41 | She/her | Here to scream about yer fics & Pedro Pascal | Salt Lake City, Utah | My gifs | My video edits | 18+ only smut appreciation here | Sleuther of Ricky Hauk's Gas Station | Archive
Hi, I'm Shirks! I fell in love with the adorkable human bean we know as Pedro Pascal in 2021 (his Darkest Timeline podcast appearance cemented my love and is the source of my profile pic 🥰) and have been eating up all the amazing fic based on his characters here on the Tumbles and AO3 ever since. I am friendly, come say hello! 👋 I appreciate soft feels and feral smut in equal measure, so this is an 18+ only space, thank you!
Some of my tags:
My fic recs: #ficrec | Personal posts & tag games with more about me: #personal | My occasional (often shitty) gifs: #mygifs | My video edits (er, edit): #myvideoedit | Archive (seems to work best on desktop)
Creations I'm proudest of:
Discovering the local filming location of (and taking a pilgrimage to) where baby Pedro played lil cutie mechanic Ricky Hauk in Touched By an Angel (2000), my lil Tim Rockford x Marcus Pike romantic video edit that never fails to pull at my heart strings, and my thirst-giffing of Joel Miller that booked me directly into horny jail. 😌 And not really a creation, but my post compiling salty Utahn reactions to a Joel Miller meme about SLC still tickles me 😆.
I'm a sucker for arranged marriage trope with Pero. He looks like the guy who would fall in love at the first sign and then be the best husband. His little wife was so worried she had done something wrong because she heard all the husbands want to have sex and it's painful but her new husband does not force her. She maybe thought he did not find her pretty, just bought her with the land. But he is so in love that he want to give her freedom and never force her to do anything.
Imagine this big Spaniard stealing flowers from an old ladys garden to make her happy after she seems sad lately. and then he finds out she wants to be a mother but she is not able to conceive a life without her husband.
Ooh a popular idea with Tovar, for sure! If you haven’t read it yet, may I suggest @/iamskyereads’ Pobre Pajarito ? It’s not love at first sight but it does have an arranged marriage with feisty young wife coming into her own as she and Pero learn to navigate newly married life and find that maybe they don’t dislike each other after all (also it’s hot like 🔥)
You may also like @/tropes-and-tales’ The Blessings to Come ; an admission from Pero when he realizes that there’s something about seeing you with children that has him changing his mind on the idea of fatherhood… (ALSO hot like 🔥)
Now I should say as a disclaimer that I’ve never said I take requests (though I am sorry it took me this long to respond to this one), and as I was writing it’s deviated pretty far from the original prompt, partly because I didn’t want to run the risk of copying something I’d already seen done before, and partly because I wanted to show a slightly different take on each of the characters in the roles of experience vs no experience.
Lamplight
//
Set during the 12th century somewhere warm along the intercontinental silk routes. Hopefully the setting can be interpreted a number of ways— At this time in history specificity of any kind narrows down a number of regions, countries, and cultures, but I like a challenge and want for a variety of people to enjoy it. For the sake of this ask there are a few established elements that we’ll consider a given
Tovar/fem!reader. Established relationship. Bit of worldbuilding I hope keeps the reader ambiguous enough to be enjoyed. 8k words.
Warnings/tags: Language (including use of the word whore in reference to prostitution), experience vs no experience, brief talk of pregnancy, partially-clothed sex, smut, creampie, feelings ‘n shit idk.
Dividers by @/saradika-graphics
18+ Only
How Fate determined Tovar should end up with a clever woman as his bride, he’d never know. You had no small part in securing your union, and in the last days of the season Pero Tovar— despite his misgivings regarding matrimony as a whole— found himself wedded to a lovely merchant’s daughter, now overseeing land and trade he himself was unfamiliar with.
It appeared you’d been doing most of the managing and bookkeeping for years as your father’s health declined, and after his death you were well-provisioned to take ownership of the merchant trade you’d help build and fortify with your own hands.
It was neither your family’s fault nor the culture’s for not adequately preparing you for life beyond that. Your mother was long gone and you were so preoccupied with tending to your ailing father and the family trade at such a young age that you scarcely had a moment to pester the washerwomen about the way of things. You’d gathered bits and pieces but nothing as factual as your inquisitive mind desired, and despite your father’s feeble health he’d managed to keep you safeguarded from prying eyes and hands, so much so that your loyal retinue had been able to shield you from some of the worst the world had to offer.
You’d been graciously afforded the opportunity of rarely-seen independence: learned, moderately wealthy, in possession of land and defenses and specialized commerce, and in a peaceful time of your region’s history no less. You weren’t naïve but… Life had found a way to keep you in the dark in one area you had really never anticipated living long enough to see.
As much as the desire for your own family nagged at you, you’d still been unable to afford the matter your attention— There were few potential suitors over the years who met the standard of status and good company your father had looked for, more than several hoping to use you to secure wealth or influence for themselves and offering little in exchange. Add to that that the machinations of enemies never sleep, and no sooner had your father’s bones been put to rest did a rival guild feel the need to threaten your newly appointed title.
The recent plans to kill you and absorb both status and material wealth had forced your path to cross with that of the motley ensemble of foreigners passing through, and your charm (not to say the least of your coin) allied many of them to your side so the rivalry could be… dealt with. Shared hardships made fast friendships between you and some of the mercenaries, and your retinue grew as a result. Upon the success of their assignments, Garin and several others departed for fortunes elsewhere, but a handful of men remained as part of your permanent guard of their own volition, replacing those who had been lost.
It was really only Tovar’s pride and restless ways that made him refuse your first proposal. Whoever heard of a woman taking the lead in such matters, he had thought. What did it matter that his heart felt like a caged bird whenever he thought of you in danger? What did it matter that he felt drawn to your gaze when he caught you looking at him in a courtyard of men?
He’d done the job you hired him for and then he was to depart. Simple as that.
Simple, that is, until you’d ridden out to him yourself on the morning he left without bidding you farewell, cutting him off on the trail and insisting he make you his bride. A bout of bickering, your ensnaring tongue, and brief wrestling match later and you’d forced him to admit what he really felt for you and ohhh what he felt for you…
Never before had your region seen such a lively, colorful ceremony. The air was suffused with the scent of flowers for a week. Pero asked you suspiciously if he had in fact arrived at Elysium, and he remained suspicious as you laughed heartily and kissed him in response.
Despite the amicable arrangement the two of you had come to regarding your now-entwined futures, something still seemed amiss. The demanding schedule and alternating shifts kept you apart in the aftermath of the attempted mercantile coup, but it also felt as though your new husband didn’t… want you the way a husband should.
In fact, he almost seemed to be avoiding you.
With the confidence you felt with him by your side and the established history of challenges you had faced head-on together, it should have been a simple matter to pull him to your bed with a coy smile and alluring eyes, distractions and interruptions be damned. You had, after all, initiated your union. Why was it proving so hard to consummate it?
The vulnerability of ignorance left you acutely aware of where your knowledge was lacking. The thought of asking the washerwomen at both the age and married status you were now was mortifying. It shouldn’t have mattered though— You weren’t so ignorant as to think men like your husband reached the age they did without knowing a girl in every port. He should be more than adept at instruction…
So why did he keep making himself scarce when the two of you had time and seclusion to indulge? Had he been feigning interest in the woman in order to gain the wealth and status the title afforded him after all?
No that couldn’t be it— He’d fought long and hard to protect you and those in your house, so why would he not want to add to that house himself?
It all came to a head when you cornered him in the courtyard as he carefully scrutinized the flowers, startling when you caught him. The servants who had been milling about conveniently vanished just out of sight but not so far out of earshot they missed the tempers of the masters of the house flaring up into an argument of a more-than incredibly intimate nature. The whispers that traveled would entertain those on the grounds for weeks following, especially when compounded by what was to come.
In all honesty, the argument was less an argument than it was an interrogation Pero was quickly losing ground to. He struggled to find the words but your pleas and demands eventually forced him to voice what he really thought.
He sighed and finally jabbed a finger against the center of your forehead, halting you with a look of amusement, though it settled to one of resolve with his decision and blunt way with words. “Too much a maiden. Not enough a bride.”
Pero thrust the flowers he held into your hand and turned to stalk away, leaving you somewhat outraged at his refusal to explain further. It was to the point you thought you’d made a mistake in somehow marrying the only man who didn’t want to share your bed. For so long you’d heard vague snippets from other women about what to expect— some good, some bad— and you were desperate to sate your curiosity, and to do so with the man you’d fought so hard to claim for yourself. The companionship you’d kindled with Pero had fanned into a love you were certain you could give him a lifetime of happiness with.
Pero, for his part, wanted you to the point of madness, but he could not shake the uncomfortable feeling he got at the look of uncertainty you gave him in the fleeting, stolen moments together between the demands of life, nor could he ignore the way you’d trembled under his touch.
In the wake of your wedding you had both been called away by circumstances outside your control and already almost a fortnight had passed without Pero feeling he could truly call you his wife. He ached to hold you in his arms and pull the lovely sounds from you he knew he could, to share your bed at the same hours of night and sink into the sweet, velvet clutch of your cunt. He was eager and thrumming with the desire that made him ravenous for your touch, but to have you so close without the time to figure out just how inexperienced you were made brambles twist in his chest.
Days passed until one night you had purred his name and caught him unawares, finally slipping beneath the covers to join him, all bare skin and sweet-smelling, and he’d barely woken before he found himself hot and hard, wondering where this newfound boldness had come from. You pressed up against him like a cat and intoxicated him with your kiss, cradling his face in your hands as his arms crushed you to his chest, every lovely star finally aligning to bring you together—
Only for yet another call of the guard to tear him away, snarling, to fight off a slew of stragglers from your rival’s guild as they launched another pitiful attempt against your gate. He’d hauled you back from the window as a volley of arrows came sailing through before ordering you to remain out of harm’s way as he hastily dressed, belted his sword, and leapt down to the courtyard below.
(Pero had come back briefly only to ensure you were safe before bidding you to remain behind while he personally rode out with the guard and ousted the last of the men. Little did he know you’d secluded away that night after the fighting had ceased in order to pleasure yourself to the vision of your husband, raging like a lion and streaked with blood as he felled your enemies. It was far too long before he returned and by then another day had begun. The work never ceased.)
Inexperience in this area didn’t appeal to him the way it seemed to entice many other men. If his assumptions were correct, it turned his stomach to think of you entering your marriage bed as ill-prepared as you were, and he did not think he should be the one to explain it. Add to that fact he knew men often found pleasure whether women did or not— Why would his clever wife believe or trust him if she knew only hen’s gossip and old wives’ tales? How objective is a man who is easy to please? Would he be able to see your unsure eyes every time he bedded you if it only made him feel, however unjustly, guilty?
Too much a maiden, not enough a bride.
After your argument in the courtyard he decided it was time to enact the plan he’d had forming at the back of his mind for several days now. Clearly you had no objections to him as he was, and clearly you weren’t going to take his evasions any longer.
You were in the middle of delegating the end of that season’s tasks to your foremen when he found you. A jerk of his head called you away, and when you asked what he needed he said, “A trip to town. Paying somebody a visit.”
Your arrival in the market spurred some curious looks, but none more curious than those that increased the closer you got to your destination. You turned to shoot him a glare, but he steadfastly ignored you until he offered to graciously help you from your mount. Despite your suspicion you accepted his offer, watching him all the while.
Pero then abruptly ushered you inside, giving you the assurance that you were expected, and promptly closed the door behind you, turning back to the market and crossing his arms as he leaned against the building. Several locals passed him congratulations and well wishes on his new marriage, to which he grunted vague replies and hoped his scowl would ward off the more curious.
Pero Tovar had grown up a fatherless child who had learned the ways of life at the hands of whores when he was barely more than a lad— Many early fumbling days were spent with red ears, wounded pride, and eyes wide open. Contrary to popular belief young Pero was no simpleton, but his status, ignorance, and difficulty speaking earned him scorn and derision from older boys and men alike until he learned well enough how to fight back. Fighting for whatever crown or people would feed him kept him moving, and the girls at brothels eventually stopped laughing as his fumbling ways improved, or perhaps they knew better than to laugh at the man providing their coin— Pero didn’t know but didn’t ask.
He had never wanted to think they were afraid of him; he was aware of how he looked, and he wouldn’t fuck them if they seemed scared. He knew of at least one cathouse where they’d drawn lots, and after that night he kept his coin unless they sought him out first.
He didn’t think it right to take you to the whores to have these matters explained. Added to that was the fact he was a stranger to your region and still unsure how to word things— It wouldn’t do to have miscommunications muddy things further. However, there had been one other option besides the pleasure houses or the women around you who had clearly not taught you what you were owed, and he’d run out of ideas.
Pero didn’t know how long he’d been lost in thought before you came storming back out. He scrambled up from his post, jogging to catch up as you marched away from him and towards your steeds with a fervor that almost concerned him. He called your name and nearly ran straight into you as you whirled on your heel and faced him dead-on with a look of almost-fury, flustered and anticipatory.
“¿Mujer—?”
“Of all people, Pero—!” you seethed, “Why could you have not shown me yourself?”
Pero burst out laughing and your expression darkened further. “So my wife does not know something for once. So what?”
“You are an ass.”
“Why are you angry with me?”
“I am not— I wasn’t— Pero, people have seen us.”
“And? Let them talk.”
“They are going to ask—!”
“So speak the truth.” Pero shrugged. “Or lie, if you want. Why do you care?”
You turned again and continued your stride across the square, ignoring the smiles of onlookers and calls for “Blessings upon your house, and a ~bountiful harvest~!” Pero caught up to you as you untethered your steed; you batted him away but his strong hands caught and caged you in against the wall. He could tell most of the anger was a façade— The heat of your gaze thrummed with newfound knowledge. It was an eagerness he’d seen on you before, and it was infectious.
“Your behavior reflects poorly as master of your house,” he purred wickedly. “And to scold your husband in the streets after he has ridden back having slaughtered your enemies, no less.”
You wriggled against him and his darkened eyes scrutinized you, watching to see how you responded when he kept you pinned.
Rewarded with a challenging look of hunger and defiance, his grin widened and he settled comfortably against you, drawing his nose up the curve of your neck to murmur in your ear. “Are you satisfied in your knowledge, woman? Do you know now what it is you do to me?”
He felt you shiver against him before you placed a purposeful hand against his surcoat and pushed him back.
“Are you going to give me what I’ve been missing or not, husband?” you asked, your eyes flashing.
“Here?” Pero chuckled. “Now? In the marketplace, with an audience?”
You seemed to remember where you were as he pulled you flush against him again, causing even more onlookers to titter at your flustered outrage and scolding. You smacked his chest as you shoved him away with curse and turned to mount your steed. Pero laughed, climbing up into his own saddle to chase after you.
The midwife’s words echoed in your ears, your conversation still fresh.
“If— If that is true…” you hedged. “Will it hurt?”
“It is not supposed to,” she said with a shrug. “Depends on how ready and willing you are beforehand. He wants you to know what you’ll be doing and brought you to someone he knew would tell you plainly. I have had this talk with many girls over the years, but you are the first bride— Which means your husband is smarter and more caring than he looks. Has he given you reason to think otherwise?”
“… No.”
“There you have it. Cozy up with him ‘til you’re slicker than a seal, get on like rabbits and you’ll have reason to see me again soon enough.”
“But- How will I know what to do?” you asked anxiously.
The midwife laughed heartily again. “Use whatever part of him you want to make yourself feel good. He’ll let you know what he likes and you’ll figure out the rest.”
Knowing what exactly was needed from him, how your coupling could create a child, finally eased some of the trepidation you felt at not knowing. Answers were reassuring.
Reassuring further was the knowledge that your husband did want to share your bed.
Pero watched you with the same amusement still glinting in his eyes as you strode to your quarters. His humor from the market had remained on your return home as you pulled him to your shared rooms, but the intensity of his brown eyes made it hard to look at him directly.
“¿Well, mi mujer? Will you still have me?”
You turned the midwife’s words over in your head. Pero waited expectantly, one hip cocked with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
You set aside your riding cloak and came to him, tugging at the buckle of his belt. Pero’s eyes darkened, and the drag of his hands up your sides made you shiver. You loosed belt and scabbard from his waist, reaching behind him to set his sword aside.
“I need to know something,” you said, stroking up his chest as he hummed. “Is it only me you want?”
“I have only need of one woman, wife.” He tilted his head, searching your eyes. “I have my hands full enough as it is.”
Though his dry humor usually made you smile, you had to shake your head. He didn’t understand, you needed him to understand—
“Pero,” you began again, frowning in thought. You took one of his hands, broad and firm, drawing it down your chest to settle low on your belly. You held it there as he sucked in a breath. “I want more with you— From you.”
Pero stilled, all levity gone from his expression. His hand flexed; you tightened your grip.
“I want you to give me a child,” you said shakily. “I want your child.”
Pero closed what little distance remained between you and brought his other hand up to cradle the side of your face. It was the gentlest touch he’d given you yet.
“… This would make you happy?”
“Yes. Yes, Pero. Please.”
There was a moment where you thought perhaps your husband would decide he was done entertaining your whims, perhaps skip formalities and take you as he saw fit now that he’d done whatever duty he felt he owed in having you educated.
But instead of the groping demand of greedy hands Pero pressed his forehead to yours, rocking there against your touch, and then he kissed you.
Pero tugged you to his chest and pressed in hungrily with an open mouth, a groan of pleasure rippling from his chest as you yanked him closer, gasping and threading your fingers in his hair.
It appeared your husband had been holding back before; he kissed you with his entire being, indulgent and exploring, tasting and touching and responding to your moan in kind. He had held you before, cradled you to his chest, put himself between you and danger a dozen times, and this kiss held the controlled ferocity and dedication of a man who hadn’t hesitated to climb from your window with sword in hand to chase your enemies into the night.
You were almost mad at how much he’d been keeping himself from you.
“I— I want see you first,” you gasped. “Show me what you like.”
“You are what I like.”
“Pero, please—”
He nuzzled against you, hardly daring to part from your lips, should his vision of Elysium disappear. “I will show you,” Pero purred. “But you must lose your clothes if I’m to lose mine. Fair is fair.”
The rumble of his voice nearly buckled you, and you hastily worked to rid him of his leathers as his hands wandered, gathering fabric and grazing up your thigh in search of your skin. The hum of his satisfaction sent a shiver of pleasure straight to your core.
Pero ducked his head, impatiently shaking off his outer garments and kissing the base of your throat. Every sound you made tugged at his loins and he felt ravenous for anything, everything you would give him. Stolen moments kissing and groping in seclusion for weeks on end as he defended your gate, feeling the weight of your gaze on him amidst the rest of the hired swords, nearly a fortnight of fleeting moments spent with you pressed against his body before some other calamity called one of you away— None of it came close to having you in his arms now, clawing at his skin and desperately keening his name.
When you managed to wriggle a hand beneath his trousers and squeeze his growing length he felt sweet, hot arousal spike in his belly and across his skin, forcing a groan from him as he grabbed your arm; Pero would never admit to stumbling, but he did have to brace one hand on the table beside him.
That groan turning into a growl, Pero stooped to pick you up, pride swelling his chest at how your legs wrapped naturally around his waist. He carried you to bed and rolled onto the covers with you beneath him, dimly aware of you pulling at his tunic to press your hands to his back, his shoulders. He jolted as you reflexively ground up against him, the sound escaping him at the heat of you against his breeches shuddering through his chest. He hadn’t made a sound like that since he was a youth and it shook him to know how easily you pulled it from him. How you didn’t even know.
Reluctantly he reached up to take hold of your wrists, untwining the two of you so he could press your hands to the bed.
“Woman,” he muttered, lazily grinding his hips against you despite the warning in his words. “You will be the end of me.”
“I want to see you, Pero,” you insisted. Your eyes flicked down to the growing arousal between you. “The- The midwife said you could show me. I need to see. Show me.”
It took a moment for the meaning of your words to really catch up to him, and fire blazed up his neck at the thought of having to put on a show. You wanted to know what you were working with.
With great effort Pero extricated himself from your grip, giving you one more lingering kiss before sitting back at the head of the bed. You scrambled up to meet him, sitting close by and no longer looking quite as nervous as you had in corridors or on your wedding night. Eyes bright, lips kiss-bitten and pretty, you looked more like the commanding woman he saw in the light of day, ordering your workforce and servants about and strategizing with swordsmen on how best to defend your livelihood. Here he saw the determination and stubbornness of the woman who had ridden out of her own accord and proposed marriage to him a second time.
“Pero,” you said impatiently. “Show me how you pleasure yourself.”
Gods above, you would be the death of him. No other woman had ever asked such a thing; why would they?
Mutely, Pero watched you as he took his cock from its confines and wrapped a hand around himself. He wasn’t accustomed to women looking at his body the way you were now. You sat up attentively, hunger etched into your features. Bare shoulders, your clothes open and askance, hair coming undone… He watched your eyes widen in shock as you took him in, swelling with unanticipated pride at your hungry approval. The intensity of your gaze locking onto him made him squirm, and he stroked himself briskly before needing to take a shuddering breath and remind himself that he still had work to do.
He was not quite to the point he was slick enough on his own for it to be pleasurable, and he unconsciously spit into his hand before resuming his motions. The look of shock on your face turned to immediate hunger as you looked up to meet his eyes before returning your gaze to his cock; it made him feel exposed, and the slick on his cock gathered quickly. Your hand came to hover over his, and he slowed his strokes, watching you.
“The midwife said anywhere I could use my hands I— I could use my mouth,” you said, hushed. “Is— Is that true? Would you want that?”
You were going to end him. The thought of you looking up at him from where you wrapped your lips around his cock sent a jolt of lightning to his groin, and another shudder wracked his body. “A- Another time, hermosa,” he said. “If you were to even try right now I would not be able to control myself.”
“I don’t want you to control yourself.”
“Mierda, woman, have mercy.”
You scooted closer, still watching him, your hand skating up the inside of his leg and squeezing the muscle of his thigh. You were close enough he could smell the scent of your skin, his nerves arcing with pleasure where you touched him, and you unknowingly dug your thumb into a scar on the inside of his thigh. Pero’s opposite hand shot up to clutch your shoulder with a hiss as he squeezed his cock to stave off the rising orgasm. Your own hand gentled against his leg at the sudden response and he missed it immediately.
His chest heaved, the effort it took to control himself apparent. He’d underestimated your curiosity; perhaps you didn’t know what you did to him but it didn’t keep you from making it apparent what you wanted from him.
“I- I want to,” you nodded to him, avoiding his gaze. “Let me feel you.”
Pero paused, and he let go of his cock to take your hand in both of his to wrap back around him, groaning softly when you licked your lips.
Your strokes started soft, familiarizing yourself, and his pulse ramped up as you squeezed him, curling your fingers around his shaft and tugging on the upstroke, squeezing slick on the way down. He tried not to arch off the bed into your softer, explorative hands, distracted by the thought nagging at him that you were watching his every expression, those lovely hands became bolder and bolder until a jolt of sharp pain-pleasure made him grunt.
“Easy, woman, don’t rend it from me,” he hissed. You immediately gentled your ministrations with a sheepish laugh, and he gingerly relaxed from the tense cage of limbs around you, knocking his forehead against your temple. You murmured a soft Sorry, allowing him to guide the hand around his cock as it throbbed in time with his pulse while your other hand explored the expanse of his body at your leisure. Nails dragged over the expanse of scars covering his body, thumb rubbing into the curving path of tendon and muscle. He tensed and twitched, trying not to writhe with anticipatory pleasure, wanting you to sate your curiosity after so long spent wondering.
“You are holding back from me,” you said with a frown, and he nipped your earlobe in response, forcing a gasp from your lips. He set his teeth to the soft skin, letting the sound of your whine bury itself in his memory.
“I am trying— ” he huffed, “Trying not to come before you.”
Your free hand stroked up his chest, tweaking his nipple the same moment you squeezed the head of his cock— Pero jolted harshly, squirming and cursing beneath you, all the while grinding his teeth at your soft laugh and sweet lips.
“I want to see you come—” you said, but this time he shook his head, grasping both of your wrists and wrestling you onto the bed beside him, your hands above your head. Your hips bucked against him on instinct and he grunted, slinging one leg over between yours to pin you down. You watched as he clasped both wrists in one sword-calloused hand and stroked down your disheveled clothes with the other.
“No,” he said simply, undoing the rest of your clothes one-handed and parting the fabric from your shoulders. His hungry eyes skated down your body; his hand followed. “I don’t intend to come anywhere besides your cunt tonight.”
And with that he latched his mouth around your nipple.
The buzzing arousal that had been building in you from the ride back until now bubbled up in a surprised yelp and dissolved into a moan, feeling his hot tongue against your sensitive flesh. Your wrists flexed as your back arched off the bed, his words burning your ears; his free hand plumped up your breast to press it to his mouth, the pleased hum rippling over your skin as you writhed. This you hadn’t thought of, so distracted by what you’d assumed would be the focus, and he almost seemed to be suckling at you for his own pleasure; when he released the first to switch over to the second those clever, devious fingers continued to stroke and caress you, stoking the pulsing heat in your belly to a blaze with nowhere for the tension to go. You whined and gasped, writhing and grinding against the thigh caught between both of yours, forced to endure the pleasure he gave you while you could feel him pressed up against you, his chest against yours, his cock against your hip—
“Pero please,” you gasped, and he set his teeth against your nipple, worrying it between tongue and teeth until you cried out even louder. The ripple of your flesh against his lips entranced him, making him want to see and feel every response you could have to that alone.
“Impaciente,” he murmured, finally releasing your breast to look at you. You tried to catch your breath, slick between your legs from grinding against his breeches and chest heaving with a need for oxygen. Your skin felt oversensitive, the cool air against your damp, peaked breasts both a reprieve and a loss. His tongue had felt so very good.
“W-Why won’t you let me touch you?” you begged, flexing your hands again.
“You asked me to teach,” he said. “So I teach.”
“I— gods above— want you to teach me how to please you.”
Your husband grumbled something you didn’t catch, briefly grinding against your hip and rucking up the fabric around your legs. “Seeing you pleases me.”
Frustrated and warm and terribly attracted to this handsome, stubborn man, you took advantage of his momentary distraction to lean up what little you could, just far enough to kiss the soft spot just beneath his ear. He jolted, nearly head-butting you in the nose in the process, and you wriggled your hands free to wrap around his shoulders, one guiding his face back to yours and into a kiss.
Pero smelled of leather and wood fire, a hard man marked by years on the road, but tasting him was like indulging in honeyed wine. Your husband clutched you close, his strong arm curling around your hip, and you couldn’t help but remember the night he’d left your bed to avenge the blood of your kith and kin. Strong and steady, skilled with his hands, this dangerous man had protected and praised you beyond your expectations, and the sweetness of his kiss was no exception.
When his fingers found their way to the crux of your thighs you nearly yelled, jolting at the touch and slapping a hand over your mouth. You snapped your legs shut on instinct in an attempt to keep him there and ground down against the pressure and sensitivity.
“Wh- *huff* Pero— Give- Give me your cock,” you demanded. Pero slipped his fingers through your folds and you bucked again, gasped, tense as a bowstring. Ripples of newly discovered pleasure shook you and you clung to him. “Pero, give- nnh- give me- oh gods— Y-You said—”
“I will,” he said, “But you do not light a lamp unless you know it has oil.” His fingers dipped into your heat and you dug your nails into his shoulders. “Or else the flame will not last long.”
Pero pressed his fingers against you, stroking firmly and returning to dip into your cunt as the muscles of your belly clenched and released, your back bowing taut, his every movement driving you higher and higher, until you could feel, you knew—
You tried to speak again but Pero stroked back up to the sensitive peak peak of your sex, worrying circles against your clit that made you shout, unaware and uncaring of how you looked or sounded as you came. A searing burst of pleasure shot through you from your very core, concentrated in your coiling lower muscles and rippling out with every extended stroke. You scrabbled for handholds against Pero’s chest, his back, every sturdy piece of him that felt good pressed against you as you yanked him closer and writhed with exquisite, trembling shudders, clutching him like a lifeline in a storm.
“Good,” he grunted. “Another.”
Before you could make sense of gravity, before you could even breathe, his thick fingers slid down, in, up, curling up against your channel and pressing with an intensity you’d never achieved yourself. He hummed in approval, languorously licking into your mouth while you panted his name. You sang for him and he clutched you close, captive in your pleasure as you writhed into him, away from him, bucking against his hand at the intense, unyielding pleasure, your body at war with the near-overload of sensations. He built you up higher and higher until you shrieked with the power of another rolling orgasm, his thick fingers buried to the knuckle in slick, encompassing heat.
Pero felt you tremble and gasp against his chest, immensely pleased with himself. You’d unknowingly clawed angry streaks across his skin that sent sparks of pleasure jolting through him at every searing run, fingers even now still divoted in the muscle of his bicep, and he couldn’t help but revel in the heady, slick scent of sex clouding his own senses in the dimness of the low light. His cock pulsed where it was trapped between you, sensitive and envious of the fingers still buried in your cunt for denying him his own release, but feeling your supple, dripping sex around his fingers and knowing all it took was his hands to get you there made that fierce pride and possessive desire flare up in his chest.
You’d buried your face in the crook of his neck as you regained your breath, and when he withdrew his fingers and tucked his chin you tilted your gaze just in time to see him slip those very same fingers into his mouth.
Your jaw dropped. Pero sucked the silvery webbing between his fingers into his mouth without hesitation, eyes closing almost in thought at the taste. You watched his dark brows furrow, teeth drawing at his knuckles upon their retreat, and you shoved yourself up and astride his hips in a burst of energy, cradling his jaw in a fierce kiss.
Pero jerked at the feeling of you settling plush against him, his breath stolen by your mouth. You rocked your hips, his cock trapped between the slick inner flesh of your cunt and his lower belly, and it was his turn to clutch at you in an attempt to still your movements. When your lips moved against his he returned it, intoxicated: for too long he hadn’t had a chance to kiss you as he truly wanted to and now he couldn’t care less if the gods themselves were at your gate. He’d die right there in your embrace and be a very happy man.
Your hot skin stuck to his except where you rolled your hips, the dichotomy of base desire at odds with how you stroked his temples with your thumbs, dizzying him, making his head spin. The slip of your tongue, the softness of your skin, the sigh against his lips… Pero defied any man the ability to control the kind of sound that slipped from his mouth, unbidden as it did. To have a sweet woman cupping your face, grinding bare against your cock and crooning your name in that voice… Any man would fall to his knees.
You pulled back to look at him as he stroked your hair, returning your smile with a crooked one of his own as his hand came to cradle your neck. “This is the second time I have pinned you,” you said, satisfied.
Pero chuckled, the two of you moving together in a simmering build. “Any wrestling match I lose to you is one where I still win,” he quipped. “And one I will happily indulge in every day of the week and twice on the Sabbath.”
You laughed against him, the slick slide against his cock reminding him of its own desires. “I thought your Lord forbade coupling on ‘holy’ days.”
“Same Lord gave our bodies this means of pleasure.” Pero half-shrugged. “I do not believe the monks read those texts correctly.”
You chuckled again, and for a moment he thought you might kiss into his mouth again. What happened instead was that you pressed a kiss against the broad side of his nose, a momentary affection that made Pero’s heart thud solidly in his chest. He swallowed thickly, brows drawing together, and settled his hands on your hips to draw your body against his, feeling that if he did not distract you, you would lay him bare and see the tender vulnerability fluttering in his chest.
Another time, he thought. When that affection felt more deserved.
Pero grit his teeth, looking down between you to where his cock disappeared beneath your cunt, rolling up against the slick that coated him from base to tip. His thumbs stroked diagonal up the creases of your hips, down again to the crux of your thighs, reveling in your skin. It was a simple thing, the skin of a woman he’d been sharing his bed with in the most literal sense for almost a fortnight, but it fascinated him to see it contrasted against his own, scarred and familiar.
You paused there above Pero, his sharp, beautiful eyes watching as you stripped off the last of your clothes and braced one hand on his torso, lifting up to fully rid him of his trousers. Pero tried not to fidget, the greater part of cognizant thought being driven from his mind as all base desires to give and take started taking over at the drag of skin against skin, before suddenly your warm hand was wrapped around him and everything was pulled back into clarity. You looked for a moment uncertain, not quite sure how to arrange yourself, and your husband watched you, guiding and supporting you as you trembled with the effort it took to brace yourself above him.
“You going to take all of me, beautiful?” Pero rumbled, palming the cradle of your pelvis. “Take everything I give you?”
You were already nodding, his hand snaking up your body— He stroked your breast before bracing his hand against your ribs, supporting some of your weight and letting you lean up and fully take hold of him.
“You going to let me fill you, here?” Pero breathed harshly through his nose, forcing himself to keep his eyes on your face. His left hand stroked the curve of your lower belly. “L-Let me claim you as mine, give you my seed, show everyone who- who— Fuck—”
You notched him at your entrance. Every word from his mouth would have been filthy, were it not for the sincerity creeping through. Pero may have had years of practice shielding his heart, but he couldn’t keep the truth from you no matter how hard he tried.
“You going to show them who- who fills your bed?”
He’s panting now, trembling under your hands. You leaned down next to his ear, forcing him to bear your weight as you spoke.
“I’m going to show them who I love.”
And finally you sank down onto his cock.
A long groan burst from your husband’s throat before he cut himself off, screwing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth. Your heart and breath jumped at the smooth, thick, parting glide filling your body until you felt you could not possibly take any more, Pero nudged up hot and hard against that same devastating spot within you his fingers had found. The pressure and friction were overwhelming; your hand skittered over his hip, his chest, struggling to find somewhere to land, and you raised up off of him reflexively again with another gasp, shuddering helplessly and sinking back down with trembling thighs.
Pero threw his head back with a curse and the tension of his body told you you were doing something right. No pain outside of his hands digging into your skin, no thought other than how you could never go back to pleasuring yourself on your own. Not if he was an option and you had the will.
Pero planted one foot on the bed, unexpectedly jolting you forward as he writhed, sending you sinking fully down onto his cock with a gasp. He caught you before you collapsed against his chest, and he thrust up again unconsciously at the change, holding there with a shared groan. Your inner muscles fluttered around him, snug and welcoming, the hottest, sweetest clutch he’d ever felt in his life—
“Pero— oh, Pero, love, I- I can feel you— ”
Pero cursed in two languages under his breath and your legs squeezed his hips in a bid to keep him in place. His tenuous grasp on awareness was wavering— by the depths, he was trying to be good for you— but your jerky, stilted movements as you rocked against him were driving him mad. All he could think of were your eyes as you’d pressed your hand over his on your stomach, your hands deftly working at his belt and smoothly removing his sword, the earnest trust and pleading words as you desperately tried to urge him faster at every turn, how you’d kissed his nose and called him love and made him laugh…
He realized then there was nothing he wouldn’t do to see you smile.
You made a frustrated sound, hands still skittering across his chest and shoulders and arms, and he forced himself to crack an eye open, grasping at his last measure of intelligent thought.
Pleasure and frustration and half a dozen other emotions played across your features, your instincts driving you to find that same feeling that made you squeeze him in a crushing grip as you rocked your hips, and the objective frustration as you tried to focus and find it consistently would have amused him if he didn’t find it somewhat endearing.
He smiled fondly. You’d more than earned his guidance for your patience with him.
Pero took your hand and turned it in his to kiss your palm before pressing it to his heart. “Hold onto me.”
Up, he rocked, filling you to the last until you cried out at the sheer pressure mounting inside you, and he cradled you easily against his chest, nipping at your skin while he moved. You wriggled against him, the fervor in your voice building higher as you clung to him, and when he rolled you onto your back again he remained nestled in the cradle of your thighs. He held there above you with his forearm braced on one side of your head, remaining still as you shuddered. Pero hummed slow, indulgent kisses into your mouth and slowly, gradually, that frantic tension that had drawn your every muscle taut began to melt into something slow and warm, a tenderness you wouldn’t have expected from him had you not known better.
“I’ve got you, hermosa,” Pero said, nuzzling against your cheek. “I’ve got you.”
For a soft, easy moment the two of you stayed there, simmering in the intimacy of each other’s embrace, and slowly, Pero pulled out and rocked his hips back into yours, filling you again. Every easy thrust stole the breath from your lungs, your heart fit to bursting at his tender indulgence and care. You met his cadence as best you could, tilting your hips so he might press up against that place deep within you that made you writhe, and his broad hand grazed down to take hold of the crook of your knee, pulling you into himself just right as that simmer built back up to a boil. You didn’t know what you needed and frustrated tears clung to your lashes, the plateau of sensation driving you mad.
You pressed your hips up against the weight of his again, shuddering as he ground against you in response. “Pero— Husband, please—”
Husband. Pero fought to keep his composure; your voice alone did sinful things to his mind. He pulled back with a grunt, bringing you with him until you were upright, holding you above himself as his hips met yours. You found your rhythm in riding him, meeting him thrust for thrust over his spread thighs and clinging to him with great effort, feeling that concentration of heat and tension quickly coiling again.
Pero snuck a hand between you, trembling at the feel of you spread slick over his cock, and he pressed his fingers to that bundle of nerves one more time, circling with intent.
Your body seized up with a gasp of his name and Pero gasped as you came around him, tight and all-encompassing. When you sank your teeth into the meat of his shoulder he shuddered and finally broke, coming with a cry of your own name on his lips. He trembled and shook beneath you, never more grateful to have you holding him than he was now.
As the two of you nestled in beneath the covers, sated and satisfied, Pero wrapped his arms around you and pulled you back into himself, snug against his chest. He heaved the sigh of a man content to rest after a long journey, uncharacteristically tender as he nuzzled the back of your neck. Though one arm was stretched out beneath your pillow, the other was slung low over your hip, having not moved from where he’d pulled you into the curve of his body; his broad, calloused hand— the one that had learned it’s grip on the handle of a blade and bruised its knuckles on the bones of your enemies— was tucked in low over your pelvis, flat against your skin as if warding off the outside world by placing himself between it and you.
You slid your own hand down to cover his, and as Pero twined his fingers with yours the two of you slipped into a deep and satisfied sleep.
Inexperienced reader's-first-time-smut in an old timey setting is my jaaaam, and I love what you did here? It's so refreshing?
To have her be so confident and headstrong? Her and Pero's amusing feistyness? (Oh what I would give to know more about the bickering and wrestling match where she makes him confess his feelings, I love them 😌.) Your characterization of grumpy lil 12th-century Pero, how he senses and dislikes any discomfort or unfair power dynamics in women he's close to, how he respects reader, his teasing, his patience with her?? We love to see it in this man 😍.
And it all makes the SMUT all that more fabulous and I was eating the entire thing upppp. The livewire tension that I could feel when he shows her himself and he keeps his eyes on her the ENTIRE time?? How throughout the whole scene he revels in her reactions and in how she responds to so much that is new to her, but there's just something about the way his experience comes across, he seems so genuinely in awe, with nothing predatory about it? I love their playful dynamic, how he knows * just* what to do with her, how he indulges everything she asks?
And I LOVE how you included those realistic moments of frustration and bewilderment that many afab bodies have in experiencing stalling or disappearing sensation, and of COURSE Pero recognizes it every time and responds so gently and kindly, giving tender direction or praise, or knowing just how to thrust or what to do??? Like??? The palm kiss and that "hold on to me"??? I live for this stuff??? And that slow pace he shifts into at the end just MELTED me. Mahvelous.
And let's also give kudos to this man for the wayyyy he is fighting for his life trying not to cum too soon and how reader is so continually, endearingly, and blissfully unaware 😆. And all the poor cockblocking these two endured for so long, poor things 😆.
And her uttering that "I'm going to show them who I love" right before she sinks down?? GAIRRRRL.
The title as a reference to that LINE of Pero's, how this man does things CORRECTLY, I...😌.
I made a thing!! I just realized Marcus Pike bby in The Mentalist is on HBO Max in 1080p, and inspired by @prolix-yuy's amazeballs video edit preview for her geniously-cast Tim Rockford/Dieter Bravo-involved upcoming fic Midnight Alley, and because my friend @davnittbraes has filled my head with the most wonderful Tim Rockford x Marcus Pike x reader kindling for thots and angst and 🫠😌, my brain screamed VIDEO EDIT at me and I must obey her.
Because holy stars, this was so fkn fun, it was like a puzzle to figure out how to tell a story from limited visual and audio source material, and OH HOW this story just LEAPT OUT AT ME and I AM SHIPPING THEM SO HARD, the grumpy/sunshine and emotionally available/closed off vibes and age difference of these two has me in my feels! LOOKIT Marcus' faaaaace! The emotions they share on their faces at the "I wouldn't lie to you" part? 🥹 Give these two all the best things!!! (and then share with me.) Enjoy!!
Tagging the Tim Rockford girlies I've seen on my dash who might be interested 🥰: @iamskyereads, @galactic-basic, @imtryingmybeskar @whataperfectwasteoftime, @julesonrecord, @heythere-mel, @fuckyeahpedropascal, @mandosmistress, @oonajaeadira, @the-blind-assassin-12, @katareyoudrilling, @somethingtofightfor, @loversandantiheroes, @wardenparker, @boliv-jenta, @lowlights, @theredwritingwitch
Thank youuuuuuu 🥹🥹❤️, mmmm COMPELLED is such a good word? Watched this again and how is it possible in 90 seconds to be completely invested in these two and neeeeeed to know everything about them and their backstory and their feelings and gahhhhh!! This made my day that people are still discovering and watching 🥹.
Just saw Gladiator II, in the most perfectest theater seat everrrrrr created for a solo movie-going introvert like me (a single lone regular seat in the dead center of a row otherwise comprised entirely of wheelchair/companion seats, which were all empty and where you can't see anyone behind or below you given the half walls lining each row, like who designed this so I can kiss them on the forehead), so it literally felt like I had the entire theatre to myself, and it's a good thing because from the moment I first saw Pedro on screen and every single time thereafter, I was either jaw dropped, biting my lip, or smiling like an idiot, and I never stopped, because THERE IS MY BABYGIRL ON SCREEN ohmygahhhh...and THERE WAS NO ONE TO WITNESS my insane reactions AND IT WAS BEAUTIFUL and I highly recommend it. 🥰🥰🥰🥰 And Pedro is just...
SO HUSBAND I can't even, I mean not only does he look like the SNACKIEST of all snacks but he is a general that's A GOOD MAN because of course he is and he's all protective of his wifey and I now have SOOOO much visual fodder for daydreaming and fic enhancement, I mean that scene where wifey walks in to their domestic space and he's all sluttily (affectionate) dressed in all those loosely wrapped layers and my mind just WENT places and...I look forward to reading everyone's horny hubby thoughts pls & ty. 😆❤️
And I sat in theater watching what seemed like the longest credits list ever to see if there was anything Pedro related, and the hairstylists sections went by too fast to try to spot Coco but I was pleased to see someone had the best job ever: Sara Birg (or was it Borg) as the "Assistant to Mr. Pascal." 🥰🥰🥰
OK and last, I was absolutely RIVETED by Joseph Quinn's screen presence, other than Pedro, my first love, he was my favorite part of the movie. Like damn son.
Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.
Time flies, in room number 2. How much longer do you have, just for the two of you?
Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)
Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.
A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange bedroom besties 🧡 It's been a hot minute, I sincerely apologise. Thank you to everyone who stuck around, I hope it was worth it, and thank you to everyone who just passed by 🧡 @frannyzooey my love, thank you for your help on the Americanisms, invaluable as always 🧡
Word count: 13.8k
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Chapter 5: Time in a bottle
It’s late when you pull into the parking lot. Dusk cloaks the motel in its fuzzy veil, the surroundings fading in diffuse shadows. The single-story building stands out in the twilight, akin to an old ship. Wooden poles for masts, hanging lamps swaying gently in the briny breeze, their lights blurry in the muggy air. Tacky and warm, it wafts in through your car’s open windows, dampening the exposed skin of your forearms and the back of your neck.
On the passenger seat, your iPhone’s screen glows in the semi-darkness with an incoming call.
Adrian.
“What now?” you sigh, through clenched teeth.
Your eyes dart up to Frankie’s truck parked in front of you. The word FORD stretched in chrome letters on the tailgate, shining bright in your headlights.
The familiar pull awakens between your constricted lungs. A pounding, greedy little tug compelling you to get out of your car and cover the distance to the room as quickly as your step will carry you. But you want to calm your nerves first. Slow down your heart rate, deepen your breathing.
That discussion you had with your father, earlier this afternoon, still clings to your frame. The humiliation conveyed by his carefully chosen words like tar, black and viscous. You can almost smell its foul stench. And you don’t want to bring any of it inside.
It’s only the third time Frankie gets here before you, if you count that very first Friday back in September. And the second, since you came back from Colorado earlier this month. The pressure in your rib cage eases at the memory of that sweet evening.
All day long, you had rushed through your counting routine. Through the long, icy corridors of your glass prison. Rushed on the 589 northbound. Rushed to strangle the uncertainty of his presence there.
It was a few minutes past 7pm when you parked next to his truck, his early presence cranking up your anxiousness. You got out of your car with an anguished scowl, and you all but ran toward the porch, toward the brass number 2, shoes scuffing the gravel.
The door swung open the very second you stepped under the overhang. A flash of dimple, and his arms wrapped around your waist. He scooped you up from the floor, swift and easy, carrying you inside. Hungry kisses, teeth scraping at your jaw, down the line of your neck. A throaty husk of Happy New Year, Lee Abbott, as he tugged your clothes off your body that thrummed with his scent and his voice and his arms and his taste.
With the density of him.
He lifted you again, your short, giggly yelp bouncing across the room as he hauled you over his shoulder with an easy force. His steps long and balanced, as if your weight was inconsequential to his strength.
In the dim bathroom, he put you down directly into the tub. There, he unbuckled his belt and slid down his jeans, looking at you with a mischievous grin you’d never seen before and that fitted his gorgeous face a little too well.
“Told you I’d fuck you in this shower.”
Thirty seconds later, you were standing together under an aggressive stream of scalding water, his broad back shielding you from the high pressure, steam blurring the tiles and the mirror. You pressed your face into his neck, hands splayed over his chest, feeling it heave with his low, rumbling chuckle.
“ That’s the best I could do. This place is trash,” he scoffed, lips grazing your ear.
“ It’s perfect,” you laughed.
Another notification lights up your screen, yanking you back into the stifling cab of the sedan, to the nagging cramp poking your rib cage, to your hindered breathing.
It glowers at you, bold black letters over a steel gray rectangle.
MESSAGES
Adrian
Your eyes flicker back to the red truck, your face crunching into a grimace.
“Shit,” you grit, grabbing the phone and quickly pressing the home button before you can change your mind.
The lock screen fades as the message app pops open. You squint against the brightness of the glowing white screen.
I made it, babe. I fucking made it. You’re talking to the new senior partner of Balmer & Steigt. Fuck yeah. I finally get what I fucking deserve.
The gray ellipses start blinking underneath the bubble. You frown, bracing yourself.
I couldn’t have made it without you. This is your victory as much as mine.
You scoff, but the dread-inducing ellipses keep bouncing happily. Fantastic. There’s more coming.
I got you something. Something fancy for my fancy girl.
“Oh, hell no.”
Leaning down, you pick up the roomy I ❤ NY tote bag Ava got you as a Christmas present and dump your phone into it, before stuffing the bag under your seat.
If only you could take a full breath. If only your chest would expend. It’s not that bad, really. A few months back, you would have been physically unable to keep going with your day after that conversation with your father. Let alone drive. You’d have suffocated, chocked up on your panic, until you’d been left with no choice other than to gulp down a pill, or two, or three, topped off with a swig of gin. The bitter taste of surrendering.
Is that what it means, to give oneself some grace? You’re doing good, you’re doing better, you’re doing your best.
Closing your eyes, you exhale through pursed lips and ease down your shoulders.
He had you called into his office by his secretary, as you were about to leave, bag in hand, counting steps.
But you were expecting it. In all honesty, you’re surprised it’s taken him this long. Four weeks since you came back from Beaver Creek. Four weeks of defying his strict, outdated, misogynistic dress-code.
The very first morning, you stepped out of the mirror-lined elevator on the 15th floor wearing high-waisted, wide-legged slacks and a loose button-up, the sleeves folded high on your forearms. And flat derbies.
Nervousness, sitting heavy and queasy in the pit of your stomach, beating loud against your eardrums. Prickling under your armpits, raising the hair on your nape.
Kaytee’s eyes widened as she caught sight of you walking by her office, before she remembered to police her expression. The shock on her face turned into something else, something worse. Lurking in the lift-up corner of her lips, in the smugness coloring her cheeks. Something sardonic. Condescension.
“ You can’t spend your life trying to be someone else. ” Ava’s words through the receiver the previous night were a dizzying swirl inside your head, as you walked down the glass corridors, coworkers and subordinates watching you with a similar shocked expression, that blurred their features into one subdued, frightened face.
But who the fuck am I, Ava? you wanted to ask, the only sound on the line that of your short breathing. How did you know who you were? Always. From the very beginning of your life. How did you know how to be so unapologetic about it?
Had it been your gift to her? Does self-confidence require love? Or guidance? Is it innate?
All you know, at this point in your life, is that wearing clothes that you chose for yourself seems like a sound first measure. One that you can actually undertake.
And with that in mind, you stepped into your father’s office, your heart pulsating in your throat, to take a seat across from him, his clear desk standing like a wide canyon between you.
Now, your steps are nearly silent on the shifting gravel, as you walk across the parking lot, fingers brushing along the cool metal of the truck as you pass it by. That pull toward Frankie propelling you forward, inescapable, irresistible despite the nasty sensation oozing down along your legs like thick-flowing tar, weighing your gait.
On the porch, you pause. On Friday evenings, this is when you shed your old skin. Healing wounds, scar tissues. When you set your eyes on the canopy as it swallows the sun, pink-orange dusk fading to dark. Grainy photographs, forgotten vacations. This is when your spine straightens, when you take in the horizon and let it deepen your breathing. When you ready yourself for the life you’ve chosen, between the brown carpet and the yellow curtains and his arms.
But it’s already night. The darkness has erased the horizon and your old skin won’t shed.
The door opens, a draft ruffling your hair.
The first thing you see is the crease between his brow. The tick of his whiskered jaw, and then, his dark brown eyes, appraising the tension that winds up your body, appraising your silence. His grunt, like an echo, distant.
“You sat in that car forever. I was about to come out and get you.”
The concern in his voice rattles something deep inside your belly. You’re not bringing any of it inside that room of yours, you think, as he pushes away from the door to let you in, as you cross the threshold, but it’s stuck to you. Your father’s voice. The tremendous power it still holds over you. His disappointment. Your failures, plural. All the wrong choices.
His hat is set on the desk. His suede jacket is draped over the back of the angular wooden chair. Your gaze lingers on it, you can almost feel the comforting softness of the fabric under the pads of your fingers.
He stands a few feet away from you, giving you space. Dark mahogany searching your features, your posture. His hands propped on his hips, like that other night in the parking lot, after he’d seen the fresh scar in your hairline.
You face away from him. The smell of the room is familiar, in a comforting way. Musty. Dust and the faintest perfume of industrial laundry detergent coming from the starched sheets. He’s pulled the bedspread off the bed. It’s folded neatly on the floor underneath the window. It rises tears along your throat, the idea of him prepping himself, prepping the place, alone in this room where you’ve waited for him countless times and hours. Guilt scrambles your brain, over what, you’re not entirely certain. Keeping him waiting? You failures, plural. All the wrong choices.
“Lee.”
His voice seeps in through the blackness coating your skin, like warm and persistent little droplets of sweet amber.
You turn to face him, at last. An awkward upper-body twist, feet rooted to the brown carpet, teeth clenched around the lump in your throat. He’s wearing that gray threadbare t-shirt you love, the one with a v-neck, and your eyes find the dip at the base of his throat, the fireworks of freckles between his collarbone. Tears well up, too strong to hold back, and you shut your eyes to the muffled sound of his booted steps on the matted carpet.
You’re drifting, enveloped in his warmth, his scent, leather and musk. The contact of his skin as he curls a large hand around your nape, tucking your face into the curve of his strong neck.
His arm wraps around your waist, drawing you closer, flush to his chest, and he presses his chin to your temple. You let go, surrender, honey dripping thick and golden along your loosening limbs.
His pulse beats solid and steady against your cheek. You breathe him in, a hindered inhale at first, and when your shoulders begin to drop, a deeper one. A single tear escapes. It rolls down the round of your cheek into his skin. Your palms skim up to the plane of his back, soaking in his heat, and he presses you in harder, his forearm aligning with your spine, fingers spreading at the base of your skull.
Time stretches. He holds you. You lean in.
Later, after he’s helped you climb into the cab of his truck, you keep your eyes on him as he rounds the red hood.
Sitting behind the wheel, he puts the key in the ignition and, looking at you, tilts his head to the left.
“C’mere,” he says, and you scoot next to him, biting down a relieved sigh as you slide over the seat bench.
He leans over your lap, grabbing the middle seat belt, and buckles you in, then himself. You settle in, with your head against his shoulder, and your hand on his thigh, soft cotton, worn denim. Under your touch, his firm muscles ripple as he drives you into the night, into oblivion. The steady motion lulling you to sleep.
Alongside the deserted road, trees and bushes roll out in the headlights as the truck swallows miles and miles of asphalt.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble after a while, fighting drowsiness.
“Don’t be. You wanna talk about it?” he adds after a pause.
“No.”
You shake your head, your voice so low you’re not certain he’s heard your answer.
“Doesn’t have to be now,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Your head bobs with his bunching muscles as he releases the wheel to bend his arm at the elbow, fingers threading through your hair. Without lifting his eyes off the road, he leans in, and pecks a pointed kiss on the crown of your head.
Your eyes close. The image of the bedspread neatly folded underneath the window flashes through your mind. You can’t seem to get used to his tender gestures, to his attentions. You hope they will never stop. You hope you will never get used to them.
The emotion washes over you, a soft wave, and you float with it. In the cab of his truck, in his scent and his hold, you feel free of all doubts. Fear and pain cannot find you here. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced so far, a strange feeling, potent and all encompassing, albeit one that doesn’t need to be dulled or tamed.
The words come out of your mouth as a surprise.
“I think I don't want it to define me anymore. My family, I mean. Where I come from.”
This is a new state of mind. Or perhaps it’s been there for a while, a mere shadow on the wall, something you couldn’t clearly discern. Suddenly simple to comprehend and articulate.
“Yea. I get it,” he says.
And you know he does.
You open your eyes, and take in a deep breath, fill your lungs with that distinct old leather scent that clings about him, and the smell of vintage Bakelite from the dashboard, so specific to his truck.
“Music?” you ask.
“Sure, good idea. You like Jefferson Airplane?”
You nod, brushing your cheek against the cottony fabric of his t-shirt, leaving a little bit of you there, for him to find later.
“Yes. I like them.”
“Jefferson Airplane it is, then,” he answers.
Gently, he bends forward, mindful not to nudge you too much, and turns on the stereo. His thick fingers push the tape that’s already there into the slot, and your lips curl with an explicit thought, unlike any you used to have before meeting him. Crude, but welcome pictures that now constantly crowd your brain.
He keeps the volume low, and with the round rumbling of his quiet humming, your mind slowly drifts off again.
You’re about to fall asleep when a thought surfaces, skirting the edges of your consciousness.
“Frankie?” you quietly call.
“Mmh?”
“Are you… Were you in the military?”
The humming stops, his silence abrupt, and his shoulder tenses under your cheek. Pushing away from it, you risk a sleepy glance at his face, plunged in the semi-darkness. It’s not dark enough that you don’t recognize the cocking of his jaw.
“Frankie?” you ask again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”
“I’m a pilot,” he cuts in, pausing to inhale deeply. “I was in the Army for nearly twenty years. I got a discharge a couple years back.”
You remain silent. His eyes flicker quickly between you and the road, and you give his thigh a strong squeeze with your left hand, before resting your cheek against his shoulder, eluding his searching gaze.
Volunteers is crackling through the speakers, but you don’t hear the music. Fully awake now, your mind is reeling with those scattered, minute parts of him you picked up Friday after Friday to stash them away in your subconscious. His puzzle of shadows. All the things that now make perfect sense, and the ones you’re dying to unravel.
His quiet assertiveness. His hands, quick and sure. His silences. His commanding tone. That long, sideways scar etched on his left flank.
His early rage, and his anger too. The flight forward, dimming his eyes, where deep rich mahogany now glimmers.
The zip ties. Your eyes grow wide, a gasping sound catching in your throat. You’re not ready to address how much you appreciate this particular skill of his, considering where he picked it up.
Your imagination produces a clear vision of him in a US Air Force uniform, the fabric stretched over his broad shoulders, and you bite your lip, your entire body covering in chills.
Frankie has yet to say another word. Something raises your consciousness, something in the scowl sharpening his features as he scanned your face for a reaction.
Images flash through your head. The 8 × 10 picture displayed in your father’s office in its platinum frame, for every visitor to admire. Smooth faced and confident, his sleeves rolled up high on his lean forearms, your father’s shaking hands with Reagan in front of a colorful assemblage of containers, in the industrial quarter of the Tampa Bay Harbor, during the 1984 campaign. His coldly handsome face split by a smile, larger and more genuine than any of those he ever addressed you, let alone Ava.
Recollections of those dragging hours you spent in church as a child, beads of sweat dripping along your spine as you sat in the sweltering heat on a hard wooden bench, rigid and still like a marble statue for fear of being reprimanded.
The hateful, vehement speeches your father would burst into at random, your mother pinching your arm for you to listen, this is important. The uneasy feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach, like bile, like nausea. Wrong. This is wrong. A feeling, not an idea yet. It grew with you, expending, to become impossible to see past by the time you started high.
The list of names in your father’s neat handwriting, scrawled on a crisp piece of paper, that he handed you before driving the entire family to the polls for your very first election. The sheer terror, primitive in its hold over you, prickling on your nape as you systematically disregarded his instructions, choosing the names followed by the three letters DEM.
The rare political meetings you secretly attended in college, the pamphlets in loud colors and bold letters, that you read hidden from your roommate’s prying eyes, as if they were satanic verses. Reproductive rights! Demilitarization Now! No to privatized prisons! End gun violence!
Petitions you signed with a shaking hand, because what if your parents found out? What if they heard of it? A dread so profoundly anchored at the very core of your psyche that you have never told Ava any of it, even when she would chastise your lack of interest in politics, your lack of involvement, lest she’d reveal your treason to them in the heat of an argument.
Could this be when you started finding yourself? In your diverging convictions? Could it be enough? Could it count?
“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask tentatively.
He huffs a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head.
“You’re a hell of a fast learner, aren’t you?”
“I have a very good teacher,” you shrug, trying to ignore the sharpness in his tone.
Curiosity overthrowing your ingrained fear to displease, you ask, “What kind of aircraft do you fly? Planes? Helicopters?”
He simply nods, and your cheeks heat again at the notion, your heart racing.
“I’m very impressed,” you whisper. “I can barely parallel park.”
“I’m sure you got plenty of other skills,” he answers, softer.
“No. I really don’t.”
—
Frankie walks briskly across the parking lot, carrying a take-away bag and a six-pack of beer. His head hung low to shield his face from the thin, mid-February drizzle. His denim shirt sticks to his back with humidity, and sweat from the drive. It’s pulled uncomfortably taut across his shoulders.
He steps onto the porch, hands too full to open the door or even knock on it, so he gives it three light kicks. A tiny screw pops out from the curved top of the brass number two. The whole thing swivels upside down, swinging like a pendulum.
“Jesus christ, this fucking place,” he scoffs.
The door flies open, and you’re here, with that bright, earnest smile and your wide, luminous eyes. You’ve tied your hair up in a casual do, but you’re still fully dressed. He likes those slacks on you, snug on your curves, wide on your legs. It fits you so much better than the tight pencil skirts you used to wear when he first met you. Those made you look like an 80s porn producer fever dream. But these trousers transform your gait, your entire demeanor, into something more relaxed. More confident. He could watch you strut around the room for hours. If only there was more time.
He catches a glimpse of the mesh fabric of your bra, peeking out from the cleavage of your open shirt, and he mentally curses the corporate fucks who get to work all week around you.
“Hey, Frankie.”
The sharp, familiar pang rips through his chest at the sound of your voice, light and cheery. That ache he waits for seven excruciatingly long days to experience again.
“Hey, baby.”
As you let him in, he feels the tip of your fingers brushing his thigh, as if you need to make sure he’s here in the flesh. The miracle of you wanting him, still.
“What’s in the bag?” you ask, dragging the chipped chair away from the desk, so he can set down his bounty.
His eyes fall on your graceful nape as you crane your neck to see what’s inside the bag, too well-behaved to touch it without having been invited to do so.
“Didn’t have time to eat. I took something for you too, I hope you don’t mind. Did you eat? Are you hungry?”
“I don’t usually eat before I come here,” you admit. “I drive in straight from work,” you add, heat visibly creeping up your neck and ears.
He takes off his hat, ruffling a hand through his hair to conceal a smug smile.
“And you’re not starving, by the time I’m finished with you?”
“Quite the contrary, actually. I feel pretty full when you leave.”
Your lips stretch into a wide grin you’re ineffectively trying to hold back.
“That so?” he chuckles, propping his hands on his hips. For countenance.
Pride glimmers in your eyes, as it does every time you make him laugh. He knows it’s mirrored in his eyes. Your levity is his reward.
Everything about you is unbearably endearing. He’s not sure if he’s hungry for food anymore, or if he’s not going to go straight down on you. You’ve already prepared the bed, that ugly bedspread neatly folded under the window. He could lay you prone on your stomach, lower your trousers to your knees, perk up your pretty ass and eat your sweet cunt from behind.
His hunger for you sizzles along his spine, sparkling in his loins, imperious and distracting. The sensation is delicious, and for once, he takes the time to revel in it. He’s so used to barging in here and just taking. He doesn’t savor, not really, not until after he’s had you at least once.
He’s not proud of his unbridled hunger, the consequence of seven days’ worth of pent-up frustration, chasing your perfume on his clothes and the ghost feeling of your cool, smooth skin under his palms. That ever-growing obsession for your scent, for your eyes, and that crippling craving for the sounds you produce when he moves inside you. That high he gets when he makes you feel good. Every time he gives you what you want.
And there’s the absolute black-out on all communications between you throughout the week that drives him out of his mind. He knows that’s the tacit deal the two of you struck at the very beginning. No phone number, no address, no marks. Hell, he didn’t even know your name until you gave it to him at Christmas. Only, he’s left in the dark for seven consecutive fucking days, with no means to check up on you, and no way to make sure you’re safe.
He understands the necessity for secrecy. But the more time passes, the less it makes sense.
So come Friday night, he needs to crush you under his weight. Needs to feel your flesh gushing through his splayed fingers and hear you mewl his name, eyes rolling to the back of your head, your body tensing up in his hold before it shatters around his cock.
He needs to fuck you deep and full, find you in that place within yourself and wreck you there. He needs to make sure you’re alright. Make sure you’re real. Make sure you’re his.
And his control might be tenuous, but he sure loves the way you lean into it.
You’re still smiling when he takes a step closer behind you. Lowering his face into the curve of your neck, he inhales you there, that spot behind your ear, where your subtle scent becomes heady. He feels your chest rising with your own deep breathing, and he pictures your eyes fluttering shut. His hand skims the curve of your hip, sliding up to the swell of your breast over the smooth fabric of your shirt, gripping you roughly as he takes your earlobe between his lips and sucks on it. His hips move against your ass of their own volition, his cock half-hard, fucking twitching.
“Frankie,” you whine.
“Yea?”
He licks a broad stride up your neck, collecting the tangy taste of your skin, mixed with the chemical one of your perfume.
“What’s in the bag?”
“What bag, baby? Oh, right.”
It’s a beat before he can detach himself from you. His cock is beating hard and angry against the confining fabric of his jeans. With a light brush of his knuckles along your side, he reminds himself there’s also pleasure in the anticipation. The word sits in the back of his throat, like a knife ready to bleed him dry. Concupiscence.
Ripping the paper bag open in the middle, he smooths both sides neatly over the desk, and points at the three rolls wrapped in tin foil.
“Took three burritos, and some fried beans. There’s one beef, one pork, and one vegetarian, in case you don't eat meat.”
You look at him with a twinkle in your eyes, your grin getting wider than he’s ever seen it. He braces a hand flat on the desk.
“Oh, I eat meat, I thought you’d know that.”
The words have barely left your mouth that you burst into a fit of giggles, covering your face with both hands.
“Christ, woman!” he laughs. “Alright, sit down. Let’s get proper food into that mouth of yours, for once.”
Together, you unfold the bedspread and arrange it over the foot of the bed. The thing is already stained, and you mutually agree there’s no need to make a mess of the white sheet just yet.
Letting you pick between the two richer ones, he takes the vegetarian burrito, and you start eating together, two open cans of beer at your feet.
His bites are ravenous, while you nibble gingerly at your food, holding the burrito with two hands, the foil crackling between your fingers. After a few bites, however, you start eating in bigger chunks.
“This is delicious,” you moan with your mouth full.
Is he getting jealous of a fucking burrito now? Is that where he’s at?
“What, you never had a burrito in your life?”
You wince, and he immediately regrets the teasing skepticism of his tone.
Setting the food down, you dab a paper towel to the corner of your mouth, catching a fleck of sauce. There’s grace in all your movements, even the tiniest ones.
“My mother monitored everything I ate. God forbid I put on any weight,” you explain, a hint of bitterness in your voice.
He lowers his hands, eyes trained on your averted gaze.
“I know what you’re thinking,” you tell him, looking up at him.
There’s that quiet resignation painted all over your face.
“Try me.”
“You’re thinking I’m a grown woman, old enough to make her own decisions.”
He shakes his head. “Was actually thinking your mother sounds like the exact opposite of mine.”
Your mouth curves into a sad attempt at a smile.
“I don't judge you, Lee. We all do what we can with what we got dealt with.”
A slight frown knits your brow, as you seem to consider his words.
He has spent a lot of time, lately, reflecting over his own choices, and the many places where they’ve led him, for better or for worse.
Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria. Libya and the most dangerous places in sub-Saharan Africa. Nearly everywhere in South America. Twice over.
Over the fucking Andes, and to Tom’s funeral.
Choices that also made him Lua’s father.
Crossroads that have taken him all the way to that shithole bar, last year at the end of August. Conscious decisions that brought him here, into this room. Into your arms. Into your life.
A chain reaction he wouldn’t alter, he knows it now, even if he was given the chance for a do-over.
He used to consider things as definite. Choices as absolute and irrevocable. It took him becoming a father, and meeting you, to understand his mother’s words. Paso a paso, she’d say, watching him with a tender, knowing smile as he rushed toward his life. Paso a Paso, Francisco.
You eat in silence for a while, and he keeps watching you. That sharp pain solidly entrenched inside his chest, blooming through his heart, he has to make a conscious effort to breathe around it.
He bought you the food you’re eating right now. Drove to his favorite place, stood in line and placed his order with you in mind. And you’re enjoying it. In fact, you’re demonstrating an impressive appetite, hungrier, messier with every bite. Sauce dripping down your chin. Pink flashes of tongue licking it from between your fingers.
He could get used to that. Providing for you. Taking care of you. In more than just one way. Sharing the mundane routine of a daily life together.
But this is not real. Whatever is happening between the four walls of this shitty motel is not ground for life-altering choices.
“Do you want to share the pork one?” you ask, crinkling the tinfoil wrapper into a compact ball.
“I’m good, baby,” he answers with a soft smile. “You can have it. Just make sure you’re still hungry for more meat when you’re done.”
—
Adrian has gifted you a new purse from another French luxury brand. It’s a square-shaped thing cut from some grayish reptile skin, with a matching tag and a decorative lock hanging from its handle. It looks insanely expensive and ridiculously vulgar, its tackiness almost cruelly ironic. Like a rich people’s inside joke.
Somehow, you’re vaguely aware this model is exclusive and can’t be bought online or even in stores, however high-end. It has to be ordered, and there’s a waiting list. Useless knowledge you probably gathered from one of your mother’s magazines. A family of four could most likely live comfortably for a whole year for the price of this thing.
Incidentally, there’s a new perfume clinging to Adrian’s clothes when he comes home late at night. The first time you caught a whiff of the heady fragrance, intense vanilla and white musk, it reminded you of the stunning blonde with feline hazel eyes.
The gift immediately felt less like an expression of gratitude for your support than like a reward for your silent compliance. But it’s of little to no importance. The bag sits idly at the bottom of your walk-in dressing. Unused, containing what’s left of the love and respect you once harbored for the man.
Every so often, you think about it, as you cruise along the 589. It makes you smile. A wide, Cheshire cat grin, one that bares your front teeth, and you wonder if it’s cruel of you to smile about the end of something that used to mean so much. Something that meant nearly everything. You wonder if you’ve ever been cruel before. Intentionally, that is.
Then, you conclude you don’t care. This particular kind of cruelty feels far too good. Too righteous. You could get used to it.
And you keep cruising along the 589 northbound.
—
“Mark Twain or Lewis Carroll?”
“Oh god, Frankie, I don’t know…” you moan, too distracted to think straight.
Teeth ghosting a bite over your neck, he wraps a kiss around your skin, sucking on it. Not sharply enough to bruise, but enough for you to clench hard around him.
In the past few weeks, he’s become playful. It’s new to you. Was it always a part of him, constituent but buried underneath the scars and the years, or was it born from your touch?
He’s become talkative, too. Talkative, and curious. But then again, perhaps he always was. Only, not with you.
Thus, there are new rituals between you. Secrets exchanged behind the shielding partition of the yellow curtains. Murmurs shared underneath the droning of the ceiling fan, in the golden lighting from the quaint bedside lamps.
Some of his questions can pose a challenge. You’re not always certain about the proper answer. The right one. You were raised to say what was expected of you. Taught to speak to please, not to speak your mind. To wait for your cue, and hold your thoughts in between.
Frequently, you hesitate, afraid to trip on your words.
But he doesn’t easily relent. He’s playful and curious. But above all, he’s patient and persistent.
“I don’t know,” you repeat.
“You know. Come on.”
“Okay, um… Lewis Carroll. I love– I love Alice.”
“Oh yea? You do? You like following big white rabbits to strange places, huh?”
His chest shakes with his raspy chuckle, and you laugh, until he pulls you in closer, sheathing himself deeper inside you, and your laughter plummets into a throaty groan.
Seamlessly, these new ceremonials have replaced the old ones, the ones that were carried out under wary gazes, in appraising silence.
Now, you don’t always count your steps on Fridays, but you leave work earlier, and when you arrive at the motel, you try to engage Raul in conversation. His discomfort is obvious, bordering on annoyance, as you disrupt his concentration while he’s busy drawing charcoal landscapes of jagged mountains. But these past two weeks, he seems to have loosened up a bit. Either you’re wearing him off, or he’s trying to get rid of you faster.
On the porch, in front of room number 2, you watch the sun slowly sink into the canopy of trees in an explosion of tangerine pink. Every week, the sunset creates a different palette of orange, but your emotion continues to be whole and unaltered.
Before stepping in, you flick the upside-down brass number. It smiles in greeting, swinging on its one remaining screw.
You wish the place carried Frankie’s scent. It never does, of course. As you fold the comforter and prop it under the windowsill, the only smells wafting around are that of laundry detergent, dust, and the faintest hint of mold.
There’s nothing tangible for you to hold on to in his absence, and this is by far the most difficult. It creates a vacuum, a fertile soil for foul, festering thoughts. Doubt, dread, agitation. During those seven days apart, there is no text or voicemail on your phone you can turn to for reassurance. No photo booth pictures stashed inside your wallet. No clothes of his to drape over your body and keep you warm and safe. Keep you sane.
Every so often, when you cannot find sleep, you convoke the memory of his gray t-shirt, the one with the v-neck and the pilled fabric. The sensation of the slightly rugged cotton under the pads of your fingers. The immediate comfort gently lulls you to sleep.
There is one thing, one thing only: the receipt from the burrito place, that you retrieved from the wastebasket after he’d left, that one time he brought you food. It’s tucked between two pages of your Moleskine planner. You’re not sure whether it’s cute or downright pathetic.
You had thought the want, the yearning, would ease with time. It only kept spreading to every corner of your existence, every aspect of your life. Instead of only missing his touch, you now miss his voice, too. His choice of words, the cadence of his speech, the pace of his gait. His crinkled-eyes, dimpled smile. The way he rolls up his sleeves, leaves the top buttons of his shirt open, and the way he undresses. His three-finger hold on his glass. His long reflecting pauses before he speaks. The freedom and safety you experience with him.
You just became better at handling the longing. Recently, you have become very good at handling numerous things. Quietly but steadfastly defying your father’s injunctions to comply with his dress code. Adrian’s glaring eyes of blue, their silent judgement. Ava living a life of her own, far away from you.
Reading helps. You hadn’t read in years, and you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it. Now, you carry a book with you everywhere in your I ❤ NY tote. In these last moments before he walks into the room, you lie on your side across the motel bed, your head propped on your hand, and you read.
And when Frankie arrives, everything makes sense again, everything is justified.
The wooden door creaks open, the brass number swiveling frantically, and his relief upon seeing you lights up the dim room. Hushed greetings, his large hands curling at your waist, pulling you into him, a husk of Hey, baby, his lips barely leaving yours while he tugs at your clothes, undressing you already.
There’s rarely any other form of preamble beyond an occasional variation of Fuck, I really missed you, Lee , his teeth trailing down the line of your throat, sinking in just shy of a bite. Out of breath, out of time.
The wait is over.
Does he still come here to escape? Does he come here for you? His urgency hasn’t abated. But his intent feels different.
Stop me, skin on skin, chest to chest, the weight of his body covering yours, calloused hands hooked on your shoulders for purchase, pounding into you loud and ruthless.
Stop me, crouched over you like a devouring beast, his face buried into the crook of your neck, shallow breaths and gripping hands, grinding deep inside your heat.
Stop me, and what you hear is, I trust you.
Deep grunts thrumming out of his throat, tumbling from his plush lips into your skin, a searing branding, an invisible mark.
His plea. Lee.
He comes right after you do, pulling out just in time to spurt hot and thick over your arching body, or inside your wanting mouth.
Later, when his spend has dried on your skin, when he’s kissed the soreness better, when your breathing has slowed, he brings you a glass of water, and waits until you’ve drank it all to bury his face between your legs, or fuck your throat if you begged him to.
And on some Fridays, he goes by the desk to sit on the rectangular chair. He positions it sideways from the framed mirror. Says the reflection distracts you. It’s true.
You could spend hours watching him. Watching him move, watching him sleep. Watch the care he puts in the way he handles his clothes and his truck and your pliant body. Watch him button up his jeans or tie his belt around your wrists. Watch his curls catch the light as he combs his fingers through them, the working of his throat, the pulsating throb of his heartbeat in his strong neck. The dip in his collarbone. The darker scar on his side. The muscles of his shoulders and his back, rippling under his freckled skin. Watch, and map those freckles with your lips.
You could spend the rest of your life with him.
“C’mere,” he beckons, with a little tilt of his head, and a light pat on his thigh.
You get up from wherever he left you lying, the bed, the rough carpeting, the bathroom tiles, and walk over to him on wobbly legs. There, he draws you into his lap in a face-away straddle, his hands on your waist guiding you, firm and gentle, as he makes room for himself inside of you. The tip of your toes barely reach the carpet once you’re seated, and you have to rely entirely on him for balance. You like that.
He braces his strong arms around you, and you keep your fingers curled around them, reclining against him, against his warmth. You like the sticky sensation of your combined sweats gluing your loose bodies. Your back molds to his chest like it was shaped for this very purpose.
Your head tips back onto his firm shoulder, and he props his chin in the curve of your neck. The slight swaying of your hips is languid and slow, barely perceivable, in the same way the earth’s revolution around the sun is imperceptible to its inhabitants.
Time lingers, in long lazy stretches, infinite moments in the amber lighting of the room, in the friendly shadows. In the heart of the night, and the folds of your existence. The low husk of his voice like honey in your ears, his words vibrating from his chest to your back, to your core.
You can hear the smile in his tone. If you close your eyes, you can see it.
He asks about your taste in books, music or movies, food and entertainment, and tells you about his. Silly games of Would you rather? and Never have I ever.
Scrunching up your nose under your pinched brow, brain cells scrambling back together inside your hazy brain, you try to produce coherent answers as his lush lips trace intricate patterns along your skin, your throat, your shoulders, nimble fingertips rolling your nipples into hardened peaks. A scrape of his teeth, followed by the wet glide of his tongue, soothing over your flushed skin.
Sometimes, you feel so full it’s overwhelming. The sensation, the emotion strangles the air out of you. Your cunt flutters around the thick, stiff girth of him, and he lets out a gravelly groan, cock throbbing inside your snug walls. Your slick pools down onto the coarse curls at his base. It’s like a virtuous circle. Everything feels right with him.
After a while, when you’ve melted inside, when amber twirls in your bloodstream and your thoughts have turned to swirling molasses, his hand slides down along your stomach. His calloused fingers parting your folds, he starts rubbing at your clit, telling you that it’s time to come for me, baby.
And when you do, he comes with you, shoving you down and deep onto his pulsating length, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. His mouth pressed to that sensitive spot over your pulse point, his feverish grunts sizzling against your damp skin.
When he comes inside you, when you come together, you are made brand-new. Anything’s possible. There’s nothing you can’t do.
The elating sensation is your favorite daydream, sitting at your desk, over dinner, stuck in traffic, or in the blue hours before dawn. It sustains you throughout the week. The promise of it tingles in tense anticipation, from the crown of your head to the tip of your toes, when you watch him walk over to the desk and fold his tall, massive figure into the ugly chair.
Week after week, question after question, you come into focus between his arms. It’s terrifying, and exhilarating. You keep getting better at it.
It’s a bittersweet ache, tender and addictive, to learn about his existence outside this room of yours. The borderless confines of his life. Of him. The details he chooses to confide in you, about his childhood, his past, and his present, in the dead of the night, his body wrapped around yours, chasing the contact of your skin. Chasing your touch, your softness, your understanding, when he used to grunt away from it. Like a threat, with bared teeth, and a shake of his head. A forbidding. A not yet.
It makes sense to you now. There’s an absolute about him. An all or nothing. You’re not sure when it happened. The tipping point. Perhaps in the bathroom, on that sunny morning after Christmas, when he crowded you against the sink with a wolfish look turning his gorgeous face dark and threatening. You think it was meant to scare you. One last attempt. Your last chance to recoil and escape.
You didn’t. You kept blooming, unfurling into your own limbs under the dark depth of his gaze, reflected in the black-edged mirror. You pressed back into him, the solid, steadying bulk of his body, of his broad chest. You pushed back and sunk deeper into his world.
Today, he had to scoop you up from the floor where you were lying, boneless, in the wet mess he drew out of you.
When he stormed into the room, you could still hear the engine of the truck revving. A scowl shadowed his face. Fidgety, tightly wound up, he began undressing you without a word. Unceremonious in his need, an echo of those early days, when he was imprisoned in his past, when his strength was unrestrained, when violence was his sole language.
Fingers digging into the tense muscles of his shoulders, carding through his hair, you sought eye contact, softly cooing, I’m here, Frankie, I’m here, until your voice got through him. Until he heard you, slowing down, drawing you close. His forehead smearing sweat over your temple, his ragged breathing fanning the shell of your ear. His fist clutching the fabric of your shirt in a ball, with a push-pull motion, torn and primal, I need it, Lee. Please, I need you.
You relented, gave into it, lose and pliant as he bent you over the desk with a press of his palm, flat between your shoulder blades, as he pulled your panties to the side and lined himself up, as he thrust into you in one ruthless shove, down to his base. The clasp of his watch biting into your flesh. He was still fully clothed.
Pulling on your wrists with an iron grip, he drilled into you at a brutal pace, skin catching at your entrance along his length, and you bit your lips through it, nearly drawing blood, until, at the very center of you, the pain turned into something blindingly pleasurable, bright and searing. A shockwave, erupting from your core, fast spreading along your limbs, lighting up every nerve-ending.
Tensing under his constraining hold, bucking against his grip, you cried out his name, your back achingly stiff. Slick gushing out of you fast and hot, as your legs trembled uncontrollably, and through the din of it all, his rumbling growl, a guttural string of Fuck, before you slumped onto the desk and he fucked his own release into you.
When he let go of you, he had to lay you on the carpet, where he collapsed next to you, chest heaving with exertion. Time blurred, you might have spent the whole night lying there, staring blankly at the popcorn ceiling, but he got up to undress.
He’s cradling you on his lap now, gently rocking into you. The slow and steady rhythm of his heartbeat aligned with yours, you’re bathed in his warmth, enveloped by his musky scent. You play along, searching your brain for answers. To his questions, and yours.
There’s no evidence of his earlier outburst, saved for his thumbs drawing circles on your wrists where his fingers left a bruising indent. And of course, the wet spot on the carpet.
Nuzzling your jawline, he trails a path of messy, lazy kisses down the column of your neck, capturing the tender skin between his plush lips, his tongue peeking through them.
“I should read it again. Alice. Read it so long ago. When I was a kid.”
Humming distractedly in agreement, your head lolls back on his shoulder.
“Did I hurt you, earlier?”
Your eyelids fly open. His voice is barely a murmur, no more than warm breath grazing your ear, and you feel him throb inside you.
“I don’t want to hurt you. I never want to hurt you.”
The vulnerability in his words shoots through your heart like a bullet. You free your arms to twine your fingers with his.
“What happened today, Frankie?”
His chest stiffens underneath you.
“Nothing. Nothing happened. It’s more… It’s the date.”
The overhead fan hums over the room, louder than your breathing, louder than his.
“A year ago, I agreed to a mission. With my former teammates. It was… It was bullshit. From the start. Nothing went as planned.”
He pauses and you wait, still and silent.
“One of us got killed.”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, squeezing his hands with all of your strength.
A chilling, bone-deep dread settles over your body in the sweltering heat, so cold he can probably feel it. You don’t want him to.
“You said you resigned a couple of years ago?”
“I did. I worked for the private sector, on occasions. It’s over now.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Fuck no,” he snarls. “But some of my friends did. I– I had to go.” He clears his throat. “I chose to go.”
“Do you miss him?”
He doesn’t answer for a while. Lifting his hand in yours, you give his knuckles a long, open-mouthed kiss. His forehead rests heavy against the back of your head, his eyelashes a fluttering caress on your nape.
“For a long time, I felt responsible for his death.”
His words are dense with defeat. With sadness, and fatality. They sink heavily into you, into your bloodstream. You don’t need a mirror to know what his face looks like at this very moment. Your body will remember it, even if you live long enough to forget your own name. The pitch-blackness of his beautiful eyes, the stern crease splitting his brow, imploring for your touch. The tightness in his jaw. The downward curve of his plush lips.
That first night at the motel comes back rushing like a flood, like a wildfire. His roughness, the urgency saturating his actions, the anger in his grief. His bleeding wounds, invisible, evident, glaring. He reached for you through his despair, clutching your body, clinging to the idea of you.
Are you real?
I don’t know.
A dry sob wells up in your throat, but you swallow it down.
“What do you think now?”
“I think it doesn’t matter who’s responsible for his death. His girls are still orphaned.”
Between your lungs, the wild creature curls up into a ball. Its tears fill up your heart. There isn’t any pill or alcohol strong enough to numb this pain of yours. But it doesn’t matter. You want to feel what he feels.
You turn around. You kiss him.
—
“What about this one?”
He should be leaving soon. But your body’s soft and relaxed, curled into his side on the rumpled bed. Pleasantly cool in the muggy atmosphere of the motel room, in the dawn’s indigo hues. Your thin fingers hover gracefully over his skin, tracing the outlines of his scars, and it’s like you’re reshaping his entire body, all of his wounds, and his whole life, with the gentle touch of your fingertips.
“Frankie, what’s this one?”
He should be leaving soon. The sun’s about to come up.
“Did you save it for last because it’s the largest?” he deflects with a smirk.
Folding an arm over his chest, you prop your chin over it, frowning exaggeratedly with your jaw shifting to the side. He laughs so hard that your head bobbles with his shaking belly.
“That supposed to be an impression of me?”
“You recognized yourself,” you smile, sitting up next to him.
He should be leaving soon. And you know it. You’re giving him the space he needs to get up and get out. He fucking hates it.
“Stay here,” he says, curling his fingers around your arm as you’re about to get down from the bed.
The look you give him awakens the pain in his chest. You peer through the curtains, into the blue morning sky, and your gaze returns to him with a silent question.
“Come on. Please. Just a little longer.”
It’s not lost on him that he should be the one getting up. Not pleading.
The mattress creaks in protest as you move over it on your knees, sitting in a straddle across his hips.
“Yea, that’s better,” he smiles, smoothing his palms over your thighs. His left hand slides up to palm your breast, and he notices he hasn’t taken off his watch, tonight. It’s the second time this month.
“What’s this one?” you ask again, entirely undistracted, measuring up your hand to the length of the darker patch of skin.
“Okay,” he sighs, “I crashed a chopper near– wait, I can’t actually tell you that.”
“Jesus, Frankie,” you gasp, spreading both hands over the old wound, as if to stop a ghost bleeding. Your eyes have grown so wide, they eat up half your face.
“It’s okay, baby, it’s old. Wasn’t a big deal.”
It had been a big deal, at the time. There had been talks of awarding him a Silver Star for that mission.
“Did it hurt?”
“Mostly my pride. It wasn’t that bad, don’t worry. Nothing compared to what my sister threatened to do to me if I didn't leave the Army.”
“I can’t say I blame her. I would have probably done the same.”
“Ok, my turn. What’s this one?”
His left thumb skims along the thin line on your inner thigh, and he feels you tensing under his touch.
“It’s nothing,” you snap, taking your hands off his skin as if you just got burnt.
He presses his thumb into your soft flesh. The pain in his chest accentuates, radiating down to his stomach.
“You’re cheating,” he says, as softly as he can.
You face away from him, gaze flickering up to the window again, and you start moving away, but he holds you firmly in place with both hands on your waist.
“Lee. Tell me what it is.”
Seconds turn into minutes, the only sound in the room that of the ceiling fan’s motor, and the pain grows stronger, pulsating from his neck to his gut. Your eyes remain trained on the window, lost somewhere beyond the curtains.
“I had several more like this,” you start. Your tone is detached, your voice distant. “Smaller ones. On the back of my arms. When I was 17, my mother took me to a dermatologist. He removed them with laser treatment.”
You pause, and look down at him.
“She got me fixed, so I could find a good husband.”
His fingers dig into your flesh. It’s a full minute before he remembers to breathe, through his nose, because he can’t unclench his jaw. The chest pain turns into blinding, white-hot rage. His truck is parked outside and in his mind, the sequence of actions is crystal clear. Get you dressed. Get you in the cab. Drive away with you as far as the road goes, and never come back here.
“It burnt like hel—“
“You’re perfect, you know that?” he cuts in.
“I’m really not, Frankie,” you calmly answer. “What I am is a coward.”
He sits up with a cinch, cupping your face so you can’t recoil from him. Somehow, this would be easier if you looked upset. If you were crying. Showing any kind of emotion, really. But you’re far beyond that.
“I can’t let you say that. Not when you risk everything to come here every week.”
“Alright, so I’m a selfish coward,” you say with a joyless little smile.
“No. You’re perfect. You’re my perfect girl. Say it.”
It’s there. Your unbending will, your steel-hard determination. In your defiant gaze and your pinched lips. In the distance you're trying to put between your body and his.
“Okay, fine. Don’t say it. I’ll keep repeating it until you believe me. I can be fucking persistent, you know?” he adds, falling back onto the pillows.
“I know you can,“ you say, lifting a leg off the bed.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he nearly growls, a bruising grip on your thigh, “I’m not done with you.”
His clipped tone appears to be more effective on you. You sit back down, let your shoulders relax, and the palm of your hands find his skin again. Distant gaze, cold touch.
“What’s this one?” he asks, the blunt fingernail of his thumb grazing the grid-shaped scar on your left knee, his tone barely a question, and to his surprise, you come alive with a spark in your eyes.
“Oh! This one’s a good scar. I like it.”
You adjust your position over him, slotting your folds over his resting cock, and a coiling heat stirs in his loin.
“I had a bicycle when I was a kid. The most beautiful bicycle in the entire world. Red, the exact same shade as your truck. With a round cushion protection on the frame, I don’t know how you call that, and the letters MBK painted in white over it, you know the kind?”
He nods, and you continue talking.
“I would spend hours riding it. I would disappear for entire afternoons. It was heaven. And maybe you’re not going to believe me, but I was pretty reckless on that thing.”
“Oh, I believe you.”
You’re smiling again.
“Well, one day, I was too reckless. I hit the brakes too abruptly and I skidded over gravel. I flew ten feet away from the bike and I tore my knee open. I got home covered in blood, my parents were furious.”
A vengeful smile curves your lips, one he’s never seen on your face.
“They confiscated the bike. My mother said it wasn’t ladylike, and my father said– I can’t remember his exact words, probably 'you can’t damage my property,’ or something along those lines. They never let me on a bike again after that.”
“How’s that a happy story?” he frowns.
“I didn’t say it was a happy story. I said it’s a good scar. I got to keep this one. It reminds me of what I’m capable of. Even when I want to forget.”
The sun is rising. A new day colors the sky in vivid bronze. The light filters into the room through the yellow curtains, dust particles suspended in the air, suspended like Frankie’s life when he can’t be with you.
He should leave, but instead, he’s going to fuck you one more time. Pump you full of his come. Brand you with his essence, mark you as his in the only way he can before he has to let you go back to face those people who put murder on his mind.
His hands skim along your thighs to the swell of your ass, roughly kneading the round of your cheeks. His grip settles on your hips, and he bucks up into you, ever so lightly, his length hardening between your lips. He sees it on your face, on your profile bathed in the first ray of sunlight. The moment when you register his intention. The shift in your body, the echo to his desire. So powerful, so immediate, it’s almost like black magic. Your mouth parts open, your back arches. You press down on him.
“That serves him well, your father,” he says, sliding you slowly over his cock.
“How’s that?” you ask, voice laced with lust.
“Look what you’re riding now.”
—
The pillow is damp underneath your back, sweat exuding from your every pore. The last days of March have been unforgiving. You find yourself longing for a room with a proper air conditioning system, instead of the motel’s weak, outdated fan that only swishes hot air.
Frankie’s searing touch doesn’t help. Stroking the back of your arm in a repetitive up-and-down motion, he’s laying across the bed, his head resting heavy on your lap, his long hair curling in every direction in this sweltering atmosphere.
Instead of shying away from the discomfort, you embrace it. With your fingers twined in his locks, you lean into his touch, focusing on his high forehead, and the crease in his brow. On his long eyelashes, the curve of his lips as he speaks, the working of his throat.
Ignoring the dark blue rectangle of night sky, gradually lightening up behind the musty curtains.
Dawn used to be a deliverance. From your thoughts that the night painted black. From the wait, when Adrian wouldn’t come back. From a forced rest that never really came, another disappointment, another let down, another part of your life requiring the artificial help of chemicals.
Now, you resent it. Dawn is when Frankie leaves you behind to go back to his family. Dawn is when he’s the happiest, with his child, without you, in a realm over which you have no grasp.
A rational part of you acknowledges that it’s easier if he leaves before the sun rises. It prevents you from yearning for things you’re afraid to want. Things you cannot have. A life with him in broad daylight. A life without shame.
Recently, he’s become increasingly reluctant to let go of you. Dawn finds him wrapped around your body. Last week, he stayed past daybreak, and fucked you in the sunlight.
The brighter tone of his skin, the lighter shade of his curls, the depth of his mahogany irises hit by a sunbeam, everything was like a knife through your chest.
“Lee?”
The caressing timber of his husky voice brings you back to the soft amber light from the dusty lampshades, to the humming fan, and the blue rectangle.
“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
“I asked if you like it. Your job.”
“God no, I hate it! Sales productivity statistics and accounting manager, can you picture me?”
He huffs his breathless chuckle, the one that sends tremors rippling through your chest.
“Not really, no.”
“I’m terrible at it, and it’s a problem, but no one says anything because daddy runs the company. I don’t understand why he insists on maintaining me in this position. It’s like a power play. He needs me to be miserable.”
Frankie’s hand pauses, fingers digging into your flesh, and he cranes his neck to peer at your face. You give him a reassuring smile. A genuine one.
“Is that what you studied at university? Accounting and statistics?”
You wipe your sweaty brow with the back of your hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“Yes. But university was a golden parenthesis. I minored in Russian literature. Not a skill that easily translates to the employment market, but Richard was thoroughly pissed,” you say, wiggling your eyebrows.
“My little punk.”
His smile is brighter than the midday sun. Your index finger darts to the dimple in his right cheek.
“I really like this,” you whisper, your voice dropping, thick with heat and arousal. With affection. “And these,” you add, scraping your fingernail over the bare patches on each side of his jaw.
“Mmh. I’ve noticed,” he says with a smug expression.
“Oh, you have?” You try to laugh off your embarrassment, but what comes out is a quivering sound, betraying the want that hinders your throat.
He grabs your hand and brings it to his mouth, closing his plush lips around your index finger, wrapping his tongue around it. Your belly quakes. You clench around nothing.
He releases your hand, and you hope he’ll get up and move over you, but instead, he reaches for your arm again, resuming his rhythmic strokes.
“So what would you do, if you didn’t do this?” he asks.
You sigh, glancing up, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror above the desk.
“I’ve no idea, really. I never allowed myself to consider the possibility.” And before he can prod any further, you add, “What about you? What would you have liked to do, if you hadn’t become a pilot?”
The diversion doesn’t fool him, you know it. You’re acutely aware of his gaze, scrutinizing your face. You picture the familiar, pensive frown. His hand leaves your arm as he suddenly gets up, air hitting your damp skin where his head was lying.
A few strides, and he steps into the bathroom, disappearing behind the partition wall. The tap runs for a moment, and there’s the distinct sound of wrung out fabric before he comes out, holding the hand towel.
You watch him walk back toward you, his naked body glistening with sweat, highlighted in shadows in the warm lighting. You think about how beautiful it is, about your extensive, intimate knowledge of it. How it feels under your touch, every single part of him. How this knowledge is now constituent of the woman you have become.
You know the callousness of his palms that catches at your clothes. You know the silkiness of his curls around your fingers, the smoothness of his chest against your breasts, the taste of his mouth and the bobbing of his pebbled throat between your lips. The thicker skin of his shoulders, tanned and freckled. The coarseness of the darker hairs under his navel, and how they feel rubbing at your clit. You know the weight of his cock in your hand, on your tongue, inside your walls.
And if you know all this, then, isn’t he yours?
He circles the bed over to your side, by the window, and sits next to you.
Delicately, his fingers circle your wrist. He lifts your arm, and brings your hand to his lips, nuzzling the relaxed curl of your fingers open, to press a kiss inside your palm. His eyes briefly flicker shut as he inhales the transparent skin of your inner wrist.
Lowering your arm, he starts running the towel along it and you jolt at the contact of the cold, wet fabric, letting out a short whimpering sound.
The sensation is sudden, seizing like an electrical shock, but the relief is immediate. The coolness radiates on the surface of your feverish skin, soothing your thoughts. Eyes fluttering shut, you relax into it.
“Maybe an architect,” he starts, the towel gliding up to your shoulder, “or a carpenter. Build stuff, for a change. Instead of destroying them.”
Goosebumps break out along your arms, on your nape, as he skims the towel over the plane of your chest in slow, meticulous movements. As he rounds your breasts with reverent care, one, then the other, your nipples tightening in peaked buds, the low rumble of his voice filling your mind, his words boring into your heart.
The towel brushes up, tracing your collarbone, left, then right. Higher along the column of your throat, curling to the side of your neck. A droplet of water rolls down between your breasts, running along your stomach to end its course into your navel. You sigh.
“I could… run a small business, building houses or crafting furniture. In a small town, somewhere up north. Somewhere with seasons,” he says.
The towel wipes over your trembling belly, over your mound, down your inner thigh. He’s slow, precise, thorough. Careful and gentle with your limp limbs. You’re sinking into the mattress, and floating over it all at once.
You lift a heavy eyelid, your dazed gaze landing on his gorgeous face. He’s solemn, focused on his task.
He readjusts his position on the mattress, so lightly the bed barely moves, and twists his torso to reach down your leg.
“You could be my accountant.”
Your eyes shoot open. He’s facing away from you, wiping the towel under the arch of your foot.
“The last thing you want is to have me as your bookkeeper,” you whisper, your heart beating in your throat.
He turns around, looking straight at you. Soft sad eyes, cold hard stare.
“That’s all I want for the rest of my life, Lee. Be with you night and day.”
—
Everything seems to hinge on you now.
His balance, his happiness, his redemption.
You filled a void, a hollowness inside his chest, he carries you with him wherever he goes. A pale shade of yellow and celadon green.
He tries to convince himself it’s harmless. That he’s not doing anything wrong. That it’s easier this way. Easier than the drugs, easier than placing that burden on his daughter’s shoulders. He tells himself the peace you bring him makes him a better man, and a better father. Makes him worthy again. There might even be some truth to it.
He’s not so sure if he deserves the second chance. If he deserves the parts of you that you confide in him. Your past, your regrets, your secret victories. Your hindered aspirations and the shores of your inner island, within his reach. The touch of your cool skin. The strength of your embrace. The veneration in your eyes. Your trust, your faith. Your time.
But he wants to believe it. It’s more of a fundamental need, really.
And as long as he’s with you, the illusion holds. When you’re sitting next to him in the truck, singing along to the tunes playing on the old crackling stereo as he drives to nowhere, when his body’s wrapped around yours in the dark, when he murmurs against your temple everything and anything that runs through his mind, when you’re coming undone between his hold, with his name on your lips. He believes he can be as good for you as you are for him.
But it’s a thin fabric. One that tears the very minute he steps outside the room, leaving your sleepy form tucked under the starchy sheet.
Day after day, until the next week, he’s left on his own to fence off the thoughts that plague him.
The voice inside him, relentless, somber, asking how much longer this can last. How long before the consequences on your life are irreversible? How long until that man who’s not your husband finds out, and takes action? What repercussions would you face, then?
He knows what he’d be capable of if he ever met him. He doesn’t like to think about it.
You won’t open up about your life with him, no matter how much he prods and pry. He knows your strength. And he chose to trust it.
Seven months, and one week. He sat down with the cardboard calendar hanging above Lupe’s desk at work, and counted. His mind crowded, overflowing with what ifs.
What if he took you out of this shitty motel, for once? Not just to drive into the night, but on a proper date. Dinner. A movie. Fucking lunch. A weekend somewhere. An entire vacation.
What if he took you out of your life?
Lupe started dating this Marcus guy back in December. Now she’s staying at his place every other night. The man is decent, one of the best paramedics he’s worked with, honest, reliable and steadfast. The kind of man Lupe deserves, and that he doesn’t mind around Lua.
He should move out of the house. Lupe hasn’t said anything yet, but it’s just one more grace she gives him that he hasn’t earned. Every time they see each other, Will hints at it, the allusions becoming increasingly less subtle.
The truth is, he sees no point in moving forward with his life if it’s not with you. If it’s not to take care of you, and provide for you. Watch you thrive, keep you safe.
A couple of weeks back, when he’d first thought about it, he’d deemed the idea crazy, painfully aware of all the frustrations a couple’s daily life entails.
Now, it’s the only choice that makes any sense to him.
—
The airport terminal is bustling with flocks of tourists. Noisy families with children too young to travel, transient businessmen and women, groups of youths of dubious soberness flying out after spring break.
Ava stands out in the crowd, her tall frame topped with a short bob of bright purple hair, and you spot her immediately. Standing on your tiptoes, you wave at her until she sees you and starts running in your direction.
She all but leaps into your open arms, and you both grab at each other, leaning into the embrace, laughing. You inhale her scent, searching for that baby smell in the crook of her neck.
“Oh my god, pup, your hair!” you exclaim. “You look terrific!”
“Yeah? You like it?” she asks with a broad smile, running her fingers through her locks.
“I love it! It’s perfect for you!”
In turn, she takes you in, looking you up and down, and lets out a low whistling sound.
“You look good, too. You look better than good. You look gorgeous!”
“Oh shush,” you gesture bashfully, but you can’t hold back your own smile.
The two of you walk to the parking lot to retrieve your car, immersed in bubbly conversation, oblivious to the moving crowds around you.
Driving out of the airport, you glance at the sign indicating the 589 northbound and smile at your precious secret, before making a left turn south.
“Where are you taking me?” she asks, “I’m hungry! Feed me! Feedmefeedmefeedme!” she chants, before breaking into a high-pitched giggle.
“Alright, alright! Hold tight, I’m taking you somewhere special. Do you like burritos?”
“Who doesn’t like burritos? Wait, what? Burritos? Do you even eat burritos? Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”
You had to type the address from the crumpled receipt into your GPS. Until today, you’ve never allowed yourself to go there. Not on your own.
It’s a small cantina with tiled walls and concrete floors, colorful trinkets arranged in pyramidal displays behind the counter, chalkboard menus and an endless list of drinks. Star-shaped lanterns are hanging from the ceiling, and the staff is busy but jovial.
Lunchtime on a Saturday, the place is packed with couples and kids, and your pulse accelerates. You hadn’t considered the possibility of running into Frankie and his family.
You place your orders, and after a short wait, you secure a spot in the back of the restaurant. Sitting on high metal stools behind a round table, you catch up on the past three months as if you hadn’t texted every other day, speaking with your mouths full, sauce dripping down your fingers.
The life she’s built for herself in New York treats Ava better than anything you could have hoped for, anything you could have helped her achieve, had she stayed here. A job in a cutting-edge art gallery, where her vibrant personality and her flair for networking are not only recognized but valued, a bustling social life, more thrilling projects than you can keep track of, all of it balanced by Polly’s grounding presence by her side.
Your choices and sacrifices, justified.
Ava puts down the crumbling remnants of her vegetarian burrito to wipe her mouth, and takes a sip of her margarita.
“You sure you don’t want to drink anything?”
“I’m drinking something,” you answer, pointing at your iced tea.
“Whatever you say, girl,” she shrugs.
“It’s too bad you’re not staying with me. It’s idiotic, you’re only here for a couple of days and you have to sleep over at Jules’.”
“Listen, even if your douchebag of a fiancé had agreed to have me, which I know he didn’t, I don’t want to see his ass face.”
“Alright,” you concede, “valid.”
She nearly chokes on her margarita. Setting her glass down, she gives you a pointed stare, emphatically scrutinizing your face.
“Okay, seriously, what’s going on with you? How are you? I mean, that’s obviously the wrong question, you’re fucking thriving. What happened? What’s happening? New medication? Are you finally leaving him?”
“I’m not taking any medication,” you answer with unexpected satisfaction. “But no, I’m not leaving him.”
You catch yourself before you can add another word.
“Are you still seeing that other guy?”
You nod, dipping your head, heat creeping up your neck. Why are you like this?
“I take it he likes burritos, am I right?
“You are correct in your assumption, detective,” you quip with a grin.
There’s a pause as Ava seems to consider her next question. It’s always so easy for you to forget that she’s a grownup now. That she knows you at least as well as you know her. That she has the capacity to outsmart you. The notion flares pride in your chest.
“Is he married? Is that why you haven’t run off together in the sunset yet?”
“I’m not sure if he’s married or not.”
“What does he do in life?”
“I don’t know.”
Ava throws up her hands.
“Girl! What do you know?” she exclaims with only half-feigned exasperation.
I know what’s important. He’s a father. He’s a friend and a brother. A pilot and a veteran. He's thoughtful and observant. He’s organized and practical. And a reluctant sentimental. He learned to swim in the Pacific Ocean. He’s capable of cold-blooded violence, but it will break him. He’s capable of infinite tenderness. And it will save him.
You pull a face, communicating how little you care about what you don’t know. Your sister shifts on the hard stool. She frowns, and when she speaks next, her voice is low, her tone conspiratorial.
“Adrian doesn’t suspect anything?”
“Of course, he does. Or he did. His attention is elsewhere, for now. Seems serious.”
“Again?”
“Again,” you nod.
Ava squirms on her stool again, probably trying to restrain her temper.
Your mind wanders, jumping back through time at light-speed, to when you first met Adrian. To the way he used to hold your hand when you started dating, squeezing your fingers with his. Letting you choose the wine, opening doors for you. To the affection in his smile, and how fast he started calling you babe . The glimmer warming his cold blue eyes when he introduced you to his family. The way he leaves the bathroom mirror splattered in toothpaste every time he brushes his teeth. The way he lets his alarm ring off forever after he’s gotten up even if you’re still in bed, even on weekends.
The ease with which he admitted to all his flings, whenever you confronted him, but never confessed to the one with his coworker, the ambitious young lawyer.
Would you admit to having an affair? Would you use that ugly word that make you crawl out of your skin? Would you deny it? Could you answer No, I’m not seeing anyone? Could you bear the betrayal of denying Frankie’s existence? The truth of what you share, but can’t define?
“Your fiancé is a bag of dicks,” Ava finally says, shaking her head.
“His obliviousness suits me for now,” you remind her.
“I don’t understand why you don’t leave him,” she snaps back, forsaking her reserve. “He got his big promotion, he got what he wanted! And Richard loves him, it’s not like he’s going to fire him just because you two broke up, right? You don’t really love him anymore, do you?” she adds on second thoughts.
The words spill out of you unchecked, once more. Just like in the truck with Frankie, back in January. Months, years for the idea to mature below the surface of your conscious thoughts, the reflective process unbeknown to you.
“I’m scared, Ava. I’m scared shitless. I want to leave. I’ve been wanting to leave for so long. Adrian, the company, that fucking ugly apartment.”
“Well then fucking do it, Lee!”
“If I leave, I have nothing. No job, nowhere to go.”
And if you could give up a relatively comfortable life, would you be able to renounce the refuge of your sadness? Of your life between the folds?
“You have money,” Ava counters. “You have shares. Sell them. Richard can’t stop you. Get a lawyer, if you have to. One that’s not on Adrian’s payroll. And then you can fuck your man Friday every day of the week, how’s that?”
You think about the folded bedspread under the windowsill. About the wet hand towel brushing up your skin. The trucker hat on the desk, and his fingers splayed on the steering wheel. The pleading arch of his brow.
You think about that space between Frankie’s chin and collarbone, that contains your safety, your desires, and all of your hopes.
“I don’t… I don’t know if I should leave a man for another one,” you whisper.
Ava’s eyes widen. She sits up straight, a smirk tugging the corner of her lips.
“I don’t know either, but it looks like this one fucked some sense into you. The irony.”
She’s withholding something, you realize. It’s in her uncharacteristic pauses, her sideways glances. Surprisingly, human interactions were simpler when pills kept you numbed and oblivious. Being attuned to everyone’s minute expressions is a daily trial.
“Why don’t you move to New York with us?” she eventually asks. “We can take you in until you find a job there, for as long as you need.”
There’s that we again. People talking about you in your absence, judging your choices, plotting your future.
“I don’t know how to do anything, Ava. I have zero skills.”
“First off, that’s not true,” she retorts, relentless with her well-rehearsed arguments. “And then, Polly can help you find something. Lee, if you can leave this company, there’s literally nothing you can’t do.”
Suddenly, you feel exhausted. Weary and old. A bone-deep lassitude. And at the heart of it, the realization that this is a liminal sequence in your life.
“Is that why you flew here for the weekend? To ask me to come away with you?”
“Are you mad?” she asks with a face. A little girl’s expression, afraid of being scolded. Your little girl.
“No, I’m not mad, pup. I can’t be mad. You came back for me.”
“Of course, I came back for you. I was never going to leave you behind, silly.”
Oh my GOD the INTENSITY of this in-progress fic, everything has such fateful WEIGHT, I liiiiiiive for it in fic, I was as completely absorbed and sucked into their world as they are with each other, everything dropping away while reading and in parts I couldn't be bothered to tend to anything IRL because I HAD TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED NEXT AT ALL COSTS AND NOTHING ELSE MATTERED cuz the tropes and the whole angsty-soulmates-fatefully-finding-one-another-to-roughly-and-obsessively-fuck-the-sadness-and-pain-out-of-each-other-but-ope-it's-become-so-much-more GIVES ME LIFE, whew!! This is what fic is forrrr! It's JUST what I was looking for to distract myself from certain recent events. And that masterlist summary you wrote? Masterful, who wouldn't be instantly obsessed with this fic reading that?
Reading this I was constantly in awe of a line, a phrase, of a WORD, of the way meanings and feelings and reflections are seemingly found around every corner of the page.
And like all great smut, you write with such interiority about how things FEEL physically and emotionally to be the recipient of our BIG BOY Frankie and allllll that entails for reader and her past traumas and ways of dealing with pain. These two FUCK my godddd!! But there is really something special here that I can't explain.
And this line???? THIS LINE?????? "He needs to fuck you deep and full, find you in that place within yourself and wreck you there. He needs to make sure you’re alright. Make sure you’re real. Make sure you’re his." HE NEEDS TO FIND YOU IN THAT PLACE WITHIN YOURSELF AND WRECK YOU THERE? *stares at wall for 40 minutes in contemplation*
The Frankie worship in this is just *chef's kiss." I mean: "You watch him walk back toward you, his naked body glistening with sweat, highlighted in shadows in the warm lighting. You think about how beautiful it is, about your extensive, intimate knowledge of it. How it feels under your touch, every single part of him. How this knowledge is now constituent of the woman you have become. You know the callousness of his palms that catches at your clothes. You know the silkiness of his curls around your fingers, the smoothness of his chest against your breasts, the taste of his mouth and the bobbing of his pebbled throat between your lips. The thicker skin of his shoulders, tanned and freckled. The coarseness of the darker hairs under his navel, and how they feel rubbing at your clit. You know the weight of his cock in your hand, on your tongue, inside your walls." YAAAASSS GIRL GIMME A SOLILOQUY.
And in so many places I was just in awe of the sentiment of the idea being expressed, like this: "Your mind keeps wandering to the previous Friday, when you sat nestled into Frankie’s side as he drove aimlessly. To the smooth fabric of his jacket under your cheek, to the heat of his chest, to his solid breadth. You stop it. The memory is always a thought away. But it shouldn’t be summoned at random. You can’t risk its erosion. There won’t be another one." WHAT A WAY of treating a memory!! Of giving a memory such precious and irreplacable importance that the sheer thought of it might corrode it. Obsessed with this.
I love her inexperience, those lines about how "no one seems to notice" that's she's different after having done something so supposedly unlike her when really she has had a life of having no sense of self or what she really wants.
And then there was the way you wrote reader's pain. That scene with Adrian when she wakes up from the hospital is one of the most quietly but viscerally upsetting scenes I have read, it made me SO uncomfortable and upset for her that I was practically crawling out of my skin, the way she is so vulnerable and the sinister way he completely and contemptuously disregards her needs and comfort and humanity, the REAL fear and anxiety she feels and how unsafe she feels was PALPABLE. And the way the beeping of the heart monitor/equipment is woven into the scene was ABSOLUTELY MASTERFUL, I was just STUNNED, to have it culminate at the end of the scene with the beeping underscoring the sheer horrifying panic she feels that she may lost Frankie forever? INCREDIBLY DELICIOUS ANGST AND SCENE BUILDING. And that line about her feeling like a "butterfly pinned in a glass case" was just…
I feel like I haven't even scratched the surface of all the great things about this fic, about how you characterized the reader, about Frankie's dark edges and softness all within him, about all the details…there's SO much in this fic that I think most of us are intimidated to even try to respond. Loved this one.
And I'm just looking at the masterlist seeing there there is only ONE more chapter and then only an epilogue like 👀👀👀👀. SOOOO beyond excited to read what you have in store for the last two installments of this story!!!
"You can just tell like he has this joy and at the same time you can also sense that he's been through stuff that's been hard and I just really love a person who responds to what it has been hard in life with joy" - Connie Nielsen about Pedro Pascal
PEDRO PASCAL & CONNIE NIELSEN
The 'Gladiator II' Cast Breaks Down the Monkey Fight Scene | Fandango
Summary: Left on his own, Tim learns a new way to live.
Warnings: None! Age gap cause Tim’s like hundreds of years old 🤷🏻♀️😂 Semi-sentient woodland creatures that meddle, I guess 🤭
A/N: Inspired by @almostfoxglove’s beautiful AU moodboard below - if you haven't already, check out that post and the tags, along with all her other AU moodboards! Thank you so much for sharing them with us 🥹🥰
Title by Billie Eilish / Dividers by @saradika-graphics as always 🥰
For a very long time, Tim did not go outside during the daytime.
Father said not to.
And even though Father has been gone for many years, Tim still heeded his words. His being the only voice Tim had ever heard.
He still doesn’t know why Father left. He’s even less sure of why he never returned.
Merge Mansion remains dark, even during the day. Its halls empty, its candelabras unlit. If anyone was to pass through the ivy choked iron gates and listen at its door, and no one ever did, they would hear only the skittering of mice and the occasional heavy footstep, so slow and deliberate it could be mistaken for the heartbeat of a slowly dying house.
Only ever at night, Tim goes out to the woods behind the now dusty and crumbling mansion. Those same woods where Father would have him lift, throw, break - repeatedly. And Father would write furiously in his notebooks. Tim thinks maybe that’s what he was made for.
For more years than can be counted, enough so that he passes into legend, Tim continues to do what he knows. He uproots trees and plants and heaves them over knolls and into streams. He rolls boulders and smashes rocks. He haunts the forest alone until the dawn threatens to pierce through the thick overhang of the old growth trees; hiding within the moss-covered stone walls of the only home he’s ever known until night brings cover once again.
Until one night after so many nights, he just… doesn’t. Instead of his nightly exertion to prove something to the darkness, Tim just sits and bathes in the pureness of the moonlight. He breathes in the earthy musk of the forest’s damp soil and the sweet scent of pine mixed with bark sap. Instead of his own laboured breathing, Tim finally hears the babbling of the brooks, the hooting of the owls, and soft breeze whistling between the low berry bushes and the high tree tops. Tim doesn’t know if he was made to be at peace, but he finds that he can do it all the same.
He teaches himself to read. At first using words Father would say and the signs he would point to in the room Tim lived in: Lock. Unlock. Hot. Cold. On. Off. Danger. Stop.
Then from books about nature that he finds in the library, remembering words that Father would use to describe their surroundings when in the woods that Tim now knows so well.
Tree. Rock. Hill. Hole.
It takes a very, very long time. But Tim has nothing but time.
He’s not even sure if he’s doing it right - he has no one to ask. Not that he could even if there was. He says the words in his head the way he thinks they sound, but with no voice, never out loud. He wasn’t made for that.
It’s no matter. Even if he isn’t sure he’s sounding them out properly, Tim thinks he’s assigned the words to the pictures in the books of animals and landscapes correctly. There are other books, as well. Ones with illustrations that are foreign to him and where the words denote meaning that he doesn’t think he will ever understand, but he learns them anyways: Music. Dance. Laugh. Feast. Love.
In his woods, Tim no longer destroys: he clears, builds, tends. Tim carves out paths that feel softer on the bottoms of his lumbering feet. He removes dead branches from healthy trunks and uses them to sweep the forest floor. He rolls away dead trees, some fell by age or disease, others by his own hand in the olden days when he thought that was what he was made for.
He still only does these things under the cover of night. Father had said to be afraid of the village at the bottom of the looming hill upon which Merge Mansion perched. He warned Tim that if he was discovered, the villagers would come and hurt them both. Tim wishes that he had known the words or had the voice to tell Father that he would have protected him. That perhaps it was the villagers who should have been afraid of him. Father’s notebooks say that he was built to be fierce.
The bunnies in the woods do not seem to think so. Nor the foxes, or the badgers, or the mice. The deer do not find Tim to be fearsome, and the birds readily to flock to him.
He supposes it’s because he starts to help them build their nests; his long legs easily carry him to the farthest corners of the woods where the best nesting materials can be gathered. He volunteers his big, pawlike hands to dig their burrows and holes. His strength he uses to drag logs and branches to where whole furry families reside, breaking the thick wood into smaller pieces to help them expand and fortify their homes for their growing broods and the incoming weather. He’s tall enough to lift baby birds back into their nests when they fall out before they’re ready to fly. He forages and shares all his bounty, himself having no need for sustenance.
Tim would not mind if this is what he was made for.
The years continue to pass. The village at the bottom of the hill gets less busy, smaller, and is eventually gone. Tim only knows because he witnesses the number of tiny square windows illuminated by bright candles during the night, dwindle until there is only darkness.
From the now dilapidated walls of Merge Mansion, Tim watches as what remains of the village rots and is reclaimed by the Earth. It looks less frightening to him the way it stands now, wild and lush - much more like his beloved forest where he’s only ever known friendly creatures.
It’s the bunnies who convince him to come out in the daytime.
It had been an especially abundant year for the rabbits, with baby bunnies almost overrunning the forest floor. The mamas plead with Tim using their big brown eyes to help round up their little ones and keep them safe, making sure none of them strayed too far from the safety of the woods.
Little bunnies are hard to see in the dark.
The first time Tim steps outside during the day, he’s so blinded by the sky’s brightness that he thinks perhaps his eyes were not made for sunlight. His forest is so green in the daytime. A richness of browns with the occasional pop of red, blue, even lavender. In the winters, the snow is so white during the day it appears almost clear. Once the snow has melted, the streams splash with fish that jump during the day – something that never happens at night. The sun’s beams warm Tim’s rough skin in a way the moon’s cold, comfortable ambiance never has. The sounds of the forest are so much louder, cheerier in the day than they are at night – it strikes Tim as odd given it’s the same forest but he supposes he feels more alive during the day as well.
The deer are the ones that lead him out of the forest and to the front of the house. The overgrown grass on the Merge Mansion hill begs to be grazed on, and with the village gone, Tim and the deer while away many days unseen and unbothered amongst the soft green blades – looking out to a splendid view of rolling plains and sprawling forests stretching all the way to the horizon. He never strays far from the house - still heeding Father’s words of caution even though the dangers he warned against look to be long gone.
Tim doesn’t even know that another village has sprung up somewhere on the other side of a low mountain that he considers to be more than a fair distance away until you. The first time he sees you, you’re but a little girl and you come with your own father to the cemetery that rests at the bottom of his hill, where it once bordered the old village. The same cemetery from which Father gathered the parts that make up Tim as he is, if Father’s notebooks are to be believed. The deer scamper away before you or your father see them, but Tim stays and hides, watches.
He hears your father tell you that these graves belong to your ancestors who once lived in the old village that’s now gone and that even though you live on the other side of the mountain, you should still pay your respects. Tim listens to your cheery chatter and the hum of your father’s merry tunes as the two of you clean the gravestones, pull the weeds, plant fresh gardens.
You and your father come every week and Tim begins to look forward to it. He watches you grow into a beautiful woman and your father into an old man. He listens to the musical lilt of your voice and the gentle teasing of your father as the two of you care for and nurture the plot of land at the base of the Merge Mansion Hill so that it grows vibrant and fragrant with flowers that he’s only ever seen in Father’s books. He hears your father tell you stories he heard as a child about the house that Tim lives in – the legend of a mad scientist and a terrible monster. Tim doesn’t know why, but he feels relief when you laugh at these stories and call them ridiculous.
When your father stops coming with you, Tim watches over you in his stead. You continue to do your duty in the cemetery joyfully and your sweetness is like an invitation. The bunnies and the foxes and the mice and the deer all come down to join you. You laugh and share your food with them and they enjoy your company as much as you do theirs. Music. Dance. Laugh. Feast. He thinks he finally understands. When his furry friends turn their soulful eyes up to the house, Tim knows they’re looking to him to come down but he shakes his head no. He’s not made for this.
He doesn’t know that you see him anyways.
You’ve known he was there since the days you would come to this cemetery with your father as a little girl. Most times as just a shadow on the Merge Mansion grounds, but once or twice you had seen Tim’s handsome, haunted face in one of the cracked windows.
You don’t know who he is or what he is, but some how you know that you have to pretend that you’re unaware of his presence. As if for some laughable reason, he finds you to be frightening.
So, you try to make yourself to be as nonintimidating as possible. You wear soft flowing fabrics that lie prettily over your equally soft skin in pleasing colours that compliment the hue of your hair and the brightness of your eyes. You keep your voice gentle and the sound of your notes harmonious when you sing or hum your favourite songs of love and fantasy. When your father tells you the old stories of the Merge Mansion Monster, you make sure to loudly decry this characterization. Your unseen friend is not a monster, and you want to make sure that he knows you know that.
Your woodland friends who proclaim to know him best seem to say, give him time. So you do, waiting patiently for a sign. For what? You don’t know. Just a sign for more.
It comes one summer day, many, many years after your weekly trips to the cemetery became solo trips. For two weeks, you’ve been in a state of mild panic, unable to find the delicate gold chain necklace that your father gave you - his last gift to you before he passed. A part of you fears that it may have come unclasped and dropped onto the path some time during your weekly trip to the Merge Mansion cemetery; your heart clenches – if that was the case, your treasured necklace is surely lost.
Your surprise when you find your necklace waiting for you on top of a gravestone next to a small tied bundle of lavender is palpable. Your eyes threaten to overflow with tears as you look up the hill to the house and mouth, thank you.
You don’t know that you had actually lost your necklace next to this very gravestone and that one of your bluebird friends had carried it up to Tim in its beak. Tim spends two weeks practicing making the small bouquet of lavender – his large and clumsy hands unused to the precise and delicate movements required. He refers to the instructions in the book he found so many times he can see the diagrams in his sleep. But he keeps trying until he gets it right – wanting to offer you something more than just your returned necklace as a token of his appreciation for all the work you do. Holding the delicate chain in his oversized hand, he can’t stop looking at it glittering in the moonlight and admiring its intricate craftsmanship. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Well, second.
The next week, Tim discovers a large and fragrant bouquet of the cemetery’s best and biggest blooms laid outside of his iron gates.
Three weeks later, on the same gravestone, you find those flowers dried and pressed, then laced together in a pretty flower crown.
You weave your own from new fresh flowers and leave it in place of the dried one you take home. The following week, the crown you made is gone, and in its place, a large pile of fresh wild berries that must come from the forest behind the mansion.
The squirrels had objected, but Tim promised that the reduction of berries from their weekly hoard would be for a good cause. You helped prove him right the following week when he returned from the hill with a jar of wild berry jam which he happily shared.
This continues for months. Each week a small, thoughtful trinket exchanged - neither you or Tim having much to offer except your consideration and time. The giddy anticipation and resulting awe a gift in itself.
The day you bring a blanket that took you six weeks to knit, you’re imbued with a bravery (the source of which is unknown even to you) that brings you all the way to Tim’s doorstep. The heavy door opens when you push against it, but no one answers when you call out.
While Tim is in the woods assisting with the birth of a newborn deer, you’re wandering the dark, musty halls of Merge Mansion. You find where you think Tim must sleep: in a room that looks like a lab - electrical wire equipment, gurneys, restraints and medical utensils long since pushed against the walls of the room and abandoned.
You read the notebooks left behind by the scientist and seethe on Tim’s behalf. To call him a Creature! To experiment on him and put him through trials of endurance and strength as if he was merely an instrument for violence! You’re grateful that Tim’s creator must be long dead by now, else he might not be able to escape the vitriol you feel rising in your chest at the mistreatment Tim endured at his hand.
You leave the blanket and the mansion in a hurry.
When Tim comes back into the house, he knows immediately that you were there. He smells you. The sweet floral perfume from your garden and the sticky scent of fruit from your jams hangs in the air. Nothing in this house or the forest smells quite so lovely. You were here.
With growing distress, he finds your thoughtful gift in the room where he sleeps and knows that you’ve read Father’s notebooks. You know the truth of what he is now. He’ll never see you again.
But you come back.
You leave him a letter and for three weeks, he reads it every day.
It’s a letter that tells him about yourself and your family, and how you came to be his weekly visitor. You tell him how you’ve always known he’s been there but you were afraid to scare him away so you never let on that you saw him. You tell him that now that you’ve calmed down a bit, you’re not quite so angry at Father but you do think that he didn’t understand Tim’s true nature, or perhaps, you concede, he simply wasn’t gifted enough time to understand.
You tell him what you think of his nature. In your experience, men who are strong are rarely gentle and those who harness power are hardly ever giving. But Tim is. His hands, arms and muscles may be sewn together from much lesser men, but he, Tim, wields his strength to protect and look after others. His heart may not be able to pull down trees or break rock, but it’s tender and pure – and where his true power lies.
You write that even though you’ve never met him face to face, you only ever feel safe and cared for knowing he’s around. And you hope that even if he never forgives you for trespassing in his home and going through his personal belongings without his permission, he will take your words to heart.
Every week you come back to the doors of Merge Mansion bearing a small gift and a big apology, but Tim is nowhere to be found. You’re starting to fear that you’ve crossed an unforgiveable boundary and ruined your indescribable but cherished connection, when the most wonderous sight awaits you as you near the top of the hill nearly a month after you left your letter.
Tim.
Impossibly large and broad, a hulk of a man is sitting on the front steps waiting for you. His face is hard, lined from time and worry, but his eyes are soft and vulnerable. You see some trace of old scars along his forehead and neck, and down the worn skin that stretches over the corded muscles of his forearms. His clothes are outdated and entirely the wrong size, but somehow it works on him. He looks formidable. Wild, yet tame. Handsome.
You run to him, beaming. Tim stands when you come to a stop in front of him, towering over you as he holds out a bouquet of wildflowers picked from the forest lands behind his home that he tends to so carefully.
When you reach out to accept, your small fingers brush his larger calloused ones, and the jolt of electricity that passes between the two of you feels like pure joy. And although Tim can only offer a quiet grunt, unable to say the words that he wishes he could sing with his whole chest, you understand him perfectly. Your incandescent smile and hopeful expression reassure him that you too, recognize the simple, unspoken truth: Tim was made for you.
🎶Obligatory Billie Eilish, What Was I Made For lyrics🎶:
'Cause I, 'cause I
I don't know how to feel
But I wanna try
I don't know how to feel
But someday I might
Someday I might
Think I forgot how to be happy
Something I'm not, but something I can be
Something I wait for
Something I'm made for
Something I'm made for
Getting into the spooky season and this looked like an intriguing read. The tragic plight of Frankenstein's monster has always pulled at every one of my tender little heartstrings, but I did not expect to have my lil melancholy existential heart sincerely squished so hard by what you've done with this fairytale-style AU written so earnestly, humbly, and simply?
Poor lonely, tortured, abandoned Tim here with that good heart and strong moral compass at his core, having to endure those achingly-sad vast passages of time, watching lifetimes pass (I LOVED that line "for more years than be counted, enough so that he passes into legend", what a satifsying turn of phrase), my heart? Tim slowly learning to discover peace after so long, all starting with a chance change in routine? The poignancy of Tim being unused to precise, intricate movement and spending so much effort in making meaningful things for the reader?? Tim always feeling like he has to be useful to be worth anything, until reader tells him they like him just as he is, that they like his very nature? That moving ending? 🥹🥹🥹
I was like the Vince McMahon reaction meme personified at how you kept upping the ante in making me EMOSH with Tim's every interaction with the woodland creatures, I mean???? Tim helping them with their nests and burrows? Oh and then Tim lifting fallen baby birds back into their nests?? Oh but then Tim gathering baby bunnies to safety??? Oh wait then Tim helping BIRTH A NEWBORN WITTLE PRECIOUS DEER to come into the world???? I cannot COOOOPE, my hearttt, halpppppp! 😆😌🥹🥹
The understated and simple, quiet style of writing in this makes the emotions stand out all the more for me, there's a honesty in this piece that I appreciate so much and don't see enough of, thank you so much for sharing it.
And what inspiration from that moodboard! Though then I saw @almostfoxglove's OTHER Tim moodboard here which in the context of your story hurts my heart even moarrrrrr! (just look at his gigantic, broad shoulders in that bottom pic, is that not your Tim!).
And THENNNN I had to go and read your comments about what happens next in the story and OH MY GAHHH MY HEARTTTTT. 😭❤️
