#lieutenant general frank benson

[unclosetedrickmaniac]

Today we mourn the 9th anniversary of this sweet sweet man's death. Rest in peace to the soul that owns a mighty large chunk of my heart

[smilingformoney]

ICONIC ALAN RICKMAN MOMENTS (2/∞)

— as LIEUTENANT GENERAL FRANK BENSON in EYE IN THE SKY (2015)

[muiitoloko]

Operation Dog Flap

Summary: Frank Benson, once feared on the battlefield, meets his greatest foe yet: the family dog door. Recovery comes with butter, bruised pride, and a bit of tenderness.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader & OC

Warnings: None

Author's Notes: I don't know why, but I like to write about Frank being domestic. 😅 This story is based on "The Barber, the Boy, and the Bloody Disaster," but you don't need to read it to understand this one.

Also read on Ao3

It was 1:56 a.m. when Frank Benson, retired Lieutenant General, former pillar of the British Army, and current drunken idiot, staggered down the quiet street toward his house.

He was overdue. By hours.

He’d told you—promised you—that he’d be home by eleven sharp. “Just a poker night with the lads,” he’d said. “I’ll be back before you know it. No fuss.” And you, being far more generous than he deserved, had even packed him a flask, kissed his cheek, and warned him not to drink too much.

He had, in fact, drunk too much.

He had no bloody idea how much he paid the cab driver. Could’ve been fifty quid. Could’ve been his bank card and the deed to the house. He didn’t care. Not in that moment. Not with the cold air biting at his face and his coat clinging half-open because he’d forgotten how to button it.

He shuffled up the steps of the porch, boots thudding heavily on the wood. The light above the door was off. No lamp in the window. No flickering telly glow from the sitting room. You’d gone to bed. Of course you had.

Frank reached into his pocket, then frowned.

He patted his coat, then his trousers. Then checked his other coat pocket—only to pull out a crumpled receipt from the kebab place near the base and a cigarette lighter he didn’t recognize.

“Bollocks,” he muttered, his baritone roughened by cold and whiskey. “Left the damned key... somewhere.���

He stared at the front door. It stared back, unyielding and proper. Frank rapped on it with more force than necessary, his knuckles thudding against the wood.

“Darling!” he called, slurring just slightly. “Sweetheart! Open the bloody door!”

Silence.

He tried again, louder this time. “Thomas! It’s Daddy! I lost the key—open up for your old man, eh?”

Still nothing.

Frank squinted at the windows, scanning for movement. He spotted none. Not even Max, the scrappy mutt you’d adopted six months ago after he wandered into your garden and promptly stole Frank’s sock.

“Max!” Frank hissed. “Come on, boy! Help your bloody provider!”

Still. No. Answer.

He picked up a few pebbles from the garden and lobbed them at the upstairs window.

Clink.

Clink.

…Thunk.

That last one had missed the window entirely and hit the gutter. Still no lights.

Frank groaned, turning in a slow, dizzy circle on the porch, arms outstretched in confusion. “She’s ignoring me. I’m locked out. In my own sodding house.”

He sat on the steps with a dramatic sigh, grumbling to himself about betrayal and dishonor and how, in his day, the enemy at least announced they were locking you out before leaving you to freeze.

The cold bit deeper.

Frank sniffed, crossed his arms, and stubbornly muttered, “Fine. I’ll sleep right here. I’ve slept in trenches colder than this.” He settled onto the porch like a man preparing for a siege.

Then—

A thought. A wonderful, horrible, drunk idea.

Frank slowly turned his head toward the side of the house. Specifically, to the dog door.

He squinted.

Then stood.

Then waddled—slowly, determinedly—down the side path until he stood over the small flap installed in the back door. It was just big enough for Max, a medium-sized mutt. Not quite a terrier, not quite a shepherd, not quite anything definable.

Frank studied the flap with the sort of tactical precision he had once reserved for military reconnaissance.

“…I’ve fit into tighter spots,” he muttered.

And then, without further thought—because thinking was a young man’s game—Frank dropped to his knees, hiked up his coat, and began to shimmy his way through the dog door.

It went poorly. His head passed through easily enough. So did his shoulders, just barely. But once his chest and soft belly followed suit? He got stuck.

Firmly. Utterly. Stuck.

Frank groaned, trying to push himself forward. The flap creaked. The frame protested. His hips did not budge. Half in and half out, his arse stuck outside and his chest mashed against the kitchen tiles, Frank let his forehead drop to the floor.

“Well done, Benson,” he muttered, his voice echoing in the dark. “Broke into your own home. Through a dog flap. Like a common burglar.”

A soft noise drew his attention. Pawsteps.

Then—

Lick.

Max appeared from the shadows, tail wagging and tongue lolling. He gave Frank’s face a long, wet lick, tail thudding against the cabinets.

“Oh, sure,” Frank grumbled, flinching slightly as the dog cheerfully assaulted him with kisses. “Now you show up.”

Max barked, clearly delighted by this midnight intrusion. Frank sighed again, long and dramatic, like a man who had fought valiantly and lost to his own foolishness.

“Fetch Mummy, would you?” he murmured into the floorboards. “Tell her her bloody husband’s stuck in the dog door.”

Max gave another bark, trotted in a circle… and then curled up beside Frank like it was all perfectly normal.

“…Traitor.”

He lay there for what felt like a small eternity. Long enough for the whiskey to fade into a dull headache. Long enough for the shame to settle properly.

It was going to be a long night.

It was just after eight o'clock when you padded barefoot down the stairs, a warm robe wrapped around you, your hair still tousled from sleep, when you caught sight of something strange in the kitchen doorway. You stopped. Squinted. Then blinked.

There, half-inside the house and half-outside, was your husband—Lieutenant General Frank Benson, retired, decorated, terrifying to half the military world—wedged firmly in the dog door, arms flat on the tiles, arse up to the heavens, coat rumpled, and muttering to himself.

You stared for a beat.

Then burst out laughing.

Frank groaned without lifting his head. “Go on, then. Get it out of your system.”

You staggered into the kitchen, one hand clutching your stomach, the other bracing against the wall as you gasped through your laughter. “Frank! What—what the bloody hell happened to you?”

“I got locked out,” he grumbled, his baritone muffled against the floor. “Forgot my key.”

“And naturally, the dog flap seemed the logical solution,” you said, wiping tears from your eyes.

Frank scowled sideways. “Didn’t exactly have options, woman. I knocked. Repeatedly.”

“Oh, I bet you did.” You leaned closer, hands still trembling with the effort not to fall into another fit of giggles. “You could’ve used the spare key.”

Frank went still. Slowly, his hazel eyes lifted to meet yours. “What spare key?”

You stared at him. “The one in the ceramic vase beside the door. The one I told you about when we moved in.”

A beat. Silence.

“…We have a spare key?”

You blinked again. “Of course we have a spare key. I told you about it three years ago, Frank!”

“No, you bloody didn’t!”

“I absolutely did! When we moved in—”

“I thought that was a metaphor!”

You blinked. “…What the hell kind of metaphor would ‘the spare key is in the vase’ be?!”

Frank huffed, his white hair sticking up wildly in every direction, his hazel eyes peeking up from inside like a guilty dog caught chewing a slipper. “Well, how was I supposed to know it was literal? You say a lot of things, woman.”

You sighed dramatically, crouching down and trying not to laugh outright. “You absolute idiot,” you muttered fondly, tugging at his coat. “Alright, come on. Let’s try and get you out of this mess.”

You grabbed his arms and began to pull gently. Frank groaned dramatically. “Ow. Ow. That’s my shoulder. Woman, if you rip something, I’ll haunt you.”

“Stop complaining,” you muttered through clenched teeth, tugging harder. “If you weren’t shaped like a stubborn badger, you’d be free by now.”

He grunted as his chest scraped against the threshold. “I knew I heard the postman laughing earlier. I’m sure of it. You’ll have to kill him, darling. No witnesses.”

You groaned, laughing breathlessly. “You’re not even sorry, are you?”

“Deeply humiliated,” he said solemnly, “and completely wedged.”

You sat back on your heels, frowning. “Right. We’re not getting you out this way.”

“I’m beginning to gather that, yes.”

You stood and wiped your hands on your dressing gown. “Alright, two options.”

“Do I want to hear them?”

“Too late. Option one: I call the fire department.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Option two,” you continued, ignoring him, “we butter you.”

There was a long silence. Then Frank let out a sound of pure, aged despair and pressed his forehead to the floor again.

“Oh, for the love of—please don’t make me choose between public humiliation and being basted like a Christmas turkey.”

You smirked, reaching for the butter dish. “Your call, love.”

And that was precisely the moment Thomas decided to wake up. He padded into the kitchen in his little dinosaur pajamas, rubbing one eye with a tiny fist. “Mummy? Why’s Daddy lying on the floor?”

You froze. Frank groaned louder.

Thomas blinked, then stepped closer—slowly, cautiously—until he got a better view of the scene. The dog door. The butter in your hand. His father’s large, undignified form halfway through the wall.

And then he laughed. Loud and free and delighted. “Daddy got stuck in the doggy hole!” he sang at full volume. “’Cause he’s too fa-at, he’s too fa-at!”

You burst out laughing again, unable to help yourself. Thomas was now dancing in little circles, chanting, “Fat Daddy! Fat Daddy!” like it was the best song he’d ever invented.

Frank lay very still, expression unreadable. “This is the end,” he muttered. “This is how I go.”

“Thomas,” you gasped through your laughter, placing the butter down before you dropped it. “Thomas, darling—stop that, it’s not kind.”

Your son paused, frowning. “But it’s true…”

Frank groaned. “Tell him I fought in five conflicts and received three commendations for valor. Tell him I once negotiated a ceasefire with six armed insurgents.”

You grinned down at him. “Sweetheart, right now you couldn’t negotiate your way past a house pet flap.”

Frank closed his eyes. “I’m divorcing you.”

You bent down and kissed the top of his white hair, your smile soft despite the tears of laughter still in your eyes. “You can try. But you’ll need to get inside the house first.”

From beside you, Thomas giggled again, now lying on the floor with Max, gently poking his father’s arm. “Can we still butter him?”

Frank groaned. Loudly. “For the love of all that is holy—someone get the bloody olive oil. We’re out of butter.”

It took the better part of fifteen minutes, two kitchen towels, half a bottle of olive oil, and one exhausted child for the operation to succeed.

You had circled around the back of the house, armed with determination and a level of amusement you tried—unsuccessfully—to suppress. There was your husband, Lieutenant General Frank Benson, half-wedged in the dog door like some ridiculous caricature of himself. His arms were limp on the kitchen tiles, face mashed against the floor in resignation, while Max lay beside him like this was the most entertaining morning of his life.

"Alright," you said, crouching down behind Frank's generously proportioned backside. "On three, I push. Thomas, darling, pull Daddy’s arms, gently. Not his ears this time, please."

Thomas, cheeks flushed with excitement, nodded solemnly from inside. “Yes, Mummy. I promise. Not the ears.”

Frank muttered something unrepeatable into the floor, but you ignored it. Instead, you slicked your palms with the olive oil and gave his hips a firm pat. "Ready, soldier?"

"No," Frank growled. "This is undignified. This is a bloody war crime."

"One," you said cheerfully.

“Christ alive—”

"Two—"

“You’re enjoying this far too much—”

"Three!"

You shoved. Thomas pulled.

Frank let out a noise that could only be described as a strangled honk, limbs flailing as his hips finally gave way. There was a slick, sudden pop, and Frank Benson—former high-ranking military officer, chub-hipped and olive-oiled—slid through the dog door like a greasy sack of potatoes, collapsing unceremoniously on the kitchen floor in a tangle of limbs and wounded pride.

You stumbled inside after him, barely able to contain your laughter, while Thomas cheered as if he’d just watched his father complete an Olympic feat.

"Mission accomplished!" the boy squealed, throwing his arms in the air.

Frank lay sprawled on the cold tiles, arms to the side, eyes closed as though contemplating his entire existence. You leaned over him, brushing back the mess of white hair that clung to his damp forehead. "Are you alright, love?"

He opened one eye. It burned with quiet betrayal. "I’m fine."

You didn’t believe him for a second, but you stepped back anyway, giving him space. He sat up slowly, wincing as he twisted his shoulders, his face tightening into a grimace that made your amusement falter.

“I’m going upstairs,” he muttered, getting to his feet with effort. “Just… give me a moment.”

You nodded softly, watching as he trudged up the stairs, the back of his coat still faintly stained with olive oil. Thomas tugged on your sleeve. "Can I have a sandwich?"

"Of course, sweetheart." You rustled his hair gently and moved to the fridge, pulling together a quick peanut butter sandwich, cutting the crusts off the way he liked. You handed it to him with a kiss to the crown of his head and a soft “go watch cartoons, darling,�� before following Frank up the stairs.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar. You pushed it open quietly, peeking inside.

Frank stood near the bed, shirtless, his back turned to you. He was applying cream to the angry red marks on his sides, the skin slightly raw where the dog door had left its indelible insult. The lamplight painted a soft glow across the white of his hair and the slope of his shoulders, now broader with age but still strong. His skin, thinner than it used to be, bruised more easily these days, and as your eyes traveled over his frame—sturdy but weathered—you felt the swell of something tender rise in your chest.

You stepped inside and closed the door behind you. “You missed a spot,” you said softly.

Frank didn’t turn. His baritone, rough with fatigue, responded quietly. “Let me have a little dignity, woman.”

You crossed the room, taking the jar from his hand. “You’re allowed to feel humiliated. That was… a lot.”

He huffed, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “It was a bloody disaster. I used to lead troops across warzones. And today, I got stuck in a door meant for a dog.”

You gently smoothed cream over the red marks at his side, your fingers light but firm. He flinched at first, then relaxed under your touch. “You’re not twenty-five anymore, Frank,” you said, your voice soft, soothing. “Your body’s earned the right to protest a bit. You’ve spent most of your life putting it through hell.”

He was quiet for a moment, eyes cast downward. Then he muttered, “I used to be a soldier. Now I’m just… old. Soft around the edges. Getting wedged in bloody furniture.”

You stepped in front of him, forcing him to look at you. His hazel eyes met yours, tinged with frustration, with shame.

“You’re not just anything,” you said, firm now. “You’re Frank Benson. My husband. Our son’s hero. The only man I’ve ever met who could negotiate an international crisis one day and get stuck in a dog flap the next.”

That earned a ghost of a smile.

You cupped his jaw, thumb grazing the hooked bridge of his nose, the one you always teased him about. “You’re still handsome. Still strong. Still sharp. You just need to be a little kinder to yourself. This body of yours has done more than most. It’s earned a few quirks.”

Frank let out a slow breath, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders. “I look ridiculous.”

“You look like a man who lived.” You leaned up, brushing your lips against his. “And a man I still find unbearably attractive, by the way.”

He gave you a pointed look. “Even half-basted in olive oil?”

You grinned. “Especially then.”

Frank chuckled—really chuckled—and pulled you into his arms, his body still warm and solid despite the stiffness, the soreness. “I’ll never live this down, will I?”

“Not a chance.”

He sighed against your hair, holding you close. “At least the boy’s happy.”

You nodded, your voice muffled against his chest. “He thinks you’re a superhero.”

Frank kissed the top of your head, his voice low and fond. “Let’s hope he never finds out how much it hurts to be one.”

[evans23]

RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 4 - Darkest Night

Pairing : David Friedman x Rose Benson Friedman Frank Benson x Rose Benson Friedman (Daughter)

Summary : Upon waking, Rose knows. David is dead. And she wants to join him. Her father, Lieutenant General Frank Benson, is willing to do anything to bring her back to life, to anchor her to reality, but nothing works. Until that Christmas Eve, when a strange apparition finally gives her the courage to take a step toward life.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Angst. Depression. Mention of suicide.

A/N : Hope you like this one, a little bit darker, a little bit sadder. But with a sparkle of hope !

This is the part 2 of I Shall Live On

Part I

Also read on AO3 - Wattpad

Twenty-three days. Rose Benson Friedman had been in a coma for 23 days. At her side, her father, Lieutenant General Frank Benson, his face drawn, had gotten up quickly when his eyes began to flutter.

His daughter, his beloved granddaughter whom he had not seen for a long time, was finally waking up. Frank still remembered the terror he had felt when a certain Sadie had called him to tell him that his only daughter was in a coma after her heart had stopped. But when the woman had told him that her stepson, David Friedman, had died, Frank felt his heart stop.

He had taken the first flight to New Orleans where the famous Sadie had picked him up at the airport. She had explained to him how David had lost his life during an operation and how little she knew about what had happened to Rose.

Now the heavy task of telling her that her husband was dead fell upon him and Frank didn't know how he was going to do it. The last thing he wanted was to be the one to break her heart. But for now, he stood beside her, hopeful, his cold little hand in hers, encouraging her to wake up.

"Come on, Rose. I'm here, I'm close to you," he whispered to her relentlessly.

And Rose finally opened her eyes. A slight haze in her hazy gaze suggested that she didn't really know where she was. At least that's what Frank thought.

"David," she whispered, "David..."

"Sweetheart," Frank said, running his hand through her hair.

Rose then began to cry, her shaking hands clutching the sheet as her tears turned into sobs.

"Please, David !" she shouted.

"Rose... calm down," Frank said calmly but firmly.

But nothing worked and soon Rose's sobs turned into screams and a nurse rushed into the room to inject her with a sedative.

When she woke up again, several hours later, Rose was calmer. The white, sanitized room echoed with Rose's acute pain and the sound of her heart beating regularly as it was connected to the medical equipment. Frank, whose face betrayed his fatigue, was still at her side.

"Rose, my darling..."

"Don't say anything," she interrupted him sharply, "please, don't say anything. Don't say anything. Nothing at all ! Don't say anything !"

Frank took her hand in his, but Rose pulled it away abruptly and turned to face the window, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. She knew. She knew without her father having to tell her anything. She knew that David wouldn't come to pick her up from the hospital, that he would never share a lazy Sunday morning in bed again, that he would never fight over what movie they were going to watch together on Saturday nights again, and that she would never tell him "take care of yourself" before he left for work again.

Rose felt this floating sensation, like her mind was trying to disconnect from her body to ease her emotional pain. But nothing worked. David was dead, her world had just collapsed, the pain was overwhelming her. David would never come back. He had come to tell her during his coma.

When she had told her father, he had answered that she had probably dreamed it even though he had found it strange. But even stranger was that David had told her that she was suffering from severe heart failure, he had not known what to say. He had ended up assuming that in her coma, she had been able to hear the doctor who had come to explain her pathology to her and that her unconscious had absorbed the announcement by softening it with the presence of David in her dreams. But now that she was wide awake, that the pain was constantly overwhelming her, the fight between life and death had really begun for Rose... and she did not want life to win.

Heart failure. A scary word to say that her heart was no longer fulfilling its functions as it should and that she was going to have to take beta-blockers. It was not a long-term solution. She would end up needing a new heart. In the meantime, she could live more or less normally provided that she remained under surveillance and avoided strong emotions. Frank had laughed, a bitter laugh, when he heard that. David's death would trigger more than just strong emotions. It would break his beloved little girl.

The day after Rose woke up, the heart surgeon who had saved her life had come to tell her everything she already knew. She hadn't felt the warning symptoms, but now they were there. She was exhausted and had trouble breathing. But she wasn't sure if this feeling of exhaustion was related to her insufficiency. She rather had the impression that it was due to the oppression she was feeling. That feeling of dying deep inside herself, knowing she would never see David again, the man of her life.

"You can't live like this forever," the doctor had said, "in the long term, you'll have to consider a heart transplant because the drugs won't be able to keep you alive ad vitam æternam."

Rose had shrugged without answering. As if she still wanted to live now that she was alone to face the world, life, the coldness of the world. But Frank, who had immediately seen his daughter's abandonment, didn't agree. That night, he had gently lectured her with a tenderness he only showed her, but Rose hadn't listened to him.

Sadie had come to see her several times, but there again, Rose had been indifferent, responding with monosyllables.

Rose was suffering. Not because her heart had tried to kill her and was no longer working properly. She was hurting because now she existed in a world where David no longer existed.

When she got out of the hospital, Rose had returned to the house she shared with David, her father always with her, following her like a shadow. Frank had always been a protective father and seeing his daughter fly to the United States had broken his heart, but also awakened his worst protective instincts. Such a big country, so dangerous and his child so innocent. But when she had married David, he had felt reassured. David, despite his gruff exterior, was a good, caring man and he had known from the moment he had met him that Rose would be safe. But now she was alone, alone in a big city with a fragile heart and a broken mind.

He had practically begged her to come back with him to Keighley, the small town where they had moved when she was still a little girl. He and his wife, Rose's mother, had found a certain tranquility in this small town where Frank, after his military career, had found a well-deserved peace. The happiness after his retirement had lasted only two years before his wife died within a few months of breast cancer. But he had overcome that loss like all the other suffering he had had to face in his life and now he hoped that Rose would be able to do the same.

"Come back to the UK with me," Frank had pleaded.

"What for ?" Rose had asked coldly, "counting sheep and watching you garden without ever being able to grow a single vegetable ?" she had added vehemently.

Far from letting it get to him, Frank had told her that it was better to try and grow vegetables without success than to vegetate on a sofa night and day staring at the ceiling.

Stung, Rose had locked herself in her room until the evening when, after a shower that had soothed her tense muscles, she had gone downstairs to join her father in the living room where Frank was watching a poorly translated telenovela.

"If I leave, then I'm completely abandoning David," Rose told him as she sat down next to him.

Frank turned to her and took her hand in his.

"Rose, my darling, David is not coming back," he told her softly.

"I know. I know, but we've built our whole lives in this house, in this town."

"Rose, David would want the best for you. He wouldn't want you to stay alone in this house and being nothing more than a shadow. He wouldn't want you to be alone when your heart is in trouble. Come back to Keighley with me. I'll watch over you. You'll learn to rebuild yourself. I promise you that the struggle you're having now with your fragility will turn into the hope of a new life."

"Dad, I'm scared," Rose said, tears streaming down her eyes.

Frank took her in his arms, gently stroking her brown curls like when she was a little girl and she'd come to find comfort in his arms when the girls at school teased her for no reason. And just like when she was a child, Rose immediately felt safe, finding comfort in her father's strong arms.

"Everything will be okay, Rose. You'll get over this. And you'll be stronger."

"Or I'll die," Rose whispered.

"No !" Frank replied firmly, "Don't say that. Don't think the worst. You're going to take your medicine, you're going to rest, you're going to rebuild yourself and you're going to get a new heart. And you'll see that at some point, everything will fall into place, everything will be back to normal."

"How could things be back to normal when the love of my life was killed in action ?" Rose spat as she pulled away from Frank, "I don't want to live, I want to be with David !"

"ENOUGH !" Frank shouted despite himself.

He couldn't stand to hear his daughter talk like that. To give so little importance to her life, this fragile life that she had almost lost.

"You're alive. You've been given a second chance. Take it ! That's not what David would want for you."

"David doesn't want anything anymore. He's dead," Rose said coldly before returning to her room.

There, she collapsed on the bed, crying. She sobbed for a long time before finally falling asleep.

A month. She remained wandering like a shadow for a month. And Frank, as a loving father and with infinite patience, waited. He stayed close to her as he longed to return to his little house in Keighley, his garden and his goat which, for the moment, was in the good care of his neighbour Mercedes, a woman 13 years younger than him who, every time he saw her, made him feel like he was 20 again.

A month in which he had been patient and firm. And finally, Rose agreed to sell the house she shared with David and to return to the United Kingdom with her father.

It didn't take long for the cozy little house where she had built a home filled with love and joy with the man she loved more than anything to find a buyer. She put half of the money in a bank account in David's daughter's name. She would have access to this money when she turned 25. She went to say goodbye to the little girl who cried as much as she did, but Rose knew she would get over it quickly. After all, she was just her father's new wife. She would probably miss her father for the rest of her life, but she would have her mother to keep a connection with David.

Rose, she had nothing left but her memories. She would never get over it. She knew it. Before David, she had never loved and there would be no after David. And now, she was back to square one, living with her old man, losing all her independence.

"It's better this way, Rose," Frank had said, "you have no one in the United States and you have to think about your health, that's the most important thing now. Your health and your future. Everything will be fine, you'll see, I'll take care of you."

Rose didn't even bother to answer him. Although she knew that Frank was acting with all the best intentions in the world, that he was acting like a father, she was struggling too much between the path imposed by her father who wanted to anchor her to the present and the past that she couldn't get rid of. Although Rose knew that the second chance that life was offering her was a gift, that she would have to fight for her survival, the sad truth was that she only wanted one thing: to find David.

"There's nothing left here for me," she whispered to herself.

When they arrived in Keighley, Rose wanted to cry. For David, for this heart that was broken in every sense of the word, for this return to her father. She felt like a child trapped in a life she didn't want. She felt like she was losing all her independence. Deep down, though, she knew he was right. In the United States, she had no one and her job didn't provide enough medical coverage for her to be able to take care of herself properly. Because her health insurance also depended on David.

"I asked Mercedes to prepare your room. You'll be fine, Rose. You'll be able to rest, regain your strength. And next week, we'll go to the hospital. Dr. Reeves confirmed that he's already received your file. He'll explain the procedure for you to receive your new heart."

Rose, sitting next to him in the taxi that was taking them home, wasn't even listening. Her mind, even more fragile than her body, had plunged her into a kind of torpor, a wavering between life and death, a fight she wasn't sure she wanted to win.

England made her want to scream. As the taxi drove, everything seemed cold, distant and damp. The colours seemed dull, the landscape bleak, nothing, absolutely nothing had changed. Keighley, this town she hated and had happily left, imprisoned her again. It was the kind of town you can never leave, that sinks its fangs deep into you and brings you back to it by any means necessary.

Arriving at the small, well-kept house, Rose went straight up to her room. Nothing had changed: the same pale green and creamy white walls, the same old Leonardo DiCaprio poster, her frog collection in a display case that had obviously been cleaned - probably the famous Mercedes that had had a bit of cleaning - and the same old plum-coloured blankets. Rose wanted to scream, to throw up, to cry, to run away as fast as she could. But she was too tired, too broken.

"You should take a shower and rest a little," Frank had said, wanting to stroke Rose's hair, but she had pulled away abruptly before locking herself in the bathroom.

And the days passed in Rose's cold indifference. She almost never left her room, spending her days lying on her bed staring at theof. Even crying had become too tiring for her. It was as if everything was hostile to her, even her childhood home, even her father.

Frank was distraught but he would not give up. He would bring his Rose back to life. This house was also his and he did everything he could to make her feel at home. He had filled the cupboards with her favorite chocolates, the tea he knew she normally drank every morning and by rearranging the small room she used to paint and which he had transformed into a small sanctuary with her medals and military books. In less than a day, he had emptied it and installed a whole bunch of painting equipment that he did not even know the use of.

But nothing seemed to find favor in Rose's eyes. Her pain, her sorrow, was so deep that she felt like she was suffocating in murky water that wanted to drown her. And Frank, pragmatic and a little rigid, did not understand how his daughter, his little warrior, this survivor who had a strength in her that she herself did not suspect but that he himself did not doubt, knew that she would be able to rebuild herself.

"Rose, my dear, do you want to come and take care of the rose garden with me?" Frank asked her one afternoon when Rose, sitting in an old worn armchair, had been staring at the ground for over an hour already.

"No, I don't want to," Rose replied in a faded voice.

"It would take your mind off things, Rose," Frank insisted.

"The roses will eventually die. What's the point of going to all this trouble?" Rose asked aggressively.

Frank sighed heavily, visibly affected by the behaviour of his daughter whom he did not recognize, but he kept his calm.

"Rose, you can't stay trapped in your memories. You have to make an effort."

Rose gave her a dark look, but nothing that could truly impress Lieutenant General Frank Benson.

"Life, Rose, life is full of pain and hardship. I'm truly sorry that you have to live the worst of it all. But you, you're still alive. Things can still change for you. But you have to take care of yourself and you have to fight," Frank said firmly.

"I'm tired, I'm going to my room," Rose replied coldly.

Frank watched her withdraw sadly, wondering if he would ever be able to break the wall of ice that now surrounded his daughter's broken heart. The cold truth was that Rose was a stranger, even to herself.

Frank went out to tend to his roses. His daughter was right, she would fade and die, but in the spring, she would regain her strength, open up to life again and blossom... like his daughter, or so he hoped.

And day after day, relentlessly, Frank tried to reach Rose. Every morning, he prepared her favourite breakfast: toast, scrambled eggs and tea. Every afternoon, he invited her to share his walk in the small park that was on the outskirts of town. Often, Rose refused, but each time she accepted, it was a real victory for Frank who kept himself from smiling too widely. And every evening, he asked her to keep him company in the living room and he was careful to only put on movies that he knew were Rose's favourites. But despite all his efforts, he could not burst Rose's bubble of pain.

The months passed and December arrived. It was December 4th and Frank was busy getting all the Christmas decorations out of the attic. He hadn't decorated the house since Rose left, but he hoped it would bring her some cheer, that she would find some light in the darkness she had fallen into. He hadn't been there for Christmas much when she was a child and he had always suffered from it. A guilt that still haunted him today.

"Rose, will you help me decorate the house ?" he asked her, poking his head through his daughter's bedroom door.

Rose didn't answer, busy staring at pictures of her and David sprawled out on her bed. She felt lost in a world she found too small for her.

"Rose, please," Frank insisted.

"I don't want to celebrate Christmas. It's not the same without David," she whispered, not looking up from the photo she was staring at, a photo she had taken of herself staring at a bird and David staring at her with all the adoration of a man madly in love with his wife.

"Rose, please. You can't keep withdrawing like that," Frank said, trying to control his voice.

"Leave me alone," Rose said.

"No ! Make an effort, Rose! Why don't you try to take a small step toward life ? Do you think that's what David would want for you ?"

For the first time in a long time, Frank was afraid. Afraid of losing his daughter. He understood that he could nott be able to save her from herself and that tortured him more than all the wars he had fought. Rose had become his new battle, but this one, he was not sure he would triumph.

"David is dead, he wants nothing, nothing at all," Rose spat coldly.

Frank felt a wave of anger rise in him. He stomped into the room and grabbed his daughter by the shoulders, shaking her gently.

"But I am alive ! I am here, Rose ! For you ! And I love you more than anything ! Everything I have done in my life, I have done for you. You are sick Rose and you need a new heart, but for that, you must hold on to your life. You have to realize that, you have to listen to me, you have to help me help you."

Rose didn't react and Frank immediately released her, immediately regretting what he had just done. But he was desperate.

He decorated the house all by himself, his heart heavy. He had never had such a strained relationship with his daughter. She had to get out of the house, see people, find activities that would interest her, stimulate her intellectually. She had to heal and take care of herself or she would never be able to receive her new heart.

He hung the balls on the tree while holding back his tears. The last time he had cried was when his wife died. Today, it was his daughter who made him suffer. He was consumed by the idea of ​​losing her. He was torn between being firmer or giving her more space so that she could find the strength within herself to rebuild herself. He didn't know, he no longer knew which solution was the right one.

And the days continued to pass, and Rose continued to withdraw into herself, indifferent to everything. If Frank didn't cook, she didn't eat, if he didn't insistently remind her to take her medication, she didn't take it, if he didn't come to wake her up in the morning, Rose stayed in bed all day wrapped in her blankets as if it allowed her to forget her pain, to forget for a moment that David would never hold her in his arms again.

And so December 24th arrived, leaving Rose even emptier than before. The decorations, the fire in the fireplace and the Christmas tunes only reminded her that David was dead. He wouldn't complain about the Christmas songs that Rose played on repeat in the house, about the mince pies that she prepared in too great a quantity and about the thumbtack that he would have planted in his finger rather than the wall while hanging the string of lights that Rose had chosen with David's daughter.

And Frank watched her sink a little more with worry. She was distant, as if nothing held her to life anymore. As if she had no hope anymore. She didn't even go out to accompany him on his daily walk and barely spoke to him. Rose was lost and he was no longer her compass. David was her compass in the storms, but now that David was no longer there, Rose was only a shadow, a spectre already at death's door.

"Rose, come watch TV with me," Frank asked, sitting down next to her on the bed."

Rose didn't answer, staring resolutely at the ceiling.

"Please. I want to help you. Together, we can get through this. You can't live in David's shadow, you have to move on."

"Why ? Why trying ? I've failed at everything in my life. I didn't finish college, I had a crappy job here in Keighley, then in Louisiana, and now I'm back home. David was the only thing that brought me happiness, that made me want to live," Rose said nonchalantly.

A lump formed in Frank's throat. He had never known that Rose had ever felt such unease in her life. She had always seemed fulfilled to him despite the few failures she had experienced in her twenties, but failures, Frank thought, were part of life, they shaped you, taught you to discover yourself and become stronger.

"Rose, give yourself a chance. You're only 33, it's not too late to rebuild yourself, to move forward. Do you want to go back to school? You can. You can do anything you want, I'll support you. Please, Rose, fight!" Frank said with more force than he would have liked.

Rose didn't answer, clenching her jaw to keep herself from telling her father to go to hell, a man she loved deeply despite everything.

Frank felt frustration, anger and helplessness growing inside him. All these months of trying to comfort her, to be patient, to give her time without ever forcing her too much had been for nothing. Today, he was angry. His fists clenched, his chest tight with anxiety, he felt that each second was pushing Rose further away from life. He couldn't wait any longer. He couldn't pretend any longer. He had to confrconfront reality, the harshness of the world, his own responsibility for forcing her to go through her pain by anchoring himself to life and if he had to hurt her, he would. Violently, his fist fell on the bedside table, making his daughter jump.

"You're letting yourself die, Rose! You have no right to do that ! David would never have wanted that for you !"

Rose opened her mouth to interrupt him but Frank stopped her with a gesture.

"Do you think he'd be happy to see you like this ? You only think about yourself Rose ! But you don't care. You're suffering and you want everyone around you to suffer. You're going to make me die Rose. Your behavior is killing me !"

Rose looked away, holding back tears. Her nails dug into the palms of her hands, almost bleeding, but she wouldn't let her father see that he was getting to her.

"You're not the only one who lost someone, Rose ! I lost the love of my life too. Do you think it's less important because I'm old ?! You're destroying yourself, Rose, you're letting this pain consume you instead of coming out of it stronger."

With shaking hands, he took Rose's face in his large, calloused hands, forcing her to plunge her green eyes into his hazel gaze.

"I love you, Rose. You're my little girl and I will never abandon you."

Rose's breathing quickened. She tried to pull away, but her father firmly stopped her.

"Do you want to die ? NO !" Frank shouted, shaking her, "you're going to live ! You're going to wake up. David is dead, but you're alive and you're going to live for him, for you !"

Her father's words were like a slap. She shivered violently and Frank released her. Out of breath, Rose glared at Frank, a look that gave the father hope. For the first time, his daughter's eyes weren't empty, there was a glimmer of defiance, of rebellion, a slight flame that was starting to burn again.

"You don't understand anything, nothing at all. You don't know what I feel," Rose said angrily, closing her eyes as if to escape from the reality she had tried to ignore that was suddenly catching up with her.

"You're all I have left, Rose, I couldn't survive losing you," Frank said, letting go of the dam that had been holding back his tears for so long.

"I can't live without David. I'm in too much pain. By losing David, I lost everything," Rose said, crying in turn.

"You haven't lost everything. You can still get up, start over. You are the most precious thing to me and if I have to fight for you, if I have to force myself to force you to hold on to life, I will do it even if you hate me for it. Hate me, but live !"

"I don't want to be saved. Let me go," Rose said in a whisper.

"NEVER !" Frank shouted, "Never," he repeated, gripping her shoulders tightly in his hands.

Rose pulled away and in a whisper, she asked him to leave. Frank hesitated, but he knew he had opened a breach, that he had succeeded in reaching his daughter who for her part did not want to lose her father. But her pain was much heavier than everything else. Rose was at a crossroads and Frank, for his part, was well aware that he could not make the final decision for her. So he left, wishing her good night, hoping that she would think a little and wake up with clearer ideas, after a good night full of advice.

Except that Rose had already made her decision several days ago. She had chosen to run away. She had chosen to leave everything. She had chosen death.

She got up, wiping her eyes with an angry gesture, approached the window to observe the frost that was biting the floors and removed the blade that she had wrapped in a scarf, hidden in the drawer of her dresser.

She lit the lavender candle, David's favourite scent, slowly unrolled the scarf, a gift from David, and placed the blade against her wrist.

"I'm coming to join you, my love," Rose whispered, closing her eyes.

The hand that held the blade was shaking. What if she didn't find him ? What if there was nothing ? In the living room, the TV was blaring, her father was watching a Christmas show where the presenter announced that there were only five minutes left until Christmas.

Still with her eyes closed, Rose relived her first meeting with David, this tall, dark man with his beak nose and his devastating smile. She remembered their second meeting, where he had arrived disheveled, explaining to her that he had not had time to go home to change after a stormy investigation. The day she had taken care of his nose and cheekbones that had been beaten by a suspect. All those nights of love. David's untraditional marriage proposal. Their small wedding, their plans and hopes. Now, there would never be a baby with the love of her life. There was no soulmate left, just her, alone, with her failing heart that was too broken to be truly repaired anyway. Without him, she was nothing, she was broken, useless, already dead, so she might as well end it for good.

3 minutes before Christmas. Rose opened her eyes, determined. That's when a familiar figure appeared outside. Rose's heart began to beat faster as she approached the window. It was... no, it couldn't be him !

She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again, and he was still there, more distinct even if his figure seemed a little ethereal. Rose dropped the blade, which thudded to the floor, and rushed down the stairs so fast she almost broke her neck. She threw the door open and stepped out.

She wasn't dreaming. He was there. In the dim street light, his hair undone, his little smile that seemed to hide a secret known only to him.

"Am I going crazy ?" Rose asked, tears in her eyes.

"You always were a little, my dear," he said in his baritone voice.

She threw herself into his arms. He was there. She could touch him. Feel him.

"David," she said in a sob.

"Your father is right, I'm not very happy," he scolded her lightly.

Rose pulled away, her cheeks slightly pink.

"You have to fight, my dear."

"I don't want to live without you."

"You have to. You have the strength within you to get back up and face whatever life throws at you. I'm dead, but I'll always be here with you," he said, placing his hand on Rose's chest, where her heart was.

"You're dead."

"Yes, but you're not. And I came back, for you."

"David, I can't imagine a life without you."

"Rose, I love you. I loved you instantly. I don't want to see you waste the rest of your life for a memory. I'm dead, but you're not. You have to fight, my darling."

"David..." Rose whispered, not knowing what to say.

She couldn't help but think that she had lost her mind. David was dead, she knew it, but yet, here he was, in front of her.

"You have to take care of yourself. Eat properly, sleep, get outside, get some fresh air, get some exercise, anything that will keep you fit, make you strong enough to receive your new heart."

"I don't want a new heart. I want you," Rose said, crying hot tears.

David took her in his arms and held her with all his strength.

"I will stay with you for as long as you need me. But you have to fight !"

"David..."

"Fight, Rose !"

"David..."

"Promise me !" he insisted.

Rose recognized this as the man she had married. Demanding, who didn't like to be upset. Firm and gentle. Loving and protective.

"Rose, promise !"

"I promise. Only if you stay," she said, letting all her vulnerability show.

"Always."

David kissed her forehead before ordering her to go inside and get warm before she got pneumonia.

"You're not leaving, are you ?"

"Never."

Rose walked back into the house, her blood pounding in her temples. David. He was there. And she was pretty sure she hadn't lost her mind. Or maybe she had, she wasn't sure. At this point, all she knew was that her true love was there, that he had taken her in his arms, that he had told her to fight and promised to stay with her.

She timidly went into the living room, just to make sure she was awake and that her father was there, that this wasn't a dream. Frank looked up tiredly at his daughter. On the TV, the newscaster had started counting down. There were only thirty seconds left until Christmas.

"Dad," Rose whispered.

"My little darling," Frank said, standing up.

She was coming back, he could see it, she was anchoring herself to life, right before his eyes.

Gently, he took her in his arms, stroking her brown curls. His chin resting on the top of his daughter's head, Frank whispered that everything would be okay, that he would watch over her. He was relieved to feel her letting go, even though he could feel all the fatigue and confusion of his only child.

"I'll always be there for you, Rose, no matter where you are," he whispered in her ear.

Rose felt a strange sense of comfort, something she hadn't felt since she woke up in the hospital.

"Daddy, I love you so much," Rose said in a low, almost imperceptible whisper.

Frank held her tighter against him. The road would still be long, the healing was not yet at the end of the road, but Rose had just taken a first step.

"Everything is fine, you are not alone. You will not face all this alone, I am with you, my darling."

5... 4... 3... 2...1...

The fireworks began toexplode on the television. Christmas had finally arrived. Rose looked up and in the doorway, David was looking at her, his eyes shining, a big smile lighting up his normally hard and closed face.

"Merry Christmas, Dad," Rose whispered as she gently pulled away from her father's embrace.

"Merry Christmas, my darling little girl," Frank said as he placed a kiss on her forehead.

Frank asked her if she wanted to share her Christmas pudding with him and he couldn't hide his smile when she agreed. As he went into the kitchen to get his favourite dessert, David approached his wife slowly, like a feline.

"Merry Christmas, my love," he said as he placed his cold lips on Rose's.

"Merry Christmas, David."

And suddenly, Rose's darkest night had taken a whole new turn. A turn marked by hope and in the midst of all this darkness, a faint light. A glimmer of life in the middle of the night.

[karthaeuser65]

Alan Rickman as Lieutenant General Frank Benson in “Eye in the Sky” (2015)

[rockonlavender]

* Mistletoe *

Laughter broke up the loud, cheesy Christmas songs that echoed throughout the penthouse suite that Chief Dodd’s had rented out in a surprise party for them.

The drinks flowed heavily through the evening, and one too many officers has been pulled aside by their partner before they embarrassed either themselves or said partner.

In the midst of all the vague chaos and cheer, Lieutenant Benson and a certain Detective had hidden themselves away in a quieter closet they’d found near the bathroom.

Amanda’s back pressed against the cool wall, smile bright despite the dim light. Olivia’s eyes darkened considerably.

She quickly inhaled and shut the door behind them, tearing her eyes away from the fact that Amanda’s neat button-up has one too many buttons undone, from the fact that she’d chanced on some black heel boots that gave her a few extra inches on Olivia, her blonde tresses framing her face in a manner near irresistible to an inebriated Olivia.

Amanda chuckled, bringing the bottle of expensive champagne up to her lips and swallowing down the slight burn of the amber, slipping down her throat and igniting fire in her belly

Now it was Amanda’s turn to ogle at Olivia, watching with amused eyes as the older woman near giggled, taking a quick, if clumsy, swig of the alcohol.

To be frank, Amanda wasn’t sorry for staring at the older woman the way she did- it wasn’t like Olivia hadn’t done the same to her a few moments ago. The other woman’s purple sleeveless dress hugged her curves generously, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.

“I have a surprise.” Olivia’s voice broke her from her admiration, and she jolted, stumbling a little before replying.

“And what’s that?” Amanda hiccuped a little before taking the bottle from the older woman’s hand, giving a half-grin.

“Close your eyes!”

Amanda paused for a long moment and then with a playful huff, let out an ‘Okay,’ covering her eyes with her forearm, cocking a hip.

A few moments passed.

“Okay, open!” Olivia sounded far too happy.

Amanda paused, warily lowering her arm, blinking a little before looking up to see the mistletoe she’d almost expected to be held above their heads. She chuckled, shaking her head, but it didn’t mask the smile spreading across her face. “Mistletoe? Really?”

“Yeah, and you know what you’re supposed to do under mistletoe?” Olivia wiggled her brows, and Amanda laughed, rolling her eyes. “Yes, I think I recall.”

“Well?”

Amanda snickers, “‘Well’, you didn’t need to steal a mistletoe from the party to get me to kiss you.”

Olivia whined at her, lowering the mistletoe, and Amanda grinned, rolling her eyes again.

“Come here.”

Amanda couldn't help the huge smile on her face as she leaned in, closing the barely there gap between them, their foreheads resting against each other. Their lips so close that they could feel the others quick breaths.

Amanda’s hands rested on Olivia’s chest, able to feel her heart racing beneath her fingers.

Goosebumps spread across their skin, and Amanda half-giggled, lips parting, an invitation.

Olivia happily responded, their lips meeting, tongue slipping into Amanda’s mouth to claim her mouth.

The brunette felt her knees go a little weak at the sound of Amanda softly moaning when their tongues met. She shivered as Amanda's fingertips traced the back of her neck, her other hand falling to the back of her head, fingers fisting in the brown locks. Amanda pulled Olivia closer, and Olivia’s arms snaked around her waist, drawing them closer.

The light flickered out.

[revolutionary-pirate]

Richard Varick speaking at the Court of Inquiry about the climax of his, Franks’, and Arnold’s dispute over Joshua Hett Smith

“On the 23rd September [1780], Smith came to Arnold’s quarters and dined with us; my unfavorable opinion of his moral and political character and his usual and unparalleled impertinence and forwardness, and General Arnold’s countenancing him (notwithstanding my advice and frequent solicitations to the contrary) fixed a resolution in me to affront him before Arnold, the first opportunity. A trifling one offered at table; I embraced it with warmth. A very high dispute took place, in which you [David Franks] became a volunteer with me. Arnold opposed you and often addressed to you, with warmth, answers to my observations, and I replied to his answers, addressing myself to Smith. You, as well as myself, were cavalier with Smith, till Mrs. Arnold (who also thought ill of Smith) observing her husband in a passion, begged us to drop the matter. I soon quitted the table and went into my room, which was then the office.

“After dinner, Smith went off and Arnold came into the office and took you to task in very illiberal language for affronting Smith; he lashed me over your back, without addressing himself to me; he declared that if he asked the Devil to dine with him, the gentlemen of his family should be civil to him. You told him if Smith had not been at his table, you would have sent the bottle at his head and would thereafter treat him as a rascal [Franks had dumped his glass of wine on Smith instead]. I then found it necessary to do you, as well as myself, justice by taking on myself the blame of affronting Smith. You thereupon declared to Arnold that you had of late observed that he viewed every part of your conduct with an eye of prejudice, and begged him to discharge you from his family [Franks had been Arnold’s aide-de-camp for about three years]. You went out of the room in a passion and to Newburgh on business, from which you did not return till the 24th. The dispute between me and Arnold continued very high. I cursed Smith as a damned rascal, a scoundrel and a spy, and said that my reason for affronting him was that I thought him so. I also told Arnold that my advice to him had proceeded from a regard to his reputation, which he repeatedly and confidentially told me he wished should stand well in this State, and which I had very often told him would suffer by an improper intimacy with Smith.

“I further told him that Smith’s insolence to you and his ungentlemanlike conduct to Mrs. Arnold, in speaking impertinently to you before her in a language she did not understand, justified your treating Smith in the manner you did, and worse, and also merited his resentment instead of countenance. Arnold then told me that he was always willing to be advised by the gentlemen of his family, but, by God, would not be dictated to by them; that he thought he possessed as much prudence as the gentlemen of his family. Some other words ensued, till I had occasion to leave him to despatch an express, and when I returned he had left the office.

“In the evening I received a letter […] from Lieutenant-Colonel Benson, of Governor Clinton’s family, in answer to one of mine […] inquiring of Smith’s real political character and the truth of some information he had given Arnold and which I thought false. The answer contained an opinion of Smith’s character by no means favorable to him. I showed it to Arnold and then told him that I considered his past conduct and language to me unwarrantable, and that I thought he did not place that confidence in my repeated friendly assurances and advice which I had a right to expect and which was necessary to put in a person acting in my capacity, and that I could not act longer with propriety. He gave me assurances of his full confidence in me, of a conviction of the rectitude of my conduct, of Smith’s being a rascal, and of his error in treating me with such cavalier language, and that he would never go to Smith’s house again or be seen with him but in company.”

There are a number of things I enjoy about this:

Arnold’s angry “If I asked the Devil to dine with me, the gentlemen of my family should be civil to him” is probably one of my favorite lines.

Franks dumping his wine on Smith but really wanting to chuck the entire bottle at Smith’s face instead. I feel that.

The Super Childish back and forth of Arnold talking to Franks, but really directing it at Varick and Varick talking to Smith, but really directing his responses at Arnold in that classic ‘I’m not talking to you right now but I really want you to hear what I have to say to you’ style. 

Varick getting angry and just leaving the table to go to his room - but the room is actually the office that everyone spends time in so anyone can just walk in whenever and it’s a terrible place to try and hide away in.

So naturally, Arnold follows him after Smith leaves covered in wine, but Arnold still isn’t talking to Varick so he’s yelling at Franks instead of Varick, but directing many of his words at Varick, but also Franks because Franks is not innocent here either.

Franks yelling “IF YOU HATE ME SO MUCH THEN FIRE ME,” storming out, and literally leaving for an entire day. Some context for this is that, as I added to the text, Franks had been Arnold’s aide-de-camp for three years. Arnold had been increasingly more and more ‘prejudiced’ against him, as Franks said and was frustrated about it. I think Franks once even told Varick when Varick had joined the staff that if he stuck around long enough Arnold would start to treat Varick like shit, too. So, yeah, Franks had had enough.

Great timing that Varick’s requested account of Smith’s character came in that night so he could rub it into Arnold’s face.

Arnold being like “-sigh- You were right... I was wrong... I shouldn’t have said those things or treated you like that, you were just trying to protect me and I was the one that was way out of line... I’m sorry.... I won't see Smith again unless I’ve got a chaperone with me...”

The fact that two days later Arnold turned traitor.

[lesliewofford83-blog]

BOF NEVER GABRIEL AND NEVER WAS MADE A BIRD A NEWBEC OR ANYTHING SHORTER THAN LESLIE AT 5′5 AND 3 QUARTERS INCHES TALL! AND FOR PEOPLE TRYIN TO BE ME AND INVADE ME THESE PEOPLE DIED, EVERY YEAR MORE AND MORE WILL DIE FOR TRYING TO STEAL MY STUFF OR HURT MY FAMILY OR KIDNAP MY KID(S) EVER OR HAVE ME LIVING MORE THAN ONE LIFE.

March 2002[edit source]

1 – David Mann, 85, American songwriter.

1 – Roger Plumpton Wilson, 96, British Anglican prelate.

3 – G. M. C. Balayogi, 61, Indian lawyer and politician.

3 – Calvin Carrière, 80, American fiddler.

3 – Harlan Howard, 74, American country music songwriter.

3 – Al Pollard, 73, NFL player and broadcaster, lymphoma. [1]

3 – Roy Porter, 55, British historian.

6 – Bryan Fogarty, 32, Canadian ice hockey player.

6 – David Jenkins, 89, Welsh librarian.

6 – Donald Wilson, 91, British television writer and producer.

7 – Franziska Rochat-Moser, 35, Swiss marathon runner.

8 – Bill Johnson, 85, American football player.

8 – Ellert Sölvason, 84, Icelandic football player.

9 – Jack Baer, 87, American baseball coach.

9 – Irene Worth, 85, American actress.

11 – Al Cowens, 50, American baseball player.

11 – Rudolf Hell, 100, German inventor and manufacturer.

12 – Steve Gromek, 82, American baseball player.

13 – Hans-Georg Gadamer, 102, German philosopher.

14 – Cherry Wilder, 71, New Zealand writer.

14 – Tan Yu, 75, Filipino entrepreneur.

15 – Sylvester Weaver, 93, American advertising executive, father of Sigourney Weaver.

16 – Sir Marcus Fox, 74, British politician.

17 – Rosetta LeNoire, 90, African-American stage and television actress.

17 – Bill Davis, 60, American football coach.

18 – Reginald Covill, 96, British cricketer.

18 – Maude Farris-Luse, 115, supercentenarian and one-time "Oldest Recognized Person in the World".

18 – Gösta Winbergh, 58, Swedish operatic tenor.

20 – John E. Gray, 95, American educational administrator, President of Lamar University.

20 – Ivan Novikoff, 102, Russian premier ballet master.

20 – Richard Robinson, 51, English cricketer.

21 – James F. Blake, 89, American bus driver, antagonist for the Montgomery Bus Boycott.

21 – Thomas Flanagan, 78, American novelist and academic.

22 – Sir Kingsford Dibela, 70, Governor-General of Papua New Guinea.

22 – Hugh R. Stephen, 88, Canadian politician.

23 – Ben Hollioake, 24, English cricketer.

24 – Dorothy DeLay, 84, American violin instructor.

24 – César Milstein, 74, Argentinian biochemist.

24 – Frank G. White, 92, American army general.

25 – Ken Traill, 75, British rugby league player.

25 – Kenneth Wolstenholme, 81, British football commentator.

26 – Roy Calvert, 88, New Zealand World War II air force officer.

27 – Milton Berle, 93, American comedian dubbed "Mr. Television".

27 – Sir Louis Matheson, 90, British university administrator, Vice Chancellor of Monash University.

27 – Dudley Moore, 66, British actor and writer.

27 – Billy Wilder, 95, Austrian-born American film director (Double Indemnity).

28 – Tikka Khan, 86, Pakistani army general.

29 – Rico Yan, 27, Filipino movie & TV actor.

30 – Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother, 101, British consort of King George VI.

31 – Lady Anne Brewis, 91, English botanist.

31 – Barry Took, 73, British comedian and writer.

April 2002[edit source]

1 – Umer Rashid, 26, English cricketer, drowning.

1 – John S. Samuel, 88, American Air Force general.

2 – John R. Pierce, 92, American engineer and author.

2 – Robert Lawson Vaught, 75, American mathematician.

3 – Frank Tovey, aka Fad Gadget, 45, English singer-songwriter.

4 – Don Allard, 66, American football player (New York Titans, New England Patriots) and coach.

5 – Arthur Ponsonby, 11th Earl of Bessborough, 89, British aristocrat.

5 – Layne Staley, 34, former Alice in Chains lead singer.

6 – Nobu McCarthy, 67, Canadian actress.

6 – William Patterson, 71, British Anglican priest, Dean of Ely.

6 – Margaret Wingfield, 90, British political activist.

7 – John Agar, 82, American actor.

8 – Sir Nigel Bagnell, 75, British field marshal.

8 – María Félix, 88, Mexican film star.

8 – Helen Gilbert, 80 American artist.

8 – Giacomo Mancini, 85, Italian politician.

9 – Leopold Vietoris, 110, Austrian mathematician.

10 – Géza Hofi, 75 Hungarian humorist.

11 – J. William Stanton, 78, American politician.

14 – Buck Baker, 83, American member of the NASCAR Hall of Fame

14 – John Boda, 79, American composer and music professor.

14 – Sir Michael Kerr, 81, British jurist.

15 – Will Reed, 91, British composer.

15 – Byron White, 84, United States Supreme Court justice.

16 – Billy Ayre, 49, English footballer.

16 – Franz Krienbühl, 73, Swiss speed skater.

16 – Robert Urich, 55, American TV actor.

18 – Thor Heyerdahl, 87, Norwegian anthropologist.

18 – Cy Laurie, 75, British musician.

18 – Sir Peter Proby, 90, British landowner, Lord-Lieutenant of Cambridgeshire.

20 – Vlastimil Brodský, 81, Czech actor.

21 – Sebastian Menke, 91, American Roman Catholic priest.

21 – Red O'Quinn, 76, American football player.

21 – Terry Walsh, 62, British stuntman.

22 – Albrecht Becker, 95, German production designer and actor.

22 – Allen Morris, 92, American historian.

23 – Linda Lovelace, 53, former porn star turned political activist, car crash.

23 – Ted Kroll, 82, American golfer.

25 – Michael Bryant, 74, British actor.

25 – Indra Devi, 102, Russian "yoga teacher to the stars".

25 – Lisa Lopes, 30, American singer, car crash.

26 – Alton Coleman, 46, convicted spree killer, execution by lethal injection.

27 – Ruth Handler, 85, inventor of the Barbie doll.

27 – Baron Hans Heinrich Thyssen-Bornemisza, 81, German Industrialist and art collector.

28 – Alexander Lebed, Russian general and politician.

28 – Sir Peter Parker, 77, British businessman.

28 – Lou Thesz, American professional wrestler.

28 – John Wilkinson, 82, American sound engineer.

29 – Liam O'Sullivan, Scottish footballer, drugs overdose. [2]

29 – Lor Tok, 88, Thai, comedian and actor Thailand National Artist.

May 2002[edit source]

1 – John Nathan-Turner, 54, British television producer.

2 – William Thomas Tutte, 84, Bletchley Park cryptographer and British, later Canadian, mathematician.

3 – Barbara Castle, Baroness Castle of Blackburn, 91, British Labour politician and female life peer.

3 – Mohamed Haji Ibrahim Egal, 73, president of Somaliland and formerly prime minister of Somalia and British Somaliland.

3 – Mohan Singh Oberoi, 103, Indian hotelier and retailer.

4 – Abu Turab al-Zahiri, 79, Saudi Arabian writer of Arab Indian descent

5 – Sir Clarence Seignoret 83, president of Dominica (1983–1993).

5 – Hugo Banzer Suárez, 75, president of Bolivia, as dictator 1971–1978 and democratic president 1997–2001.

5 – Mike Todd, Jr., 72, American film producer.

6 – Otis Blackwell, 71, American singer-songwriter and pianist.

6 – Harry George Drickamer, 83, American chemical engineer.

6 – Pim Fortuyn, 54, assassinated Dutch politician.

7 – Sir Bernard Burrows, 91, British diplomat.

7 – Sir Ewart Jones, 91, Welsh chemist.

7 – Seattle Slew, 28, last living triple crown winner on 25th anniversary of winning Kentucky Derby.

8 – Sir Edward Jackson, 76, English diplomat.

9 – Robert Layton, 76, Canadian politician.

9 – James Simpson, 90, British explorer.

10 – Lynda Lyon Block, 54, convicted murderer, executed by electric chair in Alabama.

10 – John Cunniff, 57, American hockey player and coach.

10 – Henry W. Hofstetter, 87, American optometrist.

10 – Leslie Dale Martin, 35, convicted murderer, executed by lethal injection in Louisiana.

10 – Tom Moore, 88, American athletics promoter.

11 – Joseph Bonanno, 97, Sicilian former Mafia boss.

12 – Richard Chorley, 74, English geographer.

13 – Morihiro Saito, 74, a teacher of the Japanese martial art of aikido.

13 – Ruth Cracknell, 76, redoubtable Australian actress most famous for the long-running role of Maggie Beare in the series "Mother and Son".

13 – Valery Lobanovsky, 63, former Ukrainian coach.

14 – Sir Derek Birley, 75, British educationist and writer.

15 – Bernard Benjamin, 92, British statistician.

15 – Bryan Pringle, 67, British actor.

15 – Nellie Shabalala, 49, South African singer and wife of leader/founder of Ladysmith Black Mambazo, Joseph Shabalala.

15 – Esko Tie, 73, Finnish ice hockey player.

16 – Edwin Alonzo Boyd, 88, Canadian bank-robber and prison escapee of the 1950s.

16 – Alec Campbell, 103, Australia's last surviving ANZAC died in a nursing home.

16 – Dorothy Van, 74, American actress.

17 – Peter Beck, 92, British schoolmaster.

17 – Joe Black, 78, American first Black baseball pitcher to win a World Series game.

17 – Earl Hammond, 80, American voice actor best known for voicing Mumm Ra and Jaga in the television series Thundercats.

17 – Bobby Robinson, 98, American baseball player.

17 – Little Johnny Taylor, 59, American singer.

18 – Davey Boy Smith, 39, 'British Bulldog' professional wrestler.

18 – Gordon Wharmby, 68, British actor (Last of the Summer Wine)

19 – John Gorton, 90, 19th Prime Minister of Australia.

19 – Otar Lordkipanidze, 72, Georgian archaeologist.

20 – Stephen Jay Gould, 60, paleontologist and popular science author.

21 – Niki de Saint Phalle, 71, French artist.

21 – Roy Paul, 82, Welsh footballer.

22 – Paul Giel, 69, American football player.

22 – Dick Hern, 81, British racehorse trainer.

22 – (remains discovered; actual death probably took place on or around May 1, 2001), Chandra Levy, 24, U.S. Congressional intern.

22 – Creighton Miller, 79, American football player and attorney.

23 – Sam Snead, 89, golfer.

25 – Pat Coombs, 75, English actress.

25 – Jack Pollard, 75, Australian sports journalist.

26 – John Alexander Moore, 86, American biologist.

26 – Mamo Wolde, 69, Ethiopian marathon runner.

28 – Napoleon Beazley, 25, convicted juvenile offender, executed by lethal injection in Texas.

28 – Mildred Benson, 96, American children's author.

June 2002[edit source]

1 – Hansie Cronje, 32, South African cricketer, air crash.

4 – Fernando Belaúnde Terry, 89, democratic president of Peru, 1963–1968 and 1980–1985.

4 – John W. Cunningham, 86, American author.

4 – Caroline Knapp, 42, author of Drinking: A Love Story.

5 – Dee Dee Ramone, 50, founding member of The Ramones.

5 – Alex Watson, 70, Australian rugby league player.

6 – Peter Cowan, 87, Australian writer.

6 – Hans Janmaat, 67, controversial far-right politician in the Netherlands.

7 – Rodney Hilton, 85, British historian.

7 – Lilian, Princess of Réthy, 85, British-born Belgian royal.

8 – George Mudie, 86, Jamaican cricketer.

9 – Paul Chubb, 53, Australian actor.

9 – Bryan Martyn, 71, Australian rules footballer.

10 – John Gotti, 61, imprisoned mobster.

11 – Robbin Crosby, 42, American guitarist of rock band Ratt.

11 – Margaret E. Lynn, 78, American theater director.

11 – Robert Roswell Palmer, 93, American historian and writer.

11 – Peter John Stephens, 89, British children's author.

12 – Bill Blass, 79, American fashion designer.

12 – George Shevelov, 93, Ukrainian scholar.

13 – John Hope, 83, American meteorologist.

14 – Jose Bonilla, 34, boxing former world champion, of asthma.

14 – June Jordan, 65, American writer and teacher, of breast cancer.

15 – Said Belqola, 45, Moroccan referee of the 1998 FIFA World Cup final.

17 – Willie Davenport, 59, American gold medal-winning Olympic hurdler.

17 – John C. Davies II, 82, American politician.

17 – Fritz Walter, 81, German football player, captain of 1954 World Cup winners.

18 – Nancy Addison, 54, soap actress, cancer.

18 – Jack Buck, 77, Major League Baseball announcer.

18 – Michael Coulson, 74, British lawyer and politician.

19 – Count Flemming Valdemar of Rosenborg, 80, Danish prince.

20 – Enrique Regüeiferos, 53, Cuban Olympic boxer.

21 – Henry Keith, Baron Keith of Kinkel, 80, British jurist.

21 – Patrick Kelly, 73, English cricketer.

22 – David O. Cooke, 81, American Department of Defense official.

22 – Darryl Kile, 33, Major League Baseball player.

22 – Ann Landers, 83, author & syndicated newspaper columnist.

23 – Pedro "El Rockero" Alcazar, 26, Panamanian boxer; died after losing his world Flyweight championship to Fernando Montiel in Las Vegas the night before.

23 – Arnold Weinstock, 77, British businessman.

24 – Lorna Lloyd-Green, 92, Australian gynaecologist.

24 – Miles Francis Stapleton Fitzalan-Howard, 86, 17th Duke of Norfolk.

24 – Pierre Werner, 88, former Prime Minister of Luxembourg, "father of the Euro".

25 – Gordon Park Baker, 64, Anglo-American philosopher.

25 – Jean Corbeil, 68, Canadian politician.

26 – Barbara G. Adams, 57, British Egyptologist.

26 – Clarence D. Bell, 88, American politician, member of the Pennsylvania State Senate.

26 – Jay Berwanger, 88, college football player, first winner of the Heisman Trophy.

26 – Arnold Brown, 88, British General of the Salvation Army.

26 – James Morgan, 63, British journalist.

27 – Sir Charles Carter, 82, British economist and academic administrator.

27 – John Entwistle, 57, English bassist (The Who), heart attack.

27 – Russ Freeman, 76, American pianist.

27 – Robert L. J. Long, 82, American admiral.

27 – Jack Webster, 78, Canadian police officer.

28 – Arthur "Spud" Melin, responsible for marketing hula-hoop and frisbee.

29 – Rosemary Clooney, 74, singer.

29 – Jan Tomasz Zamoyski, 90, Polish politician.

30 – Pete Gray, 87, American one-armed baseball player.

30 – Dave Wilson, 70, American television director.

[torentzonetelchargement-blog]

Torrent Zone Telechargement

Eye in the Sky is a 2015 British thriller film starring Helen Mirren, Aaron Paul, Alan Rickman, and Barkhad Abdi. The film, directed by Gavin Hood and based on a screenplay by Guy Hibbert, is about military personnel facing legal, ethical, and political dilemmas presented by modern drone warfare against those using terrorist tactics, and civilians who are endangered by it. It was filmed in South Africa in late 2014 with the working title of The Kill Chain. Torrent zone telechargement the film is the first production of Ged Doherty and Colin Firth’s production company Raindog Films. Firth was originally scheduled to play British Foreign Secretary James Willett.

The film premiered at the 2015 Toronto International Film Festival on 11 September 2015. Bleecker Street distributed the film in theaters in the United States with a limited release on 11 March 2016. It is one of two posthumous feature films starring Rickman, who died of pancreatic cancer in January 2016; the other is Alice Through the Looking Glass (2016).

Colonel Katherine Powell (Helen Mirren) wakes up early one morning and hears that a colleague has been murdered by the Al-Shabaab terrorist group. From Northwood Headquarters she then begins command of a mission to capture high-level Al-Shabaab extremists meeting in a safehouse in Nairobi, Kenya. Although no actual drone strikes have taken place in Kenya, the radicalized character ‘Susan Helen Danford’ is based on a real British woman, Samantha Lewthwaite.

A large multinational team works together on this capture mission, bound together by video images. Aerial surveillance is provided by a Reaper drone controlled from Creech Air Force Base in Nevada by USAF pilot Steve Watts (Aaron Paul). Undercover Kenyan field agents, including Jama Farah (Barkhad Abdi), use a short-range ornithopter and insectothopter for ground intel. Kenyan ground troops are positioned nearby to execute the arrest. Facial recognition to identify human targets is executed in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.

Farah discovers that the terrorists have explosives and are preparing two suicide bombers for what is presumed to be an attack on a civilian target.

Powell decides that the imminent bombing changes the mission objective from “capture” to “kill”. She informs drone pilot Watts to prepare a precision Hellfire missile attack on the building and solicits the opinion of her legal counsel about doing so. To her frustration, her counsel advises her to seek approval from her superiors. Lieutenant General Frank Benson (Alan Rickman) is supervising the mission from London with members of the British government as witnesses and asks for permission. Citing conflicting legal and political views and contrasting the tactical value of the assassination with the negative publicity of killing civilians and the status of some of the targets as American or British nationals, they fail to reach a decision and refer the question up to the foreign secretary (Iain Glen).

Somewhat impaired by a bout of food poisoning on a trade mission to Singapore, he does not offer a definite answer and first tries to defer to the US Secretary of State (contacted on a cultural exchange in Beijing, he immediately authorises the strike) and then insists only for due diligence to be performed to minimize collateral damage.

Meanwhile, the situation at the house has become more difficult to assess. Alia Mo’Allim (Aisha Takow), a preteen girl who lives in the adjacent home, is visibly in grave danger if the building and the explosives inside are struck by a missile. Watts and his USAF colleague, Carrie Gershon (Phoebe Fox), can see Alia selling bread just outside the targeted building, and they seek to delay firing until she moves. Farah buys all of her bread so she will leave but, in the process, his cover is blown and he is forced to flee. The suicide bombers finish their preparations when surveillance video of them is lost, which raises the level of urgency.

Seeking a way to get the authorisation she needs to execute the strike, Powell orders her risk-assessment officer to find strike parameters to let him quote a lower risk of civilian deaths. He re-evaluates a strike point and places the probability of Alia’s death at 45–65%. She makes him report only the lower figure up the chain of command.

The strike is subsequently authorised, and Watts reluctantly fires a missile. The building is leveled, with casualties in and around it. Alia, who was reselling the bread Farah dropped upon fleeing, is injured and unconscious. However, one of the terrorist leaders has also survived.

Watts has to fire a second missile, which strikes the site just as Alia’s parents reach her. Both suffer minor injuries and rush Alia to a hospital, where the medical personnel are unable to revive her, and she is pronounced dead.

[unclosetedrickmaniac]

A/N helloooo so I had a power outage and no charge on my lap top this morning so I wrote this in a notebook and while I've been transferring it over and editing it, I've been sure to fine tune everything...including the smut. And this is my first time writing smut, but believe you me, I've thought a lot of it in story lines that float through my head.

Warm me up Pairing: Lieutenant General Frank Benson/ (fem/reader) wife (first person) Warnings: SMUT🫣

I stir slowly and roll over in bed to feel my husband still laying on his side of the bed. "Frank?" he mumbles something inaudible and rolls over to pull me into his arms. "Frank, honey what time is it? Don't you have work?" at the thought of being late Frank sits up in the bed and looks over at me. "Where is my phone, Pet?" "On the dresser with mine." He stands and looks at his alarm clock as he makes his way to the dresser. "Shit. Powers out." He grumbles. "How do you know?" I follow his pointed stare to his alarm clock. "Oh, nevermind then." I stand and walk over to the window, stretching out my arms and neck, drawing back the curtains I release a deep sigh. "Honey you are not going to work today, we are snowed in." He walks up behind me and lets out a low groan at the sight of the snow up past our window. "Of course the one morning we get six feet of snow our power goes out. I need to go dig out the fucking generator." I turn and watch as he strides back across our bedroom to the dresser and pulls out a pair of worn jeans and a waffle-knit shirt, he then pulls out clean socks. Frank throws the clothes on the bed and peels off his sleep shirt. "We both hate snow, so of course I got stationed in this damn place. It's fucking awesome." he strips off his pajama pants and pulls on his jeans, therefore giving me a moment to cross the room and wrap my arms around him from behind. "Geez woman, you are freezing. What did you do go sleep in the snow?" he makes no move to pull away but instead turns in my arms so he can hold me. "Always so cold. Especially in the middle of the night when you touch me with your cold feet. And yet you insist on keeping the fan on year round." He buries his face in my hair and presses a kiss to the top of my head. "Frank." I murmur and try to pull him back towards our bed, "How about we just enjoy our morning together?" He lets out a low groan, "Mmmm please do not tease me sweetheart, I need to go get the power on." "Frank." I let out a needy whine and press kisses to his jaw, "The power can wait, stay in bed with me please." "I want to," he groans softly and tilts his head to give me access to the side of his neck. "But you, my darling, will be complaining about the cold before long." "Not if you stay here and keep me warm." I run my cold hands over his bare chest earning a soft grunt of pleasure. "Please Pet, I am begging you give me 30 minutes to go get the generator on and I promise you I will come right back to bed, I won't even stop to make coffee." He pulls away from me and puts on his shirt, socks, and a hoodie. Frank then walks over to his night stand and holsters his .45 to his hip. "30 minutes gives you enough time to put on something sexy, does it not?" I hum in response and follow him through the house with gloves and a hat. "I suppose it does." As I wait for Frank to put on his work boots, I put his Carhartt beanie on his head and hand him the work gloves. "Here honey you need to keep your hands warm." He tugs on the gloves and stands, opens the back door onto the deck and looks at the snow in total disgust. "Six damn feet, I am glad I built this damn deck a cover." He closes the back door and presumably starts tinkering with the generator. I practically run back to our bedroom, since work has demanding more from Frank, our sex life has slowed, which has strained us both as we had sex very frequently. Once in our shared space I open up my top drawer in the dresser and dig through my lingerie for something cute, classy, but something that will definitely be a turn on. I settle on a deep green lace bodysuit and head into the bathroom, after lighting a candle I slip out of my nightgown and into the bodysuit.

After sliding into Frank's robe I walk back into the living room and watch him work through the back window, then the lamp we leave on a night comes on, and with a thumbs up from me Frank walks back in. "I am about to quote you Pet, so please bear with me. But it is colder than a witches tit in a brass bra." He pulls off the gloves and hat. I laugh lightly and watch as he takes off his hoodie and boots before leading him back towards our room. "You are my hero Lieutenant General." I sit on the edge of our bed and watch as he puts his .45 on his nightstand. By the time he turns to look at me, I have shrugged off my robe and am clad in nothing but the bodysuit, my gaze is on the wall infront of me, and I can hear Frank's breath hitch. "Sweetheart, you look divine." I feel the bed dip behind me and I let out a soft gasp when Frank's hands cup my breasts through the thin fabric of my body suit. "Frank please. Don't tease me, I can't take it today." He presses his cold lips to my neck and peppers kisses down towards my shoulder. "I will do my best to avoid teasing you dear, but I make no promises." He stands and pulls off his shirt. "Strip. and get comfortable pet, please." I stand and shrug out of the bodysuit while he makes fast work of his belt and jeans. "Damn I swear you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Just stunning." He watches as I crawl onto the center of our bed and palms himself through his boxers. "Frank." I release a needy moan. "Please." He groans and pulls off his boxers, his manhood springs to attention, looking every bit as formidable and strong as the man attached. "Use your words pet, tell me what you need." "Frank, I need you to make love to me, right now, please, I am not above begging." Frank crawls onto the bed and lays over me. "Mmm my darling wife, so beautiful." He says softly while stroking my lower lips with his cock. He then reaches down and lines himself up with my hole, and thrusts in slowly. "So tight, too. Let me hear those moans Pet." I moan softly as he bottoms out and stills. "Frank you are so large." I let out soft gasps and wrap my legs around his back. "Please Frank fuck me." He groans and stars to thrust. With each movement we moan, kiss, or gasp. "Oh Woman you don't understand how g-good you feel wrapped so tightly around me, how w-wet, how warm." he praises. I close my eyes and succumb to the overwhelming feeling of fullness. When my inner walls flutter, and signal my impending release before I can vocalize it Frank grunts. "Eyes on me Pet, I want to see you come undone." I open my eyes and Frank looks down at me, his jaw is lack and his brows are furrowed in pleasure, but he keeps his eye on mine. "So beautiful, so so beautiful." Frank snakes his hand down between us and rubs tight, firm circles on my clit, causing me to let out a low, pleasured moan and arch my back. "F-Frank, I am-aughhh -c-cum..." "I know Pet, let go for me." I cry out with my release, my sight gets hazy and white and my ears ring as I leave my body in utter pleasure, at some point in my orgasm Frank reaches his with a grunt of exertion and I feel a familiar warmth spread through my body. Once the fog on my brain lifts and I notice Frank laying next to me stroking my thigh I let out a soft giggle. "I love you Frank." "I love you more Pet." "That was exactly what I needed to warm me up Frank, thank you." "Of course Pet, I am going to go make coffee, then I need to shovel out the driveway. He stands and grabs his robe. "You rest alright. Get ready for round two. It is cold out there." A/N AHHHHH I DID IT. But seriously I hope that this was an enjoyable read.

[smilingformoney]

Alan Rickman filmography >> Eye in the Sky (dir. Gavin Hood, 2015) as Lieutenant General Frank Benson

[muiitoloko]

Hi! I LOVE your writing!!!!

I have a request for Frank x younger reader, maybe where the reader works as his assistant, but it's temporary—like a substitute for a while. Obviously, there's a connection between them, but Frank, being so professional🫡 wouldn’t act on it because technically, he’s her boss. (IMAGINE ALL THE TENSIONNNNN)

Then, when the reader’s time is up and the regular assistant returns, on her last day, she tells him it’s her final day and that she’s done for the day—so, technically, he’s no longer her boss 👀👀

If you want to write it, feel free! If not, no worries at all!🥰

Title: Office Hours

Summary: After months of unspoken attraction, Frank finds himself caught in a late-night showdown with his secretary, where no rules apply.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Author's Notes: Thank you very much for your request. I hope you enjoy it.

Also read on Ao3

Frank sat at his desk, his hazel eyes trained on the papers in front of him, though his mind was entirely elsewhere. You stood at the far end of the room, your fingers deftly sorting through files, your expression focused. The sight of you—the curve of your figure, the way your hair framed your face—was enough to make his chest tighten. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away. Two more weeks, he thought, his baritone voice muttering under his breath. Two more bloody weeks.

You glanced up, catching the faint tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed against the desk in a rare show of impatience. “Is something wrong, sir?” you asked, your voice warm and professional, but with a hint of genuine concern that always made him feel seen.

Frank’s head snapped up, his hazel eyes meeting yours. For a moment, he was silent, his hooked nose flaring slightly as he exhaled through it. “No,” he said finally, his tone brusque. “Everything’s fine. Just… a lot to get through today.”

You nodded, offering a small, understanding smile before returning to your work. Frank swallowed hard, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment too long before he forced himself to focus. The sexual tension that crackled in the air between you was impossible to ignore, and it was getting harder for him to maintain the calm, composed demeanor he prided himself on.

The problem wasn’t just your beauty, though that alone was enough to drive him to distraction. It was the way you seemed to anticipate his needs before he even voiced them, the way you moved through the office with a quiet confidence that both impressed and unnerved him. You weren’t just competent—you were exceptional. And that made everything more complicated.

“Lieutenant General?” Your voice cut through his thoughts, soft but insistent.

Frank blinked, realizing you were standing in front of his desk now, holding out a file. He reached for it, his fingers brushing against yours briefly. The contact sent a jolt through him, and he immediately withdrew his hand, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Thank you,” he muttered, his baritone voice quieter than usual.

You hesitated, studying him with a slight tilt of your head. “Are you sure everything’s all right?” you asked, your tone gentle but probing. “You seem… distracted.”

Frank stiffened, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned back in his chair. “I’m fine,” he said firmly, though his voice lacked its usual authority. “Just a long week.”

Your lips quirked into a small smile, and for a moment, the tension between you felt almost playful. “Well,” you said lightly, “if there’s anything I can do to help, you just have to ask.”

Frank’s mind immediately went to places it shouldn’t have. He could picture it all too clearly: you leaning over his desk, your hands braced on the edge as he buried his fingers in your hair, pulling you closer. His cock stirred at the thought, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, clearing his throat. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, his tone clipped as he forced himself to look back at the papers in front of him.

But you didn’t leave. Instead, you lingered for just a moment longer, your gaze steady and knowing. “You work too hard, sir,” you said softly, almost teasingly. “You should let yourself relax once in a while.”

Frank’s jaw tightened, his hazel eyes snapping up to meet yours. The way you looked at him—like you knew exactly what he was thinking, like you were daring him to act on it—was maddening. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he said coolly, though his voice held a faint edge.

You smiled, a slow, almost mischievous curve of your lips that sent heat rushing through him. “Good,” you said simply before turning and walking away, your hips swaying slightly with each step.

Frank watched you go, his hands gripping the edge of his desk as he tried to steady himself. Two more weeks, he thought again, his baritone voice muttering low and bitter. God help me, I don’t know if I’ll make it.

The day dragged on, each interaction with you a careful balancing act as Frank struggled to keep his composure. By the time the office emptied out for the evening, he was a mess of frayed nerves and pent-up frustration. He stood by the window, a glass of whiskey in hand, staring out at the city lights as he tried to collect himself.

“Sir?” Your voice startled him, and he turned sharply to see you standing in the doorway, your coat draped over one arm. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you said quickly, though there was a glimmer of amusement in your eyes. “I just wanted to say goodnight.”

Frank set his glass down, his hazel eyes scanning your face, searching for… something. An excuse, perhaps. A reason to keep you here just a little longer. “Goodnight,” he said finally, his voice soft but firm.

You nodded, hesitating for a moment before stepping closer. “Frank,” you said quietly, dropping the formality. The sound of his name on your lips sent a thrill through him, and he tensed, his hooked nose flaring slightly as he inhaled. “You don’t have to keep holding back, you know.”

His eyes widened, the carefully constructed walls he’d built around himself threatening to crumble. “What are you talking about?” he asked, though his voice was rough, betraying him.

You smiled, your gaze steady as you stepped closer still. “I’m saying,” you murmured, your voice low and warm, “that maybe you don’t have to wait two weeks.”

Frank’s breath hitched, his heart pounding as you closed the distance between you. He wanted to stop you, to tell you this was a terrible idea. But when your hand brushed against his, when your eyes locked onto his with that unmistakable heat, he found himself frozen, unable to resist.

“Two weeks,” he muttered, his baritone voice trembling as his control began to slip. “Just two more bloody weeks…”

Your smile widened, and you leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “Or maybe just two more minutes.”

Frank turned sharply on his heel, distancing himself from the intoxicating heat of your presence. His jaw tightened as his hazel eyes fixed on the window, the city lights beyond blurring into a kaleidoscope of frustration and longing. His white hair caught the dim glow of the lamp on his desk, and his hooked nose flared slightly as he drew a deep breath, his baritone voice firm yet trembling as he spoke.

“No,” he said, his tone resolute. “This is inappropriate. You’re my subordinate, and I’m your commanding officer. I won’t… I can’t cross that line.”

You stepped closer, your voice soft yet imploring. “Frank,” you murmured, your eyes searching his with a mix of frustration and desire. “We’ve been dancing around this for months. Why keep denying it?”

He turned to face you, his gaze sharp but filled with unspoken longing. “Because,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, commanding register that sent a shiver through you, “I won’t be the man who abuses his position. Amy will be back in two weeks. Two weeks. And then, maybe…”

You exhaled, a mixture of disappointment and resignation washing over you. “And then, maybe?” you asked, your voice tinged with a sadness that made his chest tighten.

Frank clenched his fists at his sides, his hazel eyes darkening as he fought the urge to pull you into his arms. “Then,” he said softly, “I’ll be free to want you. Freely, without question. But not now. Not like this.”

Your shoulders slumped slightly, and you gave a curt nod, the professionalism you’d always carried slipping back into place like armor. “Goodnight, sir,” you said, your voice steady but distant.

As you turned and walked away, Frank’s heart twisted. He wanted to call you back, to tell you to lock the door, to throw propriety to the wind and finally claim what he’d been denying himself for so long. His hand even twitched toward the glass of whiskey, as though it could drown the torrent of desire coursing through him. But he held firm, his military training keeping him rooted in place as the sound of your footsteps faded into the night.

He took another sip of whiskey, the burn doing little to ease the ache in his chest or the throbbing heat elsewhere. His mind betrayed him almost instantly, conjuring images of what he would have done if he’d let himself slip—if he’d grabbed your wrist as you passed, pulling you back into the room, into him.

He imagined the startled gasp you’d let out as his lips crashed against yours, his hands gripping your waist tightly as he pressed you against the wall. His voice, deep and rough with years of restraint finally breaking, would growl your name like a prayer. He pictured the way your body would melt against his, your fingers clutching his shirt as you whispered breathless pleas for more.

Frank’s grip on the glass tightened as his mind wandered further, the fantasies growing more vivid. He could see it so clearly: you kneeling in front of him, your eyes wide and filled with trust as he undid his belt with deliberate slowness, his cock hard and aching, thick and veined, begging for your touch. He would guide you gently at first, his voice low and encouraging as he murmured, “That’s it, love. Take me. All of me.”

He groaned softly, his free hand running through his white hair as he struggled to pull himself back from the edge. He could almost hear the way you’d moan his name, feel the way your lips would wrap around him, warm and willing, pulling him deeper until he couldn’t think straight.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, his hazel eyes staring at the now-empty glass of whiskey. His hooked nose flared as he exhaled sharply, setting the glass down with more force than necessary. This was madness, he thought. Utter madness.

And yet, as he sat there in the quiet of his office, the scent of your perfume still lingering faintly in the air, Frank couldn’t stop himself from imagining what two weeks might bring—and how much harder it would be to hold himself back when the clock finally ran out.

Frank sat at the head of the conference table, his hazel eyes scanning the room as the officers around him discussed the latest intelligence reports on operations in Afghanistan. His expression was as calm and composed as ever, the weight of his rank and experience evident in every line of his face. But beneath that facade, Frank Benson was seething.

His gaze kept straying to the corner of the room, where you stood with a young soldier, your head tilted slightly as you spoke in hushed tones. Frank didn’t need to hear the words to know they weren’t work-related—the easy smiles, the soft laughter, and the way the soldier leaned just a little too close made that abundantly clear.

You should have been taking notes, cataloging the meeting as you always did with meticulous precision. Instead, you were there, entertaining some wide-eyed boy who clearly didn’t know his place. And it was driving Frank mad.

He clenched his jaw, his hooked nose flaring slightly as he tore his gaze away, trying to focus on the discussion at hand. The officers were speaking of strategic deployments, air support logistics, and humanitarian considerations—things that demanded his full attention. But his mind was elsewhere, filled with the image of you, the sound of your laugh, and the irritating sight of that soldier’s grin.

“Lieutenant General?” one of the officers prompted, drawing Frank’s attention back to the table. “Your thoughts?”

Frank blinked, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly as he processed the question. “Continue,” he said curtly, his baritone voice low and commanding. “I’ll provide my input shortly.”

The officer nodded and resumed speaking, but Frank’s attention had already drifted again. His grip on the edge of the table tightened as he glanced toward you once more. The soldier was leaning in, his lips moving as he whispered something that made you smile. And that was it—the last straw.

Frank pushed back his chair, the legs scraping against the floor as he stood. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to him as he fixed you and the soldier with a glare that could have frozen molten lava. “Miss [Your Last Name],” he barked, his baritone voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Do you have something to share with the rest of us?”

You froze, your smile fading as you straightened, your eyes darting toward the soldier, who now looked as if he wanted to melt into the floor. “No, sir,” you said quickly, your tone steady despite the flicker of embarrassment in your expression.

“And you,” Frank continued, turning his glare to the soldier. “Is this how you behave in a serious meeting? Whispering and grinning like a schoolboy while your colleagues are discussing operations that involve life and death?”

The soldier stammered, his face turning crimson. “No, sir! I—I apologize, sir.”

Frank stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back as he loomed over the younger man. “You’re a disgrace to that uniform,” he growled, his hazel eyes cold and unforgiving. “Since you seem to have so much energy to waste on idle chatter, why don’t you go outside and give me fifty push-ups? Now.”

“Yes, sir!” the soldier barked, snapping to attention before practically running out of the room.

Frank’s gaze shifted back to you, and the tension in the air was palpable. “And you,” he said, his tone softer but no less firm. “Your job is to take notes, not to flirt. I expect you to conduct yourself with professionalism at all times. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Good,” Frank said sharply, turning back to the table. “Let’s proceed.”

The meeting resumed, but the tension lingered. Frank kept his expression neutral, his hazel eyes fixed on the reports in front of him. But inside, his thoughts were a storm of frustration, jealousy, and something darker—something he refused to name.

When the meeting finally ended, Frank lingered behind, pretending to organize his papers as the officers filed out. You hesitated by the door, clearly unsure whether to leave or stay. Finally, you stepped closer, your voice hesitant. “Sir, may I speak with you?”

Frank glanced up, his expression unreadable. “Make it quick,” he said curtly.

You closed the door behind you, your hands clasped nervously in front of you as you approached his desk. “I didn’t mean to be unprofessional,” you began, your voice soft but earnest. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

Frank stood, his white hair catching the light as he rounded the desk to stand in front of you. His hazel eyes bored into yours, his hooked nose flaring slightly as he exhaled. “Do you know what upset me, Miss [Your Last Name]?” he asked, his baritone voice low and dangerous. “It wasn’t the distraction, though that was bad enough. It was the fact that you allowed that boy to think he had even a fraction of your attention.”

You blinked, your breath catching at the intensity in his gaze. “Sir, I—”

“You’re mine,” he interrupted, his voice dropping to a growl as he stepped closer, his hands bracing on the desk behind you, effectively trapping you in place. “Do you understand that? Every smile, every glance, every bloody laugh—it’s mine. Not his.”

Your heart pounded as his words sank in, his hazel eyes blazing with a mix of possessiveness and desire. “Frank,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“Say it,” he demanded, his voice rough as he leaned in, his hooked nose brushing against your temple. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you breathed, your voice barely audible.

Frank let out a low growl of satisfaction, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Good. Because if I ever catch you entertaining another man like that again, love, I won’t stop at fifty push-ups. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” you murmured, your cheeks flushing as heat coursed through you.

“Good,” Frank said again, his baritone voice softening as his lips trailed down to your neck. “Because you’ve got a lot to make up for, and I intend to make sure you learn your lesson.”

The fire in his eyes left no doubt—this was a punishment you wouldn’t forget.

But Frank straightened abruptly, his hazel eyes hardening as though some invisible wall had slammed down between the two of you. You blinked up at him, confused and breathless, your body still humming from the way his low baritone voice had growled those possessive words just moments before.

But now he was backing away, his hands adjusting his uniform as if nothing had happened. “This is highly inappropriate,” he said, his voice curt, devoid of the heat that had filled it just seconds ago. “I’ve already crossed a line by saying too much.”

You pushed yourself off the desk, your legs trembling slightly as you tried to steady yourself. “Frank,” you said, your voice wavering between frustration and desperation. “You can’t keep doing this.”

His gaze snapped to yours, sharp and unyielding. “Doing what?” he asked, his hooked nose flaring slightly as he gathered the papers he’d left scattered on the desk. “Maintaining my professionalism? Upholding the integrity of my position? Is that what you’re accusing me of?”

Your jaw clenched, and you crossed your arms, staring him down despite the ache in your chest. “No,” you said, your tone sharper now. “I’m accusing you of provoking me, of making me feel things I can’t act on, only to walk away like none of it matters.”

Frank’s hand froze mid-motion, his hazel eyes darkening as he stared at you. For a moment, you thought he might say something, might finally admit what you both knew to be true. But instead, he shook his head, his white hair catching the soft light of the office. “There’s still a week and five days,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Until Amy returns. Until this…” He gestured vaguely between you. “Is no longer an issue.”

Your heart sank, and you bit your lip to keep from shouting at him. “That’s all this is to you?” you demanded. “An issue?”

Frank exhaled heavily, his shoulders slumping slightly as he looked at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. “You don’t understand,” he said softly, his baritone voice tinged with regret. “If I lose control now, I won’t be able to stop. And you deserve better than being someone’s mistake.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening as his words hit you like a physical blow. “I’m not a mistake, Frank,” you said, your voice trembling. “And you’re not as composed as you think you are.”

He flinched, the truth in your words cutting through his defenses. But instead of responding, he simply nodded once, gathered the last of his papers, and turned toward the door.

“Goodnight, Miss [Your Last Name],” he said formally, his tone cold and distant as he walked out of the room without another glance.

You stood there, still leaning against the desk, your body burning with unspent desire and simmering frustration. “Damn him,” you muttered under your breath, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “Damn that man.”

You tried to calm the pounding of your heart, but it was no use. Every interaction with Frank felt like a carefully orchestrated game of push and pull, and you were growing tired of always being the one left behind, yearning for something he refused to give.

And yet, as infuriating as he was, you couldn’t stop wanting him. His sharp wit, his commanding presence, the way his hazel eyes softened just enough when he looked at you—it all made you crave him more, even when he left you seething in his wake.

“He can’t keep doing this,” you whispered to yourself, running a hand through your hair as you tried to steady your breathing. But even as you said the words, you knew they were hollow. Because no matter how much Frank provoked you, no matter how many times he pulled away, you couldn’t seem to let him go.

Not yet. Not until you had your moment. And you would have it—if only you could survive the next week and five days without losing your mind.

Frank sat at his desk, his hazel eyes scanning the last document of the day, though his attention was half-hearted at best. The tension that had been building between you over the past few months hung in the air, thick and oppressive, and he could feel it wrapping around him like a vice. Today was your last day as his secretary, and while he’d done his best to maintain his composure, the thought of you leaving left an ache in his chest he couldn’t quite ignore.

You stepped into his office, the soft click of your heels against the polished floor drawing his gaze. You held out the final paper of the day, your expression calm and professional, though your eyes sparkled with something he couldn’t quite place. “Here’s the last one,” you said, your voice steady. “Anything else you need before I go?”

Frank took the paper from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours briefly. He set it down on the desk, glancing up at you with a faint, almost reluctant smile. “No,” he said, his baritone voice low. “You’re excused.”

You nodded, your lips twitching as if you were holding back a smile of your own. “Goodnight, sir,” you said softly, turning toward the door.

Frank exhaled quietly, thinking that was it. The end of months of tension, of longing, of resisting the pull between you. He’d let you walk out of his office, out of his life, and he’d never have to face the maddening temptation you represented again.

But then he heard the soft click of the door locking.

His hazel eyes snapped up, his hooked nose flaring slightly as he saw you turn back toward him. Your expression had shifted, the professionalism gone, replaced by a sly, knowing smile that sent a jolt of heat through his body. You leaned against the edge of his desk, crossing your arms as you looked at him.

“Today’s my last day,” you said simply, your voice steady but laced with a teasing edge. “My shift is over. That means I’m no longer your secretary.”

Frank swallowed hard, his chest tightening as he realized exactly what you were saying. He nodded slowly, his baritone voice calm but tinged with something darker. “No,” he agreed. “You’re not.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him with a look that made his pulse race. “So, what are you planning to do now, Lieutenant General?” you asked, your voice soft but full of challenge.

Frank stood slowly, his white hair catching the dim light of the office as he straightened his jacket. He took a step toward you, his hazel eyes dark and locked onto yours. “I was planning,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, “to call you tomorrow. To ask you to dinner. To take you somewhere nice, wine and dine you properly. Do everything by the book.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curving into a small, wicked smile. “And now?”

Frank stopped in front of you, his gaze unwavering as he reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face. His touch was deliberate, lingering just long enough to send a shiver down your spine. “Now,” he murmured, his baritone voice dropping to a growl, “I think we can skip all that.”

Your breath caught as he leaned in, his hooked nose brushing against your cheek as his lips hovered just above yours. “You’ve driven me mad for months,” he whispered, his voice rough and filled with restrained desire. “Every smile, every glance, every bloody word out of your mouth—it’s been torture. And now that you’re not mine to protect anymore…”

He let the sentence trail off, his hands moving to grip your waist as he pulled you flush against him. His hazel eyes burned into yours, his control slipping with every passing second. “I don’t have to hold back anymore,” he growled, his lips finally crashing against yours in a kiss that was all-consuming, filled with months of pent-up frustration and longing.

You moaned softly against him, your fingers tangling in his white hair as you returned the kiss with equal fervor. Frank’s hands roamed over your body, his touch firm and commanding as he lifted you onto the desk. His hips pressed against yours, and you could feel the hard evidence of his arousal, thick and insistent, through his trousers.

“God, you’re perfect,” he muttered against your lips, his baritone voice trembling with need. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

He stepped back just long enough to undo his jacket, tossing it aside before pulling you closer again. His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher as his lips trailed down your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “Tell me,” he growled, his hooked nose brushing against your collarbone. “Tell me you’ve wanted this as much as I have.”

“Yes,” you gasped, your voice breathless as his hands gripped your hips. “I’ve wanted you, Frank. Always.”

Frank’s hazel eyes darkened as he hovered over you, his hooked nose flaring slightly with every labored breath. His large hands moved with careful precision, one gripping your thigh to keep you steady on the edge of his desk, the other teasing slow circles over your clit. His touch was deliberate, his baritone voice low and thick with desire as he murmured, “Let’s take our time, love. I need you nice and ready for me.”

His eyes darkened at your words, and he let out a low, guttural groan as he began to unbuckle his belt. “Good,” he murmured, his voice rough and commanding. “Because I’m not stopping until I’ve had every inch of you.”

The desk creaked beneath you as Frank claimed you, his touch, his kiss, and the sheer intensity of his presence leaving no doubt in your mind that he’d been waiting for this moment as desperately as you had. And as he pulled you closer, his baritone voice growling your name like a prayer, you knew that this was only the beginning.

Your breath hitched as his fingers pressed against you with just the right amount of pressure, coaxing soft whimpers from your lips. You clung to the straps of his shoulder holster, your fingers curling tightly around the leather as your body trembled beneath him. His white shirt was still tucked into the waistband of his trousers, which were bunched awkwardly around his ankles, held in place by his polished black shoes. The sight of him—partially dressed, utterly commanding, yet entirely undone—was enough to make you clench around nothing.

“Frank,” you gasped, your voice shaky as his fingers worked you expertly. “Please… I need you.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rich, his hazel eyes glinting with both amusement and something darker. “You’ll have me,” he promised, his voice a growl as he slid a finger inside you, testing your readiness. “But not until you’re dripping for me. I’ll be damned if I hurt you, love. You’re going to take every inch of me, but you’ll enjoy it.”

You moaned as his finger moved inside you, slow and deliberate, stroking your inner walls with practiced precision. His thumb continued its relentless assault on your clit, the sensation sending shivers through your body as he leaned closer, his hooked nose brushing against your cheek. “That’s it,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “Let me feel you getting wetter for me. I want you soaking by the time I bury myself in you.”

Your nails dug into the leather straps of his holster as your hips bucked against his hand, desperate for more. “I’m ready,” you pleaded, your voice trembling. “Frank, please. I need you inside me.”

He groaned softly, his free hand sliding up your thigh to grip your hip, steadying you. “Patience,” he growled, his baritone voice laced with a mix of command and affection. “You’ll take me when I’m sure you can handle it.”

Frank pulled back slightly, his hazel eyes locking onto yours as he withdrew his finger and brought it to his mouth. He licked it slowly, savoring the taste of you as a low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest. “Sweet as sin,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire. “But I need more.”

Without warning, he dropped to his knees, his trousers straining around his ankles as his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider. You gasped as his tongue flicked over your clit, the sensation sharp and electric. His hooked nose brushed against your mound as he buried his face between your legs, his tongue working you with the same calculated precision as his fingers.

“Frank!” you cried out, your hands flying to his hair, tangling in the white strands as he drove you closer and closer to the edge. Your legs trembled, your body arching off the desk as his tongue plunged inside you, stroking you in ways that left you breathless. “Oh, God… I’m going to—”

“Not yet,” he growled against your skin, his voice muffled but no less commanding. He pulled back, his hazel eyes blazing as he straightened, towering over you once more. “I want you to come while I’m inside you, love. While you’re wrapped around my cock, taking all of me.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he positioned himself at your entrance, his thick cock already leaking with need. He stroked himself once, twice, his baritone voice dropping to a husky whisper as he murmured, “Relax, love. Let me in.”

Slowly, carefully, he pushed inside, his cock stretching you inch by inch. The sheer size of him made you gasp, your body tensing instinctively. Frank stilled, his hands gripping your hips as he whispered soothingly, “Easy, love. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

You did as he said, your body relaxing as he slid deeper, his cock filling you in a way that was almost overwhelming. He groaned low in his throat, his hazel eyes dark with lust as he watched your face, gauging your every reaction. “So tight,” he muttered, his voice trembling slightly. “Christ, you feel incredible.”

When he was fully seated inside you, he paused, his hooked nose flaring as he struggled to keep himself in check. “Tell me,” he said, his voice rough and low. “Tell me you can take me. Tell me you’re ready for me to move.”

You nodded, your voice a breathless whisper as you clung to his shoulder holster. “I’m ready, Frank. Please… I need you.”

With a growl of satisfaction, he began to move, his hips rolling in slow, deliberate thrusts that sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body. Each movement was measured, controlled, as though he was determined to make you feel every inch of him.

“You’re perfect,” he rasped, his voice breaking as his thrusts grew deeper, harder. “So tight, so wet… taking me so damn well. God, I’ve never—” He cut himself off with a groan, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he lost himself in you.

Your moans filled the room, mingling with the sound of his labored breathing and the soft slap of skin against skin. Your nails dug into his shoulder holster as you clung to him, your body arching with every thrust. “Frank,” you gasped, your voice trembling. “I’m close… I’m so close.”

“Then come for me,” he growled, his hazel eyes locking onto yours as he drove into you with renewed intensity. “Come while I’m inside you, love. Let me feel you.”

And when you finally did, your body trembling and your walls clenching around him, Frank let out a shuddering groan, his own release following moments later. His hips stilled, his cock buried deep inside you as he pressed his forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of what had just happened settling over you. But as Frank pulled back slightly, his hazel eyes meeting yours, a slow, satisfied smile spread across his face.

“Worth the wait,” he murmured, his baritone voice soft but filled with warmth. “Every bloody second.”

[muiitoloko]

The Zumba Incident

Summary: When your retired, slightly unhinged ex-general husband crashes a community Zumba class with his equally inebriated war buddies, the result is chaos, sore hips, and one unforgettable performance.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader & Oc

Warnings: Funny

Author's Notes: A little continuation of "Operation Dog Flap". You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to, but it’s good for context. 😅 Am I making Frank too comedic?

Also read on Ao3

Three days had passed since Frank’s legendary dog-flap incident, and life had mostly returned to normal—or as normal as it could get when your husband was a retired Lieutenant General with the emotional maturity of a cranky badger and the self-preservation instincts of a lemming on a cliff.

That morning, Frank had wandered into the kitchen with his usual heavy-footed shuffle, white hair sticking up in several directions, his reading glasses perched low on his hooked nose.

“Going out,” he’d grunted around a mouthful of toast.

You glanced up from your coffee. “Oh?”

He nodded, vaguely. “Reggie, Clive, maybe Tony. Lunch. Catching up. I won’t be long.”

You arched a brow. “Lunch as in ‘lunch,’ or lunch as in you’ll be drunk before three and fall asleep on the couch covered in crisps and shame?”

Frank gave you his most affronted look—the one he always wore when you were absolutely correct. “It’s just lunch,” he said, hazel eyes blinking with poorly concealed innocence. “We’re old men. We get full after a pint and a sandwich.”

You rolled your eyes but said nothing. He had been good lately. He deserved a break. And frankly, you needed some quiet time with Thomas that didn’t involve cleaning olive oil off the floor or explaining to your son why Daddy had turned into a stuck sausage roll.

So, you kissed Frank goodbye, sent him off with his coat, wallet, and a warning—“Please, for the love of God, don’t get arrested”—and went about your day.

It was peaceful for a while.

Until your phone rang.

You glanced at the caller ID and frowned.

Frank Benson.

You answered with a smile, expecting your husband’s baritone and a half-sarcastic, half-sincere “I miss you already.”

Instead, a strange female voice greeted you.

“Hi! Uh, hello? Is this… Mrs. Benson?”

Your brow furrowed. “Yes?”

“Oh, great. Hi! I work at the community center on Rosehill Street and, um… we have your husband here. And his friends.”

You froze. “…Sorry?”

“They, uh… well, they’ve joined our Zumba class. Uninvited. And we just… thought you might want to come get them.”

You stared at your phone in silence for a beat.

“I’m sorry,” you said slowly, “did you just say Zumba?”

“Yes. Very enthusiastically.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Is he drunk?”

“I’d guess… very.”

Of course he was.

You sighed and rubbed your temple. “Right. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

Twenty minutes later, you were standing in the entryway of the Rosehill Community Center, Thomas at your side, clutching his dinosaur backpack, eyes wide with curiosity.

You could hear the music before you even entered the main hall—Latin beats thumping through the walls, something absurdly upbeat about hips and rhythm and joy.

And then, through the windowed door, you saw them.

Frank. Your husband. White hair disheveled, cheeks red, moving in a way that could only be described as possessed by a rhythm demon with no sense of timing. His shirt was half-untucked, his stomach jiggled with every movement, and he looked like a retired garden gnome on a sugar high. His hazel eyes were glazed but… weirdly focused. Determined, even.

He was trying.

Reggie was beside him, shirtless for some godforsaken reason, twirling like a drunken ballerina. Clive was flapping his arms with all the coordination of a headless chicken, and Tony—sweet, poor Tony—was doing something vaguely resembling a twerk, and you never wanted to think about that again.

Thomas gasped beside you. “Mummy. Daddy’s dancing!”

“Not… exactly, sweetheart.”

“But he’s moving like Peppa’s grandpa when he sneezed.”

“That sounds about right.”

The instructor, a tired-looking woman in her mid-thirties, spotted you through the window and gave you a desperate thumbs-up.

You took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The music blasted into your ears. The moment Frank caught sight of you, he froze mid-thrust, his arms outstretched, one knee bent in what might have once been a squat.

“…Darling,” he said, far too brightly. “You came!”

You stared at him in dead silence.

Frank blinked. Then tried to spin.

It did not go well.

He stumbled, caught Reggie’s elbow, and the two of them tumbled to the floor in a heap of laughter and flailing limbs.

Thomas clapped delightedly. “Again, Daddy! Do the spin again!”

Frank groaned from the floor, one hand reaching toward the ceiling. “I was ambushed,” he slurred. “They promised me pub lunch and a pint. And then there was music. And shouting. And a woman named Gloria said my hips were ‘full of promise.’”

You looked to the instructor. “How long has this been going on?”

She rubbed her forehead. “They got here at 2:40. It’s… 3:15.”

You stared at your husband. “You’ve been drunk dancing for thirty-five minutes?”

Frank beamed up at you from the floor. “Best workout I’ve had in years.”

You closed your eyes. “I’m going to bury you in the garden.”

“Preferably face down,” Reggie muttered, groaning as he sat up. “That way if I reanimate, I can’t climb out.”

Thomas waved his arms. “Can I do Zumba too?!”

You groaned. “Absolutely not. Everyone into the car.”

“But—”

“Now!”

Frank struggled to his feet, his arms wobbling. “Darling, I was quite good actually. You should’ve seen my hip circle.”

You took one long, slow breath. “Frank Benson. You are a decorated military officer. You commanded drone strikes. You negotiated ceasefires. You were once knighted by the Queen herself.”

He grinned, eyes drooping. “And now I Zumba.”

You turned to the instructor, digging into your bag. “Do you accept bribes to delete footage?”

That night, Frank lay spread-eagled on the couch, groaning.

“Everything hurts,” he mumbled.

“Good.”

“You’re not going to forgive me, are you?”

“Not even a little.”

“I think I may have sprained my arse.”

You didn’t answer. Just placed a glass of water on his chest and a bag of frozen peas on his thigh.

Thomas ran into the room with a piece of paper. “Look, Daddy! I drew you doing Zumba!”

Frank stared at the drawing. He was a stick figure with wild hair and a big, wobbling belly.

“…I’m magnificent,” he whispered.

You sighed, collapsing beside him, one hand brushing through his white hair.

“You are something, alright.”

And he smiled. Stupid. Pained. Drunk with life.

Yours.

[muiitoloko]

Hi can you do a Frank x reader slowburn, where the reader is newbie lower rank that got assigned to be with him. She’s clumsy and a nervous wreck around him (but that’s because she admires him and wants to do her best). At first, frank gets annoyed with the reader because how can someone be that level of rank and then is quite the opposite of a “soldier” traits stuff. The vibe is kinda “The Devil Wears Prada” but meets “Top Gun”…I need it to be like really really slowburn and it can be a series if you want….

ps I need a scene where suddenly you see why the reader is at that level of ranking and that’s where frank slowly respects her (action scene where there’s some type of trouble happened or just like her showing her shooting skills)

thats all! i really like your works especially the series ones <33333

Title: Beneath the Uniform.

Summary: Stripped of her rank, a soldier fights to prove she is more than her demotion, forging an unlikely bond with a lieutenant general hardened by years of command.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader.

Warnings: Anguish, rejection, mention of fighting, mention of shooting.

Author's Notes: I'm glad you like my story and hope this new story pleases you too.

First and Second part here.

Also read on Ao3

Frank Benson stood up from his desk, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the room. His hazel eyes, sharp and discerning, locked onto you as you entered his office. You snapped to attention, your body rigid with the formality drilled into you over the years. But despite your best efforts, Frank could see your hands trembling slightly as you saluted him. The telltale sign of nerves, of insecurity, and it irked him.

"At ease, Private," Frank said, his baritone voice carrying a tone of disdain. He watched as you lowered your hand, trying to steady yourself, but the slight quiver in your movements didn’t escape his notice. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in your appearance—neat, tidy, but still a shadow of the officer you once were. To him, you were just another reminder of how the army had softened, allowing anyone to slip through the cracks and land a position they didn’t deserve.

He didn’t know the specifics of why you were assigned to him, nor did he particularly care to find out. All he knew was that you were a demoted captain now reduced to a private, and that spoke volumes in itself. To Frank, it was an insult—assigning a soldier with such a tarnished record to him, a Lieutenant General with decades of experience and a spotless service record. The army, he thought bitterly, was clearly lowering its standards.

You stood there, trying to hold your composure under his scrutinizing gaze. The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the faint ticking of a clock on the wall. Frank finally broke the silence, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

"Do you know why you're here?" he asked, his tone flat, giving nothing away.

You swallowed hard, trying to find your voice. "Sir, I—"

He cut you off with a wave of his hand, the gesture dismissive. "You're here because someone up the chain of command decided that I needed an assistant. And for some inexplicable reason, they thought you'd be a suitable choice."

His words stung, and you fought the urge to shrink under his gaze. "Sir, I was—"

"Spare me the details," Frank interrupted, his voice edged with impatience. "Frankly, I don’t care about the reasons behind your demotion or whatever sob story they’ve attached to your file. What matters to me is competence, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a former captain, now a lowly private, mess up my operations."

You bit back the retort that threatened to spill out, knowing it would only make things worse. You had been reassigned to Frank after your previous posting became untenable due to your demotion. The brass had decided that placing you under Frank’s command would give you a chance to "redeem" yourself, though you doubted Frank saw it that way. To him, it was likely more of a punishment—dealing with you was probably the last thing he wanted.

"You’ve been assigned to assist me in operational planning and logistics," Frank continued, his voice dripping with skepticism. "You’ll handle the paperwork, the briefings, and whatever else I deem necessary. And you will do it without complaint, without hesitation, and without any more mistakes. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," you replied, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

Frank gave a curt nod, his expression unyielding. "Good. Now, get out of my sight and familiarize yourself with the files on your desk. I expect you to be up to speed by tomorrow morning."

You saluted him again, your movements stiff but controlled, and quickly turned to leave. As you walked out of his office, you could feel his eyes boring into your back, the weight of his disdain heavy on your shoulders. You knew that earning his respect would be an uphill battle, one that would require you to prove your worth every single day.

You sighed as you closed the office door behind you, the cold metal clicking shut with a finality that seemed to echo in your chest. To think that you had admired this man so much—Lieutenant General Frank Benson, a name spoken with respect and reverence throughout the British Army. He was a legend in his own right, having won numerous honors over the years, his reputation built on a foundation of unyielding discipline, sharp intellect, and tactical brilliance. But now, after that first interaction, the admiration you once held felt tainted, replaced by a gnawing sense of disappointment.

As you walked down the corridor, you forced yourself to greet the other soldiers you passed, maintaining the decorum expected of you. Each step sent a dull throb of pain through your leg, a stark reminder of the injury you sustained in Afghanistan. The wound, though mostly healed, had left its mark—a lingering ache that flared up when you pushed yourself too hard, like this morning during training. You had been determined to prove to yourself that you could still keep up, that your demotion hadn’t broken you, but the price for that determination was now an uncomfortable limp that you tried your best to conceal.

You straightened your back, willing yourself to walk normally as you passed a group of officers. The last thing you needed was for anyone to notice your discomfort, to see any more signs of weakness. In the military, perception was everything, and you had already given Frank Benson enough reasons to doubt you. The thought of him, his sharp hazel eyes piercing through you with disdain, made your stomach churn.

Lieutenant General Benson had been someone you once looked up to—a figure of authority who represented everything you had aspired to be in your career. But now, all you could think about was the way he had dismissed you, his baritone voice dripping with disapproval, his every word a reminder of your fall from grace. The admiration you had for him felt like a distant memory, replaced by a growing resentment that you struggled to keep in check.

But you couldn’t afford to dwell on that. You had work to do, and no amount of pity or self-doubt would change the fact that you were now just another private under Benson’s command. The files waiting for you on his desk were the first of many tasks that would come your way, and you knew you had to tackle them with the same determination that had once earned you your rank.

As you approached the end of the corridor, you felt the pain in your leg intensify, a sharp reminder of your limits. You paused for a moment, leaning against the wall to catch your breath, cursing yourself for pushing too hard. The injury was a direct result of your decision in Afghanistan, the moment that had changed everything. The moment you chose to save that young girl, defying orders, knowing full well the consequences it could bring. It was a decision that had cost you your rank, your career, and now, it seemed, the respect of a man you had once idolized.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, pushing the memories aside. Now wasn’t the time to reflect on the past; you needed to focus on the present. Taking a deep breath, you pushed off the wall and continued walking, this time with a more measured pace, determined not to let the pain slow you down any further.

The truth was, as much as Benson’s disdain stung, it also fueled a fire within you. A fire that refused to let you be defined by your demotion, by your injury, or by the scorn of a man who knew nothing of the choices you had made. You had been a captain once, and while you no longer wore the rank, the experience and knowledge you gained from that position were still with you. You would prove to Benson, and to yourself, that you were still capable, still worthy of the uniform you wore.

By the time you reached your new desk, tucked away in a corner of the operations office, you had steeled yourself for the long night ahead. The files Benson had mentioned were neatly stacked, their contents waiting for your attention. You pulled out the first folder, flipping it open and scanning the contents, your mind already beginning to compartmentalize the tasks at hand.

But as you worked, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, the sense that Benson’s eyes were still on you, scrutinizing your every move. You knew that gaining his respect would be an uphill battle, but it was a battle you were determined to fight. You had come too far, faced too much, to let one man’s judgment define your future.

With that thought, you buried yourself in the work, your focus sharp despite the throbbing pain in your leg. You knew this was just the beginning, the first step in a long journey of redemption. But you had faced worse, and you had no intention of letting Lieutenant General Frank Benson—or anyone else—stand in your way.

The days that followed your reassignment to Lieutenant General Frank Benson’s command were a blur of long hours, late nights, and an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. The mountain of files on your desk never seemed to shrink, no matter how many hours you poured into them. You often found yourself stumbling over military jargon that had once rolled off your tongue with ease, your confidence still shaken by the demotion.

Frank Benson was a constant presence in your life, even when he wasn’t in the room. His hazel eyes, sharp and piercing, seemed to haunt your every move. You could almost feel his disapproving gaze whenever you fumbled with a report or misplaced a document. His voice, low and authoritative, echoed in your mind, a reminder that any mistake you made would only confirm his already low opinion of you.

Despite your best efforts, it seemed that everything you did managed to draw his ire. There was the time you accidentally spilled coffee on a crucial operations report, earning a withering glare that made your heart drop to your stomach. Or the day you showed up five minutes late to a briefing, breathless and apologetic, only to be met with a scathing remark about your lack of discipline.

"Private, if you can’t manage to arrive on time, perhaps you should consider a career more suited to your...relaxed attitude," Frank had said, his voice dripping with disdain. You had stood there, cheeks burning with embarrassment, trying to explain that you had been caught in a meeting with another officer, but Frank had already turned his attention to the next item on the agenda, dismissing you with a wave of his hand.

Your attempts to lighten the tension with humor were met with even harsher criticism. It had become something of a defense mechanism—whenever you felt the pressure mounting, you’d crack a joke, hoping to defuse the situation. But Frank Benson was not a man who appreciated levity, especially not from someone he already considered unworthy of wearing the uniform.

One particularly tense afternoon, as you were reviewing logistics for an upcoming operation, you had made an offhand comment about how the army should consider investing in self-filing paperwork. The room had been silent for a beat too long, and you had realized your mistake as soon as Frank’s hazel eyes locked onto you.

"Private, this is the British Army, not a comedy club," Frank had said coldly, his voice sending a chill down your spine. "If you’re unable to take your responsibilities seriously, then perhaps you should reconsider your place here."

You had stammered an apology, feeling the weight of his disapproval like a physical force. It was clear that your attempts at humor were only making things worse, but you couldn’t seem to stop yourself. It was as if the more you tried to fit into Frank’s rigid expectations, the more you felt the need to rebel against them, even in small ways.

The tension between you and Frank reached its peak during a critical mission briefing. The room was filled with high-ranking officers, all waiting for the Lieutenant General to lead the discussion. You had been tasked with preparing the briefing materials, a responsibility that you took very seriously, knowing that any mistake would be magnified tenfold in Frank’s eyes.

As you began to distribute the briefing folders, you noticed too late that one of the key reports was missing. Panic seized you as you frantically searched through the papers, your heart racing as you realized that you must have left the document on your desk.

"Private," Frank’s baritone voice cut through the room, silencing all conversation. "Is there a reason why this briefing is being delayed?"

You looked up, meeting his steely gaze, your throat dry. "Sir, I—"

"Speak up," Frank demanded, his tone brooking no excuses.

"I...I seem to have left one of the reports on my desk, sir," you admitted, your voice trembling with the effort to keep your composure.

Frank’s expression darkened, and you could see the anger simmering just beneath the surface. "You ‘seem to have left it’?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "Private, do you understand the gravity of this situation? This is not some inconsequential task that you can fumble through with your usual lack of attention. This is a mission briefing, and your incompetence is unacceptable."

You stood there, frozen in place, the weight of the room’s attention pressing down on you. Frank’s words cut deep, each one a reminder of how far you had fallen. You had once been a captain, respected and trusted to lead, but now, in Frank’s eyes, you were nothing more than a liability—a soldier who couldn’t be trusted to perform even the most basic tasks.

Frank didn't mince words as he stood there, towering over you with his imposing figure, his hazel eyes gleaming with barely concealed disdain. "What could I possibly expect from someone like you?" he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "A demoted captain, now reduced to a mere private. Tell me, how does it feel to fall from such heights, hmm? To go from leading men to barely being able to carry out the simplest of tasks?"

You stiffened, every muscle in your body tensing as you fought to keep your composure. The room seemed to close in around you, the walls pressing in as Frank continued his verbal assault. His words cut deep, each one a deliberate strike designed to wound.

"I can't even fathom how you managed to get into the army in the first place," Frank continued, his tone mocking. "Perhaps your dear old daddy, the Colonel, had to pull a few strings, eh? A little nepotism here, a favor there. After all, it's the only explanation for how someone as incompetent as you could have ever worn the rank of captain."

The mention of your father, a respected officer with decades of service, sent a jolt of anger through you. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the humiliation mixing with a growing fury that you struggled to contain. But Frank wasn't finished; he leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a cruel whisper.

"How disappointed he must be now," Frank mused, his eyes gleaming with malice. "To have a daughter who couldn't even hold onto her rank. Demoted from captain to private. What a disgrace. Daddy's little disappointment."

You clenched your fists, the urge to lash out nearly overwhelming. You could feel the sting of angry tears threatening to spill over, but you forced them back, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break. You stared at the floor, your vision blurring as you struggled to keep your emotions in check. The humiliation was almost unbearable, the weight of Frank's words pressing down on you like a physical force.

But you remained silent, biting down on your lip to stop the words that were on the tip of your tongue. You knew that if you said what you truly wanted to, it would only make things worse. So you swallowed the anger, the pain, and the humiliation, forcing yourself to remain still as Frank continued his tirade.

"Go get that file," he ordered sharply, his voice slicing through the air like a whip. "And when you're done with that, I want you out of my sight. Your punishment for this disgraceful display is to do push-ups until the sun goes down. Maybe that'll knock some sense into you."

You mumbled a barely audible "Yes, sir," your voice trembling with the effort to keep your emotions in check. Frank didn't even acknowledge your response; he simply waved over another soldier who had been standing at attention nearby.

"Make sure she does every single one," Frank instructed coldly, his eyes never leaving yours. "And if she slacks off, you make her start over. I won't tolerate laziness, especially not from someone who should know better."

The soldier nodded, a mixture of pity and discomfort in his eyes as he glanced at you. But Frank's gaze was unyielding, his expression hard and unfeeling. You could feel the weight of his judgment pressing down on you, the humiliation of being reduced to this... nothing.

Without another word, you turned on your heel and marched out of the room, the soldier following closely behind. The moment you were out of sight, the tears you had been holding back finally spilled over, hot and angry against your cheeks. You wiped them away furiously, trying to pull yourself together as you made your way to retrieve the file.

The pain in your chest was almost unbearable, a raw ache that made it difficult to breathe. Frank's words echoed in your mind, each one a dagger that twisted deeper with every step you took. You had once been proud of your accomplishments, proud to wear the uniform and serve your country. But now, all of that seemed so distant, so out of reach.

By the time you returned with the file, the sun was already beginning to dip low in the sky. You handed it over without a word, your hands trembling slightly as you fought to maintain your composure. Frank barely glanced at you as he took the file, his focus already elsewhere. You were dismissed without so much as a nod, as if you were nothing more than an inconvenience.

The soldier led you outside, to a spot where the setting sun cast long shadows across the ground. He glanced at you, his expression conflicted, but he said nothing as you dropped to the ground and began your push-ups.

Each movement sent a jolt of pain through your arms and shoulders, but you welcomed it. The physical pain was a distraction, something you could focus on instead of the crushing humiliation that weighed on your heart. You pushed yourself harder, gritting your teeth as the minutes turned into hours, the sun sinking lower and lower in the sky.

You would do better. You promised yourself that much as the sweat dripped down your face, mingling with the dirt on the ground beneath you. Damn Frank Benson would eat his words. He didn’t know you, didn’t know the lengths you’d gone to earn your rank, and he certainly didn’t know the fire burning inside you now. You had never needed your father’s influence to get where you were. Every stripe, every promotion, was earned through your own blood, sweat, and determination. You had fought, sacrificed, and clawed your way to the top, and you wouldn’t let some pompous old man march over everything you’d built. You wouldn’t let him break you.

Your arms screamed in protest, muscles burning from the relentless push-ups, but the pain was welcome—no, it was necessary. It grounded you, gave you something tangible to focus on as the anger inside you surged. The anger fueled your strength, pushing you beyond your limits. You had no intention of stopping, not even as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, dark shadows across the ground.

The soldier who had been tasked with watching you shifted uncomfortably as the darkness settled in. “Private, that’s enough,” he said, his voice laced with a mix of concern and discomfort. But you didn’t even acknowledge his words, continuing with the push-ups, your body moving on pure determination and fury.

“Private, I said that’s enough!” the soldier repeated, his tone more urgent this time. But still, you didn’t listen. You wouldn’t stop, not until you had pushed every ounce of strength from your body. The physical pain was a small price to pay to silence the gnawing humiliation that had taken root in your heart.

Inside the building, Frank Benson stood by the window, his imposing figure backlit by the dim glow of the interior lights. His hazel eyes were narrowed as he watched you through the glass, his expression unreadable. He had expected you to give up, to fall in line like so many before you. But as the minutes turned into hours, he found himself unable to look away. There you were, still going, still pushing yourself beyond what any normal soldier would have endured. It was both infuriating and oddly impressive.

The room around him was silent, the last meeting of the day having just ended. But Frank remained at the window, watching you, his thoughts churning with a mixture of disdain and something else he couldn’t quite place. He had seen soldiers break under less, yet here you were, defying every expectation he had of you.

He didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until the person was standing beside him, their presence unmistakable. Frank didn’t need to look to know who it was. The familiar scent of polished leather and the subtle creak of a well-worn uniform told him everything he needed to know.

“Lieutenant General,” came the low, even voice of Colonel [Your Last Name]. Frank could feel the man’s eyes on him, probing, questioning, though his tone remained deceptively casual. “I’ve been hearing a lot of hubbub about you insulting me during a meeting today.”

Frank kept his gaze on the window, watching as you continued with the push-ups, your form unwavering even as the night closed in. He didn’t deny the accusation. “I was scolding your daughter,” he replied, his voice as calm and composed as ever. There was no point in lying, not when the truth was as plain as day.

The Colonel hummed, a low, thoughtful sound as he turned his attention to the window as well, watching you with an inscrutable expression. The two older men stood in silence for a long moment, the only sound in the room the distant hum of the building’s ventilation system.

“She’s got your stubbornness,” Frank said finally, breaking the silence. There was no malice in his tone this time, just a grudging acknowledgment of the trait he recognized. He had seen plenty of soldiers break under pressure, but you—despite your many flaws—hadn’t buckled. Not yet, at least.

The Colonel’s lips curled into a thin, humorless smile. “Stubbornness isn’t always a virtue, Lieutenant General,” he replied, his tone cold and measured. “Sometimes, it’s just a symptom of not knowing when to quit.”

Frank could hear the disdain in the Colonel’s voice, the unspoken criticism aimed not just at you but at Frank himself for recognizing it as something worthy of note. The Colonel’s eyes remained fixed on you, but there was no warmth, no pride, only a clinical assessment of a soldier—no, of a daughter—who had failed to meet his expectations.

“She’s a disappointment,” the Colonel continued, his voice devoid of emotion. “Always has been.”

Frank’s brow furrowed slightly at the harshness of the statement, but he said nothing, letting the Colonel speak. The Colonel’s next words, however, revealed more than just disappointment; they unveiled a deep-seated resentment.

“I never wanted her,” the Colonel said, his voice as cold as steel. “I wanted a son, someone who could carry on the family name, follow in my footsteps with pride. But instead, I got her. A daughter who thinks she can play soldier, who dares to believe she could ever live up to the standards set by the men in this family.”

Frank finally tore his gaze from the window, turning to look at the Colonel with a mixture of curiosity and something darker—a hint of disapproval, perhaps. It wasn’t unusual for parents to have expectations for their children, but the bitterness in the Colonel’s voice went beyond that. It was as if he had never seen you as a person in your own right, only as a failed attempt at continuing his legacy.

“She’s not a son, true,” Frank said carefully, his voice measured. “But she’s still a soldier.”

The Colonel’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. “She’s not fit to wear the uniform,” he snapped. “Her demotion was well-deserved. I tried to steer her away from this path, tried to save her from this humiliation, but she was too damned stubborn to listen. And now look at her—reduced to nothing more than a private, barely able to keep up with her duties.”

Frank could feel the intensity of the Colonel’s disdain, and for the first time, he wondered how much of your struggle was due to the weight of your father’s expectations. It wasn’t just the army you were trying to prove yourself to—it was him, the man who had never wanted you to succeed in the first place.

Outside, you continued your push-ups, your body trembling with exhaustion but your resolve unbroken. You had no idea that your father was watching you, judging you with every fiber of his being. To you, this was just another obstacle to overcome, another test of your strength and determination.

“She doesn’t belong here,” the Colonel said, his voice filled with finality. “She never did. But she insisted on this path, and now she’s paying the price. She’s weak, Lieutenant General. Weak and delusional, thinking she could ever be anything more than a failure.”

Frank didn’t respond immediately, his mind racing as he considered the Colonel’s words. He had seen weakness in you, certainly—seen the way you struggled under the weight of your mistakes, seen the way your hands trembled when faced with his scrutiny. But he had also seen something else, something that the Colonel was either blind to or unwilling to acknowledge: a flicker of defiance, of determination that refused to be snuffed out, no matter how many times you were knocked down.

“She saved a life,” Frank said quietly, almost to himself. “That’s more than some soldiers ever do.”

The Colonel’s gaze snapped to Frank, his eyes flashing with anger. “She disobeyed orders,” he retorted sharply. “She put her own misguided sense of morality above the mission, above the lives of her comrades. That’s not bravery, Lieutenant General. That’s stupidity.”

Frank met the Colonel’s gaze head-on, his expression unreadable. “And yet, she’s still here,” he pointed out. “Still pushing herself, still trying to prove something.”

The Colonel scoffed, dismissing Frank’s observation with a wave of his hand. “She’s a fool, and you’re wasting your time if you think she’ll ever amount to anything. She’ll never be more than a private, and that’s only because I won’t let her tarnish this family’s name any further by leaving in disgrace.”

Frank said nothing, his thoughts hidden behind a mask of calm professionalism. But as he turned back to the window, watching you push yourself to the brink of collapse, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the Colonel was wrong about you. There was something in you, something that refused to be broken, no matter how much pressure was applied.

He wouldn’t tell the Colonel that, though. It wasn’t his place to interfere in family matters, and he had no desire to provoke the man any further. But as he watched you finally collapse onto the ground, your body spent from the hours of grueling push-ups, Frank couldn’t help but feel a twinge of... what? Sympathy? Respect? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that you had earned a measure of his attention, whether you realized it or not.

“Keep an eye on her, Lieutenant General,” the Colonel said, his tone dismissive as he turned to leave the room. “And don’t hesitate to come to me if she steps out of line. I won’t tolerate any more failures from her.”

Frank gave a curt nod, his expression neutral. “Of course, Colonel.”

With that, the Colonel left the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway until they faded into silence. Frank remained by the window for a moment longer, watching as you finally pulled yourself to your feet, your body swaying with exhaustion but your head held high.

You had a long way to go, that much was clear. But Frank found himself wondering just how far you could go, how much you could achieve, if only you could find the strength to break free from the shadow of your father’s expectations.

Perhaps it was time to push you in a different direction—one that would force you to confront your own limitations, your own fears, and in doing so, perhaps discover a strength you didn’t even know you had.

The road ahead wouldn’t be easy, but Frank Benson had never been one to shy away from a challenge. And neither, it seemed, were you.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the barracks as you moved with quiet efficiency, collecting the last of the briefing materials for Lieutenant General Frank Benson. The days since that humiliating encounter had been long and grueling, but they had forged a steely resolve within you. Gone was the nervousness that once gripped you in his presence; gone, too, was the inclination to crack jokes in a vain attempt to lighten the atmosphere. You had learned quickly—adapted to the harsh realities of your situation.

You now anticipated Frank’s requests, moving almost in tandem with his thoughts. If he wanted a report, it was on his desk before he asked. If he needed transport, you were already waiting by the vehicle. Your efficiency and discipline had grown, honed by a determination to prove yourself—if not to your father, then at least to yourself.

This morning, you stood at attention outside Frank’s office, waiting for him to emerge. The crisp morning air was filled with the distant sounds of soldiers drilling, the rhythmic cadence of their movements a constant reminder of the world you were trying to reclaim a place in.

When the door opened, you straightened your posture, meeting Frank’s hazel eyes with a calm, composed expression. His gaze lingered on you for a moment, assessing, as if trying to gauge what had changed. But if he found anything, he didn’t comment on it.

“Vehicle’s ready, sir,” you said simply, your voice steady.

Frank gave a curt nod, his white hair catching the light as he stepped out, his baritone voice as authoritative as ever. “Let’s not waste time then. We have a meeting to attend.”

You fell into step behind him, your mind already running through the logistics of the day. The meeting was critical—a gathering of top military officials to discuss ongoing operations and strategy in the Middle East. Frank would be in his element, directing the discussion with the same sharp intellect that had earned him his rank. And you would be there to ensure everything ran smoothly.

The drive to the meeting location was silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of papers as you reviewed the agenda. Frank sat beside you, his eyes occasionally flicking over to the documents, but his focus remained outward, as if always calculating, always planning.

As you navigated the vehicle through the winding roads leading to the military compound, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. It was a subtle tension in the air, a sense that you were being watched. Your instincts, honed by years of service and sharpened by your recent trials, prickled at the back of your neck.

“Sir,” you said, your tone professional but laced with caution, “I recommend taking a different route. There’s something about this road that doesn’t feel right.”

Frank turned his head slightly, regarding you with a look that was both curious and wary. “Explain.”

“Gut feeling, sir,” you replied, keeping your voice level. “And I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

There was a brief pause as Frank considered your words. Finally, he nodded. “Very well. Take the alternate route.”

You didn’t need any further prompting. You took the next turn, guiding the vehicle onto a less-traveled road that wound through a series of low hills. The tension in your gut didn’t ease, but you kept your focus on the task at hand, eyes scanning the surroundings with heightened vigilance.

The ambush happened so quickly, it was almost a blur. One moment, the road ahead was clear; the next, a burst of gunfire erupted from the hillside, shattering the silence. The windshield exploded in a spray of glass, and you barely had time to swerve the vehicle as bullets peppered the metal, the sharp cracks of gunfire echoing in the confined space.

“Down!” you shouted, your training kicking in as you slammed the brakes, the vehicle skidding to a halt behind the cover of a small ridge.

Without hesitation, you grabbed your rifle from the backseat, the weight of it familiar and reassuring in your hands. The world narrowed to a single point of focus as you assessed the situation. The attackers were positioned on the ridge, using the high ground to their advantage. But they hadn’t accounted for your quick reaction.

“Stay low, sir,” you instructed, your voice calm despite the adrenaline surging through your veins. “I’ll handle this.”

You reached for the door handle, ready to leap into action, but before you could open it, Frank's hand shot out, gripping your arm tightly. You turned to look at him, your instincts screaming at you to move, to fight, but what you saw in his eyes froze you in place. Frank's hazel eyes, normally so sharp and commanding, were wide with panic. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and his hand, still gripping your arm, was trembling.

"Sir?" you said, your voice tinged with confusion. You glanced down at where his other hand was fumbling for his sidearm, but it was clear that he was struggling. For a split second, your mind raced through the possibilities—had he been shot? Was he injured? But as you quickly assessed him, you realized it wasn’t physical—Frank Benson, the unflappable Lieutenant General, was having an anxiety attack.

The realization hit you hard. Frank was a man of control, always the one in command, always the one making the tough calls from the safety of his office. But it had been years since he was on the front lines, years since he’d faced the reality of combat up close. The years spent behind desks, overseeing drone strikes and coordinating operations from afar, had dulled his edge. And now, here in the heat of an ambush, the raw terror of being back in the thick of it had caught him off guard.

You took a deep breath, pushing down your own fear. You knew what had to be done. Frank wasn’t in any shape to command this situation, and it was up to you to protect him. The irony wasn’t lost on you—a demoted captain, now a private, taking charge of the situation. But there was no time to dwell on that. Your training and instincts kicked in, and you moved swiftly.

“Sir, you need to stay down and keep your head low,” you said firmly, your voice steady and commanding, despite the chaos erupting around you. “I’ve got this.”

Frank’s grip on your arm loosened slightly, his hazel eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, you saw the vulnerability in him, the fear he was trying so hard to suppress. It was a side of him you’d never imagined existed, and it struck you deeply. But there was no time to dwell on that either.

You gently but firmly pried his hand from your arm, giving him a reassuring nod before grabbing your rifle. You didn’t hesitate as you slid out of the vehicle, using it as cover while you assessed the situation. The attackers were still positioned on the ridge, firing down at you, but they hadn’t moved from their position. That was their mistake.

You took a deep breath, steadying your aim, and returned fire. The first shot took out one of the attackers, the second forced the others to scatter. You moved quickly, staying low and using the terrain to your advantage, keeping yourself between Frank and the line of fire. You could hear his labored breathing behind you, and you knew you had to end this quickly.

The next few minutes were a blur of movement and gunfire. You pushed forward, using every bit of cover you could find, firing in controlled bursts to keep the attackers at bay. Slowly but surely, you forced them to retreat, the intensity of their fire dwindling as you pressed the advantage.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the gunfire ceased. You held your position for a few moments longer, your heart pounding in your chest, before slowly rising from your cover. The ridge was clear—the attackers had retreated.

You turned back toward the vehicle, your breath coming in heavy gasps, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. Frank was still in the car, his chest heaving as he tried to regain control of his breathing. His eyes met yours, and for the first time, there was no disdain, no judgment. Instead, there was something else—something softer, almost vulnerable.

You walked back to the vehicle, lowering your rifle as you approached him. “It’s over, sir,” you said quietly, trying to keep your voice steady. “We’re clear.”

Frank nodded, his breathing slowly beginning to steady. He reached up, running a trembling hand through his white hair, his gaze never leaving yours. “You saved my life,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, the usual baritone softened by the weight of the moment.

You shrugged, trying to downplay the situation, though your heart was still racing. “Just doing my job, sir.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied you, really seeing you for the first time since you’d been assigned to him. The harsh, critical gaze was gone, replaced by something more thoughtful. And in that moment, he saw you—really saw you—not just as a soldier, not just as the demoted captain he had so harshly judged, but as a person. A woman who had just risked her life to protect him.

You continued to take control of the situation, leaving Frank crouched in the passenger seat, his breathing still ragged and uneven. Without hesitation, you hopped back into the driver’s seat, your hands gripping the wheel tightly as you shifted the vehicle into gear. The adrenaline still surged through your veins, but you forced yourself to stay calm, focused. Frank needed you to be steady, even if he’d never admit it.

"Hang on, sir," you said, your voice firm but calm, as you pressed down on the gas. The vehicle lurched forward, skidding slightly on the loose gravel before gaining traction. You kept your eyes on the road, scanning the horizon for any signs of danger as you sped away from the ambush site.

In the seat beside you, Frank leaned back, his white hair slightly disheveled, his hazel eyes closed as he tried to control his breathing. His chest heaved with each breath, and you could see the way his hands clenched and unclenched in his lap, a telltale sign of his struggle to regain composure. You stole a quick glance at him, your mind racing as you considered how to help him.

The radio crackled to life, interrupting your thoughts. "Base to Sierra Three, do you copy?"

You reached for the radio, your hand steady despite the tension coiled in your chest. "This is Sierra Three, Private [Your Last Name] speaking. We’ve encountered an ambush but are currently en route to safety. What are your orders?"

There was a brief pause, filled only with the sound of static, before the response came. "Sierra Three, you are to return to base immediately. I repeat, return to base. We’ll send backup to secure the area. Over."

"Copy that," you replied, your voice steady. You placed the radio back in its cradle, then glanced at Frank again. "We’re heading back to base, sir. Just hold on a little longer."

Frank didn’t respond, his eyes still closed as he leaned back in his seat, trying to regulate his breathing. His usual commanding presence seemed diminished, replaced by a man grappling with something deeply unsettling. You knew what it was—fear. The raw, unfiltered fear that comes when a person who has spent too long in the safety of command is suddenly thrust back into the heart of danger.

You drove in silence for a few moments, the hum of the engine and the crunch of gravel under the tires the only sounds filling the space. But the tension was palpable, hanging thick in the air between you. You needed to do something to break it, to help Frank calm down.

"Sir," you began carefully, keeping your eyes on the road, "my father—the Colonel—once told me something about you. He said you saved his life."

You felt Frank’s eyes on you, a subtle shift in his posture, but he didn’t say anything. Encouraged by the reaction, you continued, keeping your tone light, conversational.

"He didn’t give me all the details, of course," you said with a small, knowing smile, "but he mentioned that you two served together a long time ago. He told me how you pulled him out of a bad situation, one that could’ve gone very wrong if you hadn’t been there. He always spoke highly of you, sir. Said you were one of the best officers he’d ever served under."

Frank’s eyes opened, and he turned his head slightly to look at you. His expression was guarded, but you could see the flicker of recognition in his eyes as he remembered the incident you were referring to.

"You know what my father is like," you added, trying to inject a bit of humor into the conversation. "He doesn’t hand out compliments easily. So when he told me that, I knew it meant something. Said he owed you a debt he could never repay."

Frank remained silent, but you could sense the tension in him beginning to ease, just a little. His breathing was starting to steady, the panic slowly receding as he focused on your words instead of the attack.

"I guess what I’m trying to say is," you continued, your voice softening slightly, "you’ve been in tough spots before, sir. You’ve faced danger head-on and come out on top. Today was no different. We made it through because you were here, and I wouldn’t have it any other way."

For a long moment, the only response was the sound of the engine and the road passing beneath you. Then, finally, Frank spoke, his voice low and a little rough but steady.

"You did well back there, Private," he said, his tone softer than you’d ever heard it. "Better than I gave you credit for."

The acknowledgment took you by surprise, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you nodded slightly, keeping your focus on the road. "Thank you, sir. Just doing my job."

Frank fell silent again, but this time, the tension between you had eased, replaced by a tentative understanding. He leaned back in his seat, his eyes closing once more, but his breathing was calmer now, more controlled.

As you drove back to base, the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the landscape. The adrenaline was slowly fading, leaving behind the exhaustion of the day’s events, but you felt a small spark of something you hadn’t expected—a sense of connection with Frank, a mutual respect born from the chaos of the ambush.

The road ahead was still long, and you knew there would be challenges to face in the days to come. But for now, as you drove through the twilight, you allowed yourself a small moment of relief. You had made it through, and so had Frank. And in that shared survival, a new bond had formed, one that might just carry you both through whatever came next.

After the intense drive back to base, you and Frank Benson finally arrived at the military compound. The sun had fully set, and the compound was lit by the harsh glare of floodlights, casting long shadows across the vehicles and buildings. The moment you pulled into the motor pool, a group of medics hurried over, their faces etched with concern. Frank waved them off, his baritone voice steady as he assured them he was fine, though his white hair was slightly disheveled, and the lines of tension were still visible on his face.

As Frank stepped out of the vehicle, he adjusted his uniform, his hazel eyes scanning the area with his usual sharpness. He seemed to have regained much of his composure, though there was a lingering weariness in his posture. He nodded curtly at you, a subtle acknowledgment of your efforts during the ambush, before walking off to debrief with the other officers.

You were about to head to the barracks when you heard a familiar voice call out, "Captain!" The voice was filled with concern, and you turned to see Second Lieutenant Jamie Collins striding toward you. Jamie had been one of the soldiers under your command in Afghanistan, a bright and capable young officer who had always looked up to you. His dark hair was slightly mussed, and his blue eyes were wide with worry as he approached, his steps quick and purposeful.

"Captain, are you okay?" Jamie asked, his voice laced with genuine concern as he came to a stop in front of you, his gaze sweeping over you, searching for any signs of injury.

You couldn’t help but soften at the sight of him, a mixture of warmth and sadness filling your chest. You managed a small smile, but it was tinged with melancholy as you gently corrected him. "Jamie, I’m not a captain anymore. And I’m certainly not your captain." Your voice was soft but firm, carrying the weight of the reality you had come to accept. "You shouldn’t call me that."

Jamie’s face fell slightly, a flicker of confusion and hurt passing over his features. "But... you’ll always be my captain," he said, his voice quieter now, almost as if he was trying to cling to the memory of who you had been.

You shook your head gently, your smile fading as you took a step closer to him, lowering your voice so only he could hear. "I appreciate that, Jamie, I really do. But I’m a private now. You’re the Second Lieutenant here. It’s you I should be saluting." There was a quiet insistence in your tone, a reminder of the chain of command that you both had to respect, no matter how much it pained you.

Jamie’s expression shifted to one of reluctance, his shoulders sagging slightly as he realized the truth in your words. He hesitated for a moment before giving you a small nod, the respect in his eyes clear as day. "Understood, Private," he said, though the formality of the title felt strange coming from him, and you could tell he didn’t like it.

As you exchanged these words, you noticed Frank Benson standing a short distance away, his gaze fixed on the two of you. His hazel eyes held a curious glint as he watched the interaction, the way Jamie had instinctively referred to you as “Captain,” and the way you had gently corrected him. Frank’s expression was inscrutable, but you could sense that he was piecing something together, trying to understand the depth of your connection with the younger officer.

Jamie glanced over his shoulder, realizing that Frank was watching. He straightened up quickly, giving you a small, almost apologetic smile before saluting you, the gesture crisp and respectful. You returned the salute, though the role reversal felt strange and uncomfortable.

"Take care of yourself, Jamie," you said quietly as he lowered his hand, the warmth in your voice genuine despite the formality.

"You too, Private," Jamie replied, the title still feeling foreign to him, but he gave you a nod of understanding before turning to leave.

As Jamie walked away, you could feel Frank’s gaze still on you, assessing, considering. When you finally turned to face him, his expression was thoughtful, though he said nothing. The moment stretched between you, the silence heavy with unspoken questions and newfound understanding. It was clear that Frank had witnessed something in your exchange with Jamie that had piqued his interest, something that didn’t quite fit with the picture he had formed of you.

But whatever conclusions he was drawing, he kept them to himself, his demeanor as guarded as ever. He gave you a curt nod, signaling that you were dismissed for the evening, before turning to head toward the officers’ quarters. As you watched him walk away, you couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking, and whether today’s events had shifted his perception of you, even if only slightly.

As you made your way to your own quarters, the weight of the day’s events settled heavily on your shoulders. The road ahead was still uncertain, but for the first time since your demotion, you felt a small glimmer of hope—hope that maybe, just maybe, you could prove yourself once again, not just to Frank Benson, but to yourself.

In the days that followed the ambush, there was a noticeable shift in Frank Benson's demeanor toward you. While he remained tough, his usual edge of disdain had softened. He still held you to high standards, but there was now a mutual understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the life-or-death bond forged during the ambush. Frank's hazel eyes no longer bore into you with unyielding judgment; instead, there was a glimmer of respect, perhaps even curiosity, that hadn't been there before.

Frank, despite his outward stoicism, couldn't shake the incident from his mind. The way you had acted so decisively, so fearlessly, lingered with him. He had seen soldiers crumble under pressure, had seen them falter when it mattered most, but you—you had faced the danger head-on, saving both of your lives without a second thought. And yet, there was still a mystery surrounding you, a puzzle he couldn’t quite piece together.

Your files were frustratingly sparse on the details of your demotion. The official report mentioned insubordination, a blatant disregard for direct orders, and yet it also noted that you had acted to save a single life. The incongruity of the situation gnawed at Frank. Why would someone like you—a former captain who had proven herself under fire—make a decision that would cost her everything?

One afternoon, as you were engrossed in your latest task, Frank made a decision. He wanted answers, but he knew better than to ask you directly. Instead, he sent for Second Lieutenant Jamie Collins, the young officer he had seen interact with you the day you returned from the ambush. Jamie had been one of your comrades in Afghanistan, and Frank suspected that if anyone knew the full story, it would be him.

Jamie arrived promptly at Frank’s office, standing at attention as he awaited instructions. Frank motioned for him to sit, and as Jamie took his seat, Frank studied him closely. The young officer had a respectful demeanor, but there was a trace of something more—loyalty, perhaps, or even admiration—when he spoke of you.

"Second Lieutenant Collins," Frank began, his baritone voice steady, "I need to understand something about Private [Your Last Name]. Her file is incomplete, and I have reason to believe that you might have the information I need. What led to her demotion?"

Jamie hesitated, glancing at the door as if to make sure you wouldn’t walk in at any moment. Frank noticed the apprehension and gave him a reassuring nod. "You can speak freely here, Lieutenant. This is between us."

Jamie took a deep breath, clearly grappling with the weight of what he was about to say. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady but filled with a deep sense of respect. "Sir, I’m not sure what the file says, but I can tell you this: [Your Last Name] has always been the kind of leader who cares about every life under her command. She’s saved my life more times than I can count, and I’m not the only one."

Frank leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful as he listened. Jamie continued, his words pouring out as if he had been holding them in for far too long.

"In Afghanistan, she wasn’t just our captain—she was our protector. She didn’t just give orders from the safety of the command post; she was always on the front lines with us, putting herself in harm’s way to make sure we made it out alive. There were times when the rest of us were ready to give up, but she never did. She always found a way to keep us going."

Jamie paused, his blue eyes clouded with memories. "There were so many times she could have just followed orders, could have put the mission first, but she didn’t. Instead, she made sure the civilians in the villages we passed through were safe. I remember one time—we were supposed to clear out an area suspected of harboring insurgents. It was a high-risk mission, and we were under orders to proceed without delay. But as we were moving in, [Your Last Name] saw a group of children playing nearby, unaware of the danger."

Jamie’s voice softened as he recalled the event. "She didn’t hesitate. She broke formation and ran to get those kids to safety, even though it meant delaying the mission. The rest of us followed her lead, and by the time we secured the area, the insurgents had gotten away. Command wasn’t happy, of course. They blamed her for the failure, but none of us did. Those kids are alive today because of her."

Frank absorbed this information in silence, the pieces of the puzzle beginning to fall into place. Jamie’s account painted a picture of a soldier who valued human life above all else, even if it meant sacrificing her career.

"And it wasn’t just the locals she protected," Jamie added, his voice filled with admiration. "She took care of us too. There were times when food was scarce, and she’d give her rations to the younger soldiers, claiming she wasn’t hungry or that she’d already eaten. We all knew it was a lie, but she did it anyway. She’d go without so we wouldn’t have to."

Frank’s hazel eyes darkened with understanding. He had misjudged you, had seen your demotion as a sign of weakness, of failure. But now, he saw it for what it really was—a consequence of your unwavering commitment to protecting others, no matter the cost.

"She was disrespected by some," Jamie continued, a hint of bitterness in his voice. "Some of the other officers didn’t like taking orders from a woman, especially one who was so young. They questioned her decisions, undermined her authority. But we, the ones who served under her, we knew better. We saw her strength, her courage. She was a leader in every sense of the word, and we’d follow her anywhere."

Jamie fell silent, his words hanging in the air between him and Frank. Frank’s expression remained impassive, but inside, he was deeply moved. The picture Jamie painted was of a leader who had been willing to sacrifice her own career, her own well-being, for the sake of others. It was a rare quality, one that Frank now realized he had been blind to.

After a long pause, Frank finally spoke, his voice low and measured. "Thank you, Lieutenant Collins. You’ve given me a lot to think about."

Jamie nodded, sensing the weight of the conversation. He stood, saluted Frank, and then left the office without another word. Frank remained seated, staring at the door long after Jamie had gone, his mind racing.

He had been wrong about you. He had been so focused on your demotion, on the fact that you had disobeyed orders, that he had failed to see the bigger picture. You weren’t a failure—you were a soldier who had chosen the hard road, who had put the lives of others before her own career. And that, Frank realized, was something he deeply respected.

As the days passed, Frank’s attitude toward you continued to soften. He still held you to high standards, still pushed you to be your best, but there was now an underlying respect in his interactions with you. He began to involve you more in strategic discussions, seeking your input on matters that he would have previously handled alone. And though he never directly mentioned the conversation with Jamie, you could sense that something had shifted between you.

One evening, as you were leaving the office after a long day, Frank called you back.

"Private," he said, his tone less formal than usual, "I’ve been meaning to ask—about that day in Afghanistan, the one that led to your demotion. Do you regret your decision?"

You paused, caught off guard by the question. You had spent so long trying to forget that day, to push it to the back of your mind, that you hadn’t expected Frank to bring it up. But now that he had, you realized that you didn’t regret it—not for a moment.

"No, sir," you replied, your voice steady. "I don’t regret it. I did what I had to do."

Frank studied you for a moment, his hazel eyes searching yours. Then, with a slight nod, he simply said, "Good. You did the right thing."

It was a small acknowledgment, but it meant the world to you. For the first time since your demotion, you felt truly seen—not just as a soldier, but as a person who had made the difficult choice to save a life, even when it cost you everything.

As you walked out of the office, you felt a renewed sense of purpose. The road ahead was still uncertain, but with Frank Benson’s newfound respect and understanding, you knew you could face whatever challenges lay ahead. You had proven your worth once, and you would do it again, not just for yourself, but for the lives you had sworn to protect.

[muiitoloko]

hi! Could you write something for Frank but with a younger reader? Something fluffy and cute 🙈(and maybe with some smutt👀) where the reader is a baker (Frank having a seweet tooth🥰) , I find it very interesting and cute when the professions are so opposite/diferent 💫🙈

Ty!!! 💖✨

Title: The Sweetest Mission

Summary: A lieutenant general's routine is upended by the warmth and love he finds at a local bakery.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader.

Warnings: Smut.

Author's Notes: Hey there! That sounds like an adorable idea. Thanks for the sweet suggestion! 🥰💫

Also read on Ao3

Frank Benson drove to headquarters silently, as he did every day. His eyes were always alert, scanning the streets and keeping an eye on everything around him. The gun on his waist was a familiar weight, and his military uniform was impeccable, a testament to his disciplined nature. Frank straightened the tie around his neck, and that was when he saw it—A small, pink, and cute bakery that seemed new, and the sight of the delicacies in the window made Frank's stomach growl.

Checking the clock on his dashboard, Frank saw that it was still early. He would arrive on time even with a quick stop. Deciding to indulge his sweet tooth, he parked the car and walked toward the bakery. The bell above the door tinkled as he entered, and the warm, sugary aroma enveloped him.

You were behind the counter, arranging a tray of freshly baked pastries. The sight of Frank in his military uniform caught your attention, and you couldn't help but smile. With a playful glint in your eyes, you greeted him cheerfully.

"Good morning, sir! Are you here to confiscate our delicious merchandise?" you joked, your voice light and teasing.

Frank's stern expression softened slightly, a hint of amusement in his hazel eyes. "Good morning," he replied, his baritone voice steady. "I assure you, I'm here purely in a personal capacity."

You chuckled, appreciating his dry humor. "Well, in that case, welcome to Sweet Haven Bakery. What can I get for you today?"

Frank glanced at the display, his eyes lingering on the assortment of pastries, cakes, and cookies. His stomach growled again, louder this time, and he felt a small pang of embarrassment.

You noticed and smiled warmly. "Everything looks tempting, doesn't it? We have fresh croissants, éclairs, and some very popular cinnamon rolls."

Frank nodded, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips. "I'll take a cinnamon roll and a black coffee, please."

As you prepared his order, you couldn't help but notice the contrast between Frank's stoic demeanor and his obvious delight at the prospect of a sweet treat. "You know," you said conversationally, "we get all kinds of customers here, but I think you're our first military officer. Are you stationed nearby?"

Frank accepted the coffee and cinnamon roll, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in your cheerful demeanor and the playful sparkle in your eyes. It was second nature for him, as a soldier, to be suspicious of everything and everyone. He read your name on the badge—[Your Name]—and analyzed the situation, questioning silently why you were asking him questions. Was it simple curiosity, or was there something more?

You noticed the suspicious gleam in the older man's eyes and smiled slightly, deciding to lighten the mood. "Don't worry, I'm not a Russian spy if that's what you're thinking," you joked, your tone warm and teasing.

Frank's expression softened a fraction, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Good to know," he replied dryly. "Though I suppose a bakery would be an excellent cover."

You chuckled, appreciating his dry humor. "We do our best to remain inconspicuous. So, are you stationed nearby, or just passing through?"

Frank took a sip of his coffee, considering his response. "I'm stationed not too far from here," he said finally, his tone measured. "Headquarters is about a twenty-minute drive."

"Ah, I see," you replied, nodding. "Must be a demanding job. How do you find time to enjoy the simple pleasures, like a cinnamon roll and coffee?"

Frank looked at you, his eyes thoughtful. "It can be challenging," he admitted. "But sometimes, taking a moment to enjoy the little things is necessary. Helps to keep a sense of normalcy."

You smiled warmly, appreciating the glimpse into his life. "I couldn't agree more. Life can get hectic, and it's important to find those moments of peace. And speaking of peace, I hope you enjoy that cinnamon roll. It's one of our specialties, sir...?"

Frank took a bite, savoring the sweet, buttery pastry. He nodded in approval. "Lieutenant General Frank Benson, and it's excellent," he said, his tone sincere. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," you replied, pleased by his compliment. "If you ever need a break from the chaos, feel free to stop by. Sweet Haven Bakery is always here to provide a bit of comfort."

Frank looked at you, his hazel eyes softening with warmth. Before he could respond, the doorbell tinkled again. You turned your attention to the new customer entering the bakery. "Good morning, Mr. Hart," you greeted warmly, your smile widening. "How are you today?"

The man, dressed impeccably in a suit and leaning on an elegant umbrella, nodded politely. "Good morning, [Your Name]," he replied, his tone polite and reserved.

Frank observed the interaction, his curiosity piqued by the respect and familiarity you showed toward Mr. Hart. The newcomer acknowledged Frank with a courteous nod, and Frank returned the gesture with a slight wave. With a final, appreciative look at you, Frank took his coffee and cinnamon roll and made his way back to his car.

As he settled into the driver's seat, he couldn't help but chuckle softly to himself. He took another bite of the cinnamon roll, savoring the sweet, buttery flavor. "Damn," he muttered, a hint of regret in his voice. "Should have bought another one."

Driving through the streets, Frank reflected on the brief but pleasant encounter. The warmth and lightheartedness you brought to the conversation had been a welcome change from the stern and disciplined environment he was accustomed to. There was something comforting about the way you interacted with him, a sense of normalcy that he hadn't realized he missed.

Arriving at headquarters, Frank parked his car and finished his coffee. He straightened his tie and took a deep breath, preparing himself for the day's responsibilities. The fleeting moment of indulgence at the bakery had given him a small but meaningful boost, reminding him of the importance of finding balance amidst the demands of his role.

As he walked through the halls of the military headquarters, his thoughts drifted back to you and the small, pink bakery. He made a mental note to stop by again soon, perhaps even making it a regular part of his routine. After all, everyone needed a little sweetness in their lives, even a seasoned military officer like himself.

Later that day, during a break between meetings, Frank found himself thinking about the brief conversation he'd had with you. There was a genuine warmth and sincerity in your demeanor that had left an impression on him. It was a stark contrast to the often cold and calculated interactions he had within the military.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized how much he had enjoyed the encounter. Perhaps, he mused, there was something to be said for taking a moment to connect with people outside of his professional sphere. It was a small reminder of the world beyond his uniform, a world filled with simple pleasures and genuine human connections.

As the day came to a close and Frank prepared to leave the office, he felt a sense of anticipation. Tomorrow, he decided, he would stop by the bakery again. And this time, he would buy two cinnamon rolls.

The next morning, Frank moved through his routine with military precision. He dressed in his impeccable uniform, the fabric pressed to perfection, and the shine on his shoes reflecting his disciplined nature. However, this morning held a sense of anticipation as he added a new stop to his routine: Sweet Haven Bakery.

As he approached the bakery, the soft pink exterior and inviting aroma of freshly baked goods brought a faint smile to his lips. The bell above the door tinkled as he entered, and he found himself scanning the room for you. There you were, behind the counter, arranging a tray of pastries with the same cheerful demeanor that had left an impression on him the previous day.

"Good morning, [Your Name]," Frank greeted, his baritone voice warm and steady. "I'm back for another cinnamon roll and a black coffee."

You looked up, your eyes lighting up with genuine pleasure at seeing him again. "Good morning, Lieutenant General Benson," you replied, your voice teasing. "Back for more of our delicious merchandise?"

Frank chuckled softly, a rare sound that surprised even him. "Indeed. Your cinnamon roll was too good to resist."

You began preparing his order, the familiarity of the routine bringing a sense of comfort. "Well, I'm glad to hear it. We aim to please here at Sweet Haven Bakery."

As you handed him the coffee and the cinnamon roll, Frank felt a sense of warmth that had been absent from his life for far too long. He looked at you, taking in your cheerful smile and the way your eyes sparkled with kindness. "You seem to enjoy your work here," he observed, his tone conversational.

You nodded, a smile spreading across your face. "I do. There's something wonderful about creating something that brings joy to others. Plus, I get to meet interesting people like you."

Frank's heart skipped a beat at your words. It had been years since he had felt such a connection with someone, and he found himself drawn to your warmth and sincerity. "It's a nice change from the usual routine," he admitted. "I suppose everyone needs a little sweetness in their life."

You chuckled softly, appreciating the sentiment. "Absolutely. And speaking of sweetness, would you like to try something new today? We have a fresh batch of éclairs that just came out of the oven."

Frank hesitated for a moment, then nodded, feeling a surge of excitement at the prospect. "Why not? I'll take one of those as well."

As you prepared the éclair, you couldn't help but notice the way Frank's eyes lingered on you, a mixture of curiosity and something deeper in his gaze. It was clear that beneath his stern exterior, there was a kind and thoughtful man who had been through a lot.

"Here you go," you said, handing him the éclair with a smile. "I hope you enjoy it."

Frank accepted the pastry, his fingers brushing against yours for a brief moment, sending a jolt of electricity through him. "Thank you, [Your Name]," he said softly. "I appreciate it."

As he took a bite of the éclair, the rich, creamy filling and delicate pastry melting in his mouth, he couldn't help but let out a small sound of approval. "This is excellent," he remarked, his eyes meeting yours. "You have a real talent."

You blushed slightly, pleased by his compliment. "Thank you, Lieutenant General. That means a lot coming from you."

Frank took another sip of his coffee, savoring the moment. "Please, call me Frank," he said, his tone gentle. "There's no need for formalities here."

You smiled, nodding. "Alright, Frank. I'm glad you're enjoying the pastries. It's always nice to see someone appreciate the little things in life."

Frank felt a warmth spreading through him, a sense of connection that he hadn't felt in years. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to be vulnerable, to let someone in. The memory of his ex-wife and the years of loneliness that had followed their separation weighed heavily on him, but here, in this small bakery, he felt a glimmer of hope.

"Thank you, [Your Name]," he said sincerely. "You've made my morning a little brighter."

You beamed at him, your smile infectious. "That's what we're here for. Don't be a stranger, Frank. Sweet Haven Bakery is always open for you."

As Frank left the bakery, the scent of fresh pastries lingering in the air, he felt a sense of anticipation for the day ahead. The warmth and kindness you had shown him were a reminder that even in the midst of his disciplined, regimented life, there was room for simple pleasures and genuine human connections.

Driving to headquarters, Frank couldn't help but replay the morning's encounter in his mind. He found himself looking forward to his next visit to Sweet Haven Bakery, and the thought of seeing you again brought a rare smile to his face. It was a small step, but it felt like the beginning of something new, something that brought a sense of warmth and hope back into his life.

As he parked his car and prepared to face the day's responsibilities, Frank felt a renewed sense of determination. He had found a small oasis of comfort and connection in an unexpected place, and he was determined to hold on to it. With thoughts of you and the bakery lingering in his mind, he walked through the halls of headquarters with a lighter heart and a sense of anticipation for what the future might hold.

Days turned into weeks, and Frank Benson became a familiar face at Sweet Haven Bakery. He started visiting twice a day—once in the morning for his usual coffee and cinnamon roll and again in the evening, just before closing, for a brief respite from the demands of his role. The bakery became a sanctuary for him, a place where the rigid discipline of military life could melt away in the warmth of freshly baked goods and friendly conversation.

You noticed his regular visits, and a genuine friendship began to blossom between you two. Frank admired your work ethic and the way you handled your growing business with grace and intelligence. The bakery's success was evident as you hired more employees, yet you remained as down-to-earth and approachable as ever.

One evening, as Frank entered the bakery, the bell above the door tinkled, and you looked up with a bright smile. "Good evening, Frank. Back for your second dose of sweetness?"

Frank chuckled, his hazel eyes twinkling. "You know me too well, [Your Name]. I can't seem to stay away from this place."

You prepared his usual order, chatting amicably as you did. "How was your day? Anything exciting happening at headquarters?"

Frank leaned against the counter, his eyes never leaving yours. "Same old, same old. Meetings, briefings, and more meetings. Your bakery is the highlight of my day, to be honest."

You blushed slightly, appreciating the compliment. "I'm glad we can provide some comfort. We do our best to create a welcoming atmosphere."

As you handed him his coffee and pastry, Frank's fingers brushed against yours, sending a familiar jolt through him. He found himself increasingly captivated by you—your intelligence, your warmth, and your beauty. He scolded himself for these thoughts, reminding himself of the age difference. You were young enough to be his daughter, yet he couldn't help but notice the way your eyes sparkled when you laughed or how your hair framed your face perfectly.

Frank took a sip of his coffee, trying to shake off his thoughts. "You really have a talent for this, [Your Name]. The bakery is always bustling, and your pastries are top-notch."

You smiled warmly, leaning slightly on the counter. "Thank you, Frank. It means a lot coming from you. You've become a part of our little community here."

The connection between you two deepened with each passing day. Frank found himself drawn to your conversations, the way you spoke passionately about your work, and the genuine care you showed for your customers. He noticed the small things, like the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear or the delicate curve of your neck.

One evening, as the bakery was closing, Frank lingered a bit longer than usual. The last customer had left, and you were tidying up the counter. Frank watched you, his heart beating a little faster. He knew he shouldn't feel this way, but he couldn't help it. You were so vibrant, so full of life, and he was increasingly finding it difficult to keep his feelings in check.

"[Your Name]," Frank began, his voice low and filled with a mix of emotions, "I want you to know that coming here has been more than just about the pastries. Your company... it means a lot to me."

You looked up, surprised by the intensity in his voice. "Frank, I feel the same way. You've become a good friend. I enjoy our conversations and your visits."

Frank fell silent upon hearing you call him a friend. The word struck him more deeply than he had anticipated, and he didn't understand why he felt so disappointed by it. He had grown to cherish your company, and perhaps he had hoped for something more, even if he knew it was unlikely. Silently berating himself for his foolish thoughts, he stood up from where he was sitting at the counter. Straightening his uniform, he asked stoically, "Would you like a ride home?"

You looked up at him, surprised by the offer. "That's very kind of you, Frank, but you don't have to go out of your way."

"It's no trouble at all," he insisted, his tone firm but gentle. "I insist."

Seeing the sincerity in his eyes, you nodded. "Alright, thank you. I appreciate it."

Frank waited as you gathered your things and locked up the bakery. The drive to your home was quiet at first, the hum of the car engine filling the silence. Frank glanced at you from time to time, noticing the way the streetlights cast a soft glow on your face. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, his disciplined nature battling with the growing affection he felt for you.

As you neared your home, Frank finally broke the silence. "You know, I've been coming to your bakery for weeks now, and I feel like I know you quite well. But there's still so much I don't know."

You turned to look at him, curiosity in your eyes. "Like what?"

"Like what drives you," Frank said, his voice thoughtful. "What makes you happy, what you dream about. I see the passion you have for your work, but I want to know more about the person behind it."

Your heart fluttered at his words, touched by his genuine interest. "Well, I love baking because it brings joy to people. There's something magical about creating something with your own hands and seeing it make someone else's day better. As for dreams, I suppose I just want to continue growing the bakery and maybe... finding someone to share my life with."

Frank felt a pang of longing at your words, a desire he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge fully. He pulled up in front of your house and turned off the engine, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light. "You deserve to be happy, [Your Name]. Anyone would be lucky to share their life with you."

You smiled softly, the warmth in his words wrapping around you like a comforting embrace. "Thank you, Frank. That means a lot coming from you."

There was a charged silence between you, the air thick with unspoken emotions. Frank's gaze lingered on your lips for a moment before he quickly looked away, clearing his throat. "I should let you get inside. It's late."

You nodded, looking out the window before turning back to Frank with a playful smile. "Well, my neighbors will definitely have something to talk about now. Being dropped off by such a fancy car," you joked.

Frank suppressed a smile, maintaining his stoic demeanor. "Let them talk," he replied, his voice steady. "I doubt they have anything more interesting to discuss."

Your smile widened, and on an impulse, you leaned over and kissed his cheek. Frank's cheeks flushed slightly, a rare break in his composed exterior. He cleared his throat, struggling to maintain his usual authoritative presence.

"Thank you for the ride, Frank," you said softly, your eyes meeting his. "It means a lot to me."

Frank nodded, his voice a little rougher than usual. "You're welcome, [Your Name]. If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to ask."

There was a charged silence between you, the air thick with unspoken emotions. You found yourself drawn to his warmth and strength, a surprising contrast to his usually stern exterior. "You know, Frank," you began, your voice low and sincere, "you're not as intimidating as you think. There's a kind heart under all that discipline."

Frank's gaze softened, his hazel eyes searching yours. "Discipline has its place," he said quietly, "but it doesn't mean I don't feel. I just... don't always know how to express it."

You reached out, your hand lightly touching his. "Maybe you don't have to express it with words," you suggested, your tone gentle.

Frank's breath hitched slightly at the touch, his eyes darkening with a mix of emotions. "You're very perceptive," he murmured, his voice dropping to a huskier tone. "It's been a long time since anyone has seen past the uniform."

You leaned in closer, your lips inches from his. "Maybe it's time you let someone in," you whispered, your breath warm against his skin.

Frank's resolve wavered, his disciplined exterior cracking just enough for you to see the man beneath. He reached up, his fingers gently tracing the curve of your cheek. "You're playing a dangerous game," he said softly, his voice filled with a mixture of warning and desire.

You smiled, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "I like a bit of danger," you replied, your voice a seductive purr.

Frank's control finally snapped. He leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both tender and intense. The heat between you was undeniable, a rush of emotions and desire that left you both breathless.

When you finally pulled back, Frank's eyes were dark with passion, his breathing ragged. "I've been alone for a long time," he admitted, his voice raw. "I don't know if I can give you what you deserve."

You shook your head, your fingers brushing his lips. "Just be yourself, Frank. That's all I need."

He looked at you, his eyes filled with a mix of vulnerability and determination. "I'll try," he promised, his voice steadying. "For you, I'll try."

You smiled, your heart swelling with affection for the man who had let down his guard just for you. "That's all I ask," you said softly, leaning in for another kiss.

As you pulled back, you saw the genuine warmth and gratitude in Frank's eyes. "Goodnight, [Your Name]," he said, his voice tender.

"Goodnight, Frank," you replied, stepping out of the car and walking towards your building, your heart light with hope and excitement for what the future might hold.

Frank watched you until you disappeared inside, his heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and fear. He had taken the first step towards opening his heart again, and it felt both exhilarating and terrifying. As he drove away, he couldn't help but smile, knowing that this was just the beginning of something new and beautiful.

The weeks turned into months, and the relationship between you and Frank deepened. Your daily routine began to include not just the familiar comfort of your bakery but also the cherished moments you spent with Frank. He courted you in a manner reminiscent of an old-fashioned British gentleman, his approach both endearing and slightly amusing to you.

Frank was always the picture of decorum, his military training evident in every gesture. He would arrive at your bakery with a bouquet of fresh flowers, his hazel eyes lighting up with warmth as he presented them to you. "For you, my dear," he would say in his baritone voice, his tone both tender and formal. It was a small ritual that never failed to make your heart flutter.

You found his adherence to rules and propriety charming, even if it occasionally made you laugh. Frank was resolute in his refusal to kiss in public, a stance that both enchanted and frustrated you. "There are some things best kept private," he would insist, his tone firm but his eyes soft with affection.

One evening, after the bakery had closed, Frank invited you to his home for dinner. He had prepared a meal with the same meticulous care he applied to everything in his life. The table was set perfectly, and the food was delicious. As you sat together, the conversation flowed easily, the connection between you growing stronger with each passing moment.

"You're quite the cook," you teased, taking a sip of the fine wine he had selected. "Is there anything you can't do?"

Frank chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that made your heart skip a beat. "I have my talents," he replied, a twinkle in his eye. "But I must admit, I'm rather impressed with your baking skills. You've turned that little bakery into something truly special."

You smiled, feeling a rush of pride and warmth. "Thank you, Frank. That means a lot coming from you."

After dinner, as you moved to the living room, the atmosphere shifted. There was a tension in the air, a sense of anticipation that neither of you could ignore. Frank took your hand, his touch gentle but firm. "I've enjoyed our time together immensely," he said softly, his hazel eyes locking onto yours. "You bring a light into my life that I didn't realize I was missing."

Your heart swelled at his words, and you leaned in, your lips brushing against his. The kiss was tender at first, a gentle exploration, but it quickly deepened as the passion between you ignited. Frank's hands cupped your face, his touch both possessive and reverent, as if he couldn't quite believe you were real.

The intensity of the kiss left you both breathless, and as you pulled back, you saw the raw desire in Frank's eyes. "I've wanted to do that for a long time," he admitted, his voice rough with emotion.

You smiled, your own desire mirrored in your gaze. "So have I."

As the weeks went by, your relationship with Frank grew more intimate. You found yourself falling for the man beneath the uniform, the one who reserved his sweetest and gentlest moments just for you. Yet, there was a part of you that longed for more, that wanted to break through the barriers of his discipline and propriety.

One evening, after another dinner at his place, you found yourself unable to resist the urge any longer. Frank was in his kitchen, preparing dessert, when you slipped up behind him. You wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing yourself against his broad back.

Frank felt a warmth spread through him as you wrapped your arms around his waist. He wasn't wearing his usual military uniform today, opting instead for a casual outfit that consisted of a well-fitted button-down shirt and dark jeans. The gun strapped to his waist was a reminder of the responsibilities he carried, but tonight, he was determined to focus solely on you.

He paused his dessert preparations, placing the utensils down and leaning back into your embrace. The feel of your body pressed against his back sent a shiver down his spine. He turned his head slightly, catching your eye with a tender smile.

"You know, you make it very hard to concentrate on anything else," Frank said, his baritone voice filled with warmth.

You smiled, your fingers tracing the outline of his belt. "Maybe that's the idea," you replied, your voice a seductive whisper.

Frank turned around to face you, his hazel eyes darkening with desire. He cupped your face in his hands, his touch gentle yet firm. "You've been a distraction ever since I met you," he murmured, his voice low and husky.

You leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a slow, passionate kiss. Frank responded eagerly, his hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you closer. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent as the desire between you intensified.

Breaking the kiss, you gazed up at him, your eyes filled with longing. "Frank," you whispered, your voice trembling with anticipation. "I want you."

Frank's eyes darkened even further, his breath hitching at your words. "You have no idea how much I want you too," he replied, his voice a rough growl.

With a swift, practiced motion, he unstrapped the gun from his waist, setting it aside on the counter. He then lifted you effortlessly, placing you on the edge of the counter. His hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve and contour with a reverence that made your heart race.

"You drive me crazy," Frank murmured against your lips, his breath hot and ragged. "I can't get enough of you."

You moaned softly, your fingers tangling in his white hair, pulling him closer. "Show me," you whispered, your voice a sultry invitation.

Frank's hands slid under your shirt, his touch igniting a fire within you. He trailed kisses down your neck, his lips leaving a burning path in their wake. As he reached the sensitive spot just below your ear, you gasped, your body arching towards him.

Frank pulled back slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. "You're so beautiful," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I want to make you feel good."

You nodded, unable to find your voice, your desire for him overwhelming. Frank's hands moved with deliberate precision, his touch both firm and gentle. He leaned in, capturing your lips in another searing kiss as he continued to explore your body.

But Frank suddenly stopped, his breath ragged and his eyes dark with desire. With a surprising tenderness, he pulled you off the counter, and you clung to him as he carried you towards his bedroom. This was the first time you had been in his private sanctuary, and as he placed you gently on the bed, you took advantage of the break to look around.

The room was a reflection of Frank himself: impeccably tidy, everything in its place. The bed was perfectly made, the surfaces clear and organized. It made you smile, seeing this side of him so clearly manifested in his living space. Frank observed your reaction, a small, shy smile playing on his lips.

When you turned your attention back to him, he hesitated, his eyes filled with a mixture of longing and uncertainty. "Are you sure you want this?" he asked, his voice low and rough. "I can wait if you want to wait. I don't want to rush you."

You reached out, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "I want you, Frank," you whispered, your voice filled with need. "I want to feel my lieutenant general inside me."

Frank's eyes darkened with lust at your words. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. "My baker, you're making it hard to control myself," he murmured against your lips, his voice a rough growl.

You arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him. "Then don't control yourself," you whispered, your voice husky with need. "I want you to take me, Frank. Make me yours."

Frank’s hands roamed over your body, his touch both firm and gentle. He kissed a trail down your neck, his lips leaving a burning path in their wake. "You have no idea how much I’ve wanted this," he said, his voice trembling with desire.

You moaned softly, your fingers tangling in his hair. "Show me, Frank," you urged. "Show me how much you want me."

Frank's breath hitched as he reached out to undress you, his fingers deftly unbuttoning your denim shorts. He pulled them down slowly, his eyes darkening with lust as your pink cotton panties came into view. He paused for a moment, admiring the sight before him, the contrast of the soft fabric against your skin making his heart race.

You noticed his lingering gaze and decided to tease him a little. "Do you like them, Frank?" you asked, your voice playful and sultry. "You can keep them if you want, but I don't think they'll fit you."

Frank's grip on your thigh tightened, his hazel eyes blazing with desire. "You're so naughty sometimes," he growled, his voice a mix of amusement and arousal. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."

He held your legs open for him, his hands firm yet gentle, and pulled you closer to the edge of the bed. Kneeling at the foot of the bed, Frank leaned down and pressed a kiss to your pussy through your panties, the fabric dampening with your arousal. The sensation made you moan, your back arching into him.

"Frank, please," you breathed, your voice trembling with need.

Frank focused on the sounds you made, each moan and gasp fueling his desire. It had been a while since he had been with a woman, and he was determined to make you feel good, to show you just how much he wanted you. He nuzzled his face against your pussy, his nose brushing against your clit through the thin fabric, making you shudder with pleasure.

"You taste so sweet," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "I want to make you feel incredible."

He hooked his fingers around the waistband of your panties, pulling them down and exposing your glistening pussy to his hungry gaze. "Beautiful," he whispered, more to himself than to you, as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your bare skin.

You whimpered, your hands gripping the sheets as Frank's tongue flicked out, tracing a slow, deliberate path along your folds. He licked and sucked, his movements unhurried, savoring every moment. The feel of his warm, wet tongue against your most sensitive areas made you cry out, your body trembling with need.

Frank's hands slid up your thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh as he held you open for him. He sucked your clit into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive nub, and you gasped, your hips bucking against his face.

"That's it, baby," Frank encouraged, his voice rough with desire. "Let me hear you. Let me hear how good I'm making you feel."

You moaned louder, your body writhing under his expert touch. Frank's tongue moved with practiced precision, his years of discipline and control evident in the way he brought you closer and closer to the edge. He alternated between gentle licks and firm sucks, his mouth working you over until you were panting, desperate for release.

"Frank, I'm so close," you whimpered, your voice a high-pitched plea.

Frank groaned against your pussy, the sound vibrating through you and pushing you even closer to the brink. "Come for me," he growled, his voice commanding yet tender.

His words were your undoing. With a final cry, you came, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Frank didn't stop, his tongue continuing its relentless assault, prolonging your orgasm and driving you wild with sensation.

As you came down from your high, Frank pulled back slightly, his face glistening with your arousal. He looked up at you, his hazel eyes filled with a mixture of satisfaction and desire. "You taste even better than I imagined," he said, his voice a low, satisfied rumble.

You smiled weakly, your body still trembling with aftershocks. "Frank, that was incredible," you whispered, your voice filled with awe.

Frank stood up, his hands sliding up your body to cup your face. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, passionate kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. "I'm not done with you yet," he murmured against your lips, his voice filled with promise.

You shivered with anticipation, your desire for him reigniting with a vengeance. "Then don't stop," you whispered back, your voice breathless. "Show me what else you've got."

Frank's eyes darkened with renewed lust as he slowly stood up, the tension in the room palpable. You watched, your breath hitching, as he undid his belt. However, he hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. Instead of continuing, he turned away, walking over to the light switch and plunging the room into darkness.

You were a little surprised, but you understood. Frank's self-consciousness about his body was something you had noticed, but it didn't change the way you felt about him. His vulnerability only made him more endearing to you.

"Frank," you called softly, your voice filled with warmth and reassurance. "You don't have to hide from me. I want you just as you are."

There was a moment of silence before Frank returned to the bed, his silhouette barely visible in the dim light filtering through the curtains. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a tender, yet intense kiss, his hands roaming over your body with a renewed urgency.

"I need you, [Your Name]," he murmured against your lips, his voice a low, rough whisper. "I need to feel you, all of you."

You reached out, your fingers deftly unbuttoning his shirt, pushing the fabric off his shoulders. Your hands roamed over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin and the slight softness that came with age. "You're perfect to me, Frank," you whispered, your voice filled with sincerity. "I want all of you."

Frank groaned softly, his hands trembling slightly as he undid his pants, letting them fall to the floor. He climbed onto the bed, his body pressing against yours, the heat of his desire evident in every touch.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "So damn beautiful."

You smiled in the darkness, your fingers trailing down his back, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch. "Show me how much you want me, Frank," you urged, your voice a sultry whisper. "Make me yours."

Frank's breath hitched at your words, his hands sliding down to your hips, gripping you firmly. He positioned himself between your legs, the tip of his cock brushing against your wet folds. The sensation made you moan softly, your body arching towards him in anticipation.

"Do you feel how hard I am for you?" Frank whispered, his voice rough with desire. "How much I want to be inside you?"

"Yes," you breathed, your fingers digging into his shoulders. "Please, Frank. I need you."

With a deep, throaty groan, Frank slowly pushed into you, the thickness of his cock stretching you deliciously. You gasped at the sensation, your body shuddering with pleasure. He moved with a deliberate, steady rhythm, his hands gripping your hips as he thrust deeper.

You moaned in response, your nails digging into his back as he picked up the pace, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. The darkness seemed to amplify every sensation, the feel of his body against yours, the sound of his ragged breathing, the way his cock filled you completely.

"Frank," you gasped, your voice trembling with need. "Don't stop. Please, don't stop."

Frank didn't respond with words, his lips trailing hot kisses along your neck. He pulled your shirt over your head with a sense of urgency, his fingers fumbling slightly with your bra clasp before finally freeing your breasts. He cupped one in his hand, kneading it gently and teasing your nipple with his thumb.

"You're perfect," he muttered against your skin, his baritone voice rough with desire.

You moaned in response, the sensation of his hands on your body sending waves of pleasure through you. Despite the intensity of the moment, you couldn't help but notice the unusual silence from Frank. He was a quiet man, yes, but this level of silence during sex was new to you. It was almost as if he was holding back, afraid to let go completely.

"Frank," you whispered, your voice trembling with need. "I want to hear you. I want to know how much you want me."

When Frank didn’t respond again, you decided it was time to take control. Gathering your resolve, you turned him around on the bed and straddled him, catching him off guard. Even though you couldn't see his expression in the dark, you could feel the tension in his body. You were determined to make him loosen up, to break through the barriers he had built around himself.

You lowered yourself onto his hard cock, the sensation of him filling you completely sending shivers down your spine. You moved slowly at first, savoring the way he stretched you, but as you felt his hands grip your hips, you knew he wanted more.

"Frank," you whispered, your voice a sultry purr, "I want you to let go. Let me hear how good I make you feel."

You began to ride him, your movements steady and controlled, your hips rolling in a rhythm that had you both gasping for breath. Frank's hands tightened on your hips, his grip almost painful in its intensity. You could feel him holding back, his body tense beneath you.

"Come on, Lieutenant General," you teased, your voice low and seductive. "Let me hear you. Show me how much you want this."

You picked up the pace, bouncing on his cock with a sense of urgency that matched your desire. Each thrust drove you closer to the edge, your moans filling the room as you rode him harder. Frank's breathing grew ragged, his control slipping as you pushed him to his limits.

"Fuck, Frank," you gasped, your nails digging into his chest. "You feel so good inside me. You're so big, so perfect. I want you to come with me."

Frank's hands moved to your breasts, his fingers pinching your nipples as you rode him. The sensation sent jolts of pleasure through you, making you cry out. "That's it," you moaned, your voice trembling with need. "Just like that. I want you to come inside me. I want to feel you lose control."

Frank groaned, the sound deep and guttural, as he thrust up into you, meeting your movements with a newfound urgency. "God, [Your Name]," he muttered, his voice strained. "You're driving me crazy."

You leaned down, capturing his lips in a searing kiss, your tongue exploring his mouth as you continued to ride him. "Come for me, Frank," you whispered against his lips. "Let go. I want to feel you come inside me."

Frank's control finally snapped. With a growl, he gripped your hips tightly, thrusting up into you with a force that left you breathless. The intensity of his movements pushed you over the edge, and you cried out as your orgasm crashed over you, your body convulsing with pleasure.

Frank followed you moments later, his cock pulsing inside you as he came, his groans filling the room. You collapsed against him, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing, the aftershocks of pleasure still rippling through you.

Frank's hands moved to your back, his touch gentle and reassuring. "That was incredible," he whispered, his voice filled with awe. "You're incredible."

You smiled against his chest, feeling a warmth spread through you. "So are you, Frank," you murmured. "You just needed to let go."

Frank chuckled softly, his breath warm against your hair. "I think I can get used to this," he admitted, his tone tender.

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze in the dim light. "Good," you replied, your voice filled with affection. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

Frank smiled, his eyes softening with warmth. "Neither am I."

As you lay together in the darkness, the bond between you strengthened by the shared intimacy, you felt a sense of peace and contentment. You had found something special with Frank, something worth holding onto. And as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you knew that this was just the beginning of a beautiful journey together.

[muiitoloko]

The Grass is Greener

Summary: Frank grumbles about his garden chores on his day off but finds joy and love in the simple moments shared with his wife.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader

Warnings: none

Author's Notes: I finally wrangled my brain into writing something for Frank! I've been itching to do it but was fresh out of ideas. Somehow, I managed to pull it off. Fingers crossed it's not terrible and that you like it! 😅

Also read on Ao3

Frank smiled half-asleep, aware that today was his day off and he could stay in bed later to relax. He snuggled deeper into the pillow, letting out a satisfied sigh, only for the feeling to be abruptly interrupted by the sunlight hitting his face repeatedly as you, his wife, opened the curtains.

"Time to wake up, Frank," you said, your voice cheerful but firm.

Frank groaned, pulling the covers over his head to hide from the light. "Come on, woman, it's my day off. Let me rest in peace!" he grumbled, his baritone voice muffled by the blankets.

You didn't allow it. With a determined tug, you pulled the covers away from him and sat down next to him on the bed. "You promised me two weeks ago that you'd cut the grass in the garden," you reminded him, shaking his shoulder gently. "Every time I remind you, you say you'll do it on your day off. Well, today is your day off, and now I want the grass cut."

Frank grumbled, turning onto his back and squinting up at you with hazel eyes that still held a trace of sleep. "It's because of things like this that I wanted to live in an apartment," he muttered. "But no, you wanted a house with a garden. You said it would be good for the children."

You playfully hit him on the arm, knowing how grumpy Frank could be when he first woke up. "And it was good for the children," you teased. "But now the children are gone, and you're still stuck with the garden."

Frank sighed heavily, running a hand through his white hair. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbled. "The kids are gone, and now I'm a glorified gardener."

You laughed softly, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "You know you love it here, Frank. And besides, the exercise will do you good."

Frank rolled his eyes but couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips. "Fine," he said, his tone resigned. "I'll get up and cut the grass. But only because I love you."

You grinned, pleased with his compliance. "That's my man," you said, patting his chest. "Now, come on. Up and at 'em!"

Frank sat up slowly, his body protesting the movement. "Incredible," he muttered, shaking his head. "A man can be military all his life, but he still can't get out of chores at home."

You chuckled, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Well, at least you're good at following orders," you teased.

Frank's hazel eyes twinkled with a mix of amusement and exasperation. "Yes, ma'am," he replied, his baritone voice dripping with sarcasm as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. "I'll have that grass cut before lunch."

As he stood up and stretched, you watched him with a fond smile. Despite his grumpiness, Frank always came through, and you knew how much he loved your home, even if he pretended otherwise.

"Thank you, Frank," you said softly, your hand resting on his back.

Frank turned to you, his expression softening. "Anything for you," he said, his voice warm. "Now, let's get this over with."

With that, Frank headed towards the bathroom to get ready for the day, leaving you with a contented smile. It was moments like these that reminded you just how much you loved your life together, even with all its little quirks and challenges.

You made your way to the kitchen, the aroma of fresh coffee already filling the air. You knew you couldn't send Frank out to work on an empty stomach—he'd grumble about it all day. Smiling to yourself, you began preparing his favorite breakfast, something he always requested and loved to remind you was the choice of a Lieutenant General, whenever you teased him too much about his military precision at home.

You started by cracking eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a touch of cream and a sprinkle of salt. As the skillet heated on the stove, you moved on to the next component: perfectly crispy bacon. Frank loved the smell of bacon in the morning, and you could already imagine the small smile that would tug at his lips as he walked into the kitchen.

While the bacon sizzled, you began to toast some thick slices of whole grain bread. You knew Frank appreciated the simple pleasures, and a well-made toast was one of them. You also sliced a ripe tomato and some avocado, adding a bit of freshness to the plate.

As you moved around the kitchen, your mind wandered to the many mornings you had spent together, the quiet routine that had become a cherished part of your life. Despite the grumbling and the playful complaints, you knew Frank loved these moments just as much as you did.

Once the eggs were scrambled to a creamy perfection, you arranged everything on a plate—scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, toasted bread, sliced tomato, and avocado. To top it off, you poured a fresh cup of coffee, just the way Frank liked it, with a splash of milk and a single sugar cube.

As you set the plate and coffee cup on the kitchen table, you heard the bathroom door open and the familiar sound of Frank's footsteps coming down the hall. He appeared in the doorway, his white hair still damp from the shower, his face freshly shaven. Despite the early morning grumbling, there was a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Smells good in here," he said, his baritone voice warm with appreciation as he took in the sight of his favorite breakfast. "You always know how to spoil me, don't you?"

You chuckled, gesturing to the plate on the table. "Well, I couldn't let you go out there on an empty stomach, could I? Especially not when you have to tackle that wild garden of ours."

Frank's hazel eyes twinkled with amusement as he sat down and took a sip of his coffee. "You know, I do miss the days when my biggest concern was strategizing military operations, not battling overgrown grass."

You leaned over and kissed the top of his head, your fingers lightly brushing through his white hair. "Well, you’re still my Lieutenant General, Frank. And as your loyal subordinate, I’ll make sure you’re well-fed and ready for battle."

Frank laughed, the sound deep and rich, as he picked up his fork and began to eat. "I suppose that's fair," he said between bites. "Though I must admit, I do enjoy these quieter battles a bit more."

As he ate, you sat across from him, sipping your own coffee and enjoying the peaceful morning together. These moments were precious, a reminder of the deep bond you shared and the life you had built together. The garden could wait a little longer, just for now.

Frank finished his breakfast with a satisfied sigh, leaning back in his chair. "That was delicious, as always," he said, his tone sincere. "Thank you."

You smiled, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. "You're welcome, Frank. Now, are you ready to tackle that garden?"

Frank groaned playfully, but there was a twinkle in his eye. "I suppose so. But remember, I’m doing this under protest."

You laughed, standing up and starting to clear the dishes. "Protest noted, Lieutenant General. Now, go and get that garden looking shipshape."

Frank stood up and stretched, a contented smile on his face. "Yes, ma'am," he said with mock seriousness, giving you a playful salute before heading towards the back door.

As you watched him go, you couldn't help but feel a surge of love and gratitude for the man who had always been your partner, your confidant, and your rock. Life had its challenges, but with Frank by your side, you knew you could face anything. And for now, you were content to enjoy these quiet, simple moments together, one day at a time.

Later, Frank pushed the lawnmower across the sprawling green lawn, the sun beating down on him relentlessly. He strained with each step, his back aching and his arms tiring as he maneuvered the heavy machine. Sweat trickled down his forehead, and he mumbled to himself, his baritone voice carrying a mix of grumbling and nostalgia.

"I want a house with a big garden, Frank," he muttered, mimicking your voice with a hint of playful sarcasm. "Something for the kids to play in. It will be good for the kids, Frank." He shook his head, his white hair glinting in the sunlight. "Yeah, good for the kids, but a pain in the arse for me."

Frank paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He straightened up, looking around the garden with a mixture of pride and frustration. "You say that because you don’t have to push this damn lawnmower around," he grumbled, his hazel eyes narrowing as he scanned the yard. "Where’s that woman when you need her? Not a single lemonade while I’m out here killing myself under this sun."

He resumed his work, the lawnmower’s roar mingling with his muttered complaints. Despite his grumbling, Frank couldn’t help but smile at the memories of when you were both young and newly married, searching for the perfect place to call home. He remembered your excitement when you found this house, with its big garden and space for the children to play. Back then, the future had seemed so bright and full of promise.

Frank's thoughts drifted to the days when the kids were young, their laughter filling the air as they played tag or kicked a ball around the yard. He remembered the family barbecues, the birthday parties, and the lazy Sunday afternoons spent lounging in the shade of the old oak tree. Those were the days that made all the hard work worth it, even if he did grumble about it now and then.

"Still, would it kill her to bring me a cold drink?" he muttered, his voice carrying a note of affectionate exasperation. He glanced toward the house, half-expecting to see you coming out with a pitcher of lemonade, but the doorway remained empty.

With a resigned sigh, Frank continued pushing the lawnmower, his thoughts a mix of fond memories and playful complaints. As much as he grumbled, he knew deep down that he wouldn’t trade this life for anything. The house, the garden, and the memories you had built together were all part of the life he cherished.

Frank felt the heat bearing down on him as he worked under the relentless sun. With a sigh, he unbuttoned his shirt, hoping to cool down a bit. As he did, he didn’t notice you standing by the window, watching him with a fond smile.

You admired the way Frank had aged, appreciating how he carried his years with dignity and strength. His white hair, now damp with sweat, and his chubby frame gave him a distinguished look that you found incredibly attractive. Biting your lip, you debated whether to take him the lemonade you had prepared or continue enjoying the sight of him working.

He had always been a strong presence in your life, and seeing him out there, shirt partially undone, reminded you of the many reasons you fell in love with him. The way his muscles moved under his skin as he pushed the lawnmower, his baritone voice grumbling about the heat—it all brought a smile to your face.

After a few moments, you decided it was time to give him a break. Grabbing the pitcher of lemonade and a couple of glasses, you headed outside. The cool shade of the porch provided a brief respite from the heat as you approached him.

Frank looked up as you neared, his hazel eyes brightening at the sight of you. “Finally decided to come rescue me, did you?” he teased, a crooked smile playing on his lips.

You handed him a glass of lemonade, your fingers brushing against his. “I thought you could use a break,” you replied, your tone light and teasing. “You look like you’re about to melt out here.”

Frank took a long sip of the lemonade, letting out a satisfied sigh. “You always know just what I need,” he said, his voice warm with appreciation.

You smiled, leaning against the porch railing as you watched him. “I enjoy watching you work,” you admitted, a playful glint in your eyes. “Especially when you start taking your clothes off.”

Frank chuckled, his laughter deep and rich. “Is that so?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe I should take my shirt off more often, then.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Don’t let it go to your head, Frank. I still expect you to finish the lawn.”

Frank’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he set down his glass. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, his tone mock-serious. “But I might need a little more motivation.”

You walked over to him, your hands sliding around his waist as you stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “How’s this for motivation?” you whispered against his lips.

Frank’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. “That’ll do just fine,” he murmured, his voice a husky whisper.

After a lingering kiss, you pulled back, your cheeks flushed. “Now, get back to work, Lieutenant General. I expect that grass to be perfect by the time you’re done.”

Frank laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that made your heart swell with love. “Yes, ma’am,” he said again, giving you a playful salute before turning back to the lawnmower.

You turned and shouted over your shoulder, “And don’t look so sexy out here! I don’t want the neighbors admiring my man!”

Frank blushed slightly, a rare sight that always made your heart skip a beat. Even after all these years, he still wasn’t used to your compliments. “You’re the only one who thinks that,” he called back, his tone tinged with a touch of self-deprecation. Despite his authoritative demeanor, Frank always carried a hint of insecurity, never quite believing he was as handsome as you always told him.

You shook your head, smiling fondly. “You’d be surprised, Frank. I’m not the only one who thinks you’re a catch,” you teased, knowing that it would make him blush even more.

Frank laughed softly, his hazel eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, as long as you’re the one who thinks it, that’s all that matters to me,” he replied, his voice warm.

You watched him for a moment, admiring the way he moved with a quiet confidence, even as he tackled the mundane task of mowing the lawn. Despite his grumbling, Frank had always been a man of action, whether it was on the battlefield or in the garden. It was one of the many reasons you loved him so much.

As Frank resumed mowing, you went back inside, a contented smile on your face. You couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude for the life you had built together. Every day with Frank was a gift, filled with laughter, love, and a shared understanding that had grown stronger with each passing year.

Inside the house, you busied yourself with chores, but your mind kept drifting back to Frank. The way he blushed, the way he laughed, the way he always came through for you despite his grumbling—everything about him filled you with a warmth that words couldn’t fully capture. You knew that life wasn’t always easy, but with Frank by your side, you could face anything.

After a while, you decided to bring out another treat for Frank. You grabbed a cold beer from the fridge, knowing he’d appreciate it after working so hard under the hot sun. As you stepped back outside, you saw Frank wiping the sweat from his brow, his shirt now fully unbuttoned. The sight of him, still working diligently despite the heat, made your heart swell with pride and love.

“Hey, Frank,” you called out, holding up the beer. “Thought you might need this.”

Frank looked up, his eyes lighting up at the sight of you. He stopped the lawnmower and walked over, a grateful smile spreading across his face. “You always know just what I need,” he said, taking the beer from your hand and opening it with a satisfying hiss. He took a long sip, letting out a contented sigh.

“You’re spoiling me today,” he added, his eyes twinkling with affection.

You shrugged playfully. “Just taking care of my favorite man,” you said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “You deserve it.”

Frank’s blush deepened, but he didn’t look away. Instead, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Thank you,” he said softly, his voice filled with sincerity. “For everything.”

You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder. “Always, Frank. I love you.”

Frank’s grip tightened slightly, his hazel eyes reflecting the depth of his feelings. “I love you too,” he replied, his voice a tender murmur.

The two of you stood there for a moment, basking in the warmth of the sun and the quiet contentment of being together. In that instant, everything felt perfect. The garden, the house, the life you had built—it was all a testament to your love and commitment to each other.

Finally, Frank gave you a gentle squeeze before letting go. “I’d better finish this up before it gets too hot,” he said, his tone light but determined.

You nodded, giving him an encouraging smile. “I’ll be here when you’re done,” you promised.

As Frank returned to his task, you watched him with a heart full of love and admiration. Despite his grumbling and occasional self-doubt, Frank was the best man you could ever have hoped for. And you knew that together, you could face anything that came your way.