Assorted MGG Characters | Oneshots

Lover's Lane (Franklin, E)

Summary: Franklin finds out the real reason his childhood best friend is trying to get better at bowling.

Rating: Explicit (NSFW, 18+)

Content Warnings: Semi-public sex, unprotected sex, fingering

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I'd always wondered how people could find anything relaxing about a bowling alley — especially in my hometown. I understood the desire to socialize, and feeling like a part of something, but they were just so loud, dimly lit, and an odd mix of both sticky and slippery.

If I'd stopped and taken a moment that night, though, I might've understood. It had been hours after close, and I was the only one left in the building. Only enough lights were on to get me from point A to point B, and never any farther. And while the pins still clinked like cheers when I hit them, the sounds were few and far between.

... because I fucking suck at bowling.

"Shit!" I cursed as the ball gracelessly clambered to the lane and promptly fell into the gutter. I hissed in pain and cradled the offending, throbbing hand. I hadn't wanted to look down, because I knew I would see blood seeping from just under my nail bed.

"Fuck! That hurt like shit!" I yelled, to what I thought was an empty alley.

As it turned out, I was very, very wrong.

"Are you alright?"

Franklin's question was answered by a shrill screech that didn't seem to faze him at all. I silently thanked the noises I'd been lamenting about for saving him from some of the effects the decibels should've had on him. He just sort of stared at me, as if my yell had been the expected greeting, not the answer to his question. Arguably, it was both. It would also be the only one he got, because I really didn't want to explain.

"Oh! Franklin! W-What are you doing here?" I asked, instead. It was usually easy to get him to talk about himself, but there was a shimmer of morbid curiosity behind those excitable hazel eyes of his.

"I came to drop something off for the tournament next week but..." he paused, looking down at my craned hand and trembling body before he asked again, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. It's nothing," I lied.

As he continued his pursuit despite me taking a few awkward steps back, I held up the hurt finger just to notice that I'd accidentally flashed a rather crude gesture. My embarrassment was noted and fully enjoyed by the man now inches away from me.

I held my hand up again, this time with all fingers up rather than just the middle one, and quickly explained, "I-I broke my nail is all. You know, silly girl stuff."

"Yeah, you can't bowl with your manicure," he nonchalantly and unhelpfully noted. But if that hadn't been enough to make me feel fully condescended, he held out his hand and rubbed metaphorical salt in the wound.

"Give me your hand."

There was little that I wanted to do more than just that, but the vulnerability required and the chastisement that would follow was enough to sour my hopes for what might happen.

So, I pulled my hands behind my back and quickly insisted, "No, seriously, it's fine."

He did not take my defiance well. He did not accept it at all. With a stern, unforgiving timbre, he repeated: "Give me your hand."

It was in front of me before I could stop myself; my body reacting on instinct in a desperate attempt to please him. My face burned from embarrassment, but he was too fixated on the blisters lining my palm, thumb, and pointer finger to notice.