#you make loving fun | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

elizabeethan · 2 years

Text

You Make Loving Fun: Part III

A collection of little Chrissy and Eddie moments that might turn a little smutty

Part III: Enough To Love

After a hard night, Eddie comforts Chrissy.

Back again with that Walk Home Wheeler shit!! Hehe. When did this series get angsty? There's a happy ending dw.

Rated E

tw for Chrissy’s ED

Part I | Part II

Read on Ao3

Other Hellcheer stuff

Get added to my Hellcheer tag list

Tagging: @sotangledupinit @klauscarolove @itsfabianadocarmo @k-leemac @lonelyspectator12 @justanother-unluckysoul @caught-in-the-filter @enchantedlandcoffee

~~~~

Three months ago, he didn’t really think he’d be here. Back in mid-May, he thought Chrissy was so damaged that she would never accept an invitation to her mother’s house for dinner, and certainly not so soon after she moved out. When he thinks back to the heartbreak on her face when she showed up at his door, one duffel bag dropped heavily to her feet and one backpack slung over her shoulder, unshed tears in her eyes, he recalls how staunchly he believed that this is it. It’s over. She’ll never have to endure that abuse again.

But then her mother found her, somehow discovering the Munson’s phone number, and sunk her claws into her. She knows exactly what buttons to push, what cards to play to get Chrissy feeling guilty enough to give in, and he’s certain that she played each and every one.

It hasn’t been any secret that, only a week after graduation, Chrissy Cunningham moved into the disgraced freak’s trailer. Everyone in town has known for a while, and Chrissy hasn’t cared. He’s noticed the way her eyes light up more frequently, the way her shoulders are relaxed more than they are tense nowadays. He’s noticed how moving out of that environment made it easier for her to start going to therapy. He’s noticed how much more willing she is to actually eat a meal and keep it down.

She’s healing. And apparently, her mother will have none of that.

But either way, everyone has known where she’s been. And it’s taken her mother three months to reach out.

It’s her brother’s birthday, apparently. Laura couldn’t manipulate her into visiting for her or her father, but she could play the guilty big sister card pretty easily.

So now he waits. The freak was very adamantly not invited, but Chrissy doesn’t have a car and he’d die before he let her bike across town in this heat, so he waits in his van a block down the street from her parents’ house, and he never thought he would be here again, at least not so soon after she fled.

I’m sorry, she had said that night. She told me I can either get my head on straight or leave.

Of course he’s been living in a constant state of guilt since then, knowing that he’s the reason she got kicked out in the first place. She could’ve stayed if she’d ended things with him, apparently, and it’s been pretty hard finding the balance between being glad she’s out of there and guilty that she had to make the decision in the first place. Because at the end of the day, they both know that her alignment with the freak is what’s gotten her mother so upset.

They’ve moved past that, though. They’ve been open with each other, communicating their needs and their fears to the point where they’re nauseatingly perfect for one another. And he knows that she knows what this invitation is, and he knows that she has to hear what her mother has to say, but also that she knows her worth now. So he waits for her a block down the street from her parents’ house, prepared for the worst.

She’s back in the passenger’s seat of his van sooner than he anticipated, her face flat and her eyes hollow, and this might be worse than the worst. He thought she’d be crying, honestly, those painful sobs that wrack her chest and hurt his heart, and he was worried enough about how he’d be able to comfort her. But this? The way she stares into the distance and barely acknowledges him and hugs her arms tightly around her waist? This is much worse.

“Babe?” he asks carefully, and she literally jumps. She doesn’t look at him, though.

“Can we go home?” she croaks.

He obliged silently, noting the obvious, that she doesn’t want to talk. Her body language is clear enough, too; she doesn’t feel safe right now. That’s his top priority, then.

He rushes them home, driving like a maniac and still obeying all traffic laws so that they’re back at the trailer in record time. Chrissy’s quick to get out of the van, almost floating towards the front door with her straight face, and he can’t figure out if his fear for her or his hatred for her mother is stronger.

“Chrissy,” he says when they get inside. Wayne’s already left for his shift, so they have plenty of space and time to deal with this, but he’s worried that if she doesn’t get this out now, she’ll hold it in until it makes her implode. “Sweetheart, come sit down?”

She follows him wordlessly to the couch and sits beside him, and he wants to scoop her into his lap but he doesn’t want to push her too far. So he just turns in his seat to face her and takes her hand, begging her to look at him.

When her eyes meet his, it almost kills him to see the pain in them that she’s been trying to hide. “What happened?” he whispers, squeezing her hand in his in a desperate attempt to break through to her.

Her bottom lip wobbles and her eyes cast down to their hands resting between them. “She just–” she chokes out, cutting off her sob before it can break through her throat when she bites her bottom lip. She takes a deep breath, one that floods into her belly, and the hand he isn’t holding rests against her stomach as her brows pinch together.

He knows what this is. It’s something she hasn’t done in a while, something she’s been battling against and winning. She shuts her eyes thoughtfully, rubbing her stomach a bit as she breathes deeply in and out.

Her mother triggers something in her that makes her feel out of control. So out of control that she's had to find ways to gain control over herself again. She’s used these methods for years, and it’s hard to not fall back on them, especially when Laura Cunningham is involved.

“Hey,” he tries, hand on her cheek and forehead to forehead. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

She nods. Her breathing is quick, short little gasps in and out, but she nods. He watches her as she takes back her control over herself, battles with her thoughts and the things she’s been taught her entire life, and he watches her win with pride beaming from his chest as her breathing evens out. She nods again. She opens her eyes and she stares at him, a depth in her irises that he recognizes.

She leans forward, her hand still clasped in his, and lets her forehead fall against his solidly but unpainfully. “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers, and he nods.

“Me too, sweetheart.”

“I need you.”

He freezes slightly, worry creeping over him slowly. “What do you need?”

“I need–” She bites her lip again, insecurity flooding through her veins in a way that’s painfully obvious. His hand lands on her jaw and her thumb pulls her lip from between her teeth, the pad of it running along the teeth marks in her skin. She breathes in deeply and sighs, the control over her body that she so desperately needs cascading over her again as she relaxes her shoulders. “I want you to make me feel good.”

This is something that they do, but carefully. At first, it was almost like replacing one bad coping mechanism with another, sex becoming something that she needed to distract her from her thoughts and her desires to rid her body of whatever calories she’d consumed. She seemed to recognize it quickly, especially after starting to see her therapist. She’d told him one evening, through tears, that she was scared that she was using him. That she didn’t want to heal from one thing by getting hooked on something else. That she didn’t want him to feel like the only reason she was with him was because she knew what she’d be doing if they weren’t fucking.

He never really saw it that way, though. Chrissy was healing before they started being physical. Sure, the first time he ate her out on that picnic table was a little eye opening, and maybe it helped her to see just how good a person could feel at any given time, especially a person who’s used to hurting. But she had come to him with the recognition that she had a problem. She started seeking help all on her own. Maybe the sex just gave her a little push by reminding her that she can feel something other than pain.

Sometimes he lets himself think that sex with him– with someone she could maybe, potentially love, someone who loves her– is a good reminder of what she deserves, too.

So when she tells him that she needs him, that she wants him, that she’s upset and she wants him to make her feel good, he doesn’t think of it as her using him, or her avoiding her feelings, or anything like that. He thinks of it as someone who’s had a bad day seeking comfort from someone she loves. (Maybe.)

“I can make you feel good, baby,” he whispers, pressing his lips to the tip of her nose. “Is that what will help you right now?”

“Yeah,” she breathes with a nod. Her breathing picks up, and he knows that this time, it’s not because she’s panicking or having thoughts about things that could hurt her. It’s because she’s thinking about what he can do to her; what they can do to each other.

“You know how perfect you are, don’t you?” he asks hypothetically as he trails kisses down her neck, feeling how rapidly her pulse is firing beneath her skin, feeling how warm her chest is turning as she blushes. He was too distracted by her being upset to really get a good look at her little pink sundress with the tiny yellow flowers and the neckline that looks like the top of a heart. He didn’t get a good look at how perfectly it holds her tits, lifting them just right and complimenting the tone of her skin in a way that makes him drag his tongue over the top of her right breast. “Or should I show you?”

She sighs, the sound almost mewling as he feels her relaxing beneath him, falling backwards to settle along the couch. Her back is resting on the cushions while her knees bend, the dress draping around her thighs oh-so invitingly. “Yeah,” she whispers again, and it makes him smirk as he pulls the top of her dress down a little bit more, almost exposing what he’s looking for.

“You like it when I tell you, don’t you?” he asks, finding her nipple and sucking it between his lips, making her gasp. “You like it when I tell you how perfect you are? How fucking sexy you are? You like it when I tell you how hard you make me, don’t you, baby?”

She nods, her eyes shut, and she looks so relaxed and turned on that it makes him push his hips against the couch prematurely. “I love it,” she says, and he groans without meaning to.

“I can’t believe how lucky I am,” he offers, and he slides down her body just a little bit more, finding the hem of her flowy dress and pushing it up her thighs. “Someone as beautiful and sexy as you lets me touch every perfect part of you.”

He watches her and sees the way she wants to shake her head and stops herself, and he kisses the inside of her knee. “I’m lucky,” she whispers, and he lightly bites her inner thigh, making her jump towards him. “That you want to.”

“I’ll always want to, baby. I can’t get enough of you.”

She whimpers lightly when he bites the soft pale flesh of her inner thigh, kissing lovingly at a faint stretch mark that he knows she hates. He slides up as he pushes her skirt higher and higher and kisses her belly below her navel, where he knows she finds herself to be too flabby. He hates when she says that, and he loves to worship every part of her that she dislikes in hopes that one day she'll see herself the way he sees her.

“Fuck,” he murmurs against the front of her cotton underwear before he pulls them away and the soft curls tickle his nose. “Chrissy,” he breathes against her clit, making her hiss and move her hips to try and gain some friction. “God, you’re so fucking perfect.”

He doesn’t even say it to be gratuitous. He honestly finds that he can’t shut his damn mouth about her, and often, he finds that he has to busy his lips and his tongue to keep quiet. And although he knows she likes it when he talks to her like this, he also happens to know she doesn’t mind what he chooses to do to busy his lips and his tongue.

And his fingers. He’s always been fidgety, always needing something to keep his fingers busy. Finding that spot inside her that makes her cry out his name is a perfect way to keep his fingers busy.

She grinds her hips against his mouth, crying wordlessly into the empty living room when he curls two fingers into her. He loves the way she squeezes her walls tightly around him, as if she can’t get enough even as he drives into her almost ruthlessly.

When her thighs start shaking, he knows she’s close, just like he knows it when her fingers tighten almost painfully in his hair. She tugs it at the roots, and while it should hurt, he finds himself rutting against the couch and longing for friction to ease the ache in his jeans. “You’re close,” he says, making the assumption while also making an attempt at practically commanding her to come against his face. “Come on, baby. I know you’re close.”

“Fu-Eddie,” she calls, tugging his hair with her tightly curled fingers while somehow also pushing his head down against her core. “Fuck, don’t stop,” she begs.

He groans against her clit, lapping thirstily at her as she gives him more and more, moving his fingers quickly and deftly inside her until she’s unraveling with a shout, screaming out his name and nearly crushing his head between his thighs.

He couldn’t be happier.

She’s barely gotten a chance to come down from the high she’s riding before she grabs his hair in one hand and his shoulder in the other, pulling him up towards him and drawing his mouth to hers. He fucking loves when she gets like this, when she’s so hot and turned on that she has to taste herself on his tongue. She doesn’t give herself much time to savor it though, pulling on his shirt until he’s cutting them apart and hoisting it over his head.

And then she’s fumbling with his belt while she kisses him, and she’s undoing the button and pulling down the zipper and pushing his jeans off along with his boxers, wasting no time in getting him undressed.

She’s insatiable, gripping him in her small hand and gliding over his skin a few times before she spreads her knees apart to cradle his hips between them. She grips him firmly and lines his cock up to her entrance, her tongue swirling against his as she moans at the sheer thought of him plunging into her.

“You’re ready, angel?” he asks her softly against her mouth, and she nods and moans all at once.

“I want you so bad,” she breathes. “I always want you.”

He doesn’t waste any time now, either, kissing her and holding her jaw in his palm as he thrusts inside, swallowing her high pitched moans and reveling in the way she clutches his hair. “So perfect for me,” he praises. “You take my cock so well, baby.”

She nods, panting as their mouths part and he finds her neck with his lips, probably sucking too hard against the sensitive skin behind her ear, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her legs hold his hips firmly against her, her heels digging into his ass and encouraging him to move just a bit faster. She’s already close again, and that’s all the better for him since he isn’t sure how much longer he can hold on. So he moves his hand between them and starts drawing familiar patterns against her clit with his thumb until she’s squeezing around him and he knows she’s about to fall apart

He almost tells her as he feels her fluttering around him, almost tells her how much he fucking loves her as he loses himself inside her. He spills into her as she all but shrieks into his ear before she bites his shoulder, her hips moving wildly as she rides out the high he’s brought her, and he almost tells her. He wants to tell her so badly that he has to latch his lips onto her collarbone to keep quiet.

He feels her breathing slow a bit, her heart rate steadying under her skin where his lips lie against her neck. He feels her drawing soft circles over his back as she relaxes and he wonders if her eyes have fluttered shut like his have. He kisses her neck again, much more gently this time, then kisses over the two spots that are sure to be bruised by tomorrow.

And he almost says it again. Fuck, he wants to say it.

“Thank you,” she breathes softly, exhaustion clear in her voice.

“Always, Sweetheart.” It’s a vow, and it’s how he shows her he loves her before he can tell her. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you feel as good as you deserve to.”

She hums softly, kissing the top of his head, and then she sighs. He knows sex was a good way to help her get out of her own mind, push away the thoughts that her mother tried to replant, but he can also tell that they’re still trying to take root. But with her sigh, he thinks she might be ready to talk. So he sits up just a bit and grabs a small, almost threadbare blanket from the arm of the couch, and he slings it over both of them.

“You can tell me anything, you know,” he promises. He maneuvers them both so that they’re lying on the couch with the blanket over them, each on their sides and facing one another.

She’s quiet for a few moments while she plays with the guitar pick around his neck, and then she sighs again, unable to meet his stare.

“I hate her,” she whispers painfully, and he nods.

“So do I, if she could do this to you in an hour.”

“She makes me– I was doing so well,” she mourns, tears threatening at her eyes again, and he finds it hard to focus on anything aside from how much he hates her mother.

“You still are, baby. Even if you do purge, you’re still making progress.”

“I wanted to, so badly,” she mutters. She tucks her hands gingerly against his chest, and he pulls her into a tight hug, cradling her against himself and kissing the top of her head. “I’m not going to…”

“She’s your biggest trigger,” he reasons, recalling the things she's told him about her sessions. “Going there was a huge step, Chrissy. I’d be surprised if you didn’t want to.”

“It’s not just her,” she says. “I mean, not just her being there, I guess. It’s like everything she says is because she’s trying to hurt me. It’s always on purpose.”

“What’d she say?” he asks quietly, shying away from the question because he’s pretty sure he doesn’t actually want to know. But he wants to support her more than he wants to murder her mom.

Her arms tighten, somehow, and she takes another deep breath. “Just, everything out of her mouth was a dig, you know? Like she’s subtly trying to tear me down and undo all the progress I’ve made.”

Hearing her say that kills him, but hearing her acknowledge the progress she’s made when that alone has been hard for her makes him smile softly against her hair before he presses a kiss there. “That’s who she is,” he offers. “It’s how she’s trying to get you back under her thumb.”

“Well, it wasn’t working, and I was trying to be happy for Eric’s birthday, and it was like me ignoring her was making it worse; like she thought she had to try harder. So then she–”

He lets his arms run up and down along her spine, slow, soothing movements that he hopes soothes her, too. “She what?” he prompts.

“She finally lost it, I guess. Like, she saw her usual go-to’s weren’t working. So she said, Christine, just look at you. If that– if that freak knocked you up, you might as well just come clean and tell me because it’s obvious enough just looking at you. We can… take care of it and– and you won’t have to be stuck with– with that satanic freak’s spawn.”

Ouch.

Okay. Hurtful enough to him, but that’s not what sends him into a spiral of anger and disgust and a desire to put Mrs. Cunningham in her place.

“She said that?” he asks softly, keeping his hands on her back while she keeps her face hidden against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’s really mean. I didn’t really want to tell you–”

“Chrissy, no. I don’t care if she thinks I'm a satanic freak. Plus, any kid that we have would be a freak because it’s half of you.” If nothing else, at least he feels her soft laughter against his chest at his joke. Of course, it was a stupid joke, because what would make him think that she would ever want to have a baby with him? And when the hell did he start thinking about having babies? “You know you don’t look pregnant, right, sweetheart? Not even close.”

He can barely get the words out without letting the disgust trickle into his voice, but just like he’s been telling himself, he loves Chrissy more than he hates her mother (fractionally, at this point), so comforting her is more important than being angry. Ensuring that she doesn’t believe the poison that the woman who should love her more than anything is trying to feed her is more important than giving in to the anger and hatred that’s trying to consume him.

“I know,” she whispers halfheartedly in a way that makes him wonder if she’s being completely truthful. “But I do look different. Like, from the last time she’s seen me. And, just… it hurts enough that she’s noticed, you know? Never mind that she…”

“That she’d point it out?” he asks, and she nods again. “I guarantee you, she’s the only person in the entire world who’s noticed, sweetheart. She’s certainly the only person evil enough to say anything about it.”

She hums against his skin, her fingers playing with his hair at the nape of his neck, and something strikes him about this moment. Chrissy was hurt tonight. The interactions with her mother were painful and probably brought up some pretty deep shit for her. Hell, she went over there for dinner and had to sit in front of her biggest critic while she ate a whole meal and got accused of looking pregnant. That would be hard for anyone, eating disorder or not, and here she is, strong as hell and holding it together, refusing to give in and do what he knows she would have needed to do a few months ago.

Fuck, he’s so damn proud of her. And he loves her so damn much.

He can’t tell her that last part yet, because he still hasn’t and he doesn’t think it’s the right time. He doesn’t want to take away from her strength and make it about him, although, he seems to come up with some kind of excuse at every turn.

So, instead of facing his own fear of rejection that lies just beneath the surface, he tells her, “I’m so proud of you, Chrissy.”

“Why?” she asks indignantly, as if it’s the most bogus statement in the history of the world.

“Because you’re the strongest person I know. And you’ve come such a long way. I mean, look at how much you’ve grown and healed, you know? You went to your enemy’s homebase and fought that thing head on, and you came out stronger for it. You’re a goddamn badass, Chrissy Cunningham.”

She shifts, pulling away from him just slightly enough to look into his eyes with a smile in her own. She lifts her hand to hold it against his cheek, and then to brush her fingers through the curls that cover his eyebrows, her smile soft but genuine, just the way he likes it. “You’re a poet,” she murmurs. “Sometimes I can’t believe I got so lucky to be with someone who genuinely feels like that.”

“Of course I do,” he answers just as softly, intoxicated by her very presence, entranced by the calm, gentle aura surrounding them, letting his eyes flutter shut.

“How?”

He shrugs. “I love you.”

Uh oh.

That wasn’t part of the plan.

Abort! Abort! Abandon ship!

Her hand stops moving through his hair and he knows his worst nightmare is coming true. He hasn’t said it in all this time, almost six goddamn months, because he knew this very thing would happen. Chrissy’s been hurt before, and she’s been treated so unfairly by everyone in her life who’s supposed to love her. Her parents treat her like garbage, and her ex-boyfriend was a poor excuse for a human being, nevermind a life partner. Her experiences with love have been severely lacking, so it only made sense to him that she’d be hesitant to hear him say it.

And now he’s said it, like an idiot, at the most stupidly idiotically inconvenient time possible. Because he’s stupid, and an idiot.

“Eddie,” she whispers, and he prepares for the worst, stubbornly refusing to open his eyes and face her disappointment, or her pain, or her fear, whichever it is.

“Fuck,” he breathes, dropping his hands and mentally trying to prepare himself for never touching Chrissy Cunningham again. “I’m sorry–”

“Eddie Munson,” she demands. “Look at me right now.”

Much to his chagrin, he obeys her, opening her eyes, expecting tears or anger or something equally as terrible. “I’m–”

“I love you, too.”

Like an idiot, he stares at her, mouth flapping open like a trout, eyes wide. “You…”

She laughs, the sound ringing through him like it always does, making it impossible for him not to smile although he still lies there with her tucked against his chest, his mouth hanging open in shock.

“Would I move in with someone I wasn’t completely head-over-heels for?” she asks with humor in her voice, fingers back in his hair. “Did you really think I wouldn’t say it back?”

“I–” He clears his throat, trying to regain his bearings. “I didn’t want to… put you in that position.”

“It’s a pretty good position to be in, Eddie,” she laughs, holding his face in her hands and kissing him softly, her nose bumping his and making his heart flutter. “Look at me,” she whispers, and he would be a fool not to listen to her. “I love you.”

His breath catches and he finds himself unable to think, let alone speak. He didn’t really expect to hear her say that, at least not anytime soon. His expectation has been that she’s been burned by love and wouldn’t want to face an experience like that again. But here she is, having said it twice in a two minute span. Leave it to her to show him how much of an idiot he is, in the best way possible.

“You sure?” he asks

“I couldn’t lie here giggling with someone I didn’t love, after the night I had,” she grins. That’s a good point, he supposes, but it doesn’t really touch on his initial concerns.

“I know,” he smiles, “I just… everyone who’s supposed to love you has let you down. I don’t want to fall into that category,” he mutters weakly, feeble and frightened despite the display of confidence he always tries to put on.

“You don’t, Eddie,” she vows, fingers tangling in his hair and lips pressing to his hammering pulse as she rests her head on his shoulder. “All you’ve done that can be remotely compared to people who are supposed to love me, or should have, is shown me how much more I’ve always deserved. You changed everything.”

He stays quiet for a minute, letting her words wash over him and soothe each of his worries and fears until he’s nothing but a grinning mess lying beside her. He lets out a soft chuckle, dazed by the fact that she actually said it back, and says, “Well, shit.”

She lets out a snort, nuzzling her nose against his neck and kissing his collarbone in a way that gets the gears in his head turning again even though he should probably still be spent. But leave it to his sexy ass girlfriend to get him in the mood even when it should be physically impossible.

“Well shit, indeed,” she agrees breathily, her fingers tickling up the side of his waist before she hugs him closely to herself. Her breasts press against his skin and it sends a shiver down his spine. “You know, this is big for us.”

“Mhmm,” he agrees quietly, eyes falling shut as her tongue draws tiny gentle patterns along his skin, tracing the line of his pulse until she finds the sensitive spot behind his ear.

“I think we should celebrate.”

“You’re right,” he breathes. He grips her hip firmly in his hand and pulls her as close to him as he can, so that she can feel what she’s doing to him, how she’s somehow defying all of the laws of biology as he starts to get hard again. “Fuck, baby, you’re so–”

“Eddie!”

The sound of the door rattling draws them out of their shared trance, each of them jumping apart fractionally as the sound of the voice outside shocks them.

“Eddie, you in there? I can see your van.”

Fucking Wheeler.

Eddie groans, rolling them so that Chrisys’s on her back with no chance for escape as he starts to kiss her neck again. He hears her giggle almost silently, both of them content to ignore the twerp and get back to the important business at hand. She sighs and lets out an almost silent little whimper when he squeezes her hip, and if he had any less self control he would probably just plunge into her here and now.

“Eddie, come on, man. I need a ride home; Max’s mom went to work and I didn’t take my bike!”

“Walk home, Wheeler!” he shouts towards the door, making Chrissy gasp and laugh and pull him back to her. It’s not like he really could’ve stopped himself from yelling, desperate for the sound of his voice to stop and to get back to business, but now he’s given Mike confirmation that he’s home.

“It’s like seven miles! Come on, please? I know you aren’t doing anything tonight anyway.”

Annoyingly, Mike jiggles the door handle, and Eddie’s never been so grateful to himself for locking it. And although he’s perfectly content to go back to what he was doing, Chrissy sighs and looks up at him when she pulls his face away from her with those big, kind, pleading eyes, and he’s jelly in her fingers.

“We can just drive him home quick,” she whispers softly, giving him a smile that he thinks is probably an attempt at manipulating him. It works.

He groans and shakes his head, pouting like a child, and she giggles again. “Nooo, Chrissy. You’re too nice.”

“It’s a long walk. And besides, I think I'd like you to take me to Lover’s Lake tonight. We can go swimming.”

“Your swimsuit is in the laundry still.”

“That’s alright,” she smirks, her eyes glimmering seductively, and he doesn’t stand a chance. “It’s pretty private out there.”

His eyes widen with the realization. “Fine!” he shouts at the door. “Fuck.”

“Thanks, Chrissy!” Mike calls back, glee clear in his voice. “I know he only said yes because you have him by the ba–”

“You’re walking home!”

Wheeler didn’t end up walking home. Chrissy put on Eddie’s favorite pair of underwear, the pink ones with the tiny red hearts that hug her ass perfectly. She wore them beneath his favorite pair of denim shorts, and paired those with his favorite spaghetti-strapped top. Plus, she very specifically went without a bra. So he once again agreed to drive the asshole home if only for the sake of that special stop he and Chrissy made on the way back home.

~~~~

Okay well I just set myself up to write sexy naked lake time so...

#you make loving fun #eddie x chrissy #hellcheer #eddissy #hellcheer ff #eddissy ff #hellcheer fanfic #eddissy fanfic #eddissy smut #hellcheer smut #eddissy angst #hellcheer angst #eddissy fluff #hellcheer fluff #tw eating disorder #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham

33 notes · View notes

redahlia-writes · 1 year

Text

you make loving fun. | frankie morales x ofc

one. you make loving fun (sweet wonderful you)

content (for this chapter): smut, drinking, bad jokes and flirting, cursing, fluff, some insecurities (both frankie and camila), child surprise (not a pregnancy fic), general softness, mentions of food, some lengthy prose

word count: 9.1k

a/n: she is here. i've wanted to write something inspired by fleetwood mac for so long and frankie (alongside @lcvenderblues meddling, ily) just lends himself so well for it. as i've mentioned in the series notes, this was supposed to be shorter but, in true me fashion, not only did it turn into a never-ending thing, i also somehow ended up with camila (whom i love dearly). so there you have it. i'm also currently without a beta reader so if you see mistakes just... pretend you didn't

reblogs and feedback are always greatly appreciated. you can send it here, too

series masterlist | masterlist

“We didn’t necessarily do things the proper way–Will would say we actually did them backwards, which I think is just partially true, I’m not giving you the satisfaction, Miller. You see, when I first met Frankie we didn’t say a single word to each other for exactly three minutes and thirty-four seconds–and I know that, because that’s the exact duration of You Make Loving Fun. Technically, the first thing I said to him was Sweet wonderful you, and after all this time I still stand by those words. We could’ve done things in order, we could’ve done everything scrambled through whatever amount of time, but the result would still be the same–Francisco, my sweet wonderful you, you really do make loving fun.”

Frankie couldn’t remember the last time he’d belted out to a single song while driving–if he drove alone, the music would be loud and he would just keep the rhythm by tapping the steering wheel or nodding his head, never taking his eyes off the road; if somebody else was with him, there would either be no music or he’d just feel too self-conscious to sing.

Yet there he was, a drop too much of tequila in him (in the morning he would chastise himself for the rashness of his actions), windows down and music high, singing his heart out with a woman he’d just met at his side, her hair whipping wildly in the wind, McVie’s bass making the speakers of his car tremble.

He hadn’t planned any of it–he was meant to go to the bar, have a drink, maybe two, and then go back home and fall asleep on the couch with a movie he wasn’t even interested in. But he’d turned in his seat as You Make Loving Fun by Fleetwood Mac had started, and met the eyes of this woman–dark hair, big smile–who, pointing directly at him, had started singing and beckoned him forward. He wished to pretend it had been the beer’s fault, making him stand almost immediately, but truth was he was completely enthralled by her.

Frankie had danced with her as she sang along with the song, her hands in his, her body warm against his–they’d kissed before knowing each other’s names, her own shouted into his ear: Camila. He’d laughed, offered to buy her a drink, two, three, the conversation flowing so easily they’d found themselves moving outside for a smoke, and then to his car, where she’d seen the Rumors album tucked in a compartment of the car and her eyes had lit up.

He hadn’t thought he’d end up bringing somebody home, but her enthusiasm had warmed his chest, and suddenly he found himself kissing that smile off her lips as they stumbled into his house tangled together, shedding shoes and jackets through the corridor until they fell into bed.

She huffed a breath when he landed on top of her, laughter bubbling in her chest as she pulled back from the kiss and regained her breath, raking her hands through his hair while he lifted his head and, wide-eyed, looked down at her flushed face.

“Sorry,” he muttered, arms bracketing her head, as he lifted himself off of her, kneeling between her parted thighs–he lowered his gaze to where her dress had bunched up around her hips, uncovering her legs and giving him a peek of her underwear. He shook his head, cleared his throat, and when he looked back up a grin crossed her lips. “You alright?”

“Being crushed under someone’s weight was not how I imagined I’d go,” she snorted, hands falling to his shoulders, down to the front of his button up–it was already wrinkled from her touch, and as she thumbed a button he arched his eyebrows and lowered one hand to her skin, fingers brushing across her exposed collarbones.

“That’s a bit dramatic,” goosebumps crossed her skin in the wake of his touch, smile still pulling at her lips. He lowered his head into the crook of her neck, lips brushing her pulse point–he felt her heart jump under his mouth and grinned against her skin. “Feels like you’re alive to me.”

She laughed again, the sound making Frankie’s smile widen, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses down her neck, throat, chest, following the path he’d traced with his fingers down to the neckline of her dress and then further down, across the wrinkled fabric, her back arching as he moved down and down and down, a shuddering breath making her chest heave.

His hands followed, a too brief touch over her chest, cupping her breasts before moving to her hips, pulling the dress further up until her stomach was exposed and he could kiss the bare skin there, right above the waistband of her underwear as he caressed down her thighs, pulling them up slightly, parting her legs furthermore to slot himself with his shoulders underneath her knees.

His shoulders had been the first thing she’d noticed in the blinking lights of the bar, broad and constricted by his shirt, tugging at the top button she’d undone while they were dancing with a grin–he’d lifted his arms at some point, shirt riding up his stomach and giving her a peek of a sliver of skin. She’d thought about kissing the skin there, just as he was doing with her, the gentle scratch of his beard making her shiver.

“You don’t have to -” she gasped when he nipped her inner thigh, hips lifting off the bed with a curse muttered between her teeth that had him chuckle and look up.

“Where would the fun be in that?” he kissed her thigh again, moving slightly up as he hooked his arms around her legs and placed his hands above her hips. “Let me make it good for you, baby.”

A shudder of anticipation ran down her spine at his almost-request that had her flushing and push herself onto her elbows–she barely shifted over the bed, his hands keeping her pinned down.

“Is that the tequila talking, Francisco?” he grinned as she reached down, tracing his jaw with the tip of her fingers before pinching his chin gently, angling his head as if to lean over and kiss him. He liked the way she said his name, r rolling off her tongue, hissing s, hard c.

“A little,” he admitted, thumbs playing with the hem of her dress. He wasn’t drunk to the point of not remembering anything the following morning, but just enough to act cocksure. “But I mean it–only if you want to.”

Camila bit down on her bottom lip, another rush of excitement running through her–between the dancing, the drinking and Frankie’s kisses, every single part of her felt aflame. She dragged her thumb across the seam of his mouth, his lips swollen and slightly red in the dim lights of the bedroom parting under her touch–his pupils dilated, eyes dark and expectant. When she nodded, a shimmer crossed his gaze, and after kissing the palm of her hand he lowered his head between her thighs, pulling her gently closer to him–Frankie was eager, and with a loud sigh she fell back onto the pillows.

His lips never wandered too far from the soft skin of her inner thighs, peppering gentle kisses as he tugged her underwear down, parting just enough to expose her–the cooler air of the room hit her core right before he bowed his head, a kiss to her mound that had her eyes flutter shut. Pinning her hips down, Frankie pressed the flat of his tongue against her slit, and the moan that ran up her spine at his first taste of her made her shudder, hands grasping for the covers at her sides.

Another muttered curse left her lips as he dragged his tongue up to the apex of her core, her legs threatening to close around his head when he nudged her clit–he kept her thighs apart, fingers digging into the flesh as he glanced up at her. She kept her lips parted, short bursts of air leaving her each time he repeated the motion, lapping again and again, his tongue coated in her slick to the point he couldn’t feel the aftertaste of alcohol anymore.

Her thighs burned where his beard dragged with the motions of his head, muscles trembling as he picked up his pace, the noises filling the room almost obscene–had she been a little more sober, she would’ve felt herself flush with embarrassment, granted she could get past how good he felt. When he wrapped his lips around her clit, she clenched around nothing and moved one hand into his hair, tugging onto the locks somewhere between pulling him away and pushing him closer.

He moaned in response to the burn across his scalp, the vibrations making her back arch off the bed–again he pinned her down, hand spreading across her stomach, her muscles tensing under his touch. He shifted his arms, one half-draped across her hips with his hand reaching up, past her belly and towards her chest, underneath the now ruined dress–the other tucked into his side, hand dipping between her legs.

“Jesus, Frankie,” she moaned his name when he pushed his digit inside her, a mix of spit and her own slick aiding his movement–one knuckle, two, her chest heaving and she pulled onto his hair again, his name falling like a chant from her lips. He lifted his head then, enough to get a glimpse of her face–eyes glossed over, she looked down towards him and trembled at the sight of his glistening lips.

“This alright?” his voice was raspier, a little hoarse, caressing the skin of her stomach like a ripple of warm water. She nodded, eagerly enough her hair ruffled all around her head, and rocked her hips slowly into his touch. He began pulling his hand back, the drag of his finger making her moan and drop her head back.

“Please,” with a sigh, her hand heavy on his head, she arched towards him–he lowered his mouth to her again, tongue flicking over her enlarged clit as he slowly sank two fingers back inside her.

Frankie’s pace was agonizing, alternating between curling and pumping his fingers, bringing her closer and closer to the edge. Camila had the fleeting thought she could not remember the last time someone had made her feel so good, right before he curled his fingers just right, hitting that spot she never managed to reach on her own, and simultaneously sucked her clit–her vision flashed white as her legs locked around his head, orgasm washing over her with a broken moan of her own.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she muttered breathlessly, hands slowly reaching for her chest–her fingers interlocked with Frankie’s over her stomach as he pulled his head up, the hair locks she’d tugged at falling messily over his forehead as he chuckled, the tip of his tongue peeking between his glistening lips.

“Thank you?” he tilted his head slightly, cheek brushing her red-marked thigh as her legs eased from around his head, falling heavily still over his shoulders. She snorted, squeezing his hand and letting her eyes flutter shut as he shifted upwards.

With her free hand, she took hold of his shirt, tugging him up to her until she was kissing him again, bracketing his hips between bent legs as he leaned his weight on her once more, their joined hands moving up across her body, her skin warm even through the bunched up dress and his shirt.

Frankie rutted his hips into her when she licked into his mouth, a muffled moan as her whole body shuddered at the drag of his jeans growing too tight. She locked her thighs around his hips, belt digging into the soft, uncovered, already slightly reddened skin, and with the hand previously interlocked with his, she reached for his hair and tugged slightly.

He huffed out a surprised breath when he found himself on his back, both her hands now on his chest to push him fully down as she tilted her head, hair tumbling to the side as she left a trail of kisses down his patchy beard, his neck, button after button undone by deft fingers until his shirt fell open and she was kissing his chest, the room rocking slightly in his hazy vision. He bucked his hips again as she undid his belt.

“Top drawer,” buckle, button, zipper, some of the tightness against his bulge easing as his hands quickly fell to her uncovered knees, trailing up and up to sneak underneath the dress that had fallen back down her frame.

“What?” words slurred against his skin, she was kissing his shoulder, shrugging his shirt off fully as she did. He sighed heavily at her insistent kisses, at her fingertips dragging down his arms to bare him, the tickle of her unbound hair to his other shoulder and chest.

The last thing he wanted was for her to move away, so he wrapped one arm around her waist, pushing her close to him–in doing so, her knees slid up a little and she settled on his stomach as he shifted up across the bed, moving one hand away to reach for the nightstand, blindly grabbing a silver-wrapped condom, movements hasty and quick as she went back to kiss his neck, grinding down on him with soft whines. He followed the movements of her hips with his free hand spanning against her side, dress wrinkling under his touch.

Camila pulled away almost abruptly, a little gasp leaving her lips as she straightened her back with her hands resting on his chest–her fingers pushed gently into him to balance herself before reaching for the bunched up hem of her dress and pull it over her head, letting her hair fall right down over her shoulder.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” her hands once more resting on his chest, Frankie’s fingertips dragged up her side–knee, thigh, hip, waist, thumbing the soft skin underneath her breast and making her sigh softly, eyelids fluttering shut as a smile still pulled at her lips.

“‘Cause you look real pretty,” he shifted his hands past her legs to tug down the rest of his clothes, the movement making her lean her weight forward, fingers curling against his chest as she snorted–and felt her face heat up.

“Lights are off, Francisco,” she lowered her face to him, simultaneously lifting her hips from his as he kicked off his trousers and underwear almost impatiently, belt-buckle clicking somewhere on the floor over the edge of the bed.

“Would you like them on?” the sound of the foil ripping made her eyes wander downwards across his body–she licked her lips at the sight of his hard length, tip red and leaking resting against his stomach. “Mila,” he called her softly–so softly she shuddered, lowering her lips to his in a quick kiss.

“I don’t want you going anywhere,” with one hand cupping his chin, she spoke against his mouth, his lips parting to chase another kiss as he rolled the condom on, reaching to grab one of her hips right afterwards, slowly guiding her down.

Camila moaned into his mouth as the tip of his cock nudged her entrance, her legs parting a little more around his hips to give him more room as she sank further down his length. The stretch had her dig her fingers slightly into his cheeks, working his jaw open as he now gripped both her hips, steadying her movements.

“Fuck, it feels good,” between one kiss and the other, inch after inch, Camila began pulling her head back. “So good,” muttered over and over as she moved her hand down–Frankie felt the blunt edge of her nails across his neck, chest, fantasized about there being marks the day after. “You feel so good, Frankie,” she cried out his name as she straightened her back and sank fully down on him.

They remained still for a moment, panting as they both adjusted to the position, a slow, gentle grinding on her part as she tipped her head back, hands resting on his chest–Frankie’s heart felt like it was about to burst out of him and rest on her palms, the grip on her hips tightening as he groaned softly.

“Look at you,” he hummed, kneading her flesh as he pushed himself in a seated position–her hands slid from his chest to his shoulder to the back of his neck, again a gentle scratch that rose goosebumps in its wake. The shift of positions made her sigh heavily, eyes fluttering shut as she bit down on her bottom lip and her chest heaved, pressed flush against Frankie’s. “Tan hermosa,” he mouthed against her exposed throat, seconding the next rock of her hips with one of his arms wrapping around her lower back.

She squeezed around him at his words, tiny breathless gasps at his words and the push of his arm, her back arched and her thighs trembling again. One of her hands threaded through his hair, a tingle spreading across his scalp when she tugged on the strands–but she did not pull him away from her neck as he kept kissing her, tongue dragging across her collarbones, tasting the salt from her skin. He could stay like that the rest of the night, he thought, buried to the hilt inside of her, nursing hickey after hickey on her soft skin, listening to her uttered praises.

But then Camila began moving, rolling her hips once, twice, held back moans trapped in her throat each time she lowered herself fully onto him, taking on a rhythm that had stars shimmer at the edges of Frankie’s vision–he knew then, resting his free hand behind him for balance, digging his heels in the mattress, that he was not going to last long, the smooth drag of her walls up and down his length pulling him closer and closer to the edge.

When he snapped his hips up to meet her half-way, she stuttered, bowing her head until she was muffling a loud moan into the crook of his neck, movements suddenly erratic. Frankie repeated the motion, again, and again, and again, the arm around her hips keeping her in place as he fucked up into her, each thrust punching the air out of her with a low cry.

“C’mon, baby,” he tutted, nosing at her cheek. “Let me hear you. Let me hear you, I’m close, so fucking close, so–” he groaned when she picked up the rhythm again, half-moons craved by her nails into his shoulder and a louder moan leaving her. “Attagirl.”

Camila did not hold back after that, the encouragements he kept murmuring through kisses making her dizzy, making her stomach flutter–thighs trembling, her rhythm started to falter again, clenching around him.

“Can feel you–little more, baby, just a little more,” he moved his hand from her back to her hip, reaching with his thumb to the apex of her core. She gasped at his touch, the quick, small circles he drew over her clit as he twitched inside of her–her lips on his neck brought his orgasm forth, dragged it on until she stilled with a cry of his name.

She went heavy against him, hot, long breaths caressing his skin as she clung to him, and slowly he shifted back, bringing his arm around her waist again to keep her close, guiding her to lie down on top of him. She peppered his neck and shoulder with small kisses, brushing her hand through the hair on top of his head, each strand standing on edge under her touch.

“You keep doing that, you might just be the death of me,” he murmured, the sudden quiet broken only by their breathings. Camila chuckled, grazing her teeth against his neck–he tilted his head and gave her more space, her kiss lingering over his pulse point.

“Feels like you’re alive to me,” she echoed his words, and Frankie laughed, his whole body shaking with it. She placed one final kiss on his neck and he could feel the smile on her lips before she rolled onto his side, a sigh leaving her before she moved one hand to her hip.

“You alright?” he asked softly, turning his head towards her. Her eyes were closed, eyelashes brushing her flushed cheeks, and her lips were curved in a smile still, as she slowly rubbed down her upper thigh.

“Haven’t done this in a while,” she returned, and he brought his hand over hers, pressing down gently to massage her flesh. She sighed again, relieved, lowering her chin to his shoulder. “Just need a moment.”

“You can stay, it’s alright,” she flickered her gaze up at him, a few rapid blinkings before he leaned in, placing an almost ridiculously chaste kiss against her lips before pulling back. “I’ll be right back.”

She hummed softly, her eyes shutting right away as her hand fell to the empty space previously occupied by him, fingers curling as if seeking to hold onto the warmth he’d left behind. His gaze lingered a moment longer on her, the way her hair fell across the covers and around her head, soft waves now tangled. He didn’t need any brighter light to see how beautiful she was, her body curling up onto herself as her breath slowed down furthermore.

When he returned from the bathroom, mere moments later, the air in the room was heavy with the smell of sex, but underneath lingered that scent that had driven him wild from the bar–rosemary, fresh and pungent and somewhat familiar. Camila’s body was completely wrapped up in his covers, untucked and twisted from the bed, only the top of her head peeking from underneath, the whole thing shifting slowly in tandem with her breathing.

“Mila,” he called her name softly, just leaning against the edge of the bed with the towel he’d brought for her resting on his forearm. “You’re hogging all the covers,” he whispered with a smile, and a quiet groan left her–a noise of protest as she shifted and lifted one arm, uncovering herself and the empty side of the bed. All through it, she did not open her eyes.

Chuckling, he climbed by her side, leaving the towel on the nightstand and shifting close, until her warm skin touched his again. She dropped the covers and her arm back down, right across his chest, and bowed her head until her forehead was pressed to his shoulder, the other arm tangling with his, interlocking their hands together.

Frankie looked down towards her again, unable to help the delicate smile curling his lips, and ever so slowly leaning in to brush his lips to her forehead. She squeezed his hand at that–the only acknowledgment she managed to give other than another soft sigh, warm hair brushing down his shoulder. So he said nothing else–there was no need to–and just fixed the covers until she was fully covered. It didn’t even matter he was still partially uncovered, the sheets mostly tangled around her body instead–he was warm enough with her at his side.

When Frankie opened his eyes, he realized he’d slept all through the night without waking a single time–no nightmares, no fear for his child needing him all of a sudden, and the warmth radiating from the body next to him a comfort he hadn’t felt in a while. The morning sun filtered through the drawn curtains, hitting the lower edge of the bed with feeble rays, and though his head hurt terribly he forced his gaze to shift at his side.

He shouldn’t have drank that much–he wasn’t used to it anymore.

Camila had abandoned her curled up position during the night, shifting almost onto her front with one leg hooked over his, and her arm still draped across his chest, fingers extended towards where his farther hand was. The hand he’d fallen asleep holding was tucked under her chin, just above his shoulder, and was pushing upwards slightly, so that a pout formed on her lips–his own arm was stuck underneath her, a little numb, disappearing underneath her curtain of hair.

Her eyelids shifted as if chasing a dream, her breathing still even, and against his side Frankie could feel her heartbeat, regular and soothing. Shifting ever so slightly, he tried to angle his body to face her, but her arm tightened around him, and a groan of protest left her as she pushed herself closer, brows knitting in a frown that was immediately covered by her hair falling across her face.

“Sorry,” he murmured softly, mouth parched. He reached forward with his free hand, brushing the locks back and tucking them behind her ear. There was a smudge of mascara underneath her eye, and he cupped his hand over her cheek to rub at it gently. She hummed, leaning into his touch before slowly licking her lips, smacking them a couple of times.

“What time is it?” she blinked several times in his direction, frown returning until she cleared her vision and he came into focus, brown eyes wide that showed her smile before he glanced at her mouth. “Hi,” she whispered, almost breathless, and Frankie chuckled.

“Hi,” he repeated, mimicking her smile. “Still early, I think. I have no idea where my phone is,” he cleared his throat–he needed some water desperately, but couldn’t bring himself to move away from her. “You can get some more sleep, if you want.”

“Do I look that terrible?” she turned her lips in an exaggerated pout, moving her hand across his chest, shoulder, following the curve of his neck before she was cupping his jaw, thumb brushing across his patchy beard.

“Quite the opposite,” some boldness from the night before clung to him still, in that moment of otherness from the rest of the world they were lingering in, in tangled limbs and tentative touches. Though she attempted to maintain her expression of mock-offense, a grin broke across her lips–lips he was glancing at over and over–and a flush spread across her cheeks. She grew warmer, pressing herself into his side.

“Even without the alcohol?” she teased, the tip of his nose brushing his–neither of them seemed to care about morning breath, or the way both their mouths felt padded with cotton. As long as they were close. Closer.

“Especially without the alcohol,” he retorted with a nod, rubbing the tip of his nose to hers.

She kissed him with a smile still on, scratching his jaw as she pushed herself up to meet him, and he let his hand wander back, fingers brushing through her hair until he cupped the nape of her neck. Camila sighed in the kiss, and he took advantage of her parted lips, licking into her mouth as her whole body went soft and heavy against his.

Frankie moved slowly, slotting his leg between hers as he shifted on his side, deepening the kiss and then moved again, guiding her until she was lying on her back, and he hovered over her, forearms bracketing her head as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and parted her thighs to accommodate his hips.

He groaned when she arched her back to cant her hips towards his, a muffled whine at the rub of his underwear he’d pulled on before getting into bed against her bare core. It was suddenly clear to him that it hadn’t been the alcohol making him dizzy the night before, but her, her kisses, the way her body pressed against his, the soft sounds she fought to hold back.

For a moment, that was all he heard–the rustling of the covers, her breathing quickening, his heart beating faster, louder, his name hanging from her lips once and twice and then again–and then the doorbell rang, and Frankie’s head snapped upwards.

“Were you expecting someone?” Camila asked, a little breathless, turning her head towards the door of the bedroom, the echo of the doorbell breaking the glass that had shielded them from outside, from the day ahead.

“I think it’s my mother,” he spoke in a lower voice, flinching at his own words, and the woman’s eyes widened as he snapped her gaze back towards him, a hint of panic crossing her face. “It’s alright, she’s just–she’s not staying, just passing through, I’ll–” he brushed his lips to the corner of her mouth as he moved from over her, the half-kiss hurried and messy. “I’ll be right back.”

He cursed himself as he stood from the bed, scrambling to find a pair of trousers to put on with a shirt that wasn’t wrinkled–he pushed the clothes from the night before aside, the doorbell ringing again and the realization of what was going to happen making him suddenly unable to look at her.

“Frankie,” she called softly, and he turned his gaze to a vague point of the duvet, right next to where her hand rested now that she’d sat up. “Where’s the bathroom?” she fidgeted with a loose thread of the duvet, and on her other side she drummed her fingers quickly. Nervously.

“Down the corridor to the right,” he stalled for a moment, then forced his gaze up. Her eyes were still wide, still worried. “I’ll be right back,” he repeated, and headed for the door before the doorbell could ring a third time.

The night before was a blur until the moment they landed on his bed–bits and pieces, snippets of songs and rumbles of music, bitter and sweet from alcohol and then her. They’d talked for so long, and yet he knew he’d never mentioned Alba–and with the way they’d moved through the house, she sure hadn’t seen any picture of her either. It was why he hadn’t brought anybody home in a long time–hadn’t even thought about it, before Camila.

“Ah, tienes mala cara,” was his mother greeting as he opened the door, and the little child in her arms immediately squealed, all but throwing herself towards her father. Frankie was quick to grab her, huffing out a breath that he hoped didn’t smell too much of tequila, stepping aside as the woman walked in.

“Hola, mamá,” he muttered, watching as she perused the living room. “¿Están bien?” he asked then, turning to look at the child with a smile–he couldn’t help it, the child’s joy infectious even when he felt like death. He needed water. And breakfast.

“Nuh-hu,” she clicked her tongue and shook her head, a smile already pulling at her lips. Frankie sighed. "¿Es bonita?” she asked–he felt his chest and face warm up, and was quick to glance away, focusing on babbling Alba instead. He could try and bullshit his way out of the conversation, but there was no winning an argument like that with his mother.

Mostly because he knew it was clear as day on his face that he’d actually had a great night.

“Sì, mamá, es muy bonita, pero–” she waved her hands in the air, as if shooing gnats away.

“Vale, vale, me voy,” she scoffed, walking back towards them. Frankie bowed his head, letting her kiss his forehead before she pinched the kid’s cheek gently, making her giggle again. “Ten cuidado, ¿sí?”

“No es como si me fuera a robar, mamá,” he chuckled, the sticky feeling of her lipstick on his forehead familiar and somewhat welcomed. He reached over to squeeze her shoulder softly, reassuringly, but his mother just looked back up at him with a sigh, patting the back of his knuckles.

“Me refiero a tu corazón, Cisco,” she murmured gently.

“It’s not like that,” he said quickly with a shake of his head, but his eyes trailed up towards the ceiling, where soft steps came from upstairs. His mother shook her head, humming her dissent as she followed his gaze. “Mamá–”

“Al menos pídele una cita,” she whispered, the steps drawing tentatively closer, stopping somewhere down the corridor. “Chau, nena. Proteges a tu viejo, ¿vale?”

Frankie scoffed, a quick peck to his mother’s cheek with a thanking under his breath before she showed herself out, one last glance over her shoulder, towards the stairs that creaked–the situation was almost hilarious, his mother trying to steal a look towards Camila while the woman tried to be as quiet as possible down the stairs. All the while, Alba squirmed in his hold, curious about the noise coming from inside the house, too distracted by it to see the door close in front of his grandmother.

Camila’s head appeared first, the rest of her body still a step back, and she glanced inside the living room with a careful gaze–she saw Frankie first, her expression relaxing. She took the final step forward and then stilled, her eyes falling to the kid still in his arms. They regarded each other, and Frankie had to clear his throat a couple of times while she pulled at the hem of his shirt over her wrinkled dress.

“Well, I thought it took longer to get one of them,” she tugged the sleeves of the shirt almost over her hands, taking a tentative step forward before frowning. “Didn’t we use protection?”

Frankie hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath until he huffed out a laugh, holding Alba a little closer before crossing the space from the front door to Camila. Her gaze flickered from him to the child, her giggled pulling a smile on her lips as she tilted her head.

“Hi, nena,” she whispered softly, pushing her hand out towards Alba. The child grabbed her index, tugging it towards her face and immediately trying to put it in her mouth. Camila snorted, keeping her head tilted to look at her face. “I don’t think that’s very tasty, honey.”

“Alba, don’t,” Frankie chastised softly, trying to pry Camila’s finger from her grip. “Sorry, she will try and put everything in her mouth lately.”

“That’s alright,” her voice had a softer edge, eyes fixed on the giggling child. Frankie had managed to wrestle her hand out of the kid’s hold, and was now wiping her hand clean. “So she’s–you have a daughter?”

“Yes,” he looked up from their now joined hands to see her nibbling at her bottom lip, the hand he wasn’t holding fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt, thumbing the loose button.

“Just a daughter?” she asked, her voice lower, and looked up at him. Wide-eyed, her bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly, Frankie’s heart clenched at the hint of doubt in her words.

“Oh, God–yes,” he spoke quickly, and moved forward as much as he could while still holding Alba against his chest. “I’m sorry–yes. Her mother and I haven’t spoken in months.”

The tension left Camila’s shoulders, a long exhale that tasted minty and made Frankie all too aware of his own breath–he tilted his head to the side, keeping only his gaze directed towards her.

“You’ve been raising her on your own?” at her question, Alba tipped herself forward, lounging for her with open arms–Camila’s hand rested on her chest before his own could, keeping her upright and stepping closer, a wide and gentle smile as she murmured something under her breath as she rubbed her thumb across the child’s chest. Frankie shrugged.

“My mom helps, keeps her some nights if she thinks I need it,” he watched the soothing motions of her hand, the way Alba’s breath began to even, how the woman’s eyes did not leave the child for a moment, how her cheeks had a gentle flush that was somewhat different from the one of that morning, in bed. “My friends too–some of them. Benny can’t be trusted with a child on his own, I’d find her with purple hair or something.”

“Sounds like a charmer,” she chuckled, and after another beat looked up, meeting Frankie’s gaze. He sucked in a breath, his head bowed awfully close to hers–he wasn’t sure why it felt different now, to be so near her he could feel the warmth radiating off her body. In the new light, he could see faint shadows under her eyes, some remnants of the makeup she’d tried to wash off clinging to her eyelashes, the freckles dotting her nose, the grays at her temples that matched his own.

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat, shuffling on the spot. “I’m sorry, Mila.”

“What for?” she frowned. Frankie’s gaze shifted from her to Alba, her head now tipped back against his chest, eyelids drooping. “Hey, it’s alright–it’s not like a child is something you discuss with a one night stand. I understand,” she sounded so genuine, Frankie’s heart clenched again.

His mother’s words echoed in his head: at least ask her out on a date.

“What if it wasn’t?” he asked before he could stop himself, and watched the circling motion of her thumb still on Alba’s chest stop–the child grumbled in protest, turning her head to hide in the crook of Frankie’s neck. “A one night thing, I mean. That is, if–”

“Yes,” she replied immediately, almost breathlessly, then cleared her throat. “I’m sure there’s plenty of kid-friendly places, too.”

“I –” Frankie hadn’t even thought of suggesting Alba went with them, whenever it was, wherever it was, if it ever was– he already imagined calling in favors, finding a babysitter. Camila hadn’t even hesitated. “Might be a little rusty, but I don’t remember dates including one-year-old kids, y’know?”

“Oh, you meant a date?” Camila’s head tilted to the side, and Frankie’s expression fell, the little smile that had begun forming dropping quickly as his lips parted. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” she said right away, covering her mouth to keep herself from laughing. “Bad joke, I’m sorry,” she repeated, moving a little closer to his side, dropping the hand she was keeping on Alba towards his arm, wrapping her fingers around his wrist as she moved close enough to rest her chin on the opposite shoulder of the one the kid was falling asleep. “Whatever works for you–I’d just like to see you again.”

“Even without the alcohol?” he tilted his head so that he was looking at her still–from underneath the collar of his shirt, bright against her neck appeared a bruise in the shape of his lips. He stared at it a moment longer, while her smile widened and she nodded, chin digging into his shoulder.

“Especially without the alcohol,” she echoed, and he let his eyes flutter shut with an exhale.

He let himself linger in the moment, Alba’s warm puffs of air as she fell asleep against him, soft body slumped heavily over him, and Camila’s weight on the other side, the barely-there contact of her body against his side, fingers brushing his wrist with the same circling soothing motion she’d used with the child, the other hand resting over his shoulder.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, afraid of breaking whatever spell had been cast over the three of them.

“Of course I am,” he felt her shift her weight forward before she kissed his shoulder from above his shirt. “D’you have your phone?”

“Back pocket,” he’d realized he pulled on the trousers from the night before as he walked down the stairs, and the phone was still there–before he could fix his hold on Alba and reach for it, Camila dropped her hand from his shoulder and took it, turning a little so he could watch the screen too as she thumbed in her number.

“There. Whenever you’re ready,” she smiled up at him, and almost put it back in his pocket, then stalled. “Actually, can I use this? Mine’s dead and I should get a ride back to my car.”

“I can take you,” Alba stirred in his arms, the few minutes of sleep seemingly enough for her, a grumble leaving her as she tried to squirm out of his hold and reach for the floor.

“I’m a big girl, Frankie, I can make it,” she smiled, and her eyes wandered immediately towards the child, gaze softening as he lowered himself carefully to let her down. Alba toddled towards Camila, her arms out for balance–it still astounded Frankie, the way she could cross rooms by herself now.

“I know, just–” he followed the child with his gaze, hands outstretched to grab her should it be needed. But she went on, straight towards Camila’s legs, arms lifted towards the hem of the shirt, tugging gently on it. “We could get breakfast–Alba, pórtate bien,” he chided.

“Breakfast sounds nice,” the woman crouched down, bringing herself at eye level with the child–her dress pooled around her ankles, and his shirt brushed the floor, Alba grabbing the hem and pulling it towards her. “I know, nena, it looks familiar,” again her voice softened, a mock whisper as she leaned in and pulled one corner up. “I stole it from your dad because I couldn’t find my jacket–but don’t tell him.”

Alba giggled, looking between the two of them but leaning against Camila’s bent legs, one cheek squished against her knees. The woman’s hand reached for her head, gently brushing her dark curls back and out of her hair. Frankie had only ever seen his mother use such tenderness with her. His mouth felt dry.

“Give me just a moment, I’ll be right back.”

He got ready in record time, brushing his teeth while simultaneously trying and failing to make his hair make sense–he pulled one of his caps on, not wanting to waste more time. A part of him was apprehensive, leaving the two of them alone–but the other trusted Camila already, and he hoped this once his gut would not betray him. He really, really hoped so.

When he returned–still in the middle of buttoning his shirt–Camila had abandoned her crouched position and was sitting on the floor instead, her back against the couch and her purse abandoned on the side, as Alba sat between her ankles and placed one toy after the other over the woman’s dress. She babbled as she moved a stuffed bear towards the other, which Camila held against her stomach, her eyes crinkling at the corners while she smiled. The moment Frankie walked back into the living room, she looked up towards him.

“That’s an interesting shirt,” she commented, eyebrows arching, unable to hide the grin as her gaze roamed across the print of his button-up. Dark green with a floral print, it had been a gift from his mother, and he rarely ever wore it, the pattern a little too bold for his taste.

“I’m behind on laundry,” he muttered, fingers hovering over the last button, eventually deciding to leave the neck a little open. “And you stole the other one,” he pointed an accusing finger at her, and Camila immediately brought one hand to her chest, stuffed animal and all.

“Who told you that?” she gasped in mock-offense, her eyes falling back to Alba who had been following the conversation, eyes wide and attentive, giggling between their words. “I thought we were becoming friends, and you went and betrayed me like this!”

“Don’t blame it on the child,” reaching their side, Frankie offered her his hand to help her up, and once she was standing, a couple of staggering steps before he steadied her, he lowered his head towards her a little. “Thief,” he added in a whisper, and Camila smiled up at him.

“Is this alright?” she asked then, almost tentatively. “I really have no idea where my jacket is,” she admitted, sheepishly. Frankie rubbed his thumb across her knuckles, gaze falling from her lips to the places his shirt draped over her shoulders and collarbones.

“Of course–I’m sure it’ll turn up,” he didn’t say it gave him an excuse to call her afterwards, to actually see her again if for a minute.

“Thank you,” she cleared her throat, letting go of his hand to reach up and fix the collar of his shirt, fingertips brushing his neck while doing so. “I was just messing with you–it looks good,” she hummed then, smoothing it across his chest. He scoffed, a light roll of his eyes before turning to pick up Alba, the child already lifting her arms towards him.

“Come on, I’m starving,” he said instead, and the woman scowled at his dismissal, walking just ahead of him to open the door for him and Alba–she’d picked one of the stuffed bears with her, and when Alba noticed she squealed happily, looking over Frankie’s shoulder all the while to keep her eyes on Camila and the bear.

The drive was quiet, except for the initial moment, the radio starting again where they had left it on a too high volume the night before–the final notes of The Chain leaving place to the beginning of You Make Loving Fun, a nervous laughter leaving them both as they reached for the volume at the same time. In the backseat, Alba squirmed in her booster seat but was otherwise unfazed, the bear secured in her arms, and they glanced at her half-guiltily before turning towards each other.

Frankie thought he could’ve kissed her right there and then, above the handbrake with their seatbelts pushing into their chests. He also thought he’d had the same idea the night before. Was sure of it, actually. He’d probably done it, too, the alcohol making him bold enough.

But he didn’t need courage, he realized. It was so easy to be at Camila’s side, to talk about nothing and everything all at once, to joke and laugh and listen to her hum along with the songs, watch as she looked into the mirror towards Alba and made faces at her that made the child giggle with unabashed glee.

He forgot, for the whole ride, that they hadn’t even known each other for a full day. It didn’t feel like it mattered anyway.

Inside the café–right in front of the bar they’d been the night before, her car the only one still in the parking lot–there weren’t a lot of people. They sat themselves in one of the corners, Frankie between her and Alba, and ordered an exaggerated amount of food with two strong coffees–acknowledging for the first time their hangovers.

Passing in front of the counter, Camila had gotten an orange, and as they waited for the food she began peeling, the oils soaking her skin that still smelled like Frankie–a combination from his shirt, his sheets, his soap she’d used to rinse part of the night from her. In the meantime they spoke of her job–a boring office job that she needed to pay rent as she looked for something she actually enjoyed–and his job which left Alba with her grandmother during the day, how he still tried to be home early every afternoon.

“Yesterday was an exception–I barely ever get out when I don’t have her, and most of the time I just get a drink and then go back home to crash on the couch,” he looked down at the small white plate in front of him, the orange slices she’d dropped there dripping juice down the sides. She’d done it without thought, alternating between eating some herself and giving it to him as she listened, stealing glances at Alba every now and again. “I don’t–I mean, it’s been a while since I’ve done any of this.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to apologize?” she tilted her head as he bit into one of the orange slices, then removed the skin from the remaining half and gave it to Alba, her hands already extended towards him. “I thought this was going well.”

“It is!” he said quickly, his thumb catching some of the juice at the corner of Alba’s mouth. Camila repeated the process–one slice for her, another on Frankie’s plate. “I just–I feel I might be rusty, and I don’t want to f–” he stopped himself, a quick glance towards the child, “to mess this up.”

“Frankie,” she lingered on his name a moment, soft-spoken and tender. It hung in the air a long moment as they were brought their food, her gaze on him like a rooting force. He exhaled slowly, and only when the waitress left did he manage to look away from Camila. “I haven’t done this in a while either, you know? Any of it.”

He took a blueberry muffin, split it into tiny segments on the plate still covered in orange juices before handing them to Alba one by one–at the corner of his eye, Camila still looked at him and the child, the cup of coffee already in her hands.

“You can go ahead, she’s been obsessed with these lately,” he murmured, and to prove his point the kid began stuffing her face with the bits. “You still seem to be more at ease with all of this,” he admitted then, his voice still low.

“What about tonight?” she tilted her head to the side a little, food still untouched.

“You said it yourself–that was the tequila,” with a sheepish smile, he looked up at her, wiping his hands on the nearest napkin. “Made me think less about the fact you actually asked me over like that,” at that, she gave a quick laugh–a sudden noise that seemed to surprise both of them.

“Sorry, just–” she cleared her throat and took a quick sip of her coffee. “Why’d you think I asked you?”

“I have no idea,” he shrugged, honesty weighing his words. Camila’s gaze softened.

“My last relationship ended a little over a year ago–yesterday was the first time I actually got a night out for myself,” she spoke calmly, and for the first time that morning she did not meet his gaze openly, rather focused on the table as she ran her index all around the rim of the cup. “I just wanted to have fun. I spent so much time during that relationship staying quiet, staying still, and I just wanted to sing and dance for a while.”

“That doesn’t explain me,” her expression shifted quickly, that same scowl from the house at the way he’d just brushed off her compliment. He almost apologized right away.

“You looked like you might need it, too,” she shrugged, leaning with her elbows on the table and cocking her head to the side again, meeting his gaze once more. “And I really wanted you to need it. Which made me really really nervous.”

“You seemed anything but,” she smiled then, lowering the cup to the table to fill her plate once she saw him eat, too.

“Liquid courage,” she said it almost conspiratorially–her voice low, not enough that he couldn’t hear her, but had to lean in a little. Camila’s gaze flickered from his eyes down to his lips, and when she reached over to rub her thumb at the corner of his mouth, Frankie’s shoulders sagged with a slow exhale. “We could just test out the waters, you know? Slowly. See where this goes–it doesn’t need to be a grand thing.”

“I can’t ask that of you,” her fingers were still brushing his face, and when he shook his head his stubbled rubbed against her fingertips.

“You’re not,” she replied in a soft voice, dropping her elbow to the table. With the motion, his head followed her hand down, resting his cheek into her palm. Like the night before, Frankie believed he couldn’t possibly get close enough. “I think it’s worth a try, if–I mean, if that’s how you feel, too.”

“I really do,” he murmured, and she smiled again, so bright and pretty his heart ached. “I just have no idea what to do.”

“I’m sure we’ll figure it out,” she shrugged, and then, lowering her head a little so she could look at him fully from underneath the visor of his cap. “Can I kiss you?”

The warmth in her voice took him aback, the knot in his throat melting with it, and before he could register he was even leaning further in, he nodded.

“Yes,” he added, pointlessly, feeling her hand moving to cup his chin, leading him close, closer, gently pushing his cap back so that it didn’t stand in her way. Camila’s kiss was delicate, nothing compared to those of the night before, nothing like that morning–chaste, familiar, almost casual, somewhat tender.

There, then gone, leaving Frankie with the thought he could be kissing her all day long and never grow tired of it.

“Where the hell have you been?” Santi’s voice sounded metallic and distant coming from the car speaker, his greeting as soon as Frankie called him back.

“I’ve got Alba, mind your tongue,” he retorted, watching as Camila’s car moved out of the parking lot, her arm sticking out of the window to wave at them. Alba laughed, returning the gesture and squirming in her seat. “Did somebody die?”

“Hola chiquitita,” Santi called, and Alba squealed in delight. Frankie suddenly wondered if he should’ve given her that muffin with all its sugar. “I could’ve died. I’ve been calling since yesterday.”

“Well, you didn’t,” for a moment he stared at the tail of Camila’s car–up until he could see, and then began driving the opposite direction. “What’s up?”

“No, not what’s up,” Santi argued, his voice growing in pitch. “Where have you been, Fish?”

Frankie flinched, shifting his grip on the steering wheel–he cleared his throat.

“I was on a date,” there was no going around it–not with Santi. A clattering and a muttered curse, Santi’s voice was suddenly closer.

“Excuse me?” he turned the volume down a bit, sighing as he tipped his head back towards the headrest, eyes still fixed on the road. “For the whole night?”

“Yes, actually,” he sighed, glancing towards Alba in the mirror–she was tilting her head at the sound of her uncle’s voice, over and over, as if trying to find him right there in the car with them. “My mom had Alba so I went out. Camila stayed the night. It’s not a big deal.”

“Camila, hu?” the other man almost taunted. “I’m assuming the night went alright, since it’s almost lunchtime.”

“We went for breakfast,” Frankie shrugged, even though Santi could not see him.

“You–” a pause, “wait, with Alba?” “With Alba,” he confirmed, a careful note in his voice.

“And it went–” Santi let the sentence linger, unsure. Great, Frankie wanted to say. It went great. I can’t believe my luck. It feels too good to be true. I’m afraid I’m about to wake up from a wonderful dream and be met with a disappointing reality.

“Alright,” he said instead. “Alba adores her, and she was–it was alright.”

“So, you’re gonna see her again?” he could hear the grin in his friend’s voice, and he almost rolled his eyes. He wasn’t going to hear the end of it anytime soon, he knew. He also knew he didn’t care, Camila’s perfume lingering in his car, on his bed, the promise of going on a walk soon, to keep things easy.

“Yeah–I will.”

222 notes · View notes