prev. honestly-shite

Frankie towers over you both, relentlessly pushing every thick inch of him into you. His hands grasp at Frank's shoulder and your hip for stability. In mind-numbing contrast, Frank is barely moving beneath you, occasionally giving a lazy thrust for some extra friction. It's tight with them both claiming your pussy and somewhere in the back of your mind you're still shocked they both fit.

Then again, Fish had made sure they would, eating you out until he was confident you were wet enough. Frank had occupied his teasing mouth and rough hands with your tits, just to help things along. Those same hands are now gripping your trembling thighs, holding you open wide while the two men make a mess of you.

"Eyes on me, hermosa," Frankie demands from above you.

It's difficult, but you manage to peel your eyes open. Your head remains tilted back on Frank's large shoulder, unable to properly support the thick cotton weight of your own body.

Frankie's eyes are blown almost entirely black with arousal, flickering between you and Frank. His curls are sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat. "Good girl, look so pretty taking us both." Frankie snaps his hips harder as he compliments you, making both you and Frank moan.

You can tell they're both close. You can feel them both throbbing inside of you, edging closer to their releases.

"What do you need, pretty girl? What's it going to take to make you come for us?" Frank asks, his breath is hot against your cheek.

Your mind has gone foggy, barely able to focus on anything other than the two cocks stuffed inside you. "M-more," you manage to whine.

"Atta girl,” Frank says. He allows one leg to fall, a quick readjustment of his and Frankie’s arms, and the pad of his fingers are ghosting over your mound. He's barely touching you, holding out from giving what you need.

A needy, debauched sound echoes from your throat, vocalizing words your need where words are failing you. Frankie gives a small nod. "Give it to her. She's been good."

You can hear the smile on Frank's face. "Awe Cat, I was only teasing her a little."

Like a good soldier he follows Frankie's orders, finally rubbing small rapid circles over your clit. "Oh FUCK," you scream, not caring about the thin hotel walls.

"That's it, cum for us baby," Frank eggs you on, thrusting into you with more purpose alongside Frankie. You've been on the edge for so long that it takes almost nothing to let go.

It's too overwhelming you keep your eyes open like Frankie asked. They squeeze shut as your arousal floods them, legs shaking with pleasure. Your already tight pussy clenches around them and with a few more thrusts you feel them shuddering above and beneath you.

They both empty themselves into you, releases combining and spilling out. Frankie pulls out of you first. A soft grunt falls from his lips before helping Frank to move your nearly limp body from off of him.

Sideways and facedown on the bed, you barely have enough consciousness left to keep yourself from drooling. You've never cum that hard in your life. Hands are running over your sweat slicked skin, slowly grounding you and allowing your return to the land of the living.

Frankie's face suddenly appears before you. His cheek is smushed from the mattress, eyes shining brightly. "¿Estás bien hermosa?"

You give him what you're sure is an incredibly dopey grin. "I'm fantastic."

Frankie's smile widens and then disappears from your view. Frank's hands are gently grabbing at the globes of your ass, perfectly content to enjoy their softness.

"Good," Frankie says. "Because I'm not done with you yet."

Your question about what he means is on the tip of your tongue, answered immediately by the tip of his sinking between your cum slick folds. The greedy noises Frankie makes is enough to relight the spark of arousal you had just thought quenched.

Frank repositions himself on the bed, placing your head on his lap while Frankie cleans you with his tongue. Frank's knuckles run over your skin. Gently he traces the bridge of your nose, the edge of your jaw, before following your pulse down your neck.

You reach up and grip at Frank's hip when Frankie plunges his tongue deeper. He builds you up to a slow, sudden orgasm that you weren't even sure you'd be capable of. Overstimulation forces a few tears to slip from your eyes, the soft smile on your lips revealing your true emotion.

You look up to see Frankie's lips crash against Frank's, sharing the combined taste of all three of you with him. It's messy, all tongues and teeth, and if you weren't so blissed out you'd be getting turned on all over again. Frankie is obviously ready to go again, his time spent between your legs feeding his arousal.

Lethargically you twist on the mattress, keeping Frank's firm thigh as your pillow. You watch Frank's hand wrap around Frankie's thick length, working him towards a second release.

Frankie's fingers dig into Frank's muscles where he's holding onto him, sure to leave behind the most loving bruises Frank has ever received. "Shit, Castle," Frankie grunts.

You're still not sure you've regained full motor functions, but you reach out, carefully massaging Frankie's balls. He doesn't last long after that. Frankie pulls Frank in towards him, pressing their foreheads together as he spills over the marine's hand. You don't give Frank a second to wonder about cleanup, licking his fingers and palm clean.

You'd have to be blind to not notice Frank's proud erection next to your head. "Do you want me to-" you start to ask, Frank cutting you off with a quick shake of his head.

"Later, pretty lady."

The three of you reposition in the bed, arms and limbs tangled together. You don't fall asleep, instead enjoying the feeling of being pressed together, breaths and hearts in sync with each other. You press kisses into any strip of skin available, indiscriminate in who receives your love. They're equally indiscriminate with theirs and your chest swells with affection towards these two hardened men who treat you with so much affection.

+++

I'm only using my everything taglist for this filth bc I'm lazy 😅

“Is this Beau?”

The question is curious, unimposing, but you still fumble the wine glass in your hand, just barely getting it into the cupboard without dropping it. Taking a centering breath, you turn and look to where Frankie is standing in the living room, near the bookshelf. He’d offered to put away the cookbook you had used for dinner while you stowed the clean dishes. Unsurprisingly, he’d spotted the framed photo right away. Slowly, you pad over to him.

“Yes, that’s him.”

Warm brown eyes meet yours before drifting back over to the photograph.

“This hasn’t been here the whole time, right?” he asks, concerned, and you almost want to laugh. As if your ever-observant pilot would miss something like this.

“I just put it here this week,” you lick your lips, your fingers finding the hem of your shirt, twisting in the fabric as you try to grapple with the weight of grief settling in your chest.

After you’d lost Beau, your immediate response had been to hide away all traces of him. Moving made it easier — photos, clothing, books, love notes, all of it shoved away into cardboard boxes, destined for their new home at the back of your closet where you could pretend they didn’t exist. Some nights, you did forget they were there. Other nights, they had mocked you relentlessly, full of the left-behind mementos of someone who only existed in your memories, now.

But over the past three months, you’d slowly been finding the strength to sort through it (after learning from your incident last year with his clothing), having missed the little touches of him around the house.

It started with putting his favorite books back onto the shelf, nestled next to your own, keeping quiet company together. A drawer in your desk became dedicated to smaller tokens and old love letters, tucked away within the pages of the journal you write to him in. Your written words to each other, pressed together between pages, like the way he’s pressed inside your heart.

Pictures were more challenging, but you’d finally decided to put your favorite one back up on the shelf earlier this week. You’d been strategic, setting the framed photo up on the bookshelf in the corner. Tucked away so you could see him when you wanted to, but not in a place that would serve as a constant reminder of his absence. Your mind did that enough.

You step forward, adjusting the frame with a nostalgic smile. You let your fingers drift to the small glass ring box in front of the photo — the new resting place for the rings you once wore around your neck. You’d been keeping the box on your dresser, having moved the rings into it several weeks ago, but keeping them next to his photo felt right. You can feel Frankie watching you, but he remains silent. His gaze darts back to the picture and the glass box before finding you again.

“The rings, too?” he asks softly, and part of you wants to hate him for how delicately he tip-toes around this subject. Like a small, petulant child throwing a tantrum, a tiny voice inside your head wants to scream at him. It wants him to force answers from you, wants him to demand you keep all evidence of Beau hidden away forever.

It wants to give you a reason to push him away.

Because this is scary.

Scary because you know you should let yourself be vulnerable. Open up to Frankie about Beau, spill out your cherished memories, relive your favorite moments with him. But, it also means sharing the most fragile part of your soul, the bruise that won’t heal, the one you still feel the dull ache of on difficult days. The idea of letting him in that way — you know if you do, there’s no turning back, and the idea is as terrifying as it is thrilling.

You shake the thought away. It’s unfair to both of you — Frankie’s always been so patient, never taking what you’re not willing to give. And you’ve eagerly pushed the topic away every time it comes up, steering away from the ever-present dead elephant in the room that you carry with you wherever you go. Guilt and grief combine, a turbulent concoction that’s poised to set you into a tailspin, but then Frankie’s calm voice pilots you back to him.

“El? Where’d you go?” His hands come up to rest on your shoulders, thumbs stroking a pattern into the fabric of your worn tee. He’d caught it, how your mind skittered away at the mere thought of opening up, and instead of pressing for more, he simply drew you back to him.

You wonder if you deserve him. Why should you burden him with the weight of your grief? He already carries so much on his own; adding to it would eat you alive. Frankie dips his head lower, forcing your eyes to meet, his face curious and expectant. You realize you still haven’t answered him.

“Sorry, I–nowhere, I was just thinking.”

It’s a cop-out answer, and you both know it.

“You know you didn’t have to take them off for my sake, right?” he asks, and the way you instantly bristle shocks you both. You step out of his reach, wrenching your body away from him, the heat of anger on your tongue issuing a scathing answer.

“I didn’t take them off for you.” Your tone is sharp, one you so rarely use, and you hate yourself for making him shrink in on himself. He holds his hands up, gesturing he means no harm.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.” He looks like a scolded child, his worried, apologetic eyes unable to meet yours. Of all the things you two can talk about, this is one you can’t seem to get past — and the burden lies squarely on you. It sits in the pit of your stomach, rotting away, a festering wound you still won’t tend to, and you worry that it’ll drive a wedge between the two of you if you continue avoiding it. Of course, if you just opened up a little, maybe listened to Nadia’s advice for once, echoes of just talk to him, El, bouncing around your brain on repeat. You shake your head, your fingers coming up to rub at your eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” you breathe out, and he allows himself to take up space again. You grab the ring box off the bookshelf, opening it up to look at the rings inside, still living on the chain you’d placed them on so long ago. Then, touching Beau’s wedding band with your fingers, you let out a sigh, trying to find some way to explain your decision to Frankie.

“It isn’t the same, but it took me a while to take mine off after my divorce.”

You meet his eyes. He looks so vulnerable, shy to admit it took him time to take off the ring his ex-wife had put there. Perhaps it is a bit embarrassing to him, shirking the trope of a man eager to put his ex-wife firmly in his past. He shrugs helplessly, his eyes dropping to the ring pinched between your fingers.

“Felt like I was giving up. Tossing away everything that ever existed between us,” he whispers, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, brow pinched in thought.

Your heart lurches. He’s so sentimental, in so many ways you never expected but have come to appreciate. This thoughtful man who wears his late father’s leather jacket in winter, who thumbs through his pile of photo albums regularly, who displays challenge coins from fellow soldiers in a small shadow box on a shelf in his bedroom, who couldn’t bring himself to take off his wedding band even after his wife left him.

It stands to reason, he might be very understanding of your choices.

“It was time,” you start, placing the rings back into the box before continuing. “I couldn’t–” You cut yourself off, offering a small hand gesture that you hope explains what you can’t say out loud.

Because what you want to say is unfair:

I couldn’t wear mine and my husband’s rings over my heart while wanting you. I couldn’t wear them while kissing you in your doorway. I couldn’t wear them when you took me out for ice cream and kissed me breathless in the cab of your truck. Couldn’t wear them when you’d pulled out every stop to take me on a date. Couldn’t wear them while your fingers were inside me; while it was your name I cried out in ecstasy. Couldn’t wear them while sleeping next to you at night. Won’t be able to wear them when you press inside me, when we find a home in one another.

Frankie steps forward, gingerly taking the box from your hands and setting it back on the shelf. He’s careful, mirroring the man you first met in your driveway, handling your husband’s tools in that gentle way that forever left an impression on your heart.

“You know I’d never ask you to, right?” he asks, concern etched on his brow. You offer a small smile, tipping up onto your toes to plant a kiss on the bare patch in his beard.

“I know. I chose to. It felt right.” You shrug a shoulder and hold his gaze. He looks like he wants to say more. You wrap your arms around his middle, tilting your head to look up at him.

“What is it?”

“I hope you know you can always talk to me about him,” he whispers, dropping his lips to your forehead. You nod against the pressure of his lips, breathing him in with a centering breath. He’s spice, clean laundry, a hint of garlic and wine from dinner, the salt of his skin. It’s calming and encouraging all in one breath.

Better late than never, right?

“Okay. Let’s talk about him,” you say, and you feel Frankie go still in your arms.

“Only if you want. I don’t want to force you.” His voice carries the slight edge of panic, the worry of a man who never wants to overstep—a man who, despite appearing rough around his edges, chooses to be gentle whenever he can, chooses kindness every day. You pull from his arms, squatting down to remove a photo album off the bottom shelf.

“You’re not forcing me. I’m ready to talk about him,” you pause, standing back up, clutching the album to your chest. You reach for his hand, and he squeezes it tight, soft eyes finding yours.

“I want to tell you so many things about him,” you offer a small, hopeful smile, feeling Frankie’s thumb run the length of your knuckles as he nods, his eyes flicking to the couch. Silently, you lead him to the sofa, where the two of you curl up together, and you spread the album across your laps.

When you open it, the cellophane protecting the photos quietly crinkles. Nadia had painstakingly put together this photo album for you after you’d nearly tossed the old shoebox housing the pictures, too trapped in grief to understand you’d cherish them later. She’d even taken the time to pull photos from your phone and have them printed to add to the collection. You’re not sure if you ever thanked her and try to suppress the bubble of guilt that crawls up your throat.

You can thank her later.

You look down.

Right on the first page, there’s Beau, the two of you fresh-faced, young, and hopelessly in love.

“This is Beau,” you say, pointing to his photo. “This was on our first anniversary — outside the coffee shop we’d met in.”

“How’d you meet?” Frankie’s question is quiet but curious as he leans forward to take a closer look. You laugh at the memory. It’s nice to laugh when you talk about him.

“It’s very cliché — the barista mixed up our drinks. I ordered a caramel latte with extra caramel sauce, and he ordered a flat white. We each got our drinks, took one sip, and practically did spit takes," you explain, fingers stroking the photo of Beau’s smiling face. Frankie’s chuckle is soft in your ear.

“You do like your coffee disgusting.”

You twist to look at him, feeling your smile stretch across your face. You give him a light, playful smack on the center of his chest with your hand. His laugh grows fuller, and he captures your hand in his, placing a smiling kiss on the back of your hand.

“Shut up. You and your coffee snobbery,” you retort, teasingly flicking your tongue out at him. He nips at your skin gently, and you pull your hand away, reaching to tug on his earlobe.

“Be nice,” you scold, no weight behind it. He shifts, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You drop your hand back to the pictures. Turning the page, you’re met with a few cozy photos of the two of you in winter gear, snow-capped mountains behind you.

“Our first trip together,” you explain, pointing to a picture of a cabin. “Late autumn in the Adirondacks.”

“Looks cold,” Frankie muses out, eyes scanning the page. He drops a kiss on your shoulder while you continue.

“It was. We were so stupid and didn’t pack enough warm clothing. Some gift shop nearby made a killing off of us buying their overpriced socks and sweaters.” You laugh at the memory, and then another one rushes in — how you’d kept each other warm at night. You decide to keep those memories to yourself. They’d always stay between you and Beau.

The next page is filled with a few more trips, and you fill in some details for Frankie: Mexico, and how you’d both spent the majority of the trip in bed with the flu you’d picked up on the plane. New Orleans, and how the two of you hardly stopped eating the entire time you were there. Some various weekend trips with Nadia and Julien, including one alcohol-fueled long weekend in Vegas you barely remember.

There are other photos peppered throughout: your first Christmas together and the Charlie Brown-esque tree you’d insisted on getting, feeling bad for it being left alone at the tree lot (it had barely fit into your shoebox apartment). A candid shot from a dinner party at Nadia’s, one of your favorites — Beau with his head tipped back mid-laugh while you stuck your tongue out at him. A pang of guilt floods you when you realize you don’t even remember what his laugh sounds like anymore. You quickly turn the page.

“Oh,” you breathe out, and Frankie draws you further into his side. You spare a glance at him, but his eyes are already on the page in front of you, taking in the photos of your wedding day. You suck in a breath as the memories of that day come to the forefront of your mind. You press into Frankie, seeking all the serenity he so easily puts forth around you. His arm squeezes affectionately around your shoulders.

“Obviously, this was our wedding day.” To your surprise, you’re able to keep your voice level, even with the wave of bittersweet nostalgia that hits you.

“You both look incredible,” he whispers, leaning closer to get a better look. “And so in love.” He gently taps one of the photos. You nod, a slight movement of your head, letting out a weighted breath.

“Yeah. We were,” you admit, swallowing around the lump in your throat. Frankie hums affectionately, his eyes scanning over the pictures again. He points to the one that’s your favorite — you sat across Beau’s lap, kissing his cheek with a broad smile while he attempted to sign his name onto your marriage license.

“Vanessa and I had a very similar photo,” his voice is laced with gentle, wistful affection. “You look so happy here.”

“I was.” It comes out without hesitation, only for you to realize with horror how it must sound, and you twist to look at him. He senses your panic, his thumb rubbing a soothing pattern into your shoulder. You’re about to rush to an apology, in no way meaning to have insinuated that you aren’t happy with him, but he’s quietly shushing you while tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“It’s okay,” he starts, his eyes finding yours, and you can see he’s as calm as ever. An anchor in a storm, a light in the dark, he’s always been able to meet you where you’re at.

“I’m not afraid of it, you know,” he whispers, leaning over and pressing his lips to your temple.

“Of what?” You match his volume. He pulls back to look at you, still keeping you firmly pressed to his side.

“All the love you still have for him.”

Your breath catches, and Frankie’s ready for your tears before they’re able to track the length of your cheeks, his thumb catching them quickly.

“I’ll always love him,” you choke out around a well of tears, and Frankie gives you a soft, acknowledging smile.

“I know,” his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, a momentary pause before he continues. “It won’t scare me away.” Brown eyes meet yours, and the strangled whimper you hear must be your own.

All the things you want to say get trapped in your chest, his words leaving you speechless. They’re everything you’ve needed to hear without knowing it.

A measured drop of silence flows between you, and then you’re moving without thought, planting yourself into Frankie’s lap. Years of honed instinct allow him to cradle you in one arm while saving the photo album from landing on the floor with the other. He shifts, setting the photos off to the side, and pulls you flush against him, your knees on either side of his hips, face pressing to the soft skin on his neck. His palms skate down your back; warm, soothing, comforting.

Safe.

So you break.

Hot, fat, salty tears, a choked wail, a death grip on his t-shirt. Sobs burst from your throat, muffled by the hollow of his neck where you let them land. It’s not the first time you’ve cried like this, far from it. The early days were filled with fits of tears, interspersed with long periods of silence and stillness. But this is the first time you’ve ever let someone see you cry like this. Even around close friends and family, you always waited until you could hide behind closed doors before falling apart. People never know what to do or say, and you’d quickly learned to save everyone the awkward exchange, finding solitude whenever your grief got too heavy.

It’s a profoundly lonely way to cope.

“Let it out, baby. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.” Frankie whispers in his low husk, his arms wrapping around you to pull you as close as possible. You bury your face deeper into his neck and break several sobs there, your body rocking against his.

I’m not going anywhere.

You hear it in your mind, over and over, like steady waves lapping on the shore of your heart. You try to control your breathing, each inhale punctuated by a sharp, hiccupped sob, and Frankie holds you tight through each one, murmuring soft Spanish into your hair.

I’m not going anywhere.

An echo of the exact whispered words he’d confessed across the center console of your car on New Year’s Eve, with so much longing in his eyes, your heart nearly burst from your chest. Four words, each with equal weight, that had hung in the air between you that night, carving out a space in your soul. He’d said it like a promise then, but now it sounds like an oath.

I’m not going anywhere.

Eventually, your sobs soften into sniffles, your breathing returning to something more controlled and composed. Finally, you sit up, meeting his eyes, his own lash line glistening with tears. Your heart breaks at the sight, forehead finding his with a choked, disbelieving laugh.

“Why are you crying?” You ask, breathing out across his face, your lips finding his. It’s all hot breaths and salty tears and runny noses, and neither of you care.

“When you hurt, I hurt,” he answers in a tear-husked voice. The two of you are pressed nose to nose, the arch of his the perfect fit to the curve of yours. Your thumbs find his cheeks, wiping away the wetness under his eyes, and he mirrors the action, sweeping his large thumbs across your tear tracks. You press your cheek into his palm, murmuring an apology against his skin.

“I’m sorry. I miss him. I never get to talk about him.”

It feels good to say out loud, like finally sharing a secret you’ve been hanging onto for too long. Frankie cradles your face in his hands. He straightens his back, gentle eyes pinning you in place.

“You can always talk to me about him whenever you want. I promise. Okay?” His eyebrows lift, pinching his brow, and it endears him to you. You nod, accepting, your lips finding the inside of his palm. You settle your hands on his warm chest, feeling his heartbeat just under your fingertips, your eyes watching the rise and fall of his breaths. You never could’ve imagined how much you’d relish watching someone live, see life thrum through them, but feeling him under you this way brings a sense of peace you didn’t think you’d ever feel again.

“I know it gets too heavy sometimes,” Frankie starts, drawing your eyes back to his, and you know he speaks from experience — he’s certainly had his fair share of loss. His eyes search your face before continuing.

“Let me help you carry it?”

You feel your lip wobble again, the raw edges of your emotions too tender to form words. You nod softly, your head finding his shoulder, snuggling into his warmth.

“I’ll start crying again,” you weakly croak out, attempting the joke. His hand strokes your hair, smoothing the frizz you’re sure is there, and he turns his head to kiss your temple.

“Then I have no choice but to keep holding you.”

Even though he frames it with a teasing tone, you hear how genuine he is under it.

“Sounds good to me,” you lift your head to find his lips for a soft kiss. “Thank you,” you breathe out against them after pulling away.

“Anytime,” he reaches up to cup your jaw, his eyes shining in the warm light of the room with a familiar look you still can’t quite place, but it always manages to set loose something warm and fuzzy in your chest. The feeling grows, bubbling up your throat and putting words on your tongue that you aren’t ready to say.

You choose different ones instead. Because if Frankie isn’t afraid, you shouldn’t be either.

“Would you stay here tonight?” you ask quietly, the significant weight of it not lost on him. His smile reaches his eyes, and he pulls you in for another achingly tender kiss, his answer a whisper against your lips.

“I’d love to.”

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A/N: Okay, real talk: I agonized over this chapter. Every paragraph, every sentence, every word. It was crucial to me to get this one right because this is a talk these two needed to have before things can move forward for them (both physically and emotionally). Frankie said some things Ellie desperately needed to hear (and he desperately needed to say). Perhaps this wasn't the chapter people were expecting, but it's the chapter these two needed, and I'm always going to give my babies everything they deserve.

Next chapter though... 😈 well, you'll see 😇