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intheorangebedroom · 4 days ago

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Tonight you belong to me, chapter 6

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

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 Additional 🚨: self-harm, suicidal thoughts

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange bedroom besties 🧡 Thank you for your patience, I appreciate you all SO DAMN MUCH. See you in the end note 🧡 @frannyzooey you're a warrior and I'll go all gothic on you: I will keep loving you long after I'm dead, long after I'm gone, long after love ceases to exist. Thank you for your invaluable help 🧡

Word count: 14.5k

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Chapter 6: Never Let Me Go

Benny bends forward with a huff, and drops the bulky card box he’s carrying next to a pyramid of similar boxes, all labelled “LIVING-ROOM” in black Sharpie. It hits the hardwood floor with a loud thud that resonates in the empty room.

“Fuck me, that’s heavy. Okay. I think that was the last one,” he pants, lifting his baseball cap and wiping his sweat-damp forehead on his shoulder.

“That went fast,” William observes. His brother whips around to face him with a scowl.

“That’s because you took the bags labelled ‘clothes’ and you let me haul up all those fucking books! Fish, what the fuck do you have so many books for, man?” he adds, as Frankie steps into the room, two solid oak planks propped over his shoulder.

“To read,” Frankie answers absent-mindedly, setting down the wood against a wall.

Silence falls over the small square room as the two brothers exchange another wary glance. Frankie doesn’t notice. He hasn’t noticed much since morning, too focused on the task at hand, too caught up in his head.

“What’s this for?” Will asks patiently, pointing at the wood.

“Shelves. For the books. I left the old ones to Lupe.”

“You mean there’s more books over there?” Benny snarls. Will glowers at him, and the younger man pouts, adding in a softer tone, “You know you could save yourself some money and trouble and get shelves from Ikea or somethin’.”

“Nah, I don’t like these things, they’re full of solvents. You’re just breathing toxic shit. Don’t want that for my kid.”

Don’t want that for Lee.

Frankie straightens up and takes a quick look around him. The room is small, yes, but luminous. Clean, and well ventilated, which had been selling arguments. The house itself is no frill, a bit soulless even, but functional. There’s a separate dining-room he plans on converting into a playroom for Lua. Maybe a TV room or an office, when she’s older. The kitchen came equipped and is large enough for a table and four chairs. There are two bedrooms upstairs and, most importantly, a spacious basement where he can work wood.

The front lawn is fine, but the backyard will require a lot of work, the previous owners seemingly having had no interest in tending to it.

It’s good enough for his kid and him, but will it be good enough for you?

He assumes you could afford two houses like this one with what you make in a year. He assumes you live downtown, in one of those lanky glass towers that cast their haughty shadow over the harbor.

He assumes you hate it.

And maybe you hate it enough to break your cage open and leave. Maybe someday soon, your Russian literature will sit next to his engineering books on those shelves he’s going to build for you.

“You got more wood like this at the other house?”

Will’s voice brings him back to the square room. To all the things that remain to be done. To the urgent necessity of furnishing the house so it’s habitable for a two-year-old. A tiny bed with tiny linens, rainbows, stars and suns. Rails to secure the stairs, a shower curtain, drapes and rugs. Safety outlet plug covers.

And the question he has yet to ask you.

“Yea, in the garage. But I can take care of it later.”

“No, let’s get to it, buddy. We can wrap up everything today so you don’t have to go back.”

Benny swipes the hem of his Kiss t-shirt over his face and nods, walking toward the front door. Will’s gaze follows his brother’s tall silhouette before it returns to Frankie, steely eyes of blue openly trained on his face.

The allusion is not lost on Frankie. This house is a mere couple of blocks away from the one he shared with Lupe. He’s not keen on the idea. If it was up to him, if he moved through life alone, he would have already crossed three or four state lines, at the very least. Head north, and maybe west. Closer to his sister.

But he’s not alone. He’s a father. Living nearby makes the everyday logistics of co-parenting that much easier. Daycare, then school. Family doctor, friends and sleepovers. Lua will be able to walk between her two parents’ homes. That’s not exactly a functioning family, but for now, it’s the best he can provide.

“I’m doing what I can, here, you know?” Frankie murmurs, dipping his head under the brim of his hat.

“I know. I know you’re doing what’s best for them.”

Will runs a palm over his nape and winces, hand flying to his left flank.

Frankie has noticed him clutching his side every so often. He can’t tell if it’s pain or remembrance. He’s never encountered anyone with the Millers' capacity to endure physical injuries. Only he knows first hand that guilt-tainted wounds are another deal entirely.

“You okay there, man?” Frankie frowns.

“Oh yeah. Golden.”

“We can take a break. Finish after lunch. There’s beer in the fridge and–”

“Let’s get to it, Fish,” Will insists, patting Frankie’s arm as he walks past him.

Frankie firmly believes that no one over thirty should ever, under any circumstance, ask their friends to help them move. Which resulted in him calling the Millers on very short notice. He had decided early on to leave all shared belongings to Lupe, thus hadn’t anticipated there would be so many things left to move. It seems to him that, until three years ago, his entire life could fit in a single rucksack.

When he saw the two brothers stepping out of Will’s truck this morning, it felt as if a formidable weight had been lifted off his chest. He’d woken at the crack of dawn, setting all the bags and boxes on the front lawn, to spare Lupe the ordeal of having his friends trampling all over her carpet. Not that she’d said anything. She’d gotten up shortly after him, preparing a large pot of coffee, placing a fresh box of donuts on the kitchen table.

“You’re a good man, Francisco,” she’d told him back in early April, when he’d asked her if he should move out, if she wanted him to. “And you’re always going to be the father of my child. I’m sorry it didn’t work out. We’re just not a good match, I guess. You know that, right?”

“I know,” he’d said, holding her gaze. “I just– I want you to know I’m sorry. And grateful. I’m grateful for you, Lupe.”

She hadn’t answered. Lupe was made of heavy silences and sharp thoughts. A perceptive gaze in a movie star's face. She’d pushed away from the kitchen counter, and reached out for his shoulder, giving him a strong squeeze. A gesture that meant, you’ll be alright.

He’ll be alright. That much he knows. When he wakes up every morning between sheets that bear your luminous scent, when your mug is drying on the dish rack next to his and when your clothes are hanging in the closet next to his clothes. Then he’ll be alright.

He cannot wait for you to meet his kid. It’s a childlike anticipation, a fantasy, really. The only thought that keeps him going. That enables him to ward off the crippling dread spreading black and murky inside of him.

When you came back to him with that fresh wound on your forehead, a clock got set off in the back of his head. A distant ticking, at first, stifled by what you hadn’t yet extinguished of his rage and regrets. But every week since, the timer has been growing louder, pulsating faster in his temple like a swollen vein, ominous, threatening, he needs to get you out of there. Out of there, out of your cage, away from this man.

This pain rooted in his chest whenever he thinks of you, that piercing ache has become a hindrance, he can’t keep a clear mind, that one obsessive thought obstructing everything else, he needs to get you out of there. Keep you by his side, where he can make sure you’re safe.

Every Saturday morning, when he parts from you, reluctant and exhausted, the fear that you’ll get caught cheating clenches his hands into vengeful fists.

Cheating is a filthy fucking word that feels all kinds of wrong to describe what you share and everything you mean to him. Bitterly, he remembers how he tried to scare you off, that first night at the motel. Everything he’s done to keep you at arm’s length, letting you believe he belonged to another woman. How he failed and fell hard, beyond the point of no return, how he was doomed to fail from the very first look you exchanged.

How does he fix it, now? Does he step into the motel next Friday and flat-out ask you to move in with him? No preamble, no casual dating, none of that bullshit? Would you get scared? Would you trust him? Would you laugh in his face, reject what he’s offering? Does he get you into the truck and drive away with you into the sunset, like he’s dreamed of doing since the first time he took you for a ride, five months ago?

Will you forgive him? You’ve trusted him so far. Can he push it a little further?

How much more time can he afford to waste, before your safety is seriously at stake?

He needs to get you out of there.

—

There’s a latch on the left side of the window frame, concealed in the sleek aluminum panel. It’s difficult to find, to say the least. Purposely, you suppose.

The pads of your fingers run over the cool metal until you feel a tiny groove in the flat surface. With a satisfied hum, you slide a fingernail into the ridge and lever it up. It’s thin and sharp and it bites into the soft flesh of your thumb.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to open the windows?” Adrian’s voice comes in from behind you, and you whip around like a cartoon thief caught red-handed, catching your balance with the flat of your palm on the glass panel. “There’s no need for it. And It messes up the thermostat.”

His tone is reprimanding. It makes your toes curl.

He’s been gone the entire weekend. Since Friday morning, as far as you can tell. His bespoke, royal-blue suit looks slept in. It probably is. Somehow, even when you’d been buzzing with gin and numbed out on pills, you’ve always maintained enough clarity to notice these kinds of details. To pay attention to him.

Tonight, you’re entirely sober. Like you’ve been for weeks. And you have no trouble seeing the white collar of his shirt smeared with lipstick, the faintest trace of a flaming red pigment. You nearly scoff at the cliché. The flap house motel, the lipstick stain. So much for 2010 Bay Citizen’s power couple.

There’s an unkept air to his general demeanor. The dip of his collarbone peeks out from his unbuttoned shirt, his pale skin is flushed. His hair tousled, fairer without the matting pomade he normally applies to sleek it back, loose strands falling on his forehead, casting a shadow over his brow.

He looks different. A younger, rougher version of himself. He looks handsome. It strikes you, with a sense of guilt to the realisation, like something you’re supposed to know but forgot everything about.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“So you thought you’d open the window?” he asks flatly, breaking eye contact to take off his jacket and drape it over the Stark chair.

“I need fresh air. Real air. It’s too stuffy in here,” you mumble. You sound like a scolded teenager. You hate it.

“Is that literal?” he snarls, throwing you a glance over his shoulder, sliding his undone tie off his neck.

You sink your teeth into your cheek, strong enough to taste blood. You pivot toward the window. The soft pad of your thumb finds the latch and you swiftly lift it, ignoring the bite of the metal. The window frame cracks open. The dried out joints part with a crunching sound.

It’s a mundane sequence of actions. Insignificant, inconsequential. Nothing like following a stranger to a dark, deserted parking lot behind a bar. But inside you, the wild creature stirs, awakened by what you’ve set in motion. You don’t know it yet. But it’s too late to back down.

A briny evening draft rushes in, carrying the bustling city’s noises on its tail, distant traffic, siren’s wails, fracturing the seal of your glass cage.

When you turn back to face him, a smirk is forming on Adrian’s thin lips, one that can only be interpreted as an expression of condescension for your poor attempt at rebellion.

The notion riles you up.

“Actually, it’s not stuffy, it’s suffocating. But you wouldn’t know, you haven’t been here in three days.”

The air stills between you. It’s tangible, ironically, despite the open window. His expression freezes mid-smirk, and your eyes quickly scan his face. That long ingrained apprehension in the back of your brain, desperately, frantically trying to set off all the alarms, but something within you won’t let it. Something new. Something brazen.

Adrian straightens up. For a fleeting second, his expression shifts, unclear, undecided, as though he’s still making up his mind on how to deal with you.

And then, his face settles.

“Well, that’s rich, coming from the woman who’s been deserting her home every Friday night for over half a year.” His lips purse in disdain around the word woman.

It’s rage. That something new and brazen inside you is rage. It’s white-hot, and it’s growing fast, too fast for you to even try to contain it. It fills up your brain, smothering your inner voice and muffling the blaring alarms, overpowering everything else. You can feel it swell inside your chest, powered by the wild creature between your lungs. It takes up so much space between your rib cage, you can barely breathe, and yet you embrace the sensation. It’s not discomfort. It’s strength.

“Another thing you wouldn’t know, since you’re out all night playing poker.” In turn, you scoff at the word, at the lie, at the hypocrisy of this long-overdue squaring up.

His eyes narrow on your face before he delivers the next blow.

“Maybe I had you followed. Maybe I know exactly where, and with whom, you spend your Friday nights. Have you thought of that, babe?“

Blood rushes down to your feet as you break in an instant sweat. Prickling scalp, nape and armpits. The sheer idea is unbearable. This life, or whatever’s left of it, colliding, trespassing on your time with Frankie. At your back, the weak breeze wafts in, and your eyes clench off the vision of the fourteen-story void.

The sound of Adrian’s delighted snigger jerks you out of the intrusive thought. Your eyes are wide open again.

“I don’t think you care enough about the details of my whereabouts to spend money on a PI,” you start, lifting your chin as if your heart isn’t thumping in your throat. “In fact, I think it suits you just fine that I haven’t been on your ass about your whereabouts.”

There’s the faintest hint of a wince altering his smug expression at your profanity, but the words keep pouring out of you.

“Most of all, I think that if you really had me followed, you wouldn’t have missed the chance to ruin whatever you think this is for me. Like you do with everything I–”

“Ruin whatever…? Oh, I’m the one ruining things?” he cuts in, lunging toward you in a movement so sudden you recoil against the open window frame. “When you’re the one who’s single-handedly destroyed our relationship with your fucking pills and your fucking depression? And now you’re having an affair with God knows who! I hope you haven’t been dumb enough to pick him among our circle of friends. And I fucking hope to God it is a man. Maybe you’re a degenerate, just like your sister.”

You hit the mark. He doesn’t really care, and it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but his blatant lack of interest still hurts. After all those years, it still makes you bleed. The pain is washed over by anger, and the cruelty of his grossly redacted and biased narrative of your history. Doubt and guilt tighten your throat.

He’s taken a step back. Hands on his hips, he’s seemingly waiting for you to counter. After a few dragging seconds, when he’s satisfied that he has silenced you for good, he faces away, and begins to unbutton his shirt.

“I— You’re— you’re so fucking unfair,” you stutter, deflating, miserable.

“I’m going to shower. Make sure that window’s closed by the time I get out of the bathroom.”

“I’m leaving.”

The words rise from between the folds of your existence, overdue, evident, irreversible. They slip through your lips, and panic pervades your body at a molecular level.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Adrian retorts with an audible smirk, sliding his shirt off his lean frame, “the Grants are coming over for dinner. That’s the only reason I came home.”

Tim Grant is Adrian’s most valuable client after your father. He’s in politics, in some office or other, you know you should know. His wife Cheryl is a flawless, sculptural blond. A Stanford graduate who has mothered five children. She’s three years younger than you.

You need to get out of here.

You are rooted to the tiled floor, vaguely aware of the lingering taste of blood on your tongue, and your right hand pinching your thigh.

“I’m leaving you,” you clarify.

Adrian turns around and pauses. He looks at you. Looks at you for what feels like the first time in months. At last, you caught his attention.

The alarms are bellowing inside your skull. You have nowhere to go. Ava is over a thousand miles away, everyone you know is primarily Adrian’s friend, and there’s no way you’re going back to your parents.

Beyond the window, the indigo dusk is shifting to blue. The breeze is soothing. It’s Sunday, April 26th, 6.52 pm. You’re standing on the threshold.

“You’re what?” he asks in a thin voice.

“I’m leaving you.”

Something flashes across his face, something you’ve never seen before. This is uncharted territory, for the both of you. He scrunches his brow, narrowed eyes flickering between yours. Lifting both hands, palms outstretched toward you, he speaks in a slow voice, detaching each word.

“Alright, okay, I get it. You’re angry. You can leave the window—”

“I don’t care about the window, Adrian, I am leaving you.”

“Lee, this is not the fucking time for this, the Grants will be here in half an hour and the catering–”

“I don’t give a shit about the Grants!” you burst out.

Adrian’s hands fall limply to his side, his eyebrows jumping to his hairline. He licks his lips, an attempt to regain some countenance.

“Okay,” he concedes in a strained tone, “I guess we’re doing this. Where do you go every Friday? Who are you fucking?”

“Now, you care? Now, you want to know? When I’m halfway through the goddamn door? I gave you ten years of my life, Adrian! Ten years! I loved you! I gave you everything!”

“You loved me?” he yells back, pocking a finger to his chest. “You gave me everything? Are you fucking serious? You are never here, Lee. You’re checked out, 24/7. Is that what you call love? Let me laugh! You never ask me any question about work, you never once came golfing with me. You can’t even pretend to care!”

“You are so fucking unfair! Tell me, how does it feel, to treat me like you do?”

“I am not unfair, Lee, I am realistic! Yes, maybe you loved me, but as soon as shit got real between us, you fucking checked out! An eight-year-long engagement? Really? Is that your idea of giving me everything? I am the laughingstock of everyone at the firm! You want to know how it feels? How it feels when I see your face closing off every time I try talking to you? You don’t know how to love, Lee. You know nothing about love. Unrealistic expectations, that’s all you got. Dreams. Childish fantasies. You’re heartless. Remote. Fucking hollow. Completely unfit for reality.”

The walls ring out with his acid rant. He stands before you panting, unmasked, with his shaking frame and his unfiltered anger, with his truth and his raw pain openly displayed. With his hurt and his loss and regrets. It’s vertiginous, unbearable. Your body recoils into the glass panels, tears spilling down your face.

He straightens up, and takes in a quivering breath, a pointed but vain effort to recompose his face.

“Now would you please be so kind as to clean up, and instruct the maid to set the dinner table before catering gets here?”

But his vulnerability lingers in his voice and your crying intensifies, your chest convulsing under the weight of your sobs, of his words, of all your mistakes, and you slump down onto the cold hard floor, weeping uncontrollably.

“I’m– I’m sorry,” you blubber, “I’m so sorry, Adrian.”

He sniffles, taken aback. Standing awkwardly, he wipes his nose with the back of his hand and takes a tentative step closer.

“Babe, come on. Don’t cry. I’m sorry. Go get cleaned up, we’ll talk about this later.”

But you can’t stop crying, your life is folding in on you, all of your certitudes, your broken heart and your grievances exposed, ugly and distorted, through a drastically different lens.

“I’m so sorry, Adrian. I– I loved you wrong. I wasted– wasted your time,” you sob.

“Shh no, come on,” he coos, crouching down beside you, brushing the hair from your face in a gesture so gentle it only makes you cry harder, hot tears scalding your eyelids, “I’m sorry I lost it. I’m tired. Let’s not talk about this now.”

All you want is to reach out and wrap your arms around him. Hold him tight, stop shaking. Go back to the start, take away the pain you’ve caused. But there’s no going back, and your hands are clenched around your shins, pressing your knees into your chest.

“I’m not the one you need. I failed you. I’m not the woman you need and I tried to be and I led you on– and I wasted your years and— and mine, I’m so sorry, Adrian.”

“Babe, stop crying,” he pleads again, panic skirting his tone, “I’m sorry I lashed out. Fuck, I know I can be an asshole sometimes. We can work this out, we always work things out.”

His clear-blue eyes shine with unshed tears. Everything inside you hurts. Everything inside you bleeds.

“I should have done this sooner. I was so scared. I’m such a fucking coward, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t leave, Lee,” he rasps. “We can– Please. Stay.”

—

You stay, inexplicably. You stay to host the Grants.

Adrian lets you use the shower first, guiding you to the en-suite bathroom, his arm wound around your waist. You keep crying under the hot stream of water, unable to control your sobbing, choking on the hot steam with every shaking gulp of air you take in.

And perhaps it’s the only way you’ll ever get out of here. Dead, chocked up on grief.

You let the water run while you step out of the cubicle. Adrian stores the double-edge blades for his razor above the sink, inside the cabinet behind the backlit mirror. The sharp metal slices a shallow cut in the pad of your ring finger when you grab one. You adjust your grip, splay your hand at the top of your thigh, and slash the blade through your tender flesh, underneath the old scar Frankie likes to tease with his thumb.

Trembling hand, straight line. The pain is searing, your relief immediate. Back in the shower, the blood runs down your leg in crimson rivulets, and your crying finally ebbs.

In the bedroom, you swallow an anxiolytic, then another. The tablets catch at your throat going down, burning your esophagus like shame and failure.

You’re no longer a person, not really, not anymore. You’re the sum of your pains and discomforts. You’re that cut on your thigh and those pills in your throat. You're the black mascara that coats your eyelashes and burns your eyelids, you’re the red lipstick that dries out your lips. Fragments of you, held together by the snug material of a dress that you hate, a gift from Adrian, the figment of someone else’s desire.

When the doorbell rings, your hair is still wet.

The dinner is an awkward mess. Adrian looks shell shocked, powerless to summon his usual charming persona. His answers are monosyllabic, incoherent. To you, it’s a complete blur. You drink fast, and too much, hanging your dazed gaze on Cheryl’s double row of natural pearls. Every time you shift in your seat, a sharp pain stings your thigh. You smile through it.

The poorly executed charade goes on for about an hour before the Grants make a hasty exit.

Tethered by a thinning thread of lucidity, you go straight to your bedroom, Adrian on your heels. He watches you from the threshold as you heave your shabby college suitcase onto the bed, his pale face twisted, clouded eyes, pinched lips. You try to avert your gaze, you need to hurry, to gather your brains, gather your things.

But your eyes flicker back up to him. One last look. One last tear. You stare at each other in silence for a brief moment, until a draft closes the bedroom window with a muted bang. Adrian slides his hands in his pockets, turns around, and walks away. A few seconds later, the front door opens and slams shuts behind him.

Your heart trips and plummets. Somewhere far away, long ago, a small voice implores you to run after him. To beg for his forgiveness. To mend your faded dreams.

Completely unfit for reality.

Nausea lurches in your stomach, and you lower your head to the empty suitcase stretched open across the bed. You need to get out of here.

But what are you supposed to pack? The apartment is filled with reminders of what you’ve destroyed. Photo albums, art, trinkets and souvenirs, Christmas presents, birthday gifts. It’s like slicing through ten years of your life, ten years of yourself, of the person you’ve been and never again will be. Letting that woman die and disappear. What do you need to take and what do you choose to leave?

Completely unfit for reality.

Fighting a sense of urgency, your vision getting more unfocused by the minute, you go through the nightstand and dresser. Prescription pills in rattling tubes, a little box of old Polaroids and Ava’s maternity hospital bracelet, your e-reader and random books, two chargers coiled on the floor like resting snakes… You throw everything indistinctly into the suitcase. It swallows your belongings like a chasm, like a crevice, like a monster with unhinged jaws.

Staggering to the walk-in closet, you slide some clothes off their hangers and shelves, throwing them blinding behind you. With precarious balance, you rise on your tiptoe to retrieve a leather-bound edition of Anna Karenina hidden on the upper shelf. A gift from your Russian lit professor for your graduation, with an inscription etched in his distinguished cursive on the cover page. Something about you being a promising young woman. You haven’t looked at it in years.

Completely unfit for reality.

You pull out a travelling bag, and stuff the book inside it, along with some shoes, and in the bathroom, cosmetics and lotions.

When you try to change out of the dress, blood has glued the fabric to your skin. You have to rip it off like a band-aid, like a life-threatening habit. The slit starts bleeding again.

The suitcase’s tired wheels swivel with a loud squeak over the tiled floor of the corridor. The bag keeps sliding off your shoulder. It’s all too cumbersome for you to drag, heavy like your spinning head, swaying like your vision.

In the living-room, the city’s night lights twinkle and dance behind the floor-to-ceiling windows. You search the room in the semi darkness for something else, something more. Your laptop perhaps, before you realize it’s in your office. Do you need a laptop? You probably do.

Completely unfit for reality.

You grab your I ❤️ NY bag and drop the apartment’s keys on the console by the door. Propelled by the creature in your chest, by decades of silence, by an obscure promise for peace, you leave.

You are in no condition to drive, but you don’t need to be. Your drowsy body’s on autopilot, and the traffic on the 589 northbound is fluid.

You pull up in front of the motel a mere 54 minutes later, and stagger over to the office, where the young clerk with his blond hair in a bun is hunched over his phone.

The suitcase refuses to roll over the gravel. One of the wheels folds and breaks off. You have to walk back to the reception and ask the young man to help you carry everything to the room. Your voice is slurring. You rummage in your bag for some cash to give him, only to find him already gone when you triumphantly pull out a tenner from your wallet.

You don’t fold the dirty bedspread. You don’t clean up your face or brush your teeth, you don’t undress. You kick off your sneakers, and slip under the sheets, Adrian’s words ringing out in your ears. The truth they carry deafening, inescapable.

You’re unfit for life. For reality. You went out of your way to create a relationship with a stranger, exempt of responsibility, of commitment, of any kind of difficulty. So you could revel in the illusion of a bond, of something greater than you. So you could romanticize a hope, without having to materialize its promises.

You cry yourself to sleep.

—

Buried at the bottom of your bag, your iPhone chimes for a solid 14 minutes before you can crack open an eyelid. Your hangover is vicious. It’s a wildfire raging inside your brain. It’s your body thrown off a cliff.

Cautiously, you sit up on the edge of the bed, brain sloshing inside your skull, nausea lapping up at your esophagus. The harsh denim of your jeans rubs over the slit on your thigh, abrading the cut. A brownish stain of dried blood smears the fabric, and you scoff, thinking you didn’t pack any band-aid.

The prospect of dragging your body under the shower and putting on clean clothes feels like medieval torture, but presenting yourself at the office reeking of alcohol and in yesterday’s blood-stained jeans is not an option. Not a satisfaction you’ll grant your father, anyway, and the thought gives you strength.

In the bathroom’s black-edged mirror, your reflection is haggard. Downright cadaverous.

You’re sick a first time, emptying the content of your stomach crouched over the chirped porcelain bowl of the toilet, and then a second time, in the parking lot, after gulping down a tepid coffee from the vending machine in the reception. With the tip of your shoe, you scuff the gravel over the small mess and get in your car, not in the least ready to face the morning traffic, your father, or the rest of your life. But proceeding anyway.

When you step out of the elevator, your father’s senior secretary is waiting for you in the lobby. Adrian has made some phone calls. Kaytee ogles the scene from her desk, a petty glee lighting up her dull features.

You follow the older woman to your father’s office, unfazed, obedient. Absent-mindedly watching her restricted gait, encased between her pencil skirt and 5 inches heels.

Richard is calm. An impassive look on his handsome face concealing all thoughts and emotions, the sleeves of his Armani shirt rolled-up to his elbow. He lets you speak first, he listens in silence.

I’m resigning with immediate effect, the words come out of your mouth easy, and you, too, listen to them.

You expect to be chastised. Scolded like a rebellious teenager. Sent back to your desk with a mention etched in red on your permanent record and a slap on your hands. You brace yourself for the usual words, his favorite weapons, designed and crafted to humiliate and defeat.

Instead, he reasons. He bargains. Calling you a valuable partner. A genuine asset for the company, he says, with irreplaceable experience and unique expertise.

Shadows shift across the glass surface of his desk. His cellphone buzzes, and remains unanswered as he keeps talking, his attention focused on you for longer than it’s ever been. What would your trajectory have been, if he’d paid attention to you from the beginning? If you’d heard his praises as a child?

What did Adrian say? How did he sound?

After a while, it’s your turn to speak. At the first mention of your shares, Richard’s posture and demeanor switches instantly. Before long, you know you’re never getting this money Ava has instructed you to fight for.

You don’t argue, you know better. You’ve witnessed firsthand his power of nuisance. His sense of entitlement and his twisted passion for meticulous revenge. But your father’s ire escalates, until he’s standing next to you, pulling you up your seat by your arm and manhandling you toward the double glass doors.

You wonder how far he’ll go, if he’ll make this public, if he’ll risk the scandal. You soon find out. You’re a rag doll in his hold, as he drags you toward the elevator, seething and sputtering threats.

“You have dishonored me, the name I gave you, your family. You’ve been nothing but pointless ever since you were born. Don’t ever try to come back here. I don’t care if you’re starving.”

As you stumble inside the cabin of the mirror-lined elevator, you realize you never got to retrieve your laptop. You turn to face your father and, looking straight at him, you cover your ears.

Before the doors close with a cheerful ding, you see his face distorted by wrath, turning a violent shade of purple.

—

“What do you mean, the room is taken? Taken by whom?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I cannot disclose that kind of information.”

Raul’s affected attempt at hotelier’s etiquette has Frankie scoffing into the receiver. Or is it Joachim? No, you’d said his name was Raul.

“Wait, it’s taken now, but is it booked on Friday? I just need it on Friday. Why did you give them that room, anyway? I’m pretty sure you got plenty of vacancies.”

The real question is, why is he behaving like an ass to this poor man who’s only trying to do his job properly? Why is he getting so nervous over this? How does it matter if you’re not in room number 2, this week?

“I don’t know if the room will be available on Friday, sir. I am afraid the lady hasn’t specified a date for the end of her stay.”

Frankie’s spine grows rigid. Like a bucket of ice is being poured over his head in slow motion. That ominous ticking fires in the back of his head, so rapid and loud it might fracture his skull open.

“What lady?” he rasps, his throat suddenly parched. “Who’s in there? Is it the– Is it the woman who comes in every week? With me?”

Raul doesn’t answer, and his silence tells Frankie everything he needs to know.

“Alright, thanks,” he snaps, hanging up and throwing the phone on the desk.

An hour and a half later, he’s pulling up into the motel’s parking lot. Lupe has been gracious enough to agree to pick up Lua from day-care, even though Monday is his day, so he’s got the rest of the afternoon to sort this out.

This is foolish, though. He, is foolish. Your car is not even here. He’s probably overreacting.

The thing is, his gut instinct tells him he’s not. It’s a potent, familiar dread, one that sets all his senses on alert. One he’s sworn himself never to ignore again, after Tom’s death. It’s that vision he had on Christmas evening. Your lonely silhouette sitting by the window on the edge of the bed. It’s that pull in his chest. That ache in his flesh.

He gets out of the truck swiftly, with a quick glance at the reception office, and walks straight to room number 2. The place looks even shittier in the bright midday sun. The contours of the low building are pressed flat by the blinding light and the heat. The lime wall between room 2 and 3 is streaked with deep, long winding cracks. The paint on the porch’s poles is chipped, coming off the sun-baked wood in large, crispy flakes. The hanging lights are covered in rust, the base of the railing in mold.

Once more, guilt squeezes his chest tight at the thought that he’s made you come here, week after week. That you docilely agreed to it, and never said a word. That you kept coming back. Back to this place. Back to him, too.

The door is locked. He rattles the doorknob harder, more to shake off his own frustration than to achieve anything else. The yellow curtains are drawn, and no matter how hard he squints, he can’t see jack shit beyond them.

He’s probably overreacting.

What if he picked the lock? Just to make sure you’re not in here?

“Jesus,” he sighs, running a palm over his face, “the fuck is wrong with me?”

He stands in front of the door a while longer, head hung, hands propped on his hips, so still he can feel the sweat beading on his nape. Eventually, he lifts his cap and combs his fingers through his hair, then turns around and steps down the porch.

He’s halfway to his truck when your sedan appears at the end of the road.

—

On the drive back to the motel, you roll both front windows down, and let the warm breeze blow your hair in every direction.

Yesterday, the pain was all encompassing. So sharp and piercing, you wanted to cease existing. Now, thoughts and images come and go, carried by the draft from the opened window. Kaytee moving into your office, and your employment prospects, nonexistent in the Bay Area. Your forgotten laptop. The talk you need to have with Ava. Your financial situation.

Everything seems distant, another woman’s problems. You are numb. Remote. Hollow.

The tears will come back, though. When you ask yourself if this tragicomic public humiliation was your final interaction with your father. If the formal lunch you shared with your mother last Thursday was the last time you’ll ever see her, the last time you’ll hug her frail figure. When you realize you won’t see Agatha grow up.

You will reject the pain. The sense of loss. Of isolation. But it’ll sweep you away anyway.

The fact that you have voluntarily orphaned yourself.

You will choke on your grief.

“I need to start making plans,” you inform the empty cab with an even tone.

Or you could simply hide away in the motel for the rest of your life. Waiting for Frankie, Friday after Friday.

Frankie.

A strangled gasp ricochets inside your throat. You push the thought of him away, bury it deep between the folds.

Completely unfit for reality.

But when you turn into the parking lot, the red truck immediately pops into view, stationed in front of your room. Frankie’s standing a few yards away from it, eyes trained on you through the windshield.

Your body tenses up, a lump grows inside your throat, your grip on the steering-wheel white-knuckled as you maneuver to park.

When you kill the engine, Frankie walks up to your door. There’s a suspended beat, as he motions to grab the handle. But he seems to reconsider, taking a step back and waiting for you to get out.

Raw nerves and flayed skin, you exit the car.

“Are you okay?” he asks when you’re standing in front of him.

“What are you doing here?”

“Lee, are you okay?” he repeats, detaching each word, his large hands coming to frame your face.

Shaded by the brim of his hat, his dark eyes skip nervously over your features. You know what you look like, puffy eyes, ashen face, and you squirm nervously in his hold.

“I’m okay. I’m fine. I didn’t fall again,” you add with an empty chuckle, trying to pull away from his grip, evade his scrutiny.

“Jesus fuck, Lee,” he sighs, shaking his head.

Your spine grows stiff, but his hand is already cradling the back of your head, drawing you in. Hunched around you, he presses your rigid, reluctant form into his chest, into his heat, breathing you in. Face tucked into the curve of his neck, you stand awkwardly still between his arms, terrified of your body’s reaction should you let go and relent, should you lose yourself in the reassurance of his solid figure, of his soothing embrace, of his comforting scent.

Eventually, you wrap your arms around his torso, skimming your hands over the soft, cottony fabric of his shirt.

“Why are you here?” you ask again, your voice muffled against his collarbone.

“I called to book the room,” he starts, talking into your hair, “and this Raul guy said it was taken. By a woman.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I don’t know. I just knew.”

Clenching your eyes shut, you ball his t-shirt in your fists.

“Listen, Lee, I can help you. With whatever it is that’s going on. I can help you. Let me help you.”

“I know. I know you can. But I… I think I need to help me.”

Prove yourself, and that collective we, that you can make decisions, be resourceful, be resilient. Other than through silence and disappearance and pills. Stand on your own. Face reality. Deal with it.

You feel the working of this throat against your temple. His hands span your back, spreading warmth in their trail, finding purchase on your waist with a vice grip, as if to make sure you’re really here.

“I understand.” The deep, velvety roundness of his voice envelops you. “Would you tell me if you needed my help?”

You nod, your cheek brushing the pebbled skin of his neck.

“I promise.”

His heart beats strong and steady against your breasts. You lean into the slow, pulsating rhythm, into his life force.

“I need to talk to you,” you start, and his hold on you tightens. “Can we go inside your truck?”

“Sure,” he answers, but he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t move, and you grow anxious, afraid you’ll lose courage, and the momentum will fall to a halt.

Completely unfit for reality.

“Okay, let’s go,” he finally says, and you lead the way, walking in short strides toward the passenger side of the vehicle.

Once you’re both seated, Frankie turns on the ignition. The AC immediately kicks in. In the harsh, unforgiving daylight, the dashboard is not black, but a faded shade of anthracite gray.

When you turn to face him, he’s already looking at you, the dark pools of his eyes boring into you, searching.

“I left,” you say in a flat tone, your voice as hollow as your chest feels. “I left Adrian. My fiancé. And I felt my father. The company, I mean. I quit.”

He registers the news, the crease in his brow deepening, lips slightly parting.

“Okay,’ he nods. “How did it go?”

“It… I don’t know. It went? I’m not sure if they realize I’m never coming back. Adrian especially. Well, my father too, actually. Although he made it clear that he never wants to see me again. I don’t know. Maybe I’m mistaken. I really torched those bridges,” you shrug.

A myriad of fleeting expressions animate Frankie’s features, too fast for your overwrought brain to read into any of them, before they settle into the familiar frown.

He swallows hard, before he asks, “How are you feeling?”

In turn, you furrow your brow, searching the abyss inside your chest.

“You know the movie, The Dragon Tattoo Girl? Or whatever it’s called? The one with the James Bond actor?”

He lifts a puzzled eyebrow, but nods for you to keep going.

“You know toward the end, when they’re in London and they go tell this woman that her brother is dead, the killer guy. Her abuser, basically. They go back to the car to monitor her computer activity, and she’s just… shopping online?”

“Yea?”

“That’s how I feel.”

He huffs, and you don't know how to interpret his reaction.

“It doesn’t change anything. For you, I mean. My sister’s in New York, she got away some time ago and I–”

“Lee,” he cuts in, his hand flying to grab yours, but you recoil from his touch, “I told you, you can ask me for anything. Anything you want. Anything you need.”

His gaze pierces through you, soft sad eyes, cold hard stare, and you can’t withhold it any longer. You face away, turning to the brass number 2 hanging upside down on the wooden door. Behind it, there's a travel bag and a beat-up suitcase with a broken wheel that contain all of your belongings.

You’re thirty-five years old. You only just broke free, and everything you want is in this cab.

This man, his past, the burden of his sins. The strength and resilience weaved within the fabric of him, his tender touch, too, and the promise of his future. The sense of safety he provides you, unlike anything you’ve ever known in all your years.

His solid body’s thrumming next to yours, steady vibrations caressing your skin. The air between you ripples as if it were liquid. It’s the only thing you can feel. The first thing you’ve felt since you woke up this morning.

His words come back to you, from so many Fridays ago, pained and yearning, Are you real? You never questioned the realness of him. You gave yourself blindly to the reality of this. This inescapable and electrifying living thing between you. It’s not the reason behind your emancipation. But it has propelled you toward it.

Was it all just a dream?

“Do you sometimes think…” you trail off, hesitant. You’re still not looking at him. The heel of your palm comes to rest over your denim, over the thin wound that brings you relief. You press down on it. You wince. “I don’t know how to ask you this.”

His voice rumbles with tension. “Just shoot it straight.”

“Do you sometimes think you’ve replaced cocaine with— with me? With this? Whatever this is?”

You risk a glance in his direction and watch him take the blow, eyes lowering to his hands. He releases a deep sigh, cocking his chin.

“Aren’t you scared you’ve replaced an addiction with another?” you continue. “What if… what if I’ve traded my pills for you?”

His eyes flick up to yours. He stares at you in silence for a while. When he moves, it’s to take off his hat. He props it on the dashboard, assuring its balance, before his gaze returns to you, and you brace yourself, chewing on your cheek.

“Yea, it’s… It’s a valid question. Can’t say I haven’t thought about it. At the beginning, at least. But the answer’s no. I don’t think I’ve traded cocaine for you. I like the man I am when I’m with you. You make me want to be happy. You make me feel good. Coke never made me feel good. It was a means to escape… pretty much everything. I don’t want to escape anymore. I don’t need it. I don’t think I can ever unlearn what you taught me.”

Frankie pauses, letting his words settle over your tense, motionless body. You grit your teeth, your jaw aching.

He breathes in deep. His voice drops to a murmur, low, but firm.

“I love you, Lee. I was never in love with drugs. I don’t think I was ever in love, not really. Not the way I’m in love with you.”

Your body shudders, tears rising like high water inside your throat, face flushing. All of your suppressed emotions come back rushing. Guilt and fear, remorse, rage and resentment. Hope and elation, too. They tumble inside you like boulders falling off a mountain, in a formidable landslide.

“You can’t love me,” you say in a choked up voice.

“Why is that?”

“Because I don’t know if I can be loved. I don't know if I know how to love back.”

“That’s bullshit,” Frankie grunts.

“It’s not,” you retort, aggressively brushing a rogue tear from your cheek with the flat of your palm, angered by the confidence of his statement. “You don’t know– I’m faulty, Frankie. I’m fucked up. Defective. I can’t handle reality.”

“How about you stop talking about yourself like you’re a machine? Nobody can handle a shitty reality they feel trapped in, Lee. Nobody. Just look at me,” he adds with a shrug.

His words open a floodgate, more tears spilling out of you, streaming down your face in scalding rivulets.

“But what will happen when you don’t love me anymore?”

“That’s never gonna happen. I can promise you that much.”

“No, that’s bullshit!” you spit out. “Everything passes! Everything ends! Everything, and you know it!”

“Not this. This never ends.”

His assertive tone, his steady demeanor, your stupid, uncontrollable tears, everything sets off your temper. Yet, something throbs inside you, longing and want, stronger than your rage, pulling you toward his still, solid body. His gaze pins you down, not like a dead butterfly in a glass frame, but like a benevolent shadow stretching over you, seeping through your flesh to wrap around your heart and protect it, keep it safe.

You push back against it, back into the door, the handle biting into your spine, covering your mess of a face with trembling hands.

“I know what my track record looks like,” he says. “But I’m asking you to trust me. My love for you has no end.”

The seat bench creaks under his weight as he moves closer to you.

“C’mere, baby.”

His hand circles your arm, pulling with gentle little tugs until you give in and let him tuck you into his side, his arms keeping you firmly pressed against him. His scent engulfs you, his quiet strength, the rumble of his voice felt through your chest as he hums quietly into the crown of your head, Don’t be scared, you got this, I got you.

Surrendering, you allow yourself to cry, weeping loudly into his shirt, full-body sobs quaking your frame. You might break apart in a million scattered pieces, should he let go of you, but you’re not scared, you got this, he got you, resolute, unyielding, and you weep until the tears run dry, until your rib cage is too sore to heave, until the convulsing of your throat is reduced to a silent tremor.

Releasing his hold, he guides you over his lap to sit you between his legs, and you burrow into him like a small child, eyes drifting close, finally resting.

—

Around the truck, the sky has gradually changed. The crushing, white-hot afternoon light slowly gave way to a fuzzy, faded coral atmosphere.

Frankie’s lost track of the time. His arm is numb, his shoulder sore, but he’s not moving. He won’t risk disturbing you. Your breathing comes in deep and regular, you might be sleeping.

From orange to pink to indigo, the day dies out into the night.

It’s almost dark when you quietly call his name, and he can hear the toll grief has taken on you in the rasping of your voice.

“Is it okay for you to be here?” you ask. “Are you going to leave?”

The questions send chills down his spine. Now is the time to tell you. Now or never. It’s been years since he’s known such a fear.

“No, it’s fine.” He marks a pause, then takes a leap. “What did you mean, earlier, when you said it doesn’t change anything for me?”

Releasing his shirt, your fingers splay over his chest, and with an apparent effort, you push away so you can look at him. In the dim dusk light, he can hardly distinguish your expression.

“I meant just that. I didn’t leave Adrian on your account. I’m not expecting you to do the same for me. I’m not going to ask you to divorce your wife and abandon your child.”

He runs a palm over his face, sighing heavily.

“I’m not married, Lee. I never married Lua’s mother, and we split up a little over a year ago. Right after that… after that bullshit mission I told you about.”

Your silence is unbearable. His heart thumps painfully in his throat.

“We kept living together. Until a week ago. Lua’s still young, it was more convenient. I owed them that much.”

You’re still silent, your mind probably working over the implications, measuring the extent of his betrayal, when he’s asked you mere moments ago to put all your faith in him.

“Why did you never tell me?”

Sweat prickles over this nape.

“It was easier at first. I could keep you– keep you at a distance. I was scared.”

“Scared of me?”

Your eyes glimmer in the darkness of the cab, boring intently into his. He’s reminded of that very first night at the bar, when they bore into his back. When he swiveled on his stool and your gazes met for the first time. When your lives collided. He thinks about how much your eyes have come into focus, since.

“Scared of what you made me feel,” he breathes.

“What did I make you feel?”

“Like I’m worthy of you. What I saw on your face when you looked at me… I didn’t want it, but I also didn’t want to lose it. I didn’t want to risk changing anything. I’m sorry, Lee. I’m so fucking sorry.”

He straightens up imperceptibly, moving to touch you, but you lean back into the steering wheel.

“What did you see on my face?”

The words come out of him in a husky murmur.

“You were burning inside. Burning with life. And you wanted me.”

Everything stands still.

Slowly, your hand goes up to his cheek. It rests there, light and soft. A cool and soothing touch. Like it’s always been. Your thumb strokes his scruff, and he leans into your palm, exhaling painfully.

“I still want you, Frankie,” you whisper, leaning forward, your lips meeting his lips.

—

You step out of the truck feeling drained, acutely aware of every aching bone and tissue in your body. Frankie by your side, watching over your balance, you walk back to your car to get the room’s key. The brown diamond-shaped keychain fits in your palm with a homely feeling.

The room has been made. The artificial perfume of the industrial detergent blends with the musty scent woven into the curtains and rug.

Frankie swallows you in his embrace as soon as the door closes behind you. His mouth slanted over yours, his face pressed into your face, his kisses are deep, needy, desperate, and so are yours. His arms wound up tight around your waist, you cling onto his broad frame.

With infinite care, with measured movements, he starts undressing you. You’re docile, pliant like a sleepy child, giving in to the solace of his touch, relenting to the safety of his devotion.

Kneeling at your feet, he slowly slides down your jeans, revealing the mess on your thigh. Clumps of rusty-colored blood are caked around the flushed, raised skin. The sight stops him. Your heart cowers, your breathing suspended as he stares at your self-inflicted wound.

His left palm skims your leg upward, until the small cut is framed between his thumb and index. When he looks up, you can’t tell if the tears gleaming in his eyes are anger or sadness. You cup his face, so many words stuck inside your chest. So many fears, so many regrets.

Soon, you’re crushed under his weight, spread around his breadth, ankles locked over the small of his back as he fucks his love into you, his hands hooked over your shoulders. His skin rubbing against yours, long, languid, thorough strokes splitting you open. The painful ecstasy only he can give you, when he buries himself deep inside you, his forehead pressed to yours. Healing all of your wounds.

He’s breathing you, his heart thumping inside your rib cage, I love you, Lee, I love you, but your words still won’t come out, so you nod, and he knows. Your nails sink into his back, and you pray that he knows.

For the first time ever, you sleep in his arms throughout the night. His chest to your back, a thin shin of sweat between your two bodies. His steady breathing fanning the hair on your nape. You wake up together, on a Tuesday morning.

Stirring out of sleep, he pulls you flush against him. His plush lips trace a wet path of open-mouth kisses along your neck, exploring the expanse of your skin, drawing ephemeral patterns, warm and unhurried. Softly humming, he tastes you, licking your sweat, inhaling your scent, nuzzling the edge of your jaw and nibbling your earlobe, his cock hardening against your cheeks, his calloused hands kneading the soft swell of your belly.

His mouth rounds over the slope of your shoulder, and he sucks in sharply. You jerk between his restraining hold, his tongue peaking out to ease the blooming bruise.

You lift a sleep-heavy eyelids and the morning light hits your iris. Dust particles suspended in the golden sunbeams, the musty smell from the sun-warm curtains carried in the air. His teeth sink in sharp at the base of your neck, a low growl rumbling from his chest, primal and possessive, and it dawns on you. What he’s doing.

The realization thrums along your nerve-endings, courses through your veins, it blooms wild and spreading inside your chest. He is yours. He was always yours. He was never running away from something, not really. He was running to you.

He chose you, remote and aloof. A bottomless well of craved affection, lonely scars, lost ideals, and he filled you. Imprinted on you his want and his need, his trust and reverence, in all the ways you let him.

You summoned him. He found you. He appeared.

You push back into him, granting him access to the line of your throat, and his bite sinks in deeper. Your fingers card through his hair, heart bursting, body like a fever, arousal pooling slick and sticky between your hips.

He fucks you slow. Shallow thrusts, the fat head of his cock teasing your entrance, inching further inside your heat with each dragging stroke. His arm banded across your chest and his hand between your folds, he commands your pleasure, flooding all your senses, until you cry out his name, until he comes with you, until your bodies are spent.

You shower together, and drive to a nearby diner for breakfast. Sitting in a red pleather booth, you drink strong filter coffee and devour thick, buttery pancakes, Frankie’s spend trickling down your panties as you watch him shovel scrambled eggs inside his mouth with a ravenous appetite, his face beaming with a dimpled grin.

Your smile is so wide, your cheeks hurt.

On the way back, he stops by a CVS to get plasters, gauze and an antiseptic ointment. In the room, kneeled between your thighs, he lets you twirl his curls around your fingers while he dresses your small wound in silence, cautious and meticulous, deft and experienced.

You know you should talk, know you should start making plans, but he carries his heart in his hand, and his touch is soothing, and your want is restless. High after high, your body tenses and breaks, as he fucks your cunt, your ass, your face, fills you up with his come, greedy teeth sunk into your flesh.

After making a few calls, he stays another night, and when he leaves for work on Wednesday morning, you spend several minutes observing your reflection in the bathroom’s black-edged mirror. You look good, if not rested, your skin gleaming with a flattering post-orgasm glow.

You detail the bite marks adorning your skin. They’re everywhere. He hasn’t been gentle. He hasn’t been careful. Some of them still a little sore when you poke a finger into the bruised, tender flesh. The mild pain draws a buzzing, electrical line from your heart to your core. You smile at your reflection. Stop me, you challenge the woman in the mirror. She smirks back at you. She’s so beautiful, so confident, your breath hitches.

Eventually, your current situation resurfaces. Calling Ava sits at the top of your mental checklist. You wait for a couple of hours, until her lunch break, to dial her number. The first ringtones send you into a brief panic. Above the desk, the woman in the mirror is looking at you. You anchor yourself to her image.

When Ava picks up, you tell her what happened in terse words: you broke up with Adrian, then quit. You’re currently staying in an out-of-town motel.

She hollers into the receiver, and you wince with an uncertain smile, holding the phone away from your ear. There are a few cheerful curses as she expresses her pride and surprise, but she quickly gets back on track.

“So when are you coming here? You’re coming here, right? Richard is gonna make sure you never work again over there. You know that, right?”

“Yes, I know,” you concede ruefully.

That’s the part of the conversation you should have planned ahead. But you’re still riding high on the fuck-drunk euphoria of the last two days. She questions you for more details, demanding an elaborate report of the events that you’re not too keen on remembering, nor submitting to her judgment. She left without a word, without a goodbye, unnoticed, unacknowledged. You had to confront not one, but two of them.

It occurs to you that you don’t have to tell. Nothing forces you to. Maybe, for the first time ever, you can curate your own experience. Refuse to give in to peer pressure, however benevolent. Define your own story. Be its main character, and its sole narrator.

“What would I do in New York, anyway? Crash your couch? And then?”

“I told you, Polly has a job for you.”

“No, you said Polly could help me find something. Now she has a job for me? What kind of job?” you frown. “At her practice?”

“No, no. Something in a publishing company one of her clients owns. I don’t know, nothing fancy apparently, but enough to get you started.”

“And what, they’re holding a position for a woman without any qualification and zero experience in their field?”

“If Polly says it’s a sure thing, then it’s a sure thing. Call her. She only mentioned it in passing, we never actually thought you’d fucking leave, Lee! And our couch is very comfortable, I’ll have you know.”

This goddamn collective we.

When you hang up, nothing is decided. Frankie won’t be back until Friday evening. You're going to be on your own to stew over the crossroads for the next two days.

Lost in the liminal sequence.

Ava is right. You could never find a decent job in Tampa. You can’t stay here. You don’t even want to stay. You hate this city, you hate this fucking state. It has been your life-long dream to break-free and get away. The idea of staying inside your father’s radius of influence, within reach of Adrian, gives you the wrong kind of chills.

But New York? Do you really want to live there? The city has always mildly scared you, with its buoyant history and its mythical aura. Too big, too noisy, too stressful. Completely anonymous. It would be so easy for you to drown in there. Forever disappear.

The truth is, there isn’t any place you can see yourself living in, because you don’t want to live anywhere without Frankie.

Only right now, the sheer thought of being despondent on another man rises bile in your stomach. You will never be that woman, ever again.

“Here is fine,” you sigh with a pout, looking at the one-dollar store painting of the Appalachian. “Why can’t I just stay here forever?”

Completely unfit for reality.

Adrian’s words seem to find you everywhere. They followed you all the way here, in your hiding place, plucking at the safety blanket Frankie’s care has swaddled you in. You shudder in the warm, quiet room.

Well, fuck Adrian. Fuck your past. Fuck his words and their condemning truth.

Step by step. That’s how you’ll proceed. You need to secure your financial situation. You need a new laptop. You need to buy underwear to replace the ones you forgot to pack. And you need food.

You get dressed and drive to an Apple Store in town, where the price tags on the MacBooks make your eyes bulge. You’ve truly been living inside a despicably privileged bubble. Guilt makes your skin grow tight.

After running a quick search on your phone, you find a second-hand electronic store, where you purchase a refurbished laptop for a quarter of its original price. You feel stupid for feeling so smart. After all, you’re only experiencing most people’s life. The thought helps you follow through with the rest of your errands, starting with the bank.

When you come back to the motel with your shopping bags and some takeaway Thai, however, the problem of your immediate future remains unsolved.

Deliberately stalling, you start fiddling with the computer. The motel doesn’t have Wi-Fi, but you manage to tether the laptop to your phone. The small victory alleviates your anxious sadness. You settle over the bed, back propped against the pillows, and watch brainless social media content as you eat. A warm breeze wafts in through the cracked-open window. This is good, you think. The life-altering decisions can wait.

Over the next couple of days, you gravitate within a few miles radius of the motel, only going out to buy food and take short walks in the surrounding area. Exploring its vicinity in broad daylight anchors the motel in a reality you are not ready to confront. The fact that it’s always felt like an isolated island is what brought you a sense of safety in the first place.

But being on your own is exhilarating. You can sleep in late without having to put up with the nagging beeping of an alarm-clock that’s not even yours. Choose to shower, or not, skip a meal or eat pancakes for dinner. You can watch Parks and Recreation bloopers all night long and never tune in to a financial show ever again. You can sleep with the window opened and listen to Disintegration fifty times in a row. Your newfound freedom is in every little detail.

When Frankie comes back on Friday evening, carrying a six-pack and a takeaway bag, he finds you bare-faced in your sleeping t-shirt, sitting cross-legged on the dirty carpet, watching SNL Digital Shorts on your good-as-new computer.

He sets the beer and the bag on the desk. An appetizing aroma fills the room. Freshly made burritos from his favorite place.

Silently patting the space next to you, you invite him to join, but he faces away, hiding his soft smile from you. He takes off his hat, then toes off his boots, and your heart somersaults at how far you’ve come since your early rituals.

Walking over to you, he crouches at your side to inspect the bandage on your leg, that you changed every day, per his instructions. Seemingly satisfied with your handiwork, he pivots to sit down, his knees protesting with a resounding POP that makes him grunt, and you're overcome by a powerful wave of fondness. Oblivious to the food and the videos on the screen, you unfold your legs and climb over his lap in a straddle.

“Evening, baby,” he greets you with a round chuckle, soft as velvet, as you lean in for a greedy kiss, prompting him to open with a swipe of your tongue over his plush lips.

He responds in kind, voracious mouth slanting over yours, tongue licking inside you. Your arms wrap around him, fingers burrowing into the plane of his strong back, the heady scent of him, leather and musk, filling your brain with static and your belly with want. His warm hands slide under your shirt, calloused palms roaming the expanse of your naked chest. He swallows your wanton moans, thumbs playing over your peaked nipples and you take, back arching into his chest, nails digging, hips rolling.

His touch gets rougher, his hands a kneading grasp over your soft breasts, over the dip of your waist, the swell of your ass, desire pooling hot at your center as his tongue licks and twirls inside your mouth. Chasing the contact of his growing bulge, you bear down over his harsh denim, and his breathing comes in shorter, fingertips teasing the elastic band of your cotton panties. You exhale heavily through your nose, slick soaking his jeans through the soft fabric.

His lips curve into a grin, thick fingers sliding under your panty-line. He presses into the dip underneath your hips to part your leaking folds with an explicit sound. You push harder into him, into the wall of his chest, forcing him to lean back, your need coiled like a wound spring, angling his face with a harsh tug on his curls to catch his lower lip between your teeth.

“Fuck, okay,” he growls, straightening up with a cinch.

His fingers clutch the swell of your ass and in one swift motion, the room around you swivels, you’re on your back, legs bracketing his waist.

As he unbuckles his belt, your gaze follows the rippling of his lean muscles along his forearms to the shifting bulk of his biceps, lingering on the round of his shoulders and his corded neck, up to his gorgeous face. Tousled hair, kiss-swollen lips, cherry-red, curved in a boyish grin. Black, lust-blown pupils that watch you watch him.

A clear laughter rises from your chest and bubbles in your throat, its music beautiful to your ears, almost alien, long forgotten.

His grin widens, dimpling his face, and he tugs off his shirt, throwing it at random in the room behind him. Your laughter dies in your throat; it steals your breath away, it always does, the sight of his naked chest, towering over you, gleaming golden in the soft hues from the bedside lamps. The dips and planes, the pattern of his freckles, the scars you could trace with eyes closed. The stories they tell, your precious secrets, your treasured knowledge.

A flat press of his palms over your knees, and he spreads your legs open, exposing the wet patch on your underwear to his gaze, and his smile falls, his expression turning wilder, dark and hungry.

“Fucking soaking wet,” he husks, chucking down his jeans, pulling out his stiff length from his boxer briefs, and you squirm over the rough rug with a pleading whimper. Spiting in his hand, he starts stroking himself, eyes trained on your core, deft fingers loosely circling his cock in a slow up-and-down motion. Saliva pools in your mouth, you clench around nothing.

“What’s that t-shirt?” he asks, bending closer to you, slotting his cock between your folds over the slick-drenched fabric of your panties.

“Oh god,” you gasp. “That– what?”

“That t-shirt you’re wearing.”

You can feel the throbbing weight of his sex, feel its heat as it rubs back and forth over your swollen clit, and your mind scrambles.

“From– from college.”

“You’re gonna keep it on,” he tells you, his left hand finding your breast and giving it a tight squeeze through the worn-out material. “You look so young, it’s like I’m fucking you in your dorm.”

The fat head of his cock nudges at your entrance, pushing the soaked fabric in, and your mouth falls open, hips arching into him.

“Like I knew you back then. Like I’ve always known you,” he rasps after a thick swallow. “Like a second chance. You know?”

“I know,” you mouthe with a short nod.

Hooking the tip of his finger, he slides your panties aside, just enough to line himself up, slowly inching inside your heat with a strained groan.

“Shit, baby, you’re tight.”

The stretch is impossible, the size of him blinding, and you hiss and squirm, but his hold on your waist is bruising, keeping you in place as he thrusts inside you inch by inch, thick cock catching at your entrance.

There’s the working of his throat as he gathers saliva in his mouth, and he locks eyes with you, making sure you’re watching, before he lets it slide along his tongue straight onto your cunt. The rough carpet scraps your ass as you writhe against his restraint, against the terrifying notion that he always knows just what it is that you want, that he always makes sure you get it.

“You wanted it, now you gotta take it. You’re gonna take it like a good girl.”

“Yes, Frankie,” you breathe out, nodding again, surrendering, bucking your hips into him.

“Oh yea, good girl, that’s it,” he coos. “Gonna stretch that pretty little cunt on my cock, until you come all over it,” he says, moving inside you, “until you beg me to stop–”

“I’ll never beg you to stop,” you breathe out, brows furrowed, sweat beading at your temples as you take his first shallow, labored strokes.

“Wanna bet?” he asks, drawing your legs over his lap with a sudden tug, deepening his thrusts at a blinding angle.

You thrash your head, back arching off the carpet, a guttural sound vibrating in your throat as he starts fucking into you at a steady pace, his cock dragging along your walls, leaving you no choice but to accommodate his girth.

With a small grunt, he thrusts in deeper, the round head of his cock grinding against your center and your fingers scrabble frantically, flying to his chest and clawing at the meat of his muscles.

“That perfect fucking cunt,” he says, eyes trained on where he disappears into you, “you feel so fucking good, Lee. You’re so beautiful. Say it.”

“I’m beautiful,” you say in a warped voice.

“You’re fucking perfect. Say it, Lee,” he husks, drilling inside you faster, with undiluted strength, clutching your waist and sliding you over his cock so you meet him thrust for thrust.

“Oh god, Frankie,” you beg, after all, taking hold of his wrists, a desperate attempt to slow down his merciless pace.

Leaning forward, he covers you with his broad frame, crushing you into the rug, spine undulating as he thoroughly wrecks you, unrelenting, his speed escalating.

The heady musk of his scent fills your nostrils, so thick you can taste it. His hot breath scalds the shell of your ear, brutal shockwaves radiating from your center with each of his strokes, each of his words.

“Be a good girl, and say it,” he pants, “say you’re perfect.”

—

You’re mine, Lee Abbott.

Celadon green, and a pale shade of yellow. He knows your scent will haunt him long after you’ve left him. You’re a part of him now. He made you so. You’ll forever be woven into his flesh, into his very soul.

You’re mine. Lee Abbott.

He never speaks those words out loud. He’ll sooner die than compromise or be a hindrance to your newfound independence.

But god, you’re his. Your entire body bears the mark of his desperate plea. Bite marks on the swell of your hips, the round of your ass, the curve of your neck. Heart shaped flecks of crimson, blossoming underneath the surface of your thin skin along the line of your throat, your collarbone, and the weight of your tits.

Every night, he covers you in his sweat and his spit, before he fills you up with his come.

I love you, he said instead, that first night, and you never replied. In a few days, you’ll be gone, and it might very well kill him, but he will let you go.

And maybe, from the start, he was more yours than you ever were his. A part of him knew it. The part that tried resisting your pull. The part that compelled him to run away from you that very first night.

Two weeks. Two weeks, and you’ll go north. Live with your sister in New York. Start over.

There was this talk, over cold burritos and warm beer. He ate with reluctance, desirous to keep your taste on his tongue. Forever preserve the flavor of your orgasm that he lapped from your folds.

That talk that tore his bleeding heart right out of his chest, when you hinted you might have to leave town. You couldn’t explain, you said. Couldn’t make sense of it. You said, I just want to stay here in this room, with you. I don’t want anything to change.

But it made sense to him. You had to leave, put physical distance between yourself and those who’d wounded you continuously throughout the years, so you could rebuild your life, rebuild yourself. And you needed to be on your own to do this the right way. Once more, he reveled in your courage. He admired your strength.

He hadn’t measured the extent of his hatred for this man until you pronounced his name. Adrian. Your fiancé. This shit stain. Ever since you broke free, he’s had violent dreams about him. A faceless, lanky silhouette, he beats him to a pulp until his knuckles burst over the man’s skull. He wakes up feeling blood spilling warm and gooey between his fingers.

The local newspapers continue to allude to your departure from your father’s company. Short, carefully redacted articles downplaying the event with meticulously curated talking points. Typical PR damage control bullshit.

He looks them up, and never mentions them, of course, but every so often, when he arrives from work, he finds you hunched over your laptop, brow furrowed, bloodshot eyes. Quickly shutting the computer close as soon as he approaches. You’re preparing the after, you say. Scouting for jobs, apartments, and once more, he chooses to believe you.

But then, you cry at night. Silently heaving next to him, your face buried into the pillow to muffle the sound of your heavy sobbing. He pulls you into him, into his chest, wrapping his body around your shaking frame. Chin tucked over the crown of your head. Humming into your hair. You seem so frail, so vulnerable in his hold, and he wishes to absorb your loss, annihilate the pain, rip it from you and make it disappear.

I got you, Lee. Don’t be afraid, you’ll get through this.

Can you hear him, then? Do you believe his words of reassurance? You fall asleep with your hands clutching his shoulders, exhausted, the wrong kind of spent.

You need to go. And he’ll let you leave. Your needs are his needs. They dictate his life. He’ll be right here, waiting for you on the other side.

He said, This never ends, and he meant every word.

But the fucking pain.

Constantly ripping through his chest, it’s in everything he does, tainting your last days together. In every look at your gorgeous face, in every kiss, every stroke, every embrace. It’s there when he marvels at the graceful ways in which you move, at your recovering appetite, at your patience with him when you let him dress your wound that’s long healed.

It’s in the blissful domestic routine you two have so naturally fallen into. It’s in his every thought, at work, with his kid, with you. When he comes to you at night, in this shithole that feels more like home than his new house does.

And whenever he opens his mouth, he fears he’ll betray himself. The words are always there, in the back of his throat, ready to pour out of him. I want you to meet my daughter. I want you to move in with me. I’ll provide for you. You can be whoever you want. Stay. Stay with me.

You’re mine, Lee.

Two weeks isn’t enough. Two lifetimes wouldn’t be.

—

The small cantina is crammed, swarming with boisterous kids and their harassed parents. A continuous clamor hangs over you like a lead lid, you don’t think you’d be able to hear your own voice if you were able to speak.

Frankie’s head is dipped, his face half concealed behind the brim of his trucker hat, his broad frame hunched over his tray. He hasn’t touched much of his food, and you have yet to start on yours. When you left the motel, a quick lunch had sounded like a good idea. A welcome distraction from the impending separation.

Now, it feels like moving through a bad dream, like running away in slow motion from an ineluctable disaster.

Inside your palm lingers the ghost sensation of the room’s keychain. You balled your fist around it before checking out at the reception. You raked your brain for an excuse to keep it, and found none.

Two weeks ago, you’d thought leaving was the right thing to do. He said he understood your decision. He said, I’ll wait for you.

And when you booked the flight, the date, however close, seemed surreal. Somewhere in the distant future, intangible. As the day drew near, you did what you do best. You refused to acknowledge the reality of it, eluding the prospect, reasoning with yourself that you were merely preserving your last moments with Frankie.

Now, the take-off only a couple of hours away, your luggage stored in the truck’s tailgate, you can’t shake the feeling that this is a terrible mistake. You don’t care about rebuilding your life. You don’t give a damn about having a job, about emancipating, about being an independent woman. You want to build a home with him. You want to become his wife, to raise his daughter. You want to be his forever.

You’re going to be sick, is what’s going to happen.

“Should we go?”

You meet his shadowed eyes, fighting the tears that fill up yours, and nod in agreement.

Outside the cantina, the heat hits you like a brick wall. Thoughts rush to your head, about the New York winters, the harsh, icy winds, the snow. The clothes you’ll have to buy. Wool sweaters, boots, a coat. Familiarize yourself with the subway. Those dark, underground tunnels. The ramifications of what this new life entails are overwhelming.

You look up at Frankie and there is no cold hard stare. Only his soft sad eyes, and the gentle caress of their mahogany light, and the pleading arch of his brow. You’re hanging off a cliff, suspended over the abyss, grasping at the dirt, like the wild creature in your rib cage, trying to claw its way out and back to him, where it belongs. Where you belong.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

“Okay, I’ll call a cab,” you say into your bag, looking for your phone, heart thumping in your throat, tears prickling your nose.

Frankie sighs, a constrained, pained rasp of a breath. He props his hands on his hips, cocking his leg to the side, and the heel of his boot scuffs over the asphalt.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you to the airport?”

The swelling lump in the back of your throat won’t let you talk, so you shake your head no.

“I can drive you all the way there, if you want. New York, I mean. We could… we could make a detour. Through the Appalachian. See that ugly painting in the real.”

His attempt at a cocky smile fails to reach his eyes.

A first tear spills out from the corner of your eyes. A fat, angry droplet that rolls down your cheek to hang on the edge of your jaw.

“Hey now, don’t cry. C’mere.”

Your bag falls to the floor when you crash into the solid warmth of his chest. Winding his strong arms around you, he cups the back of your head in a gentle, careful cradle, lifting you up in his hold.

His cap falls to the ground when you thread your fingers through his hair. You burrow into his neck, into him. You want to live inside his body, meld with his bloodstream, wrap around his heart, become his heartbeat.

He breathes you in, the plush press of his lips a warm caress on your temple, and more tears flow out of you.

“I wish you could come with me.”

“I know, baby. I wish I could come with you.”

“I would—” you start with a sob, “I would love her like a mother. I could. I know I could.”

“I know you would. Of course, you would. Hey, look at me,” he says, putting you down and pulling away just a notch, cupping your wet face with both hands. “This is not over. It can never be over. It’s just the beginning. The beginning of something different.”

Eyes fluttering shut, you tilt your head to the side, his calloused palm grazing your cheek, to place a kiss on the inside of his wrist. Over the small tattoo you never got a chance to ask him about. You inhale him there, musk, leather, safety. You let your head rest between his hands, the same way you placed your life between his lips, many months ago.

“Frankie, I need to ask you something.”

“Anything.”

“Why… That very first night, in the bar. Why did you turn around? What made you look at me?”

His face falls. The crease in his brow deepens as he visibly ponders over his answer. The sun backlights his curls with a golden halo. When he speaks, his voice is a low rasp, a round aching husk.

“I’d been searching for you for a long time.”

He thumbs away a stray tear from the apple of your cheek; he scratches his throat.

“Call me when you get to the airport, okay? And when you board. And when you land. Okay?”

A wistful smile lifts the corner of your lips. Looking at him through hanging tears, you say, “I just realized we’ve never ever talked on the phone.”

Frankie breathes in deep, his smile mirroring yours. So beautiful, so strong. So soft. Yours.

“See, baby? We got so many things to look forward to. It’s just the beginning.”

*****

Thank you so much for reading and for your patience 🧡 I hope you liked it. Remember, there's still an epilogue. It will be shorter, so it shouldn't take me too long to birth it, if my brain cooperates 🤞🏻

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chronicallyonlinewriter · 8 months ago

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Benny & Joel

I am absolutely dying over this piece of art that the wonderful @bumblepony surprised me with, commissioned from the amazingly talented @miranhas-art (who has made some of my favorite Pedro character art on Tumblr). Based on a scene from chapter 15 of As Long as You Follow:

Sometimes these evenings were a little different. Sometimes wine flowed a little more generously (for her) while familiar music played from Alexei’s CD player. He danced with her now whenever she asked him to, without protest, because he didn’t have it left in him to ever again deny her anything that he had the power to give. She was at her happiest when he twirled her slowly around the living room, and there was something nostalgic about these steps – something familiar that pulsed under his skin when she laughed as he lifted her arm and carefully spun her, something so free about how she always danced barefoot, her hair swaying back and forth against her back, something special about the way she always kissed him first, because even when he led their steps, she led everything else –

– something exciting about the afternoon where Ellie left a little earlier than usual, sunlight still spearing through the tall living room windows while Lindsey Buckingham crooned through the stereo speakers and Benny twirled through the motes of dust lazily, a glass of wine in one hand, her hair glittering in the light. She and Ellie had gone to the beach earlier in the day when he’d been occupied with fixing the balcony door, and she’d donned another donated dress for the occasion; a cascade of white with splashes of emerald leaves and blossoms, the skirt loose and flowing, and when she danced, a bittersweet thought struck Joel: that this was probably the closest he would ever get to seeing her in anything that even remotely resembled a wedding gown.

Sunburn kissed her shoulders with a rosy glow, a blush mirroring the flush on her cheeks, and when she beckoned for him to join her, curling two fingers in and out as she swayed, he did so with no hesitation, drawn to her like a moth to a flame – though he took her hand, first, spun her around slowly, and then wrapped her up against him from behind, all the better to trail his lips down her neck and over her shoulder, leaving fleeting white marks against her heated and red skin. And there was just something about this that felt different even when it was achingly familiar; there was a rawness to it, an uninhibited surrender in the way she tilted her head back with a longing sigh, finding rest against his shoulder, the way she tipped the wine to her lips and drank long sips, then held it up so he could do the same.

I put these two through so much - and I love that when the opportunity arises, people choose to show them in their better, happier moments. ♥️

#the last of us #tlou #ao3 #fanfic #joel miller #fanfiction #benny cooper #joel miller / oc #ofc #joel miller x oc #TLoU fanart #Pedro Pascal #tlou fanfiction #tlou fandom

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nerdieforpedro · 11 months ago

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It’s not that crazy of an idea

Chapter One of “Come live with me Angel” Series

Benny Miller x Diana (plus size OFC)

This fic is for readers 18+ MDNI

Word Count: about 2.2k

Summary: Bailing your friend Benny out of jail isn’t what Diana counted on for her night. She also didn’t count on needing to explain anything to him either.

Warnings: mention of jail/county, mention of violence, injuries from a fight, implied family issues, some pining (maybe)

Notes: I’ve had this idea for quite a while, a friends to lovers with our dear Benny Miller! I was finally able to make my ideas coherent. So here we are. 😆 We’re keeping it cute from now on, maybe. 🤔

Main Masterlist / Benny Miller Masterlist/ Come live with me Angel Series

“I’ll send you the money Diana, I just need you to go get him tonight before midnight. After midnight they’ll take him to county and we won’t be able to get him out until Monday.”

“Will, I mean I get why you can’t you’re out of state but I don’t know how to bail someone out of jail. Never done it. Like how do I get someone out?”

A deep roll of laughter is heard on the other end of the phone as Diana sighed. This was not funny. It’s 10:45pm and there’s a little over an hour to bail Benny out of jail.

“I’m telling you, it’s fine. Just use the money I sent to you and bring him home. I’ll deal with him Tuesday.”

“Did he say why he beat the guys up? He took down three of them didn’t he? That’s a lot.”

“Not really for Benny. That’s an easy job for him. The problem is his current profession and history. He can be considered a deadly weapon. In some circles, but he’s just my idiot little brother that I need you to bring home. Just help him out.”

“...Okay Will. I just go to the central booking. I’ll do my best.”

“You’ll be fine Diana. You couldn’t fuck it up if you tried.”

“I’m glad you're confident. I’ll call you again when he’s home.”

Nothing exciting had happened on a Friday night for Diana. She came home from work, cooked dinner, watched some TV and then showered and put on a Hallmark movie. It was after she had dozed off when her phone vibrated on her lap. She never had the ringer on. It was Will. He had never called her and she didn’t know he had her number. He asked her to bail Benny out of jail. Pope was overseas advising some local government on security, Fish was on daddy duty and Will was in New Mexico speaking to new recruits and wouldn’t be back in time to get to Benny. She was the only option. As far she knew, Benny hadn’t had any trouble with the law for the last few years. He had been keeping his nose clean and in his MMA career. Will never answered her question about why Benny would send three men to the hospital. But she could ask him in person, she popped on a grogu t-shirt and black leggings with her sneakers and headed out, following the directions from her phone to a large imposing building.

She told the man at the gate who she was here to bail out which he snickered and allowed her in. She didn’t get why he did that but focused on parking her small blue car and headed inside. Diana was patted down twice on her way in, it disturbed her both times. Not that either officer did anything odd, she just wasn’t good with touches from people she didn’t really know. Eventually through different gates and several sleepy looking guards later, she arrived at the holding cells. They were behind another large gate. The woman at the counter looked to be close to retirement, the fluorescent light highlighted the purple in her blonde wig. Diana didn’t think that it was supposed to be that color, but gave her a warm smile. The woman’s orange lipstick twisted with her lips as she spoke.

“Who ya here for honey?” She asked with a slow drawl. A question she’d asked many a time over the years.

“I’m here for Benny. Ah, Benjamin Miller. He would have come from the Tipsy Cantina bar.” She answered softly, her hands squeezing her phone and wallet.

The woman chuckled and reached through the small oval opening at the bottom of the plexiglass to touch Diana’s hand. “Simmer down honey. First time? No one usually tells me that much info. Yer boy’s fine. Few scrapes and bruises. Tell him to keep his nose clean. I wasn’t supposed to see him again before I left this place behind and got my place in the glades.”

Diana nodded and let go of her phone, setting it down on the counter and held the woman’s wrinkled hand, her rings dug in a little bit but that was fine. At least there was a person here who was calming. The woman turned toward a tall guard with a long beard that was braided at the bottom. “Johnny, bring out the Miller boy. His lady friend is here. You got his bail honey?”

“Y-Yes. Right here. Um, do you take cash, credit or…”

“Any’s fine dear. Whichever ya got.”

Diana let go of the woman’s hand and put her debit card in it. The woman swiped it and took the amount of money that Will had told her the bail would be. She put the card back and heard several loud buzzes before hearing two gates open.

“He’ll be out shortly honey.” The older woman assured her. And he was, but watching him walk down the hallways toward her felt like it was at least ten minutes.

Benny was glad to be out of that small cell where he had been stuck for the last three hours. He swore he’d never end up back in here after the last bar brawl he’d been in with all the guys. At least in that one, Pope, Fish, and Will had been in here to make the time to go easier. He did strike up a conversation with a guy who got caught with a prostitute and they discussed beer of all things. Weird subject to talk about but better than listening to the other guy who clearly was high speaking about the aliens telling him to probe people. He didn’t have much with him, the one officer gave him his jacket and wallet back along with his hat. Benny was expecting a stern talking to from his brother who said he was going to come up with the money. He didn’t mention how he was going to get here though. Will had left for New Mexico sometime last week and that flight was at least a few hours if they even had one coming out this way.

The MMA fighter was shocked to see who was here to pick him up. He wasn’t looking forward to explaining why he was here. It’s bad enough she knows he’s in jail, but did she bail him out? Did Will give her the money? She looked worried and scared, they still do pat downs and crap when you come in here don’t they? That might be why, or she could be scared of him now. She’s supposed to know him as fun-loving goofy silly Benny, except in the ring of course. He licked his bottom lip that had a cut on it and ran his fingers through his hair he’d let grow out to the base of his neck. The bruises and cuts were still fresh on his hands and face from the fight and there was a little dried blood on his white t-shirt, could have been from him or one of the guys he decked, wasn’t sure. Benny was going to say hi at least but Diana wrapped her arms around his torso and hugged him tight. It hurt his ribs a bit since he had taken a few hits there, but bent down slightly to hug her back and patted her head.

“Hey Angel, sorry you had to come here. You alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He led with a weak joke that earned a sniffle instead of the chuckle he was hoping for. Diana looked up at him with her face tight. Instead of fear, now she was angry.

“Such a stupid joke Benny. Are you okay? You look worse than after a match! What the hell happened?” She asked as they let go of each other and walked over to the desk with the elderly woman. She handed Benny his wallet and jacket.

“You scared your girlfriend here Benjamin. I thought I wasn’t going to see you back here until I retired and went down to the glades.” She gave him a wry smile. He returned it and counted his money in his wallet before sticking it in his back jeans pocket and put on his jacket.

“Yes Ma’am. That was the plan but circumstances didn’t allow for that. Had those guys shut up, I’ll be seeing you the next time me and the guys go fishing.” He answered and held the old woman’s hand.

“She seems sweet. Don’t worry her too much now.” She cooed.

“Ma’am. We’re not…” Diana went to clarify but was shooed by Benny as he was given a final check by a nearby officer. The older clerk whispered to Diana as she took her hands and pulled her close.

“He’s impulsive but a good man. You came because you care. Get ya man hun.” She let out a long laugh as Diana felt her ears burn and nodded. Not that she disagreed with the woman but they’re friends. Have been for the last six months since they met at the Saucy Cantina bar. The pair left the building and Benny chuckled wondering how he was going to fit in her tiny blue hatchback car. Diana put her hands on her hips and said that if he wasn’t willing to sit up front, then he could lay in the back, just to be grateful that she came. Benny gave her another hug and told her that he was, though he still felt bad that she had to come and he knew that he’d interrupted a movie for her. Diana hated that he knew her routine so well already.

Being the goof that he was, Benny spread his long body across the backseat of the car and Diana drove, telling him to keep his shoes off the seats and he spoke about the new specials Ramon was starting at the Saucy Cantina. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She wanted to know what possessed him to beat up three men. It was clear Benny wasn’t up for talking about it right now. They arrived at her apartment where Benny could sleep on the couch and she would take him home tomorrow. As Diana unlocked her door, she had forgotten about the boxes though and how she’d have to explain them.

“So were you going to tell me that you’re planning on moving or just stop coming out with us and let me figure it out?” Benny asked, mimicking her with his hands on his hips as she had done.

“Well, my roommate is moving out with her boyfriend so I can’t afford this place on my own. It’s going to be an hour commute to work instead of thirty minutes and I planned on mentioning it eventually. I wasn’t sure how to tell you Benny.” Diana admitted. Her roommate still had some boxes to pick up so most of them were Diana’s. She needs to be out by the end of the month and planned to move back in with her mom for now.

“Why didn’t you just ask me? I got room. My house has three bedrooms and despite what you think I do clean, when I remember.” He flashed her a smile and she nearly said yes, but she’d be moving in with a man she had a crush on. What if he brings back someone? Will we have to talk about socks on doors?

No, no no no.

“I appreciate the thought Benny but it’s the most cost effective-”

“Are you sure you wanna move in with your mom? Didn’t you say you have issues with her and you two normally end up fighting?” Maybe she spoke to Benny too much about her family drama. She was seeing that now and she’d have to remember not to do that from now on.

“Can we talk about it tomorrow? Let’s just get some sleep.” Diana settles and walks to what will be her room for the next two weeks. Benny watches her walk away and waits until her bedroom door closes. He hears her on the phone and it sounds like Will since she said his name. It was short, just letting him know that he’s out. He then got a text from Will saying that they needed to talk when he got home.

“Ain’t shit to talk about that. I need to think about how I’m going to convince her to move in with me. It does sound crazy, but an hour away? That’s bullshit.” He removed his jacket, putting it on the back of the couch and set his shoes by the door. He laid on the couch and closed his eyes. Having Diana that far away bothered him for multiple reasons. Not only could he not just pop over to her place after practice, for a meal, movie or just to play some games with her. He would play his guitar sometimes because Will took it after his last visit to county. Benny had been able to convince Fish to bring his guitar over to Diana’s for safekeeping from his brother.

There’s too many things Benny wants to experience with Diana and to tell her. He’ll come up with a plan in the morning.

Hopefully.

Chapter two

Peeps who’d bail Benny out no questions asked ❤️: @tinytinymenace @laurfilijames @rhoorl @musings-of-a-rose @megamindsecretlair

#fanfiction #benny miller #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #benjamin miller #benny miller x ofc #Nerdie fic

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pimosworld · 1 year ago

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My name is Priscilla but you can call me P,Pimo,Miss Priss or any variation of your fav nickname for me. My blog is 18+, and I mostly write fluff and smut. I’ve made a lot of friends here and I’m open to write for anyone. This community has helped me heal in ways I can’t describe so I hope you enjoy my writing. 🤍

Please turn on notifications if you would like to stay up to date on my posts.

Link to my kofi if you’re feeling so inclined to donate to my writing efforts

My ask box is always open

AO3

700 Follower Celebration

Read it again

Masterlist by pimo

I started out writing for Moon knight and that quickly evolved into other characters so I will say that I’m open to write for anyone.

I don’t have a lot of rules but I generally won’t describe my reader to stay inclusive as a poc and this is a safe space for the lgbtqi community so no ignorance will be tolerated.

Im open to requests (angst,fluff,smut…any character) but I work a full time job so please be patient with them as well as my wips.

Triple Frontier

Frankie Morales

Joel Miller

Santiago Garcia

Dave York

Moonknight

Javier Peña

Blue Jones

Miguel O’Hara

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backtothefanfiction · 7 months ago

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All The Good Girls Go To Hell Moodboard

And Chapter 2 Teaser….

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So I made small talk, bumped a couple of lines and downed the complimentary bottles of bubbly that kept being brought to her booth and over all, tried to block out the mind numbing monotony of the whole situation. I only started dancing on the table to give myself something to do- but then my new buddy and his friends walked in. Gods he was more handsome and mysterious under the cover of night- and his friends weren’t bad looking either.

They all wore some version of an all black uniform; casual suits with half open button downs, black T-shirts and leather jackets. I didn’t know which one I wanted to sink my newly single teeth into first, because let’s face it, I’d happily fuck each and every one of them… maybe even twice… or maybe even more than one of them at the same time.

It’s clear the biggest guy wants me too, the way he stands staring, his tongue practically lolling out of his mouth as he salivates, his eyes taking me in like I’m already his favorite meal and he can’t wait to chow down. No doubt he’d take me for the ride of my life, if I let him, but it’d be too easy. I love a challenge and the way Pope has his eyes on me, I really can’t resist.

As he ushers them to move on, taking the lead as they make their way towards a VIP booth up a couple steps over to the far left of the DJ booth, giving them the perfect view to survey their goods, my mind begins to whir as quickly as my limbs swing around the pole in my hands. I watch tentatively from a distance, taking mental notes of every little thing he does. The way he runs his hands back through his tight curls when he becomes stressed. The way he struggles to relax, always sitting further forward, reaching for his phone or something on the table, or if that fails, fiddling with the buttons of his open blazer as his fist rests against his hip.

He’s uptight that’s for sure. Typical business type who likes to be in control and run the show. If I’m gonna wear him down, it’s gonna take time and not just on the side lines working in this club, but I have to penetrate his inner circle. As I slump back down next to Lucy in the booth, I slowly realize what I have to do. It’s just like in the olden days, if you wanted to bed the King, you had to get yourself in with someone lower down in his court and work your way up- and I knew just who to start with.

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@casa-boiardi @southernbe @littlenosoul @movievillainess721 @pastawench @littlemisspascal

#triple frontier mob!au #triple frontier x ofc #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fanfiction #TF!boys x ofc #Frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #santiago pope garcia #Santiago garcia #will ironhead miller #will miller #Benny miller #Ben miller #all the good girls go to hell #pedro character imagines #pedro characters #oscar isaac characters #charlie hunnam characters #Garrett hedlund characters

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midnightswithdearkatytspb · 2 years ago

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MidnightsWithDearKatyTSPB’s Recommendation List: March PT. 2

Welcome to part 2 of March’s recommendation list. Down below, you can find the link to take you back to part 1 featuring Peaky Blinders, Frankie Morales from Triple Frontier, Frank Castle, and the works that I posted. I still have some specialists that I’m traveling to go see, so there might not be 32 links this time around, but we’ll have to wait and see. The goal for March is to write another chapter In This Heart and rewrite The Spark. If you are interested in having your writing challenges featured here, or your stories, or even just your blog, please feel free to tag me in your works, message me, or use the hashtag MidnightWithDearKatyTSPB. I hope you are having an amazing March and you didn’t have such a hard time springing ahead.

☘️ March '23 Pt. 1

April '23 Pt. 1 🌸

Masterlist

37 of 44 Years (Moodboard) ... Dedication to my parents.

All For You My Daisy (Moodboard) >> Garret Hedlund, Pedro Pascal, and Tommy Shelby

Begin Again (Moodboard) >> Ted Lasso x OFC!Penny Fletcher | Moodboard made for @teds-mustache-wrangler story Begin Again.

Innocence and Sadness (Moodboard) >> Arthur Shelby ... dedicated to @cillmequick

Peaky x Lana Challenge (Moodboard) >> Alfie Solomons x Reader x Tommy Shelby | “I’ve got a black limousine and two gentlemen who escort me through these halls.”

Two Broken Souls (Moodboard) >> Tommy Shelby x OFC!Estella Holland | “Come, Josephine in my flying machine. Going up, she goes, up she goes.”

Update//Calm Down by All Time Low (Moodboard) >> Garrett Hedlund, Luke Grimes, and Pedro Pascal

ONE-SHOTS:

As His Daughter by @sneakyblinders >> Dad!Tommy Shelby x Reader ft. Daughter!Kate Shelby - Summery: As Kate Shelby becomes an older sister yet again, she realizes she doesn't really know her father. Her mother is on a mission to change that. | You'll go through the emotions with this one, I promise. For those who need the warning, there are mentions of childbirth!

Loving Girl by @valentine-in-my-quinjet >> Tommy Shelby x Reader - Summary: You've always known you would be a better partner for Tommy. After Grace died, you had to reassess your motivations for being close to Tommy because he needed a friend more than ever before. | You will need a tissue with this one. TW: Suicide Mentioned

Make Your Heart My Home by @look-at-the-soul >> Tommy Shelby x Reader - Summery: Y/N hasn't had the best life. In fact, she's physically running from it into the physical arms of one Tommy Shelby, who saves her. | Read this, get a little emotional, but fall in love with its ending.

Mr. Girraffe by @teenwolf-theoriginals >> Dad!Tommy Shelby x Reader - Summary: Florence's giraffe gets lost in Johnny Dogs camp. | The family dynamic in this is quite adorable, and I love how sweet Tommy is as well.

The Perfect Team by @runnning-outof-time >> Arthur Shelby x Reader - Summary: Arthur's ability to reason with (Y/N)'s child has them realizing that they work rather well together. | This is absolutely adorable and light-hearted, definitely recommend reading it.

'Teach You a Lesson by @celticmelody >> Tommy Shelby x Reader - Summary: you’re soon to marry Thomas Shelby, the infamous horseman amongst the gangsters in Birmingham. however, when he finds out you’ve never ridden before, he makes it a task to teach you… amongst other lessons that unravel afterwards. | If all riding lessons with Tommy were to end this way, I would take them every day as well. 🥵

When One Heart Breaks The Other, Follows by @little-diable >> Tommy Shelby x Reader | Summary: Tommy has been at war for months, and the only thing the reader can cling to is the letters he kept writing. Until the day when he no longer writes to her, when she no longer knows if he's alive or not. All until one last letter finds its way to her. | I've been emotional lately, okay? So did I need tissues when I read this? Yes! But was I smiling by the end? YES!

SERIES:

*A Different Sort of Man Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 by @evita-shelby >> Tommy Shelby x OFC!Eva, Canon!Tommy x Grace Burgess - Summary: Or where Eva plays around with magic, and Tommy wakes up in a universe where Grace is his wife. While in that universe, Tommy discovers just how different his life would have been if he had pursued the pretty witch in 71 Watery Lane. | My mother always warned me growing up to never fiddle with magic, but this just makes me want to... Only two chapters in, and it's so good. The switching of points of view is everything I could have asked for.

The Photographer // Part 13 by @midnightmagpiemama >> Modern!Tommy Shelby x Photographer!Reader - Summary: Hired to take pictures of your boyfriend's cousin's wedding, you are excited to spend the night in the presence of your boyfriend doing what you love. The night, however, doesn't go as according to plans. Or, the one where Gina and Micheal get married, Gina sits Lizzy at Tommy's table. And people have opinions on your relationship with Tommy. | Erin is such a fantastic writer, and I truly love this series. In this chapter, she just captures Tommy and Polly so beautifully.

A Royal Wedding of Small Heath Part 1 // Part 2 by @sneakyblinders >> Tommy Shelby x Reader - Summary: Tommy is getting married in what the newspaper is calling The Royal Wedding of Small Heath with the announcement of their engagement. It's fitting, as his wife is his Queen. | If I had to picture my wedding to Tommy, this is exactly how I would want it to go. I love how some parts came straight from the TV show. It was just perfect.

Welcome to Downtown, Mr. Shelby by @notyour-valentine >> Tommy Shelby x Crawley!OC - Summary: He was born on a boat, with neither of his parents sure of the date after the fact, unregistered and unlisted until he went to fight for his country. Her birth had been celebrated with the ringing of church bells, champagne toasts, and announcements in newspapers on both sides of the Atlantic. Their worlds could not have been more different, and perhaps that was why, when Thomas Shelby looked at Lady Charlotte Crawley, he saw more than her title, more than her looks- he saw an opportunity. | Enjoyed reading this and emerging myself into this little world, and look forward to what is to come for Charlotte and Tommy.

SERIES:

*Push & Pull // Chapter 4: Coming Of Age by @milkymoon2483 >> Frank Castle X Plus Size Jewish OC Hannah Friedman - Summary: You’re going back to your small town for your father’s funeral and Shiva. You know you’re about to face family drama, but what worries you the most is that you’re going to see HIM, your dad’s long-time friend and probably the most attractive man you have ever met. When Frank finally sees you and realizes that you're all grown up, he struggles with accepting his budding feelings for you. | This chapter had me feeling so many emotions. You start with a stomach drop, then you feel so sad, and then you end it on a great high, needing a tall glass of water to cool down. Anna knows how to make you feel every emotion that the main character is going through at every moment of the chapter. That is a true talent.

Triple Frontier:

🍑 Appeteaser Benny Miller + Shower Sex by @dameronscopilo >> Benny Miller x Reader - Summary: Benny comes home after a long day and enjoys some time with his girl. | Let me just say this is really hot, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Here With Me by @pasukiyo >> Frankie Morales x f!reader - Summary: When your husband promises it will only be one week, your gut tells you it won't, you beg him to stay if not just for you, but for your family. (Horrible summary by me) | This starts off so sad and emotional, and it ends on a spicy note. It's perfect.

A Proposition by @dameronscopilot >> Santiago "Pope" Garcia x f!reader x Benjamin "Benny" Miller - Summary: Benny returns to Florida after six months of backpacking his way across Australia, and the surf and sun have treated him well. Very well. You can't help but notice. ...Santiago thinks that maybe it's time for the two of you to change things up in the bedroom. Because if he's going to share you with anyone, it's most certainly going to be Benjamin Miller | Is it just me, or is it really HOT in here right now? 🥵 I think I better go open the window after reading this one.

Untitled Sick!fic with Benny by @dameronscopilot >> Benny Miller x Reader - Summary: benny knows exactly what you need when you're sick—in more ways than one. | If Benny ever wants to come to take care of me like this when I'm sick, or now even, he's more than welcome.

"Wear whatever you want, I can fight." by @plaguedoctorsmistress >> Benny Miller x Reader - Summary: When your boyfriend can’t seem to do anything but whine about your outfit, Benny’s jealousy finally gets the best of him, and he takes matters into his own hand. | Benny can defend my honor any day and call me princess all he wants.

*The Wedding Party by @goodwithcheese >> Frankie Morales x f!reader - Summary: Series Summary: A combined bachelorette/bachelor party introduces you to a brown-eyed pilot. | I loved this series so much that I read it in one night on AO3 when I came across it. I'm so glad it came up on my dashboard so I could share it with you guys here. It's both fluffy and sexy!

You Again?! by @theunbearableweightofpedropascal >> Benny Miller x Reader - Summary: You keep running into the guy you had sex with in an airport bathroom. | If you looking for some good spiciness and a mixture of giggles, this one is for you.

CILLIAN MURPHY:

Chances Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, & Part 4 by @creativepawsworld >> Cillian Murphy x OFC!Paige - Summary: A single mother meets an unlikely lover after a concert. Putting herself out of her comfort zone. Can she find herself a mate for life? | The story has everything in it, fluff, a little bit of angst, and some spiciness.

Quicky by @peakyscillian >> Cillian Murphy x Fem!Reader - Summary: Cillian just can't wait. | If you are looking for something romantic, hot, and with a dash of laughter, this is it.

GERALT OF RIVIA:

Late Bloomer by @cherienymphe >> Alpha!Geralt x Omega!Reader - Summary: Geralt of Rivia saves you from more than just a werewolf attack. | Sometimes, a one-shot is so good you share it twice with your followers. I'm pretty sure I shared it when I first started doing recommendations, and I'm sharing it again.

PEDRO PASCAL CHARACTERS:

Chokehold by @psychedelic-ink >> Joel Miller x Reader x Ezra - Summary: Joel’s frustrations run deep; to him, you were a twisted source of purity; touching you forced him to think, forced him to feel. But not Ezra. With him, he could do anything. A scary yet also exhilarating feeling. Or alternatively: You wake up to Joel and Ezra having sex. | The emotions you feel while reading this are just too good for me not to share.

I Forgot About Time and Space by @psychedelic-ink >> Ezra x Fem!Reader - Summary: You cook for Ezra's guests, and seeing the sight of you being so domestic awakens something in him. | The smut in this *chef's kiss* and the plot in general. Please read this when you are alone. You'll thank me later.

*The Infinity Cube by @littlemisspascal >> Marcus Pike x Reader ft. Various Pedro Characters - Summary: When you play with a strange cube, you’re transported out of your current reality with your boyfriend Marcus into brand new ones starring alternate versions of your boyfriend who look and act entirely different every time. With each encounter, you start to wonder if you’ll ever make it back to your real universe? | Such a good use of the Multiverse and it introduced me to characters that Pedro played that I haven't yet watched. Rae does an amazing job keeping you at the edge of your seat and passing off such deep emotions. It's a must read for Pedro Pascal fans.

*Meet The Millers by @musings-of-a-rose >> Joel Miller x Benny Miller x Will Miller x f!reader - Summary: Moving into the Boston Quarantine Zone after nearly 20 years on the outside takes some adjusting. A misdirection one night guides you to the 3 men who will change the course of your life. | This series has a little bit of everything from drama to love and spiciness. There isn't much more you could ask for out of this series other than wishing for more.

When You're Reading Me by @psychedelic-ink >> Joel Miller x Reader - Summary: If you had to make a list of things Joel Miller might buy you as a gift— nipple clamps would not be a part of it. | *Internally screams* This was really hot, and I think I'll go grab a cold shower now.

STRANGER THINGS:

The Grief of Losing Eddie Munson by @eufezco >> Steve Harrington x Reader - Summary: Best friends with Eddie Munson, the reader goes through the stages of grief of losing her best friend with her family at her side. | Someone pass me the box of tissues. This was so good. I cried through almost the whole thing.

MOODBOARDS:

My Luck by @forgottenpeakywriter >> Tommy Shelby x Reader

My Sun, My Moon and All My Stars by @zablife >> Tommy Shelby x OFC!Aurora Sabini | Lee puts together a breathtakingly beautiful moodboard for a what-if scenario in the Peaky Blinders universe. It leaves you wanting to read more and more for the couple.

Your Bread by @forgottenpeakywriter >> Alfie Solomons x Reader

Your Eyes by @forgottenpeakywriter >> Tommy Shelby x Reader

You Like That by @dearshelby >> Tommy Shelby x Reader | Tall glass of cold water to cool down, please!

@psychedelic-ink - SIL, is such an amazing writer, writing most recently for Pedro Pascal's characters and sharing her amazing works with us here. Her masterlist includes more than just Pedro's characters, having written for the MCU and Oscar Isaac, to name a couple. I love the emotions you feel through every piece of writing she puts out, and I have yet to find a piece I don't like. I think you'll find you like or perhaps love her writing just as much as I do.

@shelbydelrey - Isa is a Peaky Blinder writer whose work I enjoy reading and love seeing the moodboards she puts out as well. I would definitely give Isa a follow because she brings positivity to your dashboard with her reviews and welcoming spirit.

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artemiseamoon · 1 year ago

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Preview: Is this how it ends? 6

Fic info & warnings

Read on A03

Words: 5,218

A03

Rhea’s eyes fixed on the window as the sun rose on the horizon, golden rays of light cast across the sky like brushstrokes accompanied by oranges and blues.

The heaviness of a long night was now absent from the sky, but no matter how much sunlight streamed through the room, it still felt like midnight.

Rhea barely slept. She kept reliving the afternoon before, what she could have done differently if she kept her anger in check, and how good it felt, even in the context of the situation, to see Frankie’s face, finally. And, she was also worried about Will, she had to make sure he was okay with her own eyes too.

In order to do that, she’d need to gain some trust with Pope, which she might have ruined yesterday. She didn’t regret it, she was pissed, and sick of his games; at the same time, she needed to find a way to control herself so she could get on his good side.

When they got back to the house yesterday, she was locked away in the room, where she’s been since then. She had a small amount of food and some water delivered around 6pm by a guard, but Pope himself was a no show.

Rhea kicked the covers off then sat on the side of the bed, her eyes moving to the Armoire full of dresses and shoes. Even the actual closet had clothes in it he picked for her.

“Stuck in a fucking dollhouse.” she muttered with a frown.

Even the pajamas she wore were selected by him. Rhea got up and started to pace.

“Fine Pope, you want me to play, I’ll play,” she opened the closet and thumbed through the clothes while going over a plan in her head.

Read on A03

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@artemiseamoon-updates

More vibes of this trio aka Rheas phone

#dark! Pope #santiago pope garcia #Santiago Garcia x ofc #Frankie morales x ofc #Frankie morales #will miller #Benny miller #triple frontier fic

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miss-beep-beep · 11 months ago

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Slow Motion

Pairing: Benny Miller x Heart Vu (Vietnamese!OFC that uses they/she pronouns)

Content contains some fluff, maybe angst (internal?), some cursing, intimacy, and alludes to some steamy love at the end. Not beta'd because I should be sleeping and not writing in the middle of the night. Apologies if this doesn't make any sense.

Inspiration: "Slow Motion" by Matt Champion & JENNIE

youtube

Author's Notes: Hi everyone, it's been a while. I'm sorry that I've been MIA for so long, basically a year now. It kinda hard to find time and inspiration to write nowadays. I wrote this for the @triplefrontier-anniversary.

Heart took a deep breath in and then out while clenching their black fanny pack and a brown paper bag across their chest.

"Okay," Heart mumbled to themselves before leaving their car and locking it with their car key dangling on their left hand with a sinking brown paper bag on their right. The bag crinkling with every step.

Before Heart could knock on the door, a tall brownish-blonde haired man with a backwards green cap swiftly opened the black screen door.

“Artie!” A giddy deep voice escaped the lips of the tall man.

“Benny,” Heart replied back with as much similar energy as they could, but it sounded like a sputtering engine.

“Glad you could make it!” He shouts with glee over the booming music playing in the near distance. He then glanced down at Heart's right hand.

"Oranges?" Benny asked like it was a quiz as he reached for the bag.

"Your favorite."

"Tell your aunt thanks." He said with a pep in his step as stepped aside. "Come on in, you can place your stuff on the couch."

"Thanks, Benny." They took a couple steps in and they are faced with a spattering of people, a few watching TV, a few at the kitchen grabbing food and drinks, and what seems like a huge crowd in the backyard where the music is blasting at.

The next minutes to hours felt like a blur. There was food that Heart vacuumed up, sodas and water that they gulped down. They may have talked to some people but they mainly hung behind Benny that the next thing they knew, they were suddenly in the backyard where the whole party gathered. They looked at Benny with a softened smile from afar as he was talking to Francisco, one of his pals, Francisco's wife, Merida, and Tilly, who does the finances at the gym Benny goes to.

They feel a bit drained from all of the party. They needed a break.

As if on cue, their phone vibrated from their back jean pocket.

"Perfect," they whispered.

Before they walked away to answer the call, Heart turned around to look at Benny. They could tell Benny was engulfed with whatever conversation one of his other pals, Santiago, were recalling about and the crowd was equally entranced with it.

Heart sighed a bit of relief with a shy meek smile, not wanting to disturb him, as they stride away to some random room in the empty house. They slapped the door behind them after they accidentally tripped on some clumped fabric on the floor.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” A familiar calm voice answered back.

“Hey, Nathaniel. What’s up?” Heart answered with a hint of air grasping for calmness, slowly sliding down to the wooden floor.

"Not much. Just wanted to check up on you. How's the party?"

"It's partying."

"Yeah, I can hear it, but Heart, why aren't you there, you know, partying?"

Heart chuckled while rubbing the back of their neck. "Not really my thing."

"And yet you're there, in some capacity."

"I'm just here to celebrate Benny's win yesterday, Nate."

Nate hummed with a whiffing amusement. Heart rolled their eyes. "Nate."

"Heart, how long have we known each other?"

"Too long." Heart sassed lowly.

"Funny, but not enough." Nate reflected back.

Cue another eye roll.

"We know why you're there."

"Yeah, to help celebrate Benny's win from his match yesterday and to give the oranges your mom grew."

"Is that your final answer or do you want to try that again?"

Heart sighed. "Okay, fine. Let's redo."

Nate hummed proudly. "Why are you there?"

"For Benny."

"Why?"

"Okay, I didn't think there would be more questions."

"Fine, I'm cutting out the bullshit filler. You like Benny, yes or no?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I'm cutting out more extra B.S. because you answered that too quickly."

Before Heart could utter a sound, Nate continued, "And I know that you're gonna say something like, 'I like him as a person and friend', because no, shit, I do too. But I know your 'like' is different from my 'like'."

To Heart they weren't technically wrong. Benny was someone who they think is a great companion platonically. However when it comes to romance…

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

Heart rubbed the back of their neck for a couple of seconds, contemplating on a complete sentence that wasn’t “I don’t know.”

“I do like him in a romantic sense but I don’t really see myself in a relationship with him.”

“Come on, you’ve at least imagined it.”

Heart has. They imagined laughing at each other whenever they goofed off or at each other's inside jokes. They imagined sitting together in quietness, playing amidst the noise. They imagined the conversation that trail on to equate novels. They imagined lying in bed close together and comforting each other in warmth.

Heart sighed before replying back, “Maybe, but fiction doesn’t always make it to reality.”

Reality is Benny could be with anyone. Reality is that the best for Benny is out there. The best containing future memories where the best could hear his contagious laughter, witness his spotlight smiles, cheer him on but know to acknowledge his flaws. Know that Benny is a person who is flawed but the kindness still shines amidst the rain. Notices the little actions and habits of the best and the best notices him back. They imagined it because they see themselves as the audience member who has witnessed someone actively engaging with him that it feels like the sound of the director to cut is too far away as they want to leave and give them space. The extra in the movie or TV show who is there in hopes of...something. But what's stopping them? What's stopping Heart from pursing their heart?

"So you're afraid of the unknown? The what-if?"

"No, Nate," they paused to take a sharp deep breath before continuing, "I'm afraid of the what-if being known as false hope. I don't want to try because I'm afraid that instead of a personal truth, I get an empty lonely reflection in the mirror. I love him and I think, no, I know, he can do better than me."

"Heart." Nate whispered like a hush but Heart continued.

"I really love him, Nate. But I don't want this friendship to break because I don't think he loves me the same as I do for him. I love him that I want to maintain this friendship and not lose him in this bunched up coil of a human being that is me."

"So you love him."

"Yes, I love Benny, Nate."

A creak from behind lingered out, causing Heart to sharply turn around. Causing Heart to face a reality, Benny standing at the open door. Heart jumped up with a stagger from her spot on the ground.

“Nate," Heart muttered against their phone, "I’ll call you back.”

“No need! Tell me at the cousin potluck tomor-!” He blurted out before Heart quickly ended the call and shoved their phone in their back jean pocket.

“Benny, hey." Heart sputtered out with a twitching-edge smile. "Whatcha doing here?”

“This is my room.” Benny states calmly as he turns on the lights.

Heart felt her feelings flush to the ground as she slowly scanned the room she was standing in. A small splattered row of clothes that may have spilled from the laundry basket near the door, a neatly prepared bed, posters of rock bands like AC/DC and some MMA fighters plastered all over the walls, and a small shelf full of DVDs and books.

That was not the bathroom.

“Oh fuck," Heart softly gasped out.

Benny chuckled and joked back, "Whoa, that's some strong language. There's kiddos around."

Heart snickered back with a hint of an eye roll. "Oh please, you're one to talk."

Benny softly chuckled before taking a step towards Heart with hands in his pocket and a restrained blank face. "Is it still real?" Benny asked.

"Real?" Heart feigned ignorance and swallowed the discomfort in her throat.

Another step. "Are those feelings still there in you?"

What could Heart say? What could stop the time from not slowing down, ticking away as she tries to formulate a complete sentence. Formulate a response where this moment could pass to the next page.

"Yes," they whispered out.

"What if I think you're wrong."

Their mind mentally dropped. "What?" They softly gasped out.

"What if... what if I told I thought you could do better than me?"

Their mind rewinded back up. "Benny-"

"Because I absolutely think you can."

Heart didn't speak. Their eyes slightly misting up in confusion.

"Artie. What if I told you that I keep replaying the time when you came to one of my matches for the first time? Seeing you in the crowd like the piece of a gem shining bright. Seeing your beautiful smile, wanting to see you smile like that for as long as you can. Worried that I won't see that smile because I was so worried that I thought I might break this friendship thinking you don't feel the same way."

Now Benny was only centimeters from Heart. He pulled out his hands from his pockets.

"But you know what? I'm glad you stuck around. I'm glad you stuck around because you're giving me the time of day for me to tell you that I love you. I love you, Heart Vu."

"Are..." Heart reached to grasp his right hand. "Are those emotions still real?"

"100%. Are yours?"

"Absolutely, Benjamin Miller."

Heart pulled him into an embrace across his back and he does the same to them, pulling them close to his beating chest.

"Can I kiss you?"

"Yes." They said, releasing themselves from listening to his heart so Benny could lean down and press his lips to Heart's softly like a comforting pillow before pulling back to gaze at each other's eyes.

"Could we... could we do more?"

"We can do whatever you want, Artie."

“You didn’t close the door.” Heart whispered, resting her chin gently against Benny's chest.

“Would you like me to?” Benny whispered while gently brushing his lips against her left ear.

“Yes.”

Benny embraced a giggly Heart to his chest as he sprinkled kisses all over their face and neck as he slams the door shut with his back. A door click was heard afterwards.

#triple frontier #triple frontier 2019 #benny miller x ofc #benny miller #triple frontier fanfic #benny miller fanfiction #benny miller x viet!ofc #Benny milller x oc

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crazyk-imagine · 2 years ago

Text

I Have a Surprise for You

Warnings: Mentions of period and pregnancies

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She knows she shouldn't be thinking about it, she doesn't think this is possible; at least, for right now. Maybe she's wrong but there's a reason Maria gave her pregnancy tests when she heard Seraphina and Benny were moving in together.

But then again, she hasn't had her period in over a month.

She stands in hers and Benny's shared bathroom, checking her phone one more time before making a decision; in return she finds the bright and alarming numbers of days she's missed since her last period.

She purses her lips knowing what she has to do now. She reaches under the sink and pulls out two tests, if there both positive... she shakes her head, not sure what to think.

She sets the timer, now it's time to play the waiting game. She paces back and forth, biting the skin beside her thumb nail.

The timer goes off, it's time to see the results.

She closes her eyes and picks up the first test.

'One. Two. Three' She stares at it and the words come tumbling out of her mouth before she can even realize it. “Oh my God. Oh my God!”

A nosy little shit, she calls her brother makes his way towards the bathroom. “What?” Santiago enters the bathroom to find Seraphina staring at the pregnancy test. "No.”

She nods with wide eyes, “yes- wait- what are you doing here? How did you even get in?”

“We all have keys,” he pulls the key out of his pocket before shoving it back into his pocket so she can't try and snatch it out of his grasp. “Are you-” he glances at the test in her hand.

“Yes! I am! That’s why I’m freaking out!”

“Okay, okay. Breathe. In,” he inhales, “and out,” he releases a deep breath.

“I am breathing.” She clenches his shirt in one hand.

He stares at her for a few seconds. “Okay, did- did you take more than the one? That’s- I mean, that's what you should do, right?”

“I took two of these damn things,” she lets go of his shirt, moving out of the way so he can see the other positive test on the counter.

“So, you’re- you're pregnant? Like really pregnant?”

She glares at him, “I am so close to kicking your ass.”

“Please don’t…" He puts some distance between he and her. "How are you gonna tell him?”

“Tell him?! Tell him? Oh my God!” She bunches his shirt in her hands as she shakes him, “how am I going to tell him?”

Santiago struggles to give her a proper response, “I don’t- I- uh- should we plan something?” He stutters, trying to get her to let go of him.

She jerks her head back, looking at him with a raised brow, “we?”

“I’m just as much a part of this now." He quickly adds. "I'm the only one who knows.”

“You didn’t know what was going on when you walked in,” she shoves him away from her so she can clean the countertop.

“Are you gonna tell him soon?”

“I barely found out today. What makes you think I should be doing that now? I’m not past the freaking out stage.”

“Is any parent?”

“Is any- shut up!" She smacks his shoulder. "You’re not helping.”

“I think I am you just don’t want to admit it.”

“No, you’re not,” Seraphina argues.

“Alright, alright,” he pulls her in for a hug. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I hate you,” she cries into his shoulder.

“I know. I know." Santiago knows she doesn't mean it; she's just going through a lot at the moment. He's gonna do all he can and help her calm down until Benny gets back from training with Will and Frankie. "Let’s go to the kitchen and see what we can find to eat, yeah?”

“Please.”

After he manages to find something for her to snack on, the trio enter.

"It's going to be fine. You can do this, alright?"

She nods, taking a sip of water, listening to the guys talking and Benny setting down his gym bag.

She pushes herself out of the chair and looks for her husband, knowing that she needs to tell him about the change that's going to come their way in the near future. "Hey, Ben."

"Hey," he wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her closer.

"Can I talk to you?"

He furrows his brows, slightly scared of what she's going to tell him. "Yeah. Yeah."

She grabs his hand and leads him towards their room.

The two watch their interaction and know somethings off.

Frankie leans closer to Santiago, “is she alright?”

“What? Oh, yeah." Santiago nods, "she’s fine.”

Frankie and Will share a look, he knows something.

“Now, why do you sound like you know something?”

“I- I don’t know what you mean.” He's never been good when it comes to these kinds of things.

“You know exactly what I mean but, you’re hiding something. Did she ask you not to tell anyone?”

“I mean,” he struggles to give a proper response. “I mean, she didn’t not tell me to, but I don’t think it’s my right to not mention anything. It's- she's almost done.” Santiago practically runs out of the kitchen and into the living room.

"You know something," Will chimes in.

"Come back here you coward," Frankie chases after him.

“You need to keep your hands to yourself.”

"What?" Benny chuckles, unsure of what his wife is talking about.

"I have something I need to show you and I need you to not freak out because I'm still not past freaking out."

"What are you talking about?"

She sighs, reaching for the tests, holding them out for him to look at without lifting her head.

He slowly lifts her hand, trying to figure out what he's looking at. It clicks in his head. "We're?"

She nods, keeping her eyes closed.

He pulls her in for a hug, tucking his head into her neck.

She sniffs, letting the tears fall down her cheeks but what made her feel a little better wasn't the hug (the hug is comforting, don't get her wrong) but his sniffles.

"We're gonna have a baby."

"We are. I told you; you need to keep your hands to yourself."

"Me? What about you?”

"It takes two, Miller."

"And there are two of us, Mrs. Miller."

The smile falls from her face. "Oh god."

"What?"

"There's gonna be a baby Benny in the world."

He chuckles, "that's not nice."

"Don't let it be a boy," Frankie says, holding Santiago in a headlock.

"Just because I'm your brother doesn't mean that I'm the designated babysitter."

She sighs. "Will."

"I'm just saying."

"And, I'm saying," Frankie chimes in, "you keep your boy away from my Isa."

"How do you know we're having a boy?"

"I have a feeling."

Seraphina rolls her eyes.

#Triple Frontier #triple frontier imagines #triple frontier imagine #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fanfiction #benny miller fanfiction #benny miller fanfic #benny miller fic #benny miller imagine #benny miller imagines #benny miller x ofc #benny miller x seraphina hayes #one shot #One Shot - fanfic

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intheorangebedroom · 4 months ago

Text

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 5

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

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

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

Word count: 13.8k

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Chapter 5: Time in a bottle

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

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

Adrian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With the density of him.

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

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

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

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

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

“ It’s perfect,” you laughed.

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

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

MESSAGES

Adrian

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, hell no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door opens, a draft ruffling your hair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lee.”

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

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

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

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

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

Time stretches. He holds you. You lean in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

The words come out of your mouth as a surprise.

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

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

“Yea. I get it,” he says.

And you know he does.

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

“Music?” you ask.

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

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

“Yes. I like them.”

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

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

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

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

“Frankie?” you quietly call.

“Mmh?”

“Are you… Were you in the military?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. I really don’t.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Frankie.”

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

“Hey, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Frankie,” you whine.

“Yea?”

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

“What’s in the bag?”

“What bag, baby? Oh, right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Try me.”

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

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

Your mouth curves into a sad attempt at a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

Choices that also made him Lua’s father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you keep cruising along the 589 northbound.

—

“Mark Twain or Lewis Carroll?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know,” you repeat.

“You know. Come on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The wait is over.

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

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

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

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

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

His plea. Lee.

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

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

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

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

You could spend the rest of your life with him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did I hurt you, earlier?”

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

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

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

“What happened today, Frankie?”

His chest stiffens underneath you.

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

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

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

He pauses and you wait, still and silent.

“One of us got killed.”

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

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

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

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

“Do you miss it?”

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

“Do you miss him?”

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

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

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

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

Are you real?

I don’t know.

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

“What do you think now?”

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

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

You turn around. You kiss him.

—

“What about this one?”

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

“Frankie, what’s this one?”

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

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

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

“That supposed to be an impression of me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did it hurt?”

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

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

“Ok, my turn. What’s this one?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Lee. Tell me what it is.”

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

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

You pause, and look down at him.

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

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

“It burnt like hel—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods, and you continue talking.

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

“Oh, I believe you.”

You’re smiling again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look what you’re riding now.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lee?”

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

“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“I asked if you like it. Your job.”

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

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

“Not really, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

“My little punk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You could be my accountant.”

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

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

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

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

—

Everything seems to hinge on you now.

His balance, his happiness, his redemption.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What if he took you out of your life?

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“I love it! It’s perfect for you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your choices and sacrifices, justified.

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

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

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

“Whatever you say, girl,” she shrugs.

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

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

“Alright,” you concede, “valid.”

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

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

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

You catch yourself before you can add another word.

“Are you still seeing that other guy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What does he do in life?”

“I don’t know.”

Ava throws up her hands.

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

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

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

“Adrian doesn’t suspect anything?”

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

“Again?”

“Again,” you nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well then fucking do it, Lee!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

201 notes · View notes

chronicallyonlinewriter · 6 months ago

Text

For Your Love

Banner made by @toointojoelmiller

[As Long as You Follow] [People Still Listen to Fleetwood Mac in the Apocalypse]

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC

Words: 3,227

Summary: She liked him like this, craved it; him pinned beneath her thighs, a vessel steered by her desires. Intoxicating, when she deepened their kiss and then pulled away from him and he tried to follow her, head lifting off the pillow, lips seeking hers even when she was out of reach, his abdomen taut with strain. There was something thrilling about it; about someone so much bigger than herself, built like a storm with muscles that could overtake her in a moment, choosing restraint; something satisfying about those large, rough hands sliding along her skin, so gentle when they didn’t have to be.

Warnings: +18, MDNI, smut, oral sex, face-riding, unprotected PIV. Minor angst referenced. Age gap (Joel is 62, OC is in her mid-forties), my Joel is soft AF and loves his wife.

This is my first time posting something like this as a standalone. This is actually a scene from chapter 18 of As Long as You Follow, but also works as its own piece (in that you don't have to read the whole fic to understand this scene). Enjoy!

◦ ❖ ◦

Dawn was barely a whisper when she crept back upstairs, her skin flushed with warmth, her head swimming from even the miniscule amount of liquor she’d been encouraged to drink. She shed her sweatpants with a clumsy grace, using the wall as an anchoring point, and then poured herself onto the mattress with a sigh, burrowing until she sank into the cool embrace of the bedding.

Unsurprisingly, Joel was awake, his eyes steady and observant as she claimed her pillow. “Hi,” she said quietly, and he quirked an eyebrow. She wondered how long he’d laid here just like this, waiting for her to return; wondered if he’d gone looking for her, or had been patient enough to assume she would come back on her own. But he didn’t resist her when she slid over to him, the cool sheet parting like water around her, pressing her warm skin against his. If he was surprised, he didn’t let on; he fell into her embrace easily, fingers sliding under her shirt to trace the delicate architecture of her ribs, his breath, a warm current, brushing against her cheek.

"Would you do something for me?" she breathed into the hollow of his neck.

“Name it,” was his immediate reply, though she let herself linger in the space between them for a little while longer; let him nuzzle into her hair, his hand gliding across her skin, gripping and cupping softly – let herself feel it, his love and affection. In the end, words were unnecessary. She tangled her fingers in his patchy beard, tilting his chin down so he could meet her lips. He responded instantly, his body tensing for a moment before relaxing completely against hers.

In the cocoon of his embrace, the night's unease unfurled and floated away, dissipating into the shadows. It seemed impossible to find anything to be scared of when they were just like this – because nothing terrible had ever happened to her when she was wrapped in his arms, and she knew with a sudden clarity that nothing ever would. “I love you,” she whispered, and then was filled with frustration because even this didn’t seem like enough to convey the immensity of what he meant to her, and all the ways he had reshaped her life for the better. He kissed her again, a gentle press of lips against hers, and then drew her close, his chin resting on the crown of her head.

“I love you,” he echoed. “Go to sleep, baby.”

And just like that, her mind stilled.

But she didn’t sleep. Whether intentional or not, she’d already given up on it. Joel slept, and she didn’t begrudge this of him, this man who gave so much of himself to everyone and everything – to her, to their family, to his community, nevermind the strain of his aging body. She closed her eyes, but sleep never found her, and when the sky began to lighten along its edges, cool and gray, and the birdsong began to trill through their open window, swept in with the breeze that stirred their curtains, she found herself still wide awake. The room was dim, the branches of the old oak outside casting a slow, hypnotic dance of shadows across the bedroom walls. She watched them shift and change, restlessness pulsing through her veins.

Joel stirred in his sleep, breaking their embrace when he rolled onto his back. She shifted onto her side when he did, taking him in as he lay bathed in the soft glow of the approaching day. He looked so peaceful, his features relaxed, his breath even and deep. She remembered doing this during their very first night together; remembered being so full of nervous energy that she hadn’t slept at all, all at once thrilled and terrified of this man that lay sleeping next to her, uncertain of where he would end up fitting into her life but so eager to find out.

For some reason, she could only hear Ellie’s voice in her head, her recollection of her own early days in Jackson; ‘I just didn’t understand why it was so easy for him – how, after everything we’d been through, he could just turn around and be okay. But I figured…he was pretending, you know? For me.’ And she wondered if he was doing the same thing for her, and had been since they got back to town – pretending, for her sake, holding them both together while she crumbled, replaying the familiar dance they'd performed again and again over the years. It unnerved her just as much as it flooded her with gratitude, and she found her vision blurring, his sleeping face glowing and fracturing before she blinked away these unexpected tears, and suddenly it wasn’t enough just to be close to him.

“Joel,” she murmured, a whisper drifting across their pillows. Her movements were deliberately quiet, slow as molasses as she rolled herself over, her hand reaching for him beneath the sheets until her fingers could trace a languid path across his ribs and the expanse of his bare chest. She watched his face as she moved, searching for any flicker of disturbance. “Joel,” she breathed again, his name stretched taut across her tongue.

Finally, he shifted; his features, pale and sculpted in the muted light that speared through their flimsy curtains, pulling tight, his mustache twitching above parted lips. Eyes that glittered like gemstones blinked open, a small, confused grunt leaving his throat.

“What –” The soothing cadence of her voice, the softness of her hand feathering back and forth across his ribs – none of it mattered; he lurched for an upright position, eyes darting around the room.

“Easy,” she whispered, gently pushing him back down; and he hesitated, but seemed to trust her enough to allow this, settling his head back on his pillow with a groan. “Sorry, just…was seeing if you were awake.”

“Am now,” he rasped, voice thick and gritty with sleep, though his grip on her hand was soft after he fumbled for it, squeezing it as it lay across his chest. “What is it?”

She answered him in movement; a soft, measured shift when she swung a leg over his hips, the sheets whispering against her skin until she settled astride him. There was an exhale of surprise, a breathed oh – that was immediately silenced when she captured his mouth with her own, a gentle conquest, her lips velvet against his. She didn’t linger in preambles, deepening her movements with quiet need, her tongue flicking past his teeth – and he hesitated, just for a moment, his hand adrift until it found its home on the curve of her hip.

She liked him like this, craved it; him pinned beneath her thighs, a vessel steered by her desires. Intoxicating, when she deepened their kiss and then pulled away from him and he tried to follow her, head lifting off the pillow, lips seeking hers even when she was out of reach, his abdomen taut with strain. There was something thrilling about it; about someone so much bigger than herself, built like a storm with muscles that could overtake her in a moment, choosing restraint; something satisfying about those large, rough hands sliding along her skin, so gentle when they didn’t have to be.

“Darlin’ –” She sensed his shift immediately; felt his hands migrate to the small of her back, urging her forward, but she shook her head – though she went to him, offering a rather chaste kiss, a fleeting touch of their lips that only seemed to frustrate him. He groaned softly as she continued an upward journey, peppering light kisses across the bridge of his nose, his brow, his forehead while her hands steadied themselves on his shoulders, holding him in place.

“Just lay back,” she said softly, pressing her lips against his again just to stifle any response he might have had. And there was something there; a puff of air that met her lips, a slight sigh that she felt echo through his throat, because her mouth went there next, nipping and licking as that sigh deepened to a groan. “Quiet,” she chided against his collarbone, and that groan turned into an amused scoff – but he did quiet himself, his hands following her, winding through her hair, twirling the golden strands between his knuckles. She felt the response of his body as her touch grew bolder, the stiffening of his chest and the clenching of his stomach when she softly, so softly kissed the half-moon scar above his hip, but his hands remained gentle, careful not to pull too tightly –

– until she descended too low, finding him already straining against his boxer briefs, and she kissed that, too; felt the twitch of his cock through the fabric right before he reflexively jerked his hips. His fingers tightened in her hair and then let go, and suddenly there were hands on her shoulders, gently trying to pull her back up, and she heard his voice rumble through the darkness, “Sweetness – you don’t gotta do that–"

And she knew, with a mix of tenderness and frustration, what he was doing – shielding her, protecting her in that endearing, infuriating way that was so innately him. But she had no use for his protection – not tonight, anyway. She shook her head, grasped his wrists firmly, and pried his hands away from her shoulders. She didn't release him immediately, savoring the moment, placing a lingering kiss on his knuckles before letting go. He responded with a sigh, his head sagging back against his pillow, his chest rising and falling visibly in the dim light; she saw the rhythmic expansion and contraction of his ribs sliding beneath his skin, felt the nervous jolt of his leg when she straddled it, her own heart pounding in her chest.

“I don’t have to do anything,” she murmured, her fingers teasing the waistband of his boxers, “but I’m not doing anything I don’t want to. Okay?”

She watched him carefully, moved slowly, pulling down the fabric until he sprung free, ready and willing despite the rest of his body’s hesitance. She knew that he was watching her, too; saw his eyes as two pinpricks of light glittering through the darkness, heard the sharp intake of his breath as her hand encircled him, warm and inviting – but she waited for him, waited for those eyes to flutter shut, for the quiet, gasped, ‘fuck’ that signaled his surrender –

– and there was something about it that was so familiar, so nostalgic. She thought about when they were first brought together; remembered that look on his face the first time she straddled him on that couch, mouth parted in surprise, eyes sparkling with shock and yearning – remembered the first time she took him in her mouth, the way he’d bucked his hips so harshly, overwhelmed by a sensation so new, so intense. He'd looked at her on her knees with an awe-struck reverence, as if she were the most precious treasure in the world, and that same adoration shone in his eyes now; his hand guiding the bobbing of her head while her lips sank lower, lower, every movement of her tongue causing a wonderful little gasp to push from his lungs.

There was an intoxicating power in witnessing this strong, capable man become something far more pliant in her hand, a profound pleasure in knowing she was the only one who could unravel him in this way. She enjoyed bringing him right to the edge, his strong legs quivering beneath her; knew that he was so close to bliss, because there was a steady stream of whispered Spanish cutting through the darkness – and she smiled around his cock, swirled her tongue along his salty tip, turning those words into an unintelligible groan.

He was beautiful, she thought; plush lips parted, trembling amidst the salt-and-pepper stubble of his jaw. His head tilted back, pressing into the pillow, the morning light tracing the contours of his strong jawline and glinting off the silver in his hair. She watched his tongue dart out to wet his teeth before a grimace of pleasure contorted his face, felt his fingers tangle in her hair while his other hand clenched the sheets, wrinkling the fabric beneath his desperate grip.

“Baby – hey, hey –” His hands were already in motion, before she could react; gentle but commanding, hinging under her arms and lifting her effortlessly – his arms guided her over his body, and though she longed to stay where she was she yielded to his touch, rising to meet his kiss.

And this, too, was beautiful; his lips eager to reclaim the taste of himself on her tongue, his arms encircling her waist, pulling her tight against him as his chest heaved, his words slurred against her lips, ‘god damn, woman – god damn –’ and she barely had time to feel pleased with herself, to savor her satisfaction before she was being moved again, and she was powerless to stop it, those same strong hands gripping her ribcage, lifting her with ease, then seizing her thighs. Her body responded instinctively to his urgent pull, a gasp escaping her lips followed by a startled shriek –

She was unprepared for the onslaught of sensation that engulfed her, his strong arms wrapping around the backs of her trembling thighs as he buried his face between them. She struggled to stay upright, fingers clawing until she finally managed to grip the edge of the bed’s headboard for support.

He was a man determined, her underwear nothing but a flimsy inconvenience, easily yanked aside so that his tongue could seek out her sensitive flesh, roving and licking and swirling and fuck, it was as though that tongue was made for exactly this; she was already unraveling, delicious waves of heat and pleasure rolling between her legs. When he constricted his arms around her and pulled her flush to his eager mouth, she gasped in blissful agony, his nose gliding along her sensitive bundle of nerves.

It took her a moment to find the rhythm in it; in the way he firmed and loosened his grip on her thighs, the press of his tongue at the crest of every wave created by the way he manipulated her hips - but she found it, she fell in line with it, and then she took control of it just as quickly, hastening her own movements, grinding herself against his mouth as she braced her arms against the headboard, every desperate press of his tongue like an electric shock that ignited every nerve ending in her body.

It was blinding, this release; washing over her like a cool wave as he feasted on her with unbridled hunger, unfaltering even as her hips stuttered, then stilled, until she had nothing else to give him; her entire body pulled tight as a guitar string, stretched to its limit and ready to snap –

She hadn’t even realized that she’d stopped breathing until the air came slamming back into her lungs; she gasped, chest filled with fire, pulse pounding in her throat, forking into her limbs – and before she could even begin to come down, he managed to wrap his arm around her back, hefting her away from him and rolling her onto her back as though she weighed absolutely nothing – he moved with her, crawling over her, a comforting, heavy weight pressing her into the mattress – and she didn’t fit, exactly; their limbs tangled, her head lolling over the edge, but it didn’t matter because there was his hand cradling her neck, holding her up; there were his lips meeting hers, slick with her own taste, and there was him, all of him, filling her senses, his muscles pressed against her –

He rooted himself inside of her in fiery stretch, and she welcomed it, brief as it was; sank her teeth into muscle of his shoulder and cried out with each thrust, unconcerned with the noise of it all because she wanted him to hear her, wanted him to understand exactly what he was doing to her – and when he unspools inside of her, it’s with a cry that was almost primal, that last stuttered thrust pinning her against their sheets, his legs taut, his breath hot on her neck.

He was stifling, when he finally settled; his skin scorching against hers, sweat pooling where their stomachs pressed together, dripping from his neck – and she didn’t care, dragging her fingers lightly along his glistening flesh and tangling them in his stringy hair, holding him close to her trembling body. He panted against her chest, one hand still gripping the back of her neck, the other searching for her unencumbered arm as it rested across the sheets.

“That was – supposed to be –” She drew his arm closer, their fingers interlacing. Her lips traced a path of reverence along his thumb, his knuckles, down to his wrist, punctuating each word with a tender kiss, “– about you – and just you –”

He groaned softly, shifting his head to rest his chin on her chest. “Christ, darlin’ – when’re you gonna learn?” Those dark eyes glittering at her through the sun's first tentative rays that filtered weakly through the curtains. His hand abandoned her neck, slipping under the curve of her lower back, and with a slight grunt, he pulled her towards the center of the bed, rescuing her head from its precarious position near the edge. It was a safe place, she decided; tucked against the hard plane of his chest, his fingers weaving through her hair, his lips a whisper against any exposed skin he could find: brushing her nose, pressing a lingering kiss against the pulse point of her neck. “It’s never just about me.”

She had known the illusion of love well before meeting Joel Miller – she was pretty sure of it, anyway. She’d been held before, just like this; felt the comforting embrace of a man’s arms around her, heard the assurances being made from lips loosened by their intimacy, their bodies slack and spent. She'd tasted the fleeting sensation of safety, and even believed it when it was promised to her – because she’d chosen to, because in the harshness of the QZs she’d called home for so many years, delusion was a wonderful refuge from reality. It was strange, maybe, that there was no choice in this now; no pretense, no manufactured hope while sirens blared outside and neighbors' screams pierced through thin, flaking walls.

In Jackson, the world was distilled to its simplest elements: there was only sunlight that streamed through her curtains, only birdsong that flowed through the open window. Only her husband, the man who put a ring on her finger and brought her back from hell again and again, who took her shattered body and rebuilt it with pleasure and showered her in the kind of love that she’d only encountered in the pages of books.

And when he kissed her again, and again in their sun-dappled bedroom, when he held her face in his hands and promised her that she was always going to be safe with him, it was the easiest truth she'd ever embraced.

#Pedro Pascal characters #Joel Miller #The Last of Us #Joel Miller x OC #Joel Miller Fic #smut #tlou #ao3 #fanfic #fanfiction #benny cooper #joel miller / oc #ofc

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nerdieforpedro · 4 months ago

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A little mean and a little sweet

Chapter Four of Come Live with Me Angel Series

Benny Miller x Diana (OFC)

My entire masterlist and blog are for readers 18+ MDNI. I do not consent to my work being used in AI, recommended on TikTok, borrowed or plagiarized.

Summary: Benny and Diana work out the tension between them.

Word Count: about 2.2k

Warnings: teasing, dirty talk, an ass slap or two, unprotected p in v, oral sex (female receiving), aftercare, confessions

Notes: This part took a long time. I’m not well versed in writing my characters being teasing or mean. At least not in this manner so let me know what you think in the comments! 😆

Main Masterlist/ Benny Miller Masterlist / Garrett Hedlund Characters Masterlist/ AO3 Link

Miller towers above Diana, he’s caged his arms on either side of her. Looking down, it’s a wonder he hasn’t pounced on her yet after plopping her down on the couch. Benny rushes a great many things but not this, and not today. Diana is reaching up for him and trying to pull him down to her, “Benjamin, you’ve been teasing me for far too long. Let me have you please.” It is a request he wants to honor, he really does, but he can’t. However long Diana thinks he has been taunting him, he believes she’s wrong. Benny’s feels he’s been open with how he feels about her though words aren’t his strong his strong suit.

“Now that’s a lie sweetheart and you know it.” His voice is low and makes her laugh. She highly doubts this, she had no idea that things would turn out this way so quickly. Before she can offer a rebuttal, Benny grabs her wrist and kisses the inside of it. “You’ve had me since we sang ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and I wouldn’t let go of your hand. I haven’t let go of you since Angel.” Benny uses his nose to trace down Diana’s arm, kissing one part he knows she’s not fond of: the fat on her arm. It’s why she doesn’t often wear sleeveless dresses and depending on how the short sleeves fit, she might not wear those either. Benny could care less or more like accurately, he enjoys her soft frame every time they touch. Diana turns away giggling at the gesture, while he nibbles on it and uses his knees to part her legs. She gasps when his lips reach her neck and he sucks on her skin while her hands lift up the back of his shirt.

“Benjamin, take it off. I want to feel more of you.” His mouth forms a smile that he presses into her neck before pulling back to make eye contact with her.

“It’ll be off when you’re out of this dress Di,” she starts to shimmy her hips so the dress slides up a bit for her to grab it but he clasps his hands around hers, “Not yet Angel. Told you I’m going to see you for myself and that involves taking my time. Not yours. We’ve been on yours with your shorts and shit around the house.” His teeth pull at the front of her dress and pull it down since her straps are so flimsy. Diana’s breasts are exposed and he whistles making her squirm, the air feels cool on her flesh and Benny’s grin goes right between her thighs making her moan.

“Dammit Benny,” he’s not hurting her in his hold, but it’s tight enough to where she can’t get out. Her voice cracks as he flicks one of her nipples with his tongue, keeping his eyes locked with hers she bucks her hips up to try and have some friction to force him to do the same. “You’re just being mean now. Take it into your mouth Miller.” He flicks it again before blowing on it, making it stiffen harder. A quiet fuck leaves Diana’s lips.

“If I was really mean, I’d leave you like this Di. Or maybe only do this.” Benny puts both of Diana’s hands over his head and uses his shirt that he now removed to tie them. He watches as she tries to undo the knot. “Come on Angel, I served with the best of the best. You’re not getting out of that until I want you to.” Two of his fingers sneak under her dress and find the damp spot on the front of he thong. He doesn’t move the fabric aside nor push it in. He just lets his digits rest on top of it while her hips do the work for him, but due to the limited space on the couch, she can only get small rolls going.

“Alright, alright. You’re nice, the sweetest. Benny, please…put at least one finger in.” Diana isn’t above begging. She’s so close and his fingers feel thick, but they're not inside of her and his mouth isn’t on her either. “Don’t you want to feel how wet I am for you Benny? Hear what other sounds me and my body can make for you?” She’s never said this to Benny before, at least outside of time spent with her vibrator. She wants to close her eyes while talking, but knows he’ll just tell her to keep them open. “My kind generous Benjamin, give me a different type of ache.” It feels so embarrassing to say aloud, but her eyes see the bulge in his shorts and she knows she’s on the right track.

Benny doesn’t say anything. He’s only imagined Diana uttering filth to him, but this? “You sure are the cruel one Angel, come here....” He hops to his feet and pulls her up by his shirt that’s still tied around her wrists. He makes a beeline for his bedroom as it has a king side bed. Benny makes sure to flip on all the lights, not giving Diana the option of keeping them off. He pushes her over the edge of the bed so she flops face down and the pulls her to stand, bent over to her ass is facing him. Her violet dress fell back over her hips and he flips it back up. She tries to look back but he uses his palm to slap an ass cheek making it jiggle. “What a view Diana. I’ll give you a little something now.” Her thong is yanked down and his two fingers and on each of her slick pussy lips, opening and closing them to hear and watch them.

“B-Benny you said you were going to give me something. Come on…” Diana’s whine is answered by another snack to her ass and two fingers slipping inside of her. “Fuck yes!” Her moan from his thick fingers is cut short by a strained yelp. She can’t move her hips, Miller is using his free hand to hold her hips in place. “Please….at least move them Benny. Don’t just hold them there…” She buries her face into the mattress to scream. He’s never been this mean, sure she’s been teasing him with her outfits but it doesn’t warrant this kind of pleasure denial does it? “I’m sorry for teasing you. I just…Oohh…” At her admission, Benny behinds loving his fingers slowly, still not allowing her to move her hips.

“You just what Diana? Wanted to make me hard during the day?” His fingers start moving a bit faster and his grip loosens on her hip, allowing her to move partially with his hand. “You could have just told me you wanted me to do this Di, I told you, you’ve got me sweetheart.” When he lets her hips go, he removes his fingers and hand whines again, though this time he turns her over and crouches down, placing her legs on his shoulders. He kisses her inner thigh and licks part of her essence off of it, making sure he’s looking right at her. Diana’s panting and her lips are trembling. “You look beautiful when I make a mess of you.” He wipes her slick off of his two fingers on his bottom lips and swallows it before swirling one finger around her clit. Hearing her call his name, makes him nibble on her thigh and speak directly to her cunt. “You’ll weep just for me. So pretty here too, Angel.” He watches as her core quivers and feels it on his tongue as he dives in.

Diana is grabbing at Benny’s hair, tugging on it as his tongue explores her folds. He’s slurping, drinking from her while grilling her thighs. It feels like he might bruise her and they’ll be sore. She welcomes the feeling, and jerks her hips toward his glistening face. She’s twisting to try and aid his tongue exploring everywhere it can. He’s muttering something into her damp void but Diana registers nothing except her own moans and Benny’s skill with his tongue. Suddenly, she’s trying to push him away, pressure building but it feels different than her orgasm normally does, so much more forceful. Diana’s scared that she might pass gas or something even more embarrassing, but Miller’s nails are digging into her thighs from how he’s trying to keep her in place. “Please! Fuck Benny, let me go something’s co-“ There’s a gush and a scream from Diana’s mouth while Benny laps at her drenched sex with even more fervor than before. Her heels are digging into the mattress and when her body relaxes. His tongue finally begins to slow.

He gets a few more flicks of his tongue in before finally rising from between her legs. “You alright Angel?” He watches as Diana’s breasts rise and fall with each breath and nips at the skin on her lower belly, jiggling it to get a rise out of her. He knows she hates it when anyone touches the part of her stomach that hangs down. Weakly, she swats at his hand, “Well you’re still with me then. Why were you scared Di?”

“I dunno what the hell you did. That was way too intense Benny. Is there anything past an orgasm?” Diana sucks her teeth as she hears Benny laugh and position himself between her legs, this time on his knees. She looks down and sees his bobbing dick leaking with precum. Propping herself up on her shoulders, and making eye contact with him he dips his head to place his thumb on her chin and pulls it down for her to open her mouth. “Your face…d-did I? Lord let me wipe-”

“Ya ain’t wiping shit Diana. You’ll taste yourself. I made you squirt honey.” The same tongue that had just had her spasming tasted slightly tangy but mixed with his saliva had her groan into his mouth, her hands were back in his hair and the idea of needing to dry his face off was gone. Benny’s hands are on her breasts kneading them while he guides his swollen shaft along her folds, making her spread her legs wide again. Their lips part as each of them catch their breath. “Diana, I’m going in now. That alright?”

She nods and lowers one of her hands to guide the head of his cock into her awaiting hole, the stretch from having him inside of her makes her tense up. Benny strokes her cheek and moves her hand from her lower lips to his shoulder. He’s only a third of the way in when he stops and she pinches him. “It’s fine. Keep going, you just have to work me open is all Ben.” Diana plants a kiss on his chest and neck. He doesn’t stop again and sinks himself the rest of the way in until their hips meet. “You make me so full Benny. Move when you’re ready.”

“How do you know just what to say Diana?” With his hands drifting down the sides of her body, Benny firmly grabs her hips and begins a slow pace with deep strokes, pulling nearly all the way out and diving back in fully while he watches Diana throw her head back into the mattress, calling his name. Her tongue pokes out past her bottom lip and Benny leans forward to suck on it, changing the angle at which his cock hitting her walls. She gasps and scratches his chest, mouthing a soundless ‘sorry’ as he feels her tighten around his shaft. It’s then that Benny decides to move faster with Diana winds both arms around his back, it felt like she might fly away. That’s the last thing she wants, she needs to stay present as he’s making her come again. Her moans match Benny’s grunts as he continues increasing his pace, only letting his thrusts get but so shallow.

“B-Benny, it’s…you too…come too.” He’s trying to hold on a bit longer, he doesn’t want to yet. He’d rather keep going until he passes out with his dick still inside of her, but Benny figures he can give her this. He wants to, needs to.

“I will but I need to pull-“ Diana’s legs keep Benny firmly against her while the rolls of his hips become more erratic. He understands what she’s doing and doesn’t question it, though he’ll have some later. Her heat quivers around Benny’s cock before clamping down on him, milking him while he spills into her, marking her form himself. It’s here that Benny decides this won’t be the only time. He remains within her until he’s completely soft and even then, only slips out when he feels her shiver.

They both get out of the bed, though Diana needed help to the bathroom and get cleaned up. She bends down with a grimace upon seeing her dress and thong on the floor to pick them up and make her way back to her room. Benny wraps his arms around her waist. “Come back to bed Angel, unless you’re dead set on sleeping by yourself.”

“Okay.” Is all she says as she drops her clothes once more and slips under the covers with Miller, her mind racing. They’ve finally done it and said so many things to one another. She still has her own room, how do things go from here?

Peeps that might enjoy: @gwendibleywrites @megamindsecretlair @soft-persephone @soft-girl-musings @tinytinymenace

@musings-of-a-rose @laurfilijames @yorksgirl @guelyury

Chapter Three Chapter Five

#fanfiction #benny miller #Benny Miller x ofc #benny miller fanfiction #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #nerdieforpedro #come live with me Angel #benny miller smut

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backtothefanfiction · 7 months ago

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All The Good Girls Go To Hell | TF!Boys Mafia AU ~ Part TWO

Summary: Phoenix has one last night of freedom before she is forced to go to work for her dad. What better way to spend it than a night on the town? Maybe taking home one of the guys she knows will only wind up Pope... or hopefully get her closer to bedding the man himself?

Warnings: 18+ Only, (Mature Content), Dark Mafia Romance Au, broken family, unhinged female rage, AFAB, OFC, Mixed POV, objectification of the female body, drug and alcohol used, smut, bondage, dom!reader, oral (m!recieving)

Word Count: 5.2k+

A/N: I am sorry this took so long to get done and posted. I also know I could have gone further into things at the end of this chapter but it felt like it ended there for me and it'll give us a place to start in chapter three. Once again we are gonna jump around to a few different character's perspectives. As always if you enjoy please give feedback and reblog, it means a lot. Also I'm posting this without doing a final proofread so may still contain some errors, but hopefully not. Enjoy!

TWO

PHOENIX

I haven’t been back in this room for years. Although I was bounced around boarding schools since I was 12, I still came home for the holidays and most weekends- my bedroom becoming a shrine to all the things I loved as a teenage girl. Hunky male actors (who we’re definitely way too old for me) cover my walls. All the half page and sometimes double spread posters from the centerfolds of my favorite magazines. Whatever space lay between was covered in doodles- made by sharpies- in an ever decreasing interest in becoming an artist.

My en-suite cupboards are filled with a plethora of half used bottles of crazy color, that are sat tempting me in my post break up adrenaline. They are probably long past their best before date and not that effective. At least that’s what I tell myself as I’m getting out the old tupperware pots still waiting under the desk and begin dumping out colors. I’ve only really got enough pink and blue to do half my head, so decide to split my hair in half straight down the middle and do a half and half ombré with the two colors a la Harley Quinn. But when my eyes fall on the toxic neon yellow shade, I know I have to find a way to work it in too. So instead of taking the pink and blue right down to the very ends of my hair, I decide to put the yellow on there instead.

I’m sat on top of my old hand-me-down four poster bed, reading one of the old teen magazines (that have been kept in a box under my bed all these years) whilst my hair develops, when my Dad finally comes up to find me.

“What in hell’s name have you done to your head?” He says, stopping short in the doorway when he takes in the sight of me.

“What can I say? I was bored.” I say bluntly, barely looking up from between the glossy pages of the magazine.

“Give me that.” He says, stepping forward and snatching it out of my hands.

“Hey- I was reading that!” I protest, but he cuts me off.

“You’re 26 Phoenix, it’s time you start acting like it.”

I genuinely look at him shocked. After all these years he’s finally decided to grow a backbone and discipline me. “Woooow.” I begin to sass him when I spot Ez over my Father’s shoulder, encouraging me to stop.

“Enjoy your last night of freedom Phoenix, because come tomorrow night you’re going to work with Archie.” my old man continues.

My attention snaps back to him so fast I almost give myself whiplash. “What!”

“Don’t give me that shit. You’re back living under my roof, you pay your way like everyone else in this house.”

“What, even Marina?” I snark, knowing she’s never done a single day’s work in years.

“Yes, actually.” my Dad retorts, “She helps me with the books.”

“Yeah, I bet she does.” I roll my eyes.

“Look, you don’t like it- maybe you shouldn’t have set fire to your life all over again. Jesus!” He turns on his heels, growing exasperated with me. “Your shift starts at 7 tomorrow. You can get a ride with Archie.” my Dad barks before he storms out the room without shutting the door behind him.

“I told you, you’ve really done it this time.” Ez chastises me from the open doorway.

“Oh shut up.” I say, getting up from the bed and slamming the door in his face.

I want to scream the word ‘FUCK’ for the whole house to hear, but I don’t want to give them the satisfaction. Only I would get cheated on and then punished for it.

My fingers instead rub at my eyes. ‘Fuck this shit,�� I think to myself, storming over to my closet. I fling the doors open and survey what I have to work with. Most of it is from when I was 17 and near anorexic. It takes a few passes back and forth between items before I decide on a couple of items and choose to get a little crafty with them.

An hour later I’ve washed out my hair and styled it, throwing on a full face of makeup- complete with glitter and a dark lip- I now don an outfit made up of two spliced shirts, the front an old silver sequin shirt I’ve cut into a square and then fixed to the straps of a black spaghetti strap top. It hangs low enough to just about cover my pleather hotpants covered ass. My bra and tits are almost completely on display, but it’s just the bait I need to not have to buy a single drink tonight. Given that my Dad runs Medusa’s as well, I won’t even have to pay to get in.

I shove on a pair of bejeweled silver ankle boots to match the makeshift dress I’ve scraped together and throw on my old faithful leather jacket- once an oversized fit, that now fits perfectly- and I’m ready to go.

“Hey, give me a lift down to the club.” I say, knocking on Deano’s door frame two rooms down.

He barely looks away from his TV where he’s in the middle of a racing game. His fingers, glued to the controller in his hand, twiddle the joists and the tires from the car on the screen, screech through the sound system he has hooked up. “What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll finally introduce you to Lucy.”

“How do you know she’ll be there?”

“It’s a Friday night. She’ll be there.”

“Phe, you haven’t been down to Medusa’s for years,” there’s a beep from the TV as he pauses the game to finally look at me, “how are you so sure- Dad is gonna kill you before he lets you go out dressed like that.” he says.

“Well I wasn’t planning on giving him a fashion show before we left.” I sigh, crossing my arms and legs, leaning my body against the door frame. “Besides, he’s the one who said this was my last night of freedom and I don’t plan on spending it sitting on my bed in my joggers

watching reruns of the old house wives.”

“Fine.” he sighs, rubbing at his face, “But you’re messaging Lucy to make sure she’s gonna be there.” He points at me.

“Doing it now.” I say, reaching into my jacket pocket for my phone and typing out a hasty message to my old partner in crime. “Get dressed.” I bark at him.

“So bossy.”

“Yep. And don’t you forget it.”

FRANKIE

Although most of the people in the clubbing business are in their 40s and 50s, the actual clubbing lifestyle is not suited for anyone over 35. Unless you are a woman in your 40s that is. (You’ll be surprised at the amount of middle aged Mom’s who band together and make a big deal about going out at least once a month, so that they can hold on to some semblance of themselves and their youth- especially if they have kids.)

No. If I had it my way, I would definitely not be spending my Friday night at a club full of sweaty twenty something year olds, all scantily clad or greasy and sleazy, trying to make a pass at anything else that walks or even just looks too long in their direction. I can’t say the same about Benny though- but he is and always has been the baby of our little quartet. The man still hasn’t yet hit 40, so this ideally is still his game; and out of all of the clubs we’ve bought over the last few years, Medusa’s is without a doubt his favorite. Marble stone statues dotted about the place, a large spray painted mural of the lady herself, complete with 3D gold fiberglass snakes that protrude from her head and red lights in her eyes.

It’s also where most of the rich kids in town come to spend their money, so it always turns a pretty profit; not just from the booze, but also the amount of drugs that are bought and exchanged in the toilets. All of it our gear of course.

Even when we aren’t dropping by for an inspection, Ben will still opt to spend most of his nights here sampling the merchandise, before taking home the prettiest young thing in a skirt he can find at the end of the night. That poor creature will then wake up at the penthouse the following morning and attempt to slip out before anyone else notices her. Unfortunately though, I’m an early riser and usually already sat having my morning coffee in the kitchen in my t-shirt and underwear, so a clean and easy get away very rarely happens.

We’ve barely made it through the door for the evening when he’s already eyeing up some girl dancing around a pole on top of one of the platforms. She’s barely wearing any clothes and has pink and blue hair, definitely Benny’s type. He’s always been fond of something a little more reckless and different- like him. He’s practically salivating as he comes to a stop to stare at her across the top of a couple of booths.

“Don’t even think about it.” Pope’s serious voice cuts through Benny’s thoughts. It has us all looking then.

Pope has never been one to make a comment or cock block any of us for that matter. He’s always said, what we do in our own time is none of his business; but the mere sight of this chick has him growing tight.

Benny looks like he’s about to protest, his hands rising into the air to indicate back to the chick in a ‘oh come on, how can you say no to that’ kind of way- and I don’t really blame him; this chick’s even got my eyes lingering to places they shouldn’t. But Pope’s face remains firm. “I’m serious Ben, you don’t want to touch that,” he says. “And that goes for all of you.” He adds quickly, seeing the way both William and myself also seem to be taking her in. Because it’s true, she really is like nothing else here. The way she’s dressed, her colorful hair, her confidence- it’s magnetic.

She sways her hips more, a naughty smile on her face. She knows we’re looking. But her eyes don’t linger on us. They linger on Pope.

“You know each other?” I ask, observing the obvious.

“She’s David’s kid.” He states as if he’s already exhausted by her. By us. By this whole conversation.

“The fire starter?” Will chimes in. He seems to be eyeing her up with a whole new kind of appreciation now.

“Fire starter?” Benny’s ears prick up and he begins to bounce on the balls of his feet, palms rubbing together as if he’s gearing up for a competition.

“I told you Ben, hands off.” Pope says again. “Now come on. We’ve got work to do.” He says and continues to walk towards the back of the club to a raised seating area that’s reserved only for us.

“Yeah, yeah.” Benny sasses back to him, but leans into me, nudging my shoulder with his as he says, “what’s he gonna do?” He nods in David’s daughter's direction, before giving me a mischievous smirk.

PHOENIX

In all fairness, this so-called ‘last night of freedom’ was turning into a bit of a dud until they walked in. There was no real entertainment. It was boring. Predictable.

Lucy was indeed at the club as predicted, flanked by a couple of nobody guys already hovering around her like mosquitoes, despite the fact she didn’t seem to give a single one of them the time of day. My brother of course quickly joined their ranks. No- she was far more focused on doing blow at the table with her “girls” (I’d never met them before… couldn’t even remember their names), but I joined nonetheless. After all, Lucy was loaded.

She worked as one of those so-called “influencers”. She was constantly charging companies upwards of 10 grand a post, claiming it was such hard work to take a picture and write the perfect caption for her 1 million followers who only followed her for her looks, not her substance- of which she had very little.

BENNY

I knew Pope had said no, but when had that ever stopped me before? He knew what I was like. Knew I’d rather act now and enjoy myself and deal with the consequences later. Besides, it didn’t matter whose kid she was, if she was in here, she was clearly legal and the way she’s been eyeing me up since we sat down, clearly meant she wants this too. She’s firmly placing herself down on the table- and damn- if that isn’t that most appealing slice of cherry pie I have ever seen.

Actually scratch that, she looks like the embodiment of one of those slushies you can get down at the 7/11 and all the guys know the blue raspberry, cherry mix is my favorite.

“Yo! Ben!” My brother snaps his fingers in front of my eyes, breaking me once again from my fixation and fantasies. “Brother, have you been listening to a word Pope just said?”

“Yeah, of course.” I bristle, but in all honesty, I haven’t got a fucking clue.

“Oh really. Go on then,” he presses me, as Pope and Frankie stand and begin to leave the booth, making their way over to the bar, “tell me what he just said.”

“Something about going and checking in with the team leader that’s on tonight to check about sales or something.” I murmur my reply.

“Lucky guess.” My brother says, rolling his eyes.

“Hey, why did you call her the fire starter?” I turn and ask him. He’s got that look on his face and struggles to meet my eyes, because he knows it’s a bad idea to answer my question and supply me with no doubt deadly information, but he also knows I’ll just keep asking or find it even more of an intriguing game if he doesn’t.

“She set fire to her school.” He finally says, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a stick of gum, unwrapping it and placing it in his mouth. I’ve never understood his obsession with the stuff, but then again, I’ve never understood why he’s such a neat freak either. And to be honest, given my brother's near compulsive need to always have minty fresh breath (despite the fact I know he ain’t been kissing no girls in a long time- not since Kylie broke up with him) I’d probably place my bets on the two things being linked. “Oh and she set her fiancé’s bed on fire when she found him in bed with another girl. Or should I say ex-fiancé now.” Will continued as he chewed down on his gum.

His words had my eyes growing wide. “No, Ben, don’t even think about it.” He chastises me.

“What?” I say indignantly. “How do you know what I was thinking?” I ask him.

“Because I know you. You’re probably wondering what it’s gonna take for her to set you on fire.” I can’t help the small grunt that escapes me as I cross my arms and spread my legs, sitting myself back in the booth. “Yeah- exactly.” My brother says with his know it all attitude.

I hate it when he does that. He pretends like he’s all high and mighty, but I know for a fact he checked her out too, when we first arrived. And I know he would definitely hit that if given the chance. No doubt she’d be too much for his uptight ass though. But then again, I think to myself as my eyes glance back across the room to her as she gets back up from her seat to begin dancing and wrapping herself seductively around that pole again, maybe that’s exactly what he needs to loosen him up a bit. But given the way she’s currently eyeballing me, there’s no way I’m letting him tap that before me.

PHOENIX

I take my time as I wait for the rest of them to finish up for the night and leave- knowing all too well that Benny would stay behind. Between drinks, and the odd extra sniff of blow off the back of one of Lucy’s guy friends’ hands, me and my target for the night have been eye fucking each other like it’s a sport. At 1am he approached the bar. At 1:15 a pink and blue bubblegum flavored drink made its way over to me. It didn’t take two guesses to work out who had sent it- but the bartender told me anyway.

I raised it in his direction, with a polite smile of thanks, before I seductively brought the straw to my lips. I kept eye contact with him as I began to suck it down and he gave me the dirtiest smirk, before he turned his attention back to Pope and the rest of their group. When I flashed a look towards the elder gentleman he quickly turned his eyes back away from me, but unfortunately for him he wasn’t quick enough for me to not see the look of contempt in his eyes. Oh yeah, this was gonna be fun.

It was another hour and a half before the rest of them left. At this point Lucy was too far gone. Half of her mates had disappeared. There was only one other girl left at the table with us who was talking to my brother, whilst two other guys who had been thirsting over Lucy all night, finally seized their moment.

“We’re gonna take her home.” one of them shouted as the other attempted to pull a very inebriated Lucy out of the booth. I thought for sure Deano would protest being the sober one and designated driver, but he was far too wrapped up in the red head sat next to him; who also seemed fairly sober considering the state the rest of our group had been getting in most of the night.

Overall though, I couldn’t care less- I had my eyes on my own prize.

The tall fair haired man finally began to make his way over to me now his companions had officially left the building. He looked like he could be a boxer… or a football player. As he got closer I noticed his eyes were a piercing baby blue.

“Benny.” He said, holding his hand out to me.

“Phoenix.” I replied with a smile in the corner of my lips, taking his hand carefully in my own and giving it a shake. I noticed Deano notice him and bristle slightly, it was clear he wanted to say something, but the way Benny turned his eye on him, he quickly lost his nerve.

“Deano.” Benny said, laying on the charm.

My brother swallowed hard. “Benny.” He said a little tightly.

“Here-“ Benny said to Dean, slipping a hand into the inside pocket of his blazer, “why don’t you two go treat yourself to a couple of drinks on me,” he said, pulling out a money clip. He peeled off a couple of bills, handing them over to my brother, before he slipped the money back into his pocket. Deano gave me a small reluctant and protective look, but when he looked back to Benny, he knew not to protest- after all he did work for him and knew not to get on Ben’s bad side.

“Come on, Isla.” He said to the red headed girl beside him, offering her his hand before leading her over to the bar.

As Benny sat himself down next to me in the booth, I couldn’t help but smirk. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Deano that scared of anyone.”

Ben let out a scoff, “Nahh.” He said, denying the claim with a small wave of his hand. “It’s nothing really. Dean’s a good guy. I fought him once actually.”

My brow furrowed at the piece of information- so he was a boxer. “Really?” I pondered.

“Ehh just a small little work match.” He said, sitting himself back and smoothing out his trousers. “We’ve got this boxing gym down near the docks. Some of the guys like to go down there sometimes, let off a little steam.”

“Does Pope go?”

“Pope?” His brow furrowed slightly, but his tone was one of surprise. “Nahh… nah.” He said, shaking his head. “My brother and Frankie do sometimes, more to support me and just watch, but no- Pope doesn’t really go there. It’s not really his thing.”

I pause for a moment, just to take in the information. “So what does he do to let off steam then? I mean, the man seems pretty uptight.” I say the second part of the sentence lightly, I don’t want Benny thinking I’m only using him for information about his Boss.

“To be honest… I don’t really know.” Ben confides in you. “I mean, I come here and do my boxing, my brother likes his bikes. Frankie likes to take off into the woods and go fishing. But Pope, honestly, I don’t know.” He goes quiet then. He’s contemplative, as if he’s never really put much thought into it before. I shuffle myself slightly next to him and he quickly snaps back out of it though. “What about you?” He turns his head and asks me, his eyes raking over me and lingering over my chest on the way. “What do you like to do to let off steam?”

☆

I’m barely thinking about how I just ditched my brother, leaving him alone at the club without even saying goodbye, as Benny slams my back into the door to the penthouse apartment. His lips have been on mine since the elevator doors closed. When the bell dinged to signal we had reached the top floor, we hadn’t even parted; he hooked his large hands underneath my ass and lifted me up, my legs and arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders and hips as I allowed him to carry me like a literal child to the door.

He propped me against it with his hips as he fumbled in his pockets looking for a key card. “Wait, wait, wait…” he said against my lips as he reluctantly parted from them, “just give me a… second.” He said as he finally located the card and held it to the small black box beside the door. There was a beep and the tiny light went green as the door went click. “There we go.” He muttered to himself, pulling on the door handle and pushing it open before latching his lips back onto mine and taking me inside.

He carried me over to the kitchen island, where he finally put me down atop the cold marble countertop, parting with me for only a moment so that he could take off his, no doubt expensive, designer blazer and hand it over the back of one of the bar stools at the end of the island. The quick break allowed me to survey the room in the city lights that streamed in through the large floor to ceiling windows that lined the far left wall and wrapped around the side of the stairs at the end of the large open plan living space, that no doubt lead up to the bedrooms.

“Is anyone else home?” I asked breathlessly, as he moved back around the island to nestle himself between my legs, his large palms sliding up and down my bare legs.

He shook his head, a small glint of excitement in his eyes. “No, my brother and Frankie had business to attend to.” He explained, his eyes moving up and down my body, taking me in like I was a meal, as he spoke. “They won’t be back for at least another couple of hours.” As soon as he finished his sentence, he immediately began to attack my lips with his own again.

It was thrilling to finally kiss another man after being with Freddie for nearly five years, even his Ben’s lips were a little rougher. It was clear already that Benny was all about force; his job, his muscles, the boxing, his kissing- and although in the right person a little force in sex can be a good thing, I knew sex with Benny would no doubt be fast hard and over way too soon before my orgasm had even had a chance to build. But I’d been watching him all night, saw that look in his eye when he first saw me. Noticed the double take he did when his brother no doubt told him who I was and what I’d done. I’d seen that hunger in him grow and I knew what he truly wanted.

I broke my lips from his, feigning the need to take a breather; and to my delight, felt his lips begin to travel down my neck instead, affording me a chance to look over his shoulder towards the dining table right in front of the window and formulate a plan. I slowly began to walk my fingers down his chest, making a path right for his belt. My lips attached themselves to his once more in an attempt to distract as I began to push him back, hopping down from the counter as I walked him slowly backwards towards the table, carefully maneuvering him around it in front of the large window that overlooked the city. I gently hooked my toes around the chair leg at my side, pushing it out from under the table and shifting it to just the right position behind him, all the while my fingers worked to undo his belt. He smiled against my lips with a knowing chuff as I swiftly pulled the belt from the loops, the metal of the buckle jangling in my grasp.

I met his eyes with a devilish look as I pulled away from him, gently nibbling on my lower lip and he grunted slightly in anticipation. However that grunt turned into a small moan as I pushed him back down into the chair and sat myself on top of him. I could already feel how hard he was in his slacks, eager to get inside me.

He reached his arms around my back as he tried to grind up into my sex, but I shook my head. “Nuh, uh, uh.” I chastised him, reaching behind me for his wrists. At my words, he pouted, but that childlike look of wonder quickly returned to his eyes when I moved his arms behind his back and began to wrap his belt around them, fastening them tightly into place, before I stood up and began to step back from him.

“What ya gonna do fire starter?” Benny asked me teasingly as I began to sway my hips back and forth; looking him up and down, taking in the sight before me.

“Who, me?” I teased as I slowly began to lift up my top to reveal myself to him.

“You gonna set me on fire too?” He asked almost excitedly.

“Maybe… someday.” I said, as I began to slide my shorts down, leaving them in a puddle of fabric on the floor with my top. Now stood only in my underwear and heels, I began to slowly walk towards him again. “But tonight…” I teased as I circled him, my finger dragging across his chest, up across the back of his shoulders and back again. When I was back in front of him I slowly began to drop to my knees before him, my hands sliding up his thighs and back down again as I parted his knees, “-tonight,” I said again, my fingers beginning to inch back up towards the opening of his slack, “I think I’m just gonna blow-” I unbuttoned his trousers, pulling the fabric and forcing the zip open, “your-” I reached my hands in below his waistband and pulled out his cock, it was so hard and thick just the sight of it made me begin to salivate. “Mind.” I finally said as I wrapped my lips around his cock, my tongue swirling around his tip, making him moan loudly into the dark room.

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