he remembers your schedule without trying to. what days you usually get sad. what time you stop replying when you’re emotionally shutting down. what shows you put on when you can’t sleep.

he never says any of this out loud, though. he just stares at you for a second too long and quietly goes “you look nice.”. meanwhile internally he’s overthinking himself to death.

what if he sounds weird. what if he’s too intense. what if he gets attached and you leave. what if you realize something is wrong with him. what if.

so instead of being vulnerable, he pulls inward. asks about your day but never talks about his. listens carefully while revealing almost nothing because every sentence feels dangerous to him. aaaand, you’re not any better.

because you’re detached too until confusion gets involved, then suddenly your brain starts eating itself alive.

he takes too long to answer and now you’re convincing yourself he’s bored of you. he gets quiet after a bad day and you immediately assume he’s losing interest. he says “i’m tired” and you spend the next six hours trying to figure out if he secretly hates you now.

you want reassurance so badly but the thought of asking for it makes you feel physically ill. so instead, you mirror him.

he withdraws, you withdraw harder. he avoids vulnerability, you act even more unaffected. both of you are trying to protect yourselves while accidentally making each other spiral.

and the worst part is neither of you can fully walk away because when things are good, they feel almost disgustingly right. conversations flow too naturally. silence feels comfortable. both of you understand each other’s weirdness without needing explanations. he’ll sit beside you for hours without speaking and somehow it still feels intimate.

sometimes you catch him staring at you like he’s trying to memorize your existence. sometimes he catches you checking your phone every five minutes waiting for him to text first because you refuse to double text out of pride. neither of you say anything about it. the attachment gets unhealthy fast too, but in quiet ways.

he keeps things you accidentally leave behind. you reread old conversations when you’re spiraling. he notices every change in your routine. you notice every shift in his tone. he pretends not to care when other people flirt with you while internally becoming irrationally angry. you pretend you don’t need him while feeling sick every time he emotionally disappears for a few days.

you let out a quiet laugh before cutting him off with a kiss, pressing your lips firmly to his as your hips begin to move against him. you can feel him reacting beneath you, growing harder as you keep going.

“no, pope… just relax. let me have my fun,” you murmur cheekily before pulling off your shirt and tossing it onto the ground, revealing your bare chest. it makes pope shudder, a hint of possessiveness flickering through him.

his demeanor shifts quickly as he hooks his arms around your thighs and stands, carrying you to the bedroom. he closes the door with his foot and drops you lightly onto the bed, turning you onto your stomach. he positions himself behind you, quickly unbuckling his belt and pushing his pants down to his calves, revealing how hard he is. as you try to take off your own pants, he swats your hand away before lowering his head to kiss the same hand.

“just stay there,” he says, lifting your hips, moving your pants and panties aside. he lowers his head, taking in your scent, rubbing you a few times to make sure you’re ready before pushing inside you without hesitation.

he thrusts into you hard, and you cry out immediately from how intense it feels. “is this how you want to be treated? like a whore? i try so hard to keep you pure and a lady, but you keep pushing, so stop crying and take it,” he grunts, pressing your head down with his palm.

he keeps moving roughly, and you come multiple times before he starts losing control, his moans growing louder. you can feel he’s close, and you tap his thigh to tell him to pull out, but he keeps going, brushing your hand aside.

“no. i’m fucking a baby inside you this time. i want to feel it,” he mutters as he finishes inside you without warning. all you can do is moan as you follow right after him, your body reacting to the intensity, feeling everything as he stays close.

as pope rides his orgasm, he falls onto your back without pulling out, instead— he’s back thrusting his hips and whimpering in your ear from how sensitive he is.

“fuck, pope… don’t…” you say weakly, not doing anything to stop him because you’re enjoying it too. you start getting wet again, and pope feels it. he slides his hand to your belly, going lower, and places it on your clit, then slides two of his fingers in and out of you. with his other hand, he holds you in place and presses a kiss to the side of your face. he grows harder inside you again and keeps going all night until he’s sure you’re completely filled with his cum.

“i’ll take care of you, baby… i’ll take care of us,” he whispers.

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frank sighs under his breath as he walks further into the room, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. he doesn’t notice the way you’re looking at him yet. or maybe he does. with frank it’s always hard to tell.

slow. deliberate. his thumbs hook into his belt.

the leather slides free from the loops with that low, dragging sound and it goes straight down your spine like a spark. your breath stutters before you can stop it.

he pulls the belt free and folds it once before setting it down on the table beside him.

still not looking at you. aaaaand, the silence stretches.

your mind is already running somewhere dangerous. the sound of the belt. the way his hands move. the broad line of his shoulders under that tight black shirt.

you swallow. shift where you’re sitting. your voice comes out smaller than you meant.

“frank…”

he finally looks at you then. dark eyes. steady. sharp in that way that makes it feel like he sees right through you.

frank castle notices everything. even when he pretends he doesn’t.

his gaze flicks down your body for half a second. the way your knees press together, the way your hands grip the couch cushion.

his mouth twitches just slightly. he knows. he knows his needy girl too well.

and truth be told, you can be a lot for him sometimes. especially after everything. after the wife he still carries in his chest like a ghost. after the lives he lost.

he’s in his 40s. hardened, worn down by too many years of war. and you... you’re still in your 20s. soft in all the places he isn’t.

frank lets out a quiet huff that almost sounds like a laugh as he starts walking toward you with slow, steady steps. heavy boots against the floor. each one makes your heart beat faster, and instinctively your thighs press together before you can stop it.

“don’t,” you murmur weakly, already leaning forward, already reaching for him without even realizing it. “please… just—”

he stops right in front of you, one eyebrow lifts.

“what is it, sweetheart?” he asks, voice rough from exhaustion and... something else.

you look up at him through your lashes, warmth rushing through your whole body under the weight of his stare.

“let me please you,” you whisper. “i wanna make you feel good.”

frank goes very still. for a second you think maybe you pushed too far.

then his hand comes up. rough fingers curling under your chin, tipping your face up so you have to look at him, and his thumb presses lightly against your jaw.

“you beggin’ for it?” he asks quietly.

your breath catches in your throat.

“yes,” you whisper. “yes, sir. please. please let me relieve your stress.”

something shifts in his expression when you say that.

sir.

the corner of his mouth twitches. frank studies your face for another long second before finally leaning down just a little closer.

“go on then,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly.

“show me.”

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