it be like that sometimes

He’s never been able to fully articulate why he loves this painting so much. If asked, he would only say it seems to bring him comfort and beginning during his early days in the city, he’s visited it more times than he can count. He’s memorized the picture, has a postcard of it in his room, has thought about buying a print for his house, but deciding that nothing would come close to the real thing, he’s never done it.

He tried to show it to Cee once, waiting for the same intense connection from her. And while he could tell she appreciated it, she didn’t quite get it — but then again, neither does he.

He felt it the first time he saw it: tired, sleep ringing the rims of his eyes from working an overnight shift at the site, he wandered into the museum, seeking refuge. The iconic city overwhelmingly busy with people, cars, traffic and movement, the vast expanse of endless concrete and steel had been a lot to take in at first but walking through the tall doors of MoMA, he instantly fell in love with the quiet.

There was a certain peace in the hush of reverence, in the squeaks of sneakers on the floor, in the contemplation felt in the air. He felt like he was underwater, but not drowning in a sea of people like he felt outside the building, but rather letting himself sink under the waves to be surrounded by silence.

Unmoored in his transient lifestyle, he sought solace in those white washed walls and found it.

He hoped to find it again today, thinking of Cee.

Cee. Rising early to catch the train, coming home late only to fix something to eat and head straight to her room; headphones around her neck constantly.

Closed off, it's a version of her that he’s seen before, but he’s always been able to pull her out of it. He’s impulsive, yet calculating. Quick thinking on his feet, able to adapt. She, however, has always needed more time. Through living with her for so long, he knows that she needs that time with her thoughts before she comes to a decision, and respecting that process as probably a better way of problem solving, he’s always allowed her that space.

But it’s been a couple weeks, and he’s growing restless.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, and checks the screen again and when he sees a text from you, the sight of it lifts the corner of his mouth. He swipes it, selecting the phone icon.

“Hello, Birdie,” he greets you when you answer. Keeping his voice down, he stands to walk out into the hallway.

“Hey,” you answer, the sound of traffic in the background. “I love how you always call me back when I text you. I think you’re the only person I know that does that.”

He smiles, a mirror of the one heard in your voice.

“What are you up to?” he asks.

“I just got out of yoga. What are you doing?”

“Nothing, just out and about. How was class?”

He listens while you speak, his shoulder leaning against the bleached wall and his eyes look out over the courtyard. Neat lines of sidewalk border the white center of the open space, and he watches cars creep down W 54th Street with their snow covered tops.

“I was going to make something to eat at home, and then work a little,” you continue, slightly out of breath in your pace down the street. “How is everything going over there?”

He sighs. “The same.”

You stay silent, and he shifts on his feet, walking the length of the floor to ceiling windows.

“I was wondering if you wanted to get together tonight?” One hand on the phone, he stuffs his other in his pocket and it squeezes the knit of his hat, rubbing it between his fingers. “Maybe I could bring you dinner, or at least come eat with you?”

“Ez –,” you start, and he cuts you off.

“I know you don’t feel like I should since she’s still mad. I know. And I won’t, if you don’t want me to.”

“I do. You know I do.”

“I miss you, Birdie. I want to see you.”

“I want to see you too, I just – I just don’t want to cause any more trouble.” Your connection crackles, and he listens. When you speak again, he closes his eyes at the defeat in your tone, your voice quieting.

“She still won’t even look at me at school, you know? And you live with her. I don’t want to make it worse. I feel like we just probably shouldn’t, right? Not until you settle things with her?”

He frowns, looking down at the concrete floor and he takes careful steps, turning around to slowly pace along the same path.

“Right, Ezra?” you ask, pleading. “Don’t you think? I just feel like I’ve already done too much –”

“No,” he says, suddenly fierce. He holds the phone tighter to his ear. “No. This isn’t your fault. I told you that.”

“I know,” you sigh. “I know. But it is a little bit my fault. It wasn’t all you.”

People pass by with their maps, ignoring the sole man taking an intense, intimate phone call in the corner of the room.

He listens to the guilt in your voice, his brow pulling together and he rubs at the tension there. Closing his eyes, he gives in.

“Text me when you get home then? So I know you got there safe?”

“I will,” you reply softly. “And I’ll call you tonight, before bed. Okay?”

“Okay, Birdie.”

You say your goodbyes and he hangs up, letting his hand drop limply to the side with his phone. He taps it against the outside of his leg, continuing to look out the window, his jaw shifting in thought. Standing there for a moment, he pockets his phone with a sigh and turns back towards the room, dragging his fingers again through his rumpled hair.

Finding a couple now sitting on the bench in front of his painting, he sits down on the end of it.

The bright oranges against the green palm fronds of the tree. The pink petals. The glow of the lion’s eyes.

He focuses on the shades of red in the ottoman, narrowing his eyes until he can discern the individual brush lines in the paint.

Unconsciously, his thumb presses against the bullseye tattoo on his other hand and he worries at the skin for a moment. He looks down at the faded ink, remembering Cee’s small hand holding the pen she used to carefully draw it on with. A black sharpie, before he realized you don’t usually give permanent markers to kids.

Liking the look of it, he went out and got it tattooed the very same day and she had been delighted when she got home from school, demanding her own matching one. He remembers the careful way she had redrawn the mark for weeks afterwards on her own skin, showing him every time.

Her small face shifts into her adolescent one, and then her older one, and then from the night of their fight. Her face shifts into your face: your quick smile, your unguarded openness. It shifts again into what he imagines it looks like now, with the tight tension he heard in your voice on the phone. He could hear sadness curled around the edges of it, even regret, maybe and he feels a protective, sharp push back against that for you.

The lion in the painting seems to emerge from the trees more clearly, his eyes coming into sharper focus. The size of the painting looms large in front of him, and he slips his hand into his pocket again, curling his fingers around his phone.

The defeat in your voice, the hesitation. The individual leaves of the trees. The softness of your skin; the velvet of the brown chaise. The pliant mold of your mouth; ripe rounds of fruit for the picking. Your apartment and your books and your cups of coffee and the throw on your couch; the warmth of the painting.

He thinks about going home, to the place that’s become a silent, cold thing and the painting no longer comforts him, impatience instead coursing through him.

Fuck this.

He stands, walking out of the room.

–

People pushing past you in their hurry, you end your phone call and turn the corner, walking back to your apartment. Distracted, you see nothing of your surroundings, instead hearing the frustration and then resignation in his voice on a loop in your head. Waiting for a light to cross, you rub your icy fingers against your temple, closing your eyes.

Two weeks.

Damp creeps into your bones and your mood as you cross, side stepping scattered clumps of disintegrating garbage. The mashed, pulpy indiscernible pieces of it slowly surfacing as the snow melts, you hate this part of winter the most. Bitter, cold and damp, black piles of ice crusted snow gracing the corners of every block.

Misjudging a puddle for something shallower than it is, it soaks into the sole of your boot and grimacing, you think back to your visit to the farmer’s market in the summertime, wistfully longing for any semblance of heat from the sun.

Or from the gaze of the person who had been with you.

Him. You think about him so much it’s ridiculous. Longing washes over your skin, seeping into your limbs and weighing them down until it’s a visible thing; one that makes you blanch when you look into the mirror every morning. You tighten your hand around your phone, wanting to call him back when you think about his earnest request earlier to come over, but then you remember her face in your kitchen.

Her cold stare, her crossed arms, her obvious hurt.

It’s the same look you’re confronted with every time you see her in your classes, or on campus, or in your study groups. The way you had woven your lives together once the best thing in the world, it was now cruel how often you’re reminded of it. Impossible to completely avoid each other, she sits away from you in lecture halls, crosses to the other side of paths on campus when she sees you coming, and sits in a different section of the library.

Or, she must, because you don’t see her there anymore.

Ezra assured you she’d get over it, his soothing voice telling you that she just needed time to process and she always has, but you couldn’t see her processing this. No, this was a breach of her trust, something that she didn’t dole out lightly. You knew you deserved this punishment, and so you took it, punishing yourself even further by not allowing him to come over.

You knew it must hurt him, but you didn’t know what else to do. You did this. You came between them, you cracked open this void, inserted yourself where you shouldn’t, your secret prying it open until the expanse was so big they couldn’t reach the other side. You knew this was going to happen, and yet you selfishly pushed forward anyway, ignoring the consequences.

Everytime he asked to come over, you felt yourself waver, wanting nothing more than to step into the comforting wrap of his arms and press your face against the body warmed t-shirt he was wearing, but you held off. Telling yourself that it was better this way for everyone, you reasoned late at night when you lay awake that it was better that they have each other; their relationship more important anyway. Better that they mend their differences now, without the distraction of you in the picture.

But you miss him. Christ, you miss him.

Making a face at the bleak, matte wall of gray clouds that hang over the city, you walk down the street covered in slush, and the sound of tires splashing through heavy water adds to the background noise of your block. Digging your keys out from your bag, you’re thinking about taking a hot shower when you hear someone calling your name.

Turning around, you see Ezra, his steps rapid, a jog from down the block where he’s parked and the mere sight of him has you immediately regretting every time you told him not to come over.

“Hey,” he greets you when he comes close and though he’s surprised when you step right into his arms, it only shows for a second before he holds you tighter.

“Hey,” he says again, this time just for your ears.

You stand there for a moment, breathing him in before you let him go, looking up at him for a moment.

The excuses in your mind are immediate: she already knows, you can allow yourself this, you’re lucky enough to be wanted by him, and his presence reminds you of how much time you have left with it.

Grabbing his hand, you lead him into your building.

–

“There really isn’t much here, Birdie,” he laments, calling out to you while letting your fridge close. He turns, scraping his hand over the curve of his jaw. “I was gonna try to make you something to eat, to warm you up.”

He scoops used dishes from the counter, placing them in the sink and wonders if he should just order something for delivery. Soup, or maybe some ramen from the place you like down the street.

You round the corner of your bedroom, relishing the sight of him in your kitchen again and when you walk into the room, his hand stills on the open cupboard door, his eyebrows rising as you strip your sweat damp shirt off.

“Don’t worry about it. I was going to hop in the shower, rinse some of this sweat off.”

He drinks you in, openly running his eyes down your body. Just like you are, he’s taking in what he’s only seen in his imagination these last few weeks.

“Did you wear that out here on purpose?”

You frown and then smile, looking down at your leggings and sports bra, before looking back up at him.

“No,” you answer him indulgently, and he pouts, coming closer.

“Too bad.” He stops right in front of you, blatant desire on his face as he admires your throat, your breasts, your stomach. His hand reaches out, innocently brushing his knuckle against the bare skin just under the band of the bra and you hold your breath.

His eyes flit up to your face, gauging your reaction.

He isn’t sure how far he should push, knowing that he came over here to talk to you, and you don’t know how far you should let him go. In the end, you stay still, letting yourself slip under because it’s always been that way with him — him, pushing the limits of how far he can go and you, succumbing.

Keeping his eyes on your face, he presses a single finger underneath the band, teasing at the sensitive area between your breasts. Slightly damp with sweat, it slips against your skin easily and you let out a shaky breath, closing your eyes.

The very reason you went to yoga was to rid yourself of pent up energy, and it's like he can sense it, feeding off it. Your body had grown used to being used, and waking up restless and wanting with a slick ache between your legs, he’s only been in your house for ten minutes before you can tell he knows.

Your plan had been to take a shower and give yourself a chance to think about what to say to him, but when another finger of his join the first, you feel your resolve crumble.

No longer seeing Cee’s face in this kitchen, all you see is his.

Reaching for him, you wrap your hand around the nape of his neck to pull him in for a kiss and he meets you there, pressing his mouth to yours. Tender at first, then growing in hunger, he opens it wider and he walks you backwards down the hallway, your kisses growing in their need. When you get to your bedroom, he pushes you down onto your bed and following you, the button of his jeans digs into your stomach when he grinds his hips into the cradle of your thighs. His hands are a frantic, weighted drag up your sides to your face, where he holds your jaw as he forces your mouth open wider, sliding his tongue against yours.

His mouth leaves you, your chest heaving as you draw in air and the wet heat of his tongue curls around the edge of your jaw, his mouth tasting the hollow below your ear, molding around your throat with a harsh suck. You taste so good, slightly salty with sweat and it lingers on his lips as he continues his path down, devouring the tightly compressed swell of your breasts.

He sticks his tongue down into your cleavage, licking a wide stripe through the plush rounds and you groan, looking down to see his dark brown eyes looking right at you.

“You taste so fucking good, Birdie,” he breathes, his fingers pulling at the top of the bra, tugging it down to reach more of your skin. He sucks your skin into his mouth, his teeth biting down and when you squirm under him with a whine, he pulls back.

Up in a flash, he kneels between your legs and his nails catch your skin when he drags your leggings and panties down and off, tossing them onto the floor by your bed.

The mattress dips as he drops down between your legs, forcing your thighs open wide around his shoulders.

“Oh –,” the immediacy of his mouth taking you by surprise, the lower half of his face buries itself in you, his tongue sweeping through to gather every bit of arousal he can. His nose nudges against your clit, his bottom lip pushing against the dip of your entrance and his hands wrap around the crease of your legs, tugging you tight to his mouth. You’re already so wet with missing him that it’s sliding down the curve of your ass, even more with what he’s adding and you reach down, weaving your fingers into his hair. Your hips start to roll against his face, and his tongue focuses on your clit, the tip of it working tight circles over the bud.

He’s so noisy - low groans of satisfaction, hums of savor, a grunt of impatience when you squirm too much underneath him and he renews his hold on you, locking you in place with his bruising grip. His urgency brings you higher, your back arching into a severe curve when you start to tense and your head pushes back into your pillow when you warn him that he’s gonna make you come.

You missed this. You needed this. Needed him, and judging by the groan he lets out into you and the greedy hold he has on your body, he needed it too.

He doesn’t slow down even for one second - not when you eventually cry out, not when you flood his mouth, not when you softly whimper afterwards with every pull of your hips back. When he finally does pull his face away, your slick smears on your skin as he kisses the inside of your trembling thighs, his mouth and chin damp with it.

He tastes everything: a broad stripe of his tongue up the slope of your belly, an open mouthed kiss on the side of your ribs, a nibble against the soft swell under your breast as he lifts the tight band of your bra. You feel the damp heat of his mouth over your nipple through the stretchy fabric as he sucks harshly on the peaked bud and then he moves on to the other one, repeating it.

The stiff weight of his cock drags along the inside of your thigh, his length felt through his jeans and he sits up, reaching back to tug his shirt over his head. You do the same, reaching for your bra and he leans forward to still you.

“Leave it on, Birdie. Oh fuck, leave it on.”

Reaching into your bedside table for the lube he placed there weeks ago, he pops the cap and lets it drip out onto your tits; one hand undoing his belt buckle, the other slipping his fingers in a slick slide between the crevice of your breasts. His eyes are a shade darker with each push inside, and he moving them like he’s testing how much give there is, how much room. When everything is wet enough, he stands long enough to push his jeans and briefs down and off, climbing back onto the bed.

Bare from the bottom down, your legs shift restlessly on the bed, trying to satisfy the ache between them as you watch him. He looms above you, holding onto your headboard while he straddles your torso and his skin is hot against yours; his cock is so close to your mouth that it waters automatically at the scent of his skin.

“Fuck,” he groans, lifting the band of your bra to push himself underneath it. You help, lifting the band just enough and it’s such a tight fit that he braces himself on your breast for a moment, squeezing it while he steadies himself. His thighs tense in their bracket around you, and you rest your hands on them, pressing your fingers into the firm muscle before sliding them up to palm his ass. When his hips start to rock forward, the slick slide of his thick cock is so smooth against the plane of your chest and you don’t think you have ever seen anything as hot as him right now, just taking what he wants. Using you.

“I think about this every fucking time you video call me. Every time –”, his breath hitches, his mouth parted as he watches himself disappear inch by inch. Again, again, his seat rocking on your ribs when he begins to ride your chest and leaning forward to curl his grip over the top of your headboard, he looks down at you and bites his bottom lip, watching. You tilt your chin down, sticking your tongue out to meet the tip of his cock and he groans when you lick it, curling the wet muscle around what you can.

Keeping his pace, he reaches back, slipping his lube slicked fingers snug into your cunt, and you arch your hips higher to force him deeper. He pushes them in, brushing against the end of you with a curl and when he starts to fuck you with them, the pace matches the rock of his hips. You palm your breasts, squeezing them tighter around his cock and he groans loudly, grinding into the compressed space.

Heat building at the base of his spine, he could come just like this: fill the hollow of your throat with his spend until it spills down the side of your neck, or smears on your bra or pools on your chest, but he doesn’t want that. He wants to save it to bury deep inside you, knowing that a piece of him is there even when he isn’t and even though you’re asking him to fuck you harder, he pulls out, settling himself between your legs.

His hand shoving the band of your bra up, he needs to feel every inch of your skin against his and you pull it up over your head, throwing it to the end of the bed. His mouth is on yours faster than you can react, his hand reaching down to line himself up and when he pushes into you down to the base with a sharp thrust, you cry out.

“Oh god, I want it,” you moan, wrapping your legs around his waist, digging your fingers into the meat of his ass to encourage him to push in deeper, harder. “I fucking missed it. Fuck me.”

His nose pressed against your cheek, his breathing heavy across the curve of it, he groans, bottoming out again and again; his hips pushing forward to seek out the slick heat of your cunt as if he can’t stop. Fisting your sheet in one hand and cupping the crown of your head with the other, he weighs heavy on top of you, forcing you into the mattress and you almost sob, wanting so much these last few weeks to be buried underneath him, enveloped by his body, surrounded and closed off from the outside world.

And now you finally are, in this bedroom with him.

You’d been missing the comfort of him: the reassuring weight of his body, the low pitch of his voice, his easy confidence. His scent, pressed into your sheets and your couch, into the shirts of his that he leaves behind. You didn’t realize how much you’d needed it until he showed up, even more so when you felt the solidity of his bare skin against yours and you close your eyes, savoring it. Relief pours from your body and into the air, mingling with his own clear desperation.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he groans breathlessly, his mouth catching for a moment on your shoulder. “You’re always so goddamn wet for me. Like I already fucked you full.”

Pushing his arm underneath your back, he rolls you onto your side, holding you tight against his body. His mouth is insistent, hungry, devouring yours as he keeps you in place and you hitch your knees higher, wrapping tight around him. His hand splays over your lower back and he fucks into you like a man starved, his face fitting into the crook of your neck.

Fisting the hair at the crown of his head, you push your fingers through the short dark strands and hold on, his thrusts pushing you up in his arms. He’s murmuring something into your chest, his lips moving against your skin like he’s speaking directly to your heart, but you can’t hear the endearments.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, bringing his mouth to yours before he pulls back to hold your gaze and he takes in your slight frown, your parted lips. Breathing in your every exhale, he matches it with harsh grunt for every snap of his hips.

“My Birdie,” he groans, his hold on you tightening.

You nod quickly, starting to come around him and he groans again, feeling it. Christ, he can feel it, and he keeps fucking you right through it.

“Oh shit, oh shit.” His hips stutter for a moment before he pushes forward, burying himself again, again, and his hold renews, making sure you’re looking at him. “My Birdie. You’re mine, right?”

You are his. His right now. His when you first met him. His when you leave.

The word yes slides out of your mouth as you hit your peak, a plea for him to understand everything you mean when you say that word and the way he’s looking at you tells you he does.

When he comes, you don’t think you’ve ever been held so tight.

–

Weeks of tension having dissipated into the air above your bed, the two of you lay naked and entwined; facing each other, one of your thighs tucked between his. His hand smoothes over the curve of your hip, reaching back to palm the globe of your ass before it follows the line of your spine up, stroking between your shoulder blades.

“I meant to come over here to talk,” he starts, smiling when you start laughing. “I guess that didn’t really work out.”

He leans in, kissing the corner of your still upturned mouth. He presses another one to the tip of your nose, and then settles his head on your pillow, looking at you.

You preen under his attention, his gaze infusing you with warmth. He’s so good at making people feel like they are the most important person in the room when he is talking to them, and you revel in the fact that it’s actually true when it comes to you. His attention makes you feel cared for, important, cherished in a way that you’ve never felt before. You’re gonna miss it when you leave.

“How is it all going?” he asks. “I saw boxes when I came in. Already packing?”

You shrug, closing your eyes to focus on the tickle of his touch. “Okay. It’s been a lot of work already. They wanted another draft, something with more revision skills and it’s been –”

You stop yourself, a sudden longing for Cee. You can talk about this with him, and you know he would understand, but he wouldn’t understand like she would. He would understand the hard work involved, but only she knows the specific challenge you’ve been tasked with. You wish you could talk about it with her.

Things you would tell her, you’ll tell him now. He slides into that space effortlessly, filling that void and so much more, but you miss her too — in ways you can’t articulate.

“It’s been hard,” you finish, letting the subject drop. “But it’s okay.”

When his hand curls around the dip of your waist, you pull it up between the two of you, pressing your mouth to his knuckles. Spreading his calloused hand wide, you fit your fingers with his, your thumb tracing the heel of his hand. Pressing the bullseye tattoo with your thumb, he flexes his hand, letting you and you rub it, committing the smooth skin to memory.

“How is she?”

It’s a topic you’ve avoided, not wanting to pry, but also desperate to know.

“She’ll…….come around. I know she will. She’s like this. She just needs time.”

“Do you think it’s okay, you coming here? Does she know about it?”

You ask, a tiny sliver of you holding out hope for an answer you don’t think is likely.

“I didn’t tell her, but she’s not exactly giving me the opportunity to.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, fitting your face into the crook of his shoulder. He drapes his arm over your side to pull you close and your words are muffled against his warm skin. “I didn’t mean to….I’m sorry about how much trouble this has caused.”

He closes his eyes, focusing on the sweet brush of your lips. “It’s not your fault, Birdie. She was going to find out sooner or later.”

He strokes the hair at your temple, smoothing it away from your face and his finger trails down the curve of your cheek, tilting your face up to his. Your eyes stay closed while his stay open.

He takes you in, wanting so much to tell you so many things. Your face brings the words to mind: things that would make this something more solid than he’s had in a long time. Things that he would gladly say, desperate for you to know them.

He knows you would like to hear them, and that almost makes it worse. But they are things that might make you feel like you should stay. Things that you might hear that will make you put your path on pause for him, and he can’t do that to you.

He can’t say them, and so they die on his tongue and instead, he says what he can.

“I would do it again,” he whispers into your hair, and the tension he feels in your body melts, your hand splaying on his lower back to pull him close.

The three of them… they’re clearly trained.

They work efficiently, like they’d done this dozens of times before. It doesn’t sit right in your gut and you quickly make peace with the fact that you probably won’t be walking away from this.

There’s too many of them, and only one of you. The odds aren’t in your favour, but such is the life of your job - the risk of something like this comes with the territory.

The haze gradually lifts from your mind enough to start focusing on their faces, their voices, studying their methods and the way they interact with each other.

They’re close – brothers, but not by blood. Well, perhaps blood of a different kind.

You hold strong against each one of them, determined to make this as long and tiring as physically possible for them. You knew you’d crack eventually - everyone always did - but you’d make them work for it.

Unfortunately for you, they didn’t seem to mind.

Somewhere in the shadows around the edges of the room, a door opens and you become aware of a new one striding through the space. The others - they straighten, almost as if on instinct. Ex-military, maybe? 

“She’s not talking yet,” one says quietly, cleaning his bloodied knuckles into a rag. He’s a big hulking thing, all thick muscle and power.

You feel the burn in your ribs from him. How many hits had you taken? You’d lost count of the amount of times he’d all but torn the breath from your lungs.

“We’ll see about that,” the new one replies, shucking off his simple navy suit jacket and draping it over the table. You don’t miss the obvious handgun shoved into the waistband of his trousers at the base of his spine.

His fingers roll his shirt sleeves up his forearms as he turns to eye where you hang from the ceiling, clad only in your underwear and a now grimy white tank top. The rough rope wrapped around your wrists is tight and unforgiving as it suspends you high enough from the ground your bare toes only just manage to press into the cool concrete.

As he studies you, you study him. You’d think he was quite handsome if you were in any other situation.

“We’re two hours in,” another speaks, broad and bulky much like the first man who had spoken, but lacking the thick dark beard along his jaw.

Two hours? Is that all?

You fight to keep the resignation from washing over your face. You could’ve sworn it had been longer. This was only starting then, you realise with a slight frown.

Your tongue runs along your lips as you watch the apparent ‘leader’, swiping up the blood seeping from the fresh split in your skin. 

“Who the fuck are you people?”

It’s the first time you’ve spoken, and your dry throat protests the sudden force of it. The words feel like razors. Your gravelly voice catches each of their attention and you hold the new ones eyes as he wanders over.

“Did they not introduce themselves? That’s not very polite,” he half smiles in amusement, sharing it with the men around him and they grin in return. “Don’t you worry about that. Why don’t you just answer our questions, sweetheart, and then you can run along home - safe and sound.”

You snort, the scowl growing on your face harsh and scathing.

“I think we all know I’m not getting out of here, so why don’t you just hurry it up and fucking kill me already.”

He continues his advance until he’s only a breath away, his calculating gaze studying every inch of your face. It’s intimidating, having him so close and being able to see the pure ice lingering in his gaze.

You stare back in return, your heart thundering as you await his next move. A slap, a punch, a stab - anything...

But you're surprised when, instead of anything violent, he merely raises his hand and lets his thumb brush over your mouth, smearing blood across your lips and down your chin as he slowly drags his touch away.

You’re unable to pull your gaze away from his own as his arm winds around to reach something at his back, and you attempt to prepare yourself for the searing heat of bullets tearing through your skin any second now.

They don’t come.

His gaze momentarily drops as he pulls a suppressor from his pocket and leisurely screws it onto his weapon, taking the time to inspect it under the harsh lighting hanging overhead. You’re sure he’s dragging this moment out to stir some fear in you.

Maybe this is when others would start to babble nervously, desperately pulling at words and stringing barely coherent sentences together in an effort to save themselves.

You don’t bother. You could tell from the air around them that no amount of bullshit and pleading would change the outcome of this - they're professionals.

Your lips stay pressed firmly together until his free hand suddenly curls just below your chin, harshly pinching your cheeks together and forcing your mouth open. The silencer meets your tongue with a bitter tang of metal and you exhale shakily around it, your stomach curling into knots as it taps against your teeth.

“This could end so much quicker if you just give us what we want,” he murmurs, dark eyes tracing the way the muzzle of the silencer rubs along your tongue before meeting your gaze.

“I’ll make it quick, sweetheart. You won’t feel a thing, I promise - just tell me where he is.”

Saliva builds on your tongue and slides down along the cool steel, and his eyes drop to watch it gather at your lips before it spills over.

He moves the muzzle of the gun to catch it, smearing drool over your lips and mixing it with your blood before pushing it back into your mouth, his hawk-like gaze not missing the way your eyes flutter when he pushes the suppressor deeper into your mouth.

“Tell me, sweetheart. I’ll make it all better.”

The low rumble of his voice settles deep in your gut and you hate the way it curls along your veins.

You blame it on the fact that he’s so fucking close, his nose mere inches away from brushing over your own and all but surrounding you in his presence. The waft on his cologne is pleasant and oddly comforting to some buried part of you, sinking into your nose and bringing a different sort of haze to your mind.

The suppressor shifts on your tongue, briefly bumping the back of your throat and you’re startled at the sudden way your core ignites.

It’s purely because he’s handsome and in your face. That’s all. It’s a normal reaction, natural even. You fight the heat curdling away in the pit of your stomach, desperate to not let anything show, but it’s too late.

He’s too fucking observant. He must catch the way something about your expression shifts. His eyes narrow briefly, a slight furrow creasing his brows as he keeps the gun pushed deeply into your mouth.

Drool spills over your lip and down your chin as he drags it back to the tip of your tongue before forcing it to the back of your throat, pushing forcefully until you can’t fight the urge and gag around his weapon.

It happens again. Your cunt clenches and it’s fucking humiliating because he seems to just know.

“You like this,” he whispers, his molten gaze rising to meet yours. 

You want to vehemently deny it, but the muzzle of the suppressor hits the back of your throat once more and your eyes flutter, and it’s all he needs to see to confirm his suspicions.

You become painfully aware of how you must look, all glassy eyed and drooling from the gun slowly dragging in and out of your mouth. This wasn't how you saw this going.

Shame grows from your core and sets fire to your skin, the heat of it washing up from your chest and filling your cheeks. You feel almost sick from the way arousal starts to seep from your pussy and into your underwear, soaking the thin cotton and causing it to cling to your folds.

Something in you screams with the need to hide from the four vigilant gazes eyeing every twitch and flicker of emotion that crosses your face, but you remain on show, strung up and completely at the mercy of the man in front of you. 

You try to focus on anything else - the unrelenting ache deep in your shoulders from the strain of hanging by your wrists for so long; the way the cold air filling the room nips at your sweat and blood slicked skin; the way parts of your body protest from recent assaults… but a part of you stays hyper aware of every move he makes, anticipating the next stroke of the suppressor against your tongue and growing used to having the heavy feel of it in your mouth.

“If I was to touch you right now, how fucking wet would you be?”

His question has your widened eyes darting between his, a choked noise falling from your throat and catching on the now-warm steel pushing towards the back of your mouth. 

“You want to know what I think?” He asks, forcing the gun forward until you start to struggle with the painful discomfort of it pressing into the tender flesh at the top of your throat.

“I think you’re fucking soaked. I think if I was to touch you right now, I’d find out just how much of a filthy little slut you are.”

His words rip another noise from your chest and he finally pulls the gun from your mouth, eyeing the string of saliva that hangs in the space between the muzzle and your mouth before wiping it over your chest, the solid mass of it rubbing over your breast and where your nipple strains against the fabric.

The tip of the suppressor presses into your body as he drags it down, circling it almost playfully around where your belly button is hidden behind your tank top before running it along the waistband of your underwear.

Your shame increases tenfold - you fucking throb for it.

Bitter humiliation trickles down your spine as he pushes the gun between your legs, pressing the barrel against your cunt and holding it there until you attempt to squirm on it.

You don’t know if you’re trying to get away from it or trying to find some relief on it.

He soon moves it, the tip of the silencer digging into the soft flesh of your thigh until it could hook under the leg band of your underwear and bare your pussy to steel.

The first curious drag of it against your exposed folds has your lashes fluttering against your cheeks, the chilled rigid feel of it gliding effortlessly through your slick and coating it in your arousal.

Your stomach churns at the slight shine of victory in his eyes. 

But he doesn’t stop there.

He shifts the angle of his hand and the suppressor pushes through your folds until the solid tip of it sinks slightly into your cunt, only just breaching your entrance and holding there.

He moves the tip of it in soft circles, the fucking obscene slick sound from where it gradually works at stretching your pussy open a testament to just how fucking wet you are.

You can’t look at him anymore.

But you can’t look at them, either.

They watch from the side-lines, silent and lethal. They’re unashamed in meeting your eyes, keeping their expressions neutral and emotionless.

You can’t crane your head to look elsewhere due to the way your head hangs between your stretched up arms. They’re positioned behind him so that no matter where you try to avert your eyes, one of them is always there.

“Don’t look at them, look at me.”

It’s firm, commanding.

Your eyes flash back to meet his immediately, and he rewards you with pushing the suppressor deeper into your cunt, turning and sliding the weapon against your walls as he languidly starts to thrust it in and out of you.

He tears the whines and choked moans from your lungs while keeping his pace slow and leisurely, and soon the wet noises of the gun moving, filling and refilling your pussy, echoes in your ears and builds on the overwhelming cocktail of shame and pleasure filling your body.

You want more, and you fucking hate him for it.

“Dave,” he murmurs out of nowhere, something wicked flashing through his eyes as he watches your mind struggle to catch up to his words.

The gun is slowly pulled from your aching cunt and he studies how it shines in the light, covered in your creamy arousal. He runs a finger through it, smearing it down onto an unblemished bit of steel by the grip before his eyes are suddenly back on you.

“I want you to know what to scream. Cut her down.”

+

Part II&lt;<Series Masterlist>>Part IV

Muffled voices traveled through the thin wood of your door, the dim light that filtered through your gauzy curtain telling you it was far too early for a wake-up call. Not that you’d slept much anyway. Santiago had quickly whisked Frankie away last night, prepping for their job in the garage before taking him back over to the Miller’s for a full rundown when the storm subsided, leaving you kiss-drunk and restless in the empty house. 

It had felt like hours before the goosebumps finally subsided, your thighs still tingled from the way his palms had softly gripped your skin, lips still burning from the scrape of his mustache and the heat of his unbridled desperation. He’d kissed you as if he needed your oxygen to breathe, greedy and frenzied like he’d been wanting to taste you for as long as you’d been imagining if your lips would slot together like the final piece being snapped into a puzzle. Your heart had been hammering, senses swimming, and you’d lost yourself in him as easily as an unbeaten path through the woods as his clean, earthy scent surrounded you completely. 

The memory fueled your feet as they swung over the side of the bed, wanting one last look at his dark brown eyes before they walked out the door, craving to see the way his entire face softened when his gaze fell on you. It was a cruel whim of the universe to send you exactly what you needed in the form of something so wholly unattainable. Your brother’s best friend? A brother you both depended on in inescapable ways. Santiago’s words echoed in your head again, another decision that had infiltrated the happy replay of your evening’s activities. You had always needed to depend on someone. Whether it was him, your mother, or Laurel, who had been your failsafe since she’d found you doodling flowers and dogs with sidewalk chalk on the blacktop of the schoolyard. Was Frankie simply your next crutch? 

Santi’s raucous laughter greeted you with the smell of fresh-brewed coffee as you padded into the kitchen, both men’s attention turning to face you as you yawned, the clock on the stove reading 5:47.

“I told you you were being loud,” Frankie scolded under his breath, a familiar mug being swallowed whole by his large palm, causing a smile to toy at your lips.

“An early wake-up never hurt anyone,” Santi countered, his knuckles rapping against the table, “Morning hermanita, you gonna be okay while we’re gone?”

Debatable. 

“Yeah,” you answered as the tinkling of metal against ceramic flit around you, your black coffee turning a more friendly shade of mocha, “I have lunch with Laurel tomorrow, which will be nice.”

“Laurel?” That had Santi’s attention. “You should uh, invite her to the party Saturday.” “To Benny’s birthday party? They’ve…never met.”

“Bah, he won’t care. Plus, it’ll be good for you to have someone there, right?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll ask.”

Your stomach was in knots as you dared a look at Frankie’s side profile as he swiped at that ridiculous game he played. His lower lip was pulled between his teeth, his concentration high as he tried to collect enough rainbow shapes to beat whatever low level he was on, one you’d beaten many years prior when the game was actually popular. Somehow the fact he’d just now caught on made it all the more endearing. His strong nose sat below squinting eyes, confirming your suspicions that glasses would do him good–much like your equally stubborn brother–his trusty baseball cap hat shrouding his head of thick curls. 

“All right, I’m loading up the truck, go get your shit, Fish,” Santi instructed, Frankie’s eyes finding you staring at him before they slid over to give Santi a confirming nod as he stood.

He’d assured you he wouldn’t be afraid of you this morning, that he’d be nothing more than impatient, but as he rounded the table on the farthest end from you, his eyes remaining locked ahead, you couldn’t help but wonder if he’d had a change of heart. He’d spent a considerable amount of time with your brother last night and it was probably enough to spook him once again. The fact that you depended on him once again rearing its ugly head.

Limbo was no longer just a childhood game, and the adult version was far worse. You could hear his heavy boots thudding on the floor upstairs as he collected his things, preparing to walk out the door and leave you trapped in a backbend beneath a pole of clouded judgment and forbidden secrets. 

Trembling knees carried you up the stairs until you stood in his doorway, his large frame bouncing around the room as he packed a bag that should have already been ready last night, and when his eyes found you he froze.

“Hi,” he gasped, jaw agape and eyes locked on a face that mirrored his own.

“Hey,” you replied, his brow furrowing at your meek tone.

The sight of you standing so close to the place he’d envisioned you more times than he’d like to admit had punched the air from his lungs. You’d been tangled in his sheets throughout the night already, his mind actually letting him reside in peace as he’d dreamt of being pressed behind you, his arms wrapping you safely in his embrace. His ears burned as he recalled the drag of your lips and the silky skin of your thighs, your tired, panic-ridden eyes staring at him making his chest wrench.

“What’s the matter, lucecita?” he asked, zipping his bag before giving you his full attention but keeping his distance.

“I don’t think you should go,” you cautioned, “Your knee…”

“I have to,” he countered, “I need the money and…the credibility.”

Those were the two things he was in vastly short supply of. Mostly money, what little he’d had he’d gambled away five months ago in a self-destructive streak that had seen Pope wrestling him out of too many fights and paying a large debt to the bookies he’d found himself tangled with. His credibility had been lost with that, too. And it was yet another nagging restraint that kept his feet planted in place when all he wanted to do was close the distance between you. He’d assured you he wouldn’t be afraid of you, but even at the time, he’d known that was a lie. You were terror and euphoria wrapped into one perfect little deadly weapon, so willing to give him all that he craved once he’d faced all that he feared. 

“You should take my number,” he finally offered, breaking through the anxiety festering in the silence, “In case you need me for anything.”

With a curt nod, you approached and passed him your phone to add himself into, the proximity of you to his bed causing his heart rate to pick up. You were so close your enchanting aura wafted around him, blurring his sense, like orange blossoms in the spring, and it didn’t take long to remember that you tasted just as sweet. That was all his resolve needed to tuck away and allow his burning desire to take over.

A muffled whine of relief thanked him when his lips crashed down onto yours, your arms immediately wrapping around his neck as if you were afraid he’d pull away. He was too weak for that, but he pulled your hips in closer to him anyway, your warmth seeping in through the thin material of his t-shirt. The fervor in which you reciprocated his kiss had his body responding too quickly, too eagerly. It was as if he hadn’t had you in this position less than 12 hours ago, both of you with so much pent-up voracity still simmering that what had transpired the night before had done nothing to extinguish it. Fingers tugged and pulled in sync with your mouths, mewls and whimpers flying so free it was hard to tell who they belonged to.

“Fuck,” he condemned, lifting you effortlessly to sit on his dresser, returning to your swelling lips quickly as he cupped your jaw in his hand. 

This was all that fucking mattered. It was like a poison running rampant through his fucking neurons burning what little sense hadn’t been knocked out of him by weekly concussions and illicit drugs. This. Right here. And the way his chest ached a little bit less every time your fingers twisted in his hair.

“He’ll kill me if he finds out,” Frankie murmured against your mouth, panting as his nose grazed along your cheek.

“I know,” you whimpered, pecking at his plush lower lip, your eyes refusing to open and explore his expression and all that would be hidden in it.

“Actually kill me, bebita. Feed me to a fucking gator, and that would be having mercy.”

“I can keep a secret.” 

But would that be enough? He was smart to end it where it stood now before it got worse. Neither of you was in a position to throw away all that Santiago had given you–a home, security, and food on the table with nothing even resembling complaint or hesitation. But who was Santiago to make this decision? Where had he been when you’d tethered yourself to deadbeat after deadbeat, siphoning too much of yourself off and getting nothing in return? He was off doing what he had wanted to do with no regard for you or how it had affected you. So why did he get a place in this? He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

“You want me to lie to my best friend?” That statement made your stomach sink. It was a tall order, one you shouldn’t even be suggesting he make. Just because you were opting to throw Santiago’s regard to the wind didn’t mean Frankie had to be willing to make the sacrifice.

“Just withhold certain truths.” But you were desperate.

He’d already surrendered to you, there was no going back for him, but when you kissed him again as you tried to prove that you were worth the risk he couldn’t help but wonder what the hell you saw in him that had you willing to wager it all. It was because you didn’t know him yet, not all of him. You’d gotten small snippets, he remembered the confusion as it passed over your face when he responded in a manner you couldn’t understand. He always wondered if he’d fabricated the longing in your eyes to perceive just what those small, escaped tells had meant. Who would want to? But he’d take whatever time you gave him. And when he messed it all up just like he had every other good thing that his wretched life had given him, he’d curse himself again, resigning to his damned fate with as little or less tact than the last time. Except Pope wouldn’t be there to save him again. Not this time. 

“I’ll go pick out my swamp,” he teased as he pulled away, contemplating how he could guard you against himself while still being all that you deserved and wanted. It would certainly be a testament to his will and self-control. How many demons could he chase away in the pursuit of being yours? 

A small laugh huffed out of your nose before he pressed in for one last peck, and for the first time in weeks, it felt as if you’d finally broken through. He stayed close, breathing in your air as you felt a satisfied smile twinge at your lips. You knew he was scared, of Santi and of whatever it was that had ignited between you–you were too–but these moments had proven that it had become undeniable, too strong to avoid; the only way out was through.

Santi’s bellowing call from the foyer pulled your attention, but not his. 

“You look really pretty in the morning by the way,” he complimented before he kissed the tip of your nose, “Thought you should know.” 

As his hands released your waist, his lips pressed to your forehead, lingering as he breathed in your scent one last time. You were smiling now, cheeks heating as you shook your head at his ridiculous compliment. Yet as absurd as it was you couldn’t help but believe him when he said it, knowing that the way his eyes had snuck conspicuous glances at you every morning since you’d moved into that room downstairs had led to this. 

“Be safe,” you whispered as his lips pulled away, the sun filtering into the room between the slats of his blinds casting an orange glow around the mundane space.

“I’ll try,” he promised, and you didn’t like that answer, but your scowl only got a chuckle in return.

Leaving you the first time hadn’t been easy, but leaving you now was practically impossible. He began to worry about you the moment he crossed the threshold of the door, the clicking of the lock as he turned his key flicking the switch to his anxiety like a light. Was the back door locked? When was the last time someone went grocery shopping? You weren’t a child…but the thought of you alone in that house and something happening sat like a rock in his gut. 

“Was my sister upstairs? Couldn’t find her,” Pope asked when Frankie closed the door to the truck, shifting into reverse to head over to the Millers.

“Yeah,” Frankie confirmed, an alarm blaring in his head as he turned white lies over in his brain, “Shower.”

“You don’t mind her being around, right?”

“No.” The word had almost come out too quickly, too excitedly. 

“I owe you one for this, Fish.”

Fuck.

Two motel rooms had been reserved to save on expenses, and as always Frankie was bunking with Pope, work beginning not long after the duffel bags had been tossed onto respective beds. It was an easy gig, simple security, and by the next night after a full day of work Benny had already scoped out a dive bar for them to unwind at a block from the motel.

Music was blaring as the four men entered and filled out the corner of the empty counter, Frankie taking the end seat with his mind in his pocket. He’d been willing his cell phone to vibrate with anything beyond a news alert or spam email, but nothing had come. Occasionally, the fabric of his jeans would catch just right, mimicking the buzz of a notification, and every time his heart skipped a beat all to be disappointed by the empty screen. Had he typed his number correctly? Maybe his fat finger had fucked a digit up and you’d been texting some other random lucky soul instead of him. Wouldn’t that be karma…

“Fish!” Benny exclaimed, clapping his hand on his broad shoulder, “That girl over there has been eyeing you.”

“I highly doubt it,” Frankie scoffed, draining the last of his bottle.

“Come on, go give it a shot! I’m not fucking with you, I caught her staring a few times.”

“I’m good, Miller. But I’m sure she won’t turn you down. I’m heading back, this shit is still acting up.”

It was a lame excuse but a valid one, his knee did still hurt, it just didn’t exactly justify leaving sitting on a barstool. But he was spent, he wanted a shower and another three quality hours of staring at his phone for a text message that wouldn’t come while some shitty sitcom playing in the background. The group murmured a suspicious goodbye as he threw a twenty onto the table, Pope’s eyes burning into the back of his head. Frankie didn’t have to guess as to what his suspicions were, and somehow he knew that he’d be less angry about those notions being correct than to have the truth.

Motel water pressure always left his aching muscles begging for more, the water at its hottest still only tepid as it drizzled over his skin. The soap smelled like shit and the shampoo left a greasy film on his hair, which made his craving for home burn stronger as he remembered the way your fingers raked through it as he tasted all your mouth had to offer. Twice. He’d kissed you twice and he was already this hung up, begging for an unknown number to light up his phone screen and for the comfort of simply being in the same god damn house as you.

The night air filtering in through the open window was cool as Frankie emerged from the bathroom, his skin prickling after an already lukewarm shower. There had to be a way to convince Pope to take one step up in lodgings. A small vibration had him dropping the towel he was rubbing ferociously over his hair, was it just another figment of his imagination?

[11:13 pm] Hi Frankie. 

Holy shit. It was you. Fuck. Those two words made him realize how fucking ill-prepared he was for this moment, despite the fact he’d let it consume every waking thought for the last 36 hours. Did he just say hello? Did he make a joke? What was the fucking etiquette here?

F: [11:18 pm] Thought you’d lost my number already.

[11:18 pm] Just dug it out of the trash actually.

F: [11:19 pm] That desperate?

[11:20 pm] I’m getting old. Pickings are slim.

F: [11:20pm] Please. You could have anyone.

[11:23 pm] Is Santi with you?

F: [11:24 pm] No. He’s still at the bar.

[11:24 pm] Will you pick up if I call?

F: [11:25 pm] Of course.

His finger couldn’t hit the green circle fast enough when the call came through, his eyes widening when your smiling face filled his screen. His hair was a disheveled, damp mop and he had yet to even get out of his towel never mind into a shirt. 

“Frankie,” you giggled, “I’ve seen you like this before. Calm down.”

“Right. Yeah,” he laughed, rubbing the back of his head nervously, “How was your day?”

“Oh, it was good. Normal.”

“Tell me about it.”

Your insistence to not pester him with the banal workings of your day had his eyes rolling and anger bubbling. The way you acted like your very existence was a burden always made his stomach churn and fists clench so tight he was left with a trail of crescent moons on his palm. He didn’t know much about your previous dating history, but he recalled Pope saying it had been less than kind to you when he’d asked if he minded you staying with them. He knew your last one, Liam, had cheated, which was a concept Frankie could and would never understand. 

A little boy had asked for your hand in marriage today,m and that made him laugh, the details of how he proved his undying love to you had Frankie smiling as you recalled the gifts of paper airplanes and red fruit snacks. You were so animated when you spoke, utterly captivating, he couldn’t help but hang on to your every word and hand wave, his chest swelling from the simple fact you were sharing bits of your life with him.

“How can I compete with that?” he teased when he was certain you’d finished, not willing to interrupt for even a second.

“You’re doing okay so far,” and that reassurance had his cheeks flushing red as his chin fell to his chest, a smile stretching up into the creases on the outer corners of his eyes.

“How about your day?”

“Oh…” His face twisted as he tried to brush it off, but your eyes hardened on him.

“Uhuh, it’s just as important as mine.”

Well, how could he argue with that? So he obliged, only leaving out the part about Benny trying to get him a hookup at the bar. As he was readying to ask you what your plans consisted of for the rest of the night, or if he was keeping you awake, he heard Pope’s voice bading Benny and Will a goodnight, the conversation with you being cut substantially shorter than he would have liked, particularly the goodbye. 

“You all right?” Pope asked as he strolled into the room, just buzzed enough to have that dopey smile plastered on his face, “You never leave early.”

“Yeah,” Frankie responded quickly, fishing clean clothes out of his bag as Pope closed himself into the bathroom for what Frankie was sure would be a cold shower.

The rest of the trip didn’t provide a night away from the rest of the guys for another phone call, but he got his fill with text messages at every spare moment. Little stolen moments with words in little white bubbles, his chest jumping with each little vibration as he hung on every letter. Wednesday night rolled around with another trip to the same dive, a last hoorah before the drive home tomorrow after the gig ended. This time it felt different, he was looser, happier, the beer even tasted better. 

“What the hell’s come over you, Catfish?” Will slurred after a few hours of round after round, slinging his arm around his friend’s neck, “You seem in way too good a mood for the Frankie I’ve known these last few months.”

“Yeah, Fish,” Benny tacked on, “You’re even laughing again, bud. Not saying it’s a bad thing.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m drunk,” Frankie lied, a smile toying at his lips. He wasn’t, except maybe drunk on you.

“You’ve been on your phone a lot,” Will pressed, “Are you texting? You uh, got someone we don’t know about?”

“What? No. No!”

“Fish! You got a girl!?” Benny celebrated raucously, knocking his empty beer glass over in the process, “Come on! Share with the class.”

“I don’t. I’m just…um, looking at…at parts. For my truck, eBay…”

Not one of them believed him, probably because his truck was literally on its last dying engine rev, but at least they stopped their interrogating. These morons never paid attention to anything, why did they have to be so observant now? He’d never been more thankful for his built-up tolerance, the only thing saving him from volunteering for karaoke and spilling the one secret he had no choice but to keep.

F: [4:13 pm] We’re on our way home.

Knee jumping and heart racing, Frankie stared out the window of the truck at the blurred black pavement whirring by as Pope drove them home after a long five days away. Not that he could do what he so strongly desired to when they got home, but your warmth could reach him even from a distance and he was ready to chase the chill out of his weary soul. He’d only had one vivid nightmare during the trip, Pope being so used to it by now it was like second nature to get him water and give him a reassuring hug while his breath settled, heading straight back to sleep once it was done. He didn’t want that for you. His mess wasn’t for you to clean up.

A beaming smile greeted him when they walked through the door, your attention flitting between him and your brother, and he couldn’t help but mirror it from the security of Pope’s shadow. You were already dressed down, your hair still a little damp, and it felt so comfortable walking into the house to you. Almost too comfortable.

“I’m fucking exhausted!” Pope yelled as he tossed his duffel bag onto the floor, “Hermanita, can you order some dinner? Whatever you want. The card’s in here.” He tossed you his wallet, which you missed entirely as it bounced off your palms, “Fish, you get first shower, I’m gonna clear the truck out.”

Even with the vastly improved water pressure and temperature, Frankie rushed through a shower he normally would have taken his time in as he tried to beat the clock of Pope’s unloading. He was disgusting, the grime of the week needed rinsing away desperately, but time was of the essence here. He’d dunk himself in an ice bath to get clean if it meant he had a chance to kiss you, the hot water streaming over him almost a taunt at the choice before him. 

He found you in the kitchen pouring over a pile of takeout menus, your fingers running through them as you perused the options looking flustered and undeniably enticing.

“Hi...” he greeted softly, and you looked up at him with a smile stretching across your bright face, nodding to give him the okay that had a relieved breath huffing from his chest. 

Long strides closed the remaining distance between you, your joy sparkling up into your eyes as he leaned over, his lips pressing against yours softly as he soaked in the way yours felt against his. He lingered here, breathing you in, memorizing once again to fill the long, drawn-out moments he was forced to be separated from you. You didn’t mind, and when he peppered a few barely conceivable pecks to your lips he felt you smiling against him. 

“Hi,” you sighed as he pulled away just enough to press his lips to your nose before dragging them to your forehead where he paused again. 

When his eyes caught yours as he parted from you he was still stunned by how inviting and warm they somehow always remained. You looked at him like he hadn’t fucked up everything in his life, like he had a shot at something. For a fleeting moment, he forgot he was an addict, a criminal, a killer; nothing more than someone so beyond redemption, he shouldn’t even have the ability to smile let alone have someone looking at him like this. 

“What do you want to eat?” you asked as he approached the fridge, his fingers dancing over a bottle of beer before opting for bottled water.

“Ruling was whatever you want,” he reminded, the cracking of the plastic cap synchronizing with the narrowing of your eyes as you glared at him.

“I don’t know.”

“Then I guess we’re going to starve.”

How could someone be so maddening and endearing at the same time? Your attention turned back to the pile of options before you as you groaned. There were too many, and now your head was clouded by the effect of how gently Frankie had just kissed you. No one had ever kissed you like that–tender and reverent–your brain had ceased firing. Dinner was pushed to the back corner of your thoughts as your upper lip still tingled after the brush of his mustache, every moment you stole was never enough and somehow too much for you to handle.

A bristled cheek slid across yours as his chin came to rest over your shoulder, the scent of his cheap shampoo blurring your senses even further. His hair was cool and damp against your temple as he leaned against you, the pure affection wrapped into this small gesture enough to send your stomach to the floor as heat rolled through your lower half.

“Tell you what,” he growled softly into your ear, “I’ll narrow it down.”

Three wrinkled trifold menus of your usual suggestions were laid out neatly before you by an arm snaking under your own. His large hand moving so close to you was enough to send another burning wave through you, his golden skin practically glowing in the dim overhead lighting. It was reflexive the way your body turned just enough to capture his lips once again, your hand cupping his jaw as you kissed him hard enough to transfer some of that unbearable simmer to him. He returned it just as fervently, the arm beneath yours wrapping around you tightly as he mentally cursed the back of the chair for keeping your back from pressing to his chest. 

Right on inopportune cue, Santi swung open the door as Frankie’s tongue licked at the seam of your mouth, his warmth leaving you too quickly as he jumped back and opened the fridge, hiding his lust-blown eyes and the lack of camouflage his thin shorts provided for the effect you had on him as your brother rounded into the kitchen.

“What did you decide?” he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow as he sat down to take off his boots.

“Um, Thai,” you stammered, feeling your cheeks flush as Frankie cleared his throat behind you, still tucked away in his hiding spot.

“Great. I’m going to the shower. Just my usual.”

Dinner was a chore as you tried not to stare at the man whose hair had air-dried into the most graceful curls that fell around his ears and forehead. Wary dark brown eyes snuck the occasional glance at you, you could feel them on you as you stared at your plate; you couldn’t help but meet his gaze a few times from under your brow. Santiago was oblivious, prattling on about how the business was growing, there were three unanswered inquiries he’d get to tomorrow, and that maybe he’d be able to buy some updated equipment soon. It fell on deaf ears, which was pointed out when he asked for Frankie’s thoughts and received only a grunt of confusion in return.

“All right, I’m hitting it,” Santiago conceded, “We’ll figure this out tomorrow, Fish.”

“Yeah,” Frankie agreed, whatever ‘this’ was.

As Santi’s footsteps disappeared up the stairs you both finally looked up, fidgeting for a moment until you got up to clear the table. Frankie jumped to his feet to assist as the silence dared one of you to make a move in this rare moment of alone time. The clanging of dishes and echo of the faucet in the metal sink did nothing to ease the nerves buzzing about the space.

“My uh...my show is on...” you offered nervously as you dried your hands, “if you wanted to...stay up and watch it. Or go to bed. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

“No, I’m...I can watch it,” he agreed, a smile tugging at his lips from the fact that you offered at all.

The couch held you hostage as you sunk into it, inches of space separating your body from Frankie’s as you flipped the TV on, turning the channel to a show you weren’t caught up on in the slightest, using its existence only for the purpose of keeping him downstairs with you for a little while longer. You sat awkwardly, wanting to lean your body against him and feel him pressed against you as you lay slack in his hold, but what if he didn’t want that? What if he wasn’t a cuddler? You were, but no one had ever obliged you before. 

“Come here, bebita,” he invited as if he could sense your dilemma, opening his arm out to give you space to lean against his side.

It felt so good curling your body around his side, his arm wrapping you up completely as your head fell to the center of his chest, the steady thrum of his heart replacing the audio of the TV. His fingers trailed mindlessly up and down your bare arm as yours twisted into his shirt at his side, you’d stay here forever if you could. When his lips pressed down into your hair you sighed in pure satisfaction as you let yourself go completely limp against him, his broad body cradling you effortlessly as his head leaned onto yours. It took energy not to cry from sheer contentment, one you weren’t sure you’d ever felt before. You had no idea it was something you’d been missing, how can you miss something you’d never had? But as you nestled into him further, his arm tightening around you to keep you close, years of longing for moments you thought only resided in your daydreams surged through you.

You were afraid to move, afraid to scare him away or lose any contact, but when the end credits of the episode you hadn’t caught even a minor detail from rolled you snuck a look up to the face you’d come to find so much comfort in to discover him fast asleep. His mouth hung open slightly as he looked the most at peace you’d ever seen him since the day you met him. No part of you wanted to wake him, you’d have fallen asleep right there on the couch with him without a qualm, but reality was always knocking. It had grown to a thunderous slamming as the thought of Santi walking downstairs in the morning and finding you like this played over and over in your brain, and that wasn’t something either of you could afford to risk.

Gently, you began to press your lips to his jaw, your hand migrating from his side to stroke along the side of his face furthest from you. His eyes began to flutter as he took a deep breath in, an arm squeezing you tightly against him again. 

“Sorry...” he grumbled, shaking his head to try and perk himself up, his exhaustion etching into features that had just been so relaxed. 

“Go to bed,” you told him with a chuckle, regrettably pulling yourself up to your feet and grabbing his hands in yours.

“I’m okay.”

“Bed, Frankie.”

“Yes ma’am.”

One gentle tug on your hands had you falling back into him, your arms wrapping around his neck as he took a deep inhale from where he nestled into your throat. Your fingers could resist his hair no longer, entwining in the chocolate curls as they tickled at your chin. When his lips pressed against the sensitive skin vibrating with your pulse an unintentional whine broke loose, his smile stretching across your neck as he ran his tongue over that same spot, enjoying the way his scalp twinged as your fingers startlingly pulled. He trailed up to the hollow behind your ear, that sweet little spot he’d dreamed of filling, and your response had made his patience worth every agonizing second worthwhile.

“Good night,” he growled, pulling the lobe of your ear gently through his teeth, your knees buckling as lightning shot through your limbs.

“Night…” you gasped, too stunned to do anything else as his lips followed an unbeaten trail they’d been slowly mapping from your nose to your forehead.

When you left for work the next morning both men were still fast asleep, leaving you to ponder about your night with Frankie all day, and it had you more distracted than you would have ever wanted to admit. He’d taken over every waking and slumbering thought, occupying space that had long been untouched in the recesses of needs long forgotten.

Minutes felt like hours as you watched the hands on the clock tick closer to the end of your shift, your brother clearly keeping Frankie tied just as much as your counter was as your phone lay silent and dark beside you. 

Santiago was in the driveway when you pulled up, his truck covered in soapy suds as he did his weekly scrub over the sleek black metal. You grabbed the mail from the box as Santi bellowed a greeting over the sound of the garden hose, giving him a small wave before turning your attention back to the pile of envelopes in your hand, one, in particular, catching your attention.

“Your name is Francisco?” you shrieked when you found Frankie in the kitchen, your call out pulling his attention from the meat he was cutting in preparation for tomorrow’s party.

“Uh, yeah,” he answered, his face knit in confusion, “Why?”

“I like it.”

“Well, that makes one of us.”

“Oh come on Francisco,” you drawled out huskily, pressing up onto your toes to nuzzle your nose against his cheek, “it’s a beautiful name.”

Thankfully breathing was an autonomic process because if his lungs depended on him for air he’d have long forgotten the function as your tongue rolled the r of his name and sang out those last two syllables he’d wanted to obliterate since the bullies in grade school had teased him about them. His jaw was on the floor, cheeks flushing pink, his eyes following you as you sauntered away as if you hadn’t just rocked his entire world off its fucking axis with one word. Maybe it wasn’t so bad when you said it.

An hour later Santiago came back into the empty house soaking wet and sunkissed, his shoulders and cheeks tinged pink.

“Hermanita!” he called, “Fish! Where are you?”

“Outside!” you called, your light conversation with Frankie being cut short as he readied the grill for dinner prep.

“I’m heading down to the stall for the rest of the food for tomorrow, anything specific on the list?”

“Just the usual,” Frankie answered.

“I’m cutting the fruit tonight so make sure it’s good,” you tacked on, taking a sip from the bottle of beer you and Frankie had been sharing, taking ownership of it for the time being.

“How many people will be there?” Santi asked, and Frankie’s face twisted in mock disbelief and confusion.

“How many? You invited the cashier from the supermarket, Pope. Who knows?” he replied, shaking his head.

“Well, how many of us?”

“Beb-” Frankie cleared his throat before saying your name as his attention turned to you, “Is Laurel coming?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, a smile pulling at your lips, “For a little bit. She’s got a date in the evening.”

“A what?” Santi snapped, his hands falling to his hips, “Oh. Great. Yeah, great. Okay. So, all of us. I’ll be back.”

When the roar of his truck engine was no longer audible you hopped up and sat on the deck railing beside Frankie, your legs close enough to brush against his elbows as he threw the meat onto the searing grates, the sizzle of the marinade dripping into the flame competing with the bird’s goodnight songs. Dusk had hit, the shadows dancing across the wooden slats of the deck as your feet swung mindlessly, disappearing into the obscurity of the man in front of you. He held his hand out for the bottle you’d been holding prisoner, taking a swig before passing it back like it was the most natural action in the world. 

“Pssst,” you hissed, his eyes flicking over to peer at you as your foot tapped his backside, “Frankie.”

“Hmm?” he hummed nonchalantly, keeping his eyes in front of him as his lips ticked up towards them.

“C’mere.”

Falling into you was easy, it was getting out that was hard. Your legs spread wide enough for him to slot himself between, wrapping around his body and linking at the ankle to keep him trapped. Little did you know you couldn’t ensnare the willing, he was happily walking into your prison, wanting nothing more than to serve a life sentence.

“Hi bebita,” he purred, nuzzling his nose against yours.

“Francisco,” you sang, barely letting your lips touch his in a teasing kiss. 

Your desire for him was all-encompassing, not even his own self-loathing could deny that anymore. You wanted him this bad. He couldn’t even comprehend it. You could have anyone–anyone–and you wanted him. He in all his fucked up insignificance. Your thighs tightened around his waist and he couldn’t help but drop his hands to run along the sides of them to reacquaint once again. Feeling your soft warmth beneath his palms had him shuddering, the tendons of his neck popping out as he strained against his natural gravitation toward you and the way he wanted to collapse into your chest. You. The person who saw him, wanted him, accepted him. You. The person that had come into his life by chance and set him back into orbit completely inadvertently.

“What are you doing to me?” he whispered against your lips that had parted at his nearness, waiting to meet with his own.

“What do you mean?” you asked, mischief in your voice and palms settling against his chest.

The words barely had a chance to finish before he was giving you the kiss you’d been anticipating. It was greedy and sloppy, your fingers locking in his hair as he gripped at your hips, your tongue weaving between his lips to taste the beer still lingering on his tongue. You swallowed his muffled groans as he drank in your desperate sounds, his hands pulling you tighter against him to press your heated core against the impressive bulge his jeans were struggling to contain. A gasp forced you to drop his mouth, but he continued his onslaught, nipping your bottom lip between his to lightly drag his teeth over, doing the same over your jaw as you rocked your hips against him again.

“Go on,” he urged against your ear, “that’s it.”

“Fr-Frankie...” you sputtered, your eyes closing as you fought the embarrassment burning in your cheeks.

“So pretty, baby. Don’t be shy. Lemme make you feel good.”

Shifting slightly, he sat you on his thigh, your hands locking behind his neck as he flexed the thick muscle against you, your body responding with a jerk as it begged for friction. Desire took over when his mouth dragged along your throat, leaving a wet trail as you rolled your hips over him. His beard scratched against your thin, sensitive skin, the worn denim of his jeans scaping at your inner thighs as you began to whimper into his ear, your orgasm building almost shamefully fast. You’d thought about this too much, dreamt of being this fucking close to him, of the pressure you knew he could masterfully build that now sat like a weight between your thighs.

“Does it feel nice?” he exhaled in a hot huff, his tongue laving out against where his words had struck, and all you could do was mewl as you picked up your pace.

Flexing his thigh again had you rappelling over the edge, his mouth immediately capturing yours as he collected your uninhibited moans and cries to keep them from prying ears; these were just for him. You fell boneless against his body, lips lazily dragging with his, every inch of you sparking electricity that had you twitching with aftershocks. When enough of your sense had returned, you reached between your bodies and palmed at the solid outline of his cock; now it was his turn to gasp.

Whines bordering on desperate sang out to you like a siren as he thrust against your palm, foreheads pressed together, his eyes clenching closed as his hands fell to the wood of the railing, his knuckles white as he tried to quell the fire burning in his belly. There wasn’t enough time for this, it had to stop now before he was passed a point of no return.

“I need to calm down, bebita,” he scolded, kissing you hard as he tried to ground himself, “that’s not helping.”

The sound of Pope’s engine in the driveway did, though. He sent you inside quickly, citing the fact you looked wrecked with a cocky smirk, your eyes darting down to see that his jeans masked his own issue quite well despite what lay underneath them. Your bedroom door closed as soon as Santi opened the front one, your name and Frankie’s being called to lend a hand in bringing in the piles of produce he’d amassed.

“You all right?” he asked at your flustered appearance, at least you’d changed out of your soaked panties and shorts, “Did you work out or something? You’re all red.”

“Yep. Yes. I did,” you stammered, Frankie’s laugh as he walked in earning him a death glare.

“Good. It’s good for you.”

If he only had any idea, the way Frankie’s teeth sunk into his bottom lip confirmed the same thought was going through his own head. Your hands begged to be busy, to help forget the feeling of his pleading ruts, your core aching once again for more of him. All of him. You washed them in the kitchen sink, dragging one of the overflowing sacks of fruit over to begin prep on. Santiago had pulled Frankie out to the garage, needing help digging something they needed for the party out, leaving you and your flustered breaths alone to seethe.

Frankie was in no better a state, his cock still throbbing in his jeans as he tugged out the buried canopy from behind piles of Pope’s hoarded junk, praying that the man in question didn’t accidentally bump into his crotch as he yanked from right in front of him. He wasn’t keen on explaining or making an excuse for it. Sweating and panting, they’d finally freed it, a blood-curdling scream setting both of them into a panic as they dropped the metal poles to the floor, the loud clang causing Frankie to stumble and flinch before taking off after Pope in the direction of the kitchen.

“What?!” Santi fretted as they skidded into the house, both men finding you pressed against the far counter, eyes wide in horror, Frankie’s mirroring yours, white-faced and chest heaving. 

However, when Santi discovered the reason for your outburst, Frankie could see the slew of cuss words he wanted to say flitting across his face. A small black spider was crawling along the counter near your workspace, and as Frankie’s shoulders relaxed he couldn’t help but smile.

“I thought you were fucking dying!” Santi scolded, throwing his hands up in rage.

“I might!” you yelled, still just as panicked as you were before they’d come in.

“Jesus fucking Christ…”

“Are you going to get it, pendejo?” Flashbacks of your childhood came creeping back as you both took on a bickering tone.

“No! You get it!” Santi yelled back, his hands flailing about like they always had when he was angry about something trivial.

“Why? Are you afraid of it?”

“I’m not afraid of it!”

“I’ll get it,” Frankie conceded, grabbing a pizza menu and solo cup as he approached the tiny crawling insect, “before you two drive me insane.”

You couldn’t decide if you wanted to stare daggers at Santiago or watch Frankie come to your rescue, opting to switch from one to the other with theatrical swings of your head. Santi shot you a dirty look after the third time, his arms crossing over his chest as he watched Frankie capture your nemesis under a cup, sliding the pizza menu underneath to securely trap it.

“What are you doing?” you screeched, your tone sounding as if you feared for his very life, Santi laughing at your mental anguish.

“Getting rid of the spider…unless you want to keep it?” Frankie answered calmly, lifting his little arachnid prison carefully as he turned toward the back door.

“Just squish it!”

“Why? Easy enough to just go put it outside.”

“It’ll come back in!”

“I’ll give it a stern talking to. Set the boundaries.”

Cowering as he passed despite the spider being nowhere in your line of sight, Santi threatened to make a move toward Frankie, acting as if he intended to toss the cup and paper right onto you and run. With a growl, you lunged at him, his arms coming around you to block you, pinning your arms at your side as he questioned just what you thought you were going to do with a teasing lilt. 

“Muñequita! You could try, but you won’t like what happens,” he continued to taunt, releasing you to give another attempt if you dared. 

“Cut the shit, you two!” Frankie yelled as he went out the backdoor, retreating to the far corner of the yard. 

“Don’t you have shit you need to do?” you snapped at Santiago, waving him back off to the garage, and he took the cue, laughing to himself as he took his victory.

Taking your chance with your brother now out of sight, you ran out to the yard and stood beside Frankie, his hands in his jeans’ pockets as he watched the last of the sun sink below the horizon. His attention stayed locked ahead, and you hoped he hadn’t receded back into his thoughts, not after you’d broken through.

“Thank you,” you muttered after a few moments, linking your arm through his as his eyes flicked down to you.

“Sure,” he replied quietly, “I told it not to bug you, but, it’s a spider, so no promises.”

A laugh bubbled free from your chest as you leaned your head against his shoulder, letting the darkness shroud you both in secrecy, where you’d have to remain no matter what your heart was screaming at you. At least for now.

A/N: Comments and reblogs are my favorite thing in the entire world, and my ask box is always open. I never don't want to talk about these two, basically. I'm trying to implement Frankie Friday, so hopefully, Part IV will be ready in two weeks! But, we are in the middle of the move. Fingers crossed though, I'm really excited about that one 😏.

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