a mixture of madness & melancholy

With every last bit of energy you can muster, you slide out of bed, collapsing to the floor beside the mattress. You hope the cool wood floor will help ground you; you press your palms to it and close your eyes, still gasping, still crying.

You’re fine.

You’re safe.

You’re in your home, in your bedroom.

Frankie is right there.

As if he heard your mantra, the bed creaks behind you and Frankie’s voice comes through the haze, broken and quiet. “Hadita, are you okay?”

You can’t reply, and that seems to be enough to pull him from his slumber. Suddenly he’s sitting in front of you, his legs spread so you’re between them, his broad palms resting heavily on your thighs, his thumbs circling the insides of your knees. “Shh, sweetheart, it’s alright. I’m here. Just breathe.”

His fingers press a little harder into your skin, the warmth of him radiating out from his hands. He was so quick to learn your needs when your attacks hit — physical touch is the main component, but his soft voice and easy instruction helps just as much.

“That’s it, hadita. Breathe in and out. Alright, baby, you’ve got this. I’m here. Just keep breathing.” He keeps up the movement at the bend of your leg, encouraging the rhythm of your breath with each circle. “Alright, okay, that’s so good, sweetheart.”

You find the strength to slip your hands over his, your fingers curling around his wrists. It brings you down a little more, and you find yourself hiccuping through your sobs as you regulate your breathing.

“Good, good. Take it easy, baby, you’re alright.” Frankie shifts one hand under yours and you grip him tighter. “It’s alright, it’s okay, I’m just grabbing your water. I’m not leaving, baby.”

Once he’s got the little bottle on the floor beside you, his palm finds your thigh again. You close your eyes tighter, willing the tears to stop, even as you feel your chest and throat begin to loosen up. Your skin tingles from the exertion and the adrenaline surging beneath it, and you tilt your head back to rest against the bed as you take deep breaths to try and stop the hiccuping.

“Why don’t you take a little water, hadita?” Frankie squeezes your leg, his voice still smooth and soft. “It’ll help, you know that.”

You nod, and his hand leaves you again. You wrap your fingers around his as he holds the bottle to your lips, allowing him to help you keep it steady as you swallow a few small mouthfuls.

When he sets it back down again, you finally open your eyes, still blurry and streaming despite the worst of it having passed.

“Hey, there’s my girl.” Frankie’s brown eyes are sparkling, even in the near pitch of the room, and you can see he’s smiling encouragingly. “Doing better?”

You nod. “I…” It’s hard to speak. “Dunno what happ’n’d.”

Shifting carefully so he’s kneeling up on his legs, he pulls you close; not too tightly so as to stifle you, but enough that you can bury your wet face in his bare shoulder and breathe him in.

That helps, too.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. You never have to explain it,” he murmurs against you, his lips tracing the cuff of your ear. “But next time, promise me you’ll wake me so I can help you?”

You nod. “I will.”

He pulls back, curling a finger under your chin and smiling. “C’mon. Let’s get you a little snack or something to help you regulate.” He stands, offering his hand to help you up as well. “I love you, hadita.”

“I love you, too, Frankie.”

Whatever caused the attack doesn’t happen again, especially not as you lie tight against Frankie’s chest, his arms holding you firmly across your chest and belly, his breath tickling the back of your neck.

You’re fine.

You’re safe.

You can’t say you know exactly when it happened; when the suave, smooth-talking former spy-turned-rancher became more than just your neighbor-with-benefits, but you also aren’t really complaining. Jack had moved in on the little farm next to your house about six months ago, and you’d been nothing but neighborly in offering to help him move in, get the barn cleaned up, get some chickens and horses loaded in—after all, what else was your old truck good for? But then it turned into him offering to cook you dinner. And then to take you to dinner.

And then you ended up in his bed.

Night after night.

Half the time so well-fucked you forget your own name and just accept that he’s branded you “Sugar” and that’s the only thing you’ll respond to forever now.

Which brings you to now, and that word echoing down the hall of his little house. “Sugar, come on and get your coffee before it gets cold!”

His voice matches his long-forgotten nickname, the one he’d admitted to you one satiated, breathless night when he said he didn’t want to keep any secrets from you. He’d told you of his mental break, of the years he’d spent working through it with therapists and doctors, of the job he once did (or at least as much as he was allowed to tell you). “I was Whiskey then,” he’d murmured against the hollow of your throat. “Don’t much think I should use that now, what with being sober and all.”

You like calling him Jack. It suits him well, better than his nickname; a good, strong cowboy name, though his farm doesn’t actually have any cows. But his voice—you wonder if that’s where he got the mysterious nickname; especially in the throes of passion, it’s dark, smooth, a little sharp. You’ve cut back a lot on your own drinking habits, for his sake, but on the rare occasion you do have a nightcap, you always think of him when it burns your throat and clears your head.

“You comin’?” he calls again, and you laugh to yourself as you fling the blankets off and push into a sitting position. You fight your hair into some semblance of a ponytail with the band you keep around your wrist before reaching down and grabbing his t-shirt to throw on. He’s not much taller than you, but he’s broader, so the shirt covers you fair enough that you’re willing to forgo any underthings as you pad barefoot out towards the kitchen.

Jack isn’t facing you when you step over the threshold, his attention on something in the sink, so you take the moment to admire the taut, sharp muscles of his back down along his hips to where his boxers break the long line of bare skin. He has a few scars on his shoulders (“The perils of usin’ a whip,” he’d explained when your fingers found them the first time) and a smattering of freckles across his spine, and you smile. Moving closer, you press your lips to the base of his neck and slip your arms around his waist.

“Good morning,” you murmur, your chin resting on his shoulder. “Sleep well?”

You feel his chuckle before you hear it. “Always do with you there, Sugar.” He turns in your arms, his deep brown eyes finding yours as a smile cracks his lips under his thick mustache. “You?”

“Mm, yeah.” You accept the light, chaste kiss he offers, but when his hand slips just a bit lower on your hip, his breath catches. “Please don’t tell me you ain’t wearin’ anything under my shirt.”

You quirk your lips, holding his gaze. “Is that a problem, Mr. Daniels?”

“Now you know Mr. Daniels was my dad.” He seems to have forgotten the coffee he invited you out for as he bends just a bit at the knees to pick you up; in turn, you wrap your legs around his waist and lock your ankles together. “And we do not have time to get into that right now.”

You giggle, feeling him half-hard through his boxers and against your bare center. “What do we have time for, Jack?” You put emphasis on his name as you rock against him just slightly, seeing his pupils blow out just a bit as he shakes his head in disbelief at your flirtatiousness.

“Oh, Sugar, I’ve got all the time in the world for you.” He spins you both around so you’re sitting on the edge of the sink, his body caught between your knees and his palms spread across your back, his t-shirt riding up so high you’re gonna need about a gallon of bleach to clean up the countertop when you’re both done. He raises an eyebrow as he carefully drops to one knee, his hands leaving your torso to wrap around your calves. “Open up for me, darlin’.”

You obey, spreading your legs as wide as you can as he looks up at you through his lashes. “How’d I get so lucky to get a girl as beautiful as you?” he asks, and his voice is more sincere than you think you’ve ever heard it.

You fake a shrug, nonchalance, but your smile is real. “Right place, right time, Jack.”

“I’d say.” He rubs his nose over you, and you gasp, your knees trying to close. “Hey, now, keep those knees apart.” His smile is dark, taunting now, as he does his best to keep his eyes on you until he can’t anymore, his tongue dipping in between your folds. You feel your arousal begin to pool faster than you thought was possible, and he laughs a little at the same time. His voice is still muffled when he speaks again. “Oh, Sugar, you taste so goddamn good.”

You’d been hanging onto the edge of the counter for dear life, but the marble is hurting your fingers now so instead you press one hand to his shoulder and use the other to card your nails through the top of his greying-black hair. You toss your head back, your ponytail hitting the still-closed curtains of the window over the sink, and you momentarily are incredibly grateful he left them that way even though there’s no one else around for at least a half-mile in either direction (and one of those would be your currently empty house, anyway). But any kind of cohesive thought disappears from your mind when Jack’s tongue finds that little bundle of nerves at the same time as two of his broad, curled fingers find their way inside you.

“Fuck, Jack!” you cry, your voice sounding like it belongs to someone else.

“That is not ladylike language.” The vibrations rumble against your aching skin and you tug a little harder on his hair. “But I suppose I can let it slide,” he says, pulling back to look up at you again as he pumps his hand in and out, a little more slowly than you’d care for.

“Jack, baby, please,” you keen, trying desperately not to arch off the sink and hurt both of you in the process. “Not with your fingers.”

He smirks, but he obeys your request, withdrawing from you and lifting his fingers to his lips. He licks them clean, and you lunge at him, trusting him to keep you both upright as your tongue chases your slick into his mouth. You kiss him hungrily, the mix of your flavors driving you wild as you cling desperately to his hair, his neck, his shoulders—whatever will keep you close.

“Jack, for the love of god, please fuck me.”

He stops for a moment, leaning back only enough to see your eyes. “I’ve gotta go get a rubber,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing yours as he speaks.

“No.”

“No?”

“Have you been with anyone since we started sleeping together?”

“You really think I’m that kind of man?”

You laugh. “I hoped not.” You brush your nose over his, still vaguely damp from where he’d loved you so well already. “But I’m covered, and I trust you. C’mon, Jack, I just wanna feel you.”

“Oh, Sugar.” He kisses you again, and there’s something different about this one; his tongue still finds yours, his teeth still scrape over your lower lip, but it feels…it feels. You’ve never been in love, but you’re pretty sure this is what falling in it is like. Jack pushes his boxers down, and then his hands find the dip of your waist, pressing almost hard enough to hurt but just enough to keep you in place as he positions himself between your thighs again. “You’re absolutely sure, darlin’?”

“Yes.” You want no more hesitation, no more doubt in his mind. “I’m sure, Jack.” You kiss him so, so softly. “I’m absolutely, completely sure.”

He holds your eyes as he pushes into you slowly, letting you adjust as you breathe out slowly, your fingers curling into the base of his hair. “Holy hell, I didn’t realize just how amazing you’d feel,” he hisses, and you feel your muscles clench around him in arousal.

“Me…either…” Your voice hitches as he fills you to the hilt, his hips locked against yours as you cling to him. “Go on, Jack,” you finally manage to say.

He takes the hint, pulling out before thrusting in again, faster this time. He finds a rhythm that has him grunting and you gasping, and you loop your ankles around the backs of his legs to keep your feet from slamming against the cabinets as he takes you harder and faster. “You alright, Sugar?” he huffs, never slowing but slipping one hand around under your thigh to help your legs stay steady.

“Yes, fuck, yes.” You find yourself burying your face in his shoulder, your eyes squeezed tightly shut as you feel another orgasm starting to build in your belly. “Jack, please, don’t stop, keep going.”

“I got you, Sugar, I got you.” You feel his breathing start to shake a bit and instinctively you tighten your arms around his neck. “Oh, Jesus Christ, darlin’, I’m almost there.”

“Me too, baby, me too,” you shudder. “God, Jack, you’re so good at this.”

That makes him laugh, and his rhythm stutters a bit, but it has the unintentional effect of bringing him right to an overly sensitive spot and you cry out, your head falling back again of its own free will, which Jack takes as an invitation to suck on your throat hard. You can already feel the bruise forming as you ride through your ecstasy. “Oh, fuck,” he groans against the column of your neck.

“Jack.” Your voice is barely working now, the exhaustion beginning to set in as you come down from your high. “Baby, come on. Cum for me.”

Your words seem to be all he needs. You feel him push into you hard, too hard, and you feel as he spurts inside you, filling you for the first time without hesitancy, claiming you. You make sure to leave your mark, too, though only on the outside; you drag your nails down over his back as you sink a soft but firm bite into his shoulder. He gasps, thrusting one last time hard enough to lift you off the ledge. You both cry out some combination of each other’s names and a handful of desperate oaths.

Jack sits you back down and slips out of you, not moving from between your legs. He wraps his arms tightly around your waist as you throw yours limply over his shoulders, resting your cheek under his chin. “Hey,” you whisper when you find some kind of clarity in your post-coital haze. “Jack?”

“Hm, yeah, Sugar?”

You can’t help laughing as you force out the sentence stuck in your head. “Didn’t you say you had coffee for me?”

He busts out laughing, the expression shaking his whole body as he holds you. “Oh, mercy, darlin’, you are too much.” He finally pulls away from you, and you brush a hand over his forehead, pushing his hair out of his face. “Go on and get cleaned up, I’ll make you a fresh cup. Ain’t no way you want the cold one left over from before.”

You smile, and it fills your whole soul when he reflects it back at you. “You’re a good man, Jack Daniels.”