#somewhere inbetween

I am considering this a stand alone fic. WARNING this is smut/ no gender

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Frank hasn’t slept like this in—

Fuck.

He doesn’t even know how long.

Maybe never.

It’s deep. Heavy. A kind of sleep that doesn’t come easy to a man like him, a man whose body is wired for war, for constant movement, for fighting. But this—this—is different.

He’s warm.

The sheets are soft, twisted around his legs, and the golden morning sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a glow over his naked skin.

And fuck—he feels good.

Better than good. He feels light. Like his body isn’t weighed down by years of war and violence and shit he’d rather not think about.

But there’s something else.

A sensation that pulls him from the heavy haze of sleep, something wet, something hot, something—

Oh, fuck.

His breath catches.

His muscles lock up for half a second before melting as he opens his eyes, blinking against the sunlight, his brain still sluggish with sleep.

And then—

“Jesus Christ—”

His head tips back, lips parting as a deep, guttural groan tears out of his throat.

Because fuck.

Fuck.

You’re on him.

Your mouth wrapped around him, tongue lazily swirling over the head, slow, teasing, like you’ve got all the time in the world.

And you don’t even realize he’s awake yet.

His hand flies to your hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands, grip tight, but not to pull you away—fuck, no. He’s holding on for dear life.

His hips twitch, a sharp breath leaving him as you take him deeper, your mouth hot and wet and so fucking perfect that he damn near loses it right then and there.

“Jesus, baby,” he grits out, voice still thick with sleep, low and wrecked. “You tryna kill me first thing in the morning?”

You pause.

And oh, that’s the worst part—because he can feel your lips curve into a smug little smile before you sink down further, taking more of him, slow and unforgiving.

His breath shudders.

“Holy—fucking—shit.”

Your eyes flick up, meeting his, and fuck, you’re enjoying this. That little mischievous glint in your gaze, the way your hands are gripping his thighs, the way you look so fucking innocent despite the fact that you’re currently sucking his soul out through his dick—

“Christ, sweetheart,” he rasps, his fingers tightening in your hair. “You tryna kill me or what?”

You hum around him.

And fuck—he feels it.

His abs clench, his breath stutters, his free hand flying to grip the sheets because holy fuck, he’s not gonna survive this.

“That’s what I thought,” you murmur when you finally pull off him, voice thick with amusement, your tongue darting out to tease him, slow and lazy, your nails raking lightly up his thighs. “Big, tough soldier can’t handle a little love first thing in the morning?”

Frank laughs.

A real laugh—deep and gravelly and still sleep-warm.

Then his grip tightens in your hair, and in the next second—

You’re on your back.

His weight covers you, his mouth crashing to yours, his hands everywhere, and fuck—

If you wanted to wreck him first thing in the morning—

He’s about to return the favor.

.

.

Bob Dylan - Shelter from the Storm

Frank Turner - 'Somewhere Inbetween' (Official Video)

some dramatic Dead

I am theirs. That's plural - as in both of them. I am just as much my Father's daughter as I am Mummy's little terror. I am half of each of them, there's nothing to consider.