pain in my ass; they're all fucking replaceable." His words were sharp and icy, each one a dagger designed to intimidate and belittle—something he excelled at.

The harshness of his tone left no doubt about his contempt for his colleagues, his disregard for their contributions painfully clear. This wasn't the first time you had heard such sentiments from him—it was merely the latest in a series of similar tirades. Lee had fought his way to the position of principal with a tenacity and fierceness that appeared limitless. His impulsive nature and propensity to act without thinking through the consequences often left you as the one trying to reel him back from the brink, attempting to mitigate the fallout of his decisions before they escalated into full-blown crises.

Lee's relentless ambition had fostered a toxic atmosphere, one rife with fear and uncertainty. Each time he went into a downward spiral, the responsibility fell on you to curb his impulsive decisions and soften the impact. The stress and exhaustion were evident on your colleagues' faces, their morale dwindling under Lee's oppressive leadership. You had cautioned him that maintaining friendships would be challenging once he held power over others, but he had dismissed your concerns, preoccupied instead with choosing the ideal carpet colour for his opulent new office. His priorities, it seemed, were focused more on appearances than on the well-being of his staff.

"Oh, really? And what will you do with nine hundred students and no one to teach them?" you questioned, going along with his rant. A bemused smile played at the corners of your lips, reflecting both amusement and scepticism at his drastic solutions.

"I'd hire new ones, ones who actually listen and respect me. Start fresh, a clean slate without those fuckin' assholes," he replied, his determination evident in the firm set of his jaw. When you laughed, he nudged your leg gently with his knee, showing a rare moment of playfulness amidst his tirade. "Might keep you, though," he mumbled, his tone softening slightly.

"Really? I thought I was the first on your list to go," you teased, your eyes twinkling with mischief. "Wasn't there something about firing me? Something about dogshit tasting good?"

He rolled his eyes again, his frustration melting into a reluctant smile. He scooted his chair closer to you and leaned forward, his fingers absentmindedly playing with the hem of your skirt. "I didn't mean it," he murmured, his voice low and tinged with regret. It seemed as if the gravity of his own words had caught him off guard.

Apologies from him were rare, like the fleeting glimpses of vulnerability he feared showing, lest they be exploited. His public outbursts had intensified since your brother's absence, leaving you to bear the brunt of his sharp tongue. The weight of his words felt heavier, cutting deeper as if to compensate for the missing target. Meanwhile, the staff's insubordination had increased, emboldened by the shifting dynamics.

Despite your frequent reminders that the tough façade wasn't as necessary without Neal around, Lee remained resolute in his approach. His determination to show the faculty that you were just another annoyance, merely another Gamby sibling he had to tolerate, was unwavering. He carried himself with an air of cold authority, a mask firmly in place to shield any sign of weakness, even if it meant pushing you further away.

Yet, you found yourself falling for him during every stolen moment in his office. Each encounter, hidden from the prying eyes of the world, unveiled the layers beneath his hardened exterior. The soft whispers, the fleeting touches, and the rare, unguarded smiles slowly revealed a side of him that was vulnerable and aching. Over time, you convinced yourself that Lee Russell was a deeply flawed man whom you could fix.

You watched his hand as it slipped beneath the hem of your skirt, tracing a gentle path along your thigh. You halted his advance by placing your hand over his, confronting his surprised look with a firm gaze of your own. "That's not how this works," you asserted clearly.

He let out a dramatic sigh and reclined in his chair, eyes shifting upwards to the stained ceiling tiles. "Do we have to go through this every time?" he asked, his voice laced with an unmistakable air of arrogance as he nudged his chair to swivel slightly with his feet.

"If you want to fuck me, then yes, we absolutely do," you responded, your tone flat and matter-of-fact. Your hands clutched the edges of the desk tightly, ready for whatever might follow. Observing him closely, you noted the visible struggle on his face as he prepared to speak, a battle of emotions that ended with him throwing his hands up in evident annoyance.

"Fine, fuck," he sighed, "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry that you made me shout at you," he mumbled, leaning forward in his chair and placing his hands on your knees. "There, are you happy now, you fucking cretin?" His gaze bore into yours with an intense mixture of annoyance and something deeper, something almost vulnerable. His eyes searched yours, seeking a reaction, a connection, while his rough words contrasted sharply with the tenderness of his touch.

You smiled down at him, a hint of satisfaction playing on your lips as your resolve waned. Casually, you draped both legs over the sides of his chair, your feet resting on either side of his legs. The room seemed to close in around you, the tension thick in the air as you held his gaze, challenging him silently while his hands remained on your knees..

Lee smirked, his eyes darkening with desire as he pushed your skirt higher up your thighs until it bunched at your waist, exposing more of your skin to the cool air. He hummed in appreciation at the sight of your panties, the fabric already darkening with the wetness that the tease of his fingers drew from you. The air between you seemed to crackle with electricity, the raw hunger evident in his eyes making your heart race and your breath hitch. His hands, resting back on your knees, gripped a little tighter, the possessiveness in his touch sending shivers down your spine.

Your skin prickled under his touch as he trailed soft kisses along your legs, from the inside of your knee to your thigh, until the curve of his nose pressed deliciously against your heat. You gasped, your hips involuntarily seeking more pressure from him, but he pulled back slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with a predatory gleam.

He sat back, his gaze intense as his hand slid up your inner thigh. Two fingers hooked behind the fabric of your underwear, swiping through your slick folds, sending a jolt of pleasure through you. You moaned as both fingers pressed against your entrance, the sensation electrifying. Lee's other hand pushed at your knee, spreading your legs wider, ensuring you were perfectly displayed for him.

His eyes roamed over you hungrily, the anticipation building as you felt the heat of his desire in his touch. Every sensation amplified, your body responding eagerly to his every move, you gasped into the silence of the room when his fingers finally filled you, buried to the knuckle, as he began to pump them in and out at an agonizingly slow pace. You leaned back against the desk on your elbows, head thrown back in pleasure, rutting your hips against him to encourage a faster speed.

Suddenly, you felt a sharp thwack against the fat of your thigh, his hand coming down hard and grabbing at the tender flesh. "Stay still. Don't be so fuckin' impatient, damn," he scolded, his voice a low growl, the command making your throat burn. The sting of his slap mingled with the pleasure from his fingers, heightening your arousal as you lifted your head to look at him. His eyes bore into yours, a dominance there that made your pulse race even faster. The room seemed to spin as you struggled to obey, your body craving more even as you tried to remain still under his intense scrutiny.

"Maybe I should fire you. Can't take a simple instruction, can you? What use are you to me?" he taunted, his words cutting through you in a deliciously cruel way. The sting of his tone only deepened your need, a twisted thrill running through you at his harsh command. His fingers continued their slow, torturous rhythm, and you fought to keep still, every fibre of your being wanting to both submit to and defy him.

You bit your tongue, staring up at the office ceiling. There was so much you wanted to say, but you knew it would only lead to arguments and, ultimately, not getting what you craved. So, you stayed silent. Instead, you adjusted yourself, laying your back flat against the desk and wriggling slightly when a stapler dug into your hip.

Once you settled, you slid one hand down your body until you reached the bunched-up skirt. Hooking two fingers around your panties, you pulled them aside to give him better access. The rush of cool, air-conditioned air hitting your hot pussy sent a shiver up your spine as you bared yourself completely to him. You watched his reaction, noting the way his eyes clouded, his breath catching slightly at the sight of you exposed and vulnerable before him.

The desk felt cold and hard beneath you, a stark contrast to the heat building between your legs. Every nerve in your body tingled with anticipation, the raw need to be touched and filled consuming your thoughts. The only sounds the hum of the air conditioner and the ragged breathing shared between you. You could feel his gaze like a physical touch, every second of his hesitation adding to the delicious torment.

As you lay there, fully exposed and waiting for his next move, your heart pounded in your chest. The thrill with Lee was always in the battle of wills, the way you both enjoyed the shifting power dynamic. Each moment was a tantalizing dance of dominance and submission, need and restraint.

You knew the hold you had over him, a card you kept close to your chest and only played when necessary. Yet, you loved watching him fall apart for you. His tough exterior and harsh words melted away in these intimate moments, revealing a vulnerability that was yours to command.

You could see the internal struggle on his face, the conflict between his need to dominate and the pleasure he derived from you taking what you wanted. It was a delicate balance, one you both played to perfection. As he finally leaned in, his fingers resuming their slow, torturous rhythm, you couldn't help but smile, knowing that in this intricate dance, you held the upper hand.

His nose to your pussy, he breathed you in deeply, his fingers moving with deliberate slowness. You arched your back slightly, simultaneously grinding down onto his fingers and pressing into the bridge of his nose, your own breath coming in shallow gasps. The world outside ceased to exist, the only reality the intense connection between you two.

His hand tightened on your thigh, a silent command for you to stay still, but the gleam in his eyes as he looked up at you told you he relished your defiance. The raw desire in his gaze, the possessiveness of his touch, everything about this moment was intoxicating. As his fingers continued their relentless teasing, you felt the tension building, the delicious anticipation of what was to come.

Lee groaned at the sight of you, soaking wet and dripping just for him. Ever since his first taste, he couldn't get enough. He had lost his mind when you came on his tongue for the first time, practically riding his face to get the pressure exactly where you needed it. Lee loved that you used him for your own pleasure and revelled in using you for his, only to go about his day as if he hadn’t just had you bent over his desk and buried himself deep inside you.

His fingers quickened their pace, sliding in and out of you with practiced ease, each movement eliciting a soft moan from your lips. He watched you intently, his eyes dark with lust as you ran one hand over the swell of your breasts, pinching your nipple through the thin fabric of your blouse just hard enough to send a jolt down to your core. The scent of your arousal filled the air, mingling with the faint smell of your perfume and the cigarette that he had moments before approaching you in the cafeteria, creating an intoxicating blend that drove him wild.

"You like this, don't you?" he muttered, his voice low and rough. "Being spread out on my desk, ready for me to take you whenever I want."

You responded with a gasp, your hips lifting to meet his hand, craving more of the exquisite friction he provided. His other hand gripped your thigh tightly, his thumb brushing against your sensitive skin, adding to the whirlwind of sensations overwhelming you.

It excited him, made him hard when he thought about how no one knew what you let him do to you, and how they couldn’t do anything about it even if they did find out. The secrecy added a tantalizing edge to every encounter, an illicit thrill that made his pulse quicken.

The added twist of your brother, although messier, made it even more exhilarating. The rivalry with Neal meant that fucking you felt like a personal victory over the Vice Principal. Each time he had you, it was as if he was asserting his dominance, winning a private battle that only he understood.

Lee loved to win, and every stolen moment with you was a triumph. The thrill of conquest and the raw, unrestrained passion between you made his blood sing, fuelling his desire and solidifying his need to claim you again and again.

Sometimes, after coming down from your post-coital rendezvous in his office or under the bleachers, Lee would think that perhaps he didn't only love to win, but maybe loved you too. In those quiet moments, when the heat of passion had cooled and reality seeped back in, he felt a flicker of something deeper. Then, he'd light a cigarette, the sharp scent of tobacco filling the air, and shake his head, reminding himself that there were only three things he truly cared for in life—power, secrecy, and reputation.

You played a significant role in all of these. Your illicit encounters fuelled his sense of control, the thrill of secrecy added spice to his otherwise calculated life, and maintaining his pristine reputation meant everything to him, which he couldn't do without your cooperation. But no matter how good your pussy felt, he couldn't let you overshadow his priorities. He repeated this in his mind like a mantra as he leant forward, and licked a hot stripe up the expanse of you with the flat of his tongue.

"Lee," you mewled, the hand not on your breast moving to tangle in his frosted tips as he hooked your legs over his shoulder. His mouth was hot on you again, his tongue flicking back and forth as it lapped up the juices weeping from where his fingers were fucking into you. The sensation was electric, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

His fingers moved in a steady rhythm, matching the pace of his tongue, driving you closer to the edge with every stroke as you muffled his moans. Your hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more of his touch, and he responded by pressing deeper, his growl vibrating against your sensitive skin.

Every nerve in your body was alight, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak. His grip on your thigh tightened, holding you in place as he continued his relentless assault on your senses. The combination of his fingers and tongue was driving you wild, your moans growing louder as you teetered on the brink of ecstasy.

When his nose nudged your sensitive nub, you cried out into the room. "Shut the fuck up," he hissed, his mouth leaving you but his fingers continuing their relentless assault. Whispered apologies fell from your lips as you writhed against the desk. He dipped his head again, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard.

You felt him smirk against you, fully aware that what he was doing made it nearly impossible for you to stay quiet. The pressure of his mouth and the skilful movement of his fingers pushed you to the edge, each sensation amplified by the need to stifle your sounds.

Your whispered apologies turned to desperate pleas as he curled his fingers inside you, stroking with precision. You keened at the pleasure, rolling your hips to seek it again and again, your body completely at his mercy.

"That's it, baby," he murmured, his voice a mix of command and encouragement. He alternated between sucking and licking your clit, his tongue moving in perfect rhythm with his fingers as they worked you open. The sensations were overwhelming, each stroke and flick sending you spiralling closer to your climax.

Your body responded eagerly, muscles tensing and releasing as waves of pleasure threatened to course through you. "Ride my face," he murmured against you, the vibrations of his voice adding to the intensity as his nails dug into your thigh, not holding you still this time but instead encouraging you to grind against him. "Go on, you know I want it. Don't hold back." His words were both a challenge and an invitation, urging you to take what you needed without hesitation.

With a few final, desperate rolls of your hips, you surrendered to the building pleasure, letting it crash over you in powerful bursts. Your climax tore through you, leaving you breathless and trembling, the room echoing with the sounds of your release. Your body convulsed, your swollen cunt clenching around his fingers and soaking them with a gush of juices that seeped down to the desk below.

Lee worked quickly, lapping up every bit of your release from you as the last of the shockwaves wracked your limp body. He kissed and nipped lightly at your thighs before drawing back to take your hands in his, pulling you up like a rag doll to sit before him. You slumped forward, resting your hands on his shoulders as he captured your lips in a heated kiss.

You sighed at the taste of yourself on his warm lips, his hands slinking around your waist to pull you into his lap. Straddling him, you felt the hardness of his arousal pressing against you through his clothes. His kiss was intense, filled with raw hunger as he moaned against your lips, and you responded eagerly, your fingers threading through his hair.

His hands roamed your back, sliding under your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin. The connection between you was electric, every touch and kiss reigniting the fire between you. You could feel his need, his desire to take you, and it matched your own as you rocked against him, swallowing his gasp with your kiss.

Your mind was still reeling from the high, your attention fixated on pulling Lee closer, savouring the taste of yourself on his lips. The office door opening went unnoticed, and your brother's booming voice didn't register until Lee abruptly pushed you off his lap, sending you sprawling onto the carpeted floor.

Disoriented, you clung to the edge of the mahogany desk, its polished surface slick under your fingers. You pulled yourself up and peeked over the wood, willing yourself to focus. There stood your brother, his face a mask of fury, his eyes blazing with anger. He slammed the door shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the room. "What the hell is this?" he demanded, his voice like thunder, one hand clenched at his side and the other gripping his ornate cane tightly.

"Gamby, I wasn't expecting you," Lee greeted with a forced smile, his fingers smoothing down the creases in his tie as he rose from his seat. His posture was stiff, tension evident in every movement. "Swift must have a damn death wish," he muttered under his breath, his voice low and edged with frustration. You winced at his words, feeling the sting of his disapproval.

"I sent Miss Swift on lunch," you whispered, your voice barely audible as you tried to explain. You glanced up at Lee, his expression steely as he looked down upon you, a harsh glare that made you feel even smaller. You mouthed your apology, hoping to diffuse the tension, but the atmosphere in the room was thick with unease. The weight of your brother's stare was almost unbearable, and you could feel the rage radiating off him in waves.

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I interrupting?" Neal said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he drew both your attentions back to him. "Should I step outside so you can continue fucking my sister?" His voice was raised, face flushed, and you could see the prominent vein on his neck pulsing, a clear sign of his fury whenever he got worked up.

"What?" Lee asked, his voice taking on a jovial tone, though his smile faltered briefly. "Don't be an idiot, Gamby, I'm not fucking your sister," he reasoned, raising his hands in a placating gesture while nodding for you to get up from the floor.

Quickly, you adjusted your skirt, feeling the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck. You grabbed a manila folder that had fallen during the chaotic moment, clutching it tightly as if it could provide some semblance of reason. Rising to your feet, you held the folder up to Neal, trying to steady your shaking hands. "She was just helping with filing," Lee added, his voice smooth and reassuring but Neal's furious eyes remained fixed on him, scepticism etched across his face.

"Cut the bullshit, Russell! You've still got my sister's lady essence all over your goddamn mouth," Neal shouted in disgust, motioning to his own mouth with his hand. The air of pretence dropped from Lee's face as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring at your brother with disdain.

You placed a hand on Lee's arm, your cheeks burning with embarrassment as you looked between the two men. "Can we behave like adults about this, please?" you implored, hoping to bring some sense of calm to the escalating situation.

Neal shrugged, eyebrows raised as he looked at you with disappointment written all over his face. "I just can't believe you're gonna break Mama's heart like this."

"Excuse me? What's Mama got to do with this?" you snapped, feeling a surge of frustration.

"Well, doesn't she have a right to know her only daughter has been defiled by a fuckin' leprechaun?" Neal shot back, his voice dripping with contempt.

"We're the same height, motherfucker," Lee interjected, his irritation clear as he stepped out from behind the desk, trying to defend himself.

"Russell, I swear to God if you do not point that thing somewhere else," Neal threatened, grabbing a cushion from the sofa beside him. He chucked it at Lee, who quickly caught it and held it over the bulging tent in his pants, his jaw tight.

He fixed Neal with a threatening glare. "Gamby, you need to understand that your sister is a grown woman with her own sexual desires, and I happen to be the one fulfilling those desires—really fulfilling them," he stressed, his smirk widening into a taunting grin. The words hung in the air, dripping with provocative intent. Neal's face contorted with disgust, his fist clenching at his sides. The tension between the two men was palpable, a volatile mix of anger and defiance that seemed ready to explode at any moment as they stared at each other from across the room.

"Lee, stop it," you said, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket but his eyes didn't move from Neals. You looked at your brother who pointed his cane to Lee, challenging him, and you sighed. "Neal, if you breathe a word of this to Mama, I'll tell her about Ms. Abbot giving you a sloppy in the supply closet," you threatened, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

Neal's eyes snapped to you, then back to Lee, who held his hands up, his last ditch attempt at a gesture of innocence. Neal's face turned a shade redder, his fury momentarily replaced by shock and embarrassment as he dropped his cane back to his side. The balance of power shifted slightly, giving you a sliver of hope that the situation might be salvaged.

"You told her that? That's private, confidential information, Russell," Neal spat, his voice dripping with betrayal as he glared at Lee. "Just a couple of snakes in the grass, the pair of you."

You sighed, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on you. "You know what? I've got a class to teach," you said, dropping the folder onto the desk with a thud. You moved towards the door, your steps purposeful. As you passed Neal, you paused, meeting his furious gaze with a calm steadiness. "I'll see you later at Janelle's race," you told him, hoping that by then he'd have somewhat gotten over this, although you knew it was going to take more than an afternoon for your stubborn brother to accept it.

He looked down at you, his demeanour wavering as you placed a hand on his arm. "I hope you wash the scent of shame from your body before you arrive," he said, his dramatic tone making you laugh despite the tension.

"Good to see you up and around, butthead," you said softly, giving his arm a light pat before reaching for the door. You turned back and glanced toward Lee, who was now slumped back in his chair with a pout on his face, still holding the cushion over his lap. You gave him a small wave. He rolled his eyes and shooed you away with a brush of his hand, his expression a mix of frustration and resignation.

As you stepped out of the office, you drew a deep breath, relieved to be out of the suffocating room. You knew that the repercussions of this encounter were far from over, but for now, you had other responsibilities to attend to, and the chaos of the moment would have to wait.

As you left, the muffled sounds of Lee and Neal arguing drifted through the door. You walked past Miss Swift, who had now returned to the reception area, her eyebrows raised in curiosity.

"I'd give them a moment," you told her, offering a small, knowing smile. Miss Swift nodded, her curiosity momentarily subdued, and you continued on your way, grateful to put some distance between yourself and the tumultuous scene you had left behind.

Hours later, as you sat at your desk watching your students during the afternoon pop quiz, you felt your phone buzz in the pocket of your skirt. The room was quiet except for the scratching of pencils on paper and the occasional rustle of paper. Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, you discreetly pulled out your phone. The soft glow of the screen lit up your face as you saw the notification. You couldn't help but smile to yourself at the message, the tension from earlier in the day easing slightly.

Lee: Your brother's a little bitch. My least favourite Gamby.

You stifled a chuckle, biting your lip as you imagined the irritated look on Lee's face while typing the message. Moments later, another message arrived.

Lee: ❤️

The unexpected emoji made your heart skip a beat. You glanced up to ensure your students were still focused on their quiz, then allowed yourself a brief moment to savour the warm feeling spreading through your chest. You tucked your phone away, the smile lingering on your lips as you tried to refocus on your students, your mind still replaying the texts long past the bell.

#lee russell x reader #lee russell smut #vice principals #vice principals x reader #vice principals x smut #lee russell #neal gamby #gamby!reader #xreader #walton goggins #lee russell x you #lee russell fic

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ju-berry · 3 months ago

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FANFICTION Melissa Schemmenti x Reader

Melissa Schemmenti never imagined that a simple vacation away from Abbott Elementary would take her to one of the most vibrant and enchanting places in the world: Rio de Janeiro. She needed a break, and a distant friend had mentioned that Brazil was perfect for relaxing. Between the sunny days and the sound of the ocean, she had something different in mind than what — or who — she ended up finding.

It was on a warm, sultry night, after a long day at the beach, that Melissa wandered into a bar in Lapa, drawn by the sound of a local band playing soft, captivating music, something she couldn’t quite identify yet. The language was different, but the melody and rhythm were universal. She sat at the bar, her eyes fixed on the band.

“First time hearing MPB?” a soft voice asked beside her. She turned, her eyes meeting yours.

You were a Carioca, with an easy smile and a contagious energy. Your hair was loose, catching the breeze, and your relaxed posture showed someone who felt at home in the moment.

“MPB?” Melissa asked, her brow furrowing as she tried to get used to the musical cadence of the Portuguese language.

“Brazilian Popular Music,” you explained, your smile widening. “These songs are part of the soul here.”

Melissa smiled, intrigued. “There’s something about this sound… It reminds me of the old songs I grew up listening to, but with a different twist.”

You nodded, leaning in a little closer. “That’s the magic of Brazil. Every beat tells a story. Want me to introduce you to some of the best?”

Melissa was never one to shy away from new experiences — it was the Schemmenti spirit. “Why not? Go ahead.”

You ordered another round of drinks, and within minutes, the band started playing a song you knew was a classic. “That’s Rita Lee,” you said reverently. “She’s one of Brazil’s greatest voices. A rebel, passionate, a true force of nature.”

Melissa let the sound wash over her, the beats and lyrics blending into the warm night air. She watched you, the way you spoke about each song, each singer as if they were old friends. There was something about how you connected with the music that stirred something deep inside her.

“You really love this, don’t you?” Melissa commented, smiling softly at the scene.

“Absolutely,” you admitted. “Music here is like oxygen. We grow up with it, it’s part of who we are. It’s hard not to fall in love with it… and with this place.”

Melissa smiled back, but she knew it wasn’t just the music or the place that was grabbing her attention. It was you — your passion, your enthusiasm, your authenticity.

The days that followed were a blur of beaches, laughter, and nights full of music. Each day, you introduced Melissa to something new — Gal Costa, Caetano Veloso, Gilberto Gil — and each song seemed to dig deeper into her soul. But between the waves of sound, she felt something growing. A connection, something she hadn’t expected to find here, thousands of miles away from home.

On one of the last nights of her trip, you found yourselves on Ipanema beach, the soft sound of the waves mixing with the distant strumming of a street musician playing “Ovelha Negra.”

“I’m going to miss this,” Melissa said, her voice soft, almost lost in the wind. “All of it.”

You smiled, but there was a touch of melancholy. “You can always come back. Rio will be here, and so will the music.”

She looked at you, and in that moment, everything became clear. “It’s not just Rio I’ll miss…”

Your eyebrows raised, your heart racing as you absorbed the meaning of her words. Melissa, always direct, had let her guard down completely. And without hesitation, you leaned in, your lips meeting hers in a kiss that was soft and full of promise.

The music in the background continued, the slow, steady rhythm like the beat of two hearts that, for a brief moment, had found each other under the Rio de Janeiro sky.

#melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x reader #lisa ann walter #melissa schemmenti x you #fanfic #lesbian #Spotify

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saintmuses · 1 year ago

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❝𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙞𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙄 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣'𝙩 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪❞

Pairing:

Emmett x Abbott!Reader

Summary:

When the world ended, she couldn’t stop thinking about the man who she would always talk to at the baseball games, wondering if she would ever see him again.

Warning(s): SMUT. Age gap (Emmett is in his late 30s and Reader is in her early 20s). Both POVs. Minor angst (barely). Slight degradation. Thigh grinding. Praise kink. Breeding kink. Flashbacks in italics. Minors, dni! Note: Emmett is single and does not have children. I also tweaked some of the events from the movie in this as well as giving the Colony leader a name because I don’t recall if they ever did.

Word Count: 5.7k

Y/N Abbott was walking through the bustling crowd as she could smell the hot charcoal heating up hot dogs and hamburgers to the point it smelled charred.

It was the summer when she came back from her junior year at a university in Chicago.

She heard her name being called; she turned her head to see her mom walking towards her with a small smile. “Hey Y/N, your dad wants you over there with Regan and Beau.”

Y/N turned her head to see Regan waving at her along with her dad at the stands; Beau was idling by them, playing with a toy he had in his hand. She chuckled, shaking her head fondly. “Alright,” she murmured softly, turning her head at her mom in acknowledgment before striding over to where they were.

She walked up the stands, maneuvering between spots she could fit through so she could sit by her family. She ruffled Beau’s hair as she passed him, Regan reached out and tugged her hand firmly to sit next to her.

Y/N grinned, “you got something you want to say?” She signed to her sister as she eased herself down onto the cool metal bench.

Regan shook her head, ringlets bounced along with the movement. “I can’t tell you right now, but I will later.” She signed back to her quickly.

Y/N tilted her head slightly, “oh. You got me curious now. Is it about a guy?” She signed discreetly, asking her the typical question that every teenager experienced at least once in their lifetime.

Her sister nodded her head in a quick affirmative action.

Y/N smirked before dragging her attention from her sister to her brother, Marcus who was waiting in the line for his turn to bat.

“Oi! Lee, who’s this?” A curious but loud voice could be heard from behind her.

She turned her head to see there was a man sitting at the top row of the metal tiered bleacher with some sort of shortwave radio placed next to him.

Her dad chuckled beside them, “you haven’t seen her until now because she didn’t want to be around us anymore, but this is the oldest Abbott.” He grinned with mirth in his eyes as he explained in a form of a joke causing Y/N to roll her eyes.

“Dad…” she muttered, feeling a secondhand embarrassment from the introductory speech before she focused on the man before her.

He was wearing the dark colored cap with a denim blue form fitting dress shirt; a tattoo could be seen peeking out on his upper bicep underneath his shirt. However, what drew her attention was how intense of the color of his eyes.

Icy blue.

She could feel her cheeks staining in slight pink when she noticed that he was raking his eyes over her, a small but genuine smile as he raised his hand to her in a form of a handshake.

She reached out, clasping it with hers. His skin was calloused in some areas which told her that he had done some extensive labor for a living.

“I’m Y/N,” she said quietly.

His eyes were piercing as he spoke to her with a low voice, “nice to meet you, I’m Emmett.”

She nodded in acknowledgment before releasing his hand, turning her face to the baseball field in front of her.

Y/N didn’t think someone like him would pique her interest since he resembled to one of those mechanic guys at the only mechanic shop in Millbrook town. However, her eyes kept straying from the baseball field to him every now and then as she kept telling herself he did not fit in her type.

On day four hundred and seventy-four, Y/N found herself nearly yelping when she felt a hand wrapped around her mouth, her eyes widened in sheer terror in response when she saw a man in a filthy but familiar cap and rugged bandana covering half of his face.

He whispered inaudibly into her ear, shushing her very gently. “I got you.”

She immediately recognized his voice, being able to place the owner as Emmett. The man who never left her mind.

She swallowed and nodded, somehow looking at him gave her a sense of relief, then he took her where he sent her mom and her siblings down in the underground of the foundry as they hid from one of the Death Angels as what her dad and the media called them such as.

She could tell what happened to him for four hundred and seventy-four days had left him with a severe cynical outlook on life, so jaded that he would say that people weren’t the same anymore ever since what happened on day one.

It was all in his eyes. The sense of tiredness, caution, and coldness in his depths.

Not without a slight regret when his gaze were on her as he told her mom that they could not stay here.

And not without a sense of disappointment she felt when she realized she may never see him again when they leave after the dawn began to break.

Only the rest of the day and night then they would need to disappear in the morning.

It wasn’t until late at night when her sister woke her up with a brief touch on her shoulder.

Y/N was once a heavy sleeper until the death angels invaded the Earth and now, she woke up to random little noises wondering if it was her last moment.

Her eyes blinked blearily to see Regan beckoning her towards the vault. She looked around the dark dinky space after she propped herself up from her spot, observing her mom as she slept next to the makeshift crib and Marcus was sleeping on the floor by it as well.

She then walked across the space quietly before climbing in the vault, closing the heavy circular door, only leaving a few inches before turning to face her sister.

Regan was sitting at the end of the vault with the dimmed lantern, a map of New York in front of her and the radio next to her. “I have an idea.” She signed to her, eyes peering at her expectantly.

Y/N gave her the green light to express her idea as she sat there. Regan began to animatedly sign with eyes lightening up, pointing at a nearby island miles off the mainland of New York, referring to the potential connection of the song Beyond the Sea to the radio tower where the survivors were able to reside at. Theorizing that if she could travel across the water and use her cochlear implant to help to emit the high frequency signals to weaponize against the creatures roaming on Earth.

Y/N was already shaking her head, immediately rejecting the idea. “You can’t go,” she signed firmly.

A pause as Regan stared at her, then displeasure rang in her eyes.

Before she could respond, Y/N signed emphatically, “mom would worry about you whether if you’re in one piece or not. She has a baby to consider now, and she can’t take care of him if she worries about you.”

“Then you do it.” Regan’s hands were expressing her defiance sharply.

Her instinctive response was to say no because she did not want to leave her family behind. What if something were to happen to them while she was gone? What if something happened to her if she ventured out on her own.

She was going to tell her no until her dad’s scream echoed in her head. She paused; her dad would’ve wanted her to do it. To give the humanity a better chance of living after everything had been said and done.

After packing a few things that was required for survival. She placed the backpack on her back as she looked at her sister by the opening space of the foundry facing the direction they would’ve gone to if it had not been for the surprise bear trap and Emmett.

The moonlight was casting shadows on them, illuminating the darkness that the light hadn’t reached.

“You swear to not say anything and pretend not to know where I’m going?” She asked, eyebrows raising.

Regan nodded firmly; her pinky finger held out in front of her. Y/N sighed with a small smile before raising her pinky finger to return the gesture, clasping around hers loosely then she was gone, returning to the underground.

She inhaled softly, looking at the other direction where she knew Emmett was residing above the abandoned factory as he watched over the overgrown grass covering railroads before returning her gaze back to the other side.

When the dawn broke the horizons, symbolizing four hundred and seventy-five days since the day one, Emmett ventured down the tower before returning to the underground. He heard the rushed footsteps below him as he climbed down the steel ladder.

“Y/N is gone,” Evelyn whispered frantically, eyes glimmering with slight panic. His jaw clenched down in fear, if he had more strength added to his jaw, he would’ve had an astounding dental bill.

Stoically, he stared at the blonde-haired woman while he was dealing with the simmering fear that was causing an inner turmoil in his mind.

She continued, “She must’ve left in the middle of the night when we were sleeping. I don’t know where she went.”

His eyes strayed from her as she continued to talk, landing on the children who were watching him with skepticism and caution. The young boy was hovering the baby as he checked on him. However, the teenaged girl was gnawing her bottom lip as her eyes barely twitched which was a dead giveaway as if she was unfazed by the news. His gut instinct had rattled at the sight of her.

A simple of the fact Regan was hiding something which meant she knew where Y/N was going.

Paper rustling slightly as Y/N aimed a flashlight at the map to see how far she ended up going from the Foundry to the abandoned building on the side of the railroad. Squinting her eyes at the words as it was eerily dark and the bright light from the metal object was not helping a bit.

Her head snapped to the right when she heard a slightest noise from somewhere. It wasn’t loud enough for a creature to come, but she knew it had meant something was lurking in the darkness.

She slowly pushed herself up from the wooden floor, standing as she aimed the flashlight in specific corners of the building.

She swallowed as the noise edged closer to where she was at.

All of sudden, a large hand clasped over her mouth and the other hand wrapped around her waist as their arm pushed them into a broad chest. Lips pressing against her ear, whispering into it before she could struggle. “Hey, hey, it’s me.” The hushed sound of his voice made her relax in his hold as she sighed inaudibly into his palm. His skin felt warm against her lips as he hadn’t released her from his chest.

Then he whispered gruffly, his fingers dug into her skin lightly as to emphasize his emotional turmoil. “Why the fuck would you leave?”

She told him the idea her sister had with her cochlear implant. Explaining everything that occurred earlier in the morning before she left. She pointed at the map, trailing her finger from the location of where they were at to the island where Regan’s theory had a chance to be proven.

The sun rays were shining through the dirty windows the next day as she was shaken on the shoulder by a heavy movement, she opened her eyes confused until she saw him above, kneeling next to her. He mouthed that he found the Marina where the boats would reside at.

The sun was setting below the horizon by the time they arrived at the bridge before he helped her to prop herself up on the steel beam of the bridge so she could see what Emmett had found.

There were ships and boats docked at the harbor in the distance, resembling hope that they were closer to finding a solution to the end of Death Angels.

Before the world fell apart that day, she was on the edge of her seat watching the baseball game.

“Hey, Y/N. I have a question for you.” A voice spoke up from behind her, and her lips curled before settling in a blank expression when she turned her head to see Emmett looking at her with a grin on his face.

“What is it?”

“How do you sign the word dive?” Emmett asked, blue eyes shining with mischief and curiosity.

She pursed her lips as she raised one of her eyebrows, “I’m going to need more context than that. Are you referring to swimming or a situation related?”

“Whatever you want to show me, sweetheart.” He said it casually, shrugging.

Her breathing hitched slightly; red stained her skin in response. He only said the word ‘sweetheart’ whenever her family were not around them.

She cleared her throat, chuckling slightly. “Situation wise, I would just spell the word or explain it differently in sign language. You, however, are not ready for the spelling part.” He let out a low rumbling of laughter at her teasing. She ignored how her heart went pitter patter as she continued, “swimming wise, you just do this.” She demonstrated the sign for the word he requested.

He mimicked the sign in the exact form, and she nodded, a little pleased. Realizing she was a little too pleased that she had to look away due to the indescribable expression on his face with unknown emotions in his orbs as he stared at her.

He could tell she was angry at him for how he was barely reacting, stoically looking at her. Oh, but his eyes were glimmering in pure feral rage at the treatment as one of the rugged filthy bandits dragged her down the wooden dock, away from him.

No one touched her and got away with it, not on his watch.

He internally beckoned for her to look back at him, and somehow…somehow his prayer was answered when she turned her head to look at him once again, and he immediately clasped his palms together in a form of prayer, but he pushed his hands upwards, tilting forward before aiming down in a curve to resemble a diving position. The one thing he had always remembered before death came calling for thousands. Her eyes once twinkled in amusement as she taught him how to sign the word dive.

Who knew he would’ve been signing the same word over almost two years later, and he was filled with a sense of relief when she realized what his game plan was in terms of getting them out of the danger.

She struggled with the man who was holding her in a death grip until they edged closer to the edge of the dock before she pushed against him and threw herself into the water.

Emmett charged at him, wrapping the fishnet around his neck before maneuvering him to the metal pole, tying it to the point it had the man choking on the material around his neck.

He knew he had to get rid of the others. He could’ve left them alone he supposed but after what happened with Y/N, he wasn’t going to let them live, and there was only one way to do it.

He pulled out the weapon out of his pocket, and immediately felt a twisted sense of satisfaction of stabbing the hunting knife into the man’s thigh before twisting it in his flesh, relishing in his screams.

Once he spotted a Death Angel charging towards them while destroying the others, he released his hand off the handle of the weapon, moving away from the wounded man, and lunged himself off the dock, into the cold water below.

The chopped wood were crackling and burning in the fire pit as Y/N used the spoon to scoop the hot liquid with chopped vegetables before bringing it to her mouth. She hadn’t had a true decent soup that didn’t come straight out of the metal can in a long while.

There were sounds of laughter and animated words shifting the surrounding which she was not used to. She was used to the quiet and few moments of screams during their final moments, and now she was sitting in front of the bonfire as people were being lively as if Death Angels had not arrived to destroy those moments.

She felt a sensation of someone’s eyes boring into the side of her head, and she dragged her gaze from the bowl to see Emmett sitting across from her, observing her with a small quirk of his lips graced on his face. When they arrived the Island, they were able to take a shower and clean up themselves, and with the option being available to him, he was able to trim his beard which made it more tame rather than unruly.

She looked away shyly, focusing on her soup once more. Her heart skipped a beat when she noticed Emmett standing up from his spot from her peripheral vision before he walked over to where she was sitting at.

She cleared her throat when he sat down next to her, placing the wool blanket on her that was originally wrapped around him. “Thank you.” She mumbled before putting down the ceramic bowl onto the bench next to her. It had felt weird speaking without mouthing the words or whispering.

He was shaking his head, “no need to thank me.” He mumbled, staring into the firepit before looking at her. “Regan was right, and-“

“We were wrong?” She asked lightly, looking at him. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, I almost thought of her to be wrong too.” She smiled wryly, “you couldn’t anything but not believe after everything that had happened.”

The next day the Colony leader, Darius took them to the radio station building to test her sister’s theory by placing the cochlear implant next to the broadcaster signal after wiring it to the microphone.

Darius informed her gently that if they were to stay on the island permanently, there were several options for living.

A few cabins in the woods up north of the island and a beach house on the east shore.

“I would like to go for the beach house,” she blurted out, blushing when she realized that she sounded a bit too thrilled at the prospect of living in a beach house especially when she had a family back in the Foundry.

Darius gave her a slight smile, “It has four bedrooms and two bathrooms, and it’ll need some fixing but-“

She shook her head and said, “I don’t care.”

Y/N had always loved staying at the beach houses whenever the Abbott family took vacations to beaches, she would sit at the deck facing the ocean whenever they were at and listen to the waves as it met the shore.

She turned her head at Emmett, “I mean…if that’s okay with you. If you don’t like the idea of a cabin then-“ she was rambling that he had to raise his finger to press against her lips to make her stop.

“I’ll stay with you and help you get the place get all fixed then I’ll go for the cabin.” He murmured with a small smile with amusement in his eyes as he gazed into her eyes. “We can go back for your family after that, yeah?”

She stared at him before her lips curled in return while nodding. “Yeah.” She said quietly.

For approximately two weeks since life had become different, there was nothing to do that they were able to get the house fixed up.

Despite the beach house was restored, Y/N never ended up telling Emmett to go to the cabin that could’ve been his, and he seemed like he didn’t want to leave either.

They had made plans to return to the Foundry the next day and bring her family to where she and Emmett had been living.

Y/N was wearing sleepy shorts and a large t-shirt she had found in the laundry hamper. She had been standoffish towards Emmett all day since she woke up from her lustrous-filled dream of him holding her down and fucking her into the mattress. Poor Emmett was confused because he did not know what he did wrong, and she could not tell him why she had been acting off with him.

However, she was able to make him feel better when she offered a movie and snacks kind of night.

They settled down on the sectional couch as they watched a movie that they hadn’t watched before on a television box.

She had been lucky to find the sectional couch under the tarp when she had arrived at the beach house. It was huge; she would sit in the middle of the couch, almost closer to Emmett, and he tended to gravitate towards the chaise part of the furniture. Her heart did a little trill at the idea of him having a favorite spot on her furniture. It was almost domesticated-like in a way, making himself at home.

The noises emitted from the television speakers as the film rolled on.

She started shifting in her spot as hot and heavy scenes began to play. That was not what she wanted to see today of all of the days.

She was horny and maddeningly frustrated which Emmett picked up on.

“Are you alright?” He asked, concern in his voice as he turned his head towards her.

“Yes,” she said sharply, refusing to look at him while feeling a slight sense of regret since she hadn’t meant it in that tone.

Eventually her eyes strayed from the fuzzy television screen to the slight tan but hairy skin of his thigh that wasn’t covered by his basketball shorts.

A small whine accidentally escaped her throat while the feeling of arousal began to build making her shift in her spot some more at the sight of his lower thighs.

Before she could calm herself down, she was stunned as she felt hands wrapping around her waist and lifted her up from her spot, dragged onto the top of his thighs where she was sitting partially on his leg while her back was propped against the couch.

Feeling surprised that she momentarily forgot why she was whining and shifting in the first place as she looked at him with wide eyes.

Emmett narrowed his eyes at her, blue eyes flashed with unknown emotion, “behave.” He warned her with a stern tone as he laid his right arm on the back of the couch and his left rested on top of his other leg.

The feeling of shock faded as lust came back with vengeance, she swallowed before turning her head away to face the screen.

Then one character said something so out of left field when it comes to the woman. Said something about wanting to make her his in vivid details. The horniness increased a bit.

Emmett chuckled slightly, “hearing it on tv just makes it sound terrible.” He muttered with slight disgust in his voice.

Then she quietly asked, almost timidly. “What if you say it to someone?”

He blinked at the screen before turning his head to look at her. His eyes raked over her expression before a smirk slowly appeared on his face. “Then it would not be terrible because it means it’s true. Those actors don’t mean a damn thing what they say on tv. Feelings on tv is all artificial unlike people with real feelings.”

They stayed in the position for a little while longer while her arousal began to worsen over time due to proximity, watching the movie until Emmett shifted his leg which shifted the sleepy shorts under the curve of her ass.

She bit down her bottom lip in response, ensuring that he did not mean to do that. So, she maneuvered herself until she could sit further away from his thighs and closer to his knees which was a mistake because he had moved his leg again, nudging his knee which shifted her shorts again and she knew her wetness had seeped through. After all the sleepy shorts and underwear, she was wearing were flimsily thin.

His eyes widened in shock as he looked down to see a slightly glistening spot on his lower thigh. Then his light blue eyes darkened into a storm. “So, what you’re telling me is that you’ve been mad all day because you’re horny?” He asked, slightly in disbelief as he stared at her.

She blushed, refusing to answer him.

However, he did not need an answer from her. It was as obvious as the blue sky. He lightly dragged his tongue across his bottom lip, inhaling slowly. “Show me.” His words rumbled.

She stared at him in surprise as her breathing got caught in her lungs before she let out a low whimper.

He reached over while spreading her thighs, grabbing her towards him before his index and middle fingers curled into the shorts to pull aside the fabric to see her panty-cladded cunt. Unfortunately, the fabric was a light color so he could see how sopping wet she was.

He rumbled lightly at the sight of it, intensely transfixed on the fabric. “Your pussy’s soaking wet. How long have you been like this?” He murmured, inquiring with a question in his gaze.

She hesitated, her eyes trained on him as his ring and pinky fingers lightly grazed against the underwear which she had felt it through the fabric, and she shuddered in response as the sensation.

“Tell me, sweetheart.” He commanded while the motion of stroking her cunt became more firm through the fabric.

She closed her eyes at the pet name, “I’ve been feeling like this all day…” she mumbled, exhaling slowly as she opened her eyes.

He hummed before he finally pushed the thin damped fabric with his index and middle finger along with the shorts before using his other hand to push a finger into her.

Her hips buckled in response, gasping as she said, “I’m sorry.”

He chuckled nearly breathlessly at how tight she was, “don’t be sorry.” He murmured softly, “you’re just needy, craving for someone to touch you…” he trailed off, licking his lips as he leveled his gaze with hers hungrily. “Only my touch, right?”

She nodded frantically, “only yours.”

He gave her a self-satisfied smirk before pushing another finger into her cunt, “you’re tight.” He rumbled. “Have you been touched?”

“Only with my fingers and toys before…everything happened,” she mumbled shyly. Realizing it made her sound inexperienced when she told him.

He inhaled sharply, “fuck.” He groaned. It sounded guttural as if it rumbled in his chest making his voice sound hoarse.

She frowned. “Is that a bad thing?”

He chuckled, shaking his head, “no sweetheart. I wasn’t expecting that, but…” he trailed off before continuing. “It actually makes sense,” before curling his fingers upwardly to brush against the spot inside her making her whine in response. “You’re such a needy little slut.”

Her lips parted before she bit down her bottom lip as the degrading comment sent shivers of lust down in her veins.

He withdrew his fingers before maneuvering her into his lap as he sat up on the couch. He then removed her shorts and underwear down her legs before throwing them off to the side, and gruffly told her to start riding his thigh.

She stared at him with wide eyes, “y-your thigh?”

He nodded expectantly, looking at her with darkened gaze. “I want to feel your pretty little pussy rubbing on me.” He purred softly with a hungry grin. His fingers flexed on the curve of her ass.

She closed her eyes before she started to grind her hips onto his hairy thigh slowly to get used to the sensation.

“Keep your eyes open and look at me,” he growled, digging the pads of his fingers into the smooth skin of her flesh.

“I can’t.”

He began to urge her hips, moving her back and forth. “Yes, you can. I want you to see whose thighs getting you off, sweetheart.” He cooed softly.

She could only stutter as she opened her eyes reluctantly, and he chuckled at her response. “Such a needy slut,” he said teasingly as she kept rolling her hips onto his thigh desperately. His eyes then darkened once again before releasing one of his hands from her back to reach her jaw. He gripped it gently, but possessively. “My needy slut, aren’tcha?”

She nodded frantically, and he groaned heavily before smashing his lips onto hers with a force that knocked the air out of her lungs as he kissed her. Shoving his tongue into her willing mouth, edging them into a kiss that borderline filthy before easing them into soft and pliant kisses. “You didn’t think I know?” He breathed against her lips, “that pretty little thing like you wanted me as much as I wanted you for so long?”

He then dragged her off his thigh as he resumed to kissing her, igniting a sense of disappointment within her before he rolled her over under him on the cushion. He then reached down to the edge of the shirt, pushing the fabric up until her breasts were bare for his hands to touch and squeeze.

She jerked her head away from his greedy mouth, needing air to breathe which didn’t deter him because he continued with his lips trailing down her jaw, leaving wet streaks behind before dragging his lips to her neck. Pulling back before observing the shirt that bunched up above her breasts, “the shirt’s too big on you.” He pointed out with a frown painted on his lips.

“I stole it from your laundry,” she whispered shyly as if she committed a crime which she did not other than theft.

He groaned, “you’re mine.” He said gruffly before easing the shirt off of her body before taking his shirt off as well.

She felt her lips trembling slightly at the sight of his bare chest, “I’m-I’m yours.”

Emmett then removed his basketball shorts along with his underwear before placing himself on top of her between her thighs.

She felt his cock lying on top of her pelvis, it was very warm, and she could feel the ridges on underside, making her realize that it was big and heavy. She whimpered at the thought of being split apart on his girth.

He dragged his cock back and forth on her skin before he gripped it to rub the thick tip against her cunt, collecting the wetness along with it. He then pushed it downward until it caught in her hole. His breathing hitched at the feeling, and he was not even inside her yet.

He pushed his hips; the thick tip parted the opening until it latched onto it fully making him growl softly at the feeling. Her walls were forced to part to accommodate his size when he was finally flushed against her.

Y/N whined at the feeling of being full. “Emmett,” she breathed, her fingers itched to hold onto something, to curl her fingers into it.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to her ear. “You’re such a good girl, taking my cock so well.” He murmured, praising her before he started thrusting, dragging his cock back and forth in her cunt.

The couch shifted slightly along with the force of the thrusts Emmett was using. His cock rubbed against the walls of her cunt, eventually rubbing against the spongey spot in her before he used one hand to slither down between their sweaty bodies, touching her cunt.

He was able to wring an orgasm from her with a playful but slightly harsh rubbing on her clit which sent her over the edge with a loud whine.

“You have to pull out,” she mumbled urgently after realizing he did not know she was not on any source of protection. How could she? After the world ended, no one really had the time to be safe especially with sex.

He chuckled hoarsely, “you don’t want my babies?” He asked, a teasing tone in his voice as he said it in her ear. “Don’t want me to fill that pretty pussy of yours with my cum?”

She whimpered as her walls clenched down on his cock as a response to the idea of him filling her up to the brim with his cum. “We just started this fifteen minutes ago.” She pointed out softly, referring to the moment they crossed the line together.

He pulled his head back to look down at her with stormy eyes, “I know, sweetheart.” He breathed before continuing, “but look where the world is at now, no one is going to say a word when they have more things to worry about. Besides…being pregnant with my babies…well, sweetheart you would look very pretty, not that you weren’t to begin with.”

“What if we don’t work out?” Y/N asked, voicing her fear.

He raked his eyes across her facial expression before peering into her eyes. “All we have to do is try because I meant what I said. You’re mine and I’m not letting you go. Okay?”

She then nodded.

He looked at her to see if there were still any more doubts she had, preparing himself to convince her, but he did see none which made him sigh in relief. “Good because I can’t hold back anymore,” he rumbled before he proceeded to fuck her thoroughly, slamming his cock into her with assertive strength to remind her that she was his.

His balls slapped against her cunt as he thrusted into her forcefully, wanting her to feel everything as he grunted, “my pretty girl.” Followed by, “all mine now.” He groaned into her ear when he felt her walls squeezing around his girth. “So good for me, sweetheart.” His hips began to stutter in an irregular manner indicating his impending orgasm, “I’ll take such good care of you.” He slammed into her as far as he could before spilling into her with a guttural groan.

#Emmett #emmett x reader #Emmett x you #Emmett x y/n #a quiet place #a quiet place 2 #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy

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fadingdaggerr · 2 years ago

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hello :] i had an idea / req for you!

melissa/reader where r is new around (new teachers aide, teacher, anything rly), they’re just new so melissa isn’t exactly head over heels yet. but then maybe smth happens to r where they’re in trouble or hurt and melissa ends up being to one to find and take care of them, and melissa realizes how quickly she’s growing attached OMFG THIS IS SO LONG AND SUCH A RAMBLE SORRY! run with it however you’d like xoxo -🧛🏻‍♀️

blush to ruby

pairing: melissa schemmenti x gn!reader

summary: request above! think i stuck pretty true to it, i went with r getting hurt rather than an altercation just bc my last fic was more that route

warnings: hurt/comfort (but literal hurt. like pain hurt), mentions of blood and a non-serious injury, r should’ve had a that’s so raven moment tbf, kinda short oops

note: title is light to darker shade of red to show deepening feelings, in case u were curious. i wanted to call this “unfortunate foreshadowing” but it’s a little on the nose

melissa hates lunch duty. everyone does really, she wasn’t alone. but what no one ever really talks about, recess duty. the worst part was the screaming, the occasional crying, and the constant whining when it was time to go back inside. somehow after running around at top speeds for twenty minutes straight, the children the even more hyperactive.

maybe it wasn’t so bad. ever since you started at abbott last semester, melissa found herself enjoying the extra time with you. she liked the little one-on-one conversations with you that this time allowed her. melissa thought it was rather sweet how you interacted with the little eagles. she’d watch as you ran down the line of swings, pushing each student as they giggled and yelled higher, higher! but this week was a blessing to the children, mr. johnson finally inflated the sad looking dodgeballs in the recess bins. four-square is a very, very serious matter.

“alright little eagles, huddle up,” melissa shouts with her hands cupped around her mouth.

“time for the rules,” you say, getting a collective groan in return, “don’t give me the uuugh stuff, half of you break them before the game even starts.” you hear melissa chuckle beside you, making you visibly struggle to hide a smile.

“no hitting the ball when it’s not you’re turn. only hit the ball with your hands, not your face. i’m looking at you, tyler,” you give him a playful glare, he sticks his tongue out in response. “hit the ball out of the bounds, you’re out. if it bounces more than once in your square, you’re out. catch the ball, you’re out.”

the kids create their teams and start playing, you and melissa are really only there to stop them from literally butting heads, and to grab the ball if it rolls out. four rounds in and everyone was laughing and having fun. melissa particularly enjoyed being gifted a dandelion flower crown that you helped one of her students make, gently laying it on top of her hair.

“last round, then we’re heading back in!” you call to them. when they change players, it’s all fourth graders, only one of which was from your class. melissa could recall that when yasir had been in her second grade class, he mentioned his sister played volleyball at the high school, and she taught him all about it. melissa turns to give you the heads up right as the game starts. the ball bounces into yasir’s square, to which he smacks with all his might. the sheer speed of the ball gave you no time to duck, smacking you straight in the face.

your hands fly over your nose, eyes already watering from pain. melissa can hear the muffled string of swears under your hands and immediately jumps into action, although shaking a bit with need to help you. she ushers the kids back inside the lunchroom to get them to their teachers. she runs to janine and asks her to watch her kids, and teacher lee to watch yours, while she takes you to the nurse.

“nurse alayna isn’t here today, but her office has the same key as the conference rooms. just leave her a note if you take anything other than tissues,” lee says as they wave your students over to their group.

melissa settles on guiding to the office with a hand on your lower back, quietly telling you she’ll help you and that you’re okay. she sees more tears form in your eyes when your pull your hands back, blood covering your palms. her hold on your waist tightens with reassurance, your tears making her protectiveness over you grow. when you get into the office, she holds tissues to your nose as you wash your shaking hands.

you cringe when you sit on the paper covering the bench, the sound of it making the pain in your head worse somehow. melissa noticed and watched as you stood up to rip away the paper violently, muttering asshole under your breath. even when you were in pain and crying, you were still you.

she replaced your hold on the tissues as she carefully wiped away rogue tears and blood with a tissue, apologizing when you winced. “okay hon, i’m gonna have to look at it for real now,” she speaks softly, as if you’re a scared animal.

you shake your head and ramble, “no, no, i can do it. you don’t have to look at it, it’s probably disgusting.”

she drops the tissue to hold your hand, “i’ve seen worse, i was married to a man,” this makes you chuckle, then wince from the laugh. “i want to help. i’ll be careful, i promise,” she holds her pinky out to you. she feels your smile under her hand more than she can really see it, but her heart rate quickens when your pinky wraps around hers as tight as possible.

“what’s the damage, dr. schemmenti?”

pulling back the tissues, melissa can see that your nose and the area around it was swelling a little. she used a featherlight touch to graze her finger up the bridge of your nose, checking to see if it had been broken. a hiss of pain from you has her hand retracting, apology hot on her tongue.

“sorry, sorry. i’m a wuss with pain and blood and all that,” your hands have a vice grip on your knees as you rush your words.

melissa’s thumb caresses your wrist, “don’t apologize, it hurts like a bitch. i just need to lightly pinch the bridge to feel if it’s broken, okay?” you grimace at the question but nod. “just squeeze my hand if it hurts, don’t worry about hurting me,” she reassured you, holding your hand, interlocking your fingers.

only about three second later, with an almost broken hand, melissa concludes your nose is not broken. she gently cleans off the blood from your skin, so gentle you can barely feel the touch except for the fabric of the towel. your hand stays in melissa’s, the looser grip allows her to feel the anxious vibrations still running through you.

she decides she has to make you feel better, “once we get you all patched up, how about we raid the lollipops? i know she’s got some around here, she saves me the bubble gum ones.”

you laugh a bit, careful not to disrupt the last of her work, “bubble gum? what’s wrong with you?”

“they’re horrible and i love them, okay? what do you even like? strawberry or something else boring?”

“root beer. obviously.”

“you don’t even like root beer, you’re a diet coke purist. you told me root beer tasted like minty iced coffee,” melissa says as she throws out the tissues and disposable towel, making a note of them and the future candies.

your free hand rises, “listen the lolly version is better than the soda. and there’s no diet coke lollipop, now is there?”

melissa relishes in your laugh for a moment, “you got me there.”

you’re able to run out to your car to grab a sweatshirt to replace your stained shirt, melissa standing guard as you changed in the backseat. she held back a cackle at seeing a delicately embroidered cursive, reading bon fromage, with a small stitched image of a wheel of cheese on a boat beneath it. you try to hold back your own laugh as you say, “don’t even start, it’s all i had in the car.”

“no, it’s cute. it’s ridiculous, but very cute,” she responds with a stifled laugh.

“if you’re done laughing, i’ll take that lollipop now,” your say, holding your hand out.

melissa drops your root beer lollipop in your palm, but you quickly switch them. her eyes never leave you as you unwrap the candy and place it in your mouth. her heart rate picks up and her skin warms, she blinks rapidly to erase the totally platonic thoughts she was having.

intent eyes watch as your tongue moves the candy to the side of your mouth to speak, “okay, maybe it’s not so bad. but root beer is still better.”

“i told ya,” she mumbles as she unwraps her own lollipop and tries it, “dammit. you were right.” you laugh and give yourself a little round of applause at her response.

you clear your throat, suddenly nervous, “thank you. you didn’t have to, even if you say it’s fine. just, thank you anyways. i really do appreciate it, melissa.”

she wraps an arm around your shoulders, leading you back into the building as she thinks about how to respond, “and i’d do it again in a heartbeat if i had to.”

the rest of the day has melissa has this nagging need to check on you, even with only two and a half hours left in the day. she had to wrangle with herself to not rush to ask how are you or peek through the window and see for herself. the deep-seated feeling to protect you only quadrupled in size after seeing you in pain, feeling you grip her hand for support. taking care of you had felt second nature to the redhead.

when the kids cleared out, she quickly grabbed her things and walked to your classroom. she lingered in the doorway as she watched you pack away your planner and a couple folders for grading away into your bag. she knocked lightly on the doorframe to announce herself before she was caught staring, only to be met with soft eyes and a smile, a hand motioning her closer. as if she’d ever stray far from you again.

on the nose. get it :D i’m sorry.

feedback appreciated, love y’all big time

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti #lisa ann walter #abbott elementary

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justinssportscorner · 5 months ago

Text

Matt Gertz at MMFA:

American women covered their country in Olympic glory in Paris on Thursday. Katie Ledecky broke the record for most swimming medals won by a woman when the U.S. team captured silver in the 4x200-meter freestyle, while Simone Biles won gold in her second women’s gymnastics all-around Olympics event and her teammate Suni Lee took the bronze. But on this side of the Atlantic, the American right was apparently more interested in bemoaning the purported death of women’s sports than cheering on their compatriots. The leading lights of the right-wing media spent Thursday melting down over an Olympics welterweight boxing match between two women from Algeria and Italy as they sought to drum up a ragefest they could use to firm up Donald Trump’s wavering election prospects against Vice President Kamala Harris.

Imane Khelif of Algeria won her Olympics boxing match against Italy’s Angela Carini when Carini forfeited after taking several blows to the face in the fight’s opening seconds (in boxing, for those unfamiliar with the sport, competitors try to hit each other in the head as hard as they can and can win by rendering their opponent unconscious). The U.S. right quickly seized on the match and plugged it into their obsessive anti-trans hysteria, falsely declaring Khelif a man who had beaten up a woman.

If you want to know more about Khelif — a veteran of international women’s boxing competition who was eliminated in the quarterfinal round of the 2020 Tokyo Olympics and whose passport, from a country where you cannot legally change your gender, identifies her as female — read Paolo Armelli’s story on the controversy for Wired. If you are interested in the history of sports competitions grappling with complex questions about the gender and sex of athletes, my former colleague Parker Molloy wrote nuanced pieces on the subject for Vice News, CJR, and at her Substack.

What was quite clear on Thursday, however, is that the weirdo right, obsessed with conducting bizarre “transvestigations,” doesn’t care about any of this. They simply want to misgender Khelif, invoke the rage associated with domestic violence by claiming she is a man punching a woman, and channel the resulting outrage and anti-trans hate into their own political gain.

A MAGA media frenzy quickly ensued on X after the match, with Riley Gaines, the right-wing activist who built her career complaining about trans women competing in sports, at the heart of the outburst. [...]

This sustained freakout is a perfect example of how the right-wing media has become pickled in its own outrage. They simply cannot let themselves — or anyone else — enjoy good things that normal Americans enjoy, like the dominance of U.S. women at the Olympics. Instead, they build their audiences and make their money by constantly trying to find something they can get mad about. Being a right-winger in good standing in recent years has required working oneself into a culture war frenzy over the NFL, Budweiser beer, Disney movies, Beyoncé, and Taylor Swift, among other all-American icons. [...]

“This is where Kamala Harris's ideas about gender lead: to a grown man pummeling a woman in a boxing match,” vice presidential nominee JD Vance posted to X on Thursday. “This is disgusting, and all of our leaders should condemn it.” His running mate — who a jury found liable for sexual abuse, and who was introduced at the Republican National Convention last month by a man who had been captured on video hitting his wife in the face — chimed in. “I WILL KEEP MEN OUT OF WOMEN’S SPORTS!” Trump posted to Truth Social.

Other Republican politicians, including Texas Gov. Greg Abbott; Reps. Lauren Boebert of Colorado, Anthony D’Esposito of New York, Greg Steube of Florida, and Mike Collins of Georgia; North Carolina gubernatorial nominee Mark Robinson and Senate nominees Hung Cao of Virginia and Kari Lake of Arizona also contributed to the sick debate. Normal people are too busy cheering for American champions like Ledecky and Biles to spend their time doing chalkboard scrawls explaining how Kamala Harris should be blamed for who Algeria sends to the Olympics. But with Trump’s polling lead slipping away and his campaign apparently trying to reignite by focusing on what appeals to the party’s weirdo wing, we can expect much more of this in the months to come.

The right-wing Weirdo Caucus were big mad over two cisgender women boxers to push an anti-trans narrative, and as usual, the likes of anti-trans extremists such as J.K. Rowling, Riley Gaines, Charlie Kirk, and Clay Travis led the charge of faux outrage against Imane Khelif and Lin Yu-Ting’s participation in women’s boxing under the guise of “defending women’s sports.”