Angel

Theo was just admiring how particularly gray the walls of the castle were looking this fine afternoon when a sharp elbow to the ribs pulls his attention back to the old bat's class. Theo shoots a glare Enzo's way as he rubs his wounded ribcage pointedly. To only further his agitation, Theo notices that Trelawney is now stood directly in front of him extending a deck of tarot cards to him as she blinks her wide owlish eyes at him expectantly.

With a deep sigh and a rather dramatic eye roll, Theo plucks a card from the deck and hands it back to the witch without even bothering to glance at it. Trelawney doesn't seem to mind much though as she inhales sharply, a grin that seemed much too wide for her face forming as she flips the card back to Theo.

"Yes, yes. Just as I predicted dear boy. Just as I predicted. The Two of Cups!" She announces proudly, brandishing the card out towards the class.

Daphne squeals.

"Oh Teddy—"

"Don't call me that."

Daphne ignores him.

"How exciting. How romantic," she continues, clearly far more interested in the pull than Theo was.

She pulls out a script of parchment, finger tracing down the lines of notes until she finds what she's searching for. Then she shoves the parchment under Theo's nose.

"Look there. The Two of Cups—signifies mutual attraction and deep connections. A representation of kindred spirits in the early stages of falling in love. That's so romantic," she gushes, continuing on in her notes.

Enzo snorts doing a horrible job trying to stifle his laughter. Theo glowers, not even wanting to deign such a ridiculous concept with a response. This was ludicrous. The whole thing. Theo had been attending Hogwarts for well long enough to know that there was not a single present student in the school that he would even dignify having a romantic relationship with. He can't help but shake his head and scoff at the mere idea.

"Oh lighten up Teddy, heaven forbid you let Daphne have this," Enzo snickers, clearly enjoying the discomfort the whole thing brought Theo.

It was easy for him to say. It wasn't his love life being carefully dissected by their mystic enthused friend.

Being the new student at any new school was always going to be nerve wracking. But being the new student at a new school in a whole new country was significantly worse in every aspect. Whispers float down the corridors, your name echoing off the high ceilings of the castle, and eyes flicker towards the ground as you pass as if they hadn't just been staring shamelessly the moment prior. Normally the stares wouldn't bother you much, but the constant hushed voices were beginning to be unnerving. Your lips tighten as you move swiftly through the halls and you can't help but feel a bit self conscious as you smooth out your unfamiliar, deep blue robes.

You weren't exactly enthusiastic about your new school to begin with. It was different—of course it would be—but no matter how much you had prepared yourself for all the changes, it just hadn't been enough. Like really, they let a ratty, old—albeit sentient—hat determine house placements? You hadn't wanted that thing anywhere near your head, but it just couldn't be helped. Then, once you had been placed into your house, you come to find that yours is the only one in the entire school that requires you to solve a freaking riddle just to get into your damn room. Asinine. And to top it all off, the wretched school was literally impossible to navigate because the staircases, apparently, were also sentient and did whatever the hell they wanted.

All that to say, when you finally collapse into a seat in the back of, what you hoped was the History of Magic classroom, you were more than a little miffed. With an agitated huff, you try to stay invisible as more students begin to file into the classroom, taking their seats closer to the front. As seats fill, the extra buffer of breathing room melts a bit of the tension in your shoulders. When your professor—a ghost you notice dryly—begins to write on the chalk board, you finally feel yourself start to relax, pulling out a roll of parchment from your bag and carefully copying down each line.

Just as you're about to finish—The Gargoyle Strike of 1911—the classroom door swings open once more and a boy with brown hair and dark, calculating eyes saunters in. You're content with giving him a quick, uninterested glance before getting back to your notes, but unfortunately for you, the boy is rapidly approaching. His bag hits the floor next to you with a dull thread and you feel your lips turn downward into a frown as you look up at the boy once more in annoyance.

You watch as the boy's mouth opens as if to say something, but then his eyes meet yours and you watch him freeze, mouth agape for a moment then two. Just as it's becoming a bit uncomfortable, he seems to awaken from his trance looking shaken, brows furrowing as if he were wondering why on Earth he was just standing there like a fool. Still though, he tilts his head awkwardly—chin gesturing towards the rest of the class—and for the first time you notice that every other seat in the room seems to be occupied. With a sigh of defeat, you wordlessly turn back to the board, preparing to scramble to write down whatever you'd missed just now, content with simply ignoring this boy's existence for the the rest of class.

"A 'wildcat strike' refers to a stopping of work by unionized workers without authorization from the union. In 1911 the wildcats were winning, meaning things were moving in favor of the gargoyles—"

Good god this was horrible. You weren't even ten minutes into your first day of this new class and you already wanted to throw yourself off the top of Ravenclaw tower. It seemed as though many of the other students in class felt similarly as one of the boys sitting a few rows in front of you lets out a concernedly loud snore. You have to choke down a snicker as your eyes flicker up to the ghost at the front of the room, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn't care.

"That's Finnigan. There's a running bet on how long it'll take him to fall asleep after Binns starts monologuing," the boy next to you murmurs, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You turn to look at the boy, surprised to hear him speak after all, and for the first time take a good look. Shit. He was hot. You don't really get the chance to dwell too much on it though because he speaks again.

"That one next to him is Thomas. Any second now he'll start piling things on top of 'em. See how high the stack gets before it falls over or Finnigan wakes up. Whichever comes first."

As if on queue, the boy next to the snoring kid carefully places a thick text book on his friend's back. Then another. It's like you can't look away as you watch on in morbid fascination.

"They friends of yours?" you find yourself asking as the boy, Thomas, adds an ink well to his tower.

Your desk partner snorts.

"Hardly. Lions and snakes don't exactly get along," he says smoothly.

You have no idea what that's supposed to mean, but you don't want to ask. Instead you continue to watch as a bag of Bertie Bott's jelly beans, three quills, a sweater, and someone's pet frog is added to the pile. A potted plant is about to be placed on top when a sneeze sends the whole thing crashing to the floor. Professor Binns doesn't even blink as he just continues on. Finnigan's head shoots up as he takes in his surroundings once more, shoulders slumping when he apparently realizes where he is. Understandable.

The rest of class is an absolute drag as you flit in and out of different thoughts and daydreams. Anywhere was better than here, listening to this ghost drown on. If he were any less interesting, you're sure the entire class would die of sheer boredom and be cursed to haunt this very classroom with the old professor. Doomed to be subjected to the very thing that killed you all in the first place for all eternity.

After what you're certain is the longest hour of your life, class finally ends, but to your dismay, you realize that halfway through class you'd simply given up on taking notes. Dammit. As though reading your mind, the boy next to you slides his parchment towards you. His notes are impeccable. Perfectly neat rows in dark ink with not a smudge in sight.

"I can get them back tomorrow," he says simply, before returning the rest of his materials into his bag.

You open your mouth to thank the boy, but before you even get the chance he's gone in a swoosh of emerald green and black.

The whole thing leaves you a bit stunned. It was the first real interaction you'd had with, really anyone at your new school and you couldn't tell if you'd completely blown it or not. He'd seemed decent enough, whoever he was. And that's when it occurs to you. You hadn't even bothered to ask the boy's name.

"Mmm. What was their name again?" Theo asks, trying to appear nonchalant as he inserts himself into Enzo and Daphne's conversation.

The three of them occupied their usual spots inside the Slytherin common room, the soft glow of green flames painting their faces as their voices mix in with the other echoes of the dungeon. Enzo eyes Theo suspiciously, noting that—despite the unbothered front he put on—Theo's fingers couldn't seem to stop tapping anxiously against his knee. See, usually when Enzo and Daphne were participating in their daily debrief, Theo was staring off into the abyss, pointedly ignoring them. So it didn't take an intuitive genius to pick up on the sudden spike of interest he was showing.

"Y/n. They're from America," Daphne says helpfully, seemingly oblivious to the way that Enzo was trying to dissect their friend's inner most thoughts.

"Why all the interest? They catch your eye? Are you two already falling into the early stages of love?" He taunts when he isn't able to get a proper read on his friend.

Theo's heart stops beating in his chest for half a moment before he juts out his chin defiantly.

"All anyone will talk about. Just curious to know who all the fuss is about," he retorts, forcing his voice to remain steady as he continues to stare ahead, avoiding the curious glances of his friends.

He can tell Enzo doesn't quite buy it, but that simply isn't his problem to worry about at the moment.

So they were from America. Huh.

Truthfully, Theo didn't know much about America. Hadn't ever really cared to find anything out. He was familiar with Ilvermorny of course. Which was presumably your former school, but that was pretty much the extent of it. Maybe he'd ask you about it tomorrow.

Assuming he didn't freeze up again at the mere sight of you. Salazar's ball sack that had been bloody embarrassing. Theo couldn't think of a single other time he'd ever frozen up like that, brief as it had been. Usually Theo liked to consider himself to be quite suave. Charming even, if he did say so himself. And he did. It was completely unlike him to be rendered speechless. Especially not by the mere presence of someone with a pretty face.

But it simply hadn't been his fault. How was he supposed to expect that some great, higher power was going to reach deep into his inner most thoughts and desires—pull together every single physical trait that Theo could possibly fantasize about—and combine them all into one single heavenly creature, and then plop them down right next to him in History of Magic of all classes.

Fate was cruel.

And speaking of fate, there was also all that nonsense from Divination that morning to think about. Theo leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. Surely the fact that batty, old Trelawney had predicted that he would fall in love was a complete coincidence in relation to him practically being prepared to propose to the new student in History of Magic a mere few hours later. How could it be anything else? Divination wasn't real. The whole class had been so close to being completely scrapped so many times that you either had to be a fool, or Daphne to believe in it.

Okay, so maybe Theodore was starting to believe it. A little. But what was he supposed to think as he watches you drag your feet through the door scowling? He feels his chest tighten as the two of you make eye contact and he watches as you make your way over to him.

"This seat taken?" you ask, already dropping your bag to the floor. "Didn't take you as one to be into this kinda stuff," you say conversationally as you pull parchment and a quill from your bag.

Theo scoffs, rolling his eyes.

"I'm not," he assures, "But Daph is," he adds, head tilting as he gestures to his friend.

He watches as your eyes dart over to the pretty brunette sitting happily between him and Enzo, assessing.

"Oh. Are you two?" The question lingers on your lips and Theo is quick to shake his head no.

Salazar he was being stupid. Of course you would assume—Why was he being like this?

"Nah. No. Daph's an old friend. Enz and I are just here for moral support. And an easy O." Theo hears himself drawl. "What about you? Training to become a seer?"

"Hardly. This was the only elective left that fit into my schedule apparently."

Salazar's balls you were perfect, Theo thinks to himself as Trelawney comes sweeping into the room. Her eyes are closed and her fingertips are pressed against her temples as she swooshes around the room, humming lowly.

"I feel new energy. An unfamiliar presence. You!" Trelawney screeches in her trembly voice, stopping in front of a poor, innocent Hufflepuff with an accusatory finger hovering dangerously close to their eyeball.

Theo can't help but let out a dry snicker and is delighted when he sees you out of the corner of his eye trying to hold back a laugh too. When it's clear to the old professor that the student in front of her had actually been present all year, her eyes scan the room, finally coming to a stop when they rest on you.

"Ah, there you are my dear! Your energy feels so concentrated on this side of the room, it simply drew me over," Trelawney babbles as she makes her way over. "Now let's see here. Palms up dear, palms up, let me have a look."

Theo watches amused, ignoring the weird kissing faces Enzo is making at him, as you sigh but still present your palms facing upwards to the professor. Her bony talons quickly engulf your hands, her eyes fluttering shut once more as her head tilts back, a low hum starting once more.

"Yes, yes. How interesting," the hums get louder as the professor's fingers dig into the lines of your palms. "I see. In the darkest hour, a dark shadow, it will over take you. Consume you."

Trelawney's eyes snap open and Theo watches her face melt back into a warm smile as she gives your hands one last squeeze.

"Welcome to class dear. We have much to learn, so much to see!"

Theo finds that he rather likes the way his heart swells when you turn to look at him, brow raised as you shake your head ever so slightly as if to say, 'what a nutter'.

"How many freaking goblin rebellions is it going to take before the British Ministry finally takes the hint and leaves those poor goblins alone?" you huff, slamming your books a little too loudly onto your table in the library.

You can feel Madam Pince attempting to burn a hole through your back as she glares at you, but you ignore her.

"Probably at least—" Theo checks his notes from the day's lesson, "six or seven. Unfortunately not every revolution to rid oneself of British rule is successful," he teases lightly.

You glare at the boy pointedly.

"I'm not even particularly, patriotic," you grumble, the word actually quite sour on your tongue, "but nothing brings Americans together quite like our mutual hatred of the British."

"Mmm. Do let it go on record now that my family is Italian," Theo replies dryly.

Theodore had very quickly become your closest friend at Hogwarts. From that first day in History of Magic the two of you just seemed to click. It also definitely helped that not only did he share your dry sense of humor, but he was also insanely smart, and very easy on the eyes. You'd been worried for a split second when he first introduced you to Daphne Greengrass, a familiar turning in your stomach that you'd quickly identified as jealousy flaring up, but it had been quickly squashed when Theo assured you that they were indeed just friends. But that was neither here nor there. You and Theo had become practically inseparable in the month that you'd been at your new school, much to the chagrin of his friends. You liked them too of course, and they'd been good sports about welcoming you into their little group, but with Theo it was just easy.

You slide your potions notes across the table just as Theo hands over his Charms essay for you to look over. No words exchanged, but you were both perfectly in sync. Easy.

It's far past dark when you finally push your chair back, the old wood scraping against the floor, and you force yourself to stifle a yawn.

"Alright. I'm calling it a night," you announce as you begin packing up your books. "I should head back in case it takes an hour to get that damn eagle to open up the common room door again."

You hear Theo let out a snort at your last comment. He'd heard well and good your complaints about that stupid hunk of metal.

"Guess I'll head out as well. Mattheo has been complaining that he never sees me anymore, but he's just mad he can't copy my notes anymore."

The two of you quickly gather the rest of your things, slinking out of the library right as Pince begins making her rounds to toss the last lingering students out before closing the doors for the night. The walk to Ravenclaw tower is made in comfortable silence as you walk side by side, both of you trying to ignore the way the back of your hands were brushing against each other as you went. When you finally arrive, a whole group of students in black and blue are outside the door when it swings open. Not wanting to miss your chance, you toss Theo a smile over your shoulder before disappearing with the crowd of students through the door.

As soon as you enter your room, you dump your bag on the ground at the foot of your bed, trade your stiff school uniform for a more comfortable track set, and turn right back out the door—a disillusionment spell on the tip of your tongue. You move silently against the walls, retracing the same steps you'd just taken, leading your right back to the library. It's dark now—you knew from experience that as soon as the clock hit ten, Pince was out the doors. You lift your wand, ready to cast the usual alohomora but tonight something stops you. Call it a gut feeling. You grip the handle of the heavy, wood door and without so much as a squeak, the door swings open. Huh. Maybe the cranky librarian had been in such a rush to leave she forgot to lock up.

Without giving it so much as a second thought, you slip through the doors, following the familiar path that lead you right to the heart of the restricted section of the library. Really, you often found yourself wondering, why on Earth did they have a so called restricted section, and then not even bother to put up a single ward to keep students from entering? Wasn't very restricted if they asked you. Your fingertips brush over the spines of different books as you pass through the shelves, pulling one from the shelf every so often if it catches your eye. The silence of the empty library was deafening, but you relished the way you could hear your footsteps echoing on the tile and the rustle of pages turning as you flipped through your nightly finds.

You're on your tiptoes, straining to reach a large tome from the top shelf when you catch sight of a dark shadow appearing out of the corner of your eye. God, you hoped it wasn't that old man Filch. He wasn't as bad as everyone made him seem, you'd been able to talk him out of snitching on you thus far, but it kind of ruined the mood. Your hand drops to rest on the handle of your wand as the shady figure draws closer and you prepare to throw one of your books its way just in case.

"What are you doing here?" the confused voice of Theodore rings out just as you're about to launch your copy of Moste Potente Potions at his head.

You feel your shoulders sag in relief. You hadn't been scared of course. Just vaguely alarmed. Then you let out a laugh.

"And what's funny?"

"Oh, nothing. Just Trelawney and her whole 'A dark shadow is going to overtake you' spiel," you snicker. "And what do you mean what am I doing here? What are you doing here?" you ask rather indignantly, turning back to focus on the book that was just out of your reach.

"I come down to the library at night all the time," Theo replies, crossing his arms defensively.

"Well it's obviously not all the time because I've been here every night this month and I've never seen you down here," you reply casually.

You can practically hear Theo rolling his eyes at you.

"Well of course not all the time, Filch would start getting—sorry did you say you've been here every night? How has Filch not caught you?"

You shrug your shoulders noncommittally, glaring up at the book that seemed to be just taunting you.

"He has a few times, but we usually just chat for a little and then he'll send me on my way."

You don't see the absolutely stunned look on Theo's face.

"You chat? With Filch. About what?" Theo asks incredulously.

You let out an exasperated sigh.

"The weather. Cat toy recommendations for Mrs. Norris. His mother's retirement in France. I don't know, we chat about a lot of things."

You still aren't facing Theo, but if you had been, you probably would have laughed at the completely gobsmacked look that was written across his face.

"Now will you be useful and get that book down for me?" you ask, foot stomping impatiently on the ground.

Still too shocked to respond, Theo reaches up over your head, placing one hand on your shoulder for balance as he easily plucks the book you'd been reaching for off the shelf. Just as he's about to hand it to you though, it seems he comes back to his senses and that smug grin that you'd become so familiar with recently finds its way back to his lips.

"Uh uh uh, where's my reward?" he teases, holding the book just out of reach once more as he smirks down at you.

"Reward?" you ask dryly, looking up to raise an eyebrow at your friend.

Had he always been standing so close?

"I'm a Slytherin. I don't do something for nothing now," he says, voice like honey in your ears.

"What do you want?" you ask, eyes narrowing.

Theo tilts his head as if pretending to think.

"A kiss."

You blink, shoulders shrugging as you turn to face the boy properly. Seemed fair enough to you. You were definitely getting the best end of the deal. So you tug on the collar of Theo's sweatshirt, before crashing your lips into his. His lips are warm and soft and that's all you take note of before pulling away quickly. Theo is clearly stunned once more so you take the opportunity to finally get your hands on the book you'd been eyeing this whole time.

"Thanks Theo!"

Theodore Nott was dangerously close to never brushing his teeth ever again. Because you had kissed him last night. In some sudden, stupid burst of confidence he had asked you to kiss him and you did. It had been a complete joke—Theo hadn't even remotely considered that you'd actually do it, but you'd grabbed the collar of his jumper and then your lips were on his and he knew he was well and truly done for.

"Theo. Theo! You need to get your act together mate," Lorenzo grunts, elbowing his friend to get his attention.

"What? Stop that," Theo mutters, batting his friend away from him.

"Seriously. You're acting like a love sick puppy."Brie

Theo glares.

"Would take one to know one," he snaps, falling back in his seat with a huff.

Now it's Enzo's turn to narrow his eyes.

"I'm going to choose to ignore that because you're just upset that you didn't kiss y/n back," he responds.

Theo's eyes bulge at the bold—albeit correct—observation.

"Can you keep your bloody voice down?" he hisses, eyes flickering about to make sure no one had heard.

Luckily, you had only just entered the divination classroom so at least Theo was safe for now. Or maybe not.

"Morning," you say brightly giving the group a small wave and taking your usual spot next to Theo.

Theo opens his mouth to respond but, Salazar you smelled good today, and your lips, god your lips looked soft and pink and, the words feel caught in Theo's throat. Somewhere in the distance he can hear Enzo snickering obnoxiously, but all Theo can do is stare at you dumbly. This was mortifying. As soon as he figured out how to move again Theo was launching himself straight off this bloody tower.

"Hey, do you want to sneak into the library again tonight?" you ask casually, laying your things out on your desk, seemingly oblivious to the fact that you were about to send Theo into cardiac arrest.

Of course I'll sneak back into the library with you. Especially if it means you'll kiss me again, Theo wants to say. But he has at least a little bit of dignity left, so he straightens himself in his chair, trying to maintain at least somewhat of an air of nonchalance as he finally strings a sentence together.

"Sure."

Okay, so a sentence might be giving himself a bit too much credit, but it was better than sitting there gaping like a daft idiot. You seem satisfied with his answer though as you turn to face the front just as Trelawney waltzes into the room with her usual dramatic flair. Theo drifts in and out of the lesson as Trelawney rambles on about tea leaves and the placement of tasseography symbols. He tried to focus. Really he needed to, because the alternative was his gaze finding its way to the curve of your lips and the way your tongue pressed against the inside of your cheek as you furiously scribbled down notes.

The gentle sound of metal clinking on china pulls Theo wholey back to class as a spoon taps impatiently on the teacup in front of him as if urging him to drink. Glancing around he sees most of his classmates were already bottoms up. Drinking down the rather bitter liquid, Theo carefully places his cup back down in front of him, peering disinterestedly at its contents. Just looked like soggy tea leaves to him.

Trelawney insists on moving about the room though, dissecting the meanings inside each little cup and leaving behind a trail of utterly befuddled students in her wake. When she finally reaches Theo, he can visibly see her begin to vibrate with excitement as she moves his cup around in her hands, swishing the tea leaves back and forth.

"Look there, dear. Do you see?" she asks giddily, shoving the teacup back in Theo's face.

"No." he replies flatly, not even bothering to examine the wet leaves.

"Look closer."

Theo's nose is practically inside the cup now and he can hear you and Enz snickering on either side of him. Traitors. When he still doesn't say anything, Trelawney lets out a huff, sticking her crooked finger into the cup and speaking slowly as if explaining something to a small child.

"Right there. Don't you see?" she asks, as if it should've been the most obvious thing in the world. "An axe—" she swirls the cup to the side. "And a butterfly."

Theo stares blankly at the old woman.

"Use their notes and figure it out," she finally huffs in exasperation before sweeping off to another table.

As soon as she's gone and Theo makes eye contact with you he can't help but chuckle as Daphne scowls at the two of you.

"Look," she sighs, shoving her notes across the table for Theo to read.

The Axe—problems overcome

The Butterfly—success and pleasure

Wonderful. More nonsense. That was the problem with divination—the definitions were so broad they were basically meaningless. Overcoming problems and success? That could be about anything. Theo pushes the parchment back to its owner with a shrug. He'd just do what he always did and make something up for the assignment.

Shadows loom against the dimly lit walls of the library as you and Theo wander through the shelves together. Theo had been quieter than usual tonight. To be fair, he wasn't usually the most talkative person ever, but you had had to push to get your usual banter out of him. He clearly had something on his mind. You don't push though. That was something you both appreciated about each other—just being there together was enough.

Once you both have a sizable stack of books pulled together you tuck yourselves away in one of the back corners of the restricted section. Far enough that not even Mrs. Norris would bother to wander all the way back. You find yourself curling up next to your friend, legs pressed together and shoulders brushing as you cast a soft lumos charm just bright enough to illuminate the pages of your books as you read. The quiet is nice after a long day of navigating the crowded halls and classrooms of the school. Hogwarts was definitely a lively place, and you hadn't realized just how much you missed having some peace and quiet until you'd snuck out of Ravenclaw tower that first night.

"Do you think divination might not be completely useless?" Theo asks a while later, breaking the silence.

You look up in surprise before glancing down at the book he's reading—Divination Through the Ages: A Skeptics Guide—your eyebrows furrowing in thought. If you were being honest, you'd always thought that divination was, to be polite, dumb. In fact, you'd been rather pissed when your head of house, Professor Flitwick, had told you that it was the only class that would fit in your schedule. But you didn't think that was what Theo wanted to hear at the moment.

"I mean, all forms of magic have their unique uses I suppose," you reply carefully, wondering where this was going.

Theo just hums in response, continuing to finger through the pages of the book as you watch with curiosity. Finally, with a deep breath, he snaps the book closed and turns to face you. It's clear he wants to say something as you search his eyes which seem to be getting ever so slightly closer by the second. You can't help the way your eyes drop down to his lips as his tongue glides across his bottom lip nervously. They're so close now you can practically feel the way they had pressed against your own last night. However brief that encounter had been. When you finally tilt your head back up to meet his eyes once more, your nose brushes his and you feel your breath hitch. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was about to kiss you right now.

And then his lips are on yours and you feel your body go limp as he pulls you into him, your eyes fluttering closed as he molds you to him. Your book slips from your fingers with a dull thud as it hits the ground, but you hardly notice. Theo's lips are just as warm, and soft, and utterly intoxicating as you remembered them to be. You can feel Theo smiling against your lips as he pulls you impossibly closer and you forget where you are, what you were doing, everything except what it feels like to be held in Theo's arms.

When you finally break apart, it's your turn to blink in stunned silence as Theo gazes down at you, his breath warm against your cheek.

"Ever since you arrived, everything that divination has told me has come true," Theo says gruffly, clearly not pleased to be having to admit it.

You couldn't blame him. The two of you had kind of bonded over how unseriously you both took the class. Still though, you tilt your head, inviting him to continue.

"The first day we met—that morning in divination, a deck of tarot cards told me I was going to fall in love."

A dry laugh escapes Theo's lips as he pulls back, eyes trained everywhere but at you now. Which is probably for the best as you feel tendrils of heat creeping up into your face.

"I didn't believe them of course. Thought it was pure rubbish."

Your heart stutters for a moment before your eyes land on the book Theo had been reading so intently up until now.

"Hm. And did something change?" you ask cautiously, not daring to get your hopes up.

"Well, the soggy leaves in my tea this morning kind of implied that I should get my act together if I wanted any sort of success, so—" Theo lets out another wry laugh, though there's no humor in his voice. Just a nervous undertone that you can tell he's trying to mask.

"Well did you? Fall in love that is?" you ask, suddenly feeling shy around Theo for the first time.

There's a beat of silence where you can practically feel your heart trying to tear its way out of your chest. You hadn't quite realized just how much you wanted this until it was staring you in the face. Or rather anywhere but. Then Theo meets your eyes once more.

"I think I could. If I'm not half way there already."

His words melt every bit of tension you had been feeling previously as you let out a breath that you didn't know you'd been holding.

"I think I'm half way there too."

His love language is definitely physical affection, he constantly wants to be touching some part of you. Which leads to quite a bit of kissing. Expect to find his mouth all over you 24/7

He will never admit it, but he loves it when you touch his scars. No matter where he got them from, it feels comforting. Like your fingers are soothing any bad memories.

On the same note, you're presence soothes anything negative within him. Whether he's frozen, convinced he's going to become just as awful as his father, or if he just had a bad day- when you're there, he can relax.

Now, he can sleep on his own, of course he can, but he very much prefers if you're there. He doesn't care how many rules he has to break and how many of his mates he annoys, he wants you in his bed. His arms are always tight around you, as if you might want to leave him while he sleeps. He also can't fall asleep without saying 'I love you'. Because he wants to remind you, but sometimes he needs to hear you say it back and assure him you still want him.

He could give you a quick kiss, but it takes self restraint. Because why would he only kiss you for less than three seconds when he could have you pressed against him, or a wall, or his bed, his mouth on yours?

He adores your name, and loves the feeling of saying it. But he will often call you by a petname. Angel, Love, and Pretty are his favorites.

In his free time, he likes to smoke, or drink if his friends manage to procure a bottle of something decent. It's not a life threatening habit, but he still does it often enough it's become part of his scent. But he would never consider forcing you to partake. He's glad you're healthier than him. But he'd be lying if he didn't say it wasn't sexy as hell if you ever did smoke with him.

It took him so long to become vulnerable with you, small steps and cracks in his mask that surmounted to him trusting you more than anyone.

He would do anything to protect you. Sometimes you think he would've made a fine Gryffindor with his loyalty and chivalry and bravery. He's fought Deatheaters and defended your name without being asked or expected to.

Honestly though, he's quite private about how obsessed he is with you. Some people might notice with how often he'd look at you. But the only person who really knew was Theo. And he doesn't often show it in public with grand words or makeouts in the corridor. Instead, he'll keep his knee pressed against yours, or an arm on the back of your chair. And if someone mentions you, he stops zoning out to listen. If it's an insult, he won't hesitant to make it clear that he does NOT play when it comes to you.

rain taps softly against the cabin roof, against the windows, against the world outside, creating that peaceful sort of white noise that makes it impossible to know what time it is. the room is dim and gray, wrapped in the kind of soft rainy light that makes staying in bed feel less like laziness and more like a perfectly reasonable life decision.

under the blankets, everything is warm. your feet are tucked beneath the comforter, your head resting against frank's chest, one of his arms around your waist while the other is trapped somewhere beneath the pillow. at some point during the night you'd apparently stolen most of the blanket, because it's wrapped around you like a cocoon while only half covers him. somehow he doesn't seem to care.

you stir first, pressing your face deeper against his shirt for a moment before opening your eyes. frank is still asleep, or at least he looks asleep. his breathing is slow and even, his jaw relaxed in a way it rarely is when he's awake. outside, rain continues falling through the forest surrounding the cabin. the trees sway gently in the wind, their dark silhouettes visible through a gap in the curtains.

it's cold enough outside that the windows have started to fog slightly around the edges. meanwhile inside the bed feels impossibly warm. you shift your legs, searching for a more comfortable position, and accidentally brush against a colder spot in the sheets. immediately you pull back with a small shiver. the reaction is tiny, barely noticeable. unfortunately, frank notices everything. his eyes open immediately.

"cold?" he asks, voice rough from sleep.

you smile. "good morning to you too."

"you cold?"

"maybe a little."

his arm tightens around your waist before you've even finished speaking. then he shifts, pulling you closer until you're practically draped across him. one large hand slides slowly up and down your back through the fabric of your shirt, sharing warmth without even thinking about it. you feel his chin settle lightly on top of your head.

"c'mere," he murmurs. "lemme warm you up." there's something so simple and automatic about the way he says it that your chest immediately feels lighter. you tuck yourself closer against him and feel his arm tighten a little more.

"better?" he asks after a minute.

"a little," you admit.

"little?" he repeats skeptically. "a little aint enough."

"frank, i'm fine." you smile up at him and hide your face in his neck.

the rain continues outside while the room remains perfectly still. frank's fingers trace lazy patterns along your arm beneath the blanket, absentminded and comforting. eventually you glance up and discover he's looking at you. he kind of look that says he's checking whether you're comfortable. checking whether you're happy. checking whether you're still cold.

"what?" you ask.

"nothin'."

"you're staring."

"so what? can't stare at my girl anymore?" he lets out a sleepy huff that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh. then his gaze drifts toward the rain-covered windows. "don' wanna get up," he mutters.

you blink. "what?" he doesn't answer. "did frank castle just admit he doesn't want to get out of bed?"

now he looks annoyed. "don't start." frank simply pulls you back down onto his chest before you can continue arguing. "discussion over."

the rain grows heavier as the morning continues. every now and then water slides down the windows in long silver streaks. the cabin feels smaller in the best possible way. cozy. sheltered. hidden from the rest of the world. neither of you has checked your phone in hours. there's nowhere to be. nobody expecting anything.

just the two of you wrapped beneath warm blankets while the weather does whatever it wants outside. frank's hand remains settled against your back the entire time. whenever you shift away even slightly, he unconsciously follows.

when your feet brush against his legs, he immediately moves closer. at one point you try creating a little distance just to test something. less than thirty seconds later his arm automatically pulls you back.

"you know you're clingy, right?" you tell him.

he looks genuinely offended. "says the person usin' me as a pillow."

another long silence followed, the comfortable kind. the kind married couples have after years together where neither person feels pressure to fill every second with conversation. rain taps against the roof. the blankets are warm. frank's fingers lazily trace circles against your shoulder while your eyes drift toward closing again.

every so often one of you says something random. comments on the weather. wonders whether there's enough coffee downstairs. debates whether breakfast counts as brunch if neither of you gets out of bed before ten. the conversation goes nowhere and somehow that makes it perfect.

you leaned in for a kiss slowly, hesitantly, like you weren’t sure if frank would even allow it. but the second your lips touched his - soft and chaste, the air between you shifted.

frank didn’t hesitate for long. within a breath, he deepened it, tilting his head just slightly to angle better and pressing back. his large hands slid from your cheeks down to cradle the sides of your neck.

his lips moved against yours with tenderness. each press was deliberate, a soft parting of mouths before meeting again deeper this time, testing how far you’d let him go.

the kiss lingered - long, peaceful and unhurried. frank’s mouth stayed warm and patient against yours. frank shifted carefully beneath you, not pushing you down or pulling you closer too fast, but simply adjusting so he could hold your body better.

his right arm slid around your shoulders while his left hand came up to rest low on your back, palm flat between your shoulder blades, cradling every curve gently as if afraid of breaking something precious.

eventually you tilt your head up and find frank already looking at you again. this time neither of you says anything. he simply brushes a strand of hair away from your face before pulling the blanket a little higher around your shoulders.

"there," he mutters.

"frank, I'm not cold anymore."

his expression softens slightly. just enough for you to notice.

eventually, despite neither of you wanting to move, the promise of coffee becomes impossible to ignore. it starts with frank glancing toward the bedroom door, then toward the window, then back at you as though calculating whether staying in bed is worth the caffeine deprivation.

judging by the reluctant look on his face, the answer is very nearly yes. unfortunately, you know him well enough to recognize the exact moment he gives in.

"okay, let's go, c'mon" he lets out a long sigh, the kind that sounds personally offended by the existence of responsibilities, and carefully shifts upright.

cold air immediately slips beneath the blankets, making you pull the comforter tighter around yourself. before standing, frank pauses long enough to tug the blanket around your shoulders, making sure it's wrapped securely despite the fact that you're perfectly capable of doing it yourself.

when you point this out, he simply ignores you. his hand briefly squeezes your shoulder as he climbs out of bed, and for a moment you find yourself watching him move around the room while snow continues drifting outside the window.

the cabin feels warm and cozy, the kind of place that encourages people to move slowly. sunlight filters through the clouds in pale silver beams, catching on the snow-covered branches outside. everything feels peaceful in a way that seems increasingly rare.

downstairs, the cabin is even cozier than the bedroom. the fireplace has long since burned down to embers, but the lingering warmth remains, mixing with the scent of cedarwood and old pine.

the kitchen sits beside a large window overlooking the forest, and through the glass you can see snow piled high on the porch railing and scattered across the surrounding trees. while frank starts the coffee maker, you begin gathering ingredients for breakfast.

neither of you is particularly talkative yet. it's the comfortable quiet of two people who don't feel the need to perform wakefulness for each other. mugs are set on the counter.

drawers open and close. somewhere outside, a bird lands briefly on a branch before disappearing again. by the time you begin mixing ingredients, the smell of fresh coffee has started filling the entire cabin.

frank appears behind you before you even realize he's left the coffee maker. one moment you're focused on cooking, and the next two familiar arms are wrapping around your waist from behind.

"clingy frankie"

"shush" his chest settles against your back, warm even through both layers of clothing, and his chin comes to rest lightly on your shoulder.

he simply stands there holding you while you continue trying to work around him. it would be easier if he moved. significantly easier. unfortunately, frank seems perfectly content where he is.

every time you shift to reach something, he shifts with you. every time you step sideways, he follows. at one point you attempt to open a cabinet and discover that doing so while dragging an attached six-foot-tall man around the kitchen is surprisingly difficult.

still, you can't really find it in yourself to complain. there is something deeply comforting about the quiet weight of him against your back. one of his hands remains loosely clasped over your stomach while the other occasionally rubs slow circles against your side.

he doesn't seem to need conversation this morning. just proximity. every now and then you glance over your shoulder and find him watching you with that soft, sleepy expression he only ever wears in private. his eyes follow your movements around the kitchen.

when you smile, something faint and almost invisible tugs at the corner of his mouth. it isn't quite a smile. more the beginning of one. the possibility of one.

by the time everything is finished, steam curls from both mugs of coffee and the entire kitchen smells warm and inviting. outside, snow continues falling in lazy drifts, transforming the forest into something that looks almost unreal.

the two of you settle at the small wooden table near the window, and for a while the only sounds are the clink of silverware and the occasional creak of the cabin settling around you. sunlight briefly breaks through the clouds, scattering diamonds of light across the snow outside.

"your hands are cold." frank mentions.

"they're fine."

he reaches over and grabs one anyway. "cold." frank rubs his thumb across your knuckles.

you find yourself staring out the window, mesmerized by the view. when you look back, you catch frank watching you rather than the scenery. his gaze shifts away almost immediately when he realizes he's been caught, but not before you see the softness there.

there is something about winter mornings that seems to make time slower. breakfast stretches comfortably into late morning. coffee is refilled. conversation drifts lazily from one topic to another without any urgency. plans for the day are mentioned and then abandoned.

"you're smiling." you point out. he looks away toward the trees. which only proves your point. "frank."

"what."

"you like me."

he groans immediately. "married you, didn't I."

"that doesn't answer the question."

"pretty sure it does." he lets out a breathy chuckle as he kisses your temple.

neither of you seems particularly interested in doing much beyond existing in the same space. eventually you push your chair back and start gathering dishes, only for frank to stand at the exact same moment and quietly take the plates from your hands. there isn't any discussion about it. there rarely is.

he simply takes over with the calm certainty of someone who has already made up his mind. while he carries dishes to the sink, you lean against the counter watching him for a moment.

there is something oddly domestic about the sight. sleeves rolled up. shoulders relaxed. warm winter light filtering through the kitchen window while snow falls outside. frank standing at the sink washing dishes should not affect you as much as it does, and yet it always seems to. perhaps because it is such a normal thing.

he catches you watching and lifts an eyebrow in silent question. you shake your head with a smile he narrows his eyes slightly, unconvinced, but returns to cleaning anyway.

when the dishes are finally done, you carry your coffee onto the front porch. the cold greets you immediately, crisp and clean without being unpleasant. the wooden boards creak softly beneath your feet as you settle into one of the large chairs facing the forest.

from here, the view is breathtaking. endless trees draped in white. snowflakes drifting lazily through the air. distant hills softened by winter haze. the world looks untouched. peaceful. as though someone has pressed pause on everything beyond the cabin.

you wrap both hands around your mug and breathe in the scent of coffee while watching the snowfall. for several minutes you're alone, listening to the gentle hush of winter. then the front door opens behind you. you don't need to turn around to know it's frank.

his footsteps are instantly familiar. slow and steady across the porch boards. a second later he appears beside you carrying his own mug, and rather than choosing the empty chair farther away, he drags the closest one directly beside yours before sitting down.

the legs scrape softly across the wood. close enough that your shoulders touch. close enough that you can feel his warmth even through your coat.

for a long time neither of you says much. the silence isn't empty. it's shared. the kind of silence built through years of knowing each other. frank leans back in his chair, one hand wrapped around his coffee mug, his gaze fixed on the snowy landscape stretching beyond the porch.

the cold has painted a faint flush across his cheeks. his expression is calm in a way few people ever get to witness. there are no sharp edges here. no tension. only quiet contentment. every now and then he takes a sip of coffee, and each time he lowers the mug his shoulder brushes lightly against yours again.

"if a bear showed up right now, what would you do?"

frank looks at you over his mug.

"why."

"just answer."

"depends."

"on what?"

"whether he's bothering us."

you immediately start laughing. "you're gonna evaluate the bear first?"

"maybe he's minding his own business."

"frank."

"what."

"that's insane."

eventually you shift closer, resting your head against him as you smile. immediately frank adjusts without looking away from the scenery. his arm drapes across the back of your chair. his shoulder angles slightly toward you.

somehow he manages to make the space between you disappear entirely. you watch snowflakes tumble through the trees while warm coffee heats your hands and winter air nips gently at your face. behind you, the cabin glows with warmth. ahead of you, the forest stretches endlessly beneath fresh snow.

and sitting there together, wrapped in winter silence and the comfort of familiar company, it becomes impossible to imagine a place you'd rather be. some mornings aren't memorable for anything extraordinary. just coffee, snowfall, a quiet cabin in the woods, and the simple comfort of sharing it with the person who feels most like home.

older bf! frank who goes quiet in the middle of ordinary moments because something about them feels too fragile to trust, like you sitting on his couch with your shoes off and your hair slightly messy is something the world will eventually take back. he doesn’t say it out loud, but you can see it in the way his eyes linger a second too long before he looks away, jaw tightening like he’s physically stopping himself from naming it. when you ask what’s wrong, he just shakes his head once and says “nothing,” but he sits closer after that anyway.

older bf! frank who is very controlled with his words, but changes completely when it’s just the two of you. at home his voice drops softer, slower, like he finally lets himself exist without armor. he’ll sit near you, not necessarily talking much, just staying present, occasionally breaking the silence with something unexpectedly gentle like “you eat today?”

older bf! frank who gets quietly soft at moments he doesn’t fully anticipate, like when you fall asleep near him or reach for him without thinking. he’ll pause for a second like he doesn’t know what to do with it, then settle into it anyway, staying still so he doesn’t disturb you.

older bf! frank who is extremely precise about boundaries, especially yours. if someone pushes you too fast, too close, or keeps talking after you’ve gone quiet, he doesn’t escalate theatrically - he just appears at your side like he was always there, posture slightly angled between you and them. the conversation dies immediately because he doesn’t need to threaten anything; he just looks at them like he’s already decided how this ends if they don’t stop.

older bf! frank who is almost irritatingly practical in the middle of emotional moments, but it’s because he refuses to let things spiral. if you’re upset, he doesn’t flinch or overreact - he’ll ask direct questions like “what happened” or “what do you need right now,” and if you can’t answer, he shifts into action mode: water, sitting you down, checking you’re physically steady before anything else.

older bf! frank who rarely raises his voice, but when he goes quiet, it’s worse. not angry shouting - just that controlled stillness where everything in him goes sharp and contained. you learn that the real warning sign isn’t volume, it’s the lack of it. if someone crosses a line, he doesn’t argue loudly; he just stops talking entirely and the room changes temperature.

older bf! frank who tries not to fall asleep first when you’re together. he’ll sit up longer than he needs to, watching you drift off while pretending he’s still awake enough to keep watch, even when his eyes are heavy and his shoulders have finally started to drop. if you catch him doing it and tell him to sleep, he’ll give you a quiet, almost tired scoff like it’s not a real suggestion, but he’ll eventually lie down anyway - just not before making sure he can feel you close enough to notice if you move.

older bf! frank who doesn’t talk about the past unless it slips out by accident, and even then it comes in fragments, never stories. you’ll notice it when something small pulls him out of the present - a sound, a smell, a certain kind of silence and for a second he’s not fully with you anymore. then he comes back, slower than before, and you can see the effort it takes to re-anchor himself in the room, in your presence, in the fact that this moment is not that one.

older bf! frank who loves you in a way that feels almost mournful sometimes, like he’s constantly aware of the fact that everything he touches has historically been temporary. it’s not that he doubts you - it’s that he doesn’t trust permanence at all. so when he looks at you, there’s this quiet heaviness behind it, like he’s memorizing details he doesn’t want to lose: the way you talk with your hands, the way you breathe when you’re relaxed, the way you say his name without hesitation.

older bf! frank who doesn’t say “I love you” often because it feels too close to admitting vulnerability he’s spent years surviving without. but when he does say it, it’s not casual or light - it lands heavy, deliberate, like something he had to decide to give you rather than something that just happens. and afterward, he’ll go a little quieter than usual, like he’s waiting to see if the world reacts badly to hearing it out loud.

Frank notices things.

That’s the problem.

Tiny things. Stupid things. The way your breathing changes when you’re nervous. When you switch shampoos. Which floorboard creaks under your left foot versus your right. Nothing gets past him for very long. Which is exactly why hiding the underwear had become weirdly stressful.

In your defense, they’d been funny when Karen showed them to you.

Tiny little black lace things with white lettering stretched across the back: PROPERTY OF A U.S. MARINE

You’d laughed so hard you bought them immediately. Then immediately realized showing them to Frank Castle might actually kill you on the spot.

Because Frank was… Frank.

Intense on a regular Tuesday. So you hid them in the back of your drawer and tried to forget they existed.

Which worked.

Until tonight. You shuffle into the kitchen, wearing one of Frank’s old shirts and absolutely nothing else except the stupid underwear currently stretched over your hips. The door to the apartment opens, and your head snaps over to the sound.

Frank had been gone all day, and all you'd been doing is wandering around the apartment, eating food and watching shows.

Frank shuts the apartment door behind him with a tired exhale, keys jingling softly in his hand. He looks exhausted. Scruffy. Henley stretched tight across his shoulders, sleeves shoved up his forearms, rain still clinging damply to the collar of his jacket. Then he hears you padding into the kitchen. And everything about him changes instantly.

Softens.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs automatically. You smile without thinking about it, leaning against the counter.

“You were gone forever.”

“Yeah?” Frank drops his duffel near the door and starts toeing his boots off. “Miss me?”

“No,” you say immediately.

“Liar.” He sounds amused already. Comfortable. Safe. And for one stupid second you completely forget what you’re wearing. Frank rounds the corner into the kitchen, shrugging his jacket off one shoulder while he talks.

“Traffic was a nightmare an’ Micro wouldn’t stop—” He stops. Mid sentence. Your stomach drops instantly. Because Frank Castle notices things. And right now his eyes are fixed directly on you. More specifically— On the fact that his old shirt barely covers the black lace stretched over your hips.

Oh no.

Oh no.

You straighten so fast you nearly slam the cabinet shut on your fingers. Frank doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Then very carefully sets his coat down.

“Sweetheart,” he says slowly. You can already hear the grin in his voice. Heat floods your entire body.

“It’s not—”

“The hell am I lookin’ at right now?”

“It was a joke.”

“A joke,” he repeats faintly. You refuse to turn around fully now because you can physically feel his eyes burning holes through the back of the shirt.

“Karen made me buy them.”

“Uh huh.”

“She said it would be funny.”

“Mm.” Frank leans back against the front door slowly. “Think Karen might be the smartest woman alive.”

“Oh my God.” The laugh in his chest is deep and dangerous now.

“C’mere.”

“No.”

“Baby.”

“No, absolutely not.” You hear his boots thud against the floor. Panic. Actual panic. You make it exactly two steps before Frank catches you around the waist from behind, hauling you back against him with a startled squeak.

“Frank!”

“What?” He sounds deeply amused now. “M’just tryin’ t’read.”

“You already read it!”

“Wanna make sure I got it right.” You’re mortified. Frank buries his face briefly against your neck, shoulders shaking once with laughter before he presses a kiss just below your ear.

“You been hidin’ these from me?”

“Yes because I enjoy living.”

“That bad, huh?”

“You’re being weird already.”

“Weird?” He sounds genuinely offended. “Sweetheart, my girl walks around my apartment wearin’ lace underwear claimin’ she belongs t’me an’ I’m supposed t’be normal about it?” Your face burns hotter.

"Technically, it says I belong to a U.S Marine. Maybe this is about Curtis." Frank goes completely silent behind you. Not joking anymore. Not laughing.

Just… silent. Then very slowly, his arms tighten around your waist.

“…Curtis,” he repeats flatly. You bite your lip immediately because there it is. That tone.

“Oh my God, Frank, I’m kidding.”

“Yeah?” His mouth brushes your ear, but there’s a new edge to him now. “Funny joke, sweetheart. Real funny.” You squirm a little in his grip, mostly because you can feel the shift in him physically now. Bigger somehow. Warmer. Possessive in that dangerous quiet way Frank gets.

“You know Curtis is basically my brother.”

“Mhm.”

“He literally gives me life advice.”

“Uh huh.”Frank’s jaw flexes against your temple. “Still don’t wanna hear you wearin’ his Marine underwear.” You burst out laughing.

“They are not his underwear!”

“Then why’s his name comin’ outta your mouth while you got that thing on?”

“Because you’re jealous.” Frank scoffs like you’ve deeply insulted him.

“M’not jealous’a Curtis.”

“You sound jealous.”

“I sound like a man hearin’ his girl say another guy’s name while she’s half naked in his kitchen.” His hand slides lower on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch.

“And I gotta tell you,” he mutters near your throat, “not my favorite experience.” Heat flashes through you instantly.

“You’re insane.”

“You keep sayin’ that like it’s new information.” You grin despite yourself, leaning back into him just enough to be annoying.

“Well maybe Curtis would appreciate the humor.” Big mistake. Frank’s grip clamps down hard enough to pull a startled squeak from you.

“Alright,” he says calmly. Too calmly. “Now you’re bein’ disrespectful.”

“Oh my God—”

“Nah, sweetheart, don’t ‘oh my God’ me.” He turns you in his arms abruptly until your back hits the counter and he’s crowding into your space completely. “You think I’m gonna stand here listenin’ to you talk about another Marine while you got ‘property of a U.S. Marine’ written across your ass?” You are laughing too hard to be properly intimidated, which only seems to annoy him more.

“There she is,” he mutters darkly when you giggle again. “Thinkin’ this’s funny.”

“It is funny.”

“Mm.” His eyes drag down your body slowly. “Not t’me.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Baby, I came home exhausted an’ found my girlfriend wearin’ lingerie apparently dedicated t’the Marine Corps. I’m reactin’ appropriately.”

“It’s not lingerie!” Frank just looks at the lace. Then looks back at you.

“…You wanna rethink that statement?” Your face burns hotter. Frank notices instantly, because of course he does. His expression softens for exactly half a second before the possessive streak comes roaring right back. “Lemme ask you somethin’.” His hands settle on either side of your hips. “You buy these thinkin’ about me?” You hesitate just long enough to doom yourself. Frank’s eyes narrow immediately.

“…Sweetheart.”

“I mean— maybe a little?”

“A little.”

“Well Karen showed them to me and I just thought—”

“You thought what?” He steps closer. “Thought your boyfriend might lose his damn mind seein’ you in ‘em?” Your silence is answer enough. Frank actually groans.

“Jesus Christ.”

“What?”

“You knew exactly what you were doin’.” He shakes his head slowly like he’s genuinely overwhelmed. “Walkin’ around my apartment in my shirt wearin’ those little things—”

“You didn’t even notice at first!”

“Sweetheart, I noticed the second you turned around.” His hand slides over the curve of your waist again. “Been tryin’ not t’tackle you into the couch since.” You laugh softly, but it catches when his gaze drops again. Slower this time.Not playful anymore. Possessive. Hungry. Frank exhales once through his nose before looking back up at you.

“C’mere,” he murmurs.

“I’m already here.”

“Closer.”

“There’s literally nowhere else t’go.”

“Smart mouth too,” he mutters, clearly suffering. Then his hands are suddenly under your thighs, hauling you up onto his shoulder like a bag of potatoes

“Frank!”

“What?”He grips onto your thigh. “Tryin’ t’figure out where t’put my name since apparently the Marines are handin’ claims out now.” His hand comes down smacking on your ass cheek as he marches to the bedroom, giving your ass an appreciative squeeze.

You shriek through laughter as he carries you down the hallway upside down, your hair hanging everywhere while Frank’s big hand stays locked around the back of your thigh like you might somehow escape.

“Frank Castle, put me down!”

“Nope.”

“You are so dramatic!”

“You brought Curtis into this.” He smacks your ass again through the lace, less hard this time, more possessive than punishing. “Actions got consequences, sweetheart.”

“You’re acting like I cheated on you with the United States military.” Frank snorts darkly.

“Might honestly be easier t’process.”

“Oh my God.”

“You think m’jokin’?” He shoulders open the bedroom door and tosses you onto the mattress with enough care to prove he absolutely notices every bruise you’ve ever had and enough force to make you bounce once with a squeal. Frank follows immediately. Big body caging yours into the bed, knees nudging between your thighs while he stares down at you like he genuinely cannot believe this is his life right now. His shirt hangs off one shoulder now from all the wrestling around.His hair’s a mess. His jaw rough with scruff. And his eyes— God.

His eyes are locked on the lace peeking beneath the hem of his shirt like he’s seconds away from losing every remaining shred of self-control.

“You think this’s cute?” he asks quietly. Your smile wobbles immediately under the weight of that look.

“…Maybe?” Frank exhales slowly through his nose.

“Sweetheart.” His hand drags up your calf. “I walked in dead tired, ready t’eat leftovers an’ pass out.” Higher. Over your knee. “Now m’lookin’ at my girl laid out in my bed wearin’ panties claimin’ she belongs t’a Marine—”

“Technically—”

“Careful.” His palm slides firmly over your thigh. “You are one Curtis joke away from me losin’ all patience.” That only makes you grin wider.

“You’re sooo jealous.” Frank leans down until his mouth is hovering right over yours.

“Damn right I’m jealous.” Honest. Immediate. “That’s my girl.” His thumb hooks lightly under the waistband at your hip. “Mine t’come home to. Mine t’take care of.” Another inch closer. “Mine t’look this pretty for.” Your breath catches embarrassingly hard.Frank notices instantly. He grins.

"Now. I'm thinking..." His hands drift up your shirt, fingers grazing at your ribs. "We tattoo "Property of Frank" right on your tits." He hums, grinning to himself.

Frank’s grin turns positively wicked at the way your entire face heats up.

“Oh, there it is,” he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. “That look right there. Knew y’weren’t nearly as brave as you were actin’ five minutes ago.”

“Oh my God,” you groan, trying to shove at his shoulders. “You cannot tattoo your name on me.”

“Can’t I?” His hands keep sliding beneath the oversized shirt, palms warm against your bare skin. “Feel like I got a pretty strong legal argument after tonight.”

“You’re insane.”

“Nah.” He dips lower, mouth brushing your jaw. “M’just territorial.” You snort, but it comes out shaky because Frank is looking at you like he wants to crawl under your skin and stay there. His thumb traces lazy circles high on your thigh while the other hand spreads across your stomach possessively.

“Besides,” he says thoughtfully, “might save us from future confusion.”

“There is no confusion.”

“Oh? Coulda fooled me.” His mouth twitches. “Thought maybe my girlfriend was out here secretly enlistin’.”

You laugh again, softer this time. “You’re never letting the Curtis thing go, huh?”

“Absolutely not.” Frank kisses the corner of your mouth once. “Got me all worked up picturin’ you prancin’ around thinkin’ about another Marine.”

“I was not thinking about Curtis!”

“Mhm.”

“I wasn’t!”

“Sweetheart.” He finally kisses you properly this time, slow and deep and still grinning into it a little. “You brought him up three separate times.”

“That was because your face got all—” You wave vaguely near his head. “Broody.”

“Broody,” he repeats flatly.

“Yeah. Like a caveman.” Frank huffs out a laugh against your mouth.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m hilarious actually.”

“You’re trouble.” His nose nudges yours. “An’ you know exactly what you’re doin’ t’me right now.” Your stomach flips hard at the honesty in his voice. Because underneath all the teasing, Frank really does look wrecked over this. Not angry. Not actually jealous of Curtis. Just deeply affected by the sight of you in his clothes and lace and his name—well, almost his name—stretched over your skin.

“You really like them that much?” you ask quietly. Frank just stares at you for a second like the answer should be obvious.

“Sweetheart,” he says finally, rough and sincere, “I like every damn thing you do.” His hand squeezes your hip. “But you wear somethin’ like this waitin’ for me t’come home?” He shakes his head slowly. “That does somethin’ t’a man.” Your chest goes warm and melty all at once. Then his eyes drift downward again. And darken.

“You know what’s really killin’ me?” he murmurs.

“What?”

“The fact that you put these on knowin’ I’d lose my mind.” His fingers hook under the waistband lightly, teasing. “That means somewhere in that pretty little head’a yours, you wanted this reaction.” You bite your lip.

Frank notices immediately. Of course he does.

“Knew it.” he says softly, sounding unbearably smug now.

“Maybe I was curious,” you mumble.

“Curious.” He repeats it like he’s savoring the word. “Baby, you nearly gave me a coronary at the front door.” You laugh into his shoulder when he ducks his head against your neck again, but the sound cuts off into a squeak when his teeth graze lightly beneath your ear.

“Frank—”

“M’thinkin’,” he says casually, kissing down your throat, “next time you decide t’play games with me, you oughta give a man some warning.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“So I can come home faster.” His hand slides down the back of your thigh, hiking your leg higher around his waist. “Nearly broke three traffic laws gettin’ here an’ I didn’t even know I had this waitin’ for me.” He mouths the words against your skin, then bites—delicate, but just shy of gentle. You clench your jaw, breath tripping.

“Frank,” you say, but it’s just your voice—weak, a noise, not even an instruction.

“Yeah?” He kisses lower, hand tracing your thigh to the bare skin beneath the lace. “Gimme a minute.” He takes his time, all that giant energy wound tight, holding you in place with just a grip on your hip and his body heavy over yours. He’s talking himself down. Or maybe amping himself up. You’ve never been able to tell where the line is for Frank, whether the need to possess or protect is stronger. Right now, he looks at you like you’re both a dare and a daredevil’s only lifeline.

“My girl,” he says it like a prayer—to the ceiling, to the gods, to you, and then it’s less a statement than a need. He strips the shirt, your shirt, his shirt, over your head, leaving you in nothing but the lace. His hands run up your ribs, palms hot, reverent. Then he sits back on his knees, just looking down at you like he’s making a memory.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, half to himself. Runs a hand over his face. “Look at you. You like these, sweetheart?” You nod, a laugh bubbling through you because it’s all so fucking absurd, him looming over you, genuinely lost for words. He’s never lost for words. Frank slips both hands beneath your knees, spreading your legs wide around him. “You wanna see what you do to me?” he asks, voice low and all gravel. He makes you look. Glances down at himself, straining against the fly of his jeans, impossible to miss. Your mouth goes dry. He’s still in his goddamn jeans. Frank leans in, bracing his arms either side of your head, his body never fully on you but pressing, pressing, hot and solid. His lips land on your jaw, a string of kisses trailing down the line of your throat. One hand comes up and grips your chin, making you meet his gaze.

“Should make you apologize,” he murmurs. “But I like this better.” Then he bites your jaw, hard enough that you gasp. He grins again, wolfish and all teeth. “There she is.” He’s not really rough. He’s never rough, not really, but the threat of it—God, it’s right there under his skin. He’s holding back because you want him, but you want all of him. You reach up, grab at his biceps.

“Frank.”

“Yeah, honey?”

“You gonna make me beg?” You mutter. His chest collapses and he breathes out a heavy breath, before he’s tearing his own shirt over his head and fumbling at his zipper. You can’t help it. Watching him strip down, all muscle and tension and scar tissue and long lines mapped in angry pink and raised white, you ache for him. All of him. You reach for his face, thread your fingers through the too-long hair at his crown, and pull him in for a kiss—messy, uneven, neither of you caring about rhythm or finesse, just the raw hunger of two people who’ve worked up an appetite. Frank’s teeth knock against yours; you gasp into his mouth and he swallows every sound. His hips slot into the cradle of yours, denim dragging at your bare thighs, the rough seam scratching just where it makes you wild. You want the friction, want the weight. You grind up into him, whimpering when he groans, and he laughs, low and hot, so openly fond it makes you dizzy.

“Look at you,” he says, even as his mouth tracks hot along your jaw and across your cheek. “Little thing’s gonna eat me alive.” He’s got your wrists in one big hand now, pinned above your head, while the other works at the fly of his jeans with the kind of intent you’d expect from someone disassembling a rifle. You giggle despite the thrum between your legs.

“Frank.” You drag his name out, making it a complaint and a need at once. “C’mon. Hurry up.” His mouth ghosts over your ear, voice gone all smoke and grit:

“You wanna take it that bad, baby?” You nod, and he just about loses it. The rough sound in his throat vibrates all the way through you. He sits back, freeing your wrists, and yanks his jeans and boxers down his thighs. He’s so heavy, thick, already leaking at the tip and bouncing against his stomach when he finally gets himself free. You blink up at him, jaw loose, and he grins like he’s caught you in something dirty, which, okay, he has. Frank fits on the bed over you like it was built for him, like the frame would snap backwards if he ever left it for good. He takes hold of the waistband at your hip and tugs gently, once, then stops. Raises an eyebrow, waiting for your okay. You nod again, breathless with it. He slides the underwear down, slow, savoring every inch of skin he reveals.

“Gonna frame these,” he mutters when they’re off, tossing them over his shoulder. “Maybe hang ‘em up in the fuckin’ living room.” You yelp, half-mortified and half aroused beyond reason. Then he settles between your legs, broad hands bracketing your thighs.

“Spread for me,” he instructs, soft but firm, and you do, like you’d part for him even if the world was ending. Frank’s big hand glides up, palm hot, thumb brushing over your folds. You clamp down on a gasp, arching into the touch—he’s not teasing this time, just wetting his finger, checking how ready you are. And you are. You so fucking are. He hums, pleased—almost proud—at the slick mess he’s worked from you.

“Always so ready for me.” He hums. He dips his fingers inside of you, retreats them wet and slick, and spreads that slickness over his tip. You whine, head dipping back, thighs clenching around his waist as your back arches impatiently. You nudge your hips forward, chasing the stretch that brings you to tears, your own hands coming up to grab at your breasts. Frank notices the way your fingers tighten on your own breasts, the way your back bows, and his gaze goes molten, hungry and impossibly tender all at once. He strokes himself once, twice, and lines up, the head of his cock rubbing slick against your entrance. The pressure makes you gasp—he’s never small but never feels as big as he does when he takes his goddamn time. He leans in, bracketing your head with his arms, caging you in, his nose skimming your jaw.

“Relax, baby,” he rasps. “S’okay. I’ve got you.” The head pushes in, just the first inch, heat and stretch and the mind-numbing promise of more. Your hips twitch involuntarily, trying to chase him, but he just shushes you in that quiet, lethal way, threading a hand through your hair.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, rolling his hips to press deeper, notching into you a little at a time. “You take me so good. Always do.” He’s right, but Christ, it never gets easier—or better—than the way he fills you: deliberate and slow, like he wants to feel the split-second every time you open up and let him in. You choke on his name—fuck, it’s almost too much, burning through you, but you don’t want to stop. You want the ache. You want his fucking claim written all down your insides. Tears prick at your eyes, and Frank notices that, too, thumb coming up to wipe the corner of your eye before you even realize it’s wet.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, voice all rough edges. “You got it, baby. C’mon, breathe for me. That’s it.” He bottoms out, hips flush against you, and you freeze—in awe, in relief, in the perfect tension of having all of him, every inch, inside you. Frank is breathing hard above you, holding himself still like he’s barely holding onto control.

“You okay?” he checks, and you nod—or try to nod, but it comes out more of a whimper. “Goddamn,” Frank breathes, “you’re so fuckin’ tight.” He tries to pull out a little, but your legs lock him in place. He laughs in disbelief, shaking his head, sweat beading at his brow.

“Greedy,” he mock-scolds, but his voice sounds so proud you could cry. “Somebody miss me that much, huh?”

“I hate you,” you manage, but it’s weak, almost laughing. He bites your neck, quick and claiming, and pulls out just enough to make your vision blur—then thrusts back in, hard. You see stars. Claw at his shoulders, his arms, anything. He’s huge and deep and the friction is insane, and Frank sets a pace that’s… not brutal, but relentless, like he’s working out all that Marine discipline and rage on your body in the best way possible. His hand tucks behind your knee and pushes, folding you in half so your legs cant go up even higher, the angle obscene and perfect.

“There we go,” he growls. “That’s better, hmm ?” You nod, almost going cross-eyed, a satisfied and pained moan rumbling in your chest. You nod, almost going cross-eyed, a satisfied and pained moan rumbling in your chest. He maneuvers you, never breaking rhythm, never letting you breathe without him filling you, folding your knees over his shoulders and pinning you deeper, tighter, until you’re positive you’ll crack in half and maybe you want to. There’s nothing but him, the press and grind, Frank’s hands gripping your thighs so hard you’ll be wearing fingerprints for days. You can’t find the air to tell him how good it is—how full, how perfect—so you just lie there helpless, whimpering, clinging to the arms that cage you in. He’s not even really fucking you anymore, just rolling his hips, tip grinding against the spot inside you that turns your vision white and nerves to static. He takes your jaw in one hand, thumb rough along your cheek, and yanks your gaze up—

“Right here, sweetheart, eyes on me.” The voice is a command. The look is worshipful, like he’d burn the city to keep you in his bed, making these sounds, shivering underneath him. “Wanna see you,” he says, and the knot in your stomach twists tighter as he drives in, over and over, keeping you right on the precipice and not letting up. It’s not enough. He knows it. He fucks you open until you’re shaking, until the words finally force themselves past your teeth, high and needy,

“Frank, please—“ He groans through gritted teeth, squeezing your jaw with a gentleness that barely masks the tremor in his hand.

“That’s it, baby, know you can take it. Fuck—good girl, you make me so proud.” He’s talking you through it, every filthy word a benediction, tethering you to the world as your back bows, your body coiling with the force of sensation. “You love it, don’t you?” he whispers, softer, railing you through the high while his free hand strokes your thigh, gentle, coaxing, grounding. “Love bein’ split open for me.”

“Yes, yes— Frank, fuck—“ He kisses you sloppily, misses your mouth entirely the first time and you’re both giggling and then gasping and then a long, ragged moan is vibrating your bodies together. You’re clenching down so hard his rhythm stutters.

“Jesus, baby, you’re gonna— that’s it, c’mon.” You whine, back arching, and he pins your thighs closer to his chest before leaning forward slightly, bending your legs forward and deepening the angle and stretch. It nearly knocks what little breath you had left right out of your lungs. The stretch is obscene, like you’re being folded in half and stuffed full all the way to the back of your throat. You see white. Black. Like lightning behind your eyes.

“Shit, that’s good, huh?” Frank’s voice, gone low and frayed, like he can almost feel what you’re feeling. “You love that, baby? Lemme hear you say it.” You can only mewl in response, legs trembling where he’s got you pinned. You try to say

“Frank, God, please,” but it’s all vowels, nothing but begging sounds. He just grins, smug and barely holding onto his own composure. The angle has him punching so deep it’s like you were made just to take this, just for him.

“Can’t even talk, huh?” he says, not so much a taunt as a prayer—a note of awe soaked in filth. “Strong girl, takin’ me like this. Fuck, you’re perfect.” There’s nothing to do but lock your ankles behind his shoulder blades and take it, his cock dragging raw and hot everywhere inside. Your brain fuzzes out, turns down to a tunnel, and all the world is Frank Castle splitting you open and grinding you right up into the heavens. He lets go of your jaw, bringing that hand down to bracket your hips, and for a second he just holds there, not moving, just pressed in to the hilt. You’re both shuddering in the negative space, struggling to survive the stretch and the pressure and the intimacy of it.

“You okay?” he asks, breath barely more than a scrape. You nod vigorously, wrap your arms around his neck so you can cling even tighter. He starts thrusting again, shallow but relentless, the kind of steady, claiming rhythm that’s all about wringing every sound out of you. Every time he bottoms out, your vision pulses with stars.

“Doin’ so good,” he whispers, “so fuckin’ good for me.” You bury your face in his neck, whimpering, biting at the sweat on his shoulder because it’s the only thing that might keep you from coming apart completely. Frank laughs raggedly, but you can feel how close he is too. Every muscle strung tight, every thrust more frantic.

“That’s my girl,” he coaxes. “Such a tight fit, holy shit.” His voice almost breaks. “How’m I ever supposed to go back to normal pussy after this, huh?” You snort, delirious, because the only normal you’ve ever known is Frank Castle making you feel like you could take on the world—or beg for mercy. He keeps your thighs stacked high, and the change in leverage wrings a sob from you, your entire body going tense and hot.

“Frank— too much—” you gasp, but he just hushes you.

“Shh. Can take it, I know you can. You’re my good girl, always take it. Remember that last time? How you said it never hurt so fuckin’ good?” He’s right. You can feel every inch, every ridge. You reach for him, grab the back of his neck, haul him down so his chest is flush to yours despite your legs still hanging on his shoulders. It should crush you but it only makes you burn hotter. Frank’s mouth is hot and wet across your shoulder, biting down until you whimper. Then he licks the mark, soothing it, mumbling sweet, molten filth against your skin. “

That’s it, sweetheart. Take it. Make it yours. Fuckin’ mine, all mine.” You drag your nails down his back—he hisses—and clench down, and the look on his face is nothing short of worship. He pistons his hips, no longer in control, chasing both your pleasure and something only he seems to recognize in you. The arch of your back. The break in your voice. He shoves his forearm under your shoulders, props you up and angles for that spot again, and again, and you’re crying—real tears, overwhelmed, ecstatic, unable to process how much you want this, want him, want to belong.

“Frank,” you manage, but it sounds like a sob. He softens at the sound. Slows, grinds instead. Kisses your hairline, then your brow. “You with me?” he asks, frantic and gentle at once. You nod, mess of tears and saliva and sweat, and whisper,

“Please, keep going—don’t stop.”

“That’s my girl,” Frank praises, and you feel the words all the way into your bones. He presses a hand to your stomach, palming the bulge his cock makes inside you. Your eyes go wide, and he notices, the sight making him falter, nearly lose it.

“Jesus, honey—you feel that?” You nod, delirious, and he shakes his head, reverent. “You like the stretch, baby?”

You lose track, right about then, of which one of you is shaking harder. Your thighs have started to ache where he’s holding you pinned, but the ache is nothing compared to the blinding, mindless fullness riding up your center of gravity and ringing every goddamn nerve you’ve got. He watches you closely, like he doesn’t want to miss a thing, and his thumb never leaves your cheek, tracing the wet there before he wipes his own brow and laughs—a jagged, breathless thing.

“You’re a fuckin’ menace,” he chokes out, then shoves himself deeper, if that’s even possible. “Look at that. Stuffed so full you’re gonna be ruined for anyone else.” He seems to like the sound of that, and even though your brain’s fried, the words shoot straight to your core. “You love it, don’t you? Too much cock for a little thing like you.” It’s obscene but you love it, you need it, and he can see it etched across your face—how you nod, how you cling, how you clamp down even tighter. He grunts, involuntary, and you feel a drop of sweat hit your chest where he starts to really work for it. “That’s it. Fuck, that’s it—take it, honey, take all of it.” His body is so big above you, bracing, arms locked and trembling, eyes wild and locked to yours. You can’t blink. You want to see him watching you open for him. He folds you further, legs bent up by your ears, the angle insane, like he wants to see if you’ll crack in half. The stretch is dizzying—you’d beg for mercy if you didn’t want it so much, if the pain and the pleasure didn’t blur so beautifully. Frank holds you down, keeps you right at the edge, lets go of nothing. He drives it in, slow and grinding, almost tender even as the force knocks words out of you.

“That’s my girl, look at you fuckin’ take it. Jesus.” Your breath goes to pieces. You’re beyond words, just fluttering cries and helpless grabs at his sweat-slicked arms—God, his arms, the same ones that have hurt people, protected you, now pinning you like you’re the only fucking thing he wants in the world. He leans down, mouth at your ear, panting:

“You gotta tell me if you want me to stop, baby. You just say it and—” You shake your head, frantic.

“Don’t—don’t stop—please, keep—” And you gasp, entire body clenching up at the new angle, the way his cock catches right there, that spot that makes every atom in you disintegrate. He laughs, but it’s a wounded, worshipful sound. He’s proud, like he’s never going to let you forget just how well you take him. His hands splay over your lower back, anchoring you, and it’s like his entire body is an engine, keeping you together even as he tries to rip you apart.You can barely move, pinned and doubled in half, the mattress arching sweat-slick under your shoulders. He is breathing hard, like he’s had to rip through a concrete wall. Still, the rhythm doesn’t waver: thick, careful thrusts, the slide so tight that every withdrawal almost takes the breath from your lungs. He rolls his hips hard and the pressure spikes—so deep it hurts, in the best fucking way. You aren’t making sounds anymore. It’s just crying out, jaw slack, fingers locked in his hair, greedy, desperate to keep him right there. Frank wipes the snot and tears off your face with brutal gentleness, then kisses the wetness from your cheeks, whispering nonsense as if every syllable is a crucible.

“S’good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “you’re doing so fuckin’ good, proud of you, Jesus Christ—” He ruts in like he could leave a blueprint, like you’d split around him and never fully close again. You want that, far more than you should. The ache is in every joint now, the burn so bright it’s almost clean. You want to be fucking ruined. You want to wake up tomorrow with Frank’s handprint on your thigh, the pulse between your legs echoing his name. You want to sob, or scream, or both, but it doesn’t matter because Frank’s got you bracketed so tight to the mattress you can’t do anything except take him—take all of him—and isn’t that what you wanted? Isn’t that exactly it? He’s got your hands pinned above your head, fingers laced so tight your knuckles are going numb, but you can’t stop squeezing back. The angle has you nearly folded double, knees pinned up by your ears, and every thrust sends a hot, bright shock up your spine. The room ripples at the edges. You lose sight of anything but him. The world condenses to sweat and heat and his voice, ground down to a whisky-edged rasp, talking you through the whiteout:

“So good for me,” “That’s it, fuck, that’s it,” “Taking it like no one else ever has.” You’re shivering, burning, unable to remember what it was like not to be stretched around the impossible heft of him or pinned under the fierce, unrelenting weight of his need. You try to make a noise—a complaint, a curse, something—but it comes out as a hiccup, pathetic and hungry, and Frank’s laugh splits open in your ear, wild and beautiful. You taste sweat on your tongue and the peppery, ozone crunch in your lungs as the world narrows, narrows, until the only thing left is him and the burn and your name, again and again, wrecked on his lips:

“That’s right, baby. Let me hear you.” He pumps into you, never faltering, each drag making you splinter and cling harder to his hands. You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, the ache a living, pulsing thing, alive and loud and fuck, it’s so much—too much—and yet. You want more. You want everything. He’s so careful and so fucking brutal all at once, talking you through every inch, every new stretch, watching your face when he rocks in deep and groaning, almost in pain with how good it is. He says your name, sometimes slow and reverent, sometimes a growl behind his teeth. Says you’re a fucking angel. Says you’re going to break him, fuck him up for life. He doesn’t stop, not for one goddamn second. You don’t realize you’re crying until salt stings your lips and Frank is licking it away, tongue darting over your cheek and jaw, then sucking on your neck, marking you up as if he can’t stand the thought of you belonging to anyone but him.

You lose track of time, of what hurts and what feels good, of whether the nails digging into his arms are yours or his. Just this relentless, beautiful stretch that crowds out every thought except the next, the next, the next. Frank finally lets your hands free, and you grab for him, clinging to his shoulder, fingers buried in his hair, yanking him down so you can babble, mouth pressed to his ear:

“Yours—yours—never stop, Frank—” His pace stutters, hips jackhammering forward and then grinding in, and suddenly it’s like the world snaps in two. Pleasure detonates up your spine like gunfire, like someone just set off a flashbang right behind your eyes. Your body wrenches, curls, the muscles in your thighs quaking where he’s got you folded almost in half. You grab at his shoulders, his hair, wild for something to anchor you down, to keep from shaking straight out of your own skin. Frank rides it out, making these shivery little noises between his teeth—half cursing, half worship—while his hands press down on your waist, pinning you to the bed like you might float away if he let up. You don’t even hear yourself come, just the way the world blanks out for a long, impossible second, then snaps back in all color and sweat and the taste of his shoulder between your teeth. You’re still shaking, locked tight around him, when he finally lets up on your thighs and lets them fall. Your knees are jelly, numb and useless. You can’t remember your own name, but it’s there in his mouth, a shaking

“Attagirl, that’s it, fuck—“ as he pulses inside you, hard and greedy and so deep it almost hurts again, new. He clings to you, weight trapping you perfectly, chest pushing you down into the mattress as he spends himself inside, like he’s afraid if he lets go you’ll disappear. His breath is heavy, hot against your hairline; sweat from both of you pools where your bodies meet, your skin stuck to his like glue. The slow, shuddery grind of his last thrusts, more soothing than sex at this point, keep you pinned under the haze until the aftershocks shiver out and your body finally, finally, remembers how to breathe. He holds still. Just for a second. The world is silent except for the wet, needy sound of you breathing. His hands cup your jaw, as if you’re breakable. You try to laugh, but it comes out raw, almost a whimper, and his lips find yours, feather-light this time.

Frank’s whole body softens the second he hears that sound.

That tiny, wrecked little whimper against his mouth.

Immediately, the intensity drains out of him—not gone completely, never gone completely with Frank—but gentled down into something warm and careful and devastatingly tender. He kisses you again, slower this time, lips lingering like he’s apologizing for every rough thrust and thanking you for taking them all at once.

“Hey,” he murmurs quietly. “Hey, c’mere.” You’re already there. Boneless beneath him, shaking in little aftershocks while he brushes damp hair away from your forehead with surprising delicacy for someone built like a tank. His thumb strokes over your cheek again, wiping away tears you hadn’t even realized were still there.

“You with me, sweetheart?” You nod weakly. “Words, baby.”

“M’here,” you mumble. Your voice sounds wrecked. Frank’s expression immediately goes soft around the edges.

“There’s my girl.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Did so good for me.” The praise hits embarrassingly hard after everything. Your eyes flutter shut for a second, and Frank notices immediately.

“Tired?”

“A little.”

“Yeah.” He exhales softly, still hovering over you like he’s reluctant to put any real weight down. “I know, baby.” Very carefully, he eases himself off you with a low groan, one hand braced on the mattress while the other stays on your hip the whole time. Protective. Grounding. The second he pulls away, you whine quietly at the sudden emptiness, and Frank actually huffs a tired laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters fondly. “Can’t even make it five seconds without me, huh?” You crack one eye open.

“You literally folded me in half.”

“And you loved it.”

“…Maybe.”

“Knew it.” You try to kick him weakly. Frank catches your ankle immediately, grinning down at you before pressing a kiss to the inside of your calf. Then his expression shifts again when he notices the way your thighs tremble afterward. Instant concern.

“Hey.” His palm smooths up your leg gently. “Too much?”

“No,” you say quickly. “No, s’good.”

“You sure?” You nod. Frank studies your face for another long second anyway, because Frank notices things. Then apparently satisfied, he leans down and presses one more soft kiss to your forehead before climbing off the bed completely. The absence of his body heat is immediate. You make a pathetic noise before you can stop yourself. Frank pauses halfway to the bathroom doorway and looks back at you with the most smug expression you’ve ever seen.

“Oh, now y’want me back.”

“Shut up.”

“That’s what I thought.” You hear water running a second later. Drawers opening. Frank moving around the bathroom with the same quiet heaviness he does everything with. A minute later he comes back carrying a damp washcloth and your favorite oversized sleep shorts tossed over one shoulder. Your chest squeezes stupidly hard at the sight. Because this is Frank too.

Not just rough hands and filthy teasing and possessive growling against your skin. This. The care afterward. The way he always checks. Always notices. He sits beside you on the mattress, expression softer now, and nudges your thigh apart carefully.

“S'cold,” he warns. You hiss when the washcloth touches sensitive skin. Frank immediately slows down. “Sorry, honey.”

“It’s okay.” His jaw tightens a little anyway, like he’s annoyed at himself for not somehow preventing basic friction from existing. You watch him quietly while he cleans you up with absurd gentleness for a man who looks like he fistfights walls recreationally.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs without looking up.

“You’re pretty.” Frank snorts.

“Sweetheart, I look homeless.”

“You look hot.”

“That’s because you got problems.” You laugh tiredly, and the sound makes his mouth twitch. Once he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and helps pull the shorts carefully up your legs before immediately tugging you into his lap like it’s instinct. Your entire body melts against him. Frank leans back against the headboard with you sprawled bonelessly across his chest, one massive hand rubbing slow circles against your spine underneath one of his old shirts he’d pulled back onto you. For a while, neither of you says anything. Just breathing. His fingers comb lazily through your hair while your cheek rests over his heartbeat. Then:

“…Still thinkin’ about Curtis?” he asks casually. You choke laughing.

“Frank.”

“What?”

“You are unbelievable.”

“M’serious.” He sounds deeply offended. “Need t’know if I gotta fight him now.”

“You are not fighting Curtis because I wore novelty underwear.” Frank hums thoughtfully.

“Maybe just a little fight.”

“You’re insane.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He kisses the top of your head. “Still your favorite Marine though.” You tilt your head back just enough to look at him.

“Debatable.” Frank stares at you for one long second. Then abruptly rolls you beneath him again with a growl while you shriek laughing.

“Wrong answer.”

taglist !

There's a knock at the door. You raise your head suddenly, someone's at the door? Confused, you walk towards it, moonlight lighting up the dark hallway of your house through the glass panes on the door. You open it, looking up, and of course it's him. The same comforting, distant man you can't stop thinking about.

"Frank?" you furrow your brows softly, you didn't expect it to genuinely be him at the door. The cold breeze brushed your bare arms as you stand at the door in your shorts and camisole. His eyes flicker up and down, taking your presence in. He doesn't say anything. Still, you're a kind woman, you're understanding, and so without questioning anything you tell him softly, "Come in" with a gentle nod of your head towards inside your house. You gesture him inside, shutting the door with a click behind you. He walks in with his broad figure, hands in his pocket awkwardly as if you're the one who's showed up to his house in the middle of the night. He's looking at the floor like a child being scolded and so you ask him, "Hey, is everything okay?"

He looks up slowly at your kind face, he doesn't want to disappoint you- or for you to think less of him. "I uh-just, couldn't sleep" he finally mutters, pulling his hands out of his pockets. "Just- wanted to hear your voice I guess." His voice is low, it's as if he hasn't spoken to anyone for a while. You watch him understandingly, not an ounce of judgement in your face, and you just nod. "Come. Sit down for a bit" you tell him, walking towards your couch, your own arms crossed, a natural sort of defence mechanism- though of course, Frank has never hurt you. He'd never dare lay a hand on you.

He sits down on the couch, the whole thing moving slightly lower with his weight. You hover near him, still stood up. "Want something to drink?" you ask him softly, and he shakes his head. Leaning back on the couch, he says softly, "Nah, 's alright, just came to see you."

Of course he says that. And of course your stomach starts doing fucking backflips. You shake your head, walking into the kitchen anyway. He sits there alone for a moment, eyes following you, watching as you work your way through the kitchen like an angel, skin as soft as snow, biting your lip in concentration.

You come back with two glasses and some whiskey, placing them down with a clink. His puppy dog eyes follow your slender fingers as you let go of the glasses. They continue scanning over your body as you finally take a seat opposite him, pressing one of your knees to your chest and resting your chin there. You sigh softly as you watch him.

"Why couldn't you sleep?" you ask softly, watching him carefully.He throws his shoulders up softly, shrugging. It's not the first time he's done something like this. For years it's been obvious to you that he has a soft spot for you, but no action has ever been taken. And you curse yourself endlessly for it, but you feel something for him too-even though you can't tell what exactly. He shakes his head, grunting, "It doesn't matter, I'm used to it".

You continue watching him. Something about his presence as a whole just has a hold on you. You want to be there for him- to help him. So you ask him the only sensible thing in your head, "You wanna talk about it?" He watches you through half lidded eyes, shaking his head silently as he leans forward a little, his forearms on his legs, "Already said, just needed to see you."

You don't know what to do but nod. You breathe out a soft, "Okay" and sit there, still hugging your knee on your seat like a worried child. The truth is you're tired. Tired of begging, of trying to be there for people who clearly don't want you. Tired of being rejected and never understood. Your eyes start to wander around your living room, the warm glow from your fireplace lighting everything up, including Frank's eyes.

He tilts his head the slightest, watching your every move and of course, he knows somethings wrong. You continue sitting there, wondering what to say or what to do. You get chills from the way you can tell he's watching you closely. So why won't he just fucking say something? It's not like he has any trouble in the female department?

Except he doesn't want anyone who isn't you. Most people are shit scared of him, they think he's about to snap any moment. But not you. No, you see him for who he really is. A man in pain, who's always making mistakes to just help what he thinks is right. And you, you're kind and gentle and smart- everything that's the opposite of the world he knows.

After a few minutes of quiet besides the soft crackling of the fire, he chooses to break the silence. He can't watch you just sitting here, disassociating from everything. You're still hugging your knee, sitting in that position on the couch. Finally, he murmurs softly, "What's goin’ on?" And without really moving, your eyes flick to him and you shrug your shoulders. His heart patters softly at your dismissive tone.

He can't sit here and watch you suffer silently. Especially since you would never do that either. He frowns softly and rumbles out, "Hey, talk to me." And as if a light switch suddenly flicks in your head, you gain awareness and turn your head to him. Not entirely convincingly you tell him, "I'm okay, really." and drop your knee from beneath your chin, your feet both on the floor awkwardly.

You realise he's here because he was upset and so you look back up and ask him, "Tell me what's up then, why couldn't you sleep?" He watched you like you just spoke some foreign language and mutters, "That's not fair." You just stare at him confused.

God, why is he like this?

For some reason you're already infuriated, anger bubbling up inside you, threatening to spill out. "What do you mean that's not fair? You show up to my door past midnight and you won't even tell me what's wrong?" you spit out. Frank frowns, he hates seeing you like this, hates that he's caused you to feel like this. You see his face soften and instantly feel bad. That's the kind of effect he has on you. So you breathe out, "Look I'm sorry- I've just had a shit day." Which is a lie of course, every day is shit. Everyday that you go on, unsure of your feelings towards Frank, unsure of what you want.

He blinks slowly, giving you space, letting you get your feelings out. “Don't be sorry," he says gruff but softly, shaking his head. A quiet moment passes and he says "C'mere," gesturing to the empty space beside him. Hesitantly you get up, trudging towards him like a dog with a tail between its legs. You sit down next to him, embarrassed now that you raised your voice at him. And the worst thing is that he stayed calm, he let you yell at him. Because that's the kind of man Frank is.

You stare ahead at the floor, Frank looking at nothing but you. His eyes trace over your face, your soft hair- that little figure of yours that's so angry inside, your chest going up and down softly as you breathe. He hesitates, then parts his lips slightly and whispers, "Talk to me." You look up slowly, turning your head to face his weathered face which is full of concern for you, and you protest, "This isn't about me- you're the one who's upset."

Frank lets out a soft breath. "God you're stubborn" he huffs, and you can tell he’s genuinely annoyed. You don't say anything back and he continues watching you. "Just let me be here for you." he whispers, almost begging, like he needs to help you. Like he can't live knowing you're upset. You shake your head, voice shaking as you say, "For Christ's sake Frank, I don't need your help- I don't need you." Except you do. Your eyes begin to glisten as you ramble, threatening to start spilling tears and Frank frowns, repeating, "Hey hey, shhh" as he gently moves his calloused hand onto your forearm.

You shake your head, fighting back tears and trying to get out of his reach, "I'm fine- go away, I'm fine." You pull your arm away, voice quaking. The same way he let you shout at him, he's letting you use physical force on him. You keep spitting out that you're fine-you don't need anyone or anything, and all the while, Franks hand gently moves to the side of your face, holding it in his palm. You croak out once more with glistening eyes, "I'm fine" and then break down at his soft touch.

Tears run down your face as you shake your head, trying to stop crying. Frank watches you heartbroken, his brows are furrowed and it looks like he's only a few moments away from crying too. "Oh poor baby" he whispers, pulling you close to him, his big arms wrapping around you warmly. "Let it out, I'm here" he says, voice barely above a whisper. He wants to protect you from everything, from everything that hurts you, but he can't, and that's what bothers him. He needs you to need him.

You try wiping your tears with the back of your hand, but they continue streaming down your face. You make the mistake of looking up at Frank because as you lift your head slowly- your, big sad doe eyes break him. A soft gasp leaves his lips and he whispers, "Oh, sweet girl," as if he's in pain watching you cry. Effortlessly he pulls you onto his lap, his big hands wrapping around you as if he can shield you from the world. He tilts back his head to get a better look at you, leaning back on the couch and adjusting you to make sure you're comfy. "I know you’re hurtin’, just let it out" he breathes.

His broad chest presses against yours as he holds you, one hand on your back, the other caressing your hair. You cry your endless tears and he gently lifts your head with his hand beneath your chin. "I'm here, just talk to me, please." he says softly, eyebrows knitted together in concern. Eyes puffy and cheeks stained with tears you stutter, "God I'm just so alone. I'm so alone Frank- I don't have anyone." He looks like a sad little puppy at hearing that.

"That's not true baby, you have me" he frowns, tilting his head to get a better look at you, resting his hand on the side of your face. His other hand runs up and down your back soothingly, and you nuzzle your face into his hand. But he’s not yours, you remember. "Don't call me that Frank" you cry, pulling your head back and shaking it.

God, his heart aches watching you cry.

He watches your quivering lip, waiting for you to explain, and you glare at him, your words drowning in tears. At last, your voice breaks when you say, "Not when I'm not yours."

Oh.

He shakes his head silently, sitting up a little more and adjusting you in his lap. "Don't say that." he whispers, taken aback and heartbroken. “Just- don’t-” he mutters, unsure of what to say. He wants to be yours. God knows he does. But it's not that easy, he can't bring you into his life, because he knows that anyone he loves gets hurt.

He moves his palm across both sides of your face gently, wiping off the tears that are leaving salty, hot trails on your skin. Your voice breaks, barely holding together as you try to speak. "Frank," you cry shakily, your breath catching in broken, wet gasps. He barely blinks, just taking in this sight of you- broken and defeated. "Yeah i know, I'm here."

He doesn't bother wiping away the tears that soak his collar, he just needs to be there for you. As he holds you close and roams his hands up and down your back, you hiccup a little, your violent sobs much less now. "That's it, you're okay" he whispers sweetly, his touch gentle and caring. You sniffle in his chest as he reassures you, your stomach fluttering. Oh how you hate the way he makes you feel, as if you're not in control of your own body.

"Frank," you whisper again, breathlessly, the only remnants of your crying being your puffy eyes. "Yeah sweet girl? talk to me" he murmurs, moving a strand of hair that's stuck on your wet face behind your ear. You don't say anything, just let yourself melt back into him, your face in the crook of his neck, legs on either side of him. He lets his hands fall to your sides again, but lower this time- on your hips. He holds them with both hands, as if you'd disappear if he let go.

Your lips part slightly at his touch, you’re aching all over for him. Franks big hands stay there carefully, burning through the fabric of your shorts. Gently he rubs your sides and your breath hitches. Of course, any noise that slips out of your mouth almost kills him. His brows are furrowed as he tries to absorb every reaction you’re giving him. He needs to make you feel good. So, he takes your little gasps as a sign that it’s okay, and gently trails a hand lower, till it meets your thigh. As if his life purpose is to make you feel good, he applies a little more pressure to his touch, watching your face carefully, waiting for another reaction. Waiting for a sign that you want this too.

"This okay sweet girl?" he asks, hands tracing over your thighs reverently. You whine "mhm", leaning back into him. His lips part in awe at your little noises- he needs to hear more. You gasp softly at his hands kneading your hips then moving to your thighs. "Frankk" you whine desperately, core pressing into him a little. This is what you meant, how you can't control yourself when you're with him. He nods understandingly, whispering with his rich voice, "What is it sweet girl?”

Your head lolls to the side, brain turning into mush as your core heats up on his lap. As if doesn’t already make you lose control of your own body- he’s whispering these sweet names in your ear. You can't help it, but your hips rock forward ever so slightly, trying to satisfy that blooming need between your aching thighs.

The moment your hips move, his breath hitches. His entire body goes still as he feels that tiny movement against his lap. He senses your need, and it sends a bolt of desire through him. But he doesn't rush. Instead, his hands stay still for a second on your thighs, then slowly slide up to press against the curve of your waist. The gentle pressure of his palms keeps you right there in his arms, needy and warm. Then his voice drops lower and he whispers against your ear breathily, "Attagirl, let me know how you feel, okay?”

His sweetness is making you melt, and all of your senses are being blinded by pure need right now. You whimper desperately, almost panting as you buck your hips again and Frank says softly, “Take what you need.” You let out a small moan at that, and he realises just how much you need him. You grind your hips against his a few more times, needing to soothe the white hot ache between your legs, but nothings working and you’re getting frustrated. Your eyes begin to water again, but out of desperation now, not sadness. You throw your arms behind his neck, looking for something to hold onto and keep bucking your hips onto his, desperate for anything that will give you friction.

“Frankie,” you moan helplessly, frustrated at yourself, at not being able to feel good. He watches you reverently, as if you’re an angel on his lap, rough hands still moving gently on your sides. “I know baby, dyou need my help?” he coaxes, slipping a hand near the edge of the waistband of your shorts. When he calls you baby again, your heart clenches. He doesn't want to push, or overstep with someone as sweet as you. You lifts your head just slightly, eyes glassy and vulnerable and then nod, slow and shy, but honest, “Please, I need you”. Your eyes start watering again with need, you’ve never felt so alone- so desperate for Frank to just take care you.

“Hey, hey don’t cry doll” he coos, frowning as you pout sadly. You stare into his solemn eyes, desperately waiting for him to take action, but instead, he softly presses his forehead to yours. “I’m here, you’re not alone.” he whispers, his tone as sweet as honey. He moves his head back a little, enough to see you clearly and wipes away another one of your tears with his thumb. “You’re my girl and I’m gonna take care of you, okay?” he reassures as his hand creeps beneath your waistband now.

Of course- he’s still a gentleman with morals and so he asks with the utmost respect, “Can I take these off?” as his fingers creep under your sleep shorts, brushing past the soft lace of your panties. You all but moan, “Yes- please” in desperation, and that’s enough for him. He instructs you firmly, “Lift your hips f’me,” and carefully holds you up with one arm, the other one working at your waist, pulling your shorts down your thighs. “Can I take these off too?” he checks, his pointer finger hooked under the soft lace. You nod your head urgently and with that, the scraps of fabric are at your ankles, then discarded on the floor. He has a job to do.

His breath gets lost in his throat, mouth almost watering at the sight of you, but he tries to be as respectful as possible. “There you go doll, what else dyou need?” he asks adoringly, his hand moving to hold the back of your neck. He stares at your face, all sweet and vulnerable, and has a violent urge to kiss those soft pink lips of yours. You part your mouth to speak, but before any words can come out, Frank leans forward, and presses his lips to yours with such care, you’d think you’re made of glass.

You don’t remember your eyes shutting, just him pulling back tenderly from the kiss and your eyes opening to see his. Like you’re the most valuable thing ever, he leans back in and places a kiss beneath your ear. You gasp as he peppers your neck with soft kisses that eventually turn into hot, desperate ones when he can’t control himself. He nibbles at your neck, leaving little marks, then soothes the pain with his tongue, licking at your neck like he’s never felt a woman this sweet before. “You taste so sweet,” he groans, and the heat between your thighs aches as you sit bare on his clothed lap. Your cunt is dripping at the thought of him inside you. His fingers, his dick- anything as long as he’s in you.

You press your hips down on his lap urgently, marking his jeans with a visible wet patch where you’re sat on his thigh. Desperately you start rocking your hips back and forth, searching for the friction you so badly need. Frank groans in awe at how beautiful you are when you’re in need, and he groans, “That’s it, get yourself off on my thigh baby,” as he busies himself with kissing your neck. His hands scramble at the lace of your pyjama top, itching to pull it off. His eyes flick to your scrunched up face as you chase your pleasure, the fabric rubbing on your clit deliciously, and since you don’t protest, he helps you out of your thin top. Hastily, his manly hands search for the clasp of your bra on your back, and with a click, that’s also off and thrown to the floor.

His hands are urgently on your back, covered by your flowing hair as he runs them over your skin desperately. His eyes scan over your angelic body, skin soft and so so beautiful. He has to stop himself from kissing every square inch of your body, but he can’t help himself entirely, so he presses his face between the valley of your breasts and inhales, trying impossibly to be closer to you. Both his arms are wrapped around you protectively, helping you move back and forth to chase your high as he inhales that warm, sweet scent of your skin. He moves his head back to meet yours and pants, “That’s it dollface, keep going f’me.” You let out a lewd moan, signalling how close you are to him and he mewls softly, his dick bulging in his jeans as you ride his thigh. “That’s my girl, you’re almost there.” he praises as you continue writhing back and forth.

Your breathing’s irregular and your vision is blurry from pleasure, and fuck you’ve never needed him so badly. You squirm, so close yet so far, but when his stubble brushes your breast as his lips clasp around your nipple, you’re gone. An obscene moan leaves your mouth as you quiver on his thigh, legs twitching, mouth wide open- and then you can hear Frank praising, “There she is, that’s a good girl.” as you come down from your orgasm, his mouth still pressed to your tit as he holds your body to his. “You’re so beautiful sweetheart,” he pants, relieved that you feel good, ignoring the bulging ache in his jeans. You sigh tiredly, chest heaving as you come down from your high. “mmm thank you Frank,” you murmur, hair stuck to your forehead, eyes puffy from crying, and he answers, “Anything for you doll.”

You watch his broad figure beneath you, and find it amazing how someone this manly can be so soft with you. You love it about him. As you watch him pant selflessly, not wanting to take anything from you, you almost lunge at him. Quickly, you connect your soft lips to his own, wanting to taste his mouth properly now. His tongue slides between your mouth, your lips clashing as you try desperately to feel eachother even closer. You kiss the corner of his mouth, licking at his stubble, imagining how it’d feel between your thighs- how his warm tongue would work between your folds as you moaned, pushing his head lower in desperation. Frantically, you lean back and moan, “I need you Frankie,” as you move your hands over his shirt, on his chest. It’s not like he isn’t yearning to have you too, because he is. There’s nothing more he needs right now than to feel you sucking him in, to feel your walls flutter around him as you cum for the second time, but he needs to hear you say it.

“Use your words sweetheart, what dyou need?” he coos softly, like he’s talking to a child, rubbing your inner thighs. You fall into him, soft tits pressing into his chest as you whine. “I need you inside me- please.” you beg, and he purrs admiringly, pressing gentle kisses to the underside of your breast. “Is that it baby? You need me to take you?” he coaxes, hand cupping your breast, covering it entirely. He kneads it carefully and you moan, barely able to get out an “uh huh” at his touch. “Good girl, that wasn’t that hard was it?” he teases, tapping you on the side of your thighs, signalling for you to lift them.

As you hold your hips in the air, he undoes his belt, pulls down the zipper of his jeans and swiftly tugs them off. He nudges your hips back down and the soft flesh of your ass meets his muscly thighs again, but without clothes between you this time. Need overflows your senses and you moan as his glistening dick hits the sensitive skin of your thigh. You claw at his shirt, and the side of his mouth lifts into a smirk as he pulls it over his head effortlessly. “You’re so needy ain’t ya sweet girl?” he coos, massaging your hips, moving his hands to the roundness of your ass. “Fuck- so soft” he groans, eyes closing for a second to compose himself.

“Please, Frankiee” you wail, pressing your tits to his broad chest, your nipples like mountain peaks. “Shhh, I know” he murmurs, leaning forward and flicking his tongue under your ear. “I’m gonna take care of my girl.” he whispers into your neck, and that makes you swoon. His chunky fingers trail down between your thighs, and he runs his middle finger through your slick folds, holding it up as a string of wetness hangs from it. “Oh, you’re dripping baby,” he coos with adoration, “Don’t even need my fingers”.

He moves back, cupping your cheek with one calloused hand, the other reaching for his aching dick. He pumps it a few times, face scrunching up in desperation to enter you. His eyes flicker to yours hopelessly and his voice cracks as he says, “Let me make love to you sweetheart.” You nod, a painful need blooming in your body, your heart aching at his softness. As needy as ever, he moves your hips with care, nudging your dripping entrance with his swollen tip. You gasp at the contact, needing more, although he hasn’t even had the chance to enter you fully yet. He groans, eyes closing as he bites his lip, pushing himself deeper inside you. “Oh god- you’re so tight f’me,” he shudders, stretching you out painfully as his breath hitches.

So gently, he pushes your hips down until you sink on him fully, and he bottoms out in you with a shuddering groan. “Ahh fuck, is this okay sweetie, does it feel good?” he asks, considerate of you. You nod rapidly, eyebrows furrowed in despair, needing him to move. You moan, hips twitching, desperate for some friction. “Frankie I need you to fuck me,” you moan, hands on his chest. He growls at the way you say that, hands holding your hips as he whispers “Shit, I know baby- I’m gonna take care of this pussy so well.” You can feel yourself getting even wetter around him, if that’s even possible. “I’m gonna make you feel so good.” he reassures, pressing another wet kiss to the line of your jaw.

Slowly but surely, he does start moving. He lets out deep groans as he holds your waist, grinding you on his lap. You can’t wait, you start urging your hips back and forth faster and he tuts at you, whispering dirtily, “Oh, I didn’t know my girl was so needy f’me.” But he understands you need it- need him, and so he starts to buck his hips faster for you. He wraps his arms around you like a human shield, and with his hold on you, starts lifting you. You moan, not wanting to leave, you haven’t even had anything near enough and you can already feel his thick cock sliding out of you. But as you’re about to protest, he quickly slams you back down with urgency. A vulgar noise leaves your mouth as your skin slaps back down onto his. He groans, desperate to make you feel good, he wants to be here for you. He needs to show you you’re not alone, show you that he lov-

You gasp, head thrown back in ecstasy, you can’t think about anything but his arms around you, his breathy whispering into your ear. “Frank,” you cry, emotions pouring out of you. He’s like heaven, he’s your heaven. He feels like home, gives you stability, makes you want to live, to start a family even. You wanna be his, to give him everything and love him till you’re dead. You moan as your tits bounce up and down; Frank worshipping your body, unable to say anything with how pussy drunk he is.

He groans as you clench around him, coating him with slick as you move up and down. He feels different when he’s with you. He feels capable of- change? Capable of being soft and sweet unlike how life has treated him the last few years. He wants to love you forever. At every sound of your skin slapping, a different stage of your lives flashes past his eyes. Watching you walk down the aisle with tears in his eyes. Moving into your first home together. Remodelling your kitchen as you laugh, faces covered in paint. Having a baby together.

“I-” Frank gasps, the words he wants to say sticking his mouth together. “Fuck,” he groans, so close to the edge, “baby- fuck, I love you.” Your arms are around his neck while he makes love to you, desperately holding onto him. You’re scared you’ll drown if you let go, especially when those words leave his mouth. Your heart stops, your eyes glisten and you whine out, “I love you too Frank.” He presses gentle kisses to your neck once you say that, scared that he’ll start crying if he looks at you. He holds onto you like you’re his anchor, and finally, tilts your head so his eyes can meet yours.

“I’ve waited so long to hear you say that,” he whispers emotionally, voice breaking. “You’re my whole life baby” he tells you, every word leaving his mouth dripping with love. He helps you lay on your back on the sofa, still connected with you at the core and continues making love to you. With every thrust of his hips you moan into his neck. He pants in your ear as his chest hovers over you, and he mutters sweet nothings into your ear incoherently. You can tell he’s close because he’s not making sense anymore. “Fuck- I’m so lucky to have you baby,” he grunts, jaw clenching together as he stutters, “mm I’m so close.” Your legs are stiff too, and you realise you need to cum again. Frank sees it too and like the gentleman he is, he makes you his priority. “Oh babydoll,” he coos, moving a hand from your side to the sensitive skin between your legs. He smiles endearingly and says, “Let me see that pretty face,” as he tilts his head.

You meet his gaze, but you’re in despair, needing release. He slips his middle finger just below your dripping folds, feeling his dick slide in and out of your drenched pussy. “I’m g’na make you feel so good.” he utters, pulling his hand away from where you’re connected. Your stomach flips when he brings it to his face, spits into it and lowers it back down to your throbbing cunt. He wipes the glob onto your clit, looking up to see your screwed up face. “You okay sweet girl?” he pants and you nod urgently, trying to urge yourself closer to him as his dick tortures your gummy walls. His saliva drips down your pussy as he checks on you, but once you nod, his hand is right back to work. He moves his thumb over to your sensitive nub and starts rubbing gently.

You shudder, pleasure overflowing out of your body as he rubs your clit, his length still dragging in and out of you. You move your hands onto his back, desperate for something to hold onto, to anchor you. Frank shudders at you clawing at his back- your grasp is so desperate, it makes him feel cherished in a way he's never known. Your breath hitches as your mouth falls open, and Frank starts talking you through it, knowing you’ll fall apart any minute. “That’s it, I’m right here, let go,” he encourages while he continues rubbing quick circles. Your moans become increasingly louder, your breathing irregular and you’re on the verge of coming undone. Franks groans at the sweet sounds you make, struggling but managing to get out the words- “Fuck- I’m g’na cum.”

He hasn’t made a fuss about himself, hasn’t been doing this to make himself feel good. Never- you’re always his first priority, and tonight was about making you feel good. About showing you that you’re not alone- no, you’re cherished and loved by so many people. By him. He groans in short gasps, his breathing uneven as he reaches the edge. “Frankie- I’m so close” you whine, your hands trailing down to the nape of his neck. Your fingers are slipping through his short hair as he moans, both of you looking like a desperate, sweating mess. His cock keeps drilling into you and finally you shriek, hips bucking and thighs shaking as you come apart around his dick.

As your head falls to the side while your drenched pussy convulses around him, he groans into your hair, asking for permission as if you’re his goddess. “Doll, I’m so- mph, fuck- I’m right there,” he starts, unable to get a whole sentence out straight. “Please- umph- please let me fill you up.” he stutters, throbbing as his thrusts become sloppy. You breathe out, “Please,” into his neck and with a vulgar groan, his hips stutter and you shudder at a warmth filling you up.

There’s something about you that makes him want to be good. As he holds you like there’s no tomorrow while his hips twitch into yours, filling you, he realises how much he needs you. You’re his angel, his salvation- and there isn’t a thing he wouldn’t do for you. Not a single thing, just so he could see you smile, see you feel good. “You’re okay baby, I’m here.” he groans in ragged breaths. He caresses your tits as you both come down from your high, both of you trembling messes. Your breathing steadies slightly as he kisses you, shows you how much he cares. His spend seeps out of your pussy, which is stuffed entirely, and dribbles down his length. Franks eyes trail to where you’re connected, and with a raspy voice he says, “You look so beautiful like this baby.” The corner of his eyes crinkle as he smiles softly, rubbing soft circles on your cheek with his thumb. He adores you with his whole heart. He’s in no rush to go or to leave you. Instead, he holds your warm body close, and skims his mouth up and down your neck. Not kissing, not licking, just letting his lip brush over your skin.

He links an arm beneath you, pulling you off your back to sit up straight and straddle him again, still keeping you plugged with his length, all while his rough hands move to your hair and he runs his fingers through the soft, silkiness of it. “You did so good f’me doll, so good” he purrs, nudging his nose against your jaw, “My good girl.” God, everything he does is so intimate, so sensual. Doing this; for Frank anyways, isn’t about fucking. He wants to make love to you. He wants you to feel comfortable enough to fall apart right there in his lap. And fortunately, he succeeded at that, which means you did feel cherished. “Feel okay sweetheart?” he asks, holding you head with his large hand, the other running along your jawline. You nod sheepishly, cheeks flushed as he smiles at you.

“Ain’t nothing to be embarrassed about baby.” he coos, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. You love this about him, the fact that he’s actually taking care of you. “Feel better baby?” he asks, brushing his thumb beneath your eye, as if to catch a tear but you’re not crying. “Mhm, so full.” you whine, glancing down and he nudges your head back up, desperate to see your perfect face. “That right?” he smiles teasingly. “My girl feels all filled up?”. Your cheeks flush pink and he watches you lovingly.

“That’s how I wanna see you baby. Not sad, not talking down on yourself”. He watched you thoughtfully, tone a little more serious then before and you nod. “Okay?” he asks, and you nod, a small smile on your lips, “okay.” He presses a soft kiss to your forehead as you close your eyes, and whispers, “Good girl”. As your heart flips, he leans back and says, “Let me help you clean up baby”, rubbing a hand over your thigh. You nod, knowing he’s gonna have to pull out, and after a few more gentle kisses, he helps you onto your back again, his calloused hand over your stomach as he says, “okay, you ready?” You bite your lip, nodding and he starts to pull out- a grimace on his face. As his dick pulls out with a wet pop, his load oozes out of your hole and onto the couch. “You did so good baby, I’m so proud of my girl.” he says in his raspy voice, moving away from between your legs, standing up. He watches your perfect figure lying back on the couch, and tells you, “I’ll be right back.” before walking out of the living room.

He comes back after a few moments, holding one of your shirts, a glass of water and a cloth. You smile in awe, heart aching at his attempt to give you aftercare. He leans down, sitting on his knees on the cold floor, setting the glass of water onto the coffee table with a clink. “Can I help baby?” he asks softly, holding up the cloth. You smile giddily and say, “Yes, please”, and then his paws are on your legs again and he whispers, “Spread your legs f’me sweetheart”. If he hadn’t already just fucked the life out of you, you would’ve been needy again, but instead you open your legs for him, revealing your glistening cunt. He raises the damp cloth, moving it between your thighs and starts gently rubbing at your pussy. “There you go” he whispers, one hand pushing your thigh down to have access while the other holds the cloth. Carefully he cleans you up, electricity running through you when the cloth rubs on your sensitive nub. He places the cloth to the side, not breaking eye contact as he presses the softest kiss to your clit. You shudder, still having aftershocks from your second orgasm.

“Thank you,” you whisper and smiles, placing his hands on knees, and getting up. He moves back onto the couch, pulling you close to his side and tells you, “Lift your arms for me”. You do as he says, and ever so softly, he pulls a clean shirt over your head, gently pulling your arms through the sleeves. He kisses your forehead and wraps an arm around your waist, breathing softly into your hair. A sigh of relief leaves your mouth and he whispers your name sweetly, before breathing out, “I love you”. You nuzzle your face into him as he holds you and you tell him, “I love you too.” His manly hands stroke your hair as you cuddle and he sighs in content. Somehow, he managed to change your night that started out with tears and despair into a night filled with love.

“I’m sorry you felt alone baby. But just know I’m here for you now. I’m yours, and I’d do anything and everything for you.” You listen to his deep rich voice as he holds you, trusting his every word. “Oh Frank,” you whisper, closing your eyes against him. He smiles softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss against your bare shoulder.

decided to color that one sketch i posted on ig stories the other day

"If I don't die tomorrow I'll come and see you, baby Through all the pain and sorrow Only you can save me"

So, the quest will go into something like this:

Hans Sequences

To be able to find Henry and Erik on FIRST DAY (achievement):

Hans and Sam must choose to FOLLOW the mercenary group right after they leave camp, without calling reinforcements.

This leads to a tracking and investigation sequence until their location is found.

The downside of this path is Hans has Extreme Fatigue Debuff from being held hostage for days. His vitality is reduced to half during this day, and he has no heavy armor.

Direct combat with the group is strongly discouraged (2 vs 25). Stealth is the intended approach.

After finding their camp, then Hans must sneak inside the fort → steal the key → reach the dungeon → defeat Erik (which is very difficult fight) and save Henry.

Sneak inside will be challenging because the fort are swarming with guards and Hans outfit currently didn't help him with the sneaking situation.

Hans also don't have Masterstrike yet, making battle with mercenaries and Erik later more difficult.

But if Hans by miracle can do that, Henry can be saved faster and this quest ends early!

Hans, Sam and Henry then must escape from the fort. Quest ending after they leave the fort parameter with their horses.

This path will lead to First Day Rescue Ending (Ending 1)

(If Sam dies in your playthrough, his role will be replaced by Father Godwin)

If Hans choose to CALL THE REINFORCEMENT, storm will erase the mercenaries track, make it impossible to track them directly.

Then the quest involving meeting several people and asking here and there, doing this and that. Hans has multiple way and places to track Erik.

This choice is longer and laborious, but the upside of this is Hans and Sam got more people now (Godwin, Zizka, Dry Devil, Kubyenka, Janosh, and 12 additional Mercenaries) so instead of sneak around they can directly raid the fort.

Defeating Erik also become easier since Hans is not debuffed and can prepare for proper armor.

Hans can also learn Masterstrike from Dry Devil before progressing to fort raid, making battle with Erik far easier.

Erik's fort is located outside of Kuttenberg map so player can't cheat their way directly there (well, except you mod this of course lol)

After Hans gathers the right intel, before the fort raid sequences, gameplay will switch to Henry, giving Henry chance to escape by himself. The gameplay will back to Hans if somehow Henry failed to escape. More of this in Henry Sequences

During Fort Attack, your focus is to break through their defenses. Stay with the group make it easier but it will take some time.

Loot the dungeon key from the soldier near the dungeon.

After you find Henry, cutscene will play. Now you need to defeat Erik in duel.

Defeating Erik will end the quest

This path will lead to Fort Raid Ending (Ending 2)

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Henry Sequences

This Henry playable sequences only available if these two conditions meet:

Hans choose to CALL THE REINFORCEMENT on FIRST DAY

Hans able to track Erik during SECOND or THIRD DAY. During FOURTH DAY Henry won't be able to escape by himself anymore.

His sequences will be focused on escaping the fort and mercenaries' camp.

The quest will go down like this :

Debuff

Henry has Tortured Debuff during this sequence which halve most of his stats (Vitality, Agility, Strength, Thievery). Henry will also suffer from Tiredness and Hungry in extreme level.

If Its Third Day, Henry's Tortured debuff has additional effects which cause his stamina decreased drastically, making him unable to run, and combat almost impossible (he runs out stamina from only one attack/defense)

This debuff cannot be removed but can be ease with any potions that increased Vitality/Agility/Strength/Thievery and removed Tiredness/Hunger. In Third Day, Henry's Buck Blood at least gives him ability to attack/defense three times instead of one.

If you try to remove the debuff by consuming too many potions, Henry will throw up and removing all the effects.

Guides

If It's Second Day, Henry must find a wire and scrap iron in the interrogation room then craft a lockpick (skill check, need Craftsmanship 25 and Survivability 25 (without debuff))

If skill check failed, Henry can't escape by himself, he has no choice but to wait someone to save him and the gameplay back to Hans

If It's Third Day, Henry will instantly have 10 lockpick from the needles Erik used to torture him.

Regardless, use the picklock to unlock the two shackle (Medium) and the door (Hard) using the picklocks. You'll find it harder than usual because of the Debuff he suffers but you have ten chances so DONT MESS IT UP

If he can't free himself out from the room and spend all the picklocks, gameplay will back to Hans.

After Henry free from the room, kill the sleeping guards, then Henry must take back his belongings.

Henry's belongings are in Medium locked chest outside the interrogation room. But in case Henry messed up and spend all the 10 lockpick he has; the key was in the room opposite of the room Henry is now.

After retrieving your belongings, Henry will relearn new but old receipt: Lazarus Potion. Now with Henry's level, Lazarus can fill your health to max in 1 minutes.

With Lazarus and Painkiller, Henry could now stand and numb his pain temporary at least until morning. He now must steal the horse and sneak out from the fort and escapes.

If you are overloading / overencumber right now, you must leave with whatever you can bring since Henry is not in his best condition. Any items that you left can be retrieved back by Hans later in the story progression.

Engaging combat is NOT ADVISED because of Henry's condition and enemy number. But it's advised to STOLE a food, since Erik didn't give Henry any food during his imprisonment (and most food in your inventory will be rot already today by default).

You can steal the mercenary's armor there and with the closed visor, no one will recognized Henry, making sneaking out from there easier.

If it's third day and fighting enemy is unavoidable, the ONLY way to defeat enemy is with Masterstrike since the debuff make Henry lose all his stamina instantly if he attacks or defend, and his stamina recover longer.

During this quest Henry's Masterstrike is guarantee 1 hit kill, but it will take 20 seconds for him to be able to use it again. This is a reason fighting more than 1 enemy at once is death wish.

If enemy find Henry and defeat him in combat, Henry will be locked back in the dungeon and gameplay switches back to Hans.

After Henry escaped with horse, you'll get short cutscene, then it goes to chasing sequences.

Hold on for 3 minutes until Hans arrives and enjoy the cutscene

You will now control Hans, Defeat Erik and the quest will end

This path will lead to In Wilderness Ending (Ending 3)

The quest has 4 ending:

Ending 1: Day 1 Rescue (Hans Ending) Ending 2: Fort raid (Hans Ending) Ending 3: In wilderness (Henry Ending)

And fourth ending where Henry was executed and Hans couldn't bear the guilt in game over screen

This quest also has different version for Ending 2 to 4, depends of how your relationship with Hans ended in your game (Platonic/Romantic), more onto that later.

Another Notes: