#ben miller x frankie morales

[romana-after-dark]

One thing about me is ima ship that Pedro Pascal Character with that blonde man

[alltheirdamn]

Couch Chronicles | One Shot

Frankie Morales x f!reader x Benny Miller

Summary: When you accidentally tell your boyfriend, Frankie, that you think his best friend is cute... he makes a plan. Rating: 18+ Explicit Word Count: 4.2k Warnings: strictly smut, established relationship, threesome, mmf dynamic, heavy kissing, a stupid amount of neck kissing, nipple play, oral (f! and m! receiving), fingering, choking, rough sex, cum eating, deepthroat, unprotected piv sex, multiple creampies, degrading kink (very mild), praise kink, pet names (pretty girl, baby, babygirl), language, men whimpering (i know) A/N: I want two boyfriends, and I want the boyfriends to be boyfriends... yeah, you guys know how it goes. idk I had an idea, tossed some words together, and here we are. not my finest work and probably a lil shitty in terms of technicality, but I was craving a good trip to Paris.

Masterlist | Ko-fi

You were lying in bed with Frankie one night, scrolling through social media, when you came across a new post from Benny. It was from a recent fishing trip down to the lake, and he was shirtless, holding a large trout in his hand. You tapped on the screen twice, liking the photo and spending an extra few seconds staring at his tall frame and shaggy blonde hair doused in sunlight. 

“You know he is pretty cute,” you said aloud, showing Frankie the photo.

Frankie and Benny were close, best friends even. You had spent time with him here and there over the years at barbecues and small group settings. He was always friendly and welcomed you into the group with open arms. You and Frankie had been dating for a while now, and you were well aware of his past with the group of men and the missions they had gone on. But now he was home for good, making a living for himself and staying clean. 

“Do you ever think about fucking him?” Frankie asked casually, glancing from the screen to your face.

“Frankie, oh my God!” You gasped. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You gaped at him, shutting off your phone and placing it on the nightstand.

“Hey, I wasn’t asking to start an argument,” he said coolly. “It was a genuine question.”

You shrunk into the pillows, turning to face him. He nestled against his own pillow, holding your gaze and giving you a small grin. His hair had grown shaggy at the ends, sticking up behind his ears and curling at the base of his neck. You lifted a hand to scratch at the patchy beard covering his jaw, biting your lip as you navigated a response in your head.

“No, I haven’t thought about it,” you exhaled. “Okay, maybe I have once or twice. Fuck—I don’t know. Not in a fuck him and leave you type of way.”

“You know I wouldn’t be mad if you did,” Frankie replied. “Fuck him, I mean.”

“What?” You balked, eyes growing wide.

He only shrugged his shoulders, shifting close to you in the bed.

“He’s my best friend. I’d trust him with you.”

“You’re not seriously telling me right now you want me to sleep with Benny.”

“I’m not telling you to do it,” Frankie argued. “Just saying, if you ever want to explore it, tell me. I’m sure he’s thought about it, too.”

Your face burned bright red at the thought of Benny fantasizing about you. There was no way. Frankie was messing with you.

“None of this bothers you?” You questioned.

Frankie laughed softly, hooking an arm around your leg and guiding it over his hip. You shuffled your body closer until you were both a breath apart. 

“Fuck no, baby,” he smirked, his pupils growing bigger. “Getting to see one of best friends fuck you would probably only turn me on more.”

You felt him growing harder against you, and you reached a hand down to palm his cock through his pajama bottoms. Frankie let out a soft whine, bucking his hips into your hand.

“Would you just sit back and watch?” You quirked an eyebrow. 

“I’d do whatever you want.”

Your fingers danced up his pants, teasing his waistband. You gave him a mischievous grin as you trailed lower until your hand wrapped around his cock. He groaned at your touch, his eyes rolling back.

“What if I want both of you?” You asked, pumping him slowly. “At the same time?”

Something carnal flashed across his features, and he crawled on top of you, running his mouth up your neck. You arched into him, using both hands to pull down his pants. Frankie did the same to you, tugging your sleep shorts down your legs and exploring the wetness collecting between your inner thighs.

“Pretty girl wants to get tag-teamed?” He teased. “Yeah, I can make that happen.”

You gasped at his words and let him fuck you mercilessly the rest of the night. 

You had zero clue what Frankie had told Benny, but later that week, you were situated on the couch between their warm bodies, watching some action movie. Benny kept a respectable distance while Frankie’s hand remained on your thigh, drawing slow circles over your bare skin. You were wearing one of his T-shirts and a pair of soft sleep shorts, your nerves buzzing through your body. 

You barely had the capacity to pay attention to the movie, your eyes shifting between both of the men sitting on either side of you. Frankie leaned over after a while, his breath hot against your neck.

“You call the shots, pretty girl. Whatever you wanna do, it’s your choice,” he muttered into your ear.

You let out a small gasp, glancing over at Benny. He was sitting relaxed against the couch; his legs spread open and muscular arms crossed over his chest. Your eyes trailed up his thick neck, studying his tensed jaw covered in days-old stubble and blue eyes that remained focused on the screen. You weren’t the shy type, but initiating this type of situation was way out of your comfort zone.

“Benny?” You whispered.

His gaze slid to you, his pupils already dilated.

“Yeah?” He asked, his voice deep as he said your name.

You sucked in a breath, mustering the courage to take it to the next step. 

“Kiss me,” you demanded, though it sounded a bit sheepish.

He flicked his gaze to Frankie, then back to you. Reaching a hand up to tangle in your hair, he reeled you in for a hungry kiss. You whimpered at the feel of his mouth against yours, his approach far rougher than what you were used to with Frankie. His tongue intertwined with yours as he coaxed your mouth open wider, his other hand sliding up your thigh. 

Frankie’s mouth connected with the other side of your neck, sucking marks into your flushed skin as you let out another helpless whine.

“Fuck,” Benny panted, guiding your head toward Frankie.

Frankie was quick to capture your mouth, his tongue tracing the saliva still lingering on your lips. You gasped as Benny’s mouth trailed up your neck, drawing his tongue over the erratic pulse under your jaw. 

“This what you want, baby?” Frankie asked before sinking his teeth into the plush skin of your bottom lip.

You gave him an eager nod of your head, and he brought his hand up to tilt your head, both of their mouths now hot and wet against either side of your throat. The throbbing between your thighs grew painful, and you squirmed against their roaming hands; Benny’s hand crawled up to cup your breast, Frankie’s hand teasing your aching clit over your shorts.

“Jesus Christ,” you moaned, letting your head fall back against the couch. 

“Call the shots, pretty girl,” Frankie ordered. 

You bucked your hips against his hand, searching for any form of friction to alleviate the pressure building inside your core. Benny tugged at the t-shirt covering your torso, his breath going ragged as he discovered you bare beneath the soft cotton.

His head dipped down to capture your pebbled nipple between his teeth, grinding them against your skin until you cried out from the pleasure mixing with pain. Oh, Benny was rough, and it only made you ache for more of his touch.

You glanced down at the same time his gaze lifted to yours, a grin tugging at his lips as he realized how much you liked it. Frankie, meanwhile, was working at sipping his fingers between your wet folds, sinking two fingers knuckle deep. 

“Shit,” you hissed through clenched teeth. Frankie’s fingers worked fast inside you; he knew what to do to make you completely fall apart.

But now you had another man working at you in tandem, Benny’s mouth still ravaging your breast. Your fingers tangled into his hair, your nails raking over his scalp. He let out a groan of approval, rewarding you with another bite of his teeth around your nipple.

“Feels…so fucking good…” You whispered to both men.

Frankie angled his hand so that he could push his fingers deeper, curling them against the spongy spot inside you. Searing heat coursed through your veins with each movement of his fingers, your breath coming out short and pained.

A dangerous idea floated through the fog inside your brain, and you wondered how far you could push it at the expense of your wanton needs. Tugging Benny’s hair, he released your nipple with a gentle pop and moved his lips back to yours. You sucked his bottom lip in between your teeth before diving your tongue into his mouth. Benny let out a shallow exhale, letting you steer the kiss in whatever direction you wanted. 

“Benny,” you whined. “I want your tongue inside me.”

He cursed under his breath and looked over at Frankie, who was still working you closer to the edge. Frankie’s eyes lifted to meet yours, a devilish smirk playing on his lips. He pulled his fingers from you, lifting them to your mouth.

“Clean them, pretty girl,” he ordered. 

You wrapped your mouth around his thick fingers, the salty, sweet taste of your arousal coating your tongue. You pulled your head back and looked at Benny with a lifted brow.

“Wanna taste?” You asked with a coy smile.

You expected him to pull you in for a kiss, to taste it from your mouth, but your breath stalled as you watched him grip Frankie’s wrist and guide his fingers into his mouth. Your jaw dropped open as Benny sucked on Frankie’s fingers with fervency, his eyes locked on your boyfriend. This was new. Frankie grunted as Benny dragged his tongue over the pads of his fingers, finally releasing them and settling back into the couch.

“Come here, baby,” Frankie said, shuffling his body back against one side of the couch.

He maneuvered you into his lap, your back pressed against his chest. Through heavy lids, you watched Benny tear away his shirt and put his defined abs on display. You and Frankie had been to a few of his boxing matches, and you were more than familiar with the toned figure he hid under his basic t-shirts. Your eyes roamed down his torso, studying the way his chest hair flourished between his sternum and trailed down his abdomen. You involuntarily wet your lips at the sight, wanting to take your tongue and trace every flexed muscle on his body.

“Spread your legs for me, babygirl,” Benny instructed. Hearing him call you babygirl had your mind reeling. 

You let your legs fall open and watched as Benny shuffled back to situate himself between your thighs. Frankie’s hands groped and squeezed your breasts, his fingers pinching your nipples until you gasped at the stinging pain. You tilted your head back, arching upward to meet his lips. Frankie responded with a sloppy kiss, his nose brushing over yours at the same time Benny’s tongue flicked over your aching clit.

“Fuck!” You cried, the word muffled in Frankie’s mouth.

Frankie let out a low chuckle and intertwined his fingers through the tendrils of your hair, forcing you to look down at Benny.

“Watch him while he tongue fucks you, baby,” Frankie commanded. 

Your breath hitched, and Benny took that as his opportunity to dive his tongue deep inside you. Sparks of pleasure erupted behind your eyes, and it took all your strength to keep your focus on him as he worked his tongue deeper. His eyes shot up to yours, the pale blue of his irises swallowed by his pupils. 

“Do you like that pretty girl?” Frankie crooned in your ear. “You enjoy having us both giving you all this attention?”

“Yes,” you panted, your chest rising and falling steadily as warmth spread through your stomach.

“Tell Benny how much you like it.”

Your eyes rolled back as Benny traced over your wet folds with his tongue, the heat of his mouth against your cunt sending you into a spiral. 

“I—.” You choked on your words as Benny’s lips suctioned around your clit, his tongue sending sharp rhythmic flicks across the aching bundle of nerves.

“Tell him,” Frankie growled, his hand wrapping around your throat.

“Your mouth feels so fucking good, Benny,” you gasped. “Please don’t stop… Please. Keep doing that, I’m so fucking close.”

Your words were melding together, a jumble of incoherent mumbling and humiliating whimpers. Frankie’s hand squeezed your throat tighter, restricting your breathing as Benny coaxed your orgasm closer to the surface. With Frankie’s hand around your neck and Benny’s tongue assailing your cunt, the overstimulation began to spread through your veins. 

“I know you’re close, pretty girl,” Frankie whispered in your ear. “I can feel how tense you are. Let it go, baby. Cum for us.”

His words sent the heavens crashing down around you, and your body seized upwards as your orgasm ignited a fire that raged under your skin. Benny lapped at the arousal pooling out of you, humming in satisfaction as a strangled cry left your lips. 

“Doesn’t my girl taste good, Benny?” Frankie murmured, releasing his grip on your throat.

“Fucking perfect,” Benny grinned.

You leaned your head back against Frankie’s chest, seeing his big brown eyes sparkle with lust. 

“Frankie, baby,” you whispered. “Why don’t you have a taste, too?”

Frankie started to shift you off his lap, but you pressed yourself further into his chest, leaving him looking at you confused. You glanced down at Benny and gave a subtle lift of your chin as if to silently coax him from between your thighs. He followed your lead, crawling up your body until he hovered over you and leaned in close. He braced himself against the couch with one arm while snaking the other around Frankie’s neck. You careened your neck to watch as their mouth collided, Frankie’s aquiline nose smashing against Benny’s cheek for a frenzied kiss. Frankie submitted to Benny’s control, whimpering as their tongues danced together. Your jaw went slack as you watched your boyfriend passionately kiss his best friend; oh, you fucking loved this.

Benny tore away from Frankie’s lips, bending down to trail his lips over your jaw and neck. 

“I think your man wants some attention, babygirl,” he muttered against your warm skin.

“I think so, too,” you agreed, breathless.

Both men maneuvered off the couch, taking their time to undress, while you sat back and admired both of their naked bodies. Frankie was soft in all the right areas, his dark chest hair spread across his broad torso and trailing down over the soft pudge of his stomach. His cock hung heavy between his thighs, already glistening with precum as it leaked from the tip. Your eyes shifted over to Benny, your eyes growing wide at the length of his hardened cock. While Frankie’s cock was sizable in girth, Benny made up for it with length, and the thought of his cock deep inside you only spurred you closer to another orgasm. You needed one of them to fuck you, or else you’d go crazy.

“Baby,” you whined, shuffling your body up on the couch.

Frankie gave you a smirk, the creases in the corner of his eyes appearing as he looked down on you. You snaked a hand down your navel, your fingers slipping between the wet folds as you sought out some sort of relief from the throbbing need inside you. 

Benny moved around the side of the couch, his strong hands hooking under your shoulders and dragging you back until your head hung over the arm of the couch. Upside down, you stared up at his cock as it hovered over your face. You wet your lips at the sight of it, waiting for him to inch closer. Gliding a hand over your strained neck, his fingers squeezed the right above the base of it.

“I wanna feel my cock right here, babygirl,” Benny said. “You gonna show me you can take it?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

You dropped your jaw open, your tongue darting out as you waited for him to step forward. Frankie’s body weight dropped on the couch above you, his hands lifting your legs onto his shoulder. As your calves settled onto his broad shoulders, Frankie lined himself up with your entrance. In one quick thrust, Frankie bottomed out, and you let out a raspy moan. Before you had a chance to make another sound, Benny slid his cock into your mouth, your tongue dragging against the veins along the length. You sputtered around him as he drove deeper down your throat, his fingers still massaging your neck with each shallow thrust. 

Frankie’s thrusts grew harder, and your muffled cries were silenced as Benny continued snapping his hips forward into your mouth. 

“Ain’t she so pretty like this?” Frankie grunted through each drive of his cock.

“So fucking pretty,” Benny huffed. You swallowed around him, forcing him to choke on his words. “She’s taking our cocks so well. Her mouth feels so fucking good.”

You keened at their words, arousal blooming deep within your stomach as they spoke. They were using your body any way they wanted, and you were desperate for their praise. 

“You enjoy getting used like this, baby?” Frankie asked, his voice low and strained. 

You couldn’t respond as Benny plunged his cock further down your throat, your jaw straining to take his length deeper. You could feel the tears cascading down your temples, your breath forced out of your nose as you struggled under his hold. 

“Aw, pretty girl can’t talk?” Frankie taunted. 

Frankie lifted your ass off the couch, his warm hands squeezing the supple skin as you began assaulting you with unforgiving thrusts. Your cunt clenched around his cock, sucking him in deeper until the tip of his cock brushed against your cervix. You wailed a helpless cry, saliva dripping over Benny’s cock and down your cheeks. 

Your eyes blurred as your climax grew into an inferno inside your stomach. Each thrust on either side of your body plummeted your orgasm closer and closer to the surface, your heartbeat thrumming erratically in your ears. Benny hunched over your body, his hands massaging your breasts, his fingers pinching around your nipples. You arched off the couch, and Frankie kept his grip tight on your hips as he continued railing into you.

“Gonna be a good girl and cum for us, baby?” Frankie crooned.

“Mmmph.” 

You couldn’t speak. You could barely make a coherent noise as your orgasm ignited inside of you, leaving you paralyzed—suspended between the bodies of two men that continued to wreck you completely as you came undone. 

“Such a good fucking girl,” Frankie praised.

“Think she deserves a reward?” Benny questioned, drawing his cock from your mouth.

You heaved in lung-fulls of air, drool still dripping down your face. Benny crouched behind you, his hand fisting your hair to pull your face forward toward Frankie. Frankie’s dark eyes met yours, and he pounded deeper into you, your cries turning into humiliating whimpers.

“You want Frankie to cum inside you, babygirl?” Benny whispered, his tongue tracing along the shell of your ear.

“Y—yes,” you wailed brokenly. “Please, Frankie. Need your cum.”

Frankie’s face scrunched up with concentration as he changed the tempo of his thrusts; they were slower and more powerful. Benny’s grip on your hair remained firm, not allowing you to look anywhere but at Frankie. His tousled dark curls stuck to his forehead with sweat, his jaw clenched as he forcibly thrust into you in one final time. With a carnal groan, Frankie emptied himself inside you, slumping onto your chest with labored breaths. 

“Jesus Christ,” Frankie groaned. 

Benny unwound his fingers from the tendrils of your hair, peppering your cheek and neck with kisses. Frankie lifted his head to look at Benny, and you could faintly see a smirk teasing the corner of his hips.

“I think she can take a bit more. What do you say, Benny?” Frankie grinned.

“I wanna know how good that pussy feels. You gonna let me fill you up, too?” Benny asked, his teeth grazing your neck.

“God, yes,” you exhaled.

Frankie climbed off your body and maneuvered you onto all fours. Your legs wobbled against the cushions, Frankie’s cum slowly leaking from your sore cunt. Benny made his way around the couch, climbing behind your shaking body. Frankie took his spot in front of you, his large hands cupping your face and wiping away the excess saliva that still coated your cheeks and nose.

“Look at the mess you made, pretty girl,” Frankie mumbled, his eyes dancing over you ravenously. 

He leaned in to kiss you, drawing his tongue over your wet lips. You moaned into his open mouth, your body tensing up with anticipation as Benny coated the head of his cock with the wetness leaking from your entrance. 

“Eyes on me, baby,” Frankie ordered, pulling away from your mouth. “I wanna watch you while Benny ruins that perfect pussy.”

That was all Benny needed to hear before he broke you up, the stretch of your cunt around his cock blindingly painful for the first few seconds. Your mouth fell open as his hips pressed against your ass, every glorious inch of him stretching you wide open. A choked gasp fell from your lips as Frankie held your focus, his brown eyes watching with fervid attention. 

“Benny,” Frankie said, never breaking away from your eyes. “Fuck her hard.”

Benny replied with a forceful snap of his hips that sent your body colliding with the couch. You screamed out at the savage pace he set, each connection of his hips against yours sending you into a frenzy of whimpers and sobs.

“So fucking tight and perfect,” Benny huffed between each drive of his cock. “Can’t believe you’ve been keeping her to yourself.”

“She’s all mine, Benny,” Frankie reminded him. “But I think she enjoys being shared.”

You nodded vigorously, flames licking up your nerves as Benny steered you closer to another orgasm. Your nails dug into the cushions, half-moon indentations left in their wake. 

“I want you both,” you panted. “Like this.”

“Yeah, babygirl?” Benny exhaled, bending his body over yours to kiss up your spine.

Frankie dragged you in for a long kiss, a moan exhaling from his mouth into yours. You were drunk on their touch, each hand roaming your body, every kiss, every lust-filled word. You couldn’t get enough.

“Cum inside me, Benny,” you pleaded. 

Benny’s arm braced around your torso, pulling you up until your back was flush with his chest. Frankie climbed over the arm of the sofa, his hands sweeping back the hair from your face. Benny brought his free hand up to Frankie, tugging at his curls until he shuffled closer. Frankie tilted his chin up and met Benny’s lips, their kisses slow and impassioned. Both of their body’s pressed harder against yours, Benny’s cock sliding in and out of you slowly, his thrusts shallow and short. You licked a path up Frankie’s neck, startling a gasp from him as Benny deepened their kiss.

The muscles in Benny’s arms flexed around your chest, his hips snapping hard one last time before his release was painting your insides. You were so fucking full of them both, your body coursing with adrenaline and pleasure. Benny slipped out of you, breaking away from Frankie’s lips and falling back against the couch. 

“Come here, babygirl,” Benny urged, outstretching his arms.

You glanced at Frankie for permission—which was comical as the mixture of their cum leaked down your inner thighs. Frankie gave you a soft smile, peking your lips before guiding you down onto the couch. 

Benny wound his arms around your trembling body, pressing a light kiss on the crown of your head, while Frankie settled against your body on the other side. You nestled into the warmth of their bodies, your eyes drifting shut from exhaustion.

“This was nice,” you hummed, giggling softly. 

“You wanna do it again?” Frankie chuckled, kissing your shoulder.

“Maybe not right now,” you groaned.

The soreness between your legs throbbed violently, and every muscle in your body tense and stiffened. You stretched out between them, feeling both men’s heartbeats pounding against your body.

“I love you, baby,” Frankie muttered into your skin.

“I love you, too,” you exhaled.

Lifting your chin to look at Benny, you watched him eye Frankie knowingly. You could see the emotions swimming in his blue eyes, his lips parted and swollen.

“You love him, too,” you commented.

“Yeah, maybe I do,” Benny said absentmindedly.

Benny’s gaze slid down to you, and you saw it in his eyes. The passion between them, the cohesiveness of their movements with you; it was all right there. You always thought Benny loved Frankie like a brother, but maybe there was something more. You weren’t jealous; you were far from it. You wanted them both, maybe in different ways, but still… you wanted them.

“Would you do this again?” You asked, partially to both of them.

“Absolutely,” Frankie said, at the same time Benny said, “In a heartbeat.”

“Stay the night with us, Benny,” you offered. 

“Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else,” Benny sighed.

[pimosworld]

Just say the word

Pairing-Tf boys x reader (one shot)

CW-18+, NSFW, MDNI, established polyamorous relationship, light teasing, edging, voyeurism, orgasm denial, exhibitionism, possessive tf boys, mentions of smut, fingering, soft dom Will, soft dom Santi, soft dom Frankie. Unsuspecting victim ( poor Jack) he’s innocent in this I swear.

Summary- The boys decide to have a little fun at your expense.

WC- 1.7k

A/N- Set in the (story of us) universe but can be read as a stand alone. I feel like I’ve neglected this bunch since I finished the story and I miss them and their delusional little bubble. Please enjoy this ficlet set some time after the story of them ends and their relationship begins.

[Series Masterlist]

Not beta read

It feels weird being back in your normal spots. Nestled away in the corner booth in the dimly lit bar. All five of you crammed in like nothing has changed. Except it has. 

  This thing forming between the five of you for the last several months. No rules, no pressure, just the four of them not being able to let you out of their sight for more than five minutes. It’s intoxicating and overwhelming and you love it. 

  You are situated between Frankie and Santi, Will on the other side of Frankie sharing glances. Knowing tells as you squirm in your seat. Santi’s hand squeezes the plush skin of your thigh while Frankie rubs soothing circles against your knee. It all looks so normal to anyone walking by. They’ve been teasing you all night, switching places as they grab more drinks at the bar or head to the bathroom. 

  Will grins as he watches you fidget, not so subtly rubbing your legs together at the thought of his hands so close to where you needed them most. Not less than ten minutes ago he had you pleading into his ear like you were telling him a secret. His fingers tracing up and down the seam of your panties, wetness pooling against the fabric as you chased his touch. 

  Goosebumps raise on your arms as Santi’s fingers slip just past the string, curling in so precisely, you half to clear your throat to stifle the moan that crawls up the back of your throat. 

  “Ya ok sweetheart?” Will says and the look you flash is equal parts beautiful and terrifying all at once. 

  Santi kisses your shoulder, such a sweet endearing gesture to juxtapose the absolute filth that is happening below the table. “She’s fine.” A look to Frankie, something unspoken passing between them as the corners of Frankie's eyes crinkle with a smile. 

  You bite the inside of your cheek as his thumb presses against your clit. Dropping your head to your hands to wipe the sweat from your brow. 

  “Just say the word baby and we’ll stop.” Frankie’s voice in your ear luring you into the lion's den. You weren’t going to lament that easily. 

  Your hand drifts below the table, palming at the growing bulge in his pants, you yelp when he smacks your thigh. His palm soothes the spot as you let out a shaky breath. 

  “Hands where I can see them sweetheart.” Will commands. 

  “Fuck you.” 

  “Thirsty?” Ben’s voice cuts through the pounding in your ears. His one hand with a refill pitcher of beer, the other gesturing behind him as he mouths ‘be nice.’

  Following close behind with an empty glass is a familiar face. Not one you don’t want to see on any given day,  but right now you’re struggling to breathe normally. 

  “Fucking Jack.” Frankie bites out and you regard him with a quirked brow. 

  “I thought you liked him.” Your head turned in a whisper and he just lets out a deep sigh. 

  It’s not that he doesn’t like him so much as he knows how much the guy likes you. Judging by the grin etched across his face as he approaches the table. 

  Santiago withdraws his hand and you whine at the loss, disguising it with a cough as Ben shoots you a worried look. 

  Everyone reaching for the cold glasses as Jack slides into the booth next to Ben. You watch Santi from the corner of your eye, slowly taking his fingers in his mouth. The others preoccupied with greetings as he hums at the taste. 

  Your mouth agape at the filthy show of dominance. He takes a sip of his beer, his dark eyes on you as he swallows and you watch the way his throat bobs. 

  “You’ll catch flies that way cariño.” 

  You tamp your mouth shut as heat licks up your spine. 

  Frankie slides you a beer as a peace offering and you let out a breath hoping the torture is over with your new guest at the table. 

  Jack says your name and you probably look a little wide eyed when you say hello. Sounding a little too happy to see him. Completely unaware that whatever tension building right now is not directed at him. 

  “Haven’t seen you guys here in awhile.” He says as he pours himself a beer. 

  “We’ve been…busy.” The boys snicker as Ben hides his smile behind his glass, unbeknownst to Jack. 

  “What have y’all been up to? Any hot dates recently?” 

  The boys stay quiet, shooting each other looks as Frankie’s hand starts inching it’s way up your thigh. 

  He nudges Ben with his elbow. “Oh come on, spill. I know you’ve at least got some.” 

  Ben laughs it off, eyes flicking to you and memories of your date the previous night. He looks shy almost as he rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t.” 

  You’re starting to gauge their annoyance at his presence. 

  Frankie doesn’t falter as he pinches the fabric between his fingers and you clamp your thighs shut. Your sandals clicking loudly on the floor. 

  Santiago laughs, motherfucker…with a stupid grin on his face and Will has to bite down on his lip to keep his at bay. 

  “In fact.” Jack starts up again. Pointing at Santiago.  This guy doesn’t quit apparently. “Last time I saw you here you had some hot blonde in your lap.” 

  He drops his head to the table and for his sake he looks apologetic. “I don’t recall.” The redness creeping up his neck and the simmering tension below the surface. 

  Frankie relents when he notices your obvious discomfort. They’ve been edging you all night and now this Jack off had to come and ruin all the fun. 

  “What about you honey? You seeing anyone?”

  Bingo

  His attention on you, a wide smile on his face. He draws his fingers up and down the condensation on his glass and you have the sudden wild thought to pour it on you. Anything to escape this fresh hell. 

  He wasn’t an unattractive man. Tall, broad shoulders and a strong jaw. Gorgeous head of dark brown hair that was always kept neat and combed back. He’s a firefighter so he’s got a great build and he can on occasion make you laugh. 

  Which is perhaps why the rest of the table looks as though they’re three seconds from choking him. 

  Frankie’s hand flexes a little on your thigh, Ben cracks his knuckles and stares straight ahead at Will whose jaw is so clenched you think he might break a few teeth. 

  And Santiago…looks as stoic as you’ve ever seen him. Too calm. 

  “Baby.” Frankie’s voice and the startling use of the pet name brings you back to the present. “He asked you a question.” His head tilted in waiting. 

  You fumble for words you’ve never actually spoken out loud. Not knowing what the right or wrong thing to say is. “I’m…keeping my options open.” 

  That seems to be the right answer for now. Santiago gives you a reassuring squeeze as he resumes drinking his beer. You can feel Frankie relax next to you and Ben’s shoulders aren’t reaching his ears. 

  Will still watches Jack, who obviously can’t take a hint. 

  His tongue dragging along his teeth as he eyes you from across the booth. For the sake of his safety you don’t want to let him finish whatever thoughts he has running through his head at your admission. 

  You slap your hands down on the table. “I’ve had too much to drink.” Signaling to Frankie and Will to slide out so you can relieve yourself, or at the very least get some space between you and Jack. 

  Someone has the nerve to pinch your ass before you exit the booth and curse low under your breath as you retreat to the restrooms. You were absolutely going to kill them when you got home later. 

  —

  The blatant flirting, the casual use of your sacred nickname, the way he’s not so subtly checking out your ass as you walk away. 

  The guys aren’t certain but Jack acts as though he’s not in clear immediate danger. But he’s a firefighter so the regard for his life is skewed toward running at a problem and not away from it. 

  As you round the corner disappearing from view he focuses his attention back on the table. Whistling low under his breath as he shakes his head still oblivious to the rage closing in on him. 

  “I still don’t know how one of you hasn’t snagged that yet.” Jack says offhandedly as he downs the rest of his beer. 

  Ben takes it from him and Santiago flinches, unsure of what the younger man will do as he calmly slides it out of reach. 

  It’s one of those intense moments. In the wild we freeze it in photographs and videos. In the images there’s a predator, perhaps a cheetah staring unblinkingly at a gazelle, who stares back with a look of surprise and terror. 

  “How do you know we haven’t?” Ben’s body turns to face him as he clears his throat. 

  He stutters a little, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Look if I’m moving in on anyone’s territory you just say the word-“ 

  “You are.” Will says without specifying whose. 

  Will stands as you make your way back to the table and Jack stands with him, waving goodbye. Frankie stays seated, not yet able to hide the evidence of his arousal. The whole display not doing anything to compress his excitement. 

  The guys all shift as you slide in, Will taking his seat next to you as Frankie throws his arm over your shoulder and he can see the wheeler turning in the poor man’s head. You never stood a chance.

  “Leaving so soon?” Your sweet voice doing nothing to disguise your obvious guess at what just transpired. 

  “Ugh…ya I’ve got an early day tomorrow.” He offers a tight lipped smile before walking away with his tail tucked. 

  Frankie’s laugh jostles you and you move to slap his arm as he grabs your wrist. “Play nice hermosa.” 

  You huff as you pry it out of his grip. “What did you guys say?” 

  You’re met with mostly silence and their grins at each other and just like that you’re right back where you started the night. Them, teasing you…and you loving it. 

  Will’s hand slowly creeps up your thigh,bunching the fabric of your skirt in his hand as he leans in close. “Now where were we sweetheart?”

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated

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[romanarose]

Awake

Fem!Reader x Santiago Garcia, Francisco Morales, Ben Miller, Will Miller Santiago Garcia x Will Miller Ben Miller x Francisco Morales

All TF boys and reader mix except Miller Brothers

Awakening Series masterlist

YOU DO NOT NEED TO READ ANY OF THE OTHERS! There's a good story here about coming out, bisexuality, literally "awakening". This is the finally, where everyone is awake.

Written for my (day late lol) Oscar Pedro Pride Event, week 3, Sex/kissing!!!

Summary: You take Santi, Will, Frankie, and Ben all inside you at once. That's the fic.

Warnings and content: Literally everything. BJ's, triple penetration, double vaginal penetration, bukake, just like. im not listing everything happening but its a lot. everything bisexual. Then aftercare!

A/N its been NINE MONTHS!!! since i updated. I get it if no one cares anymore lololololol. Anyway THIS IS IT!!! the end!!!!!

*********************

It was amazing how, after all these months, the stretch of Will’s cock still got to you having to catch you breath.

Things were good, really fucking good these days. You, Will, and Santiago had a discussion about the relationship; firstly, between you and Santi where you both agreed that yes, you both wanted Will involved. You weren't sure how or if he really wanted to, but he meant too much to both of you to just keep pretending it was the same as when Ben or Frankie were inside you. Then, you talked to Will. He agreed that yes, he had feelings for both you and your husband. However, he was not at a place right now; he didn’t want to move too quickly. So you didn’t. Will came over sometimes and stayed the night, fucked you and Santi and got fucked in a tangled up mess on the bed… no labels, just taking it easy.

On the other side of things, Ben moved out of Will’s and in with Frankie a week after the camping trip. They were completely inseparable and 2 months later, engaged. 3 months after that, you were standing as a witness in a courthouse for their wedding and cooking multiple hot plates for a backyard potluck reception. Frankie was not one for being in the spotlight, and Ben was not one to dress up.

Now, you watch as your husband lay on the bed next to you, Frankie fucking his ass while his own husband eats him from behind. Your tits bounced with each thrust of Will’s hips, your arms wrapped around his back and stuck to it with sweat. You watch, Will’s breath against your neck, as Santi writhes in pleasure, hips bucking up to meet Ben’s mouth. Your hands were laced together.

Santi turns to you, smiling with his eyes glancing over your body. “You look…” He pants. “Really fucking good like this.”

You laugh a little. “So do you.”

You both grin at each other, unbelieving of your luck to find such a group. 4 men who you trusted with your life and your body to take care of you, and for you to take care in return. Will gently cupped your face, guiding your mouth to where his waited. His touch was a stark softness compared to the way his cock continued to pound into you. 

“You doing okay, princess?” He took your lower lip with his as he pulled away, drawing out the tender kiss. Beside you was the sound of Santiago getting absolutely fucking railed by Frankie. 

“I’m fucking fantastic.” You confirm, then nod to Santi with a cheeky smile. “I don’t know about him, though.”

Santi’s grip on your hand was like a vice, head propped back as he was practically screaming on his oldest friends dick.

Will chuckles. “He’s still not used to taking a dick.”

Careful as to not reject Will’s affections, you nudge him off you. You feel empty without him inside, but your husband calls. “Baby…” You caress his face after crawling next to him, knelt by his side. Your hand reaches out for Frankie, but he’s already slowing. “Baby are you okay?” You protected Santiago the way he always protected you.

Slow and bleary, Santiago opened his eyes, chuckling with disbelief. “I’ve never been better, baby girl.”

*

You and Ben lay up against your husband's arms, both your men feeding you water. Santi reminds Will to drink, and he does before wiping off you, Santi, and Frankie with a cool towel before passing it to Frankie for Ben. Will always watched out for Benny during group sex just as on the field, but was not about touch during these moments. As Will watched his brother smile in Frankie’s arms, however, he knew he was okay. Frankie took care of him.

Ben turned to you with his dopey grin. “How does it feel watching your husband regularly get his ass stretched?”

This makes you laugh, and you give him a kick. “Pretty fucking good, especially if I’m sitting on his face.”

*

Santi’s arms were wrapped lovingly around you, chest to chest, his dick deep up inside your swollen and tired pussy. He’d gone in easy, and you signed as Frankie bottomed out into your ass. Two down, two to go.

Frankie’s massive hands played with your hair, his mouth kissing your neck, moving up to nibble on your earlobe. “You feel me, baby? Feel me and Santi right up in you?” He gave a thrust inside, making Santi’s chest rumble in pleasure. “I can sure feel him, mmm, fuck, it’s just… I can feel that thick vein of his when I move.”

“I know just what you mean.” You say with a smile, egging him on. Santiago had the most perfect cock you’d ever seen in your life; long, thick, and veiny. Curved up just a little bit in a way that hit you juuuust right. “Gotta feel him inside you one of these times, Frankie” You right back and grab his thigh. “He fills you up in just the best way.”

The older man looks up to where Ben stood at the edge of your bed, hands soothing you and stimulating erogenous zones. He sometimes pauses to play with your hair, which you particularly love. When Ben sees Francisco looking at him, he goes for a kiss.

“I’d love to see that, Fish.” He likes his tongue over his lover’s face. “Watch Santi struggle to take you, watch him fucking whimper on your cock.”

Frankie was equally enthralled as Will situated himself in the back, getting ready to slide in right there with Santi in your cunt. Will’s hand splayed across Frankie’s ass, thumb sliding into his asshole as he moved his fellow soldier around right where he needed to be. In general, Francisco liked to take charge in the bedroom, but when it came to Will, everyone fell under his order. He was tall, large, companding but had the competence to back it. The last time you were all together, Santiago stayed on the sidelines for the most part to make sure you were safe and happy. Now, however, you’d all experienced so much, he trusted all the men to take care of you, take care of him, take care of each other. Now, Will slides into his natural element as the leader.

Squeezing an ample amount of lube on his hand, he covered not only his cock but added it to Frankie and Santi. You had no problems getting wet and they always took careful time to open you up, but he wasn’t taking chances with your precious body. His thumb was obviously nothing compared to Ben’s dick, but he wasn’t trying to split him up, just to add to the pleasure of being inside you. Santi languidly kissed at your lips as Will spoke to Frankie.

“I’ll fuck this tight little hole of yours while you’re inside Santi, hm? Thrust into you hard enough I drive you into him?”

Frankie moans at the thought, and Benny bends down to join in this kiss between you and Santi. You both excitedly welcome him in, tongues wrestling as he kisses between words. “And I can fuck our favorite lady while you guys are our personal porn.”

Santi sucked on your bottom lip. “Want me to be your pornstar, mi amor? You like watching me take it up the ass for you to get off to?” He punctuated his point with a harsh thrust up, spearing his cock inside. The moans from Frankie were nothing compared to the sounds you let out. He looked over your shoulder at Will. “She’s ready, fill her up.”

With his thumb continued to fuck Frankie, Will’s other hand was firmly placed on your ass. It wasn’t for guidance or smack or to massage… it was just there to ground you. You cry out against Santi’s neck you were sucking on, Will slowly and carefully inserting himself into you. There's so much of him to take, inch after inch it never seemed to end. Santi’s hands went to Will’s hips, stopping him. He wasn’t going to be able to bottom out just based on the sheer amount of people occupying a small space, but what he was able to fit in was almost too much. When Will stops, Santi holds your face. “You okay, bebita?” He asks you gently. “Is it too much?”

You take a deep, steadying breath and shake your head. It was a lot. Like a fucking a lot. “No, no I think I’m good.”

“Princess.” Will spoke above you. “We don’t wanna do nothing based on ‘I think.’ If you gotta stop or slow down, we want you to tell him.”

Considering his words, you believe him. You knew firmly that they would never want you uncomfortable outside of the stretch you begged for… And you probably could take them all fully… but you decided to call it. 

“Just…” You turn around to see his softly smiling face, Will’s beard still glistening with your wetness, Frankie’s chest sticking to your skin. “Don’t go any further, okay? The stretch is good, you don’t gotta take it easy or nothing just…”

Will bent around Frankie to kiss your lips, tender and sweet before Ben takes your mouth. “I got you, princess. I won’t push it.” And you knew he wouldn’t. Last but not last was Benny. You could understand why Frankie and him were always sneaking away to suck each other's dicks, Ben had a nice one indeed, one you enjoyed as he slid into your mouth. 

Santi in your pussy, holding you and Frankie both close. He fucked up into you, cock rubbing against Will’s where they were nestled in together. Will wrapped an arm around Frankie, playing with his nipples as Frankie humped his ass against Wills torso while fucking you in yours. His moans were swallowed by Ben, who kissed his husband while fucking you throat.

“Mi chica perfecta…” Santi whispers between wet kisses to your skin. “Letting me and my friends use all your holes, let off some steam… letting us break you in…”

You whimpering against Ben’s dick in affirmative. You loved degradation, you loved being objectified and they all knew it, because after it all was said and done, they touched you and cared for you in such a gentle way that assured you that they loved you in all their unique ways.

Soft stroke of a thumb over your ass steadied you as you listened to the kissing above you and Santi. Will’s gentle reassurance compared to hard pounding you were taking from behind. 

“Could’ve used something like her back in the service, couldn’t we boys? Something fuck after a long day, a pretty little toy.”

Frankie disengaged from Ben, a string of spit connecting them for a few moments longer. “Maybe we wouldn’t have waited 20 years to come out of the closet.”

“Speak for yourself.” Ben laughs, thrusting into your mouth. “I took full advantage of the frequent moving around and secretive bars.”

“Slut” Will laughs, shaking his head at his baby brother's antics.

Santi spoke from below you, never stopping humping his hips up. “You’re one to talk, IronHead.” This resulted in a smack to Will’s thigh. You felt full beyond belief feeling yourself approach orgasm as the men you loved use your holes and your body, bringing you and each other pleasure. Ben alternates between thrusting into your mouth, then pulling out and putting it to Frankie’s lips. Benny is quick with praise for you and Frankie, never making you feel like you were just an aid to their relationship despite the degrading teasing. Behind you, Will and Santi’s hands were all over each other and Frankie, Santi even reaching back at points to plays with Benny’s tightening balls. 

“You feel that, Will? Our princess is getting ready to come for us again.” Santi laughs mockingly, but you are. What on earth is going to feel like coming on 3 dicks? You can’t imagine having room to even clench right now, your body stiffening in pleasure and pain as everything became so dizzyingly good. You close your eyes, losing yourself in the joy, the closeness, the extreme trust that it takes to pull off something like that. The love that is found, romantic, friendship, brotherhood in multiple ways. Will managed to hike up Santi’s ass just enough to stuff his fingers inside, making both Santiago and Francisco moaning like moans on Will’s fingers, Ben guiding them to kiss. You join in, and so does Benny’s dick. You, Fankie and Santi slobber and kiss and suck in such a mess that half the time you don’t know whose skin you are kissing.

You pussy and ass begins to feel raw, the pleasure still whirling in your stomach but beginning to be distracted by the discomfort between your legs. You tap Santi, wet lips against his cheek as you’re barely aware of anything else. “Approaching yellow, baby” You warn, punctuating it with a kiss so he knew it wasn’t anything serious. Santi could sometimes get dom drop. It wasn’t often, but you liked to make sure he knew everything was okay.

Holding up a hand, Santi halted everyone’s movements. Will rested his head against Frankie’s lower back, panting. Ben dropped to his knees to take your hand in his. Frankie kissed your sweaty shoulder blades. 

But Santi is who you communicated to. You trusted them all, but Santi will always be your husband, your baby, tu amor. 

“You okay, bebita?” He asks with a gentle timber, his low voice rumbling against your chest.

“I’m okay, I just think after I come, I wanna get to the grand finale.” You say with a laugh and a kiss.

He kisses you right back, signaling everyone to get back to work. Ben, instead of fucking your mouth, stays on his knees to massage your neck and shoulders. “Come whenever you're ready, darl’n.” Ben’s absurdly deep voice tells you.

It takes less than a minute and you’re coming on 3 hard dicks stuffed inside your holes, Will letting out a guttural sound that told you it was taking everything in him not to come inside you. You shake under the force of your orgasm, finger nails digging into Santi’s soft, bare skin. Everything was so fucking perfect, your senses blocking out anything that wasn’t immense pleasure. You couldn’t hear a word of their praises, you couldn’t smell the musk of marathon sex, you couldn’t see the men who swarmed around you like bees to their queen. You were blinded by the light.

Santi kissed your skin, no longer moving. He knew how sensitive you could get after coming. 

“Everyone ready?” He asked, Frankie desperately humping your ass, chasing the high.

“Fuck, I’m so close…”

“Have Benny get you there, I think she’s sore.”

And you were. You were actually quite sore and you were glad you had someone who knew you as well as Santiago did to watch out for you. You were perfectly fine saying no, stop, not yet, later, etc. You trusted Frankie completely. But it was nice to have someone who knew you so completely that you didn’t even need to say it.

Frankie got up with no problem, kissing your lips and whispering a thank you. Ben spits in his hand, and while they make out like teenagers he brings Frankie to the brink. Ben grabbed the wipes, cleaning his husband off in case you end up blowing him. You knew you didn’t want any ass to mouth action. Santi and Will slowly get out of you, leaving you feeling empty without them. You look forward to whatever the future holds for the three of you, whatever parts Will was willing to give. Will’s massive arms pick you up, careful when he sets you on your knees on the carpet.

 Seeing 4 gorgeous, stacked, hung men standing in front of you… you were revived and needed a taste. You put Santi’s dick in your mouth first, fisting Ben and Frankie, then alternating to taste all four of them in your mouth. Delicious.

Then, then all swarm you, jerking their cocks rapidly until cum came flying out, splattering your face, your tits, your laved out tongue in white. They dump their hot spend on you, groaning and grunting and kissing each other and all you could hear was the sounds of their pleasure and the fap, fap, fap of their masturbation. 

When they were done, they wiped their tips in their hair.

*

Santi washed your hair in the shower, Will’s arms around you keeping you steady. The water was warm, not too hot, and he was very careful cleaning you and Will up. They both dried you with warm towels, as Frankie drew Ben in. You liked that Frankie washed Ben’s hair too, despite a 4 inch height difference. Will took you to bed while Santi made sure Frankie and Ben had enough towels and knew where shower items were. 

For a while, you just lay there in Will’s arms, listening to Frankie tell Ben to “stop messing with the water” and “it doesn’t need to be hotter, this ain’t a hot tub!” followed by Ben yelping how the water is too hot. You can feel Ben laugh. Santi gives you and Will water, instructing you both to drink as he settles into bed on the other side of Will. When Frankie and Ben return, Ben is carrying a butt naked Frankie, ass first, over the shoulder and into the room before flopping him down on the bed. 

“It’s my turn to take care of you, idiot.”

And he did. He dried Frankie off, gave him water, fed him some raisins which you though was odd but to each their own.

“Santiago, why don’t you ever feed me raisins?” You teased him.

“Because I love you, they are sickos.”

Will kissed your forehead. “I’ll feed you raisens, princess.”

“I don’t even like raisins.”

Will groaned. 

But they all slept there that night, in your marital bed, tangled up and limbs on limbs, arms slung across wastes and lips to skin.

It was nice like this.

******************

Well, after a year and a half i finally finished this bitch!!!! one less series to worry about!!!!

Pease let me know what you think, I sure hope this was worth it! Begining was hard to write, but once i got in the zone it's all over!!!!

I hope y'all enjoyed it! I sure enjoyed writing it!!!!

@bit-dodgy-innit @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @cocodiem @imwaytooobsessedwithpedro @twistedboxy @juneknight @angelbabyyy99 @marshmallow--3 @ahookedheroespureheart @kandik @moonknightly @storyarcscribe @itspdameronthings @lou-la-lou @axshadows @saintbedelia @your-voice-is-mellifluousuous @nana90azevedo @luciferiorbxtch @djarinluvr @aretha170 @mystinky-butt @uglie-hoe @sirenphrynne @sammierae-16 @thismessthatsm @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @fieryglutenfreechickennoodles @gogh-with-the-flow @paintlavillered @tiny-raccon @luciferiorbxtch @feltonswifesworld87 @whitearmsredhands @pimosworld @mrscadilllac @i-wanna-be-your-muse @violentdelightsandviolentends @lunar-ghoulie @meveispunk @missdictatorme @itspdameronthings @lonelyisamyw-0love @poeedameronn @fieryglutenfreechickennoodles @luke-o-lophus @the-soulofdevil-reads @thepowerthismanhasoverme @miraclesabound @simps-central @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @ssuperficialspacecadett @munson-hargrove-barnes86 @broken-arrow-ambassador @thedreadandthefugitivemind

@casa-boiardi @littlevenicebitch @caelumcvre @sub-aro @del-ightfulling @frecklefacelm @wandasbitch22 @thepowerthismanhasoverme @csarab615

[flightlessangelwings]

My Boys

Frankie Morales x fem!reader x Benny Miller (Messy Pile of Affection universe)

Word count- 1.9k

Warnings- s.mut (18+ ONLY!), mmf threesome, established relationship, pegging, anal, fingering, oral (m receiving, hint at f receiving), soft dom reader, sub!Frankie, praise, pet names (babe, baby), fluff, feelings, no use of y/n

Notes- A bonus for Peg That Middle Ages Man Campaign!!! Thanks again to @wannab-urs for putting this event on!! And while this is et in MPoA-verse, this can be read on it's own since it's just smut lol! But I love writing this thruple so much so I'm happy with how this turned out! Enjoy!

@flightlessangelwings-updates is my update blog so please follow that and turn on post notifs to stay up to date on new posts!!

~

“Shit…” you breathed as you soaked in the sight before you, “You guys look so fucking hot right now.”

Benny looked up from where he concentrated on Frankie in front of him and smirked at you, “So do you, babe,” he winked.

You bit your lip as you grinned back at one of your boyfriends. The way his gaze bore into you made your skin tingle. Absentmindedly, you ran your hand down the front of your body, testing Benny with a squeeze of your breast before you grabbed the dildo that sat snugly in the harness you wore- the only thing on your body. Benny let out a soft moan at the show you put on as his cock twitched just against Frankie’s face.

Between you and Benny, Frankie was positioned on his hands and knees, just as bare as both of you. His skin glistened from sweat from the fingering you just gave him, and generous amounts of lube dripped from between his asscheeks. Benny had watched as you prepped Frankie for your dildo, his hand stroking his cock the entire time as he enjoyed the show the two of you put on.

“You alright, Frankie?” you murmured as you caressed his back, running your hand up and down his spine.

“Great, babe,” Frankie smirked as he looked over his shoulder, “Fuck you do look hot with that strap!”

Heat rose in your skin as your tone dropped, “I like you on your hands and knees too, baby.”

“Fuck, me too!” Benny interjected enthuastically.

Frankie turned back and looked up at Benny with his mouth open. His mouth watered at the sight of his cock, so beautiful and yet just out of reach of his lips. “Ben…” he breathed. 

In a rare display of soft tenderness, Benny cupped Frankie’s face, running his thumb across the soft stubble as they locked eyes. From behind, you still ran your hands up and down Frankie’s sides in a soothing manner. Heavy breaths filled the room as the three of you stayed hypnotized by each other. Hands roamed all over, touching and caressing wherever you all could reach.

It was you who finally broke the silence, “You ready, Frankie babe?” you asked in a hushed tone, yet one that still held all the need you felt as the tip of your dildo tickled the skin of his ass.

He let out a low groan, “Yes,” he replied to you as he adjusted himself slightly, “Fuck me, baby.”

Benny let out a low groan of his own as you coated the dildo once more in lube and positioned yourself. “She’s gonna fuck you so good, Fish,” he moaned, knowing first hand just how proficient you were with your strap.

You glanced up for a moment and gave Benny a knowing smirk before you turned all your attention on the toy that you had poking at Frankie’s entrance. Before he could come up with a clever comeback to Benny’s comment, you pushed the tip in, causing any thought he might have had to vanish from his mind.

As Frankie moaned loudly, all he could think about was how good the stretch of your cock felt as you slowly pushed into him. You kneaded and spread his ass as you watched the toy disappear into him inch by inch until your hips met his ass. Benny too watched in awe, frozen in captivation.

“You doing ok, Frankie?” you asked in a whisper as you gave him a moment to adjust.

“Y-yeah,” he whimpered as his arms trembled to keep him up. He then looked up to meet Benny’s piercing gaze, “Your turn, Ben.”

“Fuck…” he breathed as Frankie’s mouth dropped open for him in an invitation.

Without a word, you gave your hips a thrust, catching Frankie and Benny both by surprise. And the sound that Frankie let out went right to your core and made you clench around nothing. “Fuck,” you echoed Benny’s curse under your breath as you thrust again, pushing Frankie forward this time.

As he lurched forward, Frankie aimed himself right at Benny’s hard cock, and the moment he was close enough, he wrapped his lips around it. Benny gasped as the warmth of Frankie’s mouth engulfed him, and he grabbed his shoulders to make sure he didn’t let go.

Together, you and Benny found a rhythm on either side of Frankie. The slow thrust of your hips made a squelching echo in the room as Frankie’s moans were muffled by Benny’s cock in his mouth. Benny, however, moaned loudly as he felt Frankie’s tongue along his length. And you couldn’t help but moan as you watched your boys in front of you.

Picking up your pace, you felt the room warm as the need grew exponentially. Overwhelmed with emotions, you reeled your hand back and slapped Frankie’s ass hard as you thrust even deeper into him. The moan he let out, while muffled, still filled the room as Frankie jolted forward in surprise. Benny’s eyes widened as he watched you rock your hips harder and faster into your shared boyfriend.

“Shit baby,” Benny groaned, “Do that again.”

“You like that, huh?” you purred as you did exactly that. Slapping Frankie’s ass again, both men groaned and you felt dizzy from how hot it was. “Yeah… I think both my boys like that,” you added as you slapped Frankie once more, squeezing it hard this time.

“Fuck…” Benny growled as his own hips stuttered into Frankie’s mouth, driving his cock down his throat.

Frankie had never been so helpless in his life. And he had never been more turned on. Though his own groans and moans were muffled by Benny’s cock in his mouth, he knew you both could tell he was enjoying this. The muscles in his ass clenched as he squeezed your dildo as you thrust into him over and over again, mirroring the way both he and Benny would fuck you.

Benny could feel Frankie’s moans around his length, and it sent shivers of pleasure up his spine. “Shit…” he groaned as his mind went blank too. Normally Benny had a lot to say during sex, but tonight he was speechless. Watching you fuck Frankie while his own cock was deep down his throat was almost too much in the best way possible. 

“My boys are so fucking good for me,” you cooed as you grabbed Frankie’s hips to angle yourself differently. As you gave one harsh thrust, Frankie’s mouth dropped open, allowing a cry to spill out unmuffled. “That’s it,” you purred as you started rocking your hips back and forth again, “That’s my Frankie baby.”

“Fuck, baby,” Benny’s eyes started to roll back into his head as he felt his climax start to build, “I’m the luckiest fuckin’ guy to get you two… Ahh… Fuck….” The way Frankie groaned into his cock sent wave and wave of pleasure up Benny’s spine. And Benny couldn’t help but thrust his hips into his mouth in time with your thrusts. “Fuck I’m gonna cum…”

That was the only warning Frankie got before Benny’s cock exploded in his mouth. He gagged for a moment until he closed his lips around his cock and sucked hard, letting his boyfriend ride out his orgasm in his mouth. He was rocked back and forth by your pounding on the other end, but Frankie concentrated hard on swallowing every last drop, not wanting anything to go to waste.

“That’s it, Frankie baby,” Benny cooed as he gave one last thrust. 

You stilled yourself for a moment, burying your dildo deep inside Frankie as Benny slowly pulled out of his mouth. You allowed him to take one deep breath as he tasted fresh air for the first time, but then you started up again. “Let us see you cum now, Frankie,” you murmured as you reached around and wrapped your hand around his cock.

Frankie’s moan filled the room as he was able to voice his pleasure for the first time that night. He leaned forward, resting his hard on Benny’s chest as he listened to the sweet nothing’s he whispered in his ear as you pounded into him. 

Pumping his cock at the same time, you let out a moan of your own as you listened to the chorus of your boys together. Even after having cum, Benny wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked it lazily, sending chills up his spine and overstimulating himself. And you couldn't help but notice.

“Fuck…” you breathed as you clenched your jaw and sped up your pace.

“Fuck!” Frankie cried out as the sensations almost got too much for him, but in the best way, “Baby…”

“Cum, Frankie.”

That was all it took to send him over the edge. Gripping into Benny for dear life, Frankie came hard with a loud groan. He saw stars as you thrust into his sweet spot over and over again while you worked his cock with your hand. And feeling Benny as an anchor only added to the emotions. Frankie made a mess between their bodies as his seed splashed them both. 

With a final grunt, you thrust fully into Frankie once last time, pumping his cock to squeeze every last ounce of orgasm from him before you knew he had enough. Heavy breaths filled the room as you leaned forward, resting against Benny as well.

“I’ve got you, babes,” Benny murmured as he wrapped his arms around you both, awkwardly holding his boyfriend and his girlfriend in his arms, “Fuck that was so hot,” he added in a whisper.

“Fuck yeah it was,” Frankie replied with an exhausted laugh.

You just hummed with a smile on your face as you enjoyed the feeling of Frankie under you. It was almost as if you could feel the cock inside of him, much like the way they each liked to stay inside of you for several moments before pulling out.

Benny was the first to open his eyes, taking in the sight of the two loves of his life in his arms, “I love you guys,” he blurted out.

“I love you too,” you blinked your eyes open.

“I love you guys too,” Frankie groaned as he pushed himself up, causing your strap to pull out of him in the process of adjusting to see you both. 

He turned to you first, cupping your face and placing a deep, passionate kiss on your lips. He swallowed the moan you let out, and savored the taste of you on his tongue. Then, Frankie broke away with a gasp for breath before he turned to Benny and kissed him the same way. Hand roamed all over each other as you leaned in and joined in on the kiss. The three of you became a puddle of lips and tongues as you all tried to kiss each other at the same time, emotions overpowering the fact that it was awkward and messy. But that was perfect for how the three of you always were.

This time, it was Frankie who broke the silence as he turned to you, “Now how about Ben and I eat your sweet pussy until you can’t fuckin’ think anymore, baby.”

You whimpered in response as your skin tingled and warmed. In the heat of the moment, you almost forgot that your own needs weren’t taken care of. 

“Shit I love when you talk like that, Frankie,” Benny groaned, “But I am starved so…”

[backtothefanfiction]

All The Good Girls Go To Hell | TF!Boys Mafia AU~ Part ONE

Summary: When Phoenix comes home to find her fiancé banging some other girl, her whole life changes seemingly overnight. Forced to go back and live with her Dad, she's about to be dragged into a life with the men her Dad is indebted to.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY (Mature Content), Dark Mafia Romance Au, setting things on fire, swearing, dead parent, debt, mental health issues, brain tumour, broken family, anger issues (female rage), AFAB OFC, objectification of the female body, pyromania, little bit of theft (smut to come)

Word Count: 3.8K

A/N: I didn't need to have yet another idea for a story. I also didn't need to write it straight away, but I recently read Den of Vipers and figured I could do something better featuring the Triple Frontier boys. I don't know how many parts of this there will be, or how regularly this will ultimately be updated, but I thought I'd share anyway. Smut will come, featuring all four guys this time. This will use an ofc but apart from the hair, there aren't too many descriptors. This will also be written from multiple characters points of view throughout to keep things interesting. Enjoy!

ONE

PHEONIX

My fingers itch as I grip the steering wheel tighter. I should have worn gloves, I say to myself as I drop one hand from the wheel and rub it vigorously against my torn jeans, hoping the friction from the denim will- at the very least- satiate the itch left behind from the lighter fluid long enough for me to get to the next gas station, so I can stop in and wash my hands properly.

It was reckless of me really- the whole damn thing. My brothers taught me better than this, but then again, everyone said I had a temper that was only second to Archie’s in my family- so I’m really not that surprised. People say my Dad used to be equally hot headed before he got remarried to Marina and took over the club, but I’ve still yet to see it- even after all the shit me and my brothers have pulled over the years. It’s like after our Mother died he just gave up. But I don’t blame him. I would too if I lost the love of my life to a fucking disease like that. I had barely known her anyway, so I didn’t really notice all that much when the brain tumor turned her into a “literal monster”, as my older brothers used to so fondly call her when she was on one of her rampages.

I’d always said that my only real memory of her was when she tried to burn down the house by settling alight to the curtains in their bedroom. I remember we all stood out on the front grass as the smoke billowed out of the windows and mixed with the night air. Archie stood on my right holding one of my hands, E.Z stood on my left holding the other. Maybe that’s why I’ve always had a thing for fire myself. Messing about with lighters, setting things on fire- all so I can try and understand that night… At least, that’s what a therapist would probably say.

My Dad tried to make me go to one once, after I ended up burning down the whole science block at my school at 16, but alas, that never happened. Which is why I’m probably still using fire as a coping method after all these years.

My phone is blowing up by the time I reach the nearest gas station. I scan the messages from my brothers over quickly as I pull into the lot.

Deano: Heard what you did, I’d say he fucking deserved it.

Archie: Dad is pissed. Gonna try to calm him down before he does something stupid.

E.Z: Seriously, Phe, again! Dad is gonna be so pissed.

Leo: Just heard about your latest work, props little sis, I think your balls might be even bigger than Dean’s.

Rolling my eyes, I shove my phone in the glove box as it begins to buzz again. Uhh, I really don’t want or need a lecture right now about how I should or should not have acted upon finding my fiance in bed with another woman. Did I over react… by some people’s standards- maybe. But did I also live out every woman’s fantasy of dousing the bed in lighter fluid and striking a match whilst they were still in the bed… yes- yes I did- and do I give two fucks about any repercussions? Absolutely- fucking- not. Because there won’t be. Never have been. My Dad works for some of the most powerful men in the city- and I’m not talking about the Governor or the Mayor. No- someone will send some money over to keep them sweet and in a couple days time, everything will go back to normal.

I scrub at my hands with the shitty cheap soap in the tiny cubicle inside the gas station to the point the giant rock, still on my finger, almost slips off and down the drain. It’s the first time I’ve thought about it. I’ve been wearing it so long, it’s just an extension of my hand at this point. What am I gonna do with it? I mean- it’s worth a fucking fortune. Freddie was fucking loaded after all. None of it fucking his mind you. His Dad was a close business partner for the same guys my Dad worked for. Let’s just say, crime pays and his Dad has made so much money over the years working for Santiago Garcia and his crew, Freddie has never had to lift a single finger, let alone do a days work, to get what he wants.

I grab a handful of shitty paper towels, drying off my hands and the ring, holding it up to the fluorescent bathroom light. Uhhh it wasn’t even my style. I hate diamonds, they’re so basic and boring. Give me a massive fuck off ruby or saphire anyday. 

Still unsure what to do with it, I tuck it into the back pocket of my jeans before assessing how I look in the mirror. It’s like waking up from the weirdest dream and not recognising yourself. I look at my blonde hair in the mirror, the plain white t-shirt covering my breasts. I look like one of those young Barbie, trophy wife wannabe types. Where did the color and fun go? He drained it all out of me.

In college, when I met Freddie, I had pink in my hair and always had on something bright. At least my ripped jeans still have some character. 

Exiting out back onto the shop floor, I grab myself a large bag of cheetos and a cherry icee- that's as big as my head- from the machine in the back. As I place the large bag of cheesy puffs on the counter, I take a large sip of my drink, before placing that too on the counter, reaching for a pair of bright yellow heart sunglasses on a display next to the cashier.

“What d’ya think?” I ask the portly man behind the counter, who’s polo shirt doesn’t look or smell like it’s been washed for at least two weeks with its armpit stains and ranch dressing smear on the front.

It’s obvious he’s trying to come across as if he’s not checking out my whole body as he looks at me, but his eyes scan lower than my face, falling on the V neck of my t-shirt and my breasts for a hint too long. I flash him a sickly sweet smile as I take the sunglasses off my face and hook them into my shirt where his eyes seem to linger instead. “How about now?” I ask.

He quickly clears his throat as he looks back to the register. “Uhhh, yes- Yes- I think they suit you, yes.” he rambles and I can’t help but laugh. Men like that were always so predictable.

I reach for the icee taking another sip and try to school my features when I get brain freeze. “With the sunglasses,” he says, “16 bucks.” I sigh, but fish a couple notes out my back pocket and hand them over, just as my eyes land on a lighter covered in black and white harlequin print. My fingers instantly reach for it.

I turn the lighter over and over again in my fingers before flipping the top of it open and striking up a flame, my eyes getting lost in its amber glow as it sways hypnotically back and forth. It instantly takes me back to not 20 minutes ago and Fred and the girl’s screams, as the bed covers went up in flames and they both shot out from underneath them as he screamed about how much of a psycho I was. 

The ding of the till draw brings me back to the present and I flick the lighter closed. “Oh, and I’m taking this as payment for you oggling me.” I smile at the balding cashier, as I pocket the lighter and grab my bits off the counter.

I can hear him calling after me, “HEY, COME BACK HERE! YOU NEED TO PAY FOR THAT!” but I just laugh and take another sip of the slush and place the sunglasses back on my head.

As I walk back to my car, I notice a bum, sitting in the shade of the wall at the back corner of the station. As I look at him, I can feel the weight of the ring in my back pocket, dragging me towards him. Hey, the ring might not have changed my life, but it doesn’t mean it can’t change someone else’s life.

“Hey.” I say, lifting the yellow sunglasses on top of my head so I can meet his eyes. “Catch.” I toss him the ring. It sparkles as it hits the afternoon sun and I know from the look on his eyes as it makes contact with his fingers, he feels like he just won the lottery. “Pawn it. Get whatever you want with it, I don’t care.” I say as I begin to turn away from him and back to my car.

“Uh-thank you.” he says at first in shock, “Thank you.” he says again, a little more confidently now.

“Don’t mention it.” I shout back to him as I unlock my car with a chirp and climb back inside. 

I open the bag of cheetos, taking one and popping it in my mouth, before dumping them on the passenger seat and reaching to open the glove box, taking my phone back out.

7 more texts from my brothers and 5 missed calls from my Dad; with a final text saying:

DAD: Get your ass home. NOW!

Well, that does it then. I guess I’m going back to the old family home.

I start the engine, shuffling through the radio stations until I find something I like. When I hear the opening riff for Britney Spears’ Toxic, I stop and whack the volume all the way up. My tires screech as I speed out of the forecourt. I sing at the top of my lungs all the way home.

☆

I’m not through the door five seconds when E.Z is trying to usher me back out again. He’s always been the softer one. Third born. The middle child. Always overlooked, but still always trying to appease everyone.

“Dad is pissed.” He says, when he meets me in the foyer. After Mom tried to burn the house down, the place got remodeled. My Dad had to sell his soul to the devil to do it, but it meant we got to stay in our family home. Well, sort of. 

The whole left side of the house needed rebuilding, which meant they got to extend it out a bit more. We lost the basketball court the boys liked to play on, but it meant they finally got their own rooms so they didn’t mind. 

“I know.” I say to E.Z, waving my phone in his face with one hand, while I take a sip of my icee with the other. 

“Give me that.” He says, snatching the drink from my hand, the contents within the straw almost going everywhere as he rips it straight from my mouth. “This is serious Phe, Andy,” Freddie’s dad, “has already been on the phone making threats. You know how important he is for the business. He’s threatening to cut off the club’s supplies.”

“And….” I shrug, before reaching to take back the large cup in his hands. He merely moves it further out of my reach. “Look, I’m sure the guys who own the place have other connections he can use.”

“You sure about that?” My brother presses, raising his eyebrows and looming over me.

“Oh come on, you telling me those four wannabe goodfellas bozos, haven’t got some other dipshit on their payroll to import and export shit for them off record to help keep club costs down.” 

E.Z’s face is a picture. Eyes wide, face serious. It’s clear from his expression and his mouth that keeps gaping like a fish as he tries to get a word in, that he thinks I should shut up. “What!?” I hiss at him, but as I’ve been ranting and raving, I haven’t heard the second set of feet that have made their way through the front door into the foyer. E.Z’s face turns pale as he looks behind me to the figure and back.

“Oh no, don’t stop on my account.” A forced casual voice comes from behind me.

I turn my head and follow the voice to one of the most gorgeous men I have ever laid eyes on. All tanned skin and dark curly hair, a smattering of grays mixed in- the only hint to his age. I frown as a familiarity falls over me, but I can’t quite place from where. “I’m sorry- do I know you?”

He slides his fingers into his trouser pockets, his foot tapping slightly as he looks me up and down. “Oh you know, I’m just one of those bozos who’s now having to help clear up your mess.”

Before I have a chance to respond, my Dad and Archie step out of his office at the end of the hall. “PHEONIX!” My Dad’s voice bellows and I blanche, maybe that anger isn’t as far away as I thought. 

I turn away from the stranger in his Armani suit by the front door, to my Dad, flashing him my sweetest smile. “Hi, Dadd-”

“Uh- No!” He says, holding up a hand to stop me, “Don’t you dare-” He stops as he spots the other gentleman in the foyer. “Pope.” He says, his demeanor growing lighter as he greets the man who actually owns his ass.

“What kind of name is Pope?” I hiss to E.Z under my breathe, but he just nudges me to shut up.

“David… Archie…” Pope nods his head to the two men. “Shall we talk in your office.” He says, nodding back down the hall behind him.

“Uh- yes. Yes.” My Dad says nervously, turning his body to indicate for him to follow him back, before shooting me a stern look, telling me to behave and that this was far from over.

“Pheonix.” Pope nods to me as he passes, a faint smirk in the corner of his mouth and a look in his eye that I could only describe as fascination. But it quickly disappears again as he turns back to my Dad.

As the door to my Father’s office closes, my brother begins to ferry me towards the stairs. “I’d get up there and stay out of trouble if I were you.” He warns. 

I roll my eyes at him before I slip the yellow, heart shaped sunglasses, down over them with annoyance, snatching back my icee, before I stomp upstairs- as usual, out of sight, out of mind.

~

POPE

“Mr Garcia, I am so sorry for my daughters behavior. I really had thought she’d grown out of this,” David Leacher says, as I sit myself down in one of the leather armchairs in his office. “And I never thought she would do something like this that would put your well balanced business in jeopardy.”

I fain disinterest about the subject, because really, it doesn’t actually bother me all that much at all. Sure Andy is a bit pissed now on behalf of his son, but from what I hear, if you’re gonna go sneaking around behind your soon to be Mrs' back and she finds out, you kinda get what your asking for. To be fair, I gotta give the little lady props; it takes real guts to dump lighter fluid on a guy and strike the match, regardless of the consequences. 

“… I just don’t know what to do with her.” David says, slumping back in his chair behind his desk with a large glass of bourbon in his hand. 

“And this is why I never got married and had kids.” I say, giving him a tight lipped smirk. There’s an awkward pause between us, the only sound in the room, the ice clinking in David’s glass as he takes another nervous sip, his hand shaking slightly in anticipation, waiting for the slap on the wrist he thinks is about to come. “Look David, I’ll get to the point, Andy wants compensation for the money he’s already forked out for the wedding.” David puts his drink down and begins rubbing his temples as if this whole ordeal is giving him a headache. 

He sighs, turning to me, an earnest look in his eye, “Pope,” he says softly- imploringly- “you know I don’t have the money for that-“

“I know.” I say, cutting him off. “That’s why, we’ve decided to franchise Medusa’s. We are going to acquire two more clubs, you’ll get a pay rise and oversee all three venues, to help cover the costs. We get more money coming in through the clubs, you get more money to pay off Andy- everyone’s a winner.” 

The look of relief on David’s face is a picture. “Oh thank you, Pope- uh Mr Garcia.” He says, as his whole body seems to let out a very long breath that he had been keeping tight in his body, probably since the first call he got this afternoon about his daughter’s antics. “Thank you, thank you.” He seemingly pants.

“Look Dave, you’re a good guy- a loyal guy-“ I say honestly, “you work hard, you run Medusa’s well. Profits have been up 30% since you took over. I’m not gonna jeopardize that over some silly tiff between a couple kids.”

“No, no… thank you.” He says quietly, acknowledging my words as I continue to speak.

“Whether this had happened or not, we were going to come to you with this proposal this week anyway. Help you pay off your debt to us quicker too- you know.”

“Yes… thank you, Pope. Thank you.”

“Very well then.” I nod to him. “I’ll call Andy, let him know everything is settled.”

“Thank you, Pope, thank you.” He says again. 

David is a good man- a loyal man. He runs our most popular club well, but it was a real shame how soft he had gone in his old age. Ever since he lost his wife, he’s never been the same. Then he married that wannabe wag Marina- who does nothing but spend the rest of what little money he has coming in after he repays some of his debt to us- and walks all over him. Back in the day he had really made a name for himself bare knuckle boxing. They used to call him The Reaper because he could knock a man out with a single blow that brought a man close to death; but nowadays he’d barely hit a fly. This was yet another reason I never settled down and did the whole wife and kids thing- it made you soft.

Still didn’t stop his little girl from being as tough as nails and crazy to boot- but when the only female role models you had growing up were a Mother with a brain tumor that made her- to be polite- unhinged; and then Marina, it's no wonder she’s ended up as she has. She bounced around three different boarding schools in her teens. By the third school- after she had burnt down the science block at the second school- we had to write a fairly hefty donation cheque, in order to get her in. Just another number added to David’s bill to be repaid.

Although he had initially approached us looking for work in order to pay off his wife’s medical bills and then to redo the house after she had burnt half of it down, most of the money he’s borrowed from us over the years has been for Phoenix. Frankie, Will and myself have spent many a night around the table with a drink in our hands speculating on why he continues to bail her out and put himself in more debt to protect her. We’ve long come to assume it’s probably because of guilt. That she was robbed of a proper Mother. Cursed to have a weak Father. If she had been my kid, I would have tossed her ass out on the curb a long time ago and told her to deal with her own shit if she wanted to keep behaving the way she has over the years.

To be fair though, after she met Freddie, we thought she’d finally straightened out- or at least she had become Fred’s problem and he was dealing with it. She stopped going to the clubs. Started wearing more grown up clothing that matched her age. Began running with Freddie and his older friends. But I guess it was only a matter of time and you know what they say- a leopard never changes their spots.

I’m halfway to the door, ready to leave, when David stops me. “Umm, Pope.” He says tentatively. I slowly turn myself back to him, ready to hear his request, even though he’s in no place to be making requests right now after I’ve just bailed his ass out for the fifteenth time. “I was just wondering…” he continues hesitantly, “seeing as Phoenix and Freddie are no longer together, she’ll probably need an actual job of her own now…” I can almost feel myself rubbing at my temples, knowing the question that was about to come out of his mouth. It’s the same question that had come when all of his son’s came of age and needed a job… but this time is different- and we both know it.

Phoenix isn’t like her brothers. Where they are able to be mature and step up and follow orders, she most definitely can not. I’ve seen enough of her school reports over the years to know what kind of employee she’d be. When David had asked about getting the boys jobs, it had been a no brainer. Each one of them had a build similar to their father in his hay day, perfect for a bit of muscle and extra protection in the club. But a job in Medusa’s for Phoenix would be behind the bar- and I know for a fact she’d sooner pour herself shots of liquor and dance on that bar than stand back and serve everyone else whilst they had a good time.

I already know I’m going to regret this when I finally climb into my bed at the end of the night, “She gets one chance.” I say. “One chance.” I hold up my index finger to him for emphasis.

“Thank you, Pope. I promise she won’t let you down.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I mutter to myself, my thumb and forefinger rubbing at my eyes in both irritation and exhaustion, as I finally leave the room. I give Archie a brief nod of acknowledgement as he sees me back out to my car.

I'm about to climb back in when he says, "I know you didn't have to do that, but he needed that, you know. He needs that hope that she'll be okay."

I only give him a nod as I look up to the row of upstairs windows and back to him, "We'll see." I say. "We'll see."

-----------------------------------

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[intoanotherworld23]

Deep Water

Characters: William Miller, Ben Miller, Francisco Morales and Santiago Garcia, and female reader

Warnings: Mentions of killing and blood, shooting, dead body, murder, drinking, swear words, drugging, and kidnapping

Summary: Drowning your sorrows in another bar since the mysterious murder of your family, your luck seems to run out that night when you witness a horrific murder done by the most ruthless mob in the city known as The Frontiers

I rewatched Triple Frontier for like the millionth time, and then got stuck in a loophole of reading all kinds of Triple Frontier fics, and decided to go ahead a write something of my own and was completely inspired by many people! I really hope you guys enjoy this one cause I think this is going to be an amazing read!! If you wish to be added to the tag list be sure to let me know in the comments or my ask box! Also sorry for this but I’m tagging everyone on my tag list for the first chapter just to get more opinions about this! Thank you so much! XOXO

Part 2

Not understanding why you did it, but you always ended up at the bar. Feeling the liquid burn down your throat making you hiss. The bartender laughed shaking his head every time you motioned for another drink.

Looking around the room there were all kinds of people here. Feeling your body slouching in the chair, but nobody seemed to pay attention to you. It almost seemed as if they were doing everything they could to avoid you.

Being used to that feeling of loneliness it didn't faze you not having anybody. Ever since your family was killed you were numb to every feeling you could ever have.

Coming home to finding your parents and older brothers bloody bodies on the living room floor. Wondering how they were so easily killed even when they were heavily guarded. Nobody knew who killed them, and the entire case was dropped.

Ever since they were killed people didn't look at you, and they certainly didn't want anything to do with you. It puzzled you why wondering who your family really was. There was something more to them, and you certainly weren't interested in finding out.

Your mother never told you what your father did, and always kept it hush. All you can really remember is random men always coming over wearing suits and serious faces. His office was a forbidden room, and never allowed anyone in there.

All you know is your father made a lot of money and was a very powerful man. People in a sense feared your father but you didn't realize any of this until after he was killed. Questions running through your mind all the time that would go unanswered.

"Want something else?" The bartenders voice intruded your thoughts. "Maybe the tab."

"Yeah yeah I get it." Grumbling as you shuffled through your purse pulling out your card handing it to him. "What's so great about this place anyway."

"Do you not know who owns the bar?" He seemed surprised by your question as he stood there his eyes wide.

"No." You strung out the word shaking your head your full attention on him. “Should I?”

"The Frontiers own this place." He spoke the words hushed afraid they would hear him, and appear from the darkness. "The ruthless mobsters that run this city."

"They own this bar?" Saying more to yourself then the bartender who chuckled at your shocked response.

"Yeah they own this bar." Watching as he swiped your card through the machine. "Along with every other bar in this city. Or at least Ironhead is the one who owns them.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Slapping a hand on your forehead in disbelief as you sighed loudly.

“I wish I was hon but yeah this is their bar.” Pressing his lips together with raised eyebrows a sympathetic look on his face.

"I had no idea." Your voice quiet as you started to look around hoping they didn't sneak there way in here.

"Sweetheart the minute you walk out into the streets." He started to say as you looked up into his eyes. "They own you already."

Gulping so loudly you felt everyone could hear it. If it wasn't for the liquor you had in your system you would have ran out of this place so fast you would leave a trail of smoke.

You've never seen them before but you certainly have heard of them. Knowing what they did to people who betrayed them, or simply even pissed them off. They could kill anyone and nobody could touch them.

All you really knew about them was there names. Santiago, Francisco, William and Ben Miller who were brothers. You also knew they had nicknames like Fish, Ironhead, Pope and Benny. Will was the leader of the group and was the most ruthless out of all of them. Frankie was his second in command, along with Santiago and Benny.

"Here you go." Soon as he handed you back your card you shoved it into your purse hopping off the chair stumbling a bit on your feet. "Have a good night."

"Thanks." Mumbling with a stoic look still being polite to which he responded with a small smile and a nod.

Looking around for the exit you just started to walk letting your legs take over hoping you would just find your way out of here. Stumbling down the hall seeing a red neon sign above a door that read exit.

Not planning to get this intoxicated when you unknowingly entered the Frontiers bar. At least they didn't know up here and start causing violence like they were known to do. Just wanting to get home and pass out on top of your bed.

As you pushed the door open a cold breeze gushed around your body. Tugging your jacket tighter to your now shivering body as you looked around. Turning to start heading back to your apartment.

The streets were empty and it was eerily quiet. Not even a car was driving by which was making you a little nervous. The alcohol flowing through your system was making you a little more paranoid then usual.

Moving your legs as quickly as you could just wanting to get home so you could sleep this feeling off. Your heels clacking against the pavement it sounding louder than it usually would.

"Where the fucks our money?" A dark voice shouted from the inside of an alley making your feet stop in there tracks.

"Don't make us ask you again." It was a different voice but sounded just as dark.

Unaware that your feet were slowing moving towards the potentially dangerous sounds. Clutching your purse tightly to your chest as you peeled around the corner of the alley. Your eyes locked on three men standing around another man. His hands tied behind his back and his head slumped forward.

If it wasn't for those stupid drinks your ass would have been home already. Instead your curiosity got the better of you and you had to see for yourself what was going on.

All you could make out was their faces. The man holding the gun had tan skin with dark hair and a matching mustache, and the man to the right of him had blonde hair with a matching scruffy beard, and the man to the left had darkish hair with thin scuff around his lower face.

It shocked you how good looking these men really were especially the one holding the gun. Whoever these mysterious handsome men were they certainly had something dark and dangerous about them.

What intrigued you the most was the one with the blonde hair who had sparkling blue eyes that shined beneath the moon light, and gave him an even more menacing look. A shiver ran up your spine at the thought of getting a look up close.

"I'm losing my fucking patience with you Dave." The blonde haired man spoke shaking his head back and forth slowly. He looked and sounded like he was the leader of this group.

"You've got five seconds before I'll blow your head off." The man holding the gun spoke an accent behind his voice.

"I'm telling you I don't have the money Ironhead." The man pleaded as he cried silently begging for his life. "Please don't kill me."

That must be his nickname as the blonde haired man stepped forward crossing his arms across his chest. Kicking something in front of him trying hard not to lose his patience. The man holding the gun kept looking over at him waiting for some time of signal to be given to him.

Gripping the brick of a building you were crouching behind unable to walk away from this scene. It felt like you were watching a movie, and you couldn't take your eyes off it. Your eyes going back and forth between all of them wondering what was going to happen next.

“Then tell us where the fucking money is.” The man screamed louder this time making you jump.

“It’s gone.” He whispered loud enough for them to hear bowing his head down in fear. “He’s got your money.”

"Wrong answer."

Before the man could say anything else a boom rang through the alley, and rand through your ears. Covering your mouth quickly as soon as your felt a scream bubbling in your throat. Watching as the man's body dropped to the floor a pool of blood surrounding his body.

Stepping back from the horrific scene keeping your hand over your mouth just wanting to get out of there. Feeling a tear running down your cheek realizing you had just witnessed a murder. Never have you ever seen someone get shot point black out in the open.

Before you could make it very far your body backed up into another body. Standing there frozen as you heard a light chuckle and a breath near your ear. Wishing you would have just kept walking or could find the urge to run away from this scene.

"Looks like we have a curious little kitten." His hands gripped your waist pushing you forwards towards the other three men. "Should have just walked away sweetheart."

All eyes focused on you as they watched you being pushed towards them looking terrified. The one with the dark hair putting his gun away his eyes looking your body up and down. The man behind you gripped the backs of your arms when he felt you start to move.

It felt like a light was shining down on your figure as you felt all there gazes on you. Just wanting the ground to swallow you whole so you could get out of here. Maybe you should have just stayed in the bar a little longer, and this could have been avoided.

"Who do we have here?" The one with the mustache spoke up hands on his hips as he looked at you with a smirk. "Pretty little thing."

"This little one was watching the whole thing." Your head shoved down in shame and embarrassment knowing you got caught red handed.

"See the whole thing?" You didn't realize you were being asked a question until you felt someone lightly shove you making you look up at the man who was called Ironhead.

"Yes." Squeaking out feeling your mouth becoming very dry.

There was complete silence as you felt his gaze burning a hole in your face. Not realizing how attractive all these men really were until you were standing so close to them. Feeling your cheeks heat up for the thought of even drooling over these killers.

The man holding you stepped next to Ironhead both of them whispering back and forth. He had longer hair than the rest of them, and had an incredibly youthful look about him. They looked like they could be brothers or something.

"Kill her." Was all he said as he turned away cold as ice your eyes wide in fear not thinking tonight was the night of your death.

"What?" The one holding you before stepped closer to you almost in a defensive stance. "Come on Will we don't have to kill her."

"She's a fucking witness Benny." He glared at his partner his voice filled with authority. “The last thing we need is a squeaky wheel.”

"I don't think this one will talk." The man with the darkish hair and sprinkle of gray mixed in looked deeply into your eyes making you turn away.

Benny stepped around you standing directly behind you feeling his body hovering over you protectively. Keeping your eyes focused on other things acting like they weren’t talking about you like you weren’t there.

"You don't know that Pope." He argued back with him.

"I agree with Benny and Pope man." The one with dark brown hair spoke up this time.

"Shut the fuck up Fish." Ironhead snarled feeling conflicted right now as he watched your trembling body in his brothers hands. "All of you shut the fuck up."

These nicknames they were using sounding incredibly familiar. Repeating the names in your head over and over again trying to think of where you had heard them before. It seemed like you were just talking about men who had names like that.

"What's your name?" He asked as he crossed his arms across his chest.

"Y/F/N Y/L/N." Hearing an intake of breath behind you as soon as they heard your last name.

It really confused you as to why they had the reaction they did when you said your name. Maybe they knew who your father was, and would ultimately decide to let you go, or they could tell you more about him than anyone else has. That was a fat chance though and most likely they were enemies.

It suddenly hit you as to who was all standing around you. It was the Frontier men, and you felt your entire body turn into ice. Feeling those drinks starting come back up your throat threatening to spill out of your mouth and onto the concrete.

Feeling like it was just too big of a coincidence drinking unknowingly in there bar, witnessing a murder, and now here you were in there hands. This was definitely not your night.

Having witnessed these ruthless mobsters killing a man in the alley. Feeling even more stupid smacking yourself in the face wishing you would have just walked away. Now here you were facing what felt like a trial on whether you got to live or die.

The three men were standing close together as they quietly spoke with one another. Going back and forth with each other trying to decide what to do with you. All kinds of questions running through your mind right now trying to figure a way out of this.

What was probably just a few minutes felt like hours. Staring down at your feet as the continued to talk. Not paying attention to the fact that Benny was soothingly rubbing your arms up and down.

"She comes with us." Ironhead finally spoke as he scratched his beard sighing loudly coming to this conclusion. "Keep her quiet."

"Please don't." You begged shaking your head hoping they would just let you go, but you had a gut feeling they weren't going to. "Please I promise I won't say a word."

"We can't risk that doll." Fish said with a calm sympathetic tone in his voice giving you a small smile to which you didn't return.

"Please don't kill me." Hearing your voice quiver as tears were flowing down your cheeks now.

"Did you not hear me?" Ironhead cocked his head at you as he stepped closer to you. "We're letting you live."

"Please just let me go." Pushing not letting it go hoping they would become annoyed and decide to just let you safely back home. "Please don't do this to me."

"Take her to the car Benny." Was all he said before he turned around to the other men. "We'll be right behind you."

Ironhead leaned to Benny whispering something in his ear before he looked to you. Benny nodded his head before he turned back to you with no emotion on his face.

"Come on darling let's go." His hand tugged you to face the other way as he led you into the car. "This is for the best."

You couldn't believe that any of this was happening to you right now. The last thing you ever thought was being kidnapped by a bunch of cold hearted ruthless mobsters. Thinking that maybe your family being murdered was already enough.

"I just want to go home." Speaking out loud without realizing it as you shuffled into the car.

"Maybe you should have walked away and minded your own business." He warned you with a look on his face saying not to push him.

Looking away as he wrapped something around your wrists tightly so you couldn’t escape. The fabric burning your skin as you moved your hands wincing at the minor pain. You could tell the man felt bad, but he clearly wasn’t going to help you.

"Maybe I should have." Grumbling as you looked out the car window watching the other men wrap the body up carrying it to the car.

This was like something out of a movie, and you were waiting any minute for the director to yell cut or something. Or pinch yourself hard enough and you’d wake up from this horrific dream.

"There not putting the body in here are they?" Looking over at Benny sitting at the drivers seat bored.

"Yeah of course." He shook his head with a light chuckle before he turned around to face you. "Can't have somebody finding it."

“Or maybe you just shouldn’t have killed the guy.” Spitting out before you could stop yourself but it seemed to amuse him.

“Well shit you sure got bite.” He bellowed out in disbelief at how you were talking to him considering everything. “We’ll get along just fine you and I.”

Your heart was starting to race rapidly as you sat frozen in your seat. Palms were sweating horribly as you felt the bile rising in your throat again. Your chest was heaving up and down as you slowly felt yourself start to panic.

Not moving a muscle as the three men stuffed the bloody body into the trunk of the car. Slamming it shut making your jump terror coursing through your body at the thought of being in a car with four killers.

Ironhead got into the passenger seat, and Fish and Pope got on either side of you. The tension was thick in the car, and you were starting to become overheated and overwhelmed. You can throw out not getting into cars with strangers out the window.

“What are you guys going to do with me?” Timidly asking once they all got settled in the car. There was silence for a couple of seconds which was making you even more nervous.

“That all depends on you.” A stern voice responded from the front making your eyes diverge to him.

“Behave and you’ll be okay.” Pope answered reassuringly to you, but nothing about his words felt reassuring at all.

One wrong move or wrong answer, and you could possibly end up like the man wrapped in tarp in the trunk. These were ruthless men who would kill anyone including you. For some reason though thankfully they decided to keep you alive. Well at least for the time being probably.

"Sorry about this sweetheart." Fish said with a pathetic smile before you felt something prick your neck before you could let out a scream.

Quickly realizing that it was a needle that went into your skin. Your vision was getting blurry, and you felt like the car was spinning. Trying to keep your eyes open fighting whatever drug he injected you with.

Feeling your body going limp as you slumped in your seat rolling your head to the side against Popes shoulder. Benny looked in the rear view mirror feeling sorry that this was happening to you.

"Go Benny." Ironhead growled not bothering to check if you were okay.

The last thing you remember was the sound of a roaring engine before darkness completely took over your body.

[dameronscopilot]

Okay, bc you said dirty talk is the most important meal of the day, how do you think each of the tf boys talk dirty in bed?

More praise or degradation? More vocal or is there mouth more focused on devouring you?

I have some thots on the matter. Consider it a sampler platter ✨

Dirty Talk with the Triple Frontier Boys

x f!reader

NSFW 18+ content below.

BENNY MILLER is vocal as fuck. He knows how crazy his deep voice drives you—especially when he really lets his accent bleed into his words. But honestly, even if it wasn’t for your sake, Benny wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut if he tried. When he’s inside of you, he needs to tell you how goddamn gorgeous you look. How well you take him. How good you feel. (And Benny doesn’t naturally resort to degradation, but when you ask him to make it hurt and call you mean things, oh. He absolutely will.)

“You feel so fucking good, honey. Gonna fuck my cum so deep in that perfect pussy it’s leaking out of you for days.”

-

SANTIAGO GARCIA has a sinful bedroom voice and filthy fucking mouth, and sometimes, you’re convinced he could bring you over the edge untouched with nothing more than the depraved things he murmurs against the shell of your ear. He’s so seductive with his words, and occasionally, he likes to blend his praise with light degradation, depending on what kind of mood you’re both in. It’s impressive how he manages to explore your body with his mouth and tongue while dirty words continue falling from his lips. 

“Go ahead, baby. Make a fucking mess on my cock with that pretty little cunt.”

-

FRANCISCO MORALES might have you fooled with his soft, soulful eyes and warm, raspy voice, but make no goddamn mistake, in the bedroom, the things that leave his mouth are far from decent. He’ll start off by taking you apart with laser-focused precision as a landslide of praise scatters from his lips. His words start off sweet and doting, but they grow more filthy with each thrust, and eventually his need to devour you wins out as his mouth grows far preoccupied with your lips and the rest of your body.

“Been thinking about you all goddamn day, baby. Fuck. You’re so fucking tight for me, don’t know how long I’m going to last.”

-

WILLIAM MILLER is an observant man; he notices everything. He’s so practiced and particular with his words, and he knows exactly what to say to make you go boneless in his arms. So while he’s not overtly vocal, the husky, dominant words that rumble out of him go crawling straight up your spine. (And yes, there’s praise, because he can’t not tell you how beautiful you look while you’re splayed out underneath of him.)

“Good girl, that’s it. Spread your legs wider. You can take it.”

--

» TRIPLE FRONTIER MASTERLIST

[intheorangebedroom]

Pleased to meet you, epilogue

Summary: It's the dawn of a new life for you and Frankie, amidst the ruins of your former respective lives. He made a promise to you, and to himself: that he would fix everything. But can everything be fixed? Are you ready to let go, and let him? And how will you deal with your homesickness?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Gabrielle Tourneur (OFC)/French fem!Reader

Rating: disgusting fluff & explicit fifth 🔞

TW: non-descriptive allusions to past abuse and self-harm

A/N: Dear orange besties 🧡 Happy Frankie Friday ❤️‍🔥 This is the end. I am sorry it took me so long, and if anyone is still hanging in the orange bedroom, I am sorry this is so long. It's most likely bad planning on my behalf; it's also because Gabrielle was never meant to stay. I'm so scared I'll never be able to write anything else because this story fucking drained me. It's one thing to smash the keyboard and reblog unhinged gifs, but I'm very uncomfortable expressing my feelings publicly, mainly but not only on account of my ass getting very gothic, very fast. So if I've hidden some dedications at the end 🧡 But I want to say here, to anyone who's ever read and/or interacted with me and/or this story (likes, comments, reblogs, asks): THANK YOU 🧡 From the bottom of my gothic orange heart. Thank you 🧡 I really hope you like this. *presses post now and runs to hide*

Word count: 20k (I– listen, I'm sorry)

[prev] * [series masterlist]

Epilogue: Songbird

Summer

The summer is laced with sawdust. It’s everywhere.

In your nostrils, the blond, warm, toffee-like scent blending with the smell of the overworked electric sander’s gear. It’s in the sound of his boots scraping the kitchen tiles when he comes in through the backyard screen door to get a beer in the late afternoon sun. It’s in the texture of his tanned, freckled skin, soaked in with his sweat, catching at your fingertips when you run your hands over his forearms, before you lead him to the bathroom to get him cleaned up. 

It’s in the longer curls of his hair, on his cap and all of his clothes, and more often than not, it’s on your clothes too, when you join him outside the toolshed, to make sure he’s wearing the protection goggles you bought, and the dust mask he takes off the minute you look the other way. 

And you don’t know it yet, but you will forever associate it with his kisses. Languid, unhurried, they don’t lead to anything more than simply kissing. His hold on your body loose, his large hands spanning the expanse of your skin, his plush lips teasing yours, tongue swirling inside your mouth. You float together for what feels like hours, until you’re left deliciously disoriented.

And no matter what you do, it always ends up in the bed, dusted between the celadon sheets he chose for you. It scrapes at your shoulders and the round of your ass when you arch up from the bed, bucking your hips into his face. 

But that’s August. 

July is spent mostly at your place. 

Your first days together are lost to the haze of your brain. Wrapped in the hushed, draped atmosphere of your small apartment, you let him take all that he needs. His lips only ever leaving your lips for your skin, sucking in harshly, leaving new marks, his kisses more teeth than tongue. 

His body moulded around yours, inside yours. Sweat, spit, spend and slick. His palms relentless, roaming your body. Restless fingers digging into your curves. 

On Monday morning, the drive to the bookstore is tense and silent, his brow deeply creased, that tick of the jaw you haven’t forgotten. But there’s a life for you, here. One that you are looking forward to living. One you have to be able to afford. 

In short, you need to go back to work.

Out in the street, by the double-parked truck in front of the store, his emotions bleed into his kiss, fingers threaded in your hair holding you still in their grip, his bite on your lower lip nearly drawing blood, and you have to whine yourself out of it. 

You offer Suzanne a short apology, disarming in its sincerity. 

“I’ve been very ill, but I’m better now,” you say, and she silently nods because it is quite plain to see. You are better. There is life in your face and light in your eyes. She can’t possibly miss the marks on your skin, but as usual, she chooses to keep to herself and you carry on with your tasks and your day, quietly humming. 

Going through the backlog that built up during your absence, your mind wanders back to his kiss, its urgency contrasting with your relief. Beyond the tiredness weighing down your bones, deep down, you had been waiting for him. Like you always did. Sitting at the pitch-dark bottom of your exhausted heart, the knowledge that he’d be coming.

When you leave the store in the late afternoon, you find him there, standing across the street, arms folded over his chest, his tall figure, dark and intense, leaned against the truck’s hood. 

Goosebumps break out along your arms when you step together into your apartment, chilled air hitting your skin. On one of the bedroom window sills, the ancient AC unit is softly droning. Behind you, Frankie leans down to kiss the raised skin on your nape, whispering, “I fixed it, hope you don’t mind.” Not giving you time to answer, he nips at your neck and tugs at your shirt, but you turn around and stop him with your searching gaze. 

“Please, Frankie, talk to me.”

The night slips away in whispers, two quiet voices rising from under the baby-blue sheets in the cool darkness. What went down at the bar, who said what, how he got hit. When he’s done, you press him further than you think yourself able to handle, for his sake, but all he gives you is, “I don’t regret anything” and “I will fix it.” You believe him.

In the silence between his words, you lie still. You listen, you understand. His needs, the proximity of your body and the soothing contact of your skin, to be cooped up with you in the smallest possible space for as long as it takes for him to absorb the fact that he hasn’t lost you. That he never did. That he never could. 

So, the days pass. Sweat, spit, spend and slick. Stifling heat and sleepless nights. 

You bite your tongue every time you look at his weary face, every time you want to argue that the daily three hour commute to his workplace is far too long. He’s not flying yet. So you let him. 

Until July 23rd. 

Off on weekends, he picks you up on Saturdays, but today is Thursday and a quick shudder of panic runs down your spine when you step outside into the scorching heat and find him parked there. You scrape your knuckles in your haste to roll down the iron shutters, but it’s only when you join him that you realise what’s different: he’s waiting inside the truck. 

Elbow propped on the door through the rolled down window, he starts the engine as soon as you get in and the entire hold lights up with his smile. 

“Hey baby, how was your day?” he beams from underneath the brim of his cap, “Wanna go for a ride?”

When he pulls out an hour later onto a Brooklyn street you don’t recognise, your heart is pounding too fast, already. You have a notion of what this might be about, but you can’t bring yourself to hope you are right, even when he turns to look at you with that smug grin you haven’t seen in a long while. 

“Where are we?” you rasp, your voice cracking around the words.

“Climb here, baby, you’ll get a better view,” he smiles, tilting his head down and slapping a hand on his thigh. His smile deepens, to his dimple and to his eyes hidden behind his aviators, at the familiar, tell-tale sight of your pulse thrumming wild under the soft skin of your neck. 

But your chest feels too heavy, it’s pinning you down, tears prickling your eyes at what you’ll see, so he unfastens your seatbelt, then his, and reaches to haul you onto his lap with that easy strength, that surprising softness. 

The steering wheel bites into your lower back and you can’t peer out the window, instead you crumble onto his chest, your fingers twisting his shirt and your face buried in his neck, your own personal safe place. And anyway, you don’t need to look, you know what’s out there. 

A tall brick building, its brown facade streaked with iron fire escapes. 

A dry sob quakes your frame, and you feel the pressure of his large hands on your back, their warmth flowing through you. You remain limp in his embrace until he can talk around the memory choking him. That of a young man, driving up to basic training in his sister’s VW, wondering where he would have taken you if you only had more time to spend together. Daydreaming on the promise of later. 

More time then. Now years to erase. Rewrite and live again.

“Alright baby, alright,” he breathes into your hair, “how ‘bout we go to Coney Island?”

It’s bright and busy and loud. It’s rowdy teenagers laughing over the crashing ocean’s waves. It’s neon rainbows and blaring pop music and kids’ high-pitched screams on convoluted rides. It’s his hand splayed wide and protective in the small of your back, steering you through the crowd. It’s cotton candy on his lips, and sticky sugar on your fingertips; it’s a black and white photo booth stripe underneath the Wonder Wheel, split up in two, the upper half tucked inside your wallet, where a torn paper with faded ink used to be. 

It’s your life, now, and for the second time, you’re not standing warily on the outside. 

That night, he drives back to his place. That night, he’s out of the truck in a beat and you barely have time to climb down before he grabs the back of your head and the swell of your ass. He tastes of candy apple, sweet and sour, licking into your mouth, and his scent fills your lungs. He carries you inside with your arms around his shoulders, fingers digging into the strong plane of his back. 

That night, in many regards the first, you don’t make it to the bedroom. He puts you down in the living-room and he throws a couch cushion on the floor, shoving you down onto it, kneeling between your thighs, tugging roughly at your clothes and you scramble on the smooth leather to undress him. 

Leant over you, his grip on your wrists a bruising one as he pins your arms along your sides, fucking into you at a blinding pace, sweat dripping down his sideburns, your legs entwined around his, your breasts bouncing with each thorough trust. 

“Fucking look at you,” he grunts, again and again and again, and you come so fast, so hard, your back arching off the leather at a painful angle, but he doesn’t slow down. He fucks you through your high, and when you come down he’s already asking for “another one, give me another one.”

—

The phone keeps sliding down between your sweaty fingers. You swap hands, waiting for Dolores to pick up through what feels like a thousand ringing tones. 

The relief in her voice is audible, which confirms what you expected: she’s heard about the fall-out between you and Rosie. And soon enough she’s scolding you as if you were still the schoolgirl she first met 20 years earlier, and you realise you missed the mother nearly as much as you did the daughter. 

“Dolores, I just need to find out if she’s working next Tuesday. We need to talk, but I’m scared she won’t answer if I just call her. I need to see her, Dolores.” 

Her voice drops to a conspiratorial tone. 

“Just come home for dinner on Monday night, ok?” 

You get there half an hour early and wait, sitting on the edge of the couch, the back of your thighs sweating on the crocheted quilt draped over the cushions. 

A whole month without talking to each other, the longest ever you’ve spent without communicating in a way or another. Even back when you had no money to spare for transatlantic phone calls, you had never let such a long stretch of time come between you. 

You shoot up at the sound of her keys in the lock, looking at Dolores with sheer panic, and it doesn’t help that she reciprocates your look. 

Rosie darts inside the cramped apartment, grumbling in Spanish about parking in the Lower East Side, and stops short on the living-room threshold at the sight of you. 

Your rehearsed speech remains stuck in your dry throat. She crosses the room in two strides, dropping her bag to the floor, rushing to hug you with all of her strength. 

You breathe in her scent, shea butter, white musk, eyes shut to hold back your tears.

“Oh, Gabbi! I thought you went back home, I got so fucking scared,” she whispers, and under your clenched fists, her back is heaving.

Home. Did you always have so many of those? 

There’s a lot to unpack, but neither of you will let the other one talk, let alone apologise. Strongheaded as ever, Rosie, however, makes sure you listen. The panic that triggered what she calls her “disproportionate reaction.” The guilt and regrets behind her silence. Her misplaced pride. 

Atoning has always been easy for you, too easy, in fact, but you offer her words that have never passed your lips before. Words you now feel confident enough to fathom, and pronounce out loud: “I do need you.”

The two of you speak in turns until Dolores sits you down at the dining table, and then you keep talking with your mouths full. She’s cooked enough food to feed you both for a month, but you still eat most of it. 

It’s past 11pm when the chatter subsides. Stifling a yawn, she offers to drive you home. 

“I’m not sure, Rosie,” you start, uncertain, apologetic, “it’s quite the detour. He lives way up north,” you add as a way of explanation. 

“And is he going to succeed where we all failed and get you to drive your own car, Gabrielle?” 

You giggle with sheer delight because everything is different but nothing has changed, her beautiful black eyes alight with a mischievous flicker when she pulls out her phone to type in your new address. 

—

“Wouldn’t it be cheaper to just buy a table from Ikea or something?” you risk, putting on the construction gloves he’s handing you. You look down at the solid oak planks sticking out of the truck’s tailgate the two of you are about to carry to the backyard through the kitchen. 

He huffs and pauses dramatically, with an ostentatious roll of his eyes.  

“It would be cheaper, Gabrielle, but it wouldn’t be good. My girl is not eating off some cheap wooden melamine in her own home.”

Considering his frugal lifestyle, you were surprised to find out money is not really an issue. His pilot income, while not extravagant, is still sufficient by most standards, and it adds up to his veteran pension, making for a comfortable living. However, you know there are monthly installments for the mortgage. There’s food, electricity, gasoline and all this goodman premium quality wood.

You’ve offered to pay him a rent and share the common expenses, which has earned you another huff, followed by a sarcastic, “sure, I’m gonna have you pay fucking rent. How about you keep your money and get a car, big girl from a big city?” 

The suggestion punctuated by a nonchalant wink, before his plush lips found the slope of your shoulder, with a sharp scrape of teeth. 

You’re Alice, falling down the white rabbit hole, discovering him all over again, only everything feels safe because you know you’re landing in your own private wonderland. 

His quiet confidence, his occasional cockiness. His deadpan jokes quietly delivered under his breath. And the deeper you dive, the more you learn, the more you melt. 

His humble selflessness, his kind attention to others. His practical, methodical, efficient thinking. His sharp mind and keen eye. His determination. What little remains of the hermetically sealed lid, and the hard shell underneath the soft one. The limits to his patience, too. A threshold not to be crossed, but only where others are concerned. 

His playfulness when he whispers filth into your ear at the most unexpected moment, in the most inappropriate places.

It’s all intoxicating, unknown yet familiar. 

You’re like a flower seed that has lain dormant for years, finally blooming under his benevolent care. 

Nights are short and the right kind of exhausting, and you’ve never felt better. You dress in colourful shades: daffodil yellow, marigold orange, poppy red. 

As soon as you moved in, at the end of July, it started with shelves for your numerous books to join his collection. Most of the novels in two editions: one in French and one in Spanish. The Master and Margarita now standing in view, next to Le Maître et Marguerite. 

More shelves in the bedroom closet for your clothes and shoes, and a large standing mirror to check your outfit in the morning. 

Electric shutters installed on the bedroom window, so you can sleep in the dark – your shocked gasp met by another soft huff, when you found out about the price. 

And one Sunday morning, a dusty cardboard box he brought in from the garage. The orange curtains flowed out of it in a musty puff of air, dust particles floating in a sunbeam and you smiled at each other in silence, crossed-legged on the hardwood bedroom floor. 

You closed the distance between you to straddle his lap, the position quickly becoming a habit to deal with just about anything, from joy to frustration to fear to contentment. 

At the bottom of the box sat a green plaid shirt. He pulled it out as you wrapped yourself around him. 

“Doesn’t fit me anymore,” he murmured against your temple. “You can have it back, baby.”

You handwashed the shirt and the curtains with unnecessary care, and helped him hang the latter on the bedroom window. 

They clashed violently with the rest of the room, and you stood in silence, wrapped in their orange glow, Frankie’s chest pressed to your back.

Just like your grandmother, his mother was a seamstress. She’d sewn them. 

“It was her favourite colour,“ he’d said. And he’d never mentioned her again. 

You looked at them, unsure. Hadn’t you already lived too much of your life in the past? 

“The colour’s really– loud, Frankie. Are you sure about this?” you murmured. 

He lowered his face into the crook of your neck, as he so often did, and his lips brushed at the shell of your ear, the thin hair on your nape standing with the rush of air when he spoke. 

“I can’t wait to fuck you in this light, baby.” 

He pressed his body harder at your back so you would feel just how much he meant it, expertly unfastening your button fly, his hand inside your jeans shorts, travelling down your belly where heat spread in its wake like a wildfire.

You leaned back into him, closing your eyes and smiling at his appreciative grunt when the tips of his fingers met the dampness pooling in your sensible underwear.   

“You’re gonna sit on my cock now, Gabrielle. I want to watch you come in the orange.”

Afterwards, as you basked, naked, sated, exhausted, in the familiar glow, you tried and failed to affect a casual tone to ask him about the one thing that had been taunting you since you’d first been in this room, back in June.

“Why is this bed so big, Morales? How many women have you fucked in here?”

He’d scrunched up his face, feigning hurt before flashing his dimple.  

“Believe it or not, just the one with the French accent.”

—

Some time around mid-August, you come home from work to a faint smell of fresh paint hanging in the house. The loud, now familiar buzzing rumble of the Makita guides you to the small office next to the master bedroom, where you find him looking dishevelled and bright, his grey t-shirt stained with white paint, the power-drill cooling in his hand. 

The walls are clean, freshly painted in a luminous white. Underneath the single window overlooking the backyard, where he’s hung the blue drapes, a small wicker sofa is covered with a plastic screen he hastily lifts off and starts folding. Your two Modotti prints hanging on each side of the room, one over a tiny desk where he’s placed your laptop and a round cactus in a blue china plant pot, and the other over a breathtakingly beautiful mahogany display cabinet, that already contains all your photographic treasures. 

“I didn’t make this,” he explains sheepishly, tilting his chin toward the piece of furniture as you run your fingers over the sophisticated marquetry work. “Izzy helped me find it. D’you like it, baby?” his left hand twitching nervously, the plastic screen creasing noisily. 

You shake your head awkwardly in the middle of the cosy room. It looks like you. A refuge of your own. Love and gratitude swelling in your chest, laying heavy on your lungs. At a loss for the proper words to express a feeling so simple and earnest. 

“Frankie, I never… I never had anything so beautiful. Why– what is this all for?” you murmur, your voice unsteady.

“For when you need space,” he simply answers with a sweet, puppy-eyed face.

—

With early September comes the relief of cooler nights, and Frankie launches himself into yet another building project: lounging chairs for the backyard. 

“Who taught you how to do all that?” you keep asking, and he grins bashfully, the shadow of another dimple on his left cheek, his answer always the same. 

“I don’t know, baby, I just taught myself.”

Of the two wide, sturdy chairs he’s crafted, you only use one. Evenings are spent stargazing, sipping beers and talking, your bodies intertwined, sunk into each other’s scent. Oblivious to the street noises, hiding away in a world of your own. 

When you join him in the backyard with two beers on a chilly Friday evening, nothing indicates it will be any different. Until you lay your head on his chest and feel the constricting tension inside it. 

Is it because of your insatiable fascination with everything that touches him? Curiosity killed the cat, your mother would always tell you, enough that you ended up living your life forever treading on the edge of most relationships. 

Is it because he found his own equilibrium readjusting your imbalance? 

Whatever the reason, from the moment you curl up into Frankie’s side, you can tell something’s off.

Pressing yourself closer to him, you slide your hand under the hem of his t-shirt and bring it to rest over his scar, grounding him with your touch.

Only then, Frankie starts talking. 

His childhood in San Diego, growing up with a hot-tempered sibling and the shadow of a mother, her melancholy, her obsession, her passing… all the way back to his parents getting married. The happy memories only borrowed, reimagined through faded photographs. Absence, forever unanswered, hanging over him like a chiming mobile. The father he never met.   

Holding your breath, intently listening to a story he had so far only ever told in scraps, you’re struck by the realisation that both of you grew up without a father. Gone, already, before you were born. 

Under the canopy of the purple urban night sky, Frankie, at last, confides in you about his ghosts, his fears, his rage. About the strangeness of moving through life with questions in lieu of bearings, of being older than his father will ever be.

And when he’s done talking, when his words have run dry, you take the hand he runs over his face and bring his palm to your lips. You hold on to it tight for balance as you climb on top of him. Vulnerability altering his face and it carries you back to a windy Brooklyn street on a forever ago Monday morning, it slices through your heart, bittersweet, sharp-edged. You once felt so helpless to erase the crease of his brow. But that was forever ago. 

You lower your lips to it, and with a kiss you absorb all the pain it withholds. In the still of the night, in the near darkness, a fleeting light glimmers in his dark eyes, the sliver of a swelling tear. 

You cup his face, and you whisper, “I’m so proud of you, Francisco Morales. My man.” 

He sucks in a sharp breath. It trickles down your spine. 

You tug lightly at his shirt and he offers no resistance, sitting up and letting you slide it off above his head. 

Another kiss to the side of his nose, to the edge of his jaw, to the heart-shaped bare patch of his beard. Down along his neck, and he’s the pliant one, for once. Over the slope of his shoulder and to the dip between his collarbone, his suprasternal notch, where you lick and linger. Your palm pressed to his scar. 

A scrape of your teeth over his nipple and you feel him thicken between your hips, until his hands grab hold of your legs and he rasps, “Not here.”

He carries you back inside your home, through your kitchen and down the hallway to your bedroom, your legs hitched around his waist. Lays you down onto the bed where he spent too many nights avoiding sleep so he wouldn’t dream of you. 

In the heat of your mouth, under the caress of your hands, with the sway of your hips, Frankie is whole again. 

—

Autumn 

Your happiness makes him giddy. A grown man, a veteran, and every time he looks at you, shuffling over to the bedroom, a dance in your steps, or when he hears you sing along some classic rock tune as you prepare coffee on Sunday mornings, he’s fucking giggling.

He’s done some things he would have deemed ridiculous, no, downright crazy, only a few months ago. He’s picked his T-shirt from the laundry basket after you’d slept in it a couple of nights, and wore it to work. He washed his hair with your shampoo to carry the scent of you; he kept it long because you asked him to. He’s taken this colourful thing you tie your hair with, and wore it on his wrist all day, breathing it in every time he’s alone.  

He, who’s never been late anywhere, can’t make it on time to work anymore, despite waking up earlier than ever before, because he can’t tear himself away from the sight of your tranquil, sleeping face. 

And in the evenings, he brushes your hair. He’s discovered a birthmark on your nape, a little red fleck hidden in your hairline. On some days, he can’t think of anything else, counting down the hours until he can see it again. Press his lips to it, eyes closed in rapture. 

He doesn’t give a fuck how it looks, or what his friends or anyone would think if they knew. He’s longed all his life to experience that blissful balance with you. The one you two settled in so rapidly, with such ease. 

By 4pm, he’s done with his working day and he drives home. This once was a dreaded hour, but not anymore. Evidences of your presence are scattered all over the house. 

In the bathroom of course, your French cosmetics and lotions neatly aligned in the small cabinet, two towels, two robes. The small room constantly smells of you. 

In the bedroom, in the way you leave the bed open when you leave after him in the morning, the comforter folded over, in stark contrast with his military bed-making habits. 

In the living-room, whatever book you’re currently reading lying on the coffee table. Framed pictures of you and Rosie smiling at him from the bookshelves.

Foul smelling cheeses in the fridge. Your tin mug drying on the rack next to the sink. Two knives, two plates, two forks. 

A house that feels like home, at last. 

Instinctively, he understood your need for independence and learnt to navigate it. A big girl from a big city indeed, he’s known it all along. You’ve only had yourself to rely on for most of your life. And he gets it. 

So in spite of his primitive impulse to provide for you in every way, he refrained from protesting when you expressed the will to pay for food, and gas whenever you get the chance. You can be stubborn, if you need to be. He’s learnt that too. 

You sometimes go to the movies alone, or visit art exhibitions, and there are the occasional girls' nights out in the city. 

When you come back home afterwards, it’s a real treat, one he can’t get enough of. He feasts on your buoyant tales of what you’ve seen, experienced, discovered or learned, on your eagerness to share it with him. He could listen to you for hours. He does.

Some other times, however, you feel small, your anxiety crawling back out from within, settling to the forefront. You’re still the same girl he met, vulnerable, incredibly courageous. Seeking his reassurance. 

And he’s equally happy to make sure you get both space and safety. The single most important purpose he could ever be entrusted with. 

Out in public, in the street or amongst friends, you two never hold hands. There’s a modesty about you and him. 

Still, it’s always his hand in the small of your back before crossing the street or going through thick crowds. It’s brief, stolen knowing glances, fingers intertwined under a diner’s table. 

When you think no one is watching, you tuck yourself into his side, his large hand gripping your hip. As if you can’t live in the open, yet. As if you’d rather hide your happiness from the rest of the universe, lest it be taken away again. 

And there are his eyes; they always find yours. Watchful and intent, years of training and acquired instinct put to use to protect you, keep you close. 

But your behaviour doesn’t matter, anyway. The organic pull between your two bodies is far too obvious to conceal. 

He hasn’t stopped, he never will, leaving marks on your skin. Blooming flecks of his love peeking out just barely from under the collar of your shirts, for you to carry and never forget you are his. You squirm in his hold when he pulls in your skin, hard suck, sharp teeth, squirm and whine in pleasure-plain. 

He brands you. He admits it now. His love flushes your blood to the surface of your skin. He does that to you. You let him. 

Something alien, unbridled, something he can only identify as pride has him puff out his chest whenever he sees you in his clothes. 

As if he hadn’t built rows of shelves to accommodate yours, it seems you’re always wearing his. None of his plaid shirts are safe, you even wear them to work, only to change into one of his t-shirts the minute you come home. 

He pretends to mind, knowing you love that game. Only one day, in early October, you dig up a military tin trunk containing his army stuff in the garage, and you start wearing the things you find in there too.

The first glimpse of you in a green jersey has his stomach turn. Too upset to speak, he watches you leave with it for the day, willing his disapproving glances to be eloquent enough. 

But a portrait of him in his dress uniform pops up on your desk, next, in a brand new fancy frame. And a little over a week later, on a Sunday morning, he walks in from the backyard to find you in a US Air Force shirt, one of his early ones, and the fact that it actually suits you, fits you like one of your own thrift store swag, oversized in just the right way, has his temper simmer. 

He walks straight to the stove where you’re cooking scrambled eggs, his boots thumping heavily on the tiles. A sweet smile curls your lips when you turn around to face him. However sweet, it doesn’t stop the words from shooting out of him, nor contains the anger in his warning. 

“Ok look, I don’t want you to wear those– things, Gabrielle. I don’t want any of it to touch you, entiendes?”

The Spanish slips right out of him, but you hold up your smile, and hand him a mug of freshly brewed coffee. 

“I really love the Morales name tag,” you simply state. 

He grabs the mug by reflex, thrown off by your unfazed reaction. Raising on your tiptoes, you place a kiss on the bare patch of his jaw. 

“I’m proud of everything you ever did, Francisco,” you add in earnest. “But I’ll take it off, if you don’t like it.”

The blunt honesty of your answer immediately deflates him, and he swallows thickly at the first sliver of your skin when you unbutton the shirt to reveal your naked breasts. 

—

Familiarity hasn't killed this miracle. Even when, in the intimacy of your house, you’re never more than two feet apart. Skin on skin from the moment you rush home at night until the moment he ruefully passes the door in the morning. 

On his lap is where you sit most of the time, and he fucking loves it, sliding his hand underneath the hem of your clothes, pecking kisses in the curve of your neck, under your ear, where the scent of you is heady, feeling the weight of you shift against his body when you talk. 

Your hand on his thigh when he drives, his arm on the back of the seat when you take the wheel. Brushing your teeth side by side before bed. Curled into his chest, slouched on a pile of pillows to watch movies on his computer (he’s offered to buy a television, but you declined). Your legs propped over his when you read together on the couch. 

At night, in the ridiculously oversized bed, your bodies lie entwined. You need him around you to fall asleep, need him to crush you with his weight, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You run so hot,” you mumble with delight, seconds before tipping over into unconsciousness, your voice heavy with your day. 

You taste so good, he murmurs against that spot he likes too much under your ear, his kisses rippling in shivers along your skin; you taste so good, he moans into your mouth, never sated, never pulling back first; you taste so fucking good, he grunts into your cunt, pinning you down on the rumpled linen. 

You’re here, at last, for him to love and to revere, for him to taste, taste, taste.

He had you in his truck, pulled over to the side of the road in a rainstorm, on the way to an upstate farmers market. He had you in the garage, against the hood cooling down. He had you in a bathroom stall in the Guggenheim, his mouth fastened over yours to keep you quiet, his fingers buried inside your cunt. 

He has you in the storage room in the back of the bookstore, more often than he should, when Suzanne’s not there on Saturday afternoons and he can’t wait for you to come home. When you come around him, he calls you his good girl. 

He had you in your room; you sat him down on the wicker sofa, rucked up your pretty dress and rode his thigh clad in raw denim, “Remember the first time you made me come, Francisco?” 

He gripped your ass so forcefully your skin bore bruises for days, and you gave him that sound, that two-tone moan, straight into his ear and then you dragged your teeth along the column of his throat. He flung you down on the carpeted floor and fucked you limp. 

He had you in the bathroom, more times than he can count, and in there, whether rough or languid, he always fucks you with a delightful, ironic revenge. 

He ate your cunt on the dining table like you were the main course in a fancy dinner, and then he flipped you over and fucked you so hard you cried out his name. 

He brought your shoulders up against his chest, clasped his hand over your mouth and fucked you harder. 

You bit his fingers and clung onto his arms, your nails carving lovely pink crescents into his flesh, your entire body jerking when you came again, your cunt gripping him and you sobbed as he filled you up. 

He dropped to the floor, exhausted, chest heaving, drenched in sweat, and you crawled over him, curling into his side. 

When he fucks you with such feral rage, you’re soft for days afterwards, as if relieved by the reminder of his intensity. And just like with everything you need, he’s only too happy to provide. 

“Frankie—” you breathed out, but you trailed off and you hugged him tighter, and he thought you were about to say it, those three little words you spoke daily in a million different ways but never with actual words. 

But you stopped short, once again. 

He often wonders if you’ve ever told them to anyone. To Rosie, you might have, even Will, perhaps. To Ben, he’s now certain you didn’t. 

He can’t tell why it’s so important to him to hear them. After all, he’s never pronounced them either. Not in English. Not when you’re awake. 

But this isn’t only about a shared feeling. He knows your family never taught you how, and the thought makes his body ache. 

—

In the weeks leading up to Halloween, you grow more and more excited, decorating the house, scheming about matching costumes. It doesn’t even occur to him to deny you any of it, he’d dress as a pink bunny if you asked him to. Even though, given what you have labelled “your fascination for all things morbid,” he can tell a bunny isn’t in store. 

Here he is, falling in love with you all over again. Your childlike enthusiasm, your unabashed enjoyment, your bubbling excitement. These are the things he lives for. 

At long last, he gets to introduce you to his sister on Halloween’s eve. Out of town for most of the summer, Izzy’s invited over you for dinner, but the evening doesn’t play out in the least the way he thought it would. 

You pretend otherwise, but your silence betrays your nervousness on the drive to Manhattan. His doesn’t talk either, tense and anxious until you get out of the truck and he can splay his hand on your back, feel you loosen under his touch. 

For weeks, months, he imagined the two of you vibrantly sharing your similar views on politics, when in fact the interaction remains polite and policed, at first, nearly distant. 

Until you zero in on a couple of old pictures displayed in his sister's apartment, in the hallway to the bathroom. 

Izzy’s entire demeanour shifts. She’s delighted to provide you with embarrassing anecdotes on “babyface Frankie.”

“Look at this lanky teenage boy,” she grins, and Frankie, a grown man, a veteran, Frankie feels his heart skip a beat and trip over the sight of your wide eyes filling with tears. 

Back at home, in the dark bedroom, you open up. Tucked under the comforter, wrapped in his arms, with your head resting on his chest. Those are the moments in which the words you had to swallow down all your life come easy. 

“It’s because of the dead,” you begin. “It’s almost like a promise. That they can come back and walk amongst us for one night. I know it’s childish of me, but I would— I would like to see my grandparents again. Especially now. I can’t even lay flowers on their grave.”

He pulls you in closer. Waits for you to keep going, hoping you will. Guessing you are being mindful about his own ghosts. Adamant not to press, he simply gives your hip a light squeeze. 

When you resume, your voice drops lower. And you tell him everything. 

Your mother got pregnant during her senior year in high school, and sought an abortion her mother didn’t let her get. Taking you in when you were born, she watched as your mother left home in rebellion. 

“It was wrong of her. My mother had the right to decide,” you say in a little voice, and the implication makes him physically sick, a foul taste sitting in the back of his throat at your resignation. 

You go on to describe your happy, albeit short years with your grandparents. The orange curtains, summer vacations by the ocean, your grandfather teaching you how to read a map and ride a bike. 

And how it all ended abruptly with your grandmother's death. 

You had to go live with your mother, then, and as you briefly recount some of your most difficult moments, you make excuses for her. It wasn’t that bad. I was too sensitive as a kid. I wasn’t her choice. She was only 23 then. 

Your father had long bailed, and again you provide reasons and excuses. You chuckle sadly when you mention two half-sisters. “Strangers,” you say. 

You’ve long severed ties, with all of them, and it’s probably better, you say. For your mother, anyway. For you too, you have to believe. Some days, some days still, you can’t help it. You look her up on social media. Just to see. Make sure she’s ok. 

Frankie listens. His heart bleeds inside his hallowed chest. Pieces of you falling into place to the muted sound of your voice, your words crawling under his skin. 

I’m sorry. 

Please. 

I never had anything so beautiful. 

And when your voice dwindles at the evocation of a step-father coming into your life when you were seven, when you finally fall quiet, what Frankie hears in your silence makes his inside curl and burn up with a vengeful rage. 

But you’re done talking for the night. You circle his waist and soon, your breathing evens out, your body easing into sleep with little, jerky movements. 

Frankie lies in the opaque darkness of the room, clenching his jaw until the physical pain takes off a bit of the edge. Eyes wide open to the memory of the first time he touched your breasts, on loop in his brain. 

Is the man still alive? You certainly are wise to keep that part to yourself. You really do know him well. Because that would be the one kill he would never regret. 

The following morning, he stays in bed until you wake up, and you don’t question his presence, even if he should already have left.   

He follows you into the bathroom, steps with you into the tub and washes your body, towels you off, brushes your hair. 

You let him. 

—

“How old is Santi, again?” you ask from the bedroom. 

Frankie spits the mouthwash into the sink and straightens up with a heavy sigh. 

You know how old Santi is. But there’s something else on your mind, something that’s been eating at you, causing you to be distracted since the invitation to the party arrived in the mail. Something that’s compelled you to avoid eye contact since you came back from work, today. Something you’re keeping to yourself, probably trying to protect him, if he had to guess.

“He’s turning 37, baby,” he answers, imperturbable, buttoning up his worn denim shirt, leaving the last two buttons open.

“Oh yeah, right. Yovanna told me she invited Rosie,” you continue, “but she didn’t mention who else’ll be there—” you trail off.

There it is. Who else will be there. Or rather, who won’t be. 

“Too many people for comfort, that’s for sure,” he chuckles, stepping out of the bathroom to join you.

Standing in front of the large rectangular mirror he’s built for you, you’re fiddling with the little strings tying your dress at the waist, and the sight of your silhouette in profile has his breath hitching. You don’t often dress up, but tonight you’re wearing a black wrap dress that looks like an oversized smoking jacket, with a plunging neckline and a whole lot of leg. 

You wore dresses all summer, short or long, but as the days got shorter and the air got cooler, you went back to jeans and pants only. 

“I don’t like tights,” you explained once. 

And whatever you wear is fine; he can snap your fly open with two fingers, but seeing your legs clad in the sheer black material does something to him. Something that shoots straight to his cock.

“Damn, baby,” he whispers, and it’s all he manages.

“I don’t know,” you wince, “I have those smart black trousers, perhaps I should chan–” but you fall quiet because he’s come to stand behind you, his broad frame towering over your tall one, his head dipping into your neck. 

His mouth stops half an inch short of your throat, and the magnetic pull it exerts on your skin lifts his lips in a satisfied grin. He draws back, the movement imperceptible, and it’s as though your skin reaches out. Like witchcraft. 

“Frankie, would you like me to wear fancier clothes?” you ask in a small voice, finally looking him in the eyes through the looking glass. 

You lean your head back to rest against his shoulder, and he reaches for your legs, his palms lightly trailing down over the smooth fabric.

“No, baby” he starts, and he watches the goosebumps breaking along your neck at the sound of his voice. “What I want is irrelevant, you wear whatever makes you feel good. Only tonight, I won’t mind if you decide to wear that,” he finishes. 

His calloused fingers span up your thighs, catching at the thin material, all the way to your mound. The tights press into it, and it’s fucking delicious. When you close your eyes, two of his fingers travel downward along your constrained folds, and the low grunt that rumbles from his chest is met by a whimpering sound you can’t hold back. 

His left hand slithers under the side of your dress to find the swell of your breast, teasing your nipple with his thumb.

“We’re gonna go to this party, and everyone there will be looking at you in this dress. Your breasts… your legs… your eyes… your smile…” a stroke over your seam with each word whispered into your ear, and your eyes flicker, you buck into him, “and I’m gonna look at them looking at you while I decide how I’m gonna ruin you and these fucking tights the minute we come home.”

He dives into your neck, pressing his plush lips to your soft skin, giving it a hard suck for good measure. 

Santi and Yovanna’s place stands out from the row of neatly aligned houses. Light pouring out from every window, music, warmth and laughter spilling into the bleak November night. 

His hand finds your back when you climb out of the truck and join him on the sidewalk. You’re wearing shiny black heels he didn’t even know you had. They make you taller, slightly shifting the familiar landmarks of your body at his side, and he thinks the entire party will be able to see it on his face. 

Pride, like the sun reverberating over the surface of a placid ocean.

It’s that ability of yours to overcome your fear, to go headstrong against it. He won’t ever get over it. You’re more courageous than some men he’s fought alongside, and he often wonders if this could be the main reason why Will held you in such high regards. 

And yet, you’ve chosen him to be the one who gets to hold you when you can’t be brave. Most of his life now revolves around being worthy of that.

But tonight, you carry your head high.

All of Pope’s friends and colleagues will be here, save for three of them, and their absence will, most certainly, noticeably stand out. 

Yovanna personally called Frankie to inform him she had taken it upon herself not to invite Tom. Ever the suave diplomat, Santi kept loosely in touch with him after the incident at the bar. But he knows from Santi that Yovanna strongly disapproves of the lasting bond between them.

On the subject of the Millers, however, Santi remains tight-lipped. Frankie assumes they still hang out on a regular basis, probably on Friday evenings, at the bar, where himself has become persona non grata. And he bears no resentment for that, not towards anyone.

However, and even if he would never admit it to you, he misses the two men. He misses the bar, and perhaps most of all, he misses the fight nights. Benny’s jokes and Will’s expressive silence.

He’s texted Benny. Back in September, for his birthday, and his message remained not only unanswered, but unread. He tried again, a week later, and then a third time, to no avail. 

He tried Will, next, and the phone rang out for what felt like a whole minute before he got sent to voicemail. The next morning, Will called him back during his morning commute. A smooth move for a clever man, Frankie thought. He hung his head as he listened to the short, non-committal voicemail that didn’t require any follow-up. Not exactly a rejection. Definitely nothing of an invitation. 

He can tell you miss him too. Miss them. Small telling details permeating your daily life. You change the station every time CCR comes up on the radio. A wistful sigh that punctuates your impressions of an art exhibition. 

So when the invitation came, he picked up his phone again. 

But he knows your presence tonight implies a choice on Pope’s behalf. You’re smart enough to have it figured out, and he doesn’t need to ask you how you feel about it. He hears it in your short replies, sees it in the taut line between your shoulder blades, feels it in the tight squeeze of your small hand around his —a first, in public. 

And yet you step into that party with your chin up and he wills his confidence to seep into you through his touch, to convey it with the pride lighting up his eyes whenever they set on your beautiful face.

Trust me. I will fix it.

The front door is open and you step together into the crowded living-room, where the furniture has been taken out or pushed against the walls to make space. 

Santi rapidly walks up to you to greet you warmly. Beaming, clean-shaven, sharply dressed in a black suit, black shirt, no tie, he looks perfectly at ease in this social setting. But then again, he’s at ease everywhere, whether it is a luxuriant jungle or a parched desert.

Behind him, Yovanna flutters from guest to guest, shining bright as a Tuscan summer sun with all the standing lamps bouncing over the golden sequins of her short, long-sleeved dress. In his peripheral vision, Frankie catches your relieved smile. When she rushes to hug you, you hand her the bottle of champagne you bought two days ago. 

“I don’t know the first thing about champagne,” you’d said, “I just took the most expensive one,” an apologetic shrug he eased up with a lingering kiss. 

Yovanna takes your jackets, complimenting your outfit, and you slowly small talk your way through the crowd over to the other side of the room, where a bar has been set up and a young woman with short dark hair and tattooed hands mixes drinks. Frankie recognises her from the bar, where she sometimes works as an extra. 

He watches over you, intently, through the endless parade of familiar faces coming up to him for a chat. Veterans, friends, vague acquaintances, and nearly all of them enquire about Benny’s whereabouts. 

Your tense body feels small, pressed up against his side, and your grip on your glass is white knuckled. Every so often, he gives your waist a discreet but hard squeeze, and flashes you a reassuring wink.  

Rosie walks in about an hour later, cheerful and bright in her deep-green jumpsuit, moving with confidence through the room to join you and turning heads along the way, as if it were her own birthday. 

A quick peck on your lips, on Frankie’s, and she turns her attention to the barmaid to order a mojito. You untangle yourself from him, and begin to sound more like yourself as you chat with your friend. Soon, you’re too absorbed in your conversation to notice his glance darting toward the front door across the room every time someone steps in. 

A couple of hours into the evening, the alcohol helping, people get loser and louder, and Pope cranks up the stereo. Frankie hangs down his head to hide his grin at the familiar, aggressive playlist, that Yovanna promptly changes. 

Rosie has left your small group and is chatting animatedly with a young officer he’s seen working with Will at the VA, confirming Pope’s invited everyone he’s ever met. 

You’ve already had two whiskeys while he’s still sipping on his first beer, when he feels your hand travelling down from his side and sliding into the back pocket of his jeans. 

Your gentle grasp on his ass broadens his dimpled smile, and he basks in your gaze for a brief moment, before he turns to you. 

“You’re so pretty, Francisco Morales,” you whisper, and he gets the feeling that you waited for him to look at you to tell him just that. 

“Ok,” he chuckles, “are you drunk?”

“Just a little bit,” you concede. “But I don’t need to be drunk to appreciate what I see.” Your voice drops along with your smile when you continue, “I— I look at you, and I can’t believe you’re mine. Are you really mine?”

Frankie takes your glass and puts it down on the bar next to his bottle, so he can grip your hips and steer you toward the wall. You may be a couple of inches taller than usual, but he still towers over you, and his broad shoulders hide you from the rest of the room. 

“I’m yours, baby,” he murmurs. “All yours.”

His lips brush your cheekbone, and he cherishes the slight tremor of your skin under the tickle of his whiskers. It is new. It belongs to your new life together. 

“Would you still ask me to leave with you?” you ask again, bunching his shirts with shaky hands. 

“I would ask you over and over again a million times, Gabrielle,” and he presses his forehead against yours, “I wouldn’t change anything. Except for the rain.”

He places his palm over your collarbone and his thumb comes to rest on your pulse. 

His fingers slide and curl around your nape. Time stills, fading out the sounds and lights of the room around you. He presses his lips to yours, pulling you flush to his chest, and you immediately open up for your man. 

The smooth, malty taste of the whiskey blends in with yours, it goes up to his head and shoots right down to his cock as he licks into you with the same need and hunger he once did on the fire escape, swallowing your doubts along with your moans. 

He does want to leave with you, he wants to leave with you right now, spare you the pressure and the plastered smiles, take you home, brush your hair, feed you. Massage your body from your feet up to the crown of your head, rub your legs through those goddamn tights, feel your slick dampening them, have you come in them once, twice, if he can pace himself, watch your legs twitch in pleasure in the sheer black fabric.  

But he has to wait. Wait just a little longer. There might still be a chance. 

His self-control wears thinner yet when you push away from the wall to mould your body into his, when you whine as you meet the growing bulge in his pants, your leg hitching up along his. Is it a trick of the mind, that he can feel the smoothness of your tights through the thickness of his denim? 

Fuck he can’t give in, he has to wait, stall for more time, the injunction coming from the back of his brain, barely reaching his consciousness. 

He’s already fucking your mouth with his tongue when Pope’s voice rings out on his right, music and lights leaping back into focus, like sandpaper grating his senses. 

“¿Qué haces, pendejo? Jesus! Get a room! It’s not that kind of party.” 

Frankie quickly pulls away from you with a gritted “fuck,” but not so far that you can’t bury your face into his neck. 

Pope’s smug laughter drums on his nerves, adding to his frustration, and he’s about to lash out when he feels you giggling.

As if summoned by Pope’s sarcasm, Rosie appears beside him. 

“They’re unmanageable,” she quips, “you just can’t leave them unattended.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re one to talk!” you retort with a smirk. 

Drawing away from you, he’s reaching for your glass when he sees your features drop. Your eyes widen, strained on the front door, and in an instant, it’s all over your face. Your mouth falls open, you suck in a sharp breath. He doesn’t need to turn around to check what —who— you’re looking at. He knows. He understands. He no longer has to wait. 

Rosie and Pope see it too, whipping their heads to the left to follow your gaze, but you're already walking forward, quick, steady steps. Frankie pivots slowly, in time to see you fling yourself into Will’s open arms.

Oblivious to the couple of men coming to greet him, he picks you up with ease, splayed fingers across your back, and one of your heels drops to the floor. He closes his eyes, for the briefest moment, squeezing you tight in his brawny embrace. 

Frankie doesn’t hear you, but he catches his friend’s answer, spoken through a wistful, brotherly smile that transforms his entire face. 

“I missed you too, Elle.”

—

The dam breaks. The minute he parks in the driveway, the fucking dam gives. 

“Keep your seatbelt fastened,” he orders and he kills the engine. 

With a quick, deft gesture, he unbuckles and slides next to you over the truck’s bench, caging you with his upper body, sinking his face into the curve of your neck to inhale, deeply. His breath pushes back out of him with a grunt like a threat. It rumbles in his chest first, before it rattles inside his throat and fans over your skin. Your skin that raises and reaches out for him. It’s your scent, your smell, and he wants it to be his. 

In your sitting position, your folds feel denser, trapped inside the black nylon material of your tights, and you grab the door handle when he starts rubbing fast circles over your clit, threatening grunts into your neck, scraping teeth, lapping tongue.  

You come in a matter of minutes, head shoved into the headrest, lips pinched to bite down your throaty moans, breathing heavily through your nose, the windows blurred with a transluscent fog. 

He carries you inside, swung over his shoulder, it’s playful but it’s not, it’s a want, it’s a need, a fire that flares in his loins, a dam that finally gives.  

He tosses you onto the bed and you bounce with a little shriek. He takes off his boots and climbs onto the mattress, kneeled before you, strips you down to your tights, knocking your hands away every time you try to undress him, until you understand what he needs and you lay back on the bed, become soft and pliant and let him take it. 

There’s an indentation at the base of your throat where he sank his teeth while you came under his hand in the truck, and the heat in his loins settles down a bit. 

The nylon of your tights brushes smooth and sleek when you rub your legs together, pressed knees, shifting hips. 

Framed by the dark halo of your hair, your face looks pale and eerie, like the slippery ghost he used to dream of, sunk into a restless sleep after rage-fucking women he did not see. 

He parts your legs with his frame, spreads your hips with his breadth. The nylon is dense and brushes louder under his calloused palms and digits, heavy and hot and underneath, your skin too is burning. 

The need to feel you is too heavy, the scent of you heady, he wants it to be his, his scent oozing off your skin, organic evidence that you’re his. He slides off his t-shirt, unbuckles his belt to ease off the pressure of the scorching hunger, it burns in bright anger between his hips, he doesn’t know how to tame it.  

He crawls above you, dives onto you, teeth and tongue and spit and need, scraping your earlobe, your jaw, your lips, biting into the column of your throat, biting new marks and new indentations, would you still ask me to leave with you?

His in every scenario, every dream, every reality. 

Between his lips, the hardened peak of your nipple is hot, still cooler than his mouth when he wraps it around the hard bud and sucks it in, squeezing your other breast, calloused palm, calloused fingers, his.

His teeth find your hip, the soft swell of your flesh, the hard bone underneath and you writhe and arch up into it, his name rumples your lips, the K rips from your throat, ripe, hot, thorny. 

His forehead presses through your tights and into your belly, the little swell of it below your navel, sweat dampened curls of his hair leaving a sweat dampened spot, his scent permeating the fabric, infusing your skin. 

He pulls back, calloused fingers hooked under the back of your knees catching at the nylon, sliding your calves over his shoulders, smooth fabric, hot skin, bright need. He spits on your clothed cunt and rubs it in, blends his saliva with your slick, hot, liquid, sticky.

His strokes are not gentle, they’re rough and needy, your fingers gripping his wrist to ease the roughness and he frees it with a twist, strong hand raising your arms above your head to pin them into the soft mattress. His face right above yours, sweat beading at your temples, on your pinched brow, his sweat dripping into your mouth, opened slack, your tongue pulled out and greedy. 

You come as rough and hard as his strokes, your head trashed back, corded neck, folded in two, twitching legs like squirming snakes of nylon wrapped over his shoulders. 

His forehead pushes down on your collarbone, infusing you with his sweat and his scent, where he can feel your orgasm blazing through your bones and your flesh and your skin.

The heat grows brighter between his legs, angrier, consuming, swelling along his cock, thickening. The urge to taste, and he pushes up from your heaving chest, releases your arms, your fingers a frantic scrabble over the white sheets. He’s pulled back in, instantly, drawn to the wet spot between your legs, dark and leaking nylon covering your cunt. 

He dives in to cup it in his mouth, too hot and burning, to taste it, claim you, and it’s a bite, instead, rough and needy, and you jolt, his name scratching your throat like sand, “Frankie!” and he sucks in, rough and needy, saliva and slick, too hot and burning, would you still ask me to leave with you? 

He sits back to undress your legs, the nylon a smooth drag along your skin when he peels it. He’s holding his breath, holding his spit, the taste of you and him swirling around his tongue, coating his palate.

His mouth travels up your leg from ankle to hip, in bites and licks, your skin hot, hot and smooth and tense between his lips, hot skin and hot lips, and he bites into it, sharp, unrestrained. 

He sees it flicker across your face and in your eyes, wide and glazed, the moment you register what he’s doing, when he twists the sheer black fabric around your wrists, tugs on it, elastic, raising your arms above your head, shuffling along your body, your head caged between his thighs, and ties it to the headboard.

He hears it from the outside, the voice that comes from the back of his skull to ask you if “You ok with this?” and when you nod, the voice insists. 

“Words, Gabrielle,” a warning and a need. 

“I’m ok, I want it, please–” you breathe, sand in your throat. 

“You don’t ever have to say ‘please’ to me.” 

He steps off the bed to get rid of the rest of his clothes, eyes strained on you, hot and flushed and tied up and burning under the dark halo of your hair, bruises and marks of bright red scattered over your skin, you can leave all the marks, high-pitched two-tone moans of your want and your need carving his chest, his. 

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” more growls than words, kneeling between your spread legs, spread folds shining and slick, pressing on your knees, down on the mattress with both hands, calloused palms, calloused fingers, smooth, burning skin. 

The back of his two middle fingers slides along your seam, liquid and sticky and it’s an easy glide into your pretty cunt, hot and burning, deep and slow and then rough and curling, dark eyes sunk into your dilated pupils.  

“Wanna taste how good you did for me, baby?”

You nod and he growls, curling deeper inside, so you nod again and you “Please, please Frankie please—“

“Don’t fucking say please to me, Gabrielle, I’ll give you everything you need,” and he pushes his fingers into the heat of your mouth to smother the word, calloused fingers, hot tongue gliding and swirling, a sharp bite of your teeth and he hisses, would you still ask me to leave with you? 

“I got you, I got you,” more grunts than words, and he lines himself up, doesn’t wait and sinks in, sinks his thick cock into your tight cunt, down to his base, rough and needy, sweat dripping down his back, high-pitched moans. 

Large hands framing your hips, keeping you still under his thrusts, bruising, sliding over your belly where he’s shoving his cock into you, Frankie, can you feel yourself inside me? Slowing down just enough to feel you trembling around him, soft walls, warm cunt, grinding deeper inside under his palms.

“You feel so fucking good, Gabrielle, I can feel your sweet pussy fucking squeezing me,” his eyes drawn to the odd angle of your shoulder blades poking under your skin.

His hands find the headboard, bracing forward, lying heavy into you and he thrusts in and out, rough and needy, your legs bracketed around his waist, your knees hitched along his torso, hot, smooth burning skin, sweat dripping, “oh god, Frankie.” 

“That what you needed, baby? For me to fuck you like this?” ramming into your cervix, tight cunt clenching, hot, wet, his. 

Your head pressing into the pillow, you push away from the comforter, clutching his cock, hard and thick and ramming, and you nod, and you remember, you say “yes, Francisco,” and he’s fucking losing it, pounding harder, sinking deeper. 

Calloused fingers curled around the headboard, white knuckled, taut muscles shifting under his skin. 

Your high rips through you, through a cry, two-tone moan, eyes rolling, empty bound fists clenching, arms jerking against their binding, hot tight cunt gripping him in its endless flutter.

“Frankie, Frankie—“

“That’s it baby, just like that,” growls and grunts and words, “just like that.”

Years spent and wasted wishing he could carry you inside him, before he started wishing he could rip you out like a poisonous seed.

Your heartbeat pulsating under his chest and your cunt thrumming around his cock, the air you draw in gulps filling his own lungs, limbs entangled, sweat on sweat. This is as close as it gets to slicing his chest open to fit you inside it. 

Static fills his brain, the room spins around him in orange waves and he comes like a whip, hot, liquid and sticky, pumping his seed into you, further, deeper, teeth clenched, eyes shut, a hissed curse in Spanish, through waves of orange. 

His. 

—

Winter

Everything you once dreaded, everything he once hated, you are now looking forward to experiencing, side by side. 

It’s not your first Christmas with Dolores and Rosie, but it’s the first time you don’t feel like a rescue puppy, stepping inside the camped apartment with your arms full of presents and your man at your side. 

Everywhere you go, you feel legitimate. 

Everywhere he goes, he feels at ease. 

For once, Izzy’s in town for New Year’s Eve, and he doesn’t think twice before accepting her invitation to what she promises will be a quiet and cosy family dinner at her place.  

She ends up so drunk, Frankie has to put her to bed before you can go home. 

Fairly tipsy yourself, you sober up fast when he carries you over to the bedroom and bluntly declares he’s going to fuck you into the next year.

“Which one?” you joke, “cos technically it’s already next year, big man Morales.”

“2050, baby,” he answers with a cocky grin, unbuckling his belt. “Now get naked and spread those legs. I wanna see everything.”

January brings snow and icy northern winds along with the prospect of flying again, his six-month probation drawing to an end. 

And one evening, it brings you home late, freezing cold, and particularly irritated. 

“I had to wait 15 minutes for that damn bus because of the snow,” you fume, hanging your damp coat on the wall rack by the door. “How does this fucking country get so fucking hot in the summer, and so unbearably cold in the winter?” 

He briefly considers arguing it’s not as much the whole country as just some states, but he wisely opts for compassionate silence. 

You turn to face him, pointing a menacing index in his direction.

“You know what, America? You win. I’m getting a fucking car.”

“Don’t call me America in front of Izzy, if you wanna live long enough to drive that car,” he advises you with a raised eyebrow, his smile widening to his dimple.

He takes the following Tuesday off, and the two of you head back to Autoland, where a blond woman about your age welcomes you and introduces herself as Julie. 

A brief conversation is all it takes to ascertain that Julie is far more competent than Gary could ever dream to be, but the sheer idea of having to explain what you’re looking for once again prompts you to enquire about him. 

“Oh, Gary’s in jail,” she tells you with a hint of a smile. “Embezzlement. Didn’t end well,” she adds, and her lips stretch into a satisfied grin. 

Twenty minutes later, you leave the dealership with a decent bargain and a pre-owned Ford Fiesta in forest green. 

It’s only when you come home the next evening, your hands warm and your clothes dry, that Frankie measures just how relieved he actually is. 

And you won’t admit it, in fact, he’s fairly certain you make a point of complaining about finding a place to park near the bookstore, but he can tell you’re happy too. Happy and proud, because the following weekend, he catches you calling Will to tell him you’ll be picking him up at his place to drive together to the Met.  

A four-month hiatus hasn’t altered the tightly woven fabric of your relationship with Will. You fall right back into your cosy routine of monthly trips to the city to visit exhibitions, followed by drinks and endless talks at McSorley. 

Emboldened by his blunt questioning habits, you don’t walk on eggshells the first time you find yourself alone with him.

“How is Benny doing? Does he know we’re seeing each other, today? How does he feel about it?” you ask after quickly gulping down your first half-pint. 

His steel blue eyes dive into yours and you do your very best not to shrink on your wooden chair.

“Benny’s fine, ok? He’s good. He–” he seems to consider his next words before he continues, “We had a few conversations about it. It’s not easy, he doesn’t really wanna talk. I told him about your history with Fish. He’s still a bit angry, but he’s coming around. I think deep down he understands.” 

He pauses, and when you don’t say anything, he keeps going. 

“But I don’t think he’ll be able to hang out with him for another couple of months, at least.”

Hang out with him. No mention of you, there. As often with Will, what lies within the silence matters as much as his spoken words. 

You get it. You can’t have it all. But you are genuinely relieved to know he’s doing well. And that there’s hope for the two of them. 

It doesn’t occur to you that you only hear what you want to hear.

—

The first banging noise jolts you out of sleep. You sit upright in the bed, dishevelled, confused, not quite awake. Your heart is pounding painfully inside your rib cage, pulsating in your eardrums.

Instinctively, you reach for Frankie. Your hand fumbles under the comforter, only to find an empty spot where he should be lying next to you, and you whip your head around to his side of the bed.

It’s the middle of the night, yet it’s not as dark as it should be. The living-room lamp is on, casting a feeble light inside the bedroom, enough for you to distinguish Frankie’s dark silhouette standing awkwardly by the bed, slowly opening the drawer of his night stand.

Another rattling sound comes in from the kitchen. Metal on tiles. Your sleep-dazed brain identifies the noise as that of one of the bar stools being dragged across the floor. Frankie tilts his head in your direction and silently brings his index finger to his lips. 

Now you’re wide awake. 

Panic trickles down your lungs in icy streaks at the realisation that someone has broken into the house, but it doesn’t compare to the horror that seizes you when Frankie stealthily pulls out a gun from the open drawer. 

He’s still looking at you, the yellow glint from the hallway reflected in his ink-black eyes, his finger pressed to his lips. 

Before you can process what’s happening, Frankie’s moving toward the corridor, his gait precise and absolutely silent, broad shoulders hunched and tense in his downward hold of the gun with two hands. You want to protest, tell him to stay here with you, but your entire body has gone rigid, disconnected from your brain. You’re glued into place. 

Eyes opened so wide they might pop out of your skull, you watch him disappear into the hallway, and in the dead of the night, you can hear the door of the fridge being opened. 

Years from now, you will still remember thinking that this is a fucking nightmare.

You brace yourself for gunshots, a fight, more clatter, but it’s Frankie’s voice that comes in next, resounding into the January night, angry, loud and… surprised?  

“What the fuck, man?”

It snaps you out of your trance. Untangling your legs from the heavy comforter, you climb down the bed and slip on your sleeping shorts before you dash towards the kitchen, and you’re still walking down the short hallway when you hear him.

“Oh fuck, ‘m sorry, Fish, ‘d’ I wake you up?”

Benny’s booming baritone. Audibly shitfaced. 

You see Frankie first, standing in his black boxer briefs, his gun hanging from his hand. Following his angered stare, your eyes fall on Benny, who’s tall silhouette is partly hidden behind the opened fridge door. His face peeks out from above it, a nasty-looking bruise blooming red and purple around his right eye, accentuated by the angled shadows. 

His gaze is unfocused, dazed, and when he sees you, an unfamiliar melancholy blurs it a deeper shade of blue. He closes the fridge, a tall boy of IPA in his hand, and he straightens up like a little boy at Sunday school, his lips curling around a drunken smile.

“Hey, baby. How are you?” he slowly slurs. 

“Jesus fuck,” Frankie grits, hanging his head, and your mind reels, you’re not sure how to handle the situation. In fact, you have no idea how to deal with it.

Walking up to your man, you curl your fingers around his forearm, and the tension you find under your touch does very little to temper down the alarm flaring in your chest. Your hand slides to his wrist, his own hand a tight grasp around his weapon. You don’t dare lower your eyes to it. And it’s probably just a trick of the mind, the way you can see it shine from the corner of your eyes under the crude ceiling light. 

You don’t dare look at Frankie either, so you keep your eyes strained on Benny, who’s swaying on his legs, and ask in a shaky voice you don’t recognise, “Hey Ben. What are you doing here?” 

“He still got a spare key,” Frankie growls in his direction, and you hold on to his wrist a little tighter. 

“Won my fight, tonight,” Benny drawls with pride, as if this were a perfectly rational explanation for his presence in your kitchen at 3 am, and, visibly satisfied, he proceeds to crack his beer open.

“And how the fuck did you get here, Benjamin?” Frankie asks, his tone so aggressive it makes you jump.

Benny takes a long sip before he simply shrugs, “Drove my car, the fuck is this question…”

“Oh god,” you breathe out, and between your clutching fingers, Frankie’s muscles loosen. 

Finally looking up at him, you’re shaken by the emotions playing across his face, far more complex than the upfront annoyance in his voice. 

Frankie himself is not sure how he feels. 

Relieved, at first, to find Benny instead of someone else, something worse. Fuck knows he could have shot down a stranger on sight, had they tried to come anywhere near you, and he’d rather you never see what he’s capable of with a gun.  

Why, then, is he shaking with anger? Is it, deep down, the relief to see him at all? Could it be because Benny came to see you, and not him? 

Most of his jealousy and resentment towards his friend had been drained out of him when you curled up on his naked chest, back in your apartment, over half a year ago. 

He’s well aware of the lasting affection you continue to harbour for his friend, that the concern plainly etched on your face at the moment only serves to demonstrate further. And if it’s not exactly pleasant to think about, his confidence and the daily evidence of your shared love sweetens that bitter knowledge. 

What’s a lot more difficult to stomach, however, are Ben’s lingering feelings for you. He can’t blame the man, he himself never got over you, and he had fifteen years to try to. 

“He’ll come around,” Will had promised. Only Ben’s little stunt tonight makes it impossible to ignore any longer the one thought he has so far deliberately avoided. He broke his best friend’s heart, with a self-righteous determination, without an ounce of regret. 

Benny takes a step in your direction, beer dripping on the tiles from the can, askew in his bruised hand, and Frankie sighs heavily. 

As you release his arm to go to Benny, he tries to slide the gun in the back of his jeans before realising he’s in his underwear. He sets it down on the kitchen table, where it hits the wooden surface with a muted thud. 

“Aww baby, I really missed your face,” Benny mumbles as you grab the can from him, handing it to Frankie. 

“Ok, let’s get some water into you,” you answer, holding his shoulders straight to deflect the incoming hug. 

You lead him to the couch on the other side of the room where you sit him down, while Frankie fills up a tall glass with tap water, and you wait for him to join you to whisper, “We can’t let him go home like that, baby.”

Benny’s muttering incoherently, and Frankie bends over him, taking his legs to pivot him into a sleeping position, his feet sticking out of the couch. 

“No, of course, not. He’s gonna sleep here. I’ll drive him home in the morning.”

He lets you take off Benny’s sneakers while he returns his gun to the night stand drawer, but when you don’t come back to the bedroom, he can’t resist the urge to go see what’s going on.

He’s still in the hallway when he stops short at the scene before him. You’ve draped a plaid over Benny, already fast asleep, and you’re threading your fingers through his hair. A token of your affection, a tender gesture he saw you demonstrate before. In public. You lean down to place a soft kiss on his forehead, and when you stand up and turn around, your eyes find his, instantly. 

He doesn’t wait for you, he can’t, not when he knows you’re seeing right through his gritted teeth, right through the nauseating guilt sitting at the back of his throat, and he goes back to bed, where you soon join him. 

He opens the comforter to let you in next to him, and as you slide underneath it, you tell him, “Scoot over, Frankie baby, tonight I’m the big spoon.”

—

If there’s one thing Frankie has always envied Ben for, it’s the speed at which he pulls through any type of hangover. Mild, brutal, soul-destroying, it makes no difference. The man’s up at the crack of dawn, and by 8am sharp, he’s out the door for his daily run.

Maybe it’s the age difference. But Frankie was never this prompt to recover, even when he was younger. Maybe it’s good genes. He’s seen Ironhead getting shot and still complete the mission with dashing excellence. 

Today, however, as Frankie leaves the safe-heaven of your body, warmly tucked under the duvet, and walks into the living-room with a pack of Tylenol, a little after 6 am, he finds Benny quietly snoring. 

His bruised eye has turned a violent shade of purple, bloody crusts flacking around his injured knuckles. 

Frankie knows exactly who Ben was up against last night. A bulky giant of a man, a force of nature, a major household name in the MMA circuit. 

He’s been keeping track of Ben’s defeats and successes. This victory is one that counts. Important enough for him to get hammered in celebration. So important, he had to get behind the wheel and come to tell you about it in person. 

It’s another two hours of aimless silent roaming around the house, brooding, mulling over what he’ll tell him when he wakes up, if anything, before he decides to start cooking breakfast. 

When Benny begins to stir on the couch to the clanking noise of the frying pan, Frankie focuses on the stove, keeping his nervousness in check. In his peripheral vision, Ben sits up with a hissed curse, and gulps down two tablets with water.

He’s just done lacing his boots when Frankie places a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of him on the coffee table. 

Keeping his eyes to the floor, Benny mumbles in a thick voice, “Thanks, but I’m leaving.”

Frankie’s answer shoots out of him before he can think it through. “She’s gonna want to know you ate something.”

Benny tilts up his head toward him in slow motion. He meets his eyes with a cold, hard stare, and Frankie wouldn’t be surprised if he leapt from the couch to take another swing at his face. 

He holds up his gaze, until Benny lowers his head and starts eating up. Cleans up his plate in complete silence and drinks up to the last drop the mild coffee Frankie’s prepared for him.

And when he’s finished, he gets up without a word and walks towards the front door to pick his jacket from the floor. Fiddling with the breast pocket, he pulls out a keychain and places it on the kitchen table as Frankie observes him, jaw cocked to the side, arms folded over his chest. 

His hand is on the doorknob when Frankie speaks again.

“You had 5 hours of sleep, man. I don’t think you’re sober enough to drive,” he says, pushing up from the counter. 

“Yeah, right,” Ben huffs, “I’m not leaving my car here. Not coming back to pick it up.”

“Alright, let’s take your car, I can ride the bus home,” Frankie says, grabbing his cap from the coat rack.

—

Somehow, he can always tell whether you’re awake or asleep if he’s with you inside the house. Today, he knows you hear them leave together. 

The drive is tense, to say the least, Ben’s leg bouncing up and down nervously as he shifts, restless, in the passenger’s seat, darting sideways glances at him, most likely waiting for an opportunity to lash out. 

But the early Sunday traffic is fluid, and Frankie a smooth driver, leaving him nothing to grasp. 

When Frankie pulls out in front of his house, Ben’s out of the car before he kills the engine.  

In turn, Frankie unfolds slowly from the low seat. The crisp January cold bites his cheeks when he gets out and locks the door. He risks a glance in Ben’s direction. 

“Hey, Ben, wait up,” he calls, white puffs of his breath swirling from his lips.  

Benny stops and reluctantly turns around to face him.

“Congrats on your win, last night,” he offers. 

Ben answers with a dismissive, “Sure,” and Frankie throws him the keys across the roof of the Mustang. 

He snatches them mid-hair in a smooth catch. A bittersweet reminder of their past synchronicity. Their ability to communicate wordlessly. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Frankie asks quietly. 

“What, the fight? Which one?” Benny sniggers. 

“Ok,” he nods, ducking his head under the brim of his cap.  

Ben takes a step towards his front door, but immediately turns around.  

“You wanna know what really hurts?” he barks, his loud baritone thundering in the empty street. “Why didn’t you say anything? After that first night at the bar? You let me fucking parade her to you, guys, and you didn’t say shit.”

“Yea, I don't know, Ben,” he whispers, hanging his head. “I’m sorry. I really am.” 

“That’s all you gotta say? I’m sorry?” Ben retorts, crossing his arms. 

“Look, it’s complicated—“ he starts, but Ben interrupts him.

“I was supposed to be your best friend, that’s pretty fucking simple to me.”

“Ok, listen,” Frankie counters, raising his head and looking straight at him, “I don't know what you know, or what Will told you, but I thought she’d forsaken me. I guess I didn’t see the point of telling you. And by the time she–” he reconsiders, tongue darting to lick his bottom lip, careful not to imply your responsibility, “by the time I found out what really happened, it was already too late.”

“Yeah, well, it still doesn’t add up, Fish,” he argues, prepping his forearms on top of the car roof. “If a girl ghosts you, why wouldn’t you warn your best friend?”

Because she’s not that kind of person. Because she seemed happy with you and you with her. Because I never quit loving her. 

Because I could never give her up. 

“Like I said, man, it’s more complicated than–” he tries again, but Ben cuts him off, again, adamant to get it all off his chest, and if his tone is not exactly aggressive, it’s not particularly friendly either.

“Ten years. Ten years we’ve known each other. We went through fucking hell together, and you still fucking chose her over me. Twice.”

“Yea well, I went through another kind of hell for losing her, Ben, you just gotta take my word for it,” Frankie states with a pointed finger at him and a warning in his rising voice that Ben seems to hear, because he leans back just a bit. 

He softens up to add, “But it’s done. So now what?”

“Fuck, Fish,” Benny answers, softer, “if it was that bad, why’d you never say anything? You never mentioned her, not once! I’ve seen you wasted, high as a kite, buried in pussy and you don’t share that?”

“No, Benjamin, I do not share that. Not with you. Not with anyone.” 

He marks a pause, inhaling the cold morning air to maintain control before he can continue. 

“Look, I'm sorry I did you in like that. I let you down and I feel shitty for handling the whole situation like I did. You were my best friend. You still are. But I’d do it all over again to get her.”

He winces at his poor attempt at an apology. 

Benny remains still for a beat before he leans again over the car roof, joining his hands. 

“So it’s like, true love, and shit?”

“Yea. True love and shit,” Frankie nods.

“Well, this I understand,” Ben concedes, unusually quiet. “She’s something. You lucky son of a gun.”

—

Everything you once dreaded… 

Well, you’ve always dreaded January. It once freed you from Éric, but you still associate the dark, short days with loneliness, and a fast, spinning downward fall into depression. This year, however, you haven’t thought about it once. Not until this morning, that is, when the looming dread rose anew, expanding inside your constricted chest, hindering your breathing. 

The fluffy duvet drawn up to your chin, you’ve lied still as the dead, your ears strained to the sounds coming from the other side of the house. 

You fully woke up when Frankie left the bed, depriving you of his reassuring heat, after three hours oscillating between sleep and consciousness, always acutely aware of his unnaturally stiff body lying wide awake between your arms. 

You mentally followed his barefoot stride, amplified by the early morning peace, the events from the previous night flooding back to your tired brain like rising waters. 

Listened to nothing but silence for an excruciating long time, the growing tension emanating from him thrumming along the walls all the way to your hiding place. 

Hiding, is what you were, and once more your mother’s reproachful tone rang out in your head, “tu ne fais que t’enfuir.” 

“I’m a big girl from a big city,” you murmured to yourself. You were not hiding, they needed to talk, you were merely giving them the necessary space, but nothing you told yourself could ward off your anxiety. 

When you walked into the living-room, after they’d left, you scrunched up your nose at the acrid smell of alcohol. And something else. Something you didn’t want to remember, so you pulled the curtains and opened the two large windows to let in the brisk winter air.   

That’s when you noticed his phone, face down on the console by the front door, where he leaves it when he comes home. 

You disposed of the leftover coffee in the sink and prepared a fresh pot, strong, to your taste. 

While it brewed, you folded the plaid and straightened the couch cushions. You cleaned the stove and washed the dishes, wiped them dry and returned them to their cabinets. 

When there were no more traces of Ben’s presence in your home, you stood by the counter, staring blankly at the microwave, double dots blinking between the red digits. 

Now, it’s nearing 11am. You’ve been alone for three hours. 

Uncertain about the distance between Frankie’s house and Benny’s place, you’ve no idea whether Frankie’s absence is too long or perfectly normal. You could put your mind at rest, even just a bit, if you only checked it out on your phone, but the idea itself irritates you. You’ve lived here just a few months shy of three years. When will you be as capable of navigating the city as you are in Paris, going about the metro and streets on sheer instinct, visualising entire neighbourhoods and calculating routes without the support of technology? 

Driving your own car is bound to achieve that, you tell yourself, stepping gingerly into the tub. 

Why does the entire house feel colder when he’s not there? This is nothing unusual, he’s rarely home when you get ready for work on weekdays, and it’s a beat before you realise you’ve left the living-room windows opened. 

The water runs over your face, set to scalding hot and high-pressure, and you wish it could drain out your thoughts. Perhaps, if you’d see them floating at your feet, you might be able to sort out your feelings. 

When he pulls out in the driveway 20 minutes later, he steps in through the front door to find you sitting by the kitchen table, arms crossed and shivering in one of his sweaters. There’s little to no difference in temperature between outside and the room, he notes with a frown, and his eyes land on the table in front of you, where his black gun stands out against the clear wooden top. 

He stills, fingers on the brim of his cap, elbow raised mid-air. 

He’s in so much fucking trouble.  

“Hey, baby, how–” he starts, before you cut him off sharply. 

“Are you ok?” you ask, more briskly than you intended. 

You clear your throat, willing your hoarse morning voice to sound softer when you ask again, “You’re not hurt or anything, are you?”

“No, baby, I’m good,” he answers, taking a few long strides towards you. “I’m sorry, I meant to call you before I got on the bus, but I think I left my phone here. And the ride home took forever, I don’t know how you had the patience to…”

He trails off, standing in front of you in his jacket, awkward and rigid. For the first time ever, he’s not certain of what you need. And something tells him he’d better step back until you’ve expressed it yourself.

The tension hangs heavy between you, but once your eyes have scanned his face and confirmed he’s alright, your lungs open up just a notch. 

Unfolding your arms, you lower your hands onto your lap, rubbing your clammy palms dry over your denim. 

His eyes quickly flicker to his gun and back to your face, and he takes another step closer.

“Ok,” you shoot, straightening up in your chair, your gaze plunging into his, “can you please tell me why we have a gun in the house?”

It’s not the question that’s driven you mad since they left the house earlier, but this one is considerably easier to formulate. 

His demeanour shifts immediately. He straightens up, planting his hands on his hips. 

“Listen, baby, it’s perfectly legal, alright? I got a permit, and you know I know how to use it.” 

He has the good sense not to point out the gap between your respective cultures, fully aware of your position on the matter of gun control anywhere in the world, but you’re standing up already, stubbornly facing him. 

“Whether or not you got a permit doesn’t make any goddamn difference to me, Frankie. I want it gone.”

He lifts off his cap, slowly runs his fingers through his hair, and you falter. 

This is not going the way you imagined, you didn’t intend to come at him with such aggressiveness, and your tone doesn’t reflect your confusion, certainly none of your fears, it only gives away your conflicted feelings. 

Sucking his teeth in, he tilts down his head, and his eyes disappear. 

“The gun’s not going anywhere, Gabrielle,” he hears himself state, and his point-blank refusal to comply derails you completely. 

“What kind of threat is there that requires that you keep this thing in here?”

“Intruders, burglars, some junky high on bath salts…” he enumerates, shaking his head.

You mirror the movement before you counter with what you expect to be a foolproof argument.

“And what if Benny did something stupid? He was drunk, what if he’d jumped you, for a joke? What if you’d hurt him?” 

Frankie's head shoots up, dark eyes devoid of all light staring you down with a hard gaze that has you swaying on your feet. He’s never looked at you like that, except… Except that first night at the bar. 

And like that first night at the bar, he can’t stop his mind from reeling into the wrong direction, despite your face telling him something entirely different. 

“Is this what this is about? You’re concerned I might have hurt him?” 

“Of course I am!” you answer, puzzled by his reaction. “Look, I’m sure you don’t need a gun. If ever someone breaks in, you can probably subdue them–“

“That’s Ironhead’s thing,” he cuts in.

“Well, you can knock them out, then–”

“That’d be Ben,” he all but spits out.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Frankie!”

You throw your palms up in irritation, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes that only fuel your exasperation.

Back in June, in his truck, he’d told you that he’d been too quick on the trigger, more often than not. Is that what you’re hinting at? Are you doubting his ability to keep you safe?

“Gabrielle, just drop it, ok? I’m asking you to drop it,” he warns, his voice a low threat that brooks no argument, and in turn you dig your heels in. 

“I can’t just drop it, Frankie, I’m sorry but–”

“Please,” he grits through his clenched jaw. 

Something gets stuck in your throat. You’re trying to breathe underwater. It’s escalating too quickly. 

You try to blink the tears off your prickling eyelids before they start running down your cheeks, you want to stab your nails into the back of your arms and draw blood, but the urge to touch him overthrows everything and you place your hands on his chest, palms down, splayed fingers, anchoring your body to his, grounding him to yours. 

“Frankie what’s happening, are we fighting?” you articulate around a repressed sob. 

His hands go to yours instinctively, covering them entirely, and he can’t tell which one of you is shaking, can’t explain how what he means to say is so far removed from the way he expresses it.

“No– no baby, no we’re not fighting, I just need you to understand–” he tries, but it’s too late, your words spill out in moving waves.

“Please, I don’t wanna fight, please, Frankie, I’m sorry, I’m sorry Benny barged in like that, I’m sorry, I don’t want him to hurt you anymore, I don’t want you to hurt yourself—“

“Baby, I’m fine, I’m ok,” he says, comprehension downing on him as your first tears roll down in rivulets to hang from the line of your jaw.

He closes the distance between you, cupping your face to rub them off with a stroke of his thumbs, standing so close your eyes flicker between his. 

“I’m sorry I overreacted—”

“Fuck no! You didn’t over— hey, listen to me Gabrielle, you didn’t overreact, I did,” he says, holding your head up when you try to hide. 

Your hands slide underneath his jacket and find the plane of his back, you bunch up his t-shit in your fists. 

“You just gotta let me watch over you the way I know how, baby, that’s all I ask, that’s all I need, for you to let me take care of you. I know you’re a big girl from a big city—“

“Oh but I’m not,” you cry, pressing your face into his neck, your next words muffled against his collarbone, “I’m scared, you left the room and I got so scared, and I don’t know if I’ll ever fit in here, there’s always something to remind me I don’t belong—“

The spectre of your departure resurfaces and Frankie hisses a sharp breath, a Pavlovian reaction to a pain stimulus. He focuses on the shape of you between his arms, the scent of you enveloping him, the taste of you only a kiss away. 

Broad hand cradling the crown of your head, he leans into your ear, his voice dropping to a low, soft murmur. 

“Last night was scary. You’re exhausted, we both are. We can talk about it later, ok?”

“Don’t leave me, Frankie, don’t leave me alone, I need—” you sob. “Merde, I feel so fucking stupid.”

His lips brush a smile against your temple, eyes closing at the contact of your skin. 

“Hey, I got an idea,” he says. “How about we take a trip to Paris, this spring? You can show me around the city? What do you say?”

He’s been thinking about it for a while, but has so far found himself physically unable to discuss it with you. The whole idea could backfire. What if going back there reminds you of everything you still miss? 

You’d said a purpose. And a goal. 

Between his large cupping hands, your face feels like an evocation, and he’s drawn in, endlessly, on a loop, back to you, to your skin. 

To the way it trembles between his pursed lips. A peek of his tongue to harvest the salty beads of your tears, to swallow the fear and sadness he vowed to see disappear, and you cling onto him with a murmured plea. 

“Take me to bed Frankie, plea–“

“Don’t you fucking say it,” he growls, and he crashes his mouth onto yours. You open up for him, sliding the thick jacket off his frame, knocking the worn-out cap off his head. 

—

The weak January sun, white and crisp through the treasured curtains, fills the bedroom with a hushed shade of orange, weaving together past and present. 

His first thrust inches into your tight warmth slow and measured, and he pauses between your hips to let you adjust. 

His hand a gentle grip around your jaw, he turns your face to the side and traces open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, a tender suck at the base of your neck, a hard bite on the slope of your shoulder, it makes you writhe underneath his body, crushed into the mattress by his weight, and you keen, legs bracketed around his waist, knees folded high around his torso, heels digging into the meat of his ass, urging him deeper. 

You need him rough and you need him now, you want to feel sore tomorrow and the day after, you want his girth remodelling you into the shape of him, only him, forever him.

But he controls the pace. Attuned to your reactions and the sensation of your clenching walls around him, clutching him, blending pain and pleasure, your entrance catching along his length. 

He shifts above you, tilting your head further to the side, the hardened tips of your nipples a soft drag against his skin, and you can’t breathe with his chest crushing your chest and he knows it, knows you want it this way. He moves inside you. Just a bit, not enough. You moan and you hear it through your need, through your want, like you’re running a fever, like a tiny, needy animal.

“Shhh baby,” he purrs in your ear, forehead to your temple, “I can’t move, I have to open you up for me.” 

The words scorch your skin. You burrow your nails into the taut muscles of his back, eyes shut so tight under your pinched brow you see stars, his lips raising goosebumps all over your body on their trail along your jawline.

“Frankie Frankie Frankie–” you say Frankie like you say please, and your cheek sinks deeper into the pillow.

“Shhh, you're gonna get it, baby, you're gonna get it.”

Your hips buck against the restraint of his mass, and it slips out of you, inaudible, weak and quick, too quick for you to stop it.  

“You looked so hot with that fucking gun, I–”

He stills with your earlobe trapped between his teeth, licks it better before he lets go.  

“What did you say?” 

The unwilling confession, making sense of your earlier fury. You shy away from the truth, a whining “non” stuck inside your throat, you try to hide from it, from him, the heels of your hands covering your eyes when you breathe out, “Nothing.”

His smile curls into your skin through a scrape of his whiskers, and he sinks into you, sudden, rough, deep, all the way down to the centre of you. 

You bite down your moan, pleasure-pain, head trashed back into the pillow, clenched teeth corded neck, pinned down underneath the overwhelming weight of him and everything he means to you.

“I heard you,” he groans, grinding into your heat, “I heard everything.” 

Everything you once dreaded. The contour of your fears, retraced, redefined. Innocuous, beyond the confines of his arms. 

—

Spring

“Can you fly this plane?” you whisper excitedly, adjusting your seatbelt. 

His eyebrows disappear in the overgrown curls hanging low on his forehead. He stills in his seat to stare at you.

“Baby, it’s a Boeing 767.”

“So yes?” 

The stewardess announces the imminent take-off for Roissy-Charles-de-Gaulle, her words nearly unintelligible through the buzzing noise of the overhead speakers.

“No, I can fly military aircraft, like C-12 Huron or MH-60 Black Hawk or–”

“So you could probably fly this one too?” you cut in. 

“No, Gabrielle, I can’t,” he huffs in disbelief.

“Have you ever tried?” 

The crease between his brow deepens, his eyes searching yours, scanning your face for any trace of teasing. 

“I– what? ‘Course not!”

“Aha!” you exclaim, triumphant. “So you probably can. You just don’t know it.”

He watches you bend forward to place a thick book in the seat-back pocket in front of you, and shifts his hips once again, trying to accommodate his breadth into the seat, before his eyes fly back to your face. 

His heart leaps into a painful somersault, like a punch in the sternum that radiates up to his neck and down to his gut. Backlit by the plane’s oval window, your dark profile looks like the Victorian cutout portraits in your treasure cabinet, and it’s like he’s known you his whole life and the ones before, like he’d find you in every reality he’s ever known, and all the ones he hasn’t. 

He lowers down his head, remembering to breathe. Something settles down inside him. A gnawing anxiety that had been steadily flaring since he’d book the tickets. He’d find you. In every reality. 

“Do you really need to be this fucking cute?” he mutters.

“I’m not cute, Frankie, I’m serious! Now tell me, how do you feel about spending the next 7 hours crammed into this seat?”

A flash of pink as the tip of his tongue peeks between his parted lips. A wink.

“It’s ok. I’m used to fitting into tight spaces.”

—

Small. 

Everything looks small. 

The entire city has changed. New, modern infrastructures, subway lines extensions, bicycle lanes everywhere, roadworks on every corner and a new mayor.

All of it, small. 

The streets are too narrow, the ceilings hang too low, the cars look like toys and the buildings like doll houses frozen in time because nothing measures up to Frankie’s height, breadth, or dimple. 

The man shrunk your old world when he expanded your horizon.  

You walk down the streets that saw you becoming who you are through happiness, loss and pain, strutting about like you know something no one else does. 

The Airbnb you picked is on the south side of the place Gambetta. The Marais was appealing. More expensive but more central, fancy but not too much, but you finally decided against it. The 20e arrondissement is your neighbourhood, your home. It’s where your grandparents are buried. 

There’s something incongruous, bordering on comical, about playing house with him in the tiny, typically Parisian apartment overlooking the Père Lachaise. The kitchen’s a corridor, and there’s no way for him to fit comfortably inside the shower cubicle. The bed is a full size, and if you knew not to expect anything bigger, Frankie’s eyes widened in bewilderment at the doll-sized bedding. 

“Gonna break that thing,” he grunted, testing the mattress. 

The first time you step into the métro, you take in the particular stench, and the realisation that you missed even that pulls at your chest with a sharp pang. But the nostalgia is smothered by the sight of Frankie squeezing into one of the narrow seats of the line 3.

The first couple of days are spent sightseeing the touristic landmarks of the capital, following the military schedule you’ve drafted. You don’t even try to hold back as you recount the many anecdotes behind every famous church, park or building, giving him what you self-derisively label, “the leftist historical tour of Paris.” 

If there’s one place where you’ve always had enough space to be you, unapologetically so, it’s with him. 

Here, you don’t need any maps, apps or directions, and Frankie diligently follows, listens, asks follow-up questions that prompt more thorough explanations, drinking up your self-confidence. 

Sure, Paris is nice. But it’s not the buildings he's looking at. 

His big girl. Growing up on her own in this big city.  

Hiding, yet standing tall on that fire escape, your heart rabbiting under the pulse point of your neck, bravely withholding his gaze. Leaving the party with him, your smaller hand squeezing his bigger one as he parted the crowd for you, for the two of you. 

He’s only ever had eyes for you. From the very beginning.

With his preference for modern art in mind, you’ve arranged the third day around the visit of Beaubourg, then the MaM halfway across town, which will bring you near the Eiffel Tower, you announce over breakfast, and that’s when he gently puts his foot down. 

“Baby, take me to Orsay, will you?” he asks softly. “I wanna see that blurry painting you told me about. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don't really give a— I don’t really care about the Eiffel Tower and all that stuff. I’d rather go to the cemetery. Or see your high school.”

You look up from your tartine, a toasted piece of bread stuck in your throat that you try to gulp down, and you stare at him blankly. A fixed, intense gaze that has him flinching, creasing his brow, has he fucked up the whole thing now?

“You wanna see my high school?” you repeat, and when he nods, you add quietly, “Do you really need to be this fucking cute, Morales?”

Your high school, your university, the bars in Pigalle and Ménilmontant where you hung out as a student, your favourite bookstores, antique stores, bridges, museums, artist’s studios, paintings… 

It’s been decades since you’ve walked the narrow, quiet lane where your grandparents rented a three-room apartment. Years of repressed emotions have confused your recollection, and you breathe uneasy and short because you don’t recognise the grey stone building where you supposedly spent your first years. 

Frankie holds your hand. You lean into it. 

Later, walking in silence towards the family grave along the pebbles alleys on the east side of the Père Lachaise, you keep your head down and the tendon in Frankie’s jaw is pulled taut, ready to snap. 

But his gaze, strained on you, is warmer than the late March sun that draws pale, ephemeral patterns under your feet through the lush green foliage of the century-old chestnut and lime trees. 

His arm wraps around the haunched slope of your shoulders. It’s heavy. Grounding. He draws you in to his side, and pecks a kiss on the crown of your head, your hand sliding inside the back pocket of his jeans. 

You look up at his sharp profile, and he’s more beautiful than any of the works of art you’ve shown him this past week, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen. 

The bare-patch on his jaw calls to your lips, but instead you reassure him, “I’m good, Frankie,” because his bashful, dimpled smile makes you, because in his arms, you are. 

The sprawling, romantic necropolis has remained the same to you, a place of solace, a refuge, a hideout. 

The wardens are blowing their whistles to signal closing time when you reluctantly leave the cemetery. It’s cold now, the sun has given up and recessed behind pearly grey clouds. 

Back in the small rental, Frankie follows you to the cramped bathroom when you go wash your hands. He watches you, leaning against the sink counter, crossed ankles, crossed arms. Tense muscles and knots.

“Where’s your mother now? Does she still live in Paris?”

Your eyes dart to the door frame on your left, on instinct, but Frankie’s massive frame is preventing any form of deflection or escape. Your body stiffens, you focus on your hands.

“Last I heard, they moved to a new fancy apartment they bought in les Batignolles. That’s in the 17e arrondissement,” you add, like that means anything to him. “But I’m not taking you there, Frankie, I can’t.”

“Not asking you to, baby. I want to know if he is still around.”

Your chest hollows under his words, hands clutching the beige towel. The faded scar tissues on the back of your arms itching like a million microscopic blades picking them open.

Everything you never said, never told anyone. Everything you convinced yourself never really happened, or wasn’t really that bad. Everything you kept inside, thickening the walls of your heart, weighing you down, because the only person you needed, and who you asked for help, had called you a liar. 

Under his creased brow, his eyes are black as midnight sky. They’re looking straight into you. Contemplating that thing you lost, like a constituent piece that fell off and you replaced with something else. Aloofness, distance. Orange curtains. 

He pushes himself up to his intimidating full height and you recoil involuntarily, but he doesn’t let you. He grips your face with both hands, his palms scorching your cold skin, and between them, you’re fully exposed, bared, left with nowhere to hide, nowhere to bury your secrets.  

“I will hurt anyone who tries to hurt you, Gabrielle. Do you understand? Say that you understand.”

His words are quiet. Firm, steady, collected. 

“I understand,” you whisper, and you clasp his wrists so you won't feel the ghost weight of his gun between your hands. “I want you to.”

He nods. 

“You are mine.”

You nod. 

You know you are. 

—

Everything looks smaller. 

Shrunk down by his height, breadth and smiling eyes. 

The city hasn’t changed. But you have. You know something no one else does. 

—

The day before you fly back, you meet for lunch with Laura outside the Hôtel de Ville. 

She hadn’t minced her words –she never does– expressing her disappointment when you’d announced you wouldn’t come back at the end of your hiatus. But everything has long since been forgiven. 

Sitting across the dark-haired woman in her early fifties, you chat excitedly over sushi you forget to eat. Crammed into a ridiculously tiny metal chair on your left, he feels the bespectacled gaze of your former boss scrutinising him.  

Within hours after you landed in Roissy, your accent had thickened. Today, it has reached an all-time high. It’s the longest Frankie has ever heard you speak in your native language. 

Your voice sounds higher, in French. You speak so much faster, with a lot of hand gestures punctuating the throaty sounds cascading from your pretty lips. He focuses on his chopstick skills, trying his very best to ignore the growing bulge in his pants. 

It’s clear the two of you are more friends than colleagues. You had described her as your mentor. And from the dynamics he observes, there is obvious mutual respect. Which partly explains your instant hatred for Tom. 

Laura thinks you look different. You might have put on some weight, you say. She shakes her head, grinning knowingly. That’s not what she meant. 

Under your shirt, nested in the curve of your neck, sits a bruise in the shape of his teeth, blood underneath the surface of your skin blooming like a red peony. 

The waiter clears the dishes and Frankie walks up to the counter to pick up the tab. 

Laura leans closer to you over the narrow table. 

“Je comprends que tu n’aies pas voulu rentrer [I understand why you didn’t want to come home],” she starts, and with a tilt of her chin towards Frankie’s solid figure, she adds, “Bien joué, Miss Tourneur [Well done, Miss Tourneur].”

She gladly agrees to give Frankie a tour of the Bibliothèque, a historical institution situated on the fourth floor of the central city hall. In the elevator, your heartbeat gallops up your throat. The life you chose, the life you once led. 

The spacious reading room’s concave wooden ceiling is like the upside-down hull of a ship. When you step in, you’re overwhelmed by the faint musty smell of old books, mingled with that of the dusty carpets. You missed that too, but the feeling no longer tears at your chest. 

A few former colleagues come to greet you, and you watch Frankie and Laura from the corner of your eye as she explains, in her approximate English, what your work as a librarian entailed, praising your skills and knowledge. 

Frankie watches you too. He knows he’s doing a poor job of concealing his pride. He couldn’t care less. 

Before you leave, you lead him up to the rooftop of the building through narrow metal stairs. Culminating at a 48 metres height, in the very heart of Paris, the vantage point offers a breathtaking 360° view over the urban canopy of tin roofs. 

“Whenever I’d get a chance,” you tell him, “I’d come here for my lunch break.”

“Hiding again?” he grins. 

“Hiding again,” you admit, “but not only. I’d look up at the clouds, and if I was lucky enough to see a plane fly by, I would pretend you were flying it.”

Years of chasing the shadow of him, years of searching for traces of you. 

—

“Thank you for bringing her back!”

Rosie’s attempt at casualness is not fooling either of you. Frankie flashes a mock military salute and hauls the luggage into Rosie’s car trunk, hiding his grin behind the decklid. In all fairness to Rosie, he wasn’t so smug himself, on the day Pope drove you to the airport. 

It’s not a long drive from Newark, but the car progresses slowly through the late afternoon traffic. The New York City skyline stands out in orange hues. Everything is too big again. Too large. Too tall. But it’s fine. Everything’s on scale. 

The keys to the house jingle in your hand before Rosie exists the New Jersey turnpike, and you’re first to pass the front door, Frankie heaving the luggage behind you. 

You’re so exhausted you could sleep for days, but you’ll have to open the store tomorrow at 10am. 

Frankie goes straight to the bedroom and you hear the heavy thud of your suitcase hitting the floor, followed by the softer one of his rucksack. 

When you join him, bringing two glasses of water, you find him lying on the gigantic bed, arms sprawled, staring blankly at the ceiling. 

On scale. 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” you ask him, crawling onto the bed next to him, curling into his side. His arm wraps around you. 

“I sure did. That tour guide really knew her shit. Easy on the eyes, too.”

You chuckle tiredly, his chest rising and falling slowly under the palm of your hand. 

“Could we go to Rome, next year?” you ask. 

“We can go wherever you want, baby.”

“Even— even San Diego?”

He pauses for a beat before he answers. 

“Sure. Anywhere you want.”

You scoot closer to tuck your face into his neck, and you lie together in silence for a little while. A pleasant heaviness is slowly claiming your weary limbs. 

“Why does the trip back always feel longer?” you mumble. 

“What are you talking about?” he shakes his head, a smile in his voice, “You slept the whole flight.”

Your cheek resting against the slope of his shoulder, your hand on his thigh, one day he would tell you, that being airborne with you had been the best part. 

“It’s true,” you shrug, “I guess I just couldn’t wait to come back home.”

***

Bonus: Frankie & Gabrielle 🧡

Source

****

Dedications 🧡

Kelli. You started all this, but where do I start? I don't know if you remember the first letter you ever sent me, and what it said, and I don't know if you remember when I first told you about this orange bedroom idea, last summer. But I do. You’ve held my hand, like you always do. Your guidance and validation and support saw me through. Because you’re impossibly generous, with your time and patience and advice, you’re unbelievably kind, intelligent, talented and insightful. I’ve learnt so much from you already, about writing, about myself. You inspire me to reach higher. It's exhausting, but I love you for it. Oh yeah, and you beta-read this fucking monster too! Everything that is good in me this story, is good thanks to you. You turned my black heart orange. Kelli, I love you 🧡 @frannyzooey

Dreamy bby, my purple beauty, my beloved, my angst master genius, how many times have I come to you crying and whining and complaining, telling you I was giving up? Please don’t answer, it’s too fucking embarrassing. You kept my head above water, with love, kindness and humour. What did I do to deserve you? Beats me. Also I'm sorry but I love you more. Ha! Thank you 🧡 @dreamymyrrh

Ren, you’ve pulled me out of the ditch in a heartbeat more times than I care to count, because you are a genius and a wonderful friend. You are the reason I found a home in this fandom. You are my Reine, and I adore you. Thank you 🧡 @the-ginger-hedge-witch 

Nicole my love, I know I’m repeating myself, but you are the first person ever to read the first chapter of PTMY. I sent it to you for your opinion, but really for your encouragement because I was absolutely terrified, and you delivered, you always do, you beautiful, beautiful friend. Thank you for your investment in this story and its characters. Watching you go from team Benny to team Frankie to team Benny and team Frankie again is seriously one of the greatest achievements of my life! Thank you 🧡 @nicolethered

Cee my darling. You gave me the final push to press post and you haven’t stopped encouraging me and supporting me since. You've lent a patient and kind ear to my doubts and fears, you’ve given me the most thoughtful feedbacks a friend could ask for, you let me stand on your shoulders, you give me strength to stand up for myself. In many ways, I carried on because you gave me the validation and self-confidence I so desperately need(ed). Thank you 🧡 @fuckyeahdindjarin 

Deadmantis. Girl, Frankie really owes you one, because Gabriele stayed mainly thanks to you! I owe you an even bigger one for the love you’ve given them, and the orange bedroom. You know them like no one else. Your asks have fuelled me, they still do. I could never repay you, but please know that I am infinitely grateful to you. Thank you 🧡 @deadmantis

Lua. You rascal. You gave me the levity I so badly needed in a thick river of ANGST. I’m very selfishly hoping you never stop making me guilty by dropping Benny into my ask box. A million thank you 🧡 @pedrit0-pascalit0

And to my two favourite Anons, 🍻 and 🥖, I fucking love you to pieces. Thank you thank you thank you 🧡🧡🧡

****

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

[romana-after-dark]

Dead Dove December 2023 Masterlist

Hello everyone!

So sorry it took forever to get this out, but it took me 5ever to read through these fics bc I was expresso depresso and working a lot LMFAOOOOOOO

Anyway, THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH FOR EVERYONE ENTRIES!!! I adore you so so so so much. I am SO HAPPY with how this worked out and the amount of response! I hope to hold another event this March with @for-a-longlongtime at @triplefrontier-anniversary for the TF anniversary over at my main account @romanarose, and an event in June for pride, so if those interest you, follow my main page or this one, or @romana-updates

NOTE: I was unorganized so if I forgot someone's fic, IT WAS NOT ON PURPOSE. I know right now there discourse right now the Pedro fandom specifically, about different people not liking others or small writers or big writers ETC, but I want you to know no one was left out on purpose!

Note 2: If I put your fic here but forgot to reblog LET ME KNOW! I want to make sure everyone gets a chance to shine.

Without further ado, the fics and art!

ALL OF THESE ARE DARK SO SOME DEGREE FROM CNC, DUB CON, TO VIOLENT NON CON! HEAD WARNINGS!

The Last of Us

The Burglary by @aurorawritestoescape and @milla-frenchy: Two men break into your house and take more than just your valuables.

Fight Club by @anama-cara : Post outbreak set in the Boston QZ. You decide to go against Joel in an underground QZ fight club for some extra coin. Joel doesn't take kindly to the competition and decides to punish you in his own special way.

Deja Vu by @milla-frenchy : After a bad experience with a former boyfriend, you meet Joel who makes you trust him fully in the bedroom

Silent Night by @kewwrites : Despite the way he always acted around you, you find it hard to say no to Sarah when she invites you home to her dad's house for the holidays. Surely nothing would happen while she's with you.

Training Day by @koshkamartell : Set in AU, no outbreak. You get more than you bargained for after trying to make Joel jealous.

Code Broken by @auteurdelabre : You only wanted to pull a silly prank on your neighbor, Joel. Who could have seen it ending up like this?

The Art of Breaking by @corazondebeskar-reads : Your meeting is happenstance, but everything that follows? Well, that’s all Joel. He just knows you’re going to be his perfect little toy. He just has to show you how.

Cry Harder by @romana-after-dark : While keeping you captive, Joel's sex drive is insatiable, and the sex seemed to be never ending. You tried to warm him you needed to use the bathroom... he didn't listen.

Nightmare Before Christmas by @katiexpunk : As an escort, you’ve found yourself in some pretty fucked up situations before. Years of experience have taught you to navigate such situations with a combination of tact and assertiveness. Most of the time the men who exude an air of sleaze shrivel back into the corner, embarrassed and limp dicked.  Most of the time.  Tonight is not one of those times.

Locket by @toxicanonymity : Dark!Reader dugs her friends hot dad Joel

Run, Rabbit by @justagalwhowrites : It was just over a year after the world ended that you were captured by Joel and Tommy Miller. They're harsh, they're cold and they're killers. But, as a nurse, you're a valuable person to have around and they're not the worst thing wandering the wasteland that was the United States. And there might be more to these men than meets the eye.

Godless by @javier-penas-wifexx420 : You work at a brothel that operates above a saloon in your town. Joel is the leader of a group of outlaws that come periodically to collect payment and wreak havoc. One visit, you catch Joel’s eye and he decides he has to have you.

Across the Spiderverse

After Dark by @runa-falls : He wants you. and he knows you need him.

Triple Frontier

Deep Seeded Issues by @djarinmuse: Summary: At an N.A (narcotics anonymous) meeting you recall a dark and embarrassing memory, not knowing the connection in the room.

My Blood Would Teach Me How to Love by @winniethewife : Santi finds you self harming, blood kink ensues.

Room's on Fire by @romana-after-dark : Cult AU, Pope, Frankie, Will and Ben are cult leaders and need a virgin to breed who will birth the savior: the Madonna. Initially honored to find redemption, the Madonna has to learn how to navigate all four men and a circle of other people at the house.

Goodnight, Princess by @melodygatesauthor : Your dad's best friend accidentally discovers that you're a sex worker. He tries to let it go, but it eats away at him until things go way too far.

The Card Counter

Bad Bet by @boredzillenial and art by @lunar-ghoulie4art : William beats you in a poker tournament, but you just can’t accept defeat, not yet…

Getting Whats Mine by @winniethewife

Lightening Face

Puppy by @darkuselesssomebody : In which the reader is a manipulative bitch - and basil snaps because of it

Mojave

Cruel Intentions by @hon3yboy : You're on a soul seeking journey, just another young, pretty, thing. All alone and stranded in the desert, ripe for the picking and ol' Jack has his eyes set on you.

Moon Kight

Death to Dignity by @juneknight : An intruder (Marc) breaks in to your apartment.

*************

I cannot thank you enough for your support and interaction for htis series!!!!! I had SUCH a good time reading all these, you are all so talented!!!

I hope to do more events soon as it's really helped me make some friends and get to know people here!!!!

Please remember to reblog these authors, and if you're tagged here, be sure to check out more! Lots of great content here!

[enchantingqueenkitten]

All the Fire Bright

Will Miller x Reader

He had been sitting with his group of friends, huddled to the side of the bar, talking. It had been a while since he had seen these boys and they decided to take a week long vacation. Like brothers bonding, reconnecting and simply enjoying their life outside of service. When he caught sight of her, in her simple but classy black dress and strappy sandals, he knew he had to talk to her. She sat a couple of tables down from him and his group. He could still see her in his view. She hadn’t noticed his staring. His brother on the other hand, had. 

“See something you like, brother?” Benny nudged Will in the ribs knowingly. It had been a while since Ben had seen his brother interested in anything other than his routine - which consisted of: eat, train, give a motivation talk at the army training academy, sleep and doing it all over again. This vacation was definitely something Will needed. Benny hadn’t pushed his brother on the romance front with the ladies. He knew that his past relationship, with his fiancé, Tara, had not turned out too well. Will’s PTSD had reared its ugly head and caused serious trouble. Almost killing a man in Publix of all places because he didn’t move his cart when Will had asked him to. That was a day that Will never forgets and he makes a point of explaining the detrimental effects of war and serving your country in lectures that he is asked to give at the training academy. 

“Go and talk to her man.” Benny whispered. 

She still hadn’t noticed him and Will was out of practise. He didn’t usually do this sort of thing. He hadn’t done it in a long time. Will ignored Benny’s remarks and continued to tune into the conversation around him but his eyes kept finding the beauty sitting across the room. She was laughing at something the blonde with her had said. 

“Yo, Will, you okay man?” Pope had caught on now. Great. 

“Yeah, I’m good.” Will averted his eyes and took a swing of his beer. 

“Nah man,” Benny started, “Will has his eyes on the pretty brunette over there.” 

Slowly, all the men at the table turned and look at the brunette Benny was talking about. 

“Damn.” Frankie muttered taking a swing of his own beer. 

“Will, if you don’t go over there right now, you’re going to regret it.” Poke pushed on. 

“Told ya.” Benny winked at him. 

Thing was, the brunette’s blonde friend had caught onto the attention they were receiving. 

“Don’t look now but that table to our right, the one with all the guys, they were looking right at us. The blue eyed god has got his eyes right on you.” She giggled. 

The brunette didn’t say anything but simply rolled her eyes. She was going home in a couple of days and the last thing she wanted to do was to get involved with some guy in a foreign country. She didn’t need that kind of drama in her life right now. 

“Guys, just drop it okay.” Will popped a stick of gum in his mouth.

“Look Will, if you don’t go over there then I will.” Frankie stated. Will wanted to cut him with his eyes. No way was he going to let Frankie go there. Who knows what he’d say. 

“Look brother, I can go and get her number for you,” Will shrugged off Benny’s offer. If anything, he knew she’d go for his brother more than him anyways. Benny had that charm with women. He could sweet talk his way in and out of most things. Sure, they liked Will because he looked good and Will knew that but it was his brother that got a woman to leave a bar with him. Will didn’t try. He usually turned down most of the offers due to his last relationship. However, something had shifted in the air as soon as he saw her. Like the possibility of trying with someone again was there. Like he wasn’t as fucked up as he thought he was. Maybe, someone could love him for all his flaws and open wounds. 

“Alright, fuck it. I’m going.” Will stood up from his chair as the boys around him cheered. 

“You got this Will!” Benny shouted which earned him an irritated look from Will. He didn’t want to scare her off. 

The blonde noticed Will approaching. At first, she thought he was there for her but soon realised otherwise when he stopped and looked at her friend, who had just turned and noticed his presence. 

“Can we help you with something?” The blonde interrupted. 

“Um… Hi, sorry… I’m Will.” Will was not good at this. He could feel the eyes of his friends boring into the back of his head. Benny would have been so much better at this. 

“Okay.” The brunette nodded still holding his gaze. Confident. She wasn’t fazed. 

“I was wondering if I could buy you a drink.” Aria looked down at her half full glass. 

“Already got one thanks.”

Her blonde friend kicked her under the table. 

“Maybe the next one is on me.” Will smiled. 

“Yeah sure. She’ll have the next one.” The blonde answered for her, “I’m just going to the bathroom, you should sit. I’ll be right back.” The brunette’s friend got up and left the table, not before giving her friend a cheeky wink. 

Will took this opportunity and sat down. Right where the blonde was sitting, across from her friend. 

“What do you want?”

“Nothing.” Will didn’t really know what he wanted. All he knew he had to come and speak to the girl he couldn’t stop looking at for the last half an hour. 

“So why are you here?” 

“I am here on vacation with some of my friends.” 

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. 

“I mean here. At my table.”

“You want me to be honest?”

She nodded. 

“I couldn’t take my eyes off you as soon as I saw you. I knew I had to come over and speak to you. That’s it.” Will’s blue eyes sparkled under the light. 

The brunette wasn’t buying it. It wasn’t the first time that she had been picked up by a guy at a bar. She knew what flirting looked like. What desperate men did in a bid to get a woman to go home with them. She wasn’t in the mood to be toyed with especially not tonight when all she wanted to do was enjoy a quite evening with her friend. 

“I don’t buy it.” 

“You don’t have to. I am telling the truth though.” She eyed him wearily. He didn’t seem the usual bar types. He was tall, looked strong and was athletically built. Short blonde hair with a trimmed beard. He was attractive. She knew that much was true. 

“So what do you do?” she might as well have some fun while she waited for her friend to return, if she ever would. 

“I am a Captain in the special forces unit for the army. I should say I’m retired. I give training and lectures at the academy.” Will took a swing of his beer. 

She didn’t say anything. Processing. It made sense though that’s why he has such a strong looking physique. One she needed to stop thinking about immediately. 

“How’s that been going for you?” Will was surprised. No one had asked him that. Not in a long while. Sure his friends cared. They asked how he was. No one had asked how he was doing. 

“It hasn’t been so bad. What do you do?” He wanted to get the attention off of him. Will was never comfortable talking too much about himself which was why he was considered to be the quiet one of his group of friends. 

“I am a doctor. In my residency year.” She smiled. It was the first time she had smiled broadly and Will knew there and then that what she did meant a lot to her. So he slowly began to ask more questions about her profession and the smile got bigger and her eyes shone brightly and he could sworn he was falling in love there and then. She spoke so fondly of her work. How helping others was important to her. How her job meant everything to her which was why she was here helping out. 

“I am heading back home in a few days.” She explained. This made Will’s stomach drop. He wouldn’t see her again. Not after tonight. So he tried to formulate a plan to get her number or some form of contact. He needed to see her again. 

“I like talking to you.” He simply stated. She just smiled. 

By the end of the evening, Will had left with her number saved under the name Aria in his phone. His friends had left half an hour ago and Will walked both Aria and her friend Sam back to the apartment they were living at. Aria was surprised. She expected Will to ask to come in. Ween his way. Make an inappropriate sexual comment or flirt seamlessly but he hadn’t. He was sincere. Good conversationalist and asked for her number. She had given it. Still not sure of where it would lead or even if it would. 

Will returned back to where his buddies had rented a villa together. 

“So, tell us.” Frankie asked as soon as he stepped into the kitchen. The boys were sitting with their night caps in hand. 

Will smiled cheekily. 

“I got her number.” The boys cheered loudly and patted Will on the back as they gave him his drink. They knew it took a lot for Will to even consider asking someone out given what he had been through. He was trying.

The boys were proud of him. 

[pimosworld]

Santa’s a home wrecker

Pairing-Triple Frontier boys x f!reader

Summary- A little kiss leads to a Christmas morning misunderstanding.

CW-18+, Fluff, so much fluff, Kissing Santa, Pregnancy hormones, tf boys being great parents, polyamorous relationship, navigating a mixed family.

WK-1.6K

A/N- Set in the story of us universe but obviously in the future. We jumped way ahead here folks but I hope you love this fluffy snippet into their future lives.

Not beta read

[Series Masterlist][Main Masterlist]

It’s a little easier now since they let you sleep on the end, but it’s still a chore to roll out of bed with your heavily pregnant belly in tow. You sit on the edge for a moment trying to soothe yourself as the kicks come in quick succession. 

  You try as quietly as you can to make your way out of the bedroom, stealing a glance at Ben’s large form sprawled across Frankie in the most uncomfortable way. 

  You're wrapped up in your fluffy red robe, an early Christmas gift from the boys that you’ve been living in for the last month or so while you grow out of everything else you own. 

  The house is quiet and warm as you shuffle down the hallway and smells like cinnamon apples from the pies you made for Christmas Day. 

  A peek into the spare bedroom shows you a glimpse into most of your nights when it's Santiago’s turn to put the kids down for bed. 

  He’s snoring in the chair that sits between Camila and little Santiago’s beds. Both children slumbering away as they dream about the most exciting day of the year. 

  Some rustling is coming from the living room and you round the corner to a site that will never cease to make you smile. The boys take turns being Santa every year and they never do anything halfway. Your arms are crossed as you lean against the wall staring at the rich, dark red velvet material bent over in front of the tree. Deliberately placing gifts from the giant red bag in various spots. 

  You let out a low whistle as you make your way towards the bearded man. “Santa has a nice ass.” 

  He chuckles and stands gesturing with his arms for you to come to him. It’s a bit of a struggle now to be held but he still makes you feel all warm and fuzzy as you sway in the living room in front of the lowlights of the tree. You humm as he rubs your belly, somehow the kicking stops as if the baby taking up home inside knows whose hands are caressing you. 

  “How’s mama doing?” He asks as he kisses your neck, the fluff from his beard tickling you slightly. 

  “I’m tired…someone keeps kicking me.” You sigh into his touch as he drops to his knees, his fingers kneading that spot in your back that he knows pains you throughout the day. 

  “Hey little guy.” He speaks so softly in some adorable voice he’s made up. 

  “He’s a big guy, Will…a very big guy.” You know well enough having been told ad nauseum Miller babies are big.

  “Hey big guy…I need you to give your momma a rest so she can enjoy tomorrow okay?” He holds his ear to your belly and nods. When he looks up at you all you can make out is those piercing blue eyes nestled between the red hat and white beard. “He said okay.” 

  A small tear escapes as he kisses your belly and stands again. You can’t even blame it on the hormones. 

  “Go lay down, I’ll bring you some tea when I finish here.” One last kiss to your lips and he’s shooing you away so he can complete his Santa duties and enjoy his peanut butter cookies special request. 

  ****

  Frankie stacks the pancakes high on the plate next to the stove, as he moves on to the eggs and bacon. 

  Ben hasn’t said a word just eyeing the food as you enjoy your morning tea, surprised the kids haven’t graced you with their presence yet. 

  Santi’s creaking bones enter the kitchen before he’s seen as he cracks his back in the hallway. Frankie laughs from the stove as he flips the bacon perfectly somehow never burning it. 

  “Laugh it up hermano.” He leans down and kisses your forehead before heading over to the fresh coffee pot. 

  “I’m not the one that keeps falling asleep in the chair.” 

  You hear the sound of hurried footsteps down the hallway as Camila quickly emerges into the kitchen beaming from ear to ear. She barrels into Frankie hugging him from behind as he reaches around and ruffles her long black curls. “Buenos Días papá.” 

  “Buenos Días mi amor.” 

  Frankie kisses her forehead and she makes her way over to you and Santi to say her good mornings and receive hugs and kisses. 

  She climbs into Ben’s lap forgoing an open seat as she waits for breakfast to finish. The way the two of them could eat you were worried about welcoming another Miller into the household for lack of food resources. 

  “Good Morning daddy.” She wraps her little arms around him and it’s a feeling he’ll never get used to. 

  “Good morning honey.” She stole your nickname early on when she could look so sweet at them and instantly get her way. 

  There was a rule from the beginning that there would be no distinction unless medically necessary between the fathers. They were all fathers and that’s all that mattered. 

  “Sweetie, where's Santiago?” She looks slightly uncomfortable as she leans in and whispers something in Ben’s ear. 

  “He’s not coming?” Ben looks over to you as Santi looks to Frankie now done cooking breakfast. 

  She leans in again whispering something as Ben’s eyes widen. He has to bite his cheek to keep from laughing at the situation that he knows will need to be handled swiftly. 

  “He doesn’t want to open presents from a home wrecker.” 

  You’re grateful you hadn’t taken a sip of your tea or it would’ve been all over your new robe. 

  Frankie flicks off the stove and heads over to the table. “How do you even know that word, young lady?”  

  Ben leans in whispering something in her ear and she relaxes slightly. 

  “Well…ugh.” She’s in the hot seat by way of Santi much like her father often does to other people. You lay your hand on hers and wince slightly cursing this baby for picking the most opportune moments to make himself known. 

  “Camila it’s okay, you can tell me…you’re not in trouble.” 

  “Tia Marí said Tio John kissed a homewrecker and that’s why they’re not together anymore.” It comes out all rushed and flustered and you're trying not to giggle at her panicked confession. 

  Frankie points at Santi while he still looks on confused. “Your sister is off babysitting duty for a while.”

  Santi scrubs his hand down his face. “I'm still not following.” 

  Ben places his hands over her ears so she can’t hear. “Will was Santa last night.” He grits out as she giggles.

Santiago must have woken up and seen you kissing “Santa”.

  “Daddy I can’t hear anything.” He starts tickling her as she squeals in delight. 

  “Good because if you did, you wouldn’t get any presents.” They continue their giggles as you let out a long sigh. 

  “We’re gonna eat breakfast while you two go handle that.” Frankie starts serving up plates as Ben and Camila clap in excitement. 

  ****

  Santiago is face down in the blankets when you enter his room. He was a deep sleeper so it was pretty obvious when he was pretending. His little breaths are coming in shallow like he just ran here and plopped himself down. 

  You have a seat on the edge as Santi sits in the chair beside him. 

  Santi rubs his back hoping to calm him a little before he speaks. “Hey bud, you want to tell me what’s wrong?” 

  Inaudible mumbles come from the pillow and you bite down on your tongue at the mirror image. Payback for all the time Santi made someone chase him for a simple misunderstanding coming back ten fold. 

  “I didn’t hear you mijo, que pasó.” He slowly rolls him over as Santiago rubs his red eyes. 

  “I…don’t want…I don’t want.” He’s sniffling and Santi tries to calm him so he can catch his breath. 

  “Deep breaths bud.” 

  He shakily inhales and wipes his little hands on the blanket. “I don’t want Santa to break up our home.” 

  You could kill Maria for almost ruining Christmas morning, but you know one day you’ll get to tell this hilarious story to your children when they’re all grown up. You let Santiago take the reins even though you did kiss Santa. This was not your mess to clean up. 

  “Santiago, no one is breaking up our home. I love your mama very much.” Santiago crawls over to you as you wrap him up in your arms, kissing his unruly brown locks. 

  “You promise?” Your heart breaks a little as those little puppy dog eyes look up at you. 

  “Yes we promise.” He exhales as he relaxes in your arms and you look up at Santi incredulously. 

  “Santa is my friend…he’s allowed to kiss your mama.” Santiago looks up at his dad with pure shock written all over his face. 

  “WHAT!” He balks at him as you burst into a fit of laughter. 

  “HO, HO,HO…” The boisterous sound echoes down the hallway from the living room. 

  Santiago scrambles off your lap as you fall back with an oomph. Your belly won’t allow anymore movements like that so you succumb to the comfort of his tiny car bed, as his father chases after him. 

  ****

  Camila is standing in front of the tree as Santa hands her the first gift. 

  “Well hello little boy, would you like a gift from Santa?” 

  He runs up to him with his hands on his hips as he pokes him in the surprisingly hard belly. “Next time just drop off the gifts and go.” 

  Will looks up confused by his son's words as Frankie and Benny are losing it in the kitchen. 

  Santi stands there in the same stance. 

  “Don’t worry I’ll explain later.” 

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated

Tags- @breesusbaby @luciferiorbxtch @missdictatorme @alwaysdjarin @meveispunk @casa-boiardi @evyiione @littlenosoul @the-fox-den @saturn-rings-writes @romanarose @wandasbitch22@spngingerbread21 @spookyxsam @summer-may @imonmykneessir @avastrasposts @fishingforpike @laaundromat @tanzthompson @living-in-a-daydream-24 @savvysav27 @csarab615 @scarletthefierce @paleidiot @comfortlessjoy @trinkets01 @awkwardalie @missladym1981 @soft-persephone @itspdameronthings @ghostslillady

[romanarose]

Triple Frontier Write-A-Thon

Hosted by @romanarose and @for-a-longlongtime

Hello everyone! March 13th of this year is the 5 year anniversary of Triple Frontier, a movie that was underrated but very precious to all of us. To me, it is a comfort movie and something that through fics and fandom has helped me process a lot of things. 

Charlie Hunnam announced recently that there is potential for a sequel and he is trying to get it in production and has signed on as a producer. Me and @for-a-longlongtime want to both drum up a little noise and celebrate this media we all love so much!

How it works

Write a fanfiction of Triple Frontier, following the content rules listed below. This is for both art and fanfiction. We encourage you to utilize twitter or instagram if you’d like to share either, and #triplefrontier or #triplefrontier2019 on any site you post on. If you don’t want to make art or write, we encourage you to use social media platforms with the hashtags to help make some noise.

We are highly encouraging LGBT themes and for you to think outside of x f!reader. 

All fics that fall under the rules are encouraged, so if you write Santiago Garcia x afab!f!reader, that’s great! But we’d like to take this time to encourage gay/bi pairings, trans readers, or even trans interpretations of the boys. Branch out!

When you post, tag @triplefrontier-anniversary on tumblr and we will reblog it there. We also may reblog onto our main, so consider tagging one or both of us so we know what’s up! Please follow that page to see what other people are writing! In the tags, please tag it triple frontier write a thon, just to make everything easily found.

If you want to post art that tumblr doesn’t allow like nude art, link the content in a tumblr post, like a twitter link, and we’ll reblog that!

If you exclusively write on ao3 or wattpad or other, you can either make a link on a tumblr post and tag us. Other option is to message me (RomanaRose) privately and I’ll make a post and link you and reblog it to the page.

Rules

We will run from March 1st to March 14th. Fics and art posted before or after will not be counted.

This is not a dark event, sorry! Some of us enjoy dark content but wanted to keep this particular event mostly non-dark. That being said, we will allow dub con in the context of mild alcohol use, power dynamics etc. Kidnapping/arranged marriage etc is fine as long as consent is given for anything sexual. Mostly we are looking to avoid non-con/violence. If you have questions, don’t be afraid to reach out to us!

All participants must be 18+, although smut is not required

No incest, including Millercest. None of the usual ‘no’s’, such as underage content apply in addition to no dark.

We have the right to exclude any fic that makes us uncomfortable. It’s our event.

However, we will NOT be excluding people for personal biases, unless it encroaches on our boundaries. I.E. If we have you blocked, please don’t try to enter the event. However, if we’ve had petty beefs or you and one of our mutuals don’t like each other, we generally will include your work. This event is to promote Triple Frontier, not about us.

LGBT themes are highly encouraged, not required.

Tom is allowed. We’re not gonna tell you not to include him if that’s what your little heart desires. However, we highly encourage that your work includes at least one of the usual 4

Leave me alone I love Arrested Development, RIP Carl Weathers.

We hope everyone has fun and this drums up more Triple Frontier fics, in which we are severely lacking!

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Please come to us with any questions!

[flightlessangelwings]

You Should See the Other Guy

Frankie Morales x gn!reader x Benny Miller (Messy Pile of Affection Universe, but can stand on its own)

Word count- 2.2k

Warnings- s.mut (18+ ONLY!), queer thruple, protective!Frankie, Benny fighting in the ring, established relationship, oral (m receiving), threesome, riding, fluff

Notes- Getting this in just in time for the Triple Frontier Anniversary Event! Thanks for hosting this @triplefrontier-anniversary @romanarose @for-a-longlongtime! And while this fic is written purposefully with a gender neutral reader for this event, please be aware that the entireity of MPoA is a fem reader. But this fic can also be read on its own too! Enjoy!

@flightlessangelwings-updates is my update blog so please follow that and turn on post notifs to stay up to date on when I post new things!

~

Benny felt the adrenaline rush from the cheers of the crowd. Sweat dripped from his face and his muscles strained as he gave everything he had to take down his opponent. It was always a rush for him, and he loved what he did, even if decent fights that brought in money and prestige were few and far between these days. But, there was something else that motivated Benny lately. Two somethings, actually. And he felt the two pairs of eyes trained on him even when he couldn’t see your faces.

Your hand stayed clutched in Frankie’s as the two of you watched your boyfriend in the ring. This wasn’t new for you- Benny and you had been a couple for some time before Frankie joined you. Even though you hated to see him get hurt, you knew this was what Benny wanted, and you supported him fully. As you came to watch more and more of his fights, it became a little easier for you, and you knew he could handle himself.

“Plus I always have my baby to take care of me anyway,” Benny would say when you worried for him more in the beginning.

A smile came across your face as you thought about his words. But, you felt the strain of your other boyfriend’s hand in yours, calling your attention. Taking a lull moment in the fight, you broke your gaze away from Benny to Frankie and you noticed the way his jaw was clenched tightly, every muscle in his face strained with tension. 

“Hey, Frankie,” you tugged his hand to get his attention, “You alright?”

“Fine,” he replied in a reflex as he glanced over at you. Frankie softened his expression when he saw the worry in your eyes, “Fine,” he repeated in a lighter tone, “It’s just… It’s different now. You know?”

“I do,” you gave him a soft smile, “I know,” your tone was hushed as you rested your head on his shoulder, “He’ll be alright, Frankie,” you reassured him. 

The tension in Frankie’s muscles melted slightly under your touch, and you felt him relax a little. In front of the two of you, the fight went on and the crowd roared around you as Benny knocked out his opponent. Both you and Frankie leapt for joy as your boyfriend pranced around the ring in victory.

Benny’s heart jumped in his chest as he caught a glance of you and Frankie nuzzled together in the front row. He wished he had his phone so he could capture the moment forever, but it would just have to live in his memory. He winked at the two of you and blew a quick kiss before he turned to receive his prize and got swept away from the rink. 

“Shall we?” you asked Frankie as you gestured towards the locker rooms.

Frankie nodded, “I’ll go meet Ben in the locker room while you get the car.”

You kissed his cheek, “Meet you guys outside,” you mumbled in his ear with a smirk. It had become the new routine for the three of you, and Frankie settled in with you and Benny quickly and comfortably. As if he was meant to be with the two of you.

But something was off with Frankie today. You could sense it before you walked away, but you decided now was not the time to bring it up. Besides, Frankie had seemed a little tense in general lately, and you and Benny already had a plan in mind to help him with that…

“Hey Ben,” Frankie called into the locker room as he stepped in. His nose scrunched when he was hit with the overpowering smell of sweat, but he shrugged it off with a shake.

“Babe!” Benny lifted his arms up in victory, “I can’t seem to lose when you two are around! My lucky charms!” He closed the space between their bodies and pulled Frankie in for a hug, kissing his cheek when he was close.

“Yeah,” Frankie mumbled as he held his boyfriend close, feeling the sweat from his chest and the blood dripping from his nose, “Ben…” he scowled when he broke away enough to get a better look at his face, “You’re gonna break your fucking nose one of these days.”

“Hey, Frankie, relax,” Benny shrugged off Frankie’s concern, “You should see the other guy,” he chuckled.

Frankie’s face remained in a deep frown. He had seen the other guy, and even though Benny was the winner, his face didn’t look like it.

“What?” Benny let out a nervous laugh when he noticed Frankie’s face didn’t change, “You worried I’ll get too ugly for the two of you and you’ll leave me?”

“That’s not it and you fucking know it,” Frankie snapped back. 

The worry in his face made Benny pause for a moment as he realized just how much Frankie worried for him now that they were together. You had worried a lot when you first started coming to watch his fights too, but as time went on, you either had more confidence in him or you got better at hiding how scared you were. Benny wasn’t sure which it was.

Seeing the drop in Benny’s face, Frankie let out a sigh, “Nevermind,” he waved it off, deciding not to push the subject any further, “Let’s go and celebrate your victory, baby.”

Benny’s face lit up, “Hell yeah! That’s my babe!”

* 

“Frankie!” Benny’s voice called from the bedroom.

“Could you come here?” your voice added.

Puzzled, Frankie quickly made his way into the bedroom where he was frozen in his tracks by the sight that greeted him. You and Benny knelt together on the bed… with nothing on your bodies. Frankie’s blood rushed through his veins as his skin warmed and his cock instantly hardened.

“What….?”

“You’ve been a little tense lately, Frankie baby,” you purred as you rose from the bed and reached for his shoulders, “And we thought… You could use a little something,” you smirked as you massaged his shoulders for a moment before you tugged at his shirt. 

“Baby…”

Benny followed suit and took his place on the other side of Frankie, “Here,” he joined you in removing his clothes, “Let us take care of you this time, babe,” he whispered as he placed a feather light kiss right under Frankie’s ear. 

Frankie breathed both your names as he found himself stripped nude and led to the bed. His mind swam as his perspective flipped from his two partners laying him on his back on the large plush bed.

“You spend so much time worrying about everyone else, Frankie,” you spoke softly.

“That you need yourself taken care of,” Benny finished the thought.

“Fuck…” Frankie whispered as he watched you and Benny position yourself on either side of him. You moved down between his legs, parting them to make yourself comfortable. Benny trailed a hand along his skin as he moved towards his head, cupping his face with his rough, calloused hands.

You let out a whimper as you settled yourself right above Frankie’s cock, rocking your hips up and down along his length. Frankie gasped at the contact, and his cock twitched underneath your body. Benny’s eyes caught the movement and he stayed transfixed on your body as your hips glided along your boyfriend’s fully hard cock.

“Shit babes,” Benny murmured, “That’s so fucking hot!”

A giggle escaped your lips as you leaned forward and took Benny’s lips with your own. His hand lazily stroked his cock with one hand while the other still caressed Frankie’s face. Hearing the muffled moans of your kiss, Frankie opened his eyes and watched as you and Benny tangled your tongues above him.

He groaned at the sight before his gaze fell to Benny’s cock just inches from his face. Involuntarily, Franie licked his lips and darted his tongue out to touch the tip, which made Benny whimper into your mouth. The two of you broke away so Benny could look down at the way Frankie’s tongue swirled around the head of his cock.

“Fuck…” he groaned before Frankie took him completely into his mouth.

Benny let out a loud moan as his boyfriend’s warm, wet mouth engulfed him. You watched in awe as the two boys settled comfortably and connected together. For a moment, you were still as you watched Benny’s cock appear and disappear in Frankie’s mouth. But, you had a part to play in this too.

Carefully, you hovered your hips over Frankie’s cock and slowly, you lowered yourself onto him, his thick length penetrating you from below. The sharp gasp you let out echoed in the room as you felt the familiar stretch as you lowered yourself inch by slow inch.

If it weren’t for Benny’s cock in his mouth, Frankie’s own groan would have harmonized with yours. But, it was muffled, with only short gasps and pants escaping around the thickness in his mouth. Benny let out a growl as he watched his one partner’s cock disappear into his other partner. He knew his own cock twitched in Frankie’s mouth, as his heart fluttered similarly.

When your hips met Frankie’s, you let out a deep exhale. Opening your eyes at the sound of your name, you were met with Benny’s gaze piercing into you, and it made your heart skip a beat in your chest. The two of you stayed frozen for a moment before you both started to move at the same time, in perfect rhythm with each other without any words needed.

Frankie groaned and moaned underneath you as you rode him. Benny’s hips rocking in the same rhythm as you did, and between the two of you, Frankie became overwhelmed quickly in the best way possible. 

You leaned forward a bit, driving Frankie’s length deeper into you while your hands landed on his chest. You kept the same rhythm, lifting and lowering your hips while you squeezed his chest. Frankie’s moan reverberated around Benny’s cock as he felt you knead and tug at his pecs, adding to the sensations he already felt.

A muffled moan came from underneath you, and you knew by the way Frankie tensed that he was close.

“You gonna cum for us now, Frankie baby?” you purred.

Benny’s own rhythm stuttered at your words, “Shit…” he groaned, “Say that again, baby.”

You smoked, loving the way the two strong men bowed to you at times, “You gonna cum too, Benny baby?”

“Fuck yeah,” he growled through gritted teeth as he drove his cock deeper into Frankie’s mouth.

Frankie in turn grabbed Benny’s hips and held him close, encouraging him to give him all he had. All the air left your lungs as you watched both of them fall apart before you. Benny came soon after, spilling himself into Frankie’s mouth with a loud moan and string of curses. The room spun as you watched his eyes roll back into his head while Frankie held him close.

You picked up your pace, feeling the heat build in your own body as Frankie’s cock hit that sweet spot inside you over and over again. But, you wanted to feel him fill you up first, and your jaw clenched as you saved off your own orgasm. Tonight was about Frankie after all.

It didn’t take long for you to get your wish, and through a muffled moan, you felt Frankie fall over the edge. His one hand flew to grab onto your hip as he bucked his own hips up and spilled himself deep inside you. Benny pulled out to give Frankie some air, and the scream immediately filled the room with his moans and groans.

“Fuck!” you cried out as you couldn’t hold yourself back anymore. Clenching your inner muscles around Frankie, you came hard, your entire body trembling over him as you rode out both your orgasms together while Benny watched in awe.

Unable to hold yourself up any longer, you collapsed down, slipping out of Frankie in the process. Benny also flopped down on the other side of Frankie, both your bodies framing his own on the bed. None of you moved for several moments, all of you taking the opportunity to catch your breaths.

You were the first to move, rolling onto your side to watch your boys in the low light, “You look better, Frankie,” you giggled as you watched the afterglow light up his face.

Without opening his eyes, Frankie grinned, “You should see the other guy,” he peeked one eye open to catch Benny’s own smirk before he closed them again.

Benny only laughed as he leaned forward and kissed Frankie’s temple tenderly. He then leaned more to kiss your cheek. You returned the gesture, kissing both your boys before you settled in Frankie’s one arm embrace. Benny settled on the other side. You and Benny tangled your legs together over top of Frankie as the three of you made yourselves comfortable.

“Hey babes, I…” Frankie started.

“It’s ok, Frankie,” you cut him off.

“We know,” Benny added.

Frankie’s smile only grew wider. You both knew how much Frankie cared, and how much he worried for both of you. And you both appreciated it. You all felt safe with each other. And while sometimes emotions almost became overwhelming, it was from a place of love. For as long as the three of you had each other, everything would be alright. As long as the three of you had your large king size bed to come back to.

[hoedamn-eron]

baby, please - best buds

Santi tells his friends about the babies.

Warnings: Drinking of alcohol in a bar. Swearing. Lads being lads (respectfully). Brief mention of STD. Brief mention of failed birth control. Brief mention of deceased friend (Tom). Lazily proofread so probably some mistakes. Word count: 1,551 F!Pregant!Reader, no use of Y/N, although you're just mentioned in this.

Apart of my Baby, Please universe. Can be read as a stand alone, but makes more sense if you'd read Part 7.

Series Masterlist

Santiago never got nervous. He’d been in dozens of life-or-death situations; bullets to the chest, deals gone wrong, the recent fiasco in Columbia, you name it. You had to have nerves of steel in his old line of work.

But telling his friends he was going to be a dad? Terrifying.

He wasn’t sure why he was worried. Well, he did, but these were his boys, his ride or dies (literally). The most they would do was rip into him for being an idiot and not checking your condom’s expiration dates. He was kicking himself for panicking so much, he wasn’t even the first one to have a kid. Frankie’s little girl was coming up to seven months old, and Frankie was still around. Tom had had a teenager for crying out loud, it wasn’t unusual for a child to be around them. Will is on the verge of asking Claire to marry him, and they’d probably have kids in the next few years, it wasn’t as bad as he was making it out to be.

As he arrived at the bar, their usual hangout, Santiago took a moment in his truck to take a few deep breaths, closing his eyes as he leaned back on the driver’s seat.

It was going to be fine. They’ll be happy for him.

After double checking the ultrasound was in his pocket, Santiago climbed out of his truck, closing the door with a little more force than necessary. He slipped his hands into his jeans pockets as he walked to the bar before opening the door, the immediate warmth and smell of whiskey and wood bringing a familiarity that calmed his nerves slightly.

Only slightly.

“Pope!” called a booming voice over the music.

Santiago looked to his right and gave a small grin as he spotted his friends around a small round table in the back corner. Benny was stood, his arms in the air and a large smile on his face as if Santiago hadn’t heard him shout over the noise of the bar.

Santiago made his way over, Benny immediately bringing him into a hug. Santiago gave him a thump on the back before greeting Will and Frankie. “How you guys doing?” Santiago asked, taking a seat next to Frankie, trying hard to ignore the tightness in his chest, and the heavy feeling in his stomach.

“Doing all right,” answered Benny, who had taken his seat next to Will. “Helping this lovesick bastard plan his engagement to Claire.”

Will rolled his eyes. “I’m not a lovesick bastard.” He gives Benny a light punch on his arm.

Frankie gave a chuckle, taking a sip on his beer before looking giving a tap on Santi’s arm. “What do you want? I’m buying.”

Santiago ordered his usual before Frankie stood, walking to the bar. Santi turned back to Will, trying to distract himself (or delay the inevitable just a little longer). “So do you know when you’re going to do it?”

“We’re going visiting her family in Colorado next week, and she wanted to go to the Denver Botanic Gardens,” replied Will, giving a small grin. “Supposed to be really nice this time of year.”

“We’ve been trying to find a photographer all day who’s based in Denver,” teased Benny, giving a smirk to his brother.

“And I told you, I’ll email that redhead who you think is ‘hot’,” muttered Will, giving Benny another punch on the arm. “She did some pretty awesome shots of some scenery, might hire her for the actual wedding.”

Santiago looks up as Frankie abruptly returned, handing him his beer. “Thanks, Fish,” Santiago replied, taking an immediate large gulp as the nerves settled in again.

“So what’s going on with you?” Frankie asked, hitting Santiago with a stern stare.

Fuck Francisco and his ability to read Santiago like a book.

Santi shook his head, feigning ignorance. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re tapping your foot,” Frankie said, motioning to the floor. “You only do that when you’re nervous, and you’re never fucking nervous, hermano. What is it?”

Santiago mentally kicks himself for not even noticing his fucking foot was tapping. Frankie was met with silence as the other occupants stared at Santiago with worried looks at Frankie’s statement. Santiago cleared his throat as he placed his beer on the table before speaking again. “I actually have something to tell you guys.”

“What is it?” Will asked, his brow furrowed at Santiago.

“If it’s another job, we’re not interested,” said Frankie, already shaking his head.

Santiago shook his head quickly at his friends. “No, it’s…nothing like that.” He averted his gaze for a second before looking back up at his friends. “Remember that woman I went out with?” he says, mentioning your name.

“The one in marketing?” Benny asked, taking a sip of his beer.

“Yeah, her,” Santiago said, nodding. “She, uh…she actually called me up again – “

“Oh shit,” Benny laughed. “She give you the clap or something?”

Santiago pulled a face at the joke, feeling like he might actually throw up right there on table. He took a deep breath before he reached into his pocket and pulled out the ultrasound. He had to remember; these were his boys. After a moment’s hesitation, he placed it on the table, his friends all leaning in to look at it.

Frankie was the first to react. He smirked, muttered a, “Holy shit,” before picking up the photo and taking a closer look at it. His smirked only widened. “Holy shit. Is that two?”

Santiago grinned nervously back at Frankie. “It’s two.”

“Man, you have your work cut out for you,” laughed Frankie, placing the ultrasound back on the table before standing, Santi following. They embraced, Frankie giving a few solid pats on Santiago’s back. “Congrats.”

“That’s not real,” said Benny, also picking up the ultrasound to take a closer look, Will leaning over his shoulder. “You’re fucking with us.”

“It’s real, man,” said Santiago, as he and Frankie take their seats again. His shoulders relaxed slightly, now that it was out in the open, and his friends were reacting as he knew they would; he wasn’t sure why he was so nervous in the first place.

“They’re definitely yours?” Will asked, his brow furrowed as he took a glance at Santi before looking back at the ultrasound.

Santiago paused for a second before he nodded. “I think so.”

“You think so?” Will asked, straightening in his seat as he studied his friend. “Did you not get a paternity test?”

“She offered,” Santiago replied, shrugging. “But I…I trust her, I know she wouldn’t lie about this.”

“Fuck man, I don’t believe it,” said Benny, laughing as he placed the scan back on the table. He shook his head at Santiago before taking a sip of his beer.

“It’s real, Benny, why would I make this up?” Santi asked, chuckling slightly, pocketing the picture.

“I find it hard to believe that anyone would want to procreate with you, Pope,” laughed Benny.

“Pequeña mierda,” Santiago said, giving Benny a swift kick under the table, causing the younger man to laugh again.

“How far along is she?” Frankie asked.

“Seven weeks, give or take,” replied Santiago, picking up his almost forgotten beer. “Due in February.”

“How did that even happen?” Will asked, chuckling as he shook his head in disbelief.

Santiago snorted, taking a sip of his drink. “Don’t get me started. She didn’t check her birth control.”

“You idiot,” laughed Frankie. “You should always have a backup.”

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Santiago, giving Frankie a light shove. “I know.”

They table went silent for a moment before Will gave a huff before shaking his head. “Well man, congratulations. Wasn’t expecting this when I left the house tonight.”

“Fuck, you’re gonna be a dad,” said Benny, grinning widely. “To twins!”

Santiago groaned, taking a large gulp of his beer. “Don’t remind me. This shit is scarier than any job in South America.”

“I’m excited for you, Pope,” said Frankie. “You’re good with Sofía, and she loves you. She’ll be excited to have some cousins to play with from her Tío.”

“Thanks guys,” muttered Santi. “It’s fucking melted my brain, and I know it’s sappy but I’m glad I have you guys, because fuck, I don’t know what I’d do if I was alone.”

“You don’t ever have to worry about that,” said Will, giving Santiago a stern look.

Frankie silently gave Santiago a firm pat on the shoulder, giving him a nod. He cleared his throat before lifting his beer. “So…an engagement and two new babies. To new beginnings, huh?”

Santi nodded as he lifted his own beer, Will and Benny following. “To new beginnings.” Said Will, and the four of them clink their bottles together before taking a large drink.

They sit in silence for a moment, sparing a thought for Tom who was missing out on all these milestones that the group never thought they would be able to achieve, regarding their circumstances. The group do another silent cheers for Tom, before Will offers to buy the next round, leaving the table. They go back into a comfortable silence for a few moments, just enjoying each other’s company.

“How are you gonna carry two kids with your shitty knees?”

“Shut the fuck up, Benny.”

• Pequeña mierda - little shit

Tagged - @khonsulockley

[backtothefanfiction]

Currently working on trying to get the next part of All The Good Girls Go To Hell ready for ya’ll but damn am I out of practice writing smut. Also I’ve never written smut for Benny before or had to really write in his POV so it’s taking me a second, but hopefully it’ll be ready by the end of the week.