#Benny miller

[pedroscurls]

chance encounters | pt. 2

character(s): we got all the Triple Frontier boys in this chapter (obvi except Tom). Benny Miller, Will "Ironhead" Miller, Santiago "Pope" Garcia, Frankie "Catfish" Morales, fem!Reader summary: Days blend together and it's become three months since you started training with Benny, and you use fighting and training as a distraction from your grief. It's when you're alone when things become too much. Luckily, Benny books you your first fight and your mind remains focused on winning (rather than dealing with the loss of your best friend). word count: 4.1k a/n: While I do train muay thai/kickboxing, I don't think I'd ever be able to fight (even when sparring in class I'm always so nervous lol), anyway... I hope you guys enjoy. We're going to delve deeper into Reader's grief in the next upcoming chapters and a certain someone might be able to help... warnings: grief (and Reader doing a poorly job at coping with the loss), violence - it's Reader's first fight!, mutual pining between Frankie and Reader series masterlist | ultimate masterlist

It had been three months. Three months since you started training with Benny at his gym. Three months since you started fighting again. 

But that also meant it had been a total of six months since you lost your best friend. They say that days get better, that they get easier, but why does it feel like you haven’t gotten any better at all? You’re stuck in this same pattern where the only joy and excitement you feel is when you step foot into Benny’s gym. When your glove hits the heavy bag. When your leg connects with the pads that Benny holds. But as soon as you leave, you’re back to square one. 

Every morning and every night, you lay in bed and stare up at the ceiling as your mind refuses to shut off. You’re afraid to close your eyes because when you do, all you see is your best friend. You can hear his laugh. You can see his smile. You can imagine him here. 

And you hate it. You hate it because when you do open your eyes, you’re back to reality. You won’t ever be able to hear his laugh or his voice again. You won’t ever be able to see him smile or have him physically here with you. 

All he is now is just a memory, haunting you day and night. 

Benny has been so patient with you and you had gotten to know more about the three men you saw three months ago. The other blue-eyed man turned out to be his older brother, Will. He was quiet and reserved, but just like Benny, whenever he smiled, you felt a sense of comfort and security. 

Then, there was Santiago… or Santi, he liked to say. He was just as outgoing as Benny was and he certainly wasn’t afraid to let you know how attractive he thought you were. It was meant to be a compliment and it would have usually made you blush and smile, but instead, it just earned him a curt nod before you walked past him to start training with Benny. Since then, though, Santiago had always tried to make you smile or laugh and there had been a few times where he succeeded, but as soon as the smile touched your lips or the laugh escaped you, you shut down. It didn’t feel right being happy. 

And lastly, there was Frankie. He was just as quiet and reserved as Will was, but there was something about him that was soft and welcoming. You couldn’t explain it. In fact, he was the only one you hadn’t really spoken to. He liked to keep to himself, but there were certain gestures or actions that made you feel safe with him. He would hand you your duffle bag when you were getting ready to go home, give you a towel when you were drenched in sweat, and he even went so far to order food one night when you had mumbled that you hadn’t eaten all day. 

Today, just like any other day, you step into Benny’s gym. Music is quietly playing and you see all four men wrestling on the mats. It didn’t seem like they were taking it seriously and you can hear their laughter echo the walls of the gym. It makes your heart flutter for a moment because even in the midst of your own grief, these four men managed to sneak into your life and begin to make a home. In fact, you couldn’t even begin to imagine life without them. You knew your best friend would have gotten along with them just fine, especially Benny. And it pains you because your best friend isn’t here to enjoy this with you. 

“Oh, hey!” Santiago calls out, finally being overpowered by Benny as he lands on his back with a thud. “We were just messing around.” 

“And I won,” Benny grins, climbing off of Santiago and standing up. 

“You’re like thirty pounds heavier than I am. Of course you won.” Santiago rolls his eyes, but lets out a chuckle. 

“It’s all about technique,” Benny winks. “Anyway, I thought I had you scheduled to start in an hour.” He says to you. 

“Right,” you sigh. “I just figured I could come in early and hit the bag. If that’s okay?” 

“You sure you won’t be tired?” Will says, sitting up as he and Frankie both try to catch their breaths. “You’re always training. Are you getting any rest?” 

“Trying,” you admit quietly. 

Frankie’s eyes soften immediately. Since the moment he saw you, he could see the sadness in your eyes, the void that is now left within you after finding out that you had lost your best friend. Loss was something he and the rest of the guys were all too familiar with, especially with being in their line of service, but that didn’t make it any easier. Frankie had numbed his grief and his pain with drugs and alcohol that it got to a point where he almost lost everything, he almost lost himself and it was his friends that brought him back to life. It wasn’t easy, but without them, he knew he wouldn’t have made it. 

“Well, we’ll get out of your way. Go ahead and warm up,” Benny says. He and the rest of the guys stand up to give you space on the mat and Frankie is the last one to brush past you. He hears you let out a shaky breath and for a moment he pauses, stands right next to you. 

“Hey, are you–” he quietly begins. 

“Gotta train,” you interrupt, moving past him. 

Frankie sighs and nods, following the rest of the guys towards Benny’s office in the back. Once inside, Benny hands him a bottle of water and sits down on the couch along the wall, glancing over at the door every so often. 

“What’s up, Fish?” Santiago asks, arching a brow. 

“I don’t think she’s okay,” Frankie points out. 

“I’d have to agree with you there,” Benny says. “But if she doesn’t want to share, then we can’t force her. We all know what that’s like. You especially, Fish.” 

Frankie tightens his jaw, running a hand through his unruly curls. “She’s struggling. You guys saw me struggle and still forced me to–”

“That’s because we have history, hermano,” Santiago interrupts. “We’ve only known her for a few months. We can’t just– We can’t just insert ourselves in her life when she’s made it clear that we’re all just… Acquaintances?” 

“I was going to surprise her, think maybe it’ll cheer her up, but I booked her first fight for this Friday.” Benny says. “I think we’re all more than just acquaintances, but it’s her grief and we can’t push her on it.”

Will nods. “We all grieve differently. We all know this. Just give her time. If she wants to talk, she’ll reach out to one of us.” 

“And how are you sure?” Frankie asks.

Santiago, Will, and Benny all share a look with each other before they turn their attention to Frankie. They can all visibly see the concern in his features and it’s only then that they realize that’s probably something more to this. 

“Okay, what’s really going on, Frankie?” Santiago asks. 

“Nothing,” Frankie waves off. “I’m just– We’ve all been in her shoes and we had each other to get us through it.”

“You like her,” Benny slowly grins. “You’ve barely talked to her and you like her.”

“Oh, shut up. I barely know her.” 

Will chuckles. “But you like her?” 

“I’m just trying to be nice, okay?” Frankie sighs. “It’s nothing like that.” 

“You like her,” Santiago chuckles. “To be honest though, she does stare at you a little longer than everyone else.”

Frankie rolls his eyes. “Okay, you know what, I’m leaving.”

“But wait,” Benny chuckles. “You gonna say bye to her?” 

Frankie’s jaw tightens and he playfully punches Benny’s arm, shaking his head. “You guys are assholes.”

“But you love us,” Santiago grins.

“Debatable,” he mumbles. “I just think… Maybe it’d be nice if we got her some flowers or cake or a card? I don’t fuckin’ know.”

“She doesn’t seem like the flowers kind of girl and she can’t have cake.” Benny says. “A card might be a good start," he teases. 

“Great, you’ll be in charge of that, Fish,” Santiago winks. 

“Bye,” Frankie says with a shake of his head as he leaves Benny’s office. He walks down the hallway and hears the sounds of the bag and exhaled breaths. He sees you hitting the bag with such speed and precision; Benny was right. You did have potential to become a legitimate fighter. Frankie enjoys watching you train because you’re so dialed in, so focused that everything around you just seems to disappear. Just like it is now, you’re light on your feet, bouncing on your toes as you deliver punches and hooks to the bag, finishing with a knee or a high kick. It’s impressive. You’re impressive. 

He doesn’t stay long, doesn’t notice the way that your shoulders sag forward when the round ends. It’s almost like your body reminds you of the grief that encompasses your entire being. To be honest, fighting was a way for you to distract yourself from the grief and loss of your best friend. You’re not dealing with your grief. Instead, you’re pushing it as far back as you can, trying to focus on other things because you know that if you put your attention on the fact that your best friend died, you won’t be able to pull yourself out of it. 

—

Friday rolls around and you’re in the locker room, warming up. It’s your first fight and Benny seems more nervous than you are. Your hands are already wrapped and you’re shadowboxing to keep your muscles warm, bouncing on your toes and switching stances from orthodox to southpaw. Frankie, Will, and Santiago enter the locker room just a few minutes before your fight begins. 

“We wanna wish you luck,” Will says, pulling you into a gentle hug. “We know you’re gonna do great.”

“Thank you, Will.” 

Santiago looks at you and smiles. “Make sure this pretty face doesn’t get beat up, yeah?” 

You roll your eyes, the corner of your lips lifting just slightly. “You never quit, do you?” 

Santiago chuckles. “With you? Never.” He winks. 

Frankie then walks towards you. He’s wearing his Standard Heating Oil cap as usual and he lets a small smile line his lips. “Be safe, okay, hermosa?” 

Hermosa. The pet name slips and Frankie bites his lower lip. The tops of his ears begin to burn, turning red in slight embarrassment. He brings a hand to rub the back of his neck and even you are taken by surprise by the pet name. It brings a sense of warmth in the pit of your belly though and instead of waiting for Frankie to pull you into a hug, you wrap your arms around him and let out a shaky exhale. With Frankie, it’s almost like he can tell what you’re feeling, can read how you’re doing, and right now, Frankie’s arms tighten just enough around you that makes you feel safe, that makes you feel like things are going to be okay. 

“Alright, my little warrior,” Benny grins. “Let’s get out there.”

My little warrior. There’s an immediate shift in you and you pull away from Frankie immediately. He goes to say something, but he notices the look on your face, the distance in your eyes. You’re no longer here with him, with them, and he knows that your mind is elsewhere. 

But he can also see the way your eyes glaze over with unshed tears, threatening to spill out. Instead, you take a deep breath and put in your mouth guard, allowing Benny to slide on your gloves.

You’re walking out of the locker room and down the hallway, eyes focused straight ahead of you as the four men remain behind you. You’re supposed to feel excited, thrilled for your first fight, but all you can think about is your best friend and how he wasn’t there to be able to watch you. You clench your hands into fists, your gloves tightening around your hands and you shake your arms loose, seeing the octagon as the crowd cheers and boos. 

The cutman inspects you, making sure that you have your mouthguard in and your gloves tight and secure. Afterwards, the cutman then spreads petroleum jelly across your face - your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, your forehead, your chin. They are the most common areas to be hit so the petroleum jelly is to help prevent cuts and tears from the impact that you’re sure you’re about to take in this fight. 

Once the cutman finishes, you turn to Benny and he pulls you into a tight hug. You’re closest to him, especially with him being your coach, but he hasn’t yet known your full story yet. “Stay focused,” he says, pulling away. “You got this.” 

You nod and gently tap his chest with your gloves before you turn to see Will, Santiago, and Frankie flash you a thumbs up from their seats in the front. You enter the octagon and let out a deep breath, your opponent staring down at you with narrowed eyes. You feel the nerves settle in, leaning back against the cage of the octagon as the announcer begins to announce your opponent’s name and her current record. You’re obviously the underdog, with this being your first fight, no one in the crowd (except for Benny and the rest of the guys) believe you can win. 

“The Warrior!” you hear the announcer exclaim and immediately, you feel a shift within you. All you can do is focus on the woman on the other end of the octagon, eyes staring straight into her and the rest of the crowd disappears. The referee calls the both of you into the middle of the ring and you step forward, shifting between your feet as you keep your eyes solely on the woman in front of you. 

“Are we clear?” the referee says after having told you both the rules. You both nod and you reach out to touch her gloves, but she just rolls her eyes and steps away, not bothering to give you the respect you had given her. 

You both move back to your corner of the ring and within seconds, the bell rings to signal the start of the first round. You move closer to the middle of the ring, seeing her do the same as you keep your hands close to your face. She delivers several low kicks that take you a while to check, your leading leg beginning to throb in pain. 

“Check those kicks!” You hear Benny yell from your corner of the octagon. It’s taking you a while to get the groove of things, still bouncing on your toes. You notice the woman has a habit of dropping her hands every time she kicks you and you know that you just need to time it right. 

Your leg is beginning to bruise and it’s becoming a bit difficult to stand on it, so you switch stances to southpaw, keeping most of your weight on your right leg now. 

“Come on!” 

“Just end the fight already!” 

“She’s not even that good!” 

You can hear the crowd and it only fuels you even further. You try to remember Benny’s training, try to remember your best friend’s teachings, and they both had told you to be patient. The right moment will present itself. 

There’s fifteen seconds left in the first round and so far, you know you’re losing. You’ve only thrown a few punches that haven’t landed. You can hear Benny screaming, begging for you to just do something instead of standing there and taking the hits that you don’t need to take. 

The woman puts more pressure and backs you into the corner of the octagon. She clinches her hands around your neck, pulling you close enough to deliver a knee to your abdomen. It hits you straight in your core, knocking the wind out of you that you drop to your knees, falling backwards just as soon as the round ends. 

You stand up slowly, walking towards your corner and sit on the seat that Benny sets down for you. You’re breathing heavily and it hurts, dripping with sweat as your abdomen begins to bruise and throb in addition to your left leg. 

“You’re losing,” Benny says, lifting the bottle of water to your lips to give you a gulp. “You said you wanted this. You said you wanted to fight. What the hell is goin’ on?!”

You shake your head, tightening your jaw as you keep your eyes straight ahead, focused on the other woman and her team. 

“Those kicks–” you begin. “I’m sorry, Benny. I’ll do better. I’ll finish it in this round.”

“That’s a bit presumptuous.” 

You stand up from the seat, even with twenty seconds of rest left. “She drops her hands when she delivers a kick, Benny. I’m trying to find an opening.” 

“You’re gonna get your ass kicked just waiting for something to happen. Be proactive. You know you’re fast. You know you’ve got the power. I know you can win this fight. Do you?”

You nod and look up at Benny. “Yes, I do.”

“Then fuckin’ win!” 

The referee waves in your direction, signaling that the next round is about to begin. Benny looks down at you and his eyes soften for a moment. 

“You can do this,” he says. “Believe in yourself.” 

You nod and begin to bounce on your toes, the pain you’re feeling taking a backseat as you stare at the other woman with a tightened jaw and narrowed eyes. 

Then, the bell rings and the second round begins. 

The other woman rushes towards you and you use your footwork to easily move away from her punches. You see her leg begin to lift and her hands drop. This is your moment. You deliver a quick jab that connects with her face and she stumbles backward. It isn’t enough to drop her, so you push forward. 

“There you go!” Benny exclaims. “Just a 1-2! She felt that!” 

You remain focused, delivering just a simple 1-2 punch that continues to connect with her face. You step back to give you enough space to deliver a high kick to her right side, seeing her drop her hands to block the kick which gives you an opening to deliver a hard left hook across her chin. 

You put as much strength as you could behind the hook, hearing the sound of your glove connecting with her chin echo throughout the building. She falls immediately on her back and you quickly scramble to mount her. Her arms cover her face as you just begin to ground and pound, delivering hammer fists to her face. 

Then, you feel the referee come between the both of you, waving his hands in the air to stop the fight. 

You won. Holy shit, you won! 

Benny runs inside of the octagon and lifts you up, cheering and laughing. “You did it!” The rest of the guys rush inside as well, staring at you with excited eyes and grins. 

The other woman finally stands up and the referee holds each of your wrists, waiting for the announcer to announce you as the winner. Once your hand is raised in the air, you feel tears threatening to spill over. The other woman comes to you and reaches out to give you a one-armed hug. 

“Great job,” she says. “That was a great fight.” 

“I’m sure my leg is gonna hurt like hell for the next few days,” you say with a slight smile. 

The other woman chuckles and nods, turning around to walk out of the octagon with her team. 

You turn around and look at Benny, Will, Santiago, and Frankie. Seeing them stare at you with smiles finally makes the dam break and tears begin to trickle down your cheeks. Benny’s the first one to pull you into a hug, holding you so tight that it provides the comfort you didn’t know you needed. 

“Your best friend would be proud,” he whispers and it only makes you cry even harder. He and the rest of the guys lead you out of the octagon, hearing the applause and cheers from the crowd as you begin to make your way back to the locker room.

—

After your fight - and after freshening up and taking a shower - you meet the guys at the local bar that they normally frequent. You’re limping slightly, the bruise on your left leg a painful reminder of the leg kicks you endured during the fight. With each breath, you feel your side twinge with pain from the knee your opponent delivered at the end of the first round. 

You keep your hair down and past your shoulders, dressed in a black slip dress that reaches past your knees and sandals. You’re glad that your face didn’t take much damage, but you’re sure that your body is going to be in a lot more pain tomorrow. 

Tonight, you feel like you can celebrate… But also because you didn’t want to be alone. 

Stepping into the bar, you see the four men in a booth in the corner and they spot you immediately. Their eyes slightly widen at the sight of you and you can’t help but let out a quiet chuckle, your cheeks heating up at the way they’re looking at you. 

“You clean up nice,” Benny chuckles. 

“I’m not in spandex shorts and a shirt, drenched in sweat,” you tease, sliding into the booth next to Frankie. 

“You look great,” Frankie blurts out. 

“Thank you, Frankie,” you say quietly, looking over at him. 

Santiago, Will, and Benny look between the both of you and arch a brow before the three of them stand up to walk towards the bar. “First round will be on me,” Will says. “What can we get for you?” 

“Glass of white wine, please,” you answer. 

When the three of them leave, there’s an uncomfortable and awkward silence that fills the air between you and Frankie. He scoots closer to the inside of the booth to give you some space and he lifts the glass of beer to his lips. 

“You were great out there tonight,” he finally says. 

“I got my ass handed to me in the first round.”

Frankie chuckles. “But you didn’t give up and you came back in the second round.”

“Guess you can call it luck.”

“It wasn’t luck.” 

You shrug and look down at your hands. “I just saw an opening and took it.” 

“You work hard and it paid off,” Frankie says. 

“Trying to,” you mumble. “It’s been hard.” 

Frankie leans forward, elbows resting on the table as he looks over at you. “Benny mentioned your best friend…” he begins quietly, eyeing you to make sure that he wasn’t overstepping any boundaries. When he realizes you weren’t going to stop him and change the subject, he continues. “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. 

Even six months later, that phrase still frustrates you. Even though it’s meant as a way to offer condolences, it’s never brought you any comfort. 

“Yeah,” you shrug. 

“I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine,” you interrupt. “I try not to think about it, about him.” 

Frankie nods. “You know, all four of us are prior military. Special Forces.”

“Really?” you ask, brows arching. You didn’t know that, but it does explain how close and tight knit they are. 

Frankie nods again. “We lost one of our buddies a couple of years ago. There used to be five of us and now,” he sighs. “Anyway, I just– If you ever need anyone to talk to, we’re all willing to listen.” 

“You ever get through it?” You ask. “It’s been six months and I feel… Stuck.”

Frankie shrugs. “You just learn how to deal with it. Learn how to live life without them.”

“But what if you can’t?” you say quietly. “What if you aren’t sure how to deal with it? How to live life without them? Then what?”

Frankie sighs. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Would your best friend want you to move forward? Would he want you to be happy?” 

“I don’t know. I can’t ask him.” You sigh quietly and gently reach out to rest a hand on Frankie’s arm, feeling the muscles flex underneath your fingertips. “I’m sorry. I don’t–”

“Don’t worry about it,” Frankie says softly, reaching over to rest a hand over your own. “We all deal with it in our own way. I hope you know, though, that we’re all here for you.” He looks into your eyes, staring deeply. “I’m here for you.” 

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #garrett hedlund #garrett hendlund character #oscar isaac character #oscar isaac #charlie hunnam character #charlie hunnam #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier fanfic #will ironhead miller #santiago pope garcia #benny miller #frankie cat #story: chance encounters

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Sooooo…….how do you think Benny boi would handle being caught half-naked from out the shower by his darling?? He’s showering after winning his match-up she thought he was finished but to her surprise…….. this scenario has been stuck in my brain 💀💀

Adrenaline.

oh baby... thank you for this.

warnings - smut. cursing.

Masterlist. Inbox.

"Ben? You in here?"

You walk through the locker room, looking for your partner as you go. Eventually, when you reach the showers, you hear the water running.

"Babe?" Benny yells from behind the curtain. "That you?"

You pull it back and pop your head around, trying to keep your eyes on his.

"It's me. I'll just wait for you on the bench out here."

Before you can blink, a strong hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you into the shower, water drenching you immediately. You shriek, swatting at his chest to try and escape.

His palms find your hips, plastering your bodies together.

"Need you," he murmurs into your ear, brushing your hair away from your face. "Can't wait until we get home."

"I'm soaked," you whine.

"You will be."

"Asshole," you laugh, resting your forehead on his sternum. "I like this dress. Dry."

"Stop worrying," he soothes, rucking the material up and over your head, throwing it onto the tiled floor. "Let me take your mind off it, hmm?"

He pulls your underwear down your legs, chuckling when you step out of them willingly.

Benny places your hands on the wall, kicking your feet apart. Pressing kisses down your spine, he sighs softly, grabbing handfuls of your ass as he goes.

"Fuck, this is what I needed. You, all pretty and pliant for me. So good, baby. Such a good girl."

Benny lines himself up and slides home in one smooth movement, both of you gasping in unison.

"That's it," he coos. "Take it, baby. Like you know you can. Like you were made for it."

You drop your head onto your arm and let him mould you however he likes, clearly needing the outlet. He gets like this, after his fights. He vibrates with the energy of it, looking for a release in any way he can get it.

You've become his favourite solution.

"Ben," you whine. "Fuck, babe."

"Yeah, honey. Keep saying my name just like that, please."

Benny's rhythm is frantic, frazzled, rushed, but he still manages to hit exactly the right spots. He knows your body like the back of his hand, that much is clear.

"Close," you choke out, trying not to swallow the water that still beats down. "Benny."

"Come for me, pretty girl. Give me all you've got. Please. I want it baby, that's it."

His honeyed words send you over the edge, muscles tensing and eyes rolling back. Benny joins you, groaning lowly against the wet skin of your back.

You both try to catch your breath for a moment, Ben reaching over to turn off the water. You spin and wrap your arms around his neck, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips.

"Better?"

"So much better," he chuckles.

You're about to respond when you hear the locker room door open, the sounds of multiple heavy footsteps filling the room.

"Benny! Champion! Where you at?"

You look at him with wide eyes, both of you realising the hilarity of the situation. Benny reaches out of the curtain to grab his dry shirt from the bench, tossing it to you and wrapping a towel around his waist. You throw it on and follow him out towards the boys sheepishly, knowing you're not about to get away with what you've just done.

"There you are!"

The boys look between you and Benny, putting the pieces together.

"You two are ridiculous," Frankie laughs.

Santiago winks at you as you bury your head in Benny's shoulder, laughter bouncing off the lockers around the room.

#benny miller x reader #benny miller smut #benny miller fluff #benny miller #benny miller imagine #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier fluff #triple frontier smut #triple frontier x reader #triple frontier imagine #triple frontier #garrett hedlund #benny miller x reader smut #benny miller x you #benny miller x female reader #benny miller x y/n #frankie morales x reader #will miller x reader #santiago garcia x reader #triple frontier x reader smut

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 3

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.  What happens if you can't make it to the motel on Friday evening?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 @frannyzooey thank you for your help and beta reading, I fucking adore you so much it's downright obscene 🧡

Word count: 12.2k

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Chapter 3: The Man At The Frontier

Make us come, baby. Make us come together. 

These words are yours. 

Even if you never see him again. Even if you lose him before having had the time to map the freckles on his skin. To sleep in his arms. To hear him repeat them. They’re yours to keep. 

He mouthed them against your skin, sunk them into your bloodstream in bright mahogany before coming undone, wrapped around your body. 

They’re yours, right? 

Even if you don’t get to see him ever again. 

—

It starts with the cramps. That’s how it usually goes. A myriad of microscopic pliers nipping at your intercostal muscles. 

Your eyes shoot open at the familiar ache. The early morning hues redefine the room in blue shadows. You blink your sleep-heavy eyelids a few times, confused, before your vision adjusts and you recognize the room around you. It’s your bedroom. Your nightstand, your lamp, your books. Your pills. Your tube of scented hand cream. The chair in the corner, that ugly, Louis XV style, transparent polycarbonate monstrosity by that French designer. The large windows. Those damn floor-to-ceiling windows that let in too much light, too much heat, too much open view. Nowhere to hide, in here. 

It has to be sometime between 4 and 5 am, you assume, before another cramp seizes you. You curl up into a tight ball on the edge of the bed, pulling the comforter to your chin.

Not today. Please. Not today.

Friday. 

Inside your abdomen, nausea streams densely, like liquid lead, from your ribs to your stomach, as cold shivers run up your spine. Sweat breaks on your forehead. You know only too well what’s happening, but it can’t be, there’s been no warning signs. No headache, no stabbing sensation in your lower belly, no spinning head. 

Today is Friday. 

You reject the obvious.

Were you so engrossed in the memory of him to pay attention? His hand wrapped around your nape, his forearm molded along your spine, pressing you into his chest, making you two as one. Closer.

Nausea is already lapping at your esophagus. The pliers bite harder at your ribcage and you know you have to move now if you want to make it to the bathroom before it happens. Shuddering, you push away the comforter, then get up and run.

Kneeled on all fours on the cool bathroom tiles, you dive headfirst into the toilet’s porcelain bowl as everything inside you collapses on itself, emptying the content of your stomach, mostly liquid. You should have eaten something last night. 

You know you’re not pregnant. For an infinity of reasons. 

Because you haven’t let Adrian fuck you in weeks. Because, when he does, he always wears protection. That’s your mutual, very tacit agreement. A silent understanding that you’re never the only woman, at any given moment. An unspoken confession on his behalf, implicit permission on yours. 

Because your contraceptive pill is the only one you’ll never stop popping. 

Because you’ve suffered through more stomach bugs than you care to count.

And of course, because Frankie won’t come inside you. 

You stand up on fawn-like legs and flush the toilet. 

You splash water on your face and grab your toothbrush with a trembling hand, shaking from head to toe. You know this is only the beginning, but it’s coming in strong. This one is most likely going to be a bad one. At least for now the pain is gone.

Above the sink, the woman in the mirror stares at you with unsettling, disproportionate glassy eyes. Her skin looks waxy, she scares you, and you have to lower your eyes. You brush your teeth as quickly as you can. 

You haven’t made it back to the bedroom when the second wave of cramps squeezes your abdomen. The pain folds you in half, and you let out a low whine. 

It echoes like distant thunder along the glass walls of the empty corridor. 

—

On Fridays, you count. You break down hours and minutes and steps and heartbeats into small, bearable quantities, so that you can live through them without going crazy. Today, however, you’re counting trips to the bathroom, and the time between two attacks from the cramps, like you’re readying yourself to give birth to a terrible monster, feeding off you from the inside of your quivering body. 

You’ve managed to spend most of the day hiding in your office, with the window cracked open, and the AC cranked up to the max. The clothes you wear are the same as yesterday. Your expensive formal blouse sticks to your sweaty skin in clammy patches. You’re cold, cold and hot all at once. In fact, you’re burning up, and a chill sweat has you shivering in the non-existent breeze. 

You haven’t gotten any work done, to state the obvious. You’re just dozing in and out of consciousness between two crises, head like a rock sinking onto your arms on top of your shiny glass desk. Its surface fogs with every one of your short breaths. You’re running out of toothpaste. 

Being the boss’ daughter has never granted you any particular privilege over your coworkers, except on days like this. At the first signs of sickness, you go home, or call in sick. Stay in bed for a couple of days, sleep it off, sip water tentatively every time you throw up until you can finally keep it down. No one has ever thought to comment on the frequency or duration of your sick leaves. Not even your father.

Kaytee has probably noticed something’s wrong with you. Her office is right by the bathroom, and you've run there seven times since you’ve arrived this morning, an hour late, which is uncommon, to boot. You look like a walking corpse, your eyes eating up half of your face and your lips pinched in a tight line. And surely, she will find a way to use this against you in the near or distant future. She’s been dying to take your place ever since she was recruited nearly two years ago, champing at the bit, waiting for you to slip so she can bury you. 

If she only knew. How you are dying to let her have it all. That you are convinced she’d be so much better at the job than you’ll ever try to be. 

With your last shred of energy, you push down the thought, like you push down the nausea and the shivers. On Fridays, everything that’s not him is irrelevant. At 6pm sharp, you’ll count your steps down to the parking garage and hop in your car. You’ll sit in traffic until you reach the 589 and you can finally cruise towards the motel in the protective semi-darkness of the Tampa suburbia. 

You haven’t yet considered what will happen beyond this point. When he steps into the room and finds you sitting there, looking like an undead version of yourself, reeking of stale bile, rancid sweat and toothpaste. 

All you have to do is make it there. You won’t give up, simple as that. You’ll suck it down. 

Demonstrating resolve you never knew you possessed, you make it to sundown. You hold out through the pain, through the cramps, through the soreness on your knees and the abrasion in your throat and the stabbing sensation behind your eyes and the pulling of your gums. 

At 6pm, you turn off the alarm of your phone and put it away in your purse. The room swirls around you the first time you try to get up. You wince, falling heavy on the simile leather chair you sweated on all day. You wipe your damp forehead and neck with a tissue, and you stand up again. 

All the blood in your body rushes to your feet. There’s not a drop of it left in your brain. You swallow hard against the bitter taste clinging to your tongue and palate and start counting your steps toward the elevator, only to lose track somewhere after 18.

Dark, green circles flash in rapid succession across your pupils, narrowing your vision. You grip the strap of your purse harder, and register you can’t feel your fingers. Something is wrong with your balance, your whole body slants to the left. You try to correct its trajectory but you can’t feel anything below your calves either. What you can feel is your forehead and your nape, defined by pain, burning hot and somehow also freezing where beads of sweat run down your skin.

You’ve made it to the lobby when everything fades to black. 

—

In your early 20s, you had genuinely tried to shake off the melancholia. An honest, hopeful attempt. You were away at college, and even though you didn’t get to choose your major, different and various paths seemed possible, within reach. A couple of years after graduation, when you had met Adrian, you had tried again, with renewed vigor and motivation. 

You did want to get better. 

You cut back considerably on hard liquor. You smiled broadly, at everyone. You said “please,” and “sorry.” Applied lipstick daily, polished your nails weekly. You went out to dinners and parties, wore high heels and interacted with strangers, drank wine in stem glasses and in reasonable quantities. 

On your mother’s advice, you went to “see someone.” As your father prescribed, you read the news and followed sports results. 

But the sadness kept settling down inside you, like the white particles inside a snowball. The vomiting spells became more frequent. Despite your willingness and earnest efforts, you kept falling short, and each fall hit you with increased brutality. 

For your mother, you were too much. For your father, never enough. For Adrian, you would soon come to realize, you were a commodity.

Trying to please them in turn, learning your cues, anticipating their needs and wills and whims, torn up between their contradicting desires and expectations, smiling pretty and meek, you completely lost track of what you liked and who you were. 

Anxious, confused, perpetually dissatisfied and unsatisfying, you withdrew within yourself. Hid away between the folds, detached and ready to flee, wishing for nothing more than to disappear. 

As Ava grew up, her loud and unapologetic personality compelling everyone’s attention, she provided you with a reprieve and, most importantly, a purpose. But a diffuse sense of guilt soon arose, as your little sister’s struggles could hardly be instrumental to your self-fulfillment.

Inside of you, isolation and loneliness grew solid, like a second skeleton, keeping you upright.  

Apathy soon took over. You resorted to medication to control it all. 

And when it was no longer enough, you found your way to the Hole in the Wall.

—

The smell of rubbing alcohol floats around you in the chilled darkness, its rough acetone accents abrading your nostrils. There’s an undertone to it. Rotting perfume and decaying bodies. A faint beeping sound tugs at your consciousness, and as you begin to come to, pain strikes you in multiple places. 

Something sharp stings the thin skin on the back of your right hand. Each one of your intercostal muscles is sore. Your throat is parched, rougher than sandpaper; your tongue too big for your mouth, stuck to your palate. Every single joint in your body is sensitive, but the worst, by far, is the piercing ache in your forehead. It glues your eyes closed. 

Panic floods your brain with static when you stir, wincing against the shooting pain, and you don’t recognize the motel’s mattress. The one you’re lying on is too hard, the linen covering you too starchy, the darkness is closing in on you, you need to open your eyes, fence off the pain, find Frankie…

Frankie. 

You never made it to the motel. Where the hell are you? When the hell are you?

“Ah. At long last, she wakes. How are you feeling, babe?”

Adrian’s honeyed voice hauls you through the darkness. Your eyelids flutter against the light until you open your eyes to a square room with a single, large window, blazing sun darting through. 

Adrian is sitting in the corner by the foot of the bed. A hospital bed, apparently. A narrow, dark blue mattress, unusually high, encased with rails on each side and at your feet. You’ve never been hospitalized before. 

He’s looking at you with a Cheshire cat grin stretching his thin lips, like he was just let in on a juicy secret. He’s dressed in his golf apparel. 

The violent luminosity intensifies the splitting sensation in your forehead, it vibrates to the back of your skull, from within, from the sides.  

Squinting, you turn your head to the side to take in your surroundings. On top of a beige, melamine nightstand are a black phone with a long twisted cord, an oval device with a red and a white buttons and another cord, and a metal kidney dish. 

There’s a tray table over your legs, with a jug standing next to a hard glass already filled with water, and some paper napkins. There’s a needle in your hand. A drip. With a cord. You flinch a little at the sight. A white rectangle eats up the tip of your index, a red light flashing from inside it. Another cord. It’s linked to the source of the beeping sound, a square monitor to your right, displaying wobbly lines of green. Another two cords are plugged in, you follow their sinuous lines to your bed, where they disappear under the sheet, and you take in the two round patches taped to your chest.

So many cords. Too many sensors. 

“Where’s my phone?” you mumble. 

Your tongue feels like a piece of carpet. You’re not sure whether it’s even your voice anymore. 

“You scared us this time,” Adrian says. His tone is cold, practiced, policed. 

You reach for the plastic glass and bring it to your chapped lips. The liquid flows down your throat like a waterfall; you wince again.

“Can you pull down the blinds, please? The light hurts.”

He lets a moment pass before he gets up, then circles the bed, unhurried, pacing toward the window, but instead of shutting the Venetian blinds, he sits by your side. The mattress dips under his weight. You hold your breath, anticipating a new jolt of pain. Behind him, the daylight forms a halo, blurring the outline of his silhouette. Your eyes water against the brightness. 

“What day is it?” you try again. 

“One thing we don’t understand is why you didn’t go home. You got us all worried, you know?”

The beeping picks up pace, imperceptibly. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. The one with no cords linked to it. You know this dance, he won’t cooperate until you ask the right questions, the ones he wants you to listen to him answer. Better to give him what he wants, for now.

“What happened?” 

“We don’t know exactly, that’s the thing. Well, you were sick, this you know,” he punctuates his words with a knowing grin and a wink, “but instead of coming home, you stayed at work, for some reason. We think you lost consciousness on your way out, and you hit your head on the elevator’s frame in your fall. We couldn’t help you right away because most employees had already left the floor. Jerry found you. He called your dad.”

You close your eyes, blocking the image of Jerry, of all people, finding you sprawled out and unconscious on the floor. And why would he call your father? Why not 911? You resent that collective we. Who the hell is we? Right about now, you could swear it’s the entire world versus you. 

Besides, you’re fairly certain Kaytee was still in her office at the time. She never leaves before 8pm at the earliest and makes sure everyone knows about it. 

“You split your forehead open. Apparently, you were running a pretty high fever, too. Oh, and you were critically dehydrated, according to the doctor I saw this morning,” he frames the words critically dehydrated in air quotes. “He also said something about a light concussion, I think.” 

You lift a heavy hand to your forehead, the tip of your fingers gingerly testing what they find there, a gauze dressing, held in place by medical tape. 

Having the clinical explanation behind the multiple aches throbbing inside your body somehow eases some of the pain.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you say, unable to look him in the eyes with the harsh light behind him. “I need my phone. Can you give me my phone, please?”

“What do you need your phone for?” he asks casually, seemingly absorbed by something on his pants.

It’s a dare. You know that tone all too well. Today, however, you find that you don’t feel like playing. You want your goddamn phone.

Frankie cannot possibly have tried to reach you as you never exchanged numbers, but you want to call the motel. Find out if he came. What happened then. You want to know what time it is, what day, how much of him you’ve missed. You’re craving his touch, his skin between your parted lips, your heart pumping on empty, racing madly from the need for him, and of all the sensations making your body known to you, this one by far hurts the most. 

The beeping sound accelerates, drawing Adrian’s attention to the monitor, then to you. His cold blue gaze narrows on your face. You try to slow down your breathing, hoping it translates to your heart rate. 

“I need to call Ava. She must be worried.”

“Ah yes, your sister, of course,” he exclaims, feigning a bright mood, as if you’d just reminded him you’re traveling to Hawaii together next week. 

Getting up, he walks nonchalantly to the foot of the bed, leaning against the wall underneath the TV set, hands in his pockets. The black screen dwarfs his lean proportions. His red polo enhances his pallid complexion. You avert your gaze, lest the monitor picks up your disgust like it does your nervousness.  

“Yes, it’s true, she probably got very distressed, when you didn’t show up at all last night,” he agrees with affected concern.

There’s a foul taste in your mouth. Acid, rubbing alcohol, and something else. The glass is empty, but you don’t think you can lift that jug. Each one of your muscles is vibrating, waiting for the axe to fall. If only that fucking monitor could stop beeping. 

“Remember back in October, when Kenneth went to New York over the weekend for the symposium at NYU? Well you’ll never guess. He saw your sister there, in some uptown restaurant, making out with her…” his upper lip curls, “with this older woman, her girlfriend.”

So this is it. He knows. All this time, he’s known. Since October, practically since the beginning. And he let you believe you had him fooled, that you had the upper hand on the situation, that this part of your life was yours. He lured you into a false sense of safety, a deluded feeling of freedom. And all the while, he’s known. 

It’s really your fault, for forgetting that’s how things are with him. That nothing truly is what it seems. That he likes you scared, anxious. Perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

There’s no point in trying to control the beeping, now. In fact, given its cadence, you expect a nurse to barge in any minute. 

“Polly’s not old,” is your answer. 

“Yeah, whatever, they’re degenerates, both of them.”

“Where’s my goddamn phone, Adrian?”

“What do you want your phone for?” he barks.

The words are spat in your direction, and the sheer volume of his nasal voice startles you. Red blotches erupt on his cheeks and neck, his eyes are blazing with contempt. 

“You need to call your fucking dealer? Is that it? You think I haven’t noticed that you’re high half of the time?”

You remain perfectly still, holding your breath.You can feel your skin pulling at the medical tape in your hairline. 

He doesn’t know shit. In fact, he’s scared. He’s so, so small. 

“Listen, I don’t care what the fuck you do every Friday night, ok? But can you at least be fucking discreet about it?”

The poison in his tone and his words corrodes your confidence. 

“They will announce the senior partners in January, I cannot fucking lose your father’s business until it’s done, do you understand me? So whatever you do,” he points his index finger at you and stabs it through the air to accentuate each of his following words, “you be fucking discreet. More fucking discreet than that shitshow you pulled, do you get it? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Should you nod? Is he waiting for you to manifest your understanding of the situation? 

You hate yourself for thinking, ever so briefly, that he might have been jealous, that he might have cared. Held down on this bed with all these cords, you feel like a butterfly pinned in a glass case, on display in a cabinet of curiosities, a mere object amidst a multitude of other trophies covered in dust and mold. You’ve always hated butterflies. They gross you out. 

You allow yourself to breathe again when his posture relaxes. Looking down at his feet, with his hands on his waist, he shakes his head and huffs. The stance reminds you of Frankie, the difference in their proportions almost comical, like a circus monkey aping the brawny horseman, the one who gets top billing in the show. 

Frankie had you pinned on a bed repeatedly, without ever making you feel like a study in entomology. 

“Your dad is waiting for me, I’m already late,” Adrian says, coming toward you, “I’d love to stay a little longer, but you know how he is about golfing. Don’t want to keep him waiting!” 

He pecks a kiss on the crown of your head. The pain darts through your skull in all directions, all the way down to your spine. 

“Where’s my phone, Adrian?” you call one last time as he strides toward the door.

“You don’t need your phone, babe. What you need is to rest. Get those magical hospital electrolytes. Doctor’s orders,” he adds with a wink. 

And he’s gone.

Furious tears hang from your lashes. You focus on the plastic box on the tip of your index, and you begin to inhale and exhale, as deeply and slowly as you can. It’s shaky at first, but you’re encouraged by the decreasing cadence of the beeping. 

Adrian and your father go golfing at 2pm on Saturday afternoons. Meaning you’ve been out for over fifteen hours. Without your phone, you have no means to assert the time. Your watch is nowhere in sight, neither are your clothes, shoes, jewelry, purse. 

The room has a phone, but you have no idea if it’s connected. You don’t know the number to the motel. Hell, you don’t even know its name, only its location. 

Frankie’s silhouette invades your thoughts, the size of him, the shape of him. His broad back, his strong shoulders, the line of his neck. The sensation of his hands grasping your waist. Their precision, their roughness. Their intent.

Is this how it ends?

Fresh tears swell under your eyelids. You quickly clench them close. 

You did everything wrong. What an appalling idiot. You should have acknowledged you’d never make it there, not in the state you were in. You should have called the motel to leave a message, explain your absence, and promise you’d be there again the following Friday. 

Now you have no means to reach him. You probably have lost him forever. The warm touch of his skin. His unique scent. His taste.

The beeping grows frantic. Heavy wet sobs heap up inside your chest. Your hand flies to cover your eyes. You anchor yourself to the throbbing pain in your skull and the prickling needle in your hand. To the faint clasp of the pulse oximeter on your index finger. Pursing your lips, you exhale.

Whether the phone is connected or not is just a detail. You can always signal someone with that little remote on the nightstand and have the option charged to the room. Ava’s phone number is the one you have memorized, she can come and get you, and when you manage to get out of here and get your phone back, you’ll replace Adrian’s contact info with hers as your ICE. 

The point is: you’re not trapped. You’re not a dead butterfly in a glass case. 

Your heart rate slows down. 

Between the cords and the hospital sheets, you look up at the white ceiling, and do what you do best: you check out, slip back between the cracks, disconnect.

—

The pain from your head injury is overwhelming. You’d ask for painkillers, but that collective we still haunts you. 

You expect Adrian to come back on Sunday. He doesn’t. Throughout the day, you fall in and out of sleep, a restless, feverish slumber crowded with violent dreams of flesh-eating monsters licking your bones clean.

On Monday morning, the doctor comes in to see you. A man in his early 60s with a thick mane of gray hair and a carefully trimmed beard, he calls you “sweetheart,” and when he raises his eyes from his tablet, he flashes you a perfunctory smile with blinding white veneers. He introduces himself as the head of the gastroenterology department. And a friend of Richard. He makes sure that you understand that his name on your chart is a favor to your father. His demeanor commands your respect, preferably by way of intimidation. 

Whatever he tells you, you’ve already learned from the nurses who waltzed in and out of your room in a brisk and constant ballet throughout the weekend, to check with skilled, professional movements the multiple cords and tubes pinning you to your bed. 

You suffered bacterial gastroenteritis, with severe dehydration, necessitating an antibiotic treatment, and, from your fainting spell, a minor concussion and a head injury. A thin split, on the right side of your forehead, perpendicular to your hairline.

You got sick. You fainted. You hurt your head.

After the doctor’s gone, you’re finally allowed to get up. Under the fluorescent ceiling light of the adjacent bathroom, you spend several minutes observing the seven stitches adorning your forehead. The thick black thread tied in neat little knots that look like dollhouse barbed wire. The visible indentation in your flesh underneath them. The kaleidoscopic and psychedelic coloration of your skin, spreading from your brow to your scalp.  

One of the nurses assures you the scar will quickly fade and disappear. Just like you. 

You find your belongings inside the narrow closet by the bathroom door. The slit of your pencil skirt is torn nearly up to the waist, and the blouse is bloodied. Your jewels are tucked inside your purse. You stand in front of the shelves, staring blankly at the black leather rectangle with the two gold C’s entwined on the front. One of the very first gifts you received from Adrian. You can’t remember if it was for Christmas, or your 30th birthday. Every Friday evening for the past three months, you’ve shoved it unceremoniously under your car seat. You hate that thing. It’s soulless, tacky, it begs for attention, it screams money.    

Later in the afternoon, your mother comes to visit. She brings you magazines, In Style, Elle, Southern Homes, Vogue … At first, she doesn’t look at your face, and when she does, she crumbles into tears. You comfort her. You watch her pad the corner of her fake lashes with a tissue she pulls out of her Birkin purse, and reapply lipstick.

Adrian comes back on Tuesday, with a large bouquet of roses, a box of imported Belgian chocolates you’re not allowed to eat, and your phone. He doesn’t stay long. Before he leaves, he presses an open-mouth kiss to your lips. You wait until he’s passed the door to spit into the kidney dish.

Your father calls within minutes of his departure, with an apology for not visiting. Work, he says, the magic word that justifies everything, from the clothes on your back to his shitty behavior. You tell him the doctor has advised to rest for the remainder of the week. 

In the evening, you finally text Ava. She calls you back immediately, which, beyond her audible concern, puts a lump in your throat. When she asks you how you’re feeling, it’s a minute before you can even speak. 

You’re discharged on Wednesday, with a tube of antibiotics, a short list of food to favor and a much longer one to avoid. 

Ava comes to pick you up. She brings you a change of clothes, a pair of baggy, distressed jeans and a white t-shirt that spells PRIDE in rainbow letters. You smile at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, and when you come out, she laughs like a child at her own joke. You laugh with her. It hurts a little, but the pain is worth it.

You’re still smiling when you ask her if you can keep the t-shirt, and her face drops. She hugs you, a bone-crushing hug with closed fists compressing your back, her face slotted into the crook of your neck. Her voice quivers when she answers that everything that is hers, is also yours. 

You stuff the pockets of your jeans full of your things and leave your purse in the closet. With a little bit of luck, the person who will find it can get a good price for it. 

On Friday morning, you drive back to the hospital to honor a 10:30 am appointment to remove your stitches. You’re led through a sprawling maze of corridors into a windowless room with baby blue walls, and instructed to undress to your underwear, which you don’t. Sitting on the examination couch, legs dangling in the air, palms rubbing on your jeans, you wait for the nurse to come in. 

She doesn’t remark on your defiance. In fact, she makes a point of soothing your nervousness, introducing herself as Diane, complimenting the color of your sneakers. She promises that you won’t feel a thing, and you believe her. When she smiles, her irises nearly entirely disappear, and a wide-spanning arch of wrinkles appears at the corner of her eyes, like sunbeams drawn by a happy child. 

While she prepares her utensils, she engages you in small talk, skillfully stirring the conversation toward the matter of your mental health and physical well-being. You’re well-trained too. You divert without shame or remorse. 

True to her word, she makes quick work of it, and when she’s done, she hands you a mirror framed in a blue, rubbery material. 

At first, you refuse to look, but she kindly insists. Her voice is gentle, angelical, her hands are warm when she lays them on your shoulders. She never once pronounces the word “scar.” She calls you “a beautiful and brave young woman.”

So you let her guide your hand upward until you’re faced with your image. 

“See? Barely visible. Once the ecchymosis has faded, you won’t even be able to notice it. Just something that happened.”

As she stands behind you, her warmth radiates through your cold bones, and she smiles broadly at your reflection. You blink back your tears. You want to commit her words to memory, uncorrupted by emotions. Just something that happened.

Out in the street, a strong wind blows in gusts from the east, in an overcast sky. The damp smell scrunches up your nose. Even without the sun, the air is too warm for the season. When you get into your car, the first thing you do is crank up the AC. 

That rotten hospital smell is still clinging to your skin and hair, you keep having these drops in blood sugar that leave you trembling like a willow tree and drenched in cold sweat. The whiplash from this morning’s anxiety does nothing to level your mood. 

You glance at your watch. 11:30. You let your head roll back on the headrest. You can’t remember a time in your life when you were not exhausted. 

You consider heading straight to the motel. Originally, you intended to go home first, change your clothes and apply some makeup. Cover up the giant bruise on your forehead, and do your best to look alive. It would be smart to put some food in you, too, and of course, to hydrate.

“Fuck it.”

You start the ignition, and merge into the midday traffic. 

The drive is excruciatingly long. A week from Christmas, the traffic is terrible. Getting out of Tampa takes over an hour. 

It’s the afternoon when you pull into the motel’s parking lot. Your eyesight’s unfocused, your nerves are raw, your shoulders pulled taut. 

Of the three other cars parked in the lot, none look like the one you’ve always assumed to be Raul’s, an ancient white Jeep Wagoneer with a rusty back bumper. 

As you try to ponder what to do next, the prickling of your healing tissues riles you up, convoking intrusive thoughts of your scarred reflection. The antibiotics drill a hole into your stomach, the discomfort creases your brow into a constant frown. Your right leg bounces continuously on the car floor. 

You’re running on empty. Pure, solid stress is what’s holding you up.

Once again trapped, this time inside the carbon fiber box of your car, while the outside world is defined in movements. The course of the overcast sun across the pearly gray sky, and the ever-changing shades of the clouds chased by the eastern winds. The occasional vehicle driving past the motel on the secondary road. The trembling of tree leaves, birds flying over, lonesome or in flocks. 

That decaying smell is everywhere in you, around you, but it might be your festering thoughts.

You’re too much, not enough, a disposable commodity. 

Is this how it ends?

Sometimes before 7pm, the white Wagoneer pulls into the parking lot, followed a few minutes later by a red sedan. Raul’s short, bespectacled figure is recognizable through the windshield of his Jeep. Then, it’s the familiar sight of his blue overall as he climbs the flight of stairs to the reception. You slide down on your seat, you don’t need him to see you already stationed here. 

Shortly after, a curvy young woman with a straight, blonde ponytail that goes down to her waist comes out and jogs to the red sedan. She gets in on the passenger side, and you wait until the car disappears on the horizon to exit yours. 

The short walk from your car to the office should be muscle memory. Only today, the gravel feels steady under the flat soles of your Van’s, and your jeans allow you to take actual, proper strides. Carried by the momentum, you march into the room, opening the door so wide it bangs on the door stopper with an ominous sound of shaking glass panes. 

Behind the desk, Raul lifts his head. It’s easy to tell by his puzzled expression that he doesn’t place you. And why would he? You look nothing like you usually do on every other Friday evening. Your clothes are casual, your face is bare, your features pulled taut by mental and physical exhaustion and an array of soreness and pains, your forehead shines in Technicolor, set off by a fresh, inch-long scar. 

“Good evening,” you start with a tight smile. “I—“

A whole week. Seven days, and you haven’t thought this through. The liability that is your impractical brain appalls you, exasperation heating your temples. In the silence that ensues, the droning of the AC unit seems to grow louder. You smile again. 

“I come in every week?” 

Jesus. 

“Oh yes,” he nods, his boot-button eyes boring into yours, “Friday nights, room number 2.”

“Yes,” you answer with a strained, cringy little chuckle, “room number 2. Is it–”

You wipe your sweaty palms on the sides of your jeans.  

“I was wondering if the room was booked last week?”

“Yes, last week room 2 was booked. But you didn’t come, last week.”

“Yes, no, I was held back,” you hear yourself say. You wince before you add, “And, the— the tall man— the tall man who joins me, did he come, last week?”

“Yes. He came. He waited, two, maybe three hours. You didn’t come, so he left. No refund.  Reservations paid in advance are not refundable unless canceled at least 48h—“

“Oh no, that’s fine,” you cut in, relieved he might have thought this embarrassing interaction was about money. “And is the room booked for tonight?”

Raul’s boot-button eyes linger on you for a beat before he lowers them to the computer screen on his left. The mouse clicks a few times, loud and suspenseful, as he operates the thing. You try to catch the reflection of something, anything in his round glasses. There are seven rooms, two cars beside his and yours in that parking, what can possibly take him so long? 

If the bacteria hasn't killed you, the wait surely will. 

“No,” he eventually declares, looking up at you, “it’s not booked for tonight.”

The answer falls on you like a guillotine. It rings out in your ears and you sway on your feet from the violence of the blow. You don’t know how to breathe. 

“Do you want to book it?”

You shake your head slowly.

“No. Thank you.”

Back outside, in the muggy semi-darkness, your wobbling legs find the way to your car on autopilot. 

He made no plans to come back. This time, he didn’t leave any note. This is how it ends. Between your lungs, the wild creature is bleeding. 

You should turn around, ask if they have his full name, bribe Raul into giving you his contact info. You never thought of memorizing his plates, but you could always drive back to the Hole in the Wall, see if he’s been there, if he came looking for you. 

You don’t. You won’t. You’re not entitled to any of it. He was never yours. Never yours to want, to long for, to miss, to hold.

All that’s left now is the abyss and the fear. You’re terrified. Of what lies ahead, the choices you’ll have to make, the answers you’ll have to give. The hollowness in your chest. The gap in your existence. The fracture in your years. 

The before and the after him. 

He has changed you. You changed yourself. You’ll never know if you changed him. 

Stunned, you stand still by your car, cloaked in the velvety night, frozen in space and time. Your hand petrified on the door handle. Unable and unwilling to leave. Eyes riveted to the brass number on the door, glinting with a blurry glow in the soft yellow hues of the porch lights. Moths flutter fuzzy and silent into the light beam, oblivious to the drama of your story. 

The rectangular window stands guard over your secret life. Behind the yellow curtains, your lonely silhouette awaits to come to life, poised and silent, seated on the edge of the bed. 

That woman, young and brave . Want has made her bold and determined. In just a few moments, her trained ears will pick up the sound of an old truck engine drawing near on the empty road. Her existence will come into focus with thrilled anticipation. She will bloom out of her restraints at the sound of tires on the gravel. 

“Oh god,” you whisper, whipping your head around, your grip on the handle white-knuckled as the red truck parks behind your sedan. 

His massive silhouette comes out, and you clasp your hand to your mouth to muffle a dry sob. 

It’s a trick of your overwrought brain. He’s wearing a pair of worn-out jeans and a suede jacket over a dark t-shirt. The brim of his hat casts a long shadow over his face, but he’s moving fast, and in a couple of strides, he’s standing before you, hands on his hips. He’s smiling, a broad and bright smile. You catch a glimpse of a dimple you’ve never seen. A trick of the mind. 

Oh but he’s here, in the flesh, your body knows before your brain comprehends his presence. The instant pull, the humming purr of the creature inside you, the blood level instinct.  

“Hey!” he calls. He sounds out of breath. Like he’s been running. Running to you. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out through your clenched fingers. 

“What?”

His smile drops when you take a step back. 

“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t make it, I thought I could, but I couldn’t make it, and then I couldn’t—“ 

Your throat closes around the memory and you swallow hard, eyelids weighed by stubborn tears that refuse to fall. 

He takes a step forward, tilting down his head. That scowl. That scowl, you know. You’re only too familiar with it.

“Then it was too late and I couldn’t reach you,” you finish.

“What happened to you?”

The low timbre of his voice reverberates inside your chest. His eyes flicker up to your forehead. Before you can think of anything to say, he cups your face with both hands and turns it to the side, towards the light. The whole sequence happens so fast that you trip on your feet and catch yourself on his forearms. 

“Who the fuck did that to you?” he grits, leaning so close his breath fans your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat in a whisper. 

“Did he do that to you?”

“What?”

“Your husband. Did he do that to you?” he asks again, louder, this time. Separating each syllable.

“Oh no! No, I fell.” You bring the tip of your fingers to the sensitive mark. “The nurse said it will fade.”

“How did you fall?” he presses. 

He doesn’t believe you. Like you could lie to him if you wanted to. 

The tension from his frame resonates through yours, where a week’s worth of suppressed emotions and tears are piled up, waiting for a detonator that will bring down the dam. You push away his hands, your frown mirroring his own. 

“I fell, ok? I’m here now, so let’s go inside.”

“I’m not– no,” he huffs, hands back on his hips, shaking his head. His boots scuff over the gravel, the grating sound loud in the empty lot, in the stifling night, and despite the dimness you can make out that scowl, ever present, splitting his gaze. 

“You can barely stand.”

However relevant, his rejection burns your cheeks. You raise your chin, leaning against the hood of the car for countenance. For balance.

“I’m fine. The room is free. Let’s go.” 

“I said no. I’m not fucking you. Look, I don’t know what happened to you, but you’re clearly not well enough–”

“You don’t fucking tell me what I’m well enough to do,” you snarl with your heartbeat in your throat, pushing away from the car, sustained by your last shred of strength. “Don’t assume you know what I’m capable of.”

He stands in front of you, seemingly unmoved, impossibly tall, infuriatingly silent. Stoic, and you’re thrumming with frustration, standing stubborn and brittle in front of him. He gives you none of the myriad of micro-expressions that usually play across his face, that you read instinctually. You feel ugly, exposed, but you withhold his gaze, jaw clenched, breathing heavy through your nose. You might faint again.

The silence drags on. It’s a minute before he moves again, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice is calm, when he speaks next, low and quiet, almost soothing. You don’t want it to be soothing. You don’t want to be soothed, you’re not done with your anger. He didn’t book the room, and now he doesn’t want to go in. You are a swappable vessel, after all. 

“I don’t. I don’t assume anything,” he says, “I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”

“I told you already, you cannot hurt me,” you snap, impatient.

“Wanna bet?”

You don’t need to. You know he could. Just not in the way he thinks he would. He’s already marked you permanently, deeper than any injury, any wound ever could. 

“Listen,” he begins with a sigh. 

“No, I get it, I look like shit and you don’t want to fuck me—“

“Alright, that’s enough!” he silences you with his index finger pointed at you. His voice booms in the dim parking lot, and you avert your eyes. Weariness washes over you, you fall back against the hood of your car.

His shoulders sink just a bit, the slightest drop in the tension pulling them taut. He steps closer to you, leans down, seeking your gaze, searching your face in the semi-darkness. 

“Hey, why don’t we go for a drive?” he offers. “We can talk. Or not. We can listen to the radio. Or just drive in silence, if you want. Clear our minds. What do you think?”

Our minds. 

He’s so close you can smell the clean scent of his t-shirt and the musk of him underneath it; you can feel your skin reaching out for him in feverish little tendrils you cannot control. 

“Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Yes, ok.”

He smiles, a cautious, appraising smile. The light catches at the mahogany depth of his eyes. He reaches for you, placing a large hand in the small of your back, and whispers, “Alright, let’s go.”

— 

The cab of the truck feels almost sacred. For months, it’s been your favorite daydream. Picturing him alone in the only private space of his you’ve ever seen, driving to you. 

What are his thoughts, then? Are they of you? Are they happy? Are they hopeful?

On any other occasion, you’d relish the opportunity to be in here with him. You’d catalog and store up every tiny detail for future use in your fantasies of him. Instead, you’re sitting tight and rigid on the wide bench seat, pressed against the door, face turned toward the window, seeing absolutely nothing. 

You hate yourself for that, too. 

After a while, you risk a glance at the dashboard. 

Judging by the analog dials, the truck has some mileage, but it’s visibly been well maintained. There’s no visible spots, no dust, no dents, only the patina of time. The vinyl bench seat is upholstered with a soft fabric whose colors have fainted after too many years under the Florida sun. There’s a cassette player and a cigarette lighter. The windows are manual. 

The one on Frankie’s side is cracked open. The night air carries his scent over to your side of the cab. Leather, laundry, musk. You can’t escape it. 

“Hey. You ok there?”

In the moonless night, you can only make out the sharp lines of his profile against the outside darkness of the country road. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. 

He looks at you, brow pinched, but his expression is soft. Compassionate. 

“C’mere.”

The truck slows down to a snail pace, and he unbuckles your seatbelt. You scoot over near him. Without taking his eyes off the road, he reaches to your right and rolls out the middle seat belt across your lap, fastening it between your hip and his. 

The truck accelerates to a cruising speed, and he wraps his arm over your shoulders, drawing you closer. 

You let him, allow your body to slump against his, embrace his warmth, your cheek pressed against his chest. It’s solid and strong, a match for your skeleton of loneliness. The suede fabric of his jacket is smooth, worn in. You inhale him there. You rest a hand on his thigh, and slide the other under his jacket, to rest on his chest. It rises and falls with his breathing. If you lie real still, you can feel the steady thumping of his heart. 

“I’m not married.”

“Ok.”

The word is felt through your cheek as much as you hear it. 

“The man I live with. He’s not my husband.”

“Ok.”

The nodding motion of his head nudges you a bit. 

“And I really fell.”

He remains silent, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. The leather lining creaks inside his fist. 

“I got sick, last Friday. I get these stomach bugs all the time, but this was a mean one. I tried to make it through the workday, but eventually I passed out. Like a corporate rendition of a Victorian damsel, or something.”

You chuckle, diverting the humiliating memory. Just something that happened. 

He tightens his embrace. 

“That when you hurt your head?”

“Yes. On the edge of the elevator’s frame. At work”

“Fuck. Did it hurt a lot?”

“Actually it didn’t? I was out. It hurt when I woke up later, in the hospital, though. I had this terrible headache. I didn’t know where I was, or when I was.”

You feel him shake his head as he asks, “Were you scared?”

How to put into words, that the only fear you’ve ever had, is to never see him again? 

“I survived,” you answer with a shrug and a little, empty laugh.

If you were brave enough, if you had some strength left, you’d ask. How did he feel, when he got to the motel and found the door to the room closed. Why he didn’t book the room again. Why he still came tonight. 

“Does it still hurt?” he asks. 

“No,” you lie. 

“Mmh. And for real?”

You rub your cheek against the smooth suede, imprinting your soft smile into it. And maybe some of your scent for him to keep. In case, just in case he does care.

“A little. I’ll be fine.”

The truck cruises over the black asphalt, between the straight, stretching yellow lines. 

Your next words come in quiet, but not hesitant.

“He wouldn’t hit me.”

“Ok.”

“That’s not what he does.”

He exhales slowly through his nose. 

“What does he do?”

You bite your cheeks, already regretting this moment of weakness. The treason. 

“He makes me doubt.”

“Him?”

“Myself. And him too.”

Your eyes clench shut. His chest flexes under your cheek as he hardens his grip on the wheel. 

The truck drives past a gas station, through a small town. Neatly delimited square lawns, white houses with flags hanging on their porches, Christmas lights blinking through square windows, and you tilt up your head to look at him in the streetlights. 

His outlined profile, his steady expression, everything about him feels safe and grounding. The beauty that radiates from him, from within him, sinks to your heart. It races madly, awakening the soreness in your bruised ribcage, and perhaps he can feel it, with the way you’re curled up into his side. Leaning down, he brushes a kiss to your forehead. You bunch up his T-shirt in your fist. 

Soon, the yellow lines unwinding endlessly in the truck’s headlights weigh down your eyelids. In the safety of Frankie’s hold, your mind and body slowly drift into a peaceful slumber. 

“You ok? Want me to close the window?”

His voice is a distant whisper skirting the edges of your consciousness. 

“No, ’m good,” you mumble. “Wanna stay like this forever.”

Under your palm, Frankie's heart thumps loud and heavy. 

—

When you wake up, the truck is still and silent. Engine cooled off, windows rolled up. The night is pitch dark. Frankie’s scent, heady, familiar, everywhere around you. Your cheek is resting on his lap, and his hand lies heavy on your waist. His breathing comes in even and slow. Both your seatbelts are unbuckled. Your feet are bare. 

Aside from your legs, sore from being crammed into the length of the seat bench, you feel better than you have in a week, with your headache finally gone. 

You sit up, take in your surroundings and his sleeping form, seated behind the wheel. He stirs, lifting an eyelid and glancing in your direction, the corner of his mouth tugged up into something that resembles a drowsy grin. 

At some point while you were asleep, he drove back to the motel. Parked the truck so that the cabin faces away from the only source of light. 

You stretch side by side, sleep-heavy limbs, comfortable silence. You watch him lift his hat and comb his fingers through his hair, a tender smile lifting the corner of your lips. You know the curls he hides there. 

Of course, it cannot last forever. Nothing ever does. In a couple of hours, it’ll be daybreak. He’s always gone, by then. 

You won’t make this uncomfortable or difficult for him. You slip your socks and shoes back on. You’re reaching for the handle when he stops you with a hand on your thigh. 

“Wait. I need to talk to you.”

His voice is low and husky from sleep. You realize you have never woken up next to him. Never slept with him through the night. Probably never will. 

You hum quietly, pivoting on the seat bench to face him. 

“I can’t come, next week,” he says, searching your eyes. 

Emotionless. That’s how you have to be. You know how to do this. Not when it comes to him, but you can try. You try your best, your very hardest. 

“I understand.”

“I imagine you can’t be here either.”

No, you can’t. Thanksgiving at your parents’, Christmas with Adrian’s family. Always. 

“No, I can’t.”

The following week, either. But you don’t share that.

This is when the two of you should discuss a practical means of communication. The awareness hangs between you, loud and unspoken. The consequences it would have on whatever it is that the two of you share. The shockwave, the shift in nature and intention. The names that exist to describe your situation, crass, overused, sordid. Tainted with lies and deception, secret texting, hushed phone calls, disgusting, undeniable guilt.

Frankie moves first, getting out of the truck and going round the hood to open the door for you. You slide out of the high cab into his arms, and when your feet touch the gravel, you wonder if this could be the last time he will ever hold you.

In the feeble porch lights, his face is a landscape of diffuse shadows. The dip in his collarbone draws you in, a beacon in a dark ocean. You nuzzle into it, inhaling his scent, taking in his fragrant warmth. You tuck your face in the crook of his neck, graze your cheek along his pebbled skin. What if you stayed there? Tucked away forever. Disappeared to the rest of the world. Would it matter? Would he let you? 

Your fists bunch the sides of his jacket. 

“Kiss me, Frankie, please.” 

“Yes.”

His first kiss is tentative, the plush cushion of his lips a soft press over yours, but they return immediately, hungry for a taste, for more, the tip of his tongue brushing against your parted lips. 

All that you crave, all that you need is here, in his embrace, between his arms and his hands tugging at your waist, beckoning your body closer to his. 

Your arms circle his neck, the tips of your fingers seeking his curls. His hand spans your back, finds your nape. He molds you into his chest, and with the way he’s pressing you against him, firm and commanding, you know this will be one of these moments that feed into your hopes. The delusion you’ve been nurturing since the first time you’ve faced him. The dream that he wants you to be his above anyone else. 

His third kiss opens you up, tongue swirling around yours, and you keen, rising to your tiptoes, angling your head to take more, more, more and he gives. Hands gripping, tongue licking, crushed lips and guttural moans, he gives you all that you need like he needs it too. 

You’re floating above the gravel, there’s no time, there’s no space, his body has no end and there’s no beginning to yours as he kisses away your fears, your doubts, your darkness. 

Together, you stand entwined between night and morning, linked by chance, need and hurt, bonded by will and desire. 

There’s no urgent hunger in the spanning of his splayed hands across your body, no rage in his kneading of the soft of your hips, or the swell of your breast. His grip is strong, but studious and thorough. He takes you in, your curves, your dips, the slopes and slants of your figure. Like he’s storing up the feelings and memories of you for when there will be no more, when you’re far and gone, away with your husband who is not your husband. There’s despair in his touch, but most of all, there’s foresight, and intent. 

He’s untucked your t-shirt, calloused hand skimming up to cup your breast, thumbing the hardening peak of your nipple.

Once again, you find yourself pressed against the hard, cool metal of the truck, and like the first time, you’re frantic in his hold, but he’s in control. His thick thigh parts your legs, offering friction to the coiling need between your hips, that fire pooling liquid down your core. You squirm against the firm muscles. 

“Want me to make you come, baby?”

He’s breathing into your mouth, and you whine in frustration. 

“No, I want you inside me.” 

“Shit, you sure?”

“I’m not made of glass, you’re not going to break me.” 

You push away to look at him, a demonstration of strength. All talk, but you’re that desperate. He pulls you back into him for another kiss, chuckling into your mouth. 

“You think I don’t know that?”

So many simple things you had never done with him before tonight, after months of lying bare and naked, to his gaze and his touch, inside and out. Driving, falling asleep, walking, his steadying hand nestled in the small of your back. 

Behind the reception desk, Raul seems unfazed by this new development. The drawing pad blackened in charcoal is back.

“Room number 2,” Frankie asks, “for the night.” 

It’s so wild to consider that the two men have never interacted, when Raul plays such an important part of your Friday ritual. You’d try to get Frankie’s full name, real name, perhaps, but Raul doesn’t ask. This is not that kind of place. 

“I can pay,” you whisper into Frankie’s shoulder, tucking your t-shirt back into your jeans. 

“I know you can.”

When he flips open his wallet, a small color picture pops out, next to his driver's license. The photo booth format is easily identifiable. In the snapshot, a bare-headed Frankie is holding a very young child. The picture is that of a moment, seized through movement, the kid holding the Standard Heating Oil hat in her chubby hands, likely mere seconds after having snatched it from Frankie’s head, who’s looking down at her, with a bemused grin, tousled hair. 

It’s him, his distinctive, sharp features unmistakable, only he hardly looks like the man you know. There’s no trace of the grief he carries like a cloak when he meets with you. No crease splitting his brow like when he looks at you. Instead, his eyes glint with pride, creasing with a smile that dimples his cheeks, large and genuine. And the child’s round, plump face is brightened by the same irresistible dimpled grin, the same head full of wild curls, the same mahogany eyes.   

You quickly avert your gaze, but you’ve seen enough. The guilt is physical, visceral, it squeezes your ribcage harder than the pliers. The pain has you wincing and you grip the reception desk for balance, but Frankie’s arm is already wrapped around your waist and he’s leading you outside. 

In a trance, you walk beside him to room number 2. Your room. That picture-perfect image of fatherly love dancing before your eyes. 

He’ll never be yours. The wild creature shivers between your lungs. The certitude shatters your heart. 

Stepping inside, you’re rooted to the floor. Limbs too heavy to lift. Your blood has turned into lead. The fire in your core is a pile of ashes. You can taste it on the back of your tongue. 

Frankie flicks up the toggle switch, and the room lights up in amber hues. It feels too big, the satin quilt, the brown carpet, the yellow curtains, everything is foreign and distant.

Behind you, he sets his hat on the desk, drapes his jacket on the back of the chair.

“You ok?”

His voice jolts you up. You turn around to face him, unshed tears hanging round and heavy from your lashes. After a beat, he takes a step towards you, and you feel that absolute pull tugging from behind your midriff. 

His gaze drifts up to your fresh scar, where your flesh is tender, swollen and bruised. Yours travel down along the pebbled skin of neck, to the dip between his collarbone. A firework of freckles springs from the V-shaped collar of his faded blue t-shirt.  

Carefully, he slides your t-shirt out of your jeans again. You lift your arms like a docile child, let him undress you. He places a hand, warm and calloused, beneath your sternum. His palm heats your skin, warmth seeping into you. It untangles something, there. Something you didn’t know was still bruised. You lean into it. 

He stays like that for a while. 

Then his hand skates up to the base of your throat. His cold hard stare finds your soft sad eyes. 

“Do you get wet, thinking I could hurt you?”  

“I trust you,” you answer, a nod contradicting your words. His gaze hardens.

“Why did you think I wouldn’t come tonight, then?”

You shake your head, blinking fast. You never mentioned that. How would he know your thoughts? 

“Don’t you know I would fuck you on my deathbed?” he grits.

But you don’t know. Of course you don’t know, and how could you? Nothing in your life has ever prepared you for him, for this, for the strength of that pull, inescapable, for this obsession that has uprooted your life, your body, your instincts. Nothing has prepared you for the magnetism of his skin, the things you’d do to be in his presence, to breathe the same air, what you’d risk for his touch, what you’d give up for his attention, what you’d destroy for his affection . Your comfort, your safety, your future, your health. Your family and his, nothing fucking matters compared to the insatiable hunger of this wild thing inside your chest and its incessant chant of him, him, him. 

Your chest heaves, but his grip is firm. He leans down, lowering his lips to your ear, where he whispers, “What’s your name?”

You close your eyes, the wild creature is gnawing at your chest, eating you raw from within. 

“I want you.”

His hand lingers, travelling higher, fingers splayed across the width of your throat in a loose grip. You hope he tightens it. Like he does sometimes when he’s inside you. Tune out your mind, toss you into white-hot pleasure. Into oblivion. 

He doesn’t. 

He’s never truly been gentle with you before. Tonight, his kisses are languid, his touch soft and slow along your ribs. Delicate, when he reaches the swell of your breasts and slides down the cup of your bra, replacing the fabric with the palms of his hands. When he leans down into you, wrapping his plush lips around your nipple, sucking in the peaked bud ever so lightly, flicking the flat of his hot wet tongue around it, lips pursed, suckling. 

Against your belly, you feel him harden. You shiver with arousal and anticipation, with exhaustion. With the weight of this week and the burden of your life. With pain, ache and soreness. With your empty body, and your empty cunt. With that creature in your chest that can’t be tamed or satisfied. Can’t even be named. 

You shiver in his hold, for fear that this’ll be the last time. For fear that he’ll never be yours, that he’ll never want you the way you want him, with determination, with madness, without a choice. 

“I want you inside me, Frankie please," you breathe out, and he backs you into the bed to lay you down on the quilt. 

The fabric is cold under your burning skin, you shudder at the contact. He takes off your shoes, rolls off your socks. He slides your jeans down and off your legs, then your panties. 

You sit up to watch him undress, his eyes of mahogany brown never once leaving your face. 

He stands before you, naked, erect, filling your vision with this breadth, and you want to rip your beating heart out of your aching chest. 

The bed dips and he’s crawling over you. Leaning down, he drags the crown of his head up along your belly, along the valley of your breasts, his hair a soft caress on your quivering skin. Your fingers twine in his curls, you get lost in the sensation. For weeks he has barely let you touch it, kept it out of your reach. Now the abundance feels decadent, your head sinks back into the mattress with a faint exhale. 

Cautiously, he parts your folds with two knuckles. You bite down a gasp, tensing up. You can’t shake off that chilling dread, the one that trickles inside you, cold and piercing, when you think you’re losing him. But your body knows better, that sticky wet slick pooled between your hips, the coiling heat at the center of you. 

“Stop me,” he breathes into the crook of your neck, “don’t let me hurt you.”

He inches the tip of his length inside you with a strained groan, hooking your legs around his waist. He tries to work you open with a few shallow thrusts, panting against your temple.

“Fuck you’re tight.”

“Please, Frankie–”

His frame tenses up under your palms.

“I’m trying, you’re too— fuck, you’re too tight. Let me eat you open.”

“No!”

That’s not what you want, not tonight when you have no strength to spare, no time to lose, no patience left out. 

“I can—“ You trip over your words. 

“What?”

“I can sit on it.”

Heat creeps up your neck, setting your cheeks ablaze. He gives you a quiet chuckles. 

“Yea. Yea you can.”

He grabs your wrists and lifts you with easy strength. A few swift movements and he’s lying on the bed underneath you, your folded knees a straddle across his lap. You feel dizzy, like your blood can’t course along your veins fast enough, like it’s no match for his strength, for your arousal. 

“Spit on it,” he says. 

You circle his cock, smooth, heavy. It throbs into your hand. You take it all in, with a trance-like gaze, the coarse curls at his base brushing your skin, the round head, an angry shade of red, the ridges and pumped up veins along the length, the tip of your fingers that don’t meet around it.  

“Come on, don’t be shy, spit on it.”

Bending down, you lick a broad stripe along the thick ridge of his underside, from his balls to the fat round tip, where the skin is smooth and his taste heady, and he hisses something you can’t make out. It shoots through you, his sound, his burning skin, his taste. The curled tip of your tongue slides inside the small leaking slit, collecting the pearly drops he gives you. Your eyes flutter shut. His hands grip your thighs above the knees as you take him into your mouth, his fingers digging, a bruising furrow, something desperate. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Your lips slide along him, up and down, tongue wrapped around his girth. With hollowed cheeks, you take him deeper with each stroke until your head is spinning and you slip him out, rueful, glassy-eyed. 

His breathing comes in almost as heavy as yours. 

“Sit on it, now.”

His voice sounds wrecked, like you must look. 

“Yes,” you pant. 

Hands braced on Frankie’s chest, you’re not that flimsy, empty shell. You’re that fierce creature inside your chest, the one that claws and purrs and spits and demands. You tap into the bottomless pit of its life force, tap into the rumbling of Frankie’s ragged breathing under your palms, and you take.  

Eyes strained on the solid breadth of his chest, on the expanse of his amber skin and the darker circles of his nipples, on the constellation of soft brown freckles that turn your insides into a sticky leaking mess, you slide up his lap, part your folds with his hard cock, rub your clit over it.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he murmurs, not for you, not really. To himself. Like the memory comes back crushing. 

The bobbing of his throat, the low rasp of his voice, the wet sound of your slick smearing over his cock, it all builds up hot and prickly right under your navel. 

Sweat breaks on your forehead, along your spine, down in the bow shape of your arched back. 

You push away from the cradle of his hips, knees sinking into the creaking mattress. Raise yourself from his heat just enough to line him up, with his hands curled around your thighs, a steadying help. 

You’re tight, but wanton-wet. He’s a gliding stretch along your walls as you sink down on him with all your weight, your cunt ready to collapse, fluttering frantically. 

His thrashes back into the mattress, corded neck, strained muscles. Thick fingers bruising the tender flesh of your legs. 

“Fuck wait, don’t move, don’t move. Stop moving, shit!”

You still, not like you can move anyway, the pleasure-pain has you numbed out, limp, blinded. Your head lolls back, your eyes roll shut. Your lower lip twitches with the tension and the stretch. He’s so big you forget how to breathe but this is what you wanted, for him to annihilate all the other pains.

A sound comes out of your parted lips. A grating against your vocal cords, a primitive vibration of the air that’s punched out of your lungs. It’s not you, it’s the creature mewling.  

You can feel his cock pulsating hard and angry inside your belly. It’s a tidal ripple that travels up your chest. Your heart skips several beats. 

His hands cup roughly around your breasts. You lean forward into his hold, hips swaying, slack mouthed. You keep him inside you, a deep roll, hipbones to hipbones. The coarse black hair at his base a harsh scrape against your swollen clit. 

And suddenly, he fucks up into you. A hard shove, filling, merciless, into your cervix. You cry, nearly toppling backward and he sits up with a cinch, arms wrapping around your waist, catching you before you can fall. 

“Too much?”

“Oh god yes.”

You’re crying, at last. Big, hot beady tears of salt rolling down your cheeks. Full, fucked out, filled to the brim. Everything that’s not him obliterated. Thoughts, emotions, sensations.

“That’s what you wanted, right? You want too much, baby?”

His voice is quiet and soft like silk, teeth raking along your throat. It’s almost a bite but not quite, tongue tasting your sweat, lips wrapping around your pulse point, barely sucking in. You can’t speak, your nails dig into his arms, forming little pink crescents you’re not allowed to leave behind. 

You nod, you breathe out, “Yes, I want too much.” 

He straightens up, your breasts are pressed to his chest, sweats mingling. His scent is overwhelming. That musk he exudes, a leathery spice, whenever you’re fucking. The scent of his desire. 

His hand tangles in your hair. He makes sure you’re looking at him.

“Take it. Take what you want. Fuck, you’re beautiful, so fucking beautiful, you believe it, right?” 

You try to tilt your face down, hide your tears, hide your scar. He doesn’t let you. So you give in. Because, what if you are? 

“Say it again, please.” 

“Look what you do to me, baby. Can you feel what you do to me?”

His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, and he grinds you onto his cock, a slow, thorough grind, splitting you deeper onto him. It’s coiling fast, hot and heavy, right at the center of you. 

“I’m gonna come, Frankie.”

“Do it. Come. Use me, make yourself come on my cock. Make yourself feel good. Take everything you need.” 

He talks you through your orgasm as you tremble and crumble in his hold. It’s a high that feels like a free-fall, like you’re unraveling, like you’re never landing. Like your skin’s burning and your mind is the horizon. 

You’re sobbing quietly when he carefully eases out of you, still hard. He carries you in his arms and you think you’re floating. You’re drained, boneless, falling asleep already. 

He lies you down under the covers, tucks you in. Places a glass of water on the nightstand. Folds your clothes on the desk. 

You don’t hear him dress up. You don’t hear him leave. 

And in a few hours, when room service wakes you up, barging into the room, you won’t remember his forehead kiss. 

****

#one day I will understand why I am more obsessed with Frankie driving his truck than flying a fucking aircraft????? #it's like Kelli said: it's my safe space 🧡 #Kelli's a genius #anyway #HAPPY FRANKIE FRIDAY #tonight you belong to me #tybtm #Francisco Catfish Morales #frankie morales #the pilot™️ #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x ofc #frankie morales / fem!reader #frankie morales / you #frankie morales / ofc #triple frontier fic #triple frontier #frankie friday #will miller #benny miller #santiago pope garcia #william ironhead miller #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fic

[gayghoulsthings]

I could take them...(not in a fight)

#i want all of them frfr #frankie morales #william miller #will miller #santiago garcia #benny miller #pedro pascal #charlie hunnam #oscar issac #garrett hedlund #triple frontier

[navybrat817]

We'll call this Titillating Tuesday.

The Triple Frontier boys are part of a military program where they're each paired with a reader for breeding purposes.

Except Tom. He isn't invited.

Could also work with the Cap trio.

That's all, lovelies. Go about your business. ❤️

#titillating tuesday #navybrat thots #william miller #will miller #benny miller #ben miller #santiago garcia #frankie morales #bucky barnes #steve rogers #sam wilson #william ironhead miller #santiago pope garcia #frankie catfish morales #tom isn't invited #he knows what he did #tw.breeding #that's all lovelies #go about your business

[theanothersherlockian]

ok maybe i’m seeing too much into the picture and maybe someone has already pointed it out BUT

i can’t help but notice that everyone has a drink in front of them except Frankie.

Will has the blue beers (2) , Benny the red one in front of him and the other red one (2), Santi has the blue one (3) and Tom drinks the red beers in front of him.

What about Frankie you might ask, well on the scene where they all leave Frankie is driving. Frankie was the designated driver of the night, he couldn’t have a drink. His space on the table is empty because he’s responsible to get them safe.

idk love the detail jeje.

#frankie my beloved #my triple frontier boys #frankie morales #pedro pascal #francisco morales #triple frontier #santiago garcia #will miller #benny miller #benjamin miller #oscar isaac #pedro pascal character fanfiction #frankie morales x reader #frankie catfish morales #triple frontier fanfic

[bloodyinspirationaldemon]

We do not talk enough about the fact that everytime all five guys are in the jeep in Triple Frontier, Benny gets stuffed in the fucking boot

The epitome of youngest sibling energy

#triple frontier #garrett hedlund #benny miller #pedro pascal #frankie morales #charlie hunnam #will miller #oscar isaac #santiago garcia

[for-a-longlongtime]

🚨 Triple Frontier concept art + "new" old photos! 🚨

I'm so excited about this! During a TF search spiral (don't we all have those?) I actually hit gold when I stumbled across Greg Berry's website. He was the Production Designer of the movie and made a book as something for the crew to look back at - and as an intro to the film.

It's really worth a look, because it has gorgeous concept art, pictures of certain spaces (the bar, Lorea's house) before they shot and how they envision it to be. There's also an image for the storage container, but this seems to be considerably smaller and different than what they ended up using.

CHECK OUT THE FULL BOOK AT https://www.gregberry1.com/film/triple-frontier

Obviously, there are also pictures of the guys which we've never seen those before. YAY!! Or actually - I shared a cropped pic of Benny with some friends and I noticed that one made it onto a Garrett fan IG already the other day, haha. But aside of that... gorgeous 'new' old stuff. I've cropped those images from the website for your convenience, so hope you'll enjoy! I don't own any of this obviously, it's all Greg Berry (bless him), so if you share these pics elsewhere please credit the man and link to his site... it's only fair!

HELLO Francisco putting on his tact vest 💜 Some close ups (nobody likes you Tom, go away):

Benny, Santi, go find your caps!

Fucking love this picture. Why were we robbed from this happening in good light? Francisco... check you out.

Let's see some more of Santiago:

Love love love. Here's when they find Lorea:

Have some Will crops.

And last but definitely not least - where are the Benny girlies at? You're getting FED:

Bonus picture: the shot below from an interview with Mark Russell about the VFX in TF

Once again, definitely go check out the art book - it's gorgeous!

https://www.gregberry1.com/film/triple-frontier

#triple frontier #pedro pascal #oscar isaac #garrett hedlund #charlie hunnam #francisco morales #santiago garcia #benny miller #william miller #we don't talk about Bruno- I mean Tom

[mysterious-moonstruck-musings]

Here is the entire article about Triple Frontier 2.

May I remind you all that Oscar recently said there is a project in the works with Pedro? Please say it’s this!

I may die a small death if this happens.

#triple frontier #triple frontier 2 #triple frontier boys #frankie morales #santiago pope garcia #benny miller #will miller #pedro pascal #oscar isaac #charlie hunman #garret hedlund #Youtube

[stealfromthedevil]

Ugh, they're just too much! Always Benny for me, but I can appreciate how beautiful the rest of them are.

#triple frontier #benny miller #william ironhead miller #santiago pope garcia #frankie catfish morales #garrett hedlund #charlie hunnam #oscar isaac #pedro pascal #these men are killing me #god damn 🥵

[dameronscopilot]

#triple frontier #benny miller #santiago garcia #will miller #frankie morales

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Home Is Where The Heart Is.

Synopsis - They say home is where the heart is. Your heart belongs to four guys you call your best friends. Also known as - four important times the boys told you they loved you.

Pairing - Frankie Morales, Will Miller, Santiago Garcia, Benny Miller x Female Reader.

Warnings - smut. cursing. alcohol consumption.

Age Rating - 18+

Word Count - 5k

Author's Note - is it weird that I have sort of compared each boy to a room in the house? maybe! but we're rolling with it, because it worked in my head. this is the first of a few fics like this, much like Tethered, Time and Tranquility - I have a few different TF boy comparison ideas. love these babies so much. <3

as always, reblogs, comments and feedback (even anonymous feedback!!) are immensely appreciated!! your reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics, which keeps me going <3

Masterlist. Inbox.

You follow the laughter floating down the hallway into your backyard. Standing against the doorframe, you watch as the boys double over in amusement while Benny reenacts the time Frankie fell in your pool. Their faces are illuminated by the golden glow of the fairy lights adorning your deck, moonlight shining down.

"And none of you helped me! Hermosa had to come and rescue me! At least I know who loves me the most," Frankie chuckles, tilting back in his chair to catch your eyes.

You make your way over and kiss him on the cheek, standing behind him and wrapping your arms around his neck.

"I don't think there was ever any debating that. You've always been my favourite," you coo, ruffling his hair gently.

"Give us a break," Benny teases. "We all know I'm your favourite, sweetheart."

Santiago scoffs and jabs Ben in the ribs, yelping when the younger man elbows him in retaliation.

"Cariño, put them out of their misery. Tell them I'm your favourite."

You catch eyes with Will, who's grinning at you across the table. He doesn't even have to say anything. He raises his eyebrows and winks at you, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. You can't help but smile back.

"I mean, Will is currently very high on the list, because he built this table for me today."

Everyone groans as you and Will laugh, knocking on the table to check his handiwork.

"You did a good job," Frankie praises, kicking at a leg to see if it holds.

"I built your couch!"

"You can't build a couch, Ben."

"He did! It needed assembling!"

Benny blows you a kiss, thanking you for the assist.

"I did most of the painting," Santiago chimes in.

"Until your weak ass knees gave in," Frankie laughs.

Santi shoots daggers at him, both of them chuckling.

"Me and Hermosa tiled her bathroom. That took fucking forever."

"Frankie, I told you that I'd call a guy for that, and you told me you were the guy."

"You can't tell me those tiles aren't gorgeous."

You shrug, squeezing him tight.

"You're right. They are. I admire them everytime I shower."

"Ooo, tell us more," Benny teases, wiggling his eyebrows at you.

"Pervert," you and Will say in unison, both shaking your heads.

You settle into the chair next to Frankie, popping the cap off your beer.

"I honestly don't think I'd have any furniture without you guys. This house wouldn't be a home if it wasn't for you."

All of their attention is on you, focusing as if you're the only girl in the world. You feel like it sometimes, when you're all together.

"I can't believe you've been moved in for an entire year," Santi muses. "Feels like only yesterday we were helping you unpack all those boxes."

"Time flies when you're having fun," you beam at him.

As the evening settles and the sun begins its descent, you start to think about just how many parts of the boys live in your house. The furniture, the paint, the lights. At least one of them helped you with basically every single element. You think of all the memories filled with happiness and laughter that have happened here over the last year, and your eyes well with tears. You meant what you said, earlier. Your house wouldn't be a home without them.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The Living Room. Benny.

You're tangled with Ben on your newly assembled couch, a cheesy romcom acting as background noise. We have to test it out, he'd said. Just in case.

So here you are, nestled into his side, strong arm slung over your shoulder to pull you closer. You sip your drink, paying virtually no mind to the movie. You're making a mental list of all of the things you still need to do for the house - tile the bathroom, buy a lawnmower, paint literally every room. But the couch is a start.

"I can hear the cogs turning in that brain of yours," he laughs, pinching your side. "We're supposed to be relaxing. You know, really getting a feel for the couch."

"Right, right. Sorry," you chuckle, nudging him with your shoulder in retaliation. "Just thinking about all of the shit I've gotta do."

"Hey, we've got plenty of time. And you've got four guys ready to do whatever needs to be done. There's no rush."

Exhaling loudly, you realise he's right. There is no rush. Yes, you may have a never ending list of things you need to get done, but there's no time limit. You can take each job as it comes.

You turn your attention back to the movie, discovering that it's actually half decent. By the time you're an hour into it, you and Benny are laughing along. It's a sweet coming of age story, two teenagers falling in love for the first time.

You watch as the two characters share a kiss, all clumsy hands and unsure touches. You smile, and start to think.

"This bringing back memories, Ben?" you tease.

"Oh yeah. First time I ever made out with a girl, I couldn't get her bra undone. I was trying to give her a hickey at the same time, and I snapped the clasp against her so hard I made her bleed. Safe to say, we didn't make out again."

Both of you are crying with laughter, vibrating the couch with it.

"I can see the image so clearly. Teenage Ben with his frosted tips and his puka shell necklace. Bet you broke some hearts, huh?"

"Shut up," he chuckles. "I got tonnes of girls back then."

"I'm sure you did," you joke, pinching his cheeks.

He pinches your thigh and pulls you closer, settling back into the cushions.

"You know, I've never had one," you say after a while.

"Had what?"

"A hickey."

Ben pulls away and turns to face you, looking at you incredulously.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Never got one as a teenager. Now I'm a grown ass adult, I always warn my partners not to leave marks. Guess I just missed out on the whole hickey thing."

Ben smiles at you, mischief rife in his eyes.

"You want one?"

You quirk your brow and turn your body towards him, putting some distance between you to look at him properly.

"What game are you playing, Benny Miller?"

He laughs, and the sound makes you smile so wide it's blinding.

"No games, baby."

"No?"

"I believe getting a hickey as a teenager and having to figure out how to cover it up in embarrassment is a rite of passage. And I'm weirdly sad you missed out on it. So, I'm offering to give you that experience."

"Out of the goodness of your heart?"

"Exactly. Because I am a kind, selfless, giving guy."

You pause for a moment, watching his face carefully.

"Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you laugh. "Show me what you've got, makeout king."

He chuckles at the nickname, but grabs your thighs to pull you closer. Benny plants a knee between your legs and leans over you, using a strong hand to hold onto your jaw. You tilt your head to the side, and brace yourself for his lips.

Instead, he takes his time. He noses up your neck, and then traces the path with the tip of his tongue. He blows onto your heated skin, making you shiver. Humming at your reaction, he leans in again, and connects his lips to the spot underneath your ear, kissing it softly.

"Benny," you breathe. "Don't tease."

"Whatever you want, baby."

Benny picks a spot on the side of your neck and sucks. When he's satisfied, he grazes his teeth over the mark, and uses his tongue to soothe the sting. Your eyes roll back, and you cant your hips into his knee between your legs.

You both lose yourself in the moment, chests heaving and breath panting. You separate yourselves to look at one another for a moment, neither of you breaking the gaze.

Suddenly, you burst into a fit of laughter, unable to stop it escaping. Within seconds, Benny joins you. Before you know it, you're both crying tears of joy, sides hurting and abs aching.

"Oh shit," you choke out between giggles. "How the fuck am I gonna cover this up?"

"That's half the fun, baby!"

"I hate you," you chuckle, smacking his side. "You're the worst."

"I love you too," he grins. "You're the best."

And when the rest of the guys ask what happened the next day, you and Benny discover that you make good improv partners. No one questions your elaborate story involving the couch and a runaway screwdriver. Benny winks at you cheekily, and you can't help but smile.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The Bathroom. Frankie.

Repeated knocking at your front door breaks you out of your reality TV induced haze. You check your phone for the time. 8:34pm.

You swing it open to be met with the sight of Francisco Morales. He has Ava perched on his hip, fluffy pink backpack held in his other hand.

"Hey, you guys. You okay?"

"Hermosa, I'm so sorry for just dropping in with no warning. I have a favour to ask."

"Anything."

"Can I bathe Ava here? We're having some sort of plumbing emergency in our bathroom, and we can't get a guy out until tomorrow. I want her to have clean hair for when I take her back to her Mom's."

You wink at Ava, who sticks her tongue out at you cheekily. You mimic her and smile, glancing back to her Dad, who looks like the weight of the world is resting on his shoulders.

"Of course you can," you assure, reaching over to grab Ava from Frankie's arms. "Come on, baby girl. Let's get you clean!"

Frankie exhales a sigh of relief, and follows the two of you upstairs, locking the door behind him.

"Frank, did you bring shampoo and stuff, or shall we just use mine?"

He unzips the backpack and pulls out a couple of bottles.

"I have shampoo, and conditioner, but no body wash or anything."

You root around in your cabinet, finding a bottle with a label that contains words like sensitive and hypoallergenic.

"Vanilla and chamomile. Is that satisfactory for you, my princess?" you tease, grinning when Ava beams at you at the nickname.

You turn the water on and start to run the bath, trying to ignore the way you can feel Frankie's eyes on you as you bend over the tub.

"Bubbles, or no bubbles?" you ask, already knowing the answer. "Right. Stupid question."

"These tiles are hideous," Frankie says from behind you.

"Thank you, Frank. Appreciate it," you tease. "I'm gonna call a guy about getting it all retiled."

"What?"

"What?"

"Don't call a guy!"

"Why not?"

"I'll do it."

You look at him in confusion, before realising he's very serious.

"Do you... know how?"

"Hermosa, it's not rocket science. We can figure it out together."

You deliberate for a moment, looking at him carefully.

"Okay. As long as you don't mind?"

"Of course I don't."

You smile at him before leaving and disappearing downstairs for a minute, trusting Frankie to watch the water.

"Where did you go?" he asks on your return.

"I just put a towel in the dryer, so it's warm when she gets out of the tub."

Frankie steps over to you and cradles your face in his hands, leaning forward to press a kiss to your forehead. He's always been good at that - saying so much without saying a word.

"Princesa, you need help?" you ask, laughing as she struggles, head stuck in her shirt.

Soon enough, Ava's sat happily in all the bubbles, splashing around in the warm water. You and Frankie sit on the floor next to the tub, legs tangled and bodies pressed together. You lean in and rest your head on his shoulder as he throws an arm around you.

"Thank you for this. Seriously. I don't know what we'd do without you."

"It's no problem, Frankie. I love seeing her. Wish I saw her more."

"Me too," he says quietly.

You look up at him, and grab his chin so he meets your eyes.

"You're a damn good Dad, Francisco Morales."

He goes to protest, but you cut him off.

"You are. You need to stop being so hard on yourself. You're doing a good job. I mean, look at her. She's happy, she's healthy, she loves you so much. What more could you ask for?"

Frankie stares at you for a moment.

"You're right."

"Can I get that in writing?"

"Shut up," he laughs, dipping his hand into the bath water to splash you. You splash him back, and before you know it, the three of you are completely soaked. Completely happy.

You eventually get around to cleaning Ava's hair, shampooing and conditioning as carefully as you can. She loves the fact she gets to use your body wash, and slathers herself in it, making you both smile.

You wrap her in the dryer warm towel and sit her in your lap on the floor, rocking gently as she snuggles into your chest. Frankie pulls you both against him, wrapping his arms around you tightly. The three of you sit for a while, peaceful and content.

"I know I don't tell you enough," Frankie murmurs. "But I love you."

"You tell me everyday, Frankie."

"I do?"

"You don't always have to say it out loud, but I know. The way you smile at me across a room, the way you always have one eye on me when we're in public, the way you trust me with Ava. You tell me you love me in a million different ways, every single day."

"I love you," he says again, surer this time.

"I love you. Both of you. So much."

When Ava falls asleep in both of your arms, you convince them to stay the night. The next day, she can't stop telling everyone about the best sleepover ever, with her Dad and her best friend.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The Kitchen. Santiago.

You're completely in your own world. An upbeat, catchy melody hums from the radio and radiates around the room as you slide across the tiles in your socks. You grab your mixing bowl from the cabinet, picking up the bottle of vanilla extract too.

Your hips are swaying, head nodding, feet tapping along to the beat. The sunlight is beaming through the kitchen window, keeping the room bright and warm. There's flour covering every possible surface, sugar sprinkled over the counters. An array of bowls, cups and spoons litter the worktops - a visual representation of your efforts. You've barely even began baking, only just having measured your ingredients. You've set yourself up for an entire day of preparation, ready for the exciting occasion.

You're humming away to yourself, completely oblivious, when two hands plant themselves on your hips from behind. You shriek and throw your elbow backwards, connecting with the person's ribs. You spin around to face your attacker, only to be met with the sight of Santiago Garcia hunched over.

"Fuck!" he groans, clutching at his side.

"Shit! Santi, fuck. I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"Welcome home to me, I guess," he laughs breathlessly.

"Are you okay? Fuck, I'm so sorry, Santi. I thought you were an intruder or something. You're not supposed to be back until tomorrow!"

He smirks slowly, before winking at you.

"Surprise."

You finally calm your rapid heartbeat down enough to register what's happening. You grin at him, before running and jumping into his arms, holding onto him as tight as possible.

"I missed you so much," he breathes into your hair. "Four months is too long."

"I've been counting down the days," you whisper into his neck. "We all have."

He finally puts you down to take a good look at you.

"You look good, cariño. This dress is real pretty."

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

He knows what.

"Looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"You're just full of questions today, aren't you?"

He laughs, twinkle in his eye. The sun has kissed his skin while he's been away. He looks tanned, glowy, alive.

"Last time you looked at me like that, we ended up naked in your hot tub."

"Good times, huh?"

"I hate you," you chuckle, smacking him on the arm.

Santi looks around, and takes in the scene before him. Ingredients scattered, bowls full, oven preheated.

"What are you making, cariño?"

You survey the kitchen quickly before answering.

"Nothing."

He smiles, Cheshire cat style.

"Nothing? You've measured everything out. The oven is on."

You're trying to figure out a way to cover this up, to make up a lie as fast as possible, but it's no use. He can see right through you. You might as well be transparent when it comes to the boys.

"I'm making you a cake," you mutter quickly under your breath.

"What was that? Hmm?"

You roll your eyes and scoff, but give him what he wants.

"I'm making you a cake."

He looks genuinely surprised, gentle smile gracing his face.

"You are?"

"Yeah. I wanted to do something special for you coming home. Tomorrow."

"Sorry, cariño. I didn't know I was coming back early. Thought I'd make the most of it and surprise you."

"Well, now your surprise cake and your surprise party aren't a surprise anymore."

"There's a party too?"

"Shit."

The two of you laugh as he slings an arm around your shoulder.

"Thank you, cariño. You didn't have to do all this for me."

"I wanted to. I'm so excited that you're back, Santi. There's so much I've missed doing with you."

"I made a list."

"Of?"

"Of things I wanted to do with you when I got back. It's what kept me going - thinking of going to that lunch spot with the sandwiches we like, our annual road trip to Cali. It kept me sane."

You turn to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck. You lean up and press your forehead to his, both of you exhaling. You stay tangled together for a long moment, enjoying each others long awaited company.

"You know what was on the top of my list, though?"

"What?"

"Painting your goddamn kitchen."

You laugh, pulling back to look at him incredulously.

"Are you serious?"

"Deadly. This colour is fucking awful."

"It's not that bad."

"It's terrible."

"Fine, fine! Whatever you want, Santi. You can paint my kitchen if that's what your heart desires."

"It is," he grins. "I can think of nothing I want more. We'll do it this weekend."

"Okay," you smile. "Now, about this cake..."

"Can I help you?"

"I can think of nothing I want more."

"I love you," he tells you, stroking a thumb across your cheekbone.

"I love you too. So much, Santi."

The two of you spend the afternoon baking Santiago's cake, singing and dancing around the kitchen. You turn a blind eye to him licking the spoon and sticking his fingers in the icing. You're just glad to have him back, annoying you again.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The Bedroom. Will.

"Can you pass me that screwdriver please, honey?"

You would, but you can't take your eyes off the man currently kneeling on your bedroom floor. His chest is glistening with sweat, warm in the morning sun. The light illuminates the room in balmy hues of gold, shadows dancing across your faces.

You and Will agreed to dedicate today to building all of your flat pack furniture. You've been sleeping on the floor for weeks, and it's finally taken a toll on your back. So, Will showed up bright and early, ready to tackle your bed, dresser, nightstands, desk, and whatever else presented itself. You were barely awake, still in your pyjamas, sleep heavy in your veins. But the sight of Will, toolbox in hand and smile on his face? That's enough to motivate anyone to assemble furniture all day.

"Honey?"

"Shit, sorry. The green one?"

"Please."

He smirks at you like he's reading your dirty thoughts. He probably is, knowing him. If anyone you knew turned out to be telepathic, it'd be Will. You're convinced he was some sort of psychic in a past life.

"You okay over there?"

"Yeah, I'm good. You need a hand?"

"Come hold this up for me while I screw it in."

You shuffle over to sit next to him, leaning over to hold the piece he's gesturing towards. He's trying desperately not to look down your shirt, and you're trying desperately to ignore the way he smells like heaven.

"C'mere," he murmurs under his breath, scooting backwards so you can get closer to the bed frame. He grabs your hips and pulls you so you're sat between his legs, holding onto the wood steadily. He wraps his arms around you from behind and gets to drilling, placing the screws in perfect rows.

Every now and again, he stops to press a kiss into your hair, or onto your cheek. You smile every single time, heat creeping across your chest. He eventually changes his path, trailing the kisses down onto your neck, shoulders, back. You're breathing so heavily you wonder if you're about to pass out.

"I like this colour," he whispers into your ear.

It takes a moment for your mind to register what he said.

"...Hmm?"

"The colour on your walls. I like it."

"Oh," you murmur. "Santi helped me pick it. He was only gonna do the kitchen, but then we were on a roll, so we ended up painting every room in the house."

He chuckles, tightening his arms around you and encouraging you to relax. You lean back into him, resting your head on his firm shoulder.

"This place is really beautiful, you know," he says lowly. "It's so... you."

"Is that a good thing?"

"The best thing. Beautiful house for a beautiful girl."

"You're a smooth talker, Miller."

"I learned from the best."

The two of you sit intertwined for a while, reveling in the comfort the other person brings. After a while, Will speaks.

"Okay, strong girl, you wanna help me put the mattress onto it?"

You flex your biceps, making you both laugh.

"I mean, I could do it single handedly... but sure, I'll help you."

"That's my girl."

You both make light work of the mattress, picking it up and throwing it onto the frame effortlessly. Will helps you put on your sheets and pillows, standing back to admire his handiwork.

"We did a good job."

"You did a good job, Will. I just sat over there and stared at you the whole time."

"Thought I felt eyes on me," he laughs.

You don't know where it comes from, the sudden honesty. It creeps up your throat out of nowhere, clawing to escape.

"I'm always looking at you."

Will turns to look at you, confusion written across his face.

"No matter where we are, or what we're doing. The most interesting thing in the room is always you."

His features soften, gentle smile tugging at his lips. He strides towards you and cradles your face in his big hands.

"I love you," he tells you so sincerely it makes you want to cry.

"I love you, William Miller. My love for you is just so... overwhelming. Some days I just want to scream it from the rooftops. I don't know what else to do with it."

"Give it to me," he says without missing a beat.

"What?"

"All the love. Don't throw it into the abyss. Give it to me. I want it."

You grin at him, a bright, blinding thing. He reciprocates, before leaning down and smashing his lips to yours. You tangle your fingers into his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. Your knees give out from the sheer love he's kissing you with, both of you tumbling to the floor.

You pull his shirt over his head, exposing his gorgeous, sun soaked skin. He's so broad it makes you clench your thighs together. He tugs your shirt off and throws it across the room, paying no mind to where it lands. The two of you don't separate your lips for more than a second.

He's rutting his hips into yours, the friction making you dizzy. You try and push his jeans down, fingers fumbling with the button. He takes pity on you and shoves them down himself, adding them to the pile of clothes scattered across the room.

Will wastes no time, throwing his boxers behind him and pulling your underwear down your legs. He pushes into you with effortless ease, both of you ready and eager. You unanimously groan in relief, panting rapidly. You claw at his shoulders, leaning up to connect your lips.

"I love you," he whispers against your mouth, hips gliding into yours.

"I love you," you gasp, resting your forehead against his. "I love you I love you I love you."

Will slides a hand down your body to rub quick circles between your legs, dipping his tongue into your mouth as he does it. He's swallowing your moans, licking the whines from your lips. He can't get over how sweet they taste.

"Come for me, honey. Give it to me, good girl. That's it. Atta girl."

You back arches off the floor, nails scratching down his back. Your vision goes white, stars clouding your view. Will groans, deep and low, spilling into you. You both ride out your highs while Will murmurs sweet sentiments into your ear, against your skin, into your mouth.

He collapses onto you, smothering you with his weight. You don't mind. Every part of your body is touching a part of his, and it still isn't close enough. It'll never be close enough. You could sew yourself into his ribcage, and you'd still want to be closer to his heart.

The only sounds that can be heard are two sets of heaving lungs. When you've snapped back to reality, you thread your fingers through his hair, scratching your nails across his scalp and smiling when he leans into your touch.

"Will?"

"Yeah, honey?"

"Why did you just build me a bed, and then fuck me on the floor?"

He takes a moment to register what you've said, before breaking out into contagious laughter. He's vibrating against you, both of you high on each others company.

"I didn't even think," he wheezes. "Fuck, we're idiots."

"You can say that again," you chuckle. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

Will rolls off and lies next to you, linking his fingers with yours.

"You ready to keep building?"

As much as you'd happily stay where you are forever, it would be nice to have actual furniture in your bedroom.

"Let's do it," you say as you sit up.

You scramble around for your clothes, both of you beaming at each other as you get dressed. You walk over and wrap your arms around his neck, looking up at him.

"I can't wait for you to move in."

He grins at you, pecking your lips.

"I can't wait either. Two more months and my lease is up. Then you're stuck with me forever, honey."

"I wouldn't say stuck. More like the luckiest girl in the world."

"Can I get that in writing?"

"Shut up," you laugh, grabbing the toolbox. "Let's build our furniture, shall we?"

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

"You've made this place really beautiful, you guys."

"Beautiful house for a beautiful girl," Will grins at you across the table.

"Ugh, I hate when they do that," Benny complains.

"Do what?"

"Look at each other like that. It's like they're communicating through their minds, or something."

"We're silently talking about you, dipshit," Will teases, jabbing his brother in the side.

"Before the Millers kill each other, we bought you a present, hermosa. Think of it as a one year housewarming gift."

Frankie hands you a large rectangular parcel, wrapped carefully. You rip open the paper, discovering a large, ornate picture frame. In it, is your favourite picture in the world.

You and Will's first dance.

Frankie had taken the picture, unbeknownst to the two of you. You're both swaying to the music, arms wrapped around your husband's neck, completely lost in each other. Around you, the lights twinkle as your closest friends and family look on in awe.

"Frankie," you breathe. "Thank you. All of you. I love it so much."

"We thought you could hang it above your fireplace," Santiago offers. "In that big empty space."

"It's perfect," Will agrees.

"It's like the final piece of the puzzle," you whisper. "Now our home feels complete."

You trace your fingers over the frame, overwhelmed with adoration for the four boys staring back at you.

"I love you all," you tell them, glancing around the table. "So much."

"Love you, hermosa."

"Love you too, cariño."

"Love ya, baby!"

"I love you, honey."

The chorus makes you beam so bright, you're convinced your smile can be seen from space.

@kmc1989 @modernperplexity @sia2raw @pimosworld

#triple frontier #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fluff #triple frontier x you #triple frontier x reader #triple frontier smut #santiago garcia x reader #benny miller x reader #will miller x reader #frankie morales x reader #santiago garcia #benny miller fluff #frankie morales fluff #will miller smut #frankie morales #benny miller #will miller #triple frontier fanfiction #will miller fluff #santiago garcia fluff #santiago garcia smut #frankie morales smut #benny miller smut #pedro pascal #charlie hunnam #garrett hedlund #oscar isaac

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me

Series, ongoing

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

Week after week, under the crushing weight of his body, you learn to find yourself. Week after week, under the reverence of your touch, he allows himself to heal. Why can’t this last forever, when you’re so good to each other?

Set a few months after the TF events. 

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC fem!Reader Written in reader format but Reader is an OFC. There are sparse but still present physical descriptions, she has a thorough background, and a name.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

TW: THERE WILL BE NO TRIGGER WARNINGS ON INDIVIDUAL CHAPTERS. So please tread carefully because there will be (blood) (kidding, just mine) mentions of: PTSD, death, infidelity, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, stomach bug & hospitalization, light bondage, rough sex, size kink taken to the next level, lots of bodily fluids (come spit and sweat, sweat come and spit, the usual suspects), questionable (very bad) decisions, unprotected sex like woa, intense darker Frankie, where’s my feminism at, this man, this man, this man. You know the drill.

A/N: alright orange besties, here we go again, I once more locked up Frankie in a bedroom with a girl... More or less an alternate exploration of my favourite tropes: love at first sight, soulmates, forever love, pleasure and pain, hard sex/sweet love, flourishing through a lover's care and attention, Frankie being a B I G boy... Are you in? 🥺 Also, I’ve never set a foot in Florida, bear with me, I'm trying my best. This is going to be a little rougher kind of Frankie, but still our Pilot™️. I hope you enjoy the flight 🧡 

A very special and heartfelt orange THANK YOU to my love @deadmantis for the moodboards & inspos that went straight into the header for this series 🧡 Deadmantis, I love you in every colour.

Chapters

Prologue - In The Beginning

Chapter 1 - Dirt

Chapter 2 - Closer

Chapter 3 - The Man At The Frontier

Chapter 4 - Frankie (coming... before May. I hope. Tell my employer to leave me alone)

Chapter 5 - ...

Chapter 6 - ...

Epilogue - ...

Playlist

#HAPPY FRANKIE FRIDAY #I’m scared #tonight you belong to me #tybtm #Francisco Catfish Morales #frankie morales #the pilot™️ #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x ofc #frankie morales / fem!reader #frankie morales / you #frankie morales / ofc #triple frontier fic #triple frontier #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fic #frankie friday #will miller #benny miller #santiago pope garcia #william ironhead miller #Spotify

[rhoorl]

Are You on Mute?

Pairing: Benny Miller x Female Reader

Word Count: 3.5k

AO3 Link

Summary: You’re working from home and on an important call when Benny returns from the gym and has other plans for you.

Warning: Smut, with some plot? Established relationship. Oral (f receiving), unprotected P in V (practice safe sex IRL), Benny Miller comes with his own warning. Unbeta’d. I wrote a lot of this on my phone so forgive any errors. A/N: Benny was just hanging out in my head waiting his turn as I write my other fics and then got impatient and kicked down a door and was like, hey, can you write something for me? So, this is it. I could not think of anything else until I got this down on paper. Here’s the initial mood board that got this idea kicked off.

You groan when your alarm goes off. The monthly meeting with your international-based team is the reason you’re up at this ungodly hour. Luckily, Benny is still fast asleep, curled on his side facing you. It takes everything in you to not lean over and brush the hair out of his face, but you don't dare disturb his peaceful slumber. 

His hair has gotten so much longer since you first met. He’s never confirmed it, but you’re fairly confident now that he's intentionally grown it out over the past several months thanks to an off-hand comment you made one of the first times you trimmed his hair as a favor. You still remember how mortified you were when you let it slip that you thought he'd look hot if he grew it out. As embarrassing as it was, it finally gave him the push he needed to ask you out.

He stirs slightly but doesn’t wake up as you slip out of bed and pad over to the bathroom to get ready. Checking your phone, you remember that this morning consists of back-to-back meetings, including your department’s all-hands call where you are on tap to share your team’s updates for the month. 

Since getting your promotion, your boss has been trying to give you more and more responsibility and this meeting is one of them. Even though you loathe public speaking, you appreciate the opportunity. And Benny is your biggest cheerleader too, so proud of not only how quickly you’ve been able to move up the ranks, but that you're finally back doing something you love.

Since you are going to be on camera quite a bit today, you decide to actually do your hair and put on some light makeup – a far cry from your usual work-from-home routine where you couldn't be bothered to put on contacts most days. You head into your walk-in closet, closing the door behind you so you can turn the light on and not disturb Benny, whose snores you can hear through the closed door. 

You want to stay comfy so you decide to keep your sleep shorts on and just change your top to something professional. Oh, the joys of only appearing from the chest up in a small box on a screen. You grab your favorite sweater, laughing to yourself at the exchange you know you’re bound to have with Benny. He’s going to ask you how you can wear a sweater in Florida during the summer and you will remind him that it's because he and Will insist on keeping the house at a frigid temperature. 

Heading back out to the room, you slip off Benny’s shirt you slept in and put on your bra followed by your sweater. You finish off the look with a necklace Benny got you for your birthday. He stirs a bit, stretching his long limbs and reaching for your spot in the bed as he yawns. 

"Hey sleepyhead, got that early call, go back to bed," you whisper, leaning over to give him a kiss on the forehead as he mumbles something about how pretty you look and turns over.

You rush to the kitchen to brew yourself a cup of coffee and grab a muffin your neighbor dropped off over the weekend. Settling into your desk you reach for your favorite pen and notebook, log onto your computer, and click on the calendar invite to launch your first Zoom call of the day.

The meeting drones on and on. About a half hour in, the door softly opens and Benny pokes his head in. He's thrown half of his hair up in a bun, the bottom section flowing down to his shoulders. He's dressed for the gym wearing a cut-off shirt and basketball shorts. Just the sight of him sends a delicious shudder through your body, remembering how he expertly took you apart last night.

"You on mute?" He mouths to you, eyes moving to your laptop. 

"Yup," you quickly glance over.

"K, well, I'm gonna go to the office real quick and then the gym. Should be back by lunch."

"Sounds good."

"Love you. You're gonna kick ass today babe."

You smirk, looking over to him, "Thanks, Bun. Love you too. Say hi to Will."

He laughs at your nickname for him and softly closes the door.

The meeting ends early so you have time to get up, stretch, and refill your coffee. As you wait for it to brew you look outside, admiring the flower beds. Deciding you're due for a change of scenery, you relocate your things to the kitchen table for your next meeting.

________

You're second on the agenda to speak, the nerves starting to build as Tim from operations gives his update. Your boss pops into your shared chat with some words of encouragement that make you smile.

Your senior vice president then announces that you're taking over for your boss for today's update, congratulating you on your recent promotion. You take a deep breath, click yourself off mute, share your screen, and begin going through your PowerPoint deck.

You feel yourself absolutely crushing it, thankful that Benny let you run through your presentation the night before. You only have a few more slides left when you hear the garage door followed by the slam of Benny's car door a few moments later. He opens the door, stopping in his tracks when he sees you at the kitchen table.

“Sorry!" He whispers while wincing, looking apologetic. 

Your eyes shift quickly from him back to your screen as you continue on with your update. Off camera, you wave him in so he tiptoes inside and drops his bag. Glancing up at him, you clear your throat, trying to not react. He clearly had a vigorous workout, his shirt clinging to him like it's painted on. He also has all of his sweaty hair wrapped up in a low bun.

A mischievous look flashes in his eyes, seeing how affected you are by the sight of him. You can feel his gaze on you as you continue. On another quick glance up you see him pulling his hair out of the hair tie, shaking his locks loose before flipping his head down and back. It's honestly not fair how good his hair looks after doing this, hair perfectly tousled and messy.

You lose your train of thought, pausing for a second to grab a sip of water to compose yourself. It doesn't help that you can see Benny out of the corner of your eye leaning against the kitchen counter looking at you. You just know he has the biggest shit-eating grin on his face, loving the effect he has.

"Ok, I think that covers our updates. Any questions?" You ask, looking across the boxes on the screen for any follow-ups. 

You groan to yourself when Renee from HR has a question, she never listens and always makes people repeat themselves on these calls. As you listen to her question, you look up from your screen to see Benny. He's got a dark look in his eyes and a half smile as he starts to peel his shirt off revealing the six-pack he's been working so hard on, much to your delight.

You let out a shaky breath before responding to Renee as he saunters around to sit opposite of you across the table, drinking the last of his water bottle. You see the bob of his Adam’s apple out of the corner of your eye.

Despite his intense stare, you cannot bring yourself to look at him, instead pressing your thighs together for some relief. The slick starts to pool in your underwear.

"Great, well, wonderful update, we'll move to events next," your senior vice president chimes in, continuing down the agenda.

You click the mute button and let out a shaky breath.

"You on mute?" Benny whispers in a voice lower than his natural register.

Leaning forward, you bring your elbows to rest on the table making a fist with your hands in front of your mouth to hide your lips as you talk.

"Yup."

"You're fucking amazing you know that." His eyes soften as your eyes shift to him, so much adoration on his face.

"Thanks, baby. And thanks for not making noise in the kitchen. But make yourself something to eat, you must be hungry."

"Oh, I'm starving sweetheart," he winks and you whimper. He's teasing you and having fun at your expense. "It was so hot watching you, boss lady. I'm just sittin' like, that's my girl, she's a badass."

You smirk, amused at how turned on Benny gets when you're in work mode despite the fact he really doesn't understand what you actually do. It was sweet how enthusiastic he always was in his encouragement of you and your pursuits.

"Well, thanks. But seriously, we have like another half an hour left so don't wait up. Eat.”

His tongue glides across his bottom lip as he cocks his head to the side, looking slowly from your eyes to your lips. “If you insist.”

He slides the chair back and drops to his knees, crawling underneath the table. You figure he must have dropped something until you feel his hand wrap around your ankle, causing you to yelp.

“Fuck you scared me,” you said behind clasped hands.

“Shh…you’re in your meeting,” he murmurs as he trails kisses up your calf, making you giggle. 

You try hard to keep a poker face and not react as you feel both of his calloused hands grasp behind your knees. He keeps kissing up and down your legs, his stubble tickling you.

“B-baby, what’re doing, I’m on a call,” you’re nearly panting. He’s shuffling to readjust to find a better position. You know he can't be comfortable since his tall frame barely fits underneath the table as it is. 

His mouth is greedier now, skimming up your knees to your thighs. He stops briefly as he moves his hands up to the waistband of your shorts. Again, you are trying to keep your face neutral when all you want to do is let your eyes roll back in your head and let him hear how much he is turning you on. Benny always loved how vocal you were. As his long fingers curl underneath your waistband you feel his frame move up as he tries to pull down your shorts.

“Shit,” he hisses as his head hits the table. “Fuck.”

“You ok?” you move your head down to look at him, finding his bright blue eyes looking up from between your legs under the table.

“Yea, uh…little help?”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, bringing your index and middle finger to rest over your lips as you try to not move your mouth too much while you tell him you can’t fucking believe you’re doing this right now.

He palms your pussy causing you to exhale sharply. “You seem pretty ready to me,” he chuckles, tapping your hip so you can lift yourself up and help him take your shorts and underwear off in one move.

Your breathing is picking up now as you sit there bare, Benny between your legs, as you listen to Don from facilities drone on and on about…parking spaces? You honestly aren’t sure and have tuned out the meeting completely.

“Babe,” you whine, waiting for his next move as you slouch in the chair a bit to give him a better angle.

His fingers come to your folds, spreading your lips apart. You hear a low, guttural sound coming from under the table, making you squirm with anticipation over what he may do next. 

He’s made strides in his oral game since you’ve been together. You suspect Frankie has something to do with it, knowing his friend has to have given him some advice or tips. Some of the new moves he’s put on you in recent months sound a lot like what Frankie’s girlfriend mentioned once when all the girls met up for a night out. Regardless of how he’s gotten there, you have benefitted from his willingness to practice and get better.

He licks a long steady stripe up before stopping to focus on your clit, flicking his tongue as his large hands come to knead your soft flesh from your hips to your ass. You rock into him off instinct, and you’re dying to reach down and thread your fingers through his hair and tug his face closer to you.

The steady murmur from the call suddenly stops and you refocus to see everyone staring at their screens like they’re waiting for someone to talk. It’s then you register Renee repeating a question directed to you.

You pull yourself off of mute, clearing your throat and trying to keep calm as you reiterate a point you previously made during the call. Meanwhile, Benny starts fucking you with his tongue. You cough to stifle your whimper, and you reach down to grasp Benny’s hair and pull him off of you. He kisses your thighs and you can practically feel his smirk, the smug bastard is loving this.

When you’ve sufficiently answered Renee’s question, you put yourself back on mute, triple-checking your screen before you chastise your boyfriend. “Benjamin Spencer Miller, you are a fucking menace.”

He snorts, “You love it.” 

He starts working you over again, your breathing picking up as you stare at the clock in the lower right-hand corner of your computer screen. Benny can sense your frustration. He moves back to your clit, one of his fingers breaching your folds and pumping in and out of you, a second finger added not too long after. You lean back in your chair, bringing your palm over your mouth as you moan into your hand. 

“Ok, well team, great updates from everyone. I’ll give you all back some time in your day. Have a great one.”

With a tight smile, you quickly wave to everyone on the screen before abruptly slamming your laptop shut and sliding your chair back. 

Benny crawls from under the table, hands on the ground as he looks up at you, his chin glistening from your slick. His hair falls over his face, covering his eyes as he shakes it off. 

You cock your head to the side and roll your eyes. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“You loved it,” he moves to kneel in front of you, his hands resting on your hips as he rubs circles. “Plus, I had to get you back,” he winked and then winced as he straightened his torso.

“Your back is killing you isn’t it,” you run your fingers through his hair.

“Yea, it really fucking is, that angle was shit” he laughs. 

“Well, how about we go somewhere more comfortable?”

“When’s your next meeting?”

You look at the clock on your oven, “Don’t have another one til 1.”

“I guess that will do,” Benny says as he gets up and you see his shorts tented.

“Babe, that’s like in over an hour from now, I’m not gonna last long once you start again,” you giggle into his kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue.

He works your sweater up and over your head and undoes your bra with one hand, eliciting a groan from you as he cups your breasts once they’re freed. 

“It's not enough…could have you all day and it still wouldn't be enough,” he smiles into your kiss, walking you backward down the hallway to your shared bedroom.

Once you get to the room, he kicks the door shut behind him. “On the bed.” As you shuffle yourself up the bed he tilts his head from side to side. “Over under… three.”

You roll your eyes, “Jesus Christ, Benny. Seriously? You’re gonna make a bet on how many times?”

“Over or under three,” he persists with a mischievous smile.

You rest your elbows onto the bed, as you ponder your response. “Push.”

“Clever girl, Will teachin’ you about sports betting behind my back, huh,” he laughs.

“Benny. Please don’t talk about your brother while I’m naked, that’s like the biggest tease.”

He throws his head back laughing. “Sorry. Anyway, where were we?” He arches his eyebrow.

You open your legs for him, running your hands up your thighs as he takes off his shorts and practically sprints over to the bed, making you giggle. He has such a knack for oscillating between hot and sensual and downright goofy and you love him for it.

It doesn’t take very long until you’re screaming his name as he takes you apart with the deliciously lethal combination of his tongue and his fingers. 

“There’s one.” 

He doesn’t even look up at you as he starts again. Your grip on his hair presses his face so close to your pussy that you hope he’s able to breathe. You buck your hips up as he brings his forearm to rest on your lower stomach helping pin you down. It doesn’t take long until you feel the pressure starting to build as you spill over the edge.

“Two.”

You bring your hands up to your face, brushing your hair out of your face, and giggling. “I can’t believe you’re fucking keeping score.”

He chuckles as he skims up your body, stopping every so often to kiss or nip along the way. You can feel how hard he is as his dick rests along your thigh. He now moves his attention to your breasts - one of his favorite parts of you. You roll your eyes knowing that he stopped here because his competitive ass is definitely going to make you come one more time before he actually fucks you. 

He alternates palming your breast and teasing your nipple between his thumb and middle finger. For your other, the one he realized long ago is the more sensitive of the two, he uses his tongue to flick over your hardened nipple before taking the rest in his mouth. He keeps at this for a while until your brain starts to short-circuit and your breathing grows ragged. You’re thankful that Will isn’t home because you can't help the sounds Benny is pulling from you.

“Three.”

“Ben I swear to God if you don’t get inside me right now.”

He looks up at you, a coy smile coming across his face, “Yes, ma’am.”

He shuffles to line himself up, and just as he’s about to push himself in you bring your hands to his shoulders and roll him over so you’re on top. 

“Oh no, I get to play a little too,” you bite your lower lip as you lower yourself on him, both of you letting out a groan.

He brings his hands to your thighs, trailing them up your body. “Fuck, you’re still so fucking wet. You feel so good, baby.”

You start to rock, loving the way he feels. It’s his turn to throw his head back now, whimpering as you pick up the pace. The room is filled with squelching sounds and your combined moans. 

“C’mon baby,” he pants.

“Fuck, Benny. S’good, I’m so close.”

He snaps his hips up a little harder and you feel him deeper, finding that spot that you never knew existed until Benny. 

“B-Benny, fuuuuck,” you scream as you fall over, whimpering in his ear and you come again. It takes a few more thrusts before you feel him fill you up, a ragged moan coming from deep in his throat. 

You both still for a moment, catching your breaths. He kisses you, cupping your face with one hand as you thread both of your hands through his hair to keep him where he is as you work through the aftershocks.

When you finally pull back, his eyes dart between yours before a mischievous smile comes back across his lips.

“Don’t you say it, Ben.” you roll your eyes, laughing at his feeble attempt to not crack up.

“Ok, I’m sorry.” He snorts before kissing you again. He groans slightly as you pull off of him and sits up on the bed, pulling you to his chest. “I love you.” He kisses the top of your head. “And I’m so proud of you, boss lady.” 

This nickname still makes you laugh. It was refreshing to have a partner who not only cared about your career aspirations but who encouraged it and cheered you on.

“I love you too Buns.” You rub your fingers along his chest.

“You know who’s amazing?” 

You laugh. He's going a bit overboard with the praise. “Who…me?” 

He shakes his head. “No babe, me. I made you come four times. I win!” He pumps his fist.

“Jesus, of course, you’d say that,” you laugh, smacking him on the chest before cuddling into him, your safe place. “Shit, I really need to get back to work.”

“Anymore calls today?” He raised his eyebrow.

“A couple, but I’m taking them from the office because I know you can’t fit under that desk.”

“Ooo sounds like a challenge,” he waggled his eyebrows, tickling your side as you both laughed.

A/N: If you made it this far, thank you for reading! I’m still dipping my toes into the smutty waters, but how can you resist Benny?

I’m tagging @musings-of-a-rose @itspdameronthings @bloodyinspirationaldemon @laurfilijames @secretelephanttattoo @anavatazes @undercoverpena @legendary-pink-dot @for-a-longlongtime @trulybetty because you all either commented or reblogged my mood board - sorry if you didn’t want the tag!

#benny miller fanfiction #benny miller x reader #benny miller x female reader #benny miller #triple frontier fic #triple frontier

[romanarose]

Triple Frontier Write-A-Thon

Hosted by @romanarose and @for-a-longlongtime

Hello everyone! March 13th of this year is the 5 year anniversary of Triple Frontier, a movie that was underrated but very precious to all of us. To me, it is a comfort movie and something that through fics and fandom has helped me process a lot of things. 

Charlie Hunnam announced recently that there is potential for a sequel and he is trying to get it in production and has signed on as a producer. Me and @for-a-longlongtime want to both drum up a little noise and celebrate this media we all love so much!

How it works

Write a fanfiction of Triple Frontier, following the content rules listed below. This is for both art and fanfiction. We encourage you to utilize twitter or instagram if you’d like to share either, and #triplefrontier or #triplefrontier2019 on any site you post on. If you don’t want to make art or write, we encourage you to use social media platforms with the hashtags to help make some noise.

We are highly encouraging LGBT themes and for you to think outside of x f!reader. 

All fics that fall under the rules are encouraged, so if you write Santiago Garcia x afab!f!reader, that’s great! But we’d like to take this time to encourage gay/bi pairings, trans readers, or even trans interpretations of the boys. Branch out!

When you post, tag @triplefrontier-anniversary on tumblr and we will reblog it there. We also may reblog onto our main, so consider tagging one or both of us so we know what’s up! Please follow that page to see what other people are writing! In the tags, please tag it triple frontier write a thon, just to make everything easily found.

If you want to post art that tumblr doesn’t allow like nude art, link the content in a tumblr post, like a twitter link, and we’ll reblog that!

If you exclusively write on ao3 or wattpad or other, you can either make a link on a tumblr post and tag us. Other option is to message me (RomanaRose) privately and I’ll make a post and link you and reblog it to the page.

Rules

We will run from March 1st to March 14th. Fics and art posted before or after will not be counted.

This is not a dark event, sorry! Some of us enjoy dark content but wanted to keep this particular event mostly non-dark. That being said, we will allow dub con in the context of mild alcohol use, power dynamics etc. Kidnapping/arranged marriage etc is fine as long as consent is given for anything sexual. Mostly we are looking to avoid non-con/violence. If you have questions, don’t be afraid to reach out to us!

All participants must be 18+, although smut is not required

No incest, including Millercest. None of the usual ‘no’s’, such as underage content apply in addition to no dark.

We have the right to exclude any fic that makes us uncomfortable. It’s our event.

However, we will NOT be excluding people for personal biases, unless it encroaches on our boundaries. I.E. If we have you blocked, please don’t try to enter the event. However, if we’ve had petty beefs or you and one of our mutuals don’t like each other, we generally will include your work. This event is to promote Triple Frontier, not about us.

LGBT themes are highly encouraged, not required.

Tom is allowed. We’re not gonna tell you not to include him if that’s what your little heart desires. However, we highly encourage that your work includes at least one of the usual 4

Leave me alone I love Arrested Development, RIP Carl Weathers.

We hope everyone has fun and this drums up more Triple Frontier fics, in which we are severely lacking!

Remember to reblog and comment to support artists!

Please come to us with any questions!

#triple frontier #santiago garcia #will miller #william miller #triple frontier fanfic #benny miller #ben miller #frankie morales #frankie friday #francisco morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales fanfiction #fishben #ironpope #benjamin miller #santiago pope garcia #santiago garcia x reader #male reader #x reader

[sorchathered]

Getting my husband to watch Triple Frontier with me

My husband- you have a type boo

Me- what do you mean?

Husband- brown haired military men with ptsd who are a little grumpy and sassy…

Me- oh so basically I pick you in fictional characters everywhere I go.

Husband- shit. 🤦🏼‍♀️

😂😂😂😂

He’s not wrong though 😂

#benny miller #din djarin #bucky barnes #bob floyd #lewis pullman #pedro pascal #garrett hedlund #sebastian stan #bonus if they have some ptsd and trauma #he’s a bit of a fixer upper #and i love it #married life #triple frontier #catws #top gun maverick #the mandalorian