Bea

Yeah, Jack didn't even think he’d ever have one of those again—not seriously, not anything past something superficial, something situational, but then there you were appearing in his life like a beacon that couldn’t be stopped. So young. So beautiful. So pure down to your core. Inherently good, that’s what you were. And after all of maybe one week of you and your smile and the feeling of you pressed up against him, that’s all he wanted you to be. His. 

After so long, he forgot, forgot what it was like to feel this way about someone—to want them so badly to the point of not being able to sleep—and you couldn’t possibly fathom not having them in every way. To have them in every way possible, that you needed the world to know. As if there’s some sort of claim you need to put on the people you love. 

This is my partner. My husband. Fiancée. 

Girlfriend.

Jack, after just a few months, knew that he needed that label—needed those words to link the two of you together. 

Hi, I'm Jack, and this is my girlfriend. 

She just moved in with me.

Jack knows he sounds ridiculous and can only shake his head, unable to hide the smile that’s already tugging at the corners of his lips because you were his and because you were moving in with him. Because there in his room—his space—pieces of you were already finding their rightful place. Your robe on the spare hook in his bathroom. Your blue-light glasses tucked near the lamp on the spare nightstand he bought to go opposite his. A jewelry dish above his dresser, next to his watch. Hair ties fallen behind couches, his bookshelf, his hamper. 

All your stuff next to his stuff. 

Jack feels his chest tighten the more that he looks around and feels his senses be completely flooded by you, you, you. But it’s not in a bad way. Never is with you. Because you’re everything good, and this was good, and he’s never felt so fucking loved in his entire life. 

Steadying his breath and his hands, Jack cuts open one of the boxes stacked in the corner by your nightstand with his pocketknife, the sound of the tape being sliced open echoing across the walls. Opening it, he takes out the neatly folded stack of your hoodies and crewnecks—most, if not at least a third of them, were his. Many that he hadn’t even realized were missing. He laughs to himself when he finds one, the black material worn and all too familiar. He holds it up. Pittsburgh Pirates stitched onto the front. He's been missing it the entire time the two of you have been dating. 

The last time he can even remember seeing it was one of the first nights you spent with him. He came home from a long SWAT shift, bruised, having to intubate one of his friends, and dreading that he was about to be back at the PTMC for his night shift in just a few hours. Jack was tired and tense and not used to being there—in his home, and he wasn’t sure how to navigate it. 

He’d gotten as far as dropping his keys on the counter, an obvious gait in his right leg, after not only a full day of being on his feet but also moving too quickly—with too little thought. Wincing at the way his prosthetic pinched, he opened the cupboard and grabbed a glass. 

The TV was on, the sounds of the show Friends filling the dark hallway of his apartment. It wasn’t even evening yet, and all the curtains were pulled shut, the only light coming from candles that you bought. He’d gotten as far as filling the glass with water, the tap louder than he wished, when the TV paused. You didn’t call out to him, but he could hear your bare feet padding across his floors, and when you emerged, Jack almost choked mid-sip. 

Because there you were, in his apartment, only weeks into seeing one another, and you were wearing that damn Pittsburgh Pirates hoodie, the sleeves swallowing your hands, and the rest falling over the curve of your ass. You had nothing else on underneath it. Your hair was pulled up out of your face messily, your skin bare—all makeup and wear of the day washed away. 

It was the first time you’d ever stayed, showered at his place, started to treat it like it could be yours. And all he could focus on was the soft skin of your thighs that were glistening under the microwave light.

You were different that night. Even though it'd been such a short time, he knew you, knew how you, usually his little ball of energy, were always jumping up to greet him and unleash every single thought that came to mind during the day and your time apart. But you never jumped or yelled or got so close to him to even think about clinging yourself to him. 

No, that night you stood so quiet. 

Without even a single word, you just looked, took him in, with no one else but the silence as a standing witness. Then you moved closer, so close that your toes covered in a pair of his socks pressed up against his. You reached up and cupped his cheek—your palm was warm, gentle, so soft against his skin. Always so soft. Always so good. 

You stared up at him, breathed him in, and looked at him in a way he didn’t know if he’d ever seen before. Your eyes were wide and full and just so, so understanding. It was almost like there was a part of you that recognized him, knew him, and for some odd reason wanted to claim him forever because you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips. 

It was tender, almost tentative before deepening with the press of his tongue against the seam of your mouth. 

And like you’d never been surer of anything, your lips parted; a breathy sigh was all he could hear or feel as he complied, closing the distance between the two of you. 

Jack smiles, really smiles this time, fingers tracing a hole in the collar of the black hoodie. Because all he can see now when he looks at it is you. He only looks away as he hears the familiar push of a button and then a beep from a speaker connecting. Jack stands still and holds his breath, waiting for… 

and there it is.

The click of a play button with the sound of a sharp, metallic clank appears, followed by a soft, auto-tuned vocal hum. Then the bass drops, and it feels familiar to Jack, like you've played this for him many times before. But all he can think about is how loud it is. 

Thought you were having wine over FaceTime with your friends. 

Because the two of you had been lying tangled on his patio, the cushions falling around you when you him pushed up and towards the door when your phone began to ring. You banished him inside to continue with packing, a small smile looping itself across his lips when he heard the familiar voices of your old college roommates, his name instantly becoming the topic of interest. 

But as far as he knew, he’d been a topic among them for a while, ever since you told them about your new boyfriend who was controversially older than you. 

Shoulders dropping, he holds the sweatshirt close to his chest and stalks out of the living room, already too interested to know about what you’d talked about with your friends. If they approved of the apartment—his espresso machine, the brick wall across from his flatscreen, the spare room filled with weights and his treadmill, how soft the new bedsheets were that he bought only because you mentioned that you liked them—or perhaps if they asked about how he had you bent over his kitchen counter that morning mouthing at your neck like a man starved, after he’d gotten off of a shift that took more pieces of him than he liked. 

The last one he knew you probably told them about anyway, being an oversharer; he realized one night when you were getting ready in his bathroom for a date night, and he overheard you explaining detail by detail of your last sexual encounter. His hand around your neck, squeezing as he took you, saliva coating your lips—your chin as he delivered on every desire and front you’d ever wanted out of a man.

That’s why he’s surprised when you’re already back inside, the call far shorter than normal. As he rounds the corner of the hall, his eyebrows raise as he’s met with the sight of you standing in the middle of the living room, a few boxes open and half picked through. The lights are once again dimmed, his apartment pulled back into darkness, but this time with a few lamps glowing bright on side tables that weren’t there before. Your hair’s thrown up messily, revealing the large hoop earrings that he thought you would’ve taken out by now, and he can smell the way the summer air clings to your skin. 

And sure enough, there sitting on the kitchen counter is your glass of white wine—topped off with a fresh heavy pour. You’re turned away from him, hips starting to sway, not having heard him enter the room over Jamie Foxx’s Blame It. 

Jack was about to announce himself too; he was, but then he feels any sort of acknowledgement or words die softly and quietly as your hip swaying deepens into a full swing. You’re dancing in a way he’s all too familiar with—seen in bars and clubs you’ve dragged him out to—in his bedroom when you insist on him trying sex to music for the first time. But not to just those basic bedroom playlists that everyone casually uses from YouTube—no, it’s to a playlist you curated, and loved, just because of him.  

He can’t help the way a grin deepens over his wrinkled face as your whole presence deepens in the form of loosening shoulders and your head bopping back and forth in time with the beat, completely letting go in a space that was not only just his but yours too. 

Taking a long sip from your wine glass, you hum and go back to dancing, getting more into it now as the words of the song form in perfect lip-sync fashion. Jack’s head starts to move too, his shoulder finding the doorframe, falling into a kind of contentness that only ever came when he was watching you. 

But then you turn, eyes flickering up to where he stands in the doorway, and the words fall flat, your whole body coiling tight and jumping in surprise. A small splash of your wine escapes out of the glass onto your hand and the floor. 

“Jesus,” you whisper, hand clutching your chest. 

“Just Jack, actually,” he chuckles, stepping further into the room. 

It’s then your eyes narrow over at him, lips pulling in a small scowl, and he can’t help but wonder how even your glare is so soft and adorable. He smirks at the sight of it, something in his belly flipping as you turn and place your wine back on the counter and grab a few paper towels. 

After your spill is cleaned, you’re back to ignoring him like he’d never stepped foot in the room and immediately fell back into the music, hips having a mind of their own again. 

Those must have been two tall glasses of wine. 

Jack laughs; it’s warm and settles into his chest like warm honey. 

“Baby, what are you doing? I thought you were talking to your friends.” Jack places the sweatshirt down on the couch and steps even closer when you don’t answer him. “Instead, you’re in here… having a dance party.”

You ignore him some more, but the warmth never dissipates from where it loosens in his chest cavity only to slip down past his lungs, his diaphragm, and into the base of his stomach. Because you’re dancing and you’re all loose and tipsy and doing all of this while in the center of his apartment—no, your apartment. 

Stepping closer to meet him halfway, you peer up at him through your lashes and start to mouth the words like this was a concert, and Jack’s your audience. 

“Blame it on the Goose. Got you feelin’ loose.

Blame it on the ‘Tron. Got you in the zone.” 

Lifting your arms up and over your head, your eyes flutter shut, suddenly unaware of the way Jack’s eyes begin to drift lower. Or maybe you do. But either way, he can’t help but notice how your colorful striped sweater slides up just enough to reveal the soft skin of your abdomen and the pajama shorts you’re wearing underneath. 

Another second or two passes and then you’re even closer, hands sliding up his forearms, leaving pebbled skin behind. They go up and up, skating around his shoulders as you lean closer, so close so close that your nose almost brushes his. You continue to sing along with the R&B song, hips and front brushing up against his every so often in tune to the pulsating 808 bassline. 

“You trying to open a club in our living room?” Jack asks teasingly, as your hot breath fans across his lips. 

You smile at that, dance moves falter for only a second before you press against him, hips slowing to a gentle roll against his. Jack’s breath stalls in the back of his throat, but he encourages you with a small tip of his head, eyes sweeping down to where the two of you meet. His hands find your waist, and it takes everything in him to not shove them up and under your shirt. 

“Hm, jokes on you, I already have. Disco lights and a velvet rope on the way. Will be here just in time for our opening night this weekend.”

“Yeah?” 

“Mh-hm,” you hum, lips brushing his only for a second before you’re pulling back, the color of your irises darker now. “Just trying to figure out the playlist. Dance with me, Jackie?”

You say it so quietly against his mouth that if you weren’t as close as you were, he wouldn’t have been able to hear it. He blinks down at you, his eyelids half-closed as his hands begin to wander lower from your waist down to your hips. 

“Seriously?”

You shrug, that enticing glint of yours forming. “Nothing like a little Jamie Foxx and grinding to say welcome home. Don’t you think?”

He’s smiling, can feel it in the way his cheeks are starting to ache as he stares down at you, hands slipping into your pajama shorts so his fingers can trace your hip bones. When he doesn’t say anything, you press your hips forward, your front meeting his in a gentle rock. 

“You’re a brat, you know that?” 

He says as if he doesn’t love it.

But he does. Fuck, Jack loves every second of it. 

The way you tease him, push his buttons just to see how far you can go, how far he’ll let you go until you’re getting the reaction out of him that you want. Loves that you’re just as obsessed with him as he is with you—always needing to be as close to him as possible, touching him in some way because he knows if you could, you’d fold yourself into his skin and live there. He loves that your age shows sometimes in the small pout you’d give him when you don’t get your way or how your tone becomes a little more brazen when another woman—usually closer to his age than yours—leans too close or says something that balances across a fine line of friendly and flirting. 

Oh, and God help someone if they ever get it wrong and accidentally mistake you and Jack as anything other than what you were—partners, lovers, boyfriend and girlfriend—all of the labels that Jack loved so desperately. He’d seen it one too many times how something would overtake you, and your glare wasn’t nearly as soft as it was with him when you decided to put them in their place for getting it wrong.  

You were never sorry about it either afterwards.

Because he was yours and you needed everyone to know it. 

Jack finally gives in enough, letting himself become pliable under your touch and move with you. His hands tighten around you, and it’s not much at first. Just a little sway from side to side. And you’re laughing the sound so melodic like a siren call.

“She spilled some drink on me. And now I’m knowin’ she tipsy

She put her body on me.”

Your cheek brushes his whenever you turn your head, and now he’s laughing too, aware of how uncoordinated he is trying to grind into you. But you don’t seem to mind. You never seem to mind, going so far as to hike one leg high up on his thigh. 

Your center presses against his again, and this angle he can feel all of you through your pajama shorts.

Jack’s breath hitches, shaking his head down at you as his palm slips up and around your leg to hold it there. But he’s still smiling because shit, you really are a brat. Supposed to be unpacking with the few days he has off, not getting him all hard and worked up like this. 

But then your eyes drop to the couch, and your movements come to a full-fledged stop, and a soft groan escapes from his lips. 

“Hey!” 

Jack’s nose brushes against your temple before following where you’re looking. 

“That’s mine.” You’re pouting, brows furrowing up at him almost like he’s betrayed you.

He glances down at the sweatshirt, then back at you, blinking and trying to ignore the fact that he was fully hard against you now. 

“Oh, is it now?” Jack asks, raising a single brow as he slides your leg back down.

He reaches over and picks it up. 

“Yes, it is.” You reply, nose brushing his this time, with how close the two of you still are. 

A second later, you’re ripping the sweatshirt out of his hand, and Jack lets you take it after he notices the twitch in your jaw at how tightly he was holding onto it. Then you’re stepping back, your skin peeling away from his as you clutch the fabric flush against your chest instead—almost like you’re afraid he’s going to try and take it from you again.

Jack’s ready to tease you again, but the words never land as you suddenly reach for your striped sweater and pull it up and over your head, taking your tank top underneath with it. His mouth goes dry, his lower half stirring beneath the fabric of his sweatpants, as beneath all of that is the thinnest, poorest excuse of a bra Jack has ever seen. The straps are slipping off your shoulders, threads loose and tickling the bare skin of your torso, and it looks like it’s about two sizes too small. 

Before Jack can even reach for you, though, you’re pushing his hands away and sliding the sweatshirt up and over your head. It hangs loose on you, the worn cotton falling nearly to your thighs. 

Jack looks down. 

Then back up. That image of you in his kitchen over a year ago appears again. Your bare thighs, the way your mouth molded against his. How he fucked you over. 

He’s smirking down at you again, his arms crossing over his chest, shirt tightening just enough to catch your eyes. He’s smirking because you’ve been hiding it from him. Probably only wearing it at your apartment, maybe even with your friends, but never with him because you’d acted like a straight-up thief stealing it after the first night you ever wore it. 

“Missing something, Swiper?” Jack asks, hazel eyes dark now and locked on where the sweatshirt swallows your bottoms.

Your brows furrow in confusion, but then you follow his gaze down toward the pastel-colored pajama shorts still peeking out beneath the sweatshirt. The twitch in your jaw loosens, and your brows flatten, and like you hadn’t been annoyed with him before, a knowing smile spreads across your face. 

“Maybe.” 

You were just as pliable as Jack is, it seems. Because within seconds, you’re reaching for the waistband and slipping them down your legs. You step out of them and kick them to the side. And just when Jack thinks you’re going to stop, so caught up in the way you look, and wondering if you have any underwear on, you’re slipping your arms in through sleeves.

A few seconds later, your bra drops out from under the sweatshirt and onto the floor with the rest of your clothes. Your arms slide back into the sleeves, and Jack suppresses a moan at the sight of the small threaded bra lying between the two of you. 

It’s too good to be true. 

Because there’s no way he’s not only moving in with his girlfriend, but she’s strip-teasing him to 2000s R&B that Jack hadn’t listened to in about twenty years. 

Fuck, you’re perfect.

Stepping back into his space, your hands guide his back to your hips, the worn material soft under his palms. Your hot breath collides with his, and you hum in satisfaction when you can feel how hard he is between your legs.

“Just the reaction I was looking for,” you say. “I must really look better in it if it has you staring like this.”

Jack’s shaking his head then, trying to release his lower lip from where it sits tucked in between his teeth as his hands wander again. Waist. Hips. He grabs a handful of your ass through the sweatshirt.

“No,” he says, voice coming out all gravely. 

You look at him, a single brow raising. “No?” 

“Actually, I’ve decided I want it back.” Jack tries to keep a straight face as his other hand dances along your bare thigh. Your breath stutters as his fingers dip tracing the skin like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. 

As his fingers meet the bottom of the sweatshirt, he pinches the lower hem of it between his thumb and index finger, smirking at the way you feign a gasp. That soft glare returns as your hands do some wandering of their own. Down his shoulders. Biceps. Over his chest.

Leaning forward again, your nose brushes his, lips whispering against his. “You can’t have it back.” 

No mercy. 

Your eyes light up when Jack’s lips part in shock. 

“It’s mine.” 

“Not anymore.” 

He shakes his head, but he’s still smiling as you push him towards the couch. The back of his calf and the metal of his prosthetic hit the plush of it, and he falls back under the small force of your palms. A small noise slips out of him as you climb on top of him, straddling his wide hips, the sweatshirt riding up ever so slightly to reveal more of your soft, tight skin. 

“That’s not how ownership works,” Jack huffs as you settle against him, your weight dropping down on his cock that’s starting to ache. 

“Pretty sure it is,” you argue, arms circling his neck as you give a small roll of your hips against his. 

“Oh, fuck,” Jack whispers under his breath, head tipping back to rest against the back of the couch.  

“See?” Your lips brush the corner of his mouth again. “You’d hate to never have me like this again.” 

Jack laughs, softly against your lips, hands settling more firmly around your waist. He catches your stare, the way your eyes are just as blown out as his, your bottom lip coated in a fine line of saliva from where you’d been chewing on your lip. And there’s a heat that’s evident across your skin—the alcohol warm and pooling in the base of your stomach, giving you the most delightful buzz and need to be filled. 

By him specifically. 

“You like wearing my stuff?”

“I do.” You mumble, kissing him deeply this time. Your tongue’s wet and wanting as it dives into his mouth and licks through it. 

You melt into him, hips speeding up, the thin material of your underwear underneath sliding up and down his shaft with only the fabric of his sweatpants operating as a barrier. You start to fist at the fabric of his shirt, pulling him as close as you possibly could, chest meeting his as the feeling of him rolling against your puffy clit sends shock waves down your spine. 

You pull away a few seconds later, and Jack can’t take his eyes off the saliva that clings and pools at the corner of your lips.

“And you like that I do?” You ask, and it’s so innocent-sounding, but he knows it’s anything but when you pair it with a soft smirk, hands lacing into his curls right above the nape of his neck. 

Jack looks at you for a moment, how your lips are flush and beginning to swell. Your chest rises and falls against his as sweat beads across your skin under the sweatshirt. His hands slide up further, past your upper thighs and your hips where the thin lace of your underwear clings. It taunts him, because those aren’t moving-in kind of underwear. Those are I want you to fuck me underwear. 

And suddenly Jack wishes he still had his pocketknife in his pocket so he could cut them off of you 

“I like it more when I get to take it off,” he finally admits, warm fingers pressing into your sides, hands splayed completely across the outline of your ribs. 

Your eyebrows lift in interest, a smile of yours returning that’s going to unravel him right then and there. Closing what space is left, your lips trace the outline of his ear, a smile forming as his hands tighten around you. 

“Well, Dr. Abbot. I think that can be arranged,” you whisper. 

Somewhere in between your hips grinding over his bulge and your teeth nipping at the lobe of his ear, the sweatshirt becomes bunched up and around your waist. You lean down to capture Jack’s lips again. Languidly. Deeply. Tasting them like it’s the last time. 

As if you hadn’t just moved in with all these boxes, your name written on every one. 

Jack whimpers in your mouth as your lips part from his to trace a path to his jaw, kissing his freckled skin softly. They trail lower toward his neck, and you press another right over his pulse point. Jack’s hands tighten around your ribcage, dragging you up and down his length, desperate to hear you. 

To have you. 

He doesn’t even hear the song change or what’s even playing anymore as he starts to feel you finding a rhythm against him. 

But then your head is lifting, and you’re whispering against his mouth like it was a secret just for him. “Boom, boom, boom, boom. I want you in my room.”

Jack blinks, laughing softly. “Excuse me?” 

You peck his lips once and then twice more. “It’s another song I like. I have a playlist.”

“For what?" He asks incredulously, looking down at his much younger girlfriend in his lap. “Fucking?”

And he knew you had him right where you wanted him. Because when it came to you, it never took too much with Jack. Bat your lashes. Suck on your lips. Tease him—the meaner the better. Pout only if it’s required. 

All it took. 

“I guess it could be.” You whisper against his lips, eyes locking with his as a small smile forms at the corners of your mouth. “If you want.” 

And Jack didn’t think he could possibly love you more than he did at that moment. And he knew he could never feel undeserving or unsure of himself again when every day going forward—he’d get to have you like this—actively dancing pressed against him and stripping to songs he’d plan to fuck you into the mattress to later. 

You, his girlfriend, so young; it was controversial to anyone outside of this apartment, this relationship, you and him. But Jack didn’t care; he couldn’t because all of this love had him planning out the rest of his life like how a planet orbits the sun. 

You’re new to Pittsburgh, and unfamiliar with the notorious unreliability of the public transport system, causing you to be 45 minutes late and frantically running from the nearest bus stop into the emergency department.

This is your worst nightmare. You picture everyone looking at you as you walk in, silently judging. Hating the feeling of eyes on you. You’re definitely flushed red in the face, your bag being packed to the brim with items you certainly do not need weighing you down, cursing yourself for packing so heavy.

While running through the entrance of the ER, you’re barely looking where you’re going and end up colliding with a chest, solid and unmoving you almost mistake him for a wall. You stumble a little, losing your footing and almost fall backwards over your own feet.

Warm hands on your shoulder steady you, preventing the horrific embarrassment.

“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry– I didn’t even see you,” your voice is frantic and apologetic, worried you’ve already made an enemy and you hadn’t even started your shift. 

A deep, gravelly voice cuts through to you, grounding your panicked state.

“Hey, kid– easy, easy. You’re okay.” His voice is instantly calming. “You our new nurse?” he asks gently, while his hands slip to your arms, fully stabilising you. 

You settle down quickly, gathering yourself and finally looking up at him, nodding after a while realising he asked you a question. 

He’s incredibly attractive.

The first thing that you notice about him is how big he is. He’s taller than you and so broad, forming a literal wall between you and the ER in this moment, no wonder you crashed into him. He stands so close to you that you have to lift your head to look up at him as he towers over you with a gentle, concerned look. Butterflies twist in your stomach.

You swallow thickly, nerves returning as you realise you probably fucked this impression up by remaining silent and gawking at this man. 

Collecting yourself, “Uh– yes! That’s me–” you stumble over your words internally cringing, “I’m so sorry about being late, it won't happen again.”

He chuckles quietly, finding your flustered state incredibly cute, and extends a hand to you. 

You notice the size of his arms, his veins, his hands– oh, you’ve got to stop thinking like this. You’re so fucked. 

“Dr. Abbot, nice to meet ya, kid.” His voice is low and gravelly, stirring your stomach. “But don’t let it happen again.” His voice is firm, making your insides flip and guilt rises within you.

“No, no of course not. I promise. I’ll be 45 minutes early every day!” Your voice is laced with guilt and you avoid his eyes, whilst shaking his hand, feeling like you’ve already failed before starting.

“Jesus, kid, breathe.” He chuckles, mouth twitching in amusement. “You’re apologising like you hit me with your car.” He soothes, smirking a little at how easily his teasing had gotten to you. 

He watches your face fall in relief, and you let out a small, shy laugh. Still holding onto your hand a second longer, it's hard for him not to notice how incredibly soft your hands are in his, how untouched by cruelty, unlike his rough, calloused hands. Something protective stirs in Jack, confusing him, but a drive to keep you safe, keep you soft takes root in him. He needs to ensure this place doesn’t ruin you, doesn’t cause you to burn out like he's seen time-and-time again with nurses and doctors. 

“I’m really not usually this much of a disaster– well, most of the time.” You laugh shakily.

You notice his intense stare, like he’s studying you, makes you squirm under his gaze. Your eyes flick down where your hands are still joined, you notice the sheer size difference, how his hand completely engulfs yours. You go to pull away, when he brings a second hand to cup your hand, completely engulfing it, before he pulls away entirely. Your breath hitches, trying to stave off any completely inappropriate thoughts,

Dr. Abbot tilts his head towards central, signalling to meet him there once you’re settled.

“Oh– and, kid?” He drawls, eying your bag as you head towards the lockers.

“We do have supplies here, I promise.” he teases, but his voice is soft and amused, referring to your massively overpacked bag, watching heat flood your face and you nod, completely embarrassed. 

Jack watches you scuttle away, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, but his mind is elsewhere, how you were looking at him so shyly, your wide doe eyes ingrained in his mind. Imagining your eyes after kissing you, those eyes looking up at him when– Fuck. This is so unlike him.

Approaching central, he sees Lena and Shen talking in hushed voices. He chooses not to entertain their shenanigans, just crossing his arms and staring up at the patient board, but he catches Lena’s fierce stare in his periphery, alongside Shen’s smirk.

“Stay away from my nurses, Abbot. She’s clearly a good kid.” She scolds, her tone firm and motherly. He can feel her eyes shooting daggers at him. 

Jack doesn’t look away from the board, smirking a little.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice is low and equally amused, shaking his head gently. “Just being friendly.”

Shen scoffs, “Yeah? Friendly? You look like you wanted to eat her.”

Jack tenses a little going to defend himself before Lena’s sweet voice interrupts him. She walks past Jack making her way towards you where you had emerged from the lockers and placing a protective hand on your shoulder.

“There ya are, honey. I’m Lena, your charge nurse. C’mon, let us give ya a tour, get a lay of the land, yeah?”

During the tour, you notice Abbot seems to never stray too far from you. Always directly behind you, his hand hovering over the small of your back whenever the halls get crowded, ready to move you if needed.

Surely it's just friendly, you tell yourself.

You hope otherwise.

───────

True to your words, you’re never late again. 

Always early to every shift, settled down and working by the time Jack clocks in. But he notices since you’re starting to be early, you get closer and closer with Robby, and it wouldn’t bother him, if you’d at least show the same fondness for him.

Every shift, you avoid interacting with Dr. Abbot at all. You tell yourself it's necessary, you can’t let yourself fall for an attending, despite how flustered, frankly, just warm all over, he makes you feel. You love watching him work, his competency and confidence as he works allures you. Especially in trauma cases, when he barks orders to his residents, you imagine him telling you what to do, when to do it, how to do it, guiding you.

However, during a particular trauma, you were meant to be in the background, watching and learning. But you couldn’t stop watching Abbot’s hands work with such fine precision, the way they flex, the veins popping out. You get lost in your head staring at how big they are, how they’d feel cupping your face, your neck, inside you–

That’s when you decided, for your own well being, but most importantly your work, you couldn’t be around him.

From then on, if you needed anything, you went to anyone and everyone, to avoid speaking to Abbot. Even if he was right there, and asking if you needed anything, you’d go quiet, and your quiet, meek voice dismisses him, “Oh, uh, I’m okay, thank you.” Before you turn and scuttle off in the complete opposite direction, towards Shen.

It bugs him.

How you avoid him, how easily you laugh and joke with Robby, or how you always go to Shen for questions or help.

Jack watches right now, as you laugh freely with Robby, gazing up at him as if you’re hanging on to every word. Gazing at him like he hung the moon. He feels an ugly feeling crawling up his throat, and doesn't want to admit jealousy. He’s not jealous. He’s not. He simply wishes you'd talk to him, with those wide, round doe eyes, smiling shyly and getting you to fall apart with the simplest of words and touches. 

He’s so lost in his own head, he doesn’t notice Robby walking by ready to leave for the day.

“You got a good one there, brother, might steal her from the dark side if you’re not careful.” Robby jokes in passing, leaving Jack completely stunned. His eye twitches and his breath stops.

No.

His gaze flickers up to you across the ER, your sweet laugh cutting through the air.

You’re his.

───────

Admittedly, you’re making it very hard to make you his.

You’re almost too polite with him. A small, “good evening,” greeting when he comes in, a simple, “see you tomorrow, boss,” whenever you head out. You’re impossible to get time alone with.

Every time he catches you walking down the hall, jogging to catch up to you, asking you how your night is, you get all quiet. You don’t even look at him beyond a polite glance, your smile is tight and professional. Nodding before dipping into the closest room to get away.

He sighs, thinking you could be so focused on your work you may not want to entertain small talk. But he knows that’s not it, seeing how you laugh every time Shen or Ellis make jokes as you walk with them in the hallway.

So he tries to talk to you when you’re not as busy, just charting.

Jack’s leaning against the counter at central, pretending to be looking at the patient board, but his eyes keep drifting over to you, thinking of ways to get you to talk to him. 

He watches the way you pout while charting, your brows pulled tight in concentration, and has the sudden urge to smooth the crease between them with his thumb. He wants to gently scold you for mindlessly chewing at the tip of your pen whilst you work, to take his hand and brush the hair covering your face behind your ear–

His body takes him over to your desk before his mind catches up with him, a seemingly magnetic pull driving him to your side.

He slots himself beside you, a hand over the back of your chair, leaning down to look at your screen. 

“Oh– Dr. Abbot!” you startle, being caught off guard. 

Your mouth dries and your heart rate ticks like a rabbit, having him so close. His face is so close to yours, you don’t turn your head, you can’t. You can hear his breathing, can smell his cologne at this distance. Your mind reels.

He can smell you too. Caramel and vanilla.

The proximity alone has your stomach flipping, his hand behind you becoming an oddly domestic, claiming gesture. Placing a hand on your back, his voice is gentle, low when he speaks.

“This is good stuff, kid, keep it up.”

His praise sends a jolt down your spine and your face reddens instantly. He can feel you twitch under his hand.

You dip your head, hiding your red face and mumble a quick, breathless, “Uh– thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

He watches you fidget, uncomfortable from the praise. Laughing quietly, before removing his hand. 

You’re so shy. Shy with him. Oh.

But then you flee, almost running in the opposite direction, and his mind reels. Maybe he’s read this all wrong.

───────

He concludes after a few more nights of avoidance that maybe you just want nothing to do with him at all. 

He keeps his distance, returning your polite greetings, but he hates it. The night shift is supposed to flow, be light and less stressful. Jack's spent so long cultivating an environment where people feel free to laugh, ask questions, not be afraid of getting things wrong.

Now you’re here and he’s all confused. He wants you to enter the stream but it feels like wading against a river trying to figure out what to do differently for you.

He decides to just ask. He approaches you during your break one night.

You’re sat in the break room scrolling mindlessly whilst poking at your food. 

His quiet, tired voice cuts through. 

“S’alright if I join ya?”

You’d been too tired, too into your phone you hadn’t noticed him come in. Nodding fervently you allow him to sit opposite you, his tone of voice sounding different than it does most nights, almost resigned. You actually look at him properly, concerned.

“Listen, kid. I just wanna apologise if I’ve ever done anything to make ya uncomfortable, yeah?” His eyes meet yours, intense and serious.

You pause. 

Uncomfortable?

Fuck. 

You were avoiding him so much he thought you didn't like him, made you uncomfortable. Your eyes widen in panic, head shaking rapidly putting your phone and fork down immediately.

“No, god, no. You’ve never– that’s not it–” Stop rambling, you tell yourself.  Swallowing, taking a deep breath, you realise you need to get over yourself. “M’sorry for the way I’ve been acting. It's not you.” Your voice is quiet, avoiding his eyes.

He tilts his head down to try and meet yours again, concern on his face. His voice is so soft, when he says,

“You sure, kid? You can tell me–”

You shake your head again, cutting him off.

“You make me nervous.” You blurt out in one panicked breath. You squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment and literally bring your head to the table, groaning. 

Abbot lets out a quiet chuckle, amused.

“Honey, hey, look at me.” He coaxes trying to get you to stop wallowing in embarrassment. “Please?” 

You lift your head slightly, hands covering your face, peeking at him through your fingers. He’s smiling, like this is funny to him, like you didn’t completely ruin everything–

“S’okay.” His expression softens, voice gentler now. “You never gotta be nervous around me, you hear me?”

Oh.

He misunderstood, thinking you mean nervous of his authority. You can work with that, you haven’t entirely humiliated yourself.

Your hands drop from your face, blush still evident on your cheeks and a shy smile creeps up. You nod in affirmation to his words letting out a deep breath.

“I want you to come to me as well, for anything. Not just Shen, Lena, or Robby. Me.” His inflection on Robby’s name confuses you and makes you giggle a little.

The sound awakens something within Jack, without thinking, he leans over placing a hand over  yours where it rests on the table.

“I mean it. Anything.”

───────

He notices how you don’t run from him anymore, don’t push him away, let him exist within your space. 

You’re still nervous most of the time, but you push it away, and he’s proud. He wants you to come out of your shell with him.

One evening, Lena calls you into North 7 for a debridement, knowing how much you love mindless, repetitive tasks. It unwinds your brain, picking out thousands of tiny pieces of gravel and debris from a patient's leg, letting you let go and not have to worry about doing something wrong.

You’re about halfway through, the only thing heard in the room is the slow hum of the patient's monitor, and Lena tidying up a cart nearby, when you hear the door open.

You frown, not enjoying having been disturbed and the loud, chaos sound of the ER filters through the door. You keep your attention laser focused onto the patient, until you hear his familiar, gentle voice, checking in.

“All good in here?” 

You hesitate, stopping your motions for the first time since you started, before lifting your head up and looking at Dr. Abbot, leaning against the doorframe. Your breath hitches as you make eye contact, his focus entirely on you, not the patient. His head is tilted, and his eye contact is intense, making you nervous.

Lena scoffs to herself. Checking in, my ass. 

“Mhm.” Your sweet voice hums in affirmation, the only thing you can manage to verbalise at the moment.

Lena pauses from tidying up the cart, turning raising an eyebrow at you, oh god not you too.

“Good. Can always count on ya to keep things moving smoothly, can’t I, sweetheart?” His voice is sweet, almost cooing.

You’re starstruck. Sweetheart. 

You blink, unable to respond, but he’s already leaving with a smug, self-assured smile like he accomplished his goal. You swallow, unable to stop the smile spreading on your face, ducking your head to hide your flushed, red face from Lena.

Walking down the hall, he recalls how much the praise got to you when he complimented your charting, and watching you now? 

The knowledge that praise gets to you so much?

Wrecks him. 

He feels a sense of power, knowing how much he can get you to fall apart from a few words.

───────

The closer he gets, the more he observes your interactions with everyone else. You’re just as shy and nervous with everyone too. A quiet little thing.

During shift change over one morning, a few night shift and day shift nurses and doctors are gathered gossiping about a particularly rowdy patient you had that night. 

You’re off to the side, included, but just about. He notices that's always the position you take, included just enough, but never in the centre, never leading, and never actively involved. He thinks maybe you just like to listen, observe, feeling more comfortable for you like that knowing how shy you are.

He frowns, because the rowdy patient they’re on about? You were the only nurse working with him. He wasn’t dangerous by any means, he was strapped to the bed. Jack would never let you in a room with a patient that’s a danger to your safety. 

But the group were already feeding the rumour mill, exaggerating the patients words and actions. He watches you from the corner of his eye where he’s leaning against the counter with a pen in hand, stopping his writing to watch. 

He wants you to speak up, correct them, and join in.

He watches your eyes dart around the group, you lick your lips, breathing becoming shallower. You’re assessing for the right time to jump in. You’re so nervous to speak up, his heart aches.

And when you try? You’re so quiet, no one even noticed. Immediately you were cut off.

He watches you blink, swallowing in embarrassment before collecting yourself as if you hadn’t even spoken, smiling along. 

His heart breaks.

You’re used to this, being spoken over always happens, you’re just too quiet sometimes, better at one-on-one interactions, not groups. Though you’re a little stung, you push it away, familiar with the feeling. Sighing, you slip into your coat before silently taking your leave. 

Just before you can head through the exit doors, he catches up with you.

“Hold up, kid.” You hear him jogging slowly behind you. 

You turn, smiling at him, he can see the tiredness and hurt in your eyes even if you’re trying to hide it.

“You leaving without saying goodbye?” he teases lightly, his expression incredibly soft.

You dip your head shyly, 

“Didn’t think anyone would notice.” You mumble, trying to laugh it off.

His brows scrunch, a displeased look on his face, almost offended.

“I notice.”

His words are so final, so real. You just stare at him with a vulnerable expression. His words heal something deep, knowing someone cares about your presence. You’re speechless.

He places a hand on your back guiding you outside, noticing your hesitance.

“C’mon. Let me walk ya to your bus stop, you can tell me about the rowdy patient, yeah?” 

You nod shyly, trying not to let your eyes well up from his care. It’s a short distance, the sky brightening as you both walk. He’s silent and attentive, actively listening to every word you tell him, like they’re the most important words ever.

When you reach the stop you turn to thank him, but before you can he speaks first.

“Hey. M’proud of ya, for speaking up in there.”

You give him a little confused look shaking your head. 

“It didn’t really feel like I did.” You laugh awkwardly, embarrassed to revisit the moment knowing he was watching.

“You did. I’ll always listen, whatever you wanna talk about, yeah?” Your chest tightens painfully at the sincerity in his voice. You can only nod, suddenly too affected to trust your own voice.

“G’night, sweetheart” He drapes an arm around your shoulder squeezing you before letting you board.

On the way home, your head mulls over his words, settling on one detail.

He’s proud.

───────

Being around Abbot so much recently is fucking with you, to say the least. 

His constant praise at your actions, you begin expecting and waiting for it. Every time he’s within your vicinity, you wait for his gentle but ragged voice ushering praise.

“Good catch, sweetheart.”

“Don’t know what I’d do without ya.”

“Jesus, you really make my life easier, y’know that?”

And he always delivers. 

Aside from the praise, he’s incredibly attentive and observant, knowing what you need exactly when you need it. Encouraging breaks any time he sees you get overwhelmed during the night, telling you to drink water, take a breather. 

But he’s also so patient with you, like no one's ever been. With him, you begin to unlearn your fear of being judged for saying the wrong thing, acting the wrong way, because he never judges. 

Tonight is no different.

You’re in central 7 with Dr. Ellis, with a very panicked, frantic mother and her daughter. Her child is only around 6 years old, clearly withdrawn and quiet. Her mother explains to Dr. Ellis how she’d been bathing her daughter that evening, when she found a large bruise on the daughter’s back and legs, suspecting her husband’s abusing her.

You immediately make eye contact with Ellis, silently signalling that you’ll call Kiara, the hospital social worker. But before you can step out to do so, a large, loud and drunk man barges through the door, angry. 

He’s unsteady on his feet, eyes directly narrowing onto his wife, before pushing past you and immediately going to yell at her.

“You bitch! You have NO right bringing our daughter here without my permission–” He yells spit flying out of his mouth, alcohol clearly on his breath

“Sir–” Ellis tries to calm him down, placing a hand on his shoulder which he shrugs off. 

“No!” He shrugs her off

“Your permission?” The mother yells back, cutting him off in disbelief. “You’re laying your fucking hands on my kid and you think I’m gonna let you be near her?” She’s defensive, shrill, adrenaline thrumming through her.

The yelling gets to you admittedly, you’re never good whenever patients of their families raise their voices. They carry on, Ellis begging for them to keep it civil or he will be removed by security

The door opens swiftly with Dr. Abbot and a night shift security guard filtering through to de-escalate. 

Drowning it all out, trying to not let it affect you, you turn your attention to the little girl on the bed, all hunched up scared of her parents yelling. You turn her towards you telling her to focus on you. You just try to distract her in any way possible, asking her questions about school, her friends, her hobbies. It works a little, her tiny voice whispering over her parents yells.

The father is finally removed, and the air to the room returns, silence taking over. 

“It’s alright, you’re okay.” You comfort the girl placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, testing it beforehand to see if she pulls away.

Jack turns to you then, really looking at you. The way you’re so gentle with the girl, how your focus was on her comfort during her parents screaming match. God, he admires you. But he also picks up on your tense shoulders, the way your breathing is unsettled, your face is tighter than normal.

You step back once the mother sits by the daughter’s side comforting her, you don't realise you walk back into Jack’s hand, which now rests on the small of your back. He leans closer to you dipping down to speak into your ear,

“Go take a breather, yeah?” His voice is soft, gentle.

You look up at him to convince him you’re fine, you don’t need a break. But the look in his eyes is stern, pleading: do not fight me on this. 

───

Jack finds you around 5 minutes later in the stairwell, you seem to just be sitting there lost in your own head.

He approaches slowly, groaning as he sits next to you on the stairs, your shoulders touching. He speaks first,

“You did really well there – with the girl.” He nudges your leg with his as he praises you, trying to cheer you up. You can tell he’s looking at you from the corner of your eye but you keep your eyes on your lap. Pedes cases always got to you.

“She shouldn’t have had to hear that.” Your voice is quiet, unsteady. Swallowing down the lump in your throat, but the tears build in your eyes anyways. You dip your head down further trying to hide.

“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice softens, his hand settling on your knee. “Talk to me?” His voice is begging.

You lift your head to look at him, drying your eyes. “It’s stupid, really.” You shake your head quickly, trying to laugh through it. “I just don’t handle yelling very well.”

“Yeah. I thought so, honey.” His thumb rubs back and forth over your knee, comforting you. “That’s not on you.” His voice is gentler now.

“I feel ridiculous.” You wipe quickly under your eyes. “I should be able to handle it better by now.” Insecurity laces your words at breaking down like this in front of an attending.

“No.” His response is immediate, firm but gentle. “Don’t start thinkin’ the answer is makin’ yourself colder.” He aches at the prospect of you removing the brightest parts of yourself, to dim your light to handle the harshness of the world. Absolutely not. He wants to shield you, be the barrier between people's cruelty and your soft, gentle heart.

Your shiny eyes meet his, vulnerability flashing through them. Without even thinking he brings his thumb to brush a stray tear from your cheek. He watches your eyes flutter close and your breath hitching at the gesture, his heart leaping.

“Take as much time as ya need. Come find me at the end of the day, I’ll take you home, yeah?” His voice grumbles, sending a jolt through you.

Your eyes open ready to protest, you can’t possible accept a ride from him, thats asking too much–

“Ah, ah, I’m not taking no for an answer.” He smirks before standing and heading back out to the ER.

───

Before your shift ended that same day, you had asked Lena to show you how to work the medicine cabinet as you’d had trouble returning a vial earlier in your shift.

The day shift starts to filter through whilst Lena is describing the steps to take, making you distracted.

You see Dr. Abbot in your periphery down the hall, talking to another nurse, one you had never seen before, most likely on the day shift.

She’s gorgeous.

She stands tall, confident and makes him laugh. Nothing like you. 

Your heart aches, as you stare unapologetically, completely drowning out Lena’s voice. You watch as he also dips his head to catch her eyes, how he touches her arm, how charming he is.

It feels like your heart gave out and fell into an endless pit. Eyes flickering away slowly, realising your hope that the way he treated you was special, is just his charm. His naturally flirtatious personality.

God you’re so stupid.

Lena sighs, shaking her head before closing the cabinet and turning to you, sensing your distraction and sadness.

“Hun, you don’t wanna go down that route.” Her voice is firm, but motherly. Like she’s truly trying to protect you, not wanting you to get hurt.

Your head snaps over to her wide eyed and panicked having been caught.

“Oh– no it’s not like that.” you laugh awkwardly, embarrassed but your excuse is weak and she sees through it instantly. Placing a hand on your back and directing you away from the hallway before you get in your head any longer.

“Trust me, hun. I’ve been around long enough to know, men like him don’t realise the effect they have on girls like you.”

Your brows furrow at her words, girls like me? You reach the lockers before she hits the final blow.

“You’re young, go on dates. Don’t pine over old men like him, you’ll only get hurt.”

She walks off, leaving you speechless. You gather your things, mulling over her words. Is she right? Have you been misreading everything, pining over a man who’s naturally charming and kind to everyone? 

You’d completely forgotten Dr. Abbots offer to take you home by the time you’re walking out of the doors. Your mind is only repeating her words and reevaluating all of Abbot’s actions towards you, trying to search for when you’d started to misinterpret things.

Jack frowns watching your hunched up form walking out of the ER from where he stands and talks to Ruby. He excuses himself from the conversation, trying to catch up with you before you leave, but you’re already down the street by the time he’s at the door.

───────

Just as he thought he was making progress, the rug is pulled from under him, and you’re colder than ever. 

You’re distant with everyone, clipped greetings and polite words the only things you mutter during your shifts. He watches how you avoid groups, but more importantly, how much harder you’ve been working.

You’ve doubled your workload, trying to forget your feelings by distracting yourself. Always with a patient, never sitting down and charting, avoiding your colleagues asking you what’s wrong. Or, avoiding where Dr. Abbot could find you and make you fall for him all over again. 

He notices how you’re no longer early to your shifts, just right on time, jumping straight into cases. Whenever he tries to coax you into slowing down and taking breaks, you brush him off, refusing to admit you need them. But he notices the bags under your eyes, you’re pushing yourself too much and he hates it, he can’t help and it’s hurting him.

But he also notices how late you stay. As you no longer chart during the day, you spend 3 to 4 hours overtime during the day shift charting. Robby allows it, sensing something going on with you but doesn’t want to overstep. Occasionally, you ask to work doubles, staying to around 1-3pm during the day shifts. It’s completely wrecking your body, but you don’t want to think about anything else except work.

One evening, during shift change before you got to work, Robby pulls Jack aside.

“Hey, brother, I gotta ask.” Robby glances over his shoulder towards the door, checking you hadn’t arrived yet, before lowering his voice. “Somethin’ going on with her lately?”

Jack’s brows furrow instantly, worry clenching at his heart. “Why?”

“She’s running herself into the ground, to put it mildly.” Robby sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s working through till the afternoon, then coming back to do it all again at night. Girl can’t be getting more than a couple hours of sleep.” His expression tightens. “M’worried about her.”

Jack goes still, his stomach dropping.

He noticed, of course he noticed. He just hadn’t realised how bad it’d gotten.

His jaw tightens, hand dragging tiredly across it as he sighs.

“Fuck.” The word leaves him quietly.

“I’ll talk to her.”

───

Later that night, Jack came to find you during a particularly quiet lull around 11pm. He assumes you’d be with a patient, checking with Lena before heading towards south 16. He’s rehearsing his speech to you, over and over.

When he approaches the room, his body stops. He hears you laugh. It’s beautiful, and he doesn’t realise how much it hurt him not hearing you laugh recently.

Rounding the corner he sees you through the glass stitching up a man’s forehead, and you’re blushing. You have that bashed, shy smile as you work, the type that was reserved for Jack. You're standing close to the man from where he sits on the edge of the bed, and he’s looking up at you with desire in his eyes, clearly flirting with you.  

He shouldn’t feel jealous, but he does, insecurity clawing at his heart. The man you’re stitching up, he’s definitely closer in age to you than Jack is. He hates the way that fact digs under his skin, the sudden awareness of the years between you two. You’re still soft, bright, and untouched by the world in ways he hasn’t been for too long. He can’t take his eyes off the easy smile you give the man, bitterness twisting low in his chest.

He knows he should leave, but he can’t bring himself to move. Which is why when you turn, putting down the sutures, you see him outside watching you, and your body stills. He watches your face fall, and it hurts him how you’re no longer happy to be around him.

Jack sighs ready to turn and leave, but you excuse yourself from your patient and head outside to catch him.

“Hey–” Your voice is gentle and cautious, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear nervously at Abbot’s expression. “Did you need something?” 

Jack’s jaw tightens as he hears your voice, trying to steady himself. This is the first time you’ve chosen to speak to him in ages, and he hates how relieved and conflicted he is right now. 

His eyes flicker behind you, to the man in the room sprawled out on the bed scrolling through his phone, and his chest tightens. Possessiveness and insecurity battle within his heart, and he doesn’t even think when he blurts out a cold comment to you.

“Didn’t realise we were entertainin’ patients now.” His voice is clipped, and he regrets it as soon as he says it.

He watches your face fall. Fuck. 

Your head shakes rapidly, apologetically. 

“I-I’m sorry–” Your voice is meek, he can’t bear that he caused this.

“Just don’t let it happen again.” Jack’s voice is firm, as he walks off. He needs to leave, clearly not in his right mind, he’s hurting you and he’s completely out of line.

───

The way he spoke to you eats him all night, distracting him. He’s completely unfocused during cases, Shen telling him to take a breather during a trauma, get his head right. How is he supposed to make sure you’re okay if he’s also driving you away.

He decides to start small. Around 1am he watches you exit a patient's room, pausing outside leaning against the wall. He can tell you’re exhausted by the way you hold yourself.

He slows as he approaches you, wanting to get you to slow down, take a break. Up close he can see the way your shoulders sag like the weight of the wall is the only thing keeping you together, your undereyes heavy with exhaustion. He can’t remember the last time you sat down.

“Hey– hold up.” His tone is softer, contrasting the way he spoke to you earlier. “You eaten yet?

Your eyes flick towards him briefly, before looking away again. 

“M’fine.” You’re short, a little dismissive.

Jack nods awkwardly, he knows he doesn’t deserve your kindness right now.

“It’s quiet, you should take your break–” He tries but you cut him off.

“I said I’m okay.” Though your tone has little real bite behind it, it’s still harsher than he’s ever heard it. 

He stills, letting out a deep sigh. The silence between you both hangs in the air thickly. You won’t look at him.

Jack nods, accepting his defeat watching you walk off. 

What he doesn’t see is the guilt flooding your face.

───

You need to apologise. He’s your attending and it was extremely unprofessional of you, a nurse, to speak to him that way. Guilt is clawing at your throat and you can’t get rid of it.

You decide that after you finish organising the supply room with Lena, you’ll find him. Explain yourself. 

You’re standing on a stepping stool as Lena passes you supplies to restock the shelves with.

“That guy– from earlier? He was a real hottie, hun.” She says while passing you a box of nitrile gloves. Your face scrunches in amusement as you let out a breathy laugh

“That guy who got his head smashed with a beer bottle? Yeah, right. Like I need that kind of trouble in my life right now.” You joke back with Lena about the flirty guy.

“C’mon, you’re young. Live a little! He’s insanely hot, god knows if I was 20 years younger I’d jump his bones–” you cut her off with a real, chesty laugh.

“Lena! You’re married!” You turn towards her with a wide smile. 

“I can appreciate beauty when I see it, hun.” She smirks before continuing. “What’s the harm? He’s still here isn’t he? Go get his number, go on dates, have mind blowing sex– just do something to get you outta this slump, y’hear me?” 

You sigh whilst organising the top shelf. You don’t want that guy. You want Abbot. 

What you didn’t realise was Jack was walking past and heard snippets of the conversation, well, particularly Lena’s grand speech about having mind-blowing sex with the man. He falters in his steps, realising who she’s talking to, who she’s talking about. The ugly, possessive feeling rears within him again. He peeks through the door, watching your face. You’re smiling, like you’re considering it. He can’t handle it. He storms off, childishly slamming the door of the next room he enters, blaming it on the draft.

You jolt at the sudden noise and frown before continuing. “I dunno, Lena.” Your voice is almost sad. “He’s not who I want.”

“You’re still hung up on him, aren’t you, honey?” Her voice is soft, pitying. She watches your sad smile when you nod in affirmation. “M’sorry, hun. It’ll pass, I promise.”

You don’t want it to pass. 

───

You can’t seem to find Abbot for the rest of the night, until a trauma comes in around 5:30am forcing you both into the room together.

The EMTs roll the patient in on a gurney as you jog over to Trauma 1, reading off his vitals. Fuck, it’s a kid.

“Pediatric MVC, eight-year-old male, unrestrained passenger. Vehicle rolled twice after being T-boned at a high speed. Drunk driver.” The EMT scoffs.

You begin to glove up as you walk alongside the stretcher, Jack on the other side, his eyes land on you as he actively listens to the EMT, his gaze feels as if he was assessing you. 

“Initial GCS was 10 on scene, refrained from intubation. BP 80/52, heart rate 145, satting 92 percent on non-rebreather.”

You watch Abbot nod, cutting through the patient's clothes as Ellis and Shen check current vitals and assess internal injuries. You end up stationed directly behind him, ready to hand him what he needs. But him in action is making you nervous, like he doesn’t want you here.

The EMT cuts in. “Father pronounced dead on scene, mother inbound, no obvious injuries.” 

“Decreased breath sounds on the left side, significant bruising across the abdomen and chest. Patient increasingly lethargic.” Abbot begins his assessment. But is being drowned out by an increasingly loud scream from the floor outside the room, his mother arriving. 

She rushes to the doors, doctors encourage her to wait outside but she barges in regardless. Her sobs and yells for the doctors to save her son cut through the room, loud and distracting. You take a deep breath at the sound trying to focus, remain unaffected by the scene, present.

Abbot’s jaw tightens as the room erupts around him. The mother’s wailing to his right, monitors beeping rapidly as the boy gets worse, the blood coating his gloves as he presses harder against the kid’s abdomen.

“Pressure’s dropping.”

“BP 78/40.”

“We’re losing him, Abbot.”

Fuck. Each sound and sensation cramming for dominance within his skull, overriding his focus.

And then he glances behind at you, where the station is set up ready for you to hand him things. But you’re spaced out, wide-eyed and pale, clearly overwhelmed by the sounds of the boy crying in pain and grief for his father, the mother’s wailing. Jack’s chest twitches violently. One thing at a time. Save the boy.

“Get her out!” He yells across the room, his voice loud and booming, a couple nurses urge for the mother to wait outside.

But he can’t focus with you standing there looking wrecked, your hands shaking. His focus should be on the boy, not you.

“Gauze.” He commands, a hand outstretched towards you.

Nothing.

The gauze finally hits his hand, a few seconds delayed.

His pulse spikes, the room suddenly feeling too loud. Your presence pressing against the back of his skull.

He snaps.

“I can’t afford hesitation right now.” Jack’s voice cuts sharply across the room, eyes snapping to yours. “If you can’t keep up, leave.” 

You feel like you’ve stopped breathing. The room goes painfully quiet, heat rushing to your face instantly at the humiliation.

Your chest feels like it’s caving, shame burning beneath your skin. You swallow hard, blinking rapidly, staving off tears.

You nod once, unable to trust your voice, before stripping off your gloves with trembling fingers backing away from the table.

Another nurse takes over flawlessly, the room continuing like normal around you. You exit the room, tears burning your eyes and threatening to fall.

Lena sees your shaken state from across the room, beginning to make her way over to you. But you duck, scuttling away to lock yourself in the toilet. Needing to break down in private.

You sink against the wall, sliding down until your head rests on your knees.

You know he’s right, you shouldn’t have hesitated. Your throat tightens.

The boy could’ve died because you froze. He still might. For what? Because Abbot didn’t want you near him anymore? Because the sounds of the boys’ mother screaming cracked something open inside of you?

Abbot’s words replay over and over in your head as self-punishment, as you sob into your hands.

  ───

Jack regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. 

He watches your face crumple in devastation and it almost knocks the breath from his lungs.

Your teary eyes flicker away, avoiding his fiery gaze. He hates that he’s the one who put those tears there, made you cry. He never wants to be the reason for your pain. 

He watches you nod, so meekly it hurts his heart, the tremble in your hands when you pull off your gloves. Every instinct in him screams to go after you. He can’t. He turns back to the table, continuing to work on the boy even more distracted than he was before.

───

You manage to gather yourself not long after, exiting the bathroom and ignoring Lena’s concerned looks, just searching for a simple case to get your mind off what happened. You can hear the chaos continuing in Trauma 1, still working on the boy.

Lena assigns you to a wound debridement, a simple task to recalibrate and gather your thoughts. 

You set up your tool table beside you, and you’re lucky your patient isn’t a chatty one. His arm rests on the bed, skin burnt red and white. 

You’re utterly exhausted, emotionally spent. Too in your own head to notice how cramped your fingers get around the scalpel.

You try to reposition your grip, but the blade unexpectedly slips from your grasp, falling and slicing a clean gash from your hand down your arm. Pain slices hot and immediate. 

“Shit–”

The scalpel clatters into the tray as blood begins to well. Your vision blurs for half a second, before you jerk back sharply, hissing from the sudden pain

“Oh shit you okay, lady?” You hear the patient ask, but you’re already halfway out the room, asking Matteo to finish your case before entering an empty room to sort yourself out.

“God fucking damn it, piece of shit–” You curse violently, voice breaking, trying to hold back tears yet again, whilst setting up the equipment you need to clean your cut.

Your heart beats violently, embarrassed at fucking up yet another thing. Abbot cannot know, he cannot have another thing to chew you out over.

You’re not that lucky.

“Hey, listen, I wanted to say that– what the fuck?” Jack’s voice is shocked when he glances down at your bleeding arm from where he stands at the door.

Your head whips around immediately, eyes wide and panicked but you don’t speak or move. Fear wraps around your heart knowing you’re going to get scolded for being distracted, getting yourself hurt, or creating unnecessary paperwork for the hospital.

The sight of your bleeding arm disturbs him. But what hurts more is the way you look at him, wrecked and terrified, like a child that just got caught for doing something wrong, more worried about his reaction than the fact you’re hurt. He shakes his head stepping inside fully making his way to you.

“Sit.” He commands, his voice tight, clipped.

Your breath hitches at his tone, interpreting it as annoyance for having to deal with this, but you do as he says, not wanting to make things worse.

“You don’t have to–” You attempt to say you’re fine, you don’t need help, it’s a small cut. But when you look into his eyes, you pause, there’s something softer behind them, concern. 

“Yeah. I do.” His voice is gentle and strained like it pains him you’re trying to hide your hurt.

You watch his face as he washes out your cut and stops the bleeding. You can’t read him. He avoids your eyes, focusing solely on your injury, you watch as he clenches his jaw and swallows.

He can’t look into your eyes again, the broken teary look you’re adorning right now would completely break him. He feels your pulse thrumming from where he holds your wrist, shaky breaths like you’re trying not to cry in front of him.

“This’ll sting–” He warns gently before bringing a cold disinfectant wipe to your cut. He cleans it so gently, so carefully, you realise how much you’ve missed him. His touch, his care, his smell.

You hiss slightly at the alcohol stinging, and he quickly retracts, gaze flicking to meet yours worried.

“I’ve got you.” He coos, rubbing a thumb back and forth against your hand, avoiding your injury. “You’re alright, sweetheart.”

His soft tone breaks the flood gate, tears flowing freely and you sob. Hard.

“M’so sorry.” Your voice breaks, blurting out apologies, as you try to catch your breath. “I’m sorry, please–”

His heart shatters at the sound, immediately setting the wipes down and cupping your face.

“Hey– No. No, honey. Don’t.” His warm hands ground you, wiping the tears as they fall. He can’t stand the sight of you falling apart in front of him.

You shake your head. “I keep fucking up–” you whisper brokenly, your expression apologetic.

“God, c’mere.” He coos bringing your head to his chest rubbing his hand on your back. “You got nothin’ to apologise for, y’hear me? 

His chest aches at your cries, knowing he led you to this, knowing he hurt such a sweet girl. His sweet girl. 

“I shoulda never yelled at ya, it weren’t right.” His voice vibrates through your body against him, sniffling into his chest. “You get that? You did nothing wrong, baby.”

Baby.

He pulls back cupping your face again, eyes intense and searching. Searching for something in your eyes that tells him you understand him, that you know you didn’t do anything wrong.

“Is he– is the kid–” You choke out, genuinely terrified that your slip-up had cost the kid his life, and had cost the mother losing both loves of her lives on the same night.

Jack shakes his head quickly, dismissing your worry. “He’s good, he’s stable. Dontcha worry about that. I let shit get to me, yeah? Not on you.”

You sniffle, breathing jagged as you settle down. The kid will be okay. Abbot isn’t mad at you. His hand lifts from your cheek to smooth down your hair on your forehead, tucking it backwards. Looking at you like you're precious. 

Unexpectedly, he brings his forehead to rest on yours, whispering:

“I never wanna make you feel like that.” His voice wavers slightly, but you notice. “Never again.”

You stop breathing at his proximity. Realisation crashing down at how stupid you’d been to avoid him all this time, to let insecurity overrun your thoughts. His lips are so close to yours.

“Jack–” You practically whimper his name. 

His breath hitches, searching your eyes before leaning in slowly. 

He presses a small kiss to the corner of your mouth, testing.

Instinctively, you turn your head towards his lips.

You both pause, staring at each other and breathing heavily. He watches as you dart your tongue out, licking your lips nervously, and he breaks.

He crashes his lips to yours.

It’s hungry, full of apology, and devotion. He brings a hand to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss. Electric sparks fly down your spine, your mind turning to mush. The emotional toll of the day mixing with the high of finally kissing Jack, you melt. 

He finally pulls away, after needing to catch his breath, not because he wants to stop kissing you. He’d kiss you for the rest of the night, if he could. 

He takes in your flushed state, catching your breath and looking at him with so much trust. Your red cheeks, dazed and glossy eyes, and plump red lips and he lets a sound akin to a growl out. The look wrecks him. 

He shakes his head, pressing a short, quick kiss to your hair before physically stepping back before going too far with you. 

“I didn’t– I convinced myself you didn’t want me like that.” Your whisper breaks the silence. “I couldn’t be around you, it hurt too much.” 

Oh. 

He swallows the lump in his throat before nodding. He understands. Why you avoided him all this time, you must have been going crazy. Hell, you’d affected him so much tonight he snapped. He can’t imagine what living like that for so long would do to you.

“You don’t gotta explain, sweetheart.” He brings the chair to sit in front of you on the bed, and he takes your hands in his, bringing a small kiss to your knuckles. “But you scared me, doll. You gotta take care of yourself.” 

Your gaze flickers downwards a little embarrassed, nodding

He turns your injured hand over in his, nodding his head towards it before gently asking.

“How’d this happen?” He refocuses on cleaning and assessing if it’s deep enough for a bandage or stitches. 

“Wasn’t–” You pause, recalling how he scolded you last time for being distracted, shaking off your fear, you continue. “Wasn’t paying attention, cutting off patients' dead skin. Hand cramped n’ tried to fix it, blade slipped.”

He takes in a deep breath hearing your shaky explanation. 

“Why didn’t ya tell someone, hmm?” He speaks softly, his attention focused on placing small little butterfly bandages along the cut.

You shrug. “Wasn’t thinking straight. Was overwhelmed, on the verge of crying again. Just needed to be alone.” 

Crying, again. He hates the recollection that he made you cry that night. That after you had left the trauma room, you’d broken down alone.

He places the last bandage on, setting down the equipment and turning to you once more, placing a hand on your thigh.

“You always come to me when you’re hurting, yeah? I hate that I didn’t know, baby. Hate you were hurt and you tried to deal with this alone.” He begs, squeezing your thigh. 

He sighs in relief as he sees your small nod. “Good.” 

He places a small, gentle kiss over your cut. “There we go, all fixed up, my sweet girl.” 

You flush red, a shy smile taking over your face before you can stop it, letting out a small laugh of disbelief.

“There she is.” He coos at your smile.

───────

After a few months of dating, Jack took a sabbatical, and asked you to go with him.

It was his way of an apology, for snapping at his sweet girl, taking you away from the place that you’d been running yourself into the ground for.

He didn’t tell you much, just to pack your cutest dresses. You obeyed mindlessly, trusting him completely. Truthfully, he couldn’t get enough of seeing you in sundresses after one particular picnic date where he couldn’t keep his eyes off you, or hands. Needless to say, the date ended early, with Jack driving you back to his place to tear off the sundress.

You’re leaning against Jack in his truck as he drives through the country. He had specifically chosen to bring this truck due to its bench seats, needing a hand on you at all times. 

The warm breeze filters through the truck windows, and you hum gently along to the faint country rock playing through the truck radio, Jack tapping his fingers against the wheel along with the beat. 

Everything felt perfect, domestic, calm.

Until you get deeper into country backroads. 

You frown the first time you drive by a small animal on the side of the road, clearly roadkill. It disturbs something in your stomach, seeing the bloody mangled animal alone. You try to push it down, focus on Jack, the trip.

Until you seem to keep passing more animals. 

Deer.

Squirrels.

Rabbits.

Foxes.

Every animal seems to twist your heart more and more, saddening you so deeply, wishing you could protect the babies that died alone. 

Jack, observant as he is, feels you go quiet against his shoulder. No longer humming or drumming your feet with the music, just looking straight ahead into the dashboard, stiff. Something had set his girl off. He brings his hand that rested on the gear stick onto your thigh, giving it a firm squeeze, checking in on you. 

His hand is warm where it rests on your thigh, grounding, as he coos, “Talk to me, sweetheart.” He glances over briefly before looking back at the road. “What’s got my pretty girl all quiet, hmm?” he says, softly.

Your stomach flips, of course he notices. He’s so in tune with your tells by now, you couldn’t even hide it if you tried. You whine a little embarrassed, turning to hide your face into his side. 

His heart aches at the small, sweet noise you make and his grip tightens protectively on your thigh. Sensing your shyness, his thumb starts rubbing back and forth on your leg. 

“Don’t hide from me, my sweet girl,” his voice is gentle and sweet, the tone he uses when he knows something is bothering you. Gentle fingers tip your chin upwards to meet his eyes momentarily, your stomach twisting as he brushes the hair behind your ear, a silent plea: tell me.

Hesitating, feeling shy and not wanting to ruin the trip you tell him, “It’s nothing, really, It’s the animals–”, your breath hitches as Jack drives by another dead deer on the side of the road. Your voice breaks before continuing, “It hurts”, you whisper sadly whilst immediately ducking your head to not look out the window for too long, the scene disturbing you.

Oh. Realisation floods Jack’s face and his heart clenches, oh, his sweet, sensitive baby. 

You hear Jack breathe out a small sigh, before dipping his head and placing a small gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Yeah? That’s what’s gotten my girl all upset?” his voice soothing and rubs his hand up and down your thigh in comfort. Your stomach twists at his sigh, unsure if he’s silently judging.

“They might have had family or friends waiting for them!’’ your voice is whiny, desperate for him to understand as deeply as you do why you’re upset. You sniffle a little, trying not to let tears fall. 

Jack blinks, trying not to laugh at his sensitive girl, knowing it’ll upset you more. He doesn’t mean to find it amusing, but your true devastation over deer and squirrels having family and friends, he can’t help but let out a low chuckle.

“You’re right baby, m’sure they’re sat around the dinner table, waiting for ‘im to come home.” He teases gently a smirk playing at his lips. 

“Jaaaaack! It’s not funny,” you pout petulantly, hurt. You shift away from his side, scooting over to the other side of the truck, feeling dismissed. 

Jack shushes you quickly, grabbing you by your shoulders before you move away, hating the way you curl in on yourself so easily. He pulls you back into his side, coaxing an apology. 

“M’sorry, baby, c’mere.” He’s still smirking a little, but knowing he may have teased too much in your sensitive state, he needs to calm you down.

You feel him pepper quick kisses to your forehead, whilst rubbing the back of your neck gently. Your body relaxes instantly at the touch. 

You sniffle a little calming down, wrapping your arms around his middle.

“Shh, baby, I know, I know.” He says, his voice softer now, before continuing. “I was so mean for teasing my delicate girl, yeah?” His inflection rises at the end of his question, like he was comforting a small kitten.

Sniffling, you nod at his comfort. “You know I love how my sweet baby feels everything deeply.” he croons, and you feel him run his fingers at the nape of your neck into your hair, petting you.

“You just keep your eyes on me, yeah? Focus on me for the rest of the trip.” He commands gently, shielding you away from the hurt of the world.

The low music continues to hum in the car, yours and Jack’s breathing matching as you sit quietly soaking the evening breeze.

Gravel crunches as you pull up to the cabin, you notice he doesn’t make a move to exit the truck yet. You frown, worried, is something wrong? Before you can even ask him, Jack breaks the silence, with such a soft tone it's unexpected.

“S’why you’re my favourite nurse, baby”. You falter, his words stirring something in your stomach, his praise making you shy. You feel him draping his arm around your waist and tugging you into his lap, straddling him.

Unable to avoid his intense eye contact, you duck your head shyly, quietly asking, “What is?”

For the life of you, you can’t figure out what he means. He ducks his head following yours to look into your eyes, cupping your face.

His voice is low, serious, when he speaks. “Your sensitivity, compassion, empathy.” 

You swallow the lump in your throat, uneasy by the intensity of his praise. Tucking your head into his neck to hide your shyness, you quip– “It’s not the sex?”

You hear him chuckle, the vibration running through your body.

“You were my favourite before the sex smartass– no, you have a big heart, biggest I’ve ever known, you care deeply.” You feel him guide your head out of his neck, needing to see your face, his thumbs brush against your cheeks as he watches your wide, doe eyes trying to accept the praise.

“Plenty of other nurses and doctors are empathetic.” You begin shyly, trying to brush the compliment off, uneasy by how seen he was making you feel. Always having been told your sensitivity is a curse, especially in this field, and it’ll wear you down. 

Jack immediately interjects, not enjoying how quick you are to self deprecate, diminish yourself.

“Not like you, baby.” His voice is stern, as are his hands gripping your face. Desperate for you to see yourself the way he does. 

Those three simple words cut deep, your eyes watering from so much care. He wipes the tears before they fall and watches a shy smile tugging at your lips, hitting him like a punch to the chest. 

“You hear me, baby? Hmm?” he coos gently while pressing a kiss against your temple. You nod in his hold, cheeks flushed from receiving so much affection, never having been treated so carefully before.

“You’re m’favourite attending.” You mumble shyly fidgeting with your hands in your lap.

Jack laughs deeply, he knows, of course he knows. He just hadn’t expected that to be what you said. He finds your tone so cute, like you're too shy to admit it.

“Oh yeah? S’not Robby?” He teases, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, laughing again at your scrunched up face, like the idea is ridiculous to you.

“I know, sweetheart.” He calms you, presses a final, soft kiss to your temple and brings you closer to his embrace.

Outside, the sun sets as crickets chirp around you, the air gets cooler but neither of you rushes to leave the car yet, this moment meaning something so deep to the both of you.

─

Jack is setting down the last of the bags in the bedroom when he hears you yelp from the bathroom. Before he can even ask if you’re okay, you call out for him, your voice startled and afraid.

“Jack!”

His heart jumps, and his mind immediately rushes to the worst idea, that you’re hurt somehow. 

Jack runs to the bathroom panicked, “Baby, what’s–” he calls out in fear, until he enters the room, and pauses, blinking. 

You’re crouching on the toilet seat like the floor is lava, with one shoe off, in your hand, looking around the floor terrified. You meet his eyes, genuine fear behind them,

“I swear, it's taunting me! It looked me right in the eyes!” you whisper urgently pointing at the small bug in the corner of the room.

Jack laughs for real this time, tilting his head affectionately, “baby, what are you doing?”

You screech as you watch the tiny dark bug scuttle along the bathroom floor and chuck your shoe at it, completely missing it.

“Please– kill it, quick!” you beg him 

He smirks at you from where he leans against the bathroom door frame, crossing his arms, and taunts you, “What if his family is waiting for him to come home, hmm?”

You groan as Jack points out your hypocrisy, squealing again as you watch it come towards you. “Jack, I swear to god–”

He hangs his head in, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face before he walks over and stomps on it. He picks you up into his arms and mumbles into your hair.

“Yeah, you’re not lasting ten minutes out here, sweetheart.”

It's clear to anyone dumb enough to spend time with you and frank that the two of you are completely enamored with each other.

I mean, it's hard not to tell when the man can hardly keep his hands to himself when you're near. It's like he's hardwired to constantly crave your touch, and that only gets worse when you're standing somewhere close and have the absolute gall to not sit on his lap.

Dating an older man has always scared you off. Until you met Frank. He's not much older than you, but enough for people to be skeptical when seeing the two of you together. But there's no denying that Frank loves you.

What started as a casual friendship because of Curtis, forcing the two of you to hang out a little bit more, and Frank showing up to Curtis's meetings just to see you, evolved into a soft understanding.

It wasn’t loud.

Nothing about you and Frank ever really was. Not at first.

It crept in—quiet, steady, almost invisible if you weren’t paying attention. The way he started sitting closer to you at Curtis’s meetings. The way his eyes would track you when you moved around the room, like he needed to know where you were at all times. The way his voice—usually rough, sharp, worn down to gravel—would soften just a fraction when he spoke to you. No one missed it. Not Curtis. Not Karen.

Hell, not even the guys who only saw Frank in passing.

Because Frank Castle—the man who didn’t linger, didn’t touch, didn’t stay—hovered around you like you were something he didn’t quite understand but couldn’t walk away from. And you… You let him. At first, it was small things. You’d patch him up without asking too many questions. He’d show up half-broken, blood soaking through whatever shirt he had left, and you wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t lecture. Wouldn’t ask him to stop. You’d just sigh softly, sit him down, and say,

“Take it off.”

And he would.

Every time. No fight. No attitude. No smart remark. Just quiet obedience in a way that didn’t make sense for a man like him. You were the only one he let see him like that. Not the Punisher. Not the weapon.

Just… Frank.

Bruised. Bleeding. Human. And somewhere along the way, that became your normal. You’d clean his wounds, your fingers gentle, careful—always careful—and he’d sit there watching you like you were doing something sacred instead of stitching him back together with shaking hands. Because you were different. You weren’t hardened. Not like the people he knew.

Not like him.

You still hesitated sometimes. Still winced when the cuts were deep. Still muttered soft apologies under your breath when he hissed in pain—even when it wasn’t your fault. And the first time he realized that?

It did something to him. Something quiet. Something dangerous. Because you weren’t used to this world. And he knew it. Knew it in the way your hands trembled just slightly the first time you had to dig a bullet out of his side. Knew it in the way you avoided looking at the scars that weren’t fresh. Knew it in the way you’d look at him sometimes—like you were trying to understand how someone could carry so much violence inside them and still sit so still for you. You weren’t untouched by life. But you were… soft. In a way he didn’t think existed anymore.

Frank Castle—impatient, relentless, brutal— Was impossibly gentle with you. Like he was afraid you’d break if he wasn’t. The first time he touched you—really touched you—it wasn’t greedy. Wasn’t desperate.

It was careful. A hand at your waist, slow, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t. Your breath caught instead. And that was all the permission he needed. Even then, he moved like he was learning you. Like you were something fragile and rare and completely unfamiliar.

Because you were. You weren’t like the women he’d known before. There was no practiced confidence. No ease. Just soft breaths, unsure hands, and wide eyes that flickered with something between fear and trust. Just Frank's soft voice as he bent you over your bed, and hoisted a pillow beneath your hips, muttering something about making it hurt less. All you could do was whine and crane your neck to try and look at him.

And God— The trust. That’s what got him. Because you trusted him.

Him.

Frank Castle. A man built from violence and loss and blood. And you let him hold you like he wasn’t. So he treated you like something sacred. Like something he didn’t deserve but couldn’t stop himself from keeping. He’d brush your hair back from your face like it mattered. Press his forehead to yours like it grounded him. Murmur soft, barely-there reassurances against your skin when you got overwhelmed—quiet “I got you”’s that sounded nothing like the man people feared. You brought something out of him no one else ever had.

As time went on Frank got my comfortable, slightly more rough in bed as he started to understand your body and it's needs, how that little shiver that passes through you means you're close. But the truth is-

You have never actually seen Frank's dick.

That sounds absurd.

I mean, after all, he's your boyfriend. Of course you've seen it.

Well, glimpses of it.

Pressing through his pants, the base of it as you crane your neck to try to look at him as he softly guides it through your folds.

Always the same thing. Your ass up in the air, facing him, a pillow wedged beneath your hips and then the inexplicable feeling of being so fucking full that you feel like you're floating until your knees start to shake and your pussy clenches around him- and then he's pulling out, kissing the backs of your thighs, murmuring praises as you come down from your high.

And then he vanishes into the bathroom- the sink turned on, not to be seen for another ten minutes- before emerging with his pants back on and a wet towel in hand to clean you up. Not to sound ungrateful- you loved Frank. You loved being intimate with him, grinding on his lap and feeling him go hard beneath you, his length pressed to your thigh. You knew he was big, I mean, he was inside of you almost every night. But you'd never actually seen just how big.

Everytime you dropped down to your knees in front of him, grabbing at his waist band, he'd tut and pull you up,

"Nah, don't wan' none o'that, sweetheart." Before splaying your thighs wide open and spending hours between your legs, beard tickling your thighs, tongue lapping at your cunt like a man starved, pulling orgasm after prgasm from you until his lips shine with the sheen of your juices. At first, you thought nothing of it. You thought it was sweet. He was so desperate to make you feel good.

But then your friend pointed it out.

“You’ve been with him this long and you’ve never actually… seen him?” your friend had said, brows raised in disbelief. You’d laughed it off at first. Shrugged.

“Of course I have,” you’d insisted, heat creeping up your neck. But even as you said it, something in your chest twisted.

Because… Had you? Really? You’d felt him. Knew the weight of him, the way your body reacted to him, the way he filled every inch of space until you couldn’t think straight. You knew how his hands felt, how his voice dropped when he got close, how he’d murmur soft praise against your skin like it was something private, something only meant for you. But seen him? Not properly. Not fully. And once the thought was there, it wouldn’t leave.

It replayed in your mind, over and over. The way he always guided you gently into position—always facing away, always careful, always focused on you. The way his hands would linger at your hips, grounding, steady. The way he’d press his forehead briefly to your shoulder sometimes, like he needed that contact before anything else.

And then after— He’d disappear. Like clockwork. Bathroom door. Running water. Silence. You never questioned it. Because it was Frank.

Because everything about him came with edges you didn’t push.

But now… Now it felt like something you couldn’t ignore.

Frank, who watched you like you were something worth memorizing. Frank, who traced your skin like he was learning it. Frank, who never once made you feel rushed, or used, or anything less than… cherished.

Why would he hide?

The question lingered. And it changed the way you noticed things.

The way his hand would stop yours if you reached too low, too curious. The way he’d redirect you—soft, gentle, but firm.

The way he always made it about you.

Always.

At first, it had felt like care. Like patience. Like love. And it still was.

But now there was something else underneath it.

------

You worry your bottom lip as you pace the length of your room, sighing annoyedly at the way your brain is running at a hundred miles an hour. You're convinced your feet have worn a dent in the hardwood floor, and your heart is racing so fast you can hear the blood rushing behind your ears.

Beyond the door, Frank is sat on the couch, legs spread wide, beer in hand- watching late night TV while waiting for you to come out of the "shower"- completely oblivious to what is really happening in the confines of your shared room.

Now or never.

It's now or never.

Determined, you tuck your hair behind your ears and make sure that the silk nightdress you slipped on is fitting you just right before tearing the door open and softly padding your way to the living room. Frank is lounging on the couch, shirtless and wearing a pair of gray sweats that hang deliciously low on his hips, legs spread apart like they're just begging for you to sink to your knees infront of him. The thought of feeling him, having the weight of his cock press against your tongue, feel the tip hit the back of your throat so hard tears fling to your eyes makes warmth pool in your belly and you clench your thighs at the thought. Frank's eyes snap up the second he hears you, sitting up properly.

"Hiya, sweet thing." He hums, grinning up at you as he pats his lap, an invitation for you to come sit on his lap.You can already see the hardening outline of his cock behind the sweatpants- meaning your night dress is doing it's job. "How was your shower, baby ?" he hums as you sit horizontally on his lap, curling into him. He kisses your forehead as he tucks you into him, his hand finding a familiar resting place on your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the inside. The TV casts a sheen glow over the two of you, and you sigh into his chest, running your fingers along the hard ridges of his muscles.

"Would've been better if you were there." You hum, and despite himself, Frank chuckles.

"I'm sure it woulda been," He hums, chest rumbling against your cheek. He takes a small sip of his beer and sets it aside, sighing contentedly ash he pulls you in closer. Your thoughts are running faster than they ever have, your brain a whirlwind. You barely hear Frank when he asks,

"Did'ya eat ?" You nod wordlessly against his chest.

Frank frowns at the lack of response.

That's not like you at all. Usually you'd quip back something snarky, or witty- something to make him laugh, or make him frown and force you to eat something other than an PB and J made in a rush at seven am.

"Baby ?"

"I ate." You manage. You clear your throat and pull away from him slightly, gearing to get off his lap when he grabs your arm. He twists you to face him, your body wedged between his thighs. He sits up straight- and it's almost absurd how he's your full standing height like this.

"What's wrong ?" He asks.

Despite your best effort, your bottom lip starts to wobble. Frank's chest squeezes in worry and he softly drags his hands down your sides, palming at your ribs and waist to ry to guide you back into his lap.

"Baby ? What happened-"

"Do you not like looking at me ?"

The air between the two of you hangs suspended, filled with electric tension. Frank can't help but laugh,

"What the hell are you talking about ?" he mutters, shaking his head as he brings his thumb up to wipe a tear away from your eye before it has the chance to fall fully down your face. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. You're fuckin' goregous baby. Matter of fact- this dress you got on has me fuckin' reelin-"

"But you don't like to look at me when you fuck me ?" You manage, arms crossing over your chest. Frank's hear feels like it's been ripped out of his chest, and he suddenly feels like he can't fucking breathe. He stares up at you, your teary eyes, the way you're biting at the inside of your cheek, leaning backwards despite being trapped between his thigh, as if you want to just get away from him. Frank's eyes blow open a fraction before narrowing as he frowns.

"Okay, now you're talkin' crazy." He huffs, shaking his head.

"Am i ?" You manage, your throat tight. You look down at your hands, toying with the satin hem of your dress. "You never let me look at you- you're always behind me when you fuck me. You never let me suck you off, it's always you eating me out and i-"

"Woah, woah." Frank leans forward, wrapping his hand around the back of your knees, dragging you forward towards him. He runs his hands over your thighs, sighing heavily. "Baby, that has nothing to do with how you look." he says, his voice dropping to the low, comforting octave he always takes with you when you're upset. His hand reaches up and cups the back of your neck, his thumb forcing under your jaw to make you look at him. "You get that ?" You sniffle, jerking away from him.

"I've never even seen you, Frank." You blubber, your words sounding more stupid as you go on- but you can't stop them now. "And you've seen every square inch of me. You only ever take me from the back-"

"Sweetheart." He rasps, head dropping. He sighs, his hands leaving you momentarily to drag down his face. "I do that so that it won't hurt you." You sniffle.

"I can take it. I'm not a baby." You rasp. He laughs, a short gentle thing. He shakes his head.

"I'm not saying you are." He sighs, his hands smoothing over your thighs. "Look, when I was with Maria- and other women before her- they always told me that certain positions hurt, that it was too much. That one was the only one that didn't." You look down, biting at your bottom lip.

"I can take it, Frank. I have before. All those other times-" He shakes his head, hiding a small smile.

"No, you ain't, baby." You frown.

"What do you mean ?" He groans, tilting his head back, clearly not wanting to have this conversation out of fear to upset you.

"I don't... fuck- i don't put all of it in." He says. Your throat goes dry.

"What do you mean ?" You repeat again, your breath wobbly. He sighs, looking up at you.

"It means the full thing doesn't fuckin' fit, baby."

Your breath stutters. For a second, you just… stare at him. Because the way he says it - flat, matter-of-fact, like it’s not even up for debate -knocks the wind right out of you.

“…What?” you whisper. Frank huffs out a quiet breath, dragging a hand over his face again like he regrets even opening his mouth.

“You heard me,” he mutters. But you don’t move on. You can’t. Your fingers curl tighter into your dress, your mind scrambling to catch up with what he just said—what it means.

“That doesn’t-" you shake your head slightly, brows pulling together. “That doesn’t make sense. I would know, Frank.” He looks at you then. Really looks at you. And there’s no teasing in his expression. No smugness. No exaggeration. Just… patience.

“You feel full, right? You feel good ?” he asks again, quieter this time, as he presses a hand to your stomach. You hesitate, but ultimately nod, the thought of having Frank buried inside you making your insides churn with deep need.

“Yeah…” He gives a small nod back, like that confirms it all over again.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “That’s you already at your limit.” Your stomach flips. Because now - now it does make sense. The way he always moves so carefully. The way he never rushes. The way he stops the second your body tightens too much, even if you haven’t said a word.

“…So you’ve just been…” you trail off, not even sure how to finish that sentence.

“Holdin’ back?” he fills in. You look up at him. He shrugs slightly, like it’s nothing. Like it hasn’t been a constant, conscious effort every single time he touches you. “Yeah.” Silence settles between you. Heavy. Different now. Not insecurity anymore—but something deeper. Something that sits right in your chest and refuses to move.

“You think I can’t handle you ?" you say after a moment, softer now. Frank’s expression tightens immediately.

“That ain’t what I said.”

“It’s what you mean.”

“No,” he says, firmer this time. His hand comes up, gripping your jaw just enough to make you look at him again. “What I mean is - I’m not willin’ to find out the hard way where your limit is.” That shuts you up. Because there’s something in his voice - something serious. “You don’t… always tell me when somethin’s too much,” he adds, quieter, sighing as he continues to run his hands over you. “You try to take it. Power through it.” Your throat tightens. Because again— He’s not wrong. “I don’t wanna be the reason you’re in pain and don’t say it,” he continues. “So yeah - I control it. I keep it where I know you’re okay.” You sniffle.

"So what you're saying - is that your dick's too big ? Wow, real small ego you got there, Frankie." Frank laughs out loud, shaking his head. You can't help it- a smile tugs at your lips too.

"Jesus, woman." He grumbles, shaking his head. Frank huffs, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying not to laugh again, but it’s already there - low and rumbling in his chest. “Yeah, real funny,” he mutters, shooting you a look that’s more tired than anything, but there’s warmth in it. Always is with you. “That’s what you took from all that, huh?” You shrug a little, the corner of your mouth still twitching.

“I mean… kinda walked right into that one,” you mumble. He shakes his head again, but his hand comes back to your thigh, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Christ,” he exhales, softer now. “You’re unbelievable.” There’s no bite to it. Just… fondness. The kind he doesn’t give out to anyone else. The tension that had been coiled tight between your ribs loosens, just a little.

“…You could’ve just told me,” you say after a second, quieter now. “Instead of makin’ me think you didn’t wanna—look at me or whatever.” That lands. It always does when it comes from you like that—honest, not accusatory, just… a little hurt. Frank’s expression shifts, something heavier settling back in.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Probably should’ve.” His hand stills on your leg for a moment before sliding up to your waist, grounding you closer without forcing it. “I ain’t exactly good at explainin’ things,” he adds, glancing at you. “You might’ve noticed.” A small huff of laughter leaves you despite yourself.

“Little bit.” He nods once, like - fair enough.

Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Not sharp. Not confusing. Just… quiet. Your fingers drift to his shoulders, pressing the pads of them into his collarbone.

“…So,” you start, hesitant but still curious, “that’s the only reason?” Frank’s eyes narrow slightly.

“What d’you mean ‘only’?”

“I mean,” you shift a little where you’re still half in his lap, “you’re not, like… avoiding it for some other reason?” There’s a flicker of something in his expression—brief, almost gone before you catch it.

“Like what?” he asks. You hesitate.

“Like you don’t want me,” you admit softly. That one hits deeper than the joke did. Frank’s brows pull together immediately, his hand tightening just slightly at your waist.

“Hey,” he murmurs, firmer now. “Don’t start that.”

“I’m just asking - "

“And I’m tellin’ you, no,” he cuts in, not harsh, just certain. His other hand comes up, nudging your chin so you’re looking at him again. “Ain’t got nothin’ to do with wantin’ you. You got that?” Your eyes search his face. He doesn’t look away. Your hands drift on his bare chest, and he grabs you by the waist and pulls you to him. He guides you so that you straddle his lap, and he presses your pelvis to his. "Feel that ?" He hums. "That's because you walked in, in that lil' dress of yours." He says, his voice a stark contrast compared to the hard length pressed against your thigh. You whimper as your hips instinctively grind against him, your nails digging into his bare biceps. He kisses a few open mouthed kisses to your neck. "Don't ever say that I don't want ya'. Fuck, baby, you're all i fuckin' want. You're all I crave. Day in and day out." He mutters and you whine, fingers digging into his hair.

"Frank.." He nods against your skin, arms wrapping around you before lifting you as he stands, before dropping you on the couch and placing you face down , your arms pressed to the arm rest in front of you.

"I know, baby." He hums. "Gon' make you feel good, hm ?" You're about to nod- to give in, to let him take you like this when your body jerks in sudden realisation. You wiggle away from him, and slide to the floor, landing on your knees. Frank laughs, sitting down with his arms stretched out, ready to grab you. "Baby ? Whatcha' doin' ? C'mere-"

"Frank." You say, your voice stern. "I don't want to do it like that." You manage. Frank freezes.

Clearly he had misread the conversation.

"Baby, c'mon."

"No I mean it. What I said earlier, i-" You gulp, shaking your head as you crawl over to him and kneel between his parted legs. You reach up and latch your fingers around the hem of his sweats, staring up at him. "I don't want you to hold back anymore." You mutter, shaking your head. Frank is about to protest, but then your soft hands find the curve of his V-line, and he turns to pure putty in your hands, his chest heaving as he watches you through heavy lids as you pull his sweatpants down his legs, his boxers following suit. His dick springs up like a solider at attention, the tip red and leaking with pre-cum that drips onto his stomach. Frank groans, a deep, chested groan at the feel of the cool air on his dick.

And you... Wow. You can't stop staring.

Not only is he big- bigger than you've managed to sneak a peak at- he's thick. Veins running up the sides of it, and you tentatively reach out and grab a hold of him at the base. He twitches in your hand, and you have to keep yourself from letting your hand snake down to pinch at your clit. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, and Frank's hips buck involuntarily into your hand.

"Shit- mmph- okay, okay, fine. You win. You can jerk me off. Just please, fuckin' do something, baby, or i'm blowin' my load right now and it'll be embarassing for both of us."

But you don't want to jerk him off.

Softly, you reach up onto your knees and press a soft kiss to the base of him, and his eyes fly open at the contact.

"Sweetheart-" he barely has time to fully voice his protest before your tongue darts out to drag against his tip, gathering the precum and tasting it. God the taste makes you moan around his tip, and Frank's eyes screw shut again as his hand darts down to wrap in your hair, pulling it away from your face- and effectively keep ing your lips away from his throbbing dick. He shakes his head, ragged breaths tearing out of him as you continue to move your hand alone him, your hat breath fanning of his length and making him go dizzy.

"You can't- fuck- you can't do that again, mama." He hums. "I won't be able to control myself- I'll hurt you, and I don't- " He rasps, shaking his head. You pout, shaking your head.

"I don't want you to control yourself. I want you to fuck my throat, Frank." Frank chokes on air.

His girl.

Such dirty things, falling from her perfect lips.

Usually Frank was the one spewing dirty things in your ear until you were spent frofromriding the fuck out of his fingers, leaving a wet patch on his pants.

"Baby-" His grip in your hair has loosened, probably from shock of your words, and you surge forward again, sucking him into your mouth. Frank throws his head back, a ragged moan escaping his lips. Your lips barely fit around him, and you bob your head up and down, trying your best to take more and more of him as you go.

You hollow your cheeks and try again, this time flattening your tongue more, tasting salt and skin and something so Frank it makes you whimper around him, and god—he wasn’t kidding.

You feel the stretch at the corners of your mouth, the push against the roof, the impossible thickness, and there's something about struggling a little that makes you shudder. You blink back tears when he hits the soft part at the back of your throat. Frank’s hand tenses in your hair, not shoving, not guiding—just holding, steady and warm.

“Jesus Christ, honey,” he hisses and you hear it, the roughened edge of his voice, the way it sounded so close to breaking. You choke a bit, eyes watering, but you don't stop.

You wanted this.

There's a different kind of ache now, low in your belly, a need that makes you bold as you drewdraw him in again, saliva gathering fast.

Frank is going to die.

This is it.

This is the end of him, right here on his own couch - his sweet girl on her knees, spit-slicked lips stretched around him, and not a single thought in his head except how goddamn perfect you look.

Christ, your jaw is trembling with the effort, tears clinging to your lashes, but you don't stop. Not even when he swears, not when he pulls you hair tight enough to make you gasp, not when his thighs start to shake.

He wants to stop you.

He really does.

He knows his own size, knows the thickness was a fucking problem for a mouth that small. But every time he starts to say something, you moan or squeeze his base a little tighter, and he looses all conviction, his brain reduced to static.

"Fuck, baby-" he rasps, hips bucking up into your mouth. Whatever doesn't fit that far is wrapped in your fist, and you give him a little squeeze before popping him out of your mouth, panting. His eyes fly open, staring down at you. "Shit, shit-" He pushes himself up, taking in the dazed look in your eyes and the way your whole body is shaking. "Was it too much ? Baby, did I hurt you ?"

You shudder, wiping tears from you cheek with your wrist, and look up at Frank through your damp lashes. He looks panicked. His hand hovers an inch from your face like he’s afraid to touch you, as if the mere graze of his palm might finish the job and knock your jaw clean off. His other hand grips the farthest end of the couch cushion, knuckles bone-bright, the way a drowning man might clutch a lifeline.

“Didn’t hurt,” you manage, voice shredded, throat raw. your lips feel bruised, stretched wider than a smile ever had, but you mean it. You give him a grin, a little shaky, and that seems to make it worse. He makes a noise—half relief, half terror—and pulls you up by the underarms, settling you in his lap like he needs to reassemble you from the mess you’d made of yourself at his feet. “Jesus Christ,” he says again, kissing his way to your body. “You did so good.” You roll your eyes.

“I didn’t even finish the job.” You hum.

“Later.” He rasps, shaking his head. You shake your head in reply, grinding down on him.

“No, Frank. Now.” To Frank's horror- or pleasure, he’s not sure, thetwo seem to have melded into one by now, he can feel your folds gliding against him.

Fuck, you’re not wearing fucking panties.

Frank’s hands come to your waist, but there’s a caution to them now, a tremor of restraint that makes your skin prickle with want and frustration.

“Easy, honey,” he says, voice split between gravel and velvet. “Let’s just- let’s take it slow, yeah? Play it safe.” But you’re already tilting your hips, already grinding down on him, making the leaking tip of his cock glide slick against your folds. You’re soaked, thighs sticky with it, and you want nothing more than to see how much you can take—if you can take all of him. The idea of it, the challenge, makes every nerve in your body light up with electricity.

"M' tired of playing it safe." You whimper, hand reaching up to trace Frank's chest. Frank’s grip tightens, but not enough to stop you. If anything, it feels like he’s holding you steady, like you’re a hurricane he’s volunteered to brace against.

“You don’t have to,” he says, barely above a whisper, and it sounds like a warning, but there is barely any resolve there. You’re about to answer when you roll your hips one more time, and the tip of him breaches your entrance with a squelch, and Frank has to physically lift you off of him to stop you from trying to take all of him in one fail swoop. Frank’s hands lock around your waist as if you’re glass and he’d just caught you mid-fall.

“Hey, hey,” he grunts, face going taut and white as bone. “That’s enough. That’s—fuck, that’s not playin’ around anymore, sweetheart.” You want to laugh. You want to say,

You think I’m playing? but the words stick somewhere in your throat, knotted up behind want so abject it leaves no room for anything else. It isn’t just the ache between your legs or the rubber-band tension up your spine. It’s the way he keeps looking at you, mouth hard and tight with need and worry, the way his thighs tense and twitch beneath you like your body alone makes him nervous.

If you weren’t so wet you might’ve been offended.

Truth is, Frank has dreamed of taking you like this. Being able to move your hips in sync with his, watching your sopping cunt sink down and struggle to swallow all of him up, the way you would writhe and whine. But having it, right now- when he wasn't prepared for it ?

He can't helo but feel a little terrified.

You lift your hips off of his, softly reaching down between the both of you and grabbing his cock in your hands. He hisses at the contact, one hand wraped flimsily over your throat and jaw. He looks up at you, his chest heaving.

“You’re sure, baby ?” He rasps. You nod, whimpering at the emptiness.

“I’m sure, Frank.” You whine. He nods, his eyes wide. He gathers your nightdress up in his hands, bunching it up near your waist so he can see what you’re doing.

“Alright.” He groans. “We go slow, kay, baby ? Slow.” You're barely braced above him before Frank’s got both hands at your hips, the pads of his fingers digging into the soft flesh there, like he’s expecting you to take off running. You feel it, the tremor in his grip—less a warning, more a reminder, like he’s still not sure if you’re going to change your mind. But you won’t. Not when he’s looking up at you like that, mouth parted, breath coming just a little ragged at the edges. Frank runs his hands up and down your sides, steadying you with slow, broad sweeps.

“You gotta promise me,” he murmurs, voice so low it barely vibrates the air, “if it hurts too much, you say it. Don’t try to tough it out for me. You get me?” His eyes are dark, serious, but there’s a worry in them that makes your chest ache.

“I promise,” you whisper, and it’s the only thing that soothes his fear. He holds you steady, big hands bracing at your waist, eyes on your face instead of the place you’re both so desperate to look.

“Breathe, baby,” he says. His voice is as rough as the pad of his thumb stroking your hip, and shit, there’s more care in it than you can stand. “Nice and slow. You lead, I follow.” You nod, even though your hands shake against his chest.

Hell, your knees shake, your insides shake, but you want this.

You want every inch of him, even if it means tears streaking down your face and your jaw locking up. Even if it means he has to see you ugly-cry your way through the best sex of your life. You hover with his tip pressed right at your entrance. The stretch is immediate, so much more than what you’re used to, enough to make your whole body tense. You barely start to sink down before you freeze, breath catching in you throat. He tips his head back, a lewd moan slipping from his lips.

“Jesus, baby.” The stretch is a white-hot ache, harsher than you’d dreamed, like someone’s hollowed you out with a blunt instrument. Your nails dig into the meat of Frank’s shoulders and he hisses, but his hands on your hips don’t budge, a steady anchor. You try to breathe through it, slow and shallow, but your thighs tremble, teeth gritting against a whimper. Frank’s voice is a low, shuddering growl.

“That’s it, baby,” he says, and there’s awe tangled in his filth, like he’s seeing something sacred. “You’re doin’ so good for me. So fuckin’ good.” His thumb rubs a circle on your hip bone, coaxing, and the pressure’s so gentle it almost hurts worse. “Let it stretch you, honey. I got you.” You force yourself to open your eyes. He’s watching your face, jaw tight, forehead furrowed, his own lips parted. “Look at you. My pretty girl, taking my cock so good.” He hums. You huff out a quiet laugh- he’s not even halfway in. Thighs shaking, you dig your palms into Frank’s shoulders and push yourself down a little more. It’s impossible, how much of him is left - how much you want to take, even as your vision blurs at the edges. Frank tracks every change in you, every twitch and stutter of your body. The way your lips wobble, brow crumpled in something between agony and pure want. He holds you steady, lets you set the pace, but you can feel him trembling under your hands, like it’s costing him everything not to just grab your hips and slam himself home.

"S'it to much ? You gotta tell me baby." He rasps, and you quickly shake your head.

"N-No. Can take more. Want more, Frankie." You whine. He groans, low and heavy, his chest heaving, his knuckles whitening.

"Alright, baby." You force yourself down another inch, then another. The pain and the pleasure are so wrapped up it’s impossible to tell them apart anymore. You’re already crying, little noises you didn’t even know you could make, and yet you can’t stop, can’t stop even as your thighs shake, moisture slicking his lap and your own skin. He’s so deep you swear he’s up in your guts.

“That’s it, fuck,” Frank groans, the sound ripped straight from his chest. “Ya got it, mama, you got it.” he hums. You throw your head back, spreading your thighs wide, and you slide down the other inch. An unabashed moan rips through you as your clit nestles against his pubic bone, and your body falls forward.

"Mmph- Frank !" Frank’s gripping onto your thighs, sitting up properly to kiss your cheeks. Frank kisses the salty streaks off your cheeks, his calloused hands steadying you, one on your lower back and one splayed across your thigh, thumb tracing the soft inner seam. You can hear his heart pounding, a frantic, drumline thrum right beneath your sternum, your ribs nearly pressed together with his. The world’s closed down to just the two of you: your thighs quivering around his, your hands clawed into the sweat-slicked muscle of his shoulders, the sharp, dizzy ache of being ripped and made new around the kind of cock you’d never believed possible.

“Fucking - goddamn,” he rasps, his voice so low it crackles. “There you go, there you go, baby. C’mon, that’s it. Fuckin’ take it, just like that.” The praise is a hot, electric wire down your spine. You can barely catch your breath, mouth open wide, gulping air with each new surge of pleasure. Your hips give a tentative roll, and the pain that shoots up your thighs and ricochets into your pussy is like never before. You bite your lip to keep the whine from escaping, but you can’t help it. It tumbles past your lips, and Frank gives your ass a small slap.

“Hey. Hey, look at me, baby.” He kisses your forehead. “Take your time.” You whine, rolling your hips again, the pain subsiding.

“Feels so good, Frankie.” You whimper. “M’so full. So fuckin’ big.” Your hips jerk and the movement sends another slither of pain up your spine, but this time it feels… better. Not all the way good yet, but on the right side of addictive. You can feel yourself stretching to fit him, the way every tiny shift sends him deeper, fuller. You cling to his shoulders, forehead pressed to the crook of his neck, panting through the burn.

“Christ, that’s it,” he breathes, hands splayed wide on your hips, not moving, not pushing, just holding you steady while your body learns what to do with him. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. Didn’t think it was possible, but look at you. My girl.” The way he says it makes a jolt of pleasure rush up your spine. Frank rocks his hips up, buried deep, and it’s a punch to both your lungs and your ego that you can even take his whole length. Your walls clamp around him, and the sweet, mean stretch lands somewhere between a cramp and a revelation. Sweat beads along the curve of his neck, his breath gone ragged. The hand at your hip slides up, spans your ribs, steadying you as you circle your hips again, chasing whatever sensation comes next.

“Christ, listen to you,” he mutters. “Sound so fuckin’ pretty when you whimper.” He slides a palm up your spine, fingers kneading at the handful of your back until it’s not clear if he’s holding you up or holding you together. “Never seen anyone take it like you do, baby. Shit, you’re perfect.” You want to laugh, to tell him you’re a mess—sweat-slick, trembling, nearly sobbing as he works you open. But what comes out is wordless, a string of broken syllables that might be his name or might be just a sound, a plea, a warning. You don’t know anymore. You don’t think you care. Frank holds you there, his breath ragged against your temple, his hands so big around your hips that you could almost believe he’s the only thing keeping your insides from spilling out. You’re still adjusting, still shaking, but the burn’s gone gold at the edges—sharp at first, then molten, then a kind of desperate, addictive ache. It’s hunger. It’s grief. It’s a craving that lives in the marrow, not just the skin.

“Never thought you’d take it like this,” he says, voice rough, barely more than a growl. The words crack against your ear, and you shudder all the way down. “Fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ the life outta me.” You can’t stop shaking. Your knees are spread wide, bracketing his hips, the insides of your thighs slick with sweat and slick with everything Frank’s ever dragged out of you. You thinks you'll never get used to the feeling of him, never stop being wrecked by the way he stretches you open—fuller than full, the kind of full that scrapes at yout sanity and sends sparks arcing up her spine. You try to move again, to work him deeper, but your body stutters, shudders, clamps up so tight you're afraid you'll never let him go. Frank’s hands slide beneath your ass, rough and steady, and he’s whispering again.

“Still good, baby? Still with me?” You hear herself answer before you've even thought about it.

“Yeah. Oh, fuck—”

“That’s my girl,” he growls, and his hands flex, digging into the meat of your ass, helping you find a rhythm. His hands force your ass up, switching from slow rolls to you bouncing up and down on his cock, the length splitting you open every time you fall back down. You whine, nails raking down his chest as he sets a cruelly slow pace. You nod wordlessly, as if saying, yes this is what i wanted, yout nails digging into his chest. He keeps his pace slow, hands bracing you, letting you ride out every inch.

The way you move is desperate, hips frantic, but you're still so fucking tight it’s like every thrust stretches you all over again. Frank can feel it in the way you shake, the way your nails score frantic down his chest, each movement another little gasp from you.

“That’s it, baby,” He says, rough and low. “You’re doing so good. You’re perfect.” IHe yanks down the top of your dress and softly coaxes your breast into his palm, rolling your nipple between his fingers and it makes you arch, your head falling back, mouth open in a silent moan.

“Fuck, you like that? You like being full like this?” He can’t help it, he want you to know, he wants you to hear yourself and know how fucking hot you are right now.

He reaches for your face, brushes the hair out of your eyes, and maks you look at him.

“Look at you. So pretty riding my cock.” You gasp, your body rocking forward.

“Fuck, Frank-” A desperate whine pulls from your lips, pussy clenching around his impossibly hard length. "Mmph- I need-" Your words are cut off by a whine, and your head falls back as Frank runs his lips over the plane of your neck.

"What is it, sweet girl ? What d'ya need, hmm ?" He asks, catching your face in his heads and tilting it down to force you to look at him. "Ya need me t'stop ?" You shake your head, slamming your hips down to accentuate your point.

"N-No ! Don-Don't you dare fucking stop." You whine, leaning in to press your lips to his. Frank’s mouth finds yours, heat and need and all the things he never says out loud, and he kisses you with a rough, desperate edge that’s never come out this way before. His hand tangles in your hair, holding you there, letting you bite and gasp and moan against his lips. You pull away, fingers tangled in his hair as you look up at him. You roll your hips again, and Frank’s head falls back, groaning as your pussy clenches around his thick length- buried inside you to the hilt.

“Need- Need to go harder, Frankie.” You whine. Frank’s hands squeeze your hips, bruising, and his voice unspools in a low, dangerous note:

“You sure about that, baby? I don’t wanna hurt you.” You dig your nails in harder, clinging to his shoulders like a life raft, and shake your head so he’ll quit asking, quit holding back, and just—fuck, just let go.

“Need it. Please, Frankie. Please.” That’s all it takes. Something in him snaps. A groan wrenches out of his chest, and his hands slide down, rough palms spanning your ass, and he’s pistoning up into you, hips snapping so hard you see stars behind your eyes. You yelp, then moan, shock and pleasure shooting through your body in a white-hot flash. He’s relentless, slamming into you, hitting so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat.He’s all breath and teeth now, his resolve snapping with every desperate roll of your hips.

He bucks up, his cock splitting you open even wider—impossible, you think, but then you feel it: the way he bottoms out, the edge of his blunt head pressing so deep it’s like he’s rearranging every nerve ending you have. You cry out, the sound ugly and perfect, but Frank’s hand is at the back of your head, his mouth over your mouth, swallowing the noise.He loses the last of his restraint and plants his feet, his thighs up and hips off the couch, and now every grind is harder, meaner, his cock punching into you until all you can do is sob and clamp tight around him. The sound is obscene: the wet slap of skin, the ragged gasps, the squeal of couch springs. Frank hauls you in, his mouth at your ear, his voice nothing but a ragged scrape.

“Fuck, you’re a mess for me,” he growls, each word a brand against your skin. “All that attitude, and you’re fuckin’ sobbing on my cock. So fuckin' tight f'me, huh ? Such a good girl.” His hand slides up, fingers digging into the back of your neck, holding you steady as he rams up into you, relentless, and the pain is gone now, replaced by something blinding—a pleasure so sharp it makes your vision white out, your whole body hollowing and clutching around him.You rock in rhythm with him and it’s obscene, the squelch of where you’re joined, the slap of skin on skin as he pounds up into you, the guttural noises you can’t keep inside.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me, baby. Been dreamin’ about this, you taking all of me. Didn’t think you’d—I mean, Jesus, look at you.” He grabs your ass, kneading it and pulling you down, forcing you to take every last millimeter. “You’re squeezing so tight, you’re milkin’ me, fuck—” He grits his teeth, eyes half-lidded and hungry. “You wanna come? Wanna let go for me?”

“Yes. God, yes, please.” You whine. “M’s close, Frank-mmph.” Frank’s voice shudders into your ear, all rough pride and awe:

“Yeah? Gonna come for me, sweet thing? C’mon. Give it to me. I wanna feel you .” He doesn’t let up, hips slamming up so hard the world blurs at the edges, the couch frame groaning beneath both of you. You can’t move, you can barely breathe, his hand fisted in your hair and the thick length of him splitting you open again and again. The pleasure builds in your spine, a searing hot pressure that crests and breaks with each brutal thrust, and you’re babbling, words running together,

“Frank, fuck, Frankie, please—” He’s greedy for it now, for your noises, for the way your body clenches around him. His hand slides between your bodies, finds your clit with thick, callused fingers, and rubs it raw and fast. The touch is too much,paired with the rough upwards pistoning of his hips, and your thighs fly closed to clench together as your orgasm crashes over you, desperate spasms taking over your whole body. You can’t hear anything except the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding in your ears, synced up with the steady, brutal pace Frank sets. His cock drags out of you slow, then slams up so hard your vision goes black at the edges, every shockwave through your pelvis making your toes curl.

“Attagirl. That’s it baby, ride through it. Attagirl.” He’s making noises he’s never let you hear before—deep, raw, hungry things that sound like they’re being torn out of his chest. The look he gives you is wild, desperate, like he’s not sure if he wants to devour you or worship you. He pulls you down until your foreheads touch, the sweat on his brow mixing with yours.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he rasps, and something hot and dangerous sparks in your belly. You’re clawing at his shoulders, leaving half-moon imprints in the flesh, riding the edge of pain and pleasure so sharp you can’t find the difference anymore. Frank’s hand clamps around your throat to keep you steady, his other hand still clenched at your waist.

"Shit, baby, i'm close." He rasps, and you whimper as you try to move your hips along with his, but the overstimulation wracks up your spine and you tense, letting him drive his cock up into you. You feel Frank’s cock twitch inside you, the urgent pulse of it syncing with your own rapid heartbeat, and you know he’s close even before his hips stutter and the muscles in his thighs go taut beneath you. The fingers at your waist grip tighter—near bruising—and his other hand comes up, thumb tracing a line along your jaw, anchoring you. You want the mess, the loss of control. You want him to stop speaking in careful half-steps and just fucking let go.

“Where d’ya want me sweet girl ?” He rasps, his restraint showing, his hand already drifting down towards where the two of you are conjoined to get ready to pull out. The question wobbles in your throat, half-swallowed by the slick heat and the way Frank’s fingers press into the curve of your jaw. He looks you dead in the eye, searching your face like he can find a map to this, too. Some secret code in the way you blink, the way you sway and curl tighter around him.

“Want it inside,” you gasp before he can break the stare, before self-doubt or good sense or whatever kept him guarded can muscle in. “Please, Frank. Please.” For a half-breath, it seems he might refuse you anyway—might white-knuckle that last scrap of control for the sake of gentleness, for your own good.

“Yeah? Want me to fill you up?” His voice is unsure, his eyes searching yours for confirmation. You nod wordlessly and he shakes his head, the gentleness he showed earlier resurfacing. “Baby, i need ya to tell me, kay ? Use your words.” Frank watches your face like its a code he can finally solve. Sweat tickes along his brow, not just fatigue, but the kind of focus he reserves for dismantling bombs and patching artery bleeds—urgent, precise, a little terrified. The request hits different coming from your mouth: raw, pleading, no filter. He gets it in his bones, even if his brain lags behind.

Inside. You want it inside.

His girl.

He wants to tell you no. Not because he doesn’t want it, but because he’d convinced himself he’d break you if he let go—like every inch of himself he held back was the difference between love and violence. But your face, flushed and wet and so fucking sure, said you’d survive it. Would probably haunt him if he didn’t.

“I mean it, Frankie.” Your voice cracks, the words sticking. “I want to feel you. All of it.” He doesn’t answer, just locks his hands tighter around your waist, and for one split second you see all the war in him: the need to protect, the need to ruin, the need to have you in every way. Then he grips your hips, braces his thighs, and surges up into you with a force that makes your vision shatter. Everything in you clamps around him, every nerve ending you have going off at once—pain, pleasure, something between the two that has no name, no anchor. You’ve never felt anything like it in your life. You think you might die from the stretch alone, but when the heat of him floods you, pulsing in hot, deep shocks, it’s like being electrocuted from the inside out.

“Shit, shit, fuck-!” Frank cries out, his pinned to yours as you feel him twitch and empty himself inside of you. You slump against him and his arms come around you immediately, his breath ragged as he thrusts lazily a few times, just to make sure he's all spent. His lips press to the crown of your head, kissing the area there softly as he runs his hands down the small of your back. Your breathing is ragged, a statcatto rythym as you bury your face in the crook of Frank's neck, hand resting on the other side of his neck, craving the gentle closeness.

"Jesus- fucking - Christ." He rasps, shaking his head. "You're fucking crazy, yknow that ?" He hums. You giggle- a shirt thing interrupted by hiccups, and you lick at your dry lips. He kisse your forehead again. "Lemme go get ya some water, baby." He hums. His hands settle at your waist, and the sound that follows is so insanely obscene that you almost want to go again. The sound that your bodies make when they disconnect, squelching and liquid squirting as he slolwy pulls his length out of you wakes you clit hum with anticipation.

That hum though is quickly replaced with the sharp pain of emptiness.

Frank stills the moment you make that soft, broken sound. Not the kind you’d made before - not the desperate ones, not the breathless ones - but something smaller. Quieter. It catches in your throat when he carefully, carefully slips the last of his length out of you, hands firm at your hips like he’s handling something fragile.

“Hey—hey,” he mutters immediately, all the air knocked out of his lungs. “Shit—did I—?” You cling to him before he can even finish the thought. Your arms wrap tight around his shoulders, your face pressed into his neck, a small whimper slipping out as your body adjusts to the sudden emptiness. Your fingers curl into his skin like you’re trying to anchor yourself, like letting go might send you drifting somewhere you can’t quite follow yet. Frank freezes. Actually freezes.

Every muscle in his body locks up, his hands hovering for half a second like he doesn’t know where to touch you without making it worse.

“Baby,” he says, rough, bordering on panicked now. “Talk to me. Did I hurt you? I told you—fuck, I told you—”

“No—” your voice comes out soft, a little shaky, but not distressed. You nuzzle closer instead of pulling away, tightening your grip around him. “No, no… it’s not that.” He doesn’t relax. Not yet. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you gently into his shoulder like he’s trying to shield you from something—even if that something is himself.

“Then what was that?” he presses, quieter now, but there’s an edge to it. Worry. Real worry. You huff out a tiny, breathless laugh against his skin.

“It just—” you shift slightly, wincing just a little, and his grip tightens instantly again, like he’s ready to stop the world for you. “It just feels weird when you’re not there anymore,” you admit. “I was… really stretched out, Frank.”There’s a pause. A long one.

“…Good weird?” he asks finally, cautious, like he’s stepping across thin ice. You nod against him, then realize he can’t see it and mumble,

“Yeah. Good weird.” That’s when he exhales. Not a small breath—no, it’s deep. Heavy. Like he’s been holding it in his chest this whole time and only now feels allowed to let it go.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his lips to your temple. “You scared the shit outta me.” Your arms loosen just enough to look at him, your expression soft, a little dazed but warm.

“I’m okay,” you promise. He searches your face like he doesn’t quite believe you yet. Like he’s cataloguing every little detail—your eyes, your mouth, the way your breathing’s evening out. Then, finally, he nods.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I know you are.”

But he still pulls you closer. Carefully, he shifts the two of you, easing you down against the couch so you’re not straining, making sure you’re comfortable before he even thinks about anything else. One of his hands stays firm at your waist, the other brushing your hair back from your face, slower now. Grounding.

“You sore?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit, voice soft. He hums, like he expected that.

“Yeah… figured.” His thumb traces along your side in slow, steady strokes. “That was… more than we usually—”

“I wanted it,” you cut in gently.

“I know,” he says immediately. No hesitation. No doubt. “I know you did.” That’s not the issue. His jaw tightens slightly, and his gaze drops for a second before coming back to you. “But next time,” he adds, quieter now, “you don’t just decide that on your own, alright?” You blink at him.

“Frank—”

“I mean it.” Not harsh. Just firm. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye. “You tell me. Before. So I can take my time with you. Get you ready proper. Stretch you out properly so that it don't hurt when we're done.” There’s something in his voice—something protective, but not controlling. Careful. Thoughtful. “I don’t ever wanna be guessin’ with you,” he continues. “Don’t wanna be sittin’ here after wonderin’ if I pushed you too far.” Your chest tightens a little at that.

“I wasn’t too far,” you say softly.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But I need to know know. Not just hope.” That lands.

“Okay,” you agree. His shoulders loosen just a fraction.

“Okay,” he echoes. He shifts you so that your in his arms, he carries you into your bedroom. He sets you down on the bed, sighing sofltly. He brushes your hair away from your face, humming. "Don't fall asleep, baby. I'll be right back." You make a small noise of protest immediately, your fingers catching weakly at his wrist before he can pull away.

“Don’t go far,” you mumble, already half-melting into the mattress. He huffs out a quiet breath—something between a laugh and a sigh—and leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

“Ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he mutters. “Just gimme a second.” You squint up at him suspiciously, even as your eyes threaten to close.

“You better not be doing your disappearing act again.” That earns you a proper huff.

“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “One time I clean up and suddenly I’m a flight risk.”

“Every time,” you correct sleepily. He pauses at the edge of the bed, glancing back at you, one brow raised.

“…You keep trackin’ that?”

“Mm,” you hum. “Suspicious behavior.” He lets out a low, amused exhale through his nose.

“Yeah, real suspicious,” he murmurs. “Man takes care of his girl, real criminal.”

“Debatable,” you mumble, already sinking deeper into the pillows. That pulls a quiet laugh out of him.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he reminds you again.

“Frank…”

“I’ll be back in two seconds,” he promises, already easing out from under you despite the way you try to follow him. “Don’t go passin’ out on me yet.” You squint up at him, unimpressed.

“Bossy,” you mumble again, voice thick with sleep. He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

“Yeah, yeah. Says the one who nearly killed me ten minutes ago.” Your lips twitch.

“I did great,” you mumble. He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you with a look that’s half disbelief, half reluctant amusement.

“‘Did great,’” he repeats under his breath. “Jesus.” He disappears into the bathroom, and you can hear the sink running, cabinets opening—familiar sounds, but slower now. Less routine. Like he’s still thinking about you, even when he’s not in the room. He’s not gone long. When he comes back, he’s got that same warm cloth in hand, and a glass of water balanced carefully between his fingers. The second he sees your eyes drooping, he clicks his tongue.

“Hey—hey. Don’t you do that.” You groan quietly as he sets the glass down on the nightstand and sits beside you again.

“M’tired…”

“I know,” he murmurs. “C’mon, up a little.” He slides an arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough so you can lean against him. You go willingly this time, head lolling against his chest as he brings the glass to your lips.

“Drink,” he says. You take a few slow sips, then pull back, already trying to sink into him again.

“That’s enough,” you mumble.

“Few more.”

“Frank—”

“Few more,” he repeats, softer, but there’s no budging him. You sigh dramatically, but you listen, taking another couple of sips before he finally nods, satisfied.

“Good girl.” You hum at that, eyes fluttering shut again.

“See? Not so bossy now.”

“Don’t push it,” he mutters, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. He sets the glass aside and reaches for you again, guiding you back down onto the bed properly this time. The cloth in his hand is warm, and he’s careful—extra careful now, his touch light, attentive. You twitch a little at the sensitivity, and his brow furrows immediately.

“Still okay?” he asks.

“Mm,” you nod sleepily. “Just… sensitive.” He grunts softly.

“Yeah. That tracks.” There’s a pause, then—more teasing, but quieter— “Maybe next time you don’t try to prove a point all at once, huh?” You crack one eye open at him.

“I wasn’t proving a point.”

“Oh yeah?” he raises a brow. You shrug lazily.

“…Maybe a little.” He snorts.

“Unbelievable.” But his hand smooths over your thigh right after, gentle, reassuring. “You hurt anywhere?” he asks, trying to sound casual and failing just a little. You shift slightly, testing, then shake your head.

“Just… sore.” His jaw tightens for a second.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s on me.”

“No, it’s not,” you say immediately, reaching out to catch his hand before he can pull it away. “Frank.” He stills. You tug his hand gently, making him look at you.

“I liked it,” you say, quieter now. “All of it.” His eyes search yours again—that same careful, thorough look.

“…Yeah?” he asks. You nod.

“Yeah.” A small pause. Then you add, a little teasing— “Even the part where you looked like you were about to pass out.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “I was not—”

“You were,” you insist, smiling now. “Little bit.”

“Was not.”

“Little bit,” you repeat. He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no heat in it. He finishes up, then pulls the blankets over you, tucking them in. You immediately reach for him. He doesn’t make you ask twice. He climbs back into bed, settling behind you this time, pulling you into his chest so your back is pressed against him. One arm wraps around your middle, anchoring you there, his hand splayed warm against your stomach. For a minute, he just holds you.

Then— “You really okay?” he murmurs, voice low near your ear. There it is again. That thread of worry he can’t quite shake. You shift slightly, turning your head just enough to glance back at him.

“I said I am.”

“I know what you said.” You huff softly.

“I’m good, Frank. Promise.” He studies you for a second longer, like he’s debating whether to push it again. Then he exhales.

“Alright.” But his hand tightens just a little around you anyway. Your fingers drift down, resting over his where it’s spread across your stomach.

“…You were kinda panicking,” you mumble, a hint of teasing slipping back in. He scoffs quietly.

“I was not.”

“You were,” you insist, smiling a little. “You looked like I broke something.”

“Well,” he mutters, “you were lookin’ at me like you just went twelve rounds with a truck, so forgive me for bein’ concerned.” You laugh softly at that, the sound muffled by the pillow.

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” he says, nudging his nose lightly against your hair. “You keep sayin’ that.” There’s a pause. Then, quieter— “…Still gonna worry.” Your chest softens at that. You turn aroun and curl into him, head tucked beneath his chin.

“I know.” That seems to settle something in him. His thumb starts moving again—slow, absent circles against your hip, the same steady rhythm from before.

“Next time,” he murmurs, softer now, “we do it my way first.”

You groan softly.

“Frank.”

“I’m serious,” he insists, though there’s a hint of amusement in his voice now. “We doin’ that again, I’m takin’ my time with you.”

“You always take your time,” you mumble.

“Not like that,” he says. “I mean really takin’ my time." You tilt your head just enough to look up at him.

“…How much time are we talking?” His mouth twitches slightly.

“Enough that you ain’t givin’ me that look like you’re about to pick a fight with physics.” You blink.

“…That’s not what I was doing.”

“That’s exactly what you were doin’.”

“I was being adventurous.”

“You were bein’ reckless,” he corrects. You smile, nudging your nose against his jaw.

“And you loved it.” He goes quiet for a second.

“…Yeah,” he admits, softer this time. Then, after a beat— “Doesn’t mean I ain’t gonna do it right next time.” You hum, satisfied, your eyes finally slipping closed for real.

“Okay, Frankie.” His hand starts moving again along your back, slow, steady, grounding.

“And you tell me,” he adds quietly, more serious now, pressing a light kiss to your hair. “Before you go doin’ somethin’ like that again.” You nod faintly against him.

“I will.”

“Good.” A pause. Then, softer— "Ya did real good, baby,” he murmurs. You yawn, nodding against his chest.

"Told you I could take it." Frank rolls his eyes, peppering your face with kisses. You crack open an eye at him. "The only thing too big about you is your ego." You hum.

Frank lets out a quiet, offended huff at that, pulling back just enough to look down at you properly.

“Yeah?” he mutters, one brow ticking up. “That what we’re goin’ with?” You give him a sleepy, satisfied little nod, clearly pleased with yourself.

“Mmhm.” He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no bite to it—just that familiar, rough-edged fondness.

“Alright,” he says slowly. “Careful now.” You smile, eyes already drifting shut again.

“Why?” you mumble. “Gonna prove me wrong?” He snorts softly, shaking his head as his hand slides back into its place on your back, steady and warm.

“Nah,” he murmurs. “Already tried that tonight.” That pulls the faintest little laugh out of you.

“Didn’t go so well, huh?” you mumble. He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple.

“Debatable,” he says. You hum, too tired to argue, curling further into him. There’s a quiet beat before he adds, softer now—

“…And for the record—” You make a small noise, somewhere between a groan and a hum.

“Frank…”

“—ain’t my ego you gotta worry about,” he finishes anyway, voice low and teasing. You crack one eye open just enough to squint up at him.

“Oh yeah?” His mouth twitches.

“Yeah." A pause. Then, with the faintest hint of a grin in his voice— “Pretty sure we already established what’s actually too big.”

The Berzatto house was exactly what you expected it to be on Christmas Eve.

Loud.

Chaotic.

Somehow both falling apart and holding together at the same time.

You’d known the family long enough that none of it surprised you anymore. The yelling, the laughing, Richie showing up with an opinion nobody asked for, Donna moving around the kitchen like she was fighting a war.

It was home.

Which was probably why you found yourself hiding in the pantry with Michael.

Not hiding from the chaos, exactly.

More like hiding from the fact that being around him always made you feel like you were one stupid comment away from admitting something you’d both been pretending not to notice.

“You know,” you whispered, leaning against the shelf, “for someone who claims to hate being told what to do, Carmen really does look like he was born to get bossed around.”

Mikey looked at you, eyes widening dramatically.

“Whoa.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“That’s my little brother you’re talking about.”

You waited.

A grin slowly pulled at his mouth.

“You’re not wrong though.”

You laughed, trying to hold it back.

“Mikey.”

“What? I love the kid. I do. But c’mon.” He shook his head, hands moving as he talked like they always did. “The guy walks around like someone handed him a clipboard and said, ‘Congratulations, you’re responsible now.’”

You snorted.

“That’s literally him.”

“Exactly!”

He pointed at you like you’d just solved a complicated math problem.

“See? You get it.”

That was the thing about Mikey.

He made you feel like you were in on some secret joke with him.

Like out of everyone in the room, he picked you.

The pantry door suddenly swung open.

Carmen stood there, staring at both of you.

You froze.

Mikey froze.

Then Mikey slowly looked at you.

You looked back.

Neither of you said anything.

“C’mon,” Carmen said flatly.

“What?” Mikey asked, completely innocent.

“You two are annoying.”

You gasped.

“Excuse me?”

Carmen looked between the two of you.

“You’re worse together.”

Mikey put a hand over his chest, offended.

“That’s a crazy thing to say about two beautiful, charming people.”

Carmen rolled his eyes.

“You’re both idiots.”

Then he walked away.

The second he disappeared, you and Mikey burst out laughing.

“Beautiful and charming?” you repeated.

Mikey shrugged, leaning against the shelves.

“I mean. I said what I said.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop smiling.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He grinned.

“Still hanging out with me though.”

You didn’t have an answer for that.

Because he was right.

After a moment, you moved and hopped up onto the counter inside the pantry, your legs swinging slightly.

Mikey watched you.

Not in the way most people watched.

Mikey paid attention.

He noticed everything.

The little things.

The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were trying not to smile. The way you always stole the pickles off the snack plates. The way you’d show up for this family even when you technically didn’t have to.

“You know,” he said softly.

You looked at him.

“What?”

He stepped closer, resting his hands on the counter beside you.

“You got a real bad habit.”

You smiled.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Making yourself too comfortable in my family’s pantry.”

You laughed.

“Your family’s pantry?”

“Yeah.”

“Not your pantry?”

He tilted his head.

“Well, I mean…”

His smile turned into something softer.

“Could be.”

The air shifted.

Just slightly.

Because that was always how it was with Mikey.

Everything was a joke.

Until suddenly it wasn’t.

You looked down at your hands.

“You flirt with everyone, you know.”

Mikey scoffed.

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

“Name one person.”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Because you couldn’t.

His smile grew.

“That’s what I thought.”

“You are such a pain.”

“And yet.”

“And yet what?”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“And yet you’re sitting in my pantry on Christmas Eve talking to me.”

You looked at him.

Really looked at him.

And for a second, the jokes disappeared.

There was just Michael.

The guy everyone loved.

The guy everyone worried about.

The guy who carried so much more than he ever let anyone see.

“You know you could just tell me when you’re being serious,” you whispered.

His smile faded a little.

Not completely.

Mikey always had a smile ready.

But you knew him.

You knew when it was real.

And when it was something he used to hide.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

His fingers tapped against the counter.

“I could.”

A beat passed.

“But then what would I do with all these great jokes?”

You laughed, shaking your head.

“You’ve got flour on your face,” he said.

You touched your cheek. “Where?”

“Right—” He stepped closer. Then closer still, until his knees bumped the cabinet between your dangling feet.

“Here. Let me.” His thumb brushed your cheekbone.

Slow. Deliberate. Not wiping anything away.

Your breath caught. “Is there actually flour?”

“Maybe.” His hand didn’t move. His thumb traced down to the corner of your mouth. “Maybe not.”

“That’s a bold move, Mikey.”

“I’m a bold guy.”

His other hand landed on your knee. Just resting there. Casual. Like it belonged.

Neither of you spoke. The kitchen noise filled the silence—Donna yelling about the roast, Richie’s laugh booming, Carmen’s miserable protests. All of it felt very far away.

Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “You gonna stand there with your hand on my knee all night, or you got a plan?”

Michael’s eyes flicked down to your mouth. “I’ve had a plan for about seven years.”

“Seven years and you never executed.”

“I’m executing now.”

His hand slid up. Past your knee. Over the thin fabric of your tights.

His palm was warm and broad and his fingers pressed into the meat of your thigh with a confidence that made your stomach drop.

“This okay?” His voice had gone quieter. Rougher.

You nodded. Swallowed. “Yeah.”

Your legs parted without permission. Just an inch. But he noticed. Of course he noticed.

Michael stepped between them like he’d been invited to dinner.

Both hands on your thighs now. Thumbs tracing circles through your tights. His face level with yours.

Close enough that you could see the faint scar through his eyebrow, the one he got falling off a skateboard when you were kids.

“You know how many times i’ve almost kissed you?” he asked.

“How many?”

“Lost count.” His breath was warm on your lips.

“That night at the lake. Richie’s graduation party. Your birthday two years ago when you were drunk on tequila and kept touching my arm.”

“I wasn’t that drunk.”

“I know that too.”

His mouth hovered there. Not kissing. Just—waiting.

Your hands came up to his chest. The wool of his sweater was scratchy under your palms. His heart was pounding.

“What’s stopping you now?” you asked.

“Checking for consent.”

“You’ve got it.”

He kissed you.

Not gentle. Not tentative. Seven years of waiting crashed into your mouth all at once. His tongue swept past your lips and his hands gripped your thighs hard enough to leave marks through the nylon.

Your fingers twisted into his sweater. Pulled him closer. He groaned into your mouth—a low, needy sound that shot straight down your spine.

His hips pressed against the cabinet. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, heels digging into his lower back.

“Jesus,” he breathed against your jaw. “You taste like—”

“Cinnamon?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Stole a cookie earlier.”

He laughed. Then he was kissing your neck, your collarbone, the dip of your throat above your sweater.

His stubble scraped your skin in a way that made your eyes roll back.

His hands were everywhere. Skimming up your sides. Palming your waist. Sliding under the hem of your sweater to find bare skin.

“Michael,” you gasped.

“Mm.”

“Your family’s in the next room.”

“Don’t care.”

“I care. Your mom—ah.”

His teeth grazed your earlobe. “My mom’s busy terrorizing Carmen.”

“Richie could—”

“Richie’s an idiot.”

His fingers found the waistband of your tights. Tugged.

You grabbed his wrist. “What are you doing?”

“Taking these off.”

“You can’t—”

He dropped to his knees.

Right there on the pantry floor, between sacks of flour and boxes of pasta, Michael Berzatto knelt in front of you like you were something sacred.

His hands pushed your skirt up. His mouth pressed against the inside of your knee through the nylon.

“Just a taste,” he said, looking up at you. “That’s all I need.”

“You’re insane.”

“Little bit.”

His teeth caught the fabric at your inner thigh. Tore.

The nylon split with a sound like ripping paper.

“Michael! No!”

But you were laughing. God help you, you were laughing, and so was he, his shoulders shaking as he kissed the newly exposed skin.

Your thigh.

Higher.

The sensitive crease where leg met hip.

His mouth hovered over your inner thigh, lips brushing the sensitive skin where the torn tights gaped open.

He pressed a kiss there. Soft.

Then another, higher, trailing up toward the edge of your underwear.

“Just a little taste,” he murmured against your skin.

“That’s all I’m asking for.”

You were about to say something—maybe yes, maybe no, you hadn’t decided yet—when the pantry door swung open.

Michael froze.

Richie stood in the doorway, a bottle of bourbon in one hand, his mouth already open to say something.

He stopped.

His eyes went wide. Took in the scene—Michael on his knees between your legs, your skirt bunched up around your hips, the torn tights, the flush on your face.

“What the fuck,” Richie said.

Michael was on his feet in an instant.

He stepped in front of you, blocking you from view, his body a wall between you and the door.

You scrambled to pull your skirt down, to cover the evidence, your heart hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears.

“Oh shit,” Michael said. “Richie, this isn’t what it looks like—”

“The fuck it isn’t!” Richie’s voice boomed through the kitchen.

He was laughing now, that loud obnoxious laugh that carried through the whole house.

“Holy shit! Mikey! In the pantry! On Christmas Eve!”

“Richie, keep your voice down—”

“SUGAR!” Richie bellowed. “CARMEN! GET IN HERE!”

Michael’s hand shot out, grabbing Richie’s arm.

“What are you doing, man?”

“What am I doing? What are you doing? Eating her out in your mom’s pantry while she’s making the goddamn roast?”

Footsteps. Heavy ones. And then Carmen appeared behind Richie, looking annoyed, a whisk still in his hand.

“What’s all the yelling—oh.” He stopped. His eyes darted from Michael to you, still hidden behind him, to the torn tights peeking out from under your skirt.

“Oh, man,” Carmen said, his face twisting. “Are you fucking eating her out in here?”

“No!” you and Michael said at the same time, too fast, too loud.

“We were just—I was helping her with—she had flour on her—” Michael stammered.

Richie doubled over, slapping his knee. “Flour! Yeah, flour on her thighs! I saw the tights, Mikey! You ripped ‘em open like a bag of chips!”

“We weren’t doing anything!” you tried, but your voice came out shaky, and Richie’s laugh only got louder.

“I’m telling everyone,” Richie announced, already turning.

“I’m telling the whole family. Mikey Berzatto finally got his seven-year crush and he did it in the pantry like a damn animal.”

Michael groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Richie, I swear to God—”

But Richie was already gone, his voice ringing through the house:

katsuki is way too big for your bed, the width of his shoulder covers half of your side and it’s something you should complain about… though you can’t when all that toned raw muscle cuddles you to his chest.

it’s quiet in your room, aside from the smacking of your lips, katsuki’s low grumbles that rumble from the pit of his stomach. then when he bites on your bottom lip, it’s a little whine that accidentally flutters out.

it’s a few seconds of staring at your sleepy lover in the dark while your lips are apart, breathless. your hand cups his cheeks and bakugou tugs you closer to him by your hip. you know he’s aroused, he struggles to hide it on a good day but in your bed with his guard down, he finds no reason to.

he squeezes your waist harshly, pushing out a shaky exhale from you like a squeaky toy.

“you’re so beautiful,” he mumbles, guttural like the truth is pulled out from him without his permission. being alone with you does this to him. has him struggling to lie and not say what’s on his mind. katsuki wouldn’t have it any other way.

his skin is shiny from the expensive moisturiser you recommended, making him appear like a baby that just got doused in vaseline. luscious. healthy and stunning with his plucked eyebrows and scar right under his cheekbone.

“no, you are,” you reply, shutting him up by giving him another kiss.

it’s a leisurely kiss. you feel his jaw widen as he tilts his head over yours. your tongues tangle for fun, as if you’re playing a pointless game where you’re both going to win. bakugou manages to suck on yours and without meaning to another whine slips from you.

the only thing on your mind is bakugou katsuki.

you pull away from him, a quick peck on his lip before blinking at him.

“what?” katsuki breathes, tapping your ass cheek twice before resting back on your waist. then he decides to sneak his hand under your cami, his hand cosy under the fabric.

“what language do you think in?” you ask, running the pad of your thumb over his cheek scar. 

“why’re you thinkin’ about that?” he rubs his top lip on his septum then he grabs your hand off his face to kiss your thumb. he’s always transferring your love back to you.

you hum inconspicuously, “i’m thinking about you.”

“japanese, baby. then i translate in my head to talk to you.”

katsuki wants to go back to feeling his lips over yours, tasting every inch of you. but now he’s studying the sleepy sadness in your eyes, how you jut out your bottom lip like you’ve just been wronged.

you’re not wearing anything under your camisole so he’s able to run his thumb on the underside of your breasts. 

“what’s wrong with that?” he asks, trying to figure you out.

bakugou katsuki finds that having a girlfriend often means having to learn another new language. that when you tuck yourself away from him after an argument in the car, it means you want him to talk and not that you need space. that when you want to get dessert, he has to also say yes. you can’t get dessert alone, even if he doesn’t want any. 

you huff softly, running your hand down his bare stone carved chest to the rim of his cotton shorts.

“it sounds like a lot of work you have to do mentally to be with me. i want it to be easy.”

bakugou frowns. you’re disappointed, fucking heartbroken by the looks of it. he wants to laugh, how silly you can get when your unfiltered thoughts come out. you wouldn’t admit something like this during the day, you’d probably make a joke that he should be working his brain to keep up with you.

but you’re softened and closer to the dreamworld than you are on the bed with him.

“it’s not like that, princess. i don’t gotta think twice,” he half shrugs, “it’s not a conscious thing anymore. i just think and out my mouth is english. nothin’ deep.” 

you’re not having it, sighing to yourself, “i’m gonna get really good at japanese for you. i’m not bad at it.”

“your pronunciation is amazin’,” he smiles at you, ducking forward to kiss your lips.

“thanks,” you mumble, opting to feel him up instead.

your hand smooths up his chunky bicep, then down the deep chisels of his back. bakugou thinks you’ve moved on, that he can go back to smushing his face against your pretty one when you speak again.

“there’s a whole world in your head i don’t know about.”

you look at his necklace when you speak, an old gold chain of yours that you gave to him. it was too thick on you and it suits him perfectly. you tug on it, feeling each ridge between your fingers.

“hm?” he pushes you to explain.

“words that can’t translate. the dreams you must have. you know how you can read translated poetry and the notes about the poem are longer than the poem itself? that’s your head and i’m outside of it.” you whisper, holding onto his chain while you kiss him like you feel lonely. though he’s right there.

but bakugou doesn’t pout back. you’ve got him thinking.

“you should be an outsider when i’m with you and your friends or you and your family. i think i know english and then you’re saying words and phrases that i can’t understand. all sounds like gibberish to me.”

“that’s like made up words and slang. you’re still fluent. it’s not the same,” you poke back.

bakugou chuckles, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes. he pulls your hand to rest on the centre of his chest and he places his hand over yours. you feel the gentle patter of his heartbeat, it soothes you.

“‘m not fuckin’ fluent.”

you nudge closer to him, unable to not be all over him for a second. you sling your leg over his waist, hugging him to you and running your nose along his ear.

“yes you are. you know everything.” 

“you don’t know what it’s like to argue with you.”

that makes you pause which makes bakugou turn back on his side to look at you.

you purse your lips then relax, “what do you mean?”

“when you’re mad at me, you speak fast as hell, usually cussing me with words i’ve never thought to put together and you’re so quick with it. so fuckin’ quick.” 

you’re unsure how being quick is different to speaking fast.

bakugou can tell you’re still confused. “my brain just can’t keep up. like i’m still translatin’ the last sentence and now you’re tellin’ me to go fuck myself ‘cause i’m a shit piece.”

you giggle at that. piece of shit, he knows.

“i think you’re making excuses because i’m always right,” you play.

bakugou shrugs, “maybe baby. but it’s so fuckin’ hard. i know what i wanna say when we argue but then you’re already on to the next point and i haven’t answered the first and then ‘cause i’m not talkin’ ‘cause im tryin’ to think, you think i don’t care.”

it’s easier to talk about arguing when you’re not arguing. 

“oh kats. that makes me sad. i’ll be more patient—,”

“no, no. i wanna be able to handle it.” he squeezes your hand.

“it’s not something to handle. i see when you argue with kiri and deku. you’re quick then, even though i don’t know what you’re talking about,”

bakugou grins, “i do like when you call me a fuckin’ dickhead.” he mimics your accent, his own chesty chuckle falling out when you put your hand on his face and grimace loudly.

he kisses the centre of your palm and the tickle causes you to pull away.

“i’ll be better for you,” you whisper and bakugou shakes his head.

“no, i will.” you finalise. 

bakugou sighs softly, knowing your mind won’t change.

you chew the inside of your cheek, a sign you’re dying to speak.

“go on then, baby.” he smiles.

“english isn’t even a romantic language. nothing sounds pretty, if anything it’s a pretty evil language—,”

bakugou stuffs his head into your neck, pushing you back into the bed softly. he begins nibbling on a soft spot before resting his lips on top in a wet kiss. he rubs over your lower back in slow circles.

“too much thinkin’, baby,” he works on your neck, loving how you mould your body into his, “it’s romantic ‘cause i’m talkin’ to you. your birthday cards, even your texts to me sound like poetry.”

you grunt to yourself. you are a good writer.

“you speak english at work. it’s not always romantic for you.”

bakugou rests on his forearm, hovering over you. “i can speak any language i want at work and people will find a way to listen.” 

there’s the humility you love in your boyfriend. 

“but i love talkin’ and understandin’ you. your big ass world in there,” he taps your temple with the tip of your finger, “the only benefit to knowin’ this language is i get to know you.”

you awe before you can help it and bakugou hangs his head in a blush. he manhandles your body with a single hand, pulling you closer under his arm.

“maybe english is romantic.” you hum, “and don’t lie to me. you need english for me and to watch those american superhero movies without subtitles.”

bakugou looks up at you grinning, nudging his nose into your cheek, “not true. the japanese dub is sick. rather listen to it in japanese.”

you can’t push your smile off, “so just me?”

he nods like a lovesick fool, droopy sleepy eyes and a wandering hand. “just you, princess.”

with your mind settled and tonight’s questions answered, you and bakugou go back to learning each other's language.

this time bakugou lets you sink your tongue into his mouth. wet kiss after wet kiss, your nails satisfyingly scratching through his hair and scalp.

bakugou moans into your mouth, sending vibrations throughout your body. “i love you.”

“i love you and thank you for letting me win all the arguments. you need to level up before you can fight me,” you giggle against his lips.

bakugou rolls his eyes, he’s got you back, bubbly and tender in his arms.

“yeah, yeah, princess,” he grins at you, looking over your body. he brushes his hand over your clothed groin, your fluffy pubic hair all tucked under your high waisted panties. “d’you wanna take these off for me? wanna hear you moan for me.”

you look like he just offered to eat you out. shiny eyes, pawing down his chest, finger already hooking in your underwear. 

“head, please,” you say politely, the sweet back and forth that gets you internally giggling at yourself and bakugou always rolling his eyes.

“that’s a word i learnt from you. head. through context clues and all. didn’t learn that at school in japan.” he shakes his head, helping you yank off your underwear. he tucks the fabric under his pillow to find it easily later.

“what would you call it? cunnilingus?” you look at your boyfriend, shirtless and sexy, hike your legs over his shoulders as he ducks down to lay on his stomach between your legs.

“the fuck is that?” he blurts, forcing his eyes from your glistening pussy to your pretty face, hitched up from your pillow.

“the proper word for eating pussy.” you say.

bakugou blinks at you, “repeat it f’me.”

“cunnilingus.”

bakugou repeats it after you as if he’s tasting every syllable on his tongue. though since he’s so close to you, your hips inch up in his face without meaning to.

he ignores you for the time being, “i don’t like that word.”

“w-what would you say?” you ask, licking your bottom lip. despite the rising heat over your body, you’re still curious.

“eating pussy.” he smirks like an idiotic boy that just said a bad word. he spreads your thighs apart, rubbing his cheek against your inner thigh.

“oh. duh,” you laugh flustered, thoughts all on a one track road. he’s so gorgeous. sexy. you wanna drag him up to kiss him, you also wanna be touched. “can you? eat my pussy?”

bakugou says something to you, full japanese with beaming cheeks. his lips curl around every syllable, fluent and unfamiliar to you yet home on katsuki’s tongue. his smile doesn’t let up, he punctuates his comment by kissing your thigh.

“what?” you whimper, breathless just from his mouth close to your centre.

“said you’re a brat.” he translates, spreading you open with his thumbs. damn. he might have to fuck you after.

“yours, though.”

he agrees, looking straight at your wet folds just from a little kissing. he ensures that he says his next words directly to you so there’s no mistranslation, “mine. and i’m yours.”

tags - babygirl : @sadisticslut666

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