I hate to be that person, but I don't think Mick is going to say anything unless he wins another crue battle or releases the second album. I can't believe he lost when he won. It's confusing
I agree it confusing, i am just curious if he is ok. I saw somewhere on Facebook that he was in hospice care and normally he posted something but be quiet, just trying to find out if anyone heard or seen everything
Send in some questions, yall here recently I stared getinf back into the rolling stones and keith is my favorite band member of all time. What about yall, any one has a favorite member.
Thank you, I feel a lot better then I was back in March. Through for three whole weeks I wasn’t able to eat anything and lived off water ans toast lol. But feeling a whole lot and doing everything I can to not get sick again.
Please say a prayer for me, I had flu a and I am over it but unable to eat anything soild without a upset stoamch. Be living off of toast for six days now. Try eggs yesterday and it did not go well. Trying to make more stories but with me being sick it's hard.
Heey first of all, I am absolutely in love with the way you write your fanfics, the way you humanize the characters is so magic (especially Frank, I love Frank) you are super talented ᕙ( •̀ ᗜ •́ )ᕗ
Talking about Frank, I realized that there's a lot of fanfics talking about a Partner relationship, and as much as I love it, something in Frank scream "grandpa who spoils his granddaughter" but like, spoiled rotten, she's the princess of the house and if you have the time or inspiration to write something about it I will absolutely love it, you don't have to, ofc, I know you might be busy, But I really wanted to share the Idea, is just so cute to me
Andd I also think about Frank's friends, like maybe they also have grandkids (ldk how cannon that can be) and like, all of them being friends just like their grandparents (𓂂꜆◕⩊◕꜀𓂂)
Anyways, take care, I love you pliz never disappear from my life ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎
Title: Sticky Fingers, Steel Hearts
Summary: She smells like vanilla and mud. He smells like old spice and righteous fury. Together, they face down the world—one playground threat at a time.
Pairing: Frank Benson & Fem! Reader
Warnings: None
Also read on Ao3
It was practically tradition by now.
Once a month, rain or shine, Frank and his old army friends—Clive, Nigel, Reggie, and Graham—would meet up for lunch at the same countryside pub with its rickety tables, slow service, and playground out back. They grumbled about the food, cursed the beer prices, and argued about whose knees were worse. And, as always, they brought their grandchildren.
Except Nigel. Nigel’s grandson was fifteen, sulky, and more interested in video games than spending time with an old man and his wheezing friends. “Little bastard’d rather talk to strangers on the internet than to me,” Nigel muttered, stabbing a sausage with unnecessary violence. “This’ll be all of you one day. Mark my words.”
Frank glanced up from his pint, squinting toward the playground through the window.
Not likely.
You were out there—six years old, in pink overalls, your hair in two uneven pigtails you’d insisted on doing yourself. You were barefoot despite Frank’s stern reminders, your tiny toes digging into the sand while you shoved a plastic dump truck down a hill with aggressive glee. A paper crown from the kids’ menu perched crookedly on your head, and your hands were covered in ice cream. You were chaos incarnate. You were perfect.
And you were Frank’s entire damn world.
“She’s not going anywhere,” Frank muttered into his glass, hazel eyes still tracking you as you climbed the jungle gym. “Not now. Not ever.”
Nigel snorted. “She’s six, Benson. Wait ten years. She’ll call you ‘old man’ and leave you on read.”
Frank’s jaw ticked. “She calls me grandad,” he said, calm but firm. “And I’m not going anywhere either.”
“Alright, Benny, don’t get all misty-eyed on us,” Graham said with a chuckle, lifting his beer in a mock toast. “You’re not the only one with grandkids, you know. Mine’s a proper charmer.”
Frank didn’t even need to look. He already knew where this was going.
He turned his head slowly—just enough to confirm what he’d already sensed. Graham’s grandson, a boy of maybe seven or eight with a mop of light brown curls and a cheeky grin too big for his face, was sidling up to you on the swing set. Frank’s eye narrowed. The boy said something—too far for Frank to hear—but it made you frown. Then the boy reached out, trying to grab your hand.
You slapped his hand away and returned to your truck.
Frank leaned back in his chair, baritone low and cutting. “Ox”
“Yeah?”
“Tell your Casanova over there to keep his damn hands to himself.”
Graham blinked. “He’s just being friendly, Benny.”
“He tries to hold her hand again and I’ll show him what a disciplinary warning looks like.”
The table went quiet for a beat.
Then Reggie cackled so hard he nearly choked on his chips. “Bloody hell, Benson. You planning to debrief the boy or drag him off to basic training?”
Frank didn’t crack a smile. He just kept watching you, his hooked nose tilted slightly upward, jaw firm.
“She doesn’t like it,” he said simply. “That’s enough for me.”
Graham rolled his eyes. “He’s seven.”
“She’s six. And she said no.”
Clive, sitting beside Frank with a half-eaten steak pie and a twinkle in his eye, reached over and clapped a broad hand on Frank’s shoulder.
“I get it, mate,” he said, his tone surprisingly soft. “You think I’m not the same with little Millie? God help the boy who tries to sit next to her in school.”
Frank grunted, but Clive pressed on, gesturing toward a quiet corner of the playground where a girl with thick glasses and an oversized hoodie was perched on top of the slide, legs crossed, a tablet balanced on her knees.
“See her?” Clive puffed with pride. “That’s my girl. Seven years old. Won’t say more than two words to anyone who isn’t me or her mum, but last month my bloody Wi-Fi stopped working, and I couldn’t get a single bar. Next thing I know, she’s pressing something on my phone—talking about DNS resets or some such—and boom. Internet’s back. Swear to God, Frank, she’s going to run MI6 one day.”
Frank glanced over, raising a brow. “She’s holding the tablet upside down.”
Clive waved a dismissive hand. “It’s a trick. Part of her process.”
Reggie, wiping ale from his mustache, leaned in with a wide grin. “Kids these days, eh? Mine’s the same. TV stopped working last week—screen all black, sound gone, thought it was done for. Eleven-year-old Oliver comes in, unplugs some cable—HD-something or other—plugs it back in, and just like that, it’s working.”
He looked around the table, clearly waiting for admiration.
Frank didn’t bother hiding his skepticism. “You unplugged the TV and he plugged it back in?”
Reggie frowned. “HDMI, Benson. It’s very technical.”
Clive nodded sagely. “It sounds technical.”
“Anyway,” Reggie went on, puffing his chest. “Boy’s a genius. Probably invented the bloody cable, for all I know.”
Frank snorted softly, his eyes drifting back to the window where you were now dramatically pouring sand over your dump truck like it was in the midst of a construction emergency. Your paper crown had slid over one eye, your tongue sticking out as you focused.
He smiled.
Not the half-smile he gave in briefings, not the polite one he wore during Parliament hearings—this one was slow and crooked and real. It melted the stern set of his jaw and made the corners of his eyes crinkle.
Clive caught the look and nudged him. “She’s yours through and through, isn’t she?”
Frank didn’t answer immediately. He took another slow sip of his beer, then pulled out his phone and, with the precision of a man disarming a bomb, opened his photo gallery. The screen lit up with picture after picture—of you in oversized sunglasses, eating spaghetti with your hands, asleep in his recliner with a comic book on your chest, dressed as a dinosaur, crying in a tutu, doing a cartwheel in the rain.
He turned the phone slightly, just enough for Clive to glimpse it. “She wanted a giant pink flamingo float for the bath,” Frank said dryly. “Wouldn’t rest until I found one. Imported it from Florida.”
Reggie let out a whistle. “Must’ve cost you a fortune.”
Frank nodded. “Worth every penny.”
Clive chuckled. “You’re spoiling her rotten.”
“I intend to,” Frank said simply.
Nigel, now halfway through his pint, squinted at the screen and grunted. “You’ve got more pictures of that girl than I’ve got of my entire family.”
Frank shrugged, unbothered. “That’s because mine’s worth photographing.”
Outside, you had now taken off the paper crown and placed it reverently on top of the dump truck, clearly crowning it king of the sandpit. Then you turned and waved through the glass with both hands—grinning, cheeks sticky with sugar and dirt.
Frank waved back, unashamed of the warmth blooming in his chest.
“She’s not just smart,” he muttered, almost to himself. “She’s got instinct. Says thank you, holds the door open for old ladies, asked for three books for Christmas instead of toys. Wants to be an astronaut on Tuesdays and a dragon trainer on Thursdays.”
Clive clinked his glass against Frank’s. “To dragon trainers.”
Reggie raised his beer. “And to the men who’ll terrify their boyfriends.”
Frank didn’t smile this time.
He just took another slow drink, eyes still on you, and said—quietly, like a promise:
“They won’t even dare knock on my door.”
When lunch was over, the pub began to hum with the usual afternoon lull—servers wiping down tables, the smell of stale ale lingering faintly in the air, and old wood creaking beneath the boots of tired grandfathers.
One by one, the men collected their grandchildren. Reggie slung a wriggling Oliver over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Graham called for his grandson, who came running up covered in dirt and what looked suspiciously like ketchup. Clive coaxed Millie down from the top of the slide with the promise of jelly babies in the glovebox.
And you?
You marched straight up to Frank, arms lifted high, cheeks sticky with melted ice cream, your paper crown now crumpled into something resembling modern art.
“Grandpa,” you said solemnly, “carry me.”
Frank hesitated.
Just for a second.
You were getting heavier each year—he felt it in his back, in his knees, in the way his breath caught after bending down too quickly. But then you looked at him with those big, stubborn eyes, and he sighed through his nose like a man defeated in battle.
“…Alright, alright,” he muttered.
He bent with a quiet grunt, one arm slipping beneath your knees, the other around your back. You squealed with glee as he lifted you, and your arms wrapped tightly around his neck. You smelled like grass and vanilla and something suspiciously like strawberry jam.
“You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?” he grumbled, shifting you higher against his chest.
“I’ll carry you when you’re old,” you promised, very seriously, your sticky hands patting his cheek. “We’ll get you one of those chairs with wheels.”
“That’s a wheelchair, darling.”
“I’ll paint it pink.”
“Absolutely not.”
You giggled, tucking your face into his shoulder as he walked toward the car, his steps slow and steady on the gravel.
Then, right as he was fumbling for his keys, your voice piped up against his collar.
“Can we get a trampoline?”
Frank blinked. “A trampoline?”
“Yeah! One of the big ones! With the net, so I don’t fly into the neighbor’s yard.”
He exhaled slowly. “Sweetheart, those things cost a fortune.”
Your little shoulders slumped. “…Oh.”
You didn’t argue. Didn’t whine. You just sighed and went quiet—your cheek resting against his shoulder, one tiny hand curling into the collar of his shirt. That hit him harder than any begging would have.
Frank stood there for a beat, looking down at the car keys in his hand, then back at you.
Then he leaned in, voice low and gravelly near your ear.
“I’ll get you a huge one,” he murmured, quiet enough that the others wouldn’t hear. “Biggest one they sell. We’ll put it in the garden and tell the neighbors it’s a classified military project.”
Your head jerked up. “Really?”
He nodded, his hazel eyes glinting. “Really.”
You squealed, throwing your arms around him again. “You’re the best grandpa in the world! I’m gonna bounce all the way to the moon!”
Frank chuckled, deep and quiet, his chest rumbling beneath your cheek. “If you do, I expect a postcard.”
You beamed, absolutely vibrating in his arms, while he carried you the rest of the way to the car like a knight returning from battle—aching knees and all. The rest of the men watched, their grandkids now climbing into booster seats and fussing with half-zipped jackets.
Clive raised a brow. “So, uh… what was that about classified military trampolines?”
Frank didn’t answer.
He just opened the car door, helped you into your seat, and muttered under his breath as he buckled you in:
“Amazon better have next-day delivery.”
And from the backseat, your voice chimed out, bright and certain:
“I want a pink one!”
You leaned out the car window with your elbows perched on the frame, your cheeks still sticky from ice cream and your pigtails now completely lopsided, one bobbing more than the other like a tired antenna.
“Millie!” you called, waving furiously at the girl in the hoodie as she clambered into the backseat of Clive’s battered Volvo. “Tell your grandpa to get you a trampoline too!”
Millie blinked at you through her glasses, pushing them up her nose. “Really?”
“Yeah!” you chirped, grinning like a sugar-fueled goblin. “Grandpa’s getting me one with a net so I don’t fly into the neighbors. It’s gonna be pink. You can bounce to the moon on it!”
Frank, standing beside the car with his arms crossed, let out a low laugh—dry, deep, amused. “Hah. Clive can barely afford his poker bets, let alone a bloody trampoline.”
Clive, halfway through trying to shove a juice box into Millie’s backpack, froze. He straightened with a slow turn, eyes narrowing.
“I heard that, you smug bastard.”
Frank raised a white brow, unrepentant. “Good.”
“You want to talk about affording things?” Clive barked, marching up to the side of the car and jabbing a finger at Frank’s chest. “I took a knife to the gut for you, you ungrateful sod.”
“Oh, here we go,” Frank muttered, rolling his eyes.
Clive didn’t back down. “Afghanistan. Kandahar. 2004. Bayonet through the side, Benson!”
Frank snorted. “Bayonet grazed your side.”
Clive yanked up his jumper without hesitation, exposing a patch of pale skin just above his waistband and the deep, twisted scar that carved across his abdomen. “Grazed? You see this, you miserable baritone bastard? This grazed me?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Frank sighed, then with great effort—both physically and emotionally—he reached for his own shirt. “You want to play that game?”
Clive blinked. “What’re you doing?”
Frank lifted his shirt just enough to reveal the bullet scar low on his left side, just above the hip. A round, tight mark, pale against his skin, surrounded by a faint spatter of surgical scars.
“You remember this, Clive?” he said, his voice level, but with that hard glint in his hazel eyes. “Took it in the line of fire pulling your scrawny ass out of that ditch.”
Clive stared at the scar. Then at Frank. Then back at the scar.
“That was—”
“2006, Helmand Province,” Frank said smoothly. “You’d twisted your ankle trying to vault a wall you had no business climbing. I dragged you out. Took this in the hip. Ruined a good pair of trousers.”
“Well, I never asked you to—”
“I never asked you to take a bayonet to the gut either,” Frank said flatly, lowering his shirt with military precision. “But here we are.”
The two men stood there, shirts wrinkled, stomachs slightly out, white hair mussed by the breeze, staring at each other like ancient war gods ready to reenact Troy in the pub parking lot.
In the backseat of Clive’s car, Millie adjusted her tablet and whispered, “Are they fighting?”
You turned to her, dead serious. “They’re always fighting. Last time it was over who made better tea during missions.”
“It was Frank, wasn’t it?”
“Obviously,” you said proudly. “Grandpa makes the best tea. He puts the milk in after. Like a normal person.”
Millie nodded solemnly. “Mine puts the milk in first. Says it’s tradition.”
You both looked out at the two men.
Clive had now begun miming the bayonet strike with grand dramatic flair, nearly whacking Reggie in the face with his arm, while Frank leaned on the roof of his car, unimpressed, muttering under his breath about “bloody amateurs” and “that wasn’t even the sharp end.”
The wind tousled their silver hair.
Their bellies rose with heavy, annoyed sighs.
Their scars, still fresh in memory if not on skin, had become a language only they understood.
And in the car, you and Millie—two tiny witnesses in hoodies and paper crowns—watched them like the grand finale was still coming.
“I still want a trampoline,” you said finally.
“Me too,” Millie agreed. “We could build a secret headquarters under it.”
You gasped. “With snacks?”
“Obviously.”
You leaned further out the window. “Grandpa!”
Frank stopped mid-grumble. “What?”
“Can Millie have a trampoline too? For… scientific reasons?”
Millie gave a small wave from the other car. “Yeah! We’re gonna build a base under it.”
Frank stared at you. Then at Clive. Then at Millie.
He exhaled long and low through his nose.
“You,” he pointed at Clive, “owe me fifty quid if I end up buying two of the bloody things.”
Clive huffed. “Put it on my tab.”
Frank shook his head, but a crooked smile betrayed him.
“Dragon trainers and trampoline engineers,” he muttered, getting into the car.
And from the backseat, your voice rang out, cheerful and sure:
Author's Notes: I have to admit this fic ended up becoming an abandoned draft, because I never thought people would actually want to read something like that
You were dating an older man. You knew that. You liked that.
You liked the white hair, the slow confidence, the baritone voice that didn’t rush or fumble. You liked the way he handled you—his hands steady, his body warm and solid, like a mountain that occasionally whispered filthy things in your ear while you rode it.
You liked Frank.
You liked him a lot.
But you weren’t prepared for this.
It was the first night you were staying over—really staying over, toothbrush and everything. The sex had been phenomenal, of course. He’d gone down on you like he had something to prove, and as always, left you limp and starry-eyed and whispering praises to a god you didn’t believe in. You’d showered, crawled into his bed, and now you were lying beneath his navy sheets—warm, flushed, messy-haired—watching Frank as he stood at his bedside table.
And then he did it.
Just like that. Calm. Casual. Like he was putting down a watch or setting an alarm.
He took out his fucking dentures… and dropped them into a glass of water.
You blinked.
You blinked hard.
“…What,” you said flatly, voice almost inaudible.
Frank turned toward you, towel still slung low on his hips, his chest soft and dusted with silver hair, completely unfazed. “What?”
You stared at the glass.
Then at him.
Then at the glass again.
“…Was that your teeth?”
He squinted, brows furrowing slightly in confusion. “Yes?”
You sat up like you’d been electrocuted, sheets falling from your chest. “Wait, wait, wait—wait a minute, Frank—what the hell?!”
He looked taken aback now, caught between bafflement and rising concern. “Didn’t you know?”
“NO, I didn’t know! When were you planning on mentioning that you had no fucking teeth?!”
Frank’s mouth opened. Then closed. His hazel eyes flicked toward the glass, then back to you. “…I mean… I thought it was obvious.”
You stared at him like he’d lost his mind.
“Frank,” you said slowly, “you gave me oral like—eight times.”
He raised a brow. “Yes?”
“I never noticed! You took your teeth out and didn’t think that was worth, I don’t know, disclosing?”
Now Frank looked truly puzzled. “I only take them out before bed. Or… before other things.”
“Other things?!” Your voice cracked. “You mean you’ve been gumming my pussy like a goddamn immoral grandpa?!”
That made him wince—just slightly. “I… that’s a rather harsh way to put it.”
You stared at him in full horror, your brain short-circuiting.
“…Oh my God,” you muttered, suddenly crawling across the bed toward him. “Open your mouth. Open it.”
“Darling—”
“Nope. Nope. I need confirmation. I need visual proof. I think I’m hallucinating.”
Frank sighed—long-suffering, quietly wounded—and opened his mouth.
You blinked into it.
No upper row. Nothing on the bottom except a few natural teeth that looked perfectly healthy—but clearly didn’t do much heavy lifting.
“Oh my God, I’m dating a man with missing teeth,” you whispered, half-shocked, half-hysterical. “This is like some kind of elaborate social experiment. Am I being filmed? Are the cameras hidden in the closet?”
Frank’s face fell—just a fraction. But you saw it. You saw the way his shoulders shifted, the way his gaze dropped, his confidence faltering beneath your incredulous stare.
“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said after a moment, his voice lower, quieter. “You seemed happy. I didn’t want to… complicate things.”
You opened your mouth—but nothing came out.
Because suddenly, Frank wasn’t just the man who made you scream his name in parking lots.
He was a man with scars.
With missing teeth.
With soft spots he hadn’t meant to show you yet.
He turned away without another word, reached for the glass—and in a practiced motion, popped the dentures back in. There was a faint click. Then silence.
You watched him, your heart thudding.
He looked at you again, jaw squared now, something shuttered in his hazel eyes.
“If this changes things,” he said quietly, “you can go.”
The words hit you like a slap.
Your expression softened immediately. “Frank…”
“I’ve been through worse,” he added, voice steady now, measured. “You wouldn’t be the first to lose interest when the reality doesn’t match the fantasy.”
You tried to speak.
You opened your mouth—twice—but the words just wouldn’t come. Something about the way Frank was standing, towel slung low, jaw clenched, the dim light catching the silver in his chest hair… it made everything feel heavier. Too heavy for jokes. Too heavy for the shocked, messy reaction you’d just had.
And then, without a word, he turned.
The towel dropped to the floor with a soft thud. He reached for a pair of sweatpants folded neatly on the chair, stepped into them with practiced ease, and pulled them up without looking at you. His movements were slow, careful. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just quiet. Controlled. The same way he always moved when something cut too deep for him to show.
You watched as he padded barefoot out of the bedroom, not even glancing back.
The door didn’t slam.
But it closed.
Softly.
Too softly.
You sat in the navy sheets for a long, hollow minute, your heart hammering in your throat. The room smelled like him—cologne, warm skin, fabric softener—and that somehow made it worse. Made the empty spot he’d left feel even bigger.
By the time you pulled on a shirt and padded out into the hallway, Frank was already seated on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands steepled together beneath his mouth. He looked like he was praying. Or preparing for war.
His hazel eyes flicked to you once. Then back to the floor.
He said nothing.
You stood there for a beat, arms crossed against your chest. You’d never felt so much distance in so little space.
“I…” you started, then trailed off. You pressed your lips together, exhaled, then tried again. “Frank, I wasn’t—what I said back there, I didn’t mean it like—”
“It’s fine.” His voice was calm, clipped. That familiar baritone, now dry as dust. “You don’t need to explain.”
You took a step closer. “Yes, I do.”
Frank’s jaw twitched, and he shook his head faintly, staring ahead.
“I was surprised,” you said softly, “that’s all. Not disgusted. Not horrified. Just surprised.”
He gave a soft, humorless huff. “Sure sounded horrified.”
You winced.
“Frank…” You walked around the coffee table, lowering yourself slowly to sit beside him on the edge of the couch. His body was stiff, arms crossed now over his chest, his hooked nose in profile as he stubbornly avoided your gaze. “I’ve just never dated someone who… takes their teeth out to sleep.”
He snorted faintly. “Guess I should’ve included it in the welcome packet.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“I know what you meant.” His voice was flat. Too even. That was worse than if he’d shouted. “And it’s fine. Really. You can go.”
“Stop saying that.”
Frank looked at you now, finally, and the look in his eyes made your stomach twist. Not anger. Not irritation. Just… resignation. A quiet kind of hurt. The kind of hurt that had been felt before.
“I’m not angry,” he said, and he meant it. “I’m just… tired. I should’ve known better.”
You shook your head, reaching out before you could stop yourself, placing your hand over his. His knuckles were warm. Rough. Still tense.
“I like you, Frank,” you said, your voice unsteady. “Like… a lot. The sex is great, sure, but that’s not why I brought a toothbrush. That’s not why I’m here. I’m here because I trust you. Because I feel safe with you. Because you… calm me in a way no one else does.”
He didn’t say anything. But his hand didn’t move from under yours.
“I freaked out,” you admitted. “Not because of your teeth. Not really. But because I think you’re this indestructible, military-grade tank of a man… and then you did something so human, so normal, and I—” you broke off, swallowing. “I felt like an idiot. For not knowing. For reacting like a dumbass.”
Frank’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But close. “You called me an immoral grandpa.”
You groaned, dropping your head onto his shoulder. “I hate me so much.”
He let out a soft breath. And for a long moment, that was all. Just breath, and warmth, and silence.
Then, his voice—softer now.
“I lost most of them in a training accident. Years ago. Before I got promoted. One of those things they tell you is statistically rare—until it happens to you.” His baritone was quiet, like gravel soaked in regret. “I got a bridge. Then implants. Then eventually… these.” He glanced toward the bedroom, where the glass still sat by the lamp. “Didn’t think it mattered anymore. Most nights, it doesn’t.”
You lifted your head to look at him. His hazel eyes met yours—tired, yes, but softer now.
“You’re still sexy as hell, you know,” you whispered.
His brow lifted. “Without teeth?”
You smirked. “Especially without teeth. That gumming thing? I mean, ten out of ten. Would recommend.”
Frank let out a laugh—low and gravelly, a huff through his nose—but this one was real. Tension slid from his shoulders as he shook his head, rubbing his hand over his face.
“You’re insufferable,” he muttered.
“And yet, here I am.” You leaned in, brushing your lips against his jaw. “Still here. Still choosing you.”
Frank turned, just slightly, just enough to press his lips to your temple. The kiss lingered longer than necessary. “You’re a pain in the ass.”
“Mm. But I’m your pain in the ass.”
He pulled you into his lap then, strong arms wrapping around you, anchoring you against his chest. You could feel his heart beneath your ear—steady, slow, solid.
And there, in the quiet, you whispered, “Just don’t ever take them out mid-blowjob, okay?”
Frank groaned. “Christ, woman.”
But his laugh shook the both of you.
And that was enough.
___________
Okay.
You definitely never thought you’d go through this.
But here you were—barefoot, slightly hungover, standing in Frank Benson’s bathroom days after the Great Denture Revelation™—brushing his fucking dentures. Because he was too drunk to do it himself.
And you were really rethinking your life up to this point.
The things people did for love.
You sighed, shifting your weight on the cool tile as you held the pink toothbrush between your fingers, gently scrubbing the upper plate like you were polishing fine china. The glass of water sat beside the sink, his “night cup” as he sarcastically called it, and you tried not to dwell on the surrealness of the moment. But it was hard not to.
Because five nights ago, you’d had your legs over Frank’s broad shoulders while he made you cum so hard you saw the Virgin Mary in your ceiling fan.
And now?
Now you were brushing his fucking teeth while he lay face-down on the couch, dead to the world, shirtless, snoring into a throw pillow like a war vet who’d lost a battle with Scotch.
You rinsed the dentures carefully, holding them up for inspection like you were some kind of perverse dental hygienist.
“Well,” you muttered to the sink, “this wasn’t in the rom-coms.”
You placed the clean dentures into the glass with a soft clink and turned to face the mirror. Your hair was a mess. You had a wine stain on the sleeve of Frank’s Henley, and you still had bite marks on your inner thigh from the last time he’d dragged you into bed whispering, "You're mine tonight. All fucking night."
You stared at yourself for a long moment.
Then sighed again. “God help me… I think I’m in love.”
A low groan came from the living room.
You padded out, wiping your hands on the towel, and found Frank exactly where you’d left him—flat on his stomach, one arm dangling off the couch, his white hair ruffled, his bare back rising and falling with each slow, hungover breath. The waistband of his sweatpants had ridden low enough to make you momentarily forget your irritation.
“Frank,” you said, crouching beside him. “Teeth are done. You’re welcome.”
He let out a low grunt, baritone thick with sleep and regret. “Mmmfgh.”
“Very articulate.”
One hazel eye cracked open. Barely. “Why’s the ceiling spinning?”
“Because you drank an entire bottle of Glenfiddich and challenged my neighbor to arm-wrestle in the parking lot.”
Another groan. “Did I win?”
“No. You almost dislocated your shoulder.”
He turned his head slightly, squinting at you. His face was flushed, scruffy, and devastatingly handsome even in his current state of decay. “You’re a saint.”
You rolled your eyes, brushing a damp curl off his forehead. “I’m dating a toothless alcoholic. I’m going to heaven and I’m getting a statue.”
Frank huffed a laugh into the cushion. “Was it the teeth again? You still stuck on that?”
“No,” you said, surprisingly soft. “I’m stuck on you.”
That shut him up.
For a beat, anyway.
Then he groaned again and tried to roll over. Failed. Gave up halfway and just flopped dramatically. “I’d kiss you, but I’m not fully assembled.”
“You’re disgusting,” you muttered fondly.
“You love it.”
You stood, placing a hand on your hip. “I brushed your dentures, Frank. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”
He lifted a hand, eyes still closed, and made a vague groping gesture. “Come here. Need to touch something soft before death claims me.”
You snorted and leaned down, letting him cup your thigh, your hip, the side of your ass like it was a talisman warding off the hangover gods.
“Mmm,” he mumbled. “Still perfect.”
“Still drunk,” you said, ruffling his white hair.
But your chest felt warm. Full.
Because you’d seen him at his worst now—sloppy, sloppy-drunk, too proud to ask for help, too old-school to admit he needed it—but you’d done it anyway. You’d held his head when he dry-heaved in the bathroom, poured him water, put his phone on the charger, and tucked him in on the couch when he insisted he was “too gross” to share the bed.
And now you’d brushed his teeth. The fake ones.
And you’d do it again.
Frank cracked one eye open, voice barely above a whisper. “You still wanna stay over?”
You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I’m never leaving.”
He let out a long breath and reached for your hand, twining your fingers with his, rough palm warm against your skin.
“Good,” he rasped. “I need someone to brush my teeth when I’m dead.”
You squeezed his hand. “You’re not dying, Frank. You’re just hungover.”
“Feels the same.”
You chuckled and settled on the floor beside the couch, your head resting on his shoulder, his body warm and solid and smelling like regret and aftershave.
The ceiling fan spun slowly above you, casting shadows on the ceiling like it had secrets to whisper.
You were in love with a denture-wearing, war-weathered, grumpy old man with the voice of a god and the stamina of a devil.
And somehow, it felt like the most honest love you’d ever known.
turnnoffyourmind
tangentwithtanner
prguitarman
jacobvanloon
germansingergirl
discoholicmusic
theartofmadeline
gummygunk
blakekathryn