JamNeuroMain

You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.

By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.

That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.

And things had only been official for a week.

You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.

He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.

Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move

Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.

You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.

“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.

You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.

“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.

Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.

“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”

He slid deeper for emphasis.

You didn’t.

You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.

“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.

Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.

This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.

Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.

“Better?” The man’s question was simple.

Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.

You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.

Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.

“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”

“I—I know, I just can’t—”

At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.

You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.

“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”

The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.

“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”

“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”

“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”

But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.

Maybe you’d never found that place after all.

This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.

You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.

Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”

“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.

Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.

With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.

You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.

“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”

Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.

It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.

“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.

“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”

Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.

Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.

He still held onto your other hand tight.

Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.

Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:

“Higher.”

“Higher?”

“Um, to the…to the left.”

Simon tilted his hips left.

Yes.

That was just it. So close.

Almost…

Or, maybe…

“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”

Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.

Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…

“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”

The grin above you stretched even wider.

“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.

“Right there.” You nodded furiously.

A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.

“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.

“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”

Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.

The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.

Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.

You realized as much when he whispered it to you.

“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”

Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”

Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.

“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.

“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”

The ones that you’d been with before.

You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.

Simon was back inside you in a blink.

Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.

He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.

Vindicated.

“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”

You nodded in agreement.

You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.

“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”

When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.

And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.

Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.

“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.

His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.

You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”

“Feel good when I hit it?”

“Fucking perfect, Si.”

You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.

“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”

“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”

“Go on then, love.”

And, shortly, you did.

Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.

Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.

It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”

You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.

“Thank you,” you murmured against him.

Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.

He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.

His mouth starts from the curve of your shoulder, landing parched from his slumber and soft from tenderness. The heat of his breathing follows, puffing gently over the wet spots left by his tongue as he rises. Tastes your heartbeat from your jugular, sniffs the smell of sleep still clinging to your skin. Then, a hardness presses to your back, slowly gliding against your nightgown as it rides up, up, up.

And you smile, because it's always so very nice to wake up to him already thinking about you. The concept of being wanted so completely that it wakes him from his slumber, of being loved so entirely that you're the first thought that hungers him in the morning.

You whisper a breathy good morning as you toss your head back, extending your neck so he has more room to work with. Though he's already doting on the curve of your shoulder again, the wings of your back, the space between your shoulder blades. 

Sneaky fingers slide down the straps of your garment. The callouses on his palm are coarse against your skin, and even though this has been almost routine for the past couple of years, he still has the clamminess of his palms to show the nervousness of touching someone so fragile compared to him.

But he knows you don't want to be seen as breakable, because you aren't. It's why he flattens his hand against your lower back and steers you forward, until you're lying on your stomach. You're still processing the first sensations of the morning, blinking your eyes open as your cheek meets the pillow.

"Fuck,” he croaks with awe on his tongue, watching you from above. “Just a second, yeah?"

Licks his lips when you curve your back and offer him your ass almost in second nature.

His knees dip into the mattress beside your legs and squeeze your thighs together, digging in on each of your flanks. He'd prep you, normally, but this time he doesn't. Your only hint is the breeze brushing the hot skin of your lower back as he lifts the satin of your nightgown and lets it pool in the dip of your spine.

Then, the thick head of his cock pushes against you. You snap your eyes open.

"Fuck Simon, wait—"

"Just a second, love."

It burns. It's like a whip snaps against your spine, and you take in a mouthful of air when the first inch of him enters. 

"Oh my God, holy shit—fuck—"

Pins and needles that wrap around your belly, digging in like a belt of thorns. Hands fisting the sheets, toes curling on the duvet crumpled at the foot of the bed. The pain is so sudden that it shocks you into utter stiffness, with your legs screaming in protest as they’re scrambling to get away.

You don’t really want to. 

Though the position doesn’t allow much movement, you still try to take a peek above your shoulder. Your vision is filled by him. The breadth of his shoulders is dark, but his profile is hemmed with sunlight—a cottoned halo all around him, a gift from the window behind his back. He’s His thumbs are fitting in the tiny divots at the base of your spine, big hands holding you steady by your hips. Though it's his face that makes your mouth water.

Simon's eyes are glassy, focused on the stretch of your pussy as it widens to welcome his girth. Scarlet cheeks and silver scars that run across his jaw, where his stubble doesn't grow. And the brutality of the violence he once bore is softened by the simplicity of a quiet, domestic life—the folds of the pillowcase still embedded in his skin, the puffiness of sleep cottoning his eyes, the ruddy blush of lust and love mantling his face.

He slides down his hands and parts your ass as well, digging his thumbs in the plump of your cheeks. He kisses his teeth when he sees your puckered hole clench—hisses when it translates to further tightness around his cock. 

There's a twitch in his cheek. The pull of an invisible hook at the corner of his lips that relaxes once he slides another inch in. He releases the clench of his jaw, mouth hanging open once he's all snug inside you.

Though the bliss he feels couldn't be more different from the searing pain ripping you in half. The whine on the tip of your tongue is swallowed and truncated, turned into a breathless gasp yielded in the soft pillow tucked under your chin.

"S-slower," you whimper.

"Aye," he croaks. "Slow an' easy. Promise."

And he delivers.

In fact, it takes him a moment more than usual to fully sheath himself inside you. Your knuckles click with how furiously you're gripping the bedsheets—a way to find release as the pressure of being filled so entirely strangles you all the way to your windpipe.

You babble something with your lips, trying to form sentences you don't know how to utter. Eyes rolled back, unfocused and wet at the rim.

"Ah fuck yer tight, love—" he grunts. "Need help ta open up, don't ya?"

You nod vigorously against the pillow, because words aren't exactly your forte right now. Nor are thoughts, to be frank, because all you can feel is the burn on the lower half of your body and the contrasting pleasure that stems from it.

"Poor thing," he taunts. "Ruined ya already, mh?"

Somehow, you manage to summon enough strength to blindly swat your hand where his thigh should be. That bit of defiance still left in you that you know he appreciates, though you're aware he's just about to fuck it out of you.

You hit something hard and hairy with your palm and decide that it landed correctly. It must have, because you hear him chortle, deep and ragged. 

"Now don't get all fussy on me."

He hums. Collects spit in his mouth and lets it fall in a string until it lands around the base of his cock, where you’re painfully stretched around it. His hand smears it along the skin there, around your hole and down to your clit, lightly tracing the slit of your pussy. And you're burning so hot that his spit feels like being rubbed with freezing water. It's oddly refreshing, and it helps your muscles relax.

Simon must feel it, because his chest purrs with an appraising hum.

"Better?" He asks, as his hand surreptitiously slips around your waist. 

Your cheek is smushed to the pillow, linen soaking up tears and drool. "Yeah."

The thick scars on his forearm tickle your side and then your stomach, preceding the blooming pleasure that stems from his fingertips when he skims them over your clit.

"Better?" He murmurs again, though now his breath feels closer, puffing warmly on the skin of your shoulder.

Your body melts on the bedsheets, knots unravelling under the touch of his hand and the heat of his chest. He hovers above you, just a breath away from your back.

Your voice is nothing but a murmur, “Yes.”

"Tha’s right. My girl. Good—" He rumbles, though whatever he was about to add afterwards dies on his tongue when he pulls back, and then slides inside you again. 

Your eyes roll back. 

"Fuck—fuckin' hell. Good girl. Like tha'—"

The searing belt wrapped around your stomach unwinds, slowly giving in and finally—finally—allowing you to breathe just right once again. You blink the tears collecting in the corners of your eyes, lick your lips and feel how parched they really are.

Your body comes back to you, awakened and aware, not wrapped in thorns and needles anymore. There's the rawness of his touch, long fingers gliding smoothly on your clit. The bristle of his chest, all hair and scars, though still soft above his heart, on his stomach, as it perfectly clicks into place in the curve of your spine.

"Could do this all day. Feel like fuckin’ heaven, you do—" His throat works. "—C'mere."

He watches your fists relax, your jaw unclench. He sees your grimace when cold air brushes your clit as he leaves it unattended. And only then does he unleash his hunger, picking up the pace with his hips. Grabs your jaw and bends you backwards until his mouth hovers above yours and clashes against it.

The strain in your spine is forgotten with the same rapidity with which it came. The headboard bangs mercilessly against the wall, accompanying his grunts and your moans. The creak of the springs, the rustle of sheets as you clutch them again—fingers curled around the pillow. Not out of pain anymore; the opposite, at last.

Though unfortunately, there's another pressure building around his cock, as he pistons inside you. One that you hadn't noticed at all, too focused on accommodating your body to the size of him.

You gasp. "Simon—" 

But he kisses you again, harder this time. Sloppy tongue and spit smearing down your chin. 

“Oh fuck—Simon, baby—”

“There—” He grunts. “Say my name like tha’ again an’ I’ll cum too fuckin’ soon.”

As much as you’d love to hear his dark voice crumble into moans, there are more pressing matters to attend.

"F-fuck, I need—" Your hands try to reach backwards for his shoulders, but you lose your balance and fall forward, face-first into the pillow. 

"Shit—" You hiss, propping yourself on shaky elbows. "I need to pee!"

"Can feel it—" He states. "Yer gettin' tight again."

"Let me—"

"Keep it in." He growls, quickening his pace. Your head bobs uselessly for each merciless hit. "Fuckin' keep it in, don't spill a drop—"

"Don’t know if I can—"

His hand finds the curve of your neck, fingers exercising pressure just there on the sides, putting sweet, dark spots in your vision. 

"Don't spill a fuckin' drop until I say so."

There's nothing you can do against his command. Your stomach coils as soon as he barks it in your ear, responding to the order before your brain has absorbed it entirely. Each thrust of his translates into tiny shockwaves that run from your belly to the tips of your toes—and Simon isn't gentle with it either.

In fact, as he rams inside you with a pace able to knock the air out of your lungs, you can merely nod your head. Your chin knocks against his palm.

"Don't like it when yer quiet," he chastises. "Say it."

Perhaps understanding the clog he's causing in your windpipe, Simon unravels the hold around your neck—gently so. Loosens his fingers first, supporting your throat with his palm before sliding upwards, where he ends up cradling your jaw. The release is a blessing and a curse.

The mere air filling your lungs is a pleasure in and of itself, and it causes your muscles to unwind. Luckily, you manage to catch yourself and clench your entire body again, though with the added fury of Simon's hips, it's hard to keep the promise he wants you to make.

But you swear it anyway.

"Yes," you croak. "Yes, yes—okay."

Pleased by your answer, Simon rewards you. Slams his pelvis flush to your ass, sheathing himself fully inside you. Nestled deep in the tightness of your stomach, you feel every inch of him as his hips start moving with a slow roll. 

Similarly, your eyes find the back of your head. 

"Oh my God—"

The bastard dares to chuckle. "Oh, ye like it, uh?"

You refuse to let him know that you do. Teeth sink into your cheek until iron stings down your throat. And it works, for the most part. There's an annoying tingle in your eyes that wishes to be soothed, though you know that if you dare to blink, he'll see the tears he's causing. The bliss they'd paint down your cheek.

But Simon always has an ace up his sleeve.

The hand that once held your throat now snakes forwards again, nestles in the softness of your stomach. Your eyes widen.

"Bit quiet t'day, are ya?" He smirks. "You in a mood, or what?"

"Stop being a cunt, Simon—"

"Ah—" He interjects. "Manners, love."

And then, the heel of his palm presses down, just above your pussy. Your body seizes in reply, struggling to maintain the promise you made. It gets even worse, then, when he skims his fingers over your clit again, pairing it with the languid roll of his hips.

Hurriedly, you reach down with your hands to stop him, but Simon's quicker. His whole body falls on top of you, leaving you pressed between his bulk and the mattress.

"Shit—"

"Keep it in, aye?" He rumbles in your ear, assertive but oddly not unkind. Encouraging, even. "Know you can do it, pet."

The feeling is overwhelming and beautiful. 

You feel like you can't breathe, but you don't really want to. Purposefully, you keep it in—hold your breath for a moment longer than needed, until you're filled everywhere. Of him: inside you, on top of you. His hand sandwiched underneath, his chest like an anvil. Breath ripe of morning, of breakfasts waiting to be had. Tickles down your spine, ripples from his tongue against your pulse point.

Pressure builds and builds, strains your body as it ripens, swells, sweetens. A peach hanging low from a branch, ready to be picked. You know he's ready to bite, because you're ready to be consumed. 

And all you can do is heave and gasp. Reach behind you to find his hair and pull, scrape his scalp with your fingers as he works with his own to make you feel good, better, wonderful.

"Fuck, look at you—" He murmurs against the shell of your ear. "Gonna cum on me, pet?"

The tautness of your belly won't hold for much longer, not if he keeps touching you this way. 

"Won't—" You gasp. "Won't last long—please."

His kiss should be teasing; instead, it's an apologetic one. Left on your temple, where the sweat makes your hair stick and swirl against your skin. 

"Just a second, love."

But you don't have it. You don't have one second. You don't have a moment, a breath, the time for a thought. You can feel yourself grow tight and stiff, fighting against the invisible ticking clock inside your stomach.

"Please, Simon—" You squirm. Your body does, your mind too foggy to concoct the movement itself. "Please. Please, baby."

"One second," he murmurs sweetly, greedily lapping down your neck.

"One—" 

Thrust.

"More—" 

Thrust.

"Second."

Hazily, you think it's mere stubbornness that forces you to keep your promise. You're not ready to admit that he's trained you to respond to him the way he likes. Taught your body to act a certain way when he's speaking. Taught it to bring you to bliss and then him, and nothing else—not when you're under the sheets.

Indoctrinated every single cell inside you, simply, to obey.

But he's merciful. Perhaps hears the clock inside your body ticking menacingly, threatening to misbehave.

Or maybe he's attuned with you. Understands. Feels how you're begging not only with your lips but with your touch, the way your breath comes, the heat of your own skin.

His fingers tune with the roll of his hips, then. Draw slow circles that glide on smoothly, sticky and wet and steady.

He kisses the curve of your shoulder, then the hinge of your jaw.

"Now," he says.

Frankly, you don't know if you're coming. 

The current perception you have of yourself is hazy—your whole being reduced to a single entity, compressed between his body and the bed, touched in every single place that you call your own, and that is undeniably also his.

You only know that the release is wonderful. 

It's blinding white and liquor thick. It spreads throughout your whole body in waves of shivers and gooseflesh. It shatters you into fragments, spread evenly underneath his weight. Escaping from your mouth in a groan that is nowhere near human—a guttural thing, feral and beastly. Freeing and beautiful.

You're only vaguely aware of the mess you're making as the hot stream he's pushed out of you splashes down your thighs and onto the bed, where its sound transforms into something muted and dull. 

"Oh fuck," you heave. "Oh God, oh God, shit—"

"Ah fuck, just like tha'," he says, contrastingly calm as he keeps fucking you, hastily picking up the pace. "Fuckin' hell yer wet. Keep going."

You do. You keep going, unashamed and loud, riding his cock even in this uncomfortable position. Pushing back with your ass to have more, more, more. Greedy and insatiable. Trying to go over the edge and up on the clouds—fucking scour the sky and all of which is above, knowing he can give it. Grab it and hand it to you. 

You come once, then. Groaning into the pillow and pulling at his hair. Twice. Thrice. You don’t know. You don’t think you can keep count. You don’t think at all. 

Until there isn't a drop left inside you. No more sheets to clutch, no more linen to soak—not on the pillow, not underneath you. You twitch each time he moves, turning mellow and pliable as he ruts a few more times before pulling out.

Freezing air sinks its talons down your back, where his chest was welded before he moved away. You shiver but don’t complain. Can’t.

Simon comes with a muted groan, clipped to match the rapid strokes of his hand. It trickles down the swell of your ass and pools at your tailbone. Then, his softening cock lands sticky and hot against your skin. Perhaps to feed that primordial beast inside him, he pushes it with his thumb between the globes of your ass. Watches it slide up and down, lubed up with his own cum.

He hisses at the overstimulation but keeps that languid pace. “Fuckin’ hell yer perfect.”

You're too spent to move, only opening your eyes when you feel the mattress groan under Simon's weight as he shifts around. Though your consciousness is coming back to you, and your senses are suddenly flooded by the reality that surrounds you.

The smell of sex, of him and you. Of sweet kisses down your shoulder, of cloying lust and pungent orgasms. The wetness down your thighs, cold sheets sticking to your skin as it burns in the afterglow. The ringing in your ears, loud at first, then softening into a dull and distant sound.

While he's moved slightly, Simon still hovers above you, keeping your legs trapped between his massive thighs. His mouth tickles down the line of your shoulder. Calloused hands gently scratch down your arms.

“You always have to take it up a notch.”

You can feel Simon’s smile by the smoothness of his teeth brushing your skin. “That a complaint?”

You avoid that question. 

"I wanted to sleep in," you mumble dumbly with your cheek buried in the pillow. "S'Sunday. I deserved it."

His mouth travels upwards, finding your neck, then your cheek. "Can still do it."

You frown. “You know very well that I can’t.”

He shrugs. “Smell ain’t tha’ bad.”

You only offer a withering sidelong glance.

His kisses crack into a broken chuckle. "Right. Noted."

You close your eyes and laugh with him. "I mean, this was nice and all—"

"Nice," he scoffs. “T'was nice."

"Lovely way to wake up—"

"Alrigh’, pack it in.”

"—But we could've pushed it back a little. Like in the afternoon."

"Should I book an appointment," he deadpans.

"Yeah," you yawn. "Call my PA."

This time, his laughter comes from somewhere deeper. You feel it rumble in his chest first, then brush your cheek, exploding from his kiss.

“Yeah?” He huffs. “You got a free spot?”

“Around four PM.”

"Right. Wetting the bed at four PM, then."

You weakly slap his arm. "I hate you."

"Mhmh," Simon hums, finally finding your lips. 

He kisses you sweetly, like those times at the very beginning in which you were too shy to open up entirely—physically, emotionally, all of it. A slow dance that is fleeting, just a brush of lips that pretend they don't know each other very well.

When he pulls back, you absently follow him to have more, though he's too far to be reached. You blink your eyes open, turning your head uncomfortably to look above your shoulder.

Simon looks down at you with hooded eyes and curved lips. Just a sweet, tiny dent there in the corner. He reaches down with his knuckles to brush your forehead.

"How 'bout a shower," he offers. "I'll change the sheets."

You lean against his hand. Squirm to turn around, finally feeling cold air brush your chest when your back hits the damp mattress. Your eyes focus on him exclusively, trying to set aside the pungent smell and the discomfort of the sheets. 

It’s Sunday. It’s criminally early. The birds chirp behind the window, left ajar to let the summer breeze in. Even though the sun is only a shy shaft at the horizon, it still fights against the blinds to make Simon glow. The golden halo travelling along his shape, the lovely pink hue of his cheeks, and the blush of love on his face. On his body. All over him, inside him.

"Yeah, okay. In a second, though," you whisper, reaching up to touch his cheek.

"Just a second.”

Let's start with what we all know. A big part of this fandom sees Price as a father figure to start with. On that when it comes to those who simp for him it's added this overprotective nature to him. I've read MANY Price x reader fanfics to know that many ppl want Price to take a "daddy dom" role, often he's super possessive, jealous and controlling, most often I see fics about him and his "pretty little trad wife" or the "controversially young gf" that is just treated like a sugar baby (or worse just acts like a kid). I don't often see fics and ships that don't fall in those lines.

Now I'm not here to shame anyone's preferences and kinks, but let me tell you how this affects the ship with Pebble.

First of all Pebble's existence doesn't revolve around Price. He exists for like 3-4 years in her life in her lore so far.

If I post some art of Pebble, u dont have to bring him up. If he were relevant there, I'd mention it. You also have to remember I ship her with a bunch of my friends' ocs, so it's not always about him, lol. You are free to be curious and ask "how would be react to this?" But just assuming it's... yeah.

Second, Pebble and Price are equals. That's it. In their relationship (even with the difference in ranks) they are equals, they're both equally dominant and in control. Personally, I see Price as a character that wouldn't want a partner he needs to worry about. The same goes for Pebble. They're not an "opposites attract" or "they complete each other" situation, they're a match. Both want the same thing, they're not clingy, they want an intelligent and capable partner, someone that can stand on their own in their fucked up world. Now ofc they'll protect each other and have tender and intimate moments, but neither is looking to have a "protector" role in the relationship.

NOW because of how I PERSONALLY see Price doesn't reflect how most of the fandom sees him it puts me in situations where I tweak out over people taking my ship and assuming the dynamic they are used to seeing most often or what they'd want from Price.

No Pebble doesn't need his protection. She HATES jealousy (sees it as insecurity if she hasn't done anything to elicit that reaction from her partner), possessiveness, and being treated like a child.

If anything I beg of you guys to see them as "mama y papa". They're a power couple, Price is not jealous in nature and Pebble gives him no reasons to be anyway. Most people wouldn't even guess they're in a relationship with how neutral Pebble acts around him in public.

Price is a very confident man, and he loves how confident Pebble is, too. He knows how loyal and blunt she is. She'd bite the heads off of other men on her own, and if she didn't want him anymore, she'd just tell him, not waste anyone's time. Pebble being comfortable in her body isn't a threat to their relationship. And neither is other people admiring her if they do, he's got nothing to worry about.

Basically don't assume Price is jealous of anything or that there's any drama when you see another Pebble ship. They're both very mature, confident, logical and "no bullshit" type of characters.

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?”

“Frank, there are no other people in this apartment.”

“That ain’t what I mean.” You know that. Your stomach twists violently. Frank studies you carefully now, all teasing gone.

“I thought you didn’t want that stuff,” he says gently. “And I was okay with that.”

“I do want it.”

“Then why’ve you looked ready to bolt every time things got heated?” Your face gets hotter.

“Because I’ve never done it before.” Silence. Frank blinks once.

“…done what before?” You stare at the floor.

“Any of it.” Another beat. Then:

“…Baby.” You want the earth to swallow you whole.

“I’m a virgin, okay? I've never been kissed, never been touched by anyone except myself. ” you blurt out finally. “And before you make a face about it—”

“I ain’t makin’ a face.”

“You are internally.”

“I’m really not.” You risk a glance up. He genuinely isn’t. He just looks… shocked.

“You never—?”

“No.”

“And nobody ever—?”

“No.” Frank leans back slowly against the couch cushions like he just got hit with something.

“Jesus Christ.”

“I know. God, i'm so fucking embarassing.”

“No, sweetheart, I just—” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I thought maybe you just weren’t comfortable with physical intimacy.” You snort nervously.

“I’m literally attached to your spine twenty-four hours a day.”

“That’s true.”

“I love physical stuff.” Your voice gets smaller. “I just… wanted my first time to actually mean something.” Frank goes very still at that. “And all the guys before you kept acting like they deserved it eventually because they waited long enough.” You shrug tightly. “So I kept saying no.” Something ugly flashes across Frank’s face. Not at you. Never at you. At them.

“I’m gonna need names,” he mutters darkly. Despite everything, you laugh.

“No, you absolutely do not.”

“They sound annoyin’.”

“They were.” A silence settles between you. Not awkward. Just… full. Frank looks at you for a long second, something almost painful softening his face.

“You know I’d wait forever, right?” he says quietly. Your chest aches instantly.

“I know.”

“And I mean forever.”

“I know.”

“You don’t gotta prove anythin’ to me.” Your throat tightens.

“That’s kinda the problem,” you admit softly. Frank frowns slightly.

“What d’you mean?”

You stare down at your hands.

“I mean…” God. “I’m not doing this because I feel pressured.” Your voice gets quieter. “I’m doing it because I’m in love with you and I trust you and I think about you constantly.” Frank exhales sharply.

“You gotta stop sayin’ stuff like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m tryin’ real hard to keep actin’ normal.” Your stomach flips. You walk closer to him, just so he can drag you to stand between his legs, his hands on your waist. You force yourself to keep talking before fear catches up again.

“I think about you kissing me,” you admit quietly. “And touching me.” Your face burns hotter. “And I think about your hands a lot, which honestly feels medically concerning at this point.” Frank makes a strangled sound. You look up just in time to see him drag a hand over his face.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps.

“And I know I’m late to all this and weird about it and probably overthinking everything—”

“Hey.” His voice cuts through immediately. Firm. “None of that.” You stop. Frank leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on yours with that terrifying intensity he gets when he means something completely. “There is nothin’ wrong with you.” Emotion punches straight through your chest. He softens instantly seeing your face change.

“C’mere,” he says quietly. This time, you go immediately. Frank catches you the second you lean into him, pulling you straight into his lap like it’s instinct. His arms wrap around your waist automatically, warm and solid and safe, and you bury your face in his neck with a shaky breath.

“There she is,” he murmurs softly against your hair. You cling harder.

“I’m nervous.”

“I know.”

“You still want me?” Frank actually leans back enough to look offended.

“Baby, I have wanted you since the second you yelled at me in Karen’s kitchen for bleeding on her floor.” A startled laugh escapes you.

“You remember that?”

“You threatened me with a mop.”

“You were bleeding everywhere.”

“And I still thought you were cute.” You groan into his shoulder.

“This is awful.”

“No,” he says softly, one hand sliding up your back. “This is you trustin’ me.” His thumb strokes slowly along your spine.

“You sure about this?” he asks quietly. You nod against him.

“Yeah.”

“And if you change your mind at any point?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“And then we stop."

“Yes.” Frank studies your face carefully for another second. Then his hand slides gently into your hair.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. Your heart practically stops. You nod once.

“Yeah.” Frank closes the distance so gently you almost don’t feel it at first—just the soft, rough drag of his thumb along your jaw, then his lips, warm and chapped, brushing yours. It’s not the kind of kiss you expected from Frank. You were bracing for a car wreck, something bruising and violent, the way he is on a job. But it’s nothing like that. He kisses you so slow, so careful, like you might shatter. You don’t shatter. Not exactly. But the sensation is so intense you feel yourself splitting open from the inside out. His hand cups the back of your head, steadying you. He pulls back barely an inch.

“You okay?” Voice low, hoarse. You nod, but it’s not enough, so you push forward, mouth crashing into his, desperate for the centrifugal force he’s been holding back. He lets you, lets you climb messily into his lap, lets you fist your hands in his shirt. And when your tongue nudges against his, Frank gives a little grunt and opens for you, just a hair, just enough. Every nerve in your body catches fire. You’d thought, maybe, that the first time would feel awkward. Like taking a test you never studied for. But Frank makes it easy. He keeps checking in with you, saying your name between kisses, grounding you with his hands, never letting you get lost in the panic of it. At some point, you realize you’re straddling his thighs and he’s got one palm splayed wide over your lower back, the other bracing your jaw, like he’s afraid you’ll tip out of gravity if he ever lets go.

“You still good?” he rasps.

“Yes,” you say, and it comes out as a gasp. You’re trembling. Not with fear—the opposite. You want to crawl out of your skin. Frank’s hands are on your hips now, then under your shirt,dragging slow up your ribs. He keeps it gentle, keeps it steady, like he’s reading your mind. When his thumb sweeps over one nipple, you arch so hard you nearly headbutt him. He huffs a tiny laugh, then grins, wide and wolfish.

“Sensitive?”

“Shut up.” He does, at least for a second. His mouth finds your neck, then your collarbone, then the top of your breast. He peppers all of it with slow, open-mouthed kisses that threaten to melt your brain. He lifts the hoodie up and off in one slow motion, and you almost laugh at yourself for being nervous; it’s just Frank, looking at you like he’s been starving and you’re the only meal he’s ever wanted.

“Christ,” he says, low and reverent, and runs a thumb just under the swell of your breast, gentle, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll spook. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, and the words go straight to your cunt. You whine, grinding down against him on instinct, and he groans, hands darting out to steady you. He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you part for him. You feel his hands everywhere—your back, your hips, your thighs—steadying you, coaxing you closer. His touch is a little rough around the edges, always bordering on too much, but never quite crossing the line. He’s so careful with you it almost breaks your heart. He pulls back long enough to look you up and down, like he’s memorizing you. There’s a heat in his eyes that makes you shiver, but it’s the possessiveness that really undoes you. Like he can’t believe you’re letting him see you like this.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growls, low and rough, and you nearly combust. You can’t stop touching him—his shoulders, his jaw, the back of his neck. He likes it, you can tell, because he keeps pressing you closer, like he wants to crawl inside your skin.

“Can I touch you?” you whisper. You don’t even recognize your own voice, breathy and shaking. Frank’s face goes soft, like you just handed him a live wire and told him to hold it for you.

“Baby, you can do whatever you want to me.” He grins, then kisses you again, slow and deep, while guiding your hands under his shirt. You run your fingers over his chest, all scars and muscle and heat. His skin is hot to the touch, the steady beat of his heart pounding under your palms. You dig your nails in, just a little, and Frank makes a sound that’s half-growl, half-moan, like he’s straining not to just take you apart right there.

“You good?” he asks again, voice ragged. You nod, then remember to say it:

“Yeah. Yes. I’m good—you’re…” You can’t finish the sentence, so you just kiss him again. It feels less scary now, more inevitable, like gravity. He lets you push him back against the couch, your thighs tight around his waist. His hands slip from your ribs to your ass, squeezing gently, like he’s testing how much you can take. You whimper, hips jerking forward, rubbing against the hard line of him through his sweats. Frank curses, low and frantic, and you get drunk on the sound.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he pants. “Gotta slow down or I’m gonna blow it before we even start.”

“Don’t slow down,” you say. “I want—” You don’t know how to finish the sentence. Frank does it for you.

“You want me?” He’s grinning, but his eyes are almost desperate.

“Yes,” you say. “Frank, I want you.” Something in him snaps. He reaches down, clearing his throat as he taps your thighs.

“Sit up, baby.” He hums. You lean forward, sitting up on your knees. His hands are slow and careful as they pull down your shorts, and you bite your bottom lip as he softly coaxes it off your legs. Your wet cunt soaks through your panties, and when you sit back down on his sweatpants, that extra barrier of tissue removed makes the strain in his pants much bigger against you. He’s hard as hell now, and you can feel the heat of him even through his boxers. Your thighs tremble. The air in the apartment seems thinner, more electric. Frank’s hands run reverently up your thighs, slow, no rush, but the tension in his arms says he’s holding himself back. It makes you feel powerful. It makes you feel safe.

“Gonna take these off, sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb sliding under the band of your panties. He’s watching your face, checking for panic. There isn’t any. Not anymore. You nod, and he peels them down, slow, exposing you inch by inch. When the fabric finally drags off your ankles, you’re left straddling his lap, bare except for your tank top, skin goosepimpled and desperate. Frank’s hands splay wide over the soft meat of your ass, kneading you, warm and solid. He guides you forward, grinding you down against the bulge of his cock, and you gasp. The friction’s almost too much. Not enough. You can feel yourself slick up, can see it glistening on his gray sweats when you grind on him again.

“Fuck, look at you,” Frank rasps, voice tight. “So fuckin’ wet, baby.” Your face should be burning, but you just want more. You want him everywhere. You want to come apart all over him. It makes you brave.

“Can I see you?” you whisper, hands curling under the hem of his shirt. Frank doesn’t answer. He just lifts his arms, lets you peel the shirt up and off, revealing the wild scar-mapped planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle , the old bullet wound you once stitched shut with trembling hands. You run your fingertips over every inch, tracing him like you’re memorizing a map you’ll never get to visit again. He shivers under your touch.

“God,” you murmur, awe in your voice. He grins, lopsided and a little shy, and pulls you in for another kiss. This one’s dirtier—the way his tongue drags over yours, the way his hands squeeze your waist, the press of his cock as he grinds up into you. He’s leaking through his boxers now, hot and slick, and you rub yourself shamelessly against it, chasing the friction. Frank groans, deep and desperate.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he breathes. “We got time.” You don’t know how you’ll survive it. He nudges your thighs apart, makes a show of looking down at the space between your bodies. All his focus is on you: on your bare knees bracketing his hips, the hungry, worshipful way your chest rises and falls with each shaky breath. It’s more than he deserves, and he wants to say something gentle to you, but all that comes out is a low,

“Fuck, baby. You’re drivin’ me crazy.” You laugh, but it’s nervous, hands trembling a little as you brace them on his shoulders. Frank has to slow down, to make sure his hands are steady as he slides them up and down your sides. You’re soaking wet—so wet the slick’s already darkened the front of his sweats, and his cock is straining, thick and angry, beneath the fabric. The look on your face terrifies and thrills him, like you’re balancing right on the edge of a rooftop, dizzy from the height and the want. He wants to say something to make it easier.

“Hey. We can stop anytime, you hear me?” He cups your face in one big hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. You nod, but the motion’s a little frantic, like you’re trying to prove you’re not scared. He’s never seen anyone so fucking brave.

“I don’t want to stop,” you whisper, voice shaking, “I just—” You squeeze your eyes shut, like you’re embarrassed. Your hands dig into his shoulders. “Frank, I don’t know what to do.” He nods, softly guiding your hands down to his sweats. He kisses your temple.

“Take these off.” Your hands fumble at the waistband, palms slick, vision swimming with nerves and need. You hook your fingers under the elastic and pull, unsure, but he lifts his hips to help and the gray cotton peels away easy as a wish. His cock springs free, heavy, flushed, the head slicked already, and you stare, breath burning in your throat.

He’s… god, he’s big.

You don’t even have enough data points to compare, but your brain still tries, and it short-circuits. Frank watches you with a patience that’s almost predatory, like he’s holding himself together with staples and baling wire. His hand covers yours, guiding it, and you curl your fingers delicately around the shaft. He hisses, jaw clenched, and the muscles in his thighs jump against your knees. Your thumb drags along the vein, and god, it’s hot, how responsive he is. How it makes him shudder.

“You’re a quick study,” Frank murmurs, voice gone low and rough. “Jesus.” He slides his hand up your thigh, kneading gently, and then reaches between them, thumb brushing over you where you’re soaked and swollen. The touch is electric, makes you jerk forward, grinding against his cock. The head bumps you clit, and you whimper, dizzy with it. He holds you by the hip, steadying, anchoring.

“You want to keep going, baby?” You nod, frantic and eager. He grins, but there’s an edge to it; it looks like he might snap in half from wanting her. You bite your bottom lip, face flushed. Frank’s watching your face hard.

“Hey. You okay?” You nod, eyes never leaving him. He’s so solid. So alive. The kind of body that absorbs bullets and wins bar fights and breaks things for a living. You want it inside you. That realization hits so hard it makes you whimper. Frank bites the inside of his cheek, hand gentle as it cups your jaw, pulling you back to him for a kiss. “Don’t gotta do anything you don’t want,” he rumbles. “Just say the word.” You shake your head.

“I want to. I just…” The words get stuck in your throat, so you scrape them out: “I don’t want to be bad at it.” Frank actually laughs, low, delighted.

“You’re not gonna be bad at anything, baby. Not with me.” He pulls you in and the kiss goes molten, needier, his hands anchoring your hips and rocking you down against his cock, bare now, the heat and velvet of it dizzying between your legs. He groans into your mouth, one hand finding your thigh and urging it higher, opening you more. The stretch is intense but perfect; you want to be wrecked by him, want to feel it for days. He strokes his thumb up and down your thigh and says, almost reverent,

“You’re dripping.” You hide your face in his neck, mortified, but his hand finds your hair and tugs you back, just a little, so you have to look at him. “Nothin’ to be nervous about,” he says softly. “This is supposed to feel good, sweetheart. Let me make it good for you.” You nod, not trusting your voice. Frank sucks in a harsh breath and lines himself up, guiding the head of his cock through your slick folds, rubbing slow circles right at your entrance. You see stars. Every part of you is wound so tight you feel like a strummed string.

“Gonna go slow, okay?” he murmurs. He’s all gentleness, which would piss you off if you weren’t so desperate for it. His cock pushes in, just the tip at first, and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for something to hold. There’s an ache, deep and unfamiliar, but it’s not bad. Not really. Frank watches your face, waiting for a flinch, for a stop, but you just nod and grind down, needing more. He exhales sharp, lets you take him another inch. Then another.

“There you go,” he says, voice a rumble in your chest, “you’re doing so good—shit, better than good, you’re doing fuckin’ amazing.” The pain is blinding. Stars explode behind your eyes, your eyes clenched shut. You’re clinging to him, shaking, every muscle locked up with that dizzying, too-much pressure. Your nails dig into his shoulders so hard he thinks he’ll feel them for days. The pain-pleasure blend is exquisite. Frank moves slow, gives you time, lets you adjust, but it’s still a stretch—he’s not small, and your body’s never done this before. He cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking over the spot just under your ear.

“Breathe, baby. That’s it. You’re doin’ perfect. All you gotta do is breathe for me.” You nod, jaw clenched, and force yourself to inhale. The ache eases a little, edges softening, and then you’re not so much impaled as full.

So, so full.

Like Frank is the only thing holding you to the world now, insides stretched almost to breaking, but in a way that makes you feel alive and forged. He’s not moving, just letting you get used to it. You try to shift, testing the fit, and holy shit, it’s… you have no words. It’s everything. His patience is infuriating and tender at once.

“Hurts?” he asks, all concern and hands.

“Yeah. But… not bad.” You burrow against him, seeking his pulse with your lips, needing the distraction. “Just—give me a second.” He does. He’d sit here all night if you needed, hold you open and safe, and never ask for more than you could give. But it doesn’t take long.

You’re greedy beneath the nerves, hips rolling forward for more before you’re halfway ready. Frank groans, the sound vibrating through her whole body, and drops his head back against the couch. His hands find your waist, bracing you, guiding every tentative movement. He’s letting you control this, but he’s not shy about what he wants, either; he helps you set a rhythm, each grind down taking him deeper, your slickness making it easier with every slow, careful stroke. Frank’s hands steady your hips, anchoring you to him, and every measured inch you take feels like the world dividing into before and after. Your thighs tremble, every muscle in yout legs a live wire; your knees dig into the worn cushion, and you’tr sure there will be bruises tomorrow, bruises shaped like Frank’s hands and your own hunger. You can’t imagine anything more perfect.

It’s all so much. Too much, and not enough. Every time you rocks your hips down, he lets you take what you want, but the stretch is so heavy it’s almost dizzying. Your breath comes out in little, shaky bursts, and your hands scrabble for purchase—his shoulders, the rough line of his jaw, the knotted muscle of his biceps. He likes that, you can tell by the way his whole body goes taut when she squeezes. You lose yourself in the mess of it, in the heat pressed chest-to-chest, in the pulse of his cock inside you, in the rasp of his voice when he says your name. You’re barely moving, just grinding yourself down, but it’s everything. Every inch you take feels like a little victory. Frank’s patience is a living thing, the tension in his arms shaking by the second, and the only way he lets it show is the bite of his fingers into you skin and the scruff of his jaw brushing you cheek.

“Attagirl,” he rumbles, voice shredded. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good.” You whimper, overwhelmed. The pain’s still there, but smaller now, a bright spot eclipsed by the full, shuddering pleasure carving up your spine. You shift your hips forward again and the angle changes and—oh—your thighs lock up with the shock of it. You gasp, head falling forward onto his shoulder, hair falling between your faces. Frank groans, arms squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe, and the sound is so raw, so animal, you want to cry. You try to move, to find a rhythm, but it’s awkward at first, your body still learning the mechanics. Frank seems to sense it, thumbs stroking slow circles into your hip bones, talking you through it with broken little instructions.

“Just like that,” he says, his hand guiding the small of your back. “Easy, sweetheart. Let me help you.” He moves with you, not against, and suddenly it clicks, your hips rolling forward and up, down, forward and up, and his cock—God, it’s so deep—rubs along something inside you that makes your whole body lock up. You cry out, surprised. Frank’s teeth find your shoulder, biting down just enough to ground you, and then he’s kissing the spot, like an apology.

“Good?” he grits out, barely holding on. You nod, but it’s not enough, so you rock down harder, desperate for more. The friction is brutal, the stretch never-ending, and you want it to last forever and end now, all at once. You grab his face in both hands and kisses him, messy, desperate, Your tears breaking loose and trailing down your nose onto his face. Frank's breath hitches, and for a second, you think you've broken him. His whole body goes rigid under you, and then he's kissing you again, harder this time, like he's trying to crawl inside you through your mouth. One of his hands slides up your back, fisting in your hair, holding you in place while the other grips your hip, guiding you into a rhythm that's less tentative and more purposeful.

"Fuck, baby," he pants against your lips. You try to laugh, but it comes out as a choked sob. You're overwhelmed—by the sensation, by the emotion, by the sheer Frankness of it all. He's everywhere. His scent, his taste, the feel of his scarred skin under your hands, the sound of his ragged breathing in your ear. It's a sensory overload that threatens to short-circuit your brain.

"Frank," you whimper, burying your face in his neck again. "I can't—"

"Yes, you can," he growls, cutting you off. He shifts his hips, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, slow and deliberate. The drag of him against your inner walls is exquisite, a perfect, friction-filled agony that makes your toes curl. "Feel that? That's you takin' me. That's you, sweetheart. All you." You nod, but it's a frantic, desperate motion. You're chasing something, a feeling building deep in your belly, a coil of heat that gets tighter with every thrust. Frank seems to sense it, his movements becoming a little more forceful, a little more confident. He's still letting you set the pace, but he's not just a passive participant anymore. He's an active force, a storm you're willingly riding.

"God, you're tight," he grits out, his voice strained. "So fuckin' tight for me. Squeezin' me so good." His words are filthy, but his tone is reverent, and the combination is heady. It makes you feel powerful, desired, like you're the only thing in the world that matters. You rock your hips faster, matching his rhythm, the awkwardness of before replaced by a desperate, primal need. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a vulgar, beautiful symphony that's all yours. Frank's hands are everywhere now—one gripping your ass, the other sliding up your back to trace the line of your spine. He's mapping you, claiming you, and you've never felt more seen. Your head falls back and Frank lets out a low guttural groan, his hands squeezing your waist to help you grind against you harder.

The new angle is a revelation. It’s like he’s found a secret switch inside you, one you didn’t even know existed. The head of his cock drags against a spot so sensitive, so electric, that a sharp cry tears from your throat. Your back arches, a deep, involuntary curve that presses your breasts against his chest, and your hands fly from his shoulders to tangle in his hair, holding on for dear life.

“Jesus,” Frank grunts, his voice a raw, ragged thing. He’s watching you, his eyes dark and intense, drinking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face. “Right there, huh? Found it.” He doesn’t sound surprised. He sounds like a hunter who’s finally cornered his prey. He does it again, a deliberate, grinding roll of his hips that sends a shockwave of pure, unadulterated bliss through your entire system.

Your answer is a broken moan, your hips moving on their own now, chasing that feeling, chasing him. The rhythm is frantic, messy, desperate. You’re no longer thinking, no longer worrying about being good at it or doing it right. You’re just feeling. Every nerve ending is on fire, every muscle in your body strung tight as a bowstring. The coil in your belly is winding tighter and tighter, a hot, heavy pressure that promises an explosion.

“Frank, Frank, Frank,” you chant his name like a prayer, a mantra, the only word your brain can still form. It’s a plea and a praise all at once.

“I got you, baby,” he growls, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of letting you lead. His hands are bruising on your hips now, his grip the only thing keeping you grounded as you start to lose yourself to the sensation. Your thighs are trembling, your whole body on fire as your hands slide up to tangle in his hair.

You've only ever come on your own fingers.

This.. This feels different.

The pressure building in your stomach is tighter, more feral.

It’s not a wave you can ride out. It’s a dam breaking. A fault line splitting open. The pressure in your stomach doesn't just crest; it detonates. A sharp, guttural cry is ripped from your throat as your entire body seizes, your back bowing so violently you’re surprised you don’t snap in two. Your inner walls clamp down on him, a rhythmic, pulsing grip that you have no control over, and the world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot static of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Your eyes go wide, at the feeling, thinking something is wrong.

"Oh my god, Frank- I - I might- I don't-"

"No, no, baby, hey, look at me." Frank's voice cuts through your panic, rough with his own impending release but sharp with command. His hands leave your hips, one flying up to cup your jaw, forcing your wide, terrified eyes to meet his. "It's not wrong. You're not wrong. You're just feelin' it. Let it happen. That's it, that's the good part." His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, a frantic, grounding motion.

"Don't fight it. Jesus Christ, don't you fuckin' fight it, just let go." Frank’s name is a shattered gasp on your lips as you shatter, your nails digging into his scalp, your body convulsing with the force of it. It’s endless, a series of crippling, ecstatic spasms that wrack you from the inside out, leaving you a trembling, boneless mess in his arms.

“Fuck,” Frank snarls, the sound torn from his own chest as your orgasm drags him over the edge with you. The tight, milking grip of your cunt is too much, a final, perfect torment. He buries himself to the hilt with a hoarse, desperate groan, his hips jerking as he pours himself into you. You feel the hot, pulsing rush of his release, a deep, primal claiming that seems to go on forever, his body shuddering against yours with the force of it. For a long, stretched-out moment, you’re both frozen, locked together in the eye of the storm. The only sounds are the frantic, ragged pulls of your breaths and the frantic hammering of his heart against your ribs. You’re limp, a dead weight in his lap, every muscle liquefied, your brain a blissful, static-filled void. You’ve never felt so completely wrecked. So completely whole.

Your entire body is spasming in his grip.

Frank’s breathing is still ragged against your throat, his arms locked around you like if he loosens his grip for even a second you’ll disappear. Your whole body trembles uncontrollably, tiny aftershocks rippling through your thighs and stomach, and he notices every single one.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice wrecked soft now. “Easy, sweetheart. I got you.” His palm slides up and down your spine slowly, grounding you back into your body piece by piece. You’re still shaking so hard your teeth almost chatter. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this exposed before. Not physically.

Emotionally.

Frank presses a kiss to your damp temple, then another to your cheek, slower this time. Careful. Like he’s trying to soothe the very nerves he just set on fire.

“You okay?” he asks again quietly. You nod weakly against his shoulder.

“I think my soul left my body.” That earns a rough little laugh out of him. The sound vibrates warm against your skin.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Mine too.” Your muscles finally start unlocking enough for you to realize how boneless you’ve gone in his lap. Frank shifts carefully beneath you with a low grunt, one hand rubbing your thigh.

“C’mere,” he says softly. “Lemme clean you up.” You make a tiny noise of protest when he helps lift you off him. The sudden emptiness makes you whine before you can stop yourself, legs trembling violently the second your knees touch the mattress. Frank freezes like the sound nearly killed him.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasps. You bury your burning face in his shoulder immediately.

“Don’t.”

“No, sweetheart, you don’t get it,” he says, sounding half tortured. “You keep makin’ noises like that and I’m gonna need another minute.”

“You are such a pig,” you mumble.

“Correct.” You hear the smile in his voice. Then he reaches for the discarded t-shirt on the floor beside the couch, gentle again as he wipes carefully between your thighs. You hiss softly at the sensitivity, instinctively trying to squirm away.

“I know,” he murmurs immediately. “I know. Sorry, baby.” The nickname settles warm in your chest now instead of frightening you. Frank glances down as he cleans you up. Then pauses. You notice the tiny streak of red a second later. Your stomach drops.

“Oh my God.” Frank looks up instantly.

“What?”

“There’s blood.” Panic climbs your throat so fast it makes your voice pitchy. “Frank, there’s— I—did I start my period? Oh my God, am I bleeding? Did something tear?” Your breathing starts speeding up again immediately. “Jesus Christ, am I dying?” For one single second he just stares at you. Then a startled laugh bursts out of him. Not mocking. Just genuinely caught off guard.

“Baby,” he says gently, trying very hard not to smile now. “You are not dyin’.” You blink at him, horrified.

“There’s blood!”

“Yeah.” He brushes his thumb soothingly against your knee. “That can happen your first time.” You stare.

“…what?” His expression softens instantly at your confusion.

“You were a virgin,” he says carefully. “Little bleeding’s normal sometimes. Especially ‘cause I got carried away.” Guilt flickers briefly across his face at that last part. “You ain’t hurt bad. Promise.” Your entire body floods with relief so intense you nearly flop sideways.

“Oh my God.” Frank finally chuckles properly now, rubbing a hand down his face. You hide your face against his shoulder with a groan of humiliation while Frank keeps quietly laughing above you, warm chest rumbling beneath your cheek.

“Don’t make fun of me,” you mutter.

“I ain’t makin’ fun.” Another tiny laugh immediately betrays him. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“You’re awful.”

“Mm.” His hand slides lazily up and down your thigh. “Still alive though, right?” You smack weakly at his chest. Frank catches your wrist easily, bringing your knuckles to his mouth for one absentminded kiss before helping tug your shirt back down properly over your stomach. The tenderness of it nearly kills you more than the sex did. You let him guide you sideways across his lap once you’re dressed again, your legs draped over the couch cushions while he settles back with a long exhale. His fingers trace idle circles against the soft skin just above your knee, grounding and warm. The apartment feels different now.

Quieter. Softer. Like something huge shifted without either of you knowing how to name it yet. You stare at the wall for a long second before mumbling:

“I really thought I was bleeding internally.” That gets another laugh out of him, fuller this time. He drops his head briefly against yours.

“Baby, you work in medicine.”

“Not vagina medicine. And my parents never really taught me this stuff. They assumed Karen would.” Frank barks out an actual laugh at that, shoulders shaking beneath you. You can’t help smiling a little yourself.

“Fair point,” he admits. Silence settles again after that. Comfortable this time. His fingers never stop moving against your leg. Then quieter:

“You okay?” he asks again. Not physically. Everything. The emotion in his voice catches you off guard. You tilt your head enough to look up at him. Frank’s eyes are already on you, darker now without all the urgency from before. There’s still heat there, sure—but underneath it is something almost nervous. Like he’s waiting for you to regret this.

Regret him.

Your chest aches suddenly.

“I’m okay,” you say softly. His whole body loosens at that. Tiny. Almost invisible. But you feel it. Frank swallows once, gaze dropping briefly to where his hand rests on your thigh.

“I know tonight was a lot,” he says carefully. “And I know I probably shoulda slowed down more—”

“You did slow down.” His eyes flick back to yours.

“You were scared.”

“I was nervous,” you correct quietly. “Not scared of you.” That one lands somewhere deep. You see it happen in real time. Frank goes still. Your fingers slide up over the back of his hand, threading through his.

“I trusted you,” you admit. He stares at you like the words physically hurt him. Then he leans down and presses his forehead against yours, eyes closing.

“Christ,” he whispers roughly. One of his arms tightens around your waist. Not possessive. Protective. Careful with you in a way nobody ever has been before. “You got no idea what that means to me,” he says softly. Your face falls and you reach up, wincing at the pull in your legs. You reach up, wincing slightly as your body reminds you it’s still catching up to everything that just happened. Frank notices immediately—of course he does.

“Hey,” he says softly, catching your wrist before you can push yourself too far. “Easy. Don’t go doin’ that.”

“I’m fine,” you insist automatically. Frank gives you a look that says he does not believe a single word of that.

"Sweetheart, you just impaled yourself on my dick for your first time. I have reason to worry."

You freeze.

Then slowly turn your head to look at him.

“…you’re going to make me die of embarrassment after I survived everything else?”

Frank doesn’t even pretend to feel bad.

A faint, crooked grin tugs at his mouth. “Seems fair.”

You groan and drop your forehead against his chest, fully intending to disappear into him as a person.

He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling under you, and his hand immediately comes up to your hair—slower now, soothing instead of teasing.

“Hey,” he says again, softer. “I’m not makin’ fun of you.”

“Yes you are.”

“A little,” he admits.

You make a small, muffled sound of protest. Frank presses a kiss into the top of your head like he’s apologizing anyway.

"Y'know what this means, right baby ?" He asks, his hand trailing up and down your side.

"No. Enlighten me." He squeezes you into him as he leans over and reaches for his beer. He sits back down, groaning as he takes a sip and presses the cold bottle to the back of your neck.

"You're never fuckin' gettin' rid of me. I was your first time." He says. You roll your eyes.

"Oh, shut up, Frank." He laughs.

"No, no, i'm serious. I should get like.. a certificate. Frame it and put it up on the wall where everyone can see when they walk in-"

"Oh my god, Frank."

"—'Certificate of Deflowering: Awarded to Frank Castle for Services Rendered Above and Beyond the Call of Duty.'" You can't help it, a snort of laughter escapes you muffled against his chest. The cold bottle against your neck is a shock, but a pleasant one, grounding you in the ridiculous, wonderful reality of the moment.

"Oh my God," you groan, lifting your head just enough to glare at him. "You are the worst human being I have ever met."

"Yep," he says, popping the 'p' with absolute relish. He takes another swig of his beer, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "And the man who just took your virginity on a couch that's probably seen at least three separate gunfights. So, you know. We all have our complexities."

taglist !

The phone hits the receiver, and his chair creaks. It’s followed by the tread of his heavy boots and then he’s leaning in the doorway with his sleeves shoved up his forearms and your eyes dart back to the computer screen because if you look you’ll surely get yourself into trouble.

“You can go home, love,” he says.

“Just finishing something,” you lie.

“S’that so?”

“Mhm,” you nod once.

He doesn’t move but you can feel his eyes, see the breadth of him in your peripheral.

“What’re you finishing, then?”

“The brief,” you answer surely.

“Brief’s been done. Went out this afternoon.”

Your eyes flick to him as your hands go clammy over your keyboard. He’s watching you with his arms folded, the corner of his mouth pulled up enough to notice, his tongue pushes briefly against the inside of his cheek.

“I’m makin’ sure it was done properly.”

“Right.” He pushes off the frame and nods his chin toward his desk. “Come into my office a minute.”

You push your chair back and stand up with a small wobble at your knees.

His office is warmer than the corridor outside it. Probably something to do with the heating in this wing, or maybe just with him — the size of him, the bulk of his shoulders, the heat that rolls off his hands.

He shuts the door behind you with a click and you hear it, the small mechanical sound of it, and your stomach drops an inch. You turn to look at him.

“Desk,” he gestures.

You walk over. The lamp on it puts a circle of yellow light on the leather blotter and the open file framing a stack of paperwork. You reach for the papers, finger trailing over the text, trying to catch a keyword to clue you in.

“What am I looking at?”

“This bit.” He comes up behind you and reaches around. His chest is ghosting your back, his arm reaching out along yours. He taps a paragraph halfway down the page with his index and you cannot read a single word of it. “Tell me what’s wrong with it.”

The warm scent of his day-long body and sweet cigar smoke rush your lungs and all the words on the page start to blur together. “I—,”

“Take your time,” he murmurs before his hand settles on your hip and his chest is no longer a ghost.

You stop breathing.

He just lets it rest there, heavy, the heat of his palm soaking through the cheap polyester of your skirt, his thumb just barely tracing the seam at your waistband. You stare at the page but the words won’t stop swimming.

“Well?” he presses gently.

“I— there’s a— the wording in paragraph four…”

“Mm.” His thumb slides up, up, under the hem of your blouse, finding the strip of skin above your skirt, pressing into the soft of you. “What about it?”

“It—,” you try and give up before you get any lie sorted. “Captain,” you sigh.

“Hm?”

Your whole body is going languid. His mouth is at the side of your throat, not kissing, just there, lips sliding softly, his breath at the hinge of your jaw. You make a sound that you didn’t mean to make and feel him huff a laugh into your skin.

“Look at you,” he says, low. “You’ve been wound up for hours.”

“I haven’t—”

“Coming in here with that mouth on you,” he continues over you. “This little skirt.” His hand at your hip slides around, splays flat against the front of your stomach, presses you back into him so you can feel exactly what he is, the hard line of his cock against your lower back, hot through his trousers. “Did you wear it for me, love?”

“No—”

He tisks. “Liar.”

He says it warm, almost fondly. And then his hand comes up under your jaw and turns your face over your shoulder and his mouth is on yours.

The angle is awkward, but it doesn’t stop him. Or you. His mouth is open and heated from the start, his tongue in your mouth, his hand on your throat, his thumb at the hinge of your jaw, keeping your face turned where he wants it. You moan into him and feel his other hand drag up the back of your thigh, your skirt riding with it, his palm rough against your skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he says against your mouth.

“Don’t—”, you whimper softly.

“Don’t stop?”

“Don’t stop.”

“Atta girl.”