forever is the sweetest con

Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.

And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.

The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.

Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.

He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.

He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.

You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.

The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.

His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.

When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.

While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.

You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.

Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.

Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.

And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.

Uncomfortably so.

He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.

Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.

He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.

Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.

And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.

The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.

Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.

"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."

Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.

He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.

Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.

The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.

Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.

The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.

"You got this, sweetheart."

Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.

"Better luck next time, angel."

What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?

Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.

God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.

The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.

Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.

"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.

You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."

"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."

The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."

Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.

His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.

Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."

"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"

"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.

Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."

Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.

You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."

He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"

You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.

"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."

He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.

"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."

"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."

The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.

The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.

You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.

"What do you want now?"

"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.

"No."

The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."

You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."

"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.

Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."

You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."

Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"

You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."

Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.

"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."

He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."

Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.

Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.

Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.

"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.

Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"

"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.

"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.

"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."

"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.

"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.

He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.

"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."

Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.

Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.

"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.

Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."

Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.

You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.

"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."

You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."

Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."

You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.

"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."

You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.

She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."

Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.

"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.

She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.

"Is it…am I really that obvious?"

She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."

She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.

You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.

Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.

Don't screw the crew.

The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.

"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.

Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."

You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."

Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"

Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.

You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"

"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."

You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.

"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."

Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"

Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."

You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.

You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.

Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.

Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."

"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."

He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"

A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.

Your girl.

Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.

Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.

Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"

"…Shrek 2."

Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.

"It's the soundtrack, right?"

You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."

You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.

Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.

"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."

The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.

"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.

"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.

"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.

Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."

You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."

The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.

Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"

You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"

"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."

You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."

Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.

You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.

Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.

She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."

"What?"

She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.

Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."

Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."

Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.

"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."

Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."

"We don't even know if it's about me!"

"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."

"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.

"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.

You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.

The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.

James B.

★★★★★ a month ago

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

Oh.

That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.

You don't know if it's about you.

You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."

Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.

"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.

"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."

"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."

Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.

It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.

"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"

"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"

"Or we could just ask who he is."

Something about that made you uneasy.

After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.

Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.

It was beautiful and terrifying.

And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.

"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."

Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.

Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.

You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.

A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.

Bucky had company.

Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.

Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.

The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.

You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.

You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.

You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.

Inhale. One, two, three, four.

Hold. One, two—

It didn't sound like she was faking it.

The breath rushed out of you quickly.

You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.

Inhale. One, two, three—

Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.

You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.

Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?

The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.

Did he call her sweetheart, too?

You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.

Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.

The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.

A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.

Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.

You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.

Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.

You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.

Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.

"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"

"Yeah? You like that?"

"Yes—god, so much!"

"You feel so good, baby."

Thump, thump, thump.

You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.

It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.

You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.

You fucking hated giggles.

By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.

No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.

The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.

The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.

When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.

What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.

"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.

"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"

Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.

Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.

She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.

The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.

It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.

You're a fucking fool.

She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.

Big mistake.

Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.

"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.

"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.

Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.

You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.

"We're watching Interstellar tonight," Nat spoke softly. "Steve's pick."

You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.

Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"

You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.

A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.

You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.

At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.

You walked into your shift the next day with another request.

You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.

You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.

Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.

And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.

You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.

The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.

She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.

You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.

"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.

She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."

Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."

Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."

He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.

Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.

Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"

You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."

"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.

You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"

She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."

Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.

Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.

"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"

Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.

"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."

The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.

"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"

You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.

"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.

That broke you.

Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.

You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.

You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.

"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.

You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.

"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.

Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.

She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."

Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.

Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."

"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.

Thursday 6:18pm

Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…

You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)

Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x

You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!

Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(

You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx

"I'm moving out."

It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.

Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.

Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.

"What?" She asked softly.

You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"

You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.

"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"

"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.

You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"

That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"

He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.

Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.

Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."

Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.

"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."

Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.

"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."

"Great idea," Sam mumbled.

"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."

Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."

"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."

That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."

You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"

"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.

"Bucky," Nat warned.

"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.

"Buck—"

"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.

"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.

The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.

"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.

Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."

You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.

Bucky was radio silent.

Tuesday 5:36pm

Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?

You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)

Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx

You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol

Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(

A month passed before you saw Bucky again.

You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.

Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.

Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.

But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.

It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.

You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.

Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.

You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.

"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.

A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.

Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.

"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.

He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."

You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"I—uh—how, how have you been?"

You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."

"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."

You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.

You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"

Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."

What the fuck did that mean?

"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"

"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."

It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.

Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."

Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."

Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."

If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.

And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."

You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.

"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.

You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.

You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.

You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.

"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."

"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."

A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."

You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"

A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"

Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"

You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"

He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.

James B.

★★★★★ 13 hours ago

Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.

Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.

What the fuck?

"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.

"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."

"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.

"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.

Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."

"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.

Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.

Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."

You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."

You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.

"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."

"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.

The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.

"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."

An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.

"Honey, there is no new roommate."

You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."

"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."

"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.

"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."

"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.

"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."

Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.

Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.

You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."

You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.

"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."

It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.

Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.

His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.

He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"

"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.

You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.

"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.

He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.

"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"

"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.

Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"

He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.

Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."

His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"

A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.

"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."

You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.

"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.

"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."

"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"

You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.

"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."

"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.

He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.

"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."

His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."

The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.

"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."

You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"

"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"

"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.

"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.

"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."

He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."

"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."

He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.

He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"

You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.

The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.

The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.

His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.

"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.

"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."

A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.

"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."

Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.

"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"

The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.

"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.

"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."

Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."

Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."

"Why didn't you reach out, then?"

He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."

You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.

You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."

"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.

The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.

He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.

"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.

He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.

He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.

You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.

He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."

"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.

His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."

He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.

You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.

"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.

He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."

You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.

He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.

"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.

"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"

You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"

You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.

"What was that?" He asked smugly.

Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.

"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.

He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."

His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.

He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."

You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.

"Bucky, please."

He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.

He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.

"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."

He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.

"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.

He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.

He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.

Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.

"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.

The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.

Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.

You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."

He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.

"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."

You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.

His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."

He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.

You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.

Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.

"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.

"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.

He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.

Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.

He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.

Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.

"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"

"Yes, Buck. Only yours."

He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."

He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.

"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."

A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.

He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.

Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.

The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.

"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"

You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.

A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.

"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."

With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.

Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.

"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.

"Need'a minute," you slurred out.

His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.

"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Hi. How you feeling?"

You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.

One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.

You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.

"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.

"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.

"Are you clean?"

His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.

"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."

His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.

"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"

That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."

He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.

He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.

He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.

"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.

He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.

"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.

"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.

He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.

He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.

"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.

"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.

He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.

His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.

You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.

"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.

Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.

The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.

You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.

"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.

"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.

"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"

You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.

He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.

The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.

Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.

He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."

His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.

Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.

Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.

"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.

His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.

He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."

You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.

"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.

Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.

"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.

"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.

Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.

He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.

You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.

"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.

He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.

"I love you too."

"When can we move your stuff back in?"

Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.

You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."

His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"

"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."

"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."

You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"

He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.

"So, you're James B? This whole time?"

His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"

"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"

You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"

"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."

Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."

Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.

"…Are you jealous?"

The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."

Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?

"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."

Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.

You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."

The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.

"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"

a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔) yes, team, reader should’ve made bucky grovel HOWEVER high emotion tension filled make up sex is hot 🫦 bro is buying her flowers and taking her on dates every day for the rest of their lives 😌

It was all getting too much for him so he quickly calmed himself down and swung over to your place, beyond desperate for a distraction before his brain exploded.

You jumped when you heard the knock at your fire escape but you quickly walked over, opening it when you saw his familiar face.

You couldn’t even open your mouth to speak when Peter quickly went in, mask in hand, and smashed his lips onto yours.

You gasped as his hands pulled you towards him, keeping you as close as possible to his body. You didn’t have time to think so you kissed back making him moan and reach down to lift you.

Your legs wrapped around his waist as he made his way straight to your bedroom, as if he knew your place like the back of his hand.

His tongue slipped into your mouth expertly and fast, your hands reached up to his hair to tug on his curls. He groaned into your mouth and within seconds your back was met with your mattress.

You had never seen him this eager before, with his hands tearing through every item of clothing, and his teeth nipping at your skin.

There was no time to ask why the hurry as he got in between your legs and started eating your pussy like there was no tomorrow.

You moaned, letting your hands go down to run through his curls. Instead of taking his time and teasing you like he loved doing, he was the complete opposite.

His head was moving up and down as his mouth worked overtime, sucking and licking every crevice of your pussy.

Somehow with just those few seconds of excitement it was enough for you body to get wet for him.

Wouldn’t be the first nor last time that happened.

“Fuck Peter-“ you moan, instantly making him moan against you.

It sent a shiver down your spine and before you could blink, he was off and climbing on top of you. You sat up a bit as he moved towards you and you instinctively opened your mouth.

He didn’t hesitate and instantly thrusted his hard cock all the way then held your head to keep you there. His hairs tickled your nose and you felt your eyes well up with tears already before he let you go and his cock slipped out.

You took a deep breath only for him to thrust himself down your throat again. Right when you were about to move your head, he pulled out once again then got off the bed.

His strong arms then pulled you to the edge of the bed before lifting your legs up high. They were spread as he slapped his cock on your dripping cunt, the noises being more obscene than usual.

He looked down where your bodies were about to meet, damn near salivating before he locked up and locked eyes with you.

You could have sworn his eyes looked completely black but right when you were going to take a closer look, he slammed inside you.

You whimpered as he bottomed out, putting your legs on his shoulders before he started to move. His thrusts were instantly hard and fast, which caught you by surprise.

But you weren’t opposed to it.

Not when every inch of him was bullying its way inside you like never before.

He was grunting and groaning with every thrust as if you weren’t even there.

As if you were just a hole he needed to fuck and fill.

You always told him this was something you’d be up for but now that he was actually doing it, you felt so needy.

His eyes were rolled back as he held your legs up, the sounds of skin slapping filling the room. You moaned along with him as he continued his brutal pace, using your poor pussy like a toy.

You felt so dirty.

But couldn’t help getting wetter.

If this was how he was going to be then it was definitely something you could get used to.

And his dirty words were only making you worse with every passing second.

“Fits me so perfectly.”

“Take it like that, baby.”

“I love this fucking pussy.”

You whimpered out and he moaned your name, squeezing your skin — you decided to hold your legs for him so he pushed them down and he moved down as well.

You cried out when he thrusted his hips into yours, giving you no mercy whatsoever as he pounded his cock into you.

With the slight change his cock now reached deeper inside you and his thrusts didn’t slow down, no they were even worse.

It felt so good and you didn’t have words to say, his cock leaving you dumb and whiny.

You really did try to think of something smart to say but nothing came up besides broken sobs and pleas for more.

He listened and leaned down a little more, his head above yours as you locked eyes while he pounded into you. His curls were falling and some were already stuck to his forehead because of the sweat.

You let go of your legs and grab onto his arms which were by your side. You squeezed his arms as he kept his relentless pace, making you both moan at the same time.

Your eyes were fluttering but his were right on you, watching your every reaction and moaning louder.

Suddenly he slowed down, almost pulling all the way out before slamming right back in.

You whimpered and gave him a pout while he repeated the action again.

He had a devious grin on his face as he did it again, grunting your name under his breath.

Your nails dug into his skin making him groan and it was like activating a switch because he stopped. He pulled back and brought your legs down before just spreading them wide and hovering over you.

Your hands went up to the back of his neck, playing with his hair when he went back to his rough thrusts.

“God- you’re so tight.” He groans, making you whimper, “J-Just for y-you Peter.”

“Good girl.” He moans, bringing a hand to cup your jaw.

You bite your lip and his eyes go down to it, before leaning down and kissing you. You kissed back and he slipped his tongue inside, clearly impatient.

Your tongue glided against his messily and he gave the same beefy back. He moaned in your mouth which earned himself a needy whimper from you.

You were so focused on the kiss you almost forgot how he was fucking your brains out.

His hips were pressed flush against yours, with every deep push he felt himself getting closer and closer to his release.

And he could feel that you were the same.

You were clenching against him more, your walls entrapping his cock and almost throbbing in need.

He pulled back and pressed his forehead against yours, “tell me what you want.”

He rammed into you hard, making you cry out then whine, unable to think.

He was pleased with himself and whispered, “c’mon you can do it.”

You stubbornly shook your head making him groan, “fine.”

Right when you thought he was going to pull out his movements were somehow even faster than before.

“I’ll just take what I needed from you-“ he grunts instantly making you whimper.

He chuckles then murmurs, “Mm dirty girl.. fuck I needed you so bad baby.”

“Peter!”

“Tell me you want me to make this needy pussy come.” He whispers, his dark eyes on yours.

Your vision was so hazy but they were so clearly different but you couldn’t focus on that when you felt your orgasm being right there.

“Please make us cum. Please, please!” You plead, followed by a loud cry.

He groaned and with a final deep thrust he spilled his load and you felt yourself explode on his cock. Your body shook as you came with him and your lips collided with his as he tried to drown out both your cries and moans.

You lazily kissed him back as your legs shook and your poor pussy was clenching against him. But he wasn’t pulling out.

And he was still cumming.

You suddenly felt very full and tried to push him off but he didn’t budge and slid his tongue inside your mouth to distract you.

You whimpered, shivering as he just kept pumping more and more cum inside you. Never in your life have you ever felt so full and he just wasn’t stopping.

But it was like he couldn’t, not that he didn’t want to.

He pulled away from you, eyes tired as he pulled out and came on your clit. Two seconds later it finally stopped and his load was spilling out all at once, dripping down to your asshole and straight onto your bed cover.

You looked down and watched in shock as he did the same but he had a look in his eye that had you guessing what he wanted to do.

In a blink of an eye he dropped to his knees and he was slurping up his cum. He was eating it out of you, with no care if you were sensitive or not, just swallowing drop after drop.

When it finally felt like it all came out he slipped two fingers in and started fingering you slow.

Then the rest of the cum came out slowly but surely and he licked it all off you.

When he finished, he climbed up, and you joined him, quickly getting comfortable in his arms as he calmed his breathing and wiped his mouth.

It starts small.

It always does.

The way your boss talks down on you. The way they guys at work treat you like a glorified secretary even though you outrank half of them. The way your heels are digging into your achilles tendon or the way your pencil skirt is forcing your thighs together and increasing the stupid chaffing between your legs.

So by the time you get home and you can hear Frank in the living room- you are fuming.

The door clicks shut behind you, a sound that should signal peace but only ignites the fuse. You drop your keys into the bowl with a clatter that's just a little too loud. You hear a shift on the couch, the muted sound of the TV lowering.

"Hey baby," he calls out, his voice easy and relaxed. "How was it?" You don't answer. You walk into the living room, your heels clicking with sharp, angry sounds on the hardwood floor. He's exactly where you knew he'd be, sprawling on the couch like he owns the place, a lazy, satisfied grin on his face. He looks you over, his eyes taking in your rigid posture, the tight line of your mouth, the fire in your eyes. The grin doesn't falter. If anything, it sharpens. "Rough day, huh?" You stop in front of him, hands on your hips.

"My boss, Frank. My boss stood over my desk today and explained to me, using small words, how to format a spreadsheet. A spreadsheet. That I designed. That the entire department now uses." Frank nods slowly, his expression one of profound sympathy.

"Bastard."

"That's not all," you continue, your voice rising with pent-up frustration. "Mark, from accounting, patted me on the head. He patted me on the head, Frank, and told me I was 'doing a real good job for a girl in my position'." Frank looks up at you and rage crosses his features.

Anger floods his veins at the words coming out of your mouth- and the anger rushes through his blood and right down to-

Oh god. Not now.

"And then my boss had the nerve to ask if I wanted one of the guys to carry a box of printer paper for me." Frank watches you storm from one end of the living room to the other.

"You know what was in the box?"

"What?"

"Printer paper." He nods gravely.

"Heavy stuff." He reaches down and subtly presses a hand to his groin, biting back a groan and the relief the pressure gives him. His head tips back and he scrambles to grab a pillow to hide his growing erection from you. You're too busy pacing to notice his predicament.

"I swear to God, Frank, I was two seconds away from quitting. Just walking out. I don't need this shit. I don't need to be pat on the head like a fucking golden retriever."

"Good," he grunts, his voice strained. "You should've quit." You stop pacing and glare at him.

"I can't just quit! We have a mortgage!"

"Fuck the mortgage," he says, his voice tight. He shifts on the couch, adjusting the pillow in his lap. "Nobody talks to you like that." You finally notice the strange look on his face, the tension in his jaw, the way he's holding that pillow like it's a life raft.

"What is wrong with you?"

"Nothin'," he says, too quickly. "Just… hate those guys."

"You look like you're in pain."

"I am," he admits, his eyes darkening as they lock onto yours. "You look so fuckin' beautiful when you're angry." You stare at him, dumbfounded for a moment, before the realization hits you. Your eyes drop to the pillow in his lap, then back to his face.

"Are you serious right now?"

"Can't help it," he groans, his hips shifting involuntarily. "It's… fuck, baby, it's a lot." You let out a disbelieving laugh.

"I'm telling you about my soul-crushing day, about being demeaned and belittled, and you're getting hard?" He groans, dropping his head back against the couch.

"Sweetheart, I swear to God, I'm listenin'."

"You'd better be."

"I am."

"No, because your face says one thing and the rest of you is apparently having a completely different conversation." He lets out a defeated sigh.

"I didn't choose this." You fold your arms.

"You absolutely did."

"I absolutely did not."

"You could've thought about taxes."

"I tried."

"Did it work?"

"...No."

"Sports?"

"Nah."

"You fighting a bear?"

"I usually win." A reluctant laugh escapes you. Frank catches it immediately.

"There it is."

"Don't."

"The laugh."

"I am still mad."

"I know."

"You are not getting points because you accidentally made me laugh."

"Wasn't countin' on points."

"You'd better not be." His smile softens.

"I just..." He shakes his head, looking at you with that warm, impossibly fond expression he only ever wears at home. "God, you're so fucking beautiful, mama." That soft, fond look in his eyes is your undoing. It always is. It's the crack in the armor, the moment the infuriating, cocky man who gets off on your anger reveals the heart that beats just for you. The fight drains out of you in a rush, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a desperate, aching need.

"Frank," you whisper, and it's not a complaint anymore. It's a surrender. He sees it. He sees the shift, the moment you stop fighting him and start needing him. The lazy fondness in his eyes is instantly replaced by that dark, consuming hunger again. He slowly, deliberately, places the pillow on the other end of the couch, revealing the hard, thick length straining against his jeans. He doesn't try to hide it now. He wants you to see.

"C'mere," he says, his voice a low command. You go. You step forward, between his knees, and his hands are immediately on you, gripping your hips. His touch is hot, possessive. He looks up at you, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, the swell of your lips, the fire that's still banked in your eyes.

"Still mad?" he asks, his thumbs stroking circles over your hipbones.

"A little," you admit. "It was a really shitty day."

"I know," he murmurs, his hands sliding around to cup your ass, pulling you closer.  He leans forward, pressing his face against your stomach. His breath is warm through the thin fabric of your blouse. He mouths at your navel, a wet, open kiss that makes your knees weak. His fingers find the zipper of your skirt, tugging it down with agonizing slowness. The fabric pools at your feet, leaving you in your blouse, your heels, and the lacy panties you'd put on this morning in a futile attempt to feel powerful.

"Fuck," he groans, his gaze fixed on the scrap of lace between your thighs. Frank tugs you forward so your knees hit the couch cushions and he’s below you, looking up. He kisses your hip, then your belly through the fabric, breathing in slow and heavy. His hands smooth over your thighs, rough with calluses and need, until you gasp and his gaze snaps up. He’s hungry in a way that’s all teeth, lips, tongue. He wants to ruin you until you forget anyone else on Earth exists. He’s already working your panties down, shoving them to mid-thigh so you’re bare but still wearing them, a makeshift garter. He grunts when he sees the wet slick on you, the evidence of your own anger and heat and all the things you said you hated today. He laughs, mean and delighted, and you want to slap him even as you let him pull your legs apart.

“Look at that,” he says, using two fingers to spread you, just a little, so the cold air hits and you shiver. “Knew you’d come home soaked.” You blink at him, and he grins. “I know you, honey. Bet you were mad in the car and thinking about me the whole damn time.”

“You’re an asshole,” you spit, but it’s ruined by how breathless you sound. He hums in agreement and brings his hand to his mouth, tasting you like he’s sampling a vintage.

“Fuck,” he says, “you always taste so goddamn good.” He stands up, and the moment his cock clears his jeans it’s hard and angry-red, bigger than you ever remember but exactly as thick as you need. He lines himself up and drags the fat head through your folds, slow, up and down, just enough to make you twitch.

“Frank,” you whine, genuinely whine, and the sound seems to break his last pretense of control. He palms your ass and lifts you with nothing but brute strength, flipping you down onto your back on the couch, heels digging into the armrest, skirt rucked up around your waist. He circles the head at your entrance, notching in just enough to make you clench and buck.

“Gonna stretch you, okay? Gonna split you open nice and slow, let you feel every motherfucking inch.” He doesn’t wait for permission, because he’s already got it. He pushes the tip in, and you feel yourself crack around him, the pressure so sharp and brutal that your mind blanks white for a second.

“Jesus Christ,” you gasp, and Frank laughs, but there’s nothing soft in it. He rocks in, a little more, and you whine, head tipping back as he pushes your thighs up near your head.He works you open inch by inch, relentless and careful all at once, watching your face the whole time. Your knees are up by your ears, back arched so far the room tilts white at the edges, every stretch and ache pulling you wetter around him, which only lets him push deeper. Frank spits in his palm, strokes once, then drags himself back through you slow, cockhead catching your clit until you jerk and curse him under your breath.

"That's it," he growls, something raw underneath the pride of it. "Taking me so fucking good. Knew you were greedy." His hands lock around your thighs, bruising, pinning you into the cushions as he drives you higher up the couch until your blouse is twisted and the last button is working hard to stay. He doesn't look away from your face. He wants every clench of your jaw, every flash where the pain tips over, every helpless sound he pulls out of you.

"Bet none of those pencil-dicks at work could do this," he manages, barely, through the rhythm his hips have taken on without him. "Bet none of 'em could even get you wet." You try to throw something back at him. What comes out instead is a moan, wrecked and high, because he bottoms out again and you swear you feel it behind your sternum.

"You're the only one," he says into your skin, the growl all gone out of him. " You ruin me, you fuckin' hear?"Frank’s hips stutter, his hands locked around your thighs so hard you’re already feeling the bruises set. He kisses the inside of your knee, then bites it, laughing through the growl in his voice. His cock fucks you open until the base drags across your clit, grinding you into the cushions with every thrust. Sweat breaks slick at your lower back and you’re gasping out little sounds, trying to breathe around the sheer immensity of him, the way he stretches all the soft parts and refuses to let you go.

“God, that’s it. That’s my fucking girl,” Frank says, and there’s something wild in the way he says it, like he’s staking a claim in your bones. “Hear yourself? So fuckin' desperate, sweetheart. So fuckin’ pretty when you cry on my dick.” You don’t know you’re crying until his thumb wipes under your eye and comes away wet. He shoves your legs higher, his face so close you can taste the mint on his breath and see every fleck of blue swimming in the dark of his eyes. There’s nothing gentle in the way he pounds up into you, but Frank’s always careful, always reading you even as he splits you open like a promise. He slows for a second, carving out a breathless space between thrusts so you can feel him, all of him, every impossible inch inside.

“Look at you,” Frank says. “Swallowin' it down like you were fuckin' made for this. For me.” You want to mouth off, to call him a bastard, but the only thing that comes out is a strangled

“Frank—” as he rocks deeper, harder. Your nails dig moons into his shoulders and he just grins, devouring them.

“Could keep you like this forever, you know that?” He’s slowing to drag the head of his cock through you, pausing to grind circles that make you sob. “Just fuckin’ ruin you on the couch every night, let you let go for once instead of carrying the whole damn world.” You clench around him, shivering and wet, and you’re not sure if you’re crying or laughing but it’s all the same, all bright white noise behind your eyes. He’s so big and you’re so full you can barely breathe, but Frank talks you through every second, every inch, every twist of your body as it tries to find room for him.

“You’re takin’ me so good, baby. Such a good fuckin’ girl f’me.” He kisses your temple, your hairline, his breath damp against your skin. The arm of the couch bites into your ribs and Frank folds you even tighter, pinning your knees almost to your shoulders. The angle is obscene, pornographic, and he watches himself disappear into you, his cock shining with slick every time he drags out.

“Fuckin’ perfect. You’re perfect,” he mutters, almost reverent as he hammers back in. “You hear me? You’re fucking perfect.” Something hot and secret unspools low in your belly. He must feel it, because he ramps up the pace, fucking you through the tear-prickled edge of your orgasm. Frank’s grip goes iron around the backs of your knees, folding you until your thighs press to your chest, heels braced wide on the frame of the couch. He fucks into you like he’s got something to prove—like his only imperative on earth is to breed the memory of every corporate asshole right out of your fucking skull. Each thrust lands with a solid, visceral thud, scraping you along the battered corduroy until the friction and stretch blur together and curl up bright and sharp at the base of your spine.

The rip of your blouse is so casual, so inevitable, you barely notice it—Frank’s hand fisted the fabric for leverage and your body bracing hard against the pressure, the button surrendering with a metallic ping before your brain can even register the noise. He bends down and takes your nipple between his teeth, not gentle, and the pain shocks your clit into a high, keening ache. The raw wet pulse of it, the fucking fullness of him, it crushes everything down to sensation.

“You’re gonna take it, baby,” Frank grunts, and his voice sounds like it’s been marinated in gravel and whiskey. “You deserve better than those fucking pricks. You deserve this—” He rolls his hips and you feel every straining inch bottom out, pressing so deep you see little pops of static behind your eyes. The end of him butts up against something inside you, a sick ache, but you push back, desperate, greedy, clenching around him until his jaw goes slack. He drags his thumb along your cheek, tucks sweaty hair behind your ear, then drags you up by the jaw until you’re both nose-to-nose.

You can smell him everywhere, sweat, soap, the metallic edge of his stubble, the leftover tang of whiskey and toothpaste mingling on his tongue when he kisses you again, messy and relentless. He’s got no rhythm now; it’s just grinding, animal, his cock pounding you so deep each thrust pitches you up the couch another inch. It hurts, it’s perfect. The feeling snowballs behind your belly, frantic and huge, a beast of a climax that stalks closer every time Frank works you tighter, wetter, shoving his thumb down to circle your clit. You curse and buck, but he’s got two hundred pounds and a fuck-you attitude, and he puts them to use pinning you open. His cock is so deep you swear you’ll snap, but you can’t stop, can’t even think about stopping. There’s only the stretch, the slap of skin and the frantic, dizzying heat of his thickness splitting you open like it’ll never fit, not all at once, but Frank’s a miracle worker, and he wants you to remember it for days. He fucks you to the edge, draws it out, circles his hips so the head of him pops in and out just enough to burn, to make your eyes cross. You’re not even a person, just a vessel he’s filling, and he keeps you there with words and hands and cock, all at once.

“You take it so fuckin’ well, you know that?” he grits, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat painting a hot smear where your skins slide together. “My perfect girl, takin’ every goddamn inch. Didn’t think you could, but look at you. Fuckin’ made for me, baby.” The praise makes something raw and wild break loose in your chest. That desperate little ache unspools, spirals wider, and a sharp, weepy sound stutters out of you.

“That’s it,” Frank pants, voice downright worshipful. His cock pulses inside you and you feel every throb, every twitch. He holds you down, fucked open, and grinds through your climax like he’s carving it out by hand. The couch squeals and the world whites out and you shatter in his arms, sobbing his name over and over. Frank lets you ride it, lets you shake, lets you wring yourself out on him until the only thing left is a blinding, empty pleasure and a sweet, ringing ache all through your center. He barely slows, barely gives you a second to breathe before he’s rutting up again, chest pinning you down as he chases his own finish. His hand comes up and he palms your breast hard enough to sting. “Gonna show you who you belong to,” he rasps, fucking you so deep you swear you’re turning inside out. “Not those idiots at work. Not anyone else. Just me.” You can’t say anything. You just nod like a doll, tears leaking out the corners of your eyes. He bites the shell of your ear, laps the salt from your cheek, and keeps muttering filth and love in equal measure.

“Look at me,” he says, and you do, locking in until the rest of the apartment blurs out to haze and heat and his pupils blown wide. “You’re fucking perfect. Say it.”

You try to tell him to fuck off, but your voice quavers, the nearest you get is a gasp: “Frank—”

“Say you’re perfect or I’ll fuck you through the goddamn wall.” Your brain scrambles for a retort, but your cunt betrays you first, spasming around him in a clutch that has Frank pounding in, fisting your hair, nipping your lip with a growl. You’re split wide, staring up at Frank, every inch of your body thrumming with need, your nerves shredded and raw. There’s no room for language left, not a single fuck-you or even a whimper. Just the hot spike of his cock abusing the sweetest part of you, the obscene stretch of being folded up so harshly, your calves braced on his shoulders and his hand pinning your throat just tight enough to make the world blur at the edges. You want to say something, anything, but every thought is knocked loose with the next thrust, slammed out of you on a ragged, humiliating moan.

You feel tears streaking back towards your ears, frank humiliation and pleasure burning together. At some point your nails have dug bloody crescents into his forearm, and he fucking loves it—slows just long enough for you to lock eyes, for you to see yourself reflected in him, annihilated and bright.

“That’s my girl,” he rasps. “You take it. C’mon, baby, you can take it, show me—fuckin’ hell.” The pressure of his thumb makes you see blotches of color as your pussy spasms, slick and full. There’s no way you can possibly handle more, but he finds a way to brute-force his cock even deeper, grinding the flare of the head against your most sensitive spot until you’re howling and scrabbling at the battered couch for leverage.

“Didn’t believe me, huh?” He’s panting in your ear, voice gone hoarse. “Didn’t believe you could take all of me. Always thinkin’ you’re gonna break but you never fucking do.” You hate how true it is, how you’re always on the edge, braced for disaster, waiting for the world to snap, but you never let yourself collapse—except for him, here, when it’s safe to let go. You can’t bear to look at him anymore, you’re too raw, and he knows it, kissing your eyelids soft and slow even while his hips rut you open. There’s nothing in the world but Frank and the hot crash of your own heartbeat. He fucks you through the aftershocks, holds you pinned and helpless while he grinds in slow, shallow, brutal circles, milking every afterpulse from you. You let out a loud, ugly keening cry, and he finally lets go of your throat to brush your hair back off your face, thumb heavy on your cheekbone. It’s sick how gentle he can be while he’s ruining you. You gasp for air, sobbing, and he croons in your ear,

“That’s it, that’s my good fuckin’ girl, you did so good, shit—you’re so fuckin’ tight on me now, can feel you everywhere—” The words derail into a snarl as you tighten down, legs shaking against his trapped biceps. Frank’s rhythm breaks, the last of his control dissolving as he chases his own finish. He’s crushing you under his weight, caging you in, and you feel each spasm of his cock as it drags inside you.Frank’s hands are everywhere—your hips, your thighs, your ribs, his thumbs digging into pinked flesh just above your knees. He wants you wrecked, that much is clear, and you can feel him getting off on every inch he forces inside, every time your body bows and fights to make room. Your thoughts snap and scatter with every punch of his cock, your world a tunnel of sensation, bleak and bright and loud.

“Almost there, baby,” he grinds out, sweat streaking the line of his brow, falling in a hot stripe onto the fucked-wild mess of your chest. He doesn’t stop even when your legs start to shake, doesn’t slow when you claw at him. There’s just a dark, unyielding need in him to fill you up, to stuff you full so you’ll feel it for days, until no one else can even look at you without you flashing back to this. When he has you bent double, knees to your ears, he plunges in so deep your lungs squeeze tight.

“Fuck, you’re trembling—” A rough thumb traces the inside of your knee and down to your ankle, like he’s checking the voltage of your nerves. He kisses you, open-mouthed and a little sloppy, then sinks his teeth into your bottom lip until you moan. Every part of you is raw, prickling with heat and the threat of tears. You’ve never said “please” in your life, always believed in making demands—and Frank brings out the kind of need that turns you into a soft thing, pliable and greedy, begging for more. You want him deeper, want him to claim every dark, ugly space inside you. He leans in, the bulk of his body pinning you down, stretching you out like you’re meant to be on display.

“Feel that?” he asks, and the words barely break through the fog but you nod furiously, clutching at the meat of his arm. “You take me so goddamn good. My fucking champion.” Frank’s cock kicks inside you, relentless, like he’s piloting a piston that was never meant for the delicate architecture of a body. You’re full to the marrow—so full it aches all up your belly, even up to your fucking lungs. Your head’s spinning, ears ringing and eyes wet, and Frank’s still whispering filth into your hairline, into the sweat behind your ear, voice so rough it almost doesn’t sound like language.

“You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good, that’s it, that’s my pretty girl, takin’ all this dick for me—” He rolls his hips and you feel the shape of him, thick and veined, rutting higher and deeper with every pass, as if he’s got to leave proof under your skin. You gasp and the sound comes out a cracked half-sob, but he just kisses your jaw, sharp and quick, chasing the sound. He lets up a little, caressing your side, thumb streaking along your sweat-wet ribs.

“Still with me?” His voice slices through the white noise in your skull, and you meet his gaze, fighting to stay above the tide. He’s a mess—hair damp, jaw shadowed and flexing, mouth swollen from how he keeps biting it to keep from coming right now. His pupils are blown black, wild, but he’s watching you, reading you for every twitch. Frank takes a deep breath, pushes you both deeper into the battered cushion.

“You want it, right?” He slows the next thrust, lets you feel every ridged inch drag through you. “Gonna take all of it?” He’s so thick you can barely nod, but you do, and the strangled noise in your throat finally earns you that sweet, rough kiss. He’d never admit it, but Frank gets off on how cock-drunk he can leave you, the way you’re reduced to nothing but need, your body talking for you while your mind’s still fried. He leaves his hand wrapped around your throat, just a gentle clutch, anchoring you.

“Fuck, look at you. ’S like you were made for me.” The praise short-circuits something in your chest, makes you clench down hard on him, which sets him off with a shudder and a volley of curses. He folds you even tighter, tucks your legs up so your knees squeeze closer to your ears, hips locked open. The new angle is devastating—he grinds down and you swear you can feel the flare of his cockhead punching so far inside you you might split at the seams. There’s no air in the world except the sweat-slicked heat of his skin, the salty-sweet taste of his mouth crashing onto yours, the deep, stars-flickering stretch of his cock. He cages you in, voice gone ragged with pride, telling you over and over:

“That’s it, baby, all of me. Take all of it. God, you’re so fuckin’ perfect, look at you—” and you’re powerless, helpless, wrecked and still wanting more.It should be humiliating, the way he holds you down and wrecks you. But there’s nothing safer in the world.

His control finally shatters. It's not a graceful breakdown; it's brutal, messy. A choked, guttural sound tears from his chest, raw and animalistic. His hips slam forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and he stills, every muscle in his body locked tight. You feel the hot, thick pulse of his release deep inside you, a possessive flood that claims every inch of your bruised, aching core. It's a claiming, a brand. He collapses onto you then, not with his full weight, but enough to pin you, enough to make it hard to breathe, enough to make you feel utterly and completely owned. His face is buried in the damp curve of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, harsh pants against your skin. You can feel the frantic, slowing beat of his heart against your own chest.

For a long time, the only sound in the room is the two of you, gasping for air in the wreckage you've made. The world slowly comes back into focus, one hazy detail at a time. The sticky leather of the couch against your back. The cooling sweat on your skin. The smell of him—sex and sweat and Frank—filling your lungs, anchoring you to reality. Your legs are shaking uncontrollably where they're still hooked over his arms, and you slowly, painfully, lower them. A deep, bone-deep ache settles in, a throbbing reminder of how thoroughly he's claimed you. He doesn't move for a long moment, just breathes against you, a dead weight of satisfaction. Then, with a groan that sounds like it's pulled from the depths of his soul, he pushes himself up. He doesn't pull out, not yet. He props himself on his elbows, framing your face, his dark eyes scanning every inch of you. He looks wrecked. Hair a mess, face flushed, lips swollen and red. But his eyes… his eyes are soft. The wild, possessive hunger has been replaced by something so tender, so full of awe, it makes your chest ache. He shifts his hips, a slow, deliberate movement, and you both gasp at the oversensitive friction.

"Fuck," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "Still so tight for me." He leans down and kisses you, and it's nothing like the kisses from before. There's no teeth, no desperation. It's slow, deep, and impossibly gentle. A kiss that says everything he can't put into words. A kiss that worships. He finally pulls out, and the loss is so sudden and profound it makes you whimper. You feel the immediate, slick trickle of his release down your thighs, a filthy, possessive mess. He watches it happen, his gaze dark and possessive, a flicker of that primal pride returning to his eyes. He reaches down, his fingers tracing through the wetness, smearing it over your skin.

"So fuckin' beautiful." He rasps, shaking his head. Frank's thumb brushes slowly across your cheek.

"You with me?" he asks again, softer this time. You blink up at him, your thoughts still slow and scattered. It takes a second to find your voice.

"…Yeah."

"Yeah?" You nod.

"I'm here." A relieved breath leaves him.

"There you are." The worry he'd been hiding melts from his face, replaced by something impossibly gentle. He smooths your hair back from your forehead, tucking loose strands behind your ear with rough, careful fingers. "You did real good." Your lips twitch.

"You always say that."

"'Cause it's true." He presses a lingering kiss to your forehead before resting his own against it.

"You hurt anywhere?" You consider the question honestly.

"Sore." He nods as though he'd expected exactly that.

"Anything else?" You shake your head.

"No."

"Head feel okay?"

"Mhm."

"You dizzy?"

"A little floaty." Another nod.

"Alright." He doesn't rush you. Doesn't move until you're ready.

Instead, one hand rubs slow circles across your back while the other keeps hold of yours, his thumb lazily stroking across your knuckles. The steady rhythm grounds you. Eventually you let out a sleepy sigh.

"I don't think my legs work." That earns a quiet laugh from him.

"I had a feelin'."

"They've resigned."

"They'll recover."

"I don't believe you."

"You don't have to." His smile is warm enough that you find yourself smiling back.

"There she is."

"What?"

"That smile." His expression softens even further. "Missed that." You reach up and trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips.

"You look tired."

"I am."

"You pushed yourself."

"So did you." You shake your head.

"No."

"No?"

"You took care of me." Frank's eyes search yours.

"Always." He says it without hesitation. Like it isn't even a promise. Just a fact.

He shifts carefully, making sure not to jostle you, and reaches for the blanket draped over the back of the couch. He unfolds it with one hand and settles it over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders.

"There."

"You tucked me in."

"I did."

"I thought I was supposed to be the grown-up."

"You can be tomorrow." You laugh quietly.

"Bossy."

"So I've heard." He brushes another kiss against your temple.

"You thirsty?"

"…Very."

"I'll get you some water."

"You don't have to."

"I know." He eases himself up, disappearing into the kitchen for a moment before returning with two glasses of water. He helps you sit up just enough to take a few careful sips.

"Slow," he reminds you.

"I know."

"Humor me." You roll your eyes affectionately but do as you're told. When you've finished, he sets the glasses aside and pulls you right back against him. The familiar weight of his arms settles around you.

"Frankie ?" You mutter, yawning.

"Yes, beauty ?"

"Will you take me to bed ?" Frank looks down at you, his expression immediately melting. The sleepy little yawn. The way your eyes are barely open. The way you're already halfway curled into him without even realizing it. His mouth twitches into the softest smile.

"…Yeah, sweetheart."

"You promise?"

"I always keep the important ones." You hum contentedly, already starting to drift.

"Okay." He studies you for another second, making sure you're really ready to move.

"You think you can hold onto me?"

"Mhm."

"'M gonna pick you up."

"'Kay." One arm slides carefully beneath your knees. The other wraps securely around your back. He lifts you as though you weigh nothing at all. You instinctively curl into him, your forehead finding the familiar place beneath his jaw. Your arms loop lazily around his neck, and you let out another sleepy sigh.

"There she is," he murmurs.

"So comfy." He chuckles.

"I can tell." You nuzzle absentmindedly into the side of his neck. He's warm. Solid. Comfortably familiar.

"You smell nice."

"I smell like soap."

"And you." His laugh is quiet enough that you feel it more than hear it.

"The highest compliment." He carries you slowly down the hallway, careful with every step. Not because you're heavy. Because you're precious. One hand rubs absentminded circles against your back as he walks. The bedroom is dim, lit only by the bedside lamp he'd forgotten to switch off earlier. He pauses beside the bed.

"Ready?"

"No." He smiles.

"Gotta put you down anyway." You make the tiniest sound of protest as he lowers you onto the mattress. The second your back hits the cool sheets, your hand shoots out, grabbing the front of his T-shirt.

"No." His eyebrows lift.

"No?"

"Stay."

"I ain't goin' nowhere."

"You better not." He leans over you, brushing a kiss across your forehead.

"I've got one thing to do."

"What?" He reaches behind you, pulls back the comforter, then eases you underneath it before tucking it gently around your shoulders.

"There."

"You tucked me in."

"I did."

"You always tuck me in."

"'Cause you like it."

"I do." He smiles knowingly.

"I know." You watch him disappear for a moment, only to return carrying your favorite oversized sleep shirt.

"I figured you'd be more comfortable."

"You think of everything."

"Nah." He sits on the edge of the bed, handing it to you before politely turning his back while you change. When you finish, you poke him gently between the shoulder blades.

"'M decent." He turns around. Immediately, his face softens all over again. Your hair is a mess. Your eyelids are heavy. You're wearing a shirt that's far too big for you. You look impossibly cozy.

"…C'mere." You don't argue. You simply lift the blanket. He slides in beside you with a tired groan, settling carefully onto the mattress before opening one arm. You roll into it without hesitation. Like you've done it a thousand times. Because you have. Your head finds his chest. His chin rests lightly on top of your hair. One hand drifts lazily up and down your spine. Neither of you speaks for a while. The room is peaceful.

Quiet. Safe. Your breathing slows.

"So sleepy," you mumble.

"I know."

"You'll wake me if I have a nightmare?" His arm tightens just a fraction.

"Before it even gets started."

"And you'll still be here?" He kisses the top of your head.

"When you wake up." Another kiss. "And the morning after that." You smile against his chest.

"I like when you carry me."

"I noticed."

"It makes me feel…" You trail off.

"What?"

"…Safe." Frank's hand stills for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is rough with emotion.

"Good." He presses one last lingering kiss into your hair. "That's all I've ever wanted."

taglist !

That little box is staring at you.

You can feel it, eyes boring into your back as you try your hardest to go about your day.

But it's there. In the back of your head. With that stupid sticky note on top.

For when Frank is gone, xoxo - Karen.

I mean, what was she thinking ? Getting you a vibrator ? God !

You exhale slowly through your nose, like that might somehow erase the entire situation. It does not.

“I cannot believe her,” you mutter to yourself, nudging the box slightly farther across the counter like distance will neutralize it. You scoff softly, dragging a hand down your face.

“I work with criminals,” you whisper. “Actual criminals. And this is what breaks me.” The box doesn’t respond. Unfortunately.

Frank has only been gone a few days. Some pressing work with Micro and Homeland that couldn't wait- and he left you with a soft kiss on your forehead and the promise to call every night to help you fall asleep.

You had no idea how you'd gotten a man so unbearably soft. I mean, it's not like you were a virgin or anything- but you weren't exactly experienced. You'd had a total number of one serious boyfriend your entire life, back in highschool - and he bled into your college and early adult life.

It's not like he was a great lay either.

All he would do is lay on top of you and rut helplessly, and then come on your stomach in the span of five minutes, shuddering helplessly and crying as he thanked you, and then whispering "did you come" in your ear, like it was a prize he was to be given after all of his hard work.

Even now you shudder at the memory, eyeing the box suspiciously as your stomach gave a vulnerable little flip.

You never had any siblings or parents or anyone for that matter- that taught you what it was supposed to feel like. What you were supposed to do, when you were on your own. You tried to touch yourself once, years ago, hiding in your bathroom with your phone, looking at diagrams of the female anatomy to figure out which part of the mess between your legs was the clit. It did not end well. It was enjoyable. It was a little bit painful, and it made your whole body tense and uncomfortable, so from that day on you just accepted that you weren't going to be that kind of person.

But now, with Frank gone- god your body is thrumming with need.

You exhale again, slower this time, like you’re trying to manually regulate your own thoughts. It does not help. The box remains on the counter. Judging you.

You turn away, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it with water you don’t really want. You take a sip anyway. Your eyes flick back.

The box hasn’t moved. Neither has the problem.

Frank has only been gone a few days, and you’re fine. You are absolutely fine. You have been sleeping, eating, functioning like a normal adult woman with a stable marriage and a job that does not involve emotional damage on a daily basis. Except for the fact that your husband calls you every night like clockwork, voice soft and warm in your ear, asking if you’ve eaten, if you’re safe, if you miss him. Which is unfair, honestly. Borderline manipulation four your pussy, which clenches whenever you see his name pop up on your screen.

And then there’s this.

You glare at the box again.

“I don’t even need it,” you mutter. It does not care. You turn your back to it and start rinsing dishes you already washed earlier, because if you stay still too long you’ll think about it. And if you think about it, you’ll— Nope. Absolutely not.

“…It’s just a machine,” you whisper to yourself. It remains unhelpful. You take a step closer. Then another. Then stop.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter. Another step. You reach for it, hesitate, and immediately yank your hand back like it bit you.

“Nope.” You exhale, rub your forehead, and glance toward the hallway as if Frank might appear telepathically just to catch you in the act of being a disaster. Nothing. Just you. Just the box. And Karen’s extremely smug handwriting. You stare at it for another long second.

"For fuck's sake." You whip up the box, tearing it open as you storm off to your bedroom, kicking your door closed like a teen hiding some big secret from her parents. You flop down on the bed, scooting up until your back hits the headboard, and you retrieving the vibrator out of the box. It's small, elongated, and thin- and you grimace as you try to picture the feel of it compared to Frank's thick and heavy cock resting between the two of you as his fingers dive inside of you getting you nice and ready for-

O-kay.... You really need to get yourself off before Frank comes home.

Laying back on the bed, you shimmy yourself out of your shorts and flip on the vibrator, flinching as it whirrs to life. You gulp down the fear balling up in your throat and bring it down between your legs. At first, it tickles a little, and you squirm, trying hard not to give up. You screw your eyes shut and try hard to focus on something else, anything else.

"Fuck, you're so gorgeous." God his body is perfect. So perfect heavy above yours, rutting into you so hard and violently you can't even breathe properly. God you can feel him in your throat, mouth hanging open. "Love watching you take me, baby. So fuckin' good f'me." The hard planse of his muscles glint with sweat, and the way his hand hikes up your thigh to drag deeper, and deeper and deeper and Your eyes snap open.

This is not working.

Your body feels worked up and ready to go, ready to burst with the tension coiled up inside of you, but nothing you do will help you get to that sweet sweet release you feel with Frank. Choking on a sob, you toss the vibrator aside and duck beneath the covers, horrified with yourself.

You don't have time to wallow in self-pity though, because your phone rings beside you.

You stare at it like it’s personally mocking you.

Frankie

Of course. Of course he calls now.

Your hand freezes halfway under the covers, heart still doing something deeply illegal in your chest, your body still half-aligned with the aftermath of your very humiliating attempt at self-sufficiency. The phone keeps ringing.

Once. Twice.

You swallow hard, yank the blanket higher like that will somehow fix your entire emotional state, and answer.

“Hey,” you say, immediately too breathy.

"Hiya, baby." His voice is soft and caring, and your insides melt immediately. "How's my pretty girl ?" You bite back a sob at the sound of his voice.

You bite back a sob at the sound of his voice. It’s not fair. It’s really not fair. Because he sounds normal. Grounded. Warm. Like he hasn’t just turned your entire nervous system into scrambled wires from three thousand miles away.

"I'm okay." You manage. "When are you - Frankie, when are you coming home ?" You whine. God, you sound so pathetic. But you miss him. You miss him so much your whole body feels on fire. Although that might be from the orgasm you tried to give yourself that never came.

"Soon, baby. Soon. I'll be home tomorrow night, i promise." His voice is torn and ragged, which tells you he obviously misses you too. That does something to you. Not just the words—but the way he says them. Torn. Ragged. Like he’s holding himself together with sheer will just to stay steady for you.

Your throat tightens.

“Tomorrow night?” you echo softly.

“Yeah,” Frank says. A pause. Then, quieter: “If everything goes right.” Your heart flips over in your chest.

“That’s… that feels so far away,” you whisper before you can stop yourself. Frank lets out a low sound—half agreement, half apology.

“I know.” Silence settles between you again, but it’s different now. Less empty. More full. Like both of you are sitting on opposite ends of the same thread, pulling gently without breaking it. You shift under the blanket, suddenly hyper-aware of everything—your skin, your breathing, the lingering frustration still coiled tight in your stomach from earlier. Frank clears his throat.

“You been eatin’?” he asks, slipping back into his steady tone. You blink.

“…Yes.” A pause.

“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart.” You groan softly into the pillow.

“I had crackers.”

“That’s not dinner.”

“It’s food.” Frank huffs a quiet laugh.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “I leave you alone for a couple days and you fall apart.”

“Excuse me?” you say, offended despite everything.

“You heard me.” There’s warmth in it though. Always warmth. You can picture him right now—probably leaning back in a chair, hand over his mouth like he’s trying not to smile too much at you. And that image makes something in your chest unclench.

“I miss you,” you admit again, smaller this time. Frank goes quiet for a beat. Then:

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I miss you too.” A pause. Then, lower—

“Tell me what you’re doin’ right now.” Your stomach does something stupid.

“…Nothing,” you say carefully.

“Mm.” Suspicious hum. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Frank.”

“What?” he says, entirely too innocent.

“I’m literally just lying in bed.” A beat. Then—

“Uh-huh.” You can hear the smile now. Definitely. You groan.

“You’re impossible.”

“You love me,” he says easily. That shuts you up instantly. Because he’s right. And he knows it. Frank’s voice softens again.

“Hey,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll be home tomorrow night,” he repeats, slower this time. Like he wants you to hold onto it. “You hear me?” You swallow.

“Yes.”

“And when I get back,” he adds, voice dropping just slightly, “I’m not lettin’ you outta my sight for a while.” Your breath catches.

“…That a threat?”

“It’s a promise.” And somehow— Somehow that makes your whole body go warm in a way you definitely don’t need right now. You press your face into the pillow to hide it, even though he can’t see you.

“Frank?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

"Hurry home.”

-----

When the door thuds closed the next night, your entire body seems to perk up at attention.

"Baby ?" A bag thudding in the entryway. Boots getting kicked off. "You home, mama ?"

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

"Where you hidin', pretty girl ?" You practically tumble out of the bedroom and into the living room.

And dear lord there he is.

His hair has gotten longer and his bear is more scruffy, but it's him.

Frankie. Your Frankie.

Your body reacts before your brain does.

He catches you halfway across the room, arms wrapping around you so fast and so tight it knocks the air out of your lungs. You make a small sound—half laugh, half relief—and disappear into him completely, jumping up and wrapping yourself around him like a baby koala.

Frank’s hand slides into your hair immediately, holding your head against his neck like he needs to feel you there to believe it.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters into your hair. Your fingers clutch his shirt, not wanting to let go. He wraps his arms around you, dragging you close. "God, you smell so good. Since when do you smell this fucking good ?" He rasps, chuckling and shaking his head. You laugh against his neck, the sound shaky from relief more than anything.

“Since you left.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true.”

“Mm.” He pulls back just enough to look at you. “Lemme see you.” You immediately tighten your hold around him.

“No.” A laugh bursts out of him.

“Baby.”

“Nope.”

“You launched yourself at me like a heat-seeking missile.”

“Correct.”

“And now you won't let me look at you?”

“Also correct.”

Frank shakes his head, smiling so hard the corners of his eyes crease.

“C'mon.” Reluctantly, you lift your head. The second he gets a good look at you, something in his expression softens. Not lust. Not amusement. Just pure affection. Like he genuinely missed every tiny detail. His hand comes up to brush a piece of hair behind your ear.

God, you can't take it.

With a groan, you surge forward, catching his lips with yours. He retaliates almost immediately, large hand cupping the back of your head to push you closer as you slide down his body and land on the floor. Your entire body feels like a live wire, and ever simple stroke of his knuckles along your arms is sending shock waves to your pussy that make you want to scream "fuck me, fuck me, fuck me". His tongue delves into your mouth as his large hands hold your head steady, and you melt at the feeling, your knees going weak as you can fee; the wetness in your panties spread and soak. You clench your thighs desperately, whimpering pathetically as your fingers knead into his hair your body shuddering as you try to step closer to him. Your hands leave his shoulders and trail down his chest, fumbling desperately for his belt. He breaks the kiss, chuckling.

"Woah, woah, baby-" You shake your head, already kicking off your shorts as you slot the belt off his waistband, your body thrumming. Your small hand finds his erection through his jeans, and he hisses a breath, hips bucking into your grasp. You moan, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him again. He smiles against your lips, dragging you close.

"C'mon, baby, slow down-" He chuckles. You shake your head, grabbing his wrist and shoving it down your panties, moaning at the sheer contact of the heel of his palm against your clit.

"No, no, no more waiting- Please, Frankie, fuck, please, i need you to make me come, please-" You're practically crying, rutting against his hand in the living room, hand gripped into his shirt.

"Hey, c'mon, wait-" His hand slips out of your panties and he presses his hand to your collarbone, stopping you from reaching up and kissing him again. "Whaddya mean, 'make you come' ? What's wrong, baby ?" He's staring down at you, confused, his brows drawn tight. Shame bursts through your body, hot and embarrassing, and you shrink away from him, shoving his hands off you.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry." Frank's entire expression changes instantly. The teasing disappears. The confusion stays, but now it's threaded with concern.

"Hey." He catches your wrist before you can retreat too far. Not trapping you. Just stopping you from running. "Baby." You can't look at him.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Look at me." A beat of silence. Then, gently:

"That's gonna be a problem, sweetheart. You're my favorite thing to look at." Normally that would make you laugh. Instead, you groan and bury your face in your hands.

"Oh my God !" You grumble and take off in a run for the room.

"Wait- Sweetheart !" You can hear Frank thundering down the hall behind you, and you throw yourself down on the bed, head first into your pillow, curling around it as if it could help absorb the embarrassment coiling through your veins. The door opens, and you don't look up. You clench tighter around the pillow.

"Baby, come on." Frank says, chuckling a little in disbelief. "You gotta tell me what's goin' on. I've been gone for a month, you're gonna need to fill me in here." The mattress dips beside you, and his hand falls on the small of your back, rubbing affectionately.

"Alright." His voice stays calm. Steady. "Talk to me." You immediately shake your head, refusing to look up at him.

"Baby."

"No." you grumble into the pillow.

"Sweetheart."

"It's embarrassing." Frank actually snorts.

"You've known me for years."

"Exactly."

"I have seen you do far more embarrassing things than whatever this is." You let out an offended noise into the pillow.

"That's not true."

"Sweetheart." Frank's hand slides up and down your back. "I once watched you accidentally send a grocery list to your boss." Your face immediately burns hotter.

"That was one time."

"You signed it with three heart emojis."

"I was tired."

"You called him 'love.'"

"I know." Frank laughs. The traitor. You groan louder and shove your face deeper into the pillow. For a moment, he just sits there beside you, rubbing your back while your dignity actively leaves your body. Then, more softly:

"Baby." You refuse to answer. "Sweetheart." A muffled grumble escapes you. "I can't help if you don't tell me why you practically shoved my fingers inside you three minutes after i stepped into the door."

"It's stupid."

"Okay."

"And embarrassing."

"Okay."

"And you're gonna laugh."

"Probably."

"Frank!"

"I'm bein' honest." You finally roll over just enough to glare at him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed with that stupid patient look on his face. Hair longer than when he left. Beard scruffier. Eyes soft. Home. Your annoyance immediately loses half its strength.

You sigh dramatically. Then sigh again. Then hide your face in your hands. Frank waits. Eventually, the words come out.

"Karen bought me something." His eyebrows rise.

"Okay." You immediately regret speaking.

"Never mind."

"Nope." He points at you. "We're already committed now." You groan.

"Karen bought me something."

"What'd she buy you?" Silence. Frank's eyes narrow.

"A vibrator."

"Oh." Your face catches fire.

"Oh my God."

"Oh."

"Stop saying oh." His mouth twitches.

"Baby."

"Don't." His eyebrows disappear into his hairline.

"Karen bought you a vibrator?" You make a strangled sound and bury your face in a pillow. Frank completely loses the battle. A laugh escapes him. Just one. Then another.

"Frank!"

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not."

"No, I'm not." The pillow you throw at him hits him directly in the face. He catches it, still laughing. You want the earth to swallow you whole.

"Okay," he says after a minute, finally composing himself. "Now I definitely need the rest of the story."

"There is no rest of the story." The look he gives you says he doesn't believe that for a second. You stare at the ceiling. He stares at you. Eventually, you crack.

"I tried." Frank blinks.

"Tried what?" You point vaguely into the room.

"The thing."

"The thing...The vibrator."

"Yes." Silence. Then understanding dawns. Slowly.

"Okay." You immediately hide your face again.

"Please stop saying that." Frank's expression softens instantly. The amusement fades.

"Baby."

"It didn't work." He pauses.

"What do you mean?" You shrug helplessly.

"I don't know." The confession comes out smaller than you intended. "I thought maybe I was supposed to know how." Frank's face changes completely. Every trace of teasing disappears. You hate how emotional that makes you. "I just..." You stare at the blanket. "Frank, i've never.." You gulp down the fear in your throat. His big hand finds your thigh and he softly squeezes it, making you look up at him.

"You can tell me, Mama. It's okay. I won't judge." He says. You sigh and tuck your hands under your thighs to stop them from shaking.

"Frank, i've never come before." Frank stares at you for a second, and then his brows furrow.

"Well, i know that's a lie."

"Frank-"

"Baby, i've felt you gushing on my dick. I know full well you've come before." He says, his head tilting to the side. You groan.

"On my own." You clarify. "I've never made myself come before. I don't know how." You say, your voice small. "I tried once, with my fingers but it- it felt wrong and it hurt so I never did it again and- and the vibrator didn't - it just didn't-"

"Woah, okay, hey." Frank cups your cheeks in his big hands, his thumbs pressing into your cheekbones. The panic that's been building in your chest hits a wall. Not because it's gone. Because Frank is looking at you like you just confessed you're scared of thunderstorms.

Not broken. Not weird. Not embarrassing. Just something he wishes you'd told him sooner.

"Baby," he says softly. You immediately wince. "Stop that"

"What?"

"That look."

"What look?"

"The one where you're already deciding you're defective." His eyebrows lift. "Cut that out." You let out a helpless laugh.

"I'm serious."

"Frank—"

"No." His thumbs brush beneath your eyes. "You're not broken." You stare at him. "It's not weird."

"It feels weird."

"To who?"

"Everyone knows how to do this stuff."

"Sweetheart, half the people on this planet don't know how to assemble IKEA furniture and you think everybody's got their body figured out?" He shakes his head. "C'mon." Despite yourself, you snort. Frank looks pleased. You roll your eyes.

"You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me." You hesitate. Then sigh.

"It's just..." Your shoulders slump. "Something's wrong with me." The words hang in the air. Frank's expression softens immediately.

"Oh, mama."

"You make it look so easy." His eyebrows shoot up.

"Me?"

"Yes, you. When you... you know."

"Sweetheart," he starts, his chest heaving. "I need you to show me."

"Show you ?" He nods, leaning back.

"Show me what you do. With your fingers. To yourself." Your chest goes tight.

"Frank-"

"I can help you." You shake your head, your cheeks going red.

"No, Frank. It won't work if it's not you. The vibrator didn't even work because my body knew it wasn't you !" He cups your cheek, shaking his head.

"Hey- Stop that." He presses a kiss to your temple and gets up, before dragging a chair over, and slumping down in it. "I just need you to show me." You watch as Frank settles—spread wide, forearms on his thighs, eyes gentle but expectant. He nods at you like this is any other day, like he’s just watching you taste a new dessert, and not die quietly of embarrassment.

“C’mon, baby. Let me see.” There’s no teasing, no mockery. Just Frank. You push yourself up against the headboard, drawing your knees up protectively before lowering them in slow-motion. The air between your legs feels cold, exposed, but you force yourself to tip your pelvis forward so that Frank can see you, see what happens when you actually try.

“Go on,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Just like you do when you’re alone.” His wrists rest on his knees, hands loose, relaxed, like no man has ever been more patient for anything in his life. Your fingers shake as you draw them down your stomach. It feels—to call it embarrassing would be a disservice to the word. Frank’s eyes are so serene, so kind, it almost makes it worse. But he wants to help. And you trust him more than anyone. So you slide your hand lower, cupping yourself, and immediately whimper at the heat—how much you want this, despite the chasm opening in your chest.

“That’s it,” Frank says, and the way he’s watching—like you’re his favorite art hung in a museum—sends a jolt up your spine. “Nice and slow, baby.” You do as you’re told, fingertips swirling awkwardly against your clit. It doesn’t feel like when Frank does it, not at all, but maybe that’s because you’re so busy worrying that you’re doing it wrong. You look up at Frank, expecting impatience or a smirk, but he just nods, leaning in ever so slightly.

“Good girl. Rub little circles, just like that, yeah?” You follow his voice, more than his example, focusing on the encouragement. Your hips twitch, electricity licking up your thighs.

“Does it—d’you like how it feels?” he asks, and your face goes scarlet.

“Sort of,” you admit. He nods, jaw flexing, still not making a move for you, just keeping his gaze where your fingers are.

“What does it feel like, pretty girl ?” You open your mouth and nothing comes out, not at first, but Frank is patient, always. He looks at you like it’s the most important thing in the world to know the texture of things inside your soul. So you try again.

“It feels… ticklish? But not in a bad way.” Your lashes flutter as you try to think. “It’s just… not intense enough, unless you—” You trail off, embarrassed. Frank’s tongue flicks briefly over his lips.

“Unless you what, baby?”

“Unless I do it really, really hard,” you admit. It sounds so dumb in the air, so clumsy, but Frank hums in approval.

“Show me how hard. I wanna see, mama.” His voice is deeper now, rich as espresso, and somehow makes your whole body clutch tighter with need. You press your hips up a little, digging the heel of your palm down, as if you could press yourself straight through the mattress and merge with it. The pressure makes you squirm, and you almost want to look away, but you keep your gaze on Frank. His eyes go soft in this unguarded way that makes you feel like you’re doing it right, even if it isn’t pretty. His hand falls between his knees, palming himself absently through his jeans as he watches.

“Good job, baby. Bet it’s so fuckin’ sensitive right now, yeah?” You whine, nodding helplessly, and grind circles against yourself harder as the heat grows and grows from a low simmer to a desperate ache.

“Wish I could touch it for you. Know it gets all throbbin’ when you’re feelin’ this kinda way.”

“Frank…” His name comes out as a high, tremulous sigh. Your thighs are shaking. You aren’t sure if you’re supposed to keep going or stop, but Frank gives you a tiny nod of encouragement.

“You’re perfect, y’know that?” His voice is so rough now it’s almost a growl. “Look at you. Gonna make yourself come all by yourself, just for me? Never seen anythin’ so pretty.” You clench, and the next circle you rub makes your whole body seize up.

“Keep going, sweetheart. Let me see you get yourself all wet for me.” The praise makes your chest climb and tumble. You keep your movements steady, letting the slick sound grow, feeling how much you’re starting to want it, how it’s building, slow and clumsy but honest.

“You got this, mama. Small circles, hmm ? Just like how I do to you.” You whimper, fingers moving clumsily at first, then with more intent, desperate to please him and yourself both. Frank watches you so closely, never letting your eyes go. He’s leaning forward ever so slightly, like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t. His patience is endless, and weirdly, that only makes you want to be good for him more. Your hand tightens, index and middle finger pressing a little firmer, and you draw a ragged breath as a flash of heat spikes up your spine.

“Better,” Frank rumbles, and you can hear it in his voice, how much he wants you. “That’s it, baby. See how easy you make it look?” You shake your head, panting softly. “You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me, you know that? Look at you. Beautiful.” The praise hits so much harder than you expect, and your thighs squeeze together, trapping your hand. You rub harder, faster, your hips starting to lose their careful rhythm. Frank’s voice is the only thing keeping you anchored.

“Take it slow,” he soothes. “Don’t gotta race it, angel. Just wanna see you enjoy yourself.” The endearment makes your eyes sting with sudden emotion. You whimper, grinding your palm into yourself desperately, chasing something you’ve never quite caught before. Frank’s hand moves to his thigh, palm flexing, and then he shifts his weight as you hear the low, unmistakable zip of his fly. Your brain whites out, then floods with molten heat. Frank’s eyes flick from your face to your hand to your face again, and he gives you the most devastatingly gentle smile. “You feelin’ it, sweetheart? Body wantin’ it now?” His voice is hoarse.

“Yes,” you gasp, and the need is so intense you can hardly breathe. “Yes, Frankie, please—” You don’t even know what you’re begging for. More? Guidance? Permission? All of it, probably. He pushes his waistband down just enough for his cock to spring free, thick and flushed at the head, and he wraps his hand tight around it. He groans, deep and low in his chest.

“Shit, baby—" He huffs out a laugh, voice husky. "Look at you. You're so fuckin' pretty like this." You keen at his words, and your circles become sloppier, more desperate. That ball of want in your stomach is tightening, winding itself into something sharp and barely containable. It's almost painful how bad you want it, and Frank watches every second. His hand glides slow and steady along his cock, every shift of his wrist a resounding validation. Your clit throbs under your touch, and you whimper, legs splaying wider. You want to shut your thighs, hide your embarrassment, but Frank's praise pins you open, more binding than steel.

“Don’t stop, baby.” he rasps. A whimper tears out of you, louder than you expect, and your hips jerk up chasing the feeling. You dab your index finger to your clit, a little more pressure this time, and the electric shock of pleasure makes your spine arch off the mattress. You moan, high and sharp, and Frank’s cock jumps in his fist.

“That’s it, fuck—don’t stop, keep goin’,” He’s panting now, not trying to hide it, and the praise, the focused worship in his voice, it does something wild and animal in you. You want to soak in it, drown in it. You rub faster, desperate, your fingers slick and messy.

“Frank,” you gasp, your voice blurring with the tears lining your lashes, “I wanna—fuck, please—” He’s sweating now, eyes frantic on your pussy.

“Show me, angel. You’re doin’ perfect, so fuckin’ perfect.” His hand never stops moving on his cock, the sight of it making you dizzy. “C’mon, let yourself go. Gimme a show, baby, let me see you lose control. You don’t need permission to come, you never fuckin’ did.” You whine, your body on fire, and suddenly your mind screams at you. This is when it all fails. It builds and builds and builds and then nothing every happens. You shake your head, trying to combat the thoughts.

“F-Frank, it’s not working-” You rasp, back arching. “Please, come over here, god- Frank, please- I need to come so bad.” You whine, shaking your head, heels digging into the duvet. You can feel your orgasm slipping away from you- like it always does.

“Hey. Eyes on me.” His voice snaps you back. “You can do it, baby. Just keep going.” You take a breath, swallow down the panic, and focus—not on the movement of your hand, not on the heat in your cheeks, not even on the tactile ache between your thighs—but on him. Frank, watching you with reverence, coaching you with his voice alone. His praise is oxygen, pure and searing. "There you go," he mutters, voice so warm you want to wrap yourself in it. "C'mon, that's it. You're almost there. Angel, you got this." Your fingers stutter at first, but then you settle into a rhythm—rubbing little circles, the kind Frank uses that drive you crazy, remembering how his voice would break when you fluttered around him. Your whole body locks up, rigid and shaking, but Frank won’t let you look away.

“Keep going, sweetheart, don’t be scared. I know it feels weird, but that’s just your body figuring it out. You’re so good, you’re doin’ so good for me, c’mon—“You can hear it, the slick and shameless sound of your body wanting, the sound that used to make you pull away. But not now. Not with Frank’s hand gripping the base of his cock, his hips rising in slow, reverent flexes, his gaze pinned to your every move.

"Good girl," he huffs, jaw tight and teeth bared. "My smart, brave girl. Show me how pretty you look when you come, sweetheart. Fuck, you're perfect." The praise is a lifeline. Your nerves fray at the edges, but you force your eyes open, looking straight at him. He looks hungry—hungry and proud and so fucking in love with you, like every inch of you is a miracle. It sparks something new and wild in your gut, makes your fingers bolder, faster.

“Frank,” you cry, unsure if it’s a warning or a plea, and your thighs tremble as the feeling builds in you—this time, it’s different. It doesn’t recede. It grows, and with his gaze on you, it burns you alive.

“C’mon, honey, let go. You want it, I know you do—Jesus, I can see how bad you want it.” Your stomach knots, pleasure as sharp as a blade scraping at the inside of you, and you mewl, desperate and high-pitched. It’s right there. Right fucking there. And Frank’s voice is the only thing keeping you from falling apart. You don’t even realize you’re crying until the tears roll down your cheeks, but instead of shrinking with embarrassment, you bear down, chasing the feeling. Frank chokes out a curse, thighs flexing as he jerks himself harder, eyes glued to the sight of you. Something shakes loose in you, a final wall coming down. You slip two fingers down, plunging them inside, curling hard like Frank does, and the pleasure blooms so violently you nearly scream. It rushes through your body, sharp and beautiful and dangerous, and Frank is chanting,

“Good girl, good girl, that’s it, you got it, look at you, look at you—” You ride it out, your thighs clamping tight, your body rolling wave after wave, until you fall limp against the pillows, boneless and sobbing with relief. Frank’s voice is raw, barely there:

“Fuck, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. You’re so fuckin’ sexy when you come. Good job, baby, fuck, you did so good—” You blink hard, watching him lose the rhythm of his own hand as he watches you, and then he’s coming, spectacularly, hot stripes of it painting his abs, and the sound he makes—low, grateful, almost reverent—makes you whimper.

“Are you- shit- are you okay ?” He rasps. He’s still breathing hard, hand sticky and knuckles white.You blink up at him, lost, the aftershocks still rippling through you in erratic waves. Pride radiates off Frank in thick, tangible heat—he’s never once looked away, and now he’s not even pretending not to gawk. He wipes one hand absently on his thigh and stands, fishing a crumpled tissue from the bedside to clean himself off. You watch him. You barely recognize your own voice, thin and needy:

“Come here?” Frank’s mouth tugs up, soft and adoring, and he’s across the room in two steps, crawling up onto the mattress. His weight dips the bed and you relive every touch he’s ever given you all at once. He captures your face, gentle, thumbs sweeping away the dampness on your cheeks.

“You did so good, baby. So fucking good.” His voice is hoarse, tinged with awe, like you just performed high-level magic. “Don’t think you’ve ever looked prettier in your whole goddamn life.” You want to say something back, but your brain’s still a puddle; all you can do is reach for him and let him pull you into his lap, arms bracketed around your waist. He presses his forehead to yours, so close you could count the lines at the corners of his eyes, the flecks in his dark irises.

“Proud of you,” he whispers, breath hot and shaky. “My beautiful, brave girl. You want more?” It’s not really a question. Frank’s already nosing down your neck, teeth scraping the raw spot where your heart gallops under the skin. You gasp a yes, and he grins into your throat like he can’t believe his luck. There’s a second where you worry it’s too much, too exposed, but he’s gentle—wipes your cheeks with his thumbs and kisses you like you’re air and water both.

“Good girl. My fucking good girl, took care of herself just like I asked.” His voice is syrup-thick with pride, and it makes your bruised nerves sing. His hand traces your jaw, reverent. He presses you back on the pillows with one hand cupping the back of your head, careful even when he manhandles you. He groans at the sight of you, weeks of being away from you tearing through his chest.

“C’mere, c’mere, Christ—” He’s kissing you, all mouth and teeth, his beard scraping your cheeks and jaw, and it’s so real, so physical, you keen for it, reaching blindly for the soft cotton of his ruined t-shirt to cling to. He tastes like salt and home and himself. You want to bear down and devour him.Frank runs his hands reverently down the slope of your neck to your sternum, then lower, his voice unspooling out in a husky mess of vowels:

"Can I, baby? You want me to fuck you now, or you wanna rest, or—"

"Please," you blurt, and it's like setting off a gunshot in a church. Frank makes a ragged sound low in his chest and his hands move to the waistband of his pants, shucking the rest of his clothes with an efficiency so unsexy it circles right back around to perfect. Then he’s bent over you, hands bracketing your hips, gaze locked to yours as if you're the only thing that matters, the only thing in the world worth looking at. He fists the base of his cock, so thick it looks almost dangerous, and coaxes the tip forward. You shiver, anticipation making your thighs shake. The heat of it drags over your oversensitive clit, smearing precum everywhere. You twitch, gasping, and Frank groans so deep it feels like thunder. He hooks his hand behind your knee, pulls your leg way up to your chest, angling your hips to open you wide.

“Hold it there,” he rasps, guiding your palm to hook under your own knee. You do it automatically, so desperate to please both of you that your muscles buzz with anticipation. Then he lines himself up, head of his cock pressed just barely inside your entrance. The stretch is instant, sharp, and your body trembles.

“Look at you,” Frank whispers, eyes hungry and disbelieving as he looks between your face and your pink, swollen pussy. “So fuckin’ perfect, baby, so wet for me—” Your hands tremble as you use one to steady yourself, bracing it against his shoulder, the other curled around the backs of your own thighs to bare yourself even more for him. Frank doesn’t push in all the way. Just… waits, flexing his hips so the head slips in, then out, then in a little deeper each time. He watches your face the whole time. Like he’s looking for something, the exact second you go from want to need to frantic. You whimper, rolling your hips up to chase him, but he groans and pins you there, huge hand splayed just above your belly button to keep you still.

“Easy, baby,” he mumbles, even as his voice frays at the edges. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you gasp, voice small and high and urgent. “Frankie, please, please—just—” He shush you, thumb tapping against your cheek.

"Yes, i will." He hums, softly pushing it a little bit more, as if to prove his point, when you whine and your body shudders in pain. He huffs softly, the sound almost fond, and then leans forward, the weight of his body pressing you further into the mattress. Your heart is rabbiting, lungs tight as you look up at him—wondering if you're supposed to be scared, or giddy, or both. Frank frames your face between his hands, rough palms gentle as they cradle you.

"You sure?" he asks, his voice stripped of everything but need and fragile reverence. You nod, frantic, too desperate to keep words in your mouth. The next thrust is a mercy and a violence at once. He pushes in deeper, the stretch immediate, overwhelming—a burning, aching fullness that makes your eyes prick with tears. You can't think for a second, can't do anything but pant and blink up at the dark shape above you as he holds himself still, your body fluttering around him.

"Jesus fuck," Frank breathes, like he's saying it for himself. "This sweet cunt's squeezin' me so goddamn tight, baby. Feels like the first time, huh?" You sob out a giggle, the pain and pleasure melting together until your head spins.

"Frankie, I can't—"

"Yes you can." He drags his thumb over your cheek, thumbprint anchored just under your jaw. "Take it, baby. C'mon, you always take it so good for me." He rocks his hips, shallow and slow, letting you get used to it. Each movement crackles through you, up your spine, until tears are streaming down your face and you don’t even care. You want to tell him it’s too much, but you also want to see if there’s anything better than this. The fullness, the pressure, the heat—like nothing else, nothing you could have done yourself. Frank slows, kisses the tip of your nose. "Tell me when you're ready." You squeeze his bicep, nails biting the skin to anchor yourself.

"Ready," you gasp, even though you're not, not really, but you can't stand the emptiness any more than you can stand the stretch.

"Fuckin' love you," he rasps, and then he starts to move.You're not sure how he manages to go both slow and deep, all that bulk moving with such careful, devastating force, but he does. Every time he drags out, you can feel your body trying to claw him back in, muscles fluttering with need. There's that bright, tender flare of almost-too-much that makes your back arch and then, just as you think you might shatter, he grinds his hips down, crushing your clit between the blunt root of his cock and your own pelvic bone. Even the friction is perfect. You must make a sound because Frank laughs, low and breathless, kissing your cheek and then your mouth, swallowing the moan.

"Like that, pretty girl?"

"Yes," you whine. "God, yes. Frankie, don't stop." He speeds up, and each drive of his hips knocks the air out of your lungs. The pain dissolves, replaced by a molten, high-strung pleasure that surges through your belly and threatens to short-circuit every nerve from your thighs to your teeth. You dig your heels into the mattress, chasing every piston-stroke, knees bracketing his hips to pull him even deeper.

"You fuckin' dreamed about this, didn't you?" he murmurs, pushing your face to the side so he can lick a stripe up your jaw. His breath is hot and disgusting and perfect. "All those lonely nights, just thinkin' about me splitting you open like this. Poor thing. Bet you hated every second I wasn't here to do it for you."You nod, frantic, your voice shredded.

"I did, I hated it, hated it, please, don't ever leave again—" He fits his teeth to your lower lip and nips, gentle and savage.

"Not gonna. Gonna keep you on my cock forever, baby, just like this. Fuck, you're so tight—jesus, you feel like heaven." Something in you snaps. The words, the rhythm, the obscene slow drive of him, it all blurs together and you explode underneath him. Your thighs tremble, your cunt clenching around him so hard he groans into your mouth. The orgasm is harder than any before, a full-body, burning-white spasm that makes you see stars. Frank goes still, hips buried to the root. He holds you through it, one hand cradling the back of your head and the other bracing your hip, voice reduced to guttural noises in your hair. You ride out every wave, writhing helplessly, unable to stop until the tremors taper off and you're left gasping, boneless, a hot mess of tears and sweat. He kisses your temple, soft as breath.

"Good job, baby. That's my girl." The praise splits you wide open again. You want to cry, or laugh, or maybe just shake forever. You thread your arms around his neck and pull him down for a kiss, messy and brutal, teeth knocking together and lips gone numb.He waits for you to catch your breath, then pulls out, slow and careful. Your cunt spasms empty around nothing, and the loss almost hurts.But you’re not empty for long, because Frank picks you up—gentle, but unrelenting, like he's remaking the world to suit himself. He hauls you up into his lap as he lays down, hips flush to his, and plunges back in, both hands gripping your waist so tight you know you'll bruise. The stretch is easier this time. Your pussy is still spasming, still dripping, still so fucking needy you'd let him take anything he wanted from you. Frank sets a punishing pace—nothing sweet about it—and each slap of his hips ricochets straight through your pelvis, making your whole body quake. Your clit throbs, oversensitive, but you can’t stop grinding back onto him, desperate and animalistic.

“Oh, fuck-” Frank rasps, staring up at you as you ride him. His hands dig deep around your ribs, holding you up like you weigh nothing, and it’s obscene, the way his thickness stretches you on every hard, perfect thrust. There’s no rhythm—he’s desperate, erratic, his head tipped back, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles stand out. Your own hands? Useless, scrabbling for purchase on his broad chest as the heat crackles off his skin and yours, sweat slicking between them. He fills you, each time bottoming out, and you can feel the angry pulse of him inside you, thick and hot, brutal in the best way. Your vision stutters with every slap of his hips, the sense of being split open eclipsing anything you’ve ever felt—no toy, no fingers, no desperate, solo night trying to chase something that never came close to this. Frankie hauls you down to meet his cock with such force you lose the ability to make sound, lips parted but all the air gone.

“That’s it—ride it, baby,” he groans, guttural now. His hands bruise you, his fingers mapped around your hipbones, and you swear you feel him everywhere: the base of your skull, the small of your back, the arch of your feet. You try to move, to match his rhythm, but he chokes out a laugh and pins you down, powerless to do anything but ride out the relentless, punishing grind of him.

“Look at you,” he pants, voice rough. “Split open on my cock, takin’ every inch—fuck, every time I come home to you, it’s like you get tighter, want me more. You know how crazy that makes me?” Even now, after all this time, you’re not sure he’ll ever fit, not really, but God, you’d let him try until your bones turned to dust. The burn slides into desperate need, and you choke a moan, knuckles whitening against his broad shoulders.

“Yeah, fuck, that’s it—look how you take me. Always so greedy for it,” Frank grinds out, sweat darkening the hollow of his throat. The noise you make isn’t human, not even close. The stretch, the fullness, the heat where it hurts and heals at the same time—you’ve never felt anything like it. It’s like there’s no boundary between pain and pleasure, not with him. He sets a hard, ruthless rhythm, slamming up into you so fast you see spots. Your head lolls, but Frank hooks a hand behind your neck, yanking you upright so you’ve got no choice but to meet his eyes.

“Nah, keep 'em open, baby. Lemme see you.” He says it like there’s nothing more important in the world than the look on your face when he’s absolutely ruining you.

“Need you to watch me fill you up. Fuckin’ hell, you’re already squeezing so tight—want it that bad, huh?” You try to answer but nothing comes out but this high, breathy moan. You can feel every inch of him—you can barely think around the sensation. It’s weeks of absence packed into seconds, and now he’s imprinting himself in your body, harder, deeper with every thrust. Your insides are all molten, shaky and raw, but every time you clench down, Frank just moans and bucks up harder, making you sob. He bends you forward, lips at your ear.

“You missed it, didn’t you?” His voice is rougher than you’ve ever heard, all grit and need. “Missed having me split you open. How’d that little toy stack up? Huh, angel?” He lets go of your waist, toying with your wrist, guiding your hand down to where you’re joined. “Bet it never got you this fuckin’ wet.” You shudder as you obey, fingers slick with both of you, and you can’t decide if you want to retreat or sink into it forever.

“Frank—oh—” The head of his cock knocks into the spot that always tips you over, and with the added friction of your own shaking hand, you’re already close.

“Do it,” he orders, reading your mind. “Come on, baby. You know how.” His fingers press you harder into yourself, making you touch where it’s almost too much. “You’re gonna make a mess all over me, aren’t you?” He sounds proud, triumphant. You come with a sob, your body contracting so hard your vision tunnels out to static. Frank never stops, not even when you sag limp against his chest—he just holds you up, one arm locked around your back like he’s been dying to get home and wreck you. You’re still twitching, oversensitive and wrung-out, but he’s relentless, hips driving through you pulse after pulse until you're wracked with helpless aftershocks. Snotty, delirious, you slur,

“Can’t—Frankie, fuck, it’s too much—”

“I know, i know,” he groans, “But you can, honey. You always do for me. One more.” His words wind around your brain and ignite something low and dangerous. All your nerves are frayed, synapses misfiring, but you want it—want to see if there’s an edge beyond this one. Frank’s hand spreads over your lower back, fingers splayed, anchoring you, and the angle goes sharp—he finds that spot again, the one that makes everything else disappear. He buries his face at your neck, voice muffled against her skin.

“Fuck, baby, gonna cream me again? Go on, you know I love it. Show me.” His filthy encouragement is almost worse than the physical sensation—you can feel him everywhere, over you, under you, inside you, rewiring every part of you into something desperate and raw. You fracture again, not even sure if it’s possible, but Frank wrenches the orgasm out of you, and this time you scream—no control, nothing left to hide behind. The shuddering clamps around his cock, and it undoes him. He lets go, hips jerking up in rhythmic, brutal pulses, groaning through clenched teeth as he floods you. It’s not enough for him just to come—he makes you hold still, makes you feel every spasm wrack his body, like he wants to brand you with it permanently. You whine out a tiny, tired, ruined breath, whole body shaking and shuddering, nails digging desperately in Frank’s chest.

“Jesus… Christ, sweetheart…” Frank’s voice is hoarse and spent, the afterglow so heavy it’s almost another drug.“Y’okay?” You try to answer, but your throat is raw, your voice shot to hell from all the screaming. All that comes out is a wet, shaky exhale that sounds suspiciously like a sob. You’re trembling—actually trembling—your limbs useless jelly, your heart still hammering like it’s trying to escape your ribs. Frank notices. Of course he notices. He always does.

“Hey,” he murmurs, rough thumb swiping at the corner of your mouth. “Hey, c’mere.” He shifts, still inside you, still thick and warm and anchoring you to the earth, and hauls you down against his chest. The movement makes you whimper—oversensitive, too full, your body confused about whether it wants to cry or purr. Frank wraps both arms around you, one hand cradling the back of your skull, the other spread wide across your spine, holding you like you’re something precious and breakable.

“Got you,” he whispers into your hair. “I got you, baby. You did so good. You’re okay.” You nod against his neck, tears leaking out despite yourself. Not sad tears—just… everything tears. Relief and release and the dizzying weight of finally, finally understanding what all the fuss was about. Frank doesn’t rush you. He just holds on, chest rising and falling beneath you, his heartbeat slowing gradually against your cheek.

“Fuck,” he breathes eventually, a laugh rumbling through his chest. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that? Gonna come home one of these days and you’re just gonna end me.” You snort, the sound ugly and wet, and Frank kisses your temple like he’s sealing something there.

“Shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled against his skin.

“Make me.” You don’t have the energy. You barely have the energy to keep breathing. But you manage to lift your head enough to look at him—really look at him—and the expression on his face stops your heart entirely. He’s wrecked. Hair plastered to his forehead, beard damp with sweat, eyes soft and dark and so full of you it almost hurts to hold his gaze.

“I missed you,” you whisper, because it bears repeating. Because you can’t say it enough. Frank’s hand slides down to cup your jaw, thumb tracing your swollen lower lip.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” He pauses, something mischievous flickering in his eyes. “Missed you too. Though I gotta say… you seemed pretty motivated to make up for lost time.” Your face burns. You bury it back in his neck, groaning.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” He’s grinning—you can hear it in his voice. “Don’t mention how you basically jumped me in the living room? Don’t mention how you were so desperate for it you—”

“Frank.”

“—shoved my hand down your panties like your life depended on it?” You reach up and clamp a hand over his mouth. He licks your palm. You shriek and yank it back, and he’s laughing, actually laughing, that rare, unguarded sound that makes your chest ache with love.

“Asshole,” you mutter, but you’re smiling. You can’t help it. Frank’s laughter fades into something gentler. He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, studying your face like he’s memorizing it.

“You really okay, though? I didn’t… I wasn’t too rough?” You shake your head.

“No. It was… it was perfect.” You hesitate, then add, quieter, “Thank you. For… you know. For not making me feel stupid.” Something fierce crosses his expression.

“Baby. You’re not stupid. You’re…” He exhales, searching for words. “You’re brave. That shit’s hard for you, I get it. And you did it anyway. You let me watch. You let me help.” His voice drops. “That means more to me than you know.” Your eyes sting again. You lean down and kiss him—soft, unhurried, tasting the salt of sweat and the familiarity of home. When you pull back, Frank is looking at you with that look again—the one that says you’re the center of his gravity.

“So,” he says, casual as anything, though his eyes are dancing. “About that vibrator.” You groan.

“Oh my God, can we not?”

“Just hear me out.” He shifts beneath you, and you feel him soften inside you, the wet mess of both of you sticky between your thighs. You should probably move, clean up, but you can’t bear to lose the warmth of him yet. “I’m not sayin’ we gotta use it. But… maybe don’t throw it out just yet.” You stare at him.

“You’re serious.”

“Might be fun,” he shrugs, that infuriating half-smile playing at his lips. “Me watchin’ you use it. Or us usin’ it together. I dunno. Options.” Your brain short-circuits. You open your mouth, close it, open it again.

“Frank Castle. Did you just suggest we incorporate sex toys into our routine?”

“I’m a modern man, baby.” You laugh—actually laugh, bright and surprised and delighted. Frank grins up at you, pleased with himself, and you realize with a sudden, overwhelming rush of gratitude that this is what safety feels like. Not just physical safety. The safety to be messy, to be inexperienced, to try and fail and try again with someone who looks at your embarrassment and sees courage instead.

“I love you,” you say. It comes out unplanned, raw and honest. Frank’s expression softens instantly. He cups your face in both hands, pulling you down for a kiss that tastes like promise.

“Love you too, mama. More than anything.” You whine against him, pain lancing through your body as his now soft dick pokes at your wildly bruised and sore inner walls. Frank notices immediately—of course he does. He’s always hyperaware of your body, every twitch and breath, and he goes still beneath you, hands settling at your hips with infinite care.

“Shit,” he breathes, wincing. “Sorry, baby. Hang on—” He moves slowly, so slowly, easing out of you with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with the roughness of before. It still burns—a sharp, tender ache that makes you gasp and dig your nails into his shoulders. Frank pauses, forehead pressed to yours, murmuring soft apologies until you nod for him to continue. When he finally slips free, you feel empty in a different way now, aching and pulsing and thoroughly used.

“C’mere,” he whispers, already shifting, already planning. Before you can protest, he’s already sitting up, one arm wrapped securely around your waist. The sheets tangle around your legs as he carefully helps you move.

“Bathroom,” he decides. You groan.

“Frank.”

“Nope.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “No arguments. C’mon.” You make a token effort to complain, but you’re exhausted, boneless in the best and worst ways, and Frank knows it. “Thought so.” He gets you to your feet with a hand on your back, steadying you when you wobble dramatically.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I absolutely am.”

“You’re awful.”

“I’m handsome. Different thing.” You roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts. The shower is warm by the time he gets you inside. Not hot. Just warm enough to ease the ache in your muscles. Frank fusses over you in that particular way he only does when he thinks you’re too tired to notice. Which, unfortunately for him, you always notice. He hands you your shampoo before you ask. Passes you a towel the second you reach for one. Keeps a hand at your elbow whenever the floor gets slippery.

“Frank.”

“What?”

“You’re hovering.”

“I’m helping.”

“You’re hovering while helping.”

“Semantics.” You laugh quietly. The sound seems to make him relax.

Later, wrapped in one of his old shirts and buried beneath fresh blankets, you find him staring at you from the other side of the bed.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothin’.”

“Liar.” His mouth twitches. He reaches over and drags you to him, before running his fingers in your hair.

"I just missed you." He presses a kiss to your nose. "Missed looking at your pretty face." You melt into him, your cheek pressed to his chest where you can hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His fingers keep moving through your hair, slow and methodical, working out tangles with a gentleness that seems impossible from hands that know so many ways to hurt people.

"Your heart's loud," you mumble, eyes already drifting shut.

"Yeah?" You feel him smile against the top of your head. "It's happy."

"That's corny."

"Don't care." He adjusts the blanket, pulling it higher around your shoulders, tucking it carefully under your chin like he's swaddling you. "You warm enough?"

"Mm." You nod, burrowing closer. "You're like a furnace."

"Good. Gonna keep you warm all night." His hand leaves your hair to trace down your spine, palm flat and warm against the cotton of his shirt. "You sore? Honestly." You consider lying, but he's Frank. He'll know.

"A little."

"Where?" His hand stills, waiting.

"Everywhere," you admit, face heating. "But… good sore. Like… stretched. Used." He makes a soft sound, almost pained, and tightens his arm around you.

"Sorry, baby."

"Don't be." You tilt your head back to look at him. "I liked it. I like… feeling you after. Knowing you were there." Something vulnerable cracks open in his expression. He looks at you like you've just handed him something precious and breakable, something he's terrified of dropping.

"Yeah?" he whispers.

"Yeah." He kisses your forehead, then your eyelids, then the tip of your nose again, each touch feather-light and reverent.

"My girl," he murmurs. "My brave, beautiful girl." You should make fun of him. The old you would have. But you're too tired, too loved, too safe in the circle of his arms. Instead you just hum contentedly and let your eyes close, breathing him in—gun oil and soap and something uniquely Frank.

"Water," he says suddenly, shifting like he's going to get up.

"Frank, no—"

"Yes." He presses you back down with a hand on your shoulder, firm but gentle. "You're dehydrated. I worked you hard. Gonna get you water and then you're gonna drink all of it, understand?" You groan, but you're smiling.

"Bossy."

"Damn right." He climbs out of bed, gloriously naked and unbothered by it, and pads out of the room. You hear cabinets opening, the fridge, the sink. He returns with a glass of ice water and two more ibuprofen, which he presents to you like offerings at an altar.

"Sit up," he instructs.

"I'm not an invalid."

"Never said you were. Said sit up." You grumble but obey, letting him prop pillows behind you. He watches you take the pills, watches you drink half the glass, then takes it from you and finishes the rest himself. "Good," he approves, setting the glass aside. When he slides back into bed, he doesn't just settle beside you—he gathers you up, arranging you across his chest like you're something to be cherished, legs tangled together, his heartbeat a lullaby under your ear.

"Frank?"

"Yeah, mama?"

"Stay like this? All night?" His chest rumbles with a quiet laugh.

"Not goin' anywhere. Gonna hold you so tight you'll have to pry me off with a crowbar in the morning."

taglist !

The first shot is your idea.

The fourth is Frank's fault.

By the time the bartender slides two fresh beers across the scarred wooden counter, you're both laughing hard enough that the regulars have started looking over.

"I am tellin' you," you insist, pointing at him with far too much confidence for someone who's definitely buzzed, "you absolutely danced." Frank snorts into his beer.

"I did not."

"You did."

"I shifted my weight, mama."

"You line danced."

"Baby - I threatened a jukebox."

"You two-stepped."

"I was avoidin' a drunk."

"You were the drunk."His mouth twitches.

"You got proof?"

"I've got witnesses."

"They're all drunk too."

"They're still witnesses." Frank shakes his head, a reluctant grin tugging at his beard. It's rare to see him like this. Relaxed. His shoulders aren't wound up around his ears. The permanent crease between his brows has softened. He looks... younger somehow. Not carefree.Frank Castle will probably never be carefree.

But lighter. You reach over and steal his fries. He catches your wrist halfway to your mouth.

"Thought those were mine."

"They are."

"So why're you eatin' 'em, pretty girl?"

"'Cause yours taste better."

"They're literally off my plate."

"Exactly." He rolls his eyes, but lets go anyway.

"You rob me blind, baby."

"You let me."

"I tolerate you."

"You adore me."

"I endure you."

"Liar." His gaze flicks up to yours. For a second, the noise of the bar fades. The dart game behind you. The football on the television. The laughter. It all blurs into the background.

"You got somethin' on your face," he says.

"I do?"

"Mhm." You rub your cheek. "No. The other side." You rub again. "Nope." He sighs dramatically. "C'mere." His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth. Slowly. Deliberately. He wipes away what turns out to be nothing more than a speck of salt from one of the fries. "There." Your heartbeat stumbles.

"...Thanks." He doesn't move his hand right away. Neither of you says anything. Then the bartender slams another basket onto the counter.

"You two gonna keep makin' moon eyes at each other," he says, "or are you actually gonna eat?" You jerk apart.Frank clears his throat.

"We're eatin'."

"You sure?" Frank shoots him a look. The bartender wisely wanders away.By the time you leave, it's started raining. Not a downpour.Just one of those steady summer rains that paints the streets gold beneath the streetlights. Frank shrugs off his jacket before you can protest and drapes it over your shoulders.

"What about you?"

"I'm fine."

"Frank."

"I run warm."

"You are such a liar."

"You gonna argue or wear it?" You slip your arms into the sleeves.

"...Thanks." He hums. The walk home is slow. Neither of you is in any hurry. Your fingers brush once. Twice. The third time, he simply catches your hand. Like it's the most natural thing in the world. His palm is rough.

Warm.

Your fingers lace together automatically.

"You know," you murmur, looking up at him, "you're awfully affectionate for somebody who spends all day pretending he's scary."

"I am scary."

"You bought me dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets last week."

"They were on sale."

"You made little ketchup volcanoes."

"They needed lava." You grin.

"You made sound effects."

"I was committed."

"You roared."

"I did not roar."

"You absolutely roared." He bumps your shoulder with his.

"You been keepin' score?"

"Always."

"You've got too much free time."

"I spend most of it watchin' you." His expression shifts. Just slightly. The teasing fades around the edges.

"You do?" You shrug, suddenly feeling far less brave.

"My favorite hobby." He stops walking. Rain continues to patter softly around you.

"You mean that?" You look at him.

"Every word." Something vulnerable flickers across his face before it's gone again. He reaches up, tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear.

"You've had too much to drink, mama."

"I have."

"And?"

"And..." you smile. "...I'm still right." He laughs quietly, shaking his head.

"You're trouble."

"So I've been told." The apartment isn't far. By the time you make it inside, you're both damp from the rain, laughing as you kick off wet shoes in the hallway. Frank locks the door behind you. The apartment falls wonderfully quiet. Just the rain against the windows. The hum of the refrigerator. You shrug his jacket off your shoulders and hand it back. He takes it. But instead of hanging it up...he keeps looking at you.

Neither of you moves. The laughter fades into something softer.

Warmer.

"You've got..." he starts, stepping closer.

"What?"

"Rain."

"Where?" He reaches up. His knuckles brush your cheek as he wipes away a stray droplet. Neither of you says a word. The space between you suddenly feels very, very small.

His knuckles linger against your cheek. You can feel the heat of his palm, even through the cold rain still slicking your skin. The hallway lamp flickers overhead, warping the shadows around his face, deepening the lines that only soften when he looks at you. There's nothing else to look at, really. The rest of the place blurs out of focus. Just Frank, right here, close enough that even the air seems to bend around his shoulders. Closer, then. He doesn't ask. His hand finds the back of your neck, thumb tracing the line where your hair sticks to your skin, and then he's kissing you. No warning, just hunger—open-mouthed, rough at first, then softer, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your lips. You sink straight into it, hands clutching at the front of his shirt, knuckles digging into the muscle beneath.

He tastes like bourbon and rainwater. You slam against the wall, knocking a crooked picture frame even more off-kilter. He pins you there, the press of his body all heat and mass. You don't think—there's no room left for thinking. Just the strain of your arms around his neck, the way his beard scratches your jaw, the slick heat pounding between your legs. You're giggling, or maybe moaning, and at some point your back hits drywall and he just keeps kissing you, deeper every time, until you're dizzy.

Frank grins against your mouth. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging hard. He just grabs you around the thighs and hauls you up, easy as bench pressing a kitten. You wrap your legs around his waist, boots clunking off the wall, and he grinds you into the plaster until there's friction, merciless and perfect. You bite his lower lip. He growls, actually growls, and palms your ass so hard you think you might bruise. The size of him is overwhelming: arms like steel cables, hands broad as dinner plates. You can't help it, a giddy little laugh bubbles up as he carries you down the hallway, kissing you like he's starving, like he's trying to bruise your lips onto his. "You're so fucking big," you pant, and he just grins wider, teeth bared, liking the way it sounds coming from you.

You crash onto the couch, a tangle of limbs, and you land ontop of him, thighs bracketing his lap. Frank sits up, grabbing your hips, and suddenly you’re the one pinned, his hands bracketed around your waist, squeezing hard. You feel the size difference everywhere—his massive fists wrapped almost all the way around you, the width of his shoulders crowding your entire field of vision, the heat of his thighs under yours. He leans down, kisses you again, open-mouthed, tongue battering into you like he’s got something to prove. One hand slides up, cradles your jaw, and you can’t help the helpless noise you make, half-moan, half-laughter, when he tilts your head just where he wants it and devours your mouth.

You grind down, shameless, chasing friction. He’s already hard beneath his jeans and it’s almost funny how easy it is to make him come apart. He always looks so unbreakable, unmovable, but now he’s clutching at your hips like you might drift off if he lets go. You can feel him, hot and solid, the press of him trapped between layers of damp denim. You move again, harder this time, and he groans into your mouth, hips surging up.

“Christ,” he mutters, “you’re gonna kill me, baby, ” but he says it like it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for him. You nip at his throat, leave a mark, then rest your forehead against his.

His hands slip up under your shirt, fingertips splaying wide like he can’t get enough of touching you. He drags rough palms up your back, mapping every inch, then down again, cupping your ass and pulling you flush against him. He’s not even trying to hide how much he’s into it, and somehow that’s even hotter.

“Goddamn, you’re strong,” you gasp, not even embarrassed. You love the way he manhandles you. You love knowing he wouldn’t ever hurt you, but that he could. The power in his arms, the way his body dwarfs yours—it just makes you want him more. “Bet you could pick me up with one hand.”

“Maybe,” he teases, voice gone gravelly, “if you keep being good for me.” He kisses you again, softer this time, but then bites your lip and tugs like he can’t decide if he wants to eat you alive or worship you. He starts to rock you against him, slow at first, then faster, riding the edge of control. You’re making noises you don’t even recognize, greedy and desperate. He’s still muttering praise between kisses—good girl, so pretty, sweetest thing, fuck you feel so good against me—and each word goes straight to your core. At some point your shirt comes off, and he spends a long, reverent moment just looking. His hands roam everywhere—shoulders, ribs, the curve of your chest—like he’s trying to memorize you by touch alone. He mouths at your collarbone, teeth scraping, and you’re grinding down so hard now that the fabric between you is soaked through. Frank's thumbs hook under your bra, and you barely have the presence of mind to help him yank it overhead. His hands cup your breasts, gentle for a moment, then greedy, squeezing and thumbing your nipples until your back arches and your hips stutter against him. He looks up at you from under heavy lashes, pupils blown wide. He mouths at your chest, licking a stripe across your skin, and the heat of his mouth—God, it makes you want to climb all the way inside him.

He’s so big under you, hard in every sense, and you want to see how much he can take. You grind down, rough and perfect, and the heavy drag of denim on denim is just enough to make you whine. Frank holds your hips steady, controlling the pace now, and rocks you against him in slow, devastating circles.

“Jesus,” he groans, “look at you. You’re gonna make a mess o'yourself, aren’t you, mama ?”

He’s soaked, you’re soaked—every part of you blurs together, hot and slick and shaking. You rut against each other, desperate, and there’s no finesse left, no pretense. You chase it, both of you, panting, laughing with the sheer sick want of it.

“That’s it,” he urges, “fuck, good girl, just like that, fuck yourself on me, you can do it—”He keeps one hand at the center of your back, pressing you closer, impossibly closer. Every inch of him is hard and hot, and the way he keeps muttering, “so fuckin’ sweet, never get enough,” makes your head spin faster than the whiskey. Frank’s hands are everywhere, calloused fingers mapping the bare stretch of your back, thumbs digging into your hips. He moves you in tight circles, perfect friction, almost punishing, and you never want him to stop. He’s not shy about the sounds he makes—grunts and curses against your skin, all praise, all want. He’s so big, so solid, and you can feel his heart hammering through his chest, pounding in time with yours.

You get greedy. You ride him, hands braced on his shoulders, and he lets you take what you want. Lets you use him, like he wants it just as bad. He’s still fully clothed, still so much bigger than you, and when he sees you looking at his hands, his arms, the thick line of his neck, he just smiles, lazy and proud.

“You like that?” He squeezes your ass, grins when you whimper. “Like how I can move you?” He shifts, easy, and the new angle sends pleasure sparking up your spine. “Could do this all night, sweetheart.” He’s so much, it’s almost overwhelming. But you love it. Crave it. You grind down harder, chasing the heat pooling in your stomach, and he meets you every time.

“Frank—” you gasp, because that’s all you can manage. He kisses you, deep, bites your lip again, and his hand slips up to tangle in your hair. He tugs, gentle but possessive, and you moan into his mouth. You can feel him trembling, just a little, holding himself back.

You don’t want him to. Not tonight.

His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise, and when he starts grinding up into you, it’s desperate, frantic. The wet heat between your legs is unbearable now, every shift grinding your clit against the denim. The pressure builds, sharp and heady, and you cling to him, arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder.

He’s talking you through it, every second, voice hoarse:

“That’s it—good girl, just like that—c’mon, make a mess for me—fuck, you look so pretty like this.” You're on the ragged edge—he can see it, taste it in the shallow little pants you presses into his jaw, the feral way you cling to him. He cradles you tighter, one heavy hand spanning the entire small of your back, the other wrapped around a thigh, squeezing as if he could fuse you to his lap. The friction is everything—you're rutting against him, lost in it, the denim darkening between your legs, every grind leaving a wet starburst on his jeans. Frank basks in it. Lets you use him, ride him, coat him in your mess. God, you're hot like this—soaked, wild, desperate. He wants to see you splatter the whole world.

He kisses your teeth, your chin, the taste of rain and sweat sharp on your skin. You bite at his jaw, needy, and he just holds you right there, makes you take the pace he sets. You've got her own rhythm, wild and staccato, but he’s stronger—always stronger—and when he wants you to slow down, you have to. When he wants you to chase it, he rolls his hips up and you shudder, your thighs trembling against his. You're coming apart for him, right here, shameless, in clothes damp from the rain and still almost fully dressed. He grunts your name into your neck, teeth scraping your pulse, and your whole body tenses up in his arms.

The sound you make is a fucking prayer.

Broken, shattering, almost a sob, and the feel of you clamping down, humping, wringing the last drop of friction—he’s never wanted to fuck someone so bad in his life.

Frank could crush you if he wanted.

But he's too drunk to do anything more, so he just holds you, lets you ride it out, lets you rub your mess all over him until you whimper, limp with relief. You make a noise that’s almost a laugh, breathless and punch-drunk, and he wants to bottle the sound forever.

“Jesus, Frank—” You pant, boneless in his lap.

He grins, wide and wolfish, and brings a hand up to cup your face, thumb swiping through the blotchy heat of your cheek. You roll your hips experimentally, as if to test what’s left of him. Frank’s cock is a steel rod in his pants, wet with you, and he’s not even pretending to hide it. He lets his head tip back, a long groan scraping from his chest, and lets you see exactly what you've done to him. He hisses, a savage sound, and jerks your hips down until you're pinned, helpless against the thick press of him.

“Gonna make me come in my fuckin’ jeans, sweetheart,” he warns. You beam at him, victorious, and grind down, slow and deliberate. You grind down again, just to test him, and he groans like you’ve got him on a rack. The sound vibrates straight through you—Frank Castle unstrung, finally fucking helpless. You do it again. Harder, slower, using every inch of slick friction, and he shivers, a low snarl curling at the back of his throat. His grip on your hips bruises—you’re absolutely going to feel it tomorrow, and you want that, want to see his fingerprints mapped on your skin in the blue rinse of morning.

“Fucking—,” Frank spits, jaw cording tight, “you’re gonna make me—” He’s breathing so rough it sounds like he might black out. You dig your nails into his shoulders and roll your hips, and he’s right there, pressed up to the hilt in his jeans, cock trapped and leaking, so hard you almost want to laugh. You don’t. Instead, you lean in and mouth at his throat, teeth grazing his pulse.

“C’mon, Castle, thought you could keep up?” Your voice is trembling and mean, but you can barely keep your own pace, thighs already shaking with aftershocks. He just stares up at you, eyes black and bright, and then he jerks you down hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.

“You want it?” he grinds out. “I’ll give it to you. I’ll fuckin’ ruin you.” Each word slams up into your core, the rhythm so brutal you have to bite his shoulder just to keep from screaming. You’re still humping, greedy and relentless, and Frank’s hands are everywhere, cradling your ass, the small of your back, one hand fisted in your hair. He pulls your head back and looks at you, really looks at you, like he’s trying to burn the scene into memory for the lean miserable years ahead.

“Look at you,” he says, voice still hoarse. “Fuck. So pretty when you’re desperate.” You’re not going to last—you’re still twitching from the first wave, but he’s got you locked into a grind so perfect, so sharp-edged, your vision goes white around the corners. He keeps his eyes on you, almost daring you to blink.

“You’re so—” you try, but can’t finish. So big, so strong, so good, so fucking much. The words blur. All you can do is rut down, chase the end, and try to make him break first. You want to see him lose it completely—the indestructible Frank Castle, undone by a little friction and the weight of you in his lap. So you grind down again, then again, dragging the soaked crotch of your jeans over the thick length of him until you’re making full-body shivers with every drag. Frank’s hands dig so hard into your hips you can feel the bruises blooming already, but you love it. Love the easy push-pull of it, the helplessness of being manhandled by someone who wants you this much. Your own hands fist the collar of his shirt, stretching it out, and when he growls, you bare your teeth, daring him to snap. He rises to the challenge—hips jerking up, eyes gone black, breath ragged.

“You’re gonna ride me ’til I fuckin’ break, huh?” he mutters, and there’s something reverent in the way he says it, like your hunger is a miracle. He’s got you completely blanketed, big enough that you feel like you’re perched in the lap of a mountain, but all you want is more. The pressure is building, friction sweet and punishing, the seams of your jeans grinding against your clit so perfect it borders on savage. He doesn’t stop moving you. His hands just keep you sliding, relentless, catching you at the downstroke, grinding you hard enough that you would squeak if you weren’t so out of your mind with want. You’re chasing it, desperate, rutting, and Frank just lets you do it, lets you use him, because he wants it—wants you to come apart, wants to drown in your need. The thought of it makes you dizzy, makes your hips stutter, makes your head go white at the edges.

“Yeah, fuck, that’s it—” he rasps into your ear, “look at you, so fuckin’ needy, so wet for me, god you’re such a good girl—” and the words are gasoline. You want to please him, want to ruin him, want to mark him up and wear the evidence like a badge. Your shirt is gone, your bra somewhere on the floor, and you’re grinding bare skin against denim and rain-soaked cotton, and it’s filthy and perfect.

You can feel him getting close—his cock hard and thick, trapped and leaking, the heat of him burning through the fabric like he could set you on fire just by willing it. You’re not doing much better—your thighs are shaking, your breath is a wreck, and you’re so close you’re not sure if you’re going to scream or sob or both. You want it to last, want it to go on forever, but the slick slide of wet jeans and the way he keeps talking you through it—

“that’s my girl, c’mon, I got you, fuck, you’re makin’ such a mess, you’re perfect, just perfect”—it’s too much. You’re coming again before you even mean to, hips locking, mouth pressed to his neck to muffle the whine. It’s hot and sudden, clenching around nothing, a flood of heat and relief, and Frank just keeps you moving, slow now. Frank makes a noise you’ve never heard before—not a grunt, not a growl, almost a sob. He goes rigid, every muscle locked, his cock jerking under you, and you know—know—he’s coming hard, the heat of it soaking straight through his jeans and into you. He drags you down and holds you there, shuddering through it, face buried in your neck. You feel the wet bloom spreading between you and god, a low moan leaves your lips. Frank bucks his hips up, whining lowly, his eyes drawing shut. Frank's chest rises and falls, all tension, all heat. He doesn’t let go, not even after he’s finished. His arms stay locked around you, that big hand sprawled across your spine, like if he loosened his grip the world might come apart.

You’re not sure it didn’t, honestly.

The denim’s wet between your thighs, sticky and hot, and the mess of it makes your brain whirl. You’re boneless against him, arms and legs useless, lungs still dragging desperate little breaths. Frank is solid beneath you, unmoving except for the twitch in his jaw and the heavy pulse still beating against your hip.

After a minute, you start to giggle. Just a little, but it erupts and you can’t stop, and then Frank is laughing too, the sound low and surprised, rumbling up from somewhere deep. You nudge your nose into the crook of his neck and suck in the smell of gun oil and aftershave and—you realize, sharply, when he shifts his hand to your waist—the thick, embarrassed sweetness of you, clinging to his wrist. You bite your lip.

“Shit,” you say, half-shocked, half-proud, the shape of it a little more than a whisper in his ear. “We’re a disaster.” Frank snorts, still a little dazed, and then he sits up fully, shifting you in his lap so your knees knock together and your soaked jeans grind against his. The pressure is still there, insistent and endless. He looks at you. Really looks, the way he does when he’s inspecting an injury, or a weapon, or something he wants to keep. He slides his thumb along your jaw, almost reverent. His pupils are blown, breath ragged, but he grins at you, crooked and hungry.

“C’mere,” he mutters, and you lean in, expecting another kiss, but instead he scrapes his teeth along your earlobe and hums, “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous like this. Could watch you do that all night.” Your brain barely catches up before his fingers are inside your waistband, working the button open. You half-protest, half-laugh,

“Frank—” but he’s already got his hand inside your jeans, palm broad and warm, finding you soaked and swollen through your underwear. He sucks a breath between his teeth, and the sound is filthy, drawn out.

“Christ, you made a mess.” He strokes you, slow, broad and confident, like he’s savoring the feel of it as much as you are. You bury your face in his neck, fighting the urge to melt. Frank moves his hand, up and down, dragging the wet through the cotton, fingers so big they’re practically covering you. You rut against his hand, helpless, your thighs trembling against his lap. He pulls his hand out, and you watch, delirious, as he brings his fingers to his mouth and tastes you. Just dips the first two in, tongue greedy, and then licks them clean. His eyes never leave yours.

You almost combust on the spot.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing,” he says, and you nearly choke on your own tongue. You stare at him, high on the way his jaw flexes, the dark stubble bristling morning-rough against the cut of his cheek. You’d chew his name to pieces if you could, let the sound of it rip up your throat and spill out everywhere, but he’s already taken the wind out of you. You look down at his hand, thick fingers glistening, and want to taste yourself there, want to let him paint you with it.Frank makes a show of licking his fingers clean, and every second of it drags a new pulse up your spine. You don’t know if you want to slap him or crawl inside his chest. Maybe both. He looks satisfied, smug, the kind of man who’s been hungry for too long and can’t believe his luck. He kisses you again, this time slow, tongue deep and languid, and you taste yourself on his mouth. It’s filthy, it’s perfect, and you moan into him, hands fisted in the fabric at his shoulders.

You want to say something clever, or maybe just “holy shit,” but your brain is still catching up. He moves you in his lap, the friction wet and dirty, jeans plastered to your thighs. The mess is everywhere, but he doesn’t care—or maybe that’s what he likes best, judging from the way he stares at the dark patch spreading along the seam of your jeans. You whine at the movement, your thighs shuddering and trying to clamp shut. He stills your hips, leaning up to press a kiss to your temple.

"Guess shots aren't a great foreplay tool, huh ?" He asks. You pull back just enough to look at him, to see the dark satisfaction in his eyes, the way his pupils are still blown wide. The mess between you is cooling, sticky and uncomfortable, but neither of you moves to fix it. There's something sacred about it, about the evidence of what you've done to each other.

"We're disgusting," you say, but there's no heat in it. Just wonder.

"Yep," Frank agrees, easy as anything. He shifts you in his lap, and the movement sends a fresh jolt through your oversensitive nerves. You hiss, and he stills immediately. "Shit, baby - M'sorry."

"Don't be," you whisper. "Just... tender."

His hands, so impossibly steady now, settle at your waist. He waits a beat before moving again, giving you every chance to stop him. When you don't, he shifts you with painstaking care until you're sitting comfortably against his chest instead of awkwardly across his lap.

"There," he murmurs. "Better?" You nod.

"A little."

"I'll take a little." He brushes a thumb beneath your eye, catching the dampness gathered there. His brow pinches.

"You always cry easy after I make you come."

"Okay, big shot. Calm down."

"What- other men have made you orgasm so good you started crying ?" He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath your cheek. Frank raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

"Well?" he asks. You squint at him through sheer exhaustion.

"You're bein' obnoxious."

"So that's a no."

"You already know it's a no."

"I just like hearin' you say it." You let out a tired groan and lightly smack his shoulder.

"Ow," he says without a trace of conviction.

"I barely touched you."

"You wounded me."

"I should've aimed harder."

"There she is." His smile softens almost immediately, replaced by concern as he notices the way you wince trying to settle against him.

"Easy," he murmurs.

"I know."

"No, you don't."One of his hands stays firm against your back while the other rubs slow, absent-minded circles over your side. He doesn't rush you, doesn't ask anything more of you. He simply waits until your breathing evens out again. "You achin'?" he asks quietly.

"A little."

"A little?" You give him a look.

"…More than a little." He nods, guilt flickering across his face.

"Yeah."

"Hey."

"Hm?"

"Don't do that."

"What?"

"That face."

"What face?"

"The one where you're about to apologize another forty times."

"I was thinkin' twenty." You smile despite yourself.

"I'll survive."

"I know you will."

"But…" His thumb brushes gently across your shoulder. "…I still don't like seein' you uncomfortable."

"I know."

"I mean it."

"So do I." Silence settles comfortably between you. The room is warm, the rain tapping softly against the windows. Neither of you seems in any hurry to move. Finally, Frank lets out a quiet sigh.

"C'mon." You don't budge.

"Mmm."

"You gotta let me take care of you."

"I am letting you."

"No, you're lettin' me hold you."

"Aren't those the same thing?"

"They're related." A sleepy laugh escapes you.

"You always get bossy afterward."

"I always get worried afterward." You reach up, your fingertips brushing through the short hair at the back of his neck.

"You worry too much."

"I've earned it."

"You've earned gray hair."

"I had that before you."

"Liar."

"Mostly." He leans down and presses a lingering kiss against your forehead. "I'm gonna grab a couple towels and some water."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

"You always say that."

"'Cause I always mean it." He starts to shift away, then pauses.

"You think you can stay sittin' here for thirty seconds?" You tighten your arms around him instead.

"…Maybe not." He chuckles, low and affectionate.

"Alright." Without another word, he carefully slides one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, lifting you as though you weigh nothing at all. You instinctively tuck your face into the crook of his neck.

"There she is," he murmurs.

"So dramatic," you mumble.

"Says the woman who just declared herself incapable of sittin' alone for half a minute."

"I never said incapable."

"You implied it."

"I strongly implied it."

taglist !

The kitchen smells like heaven.

That's the easiest way you can describe it.

You hum as you sway your hips as you cook, a fat grin on your face.

Frank's been working for so long, staking out a client for Dinah and Micro, and he hasn't been home in hours.

Ergo, that means you're sure he hasn't been able to eat.

You taste the sauce one last time.

Perfect.

Maybe a little too much black pepper. Frank will complain. Then he'll eat every last bite anyway. You smile to yourself.

The kitchen is warm, moonlight spilling through the windows while steam curls lazily from the pot on the stove. You've packed everything the way you know he likes it—pasta still hot in a thermal container, garlic bread wrapped in foil, coffee in the battered green thermos he swears keeps it hotter than any expensive one ever could.

You even toss in a slice of pie from the diner down the street. Just because. You wipe your hands on a dish towel before checking your phone.

No new messages.

Last one was nearly four hours ago.

Stakeout. Might be a while. Love you.

You shake your head.

"Might be a while," in Frank-speak usually means I'll forget food, water and sleep until somebody physically drags me home.

Not today.

His truck isn't hard to find.

It's parked exactly where he said it'd be, tucked halfway beneath the shade of an old oak tree with a clear view of a run-down apartment building across the street. You park two blocks away.

He'll lecture you if you drive straight up to him. Something about compromising surveillance. You roll your eyes affectionately as you make the walk, balancing the insulated bag against your hip. The passenger door opens before you even knock, a gun shoved in your face.

"You got about five seconds to explain why you're sneakin' up on my—" Frank stops. His entire expression changes. "…Baby?" You grin, pushing the gun away.

"Hi, my love." He blinks at the grocery bag.

"…What's all that?"

"Dinner." He looks at his watch.

"…It's almost four in the morning."

"Exactly."

"I was gonna eat."

"Mhm."

"I was."

"You absolutely were."

"I had a plan."

"You had beef jerky in your cupholder."

"…Protein."

"And an empty coffee."

"…Caffeine."

"And…" You lean into the van, peering around dramatically. "…three candy wrappers." His ears redden.

"Those were tactical." You laugh.

"Tactical?"

"Emergency calories."

"Oh, absolutely." You climb into the back seat before he can stop you, setting the bag in front of you. The front seat is crowded with his guns, and attempting to move them so you can sit next to him would be perilous.The truck smells like coffee, gun oil, stale fast food… And Frank. It somehow feels like home. He watches you unpack containers one by one.

"…Jesus."

"What?"

"You cooked."

"I usually do."

"I mean…" He stares at the amount of food. "Enough to feed an army."

"You burn approximately twelve thousand calories a day being dramatic."

"I ain't dramatic." You raise an eyebrow. He sighs. "…Little dramatic."

"Thank you." You hand him a fork. He doesn't take it. Instead, he keeps looking at you.

"What?"

"You drove all the way out here."

"So?"

"'Cause you thought I forgot to eat."

"You did."

"…Yeah." He scratches the back of his neck. "I did." You smile softly.

"I know." His shoulders relax. God. Sometimes you make caring look so easy.

"So…" you say, nudging the container toward him. "Eat."

"You eatin' too?"

"I brought two forks."

"Smart."

"I know my audience." He cracks open the container. The smell hits him instantly.

Fresh garlic. Butter. Tomatoes. He closes his eyes for half a second.

"…Hell."

"What?"

"I'm gonna marry you." You snort.

"You're saying that because you're hungry."

"I'm saying it 'cause you made garlic bread."

"You've got low standards."

"I got perfect standards." He tears off a piece of bread before it has a chance to cool and immediately hisses as it burns his fingers.

"…Hot."

"I did tell you."

"Worth it." He takes a bite anyway. His entire face melts. You beam.

"Good?"

"Mhm." You lean forward from the backseat, resting your elbows on the center console as you watch him eat.

"You're a miracle worker, mama." He hums, tossing a piece of tissues paper into the empty tupperware. He leans backwards to kiss you, short and sweet- but your whole body flares up with need. You lean further against the center console to grab his face again and pull it towards you again. Frank deepens the kiss for a moment before pulling back, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Whoa, slow down there," he murmurs, his eyes darting toward the apartment building across the street. "I'm still on surveillance."

"You've been watching that building for eight hours," you pout, leaning further over the console. "I haven't seen you in almost a day."

"I know, baby, but—" He glances at his watch. "I can't right now. I need to stay focused."

"Five minutes," you plead, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "That's all I'm asking." Frank sighs, his resolve clearly wavering.

"You know I can't. What if something happens while I'm… distracted?"

"Nothing's going to happen," you insist, though your voice lacks conviction. "It's the middle of the night. Everyone's asleep."

"That's when things usually happen," he says firmly, though his eyes keep straying to your lips. "You should go home. I'll be there when I'm done." You pull back, your expression shifting from pleading to something more mischievous.

"Fine," you say, climbing over the seats into the back of the truck. "If you won't help me, I'll just have to help myself." Frank's eyes widen as he watches you settle into the back seat, making yourself comfortable among the blankets and pillows he keeps there for long stakeouts.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," you say innocently, though your hands are already drifting to the button of your jeans. "Just getting comfortable." He turns in his seat to face you fully, his surveillance forgotten for the moment.

"Baby, don't."

"Don't what?" you ask, your voice dropping to a husky whisper as you slowly unzip your jeans. "Don't touch myself thinking about you? About how much I missed you?"

"Jesus," he mutters, his eyes locked on your hands as they slip beneath the waistband of your panties. "You're killing me here."You high moan slips past your lips, your body arching against his leather seats as your finger circles your clit. Frank turns around, hands clenched around the steering wheel, his jaw ticking as he tries very hard to look forward.

To not turn around.

To not stare at you through the rearview.

"Mama, i'm serious." He hisses, his chest heaving up and down. He grits his teeth and tries to pretend he doesn't hear it—your small, wet sounds, the tiny catch of breath when your fingers begin to circle, the way the zipper of your jeans still hisses open in his brain. His hands ache for something to do. His focus splinters and smolders. You bite your lip and make a show of it, knowing every movement is a private performance: the way you arch your back, pushing your ass into the pile of blankets, the way your knees fall open, denim tugged just enough to leave a strip of pale skin exposed. You glance up, catch his eyes in the mirror, and bring your other hand to your mouth, sucking your fingers slow and deep before sending it down to join the first beneath your waistband. Frank stares straight ahead, but you see his shoulders tense, the bulge of his forearms against the steering wheel. His head cocks, like he's listening for something, but it's not the building across the street—it's you, and the way your thighs hitch upward, the way the wet, slick sound of your fingers almost competes with the hum of the truck's engine.

You moan again, louder this time, and his knuckles go white.

“That's not fair,” he says, voice almost a growl. You can hear him swallow, like he's choking down a mouthful of gravel. “You know I can't—”

“You can't what?” you whisper, breathless and trembling. “Can't stand to watch me?” He doesn't answer. The tension ratchets tight. You know that face, know how much he wants to keep his promises, how much he wants to focus on the job, but you also know how fast his discipline melts under the right kind of pressure. You just keep pushing.

“I’m so wet, Frank,” you say, soft and sulky, like you're confessing a sin. “All for you.” You pull your hand out just far enough to let him see the shine on your fingers before you lick them clean, sucking hard, never breaking eye contact.

“Baby,” he hisses, half warning, half plea. You giggle, petulant and mean.

“You gonna make me finish by myself?” Frank slams a fist into the dash. The truck rocks. Then he’s out of the driver’s seat, yanking open the back door so hard it rattles on the hinges. He climbs in after you, all his weight and heat filling the tiny space. His hands are on you before you can say a word, pinning your wrists above your head, forcing you into the pile of blankets, his mouth crashing against yours and swallowing every needy whimper you give him. He groans into your neck.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy. You know that?” You tilt up your chin, daring him.

“Do something about it.” And he does. He twists your wrists in one hand, yanks your jeans and panties down with the other. The cold air makes you shiver, but you open your thighs wide, inviting, greedy. He slides two thick fingers inside you, fast, and you gasp. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, brutal circles.

“Goddamn, you’re so tight.” He pistons his hand, rough and practiced, until you clench around his fingers, frantic with need. “That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw, your cheek, your temple in sequence, like he’s marking you with his mouth. “Let me see you. Show me how much you missed me.” You writhe under his grip, wrists aching deliciously in his hold, and your hips twist up, desperate to ride his hand harder. He watches you, unblinking, like he’s memorizing every shake and shudder. When you come, you do it loud and messy, gasping his name, making the truck bounce on its tired shocks. Frank doesn’t let up. He works you through it, coaxing another aftershock out of you before finally slowing down.

He kisses you, sweet and ferocious, then releases your wrists and pulls you upright, tugging off your shirt with a snarl. You barely register the motion before he’s got you on your back again, this time flat, with both your knees pressed up toward your shoulders. His belt’s already undone. His cock is out, thick and flushed, the head leaking. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t waste a second—he lines himself up and pushes inside, stretching you so wide you gasp.

“F-fuck, Frank—” It’s too much, almost, after so long. You shake with it, the burn and the fullness and the way he’s everywhere at once.

“You got this, mama.” He huffs, nosing at your jaw, pressing your knees closer to your head.”Just relax.”

He’s big.

He’s always big, but tonight, crammed in the sweltering truck, the rest of the world erased by soundproofed walls and the stifling smell of sex and old coffee, it’s almost too much. Frank watches your face as he rocks into you, slow, careful, making you feel every inch. You bite your lip and try to breathe, but he’s got your knees locked against your chest and every thrust pushes the air out of you in high, embarrassing whimpers.

“Easy,” he murmurs, his hands cupping the backs of your thighs. “Yeah, that’s it. You take it so good, baby. Just a little more for me.” You nod, dizzy and full and so goddamn happy. He grins, that lazy, cocky smile he only shows you, and grinds in even deeper. The stretch burns but you love it—love how he always acts like you’re fragile and then splits you open anyway, like he can’t help himself. Your knees slip, and his grip tightens, dragging you right back up the seat so he can rut into you, balls slapping against your ass. He keeps his head tucked against your jaw, his breath hot and unsteady.

“Feel how deep I am?” He lets go of your thigh just long enough to palm your belly, pressing in, and you feel him, hard and thick, right there. “All the way inside. Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so tight.” You can barely answer, just clutch at his arm and nod, trying not to come again already. He must see it, because he slows down, rocking in long, punishing strokes. You both know how this works. You make a mess of yourself, beg for more, and he talks you through every second until you can’t think straight. He noses at your ear, lips grazing the shell, voice gone rough.

“Gonna let me fill you up? Let me fuck you full?” You nod again, frantic, and he huffs a laugh. Your hands scramble for purchase, gripping the door handle, your head tipping back. The truck is rocking so violently, the windows all fogged up. Frank’s hand shakes where it frames your thigh, the rough of his calluses scraping against your skin as he draws your knees tighter to your chest. The angle is obscene—your hips cranked up, your ass pressed into the heap of sweated-through blankets, his weight pinning you in place.

You can feel the pressure of him everywhere: in the sharp stretch that makes your whole body tremble, in the grind of his cock nudging deeper, deeper, until you’re sure you’ll split right in half. The stifled, desperate sounds leaking from your mouth would have embarrassed you once. Now you just want him to hear every one. His thumb strokes the edge of your knee, gentle, unhurried. You want to scream at him for it. For the way he always slows things down just when you want to go off the rails. For the way his hands, so brutal everywhere else, turn soft when he’s holding you open like this. He draws his hips back, just enough to feel the sticky friction, then rocks forward again, filling you all the way up. The rhythm is devastating—measured, patient, like he’s determined you’ll feel every inch. The truck creaks in time with him, a steady back-and-forth that makes your brain melt. He buries his face in your neck, breath hot as he mutters,

“Good girl, that’s my good fuckin’ girl.” You tighten around him, helpless, clutching at his bicep. Your nails dig crescents into his skin, and he laughs, thick and guttural, like your pain is the best thing he’s ever tasted. He presses his palm right above your pubic bone, and you jerk when you feel him, hard and solid, pushing up against your skin from the inside.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful ,” he whispers, and the words make you clench around him, every muscle going tight and hot. He grinds in slow, barely-there thrusts, letting you feel the pressure for a long, suspended moment before he finally picks up speed. The truck rocks harder now, every slap of his hips against your ass making the world shake. You can’t see anything but him, can’t hear anything but the wet, obscene sounds of bodies slamming together and the low rumble of his voice.

“Wanted you all night,” he says, and the words land heavy in your head. “Missed you so much, I couldn’t even fuckin’ breathe.”Frank is thick, and he knows it, the way it always takes you a minute to get used to him. The way your body fights and then gives in, each inch a negotiation you always lose and never regret. He loves it, the way you shudder and hold your breath, the way your thighs tremble. He tries to keep it slow, tries to be gentle, but it’s four in the morning and he’s been gone too long and you taste like salt and desperation. That first thrust, it nearly undoes him. You arch and whimper, and he curses, low and guttural, and his hand is suddenly on your jaw, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth.

“Oh, baby, you’re so good,” he murmurs, voice gone ragged. “So fucking good for me. Goddamn perfect.” He says it like a prayer, like you’re something sacred. You’d laugh if you could breathe. You throw your arms around his neck, holding on, nails dragging lines down his shoulder blades. Your legs go numb, pinned behind your ears, but you don’t care. You want to remember this. The way Frank’s eyes go black, the way he can’t stop muttering,

“good girl, good girl, look at you, so damn pretty when you take it.” You want to remember the feel of the stubble on his cheek, the taste of garlic bread on his tongue, the way his sweat mixes with yours until there’s nothing left but you and him and the hot, thick air. He kisses you hard, tongue greedy, and the angle shifts. Suddenly he’s so deep it’s like he’s touching your heart, and you can’t even make noise anymore, just open and close your mouth and hope he understands. He does. He always does. Frank doesn’t just hold you in place—he owns the moment, every flex of his arms and every low, throaty

“that’s it, fuck, look at you” branded into your nerves. He keeps you folded tight, your calves locked behind his back, his hips grinding so deep you swear he’s bruising your spine, and each time you gasp or cry out, he fucks you harder, like he wants to carve his name inside you. He pins your wrists above your head again, fingers threaded through yours, and stares down at you—barely a foot away, sweat dripping from his jaw to your chest, his lips curled in that filthy, hungry grin. You can’t look away. Not when he’s got you spread and raw, all your insides tugged taut around him. Your lungs burn; your legs prickle with pins and needles; your whole body feels like a live wire. But every time you think you can’t take more, he leans in to kiss your chin, your cheek, your temple, and the softness breaks you open even further.

“You’re perfect,” he croons, voice gone soft and hoarse, like he’s not splitting you apart, like he’s reading you a bedtime story. He releases one wrist just long enough to palm your cheek, thumb swiping under your eye, gentle as a lullaby.

“You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good, baby. So goddamn pretty stretched around me.” He rocks forward, slow, and you flinch at the ache, but his words, the praise, make you melt into the pain. “You can take more, can’t you? That’s my girl.” He’s not asking. He’s telling. And he’s right. You never really understood the difference between being ruined and being remade until Frank Castle started fucking you like he’d trade his soul for the taste of your sweat. He’s relentless. He shifts his grip, arms bracketing your head, and changes the angle—suddenly he’s pressing right against everything inside you, and you yelp, nails raking his back. The truck stinks of both of you now, so thick and rank it clings to the roof. Frank doesn’t care if you’re loud. He wants you to be. He wants the whole world to hear what he’s doing to you, and you want to give him that, every needy, high-pitched cry, your voice shredded and raw. He bends down, lips trailing over your ear.

“Fuck, yeah. You’re takin’ it so good, honey. You’re fuckin’ perfect.” The rhythm gets rougher—short, deep thrusts, every one a shockwave through your body. Something unravels inside you, and you’re coming again, sudden and violent, whole body clamped down on his cock. You howl, clinging to his arms, and he fucks you straight through it, never slowing, never letting you up for air.He wants to say your name but all that comes out is a groan, half your name and half a curse. He’s close, you know it in the way his rhythm stutters, the way his hips jerk with less control than he’d like. You clutch at his shoulders, dragging him down until your foreheads bump, sweat-slick and breathless, locked in a stare that says everything. The van’s too small for this, too hot, too full of the smell of you and him and the faint ghost of garlic and coffee, but you wouldn’t want it anywhere else. He presses his weight down until your knees nearly touch your chest. The stretch is insane; you gasp, digging your heels into the small of his back. Frank’s breath saws in and out, heavy and fast, but he never stops talking you through it.

“You’re good,” he huffs, mouthing your chin, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. “You’re so fuckin’ good, baby. Never seen anyone take me like this. Never.” He grinds in deeper, rolling his hips so slow, so deep you see stars. “Know it hurts. You can do it, pretty girl. Just a little more.” You cling to him, every muscle gone high and tight. The pressure is obscene, almost too much, but he keeps you right on the edge, working deep, measured thrusts until it stops burning and starts to feel like you’ll never get enough. You slam your hands against his back, leave welts for him to find in the morning. He grins, sweaty and proud, and leans in to suck a bruise into your neck.Frank’s hand slips from your thigh to your hip, holding you in place as he rocks into you with rough, hungry snaps. Every time you think you’re full, he finds a new way to make you feel even more stretched, more helpless against the weight of him braced over you. Sweat stings your eyes. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t loosen the vise of his grip—just drives you back into the seat, so your knees knock the driver’s headrest and your ass grinds into the matted blankets. The world shrinks to the smell of sex and the slap of skin and his desperate, greedy noises. You’re drowning in it.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” His voice is raw, strangled. He says it, but his hips are already rolling harder, pounding the air from your lungs. “Promise me, mama.” You laugh, half a sob, and wrap your arms around his neck.

“Don’t you fucking dare stop.” He grins, breathless, and changes the angle, lifting your hips up off the seat. Your whole body bows, locked tight between his hands and the ceiling of the van. He watches your face with that laser focus, the world outside the windows long forgotten.

“Look at you,” he rasps, thumb dragging slow across your cheekbone. “You make me crazy. You know that? Drive me outta my fuckin’ mind.” You reach down, greedy for more, and claw at his back, raking his skin. He hisses—a sound that’s all pain and pleasure—and pistons in even harder, rutting into you like something feral.

“God, Frank,” you gasp, thighs trembling. He’s so deep it feels like he’s splitting you open, but you want it, want every brutal, greedy inch. His belly slaps your clit, slick and overstimulated, and you mewl, writhing in his grip. He shoves your knees wider, one palm planted above your head, the other locked around your thigh.

“That’s it,” he says, voice gone hoarse. “Take it for me. Take all of it.” He bends to nuzzle your neck, breathing you in. “You’re so perfect, I don’t wanna ever let go.” You want to tell him yes, god, yes, that you’ll never let go either, but you can barely form words. Your vision blurs. He keeps you folded tight, his thrusts relentless, each one punching little sparks of sensation through your nerves. Your whole body shakes. You’re so close it hurts—every flex of his cock inside you drives you closer to the edge. You hang on, nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders.

Frank fucks you like he’s been denied air, like the only way back to life is through the place where your bodies meet. You want to taunt him, to tease some of that cocky control out of his voice, but he’s already gone, all the way gone, every muscle in his arms shaking with the effort to keep you bent under him. The windows are streaked with sweat and fog and you, and the truck is rocking hard enough that you’re surprised the suspension hasn’t given out. You don’t care. You want him to wreck it, to wreck you, to leave the memory of this pressed into your skin in bruises and soreness for days.

There’s a moment, after the second time he makes you come, when you lose track of everything except the way his cock keeps you stretched and trembling, the bright snap of pain that’s already turning syrup-sweet. You’re limp, gasping, but he doesn’t let up. He pulls out slow, almost gentle, and you whine at the empty ache, but he just flips you easy as a pillow, gets you on your knees and elbows, your face mashed into the tangle of blankets. He holds you open, stroking his cock just at your entrance, smearing slick over your thighs. His hand is heavy on the back of your neck, pushing your cheek to the seat. You barely move, the world gone hazy and all of you at the mercy of his hands.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” He rasps just as he rams back in, and your whole body shudders forward. A low grown leaves his lips. “Shit, shit, i fuckin’ love you.” He gasps, shaking his head as he starts to pound his hips into yours. Frank shoves in deep, the sound obscene, your whole body jerking with the force of him. You scrabble at the blankets, but he’s got your hips locked in place, his thumbs digging perfect bruises into the softest part of your thigh. The way he fucks you now is all need—no plan, no self-control, just the frantic, rutting hunger of a man dying for you. He’s talking again, as if he can’t not, the words falling out in a hoarse, endless stream straight into the sweat-matted hair behind your ear.

“That’s it,” he croons. “You’re so good, baby, so fucking good, letting me in, taking every inch. You want it—yeah, I know you do, you’re dripping, fuck—” He sounds half-crazed, half-pleading, like he’s begging you not to vanish if he stops talking for even a second. You try to answer but your voice is dust, so you whine, pressing your ass back into him, greedy for more, always more. He bends over you, chest plastered to your back, hands flattening over your shoulders until you’re caged, the press of him everywhere—his cock splitting you, his breath burning your ear, his palms pinning you down. He’s all around you, every sense filled. You lose track of time, of the rhythm, the world shrinking to the slick, frictionless slide of skin, the little shockwaves in your belly every time he bottoms out, the bare, raw scrape of the carpet on your knees. He won’t let you fall, not even in this. His hand wraps under your ribs, pulling your body up, arching your spine.

“There you go, pretty girl, just like that, fuck—” He sounds so wrecked, every word jagged and ruined. “You feel me, baby? All the way?” As if you could feel anything else. He’s right there, pushing past the last edge of you, and all you want is to open up more, to let him pour himself in until something inside you breaks. You shake, the overstimulation bright and electric. The words pour out of Frank, the only thing keeping either of you together.

“You’re so tight, so fucking perfect,” he mumbles, biting down on your shoulder, rolling his hips slow at first, drawing it out, then pounding so fast it blurs the edge of pain and pleasure. You want to crawl away, you want to fuse into him, you want to scream his name until your voice breaks. You do all three. You’re sobbing now, the tears leaking hot and sweet, and he kisses them from your neck, one hand sliding down your belly to thumb your clit. He does it gentle, slower than the rest of him, and the contrast snaps you wide open. You come again, so hard it feels like you might never come down, your cunt fluttering around him. Frank loses it, then. He shudders, hips jerking erratic, and the growl he gives isn’t even human. He wraps his arms around your middle, crushing you to him as he fucks through the aftershocks, needy whines leaving his lips, his hips rutting against your ass. He’s still in you, twitching, the fat length of him pulsing and wet. You’re a mess, tears on your face, drool on your chin, and the ruined seam of your thighs glued together with sweat and come. Frank isn’t moving, just looming over you, his breath rough in your ear, arms shaking a little where they cage you in. You think he’s going to collapse right there, crush you into the blankets, but instead he slides out, slow, making you moan at the loss and the burn. You try to breathe, but your chest is full of static.

Your whole body collapses forward, your limbs shaking as you choke on a sob. Frank shifts immediately, his body moving with a gentleness that contradicts the roughness of moments before. His hands, which had been pinning you down, now carefully gather you up, rolling you onto your side as he settles behind you. The truck's cramped space means you're pressed flush against him, his chest to your back, his arms wrapping securely around your middle.

"Shit" he murmurs, his voice still rough but softer now, laced with concern. "Easy, baby. I got you." One hand strokes your hair, fingers combing through the sweat-damp strands while the other rests low on your belly, a warm, steady pressure that's somehow more intimate than what just happened. You're still trembling, aftershocks wracking your body, each one making you more aware of the pleasant ache between your thighs, the tender marks on your skin where his hands gripped you, the faint sting on your shoulder where he bit you.

"Frank," you whisper, your voice hoarse from crying out his name.

"Right here," he answers, pressing a soft kiss to the nape of your neck. "Not going anywhere." You lie there for long minutes, just breathing together in the dim light of the van. The air smells of sex and sweat and Frank, and you've never felt safer. His heartbeat thuds steadily against your back, a comforting rhythm that slowly calms your own racing pulse.

"Thirsty?" he asks eventually. You nod, not trusting your voice yet. Frank carefully disentangles himself, reaching for one of the water bottles stashed in the front. He returns, unscrewing the cap and holding it to your lips. You drink greedily, the cool liquid soothing your raw throat.

"Easy," he says again, pulling the bottle away when you try to gulp too fast. "Small sips." When you've had your fill, he takes a drink himself before setting the bottle aside. Then he's back, arranging you more comfortably against the pile of blankets and pillows. His hands move with purpose, checking you over—not clinically, but with the reverence of someone handling something precious.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks quietly, his fingers tracing the faint bite mark on your shoulder. You shake your head.

"No. Liked it." A small smile touches his lips. His hand drifts lower, gently parting your thighs to check the tender flesh there. You hiss as his fingers brush against your swollen, sensitive folds.

"Sorry," he murmurs, withdrawing his hand. "I'm sorry baby."

"I'm fine," you assure him, turning in his arms to face him. "More than fine." In the dim light, you can see the worry etched around his eyes, the way his brow is still furrowed with concern. You reach up, smoothing the lines with your thumb.

"Hey," you say softly. "I'm okay. Better than okay." Frank captures your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"I got… carried away."

"I wanted you to," you insist. "I always want you - in all the ways you have to offer me." His eyes search yours, and whatever he sees there seems to reassure him. He leans in, kissing you gently—nothing like the hungry, desperate kisses from before. This one is soft, sweet, full of affection.

"I love you," he whispers against your lips. "So damn much." He goes to kiss you again when-

"Frank ! Frank, come in !" The radio on the driverseat crackles as Dinah's voice fills the air. Pulling his boxers back up his pants in a haste, Frank scrambles for the radio.

"Yeah, Madani ?" He asks. The radio crackles.

"What the hell are you doing ? The target is on the move, Frank !" Frank cranes his neck to the window. He wipes away the condensation on it, only to see his target sauntering out of the house with his hands tucked in his pants and a hoodie drawn up to his head.

"Oh- Oh, shit !"

"That's what I've been saying!" Dinah fires back. "Castle, he's heading east. If you lose him because you fell asleep, I swear to God—"

"I wasn't asleep." You press your lips together. Frank shoots you a warning look. You innocently examine your fingernails.

"Nope," you murmur. "Definitely not." His ears immediately turn pink. Dinah's voice crackles again.

"...Why do you sound weird?"

"I don't sound weird."

"You sound winded."

"I'm fine." You fail spectacularly at suppressing a laugh. Frank pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, no," Dinah says slowly, realization dawning. "Frank..."

"No."

"...Frank."

"No."

"...Is she there?" Silence. "...Frank." He closes his eyes.

"...Yeah." There's a beat. Then another. Then Dinah sighs with all the exhaustion of someone who has worked with Frank Castle far too long.

"I leave you alone for one surveillance assignment..."

"It wasn't planned." You cough into your fist.

"He's lyin'." Frank glares.

"You are bein' profoundly unhelpful."

"I think I'm helping."

"The exact opposite." Over the radio comes another voice—Micro this time, barely containing his amusement.

"I've got fifty bucks that says the windows are fogged up." Frank's eyes slowly drift toward the windshield. Every single window in the truck is completely opaque.

"...Son of a bitch." You finally lose it. The laugh bursts out of you so hard you have to cover your mouth. Frank points an accusing finger.

"This is your fault."

"My fault?"

"You distracted me."

"I distinctly remember someone saying, 'Just five more minutes.'"

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I said somethin' similar."

"You negotiated with a federal surveillance operation."

"It seemed reasonable at the time." Micro is openly laughing now.

"Oh, this is better than television."

"Shut up, Micro."

"No chance." Dinah cuts back in before either of them can continue.

"Castle." Frank straightens immediately.

"Yeah."

"The target's getting into a blue SUV." Frank glances outside. The engine across the street roars to life.

"I see him."

"The SUV's pulling away," Dinah says. "Don't lose visual."

"Won't." Frank reaches for his jeans where they'd been abandoned somewhere near the driver's seat. You watch him dress with hurried efficiency, every movement practiced. Belt. Boots. Shirt. Holster. Like watching a switch flip. One moment he's the man who'd just whispered I love you against your lips. The next he's all sharp edges and focus. He catches you watching.

"What?"

"Nothin'."

"You got that smile."

"I like watching you get flustered."

"I ain't flustered."

"You absolutely are." He snorts, shaking his head as he pulls his overshirt on.

"Hopeless."

"So I've been told." He bends to retrieve the blanket that had slipped onto the floor. Without a word, he unfolds it and drapes it carefully around your shoulders, tucking it beneath your arms.

"There."

"You wrapped me like a burrito."

"So you don't freeze."

"It's July."

"The truck's got lousy insulation." You smile.

"You're sweet."

"I ain't."

"You tucked me in."

"I contained you."

"Mhm."

"Different." He crouches in front of you, both hands settling on your knees through the blanket.

"You stay here."

"I know."

"Doors locked."

"I know."

"If anybody comes near this van—"

"I know."

"You call me."

"I know."

"You got your phone?" You hold it up.

"My pepper spray?" You lift the canister from the cup holder.

"My—"

"Frank." He stops.

"What?"

"I promise I'll survive the ninety seconds you're gone." He stares at you another moment before sighing.

"…Yeah." Then, unable to help himself, he reaches up and cups your face. His thumb strokes your cheek.

"You still sore?"

"A little."

"You need anything?"

"You." His whole face softens.

"I'm comin' right back."

"I know." He leans in. Kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then finally your lips. Slow. Gentle. "I love you."

"I love you too." He rests his forehead against yours for one brief heartbeat. "Stay put."

"Yes, sir." He rolls his eyes. "You enjoy bossin' me around way too much."

"I really do." He smiles despite himself. Then he's gone. The cool night air rushes into the truck as he slips outside, quietly closing the door behind him. The warmth disappears with him. You pull the blanket a little tighter. Through the windshield, you watch him become someone else. His shoulders square. His posture changes. Every trace of softness melts away. He moves along the line of parked cars, staying in their shadows. Across the street, the blue SUV idles at the curb. The driver glances in the rearview mirror.

Frank is already there. Hidden. Waiting. The radio hisses quietly.

"Castle," Dinah murmurs. "You've got a clean angle."

"I know."

"Take him before he merges." Frank doesn't answer. He simply steps out from behind the last parked sedan. The target barely has time to register the movement. There's a sharp crack. The windshield spiders. The driver slumps sideways over the steering wheel. The SUV rolls only a few feet before bumping harmlessly against the curb. Silence settles over the street. Frank keeps the pistol trained for another beat.

Watching.

Waiting.

No movement.

"Target's down," he says evenly into the radio. Micro's voice crackles back.

"Confirmed." Dinah follows immediately.

"We've got units en route. You don't need to stick around."

"I'm already leaving." He holsters the pistol in one smooth motion and turns back toward the van. The passenger door opens. Frank climbs inside, shutting it behind him. For a moment neither of you speaks. He lets out one long breath. Then looks at you.

"…Miss me?" You grin.

"It has been at least…" You check an imaginary watch. "…two whole minutes."

"Torture."

"The worst." He laughs quietly.

"You warm enough?" You lift one side of the blanket.

"Only if you get under here too." He shakes his head.

"Gotta drive."

"Boring."

"Responsible."

"Even more boring." He starts the engine. The heater hums to life. As he pulls away from the curb. You rest your head against the window, watching the city slide by.

"Tired?"

"Mhm."

"You can sleep."

"What if you need someone to keep you company?"

"I got you."

"I'm literally about to fall asleep."

"Still got you." You smile without opening your eyes. The truck rumbles through the late-afternoon traffic, warm now, smelling faintly of coffee, garlic, and the two of you. Frank glances over just once. You're already half asleep beneath the blanket he'd wrapped around you. He reaches over at the next red light and gently pulls the edge a little higher over your shoulder.

Without opening your eyes, you smile.

"You're tucking me in."

"Am not."

He chuckles, squeezes your hand once, and points the truck toward home.

taglist !

Frank is great husband.

Not in the grand, movie-worthy gestures. Not because he remembers every anniversary without checking the calendar. Not because he buys expensive jewelry or plans elaborate date nights. Frank is great because he pays attention. He notices. He notices when your favorite cereal is getting low and replaces it before you realize it's gone. He notices when you've had a rough day before you even say hello, because your shoulders sit just a little tighter.

He notices when you haven't been sleeping, and somehow you always wake up to fresh coffee already brewing and your favorite blanket tucked around your feet. He notices when your shampoo changes.

When you get a haircut. When you've picked at your nails because you're anxious. When your smile isn't reaching your eyes. He notices everything. Which is exactly why, after six years of marriage, he got tired of pretending your period "snuck up on him."

Because according to you— "You've got one week every month where you act shocked I'm bleeding."

So… Frank fixed the problem.

It started innocently enough.

He downloaded one of those period tracking apps. Not for himself— For you.

At first, it was purely practical. He'd quietly glance at the calendar every few days.

Three days before your period? Your favorite chocolate would mysteriously appear in the pantry. The expensive dark chocolate you always refused to buy because "it's ridiculously overpriced."

The heating pad would already be plugged in beside the couch. Ibuprofen would magically rest on your bedside table. The good pads—not the cheap emergency ones—would already be stocked beneath the bathroom sink.

You never had to ask.

He'd even stop at the bakery before work to grab those ridiculous raspberry pastries you always claimed cured cramps.

"They don't cure cramps," he'd grumble while handing you the little paper bag.

"They make me less homicidal."

"Same difference." Eventually, it became almost frightening.

"You've been craving salt all day."

"…How do you know that?"

"'Cause you've eaten half a jar of pickles."

"I always eat pickles."

"Not while glaring at 'em." He'd rub your lower back while you cooked. Wordlessly refill your water bottle. Cancel plans without making you feel guilty. He'd simply say—

"C'mere." And you'd melt into him because somehow… Somehow… He always knew exactly what you needed. You never questioned it. You just assumed Frank had developed some supernatural husband instinct.

He let you believe that.

Because admitting he'd become emotionally invested in a menstrual tracking app felt… deeply uncool.

There was only one problem.

Actually— One enormous, life-altering, impossible-to-ignore problem. The app didn't just track your period. It tracked everything.

Including— Ovulation.

The first time a little notification popped up saying:

High fertility window begins tomorrow.

Frank stared at his phone for a full minute.

"…Huh." He clicked it. Read the explanation. Read it again. Then Googled it. Then read three different medical articles because he didn't trust the first one. By the end of the night, he knew exactly what basal body temperature was. He knew what cervical mucus was. He knew sperm could survive up to five days. He knew the odds of conception during your fertile window. He knew entirely too much.

And suddenly… The app wasn't just reminding him to buy chocolate anymore. It was quietly counting down the days until the week he'd been dreaming about for years.

Because Frank wants a baby.

Ever since he said, "I do", and kissed you once declared husband and wife, he has not dropped the issue of family.

Not in an overbearing way. Never pressuring. Never demanding.

Just… Hopeful. Painfully, adorably hopeful. Every time he sees a father carrying a sleeping toddler over one shoulder, his expression softens. Every time he walks past the tiny clothes section in Target, he slows down just a little. Every time one of your friends announces they're pregnant, he spends the drive home talking about names.

And to be fair, you had tried for a baby. You've wanted to be a mother since you married Frank, finally having settled enough in your life to be able to see yourself taking that step.

But with no luck.

For months. Then a year. Then another.

At first, it had been exciting. You'd grin every time you bought another pregnancy test. Frank would wait outside the bathroom pretending not to pace. Every month he'd hear the wrapper crinkle.

The bathroom door open.

Your quiet, "…Not this month." He'd kiss your forehead.

"Next month." Always next month. Until eventually… Next month started hurting. The negative tests got shoved into the bottom of the bathroom trash instead of ceremoniously thrown away together. You stopped talking about names. Frank stopped lingering in the baby aisle at Target. Neither of you stopped wanting it.

You just… Stopped expecting it.

Still… Frank never deleted the app. He couldn't. It had become part of his routine.

Chocolate. Heating pad. Pads. Ibuprofen.

And… Those little green circles.

Hope, packaged into calendar notifications.

Months later— You're out with friends.

A rare Friday night. Karen insisted everyone needed to leave the house. Matt had somehow been convinced. Foggy was already halfway through his second beer.

The table is loud. Comfortable. Filled with the kind of laughter that only comes from people who've survived too much together. Frank has an arm slung lazily across the back of your chair. His thumb absentmindedly brushes your shoulder every few minutes.

You lean against him while Karen tells some ridiculous story involving Foggy, a parking ticket, and three pigeons. Frank's phone vibrates. He almost ignores it.

Almost.

Then he glances down.

Peak fertility predicted today.

Frank freezes. He clears his throat. Looks at you. Looks back at the phone. Looks at you again.

"…Honey." You blink.

"Hm?"

"…You wanna head home?" The entire table goes quiet. You frown.

"…We just got here."

"I know."

"You ordered appetizers."

"I know."

"They haven't even arrived."

"I know."

"So…"

"…We could eat at home." Foggy slowly lowers his beer.

"…Frank."

"What?"

"…Are you dying?"

"No." Karen narrows her eyes.

"Did something happen?"

"No." Matt tilts his head.

"You look nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

"You look… motivated." Frank coughs.

"I just thought…"He looks at you again. "…Maybe we could...Leave." You squint at him.

"…Right now?" He nods eagerly.

"Yes, fuck yes, let's leave. Right now."

"Frank-" Frank gets up, and throws a couple of bills on the table.

"For the appetizers. Sorry guys." He grabs your bag for you and softly tugs on your wrist, like an insistent child begging to leave. You get to your feet, throw your friends an apologetic look, and struggle to catch up with your husband as he drags you along behind him.

You barely make it through the restaurant doors before you start laughing. Not a polite little giggle either. A full, helpless laugh that makes you stop walking because Frank Castle—your very serious, very intimidating husband—is currently speed-walking through the parking lot like someone is chasing him.

"Frank." He doesn't slow down. "Frank."

"What?"

"You are aware you're dragging me behind you, right?" He finally looks back. And the expression on his face almost makes you laugh harder. Because he looks guilty. Which is absurd. This is the man who once walked into a room full of armed men without blinking. But apparently abandoning mozzarella sticks because his wife is in her fertile window?

That's where he draws the line.

"I'm not dragging you."

"You absolutely are."

"I'm walking."

"With my hand attached to yours."

"Yeah."

"At a pace normally reserved for escaping explosions." Frank opens the passenger door for you.

"You coming or not?" You cross your arms, pretending to consider it.

"Hmm. I don't know. I might go back inside. Foggy looked devastated." Frank stares at you.

"You're enjoying this."

"A little."

"A little?" You smile.

"A lot." He shakes his head, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Get in the car."

"Frank."

"Get in the fucking car, mama."

"And why would I do that ?" He sighs, leaning against the car door.

"So i can take you home and fuck you so good that stick shows two lines instead of one." He holds open the door. "Shall we ?"

You've never climbed into a car so fast.

Frank barely waits for the door to slam shut before he's wrenching the gearshift into reverse, tires spinning loose for a second before finding purchase. You fumble with your seatbelt—he doesn't even bother—and the two of you lurch out into the dark, the restaurant's golden light fading behind. He grips the wheel, knuckles white, but his left hand never stops roaming: it floats from your thigh, squeezing, up under your skirt, where you can feel the rasp of calloused skin, the insistent heat of him. The whole car hums with it, sticky and electric and absolutely ridiculous. He doesn't say a word. Just drives, jaw set, eyes ahead, hand under your skirt and fingers feathering the inside of your thigh, getting bolder each mile. It's barely ten minutes before his fingertips slip higher, and he finds you already soaked through, the whimper of surprise that escapes you making him smirk, just a little.

"Jesus, baby," he mutters, voice low. "Didn't even make it home." He doesn't sound disappointed. He doesn't sound like he plans to wait, either. Frank's breathing is already different in here. You hear it, that low steady rumble that means he's barely holding himself back. You watch his jaw work, a tic starting and stopping at the hinge. The ride home is supposed to take twenty minutes, but you have a hunch you're not making it that far. Frank makes it two blocks. He brakes at the red light, stares straight ahead, then turns to you so hard the seat creaks. There's a question in his face—like he's about to say something important, but the words get lost somewhere in the thick gravity between you. He just watches. For a moment. Then he leans over, catches your chin in his hand, and kisses you. It's not sweet. It's not movie-worthy, either. It's desperate, like he can already taste you in the back of his throat. You feel yourself burn for it. The light turns green and Frank pulls away just enough to breathe.

"Can't wait," he says, voice a gravel road of want. "Not even a little." He takes the next right, a hard, fast turn that flattens you against the door. The car lurches into the empty lot of an old bank, tires crunching ancient glass and gravel. Frank kills the engine but leaves the radio on, like some part of him still needs the normalcy of soft rock in the background while everything else in him is ready to tear something open. He unbuckles your seatbelt, his hands already shaking. Not from nerves. From restraint. You're not sure who moves first, but suddenly you're both crawling over the console, a tangle of knees and hands and the friction of denim on denim. He hooks your hips, lifts you into his lap so you're straddling him, the tight space of the driver's seat making everything closer, hungrier. Your back bumps the wheel, and the horn lets out a quick, embarrassed yelp, but neither of you laugh. Frank fists the hem of your shirt, pulls it up with one hand while the other curls around your thigh, squeezing hard enough you think you'll wear the imprint tomorrow. You shiver. He's not even inside you yet, but every part of you is already stretched wide, already tuned to the single desperate note of his need. He kisses you like he's trying to eat the entire past year of missed chances, tongue hot and insistent, beard scraping your cheek. You grind down onto him, feel the obscene bulge in his jeans, hard as a brick and twice as intimidating. Frank’s belt buckle never stood a chance. It’s the fastest you’ve seen him get out of any piece of clothing, and you both nearly topple the cup holders wrestling his jeans down around his thighs. He hisses through his teeth when your hand curls around him—Jesus, he’s hot and heavy, and you swear he twitches in your palm, rutting helplessly against your fist. He grabs your wrist, not to stop you, just to anchor himself, like he’ll fly apart if he doesn’t.

“You sure?” He says it into your neck, words muffled and already fraying at the edges. His cock is leaking onto your wrist, painting the inside of your arm, and you can barely breathe for how much you want him.

“Obviously,” you whisper, and reach down to hook the crotch of your underwear aside. He manhandles you until your tits are pressed to the steeringwheel, your ass on display for him. Frank barely gets the tip inside before you’re already gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles ache. He’s big, always has been, but this? Bent over the dashboard, skirt bunched stupidly around your hips and his cock splitting you open from behind, it feels like the first time all over again. You can hear yourself—those needy, helpless noises you never let anyone else hear—and Frank can too, because he lets out a ragged,

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” and presses in another inch, just to see how much you’ll take before you break. You’re shaking, forehead mashed to the cool plastic. The stretch burns, but in the way you crave, and you whine for him, teeth sunk into the sleeve of your own sweater. He’s so far inside already, you can feel the blunt pressure nudging up against your cervix. You clench down, greedy for more, and Frank huffs a fractured laugh.

“You’re gonna milk me dry, you know that?” He sounds ruined. The pride in his voice, though, that’s what makes you melt. He thrusts a little deeper, and your thighs tremble, slick already running in hot rivulets down to the backs of your knees.

“Frank—” you gasp, because the whole length of him is still only halfway in, and you don’t know how much more you can take. You want to be good for him, want to take all of it, even when it feels like you’re being split in half. He kisses the side of your neck, tongue tasting salt and perfume, grip circling your waist tight enough that tomorrow will be a gallery of fingerprints.

“You can do it, baby. C’mon, let me in. You know you want to.” You do, more than anything, so you rock back, trying to impale yourself. The move surprises him and suddenly you’re flush, his hips grinding into your ass, and the stretch is a white-hot line up your spine, dizzying. You sob out something desperate, and he covers your mouth with his own, swallowing every sound.

“You’re perfect,” he growls into your ear, voice gone gravelly. “So fucking perfect for me.” He fucks you just like that—slow at first, like he wants to memorize every inch of you, then faster, harder, until the whole car is rocking, windows fogged, your breath a latticework of moans and pleadings. You whimper, try to nod, but you’re caged between the steering wheel and his body, nowhere to go but forward. He’s not gentle. He’s never gentle when he gets like this, but there’s a tenderness in the way he kisses your neck, the way his thumb ghosts over your exposed spine, like he’s apologizing for every brutal inch he forces inside you.

“You like this?” he says, and it’s not really a question. It’s a warning, maybe, or an admission. You nod, frantic and helpless, forehead bumping the horn again. The noise startles both of you, and you stifle a giggle, which immediately turns into a moan as Frank sets a hard, punishing pace. The car rocks with you, his thighs bracketed tight around your own, hands gripping your hips in a way that promises bruises.

“Jesus,” he grits, “feel how deep I am? Fuck, baby, I’m not gonna last.” His breath is in your ear, hot and desperate, and you can feel how close he is, the way his whole body is shaking behind you.

“You’re gonna take all of me. Yeah? Let me fill you up, just like that.” You moan, head tipping backwards and onto his shoulder. The stretch is obscene. Frank isn’t even trying to hide how much he loves it, every sharp intake through his teeth, every muttered, “holy fuck, look at you,” another ripple of want up your spine. You think you might die in this car, impaled and slowly rearranged until there’s nothing left but the way you pulse and grip around him. You brace against the dash, fingers splayed, searching for leverage that doesn’t exist. Frank's hand is all the support you get—one palm locked around your hip, the other inching up under your shirt, squeezing and kneading until your skin burns. When you arch, desperate for anything, he slides his hand up your back, not gentle at all, shoving you down—closer, tighter—until your chest smears condensation across the steering wheel.

“You good?” He asks, and you can’t tell if he’s all the way in, or if you’re just delirious from the way the world narrows down to the throbbing pressure inside you.

“God, yes, Frank- ” you breathe, but you can’t finish, not when he snaps his hips just a little, driving the last inch home. Your eyes squeeze shut. You feel it everywhere.

“Attagirl,” he grunts, and the pride in his voice makes you want to sob. “Knew you could take it. Knew you’d be perfect.” He’s not moving yet, just holding you open, letting you feel every millimeter of him. You don’t realize you’re whining until he shushes you, soothing, thumb stroking circles into your hip. Every thrust is a new kind of fullness, a new angle that scrapes something raw and perfect inside you. You peek over your shoulder and catch him watching, his face all hungry and wrecked, and the way he’s staring at the place you’re joined makes your knees nearly buckle. The pleasure is so sharp it’s almost a threat.

“Jesus, look at you,” he rasps, “you’re fucking swallowing me, sweetheart.” Your head swims. You don’t even recognize the noises in your own throat, not until he leans over you, mouth at your ear.

“Bet you feel me up in your guts, huh?” You nod, frantic, and he rewards you with a savage snap of hips that makes your eyes roll. You can feel everything—every throb, every twitch, every molten inch. He keeps you bent, one hand wrapped around the front of your throat now. Frank’s hips stutter, and he groans, deep and guttural, like he’s gone feral. He slows, using his weight to pin you, the head of his cock grinding in circles against that impossible spot that always makes you see stars. The car’s tiny, and the air’s gone thick with sweat and your own wild, animal noises. You can smell both of you, messy and raw, and the thought of it—of how you’re rutting like teenagers in a borrowed car—nearly sends you right over. He grinds deeper, impossibly deeper, and you gasp, fingernails raking black trenches into the faux leather steering wheel.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he pants, voice hoarse from holding back. “You feel that? Feel how perfect you are for me?” He arches, locking his elbows into the seatback, and you swear the whole center console creaks. He’s not gentle about it, not even pretending to be, but every rough thrust lights you up. Your thighs start to shake, knees knocking the dash, and you can’t even pretend you’re not about to break apart for him. You sob,

“Frank, please, fuck, I’m—” and he cuts you off with a hand over your mouth, not to shush you, but so he can feel the desperate wet heat of your breathing against his palm. He ruts up into you, relentless, and you clench down, greedy for every inch.

“That’s my girl,” he growls. “God, you’re filthy. Letting me fuck you like this. You love it, don’t you? Love knowing you’re gonna be dripping with me for days.” You writhe, pressing back as far as you can, and he rewards you with a hard slap to your ass. The sound echoes, sharp and obscene, and you choke on your own moan. You go boneless at the echo of his palm, the humiliation of it licking up your spine—God, you want more, you want all of it, you want Frank to carve new fingerprints into your skin and leave them there, permanent tattoos the shape of love and hunger. The last time he was this rough, the entire right side of your body had a bruise shaped like his handprint for a week. You’d worn it like a secret under your work clothes, fingers sneaking down during boring meetings just to feel the edges of his claim. He’s rutting now, really rutting, cock punching up deeper than you thought possible, and it’s not even the pain that does you in, it’s the pride in his voice, the way he sounds like your pleasure is some sort of holy thing he’s worshiping. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head up, forces your eyes open so you’re staring at your own wrecked reflection in the rearview mirror. Your face is flushed, jaw slack, eyes tearing up from the intensity.Frank holds you there for one long, trembling second, gaze locked in the mirror, and the world shrinks to the fogged glass, the desperate clutch of his hands, the bright, stupid ache between your legs. Every inch of him inside, pushing you to the brink, and for a moment, all you can do is whimper. The steering wheel digs into your ribs, that silly, plastic horn badge pressed cold and insistent against your sternum, and still he doesn’t let up. Not even when your thighs quake, not when your breath snags sharp in your chest. Frank is relentless. He’s always relentless. But there’s something new in it tonight, some raw, scraping edge. He rocks his hips in tight, punishing little thrusts, and the car is full of it: the sharp slap of skin, your muffled, uneven sobs, and over all of it, Frank’s voice, rasped and wrecked and so, so proud.

“Fuck, you take me so good. Didn’t think you’d get all of it in, sweetheart, but you always prove me wrong.” His mouth is at your cheek now, teeth and beard scraping, and when he moves his hand from your throat to your mouth, you let him. You’re too gone to do anything else. He presses two fingers over your lips, thumb dragging slow over your chin, and every sloppy, gasping sound you make vibrates against his hand. He loves it. You can feel it in the way he pulses thick inside you, the way his breath comes harsher, almost pained.

“Gonna make you mine, baby,” he mutters. “Gonna keep you full. Not letting you up until I’m leaking out of you.” You whine for it, because that’s what he wants, and you want it too, embarrassing as it is. Want him split you open and keep you messy, want the soreness tomorrow, the impossible fullness now. He grinds in deeper, rolling his hips with a slow, evil drag, and the friction lights a fuse in your belly. The world starts to blur at the edges.

“You feel that?” he hisses. “You feel how fucking deep I am?” All you can do is nod, breathless and shaky, and he rewards you with another hard snap. It’s too much and exactly right, and the words tumble out before you can think:

“More, Frank, please—” He laughs, a low, wrecked sound, and pulls you upright, back flush to his chest. The pressure changes, angle sharper now, and when he bounces you on his cock, you see white for a second, vision flickering. His hands clamp down on your thighs, holding you in place while he just fucks up into you, deep enough you swear you can feel it in your throat.

“Look at you,” he says. “Look at how pretty you are. All open for me. Nobody else could ever fill you like this, huh?” You shake your head. You couldn’t speak even if you wanted to. The pride in his voice, the claim, the feral need to make you his—it does something to you. Something embarrassing, something you’ll think about for days after.

“That’s it,” he says, voice thick and shredded. “You see what you do to me? What you make me?” His hand slides up, thumb circling your clit, and you spasm, every muscle locking down. “Take it. All of it. Every goddamn inch.” You realize he’s talking you through it—not just to see if you’ll break, but because he wants you to be proud of it, too. Frank Castle’s big, everyone knows it, but the way he looks at you now—like you’re the only person who could ever handle him, the only one who could possibly fit—sets something molten and dangerous loose in your chest. He grunts,

“God, your pussy’s choking me. You’re perfect. You’re better than perfect.” You’re close. Dangerously, humiliatingly close. Frank feels it, too, because his hips start to stutter, rhythm going ragged. You throw your head back, searching for air, and he grabs your chin, turns your face to the mirror so you have to watch yourself come apart.

“Give it to me, baby,” he demands, and you do, with a strangled sob. The orgasm rips through you, white-out and all-consuming, and for a split second, you lose sense of everything but the hot, pulsing pressure inside you. Frank’s not far behind. He buries his face in your shoulder, bellowing something raw and wordless as he jerks you down the last half-inch, holding you flush to his lap while he empties himself inside. The heat is immediate, the fullness overwhelming, and you’re still milking him when he finally slumps back against the seat, arms banded around your waist.

He moans your name like a litany, like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this world.

He doesn’t pull out. Not even a little. He keeps you mashed down over the steering wheel, cock still pulsing inside you, like he thinks you’ll leak any of him out if he lets go. It’s possessive and sweet and a little desperate. You love it. You’d let him keep you here forever if he asked. Eventually, he moves, just enough to wrap both arms around your middle and pull you into his lap, cock still buried inside. You whimper at the friction and the obscene stretch, but he just shushes you again, rocking you gently while you both try to remember how to breathe. He nuzzles at your neck, beard scratchy but strangely soothing.

“You okay?” he whispers, voice smaller than you’ve ever heard it. You nod, still floating, and wrap your arms around his shoulders.

“Best shortcut ever,” you mumble. He huffs out a laugh, shaking under you, and you think maybe he’s more wrecked than you are. Neither of you moves to clean up. Your thighs are tacky, slick with both of you, and you can feel the way his spend leaks around the seal of your cunt, dangerously close to spilling onto the seat. Frank finally manages to get his hands to work, and he adjusts your hips so you’re sitting heavier on him, cock still locked inside.

“Gotta keep it in,” he says, not quite joking. “Don’t want it to spill out." Your heart stutters, and you whine at his words, head falling forward, pussy twitching. He kisses your shoulder, pulling you closer to him and shifting his hips upward so he fully seals himself in you.

You cry out, hips rutting down on him.

"Shh, baby. Gotta get ya home, hmm ?" He mutters, slowly shifting you so that your body rests on his shoulder while your hips stay firmly locked over his. Frank’s hand never leaves your thigh, and you don’t think he’s letting go, not even to shift gears. He stretches your skirt down just enough to hide the evidence, but you’re still speared open on his cock, leaking his spend with every twitch of your body. The drive home is reckless—Frank makes every light, takes every turn sharp enough that you gasp and clench around him, earning a broken rumble from his chest. He smells like sweat and sex and some faint note of aftershave, and you think, in the miserable, sticky press of his lap, that you could live here forever. He parks crooked in the garage, barely inside the lines, and throws the car into park. There’s a moment where neither of you moves, like you’re waiting for the world to reorient. You peek up at him, and he’s already watching you, pupils blown wide, pink smeared across his lips where you’d bitten him. The heat in his stare makes your knees want to fold, if they weren’t already trembling in his lap.

“Not done,” he says, like the thought is a surprise to him too. “Wanna keep you full, ‘kay?” You nod, because of course you do, and he threads your fingers together, steadying both of you. Slowly and steadily, he lifts you off of him. But he doesn’t let you all the way off—just enough to feel the suction, the heat, the way your walls want to cling and keep him. His head lolls back, and he groans, like he’s undecided if the ache is better than the release. You try to slide off his lap, but his grip tightens on your thigh, pinning you to him.

“Don’t,” he rasps. “Not yet.” He fumbles behind you, reaches for something in the backseat, and comes up with his leather jacket. He drapes it around your shoulders, tucks your hair out of the way, then wedges his hand between your legs, two thick fingers pressing up into you, plugging the mess he’s made. You gasp—he doesn’t even flinch. Just holds you there, filled and clamped tight, while he tucks himself away with his other hand. The car door thuds open, and you realize, with a sick thrill, that he’s going to make you walk all the way to the elevator like this.

“Frank—”

“Don’t spill,” he says, like you’re a can of beer and not a person, and then he’s out of the car and lifting you in his arms, bridal style, your legs wobbling around his hips. The world feels fuzzy, far away, like nothing exists except the careful press of his fingers, the obscene slickness running down your thighs. You bury your face in his neck, breathing in sweat and the sharp tang of ozone from the parking garage. He’s moving fast, and you’re half-convinced you’re dreaming. The elevator is mercifully empty. Frank keeps you pinned with one arm, the other still holding you plugged and tight, and you hear yourself panting in the dead fluorescent light. The doors close, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection: hair wild, lips swollen, skirt hiked up indecent. Frank meets your gaze in the polished steel, and his smirk is pure, unfiltered pride.

“What if someone sees?” you whisper, but the words are weak even to your own ears. He shrugs, the motion jostling you higher on his chest.

“Let ‘em. Want everyone to know you’re mine.” The doors open on your floor, and he carries you down the hall, bootsteps echoing in the linoleum hush. Your apartment door’s barely closed before he’s pushing you up against it, hips slotting between your thighs. His fingers never leave you, but now his mouth is on your neck, your jaw, kissing you like he’s starving. He sets you down, finally, on your back on the bed, and you immediately draw your legs up and hug them to your chest the second he slowly removes his fingers from your sopping cunt. Frank’s hands go gentle the instant you hit the bed. He doesn’t let you curl up, even when instinct tries to take over. Instead he slides in behind you, knees bracketing your hips, careful as he smooths shaking hair away from your cheek with the flat of his hand. You’re still leaking, embarrassment hot and thick in the cradle of your thighs. He doesn’t rush to clean you up, just runs his hand up and down your spine, humming low in his throat, a resonance you feel beneath your ribs. He stays pressed to you, shielding your body with his. The aftershocks rattle you, tiny, shivering spasms that make your calves knot and your hands grope for fabric. You find the collar of his shirt, twist it between slippery fingers. He lets you clutch, lets you breathe, lets you ride out the stupid, trembling come-down while he spoons himself around you. It’s disgusting and perfect and you don’t want to move ever again.

“Little shake you got,” Frank whispers, voice barely a rumble. “C’mere.” He bends his legs, folds you tighter against himself, tucks your head under his chin like you’re something breakable. You feel his heartbeat, slow and heavy, right next to your ear. You make a sound—something between a laugh and a sob—and he smiles into your hair. His thumb paints lazy circles into the small of your back. It’s not enough to calm you, but it helps. You realize you’re crying, just a little, and when he feels the tremors hitch up, his grip only gets steadier.

“Shh, baby, got you. I got you,” he says, and you believe him because you don’t have a choice. He’s everywhere, so big it seems impossible you ever existed in a world where he wasn’t. Your skirt’s still rucked around your waist, your panties somewhere on the floor, and your knees are pressed up so high your thighs tremble with the strain.

Frank kisses the top of your head, then your temple, then your eyelids, soft as a benediction.

“You did perfect,” he praises, voice gone sweet as honey. “Knew you could take it. Knew you could do it for me.” You want to say something, but the words get lost on your tongue.

All you manage is “Frank,” and he makes a pleased noise, like your voice is enough. He doesn’t move until your breathing evens out, and even then, he works slow.. Frank hushes you, runs his fingers up your thigh, and uses the pad of his thumb to push in the worst of the drip. You shudder at the sensation, at the certainty that you’re not just ruined, you’re marked.

“Stay here,” he orders, a command as gentle as a lullaby. He peels himself offthe bed, tugs the sheets up around your shoulders. The mattress dips as he disappears into the hall, the soft shush of his bare feet on the wood floor. Light flickers on in the bathroom, and you hear water running, maybe the rattle of pill bottles. Frank comes back with a damp washcloth, a glass of water, and a look on his face that makes your chest feel too full. He kneels next to the bed, one knee pressed to the floor, and just looks at you for a second. Like he’s making sure you’re all in one piece. He drags the rag down your thighs, slow and careful, gathering the worst of the mess, but he skips your pussy at first, like he’s saving it for last. He presses the cold glass into your palm, wraps your fingers around it, waits until you take a sip before he moves on. Your hands are shaking so bad you almost spill, but he’s there, steadying your wrist, thumb drawing circles over your pulse point.

“Easy,” he says, and you want to hit him for it, but also you want to curl up and live in that word, have him say it again every morning for the rest of time. He sets the glass down, brushes your hair off your forehead, and kisses the tip of your nose. Makes a face about it, too, because he’s a sap in private and he knows it. You want to laugh, but you’re still too raw, every part of you vivid and sore and alive. Then he gets to work cleaning you up, and it’s not delicate, but it’s honest. He wipes the slick from your thighs, his calluses dragging rough and perfect over your skin, and finally, finally brings the washcloth between your legs. He’s slow, like he’s memorizing the way you twitch at the touch, the way you try to clamp your knees together and can’t, not when he’s got them bracketed with his other arm. It feels more intimate than the fucking, somehow—this simple, necessary act, his head bowed over you, not saying anything. He pats you dry with the hem of his own shirt, like nothing in the world could be less urgent than making sure you’re comfortable. When he’s satisfied, he tosses the cloth onto the floor, climbs up behind you, and draws you into his chest. He wraps both arms around your waist, one big palm over your ribs, the other down between your thighs, holding you together, keeping you full like he promised. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, just listens to your breath even out, the shudder in your chest thinning into something calmer.

You drift, floating in the strange, humming space between sleep and wanting more.

-------

Ping !

Your phone buzzes on the desk, and you grit your teeth, trying to ignore it.

Ping!

Your phone buzzes again. You stare at it. Then at the ceiling. Then back at your computer screen.

Because you already know. You already know exactly who it is. And you already know exactly what he wants. That morning, you woke up still tangled in Frank and so deliciously sore you genuinely considered calling in sick.

Frank had made breakfast. Actual breakfast. Eggs, coffee, toast exactly the way you liked it. And then he had stood there in the kitchen, mug in hand, looking unfairly pleased with himself while he tried every possible argument to convince you to stay home.

"You could call."

"I can't call."

"You could."

"My boss would kill me."

"Your boss doesn't scare me."

"Frank."

"What?"

"You cannot intimidate my boss."

"I could."

"You won't." He had just looked at you. And that was the problem. Because Frank Castle had a way of making you believe he could probably intimidate anyone if he really tried.

Still, you had left. Because your boss was already annoyed enough that you had disappeared early yesterday. So now you were sitting at your desk, pretending to work, while your phone kept lighting up.

Ping! You finally grab it.

Frank: You busy?

You stare. You type.

You know I'm at work.

Three dots immediately appear.

Frank: That wasn't my question.

You bite back a smile. Of course it wasn't.

You: What do you need?

The reply comes almost instantly.

Frank: You.

You close your eyes.

"Unbelievable." Your phone buzzes again.

Frank: I'm outside.

You freeze. Slowly, you look toward the window. Sure enough. There he is. Frank Castle. Standing outside your office building with coffee in one hand and that expression on his face. The one that says he knows exactly what he's doing. The one that says he has absolutely no shame. You immediately text him.

You: Why are you here?

A moment later:

Frank: Brought you coffee.

You narrow your eyes.

You: You drove all the way here for coffee?

The typing bubble appears.

Stops. Appears again.

Frank: And to fuck my wife.

Your assistant pushes your office door open.

"Miss Castle ? Your husband's here to see you." Your heart skips a beat.

Frank is here. At your office.

You don’t even have a chance to compose yourself before you hear the heavy footfalls, the scrape of his boots on institutional carpet. You try to keep a straight face—try to look busy, important, like the kind of respectable professional who does not, in any universe, have her husband show up in the middle of a workday with fuck me written all over his face.

You stand. Smooth your skirt. Cough, just for effect.

Frank ducks through your doorway and the temperature in the room goes up about ten degrees. He looks too big for the office—shoulder to shoulder with the cheap beige walls, looming over your little particleboard desk like a bear in a dollhouse. He’s wearing the jacket you love, the one that smells like cedar and motor oil, and he’s holding a paper cup from the good place down the street. You try to scowl.

“Frank, what are you—”

“Coffee,” he says, and sets it on your desk like a peace offering. He walks over to you and grabs you by the waist, pulling you into him. He kisses your temple, and your whole body lights up like a firework. "Hi, baby." He hums. And there it is. That stupidly soft voice. The one nobody else gets. The one that makes it impossible to stay annoyed with him.

You try. You really do. You try to maintain the professional expression you had prepared. The one that says I am a serious person with a serious job and my husband cannot just walk in here whenever he feels like it.

But then Frank smiles. And you're done.

"Frank."

"What?"

"You cannot just show up at my office." He looks genuinely confused.

"Why not?"

"Because I work here."

"I know."

"You can't just appear."

"I brought coffee." You glance at the cup on your desk.

"That's your defense?"

"Good coffee is a strong defense. And also the fact that the app told me this morning that we had to get our baby making on."

"Ew, gross. Don't call it that." You huff, kissing his jaw. "Besides, Frankie, I have a meeting." Frank’s hands are already in your hair, mouth pressed hot and greedy to your neck, before you can get out another word. His palm fits almost too well to the back of your skull. You squirm, twisting just enough to see if the door actually latched behind him, and—of course—it didn’t. You hiss through your teeth and try to put a hand to his chest, but he just grins into your skin and gives a little snort, like he knew you were going to try and is delighted to wrestle you for it. Frank doesn’t fuck around. Not when he’s like this, not when his phone’s told him you’re at peak fertility. He lifts you up so you’re sitting on the edge of your desk, skirt bunched around your hips. The familiar weight of him pressed between your thighs has your head spinning, and you’re suddenly, sharply aware of every glass wall in this office. You tug at the lapels of his jacket, trying to pull him in close and hide as much of yourself as possible. He likes that. You can feel him grinning against your jaw.

“Should we close the door or give your coworkers a show ?” The question is a dare, and it’s not even a fair one. Frank’s voice is so close it grazes the shell of your ear, warm enough to make your whole scalp prickle. He’s already got a hand under your skirt, thumb pressed against the spot at the very top of your thigh that always makes your knees try to buckle—except there’s nowhere for your knees to go, so you’re just perched, trembling, on the edge of particleboard hell. You reach around him, fumble behind your own back until you hear the blessed click of privacy. Two seconds later and Frank has you splayed on the desk, hips canted up so the heels of your feet dangle uselessly in the air. The first time he touches you, it’s electric. You gasp, twisting your face into the crook of his neck, and he grins, palming you through your underwear.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, and you want to say it’s because you’re afraid of being caught but that would be a lie so big it’d get you fired on the spot. You’re shaking because Frank, who brings you chocolate and painkillers and the expensive pads, now has his fingers pressed just right, just like he knows you need. Which, of course, he does. You bunch the front of his jacket in your fists and try to breathe through the pounding in your ears. You can see yourself in the blacked-out surface of the monitor, and it makes you want to hide, except you want to see him more. The way Frank looks at you—like there’s not another human being in the building, like you’re the only thing worth noticing in the world—makes your insides turn to syrup.

“Frank, I really do have a meeting—” you manage, but the sentence disintegrates when his fingers push the crotch of your underwear to the side. He slips one thick finger into you and you audibly choke, scrabbling for something to say that isn’t just a whine. The stretch is ridiculous, obscene, and you know he’s going to make a meal out of it, tease you over dinner tonight with some filthy comment about how you always need to be warmed up for him, how greedy you get when you’re ovulating. The thought makes your cheeks blossom with heat. Frank feels it, too. He thumbs your cheekbone, gentle, like he’s proud of you for blushing.

“You want me to stop?” he murmurs. You shake your head, shameless, and he rewards you with a second finger, scissoring them until you’re biting your own sleeve to muffle the noise.

“You gotta be quiet, baby,” he says, but there’s not a speck of real concern in it. He’d probably be thrilled if the entire boardroom heard you come. He crooks his fingers and you arch so hard you nearly knock the coffee cup off the desk. It teeters, and he grabs it in one fast motion, sets it safely out of range, then goes back to working you open. You can feel everything. The thrum of your pulse beneath your tongue. The ache at the edge of your thighs where his belt buckle digs into your skin. His thumb circles your clit with military precision, and your hips buck up into his palm, involuntary. You want to be annoyed at yourself for how easy it is, how you melt for him every damn time, but it’s impossible. You’re so full of him, there’s no room left for ego. He doesn’t linger. Frank’s never been a patient man, not when it comes to you. He unzips himself, pushes his jeans just low enough, and you can’t help but stare. You’ve seen it a thousand times, but every single time you wonder how the hell it’s going to fit. Frank is an animal. Or maybe he’s just a man who’s lost all sense of boundaries, decorum, or the difference between a desk and a bed. He fists his cock, stroking it once, twice, and you feel the head of it paint a hot stripe up the inside of your thigh. He’s so thick you can’t even close your knees. He’s so hard it looks like it should hurt, the tip swollen and angry, already smearing you with his mess. Your stomach flips, equal parts terror and pride, because you know you’ll never get all of it in, but you’re going to try. For Frank, you’d try twice. He lines himself up, the blunt head just teasing at your entrance.

“Breathe for me,” he says, and you do. Slow in, slow out, like you’re bracing for a shot at the doctor’s office. He pushes in, just the tip, and it’s spark and burn and stretch so good you arch off the desk, hand flying to clamp over your mouth. Frank doesn’t stop. He never does. He notches another inch and you whimper, legs shuddering, the edge of the desk digging into your spine. He’s so fucking big.

“That’s it,” he whispers, “you can take it. You always do, baby.” He’s not even halfway in and you’re already stuffed to the gills, belly tightening with each slow, deliberate thrust. He strokes your hair off your face with the same hand he uses to steady your hip, so gentle it almost makes you cry. The other hand’s got a death grip on your thigh, keeping you splayed. He nudges in deeper and you make a noise that would mortify you outside this office, but here, with Frank, it just makes him smile.

“Good girl,” he says, “so good for me.” The words go straight through your brainstem and set every nerve on fire. You want to be good. You want to let him all the way in, even if it splits you. He pulls back, drags the whole thick length out until just the head stays nestled inside, then slams home, inch after inch, and you feel the air leave your lungs— Frank’s hand comes up, covers your mouth again, like he knows you’re about to scream.

“You gotta keep it down,” he teases, “or do you want them all to hear how well you take it?” He’s thrusting now, slow but hard, every movement rocking you back on the desk. It’s a war between heat and pressure and the desperate need to feel him bottom out. He’s wrecking you in the best way, making you wet and messy and so, so full. You lock your ankles around him, heels digging into the backs of his thighs. He takes it as an invitation, grinds deeper, enough that you feel the base of him slap your clit, enough to make your whole body spasm. He leans over, mouth by your ear, breath warm and ragged.

“You know why I’m doing this, right?” he says, voice dark and low. “You know what I want.” You nod, frantic, because you do know. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he rasps. “You always get like this. Just for me.” He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, just enough to leave a mark. You gasp, the sound embarrassingly loud in the cramped office, and Frank’s jaw tightens.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, right in your ear. “Let ‘em listen.” His cock is too big for this, for you, for the universe, but you want all of it, want to take it just to prove you can. He knows it too. You catch your own expression in the blacked-out monitor—wrecked, eyes blown wide, lips parted—and he does too, because he grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your face to the screen, makes you watch yourself. The humiliation is electric.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So pretty. So fucked out. You see how you swallow me, baby?” He’s not wrong. You can feel it, the obscene stretch, the way your body gives to him and then clamps down, greedy and trembling. Every thrust is another wet sound, another staccato shock up your spine. You bite his wrist, hard enough to leave a mark, and he just laughs, rutting in deeper, using your own body weight to pin you to the desk. He’s leaking everywhere, can feel it slick and hot inside you, and you know you’re going to drip for hours after. That might be the point. He wraps both arms around your waist, pulls you flush until you’re impaled, nothing left but the wet slap of hips and the rattle of your own breath against the walls. The desk squeaks. Your thighs ache. Frank’s breath is a furnace at your ear, his grip like iron around your hips. You barely register the jumbled mess of reports and keyboard jammed under your back; there’s only the grind of his cock, the way the whole world narrows to the impossible stretch inside you and the filthy things he’s muttering into your hair.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, rhythm stuttering. “Gonna put a baby in you, right here at your desk.” He nips your earlobe, and your legs jerk tight around his waist. Frank loves to say shit like that, always has, but today there’s a fever in it—a hungry, almost desperate edge. The app, you remember, the little blue dot on his phone. He is so fucking determined. Your skin prickles. You wish you could be cold, but you’re burning, every inch of you tingling with the need to come.

He ruts harder, the slap of hips against you turning wet and obscene. You want to say something sharp and clever but the only thing your mouth can do is whimper. Frank bites the inside of his cheek and hisses through his teeth, clearly fighting not to blow too soon. “You take it so good,” he grunts, “no one else, just you.” He grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, and fuck if his pupils aren’t dilated to hell. “Tell me you want it.” He’s not asking. You nod, gasping, and his smile is pure evil. He angles up, cock grinding against that impossible spot inside, and you clamp down so tight you see stars.

“Oh fuck- Frank-”

A knock at the door.

“Miss Castle ? Are you alright ?”

Fuck.

Your assistant.

You expect Frank to stop, but he doesn’t. He doubles down, thrusting into you harder. Your eyes roll back as another knock errupts from the door. Frank slowly pinche syour hip to get you to focus.

“Answer her.” He hums. You squeeze your eyes shut, clawing at the edge of the desk like you can anchor yourself to reality. “Yeah! I’m— I’m fine!” you manage, all in one high, strangled breath.

“Are you sure?” the voice at the door asks, muffled but insistent. Frank’s thrusts slow, grinding you full instead of pounding you, and he leans his cheek to yours until you can feel the tickle of his five o’clock shadow on your skin, the way he’s trying not to laugh. You hate him. You love him. You want to die.

“I’m fine, Carol,” you croak. “Just— just a minute, please.” Frank kisses your temple, all mock sympathy, and you glare at him. He mouths, You’re so cute, and then fucks you so deep your toes curl and your vision goes white for a second. You bite the heel of your own hand to keep from crying out. There is an eternal, echoing silence, in which the two of you listen for footsteps. Nothing. Then a whisper:

“You’re evil,” you hiss. Frank just grins, all teeth, and slides his hands around your hips, flipping you around. You land , chest pressed to your desk. He bends you over the desk, your chest pressed to the fake wood, your ass bared to the windowed world, skirt rumpled at your waist. You feel obscene, legs splayed and trembling, and you know if Carol comes back there’s nothing to hide behind. Frank doesn’t let you think about it long. He shoves back in, the stretch even sharper at this angle, and you slap a hand over your mouth, stifling the racket you want to make. Frank’s grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hipbones, pulling you onto him as he pistons in and out. You’re not even trying to be quiet anymore—every stroke makes the desk thump against the wall, and you can feel the mess of yourself leaking down your thighs, soaking the lace of your panties.

“God, you’re a fucking mess,” he grits out, voice rough. “You love this, don’t you? Getting ruined at work for me.” You nod, cheek smashed against an upside-down spreadsheet, drool smearing the page. You can’t say a word, not when all the blood in your body is in your clit, not with Frank inside you like this, fucking you open in the middle of your own office. He’s not going to last long, not with the way you’re squeezing him, but he’s determined to finish the job. He slips a hand under your stomach, finds your clit, and circles it in time with his thrusts. You come so hard you nearly black out, legs kicking off your own shoe and knocking the coffee onto the floor. You don’t care. You sob into the desk, biting your own wrist, and Frank just keeps going, pounding you through the aftershocks. The flat of the desk digs into your sternum. You gather fistfuls of printer paper and cling for dear life, hair wild across your face, mouth open for air you can’t seem to trap. Frank’s hands are on your hips, grip iron and unyielding, and he doesn’t bother with ceremony. He’s meaner from this angle—meaner in that he’s not pretending you have a prayer of composure. You arch, a soundless scream, and pray to any and all gods that your assistant has a meeting to run to. He picks up the pace, and the clatter of your body against the furniture becomes its own dialect. You’re so close it feels inevitable, like coming up on the crest of a rollercoaster—the world tilting bright and sick.Frank’s thrusts come fast, greedy, determined—it’s all pulse and friction, the room a blur of office supplies and fluorescent glare. Heat rakes up your spine. You’re aware, distantly, of the mess you’re making, the way slickness streams down your inner thighs, saturates the edge of the desk, the sticky-sweet smell already thick in the air. Frank grunts, low and guttural, not even trying to hide it. You want to say something smart, but the words slice in half on your tongue, replaced by animal noise.

He buries himself to the hilt, and for a second the world tunnels down to the dizzy throb in your gut, the impossible stretch, his hips shuddering against the backs of your thighs. The desk rattles. You wonder if anyone in the hall can hear, if Carol is still standing at the threshold with an expression like she’s never heard a woman’s voice before. You don’t care. You want him to keep going, to grind you under the weight of everything he wants to give.

Frank’s fingers slip, fumbling, then find your jaw and wrench your head back just so. He kisses your spine, open-mouthed and hot, all teeth and pride. His voice is a thunderclap against your skin.

“Right there, baby. That’s it. Perfect,” he pants, and then, softer, “You’re gonna take every drop for me, yeah?” Your pulse stutters. You try to answer, but your mouth is full of the taste of your own skin, the cotton sleeve you’re biting to keep the screams inside. He fucks you hard enough to force the air from your lungs, hips rutting so deep you see stars. The growl in his chest tells you he’s teetering, and you dig your nails into the cheap laminate for dear life.

He thrusts one last time, impossibly deep, and stays there, shuddering. You feel it, the heat flood inside, thick and primal and so, so full. You clamp down, greedy, desperate to catch every drop, and Frank hisses, the sound a curse and a prayer all at once.

"Fuck, mama , ” He stays, cock twitching, until you can feel the slow, sticky drip of him leaking out around the seal you make together. You’re ruined, soaked straight through, and you love it. Frank doesn’t let go. He bends over you, weight pinning you to the desk, lips brushing your hairline. He breathes you in, like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, and you shiver at the rawness of it.

“You did so fucking good,” he says, voice thick, and the words wrap you up, settle in the hollow of your chest. His hands are softer now, palm smoothing over your ass, massaging circles into your hips like he’s proud of himself for making you come apart. You relax into it, boneless, let him hold you together. He pulls out, cock dragging slow, and you whimper, the emptiness a different kind of ache. Frank lingers, gaze heavy on the obscene mess pooling between your thighs. He smooths a hand over the small of your back, an almost courtlier gesture, as if to apologize for the way he’s just wrecked you. His breathing slows. He thumbs the edge of your skirt, tugs it down just enough to cover the curve of your ass. He grins at the way you twitch when his fingers brush the sticky heat leaking down your legs. Then, like he’s always done this, Frank crouches. He pushes your skirt up again, grabs your ruined panties at your knees, and peels them off in one slow, deliberate motion. The cool air hits your skin, makes you gasp, and he looks up at you through thick lashes, cocky as hell. In one practiced gesture, he balls the sodden lace in his palm. Instead of pocketing them as humiliating evidence (as you expect, as he’s done before), he pushes two fingers through the gusset, then presses the wad right back between your legs. You yelp, twisting, but he cups your mound with his whole hand, holding the makeshift plug in place.

“Gotta keep it in, princess,” he huffs, voice smug with pride. He presses the panties up into you until you can feel the damp cotton wedge deep, an embarrassing, almost suffocating pressure. He lets go and stands, towering over you, hands braced on the desk’s edge. For a second he just looks at you, head cocked, like he’s memorizing the way you look bent and trembling and stuffed full. He bends over you, kisses your spine, then your neck, then the edge of your jaw. His lips are soft, reverent, so at odds with the brutality of a minute ago that it nearly undoes you. He nips your ear.

“You’re gonna strut into that meeting smelling like me,” he says, just barely a whisper, “and you’re gonna sit there and pretend you’re not dripping with my cum.” He bites your shoulder, gentle now, like a promise. You try to push off the desk, but your legs are barely attached.

“Woah, baby. I got ya.” Frank scoops you under the knees, half-lifting you to set you back on your feet. The friction jars the plug of panties deeper and you nearly fold, knees buckling, but his hands warm your waist, steadying you. He does a slow, tender sweep of your hair, tucks it behind your ears, then thumbs the streak of ink on your cheek where your face mashed the spreadsheet. You expect him to gloat. Instead he worries at your collar, straightening it with the same care he uses when buttoning you up for a funeral.

“You okay?” he asks, voice dropped soft and serious. You nod, still chewing your lip. He presses your chin with a knuckle, makes you meet his eyes, and you see the nerves there, tucked under the smirk. That’s the one real ache: the way he worries he might go too far, that you’ll hate him for it. So you kiss his jaw, deep and sure, and he smiles so hard it cracks his careful, mean mask. Frank finds your shoe, crouched like a knight, and slides it on your foot. He kisses your ankle, all courtly, then stands to his full height, shoves himself back into his jeans with a wince and a curse. The wet patch at your crotch is a fucking lighthouse beacon, but you arrange your skirt, try to look like a person who has never in her life been railed against office furniture. Frank is watching, pleased, openly staring at the twitch in your legs. He leans in, nuzzles your neck, and murmurs,

“So proud of you,” like he’s reading your mind, like he knows you need to hear it after all that. He kisses you, this time slow, lingering, and it’s honey after the burn.

“You’re gonna be late,” he says, and tugs the lapels of your blazer for effect. You melt a little. He gives your ass a sharp, proprietary slap. You choke on a laugh; he beams, teeth all wolf. “Go on, then, boss lady.” He says it with a crisp, mocking salute, and you want to punch him and kiss him for it, both at once. You stumble to the door on legs made of static, the whole lower half of you raw and hot and leaking in a way that’s going to haunt you through at least two agenda items and a quarterly report.

You open the door a crack—no Carol in sight, thank Christ—and risk a glance back. Frank’s already perched in your rolling chair, feet up on the desk, arms folded behind his head like a king who just conquered a country. He winks. You mouth,

“Asshole.” He points to his chest and shrugs, as if to say, Who, me? You drift down the hallway in a haze, pulse throbbing in every joint. The fabric of your skirt clings to the back of your thighs, still tacky with sweat. The panel conference room is already half full. You shuffle to your seat, smiling at the team, nodding too fast.

Your boss does not meet your eye.

By the time you get home that evening, you have already decided exactly what you are going to say.

You have a speech prepared.

A very serious speech.

A professional speech.

One that will remind Frank Castle that your workplace is, in fact, a workplace. Unfortunately, Frank ruins your preparation the second he opens the door. Because he is standing there in sweatpants, barefoot, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Don't." He blinks.

"Don't what?"

"That face."

"What face?"

"The face where you know exactly what you did." Frank tries to look innocent. It does not work.

"Coffee was appreciated."

"Frank."

"You were happy to see me."

"Frank."

"You smiled."

You point at him.

"You showed up at my office."

"Yeah."

"You walked into my office like you owned the place."

"I brought coffee."

"You keep saying that like it excuses everything."

"It was good coffee." You stare. He stares back. And then, annoyingly, you both start laughing. Because this is what happens with Frank. You can be angry. You can be determined. You can have an entire argument ready. And then he looks at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen, and suddenly you're fighting a losing battle.

"You are impossible."

"I know."

"You embarrassed me."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did." He steps closer, still smiling.

"You liked it." You open your mouth. Then close it. Because unfortunately… He has a point.

"You are so annoying."

"That's not a denial."

"Frank." He grins. And you hate that you love that grin. "You're lucky I love you." He rolls his eyes and walks over, grabbing all your things from you. He kisses your forehead.

"Go rest. Any woman that's gotten fucked as well as you have needs her beauty sleep." You slap his chest.

"Frank ! Not funny !"

------

The barbecue is exactly the kind of afternoon Frank pretends he doesn't need.

Which means, of course, he loves it.

Micro's backyard is loud in the best way. Kids running through the grass. Music playing low from the old speaker near the patio. The smell of grilled food hanging in the air.

For a man who spent years living like every day might be his last, moments like this still catch Frank off guard.

Normal. Safe. Family.

You sit beside him with a drink in your hand, laughing while Sarah tells you a story about something ridiculous the kids did earlier. Frank has one hand resting on your knee, absentmindedly tracing little circles with his thumb. He doesn't even realize he does it anymore. It's automatic. Like breathing.

Then— Ping.

Frank's hand stills.You notice immediately. Because you always notice. You glance over.

"Frank?" He looks down at his phone.

And there it is.

That familiar little notification. The one that makes your heart jump.

His eyes flick from the screen to you. Then back. You narrow yours.

"What?"

"Nothing." You immediately know that's a lie.

"Frank." He clears his throat.

"Can you give me a minute?" You stare at him.

"Why?" He doesn't answer quickly enough. Your eyes widen. "No." A tiny smile pulls at his mouth.

"What?"

"Frank Castle."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You have that look."

"What look?"

"The look you get right before you do something completely ridiculous." He looks around the yard.

Then at Micro. Then back at you.

And you already know.

"Absolutely not." Frank stands.

"Micro." Micro looks over.

"Yeah?"

"I need a favor." Micro immediately looks suspicious.

"That sentence has never ended well." Frank nods toward the kids.

"Need you to start something." Micro blinks.

"Start what?"

"Anything." You cover your face.

"Oh my God." Micro looks between the two of you. Then at Frank. Then back at you. And slowly, realization dawns.

"Oh. Gross." Frank just raises an eyebrow.

"Please." Micro sighs.

"I cannot believe I'm helping you with this."

"You love me."

"I tolerate you."

"Same thing." You laugh despite yourself. And before you can protest again, Frank is already taking your hand.

"Come on." You let him pull you toward the house, shaking your head.

"You are unbelievable."

"I know."

"You planned this."

"No."

"Frank."

"Maybe." You stop at the back door.

"You recruited Micro."

"I asked for assistance."

"That's the same thing." He smiles. He drags you up the stairs and into a room. The door shuts behind you with a thud. You barely get out a “Frank—” before he's got you pressed against it, the lock clicking into place above your shoulder. His mouth is at your ear, hot breath sending a stutter down your spine.

“You wanna be loud, or you wanna be fast?” His voice is low, that rumbling scrape that never fails to get you. You can't help the tiny huff that comes out of you, neither answer forming in your mouth before his hands are on your hips, hauling you up like you're nothing. You wrap your legs around him because you have no choice, his palms already sliding under your shirt, nails scraping over your stomach. Goosebumps, everywhere.

“Frank—” He cuts you off with a kiss, tongue forceful and impatient. He's moving you, stumbling a little, until your back hits what can only be a dresser and you hear shit clatter to the floor. You let him devour you. Let that big rough hand tangle in your hair, fingertips grazing your jaw, your pulse beating fast against his thumb. He gets your jeans off with record speed, almost rips the fly as you both stumble onto the bed. The laugh that leaves your mouth is just for you, a private thought about how goddamn insatiable he can be, even at his softest. He kneels—always dramatic, always a little bit of a showoff. He wants you spread out for him, thighs open as wide as you can make them, panties pushed to the side. Frank looks up at you, and the sight should make you feel self-conscious, but it doesn't. His stare is heavy, greedy. Like he's starving. He stands, yanks his own jeans down just far enough. His cock is hard, already dripping, as he lines up, still supporting all your weight with those ridiculous arms. He pushes in with a groan that’s almost a growl, splits you open slow even though you know he wants to fuck you into next Tuesday. You dig your nails into him, trying to muffle the noises you make in his shoulder. Someone could be walking by, or worse, Micro’s weird neighbor could peek in the window, but you can't care enough to make yourself stop. Frank is everywhere—the smell of him, the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth when he kisses you again. He pushes in, deep, and you swear you can feel it in your goddamn lungs. His hands shake a little, holding you tight so you can't wiggle away, and you see in his face that he's desperate for just one thing: to finish inside you. To fill you until it takes. You whine at the stretch. For the past two days, all you and frank have been doing is fucking like bunnies. Your cunt is sore and overstimulated, and Frank pauses mid push. Frank’s forehead rests against yours as he breathes through it, his breath going ragged when your walls pulse around him. You’re wetter than you expect, the soreness edged with something sharp and sweet, and Frank stays inside you and just lets the moment hang.

“You gotta tell me if it’s too much,” he says. His words go all gravel and heat, but there’s a nervousness underneath it. He’s not as good at hiding it as he thinks. You try to laugh, but it comes out as a half-choked gasp.

“You gonna start being gentle now, Frank?” The corner of his mouth lifts, and he nudges in slow, deliberate.

“I could—if that’s what you want.” He shifts, and your brain whites out like a camera flare. You clench on him.

“I want—” You don’t know what you want. The world narrows to the thick grind of him, the heat blooming in your belly. “Don’t stop. Please.” Frank’s gaze slides over your face, fifty shades of feral and worshipful.

“Yeah, that’s my girl,” he croons. He lets you have it then, bracing your hips with one meaty hand and the other pinning both your wrists above your head, just to show you he can. He’s careful not to bang your head on the headboard , but he fucks you so deep you might cry. He ruts into you slower, watching the way you take all of him, that little line between your brows every time he hits the sweet spot.

“That’s it. Take it,” he says, palm stroking over your bare stomach, fingers splayed as if he could feel himself through your skin. “Bet you can feel me right here, huh?” He presses down, makes you feel it, and you clench around him, your walls fluttering with every thrust. He grins, almost tender, but he’s not slowing down. Outside, the sounds of the barbecue continue. Familiar voices, the crash of a soda can, a burst of laughter. It makes you squirm. Any one of them could come in. Frank’s eyes bore into you. He must know what you’re thinking, because he picks up the pace, driving in deep and hard enough to steal your breath, like he wants to finish before anyone comes looking for you both.

“Tell me,” he grits, voice splintering on the upstroke. “Tell me you want it.” He’s past rational—he wants to breed you, ruin you, make you full. He’s said it before, but lately it’s become a little bit of a fixation. He’s read enough of your internet search history to know you want it too.

“Want you to knock me up,” you gasp, arching your hips, trying to take every inch. “Want you to make it stick—fuck, Frank—” He groans, open and desperate, a sound you feel right in your bones.

“S’gonna take,” he hisses. “You’re gonna take all of it. All of me.” And you do—he pounds it into you, hips jerking with a force that’s as much relief as it is hunger.He fucks you like his whole heart is in it—like this is an act of worship, not just hunger, and every twist of his body is a yes, yes, yes. You can’t move, pinned under him, wrists captive and bruised and perfect. His cock slams in, so thick you feel split, and each thrust grinds your pelvis into the mattress. The world narrows—Micro’s blue-gingham guest sheets under your ass, Frank’s chest pressed so tight it’s almost crushing, sweat collecting in the lines of his neck. His mouth finds your pulse, sucks a mark over it, possessive. He mutters shit too:

“Gonna breed you, babe, gonna fill you so good, bet you’ll leak for hours—” His hips shiver, and you squeeze him, wanting that, craving the idea of it. It’s stupid how close you are, how little it takes. Just his voice and his cock and his need, and you’re right there, floating just above it, about to crash. Frank grunts and lets go of your wrists, throws both arms around your waist, manhandling you so your socked feet drape over his shoulders.

“Get it all,” he growls, and ruts in, cock so deep it’s a cry, “Take it, c’mon, that’s it—” Every time he bottoms out, Frank grinds his hips, angling to catch on the spot inside you and split you open until the ache is a promise more than a threat. He plants sloppy, reverent kisses along your jaw, like he can map all the ways you unmake him. His hands, always a little too big, cradle your hips and drag you flush so you can't even pretend to escape the drag of him; all that muscle and bone holds you with a possessiveness that’s more terrifying than comforting, except you’d never admit how much you crave it. You can’t help the way your thighs quiver, how your toes curl in the air. It should be embarrassing how easy he pulls sounds out of you—each whine, every desperate gasp—but Frank eats them up, lets the noise drive him harder. You get off on the way he looks at you, so wild and hungry, like he could swallow you whole and still not be satisfied. He gets even deeper somehow, the angle brutal as his hand slides up to splay over your belly again.

“Right there?” he mutters, and you nod, the words not even a possibility. He shifts, pinning your knee to your chest, your other leg cocked up on his hip, squeezing tight against his ribcage. The new angle is a curse, a blessing; each thrust has you seeing stars, the pressure enough to threaten tears. You arch into it, shameless, greedy. Frank groans, the sound guttural and ragged:

“Fuck, you’re perfect. Made for me.” The tension ratchets up between your legs, white heat flickering out of control. The mattress shakes, the headboard thunking faintly against the wall in time with his thrusts. You gasp for air.

“Don’t stop, don’t—”

“Not gonna,” Frank says, voice frayed at the edges. He leans in, teeth scraping your jaw, then your neck, marking you because he wants it to be obvious. Wants everyone to know you’re his. Your back arches and he presses your thighs tighter to his chest as he ruts into you faster. You hang there, stretched and wrung out, as Frank jackhammers into you—every muscle in his arms tensed, jaw set so hard the vein in his neck pulls tight. Sweat beads on his brow, slips down to drip onto your skin, and you’d lick it up if you could reach. You barely realize you’re crying out, a stuttering, choking sound, but Frank must like the way it sounds because his cock twitches inside you. Frank can’t hold back. He wants you bred—wants to make sure you’re so fucking full it seeps out for hours, maybe even days. He gives up every ounce of patience, starts pounding, hand clamped almost bruising on your hip so every thrust lands right on the mark. He buries his face in your shoulder, letting out the lowest, filthiest groan you’ve ever heard—like he’s fighting not to shout the house down. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes so dark they might as well be black.

“Say it,” he grits, and you know exactly what he means.

“Want you to make me pregnant,” you gasp, barely holding yourself together, “need you to knock me up, Frank, please—” His whole body shudders. He slams in once, twice, three times, and then he’s coming, cock pulsing hot inside you in a way that feels fucking volcanic as your pussy spasms around him, your orgasm crashing over you. He stays deep, grinding like he’s trying to push every last drop inside, not letting up for a second.

“That’s it,” he whispers, deliriously proud, “stay there, mama. Just like that.” He’s almost chanting it, like if anyone can will it into existence, it’s him. He holds you like that for a minute, still buried, your legs still around his shoulders, neither of you willing to break the seal. Your whole body floats, light and boneless.

“Think that did it?” he asks after a while. You let out a laugh, throaty and weak.

“We’re at a barbecue, psycho.”

“World keeps spinning,” he says, with that rough affection, like there’s not another single thing that matters. You feel it, the small bubble of safe inside the big bad world, and the way he doesn’t ever let go of you, not completely. Frank moves slow when he pulls out, almost reverent. You cry out at the feeling, your thighs calmpung shut, and he kisses your calf.

“M’sorry, baby.” Frank stays close, protective, almost sheepish as he brushes the hair off your damp cheek. He looks down at the bed, then at you, and an embarrassed little half-smile quirks the edge of his mouth. Like he thinks he’s gone too far, but he’s never going to apologize for it. You catch your breath, reach up, pull him down for a slower, less frantic kiss. You can feel him softening between your thighs. Warm and heavy, a lazy afterglow. That’s when you spot the little black bag on the nightstand, and you groan.

“Did you seriously bring that here?” Frank shrugs.

“Can’t be leaking my stuff all over Micro’s guest sheets. Man’s got enough trouble in his life. And I want you to stay nice an' full.” You snort.

“You’re an asshole.” He grins, all teeth and wolfish pride, and reaches over to unzip the pouch. The plug—sleek and silicone, absurdly girthy—catches the lamplight. It’s both ridiculous and, weirdly, a little thoughtful. Because of course Frank would rather keep his mess inside you than on the bedsheets. He kneels between your legs, big hands gentle for the first time all afternoon. There’s a weird, domestic tenderness to the way he slides the plug in, his thumb circling the rim as if he’s petting a cat. You gasp, head back, muscles fluttering around the sudden fullness. Frank’s hands linger, testing, making sure you’re comfortable before tugging your panties back up and smoothing the hem over your hips.

“Perfect,” he mutters, kissing your thigh as if he’s signing his work. “Could eat you up like this.”

“Didn’t you just do that?”

“Never enough.” He offers you his hand. You almost laugh again, because outside the window you can hear the faint wail of a child, the drone of a lawnmower starting up, the world’s least subtle cue that people are waiting. Frank tosses you your t-shirt. You catch it one-handed and glare at him, only half joking.

“Even your aftercare is overkill.” He’s already zipping his jeans, looking satisfied.

“You love it.” You don’t say it, but when you slide your arm through his and let him pull you upright, the way he steadies your hips makes your heart sweet and soft. You both pad down the hallway like nothing happened. Frank keeps his hand at your back, thumb rubbing lazy circles, like he needs to hold on just a little longer. When you reach the end of the hall, Sarah and Micro are in the kitchen, fake arguing about what constitutes ‘overcooked’ for a hot dog. Micro spots the two of you and raises an eyebrow.

“You guys get lost up there?” Frank says,

“Bathroom,” at the exact same time you say,

“Nope.” Sarah’s eyes flick to you, linger, then she just gives you the world’s tiniest approving nod and turns back to the food. You try to act casual. But every shift of your hips, every tiny squeeze inside, you’re reminded there’s more of Frank than usual between your legs.

-------

It's about two months later that you wake up, sick to your stomach. Frank is sound asleep beside you, snoring away. You clutch you stomach, pressing your lips shut.

You won't throw up.

This will just go away.

Quietly, you grab your phone and climb out of bed and into the bathroom, locking the door behind you for extra measure.

You won't throw up. This will just go away. That is what you tell yourself. Because you've had mornings like this before.

Stress. A bad meal. A stomach bug. Anything. Anything except the one thing your brain refuses to say out loud. You grip the edge of the sink, waiting for the wave to pass.

It doesn't. A few minutes later, you're sitting on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, trying to breathe. Your phone is still in your hand.

And then— Ping.

You almost drop it. For a second, you just stare. Because you know that sound.

You know that app. The same app Frank has been quietly checking for years.

The same app that has brought chocolate, heating pads, and hopeful glances at calendars.

You open it without thinking.

And your entire world stops.

Your period is 8 weeks late.

You stare at the words. Once. Twice. Then again.

"No." The word comes out barely above a whisper.

Because no.

Because you've seen this before.

You've hoped before.

You've gotten excited before.

You've stood in bathrooms with shaking hands and a tiny piece of plastic that eventually told you it wasn't happening. You can't let yourself believe it, Not yet. Not until you know. Your hands shake as you pull open the cabinet. You don't even remember buying the test. Maybe you bought it months ago and forgot. Maybe some tiny, impossible part of you never stopped hoping.

You take it. And then you wait.

And waiting might be the hardest thing you've ever done. Because suddenly the whole house feels silent.

The entire world feels silent.

Then— Knock. Your heart jumps.

"Baby?" Frank. You quickly wipe at your face even though you don't know when you started crying. "You in there ?" And that's when your stomach lurches and you scramble to the toilet.

You barely make it.

The test sits forgotten on the counter as you drop to your knees, one hand gripping the edge of the bathtub, the other tangled in your hair.

And immediately—

"Baby?" Frank's voice changes. The sleepy warmth disappears. The concern is instant. "Are you throwing up in there ?"

"I'm okay, Frankie. Go back to sleep." You rasp, gagging on the words. There is a pause. A very Frank pause. The kind where you know he doesn't believe you.

"Open the door." You gag again, lurching for the toilet. The door handle rattles. "Shit, baby- Please."

The panic in his voice makes your heart ache. Because Frank doesn't scare easily. You have seen him walk into situations that would make most people turn around. You have seen him bleed and shrug it off. You have seen him stare down things that should have broken him. But hearing you sick behind a locked bathroom door? That scares him.

"I'm okay," you try again. It comes out weak. Unconvincing. And Frank knows.

"Baby." The way he says it makes your eyes sting. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just scared. You close your eyes, one hand still gripping the edge of the bathtub.

"I said I'm okay."

"The fuck you're not. Let me in before I break this goddamn door down."

You almost laugh.

Almost.

Because that is such a Frank thing to say.

The man who has survived gunfights, explosions, and more broken bones than either of you can count is seconds away from kicking your bathroom door off its hinges because he heard you get sick. Another wave of nausea hits. You barely manage to turn before you're sick again. On the other side of the door, Frank goes completely silent.

The silence lasts barely a heartbeat.

Then—

"Baby?" His voice cracks. Not with anger. With fear. "Talk to me." You rinse your mouth as best you can, tears burning behind your eyes.

"I'm okay."

"No, you're not."

"I'm just sick."

"I know you're sick." His palm hits the door softly. "I can hear you." Your chest tightens. "Please…" Another pause. Longer this time.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Almost pleading.

"Honey… please open the door." You have heard Frank Castle beg exactly once in your life. It was years ago. And now you're hearing it again. Not because he's afraid for himself. Because he's terrified for you.

"I can't help if I'm standing out here." Your hand drifts to the lock. Then stops. Your eyes land on the counter.

The test. You forgot about the test.

Your heart begins to pound. With trembling fingers, you reach for it.

You almost don't look.

You almost set it face down and open the door first. But something makes you turn it over.

Two pink lines. You blink.

No. Your vision blurs with tears. You wipe at your eyes and look again. Still there. Two lines. For a second, your brain refuses to process it. After years of negatives... After months of trying not to hope… After convincing yourself every symptom meant nothing…

Two lines. A sob escapes you before you can stop it.

Outside, Frank hears it. His entire world stops.

"Baby?" The panic in his voice spikes instantly. "What happened?" You can't answer. Another sob tears out of your chest.

"Baby!" The doorknob rattles violently. "Mama , open the damn door!" You hear him trying the handle again. Harder this time. "Please." Another shake. "Please, sweetheart." His breathing is uneven now.

Fast. Panicked.

"If you're hurt—"

"I'm not." Your voice breaks. "I'm okay."

"No, you're crying."

"I know."

"Open the door." You press your forehead against the wood for a second, trying to steady your breathing. Your hands won't stop shaking. Neither will your tears.

You unlock the door. The second it opens, Frank is there.

Barefoot.

Shirtless.

Hair messy.

Still wearing the shirt he slept in. And completely terrified. His eyes immediately scan over you.

"What happened?" You can't answer. You're crying too hard. His face changes instantly.

"Oh God." He reaches for you carefully. "Are you hurt?" You shake your head.

"Are you sick?" You shake your head again. "Baby, talk to me." His hands cup your face. Gentle. Careful. Like you're something fragile. "What is it?"

You look at him. At the man who has waited with you. The man who has held you through every negative test. The man who always said next month even when he was scared it might never come. And with shaking hands, you hold up the test. For a second, Frank doesn't understand.

For a second, Frank doesn't understand.

His eyes flick to the little white stick in your trembling hand. Then back to your face. Then down again. His brow furrows.

"What…?" His voice is barely above a whisper. You can't make the words come out. You just hold it out a little farther. Frank takes it carefully. Like it's made of glass. Like one wrong movement might change whatever is written there.

He looks down. One line. Then— His breath catches. His eyes widen. He looks closer, blinking once, twice, as though his vision is playing tricks on him.

"…Baby?" Your lip quivers. He looks up at you so quickly it almost gives him whiplash. His expression is pure disbelief. "Is this…" You nod before he can finish. Tears stream freely down your face.

"I think…" Your voice cracks. "I think I'm pregnant." Frank just stares. The bathroom is completely silent. Neither of you breathes. He looks back at the test. Then at you. Then back again. His hands begin to shake.

"No…" The word isn't denial. It's awe. "No…" He laughs once—a tiny, broken sound that immediately turns into a sob. "Oh, sweetheart…" He covers his mouth with one hand, still clutching the test in the other. His eyes never leave it.

"We…" His voice gives out. He tries again. "We did it?" You nod, crying even harder.

"I think we did." Frank's eyes immediately snap back to you.

"No." He gently takes your face in both hands. "We're not saying 'I think.'" His forehead rests against yours.

"We're calling the doctor." You let out a watery laugh.

"Okay."

"We're getting blood work."

"Okay."

"We're making sure you're okay."

"Okay."

"We're—" His voice breaks completely. He closes his eyes. A tear slips down his cheek. "Oh, God…" You have seen Frank angry. You have seen him devastated. You have seen him fearless. You have never seen him like this. He laughs through his tears, almost unable to get the words out.

"We're having a baby." This time, there's no question. Just wonder. You nod.

"We're having a baby." He laughs and picks you up, spinning you around.

"I told ya. I fuckin' told ya, baby !" He laughs, kissing your face. "I knew all that baby-making was gonna pay off." You laugh.

"Please don't call it that."

taglist !

The warehouse is quiet.

Too quiet.

Frank knows better than to trust quiet.

He moves through the darkness with practiced efficiency, boots barely making a sound against the cracked concrete floor. His pistol hangs low at his side. Every muscle in his body is loose, ready.

Three men. One on the catwalk. Two below. He counts them automatically. A fourth steps out from behind a stack of shipping crates.

Frank doesn't hesitate. The first shot echoes through the building. Then everything explodes. Gunfire ricochets off steel beams. Someone shouts. Another body hits the ground.

Frank ducks behind a forklift as bullets tear through the rusted metal above his head.

"He's over there!"

"Move!" One comes around the corner too fast. Frank catches his wrist, twists until something snaps, and drives the man into the wall hard enough to leave a crack in the drywall before finishing the fight with brutal efficiency. Another rushes him with a knife. Too slow. A sharp elbow. A disarm. Done. The warehouse falls quiet again. Frank scans the room.

One…

Two…

Three…

Four.

All down.

His breathing is steady as he steps over the bodies toward the office overlooking the floor. Whoever had been running tonight's operation had been smart enough to stay hidden. Until now. The office door bursts open. An older man stumbles out, coughing violently, clutching something metallic in his hand. Not a gun. A canister. Frank raises his pistol.

"Don't." The man smiles. Not afraid. Almost… relieved.

"You should've stayed away." Frank fires. The man jerks backward. But not before his thumb slams the button. The canister hisses. A burst of fine crimson powder erupts into the air. Frank instinctively turns his face away.

Too late.

The cloud engulfs him. It coats his jacket. His neck. His face.

He coughs once. Twice. The powder tastes metallic. Bitter. Like copper and ash.

"What the hell…" The old man collapses before he can answer. Silence settles over the warehouse once more.

Frank waits.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Nothing.

He wipes the red dust from his cheek onto his glove.

"…Weird." He holsters his weapon. Checks the room one final time. Collects the drive he'd come for. Then heads for the exit. Halfway across the parking lot… Something feels wrong. At first it's subtle. His collar suddenly feels too tight. His jacket heavier than usual. He unzips it. The cold November air should help.

It doesn't. By the time he reaches the van, heat is blooming beneath his skin. Not outside. Inside. Like someone lit a match behind his ribs. He frowns.

"Jesus.." He slides into the driver's seat. Starts the engine. The heater is off. The windows are down. Still… He's sweating.

His pulse pounds in his ears. His shirt sticks to his back. The skin along his neck prickles. Burns. The drive home becomes a blur of red lights and clenched teeth. By the time he parks outside the house, he's gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles ache. His vision swims. His breathing comes too fast. Every inch of him feels feverishly hot. Like his blood has been replaced with molten metal. He nearly stumbles climbing the porch steps. The key misses the lock twice before he finally gets the door open. The house is dark. Quiet. Safe. He closes the door behind him and leans against it, breathing hard.

The familiar scent of home hits him immediately. Lavender detergent. Fresh coffee lingering from that morning. And you.

Somewhere upstairs. As if pulled by instinct alone, Frank starts climbing. Each step feels heavier than the last. His skin burns. His heartbeat refuses to slow. His wedding ring feels too hot against his finger. The hallway swims in and out of focus. He reaches your bedroom door. Pushes it open. Moonlight spills through the curtains. There you are. Curled beneath the blankets. Fast asleep. One of his old black T-shirts hangs from your shoulders, slipping enough to reveal one bare shoulder against the pillow. Your hair is spread across the sheets. One hand tucked beneath your cheek.

Completely unaware that your husband is standing in the doorway.

The heat that was solid in his chest spreads down and down to rest between his legs.

You grumble in your sleep, shifting your hips upward. The duvet slips off, revealing the soft curve of your naked thigh, and the soft pink lace of the panties laying beneath the shirt.

The sight of you, so soft and vulnerable in the moonlight, is like a physical blow. The heat that was simmering in his groin explodes into a full-blown inferno. His cock, already half-hard from the fever, thickens and strains against the confines of his jeans, a sudden, urgent ache that steals his breath. He grits his teeth, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He should go to the bathroom.

Turn on a cold shower.

Stick his head under the water until this… this thing passes. It has to be the powder. A delayed reaction. Some kind of chemical weapon designed to incapacitate.

He knows this, logically. He knows it.

But his body doesn't care about logic.

His feet move of their own accord, carrying him silently across the room. He tells himself he's just checking on you. Making sure you're okay. Making sure the house is secure. It's a lie, and he knows it. He's drawn to you like a moth to a flame, and he's terrified he's about to get burned. He stops at the edge of the bed, his shadow falling over you. You shift again in your sleep, a soft sigh escaping your lips, and the sound goes straight to his cock. It's agony. It's the sweetest sound he's ever heard. He reaches out, his hand trembling, his fingers hovering just above your shoulder. He just wants to touch you. Just a little. Just to feel the warmth of your skin, to ground himself.

His fingertips make contact.

It's a mistake.

A jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shoots up his arm, so intense it's almost painful. Your skin is so soft, so warm, and the contact sends another wave of heat crashing through him. He can't stop the low groan that rumbles in his chest. He snatches his hand back as if he's been burned, his breathing ragged.

'"Fuck." he rasps, hand going for his jeans, palming himself shamelessly.

He should go.

Go sleep on the couch, wait for this to pass.

But then you shift again, turning your back to him fully, the shirt riding up your waist and god- Frank almost comes in his pants. The heat threatens to consume his whole body, and he falls forward, fingers tangling in the mess of sheets as he tries to reign in his self control.

But the thin thread that usually is his self control is a mere scrap tonight, and it breaks in the span of an instant. Before Frank can even realise what he's doing, he's shedding his outer layer of clothes, leaving him in his boxers, and he slides into the bed with you, his body seeking your warmth.

You shift again, and the scent of your hair, your skin, it hits him like a drug. The need is immediate, primal, and so sharp it drowns out the last of his thoughts. He curls around you from behind, the mattress dipping under his weight, his arm heavy and hot as it wraps around your waist and anchors you to him. You make a soft, sleepy noise—surprised, but not afraid—just as his hand slips beneath the taut hem of the black T-shirt. He palms your stomach, sliding up to cup your breast, and you arch into his touch out of instinct. A silent plea for more. Frank presses his face into your hair, breathing you in, jaw clenching against the urge to rut like an animal right then and there. He wants to be gentle, slow, but the heat inside him is so pure, so urgent, it takes everything just to keep from tearing the panties from your hips and driving himself into you. His cock is hard, hot, and leaking, pinned between you and the sheets. You squirm back against him, a wordless encouragement, and the friction is a mercy and a torment. You groan in your sleep as Frank softly peels the fabric of your panties to the side, a sleepy huff leaving your lips. Frank can’t resist.

He pulls his boxers down and without a second thought, grabs his cock in one hand and pushes it towards your folds. Frank pushes the head of his cock through your folds, dragging it through the slick heat, and the sensation is so overwhelming he almost blacks out. He can feel the precum leaking, painting your skin, and he wants—fuck, he needs—to be inside you. But you’re so soft underneath him, breathing slow and deep, eyelashes trembling against your cheek, that he hesitates at the last second. Your body is so warm, so inviting, and the urge to just take is a living thing in his blood. He lines himself up, gripping the meat of your hip so tight he’ll leave bruises.

The first push steals his breath. You’re so wet, so impossibly tight, the resistance making him groan into your shoulder. Your body wakes in slow motion, hips shifting unconsciously, a low whine leaking from your lips as he pushes in, stretching you inch by impossible inch. He’s big, always has been, but tonight he’s swollen, almost angry in his hardness, and the way you squeeze him is enough to make him see stars.

“God, baby,” he grunts, voice all gravel and hunger. He’s halfway in when you wake, startled, breath catching and body tensing in his arms.

“Frank?” It’s a question, sleepy and confused. He buries his face in your hair, his breath shuddering through your roots.

“Sorry,” he mutters, but there’s nothing sorry in the way he grinds against you, pushing deeper. “Need you so bad. Can’t—can’t fuckin’—” He groans, the sound guttural, primal. You writhe, caught between sleep and the sudden, aching fullness inside you.

“Frank, what—” You cut yourself off with a gasp as he bottoms out, the head of his cock kissing your cervix, the heat of him splitting you open. The stretch is so much, so sudden, your body clamps down, trembling. He holds you tight, one hand splayed over your belly, thumb rubbing circles just below the hem of your shirt.

“Shh, that’s it, you take it so good,” he says, voice low in your ear. He starts to move, shallow thrusts at first, testing your give, your grip. Every time he pulls back, your walls try to drag him in, greedy for more. Your hand scrabbles for the sheets, hips arching back helplessly, and Frank loses whatever fragile grip he has on self-control. He thrusts hard, burying himself inside you over and over, each slide slicker, hotter, more desperate.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so tight—squeezing me so fuckin’ good—look at you, taking every inch. My girl.” The praise slips out like a confession, rough and needy. You shudder, the words hitting you somewhere deep.

“Frank—oh, god, Frank, it’s—” He finds your hand and laces his fingers through yours, anchoring you as his pace picks up. His cock fills you, stretches you, and every thrust knocks the air from your lungs. Frank feels his heart hammering inside his chest, a booming drum against your spine. The grip he has on your hip is vice-like, holding you in place while he fucks into you with a pace that would shame him in the morning, but right now he’s too far gone to care. There’s only the velvet clutch of your heat, the way your body yields and draws him in, and the choked, breathless sounds you make every time he bottoms out. You’re whimpering now, the little noises you usually try to swallow down coming out bright and desperate. The sound of it is like gasoline on fire. He feels every inch of you, every pulse, every tremor, and he can’t—not for the life of him—slow down. His cock is thick, splitting you open, and you clamp around him so tight his vision goes white at the edges. He can’t tell if he’s drooling or if it’s sweat slicking his lips, but he’s got his mouth buried in your neck and he grinds his teeth together, trying not to lose it in the first minute.

“Jesus Christ—fuck, baby, you’re so fuckin’ perfect—” He bites the words into your hair, his lungs on fire. “Can’t stop, need to fill you up, need—” You just moan and buck back against him, your body greedy for every inch he gives you. Frank can feel you trembling, the way your thighs strain and your ass rocks against his hip, seeking out every thrust. He keeps telling himself to be gentle, to ease up, but every drag of your heat over his cock is ecstasy. He hammers into you, chasing the buzz building at the base of his spine, rolling his hips so deep you whine his name into the mattress.Frank can’t get enough. The words burned into the meat of his brain, pulsing there with the same desperate, animal rhythm he’s using to fuck you. He’s not even thinking about the mission anymore, about the canister, about the city he probably just infected with whatever the hell this is. He’s thinking about you, the shape your body makes under him, how you cling to him like you know exactly how close he is to breaking.

He’s close. So close it hurts. Every time your pussy milks him he wants to howl, wants to make you scream his name so loud the neighbors call the cops, wants to rut so deep into you it fucks the fever right out of his bloodstream.

You’re gasping now, not even trying to muffle it. The sound is everything. It’s everything. He grinds his cock into you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other clamped over your hip, using you to chase his own high. You’re so wet he can hear it, obscene and messy, every slam of his hips into yours punctuated by the filthy slap of skin on skin. He can feel you getting close, your muscles spasming around him, and he wants to drag it out, wants to make you come so hard you see stars, but he’s losing it. He’s never felt this out of control, like something in that powder rewired every nerve in his body, lit up every one of his instincts. He’s not just thinking with his cock—he is his cock, every fiber of him tuned to your body and the way you fuckin’ tremble underneath him.There’s no way you’re going to last. Not at this pace. Not with the way his cock fills you, the way his words break over your skin and pool in your belly, thick and sweet and filthy. You’re awake now, fully awake, and every inch of you is burning. The heat radiates off Frank like a fever, a wet, hungry furnace clamped to your back, and you never want it to end. He doesn’t slow down, not even when you’re keening his name into the pillow, not even when your body jerks and tightens and you come so hard you see black behind your eyelids. Frank just holds you tighter, shushing you, telling you how fucking good you are, how perfect, how you’re made for him, and the words turn your bones to water.

He doesn’t stop.

He’s not going to stop.

You can feel it—he’s close, he’s shaking, and the hand he has on your hip digs in hard enough to bruise. His thrusts grow ragged, desperate, and you know he’s about to— He curses, voice thick and hot in your ear.

“Fuck, fuck—sweetheart, can’t—can’t stop—” The heat in your belly doesn’t fade. If anything, it intensifies. You’re high on it, delirious, and still you want more. Frank doesn’t let up. He pulls you tighter, shifts your hips up just so, and starts to move again, slower this time, but just as deep. You whine, nails digging into the sheets, but he just pets your thigh, soothing and rough all at once.

“That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of me.” He sounds ruined, but there’s a pride in it—a marvel at how much he can give you, how much you can take. You can barely think, every inch of your skin stretched taut with need. He sets a rhythm, brutal and sweet, and his fingers find your clit, rubbing circles that make you shake. You lose track of time. There’s nothing but Frank and the feel of him inside you, the sound of your bodies and his breath and the words he can’t keep to himself:

“so fucking tight—so good—my girl—my perfect girl—” and it never ends. He loses it first.

He’s never come this fast, not even as a dumb teenager, but tonight it’s like every nerve in his body is wired straight to his cock. He slams in, buried to the hilt, and lets out a groan that’s half agony, half worship. The first spurt of cum is so intense he shudders, vision blurring. His body stills, and his breath is so heavy on your neck. Your whole body is shaking and you whine as you pull yourself off him and turn to face him.

His whole body is covered in sweat, and his brows are pinched in pain.

The joke you were going to make about him missing you too much dies in your throat as concern spikes up through your chest.

“Frankie ?” You ask, trying to reach out to touch him. The second your hand touches his bare bicep, his hips rut towards you and a loud unabashed moan leaves his lips. His large hand comes down and wraps around his cock, his fist pumping around his length as he pants.

“Frank, what-”

“Shit, shit, baby- I think - I think- I think somethin’s wrong with me.” He writhes on the bed, clearly uncomfortable. “I thought- maybe if i- i thought it’d go away-” He moans, his eyes flying open to stare at you.

Yeah. It’s defintely not gone away.

The tension in his jaw is visible, the way his hand moves over himself so desperate, so unlike the usual Frank. Not controlled, not careful—just raw and frantic. You’ve seen him after missions, shaking with adrenaline, but never like this. His cock is flushed, almost angry, the head slicked and red, and he’s rutting into his fist with a single-mindedness that makes your mouth go dry.

You try to reach for him again.

“Sweetheart—don’t. I can’t—” His voice is all gravel, unsteady. He looks at your hand like it’s fire. “If you touch me, I swear to god—” He shakes his head, but it’s a threat with no teeth, because the next second he grabs your wrist, the grip almost bruising, and yanks you into his lap. The world goes sideways, your thighs splayed over his, the shirt riding up to your hips. His mouth is on you, not soft or sweet but open and desperate, biting at your collarbone, dragging his teeth down the slope of your shoulder. You giggle, delirious.

“Is this a new kink I don’t know about?”

“Fuck.” He’s red in the face, hair stuck to his forehead, pupils dilated so wide it swallows the blue. “I shouldn’t touch you. I’m— I’m fucked up. I should go.” But he doesn’t go. He’s already got you pinned a, his cock rutting against the crease of your thigh, leaving smears of precum all over your skin. He’s shaking so hard it vibrates through the bed. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but it’s like moving under a sandbag.

“Babe, maybe we should—” Frank just grunts, He pants into your skin like he’s drowning and you’re the only air.

“Need you,” he mumbles, the words slurred and low. “Need to fuck you, please, I—” He cuts off with another moan, huge hands hauling you up so the head of his cock slips between your folds. You’re already aching, slick from the first round, but now you feel an answering heat, an insistent, hungry want that’s not entirely your own. He doesn’t guide himself inside—he lifts you and drops you down, and the stretch is so sudden you yelp.

“Oh my god- Frank-” He buries his face in your neck, breath ragged.

“God, baby, so fucking tight,” he breathes, hips bucking up, driving you down to the hilt. It’s a lot, more than usual, and you have to cling to his shoulders just to keep from being fucked straight off him. Frank sets a brutal rhythm, all upward thrusts, his thighs flexing beneath you. He mutters into your skin, endless filthy praise—

“so good, so fucking good for me, made to take me, you’re perfect, fuck, my perfect girl”—and your body can’t help but respond, the words turning to liquid heat in your belly. You ride him, helpless to do anything but take and take, the pleasure almost overwhelming. He’s relentless, fucking up into you so hard you see white at the edges of your vision.

“Can’t stop,” he grits out, voice nearly gone. “Can’t—fuck—can’t stop unless you want me to—” He makes it a question, somehow, but you just dig your nails into his back and rock into him, letting him know you want more, need it as bad as he does. You’re so full you can barely breathe, every inch of your insides stretched around him. It’s more than you can remember, somehow, thicker, longer, and when you look down you see the way he’s split you open, the obscene bulge where his cock seats itself deep inside. The sight of it thrills you, makes you want to be ruined. Makes you want to take all of it, every frantic thrust.

You start to break — the way you always do when he gets like this, when the praise pours out like it’s the truth of him, when the thick hot weight of him pounds you open and the world narrows to the sound of your bodies slapping together and the hunger in his voice. You dig harder into his shoulders, nails scoring lines down his back, and his grip on your hips is bruising, anchoring you in place, and all you can do is hang on. The whole bed rocks under the violence of it, and your breath shatters, every exhale coming out as a broken whimper or a plea. Frank’s head tips back, his neck corded and slick with sweat, face gone slack with animal need, and you see the wildness burning bright behind his eyes. It’s too much, and it’s not enough, and you can feel the orgasm rising, savage and relentless, the friction of him inside so hot it verges on pain. You can’t think, can barely remember your own name, and Frank’s hand stays splayed flat on your back, fingers digging in, holding you down as his hips jackhammer up, merciless and perfect. You lose track of how many times you come, the edge blurred into a single long frantic wave, your staring eyes and raw throat and overheating skin all proof that you’re still alive, still tethered to this earth by the iron will of the man fucking you apart.

You collapse against his chest and he doesn’t slow, not even when you start to cry, the tears hot on your cheeks, the sobs punched out by each new thrust. He fucks you through it, each new climax wringing your insides tighter, until you’re trembling, clinging, babbling his name over and over. And he matches you, each time you squeeze down his cock he shudders, the veins in his neck standing out. Frank drags you higher on his lap and fucks up into you, hard enough you see stars. You sob, nails digging bloody half-moons into his shoulders, but the pain is good, it’s grounding, it’s proof that this is real and happening and not some fever dream. He’s soaked in sweat, skin slick and burning hot, and you feel him pulsing inside, the head of his cock battering places you didn’t know you had. He won’t stop. He can’t. His hands grip your waist and throttle you down, using you as leverage, rutting in single desperate slams that make your vision flicker white. You think you’re going to pass out. You want to. But he fucks you alive.

“M’sorry-” He rasps, his chest tense. “M’so sorry, mama-” He rasps, mouth grazing over your collarbones. His hips piston up, his cock splitting you on every thrust, and you’re so oversensitive it’s a miracle you don’t faint. Frank’s got you held up like a rag doll, hands locked around your waist, flexor tendons standing out in relief under his skin, and he’s making these animal noises deep in his chest, almost a whine, like even the shame can’t touch the need that’s got him by the throat. You try to say his name but it comes out as a wail, your body wrung dry, so full of him it feels like he’s rearranged your ribs. He thrusts up again, hard, and you see black behind your eyelids, a hot flash of white that rips through the mush of your brain and leaves you blank except for the feeling of him, the heat of him, the words he pours into your ear in a frantic, hungry spill.

“So good, baby, so—fuck—never felt you like this, you’re fucking perfect, so perfect, fuck, mama, look at you, taking all of me.” You do. You force your eyes open, and the sight of where your bodies meet should be obscene, but it’s gorgeous, it’s art, the way he disappears into you, the way you clamp down on him, shuddering and limp at the same time.

He can’t stop. It’s not just that he doesn’t want to — his body won’t let him. You see the panic in his face, the way he tries to slow, but every time he bottoms out, every time your heat milks him, it’s like he’s possessed.

He comes again, the heat of it flooding you, and you yelp, the sensation so much you spasm around him, another little aftershock wringing through your pelvis. Frank doesn’t even have enough air to groan — he just shivers, teeth grit and eyes squeezed shut, and then he slumps, just barely, his grip loosening a little. Your whole body slumps forward, and you grip onto his hair, whimpering at the soreness between your thighs. Frank groans, shaking his head. You gulp, looking up at him.

“Are you- Are you okay ?” You ask. You’re limp on his chest, so full you’re leaking down his balls, but even that spills more want into his bloodstream. He lifts you, and your cunt makes a wet, lewd pop as his cock drags out, thick and purple and smeared with both your releases. Frank is still hard. Still leaking. Still burning under every inch of skin. He tries to slow his breath, the drag of air through his lungs, but it’s like trying to wrangle a livewire with his bare hands. The need doesn’t fade. It only coils tighter, meaner, sharper against the base of his spine. He’d always prided himself on self-control, on discipline, but whatever was in that powder, it’s bending him backwards over his own rules, turning every nerve ending into a live fuse. You’re sprawled across his chest, boneless and slick, but the scent of you is gasoline in the furnace. He looks down, watches the way his cock stands, angry and thick and still twitching above the mess he’s made of you. He thinks: he could die this way. He’d be fine with it. You nuzzle your face into his neck and laugh, lightheaded.

“Are you seriously still—” He grunts.

“Don’t—don’t look at it.” You do. Both of you. Your hand drags down his chest, tracing the ridges of his body—slick with sweat, shuddering in the aftershocks, so alive it’s almost painful. You move to touch his cock and he flinches, a sharp inhalation, but he doesn’t stop you.

“Frank, you’re—oh my god.” You squeeze your hand around the shaft, thumb swiping over the slit, and Frank’s whole body seizes. He nearly throws you off in the spasm, but you’re still locked around his hips, and the movement only grinds you down over his lap, cock slipping between your folds in a slick, obscene slide.

“Fuck—” He’s biting down on his own knuckles to keep from making noise, but it’s helpless. You’re laughing, delirious with the power of it, and the sound is a hook in his ribs. He wants to be embarrassed, but it’s gone, burned out of him by the liquid hunger that soaks every thought. He needs to be inside you again. He needs it like air. All you want is to collapse, to melt into the mattress. Frank doesn’t give you the chance. Not even a full breath later, he’s up on his knees, cock still rock-hard and glistening. He drags you by the hips until you’re on your back, knees crooked open, and spears himself in one brutal thrust, splitting you apart again.

“Fuck- I’m sorry-” He rasps. The sensation is so sharp you see stars, a shriek punched out of your chest when he bottoms out, rutting into you like he’s never going to stop.The pressure is so much, all at once, Frank’s vision tunnels. He can’t even hear above the roar of blood in his ears. The bed rattles. The whole goddamn planet could rattle apart and he wouldn’t stop. He’s fucking you through the mattress, through the next dimension. He can’t catch a full breath. He gasps for air and tastes your sweat, your scent, the ozone tang of the fever now churning through him like black fire. You’re screaming. The raw, high sound of it rips the last discipline out of him. Some part of him tries to be gentle, tries to hold back, but his body goes on autopilot, rutting harder, faster, every thrust shoving his cock deeper into you, until it feels like he’s turned you inside out. You go limp, then rigid, then limp again. The only thing holding you together is his hands. He braces his forearm across the small of your back and folds you in half, his weight crushing you into the ruined tangle of sheets. He’s got you locked in, locked down, and the only thing you can do is take it, over and over, every stroke. Your sobs go silent, lungs emptied, and you’re reduced to shuddering and twitching, a gooseflesh wreck. It should scare him, and somewhere, deep behind the thick fog of want, it does. But your body milks him, clings to him, wants him just as much.

You’re still trying to crawl up his cock, even as it’s too much, even as you whimper “please—please—Frank—” and he loses the thread of what you’re even asking for. You come again, your pussy clamping so tight he almost blacks out. The bedframe slams against the wall, a steady drumbeat to the obscene, wet slap of your bodies. Frank’s not sure there’s anything left to give, but his balls ache and his cock throbs and he’s still not done, not even close. He’s barely human, all muscle and bone and nerve endings, and he’s so deep in the need it’s like swimming blind. The pulsing heat should fade, but it doesn’t. His cock stays hard, the ridge of it throbbing against your walls, and you can taste the panic in the way he looks at you, eyes wild, brow shiny with sweat. You’re so full it feels like you’ll split, like he’s pounding straight through your core. He fucks you with a single-minded desperation, every thrust a promise he can’t break, and you ride each wave with him, helpless to do anything but take and take until your mind blanks out and your body remembers nothing but the shape of him inside you.

Frank’s world is the inside of your cunt. He’s got no purchase outside it. Every time he tries to slow, just breathe, it’s like the fever burns hotter, pushes him right back to rutting into you like he’ll die if he stops. You’re not even crying anymore; the sound you make is a dull, broken gasp at every shove into your center, and still you’re so fucking good for him, you take it, you take him, you always do. He’s never been rough with you like this, never let himself, but there’s no pulling back, nothing but the thick slap of skin and the way your body folds around him, greedier than anything Frank’s ever known. Sweat pours off him, mouth gone dry, every muscle in his arms and gut straining to keep you locked onto his cock.

You shudder your way through three orgasms. Four. He loses count, can only track the relentless pulse at the base of his cock, the way every new wave of your desperation clenches him tighter, tries to milk him dry. He wants to say he’s sorry, wants to fucking stop, but if he stops he’ll die right here, naked and empty with nothing but want. He crushes you to his chest, presses his brow to yours, and his voice shreds in his throat.

“Honey—fuck—don’t know what’s wrong—can’t—” He can’t finish. He reaches down, grabs your thighs, and pushes them up, your knees by your ears, so he can watch his cock disappearing into your ruined cunt. The sight turns his brain to static. He fucks you through his own softening, the rawness of it sending his balls tight, a pulsing ache so deep it’s like punishment. You blink up at him, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted in a soundless plea. Frank heaves in ragged breaths. He wipes the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand, but it’s useless, just keeps coming. You try to touch his face, but your hand falls limply to the pillow.

“Can’t—” you try, voice so hoarse it’s a rasp, “Frank, too much—”

“I know, baby, I know,” he chokes, but he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, the rhythm just slows, each push in and out a new kind of agony. You’re so full you’re leaking, the pale mess of him painting your thighs, every thrust making a fresh drip down to the sheets. He can’t get enough of it. He can’t get enough of you. He thinks—maybe, if he comes again, this will break. Maybe it’s just a matter of getting it all out of his system. Frank’s hips keep going, chasing something neither of you can name, deeper and harder, until even the friction starts to blur into a numb, syrupy ache. You’re not sure your body can take another orgasm, but Frank’s cock doesn’t slow, doesn’t even twitch toward softening inside you. He’s still diamond-hard, still rutting in mindless, ragged thrusts, the tip of his dick punching against your cervix so sharp you nearly sob. You want to stop, want to tap out, but you can’t say the words, not with the way his body cages yours, his forearm braced above your head. Every time you so much as gasp for air, he hushes you, whispers more praise into your skin.

“Good girl, fuck, you’re such a good girl, baby—so tight, squeezing me, you wanna make me come again? Huh? Want me to fill you all the way up?” His voice cracks, goes thin and desperate, and you almost come just from the sound. The praise is a wire wrapped around your spine, drawing you tighter, tighter, until the next orgasm hits like a rubber bullet and rips a wail out of your chest. Frank’s cock doesn’t give you a break to even register the aftershocks before he’s already pounding you through another. Your thighs shake, your calves spasm, even your toes curl up tight. You’re crying again, you think, but it’s not from pain, not really. It’s because your body’s hit max capacity and refused to let go, and Frank’s not slowing down, not even to catch his breath. The bed frame is a lost cause, the cheap wood splintering against each slam of Frank’s hips. You grip the pillow, face buried in the wet cotton, and try to ride it out.

You want to tell him to stop, to check if he’s okay, but every time you try, you just get another mouthful of “Frank, fuck, Frank—”

He’s panting so loud his breath sounds like a threat. His hand finds the back of your neck, palm warm and damp with sweat, and holds you down, grinding his cock so deep you shiver. The sound that comes out of him isn’t human: a full-body groan, like coming is the only relief left in the world. His cock throbs, thick and pulsing, and you feel the heat spill inside you, a flood that has you clenching, wringing every drop out of him. He collapses on top of you, and you shudder in pain, your body begging for a break. Frank groans, his shoulders shaking. He peels himself away from you, shaking his head, his chest heaving.

He’s in pain. You can tell.

He faces the wall as he tries his hardest to settle his breathing, and you can see his cock, pressed against his stomach- still red and hard and bulging. Your insides churn with ache, and you whine.

“Frankie-”

“N-No, baby, i gotta- I gotta stop.” He rasps, shaking his head. But his body disagrees. Frank’s hand finds the headboard and he grinds the heel of his palm into his brow, eyes clenched, like that might squeeze the need out of his skull by force. He tries to turn away, but your hand is there, cupping his jaw, so gentle he almost sobs from it.

“It’s okay.” Your voice is thin, spent, but there’s not a trace of fear in it. Only worry. Only the same devotion he’s always known, the kind that makes his chest ache on a normal day, and now it’s a knife. You look up at him, lashes stuck together with tears and sweat, and he sees it—what he’s done to you. The red handprints on your thighs, the way your lips are bruised from your own teeth. He’s never hated himself more. He tries to say your name but his throat seizes, a dry, animal noise spilling out, and it takes everything not to punch a hole through the fucking drywall just to have something to break. You crawl into his lap, soft and warm and so goddamn patient, and rest your head on his shoulder. The touch is an IV drip straight to what’s left of his self-control. He wraps his arms around you, desperate to keep you safe, but the second your cunt grazes his cock he’s hard again—no pause, no mercy. Your body folds around him, open and wrecked and beautiful, and the urge to fuck you into the floorboards is so strong it’s all he can do not to bite your shoulder until it bruises. He’d always thought himself a man of limits. Rules. But this is new country. This is past the boundary of pain and into the realm of need that’s got no words. He wants to stop, but his cock is already rutting against your heat, and you’re slick, still so wet he can feel the mess soaking his thighs. You ease back, the weight of you on his lap, and thread your hand through his hair.

“Frankie, you’re burning up,” you whisper. Your palm settles on his chest, like you could press the fever out of him with enough pressure. But it’s not just fever. It’s a bomb—ticking. He can’t remember the last time he felt this powerless.

“God, it’s that fuckin’ red powder- I don’t- I don’t know what was in it-”

“It’s okay, Frankie.” You huff.

“No, it’s not fucking okay !” He yells, whining as his hips rut up, chasing the feel of your pussy clamped on him. His eyes fly open, and he takes you in. “Baby, look what i’ve fuckin’ done to ya.” He rasps, shaking his head.

“Frankie-”

“Please- get- get off me, mama, please- I don’t wanna hurt you anymore, i-” You see Frank’s resolve start to buckle. The panic in his eyes crashes up against the tidal wave of need that’s got him rutting into you even as he begs for distance, for mercy, for anything to keep you safe from his own treacherous body. You shift in his lap and he moans, the sound so raw and petulant it threatens to break your heart. You bury your face into his neck, lips pressed to the salt and heat there, and you try to anchor him with your words.

“I’m not afraid of you, Frankie. You’re not gonna hurt me. I want to help—” You’re cut off by a shudder as his cock twitches, fat and fever-hot, pressing up against your drenched folds. Even through the haze of soreness, you can’t help but want him, the way he fills you, the way he worships every inch of you with his eyes and hands and words. He tries to scoot back, but you wrap your arms around his shoulders, locking him in place.

“Frank. Look at me.” He tries to obey, but the shame is a physical force, tethering his chin to his chest. You take his face in both hands and lift it, so he’s forced to see you—your ruined makeup, your puffy lips, the tears still drying in sticky trails down your face. He trembles, and the glassy, pleading look in his eyes is almost more than you can bear. You force yourself to smile. “It’s not you, Frankie. It’s whatever they hit you with. You’re not going to break me. I know you.” You guide his hand so it cups your hip, thumb stroking over the place where his fingerprints are already bruising your skin. “Let me help you. Please.” A sob racks his chest, but you don’t let go. You shift your hips, the soreness blooming into a fierce ache, but the sharp stretch of him splitting you open is its own kind of mercy, a reminder that you’re real, that he’s real, that everything that has you gasping and groaning and crying is because the man you love can’t stop loving you back, even when it shreds him to the bone. He mutters something—could be your name, could be some broken apology—but you cut him off by grinding down, forcing the thick head of his cock inside again. You both moan, the sound a harmonized exhale of pain and relief and want. You ride him slow, savoring the way his hands grip your ass, the way his mouth stutters against the hollow of your neck.

“Baby—fuck—don’t wanna—don’t wanna ruin you—” he whimpers. You’ve never seen him lose it like this. The red powder’s got him raw, desperate, every boundary burned away by the chemical fire in his veins. His face shines with sweat and tears, and his voice is so cracked and pleading it makes you want to cry for him. You whine as you overstimulated clit bumps against his pubic bone and you shake your head.

"Just- ah shit, wanna help-" You manage, your face drawn up in pain.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck-" Before you can understand what's going on, you're ripped off of him, and your cheek meets the pillow as your ass is propped up. Frank’s got you on your stomach, ass in the air, and the whole world narrows to pressure, his hands locked around your hips so hard you can taste the bruise forming. He’s inside you before your brain catches up—a single mean thrust, bottoming out, and your mouth opens but nothing comes out except a stuttered gasp. He doesn’t move at first, just holds you there, cock throbbing so deep you can feel it behind your navel.

His voice is a raw scrape: “Sorry, sorry—can’t—” and then he fucks down, fucks through you, every stroke hard enough to punch the air from your lungs. You try to brace your hands but your shoulder gives out, leaving you cheek-down on the pillow, drool pooling in the crook of your mouth. You think you might cry, but it turns to a wail instead, a high desperate sound muffled by the bed. Frank’s not slow, not at all—he’s relentless, hips snapping, spine bowed over your back, the heat of him rolling off in waves. He mutters your name into your hair, worship and apology in every syllable, but he doesn’t stop, not even when your thighs seize up and your body starts to shake.

It’s like he’s in a race to fuck the poison out of himself, a self-punishment as much as a need. He doesn’t just pound, he grinds, the fat ridge of his cock scraping every hypersensitive spot and making you see colors behind your eyelids. He gets a rhythm going, a brutal, unyielding cadence that’s all force and no mercy, the wet slap of skin so loud it drowns out your own whimpers. He’s saying something—maybe a prayer, maybe a curse—but your ears ring too loud to tell. Frank’s rhythm shudders, then redoubles, each thrust a new promise he can’t keep—he’s sorry, he’s trying, but his body won’t even let him lie. All you can do is take it. Your hips knock forward with every impact, your knees gone numb, your hands scrabbling at the sheets. He’s a furnace at your back, sweat dripping from his jaw onto the nape of your neck. Your cunt is raw, fluttering, so full of him you feel like his cock is splitting your spine in half, pulse after pulse hammering your insides. The praise keeps coming, wrecked and hoarse, every word scraping the meat of your brain:

“That’s it, mama, god, you’re so good for me, fucking perfect, fuck, fuck, look at how you take it—” His hands bracket your waist, thumbs pressing so hard you’re sure you’ll wear his fingerprints for days. The bed gives a death rattle under the both of you, and for a second you’re sure you might break through the floor. It’s not just the pain, it’s the stretch, the impossible misshape of him inside you, the friction grinding against nerves you didn’t know you had. Each time he bottoms out, your whole body spasms, jaw slack, and your eyes roll up until all you see is white. You want to say it’s too much, you need to say it’s too much, but your throat can’t find the air. All you can manage is a strangled sob and a whimper, the sound burrowing straight into Frank’s brain. He’s so loud you barely hear yourself. He can’t stop moaning, every inhale a curse, every exhale a plea for you to hold on, to keep going, to save him from this. His cock throbs inside you, thick as a goddamn fist, and you feel every vein, every twitch.

You can’t even squeeze him now; you’re so open, so obliterated, but he uses you anyway, cocking his hips to make sure he grinds against every raw inch of your walls. It’s a mercy when you come again—your pussy fluttering, a helpless, shivery clamp that wrings a keening noise out of both of you. He feels it, all of it, the heat and the pulse and the way your body tries to milk him dry, and it snaps something vital in him.

He shoves forward, so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach, and he grunts a broken “fuck—” as he spills inside you again, so much it leaks out the second he starts to move. He doesn’t soften. Not even a little. He leans over, body caging you in, his huge hand coming to cradle your head, gentle and sweet and so at fucking odds with the way he rails you from behind, over and over and over. You think you might faint. You hope you do, but Frank won’t give you the out. He drags you up onto your knees, keeping you impaled, your ass flush against his hips. His chest is a solid wall at your back, every breath a ragged hurricane. You lean into him, and the only thing keeping you from sliding forward is the white-knuckle grip he’s got on your hip. Every muscle in his arm is bunched and trembling, and you can’t see his face, but you can hear him, every breath a broken, bruised whimper. The pressure inside you is so intense it feels like he’s going to split you, and the wet mess leaking out onto your thighs is obscene, but you can’t stop clenching, can’t stop reaching for every last inch he gives, even when it knocks a raw scream out of you.

He’s not talking anymore; he’s just animal, all want and motion, the drag of his cock so deep it makes your vision rattle. He’s fucking through every stop sign his brain tries to throw up. It’s not anger—he’s not rough, not really, not even when the thrusts get mean. He’s wounded, desperate, every snap of his hips a white flag of surrender to whatever’s in his blood. There’s a low, guttural moan in the back of his throat that never quite makes it out—just a vibration that crackles down his spine and into yours.

The only words he manages are yours: your name, and then sorry, then your name again, and then “please, please, please,” like there’s a finish line he can barely see.

You try to push up, to arch back into him, and he groans like he’s in pain. The new angle gives him enough to work with that he slams in even deeper, punching the air out of your lungs. The slap of your bodies is filthy, echoing off the drywall. You’re not sure you can take it, but every time you think you’ll fall apart, he tightens his fingers and pulls you closer and you break in a new way, shattered and made again in the space of a heartbeat. His cock is so hard it feels like a weapon, the head swelling every time your pussy convulses around it. You’re so full it’s like he’s rearranging your guts, and the ache is a raw, sweet line from your cervix to your clit, every stroke against that spot another quicksilver jolt.

He keeps muttering—“fuck, fuck, fuck, baby, good, that’s it, take it, take it, please”—each phrase more frantic than the last. His balls slap your clit with every thrust, a wet, brutal rhythm that leaves you shaking. You can’t move, not really, just grip the sheets and let him fuck you through the next dimension. Your body responds with a will of its own, cunt fluttering, greedy, and he all but howls, the pitch of his voice climbing as you milk him. He wraps a hand over your mouth, not to silence you, but to keep himself from biting into your shoulder. Your vision blurs at the edges, black stars exploding behind your eyes with every brutal slap of Frank’s hips. You don’t remember the last time you took a breath that wasn’t torn from your lungs; you don’t remember the last time you wanted anything as bad as you want him to finish—just finish—so you can collapse and glue your bones back together.

He holds you locked against his chest, your knees straining and your hands scrabbling for the headboard, but your arms are noodles, your muscles shaking with nothing left to give. He fucks you like he’s trying to get through to the other side, like if he just goes hard enough, deep enough, the chemicals will burn themselves out and he’ll stop being an animal. The sounds coming out of him are wild, nothing you’ve ever heard in your own bed—raw, grunting, half-sobbed apologies and broken praise.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, please, baby, need you to take it, need—can’t—” Frank’s voice is a rasp, a snapped wire, and you can feel his cock twitching, so hard you think he could split you in half with it. Each time he bottoms out, it punches a fresh scream out of you, but you clamp your jaw down, try to muffle the madness of it. He’s never rough with you, not like this, never so greedy, but you get it. Something is wrong, and you want to help—want to be the answer, the antidote, the safe place for him to burn out and come back to himself. He holds your waist so tight you can feel each ridge of his fingerprints, bruising you into memory. You want to say it hurts, but the words won’t come. Your pussy is on fire—raw, stretched, so abused it’s gone numb and then come back to life even sharper. The mess is everywhere: leaking out around him, slicking your thighs, running down to stain the sheets. All you can do is ride the waves and hope you don’t drown.

The only noise in the room is the animal rhythm of bodies and Frank’s voice, disbelieving and desperate: “So fucking tight, fuck, mama, so good, can’t stop, can’t—please don’t make me stop—” He thrusts so hard your hips jar forward, your face mashed into the bed. You start to sob, not from pain, not really, but because it’s too much, because you’ve never seen him like this, never heard him cry out with so little control. You want to help, that’s what matters—help him, take all of it, prove you’re strong enough. You push back into him, arching your ass higher, and the noise he makes is so grateful it breaks your heart.

“Good girl,” he says, voice shredded and hoarse. “Perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, sweetheart, doing so good, just gotta—” He loses the thread, ruts into you so deep your vision whites out. His cock pulses, and you feel a new rush of heat inside, and that does it. You clench down, body wracked by the kind of orgasm that hurts, hurts so good you see stars.

He lets you drop back down against the mattress, and you struggle to keep yourself upright. You scream yourself hoarse, your pussy clamped down vice-tight. You feel everything, every pulse and stretch and starburst, and Frank howls against your shoulder. The noise doesn’t even sound like him—it’s wounded and messy, his breath burning loud in your ear. You can’t move, can’t breathe, can only let him use you, rail you, like he’ll die if he doesn’t get it all out. The aftershocks won’t stop, not for you, not for him. He stutters through another frantic thrust, and you feel his cock jerk, another hot wave of come flooding you, and you go limp in his hands, deadweight against his chest. He keeps moving, barely half a second between one orgasm and the next, and you’re sobbing into the pillow, your senses so blown you can’t tell if you’re still coming or if the world just feels that sharp now. You want to beg for mercy, but Frank doesn’t have any to give. His grip shakes. His whole body shakes. He clings to you like he’ll fall apart if he lets go, every inch of him slick and hot, pressing you into the mattress until you’re shaped to it. You can hear the edge-of-panic in his voice, the way he repeats your name and sorry and “baby, I can’t—can’t stop, can’t stop.” He’s terrified of himself. You know it, and it makes you want him more, want to fix it, take the ache out of him even if it means breaking yourself in the process.

He lifts you higher, knees scrabbling to keep you upright, and then he’s fucking up into you again, as frantic as the first time. It’s a miracle you’re still wet, still open, but the heat between your legs is unreal—slippery, raw, your clit throbbing with every slap of his body. You don’t think you’re meant to come this many times; it’s like your nerves are fried, but every time his cock grinds against that spot inside you, you jolt and seize and scream. The room smells like sex, thick and musky and everywhere. You’re distantly aware of how filthy it is, how you both sound like animals, how you must look wrecked beyond repair—but Frank won’t even let you hide your face. He grabs your jaw, turns your head so you’re looking at him, his eyes wild and glassy and pleading.

“Need you,” he says, and it sounds like a confession. “Can’t—please, baby, don’t let go—” You nod, tears streaming down your cheeks, because you can’t talk, and the way he looks at you—like you’re the last thing tethering him to the planet—makes you want to endure a thousand more hours of this, if it’ll help. You squeeze around him, even though you’re not sure you can take any more; you brace your arms against his, let him rut into you until you both lose track of time. Frank’s hand slides up the back of your neck, fingers in your hair, not pulling, just holding. Like if he lets go, he’ll float away. You feel his lips at your skin, a blur of kisses and apologies, but it’s not enough to gentle the pace. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t soften, just fucks you through every last bit of resistance. You can’t even squeeze him, but he doesn’t need it—he’s so big you’re stretched taut, every vein and ridge inside you, scraping against a spot that makes your eyes roll up. He leans over, flush against your back, and you feel the tremble in his chest—like he’s sobbing, too. His whole body shakes, and you realize with a lurch that he’s crying.

You turn your head, try to see him, but all you get is the hot rush of his breath in your hair, the way he chokes on another “sorry, sorry, baby, fuck—” before slamming in so deep you swear he’s fucking your soul out of your body. He doesn’t stop. Not even when you start to tremble, then seize up, body clamped so tight around him you think it might snap him in two. He keeps moving, relentless, grinding you to dust on the inside and the outside, and the sounds coming out of his mouth break open something raw in your chest—a wet, hiccupping sob choked down between every thrust. He feels everything too much, all at once, and it hurts, you can see it in the way his hands shake against your skin, the way he buries his face in your neck like he’s trying to hide from himself.

You want to tell him it’s okay, that you want it, that you want him, but your tongue is heavy, glued to the roof of your mouth. All you can do is take it, take him, every brutal inch, and hope it helps. The room is a blur: lamp tipped on its side, blood pounding in your ears, the hot animal stink of sweat and sex and desperate, chemical need. You’re so full it hurts, but you keep clenching, greedy for more, even as your muscles threaten to give out.

He pins your wrists to the mattress, fingers threaded through yours, so tight it burns. You twist under him, searching for leverage, but he flattens you, cages you, and there’s no air left in your lungs. His cock pistons in, then out, a punishing, friction-sharp rhythm that makes you see strobing white. You feel it all: the stretch, the obscene wet slap, the pulse of blood behind your clit, the way your body tries to force him out but can’t. For a second, you wonder if it’s permanent, if you’ll ever be able to close again without the imprint of him inside you. He keeps his hand on your throat, not squeezing, just holding, grounding himself with your pulse as he chases that feeling through you. The pressure behind your eyes is unbearable; you can’t tell if you’re lightheaded from the lack of air, or from the way he pounds you, relentless even as your body goes limp.

“Ah shit, ah shit- baby- He rasps. You can feel his body burning so unbelievably hot that it burns your skin.

“Shit, baby, i think i’m gonna come-” He rasps, and his hips pick up speed. You’re not sure if you’re even conscious when it happens; your body is numb but your brain is a live wire, the noise in your skull too loud to parse. He moves again, humping at you in little, frantic jerks, already hard, never soft. He sounds panicked, desperate, like he’s drowning and needs you to save him.

“Please, baby, fuck, please,” he gasps, and you push back into him, let him set the new rhythm, not even thinking. You’re beyond pain, beyond thought; just animal, just wet and open and clenching down because you have nothing else to give. You feel every inch, every vein, every frantic stutter of his cock, and it’s like you were made for this, for him, for the way he fills you up and burns you clean from the inside out. Frank’s cock jerks inside you and the heat floods out in a wave, so much come you can feel it forcing its way out past the seal of you both, drooling down your thighs and pooling under your knees. He collapses against your back, and the world goes silent except for the crash of his heartbeat and the rasp of his breathing. He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move at all, not even to loosen the grip he’s got on your wrists. For a second, you think he’s passed out. Then you hear it—a soft, broken noise in the hollow of your shoulder, the kind of sound that only comes out when the body runs out of things to burn. He shudders, the shift of his body smearing sweat and spit and tears down your back. You’re both shaking, but his is an aftershock, yours is still the quake. He buries his nose in your hair, inhaling like it might save him. A minute passes. Then another. He’s still inside you, and you can feel every twitch, every minute pulse, like your walls are mapped to his heartbeat.

“Baby,” he croaks, and his voice is so small you almost don’t hear it. “Jesus. Fuck. Are you—” He can’t finish. He’s breathing like he’s been sprinting for miles. You can’t breathe right. Every inch of skin feels flayed, body spasming around the thickness of him still buried in you. Frank is nothing but heat and bone and the low, sick whimper echoing in your ear. You don’t know if you’re crying, but your face is wet and your teeth ache from clenching. You’re glad you didn’t say no—glad you could take it, for him, whatever this is. You’re glad to be the thing he needs, even if you don’t understand the why of it. He doesn’t move. Not one millimeter. You try to flex around him, a weak squeeze, and he makes a soft, torn sound. There’s shame in it. You don’t have to see his face—you can feel it in the way he goes slack against your back, the way his arms drop away from you like he’s afraid of his own hands. He pulls out so slow you want to scream, cock dragging against your swollen, battered walls, and the afterrush of everything floods out between your thighs. You collapse onto the wet, ruined sheets, legs so dead you couldn’t move if you tried.

“Shit, shit !” He rasps, gently reaching for you and flipping you over to your back. The haze that filled his eyes is gone now, and he looks at your body in pure horror.

Bruises.

Bite marks.

The indentation of his fingers.

You blink into the light. You’re vibrating apart, every nerve raw and humming. Frank’s hands hover, then drop. He’s kneeling above you, shaking, looking down like he’s a monster who’s just drawn a bloodline in the sand and crossed it. Frank stares at the marks on your hips in horror, mouth open but no words coming out, breath rattling. He drags a hand over his face and looks at you, really looks, and his eyes go wide and dark like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“Jesus, baby, I—fuck, I’m—” He can’t even say it. His hands flutter, wanting to reach, not daring. You’re splayed open, cold now that he’s not filling you, the wet between your legs turning sticky against your skin. It’s obscene, the way your body wants him even now, the ache in your cunt still a live wire, pulsing. You press your legs together but he’s left you so stretched there’s nothing to squeeze. Frank scrambles off the bed and almost falls, legs shaking, cock slapping wet against his thigh. He’s pale and sweating, haunted, retreating from you like you’re radioactive. In the bathroom you hear him gag, then the faucet running, then another low, choked noise that’s all guilt and fear.

You lie in the mess and wait. The ceiling is just a white blur, your blood humming in your ears.

You could sleep forever.

Or die.

Either would be a mercy. You roll to your side, wince at the wet slap between your thighs, the way your body won’t hold you together. Your hand comes away sticky, smeared with both of you. You wipe it on the sheets, a halfhearted gesture, and laugh—quiet, ugly, edged with hysteria.

Frank comes back in, eyes rimmed red. He’s holding a towel and a bottle of water, both with the same careful gentleness that he used to carry your favorite takeout after a long shift. He doesn’t look at you while he presses the towel between your legs, mopping up the worst of the mess. His hands are shaking so bad he can’t get it right, so you grab the towel, dig it in yourself. The rough scrape hurts and you do it anyway.

He sits on the edge of the bed, as far from you as he can get without falling off, and stares at the wall.

“I don’t know what the fuck—” he starts, but his voice cracks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I’m so fucking sorry.” Frank's voice cracks on the last word, the sound swallowed by the thick, oppressive silence of the room. He can't look at you. His gaze is fixed on the wall, but he's not seeing the paint or the framed photo of your wedding day. He's seeing the imprint of his hands on your skin, the way your body went limp under his, the sounds you made that were half pleasure, half pain. He's seeing a monster wearing his face.

"Frankie," you start, your own voice a raspy whisper. You push yourself up, ignoring the screaming protest of every muscle. The sheet sticks to you, damp and cold. "Frankie, look at me." He flinches like you've struck him. He doesn't turn.

"Don't. Don't… don't be nice to me right now. I don't deserve it."

"Deserve's got nothing to do with it," you manage, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The world tilts, and you brace a hand on the nightstand. "What happened? The powder. You said something about red powder." His shoulders hunch. He runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, the gesture sharp and agitated.

"It was during my stupid mission. In the warehouse. Some old bastard… thought he was carrying a piece but he wasn't. Had a canister. I shot him, but he… he popped it. Red dust. Got all over me." He finally turns his head, and the devastation in his eyes makes your chest ache. "It was nothing at first. Just… weird. Then driving home… it was like a fire got lit inside me. A fever. And then… and then I saw you."He says it like a confession. Like seeing you, safe and asleep in your bed, was the catalyst that turned a chemical reaction into an act of violence. To him, it was.

"Okay," you say slowly, trying to piece it together through the fog of exhaustion and lingering arousal. "So it was a drug. Something that made you… like this."

"I didn't want to hurt you," he says, the words rushing out, thick with unshed tears. "I swear to god, I tried to stop. I tried to leave the room. I tried to… fuck, I don't know what I tried. Every second I was fighting it, but my body… it wasn't mine anymore. It was just… need. And you were there." You reach for his hand, and he lets you take it, his fingers cold and limp in yours.

"We need to figure out what it was. What it's doing to you." Your mind races, sifting through the limited options. The fever, the relentless… need. It's beyond anything you understand. "Frank… we should call Bruce. He knows this stuff. Chemicals, weird science, biological reactions. He could help." The reaction is instantaneous and violent. Frank snatches his hand back as if you've offered him poison. He's on his feet, pacing the small space at the end of the bed like a caged animal. The movement is jerky, still fueled by a residual tremor in his limbs.

"No. No fucking way."

"Frank, be reasonable," you plead, trying to stand, but your legs give out and you sink back onto the mattress. "You were burning up for almost three hours. We don't know if this is… if it's actually over, or if it's going to cause damage to you long term. He's the smartest guy we know. He could probably identify it over the phone."

"I said no!" he snaps, the voice of the Punisher cutting through the raw, wounded man from a moment ago. He stops pacing and glares at you, but the anger is all directed inward. "You think I'm gonna call that green freak and tell him I lost control? That I drugged myself and used my wife like a goddamn fleshlight until she passed out? You think I want him to know what I did to you?" The words are ugly, brutal, and they hang in the air between you. But you hear the fear underneath. The shame.

"Frank, it wasn't you," you insist, your voice gaining a little strength. "It was whatever was in that canister. Bruce would understand that."

"I don't care !" he shouts, running both hands through his hair in frustration. "I'm not telling him! I'm not telling anybody! The last thing I need is… is a lab coat poking at me while I explain how I couldn't keep my dick in my pants!" He stops, his chest heaving. He looks at the mess on the bed, at the marks on your skin visible even in the dim light, and the anger drains out of him, replaced by a crushing wave of self-loathing. He sinks to his knees at the foot of the bed, far enough away that he can't touch you, close enough that he can see the damage.

"Forget fucking Banner right now," he says, his voice quiet now, broken. "Forget everybody. Just… just let me take care of you. Please. We can call whoever the hell you want in the morning, sweetheart, i just-" He looks up at you, his eyes pleading. He rests his forehead against the mattress, his whole body trembling with the force of his regret. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry." You run your fingers through his hair.

"It's okay, Frank." He shakes his head so hard it almost looks painful.

"No." His voice is barely audible. "No, don't…" Another shake. "Don't say that." You frown.

"Frank—"

"I hurt you." The words come out flat. Certain. Like a verdict that's already been handed down. "I've spent years making damn sure I never did." He laughs once. It's a horrible sound. Empty.

"You know…" His eyes stay fixed on the floor. "I've broken bones with these hands." He holds them out in front of him. They won't stop trembling. "I've killed with these hands." His fingers curl into fists. "But every time I came home…" His voice cracks. "…I left all that outside." He looks up at you then, eyes red and swollen. "I never wanted you to be scared of me."

"I'm not."

"You should be."

"I'm not."

"I left bruises on you." You instinctively glance down. Finger-shaped marks are already darkening across your wrists and hips. Frank follows your gaze. Whatever composure he'd managed to hold together shatters.

"Oh, God…" He covers his face. "I did that."

"You were drugged."

"I did that."

"It wasn't your choice."

"It was my hands." His breathing starts to hitch. Not panicked. Not angry. Just… broken.

"I've spent every day since we got married trying to be gentle with you." He laughs bitterly through tears. "Remember the first time I helped you out of the shower after you sprained your ankle?" You nod. "You kept telling me I was holding you like you were made of glass."

"You were."

"'Cause I was scared I'd hurt you." Another tear slips down his face. "I've always been scared I'd hurt you." His shoulders begin to shake. "I know what I am."

"No."

"I do."

"Frank."

"I know what I've done." He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I can live with what I've done to people who deserved it." His voice drops to almost nothing. "I don't know how to live with doing it to you." You slide carefully off the bed. Every muscle protests. Your legs are unsteady. Frank notices immediately. His head snaps up.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm coming here."

"No." He backs away on instinct. "Don't."

"Frank."

"I'm filthy."

"No."

"I don't deserve—" You ignore him. You kneel in front of him anyway. It hurts. He notices that too. His face crumples.

"Baby…" You take his face in your hands. He tries to pull away. You don't let him.

"You have never once hurt me on purpose." He closes his eyes.

"That doesn't make this disappear."

"No. It doesn't." You rest your forehead against his. "But neither does you punishing yourself." His breath catches. "I married a man who checks the water temperature before I get into the shower." A tiny smile threatens at the corner of your mouth. "The man who apologizes if he bumps into me in the kitchen." He lets out a watery laugh."The man who still asks before touching me if he thinks I've had a bad day." Another tear rolls down his cheek. "That's my husband." You squeeze his hand. "Not whatever you think that powder turned you into." For a long time he doesn't answer.

Then, finally.... He leans forward. Just enough to rest his forehead against your shoulder. His entire body starts shaking.

Years of discipline. Years of control. Years of refusing himself the luxury of falling apart.

Gone.

He cries. Quietly. Like he's ashamed to even make noise. You hold him. Running slow circles across his back. Neither of you knows how long you stay like that. Eventually, his breathing evens out.

"I'm so tired," he whispers.

"I know."

"I'm scared to sleep." You pull back enough to look at him.

"Why?"

"What if it isn't over?" The fear in his eyes is raw. "What if I wake up like that again?"

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

"No." You brush damp hair back from his forehead. "I don't." A beat. "But if something's wrong…" You lace your fingers through his. "…we'll face it together." He nods once. Reluctantly.

You convince him into a hot shower—not together, just enough to wash the chemical residue and sweat away. He insists on checking the water temperature for you before you step in, a habit so familiar it almost makes you cry. Afterwards he helps you into one of his old T-shirts and fresh pajamas with painstaking care, asking every few seconds if you're hurting, if you're dizzy, if he's moving too fast. When you finally crawl back into bed, he doesn't touch you. He lies on his back, rigid, leaving almost a foot of space between you. As though he's afraid his own skin might betray him again.

You reach across the mattress. Find his hand. He startles.

"It's okay," you whisper.

He hesitates before turning his hand over and intertwining your fingers. Neither of you says anything else. Exhaustion eventually wins.

-------

Morning arrives gray and quiet. You wake first. Frank is wrapped around you so tightly you fear he might actually suffocate you.

One arm is around your waist.

The other is tucked protectively beneath your neck.

One leg is hooked over yours.

You're fairly certain if someone tried to kidnap you, they'd have to take Frank with you. You blink up at the ceiling.

"…Frank." A sleepy grunt. "You are crushing me." Another grunt.

"No, I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

"I'm protecting you."

"From oxygen?" His eyes stay closed.

"…Maybe." You smile despite yourself.

"Frankie."

"Hm?"

"I need circulation."

"You've got circulation."

"My left arm is completely numb." He cracks one eye open.

"That's because you're dramatic."

"Oh, I'm dramatic?"

"Very." You wiggle experimentally. Every muscle below your waist immediately protests. You hiss through your teeth. Frank is fully awake before the sound has even finished leaving your mouth. His entire body goes rigid.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What hurts?" You sigh.

"My everything." His face falls. Immediately.

"Oh…" He sits up so fast the mattress bounces. "I'm sorry."

"Frank."

"I'm so—"

"Frank."

"I shouldn't have—" You reach over and flick him lightly on the forehead.

"Ow."

"Good." He rubs the spot with exaggerated offense.

"You flicked me."

"You were spiraling."

"I wasn't."

"You apologized three times in six seconds."

"I could've hit seven." You can't help laughing. The sound makes his shoulders loosen just a fraction. "There's my girl."

He reaches toward you automatically. Then hesitates halfway. His hand hangs awkwardly in the air. You notice. Without saying anything, you take it yourself. His fingers close around yours immediately.

"I'm sore," you admit.

"I know."

"But I'm okay."

"I know."

"You look like you're about to throw up."

"I might." You roll your eyes.

"If you pass out before breakfast, I'm divorcing you." That earns the tiniest smile.

"You'd miss me."

"I would."

"You love me."

"Unfortunately."

"Hm." He nods once. "Still marrying me again."

"Maybe."

"Definitely."

"Depends."

"On?"

"Whether you make coffee." Without another word, Frank stands.

"I'll make coffee."

"And pancakes."

"I'll make pancakes."

"And bacon."

"I'll make bacon."

"And you're doing dishes." He points at you.

"Now you're pushing it." You grin.

"There he is."

"Who?"

"My grumpy husband."

"I was always here."

"You disappeared for a bit." His smile fades.

"I know." The room grows quiet again. You squeeze his hand.

"We're still here." He nods.

"We're still here." An hour later, the kitchen smells like coffee and burnt toast. Frank glares at the toaster.

"It betrayed me."

"You forgot to push it down."

"I was distracted."

"By?" He glances at you.

"You walked funny." You freeze halfway to your chair.

"…Excuse me?"

"You winced."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I tripped."

"You tripped while standing still."

"I was thinking."

"You were limping."

"I was not limping." Frank raises one eyebrow. You sigh dramatically.

"I was… walking thoughtfully." He snorts into his coffee.

"Thoughtfully."

"Exactly."

"You've got a hitch in your step."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"No." You smile into your mug. "I really don't." His expression softens again.

"I'm sorry." You point your fork at him.

"That's apology number… honestly, I've lost count."

"I'm serious."

"So am I." You reach across the table.

"I know you are." He looks at your joined hands. Then down at his plate.

"I've never…" His voice trails off.

"I know."

"I've always worried…" He swallows. "…about bringing that part of my life home."

"You never did."

"I almost did."

"You came home because you trusted me."

"I came home because I didn't know where else to go."

"And that's okay." He nods slowly.

"Still hate that you're hurting."

"I'll survive."

"I know."

"I've survived your cooking."

"The toast wasn't that bad."

"It achieved a level of carbon previously unknown to science."

"It was artisanal."

"It was charcoal." He chuckles quietly. The sound feels like sunlight. After breakfast, Frank disappears into the laundry room. A minute later you hear,

"…Sweetheart?"

"What?"

"Where're the freezer bags?" You blink.

"The… freezer bags?"

"Yeah." You find him standing over yesterday's discarded clothes with a pair of barbecue tongs.

"…Frank."

"What?"

"Why are you holding my kitchen tongs?"

"I'm not touching that stuff."

"You literally fought an entire warehouse."

"Bullets don't usually come covered in mystery chemicals." Fair point. You hand him a box of large zip-top storage bags. He carefully picks up his shirt with the tongs.

"You know," you say, leaning against the doorway, "Bruce is never going to let you live this down." Frank stuffs the shirt into the bag.

"He says one word—"

"He'll say at least twelve."

"I'll leave."

"You can't."

"I absolutely can."

"You need him."

"I know." He seals the bag with excessive force. "I'm just not happy about it." You laugh.

"I'm putting money on Tony finding out within the hour." Frank looks horrified.

"…Don't even joke."

"I'm serious."

"He'll make a PowerPoint."

"He'll make merch."

"He'll name the chemical after me."

"'Castle Syndrome.'"

"'Frank's Bad Decision Dust.'"

"'Horny Powder.'" You burst out laughing. Frank pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I hate all of you."

"You haven't even left the house yet."

"I'm getting a headache in advance." You tuck the sealed evidence bag into another airtight container.

"There." You smile up at him. "Ready?" Frank takes a long breath. His eyes drift briefly to you, checking—again—that you're steady on your feet.

"You sure you're okay to go?"

"I'm sure."

"You'll tell me if you're hurting?"

"I will."

"You promise?"

"I promise." He studies you for another second before nodding. Then he picks up the container with the contaminated clothes as though it contains a live grenade.

"Let's go." You slip your hand into his free one.

"And maybe," you add, "let's not open the conversation with 'Hi, Bruce, I accidentally got dusted by horny cocaine.'" Frank groans.

"…I'm driving."

"You say that like it solves the problem."

"It solves my problem."

The drive to the Avengers Compound is unusually quiet. Normally, Tony would have received at least three sarcastic voice messages by now. Today, Frank's hands stay locked around the steering wheel. Every few minutes, he glances sideways.

"You okay?" You nod.

"I'm okay." Five minutes later—

"You sure?" You smile faintly.

"I'm still okay." Another red light.

"You dizzy?"

"No."

"You nauseous?"

"A little." His grip tightens.

"Frank."

"What?"

"You've asked me twenty-three questions."

"I have not."

"You absolutely have."

"…Twenty-two." You snort. He doesn't. He's serious. Painfully serious. You reach across the center console and squeeze his forearm.

"I'm fine." His eyes remain on the road.

"I know."

"No." You shake your head. "You don't." He finally looks at you for half a second.

"I don't know anything right now." Bruce is already waiting when the two of you arrive. He takes one look at Frank's expression and immediately frowns.

"…Frank."

"Banner." Bruce's eyes move to you.

"You alright?" You answer before Frank can.

"I'm sore." Frank visibly winces. Bruce notices.

"So… why don't we start from the beginning?" Frank sets the airtight container on the lab bench like it's an unexploded bomb.

"I brought the clothes." Bruce blinks.

"…Good?"

"I wasn't touching 'em."

"You carried them with barbecue tongs," you add. Bruce looks between the two of you.

"…You carried contaminated evidence with kitchen utensils?" Frank crosses his arms.

"They're stainless steel." Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I'm… not sure that's the issue." Frank shrugs.

"They were clean."

"They're definitely not anymore."

"They're in the dishwasher." Bruce sighs.

"I'm suddenly very concerned about your dishwasher." Despite everything, you laugh. Frank looks relieved just to hear it. Bruce pulls on gloves and carefully removes Frank's shirt from the bag. The fabric still carries faint reddish stains near the collar.

"Hm." He transfers tiny samples into a glass dish. The lab falls quiet except for the hum of machines. Frank paces. You sit on one of the stools, trying very hard not to shift your weight. Every muscle in your hips protests. You ignore it. Frank notices anyway.

"You alright?"

"Yep."

"You just made a face."

"I was… thinking." Bruce looks over his shoulder.

"Thoughtfully?" You glare.

"He's infected everyone." Frank almost smiles. Almost. Bruce spends another several minutes scanning the residue, and taking a blood sample from Frank. Then he pauses.

"…Well." Neither of you likes that tone.

"What?" Frank asks immediately. Bruce adjusts the image on the monitor.

"It's… not exactly what I expected."

"What is it?" Bruce folds his arms.

"The compound appears to be an engineered biochemical aerosol." Frank stares.

"In English." Bruce sighs.

"It hijacks several neurochemical pathways simultaneously."

"…English."

"It artificially stimulates areas of the brain associated with sexual arousal, reward, impulse suppression, and temperature regulation." You blink.

"So…" Bruce clears his throat.

"It's… essentially a weaponized aphrodisiac." Frank looks horrified. Bruce continues, almost apologetically. "An extremely aggressive one."

"…You're telling me I got hit with sex pollen?" Bruce hesitates.

"…Scientifically speaking…Yes. Your sex drive went into overdrive."

Silence.

Frank rubs both hands over his face.

"Fuck's sake. I got taken out by horny fairy dust." The lab doors slide open.

"Please tell me somebody said 'horny fairy dust.'"

Tony.

Of course.

He strolls in carrying a coffee the size of a flower vase.

"I leave for one meeting…" His eyes land on Frank. "…and somehow Castle has managed to invent a brand-new category of workplace incident." Frank groans.

"I knew it." Tony points dramatically.

"I called it!"

"You weren't here."

"I psychically called it." Bruce mutters,

"I absolutely did not tell him."

"I have ears."

"You have surveillance software."

"I have excellent surveillance software." Tony finally notices you.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine." He nods. Then his eyes catch something near your shoulder where your oversized T-shirt has slipped. A dark bite mark. He winces.

"…Wow." Frank immediately turns.

"What?" You instinctively pull the collar up.

"Nothing." Frank's face drains of color. He'd seen the bruises. He hadn't seen that. Tony opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

"I'm gonna make exactly one joke." Bruce sighs.

"Tony."

"I'm exercising tremendous restraint."

Bruce looks back toward the monitor.

"Based on your blood sample, i'd say the toxin has been cleared from your system." He says. He looks back up at Frank. "Do you have any idea how ?" Frank freezes beside you. His ears go bright red.

"Uh.. Well.." he starts, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor tiles. "There was… a lot of… liquid intake." Tony’s coffee freezes halfway to his lips. His eyes widen in dawning, gleeful comprehension. Bruce, bless him, just looks confused.

"Liquid intake?" Bruce asks, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Hydration is good, but I'm not sure how that would metabolize a complex neurotoxin this quickly. We're talking about a half-life of—"

"He doesn't mean he drank a lot of water, Bruce," Tony cuts in, his voice dripping with suppressed laughter. "He means Mrs Castle here had a lot of liquid intake." He makes a vague gesture towards Frank's groin. Frank’s entire face is now the color of a stop sign.

"Stark, I swear to God—"

"What ? You gonna hit me because you came in your wife ?"

"Tony !" You hiss, stepping between them before Frank can actually make good on the promise in his eyes. "He's not the only one who came, you know. It was a team effort." Tony blinks. Frank, who had been coiled to strike, freezes so completely you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. He slowly lowers his fists, turning his head to look at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. Tony, however, recovers instantly. His grin becomes a thing of legend.

"A team effort," he repeats, savoring the words. "I like that. Collaborative problem-solving. Very Avengers of you. So, just to be clear for my notes, was this a… simultaneous deployment, or a series of controlled bursts?" Bruce finally catches on, and a horrified blush creeps up his neck.

"Tony, for the love of God, stop."

"No, no, this is a legitimate scientific inquiry!" Tony insists, pointing a finger at Frank. "Because, and I'm just spitballing here, you didn't know this would work, did you, Castle? You just went for it. You looked at a situation involving a weaponized aphrodisiac and your solution was… what? More sex? Rougher sex? Did you have a hypothesis? 'If I just rail her into next week, maybe the chemical bonds will break from sheer force of will?'" Frank's jaw works, but the rage is being replaced by a deep, soul-crushing mortification. He looks at Tony, then at you, then at the floor.

"It… seemed like a good idea at the time, I couldn't exactly control it." he mumbles, the words barely audible.

"It seemed like a good idea," Tony crows, delighted. "The man's entire tactical genius boils down to 'it seemed like a good idea at the time'! I'm putting that on your tombstone. 'Frank Castle: He Had A Good Idea Once.'" You can't help it. A small, helpless laugh escapes you. Frank shoots you a wounded look, but you just pat his arm.

"He's not wrong," you whisper. 'You did come home quite charged and didn't really think." Bruce, desperate to regain control of his lab, clears his throat loudly.

"Okay. Fascinating as this… post-op analysis is, we should discuss the aftereffects." He looks at you, his expression professional but tinged with concern. "The chemical was designed to lower inhibitions and increase physical endurance. The… physical activity… would have been intense. You should be checked over. Just to make sure there are no… internal injuries." Frank's head snaps up, his face a mask of renewed horror. He looks at you, his eyes wide with a fresh wave of guilt.

"Jesus," he breathes. You feel your own cheeks heat up. You wave a dismissive hand, trying for nonchalance and probably failing.

"Oh, I'm… I'm fine. Really. Just… a little tender."

"Tender?" Tony jumps on the word. "Tender is for steak! Jesus, sweetheart, you have a bite mark on your shoulder ! I frankly don't even want to see what you're hidin' under them clothes."

"Tony, I swear to God—" Frank starts, but you cut him off.

"I'm fine. I swear." you manage, your throat dry.

"Listen, i know this is awkward but-"

"Seriously, Bruce. I'm fine." You say. Bruce pushes his glasses up his nose, his expression shifting from concerned to deeply uncomfortable.

"I know you are, but I need to be sure. We don't have enough data on the transmission vector of this compound. Frank's blood is clear, but we only tested his. The toxin was primarily absorbed through his respiratory system and skin. However, the… fluid transfer… creates a new variable." You frown.

"What variable?" Bruce sighs, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth.

"We don't know if the compound can be passed between hosts like a sexually transmitted disease. Frank's system may have flushed it out, but if there's any residual trace in his semen, and if it's still viable… it could reinfect you. Or worse, it could mutate. We have no precedent for this." The lab goes dead silent. Tony, who had been smirking with self-satisfaction, slowly lowers his coffee mug. The humor drains from his face, replaced by a dawning, clinical curiosity that's somehow even more unnerving.

"Whoa," he says softly. "Reinfection. Mutation. So, what you're saying is, Castle's… cure… might actually be the carrier for round two?" Frank looks like he's been physically struck. He stares at Bruce, his face a mask of horror, all the blood having drained from it. He glances at you, his eyes wide with a fresh, sickening wave of guilt. It's one thing to have lost control in the heat of the moment; it's another thing entirely to have potentially poisoned you with it.

"So… what?" Frank asks, his voice a hoarse rasp. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Bruce says, choosing his words with extreme care, "that until I can run more simulations and analyze the data, you should… abstain. From any and all sexual intercourse. Just to be safe. We need a clean baseline to make sure she's not carrying it either."

"Abstain," Frank repeats, the word sounding foreign and wrong in his mouth. Tony, ever the helpful one, chimes in.

"Yeah, you know. No more 'collaborative problem-solving.' No more 'controlled bursts.' You're on a mandatory dry run, Castle. For science." You can't help it. A small, hysterical bubble of laughter escapes your lips. It's either that or cry. Frank looks at you like you've grown a second head.

"Sorry," you choke out, waving a hand. "It's just… the timing." Frank just stares at you, then at Bruce, then at the floor. He looks utterly defeated. He came here for answers, for a clean slate, and instead, he's been handed a life sentence. He nods, a short, sharp, jerky motion.

"Right. No… that. Right." He turns to you, his expression a mixture of apology and profound misery. "Let's… let's go." He doesn't wait for a reply. He just turns and walks out of the lab, his shoulders hunched, his steps heavy. You shoot a helpless look at Bruce, who just gives you a sympathetic shrug, and then at Tony, who has the decency to look at least a little bit ashamed. You hurry after Frank, catching up to him just as he reaches the elevator. The doors slide shut, enclosing you in the small, silent space. He doesn't look at you. He just stares at the numbers counting down, his jaw clenched so tight you're surprised his teeth don't crack.

"Frank," you say softly. He doesn't respond. "Frank, it's okay."

"It's not okay," he says, his voice low and rough. "I… I hurt you. And now… now I can't even… touch you."

"You can touch me," you say, reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. "Just not… that." He lets out a short, bitter laugh.

"Might as well be the same thing." The elevator doors open, and he walks out into the garage, heading straight for the car. He's quiet on the drive home, staring out the window, his jaw working. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head, replaying every humiliating moment. When you get back to the apartment, he heads straight for the kitchen, pulling a beer from the fridge. He twists the cap off and takes a long swallow, leaning against the counter.

"He's never gonna let it live it down, is he?" Frank asks, his voice low and rough.

"No," you say gently, moving to stand in front of him. You take the beer from his hand and set it aside, then wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his chest. "He's going to have PowerPoint presentations. There might be merch. He's probably already designing a logo for 'Frank's Bad Decision Dust.'" Frank's arms come around you, holding you tight. You feel him let out a long, shuddering breath.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice muffled in your hair. "For all of it. For… last night. For this morning. For… all of it." You pull back just enough to look up at him.

"Hey. Look at me." He meets your gaze, his eyes filled with a familiar, weary self-loathing. "We're okay. You hear me? We're okay."

"I hurt you."

"And I'm sore," you admit. "But I'm not broken. And you didn't mean to. It wasn't you."

"It felt like me," he says quietly.

"It wasn't," you say, your voice firm. "It was the… fairy dust." You can't help but smile a little. "The horny fairy dust." A tiny smile touches his lips, so faint you almost miss it.

"Horny fairy dust," he repeats, shaking his head. "Jesus."

taglist !

you make your way to the dresser near the foot of the bed, towel wrapped tight around you. you pause and look over your shoulder, trying to figure out if he was sleeping or just playing with you. 

a slight, soft smile curls on your face when you realise the perfect way to test it — saying his favourite words like many do with their dogs. 

"beer… peace and quiet… guns… pussy…" you list, leaving a considerable gap between each as you await a reaction in his face. a faint grin forms and you knew you had him. you step closer and closer, knees knocking at the foot of the bed as you stand over him. "was it the 'pussy' that got you? really?"

he brings his free arm up to join the one behind his head and nods. he holds it there, elevating his eyeline so as to get a full view of you — a clearer image of you slowly ridding your towel. 

it drops to the floor, fabric pooling in an off-crescent shape around your feet just moments before you step out of it. you bend a leg and place your knee on the edge of the bed, and then the other, each one supporting you. 

slow and controlled, you lean over, placing either hand on the mattress between his thighs. you itch one shoulder forward, head tilting with it as you keep your focus on him — eyes locked on his. his expression has shifted, a change so slight it could be missed. he focuses on you, gaze entranced as it flickers between that devilish curl in your smile and to that tempting darkening in your eyes. each of which something he feels himself involuntarily respond to.

your nipples hide behind the uppers of your arms, tits poking out into view in a way that has his cock twitch beneath his jeans. 

you crawl closer, hands planting and lifting from the sheets as you make your way between his thighs, movement most leisured. you pause and lower, head dipping. you press your lips between the slight gap, the one between his tank and belt, and kiss the exposed slither of skin. tongue running over the vein that leads down to his pubic bone. it's light and playful, but really it's a hint. 

you push up the bottom hem of his top a little, creating more of a gap. the tip of your nose skims his happy trail while you plant a small litter of kisses just north of where you placed the first, each one lengthening. you lift a hand out from under your own support and place it over the middle of his thigh, palm grazing his jeans as your rise it. you still in motion right at the very upper of his thigh and it's when you reach the outside edge of his crotch, that you pull your face away from his lower stomach. 

you peer upwards and meet his eyes, holding onto his intimidatingly eager gaze as you nudge your hand to the side — directing it over the slight chubbing under his jeans. you let the weight of your hand sit there, presence of your touch enough to warrant even more of a hint. 

adjusting yourself, you move up frank, though you keep your hand put exactly where it is. you itch up and up, closer and closer until you're near enough within the same breathing space. you tease him with a kiss, lips barely grazing his as you in turn slip your hand past the waistband of both his jeans and boxers. your fingers extend outwards as you push more of your hand inside, fingertips brushing past his pubes. 

he's firmed up nicely, cock responding to your very minimal touch — so much so that you fail to hide your smile that you grace against his lips with. you didn't think he'd have it in him for another round.

"think it's funny?" he husks, words low as he speaks them into your mouth. 

you skim the upper of his cock, fingers skirting around the base of him. you run a finger up the length of what you can reach within this restricted circumstance and give him a little smile, a small shrug accompanying it. 

"a bit."

"I don't," he mutters, clearly finding no amusement in being teased like this. he nods down, gesturing with his eyes to his jeans — to where your hand lays. "undo 'em."

you pull your hand out from beneath his jeans and boxers and peer back to look at what you're doing, keen on using your eyes if you're already going to be undoing him with one hand.

he tuts and brings an arm out from behind his head. he places his thumb one side of your chin, first two fingers on the other, and twists you back to face him — making you look him in the eye.

frank's grip drops from your chin and slides down the length of your throat, palm settling comfortably as he holds you in place. you begin to fiddle with his belt and jean buttons, struggling most definitely. with as much dexterity as you obtain, you finally unlock his belt with a singular hand and guide his cock out between the gap you've made. 

you bring your hand up between either of your faces and spit into the centre of it, right where your palm and fingers connect. carefully, without losing any, you reach back down to his dick and smear your spit all up the length of him — simultaneously lubing and working him up at the same time. 

frank's hold on your throat tightens as he brings you in, lips seemingly eager to meet your own. he keeps you in place, kisses devolving from something quick and rushed into something slow and slopping as you in turn begin to jerk him off. 

he retracts his other arm out from behind his head and places his now free hand on the side of your tit, fingers pawing and grabbing at your squishy flesh with as much as he can grab a hold of. 

the kisses reduce next to nothing and he pulls you away slightly, the absence of his tongue in your mouth a reminder to the twitching in your now stilled hand. 

you didn't have to ask for what you want when you were like this, frank would let you have it, take what you wanted without a question about it. you shimmy yourself from him and crawl backwards essentially. you situate yourself over his groin, bare cheeks of your ass planted over the tops of his covered thighs.

reaching down, you wrap either hand around his cock, one stacked on top of the other. lining up with the head of his cock, you spit down onto him — thick bead of saliva rippling off the tip of him and down to your hands. you rub it in, polishing your spit over the crown of him as you in turn lift yourself and align your pussy with him. 

you nudge the head of his dick at your cunt, tip tapping at your clit under your own control. holding him in place, you lower down onto him; sinking onto his cock. you're slow, motion leisured as you stuff him all inside you. 

you pause and take a breath, so full of his cock that your eyes flutter and lips part. you didn't need to prep yourself, you didn't need to touch yourself beforehand — this was all you needed, just his dick. you sit on him fully and place either hand on his chest for your own support, fingers spread wide across the beefiness. 

frank's knees bend behind you, each one raising so as to nudge your body forward. with your body taking his involuntary hint, you close the gap slightly, face no more than half a foots distance from his.

you adjust your support and place either hand flat on the pillow that's under his head, each one wobbly as you wind your hips — itching him out only to take him in again. frank's roughened hands glides down your sides, movement unrushed as he slides each into a firm, tight hold on your hips. 

he doesn't direct your winds, his grasp simply there for his own need. 

your nipples graze his chest as you begin to form a very slight and inconsistent rhythm, your grinding hips taking him over and over and over again. 

"take what you need, baby."

that was exactly what you needed.

You lifted the pan carefully, opened the oven, and slid the croissants onto the rack. Warm air rushed out, carrying the faint scent of butter and sugar. You smiled to yourself, already imagining the way the kitchen would smell in twenty minutes.

The front door slammed shut.

You straightened immediately, heart skipping. “Frankie?” you called, wiping your hands again as you rounded the corner.

Frank Castle stood in the entryway.

He was covered in blood. Dark red smeared across his jaw, splattered over his shoulders, soaked into his clothes. Purple bruises bloomed along his face. You knew without needing to ask that not all of it was his. That never made it easier.

“Jesus, Frankie,” you said, instinctively taking a step toward him before stopping yourself short. You didn’t want to touch the blood. Didn’t want to smear it, didn’t want to acknowledge how much of it there was.

He grunted in response, already moving past you toward the bathroom like his body was on autopilot. You stared at the bloody footprints he left behind on your clean floor, jaw tightening.

“You’re making a mess,” you said, frustrated, following him anyway.

Frank didn’t answer. He reached the bathroom, turned on the light, and started peeling off his black tactical shirt. It stuck to his skin where the blood had clotted. When he finally yanked it free, it hit the floor with a heavy thud.

Normally, the sight of Frank Castle shirtless would do dangerous things to you. His body was all solid muscle and scars, broad shoulders and strength earned the hard way. But when he rolled his shoulder and fresh blood pulsed from two angry bullet wounds, your stomach dropped.

You rushed forward without thinking, your hand landing on his bicep as you pushed him so he faced you.

“Are you okay?” you asked, even as you knew how stupid the question sounded.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he said.

Frank was never cruel to you. Never sharp or dismissive. With you, his voice softened, rough edges worn smooth. You adored his puppy dog eyes, the way his gaze lingered on you like you were something precious. Even his voice, more growl than sound, felt safe when it was aimed at you.

He was good to you. He loved you. A fact that still stunned him some days.

He was flawed. Emotionally guarded. Terrible at talking about anything that hurt too much. His patience ran thin with the world, and his protectiveness over you bordered on obsessive. You didn’t mind the possessiveness. You found it comforting, even attractive. Frank’s instincts were sharp. When he told you to be careful, there was always a reason.

What you did mind was the silence. The shutting down. The way he retreated into himself when things got too heavy.

You hadn’t pushed at first. Early on, you’d told yourself it would change. It hadn’t. When things grew serious, when you became his weakness, when his enemies noticed you, that was when you started pushing. You couldn’t keep pretending you didn’t see the darkness creeping closer.

“C’mon, Frankie, talk to me,” you said, grabbing a towel and running it under warm water. You started wiping the blood from his neck and chest. “You’re hurt.”

He groaned when you brushed the skin near his bicep. You looked up, worried, only to find him smiling at you.

“Love ya, baby,” he said. “But I don’t really wanna talk about it.”

He never struggled to say he loved you.

You sighed softly. “Okay.”

You turned and rose onto your tiptoes, reaching for the first aid kit on the shelf. Your fingers brushed air just short of it when you felt Frank’s body heat behind you. His uninjured arm reached past you and grabbed the kit with ease. You couldn’t help watching the way his muscles flexed, at the power contained there.

He handed it to you and sat on the edge of the tub. “Tell me about your day, sweets. Wanna hear all about it.”

There it was. The deflection. The shift back to you. He was an expert at that.

Your usual bright energy dimmed as you disinfected his wounds, but you tried anyway. “Well, I woke up and cleaned the house. And then I stopped by the bakery to see if Peter finally figured out the mixer. And then, oh!” Your face lit up despite yourself. “I found this new raspberry compote recipe. I got so excited I went for a run, then to the store after.”

You worked carefully, removing one bullet and letting it clink into the metal bowl. Frank watched you like he always did, fond and quiet.

His hand came up suddenly, gripping your wrist and stopping you mid-motion.

“You left the apartment?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah!” you said brightly, completely missing the shift in his tone. “Went for a run. It was great. I saw Karen too. She’s doing really well.”

That was your flaw. You didn’t always notice when he was upset. When you were unknowingly digging yourself deeper.

You noticed when he took the tweezers from your hand.

“Thought I told you to stay here,” he said.

“You did, but—” you started.

“Nah, baby,” he cut in softly, the dangerous edge creeping into his voice. “I told you I was goin’ out to deal with someone who threatened you.” He let out a humorless scoff. “You went for a run.”

Your stomach twisted.

“How am I supposed to protect you when you don’t listen to me?”

He stood and moved back to the sink. You flinched as he shoved the tweezers into his wound and pulled the bullet free in one brutal motion.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I knew you’d take care of it.”

“You don’t assume he’s already dead before I get back,” Frank said, grabbing the kit and walking out, leaving you standing alone in the bathroom, heart pounding.

The oven timer beeped faintly in the kitchen, completely out of place against the silence he left behind. You zoned out.

The timer goes off again.

Not the gentle chime it used the first time, but the sharper, more insistent beep that feels like it’s cutting straight through your chest. You flinch, dragging in a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, and turn back toward the kitchen.

The apartment smells warm. Butter and sugar and fruit. Comfort. Normalcy. Everything you were trying to preserve.

You wipe your hands on your apron again even though they’re already clean, then open the oven. Heat rushes out, fogging the air for a moment as you slide the tray of croissants free. They’re perfect. Golden brown, flaky layers crisped just right, raspberry filling bubbling slightly at the seams like it’s trying to escape.

You set them on the stovetop and move them to the cooling rack with careful precision, forcing yourself to focus on the small details. The way the pastry crackles softly when it shifts. The way the kitchen light reflects off the glaze. The way your hands know exactly what to do even when your heart feels like it’s unraveling.

You glance toward the kitchen table.

Frank is sitting at the table, shirtless, hunched forward, shoulders tense as he stitches himself up like this is just another chore. The first aid kit is spread out in front of him, gauze and alcohol wipes scattered carelessly. Blood dots the table where his arm rested.

The needle flashes under the overhead light as he pulls it through skin with practiced efficiency.

You hate that he’s so good at this.

You stay where you are for a moment, leaning against the counter, arms folded tight across your chest like that might hold you together. The only sounds are the faint hum of the refrigerator, the soft clink of metal, and Frank’s controlled breathing.

“I made the raspberry croissants,” you say finally.

Your voice sounds small in the open space.

He doesn’t look up. “Smells good.”

You swallow.

“I tweaked the compote,” you add, because talking is what you do when you’re nervous, when you’re sad, when you’re trying to keep something from slipping away. “Less sugar. A little lemon zest. It balances the acidity better. The raspberries can get too sharp if you don’t—”

“Mhm.”

That’s it.

Something in your chest cracks.

You push off the counter and step closer, stopping a few feet from the table. You can see the blood on his hands now, dark and tacky, smeared across his knuckles. You can see where the stitches pull his skin together in angry lines.

“You could’ve waited,” you say quietly. “I could’ve helped you.”

He tightens a stitch with a sharp tug. “I don’t need help.”

“I know you don’t need it,” you snap, the words coming out before you can stop them. “That’s not the same thing, Frank.”

That finally gets his attention.

He pauses, needle suspended between his fingers, then looks up at you. His eyes are tired. Not angry. Not cruel. Just worn down to the bone.

“You done,” he asks.

“No,” you say immediately, stepping closer. “I’m not.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. “Baby, I just got back. Can we not do this right now.”

“When then,” you ask, voice trembling despite your effort to steady it. “Before you leave. After you come back bleeding. Or never.”

His jaw tightens. He looks back down at his hands and keeps stitching. “I told you to stay here.”

“And I told you I’m not a child,” you shoot back. “I went for a run in broad daylight, Frank. I didn’t disappear. I didn’t do anything reckless.”

“You left,” he says flatly. “That’s the problem.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh. “No. The problem is you think you get to lock me inside my own apartment because you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” he says immediately.

“You are,” you insist, tears burning behind your eyes. “And I get it. I do. But you don’t get to control my life because of it.”

He drops the needle onto the table with a sharp clatter. “You think I want this.”

“I think you don’t talk,” you say, voice breaking now. “I think you shut me out and then get mad when I don’t magically understand what you’re thinking.”

He pushes back from the table and stands abruptly. Blood seeps from the unfinished stitches, running down his side.

“You think I don’t know that,” he growls. “You think I don’t hear myself every time I tell you to stay put.”

“I think you’d rather bleed alone than let me help,” you say, wiping at your cheeks angrily. “I think you’d rather push me away than admit you’re scared to lose me.”

He takes a step toward you. “You think this is easy. Bein’ the reason you could get hurt.”

“And you think pushing me away keeps me safe,” you whisper.

“It keeps you alive,” he snaps.

The words hit like a slap.

You stare at him, chest heaving. “At the cost of what, Frank.”

Silence. Heavy. Crushing.

He looks away first.

You turn back toward the counter, hands shaking as you grab a croissant without thinking. You break it open, steam curling into the air, the smell so warm it almost makes you sick.

“I made these for you,” you say quietly. “Because you like raspberry. Because I thought you’d come home and we’d sit at this table and you’d tell me nothing and I’d pretend that was enough.”

Frank slowly sits back down at the table, shoulders slumping like this drained him. He reaches out and takes the croissant from your hands, breaking it again with surprising gentleness.

“You burn yourself,” he mutters checking over your hand.

You huff out a shaky laugh. “Always thinking about everyone else.”

He hands you the larger half and keeps the smaller one. He eats slowly, eyes never leaving you.

“They’re good,” he says quietly.

You nod. “I know.”

The silence settles again, thicker now, loaded with things neither of you knows how to say.

You stand a few feet away from him, arms wrapped around yourself, chest heaving as you try and fail to breathe through the pressure building behind your ribs.

“This can’t keep going like this,” you say again, but this time your voice cracks completely.

Frank’s jaw tightens. “We already did this.”

“No,” you sob, shaking your head. “We didn’t. We circled it. Like we always do.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t care,” you cry suddenly, the words spilling out of you before you can stop them. “I don’t care if you’re keeping me safe if it means you come home like this. If it means I’m scrubbing blood out of the grout and watching you stitch yourself up like you’re dead.”

He stands, towering over you, voice rising. “This is who I am.”

“And I’m exhausted,” you scream back, tears streaming down your face. “I am so fucking tired, Frank. I can’t take it anymore.”

He steps closer. “You think I like hurting you.”

“I think you don’t stop,” you sob. “I think you don’t even try.”

“That’s bullshit,” he snaps. “Everything I do is for you.”

You laugh hysterically through your tears. “You don’t get to say that. Not when I’m the one left holding the pieces every time.”

You step into him, fists coming up and hitting his chest again and again, weak and frantic, fueled by heartbreak rather than strength.

“I can’t do this,” you cry. “I can’t do this again. I can’t watch you bleed and bleed and bleed and pretend loving you makes it okay.”

He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t grab your wrists. He just lets you hit him, eyes dark and pained as your hands thud uselessly against his chest.

“That’s it, baby,” he says roughly, voice low but steady even as you fall apart. “That’s it. Let it out.”

You hit him harder, sobbing openly now, body shaking. “We’ve been here a thousand times,” you cry. “A thousand fucking times. Every fight feels the same. Every apology feels the same. I’m so tired of this.”

His hands hover at your sides, unsure, like touching you might shatter you completely. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“That’s the problem,” you choke. “I’m drowning trying to survive you.”

Silence crashes down between you, broken only by your sobs and his uneven breathing.

“You saying you’re done,” he asks hoarsely.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

You step back, shaking your head, wiping your face with trembling hands. “I can’t have this conversation right now.”

You turn and walk out of the kitchen, past the croissants, past the bloody table, past him calling your name once, quietly.

You grab your phone with shaking fingers and step into the bedroom, closing the door behind you like it might hold the pieces together.

You slide down against it, knees to your chest, sobbing as you hit call.

“Karen,” you choke the second she answers. “I think… I think Frank and I might be breaking up.”

The words hang there, terrifying and real, as the other side of the line fills with her soft, concerned voice.

Frank doesn’t come into the bedroom right away. Hours pass first.

Long enough for your tears to dry into that tight ache behind your eyes. Long enough for your phone to buzz with a worried text from Karen you don’t answer. A missed call from Foggy and a voicemail from Matt. Long enough for the apartment to go quiet except for the dull thud of weight plates and the sharp exhale of Frank’s breathing from the other room.

You know that sound.

You’re flat on your back, staring at the ceiling, blanket pulled up to your chest like armor. You don’t have to see him to know what he’s doing. He does it every time things get this bad. When the words get too heavy and the truth starts circling too close, he works his body until his mind shuts up.

It’s his way of not leaving.

The bedroom door finally opens, slow and careful, like he’s afraid the sound might spook you. You don’t turn your head, but you feel him there. The heat of him. The weight of him filling the doorway.

He smells like sweat and metal and soap. Cleaned up. Stitches finished. Shirtless again.

You feel the mattress dip as he sits on the edge of the bed.

Silence stretches.

“You okay,” he asks quietly.

You laugh once, broken and humorless. “No.”

He nods like he expected that. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t touch you right away. That’s how you know he’s trying. When Frank’s trying, he hesitates.

“I shouldn’t have yelled,” he says. “Shouldn’t have made you cry.”

You turn your head then, finally looking at him. His jaw is clenched, eyes tired and earnest in that way that always undoes you.

“You shouldn’t be working out with stitches.” you say softly.

He shrugs. “Didn’t know what else to do.”

“That’s the problem,” you whisper. “You never know what else to do.”

He looks at you for a long moment, then shakes his head. “I don’t want us to end.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t either.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing your arm, tentative like he’s asking permission. You don’t pull away.

“I feel like we’re drifting apart.” he says, voice rough.

You close your eyes, tears spilling again despite your best effort. “Yeah I fucking know.” You say sarcastically “Big deal, we’ve been here before and we’ll be here tomorrow.”

The words land between you, ugly and familiar.

He exhales hard, hand sliding up to your shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you say immediately, like it’s reflex. Like it’s instinct.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he admits.

“You don’t try to fix it,” you whisper. “You just… distract yourself from it.”

His thumb brushes your collarbone, slow and grounding. “I know.”

You open your eyes and look at him. “You’re so sweet to me.” You sit up slowly, forehead pressing into his chest. He wraps his arms around you immediately, like he’s been waiting for permission the entire time. “No other guy could compete.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I hate hurting you.”

“I hate that this is what our relationship has become.” you whisper back.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, hands coming up to cradle your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes, gentle, reverent.

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” he admits quietly. “I just want you.”

And there it is.

The familiar turn. The place you always end up when words fail and feelings get too sharp. You should stop it. You know you should. But your body leans into his touch anyway, betraying every boundary you swear you’ll set next time.

You kiss him first, soft and desperate.

He deepens it immediately, hands firm at your waist, grounding you, pulling you closer like this is how he keeps you from slipping away. It’s not rushed. It’s not gentle either. It’s loaded. Heavy with all the things neither of you can say without breaking something.

This is what happens every time.

You fight. You cry. You almost leave. But then his mouth is on yours again, swallowing the sob that builds in your throat, and you let it happen. You let him pull you into his lap, your smaller frame folding against his broad chest like you were made to fit there. His hands are everywhere, steady on your back, tracing the curve of your spine, then cupping your ass to hold you close. He's so much bigger than you, his muscles corded and unyielding under your touch, a wall of heat and strength that makes you feel safe even as everything inside you aches.

"I'm sorry," he whispers against your lips, voice gravelly and low. "God, baby, I'm so sorry." His forehead presses to yours, breath mingling, hot and ragged. "I love you. I love you so much it fuckin' scares me sometimes."

You cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails biting just enough to leave faint marks. "I love you too, Frankie," you murmur, the nickname slipping out like a secret, soft and intimate. "But this... it hurts. Every time."

He nods, eyes dark and shadowed, thumb stroking your cheek. "I know. I hate seein' you like this." A tear escapes, trailing down your face, and he catches it immediately, leaning in to kiss it away. His lips are gentle, pressing soft and lingering against your skin. "Don't cry, sweetheart. Please. You're too beautiful for tears."

His words wrap around you, warm and praising, easing the knot in your chest just a little. You know he means it, every time he looks at you like this, like you're the only thing keeping him grounded, it chips away at the sadness. "You take such good care of me," he continues, voice dropping to that rough murmur that sends shivers through you. "Cookin' for me after long nights, patchin' me up when I come home bleedin'. No one else does that. No one else could. You're so good to me, baby. So perfect."

The praise lights something in you, a submissive pull that makes you arch into him, seeking more. Your hands slide down his chest, feeling the hard planes of his pecs, the ridges of his abs, still faintly damp from his workout. His skin is warm and marked with fresh stitches you eye worriedly, but he doesn't flinch when you trace them lightly.

"Frankie," you breathe, shifting in his lap. The heat between your legs presses against his thigh, thick and solid under his sweats. You rock once, experimentally, and a soft whimper escapes you. It's not enough, but it's something, friction that builds the ache into need.

He groans low, hands tightening on your hips. "Yeah, that's it. Use me, sweetheart. Grind on my thigh like that." His voice is encouraging, dominant but so soft, guiding you without force. He shifts his leg, pressing it firmer against your core, and you gasp, starting to move in earnest. Your panties are soaked already, the fabric dragging wetly over him as you hump his thigh, chasing the pressure.

"Look at you," he praises, eyes locked on your face, drinking in every flush and bite of your lip. "So beautiful when you move like this. My good girl, takin' what you need. I love watchin' you. Love how you feel against me." His hands help you, lifting and lowering you slightly, controlling the rhythm just enough to make it intense. You're smaller than him, easy to maneuver, and he uses that to his advantage, making sure every roll of your hips hits right.

Tears prick your eyes again, not from pain now, but from the overwhelming mix of it all. The sadness lingers, heavy in your chest, but his words, his touch, they soften it. "I'm sorry," you whisper between gasps, grinding harder, the seam of his sweats rubbing your clit just right. "For yelling back. For makin' it worse."

"Shh, no," he soothes, one hand sliding up to cup your face. "We're both sorry. I love you, baby. That's all that matters right now." He kisses you then, deep and slow, tongue sliding against yours as you ride his thigh faster. The build is quick, heat coiling tight in your belly, and he feels it, senses the way your body tenses.

"Cum for me," he murmurs against your mouth. "Let me feel you soak my leg. You're doin' so good." The praise tips you over, and you shatter with a cry, thighs clamping around his, pussy clenching as waves of pleasure crash through you. He holds you through it, kissing your neck, your jaw, whispering, "That's my girl. So beautiful when you cum. I love you."

You slump against him, panting, but he doesn't let you rest long. His hands are gentle as he lays you back on the bed, peeling off your shirt with reverent care. "Let me take care of you now," he says, voice thick with emotion. He kisses down your body, collarbone, breasts, tummy-muttering praises the whole way. "God, you're gorgeous. Every inch of you. You're everything, sweetheart."

He tugs your panties down, settling between your legs. Your legs splayed wide to accommodate his broad shoulders, and he looks up at you with that intense gaze. "I'm gonna make you feel good," he promises, then leans in, mouth hot on your pussy.

His tongue is flat and broad at first, licking slow from entrance to clit, tasting the mess you made on his thigh. You moan, fingers threading into his short hair, pulling lightly. He hums approval, the vibration making you twitch. "Taste so sweet," he growls, then sucks your clit gently, tongue circling it with precise flicks. One hand grips your thigh, holding you open, while the other teases your entrance, finger circling before sliding in knuckle-deep.

"Frankie," you whine, hips bucking. Tears well up again, the intensity mixing with the emotional weight, and one slips free. He notices immediately, pulling back just enough to kiss it away from your cheek before returning to your pussy, licking harder now, finger curling inside you to hit that spot.

"Don't cry, baby," he says between laps. "I hate it. You're too pretty for that. My beautiful girl, always takin' such good care of me. I love you so much." He adds a second finger, stretching you, pumping slow and deep while his mouth works your clit. The praise keeps coming, soft and constant: "So good for me. Openin' up like this. Cum on my tongue, sweetheart. Let me taste it."

It builds fast again, his big frame pinning you down just enough to make you feel owned in the best way. You scratch at his shoulders, nails dragging red lines down his back as the orgasm hits, pussy fluttering around his fingers, flooding his mouth. He groans, lapping it all up, not stopping until you're trembling.

"That's it," he praises, kissing your inner thigh. "Knew you could. So perfect." He crawls up your body, shedding his sweats to free his cock, thick and hard, veins prominent, tip leaking. He's huge, especially compared to you, and the sight makes your core clench in anticipation.

He notches himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your slick folds. "You ready for me?" he asks, voice rough but eyes searching yours for any hesitation.

"Yes, Frankie," you breathe, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Please. I love you."

"I love you too." He pushes in slow, inch by inch, stretching you wide. It's intense, the burn mixing with pleasure, and you gasp, nails raking his back harder, leaving welts. He hisses but doesn't stop, bottoming out with a deep groan. "Fuck, you're tight. So good around me. Takin' me like you were made for it."

He starts moving, thrusts deep and measured, not rushing. One hand slides up to your throat, fingers wrapping lightly, just enough pressure to make your pulse jump under his thumb, a soft choke that heightens everything. "Breathe for me," he murmurs, dominant edge peeking through. "My good girl. So beautiful like this, all flushed and mine."

Tears come again, the emotional dam breaking as he fucks you tender but intense, each roll of his hips grinding his pelvis against your clit. "I'm sorry," he whispers with every thrust, kissing your tears away, lips soft on your cheeks, your eyelids. "Sorry for hurtin' you. For not bein' better. I love you. God, I love you."

"I love you too," you sob, scratching deeper into his back, the pain grounding him as much as it does you. His praises don't stop "You're amazin', baby. Lovin' me through all this shit. No one compares. You're my everything." pushing you higher, the coil tightening.

He shifts, angling to hit deeper, hand still light on your throat. "Cum on my cock," he demands softly. "Wanna feel you squeeze me. Be good for me, sweetheart."

The orgasm rips through you, pussy clamping down hard, milking him as you cry out his name. He follows soon after, burying deep with a guttural moan, cum filling you hot and thick. "Fuck, yes," he gasps, collapsing over you but careful not to crush, kissing your tears one last time.

You hold each other in the quiet aftermath, his big body enveloping yours, breaths syncing. The sadness lingers, a quiet undercurrent, but for now, it's enough. "I love you," he whispers again, like a promise. "Always."

You both stay like that for what feels like forever, tangled in the sheets, his massive frame curled protectively around your smaller one. Frank's chest rises and falls against your back, his arm draped heavy over your waist, holding you close as if letting go might unravel everything you've just pieced together. His skin is slick with sweat, the scratches you left on his back stinging faintly where your nails dug in, but he doesn't complain, never does. Instead, he presses his lips to the nape of your neck, soft and lingering, breathing you in like you're the only thing that calms the storm inside him.

"Love you," he murmurs again, voice muffled against your hair, rough but tender. His hand strokes lazy circles on your hip, thumb tracing the curve there with a gentleness that belies his size. "More than anything, baby. I'm sorry it always gets like this. I hate makin' you doubt us."

You nestle deeper into him, your body still humming from the aftershocks, pussy tender and full from where he spilled inside you. The sadness hasn't fully lifted, it's there, a quiet shadow in the room, but his warmth chases it back, making it bearable. "I love you too, Frankie," you whisper, turning your head to catch his eye. He's watching you with that intense, earnest gaze, the one that always makes your heart ache in the best way. "We just... we gotta figure it out. For real this time."

He nods, forehead resting against your shoulder now, his breath warm on your skin. "Yeah. We will. You're too good to me for me not to try harder." His free hand comes up, fingers brushing your cheek, wiping away the last trace of dampness from your tears. "God, you're beautiful. Even after all this. Especially after. The way you give yourself to me... takin' care of my sorry ass when I don't deserve it. No one else could handle me like you do. You're my everything, sweetheart."

The praise washes over you, soothing the raw edges of your emotions, and you feel yourself relax fully into his hold. His body is a fortress around yours, thick thighs pressed against your legs, his cock softening but still nestled close, a reminder of how deeply connected you are. You reach back, threading your fingers through his, squeezing. "Stop being so sweet," you tease softly, though your voice wavers with leftover emotion. "You'll make me cry again."

"Don't you dare," he says, half-growling, half-laughing as he nuzzles your ear. "I can't stand seein' those pretty eyes wet. Not 'cause of me." He shifts slightly, pulling you tighter, his chest fully against your back now, heartbeat steady and strong thumping through you. The room is quiet except for your shared breaths, the distant hum of the city outside forgotten. His hand drifts lower, cupping your breast gently, thumb grazing your nipple in absentminded affection, not pushing for more, just holding, grounding.

You let out a contented sigh, the tension from earlier melting away in the cocoon of his arms. But then your phone buzzes on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with another text from Karen. You glance at it, the words "Everything okay?" staring back, and reality creeps in. The fight, the tears, the almost-breaking point, it all feels too fresh to ignore her worry.

"I gotta text Karen," you say reluctantly, not wanting to move from this perfect spot. "Tell her it's a false alarm. She texted earlier, probably thinks the worst."

Frank grunts in acknowledgment, loosening his hold just enough for you to reach for the phone. "Yeah, go ahead. She's a good friend. Worries 'cause she cares." He doesn't let you go far, though, his arm stays around you, chin resting on your shoulder as you type out a quick message: Hey, sorry for worrying you. It's fine now. Just a rough night, but we're good. Talk tomorrow? You hit send, then set the phone down, sinking back into him with a small smile.

"There," you murmur, lacing your fingers with his again. "False alarm."

He kisses your shoulder, soft and reassuring. "Good. Now come back here." His voice is low, dominant in that gentle way, pulling you fully against him once more. "I ain't done holdin' you yet."

And in that moment, wrapped up in his strength, you almost believe tomorrow won't bring the fight back.

“Shit!”  

The taxi driver waved a sorry as his cab sped past you on the asphalt. You watched as the last chance at a lift home disappeared around the corner. Huffing, you glanced around and tried to think of a better way to get home than walking 15 blocks in heels. 

Your best friend was getting married, which is how you ended up on the sidewalk outside a club in the upper east side at two in the morning. Her bachelorette had been fun, but it was entirely too late for you to be walking around New York City by yourself. 

A chuckle startled you out of your thoughts, instantly putting you on alert to a person standing behind you. Swinging around, you groped in your purse for the knife Frank had gifted you for your birthday. You halted your movements when you realized it was Frank’s amused face staring back at you. 

“What are you doing here?” You said, immediately forgetting the knife and the sense of dread that had begun creeping up your spine. You grinned, walking into his open arms with glee.  

“You didn’t think I’d let you walk home alone, did you?”  

His arms wrapped tightly around you, pulling you close to his warmth. His hands drifted across your lower back, fiddling with the texture of your dress.  

“You’re such a gentleman, Frank Castle.” You inhaled his scent, wishing you could drown yourself in it. He smelled of leather and lavender. It had quickly become your favorite scent in the world. 

Frank really was a gentleman. You were constantly surprised by the little things he’d do to make sure you were taken care of. There were always fresh flowers in your bedroom every week. You never had to worry about paying the bills at restaurants, though you still tried to win that argument every time you went out. You hadn’t even come close to touching a door handle in Frank's presence. That’s what happened when you dated older men, you supposed.  

Frank was certainly older than any man you’d dated before. Unlike the dreadful men your own age, Frank was experienced and kind. He treated you like a privilege, rather than something to obtain. You didn’t know a world like that existed until you’d run smack into Frank’s chest one night trying to hide from an obnoxious intern at the Anvil Security annual Christmas party. He’d taken your hand in his so gently that you couldn’t help but to be swept away from the rest of the world. You’d been smitten ever since. 

Frank showing up after your night out shouldn’t have been a surprise to you. He would always protect you. That was a promise he never intended to break. You felt it in the way he’d stroke your hair every night as you fell asleep on his chest. The way he’d press a gentle kiss to your temple and whisper stories about his family, who had died five years before you’d met. The way he held you tight after a nightmare. His anxieties surrounded you in a protective bubble, but you were happy to work through his worries with him whenever he was too anxious to relax. 

His appearance didn’t fix the problem you’d been stewing over moments before, though. 

“You don’t happen to have a car hidden somewhere nearby, do you?” You asked, looking up through your lashes at his handsome face.  

“I don’t,” he winced, “but I’ve been told I give pretty great piggyback rides.” 

He turned, stooping lower so you could jump onto his back. 

His strength was also something you were pleasantly surprised to learn about. He was not the typical older man you’d see walking down the street. Frank was in better shape than anyone you’d ever met. His muscles were downright droolworthy, even through the layers of clothing he wore when he did his work around Hell’s Kitchen. 

The walk back to your apartment was pleasant, and no one bothered you now that you had a beefy steed carrying you through the streets of New York. He hadn’t even broken a sweat when he set you down on your doorstep, grinning at the sleepy features that had overtaken your face. 

“It’s way past our bedtime.” You yawned, turning the key and stumbling through the doorway. Frank waited outside, watching you scramble for the light switch.  

“Frank, you don’t have to wait to be invited in every time.” You stated, dropping your purse on the table in the entryway. 

“I never want to assume,” he stated, though he quickly shut the door behind him. 

“You basically live here, anyway.” You glanced at the spot on the couch that he’d clearly been settled into while you were gone. The blanket had been folded and neatly hung across the back of the loveseat, which was your only indication that Frank had been here. If he hadn’t, it would still be the crumpled ball you’d left it in earlier. 

He nodded, smiling as you flopped into the loveseat and began clawing your heels off your sore feet.  

“I even have a key.” He observed, glancing at the door to make sure he’d locked both deadbolts. He’d shown up and installed the second one as a precaution after learning which neighborhood you lived in.  

“I don’t remember the last time you didn’t sleep here.” You pointed out, dropping your heels to the floor. He had an apartment, but you were pretty sure he hadn’t been there in months. 

He dropped onto the seat next to you, pulling your feet into his lap. His strong fingers began massaging the arches of your feet, eliciting a groan from your throat. 

“If you move in, I’ll let you do this whenever you want.” You sagged into your seat, allowing Frank to work the tight muscles with his dexterous hands.  

He chuckled, watching your eyebrows clench in both pain and relief.  

“I don’t know how I could pass that deal by.” He pinpointed the sore spot on your foot that was the cause of the pain, pulling such a filthy groan from your throat that you were pretty sure the temperature in the room rose 20 degrees. 

“You can’t make noises like that, sweet girl.” He cleared his throat, trying to refocus his thoughts. 

“Why not, Frankie?” You arched an eyebrow at him, suddenly feeling the urge to rip his clothes off. 

“You know why.” His voice was hoarse, a sure sign that you were working him up.  

His hands grazed over your calves, following the curve of your knee to the midpoint of your thigh before slowly returning to your ankle. His hands moved in a melodic pattern, slowly inching higher and higher up your legs with every pass. You watched his eyes darken as another groan slipped from your lips. 

“Sweet girl,” he warned, eyeing the fabric of your dress, which had risen so high you were probably on full display for him, “Where are your panties?” 

A wicked grin played on your face as you widened your legs for him.  

“I didn’t wear any.” You stated, watching his jaw tick.  

“Why not?” His voice was so hoarse. You couldn’t help the pounding in your core as his eyes glazed over.  

“I didn’t want to.” You shrugged, stifling a groan as his fingers grazed your inner thighs, feeling the wetness waiting for him there. His eyes were so dark they looked black as he glanced from your wet pussy to your innocent face. You blinked at him, shy at his intense stare. 

“You’re perfect.” He mumbled, running a finger through the mess he’d already made, even though he’d barely touched you. You gaped as he slowly brought the finger to his lips, tasting your desire. A carnal desire to be on top of him surged through your body, and you suddenly found yourself straddling his waist. His hands gripped the back of your thighs tightly. Whimpering, you slowly arched into him, grinding against the hardness you felt through his jeans. 

“I’m going to ruin your jeans.” You observed plainly, but you couldn’t stop even if you tried. His thick cock was barely contained in his jeans, and you were already close to coming. You couldn’t believe he was still clothed.  

“I don’t mind, sweetheart.” He grunted, fisting the fabric that had bunched at your waist.  

You groaned, grinding against him even harder. His hands guided you against him, watching as you came undone on top of him. You came so hard that you saw stars, gasping for air as heat enveloped your body. Your ears rang as you continued to grind against him, albeit a little slower as you came down from your high.  

A satisfied grin played on Frank’s face as he lifted himself from his seat, holding you tightly against his torso as he walked you toward the bed you shared every night. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and you couldn’t stop yourself from surging forward to kiss him as he carried you. 

His tongue met yours in a heated joining. The little air you had left in your lungs whooshed from your body as he laid you down on the bed, unwilling to separate himself even for a moment. When your lungs eventually barked at you, you finally broke away, gasping for air as he towered above you.  

His jeans were soaked where you’d come undone on his lap. Frank shot you a wicked grin when he saw the damage you’d done. A whine slipped from your lips when you realized he was no longer touching you. Frank, ever the gentleman, slowly pressed a kiss to your forehead before pulling the bunched fabric of your dress over your head.  

The heat in the room was not enough to stop your nipples from pebbling as he slowly removed his shirt and unbuttoned his jeans. You whimpered as his cock finally sprang free, instantly sending another wave of heat to your core.  

Frank grinned as he leaned down to plant another kiss to your forehead. He left a trail of kisses down your body, nuzzling against your breasts. His warmth washed over you, leaving you begging for more contact as he slowly worked his way down your torso, peppering kisses along the curve of your hips. He nipped at your inner thigh, eliciting a gasp from your quivering body. 

“Baby,” His hands wrapped tightly around your legs, pulling you towards the edge of the bed., “Can I taste you?” 

He asked so politely that you almost giggled. Even when you were splayed out in front of him, a feast willing and able to be eaten alive by the man in front of you, he was gently asking for consent.  

“Please, Frankie.” You mumbled, biting your bottom lip in anticipation. 

“My pleasure.” He grunted, immediately attacking your core with his tongue. Your back arched involuntarily, a groan crawling out of your throat as he swiped his tongue across your clit.  

“Oh!” You breathed, clenching your eyes shut as he licked your pussy with the ferocity of a starved man.  

Your breathy moans catapulted out of you. Pleasure overtook your being, and the only thing keeping you on Earth was the man currently feasting on your pussy. Frank ate pussy like no man you’d met before. It was his privilege to eat you out, and he took the opportunity every time it was presented to him. He was so skilled at it that you almost felt shame for how awful your sex life had been before him.  

Frank shifted, pinning your writhing body to the mattress below him. He grunted against you as you let out another filthy moan, seeing stars for the second time in less than 20 minutes. A wave of heat washed over you at the sound of his desire, sending you over the edge.  

Vision blurred, ears ringing, you came all over his bearded face. The sight of it had Frank gripping your hips so tightly they’d probably be a little bruised, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Frank was the only man who could get you this worked up, and you loved it. 

“There you go baby.” He peppered kisses across your inner thighs, smearing the mess he’d made even further. “You did so good, sweet girl.” 

You gasped for air, blindly searching for his warmth as you tried to figure out which direction was up and which one was down. He eagerly met you halfway, pushing his weight onto the mattress has he hovered over your pleasure-soaked body. 

“Frank,” you gasped, still breathing hard, “Has anyone ever told you how amazing you are at eating pussy?” 

He grinned, tapping your lips with a tsk.  

“Wicked girl, you have such a filthy mouth.” 

You smiled up at him. 

“You love my mouth.” 

“Yes,” he nodded curtly, lowering himself to his elbows and allowing his warmth to wash over you. 

“Can I use my filthy mouth on you, now?” You asked, watching the carnal desire in Frank’s eyes. 

“No.” He shook his head once, chuckling at the frown that played on your face. “I love your mouth, baby, but I can’t go another second without being inside of you.” 

Understanding dawned on your face as you shifted your hips, allowing him easy access. He nudged at your entrance, searching your face for any hesitation. You surged forward, pulling him into a deep kiss as your answer, which of course was not enough for Frank. 

He pulled away, chuckling at your eagerness.  

“I need words, sweet girl.” He nuzzled his forehead against yours, patiently waiting for you to allow him the honor of ravishing you whole. 

“Frankie,” you breathed, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in for another kiss. “Please, please, please, fuck me.” 

He didn’t hesitate as he slid into you, groaning at the warmth. You moaned with him, suddenly feeling the weight of his cock inside you. A growing pressure built in your core, already begging for release. 

Frank slowly began moving, sliding in and out at a torturous pace. You knew he was waiting for you to adjust to his size, but you were tired of waiting. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him into you hard, eliciting a groan from deep in your chest. 

Frank huffed a laugh, cradling your head as he began pounding into you. The slickness of your pussy was enough to make him crumble. He watched pleasure overtake your features, grunting at the tightness around his cock. The bed beneath you was shaking so violently you thought it might break. You held on to Frank’s strong arms, digging your nails into the muscles cradling your face. 

“Oh, Frank.” You mumbled, breathing hard as he shifted his weight, sliding into you from a deeper angle. 

“I love you,” he grunted, pressing his forehead against yours as he pounded into you even harder. “More than anything.” 

It was enough to be your third undoing this evening. His love and adoration washed over you as you came, arching your back into his body. He watched as you clenched your eyes shut, holding on for dear life. He’d never forget the look on your face when you came around him. He’d never seen anything as beautiful as you. 

You breathed hard as you came back down to Earth, grinding your hips against Frank in an unsteady rhythm. His jaw ticked as he held himself back from ruining your high with his own. He wanted to live in that pleasure with you. He’d torture himself all night if it meant he got to see that look in your eyes. 

You pulled him in for another kiss. It was never enough. You needed Frank more and more every time you saw him. It would never be enough. You were pretty sure the feeling was mutual.  

Frank kept a steady pace of slamming into your sensitive pussy. You couldn’t help but push your weight against him, rolling him onto his back as you continued grinding on top of him. You knew Frank would draw your pleasure out for as long as he could, but you wanted to see him crumble in indulgence too.  

Frank sat up with a gratified grunt, wrapping his arms around your waist. His strong arms guided your pussy against him. A noise lodged in your throat at how sensitive you were after Frank had thoroughly wrecked you, but you kept moving, determined to see his pleasure through. 

He grinned as you writhed against him, groaning when you pushed your tongue into his mouth. One hand remained on your hip, while the other gripped your hair in a tight fist at the column of your neck. The small moan that slipped through his lips was indication enough that you were winning this fight. 

The hand gripping your hip tightened enough to extract a breathy moan from your mouth, sending him over the edge. Warm cum shot deep inside you, and you couldn’t stop smiling as Frank struggled to get a grip on his pleasure. You rested your head against his, relaxing into his strong frame as you drank in as much pleasure as you could. Frank was nothing if he was not a giver in the bedroom, but you could get drunk off the look on his face when he came. 

The room quieted, moans fading into silent breaths as you entangled yourself into him even further. His hands slowly rubbed at your hips, easing the pain he’d caused earlier with his grip. 

“I think I will move in, if that’s okay with you.” He said in an exhausted mumble. 

You straightened, leaning back to look at his tired face.  

“Of course it’s okay with me, Frankie!” You smiled, glee overtaking the sleepy peace you’d been enveloped in moments before.  

“Good. I haven’t even been to my apartment in weeks. I think I’m paying the rent for a family of mice.” He chuckled at the sorry state of his apartment. At least rent was cheap in Hell’s Kitchen. 

“I love you.” You grinned, pulling him into a kiss. 

“I love you too, sweet girl.” He grinned back. One hand held you steady as he reached toward the nightstand that held towels for this exact scenario. 

Gentleman, indeed.  

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Karen introduced you to Frank Castle on a Tuesday, and afterward you blamed her for it constantly. At first, he was just the terrifying guy who showed up at her apartment bleeding half to death and refusing medical help like it was a personality trait. You thought he was rude. He thought you talked too much. Karen thought you were both idiots almost immediately.

But then Frank kept showing up. Always with some excuse. Information for Matt. Coffee for Karen. Food nobody asked for. And somehow he always lingered longer when you were there too. You fell for him slowly.

In stupid little pieces.

The way he remembered your coffee order after hearing it once. The way he automatically walked closest to the street at night. The way his giant terrifying self softened every time you laughed at one of his dry muttered jokes like he couldn’t help it.

And Frank— God.

Frank fell hard.

Karen noticed first.

“You’re staring again,” she told him one night while you sat on the floor stealing fries from the takeout container in your lap.

“I ain’t starin’.”

“You absolutely are." Frank looked at you like you were something dangerous in the best possible way. Like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure he was allowed to. That was the thing about him. He never pushed.

Not once.

You dated other guys before Frank. Plenty. But they always got impatient eventually. Always acted like sex was some finish line they deserved to cross if they waited long enough. So you kept saying no. And after enough bad experiences, the fear just… stayed. Frank never made you feel guilty for it. The two of you became disgustingly affectionate anyway. Constantly touching. Your legs over his lap on the couch. His hand at your back guiding you through crowds. Falling asleep tangled together during movies. Stealing his shirts. Sitting between his knees while he cleaned guns and listening to him grumble about your taste in music. But every time things almost turned sexual, panic crept in. And every single time, Frank stopped immediately. One night he walked you home and looked at your mouth long enough to make your knees weak.

“If I kiss you,” he asked quietly, “you tellin’ me to stop?” You panicked. And Frank stepped back instantly like your comfort mattered more than breathing. That was probably when you realized you loved him. Not because he wanted you. Because he didn’t need anything from you to stay.

----------

You stand in the bedroom, pacing back and forth, chewing on your thumb.

God, you feel so stupid.

Your heart is pounding hard enough to make your ribs ache. You’ve faced armed men before. You’ve patched bullet wounds with shaking hands. You’ve stared down monsters and lived through it. And somehow this is worse. Because this is Frank.

Frank, who kisses your shoulder every morning without fail.

Frank, who drapes himself over you on the couch like a weighted blanket because he knows you secretly love it.

Frank, who always reaches for your hand first in crowded places.

Frank, who has spent months loving you with his entire body while carefully avoiding the one line you kept drawing between you.

Not because you hated touch.

God, no.

You’re practically glued to him half the time. You sit in his lap while he cleans guns. Fall asleep with your face in his neck. Steal his shirts and crawl into his arms every night like it’s instinct. And the need that crawls inside your skin when you see him shirtless, or doing anything with his hands- god. It's insatiable.

But sex— Sex always felt different to you.

Too vulnerable.

Too permanent.

Too much.

And every guy before Frank eventually got tired of waiting. Some were patient at first. Most pretended to be. Then came the guilt trips. The sighs. The passive-aggressive comments. The inevitable: What, you don’t trust me?

And eventually, somehow, time just… kept passing. Until suddenly you were here.

A grown virgin.

In Frank’s apartment.

In Frank’s clothes.

Hopelessly in love with a man who has never once made you feel bad for being scared. Which honestly makes this so much harder. You stop pacing long enough to stare at yourself in the mirror.

“You are a grown woman,” you mutter weakly. The reflection looks unconvinced. From the living room, you hear the low murmur of the TV and the faint clink of a beer bottle against the coffee table. Frank’s home from a job. Showered already. Clean black t-shirt. Gray sweats hanging low on his hips. You know because you’ve spent the last twenty minutes trying not to think about it. You squeeze your eyes shut.

Fuck it.

Before you can lose your nerve, you walk out into the living room. Frank’s sprawled on the couch, one arm stretched across the back cushions, beer balanced against his stomach while some old war documentary drones quietly from the television. The second he sees you hovering there, he frowns slightly.

“You alright, baby?” he asks. You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Frank immediately sits up straighter.

“That bad, huh?” You blurt it before you lose your nerve.

“Frank, I want to have sex with you.” Frank spits beer all over himself. You jump backward as he starts choking violently.

“Jesus Christ—”

“Oh my God.” He’s coughing hard enough his face turns red.

“Sorry-shit-” Frank wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at you like you just confessed to arson. “You—what?” Your face burns.

“Well now I regret bringin’ it up.”

“No, hold on.” He sets the beer down carefully like sudden movements might scare you off. “What?” You groan and cover your face.

“This is humiliating.”

“Sweetheart.” His voice softens immediately. “C’mere.” You shake your head aggressively.

“No, because now you’re gonna look at me weird.”

“I have literally never looked at you weird a day in my life.”

“You absolutely have.”

“Okay, fair. But not for this.” You peek at him through your fingers. Frank still looks stunned. Not upset. Not uncomfortable. Just deeply confused. “You wanna…” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “With me?”