#Ben miller x Francisco morales | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Mobile Tumblr US users spend an average of 4.04 minutes per session on the app.

#Ben miller x Francisco morales

pimosworld · 7 months

Text

Never have I ever

Kinktober Prompt-Voyeurism,Squirting,Polyamory

Pairing -Will Miller x f!reader x Tf boys x f!reader

Summary-You and the boys play a game and things take an interesting turn.

CW-18+,MDNI,NSFW, Voyuerism, Smut, Fluff, Rough sex, Dom Will, mentions of anal, mentions of MM dynamics, restraints, mentions of safe word but no use, established poly relationship, Unprotected PIV, cream pie, squirting, aftercare. Appropriate discussion of past relationships.

WC-4K

A/N- Set in the story of us verse but can be read as a stand alone. Reader is not race coded, no use of Y/N. This is my current WIP procrastination, when lightning strikes you must write. My first kinktober prompt. I just reached 400 followers and this is 4000 words so I’m gonna take this as my follower celebration as well.

[Series Masterlist][Main Masterlist]

“Ben, are we seriously playing this?” The five of you are situated comfortably in your usual spots in the living room and somehow the younger Miller has convinced you all to ‘make things more interesting’ in his words.

“I’m too old for this.” Frankie mumbles into his beer as he downs the rest.

“We know…that doesn’t mean you’re getting out of it.” You chuckle briefly as Santi’s hand skirts higher up your thigh under the blanket. He’s been slowly torturing you as you relaxed on the couch, all of you decompressing and going over your week. It was a new ritual to discuss the ins and outs of your time apart but it seemed Ben was growing tired of the normal mostly mundane conversation.

“Hands up let’s go.” The impatient Miller barks from his spot on the floor, too big to fit anywhere else and you're always unsure of why Will won’t just get a bigger couch. You suggested a few months ago that it would be nice for all of you to be able to relax together. He agreed but evidently it takes time to find the perfect one.

Everyone reluctantly puts their hands up, Santiago opting for one hand because he can’t pry his other from the warmth of you under the blanket. The other part of you knows he’ll probably lose this game and he doesn’t feel like putting too much effort into revealing how much of a slut he was before he pulled his head out of his ass and finally told you how he felt.

“Both hands, Pope.” Frankie chides from beside you and Santi squeezes your thigh before drawing his hand out and flipping him off.

This game was an odd choice, almost completely out of left field. The five of you knew almost everything there was to know about each other. Although you’re sure the boys know a lot more about their respective sexual escapades than they know about yours. Nothing among these men is ever done by accident, you’re just waiting to see the angle that’s being played so you don’t end up trapped. The confused and amused looks on the others' faces has you a little at ease since it seems this is a solo mission for Ben and those didn’t always go as planned.

“I’ll start since it was my idea.” Will sends you a look from across the room as to say of course and you’re acutely aware that he hasn’t let out one protest or sign of stopping this game. You’re almost positive it’ll come down to you both in the end and he knows it judging by the smug look on his face.

“Never have I ever faked an orgasm.” You roll your eyes as you put one finger down. Maybe you were going to lose after all. The chuckles from the others don’t help your embarrassment, even though you should hardly blame yourself. It doesn’t need to be clarified that since you’d been with all of them there was no need to fake it anymore, but it was definitely known by all that you had to in the past an ungodly amount of times.

You brave a look up from the carpet that you’d all but memorized as you see Ben's wide tooth grinning at Frankie beside you. You look over just in time to see Frankie put his finger down as the redness creeps up his neck. He’s staring daggers at the younger Miller and Santi’s chuckles send vibrations through your body as you lean into him.

“How did she not know?” You ask him in the sweetest tone, no judgment behind it, just genuine curiosity.

He scrubbed his hand over his jaw, his calloused fingers digging into the patchy part of his beard. No doubt thinking how long this night will be if we have to explain each finger down,but of course that’s always Ben’s plan. He wants to draw this out for as long as he can.

“I pulled out and spit on her back.” He says it so sheepishly you almost feel bad for him. An image flashes in your mind and you make the mistake of looking over at Will who is doing his best to not completely lose it. You cup your mouth trying to suppress the giggle but it’s far too late.

“Laugh it up honey.” The funniest part is how could anyone not be thoroughly enjoying themselves when Francisco Morales is behind the wheel, but you figure it’s their loss.

You wrack your brain for something you’ve never done that they may have.Blowjob,one night stand,sent a nude photo,had sex in public…those are all out.

Will interrupts your thoughts as he speaks from the loveseat. “Never have I ever had a threesome.” He just saved you in more ways than one as you see Benny and Frankie glance at each other as they put a finger down. Santi tsks beside you and you don’t even have to look over to see he did as well.

You miss the look Santi shoots Frankie above your head as he makes a mental note. Ben may have been a thorn in his side at times but right now he could kiss the ground he walked on. Unbeknownst to you this has turned into a silent competition of memorizing everything you’ve never done,each time you don’t put a finger down he clocks one of them. He doesn’t even care that he’s about to lose as the room thrums with sexual tension.

As you predicted you and Will have the most fingers left. You have three,Will has two and Benny has one that he’s been holding onto for dear life. Santi and Frankie had long been out, Santi rejoins the group after refreshing your drinks. He knew he hasn't missed anything since it was getting harder to think of things as the game went on.

You need to get Ben out and you were sure this next question would. If it also took one down for Will then you would just be getting lucky you guessed.

“Never have I ever done anal.” Santi stifles a moan next you as Frankie not so subtly adjusts the growing bulge in his jeans. You were so focused on winning that you have no idea how thin of a thread they were holding onto. Frankie’s been fighting the mental image of checking each thing off your list one by one. Santiago isn’t faring much better not having realized how much innocence was still lying dormant in you.

Ben concedes as he grabs the pillow he was using on the floor, your brace for the moment that he decides to toss it at you only for him to place it gingerly in his lap.

“Welcome to the club.” Frankie mutters under his breath as you stare down Will who now has one finger up…interesting.

“Never have I ever been tied up.” Fuck

You put a finger down and wait for the responses that eventually never come. Will was playing dirty, he knows for a fact you’ve been tied up. It had only been a week since he asked you if you wanted to try it.

This was it,you had to go for the kill…but how bad did you want to win? You know there’s only one way but it will certainly come at a cost. In the end the cost may be worth it.

You raise up on the couch sitting back on your heels,proudly displaying the two fingers you have left. You can’t chance a look at anyone besides Will or you might chicken out. Frankie’s fingers grip nervously at the blanket that’s fallen next to you. He wants to reach out and touch you, the only sound over your beating heart is the rustling of the couch cushions as Santi leans forward just into your peripheral vision. Breath in…Breathe out 3,2,1.

“Never have I ever made someone squirt.” You say it so fast they almost don’t catch it…almost.

“Ha…he’s never made anyone…” Ben is silenced mid sentence as Will closes his fist and leans back into the seat. He doesn’t really care that he’s lost, in reality he’s actually won this game. Judging by the shocked looks on their faces or Ben’s mouth hanging agape. You didn’t fully think this through, your brain was clouded with the thrill of winning.

He almost feels bad for you as he says the momentary look of triumph quickly turns into one of defeat. It’s written all over your face as the realization sets in that you’ve completely fucked yourself, you would be a horrible poker player because you just revealed all your cards. If this were a lion's den you were a fresh piece of meat.

A drop of sweat trickles down your back as you lower your hand slowly to place it on your thigh. The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

“Prove it.” Santi’s voice is so close to your ear you nearly jump out of your skin.

Will tilts his head at you as if to challenge you. This game was far from over and you’d be damned if you were going to lose. You stand from the couch and walk over to him. Four sets of eyes watching your every move as you grab his hand and pull him to stand. You raise your eyebrows as an acceptance to his challenge and he starts to lead you away from them toward the hallway. You sense no movement behind you as you make your way to his bedroom.

“You boys coming or not?” A small stampede sounds behind you and you chuckle picturing them trying not to trample each other as their bodies catch up with their feet, no doubt all thought having left their brains.

****

Santi’s lost count, has it been five or six times Will has brought you to the edge only to pull away and deny you what you so desperately want and need. He’s no stranger to this game but he doesn’t think he’s ever been this turned on by it. Watching from a whole different viewpoint. Being a spectator is thrilling and watching you writhe and chase his touch after each denial makes his cock achingly hard in his jeans.

Frankie’s not doing much better as he tries to follow Will's rules he laid out before starting. If you want me to show you then you don’t touch her unless I tell you to. The captain in him didn’t come out often anymore but when it did he commanded respect.

Ben stares on with excitement and curiosity written all over his face. He watches as you grip the sheets, your chest heaving as sweat beads down your forehead. Will told you not to touch yourself and Ben didn’t know you could be so obedient.

Wills got you so on edge you can’t be shy anymore about the way you beg for him and plead for him to let you come. A far cry from when you first entered the bedroom.

He had slowly undressed you and instructed you to lay flat on the bed. He crawled over your body kissing and biting his way up your thighs and your stomach. His hand caressed your breast as his tongue laved over the other. It was too much and not enough as your eyes met the others standing in the room. They’d all seen you in this position before but something about them watching suddenly has you feeling vulnerable.

“Look at me.” He leaned in and kissed you, deep and passionate as his hand gripped your waist and his tongue prodded your mouth. An expert distraction to bring you back to the moment.

“It’s just me and you.” It was the last thing he said to you before he methodically took you apart right before their eyes. You knew he was taking his time, putting on a show. He wasn’t simply going to make you squirt and move on like some conquest. He wanted to draw this out, show them what he was capable of.

He started with his mouth as his breath ghosted over your slick folds. He looked up at you through hooded lids one more time to give you a chance to back out, when you gave no indication of wanting to stop he dragged his tongue expertly through your slit. Parting it with his thumb as he dove in circling your clit. You were a goner from the beginning as he brought you to the first cliff only to leave you hanging. You cried out his name in desperation as he dipped two fingers in, pumping in and out as he bit down on your thigh. The pleasure and pain mixed in with you on display had your nerves alight.

With each denied release you can feel the pressure building in your core, it’s so close you can taste it on the tip of your tongue. You can taste yourself as he leans over you again kissing you through your whimpers as your body shakes beneath him.

“Will please…” Your sweet voice begging is like music to their ears. Frankie would give you whatever you want if you asked him but Will doesn’t budge.

“Please what sweetheart…I can’t read your mind.”

Son of a bitch he’s trying to kill you.

For all his resolve Santiago can’t help but be impressed. Even if this sudden burst of confidence is all a show for them he has to admit he would’ve caved by now and just went straight for the finale.

You’re not even sure when Ben and Frankie sat on the bed leaning against the headboard beside you, or when Santi sat at the end to have a perfect view of your pussy clenching around nothing as your arousal drips onto the sheets below.

“Please Will, I need you inside me…I need to come please.” You’re practically crying as he shushes you, his cock leaking precum on your stomach as it twitches in anticipation. He’s not going to be able to last much longer at this rate either.

He leans back on his heels as he grips the base of his cock, slapping your clit and dragging it through your slick as he slowly prods your entrance. The noise you make almost has him buckling as you sigh into it finally having what you want.

He starts at a slow pace as he wraps your legs around his waist, he can see the way your face contorts with every slap of his hips against yours. You can feel every vein and ridge as the lude sounds of your sweat and slick echo in the room.

You can’t see it from where you are but Frankie’s itching to touch you, desperately wanting to break the rule as he watches you try not to touch yourself.

Ben is mesmerized as he watches your breasts bounce with every thrust of Will's hips, he wants to latch onto you and bite down until you're screaming his name, but he knows his brother would do more than scold him if he so much as tried to touch you right now.

Santi’s waiting…waiting for any sign or movement as to how he does it. He’s thoroughly enjoying himself but he’s seen nothing new, nothing he hasn’t done to you a dozen times over. Any indication as to what Will has managed to do before the rest of them. It’s driving him a little mad as he watches you beg for it like you’ve never had it before.

You can feel the tension building as Will picks up his pace, he shifts your legs to either side of his head as he punches the air out of your lungs with every thrust. He brings his thumb down rubbing fast circles on your clit as you try to grab his wrist. That all too familiar feeling has you keen and arch your back. “Grab her hands.” Frankie moves before you can think, your wrists gripped tightly in one of his palms above your head.

“Wait…please.” He chuckles under his breath as his chest heaves with the sharp movements. Not mere seconds ago you were begging to come and now you’re begging him to stop.

You crane your head back and lock eyes with Ben, his eyes are etched with worry as he lays there helpless to your pleas. “Will!”

“She’s fine…aren’t you sweetheart?” You can’t think, he’s fucked you so dumb you cant remember your own name let alone formulate a sentence. “Yes.” Is all you can manage.

“She knows what to say if she wants to stop.” He grits through his teeth as his orgasm steadily approaches, his thighs burn and he’s surely bruised your calves as he grips tightly to them.

You’ve never safe worded with him and you don’t plan on it now. It feels so good as the searing hot sensation creeps up your spine threatening to take purchase in your brain. “Please don’t stop.”

He gestures to Frankie to grab the pillow, who moves with lightning speed as he situates it under your back. Santi looks at your face then, and he finally sees it. The look of panic and bliss as you succumb to the inevitable. He’s seen this look before but he ran from it afraid that he might hurt you. Will punches something deep inside you as he lifts your hips, the sound you make bordering on pornography while your arousal coats his stomach almost forcing him out of you completely.

He thrusts once and twice before nearly collapsing his weight onto you as he comes through your high. He releases your legs as he leans in to give you a kiss. Will was nothing if thorough and he always made sure you were okay. It’s in this moment that you truly feel like it’s just the two of you and not aware of the blissed out expressions of the other men.

“You did so good for me.” He pants out against your mouth as he desperately tries to catch his breath.

You highly doubt this is what Ben had in mind when he suggested this game but it ended much better than any of you would have anticipated.

Moments pass and you’ve just barely recovered. You’re in need of a shower and some water as you try to move slightly, the grip on your wrists tighten as you look back at Frankie.

Do it again.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated

Tagging a few who might be interested

@csarab615 @syrupsstuff @ghostslillady @uudelally @onefinnedwonder-fm @thedreadandthefugitivemind @romanarose @scarletthefierce

253 notes · View notes

romana-after-dark · 3 months

Text

Symptom of Being Human (A Room's on Fire FishBen Bonus Chapter)

Francisco Morales x Benjamin Miller

Series Masterlist: Main Masterlist : MainTaglist

Spotify playlist

Summery: Frankie and Ben share in intimacy

Warnings and Content: Read warnings for the full fic, but for this bonus chapter, repressed queer love, mentions and references of forced breeding and brainwashing Madonna. Poor communication. Deluuuuuusions!

Song fic to Symptom of Being Human by Shinedown, a song found on the spotify playlist for the fic.

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

I can still remember me and Miss November Rain Beautiful and strange Always so inclined, coloring outside the lines Yeah, you were never on time

Francisco slammed his dresser drawer closed after yanking some pyjamas out. Maybe he kicked it a little, he wasn't sure.

He could sense the moment Ben walked in through the door even if he hadn't heard him. Ben was good at sneaking around.

"Why are you so pissy today."

It was the glib in his voice that irked Francisco the most, the stpring in his step as he padded over to where Francisco was braced over the dresser.

"I'm not pissy." But even still, he stiffened to Ben's touch as he wrapped his arms around his lovers middle.

Benjamin kissed Francisco's neck in an attempt to relax him, closing his eyes to his scent, but Francisco rolled his shoulders and jerked himself out of Ben's grasp, taking two steps away. He hated this, he hated caring so much, he hated it being a secret, he hated having to sneak around when Pope could just have them whenever and however he wanted. It wasn't fair.

Ben's arms dropped to his side. "Hey. What's wrong?" He asked, genuine, but Francisco was still irritated. "C'mon, baby, talk to me..."

The older man scoffs. "You're surprised I don't wanna suck your dick when it's gonna taste like her?"

You've always been slightly awkward, kinda weird Upside down and not all here What's wrong with me and you is crystal clear

Benny's laugh was sardonic. "Oh, is that what the issue is?"

"Yes, that's what the issue is, Ben!"

He wanted to scoff at him, but sensed Francisco wasn't in the mood to be teased for his jealousy. "Frankie, baby," Benny placed a careful hand on Franciscos shoulder, turning him. Frankie faced him, but his head was hanging and not making eye contact. "Baby please look at me." He cupped the patchy beard and coaxed Franciscos face up to look at him.

"You were late..." Frankie mutters, eyes ever-avoidant. "You were late to be with me because you wanted her."

"Frankie..." Ben places a soft kiss on his lips. "I'm sorry, okay? But it's not any different than you and Santi-"

"Yes it is!!!" Frankie steps back, but the bed was right there so he stumbles. Ben reaches for him, both of them falling onto the bed but sitting upright.

Benny's hand is on Francisco's chest. "Easy now..." He kissed the mans cheeks, then the corner of his mouth, then his lips. "I'm doing this for us, okay? The sooner she's pregnant, so sooner we can be together."

Sometimes I'm in a room where I don't belong And the house is on fire and there's no alarm And the walls are melting too How 'bout you?

Francisco was hesitant to believe him, but the way Benny looked at him, adoring blue eyes and his face framed in shaggy, dirty blonde hair... it was hard not to fall into his promises. "What do you mean..."

His eyes lit up, knowing that Francisco was listening. Ben smiled. "Once Madonna has the savior, everything will change, don't you understand?" He grabbed Frank's hand, pulling it to his chest as he scooted closer. "Pope will be so busy, his only focus will be raising the savior with Madonna, fullfiling the prophesy... he'll be too preoccupied with her to want you like that, it can just be us."

Shaking his head, Frank was not convinced. Pope wasn't like that. Pope was obsessive, possessive, he needed everyone and everything to belong to him. "Benjamin, that... I don't think that's what's gonna happen."

"But I do!" Ben was practically bouncing on the bed with excitement; his evergy never ceased to amaze Francisco, constantly animated by the next new exciting thing, but always coming back to Francisco. "Once the savior is born, well, the world will change, Frankie! Things will finally be allowed to be good." He kissed his lovers knuckles. "And what can be more good than us being together?"

Frankie didn't believe any of this for a second. He didn't believe there was a savior, or that they were gods... Ben did, and Benjamin Joseph Miller was an unstoppable force... but Santiago was an immoveable object. Still, as Ben began kissing his lips, his tongue sliding into his mouth, Francisco was, in fact, a moveable object. To Santiago, he was a stoppable force. Franisco felt like the rope in a game of tug of war, and push and pull between the two men in a covert battle.

Ben would never ever outwardly disrespect Pope. Pope was what Ben wanted to be. He admired Pope in a way he used to admire his older brother, long before jealousy and anger and drugs tore them apart. Benjamin would do anything for Santi's approval, and the look on his face when Ben was under him always made Frank jealous... then he had to remind himself that was a rare occurence compared to how often Ben was the voyer in those situations, and how much harder it much be for him knowing how often it happened behind closed doors.

He never even spoke badly about Pope in these intimate moments, Frank learning quickly to not say anything negative about their leader or even hint at disloyalty, because it always turned into a fight. Ben defended their friend to the death. What Ben couldn't understand, however, was that Frankie loved Pope too. Santiago was a good leader, he kept things prosperous in their community and he was like a brother to Frankie. He'd never known a life outside of Pope... but he was not perfect, and he wished Ben could see that. Unfortunately, to Ben, questioning Santi at all meant questioning his infallibility as a God, and if he questioned that... Ben's entire reality fell.

I've never been the favorite, thought I'd seen it all 'Til I got my invitation to the lunatic ball And my friends are coming too How 'bout you? Don't worry, it's all just a symptom of being human

"Benjamin..." Frank moaned into the boys mouth and he palmed him over his jeans.

"Fuck, love when you say my full name."

He knew he was irresistible, he know he was attractive in both looks and charm when he wanted to turn it all, that's why he spent so much time between the legs of women in their commune, on top of Frankie or under Santi. Everyone wanted him, and those that didn't... well, they got him either way.

"Off." Ben ordered, unzipping Frankie's pants and tugging them down when he lifted his hips up. Francisco soon found himself laying down on his bed in his boxers with Ben grinding into him. His pants were still on, the rough material adding to the pressure of their cocks grinding together.

Their hands explored each other's bodies as if this was a new landscape, as it they weren't intimately familiar already. Ben squeezed the soft of his sides as Frankie felt the hard of his chest. It didn't matter how different they were, quiet and loud. Fire, and a gentle flower waiting to be scorched like the earth around it. The flower simply basked in the warmth of the sun, unaware it was withering away.

Unpack all your baggage, hide it in the attic where You hope it disappears This all seems so familiar, but it doesn't feel like home It's just another unknown

Nothing mattered in these moments; Benjamin was the only thing that would calm his racing mind.

Ben sat up, still straddling Francisco and pulled his shirt over his head. Francisco was always mesmerized by this view, the way Benjamin's muscles flexed and moved, the dim light of the shitty lamp casting shadows across his chest. Taught and strong, lean muscles gave way further down to the jutting of his hipbones and golden tan skin. Right at the ends of his abs was a trail of brown hair, much darker than that on his head and face, cut off just barely before his pubic hair by his low-slung jeans.

Frankie couldn't help but gaze up at the sun god... in moments like this, with this view... Francisco could fool himself into believing the god-hood of his paramour. If God was real, Benjamin was his divine gift. Nights alone with him were the closest to heaven that he'd ever be, considering all Francisco had done in his lifetime.

"You're beautiful..." he murmured up him.

Ben's wide grin softened, folding back over Ben to pepper kisses all over Frankie's aged face. "Not as beautiful as you, darl'n"

You've always been slightly awkward, kinda weird Upside down and not all here Right or wrong, it's all so crystal clear

Francisco was not an open person. He didn't let his emotions show, good or bad. Not the way Will expressed his pain or his love, the way Pope expressed his rage, or how Ben expressed his joy. Nothing like that came easy to him. He was aware of the way Madonna watched him pensively, probably wondering why he didn't talk to her, why he didn't fuck her outside of when Pope dragged them together for a threesome...

With Benjamin, he was laid bare, naked and venerable, allowing Benjamin inside him physically and emotionally into the deepest reaches. They were as connected as two people could be, and no one saw Frankie's heart the way Ben did. No one could fill him the way Ben did.

"Perfect, fucking perfect." Ben grunted into Frank's ear as he fucked into his hole, spreading him open. Francisco laid back on the bed, his knees bent and pressed up against his stomach where Ben held there, squeezing his aching member between himself.

Frankie whispers, a contrast to Ben's loud noise, "I love you, Benjamin."

"I love you too, Francisco, don't you ever forget that" Ben moved to his mouth, kissing him and only stopping to mumble against his lips. "She can't compare to you, okay? She doesn't matter. No pussy can compare to you, got it?"

"Got it." He did. Later, when Ben left before daylight and Francisco was there alone in bad, reaching over to Ben's side just to feel the bit of his body heat left behind, doubt would creep in. When he heard Ben bragging to Will about the latest girl he railed over a fence post or against a wall, he would wonder why he wasn't enough for Ben. When he saw his handsome lover trying to fuck a baby into Madonna or kissing Santiago, he'd be reminded that the sex they shared was not unique to Benny, he didn't need him for that.

But as Ben spread his legs, jerking Frankie's weeping cock and thrusting into him, never stopping kissing him, not even long enough for them to breath. He felt like he was Ben's entire world.

The dizzying orgasm made Francisco feel like maybe, just maybe things could be different. Maybe, if Madonna got pregnant, Pope would lose interest in Francisco; what use is someone who couldn't give him children?

Maybe then, him and Ben could hold hands out in the open.

We're all just passing through Passengers on a ship of fools We're all just passing through Passengers on a ship of fools

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

Not gonna lie, friends in my phone, I teared up writing this.

I write some FishBen on my main, and it's always a lil angsty but happy ending bc they love each other. Deeply. Even when I don't write them romantic, they are very very close, Like in Leather and Lace Universe.

Here, though.... :( they can't be out, they are just angsty and love

Anyway Im obsessed with this song and listened to it for an hour on my drive planning this fic.

Up next, Steve x reader x javi for toxi <3

Please interact with the story in one way or another, im reaching the limit of tags per post so i may be removing people from the tag list if you dont interact at all. I should recognize your name.

How to keep up with the story!

Comment on this masterlist that you want to be tagged and I'll tag you in updates (If you ask to be tagged, I ask you at least like the fic. Likes dont do anything to spread the work, but it at least lets me know you're still reading.)

Follow @romana-updates and/turn on notifications

Follow the tag Rooms on fire

@hon3yboy @winniethewife @femmeanonymelives @yorksgirl @pockcock @neverwheremoonchild @casa-boiardi @meveispunk @survivingandenduring @criticalarchitecture @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @obscurexsorrows @hellfire-state-of-mind @christinamadsen @pimosworld @princessanglophile @rubyfruitjungle @simple-lovebot @missdictatorme @campingwiththecharmings @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @javier-penas-wifexx420 @stefani-topaz @alwaysmicado @mjnomaryjane @incorrectclassicbookquotes @axshadows @ghostslillady @movievillainess721 @justagalwhowrites @charethcutestory02 @gogh-with-the-flow @justafandomgvrl @katw474 @loveable-liar @arrozconpepitoria @minigirl87 @runa-falls @pedge-page @angel-of-the-moons @beefrobeefcal @pixielou5 @miraclesabound @oliveksmoked @mjnomaryjane @bubble-pop-eclectic @corazondebeskar-reads @charethcutestory02 @pedroshotwifey

If I forgot someone or you'd like to be added/removed LMK!

#fishben #francisco morale #dark francisco morales #dark frankie morales #sub frankie morales #frankie morales x benjamin miller #francisco morales x benjamin miller #Ben miller x francisco morales #triple frontier #m/m romance #gay fanfiction #dark ben miller #ben miller #benny miller #benjamin miller #dark benjamin miller #benjamin miller x frankie morales #smut #triple frontier smut

69 notes · View notes

romanarose · 3 months

Text

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!

Remember to reblog and comment to support artists!

Please come to us with any questions!

159 notes · View notes

angelickks · 2 months

Text

ex-wife - francisco ʻcatfishʻ morales

drabble - ex-husband! francisco ʻcatfishʻ morales x ex-wife! reader warning(s): divorce (obvi), longing, insinuation to drug use, like one swear word, nickname "mama", a very sad and lovesick frankie this was definitely just something i was playing around with, just a short little drabble. i havenʻt been as active much BUT I have been working on some things. feedback is always appreciated loves,my inbox is always open! it could be a potential series?? who knows. slightly proofread, muah!

“francisco?”

he hadn’t heard that voice in almost two years, that soft angelic voice he had missed since the ink on his divorce papers dried.

he betrays his mind when his heart tells him to face you. he can’t help the way his lips part in surprise, his ex-wife as he lives and breathes, just beautiful as the day she left him. he can’t help but crack a sad smile at the beautiful woman that still takes up every inch of his heart.

“hi mama” he utters softly, unsure if he’s even allowed the pleasure to call you that anymore, he simply can’t help it. you purse your lips together at the endearing nickname from your ex-husband, still, you give him a smile as you’re genuinely happy to see him.

frankie doesn’t fully register that you’re moving towards him, wrapping your arms around his waist and planting a greeting kiss on his cheek. he blinks a few times before wrapping his arms around you, he’d dreamt of the day he’d feel your arms again and here he is not fully registering it.

“how are you francisco? what brings you here?”

you ask kindly, genuine concern and curiosity laced in a voice he’s yearned for. he rubs the back of his neck nervously, still not believing that you’re here and looking absolutely radiant, you pick up on his nervous tell like it’s second nature.

“oh…meeting the guys in a bit actually, pope brought us out. you know this isn’t usually my scene, mama.”

he can’t help your infamous nickname from slipping out, he’s called you it long before your marriage and seeing you again is bringing back memories of it.

you nod knowingly, chuckling slightly at the mention of santiago and his endeavors.

“i know that. i’m sure this is certainly awkward for you frankie, i just hadn’t seen you in a while and it would’ve been rude of me not to say hello.”

always so kind and considerate his girl, he guesses that even after the two years of being separated that never changed, just the fact that you weren’t his anymore.

while yes, you certainly wanted to talk to frankie, it brought back memories. not to mention, his nickname for you made your heart flutter for your ex-husband but that certain fondness and memories were just that, an old flame and memories. at least you tell yourself that, one of the many things you and frankie have in common.

“speaking of which uh…what brings you here? business calling, i assume?”

you look down as you smile, frankie’s memory impeccable as always. when you two were together he remembers the dreadful business meetings held at more prestigious bars such as this one. they were never your thing, usually feeling like it was a waste of both time and resources.

no ethical amount of business is done over expensive seafood and booze.

“thank god, no. in fact i quit working for that company, i’m currently the project manager for their competitors. no more cocktail business meetings for me. i’m just out with some friends, i secured a partnership so i’m celebrating.”

he nods understandingly, admiring the way your face lights up at the mention of your new job. he loves how happy you look, picking up on how well-rested you look and how healthy you’ve been as you practically glow. it’s downright criminal how breathtaking you look right now, and while he will take any chance to admire his ex-wife’s beauty, he can’t help but feel guilty.

“well i’m happy for you mama, you deserve it all. you always did.”

his voice is low and endearing, there’s a tinge of sadness laced behind it and he prays you don’t pick up on it. you open your mouth to respond, but are quickly cut off by a ruckus only identifiable as the only men frankie trusts with his life.

“catfish, you sorry fuck! where the hell have you been?”

it’s almost ironic how hothead benny miller steals the show. you giggle at the stares and the frustrated frown frankie adorns, squeezing the bridge of his nose. it’s comical how ben’s brows quirk up, head whipping around as he hears a laugh he hasn’t heard in a long time. in a flash of blonde hair and pure muscle, you’re engulfed in a hug by none other than the younger miller.

“look at you mama! gorgeous, as i live and breathe, where have you been all my life?”

for a brief moment your heart soars, and if seeing your ex-husband didn’t help, this brings back memories of all the times spent in your old home.

“oh benny, look at you!”

you both pull away but your hands remain on his broad shoulders as you take him in, that infamous cocky smirk ever present on his lips.

“do a spin for me will you handsome? lemme look at you”

he gives you a flirtatious “yes ma’am” before doing a slow spin, blabbering on about taking it all in. as if you needed more reminders from your past, you see a group starting to form around you.

your eyes land on will first and you swear you could cry at the sight. he pulls you into a reassuring hug, sensing your nerves, mumbling a greeting into your shoulder. while benny was well loved by you, will always was your favorite miller. at one point in your life, he was your rock when frankie fell back into using. so far you’ve had nothing but pleasant memories but with one look it had turned bittersweet, reminding you of the weight of your divorce.

“alright we get it, there’s enough of her to go around. c’mere woman, i missed you”

you pull from will, rolling your eyes as they land on santiago. you shove him back playfully before pulling him into a tight hug.

“hey mama” he chuckled out, pulling back for a second to plant a kiss on your forehead.

you were over the moon to see the boys again, the divorce in itself was painful, but having them go away for the time being only added salt to the wound. meanwhile frankie did what he always does, fall back and observe quietly.

he sighs quietly, his mind still in shock at seeing you again, but god did it make his heart wrench seeing you with his friends. it was eerie how natural you fell back into their dynamic, not because it irked frankie, but because of how much it reminded him of you both.

of how much time was spent with the very people surrounding him, how many beautiful memories were shared, how beautiful the memory of his marriage was.

this entire ordeal opened the floodgates to the months spent longing, drowning out what was left of you, and having to live with his mistakes.

if he didn’t have as much willpower, he’d find the nearest exit and simply breakdown. he lingers on the thought until broken out of his trance by the woman that still plagues the very idea.

“it’s lovely to see you francisco, you look handsome as ever. i’d love to take you all in but it would be rude to abandon my own entourage..” your voice trails into a teasing tone as you playfully flirt with the guys, all in good fun.

frankie blushes at the sentiment, silently cursing how warm and red he feels without even touching a drop of alcohol.

“i mean it when i say you look stunning ma, thank you.” he says lowly, meant for your ears and yours only.

he doesn’t quite thank her for the compliment, he thanks her for her kindness, her short-lived company, for simply even being in his presence.

her eyes shine at his response, causing her ex-husband to melt at the sight.

she knows, she always knows. my smart, beautiful woman.

while he doesn’t voice his inner thoughts, she reads him like an open book and for a split second looks at him like how she used to.

she sees the man she fell in love with and has said many times even after their separation, that she will always love him.

during that split second she sees a husband, a best friend, a partner, and most importantly the source of her love and adoration.

but as quickly as it comes, it goes. eyes looking away to avoid his lovesick gaze, reminding herself of why she left and why she will stay away.

with that, she kisses them all on the cheek sweetly, says goodnight and to always be safe. as she approaches frankie she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him into a tight embrace.

it stands a reminder, that she’ll always have love in her heart for the man that was hers long before their marriage, that he’ll always love the woman that was his long before his mistakes ate away at him.

she pulls away, still in his arms and places a soft kiss to his lips. it’s meant to be soft and forgiving, still it wasn’t long enough for either of them.

as quickly as she came, she was gone. lost to a sea of people that crowd the pretentious place that’s far too nice for his taste.

his reality comes back and the room isn’t as bright as it was when she walked in, faced with the harshness of his predicament just as it was two years ago.

santiago claps a hand on his shoulder, sensing his sudden distress.

“life is unpredictable. maybe another time, in another place”

97 notes · View notes

flightlessangelwings · 3 months

Text

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…”

138 notes · View notes

dameronscopilot · 1 year

Note

Indulge me 🥺🥺😭😭 cuz I feel most of us have been in a similar senario

Say ur at a bar and a guy is making you CLEARLY uncomfortable. Maybe it’s a date gone wrong or just a guy won’t leave you alone

You don’t know the boys but they are at the bar. How do you think each of them would react? Cuz I can’t foresee any of them just leaving a girl uncomfortable and alone with a guy, all of them are protective and drink respect women juice (except Tom but he ded lol)

Could I just get a lil head canons or short senarios? Would they pretend to be your boyfriend or sn old friend? Would santi and Frankie team up to fight the guy? Tell me ur thoughts 😭

Baaaaaaabe yes. I love this so much. This kind of meet cute makes me swoon so hard! There's not a doubt in my mind that none of these boys would be able to stand by and watch a girl who's clearly in an uncomfortable, unwanted situation.

The Triple Frontier Boys Rescue You at the Bar

BENNY

I stand by my commentary here that Benny Miller and fake dating go hand-in-hand. He's an expert, willing participant in this department of deception.

Benny's standing with a drink in his hands, leaning against a high table as Will, Santiago, and Frankie are deep in conversation. His attempts to be an active participant in whatever they're discussing are a losing battle, though, as his attention continues to stray to where you're laughing with friends on the dance floor. Try as you might to brush off the repeated advances of a man who seems to continuously keep trying to dance with you, even the glares of your friends aren't putting him off.

So Benny takes it upon himself to make his way out onto the dance floor, arriving beside you just as the creep's hands are reaching out for your waist. Taking a chance, Benny places an arm around your shoulder, pressing his mouth to your ear as he murmurs, "Just go with it," before loudly announcing, "Sorry I'm late, baby," and pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek.

Paling at Benny's height alone, the man takes off. And though Benny quickly apologizes for his forwardness, you're immediately smitten with his boyish grin, and you subtly wave your friends off as you welcome him as a dance partner.

(There's also a 99% chance that Benny finds the creep in the bathroom later and grabs the collar of his shirt, pinning him up against the wall as he says, "Learn how to take a fucking hint, asshole.")

FRANKIE AND SANTIAGO

Frankie and Santi would definitely thrive with a team approach here.

Santi and Frankie are seated in the booth beside you at the bar, and while they don't mean to eavesdrop, they share a knowing look over the rims of their cups, because they can hear the telltale signs of a terrible first date. You're clearly uncomfortable, fingers nervously fiddling with a paper straw wrapper as the man sitting across from you carries on in his attempts to hint that the two of you should head back to his place, completely oblivious to your discomfort.

As soon as the man slides out of the booth and strides over to the washroom, Frankie forcefully places his glass down on the table and turns around, sitting up slightly so his head is poking over the seat.

"No offense, but your date sounds like a creep," he says pointedly.

You smile weakly. "I've been trying to make an excuse to leave this entire time, but he's just so intense."

After asking if you'd like some help, their plan of attack involves mingling at the bar counter until your date returns to the booth. Once he does, both Santiago and Frankie approach, all easy smiles and protective posturing as they act like they're your friends who have coincidentally run into you.

When your date finally turns to them, annoyed as he tells them that you're busy on a date and would they please mind catching up later, Frankie slides in beside him, roughly clapping a hand on his back. Santi sits down beside you, swiping a fry off of the plate sitting in front of your date and popping it into his mouth with a wink.

"We'd rather catch up now. So I think you should probably leave," Santi casually comments, snatching another fry.

And Frankie squeezes the man's shoulder as he adds, "We can help you to your car, but I don't think you'd like that very much."

WILL

Will's been watching you out of the corner of his eye for nearly fifteen minutes while a man attempts to talk to you. Ever observant, he quickly clocked the discomfort in your body language the moment he approached, though he bides his time until he's certain that you need intervention. The moment you cast your eyes out across the room, like you're in search of a lifeboat, Will strides over.

Meanwhile, the man's hand has found an unwelcome place resting on your shoulder. Will doesn't bother with any sort of fake act or forced niceties for this guy—no, rather, he firmly grab's the guy's wrist, plucks it off of you, and there's a dark look in his gaze as he calmly says, "I don't think she wants to talk to you," as he puts himself between you and him.

BONUS

And as a bonus, if you're there with a group of friends and several guys are heckling you, you can bet that Will, Frankie, Santiago, and Benny won't hesitate to walk right up and ✨ escort them ✨ out of the bar. (Benny definitely throws a guy over his shoulder and carries him out the door, and Frankie's dragging another one by the collar of his shirt. Santi's pushing another one from behind, and Will doesn't even have to lay a hand on anyone, he's just advancing toward a guy with his arms crossed when the guy takes off.)

» TRIPLE FRONTIER MASTERLIST

#answers from the cockpit #copilot sleepover #triple frontier #benny miller #santiago garcia #will miller #frankie morales #francisco morales #ben miller #william miller #benny miller x reader #santiago garcia x reader #frankie morales x reader #will miller x reader

406 notes · View notes

coweye · 1 year

Text

Commitment Issues - Part 8

Pairing: Benjamin Miller x Reader

Words: 2.7k

Summary: When you try and take your friends with benefits relationship to the next level, Benny’s response isn’t quite what you were expecting.

AN: So I lied - I'm so sorry for the wait! Recently, writing hasn't come as easy to me and although it's almost a year late I hope you enjoy, this isn't the final chapter - I lied twice.

➢ fic masterpost

PREVIOUS PART

28th April 2022 - 37 weeks pregnant

Life playing host to the parasite that was soon to be your daughter had only gotten worse. Hard to believe, I know.

The gift that kept on giving made sure that you’d suddenly without any warning whatsoever have the overwhelming urge to vomit.

There was no rhyme or reason to her neat new little party trick but at any given moment your stomach said nope and you bought up whatever you happened to have eaten or as the case may be; be eating at the time.

Honestly, you weren’t a negative person by nature, but these agonizing eight months had taken it out of you.

Hell, you were in the process of drafting an eviction notice if this kid didn’t get out of you in the next two weeks.

Long story short, between this and the Benny situation you were not exactly the best of company, right now.

The boys and Val had all learnt this early on and for the past eight days, you had given up all pretense of a brave face, now you were bleeding and letting everyone who would listen know about it.

When Santiago, who had decided to stay in town until the birth of your baby, suggested a stroll around the mall, you had fixed him with the stare that would have had a lesser man running back to Colombia with his tail between his legs. Until, of course, he had sweetened the deal with fried chicken, his treat and coincidentally the only meal that you had yet to regurgitate.

So, here you found yourself with Santiago and William and a six piece bucket to yourself.

The change in company was a welcome distraction from dwelling on your non-existent love life at home with the love of your life.

After the thorn in your side that was Jasmine, reared her ugly head at the baby shower, you had pulled back into your protective bubble of distant and cold.

Benny, though confused about the message, received it loud and clear as he returned to the swing to find you inside and talking incredibly heatedly to Valerie. In the eight days that followed, he yet to confront you about it. Apparently old habits died hard..

The camaraderie that had come hand in hand with your truce had dissolved. You weren’t actively unpleasant, but you didn’t melt into his side, or nap on the couch with him anymore.

You had established boundaries, resolving yourself to the simple philosophy of anything you wouldn’t do with Frankie, you wouldn’t do with Ben.

It was simple… well kind of, every one of your moves was carefully calculated and exhausting.

For example, lying on the couch watching a movie with a leg rub? Acceptable.

Frankie would do that for your swollen ankle joint, hell, he had done.

However, lying on the couch with his body sandwiched against yours as you fall asleep, the hardness of him pressed into your backside; well… that was quite clearly a no, but I digress!

Boundaries were established and what almost was, had been completely and totally healthily avoided at all costs, creating the exact tenuous home environment you'd spent so long trying to avoid.

So, here you found yourself in the food court, slamming some fried chicken trying desperately to forget your woes.

“She’s too clingy…” Santi huffed in between a bite of his burger, talking mostly to Will as you had yet to peak up from behind your bucket.

“Maybe she just likes you and wants to spend time with you, god forbid someone shows interest.” You grunted irritably between bites, looking for a fight.

Both men turned to you in surprise, the whites of their eyes visible as they feared your outburst.

Santiago strategically paused as he searched for the right words before he began to speak again.

“You’re right … Maybe I’m too harsh.” Pope placated as he fixed you with a look of reproach, however, that only served to enrage you further.

He watched for your reaction as if you were an angry bear or a child throwing a tantrum. Truth be told, you weren’t strictly unlike either of those things at that precise moment.

Your brows narrowed, ready to unload and tell him all the reasons he was a dick before a cramping pain in your bloated abdomen overwhelmed you. Your eyes clenched shut as you breathed heavily through your nose, your ringed fingers gripped at the circular table in pain.

It was impossible for you to judge how long went by before the pain finally passed.

You took a further second or two to even your breathing before you resumed eating, succinctly dropping the subject that had injected fire into your veins merely moments before.

With a fry in your mouth, you glanced up to find both men watching you.

“What the fuck?”

“Are you okay?” They questioned in unison.

A moment passed as you swallowed your mouthful before you concisely answered your comrades. “I’m pretty sure I’m going into labor.”

“And … you don’t think we should be actively doing something about that?” Santiago pressed, looking as if he was ready to bolt.

“Labor can take hours and I won't be able to eat once it gets going…” You shrug, picking up another piece of chicken.

“What’s wrong with you?” Pope breathed, eyes wide before he palmed in his eye sockets in frustration, attempting to rub the stress you induced away.

Will had dragged his chair to your side, his eyes focused on his watch.

“Don’t worry so much… the book said until they're ten minutes apart … there’s no point going … to the hospital!” You explain in between bites of greasy chicken.

Your words do little to quell their panic as both men look as if they're ready to pull their hair out with worry.

“I’ll ring Ben.” Santi groaned as he stood up and reached into his jacket pocket before fishing out his phone. He turned dramatically with a finger pointed in your general direction. “You get her to hurry up - I swear to god, Y/N. If you’re eating when I get back, pregnant or not, I’ll drag you to that car. You’re not having your baby in the damn food court… estúpida, obstinada…” The man continued grunting curses at your expenses as he stalked off for somewhere quiet with cell reception to call the father of your child.

The silence that extended all of three minutes was too good to be true as Will watched your face as you ate for any sign of distress.

“Whilst giving Pope a coronary is always a good time… don’t you think we should go and get your bag and meet Ben?” Will’s voice was soft, the kind of soothing tone you’d seen him use to talk down shell shocked soldiers - it was both unassuming and laced with copious amounts of compassion.

You’d be damned if it didn’t just piss you right off.

With a quick shake of your head, you dropped the empty bone into the bucket with the rest of the carcasses and took a long sip of your drink.

“I’m good here … I can meet you guys there if you like?”

The pinch in his brow was quite simply incredulous, his concern was quickly outweighing his patience.

“If you think I’m leaving you both here, you’re insane.”

Chewing on the straw of your drink; your eyes locked with his. They were brimming with a concoction of confusion and concern, which if the clench in his jaw was anything to go by, was slowly morphing into exasperation at your lack of compliance.

“I … just need some time.”

“Y/N. All you’ve spoken about for the past week is how you want this to be over, wish granted - she’s coming and she’s coming now.”

“That’s what he said…” You uttered half-heartedly under your breath as you broke eye contact, no longer able to face his look of bewilderment.

On the red tray in front of you was a lemon scented wet wipe hidden among napkins and sauces, you tore open the former and gratuitously began scrubbing the grease off of your hands, actively ignoring the perplexed stare of one of your closest friends.

“Y/N, we need to get moving… will you just stop and listen?” Will snapped finally as he grabbed the wipe from your grip as you passed over your digits for the third time.

Your own patience had reached its end as his hand gripped your elbow, his intention to make good on Santiago’s threat and drag you out, clear and present in your mind.

The devil in question was making his way back to your table, all quick strides as he dodged the food courts clientele.

You wrenched your arm from his grip huffing in annoyance at the well meaning Miller.

“Fine. Let's go and get my bag, maybe we can grab an iced tea on the way to the car…”

Will nodded but you knew the mother hen would never allow a diversion from the mission at hand.

All was going well.

You were compliant as you strode through the mall, both men flanking you like a high priority asset as you clambered into Santi’s rental truck.

Hell, you were goddamn amenable as you unlocked your front door and grabbed the hospital duffel bag from the cubby under the stairs.

However, your cooperation waned somewhat when heading to the maternity ward as the guys tried to wheel your chair past the hospital's Starbucks.

Your palm, lightening fast, caught the break on the chair causing it to veer left right into Santiago’s shins.

“Ice Tea!”

“You’ve got a baby about to shoot out of your hoo-hah and you're stopping for tea?!” Santi huffed incredulously as he rubbed his shin.

“My contractions are 25 minutes apart, when they’re 15, I’ll consider joining the panicking cry baby club.”

“Panicking baby- huh!” Santi huffed rubbing his forehead. “You are not well, Y/N/N! You’re having a baby - Go and have it and then I’ll bathe you in fucking tea!”

“I’ll come back down and grab you one-” Will placated before Santi bent to remove the break on the chair, allowing Will to move all of two steps, before you slammed it back on, the rubber tyres screeched against the tile floor of the hospital lobby.

“Tea. First.” You huffed much like a troublesome child.

This time it was Will who leaned down to remove the break, having clearly decided you weren’t in your right mind.

So, you did the only thing you could; you threw your baby bag off of your lap.

“Y/N, stop being a goddamn child!” Will huffed, you had clearly pushed him to the edge, not that it had been particularly hard.

Ignoring him, you began to stand. They both watched on in horror as you slowly ambled your way to the end of the queue.

Leaning against the drinks fridge, you sighed.

Your spine was aching something awful. The poor timing of this kid resumed as a contraction wracked your body, sharper than the others, it felt longer but you had no way to be sure.

Will was at your side the second it overcame your body.

“Twenty minutes apart, please, Y/N. Come on.”

When finally the pain dissipated, your aching back remained. You weren’t proud of the weight you were placing on Will but the floor was the only other option.

“y/n?! … Y/N!” You heard Benny hollar before you saw him, his eyes were wild with panic as he rushed to your side. He patted his brother on the shoulder, before taking his place. “Baby, what are you doing? You need to get into bed.”

“I want… my … tea.” You huffed, breathing not yet evening out.

“Fine, we get the tea and we go straight up. How far apart are they?”

“Twen-”

The gush of amniotic fluid leaving your body cut the older Miller off, soaking through your jeans and unfortunately onto Benny’s shoes.

“You just pissed, she just pissed!” Santi cried in disbelief, his hands an almost permanent fixture in his disheveled curls at this point. It was hard to believe this man was a pressure player.

“It's not piss, it's her waters. We need to go, I’m sorry baby, you can have all the ice tea you want when it's safe for you both.” He bent down and caught your sodden legs, picking you up in one sweep.

If you weren’t currently covered in amniotic fluid, that story book firefighter carry would have set your loins ablaze.

Who were you kidding?

You were absolutely drenched in amniotic fluid and your loins were practically smoking.

Between writhing in pain as your uterus contracted to eject a literal watermelon and lusting over your baby daddy who you had spent the last eight days practically snarling at every time he dared advance, the journey to your delivery suite had been all but a blur.

Somehow all three men surrounded you, having coerced their way through the midwifery staff with their nefarious charm.

“How ya’ doing champ?” Santi questioned as you huffed on the oxygen inhaler handed to you by your midwife. A thumbs up was all you could offer as you groaned through the contractions that were now give or take five minutes apart.

“How about we use a bit of gravity?” The woman in control of the drugs questioned. A suggestion you were only more than happy to try.

Following her instructions and with minor assistance from Ben you were now on all fours, frantically inhaling the gas and air.

“We’re going to need to clear the room, anyone who isn’t the father needs to leave.”

You were so far gone, you didn’t care if they saw the business end of your cervix. All you knew was uncontrollable pain that wracked your body every five minutes like a sadistic egg timer.

Ben wiped at your forehead with a damp towel as tears escaped.

“You can do this, baby.”

“UGNGH.. It feels like I’m shitting a knife!” You cried as another contraction wracked your body.

“Not long now, gorgeous. Then we’ll have our baby.”

“I’m not ready.” You cried burying your face in the reclined back of the bed. You couldn’t look him in the eyes.

“You are-”

“No. We’re not ready. Things were … supposed to be fixed… I promised her.”

“Wha-”

“I love you, you stupid fucking idiot. I have done for like ten years… loved you from the second I heard your tone deaf ass singing that … crappy hick song on base. Ungh… And everything is so broken because I don’t want you … to just stay for the Bean, I want to be with you … because you want to be with me.” You cried, tears wracking your body as uncontrollably as the contractions.

“It’s all broken… I promised her and I fucked it all up. You … and Jaz can just live happily ever-” You cut yourself off with a low wail as another contraction wracked your body. It seemed to knock Benny out of his stupor as his hand rubbed your lower back.

It was a moment before you leveled out and remembered you were divulging your innermost thoughts but a moment ago, though you couldn’t find it in you to care.

Bigger fish to fry, and all that.

“I love you. Even if you are the goddamn most stubborn fuckin’ idiot I’ve ever met. You're the mama of my baby, yeah. It scares the crap outta me. Loving you. Damn near spent three months thinking up all the reasons we couldn’t be together cause it scared me so bad.” He huffed, stroking your hair. He helped you reposition on your back, as you breathed in another wave of oxygen. “I love you, Y/N. - I don’t do this. I don’t do relationships … because this feeling in my stomach when I think of you is fuckin awful. Sure I get the tingles when you smile at me or stroke my arm. But ninety-nine percent of the time, fucking nightmare, I worry if you’re happy, if you’ve eaten and now we’re adding an whole ass entire other person into this fucking clown show.”

“Gee… thanks.” You huffed in between breaths of gas and air.

Ben chuckled as he pushed the sweat sodden hair back from your brow. He leaned forward, pressing his mouth against yours, the kiss was brief and nowhere near what was needed but it was all you could manage.

It was enough, you thought at that moment.

The promise, that everything wasn’t lost, there was hope ahead, it carried you through.

@sixshooter665 @queenie-b- @rambling-in-purple @anaaaispunk @miraclesabound @kravitzwhorehore @ahsokathearcher @xoxabs88xox @heresathreebee @psychadelichue @marauderskeeper @tanzthompsonn @mermaidxatxheart

240 notes · View notes

intheorangebedroom · 9 months

Text

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

134 notes · View notes

hoedamn-eron · 9 months

Text

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

#triple frontier #santiago garcia #benny miller #will miller #francisco morales #frankie morales #ben miller #william miller #santi garcia #f!reader #santiago garcia x f!reader #santiago x reader #santiago x f!reader #oscar isaac #pedro pascal #charlie hunnam #garrett hedlund

104 notes · View notes

pimosworld · 4 months

Text

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

136 notes · View notes

romana-after-dark · 22 days

Note

Hi! I’m loving rooms on fire so far, and I noticed you had one more dark Triple Frontier story. do you happen to know any other dark Triple Frontier stories? I can’t seem to find many.

Hello!!!! Thanks for the love on Rooms on Fire!!! It's a fav series of mine!

And yes, I do have recs for dark TF boys!!!!

This Charming Man- Having lost so much, Frankie feels lost himself. Until he meets someone new, and he'll do anything to have her. dark!Frankie: This is by my friend @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin who writes a wiiiide veriety of Pedro

For a bit of something different, there The Worst by the amazing @toxicanonymity ! It's is Tom fic BUT HERE ME OUT bc t's so good! It's dark and perfect Just trust me.

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.

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.

I'm trying to remeber a really good one with frankie, santi, taking reader in an ally and they only speak spanish to her????? Idk who wrote it now and I feel bad but I have horrible memory online. If its yours or you know whose it is, let me know!!!

#dark triple frontier #dark!fic #dark santiago garcia #dark francisco morales #tom davis x reader #rooms on fire #dark william miller #dark ben miller #romana answers asks

9 notes · View notes

lulutaylorsimaginarium · 8 months

Text

The Chain

Summary: When the guys get stuck in a situation and hunted down by a drug lord. Frankie makes a call he really doesn’t want to make to the only person that can help them

Words:1069

Warnings: “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the right age to handle mature themes. We handle our own triggers with kindness and grace

AN: Mind any grammar mistakes even though the story has been checked. The author is dyslexic and it is the wonders of her brain.

PART ONE

She never saw herself going to Brazil. It was never on the list of dream places to visit. In all honesty Gabby had never really thought about Brazil at all but when Frankie called her asking for her help. She couldn’t say no. He saved her life once and she owed him. So, without even thinking about it ,she hopped on a plane from The Netherlands for São Paulo. He didn’t tell her why and how of it all. Frank needed her help and that was all she needed to know.

That was all fine and good, until she was wandering down a dirty street trying to find the right green favela at almost midnight on a random Tuesday.

Jet lagged and grouchy

She had been in dangerous places before. She had worked for a non-for-profits for almost four years. She had been an aid worker for the ten years before that.

Gabby had been all over the world, but she had never walked through a slum at thistime of night. She hated to admit it.

Gabby was a little on edge.

Checking every window and door of every house, every alleyway but she couldn’t see very far.

Why the heck was Frankie here in the first place?

Gabby was starting to get ticked off. She flew across the planet to help him and he couldn’t even met her at the airport, the city centre or even at the top of the street. Gabby didn’t need a horse and carriage, but an escort might have been nice.

Suddenly she heard a strange sounding bird

“Caw caw”

A human sounding bird, from on high.

Gabby frowned before rolling her eyes and turning around putting her hands on her hips

“Come out, come out wherever you are” she sang playfully “I know it’s one of you”

She heard feet sliding down a dirt slop and didn’t have to wonder if they landed on their feet because it sounded way too graceful for a bulky military dude.

“In all the slums in all the world”

“Hey Benny” she said sweetly before hugging him “What has he got me into?”

“You’re not going to like it Gabs”

He took her bag out of her hand and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Strangely it did make all the difference.

“Is he at least in one piece?”

“Physically we are all okay. We’re just up a creek, that’s all”

“Okay. Well, I’ve been up a creek before. We can figure it out”

He led her over to the right place and guided her into the front door. The only person she saw when she walked through that door was Frankie. She sighed and rushed into his arm before he picked her up of the dirty floor. She felt his hand on the back of her head, holding her for a few more seconds than he should have.

“I’m okay”

“Hey” she said before looking around the room before seeing a tall blonde guys standing in a corner “You, I don’t know”

“Will”

“Oh, you’re the brother”

“I’m the smart one”

“Well. I mean. Blows to his head and all. It’s not difficult”

“Nah, he was born that stupid” Will laughed before Benny hit Will’s arm. Gabby had four brothers. She understood.

“Someone better tell me what’s going on. Garcia, I’m looking at you”

“Why are you looking at me?”

“You are normally the mastermind and I’m guessing since I’m here that plans A through C or even D haven’t worked”

“We need you to help us move something”

“Something you shouldn’t have?”

“Something that can’t be seen by anybody else”

“Like what?” she asked hesitantly

“If you could use all those connections that I know you have. So, we can move this. That would be great”

“You want me to use company resources? What are you trying to move?”

He moved aside and looked at the two palettes in front of her. Pope moved the cloth off the palette and showed her a corner of the money

“Someone is going to skin you alive”

“Costa Rojas”

“Nope” she spun on her heels “Nope. You can go to hell”

“It’s not that hard, Gabby. Just call someone. You don’t even have to come with us. I don’t know. Have someone meet us”

"Garcia, if you think I'm going to use my company’s reputation to smuggles dirty money home for you. You are insane"

"It's that or we all die. Including Frankie" Her mouth fell open stunned that he would even use that as a tactic “Just thought you might want to return the favour”

“You’re an arsehole”

“Funny, it’s not the first time you’ve called me that”

“Yes, and it is a little more true every time I use it”

“Oh come on, I’m not that bad”

“You’re blackmailing me”

“Only a little bit”

“Gabby” Frankie started to speak before she fixed him with a glare

“You do not get to speak right now. I’m just as pissed at you” she rubbed the back of her neck and sighed “I have to get out of here for a bit”

“Gabs”

“Frank” she warned before he watched her walk out the door.

Frankie glared at Pope every emotion written over his face.

“She’ll be back. She’ll be fine” Pope shook his head.

He hadn’t been expecting her to be this stubborn. Although he shouldn’t have been surprised. Gabby turns stubbornness into a fine art.

It was the only reason she was still alive.

“I’ll go with her” Will offered

“Thanks man” Frankie said rubbing his right shoulder, stressed

She had stopped down the street the rip the plastic wrapper of her fresh packet of cigarette. She didn’t know why she had brought them at the airport before boarding but it made sense to her now and thank God she had.

Her hands shook with rage as she tried to light the cigarette between her lips.

“You wanna go for a drink?” someone asked quietly behind her “You could use one”

She turned around to see Will leaning against the closest building

“I don’t drink”

He took the lighter out of her hand and lit her cigarette for her before slipping the lighter back into the packet.

“Well, you can watch me drink. We’ll get you something else”

“It’s almost midnight”

Will offers her his arm “Come on, you haven’t known me long enough to be pissed at me yet”

Despite herself. Gabby laughed, she took his arm and they walked down the street

#romanticism #triple frontier #netflix #Santiago “Pope” Garcia #santiago garcia #William “Ironhead” Miller #Will Miller #Francisco Morales #Frankie Morales #Ben Miller #pedro pascal #oscar isaac #garrett hedlund #charlie hunnam #santiago garcia x oc #The Chain

39 notes · View notes

pettyprocrastination · 2 years

Text

of all the boys to notice when something is wrong with you, its Benny.

They're all smart. Intuitive and in touch with subtle shifts of behavior and emotion, but they are also men. Men with their own lives and hang ups that it may take a big to click in their brain that the little joke you made about yourself at lunch was more than you let on. But Benny is the first one, turning his head to you and frowning the moment the soft self-jab leaves your lips.

It’s because he’s the youngest, you think to yourself. Even after years of bonding and being through blood and tears and trauma with one another, there’s still a bit of that fear of being left out. Of just being Will Miller’s Baby brother that he feels the need to overcompensate by being there, by taking note of what upsets who and who likes what.

Which is why he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t ask whats wrong because he’s noticed you’re getting quiet again and slowly slipping from outings and not texting at much, he simply grabs the house key you gave him and invited himself in with a box of pizza and cheesy garlic bread.

He ignores your complaints that “i had a long day at work” and “I still need to do the dishes” because he’s already setting the box on the kitchen island and putting away plate by your side. “if you wanna get rid of me, it’ll take more than some housework.”

soon after you're both sat on the couch, watching some movie he insists you’ll love because its stupid, but a funny kind of stupid. The movie drags on and you curl into his side. Neither of you say anything of it.

“You know I love you, right?” He asks softly. You look up and see that look of care and concern that makes you heavy with guilt. “we all do. But, you’re amazing. You need to realize that.”

You don’t trust your voice to not crack. Because everything has just been so much. Work and life and having to look at yourself in the mirror compared to other beautiful women and you just aren’t happy so you just wrap your arms around him tight and he pulls you onto his lap where you stay for the rest of the movie. Eventually you fall asleep, but he gently jostles you awake enough to lead you to your bedroom where you unceremoniously flop onto the mattress, making him laugh. He’s ready to leave until you stretch out a hand and make a grabbing motion toward him. He slips into bed with you, face curling into the crook of you neck and cold hands slipping above the back of your shirt which makes you grouch and grumble, but you keep him close to you nonetheless.

Frankie is next.

You come home to see him in your home. The second overly polite home break-in you’ve had in two weeks.

“You know, I didn’t give you guys keys for this, right?”

He’s in the kitchen, standing over a bubbling pot with a sweet faced little girl straped to his chest, who shrieks with joy and wiggles the moment she sees you.

“Yeah well, somebody wanted to say hello.” His daughter kicks her feet and does her best to escape the contraption keeping her stuck to Francisco’s chest, it isn't until you unclip it and pull her into your arms that she finally settles. “She wouldn’t even let me drive home, little tyrant.”

You press several loud kisses to her cheek that mage her squeal. “sounds about right.” He lifts a spoonful from the pot and holds it over to you, where you tentatively sip before humming. “That’s what I thought. Mama Morales’ recipes never fail.” He nods to his daughter, now making herself content with chewing on the collar of your shirt. “Why don’t you go entertain the little trouble maker while I finish up dinner for you? I made enough that you’ll have leftovers for some time.”

You see it again, that look of care and thinly hidden worry in those big brown eyes that make your own begin to tear up. “Frankie, I-”

He shakes his head. “It’s okay, bug.” He tells you softly. “I know.”

You bring his daughter into the living room, where you tickle her tummy and groan dramatically as she slaps you with her little hands until her father calls you in for food.

The warm food makes you comfortable. Sleepy and fuzzy in a way that a soft blanket does, it also makes you honest. As you sit next to Francisco and look at the sleeping little girl in his arms.

“It’s just. Hard lately.” You confess. “And it shouldn’t be. I don’t know why it is and I can’t-”

“It’s alright.” He tells you slowly. “You don’t need a reason for this, bug. God knows I understand. Just...” He looks off for a moment and you wonder if he’s remembering his own. The falls and rises, the dark nights alone where he felt like he would never begin to pull it together because of how fast everything was unraveling.

Maria shifts in his arms, smacking her lips in her sleep before settle again against his chest.

“Don’t try to do this alone, alright?”

You promise him as such.

Will takes you for a drive.

Driving with Will, you gather, is lot like driving with your father. He’s silent. IN the way that even with music playing, you feel like there’s something unspoken that hangs in the air and he’s hoping you head.

When his hand comes out against you as he stops suddenly, you hear it loud enough.

He doesn’t park until the sun is beginning to set and you see no buildings, only wide green fields and the occasional group of cows chewing at the grass without a care in the world.

You slip from the car and walk behind him as he opens the bed of his truck.

“Is this where you finally kill me?” He scoffs. “God no, if I was gonna kill you it wouldn’t be out in the open, bug. I’m not a fucking amueter.”

You laugh, he laughs as well.

“You wanna talk about it?”

You fall silent for a moment. “no, not yet.”

He nods. The pair of you sit in the bed of his truck, watching the sky bleed orange in a blissful quiet. Will wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close, your head falls onto his shoulder.

“your brother broke into my house last week.” You tell him. Will chuckles in reply.

“I told you giving him a key was a bad idea.”

“I’m starting to think giving all of you a key was a bad idea. I mean honestly, you fuckers stay over at my house more than I do at this point!”

The pair of you melt away into a conversation about just how comfortable your couch is on his back and the prospect of him maybe-maybe getting a dog. On the drive back you ask him if he has any names picked out.

He tells you that he has five.

Santi is the last to say something of it, which isn’t unusual of him. The man is a flurry of pain and ideas that sometimes he can forget the people around him until he realizes that the only person he’s been talking to is himself.

You can sympathize.

He invites you over for dinner. Invites all the boys too. He opens the door to you standing there, holding a case of beer and whistles.

“You look like shit.”

“yeah well you aren’t exactly princess Diana either.” You smile as he pulls you into his arms. You feel comfortable, safe and wear in your chest when he holds you tight against him. Pope always gave the best hugs. When he pulls away he touches your arm and tilts his head.

“You doin’ alright?” “No.” You tell him honestly. “But I will be, eventually I think. I’ve got a uh-” You pull at a scab on your hand as you begin to sweat. “Therapy appointment next week. I think...it’ll be good for me.” Pope nods. Not necessarily happy with your answer but content. He motions behind him. “The guys are out back. Benny is talking about how we should start having movie night at your place now.”

“Oh for fucks sake.”

The night is spent in his backyard, listening as Benny very passionately makes his case that yes. Your house may be smaller than Pope’s but your couch is more comfortable and you aren’t fucking stingy when it comes to ordering food for the group. Will asks if this is why Benny welcomes himself into your home without warning every goddamn week. The younger millers confesses, adding “that and she’s prettier than the rest of you assholes.”

Will is bouncing Maria on his knee, blowing raspberries into her tummy that make her shriek with laughter and her father smile from across the lawn.

The entire night they all subtly check on you. Each bringing you a plate of food after the other, a small hand squeezing yours or a soft “you okay?” asked so softly you could cry.

A group of soldiers, all tittering around you like a bunch of mother hens without any chicks of their own to look after.

But you can’t complain. Of their little pricks and prods because its all done out of good intentions. Of care and concern and love for you.

Love.

You smile into your beer as you lift it up to your lips. An argument between Benny and Pope rings in the background, something about who Mari’s favorite uncle truly is, as you sit back and feel at peace, if only for a moment.

It was easy to forget, you probably would again. But your boys would always be there to remind you of just how much love they had for you.

#anyways #in a bit of a sadtime funk and im trying not to get stuck in it #wrote this as a lil sum sum #benny milller x reader #ben miller x reader #benjamin miller x reader #will miller x reader #william miller x reader #frankie morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #santiago pope x reader #pope santiago x reader #whats popes full name btw i have no idea lmao #triple frontier fanfiction #not even going to indent or try to proof read cause im in a tizzy its been a weird mental day but have this #anyways i think benny is actually very clingly in a non visible way that comes from spending his childhood as hte tag a long friend because #he likes to hang out with will and his friends a lot #so hes like..hyper aware when something is wrong sort of #but also can be an oblivious fool #layers #frankie shows love via food and fixing things/getting groceries cause he's a very practical man

320 notes · View notes

flightlessangelwings · 2 months

Text

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.

62 notes · View notes

dameronscopilot · 2 years

Note

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

#answers from the cockpit #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier imagines #triple frontier headcanons #frankie morales #francisco morales #frankie morales x reader #benny miller #ben miller #benny miller x reader #ben miller x reader #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #william miller #will miller #will miller x reader

640 notes · View notes

coweye · 2 years

Text

Commitment Issues - Part 7

Pairing: Benjamin Miller x Reader Words: 4.8k Summary: When you try and take your friends with benefits relationship to the next level, Benny’s response isn’t quite what you were expecting.

Hi all, as promised - here it is.

I firstly wanna thank you all for baring with me, writing has not been coming easily to me recently, but your messages and reblogs that kept coming even after I hadn't posted in a while bought a smile to my face each and every time x

This is the first of two parts that will finally bring this to fic to a close - I have no idea when the next will be out, but rest assured I am 500 words into it.

I hope you enjoy x

➢ fic masterpost

PREVIOUS PART

14th February 2022 - 26 Weeks Pregnant.

“Push it in, Ben!”

“There’s nothing to push - It’s in all the way!”

“Seriously, Miller?!”

“You wanna do it?!” Benny huffed, holding out the extendable paint roller in hand as he tried to force the two pieces of the black shaft of the plastic pole together.

“Stop pushing it so hard! You’re gonna break -” A harsh crack of plastic giving way sounded as Ben’s frustration crescendoed. “-It.”

A sigh escaped you at the expense of the man who would be the father of your child as he threw the two pieces of the roller to the ground in frustration, ranting under his breath about it being a piece of crap.

Neither one of you spoke for a moment, both still processing the loss of the specialist equipment that would allow you to reach the ridiculously high ceilings in your new bedroom.

“Well… that was clearly your fault.” Benny snarked only half serious, as he leant back against the wall with a sigh and took a swig of his Yoohoo in defeat.

The usual cooling beer was nowhere to be seen as alcohol was strictly off of the menu for the Miller-Y/L/N household in an unexpected yet hugely appreciated show of support from Benjamin.

You couldn’t help yourself as your eyes traced the lines of his strong throat as he swallowed - after all, being considerate was sexy.

“In what fucking world was that my fault? - you’re the one that hulked it!” You scoffed.

Benny advanced forward, a hand on his hip in faux annoyance, to where you lounged in a camping chair on the opposite side of the room, overseeing the painting operation. He snatched the untouched instructions from where they had been sandwiched between the arm of the chair and the side of your thigh. You tried not to focus on the clenching of your southern regions as his warm palm grazed the meat of your thigh.

“Y/N! Seriously? Dude! It says goddamn twist!” Your brain scrambled for a defense but came up empty.

How could you explain that your hormone addled brain had been too preoccupied appreciating the way his t-shirt strained against the muscle of his bicep as he tried to force the mismatched pieces together with sheer strength.

Honestly, you weren't sure what size that man was buying but for the sake of your sanity you were this close to recommending he size-up.

“Oh…”

Benny simply shook his head with a snort and folded the thin instruction manual back up before he bopped your forehead with it.

“I’ll see if Frankie has a ladder in his truck.” He turned on his heel with a grin to go find Catfish, who was no doubt painting or reassembling furniture in one of the rooms in your new home.

It had been two months since the Christmas debacle and you were currently trying to find your sea legs in this unforgiving ocean that was your life.

It was a delicate process, this co-parenting, but the two of you were nailing it.

Together you had decided to get a house near a good school that would become the neutral ground; the two of you were starting over for the sake of your daughter, so you’d agreed to go into this without any ugly preconceptions and all resentment put aside.

Moving in together was a huge decision that had taken weeks to reach.

Every step of the way you had been terrified that at any moment Benny would turn heel and flee, though his resolve remained strong, in fact he was the one who had suggested it.

I know!

Mr I'm-not-looking-for-anything-serious-right-now, suggested you move and play house.

Well not quite, as the two of you had yet to discuss that side of your friendship.

There was a ceasefire in action; a mutually beneficial truce that was admittedly fractured, neither one of you was brave enough to test the bounds and risk destroying the delicate ecosystem that had been created in the suburbs. This little girl was all that mattered.

The two of you had fallen back into step of your old friendship, only with significantly more longing looks, lingering touches and awkward silences… but sure, for the most part, totally nailing it.

Who were you kidding?

You were longing for his touch, every time he stroked your stomach and sang to his daughter, every time he drank a can of coke instead of a beer you were positively quaking with desire.

Your hormones didn’t help but they couldn’t be entirely blamed.

It felt like your life was coming together, like you could be a real family in this house.

Hell, you could get rid of the other of the bedroom and have a nursery and wake up every morning to Benny peppering your neck with kisses as he breached your walls with slow sleepy morning sex.

Benny was getting his shit together. He was almost unrecognizable as the man who had let you down nearly three months ago.

He had accepted a job at the gym as a personal trainer - part-time, of course - which meant he had a steadier income to supplement his fights.

Benny had become … consistent.

He answered his phone when you needed him, he was less prone to flying off of the handle and he hadn’t run away from you in a 7/11 car park in like three whole months.

Hell, he had even started attending some sessions down at the VA with Will! Honestly - Fatherhood suited him. It was like the responsibility had given him something he’d been missing since returning home.

You also hadn’t been able to help noticing a deficit in women, perhaps it was naive to assume when you’d only lived together for the better part of an afternoon that you knew his business. Maybe it was blind hope, but the two of you had moments.

Fleeting ones, but moments nonetheless!

Ones where he’d laugh a little harder at your joke than it really deserved or his hugs that lingered far too long when he’d leave your apartment - you swore he smelled your hair once.

You felt like the two of you were building to something, that you could see the light at the end of the tunnel, a real future for the three of you.

Apparently by planning out the next ten years of yours and Ben’s life together you had tempted fate.

Your attention was drawn quite innocently to his phone which was nestled in the mesh cup holder of your camping chair for safekeeping whilst he painted.

You’d swear in a court of law that you only glanced at the screen because you thought it was your own, however the message that flashed on the screen snuffed out the light in your daydreams.

‘JASMINE: Are we still on for later? ’

Oh.

Huh.

Okay.

You weren’t sure of the myriad of emotions that powered through you in quick succession.

Hurt, jealousy, anger; those were the easiest to pick out.

Logically, you had no claim to the man, you’d agreed to co-parent, nothing more. But the betrayal of the life that could’ve been was hard to stomach.

Unable to stop and not entirely sure it was your hormones at fault, your throat clenched and your eyes began watering.

It was stupid, to be so broken up over what was essentially eye contact and accidental touches but, there it was.

When Benny rounded the corner carrying a ladder to find your streaming eyes he unceremoniously laid it against the wall and fell to his knees before you.

“Darlin’ you thinking about the life insurance advert again?” one hand cradled your jaw whilst the other entwined your fingers with his as you fought every urge to pull away. “You know they’re just actors.”

Just a few moments ago attention like this would’ve killed you dead, but now, it didn’t mean anything; he was your friend.

He cared for you and your daughter, that’s all it was.

You had talked the talk, now it was time to walk the walk.

You’d be the best goddamn mother this kid could ask for and that would be enough, it had to be.

16th March 2022 - 31 weeks pregnant

Three months.

Three months of being treated like an invalid.

You weren’t allowed to lift anything deemed too heavy, you weren’t allowed to workout and god forbid you tried to put together some of the furniture for the nursery alone - hell, you were barely allowed to go to work.

At Val’s misplaced insistence you’d been transferred to desk duty.

You may be thinking, gee, but Y/N what exactly does a school nurse on desk duty do?

Well, she sits on her newly fat ass all day and logs every record of every menial accident to happen in this miserable place since 1965.

Yup, that’s every single scraped knee or nose bleed in the past sixty years.

You weren’t even half way through the 80’s after three whole weeks of this hell.

The doctor had recommended taking it easy but you didn’t know if you had another two months like this left in you.

Not to mention the Godforsaken hormones.

They had been wreaking havoc ever since your second trimester, but somehow as the months progressed, they had doubled down as an apparent non-stop ache had taken up permanent residence between your thighs.

This kid was slowly killing you.

The ever present resentment flared as Val returned with your lemonade instead of an icy beer, though you accepted with thanks as the two of you relaxed on your new porch swing in your back garden.

The sun had begun to set as the boys were up wing using the fancy new BBQ grill; a generous house-warming gift from the now absent Santiago.

The trio chuckled loudly at a remark you couldn’t quite catch from Catfish. Departing Will had made a retort as he came to join the two of you, a bowl of barbecued corn in hand as a peace offering.

You’re somehow annoyed at Benny’s thoughtful anticipation of your never ending hunger. Logic was an old friend these days, hell, he was a penpal at this point.

All the same you took the corn with a grateful smile, taking a large bite of the buttery goodness as Ironhead sat with a groan as he made himself comfortable in the folding camp chair to your right.

“So, how's motherhood treating ya?” Will questioned with a deep chuckle at the filthy look you threw his way.

“It fuckin’ sucks” You huffed inbetween bites of corn.

“Preach that shit.” Val joked as she raised her glass in toast.

“I’m hungry all the time, everything's swollen and beer! - I miss beer so much. I have a headache every other day and Will - I’m so sorry, but everything turns me on.” Will - to his credit merely snorted into his beer at your embarrassing monologue. “Val, I swear, I saw Frankie licking his fingers after chips earlier and I almost jumped him.”

Val cackled at your confession. “Oh hon, you’re at the halfway point - a light breeze angled the right way will do that to you!”

“I can do something about one of those things… The food Y/N. The food.” Will held the bowl of corn up in surrender, looking terrified for a moment when your head had perked up at the implication.

“What about Benny? Surely he’d be willing to… help you?” Val waggled her eyebrows, completely avoiding eye contact with Will as she conspired about his brothers sex life.

You paused your nibbling on the near bare husk and placed it in the bowl Will currently gripped in defense of his virtue.

He took a swig of his beer pretending to not be interested in your conversation, though you knew full well that man was the biggest gossip you knew, he was as eager for an update as Val.

“Well, I asked him for some… relief but someone thinks that will open up a can of worms.” You grouch, your voice raised an octave or two into a distinctively whiney pitch as you imitate the father of your child. Will, in his defense, did attempt to hide his smirk though there was definitely some pride mixed in at the mention of his brother's restraint. You take a swig of your lemonade before continuing. “He doesn’t think we should smash just because of my hormones… might regret it after or some shit.”

“... how can I possibly resist when she calls it ‘smashing’?” Benny questioned his own voice laced with sarcasm, as he joined the new trio with Catfish and baby Catfish on his heels both carrying plates of delicious food.

“It’s beyond me.” Val chuckled in an attempt to diffuse, before she turned her gaze towards her child who was head of burger bun distribution. “One for your tia, please baby.”

Mariana grabbed you a plate and began preparing you a burger, dousing it in what you’d consider a confusing combo of far too little cheese and way too much ketchup, but you were eternally ravenous and not above eating it.

“Mmmh… best burger maker ever! Thank you, beautiful.” You groan to the little girl as she grins proudly to her Dad who has joined you and Val on the swing.

As she goes about her business filling both of her uncles plates you can’t help the pang of jealousy that fills your heart as you catch the couple in your peripheral.

Frankie had his arm wrapped around Val’s shoulder as she nestled her face into his neck.

“Te extrañé, Cariño” She whispers, kissing him sweetly.

Frankie chuckles at her words and takes her hand in his much larger one before placing a kiss on the back of it. He doesn’t relinquish his hold as everyone begins talking once again.It was simply a sweet interaction between a married couple, you can’t quite put a finger on why it makes your heart ache.

Your eyes caught Benny’s. His grin widened as you locked eyes before he noticed the pinch of flesh between your brows.

The silent conversation began as Ben squinted in question before you managed to school your features and nod his way to let him know you're fine.

He isn’t sold, you can tell that from the glances he threw your way for the ten minutes that followed.

That message from the elusive Jasmine, still weighing heavy on your heart almost a month later.

There were days, like the one where you propositioned him that you’re happy to look past it, where the life you would build together would outlast anything, but then there are days when you hate him for it.

The ones where you didn’t trust him or yourself.

You’d said goodbye to logic long ago - Emotion reigned here and she could be a cruel bitch when she wanted to be.

20th April 2022 - 36 weeks

“Step… step.. now to the left-”

“Oof!” You grunted as your nose met something that felt suspiciously like drywall.

“Your other left, sweetie.” Val corrected kindly, you couldn’t be sure as the blindfold currently compromised your vision but the distinct lilt that usually accompanied a smile filled her voice.

Grunting you followed her instruction as her palm gripped yours, leading you another three paces.

If you were a betting woman you’d place good money that you were in Will’s house. The pleasant albeit overpowering scent of Teakwood and Tobacco made bile rise in the back of your throat, as it had done ever since the tiny squatter had taken up residence in your womb.

“Right there, perfect... take it off!” Val instructed as she released your hand.

Hesitantly your own fingers rose, not quite sure what to expect - ‘A surprise’ was a broad construct after all.

Unfortunately, you were pretty sure you knew what the surprise was - a puppy.

Benny had been uncharacteristically absent all week and when he’d returned one afternoon after an ‘errand’, he’d shown you an instagram of a golden retriever named Bill, gushing over its cuteness.

Whilst you could surely appreciate the cuteness, the question of what the hell were a couple with a new baby on the way were supposed to do with a godforsaken puppy weighed heavy on your mind.

Though, when Val told you of your surprise you had simply resigned yourself to burn that bridge when you got to it.

Finally, you granted your eyes freedom and what was before them made them well of their own accord.

In the place of a golden retriever puppy was every single person you loved in this world, stood before you with party hats and grins.

“Surprise!” They cheered in unison.

Benny stood in the middle of the crowd smiling, you had unconsciously searched him out before you began your scan of the lounge in Will’s home. The entirety of the bottom floor of Ironheads house had been outfitted in puce pink banners and balloons. ‘It’s a girl’ and ‘you go mama’ were the core slogans imprinted on the decorations.

The huge Y/F cake sat in the center of the buffet platter, though not to be outdone, the plates on the platter were filled with every last one of your cravings from the past eight months. About 20 McDonald’s Double Cheeseburgers, peaches, corn, pickles, oreos and cookies - so many different varieties of cookies - you name it, it was there.

Finally your breaking point came when your eyes caught your Mother and Father on the iPad.

They had been facetimed from Y/H/T.

Despite being unable to make it, Benny had made sure that they were included, of course he had.

The pièce de résistance however, was the man currently holding the iPad up.

Santiago Garcia; you hadn’t expected to see your flighty best friend until long after your baby was here.

It was all too much, the hormones, the lack of sleep, the thoughtfulness of the father of your child.

You crumbled into tears and ugly tears at that.

Thickly, they streamed down your cheeks. You looked up through the wall of hot salt water to find Benny in front of you cradling your jaw, he had gotten to you before even Val who had been at your side.

“Oh, Babe… I’m sorry, is this not right?” Benny rambles, his nerves getting the better of him. His eyes are frantic as they beg for your forgiveness. “I’m still not completely sure what a baby shower is… we can redo it next-”

You shut him up with a hug, one of those all encompassing ones which fix everything without words. All of the appreciation and unspoken feelings you had for the man went into this.

Noone had ever done anything remotely close to this for you before.

Every inch of this party was perfect, because every aspect spoke about the details of your life he’d taken in and memorized.

At that thought the tears somehow got worse. You were blubbering into his cream jumper, the one you had bought him for his birthday, that alone fueled the wail the left your chest.

After a moment or two he pulled back, wiping under your eyes with napkins Catfish had discreetly shoved into his hand behind your back.

“Good tears?”

With a nod and a snotty sniff you confirm. “Good tears.”

Finally you calm down enough for Benny to take your hand in his and refuse to relinquish his hold on it as you greet everyone. Your friends from work, Mr and Mrs Miller, of course - the Morales family and Santi.

Finally dropping his hold on you Ben watches as you embrace your best friend.

“Gordita! You’re sooo big now!” He laughed lifting you from the ground, you didn’t need to see to know Ben would be cringing in fear for both you and your child.

“Excuse me, la narizota?” You huffed once he had placed you back on the ground. His answering chuckle thundered throughout the room as he cradled his nose with narrowed eyes.

“It’s not that big.”

“Sure, and I’m not fat…” You smirk, looking down at your protruding belly and raising your eyebrows.

“La puta.” His eyes are narrowed and his voice low but it lacks any real venom.

“I missed you, Hermano.” The two of you embrace once more and even though Santi doesn’t say the words, the kiss on your forehead tells you all you need to know.

“You’re gonna be a mama!” His voice is cheery as he pulls away before wrapping Ben in his own crushing hug.“And you Benjamin! You’re gonna be a papa!”

The two men part with a manly pat on the back and Ben is back at your side wrapping a protective arm around your lower back. You lean into his hold, comforted by his familiar cologne and warm jumper.

“What’s the little lady’s name gonna be?”

“We’re not telling.” Ben says quickly.

“It’s a surprise!” You say at the same time. “Some people are opinionated, and we want the name to be our choice.”

“Really?!” You hear from behind.

Seated on the couch Will leans an arm over the back of the sofa, twisting his torso to defend himself. “Just because I didn’t like the name Daisy?” Jen shoved his shoulder with narrowed eyes before he continued. “What?! It sounded like a damn cow…”

Wait... Jen? Jen was back? … holy shit she was brave returning after what had to be the awkwardest night of your life thus far. Had you really been that self obsessed for the past four months that you hadn’t realized Will had reignited that old flame?

You felt a spark of guilt, yet your respect for the woman overcame that as you apologized profusely for the whole awkward affair, with the promise that you’d give her a signal if anything was to break out tonight.

Jen had taken this in good humor and congratulated you on the baby, she had then forced Will to surrender their place on the sofa so that you could sit beside Mrs Miller comfortably with the 7 pound watermelon permanently strapped to your midsection.

You liked her.

You hadn’t realized that your mother and Ben’s were currently deep in conversation, something about staying at their house when she came up for the birth, there was some vague planning about thanksgiving occurring that you weren’t privy to - though you were sure you’d get looped in eventually, or at least you hoped you would.

Benny's mother was a gorgeous woman.

Though you’d expected nothing less, after all both her sons looked like they were created in a lab. Her boys took after her in their coloring and her sharp features, in her youth you had no doubt she would’ve intimidated you despite her kind nature.

Grinning, she turned to you, before she raised her glasses from the gold string around her neck. She expertly flipped the camera after a moment or two on the iPad to show you off to your mother.

“Look Y/M/N, she’s absolutely glowing!” Mrs Miller complimented. You smile awkwardly, it has never been your strong suit taking praise, well from anyone but Benny.

And that was a whole different kettle of fish, as the things that degenerate of a man praised you for were much more fun, but objectively not things one should be considering in the company of his mother.

“Thank you.” You settle for instead.

You speak to the duo for a while, talking about the nursery, baby clothes and the bag you’ve packed for the hospital. That seemed enough to quell their need for information before the two of them begin gossiping.

These two women had yet to meet one another and yet, from what you’d heard, they were now thick as thieves. Phoning each other nearly every night, hell the two of them had become Facebook friends and you’re even pretty sure they meant to do it.

Your eyes search the room for Benny as she resumes her conversation with your mother, and find his wide shoulders deep in conversation with Will and Jen.

You’re tempted to thank the woman for birthing an adonis of a son, as she chit-chats to your mother.

God, you’d love to rip that cable-knit jumper off of him and lick every muscle on that lean body.

Embarrassingly your eyes must have been burning a hole through his spine as he turns for a moment to lock eyes with your own.

You hold him in your gaze before he winks, the sonofabitch winks at you and turns back, chuckling at something one of them said.

You can’t quite come to terms with the fact your core is aching from that tiny non-interaction.

The sex flashbacks had definitely gotten worse since you entered your third trimester. Your hormones were all over the place and it was only made so much worse as masturbation had become near impossible as maneuvering around the massive bump anchored to your front was a logistic challenge.

You had propositioned Benny more times than you could count, but somewhere along the road to fatherhood he had gained a moral fucking compass.

He didn’t want to just have sex to have sex, he wanted it to mean something.

As neither one of you were willing to risk confessing to more than friendship, you had reached an impasse, where nobody was getting any.

Well, You didn’t think he was getting any, atleast.

Bothered by this thought you went to stand. Went, being the operative word.

Much like a ladybird stuck on its back you struggled to get adequate footing to propel yourself forward.

A large tanned hand stretched out to offer you support, one you took gratefully. From above William Snr was smiling, a plate full of cake in one hand for his wife.

“Thank you, the melon under my shirt makes things difficult."

He chuckled at your words, reminding you so much of Benny. “She’s half Miller. It’s in her blood to be difficult.

“You’re preaching to the choir here.” You hold your hands up in surrender smiling at the man before you.

He took your seat as you turned to seek out Ben, only to find him coming towards you with two slices of cake.

He tilted his head towards the back door, where the two of you now found yourself on the porch swing, the only smidgen of privacy you’d received since arriving at the party nearly 2 hours ago.

“How’s the day going?”

“Amazing, Ben. Thank you.” You take a bite of cake and can’t stop the moan that leaves you. Unfortunately, you don’t see the way his eyes darken at the sound and the reminders it brings him - if you had, you’d have no doubt economized on that weakness.

“I wasn’t sure a baby shower was your thing and with the no drinking I wasn’t-” You’re not used to Benny being apprehensive. Well that’s not true, those few weeks that followed the break-up had been filled with it. Rather, you’re not used to Benny being insecure in himself, he was a fighter, all that bravado and confidence came hand in hand. It was breaking your heart to see it gone.

So, you threw all caution to the wind. You said fuck it and gambled on yourself for once in your life.

Swallowing the cake in your mouth, you leaned forward, taking his jaw in your fingers, effectively shutting up his dithering monologue and joined your lips.

He breathed out heavily through his nose in shock at your sudden movement.

At the lack of reciprocation you began to pull away, only to be followed as he dropped his cake to the seat next to him to grab your jaw. His thumb anchored by your ear as his mouth devoured your own.

It was six month of pent up emotions breaking through that wall of denial. His tongue slid against yours tasting vaguely of vanilla and something that was distinctly Benny. Your own tongue joined the dance, fighting for dominance before you retreated and playfully bit his lip, gaining a groan from the father of your child.

The two of you pulled apart though your foreheads remained touching, both catching your breath. Neither one of you is sure of what to say to the other.

Finally, you go to speak, however you’re swiftly cut off by his phone and the tinkering bells of Sencha.

“Ignore it.” He whispers, closing his eyes and catching his breath. You rub your nose against his own which makes him smile.

As you go to join your lips, once again, you are cut off.

He huffs pulling back. “Someone better be fucking dying.”

He reaches into his back pocket for his phone and looks at the name, with a sigh before he leans forward joining your lips in one final solid kiss.

“It’s work…I’ll be right back, don’t move, okay?” You nod in agreement, mostly because you want more kisses.

As you run your fingers across your slightly inflamed lips you wish you didn’t hear the words that made the world around you crumble.

“Hey Jaz… Yeah sure, no… I guess I can talk… I’m... not that busy…”

next part

267 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

wudulaocao

无标题

tramum

Ghientra

telenovaiptv

Sans titre

edkishinevsky

2010

akutagawa-daily