Too Many Fandoms To Count

I freeze, my mind scrambling to catch up with my body. I barely know what I’m doing or what’s supposed to happen next, only that the line we’ve been toeing is about to be erased completely.

Panic flutters through my chest in quick, uneven beats. I turn my head away and pull back. His head dips like he thinks I’m exposing my neck for him. But I’m not. My hands hover uselessly in the space between us, lost.

“Benny, wait…”

He stills immediately.

The change in him is almost startling, a switch flipping instantly. One second, he’s close enough that everything feels blurred and warm, and the next he’s propped up on one elbow, creating space without hesitation. His blue eyes settle on mine, sharp and searching.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes immediately. “Is this too much? We can stop. Or slow down. Whatever you need.”

The certainty in his voice tightens my throat.

“It’s not that I want to stop,” I reply. My voice comes out thinner than I expected. My stomach drops when I realize it. “It’s… well…” I swallow, looking anywhere but directly at him. “Never mind. It’s fine.”

It’s clearly not fine.

Benny’s frown deepens slightly, but not in frustration, studying me as though I’m a puzzle missing half its piece.

“Whatever it is,” he says after a beat, softer now, “you can tell me.”

The patience in it almost undoes me. I let out a slow breath, shoulders easing a fraction even as my embarrassment lingers under my skin.

“I don’t think I ever really questioned it before,” I admit, hesitating. “But… sex has always been fine. Good, maybe. But never great.”

Benny’s expression falters, his brow drawing together in quiet confusion. He looks at me as if I’ve just told him the sky is green.

Carefully, he asks, “What does that mean exactly? Is it uncomfortable for you?”

I pause, picking at the edge of my own words before I trust them enough to say them out loud.

“No. Not really,” I admit finally. “It always felt like I was supposed to be enjoying it more than I actually was. Like I wasn’t quite getting it...”

My voice trails off at the end, smaller than I intend it to be, and I suddenly find the texture of the couch cushion far more interesting than his expression.

A beat passes between us before he eases off me, shifting to sit near me on the cushion instead. It isn’t distance. Just a quiet reset between us.

“Wait,” he says, almost hesitant. “Do you… Do you not enjoy sex?” He searches my face, clearly trying to make it make sense. “Because I can’t tell if you mean it’s bad, or if nobody’s ever actually…done it right with you.”

I squirm a little under his gaze, suddenly aware of how closely he’s listening. My words seem to matter to him in a way I’m not used to.

“I mean… I don’t hate it,” I reply carefully. “It feels good, most of the time. It’s just…” I search for the right words a moment longer, then let out a small, frustrated breath. “I don’t know. I always end up feeling kind of unsatisfied afterward. As if I’m supposed to get something out of it that just never quite happens.”

Benny drags a hand through his hair, the motion slow and restless, trying to organize his thoughts through the motion alone.

“Okay,” he says before shifting slightly. “Sorry if I’m completely out of line, but are you trying to tell me you’ve never had an orgasm?”

The question lands heavily. Not because it’s invasive, but because of the genuine confusion in his voice. It’s clear he wants to make sense of this. And truthfully, so do I.

 “What?” I blink at him.

His brows pull together, seeming to realize this conversation is not going to be simple.

“An orgasm,” he repeats. “You know… when sex builds up and then… Well, your body sort of hits that point where it… releases. Finishes.”

“Oh.” I fall silent for a moment, thinking it over. “Isn’t that… a guy thing? You know, the biological end point?” I frown slightly. I’m trying to match the idea to something I already know but coming up blank.

Benny goes still. For a second, he doesn’t even blink.

“No,” he finally answers, slow and controlled, like he’s making sure he heard me correctly. “Not even close.”

My stomach drops a little under his stare. “I…I didn’t think women did that. Not in real life. Movies, maybe, but-”

“Wait.” His voice sharpens with disbelief. “What about when you’re alone?”

“What about when I’m alone?”

The silence that follows is so complete I can practically hear his thoughts grinding to a halt.

“You’ve never…,” he starts. “Never explored your body? Ever?”

Heat floods my face, spreading fast and unrelenting all the way up to the top of my ears.

“I grew up with a very… ‘don’t have sex or you’ll ruin your life’ kind of talk. Anything like exploring your own body was pretty much off-limits. Pleasure wasn’t really part of the curriculum.”

The words feel clumsy in the open air. Too honest, too exposed. I let out a small sigh, shoulders dropping with it as the embarrassment settles in.

“I’m sorry,” I add quietly. “I know you didn’t exactly sign up for this.”

The shock on his face softens almost instantly into something steadier, something protective.

“Hey,” he says softly, his tone steady enough to cut right through my shame. “Don’t apologize for that. When I started seeing you, I signed up for all of you. Whatever that comes with.”

Before I can respond, his hand reaches out, closing the small space between us. His fingers wrap lightly around mine, warm and grounding, anchoring me back into the moment instead of letting me drift further into my own discomfort.

Then, with absolute seriousness, he adds, “But we are fixing this.”

My brain stalls. “We?”

“Yeah.” He nods once, clearly having assigned himself a mission. “Let’s do it.”

Before I can even process his words, he’s up. He crosses the room with purpose and comes back a moment later with a legal pad and a Sharpie.

I stare as he sits down again, tongue poking slightly out in concentration.

“Benny… What are you doing?”

“Making instructional material,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Why does this feel like a tactical briefing?”

“Because it is a tactical briefing,” he says, settling back like this is completely normal behavior. “Or maybe a debriefing? I don’t know. Just give me a minute. You’ll see.”

A moment later, I’m staring at what can generously be called a diagram, if one is extremely generous and ignoring all artistic standards. The page is a mess of uneven, overlapping lines and half-formed shapes, as though it were drawn blindfolded.

There are thick, dark scribbles that might be meant to indicate hair, and everything else blurs together into something abstract enough that I can’t quite tell what I’m supposed to be looking at. One corner even has a stray, oddly enthusiastic squiggle looking like it wandered in from another drawing and decided to stay.

“What is that, and why does it look like a very sad clam?” I question, leaning in a little closer to inspect it, as if getting closer might somehow help.

It definitely does not.

Benny looks down at his handiwork, then back at me, a sheepish grin breaking through his serious soldier facade.

“Well, to be fair, if it’s never experienced an orgasm, it is a very sad clam,” he says, then pauses to draw a small frowning face on the side like it needs emotional support.

I snort. “Now it seems to be melting.”

“Art was never my specialty,” he admits. “Here… let me add a little more to make it clearer.”

By the time he is done, the page has evolved into something more chaotic: arrows, labels, a makeshift legend. He’s clearly trying to be organized and seeming to fail on principle.

I lean in, squinting at it.

“That’s more clear?” I ask. “It looks like a treasure map drawn by a drunk pirate.”

“Well, call me Jack Sparrow. But it’s supposed to be educational diagram.”

Benny studies his scribbles for a second longer, then adds, a little grudgingly, “If you want to call it a treasure map, I guess technically it does point to the main objective.”

I laugh harder than I mean to, the sound bright and clear. The absurdity of the situation, the world’s most capable soldier hunched over a legal pad, meticulously labeling anatomy for my benefit, is enough to sweep away the last of my nerves.

Benny doesn’t look offended.

“Laugh all you want,” he says, a playful glint in his eye as he taps the edge of the paper with the Sharpie. “I’ve navigated through dense jungle with maps that were way less legible than this. At least this one has a high-value target.”

I shake my head, trying to catch my breath, but my eyes drift back down to the paper. Amidst the shaky loops and detailed key, one specific area stands out. It isn’t just labeled. It’s been circled three or four times, the ink thick and dark where he’d pressed down repeatedly.

Tentatively, I reach out, my finger hovering over the heavily emboldened spot. “And what exactly is this?” I ask, my voice dropping an octave as I look at the aggressive scribbling. “Is it the buried treasure?”

Benny lets out a short laugh. It’s quiet, surprised, as though it caught him off guard. He shakes his head, still amused, eyes dropping back to the page.

“Sort of?” he says, testing the idea. “If you consider that it can be buried beneath folds and is definitely the spot.”

Then he catches himself, the humor fading as he taps the drawing. “That,” he says, more grounded now, “is the clitoris.”

I blink. “The…what?”               

“The clitoris,” he repeats, slower this time.

I stare at the diagram. “The clitoris… Okay. I take that it’s very important?”

Benny huffs another laugh before he can stop himself. “Well, if you’re calling this a clam, then the clitoris is the pearl. It’s the part that really matters. You don’t just poke around the shell and call it a day, right?”

He glances up at me, a little sheepish but committed now. “You have to know it’s there. Pay attention to it. Be….” - he makes a vague circling motion with the pen, then winces at himself - “intentional. Otherwise, you’re just opening clams for no reason and never even getting to the pinnacle.”

Benny angles the pad toward me so I can read everything more clearly.

“Look,” he says, tapping different parts as he speaks. “This whole outer area here” -he circles the messy oval- “is the vulva. That’s the general term for everything on the outside.”

I furrow my brows. “What? I’ve been calling the whole thing the wrong thing? It’s not all the vagina?”

“No. The vagina is the inside. It has walls,” he says, tapping the drawing. “Think of it as… an internal space. Everything outside is a different category entirely. Most people mix it up though, so don’t worry.”

I feel myself starting to spiral.

“That feels like important information I should’ve gotten earlier in life.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t agree more. But it’s never too late to learn, right?” He taps another line. “These are the inner lips, and these are the outer lips. They’re… protective structure. Like insulation.”

“Insulation,” I repeat slowly. “I am apparently insulated and have walls. My vagina is a house now?” The words come out more playful than I mean them to, what’s left of my nerves twisting into sarcasm.

He stares at the diagram for a second, seemingly betrayed by his own metaphor. A short breath escapes his nose.

“Well, now I’m afraid to say anything else in case it gets classified as architecture.”

Hesitating, Benny rubs the back of his neck. He seems to be suddenly aware of how ridiculous the conversation has gotten, and how close I am while he’s having it.

“Are you planning to move into my house? Paint the walls and call it yours?”

“No! No part of you is a house. Or any sort of architecture,” he says quickly, then immediately shakes his head. “That’s not what I mean. You’re not a work of art. Well, you are-”

He stops mid-sentence and cringes at himself. “That also came out wrong.”

Color creeps up the side of his neck. “You’re just…” he tries again, then huffs a quiet laugh at himself. “You’re very much not a house. Or art.”

A beat passes.

“Thank you for establishing that,” I say, my voice flat in a way that makes it very clear I’m trying, and failing, not to laugh.

Then, softer, almost like it slips out before he can catch it, he says, “I only mean that you’re work of art in the sense that you’re…beautiful. Fucking gorgeous, even. But let’s move on before I end up in an even deeper hole.”

“Isn’t getting into a hole the endgame here?” I ask, unable to stop the teasing. At this point, I don’t even know if I’m trying to make things less awkward for him or for myself.

Benny’s brain seems to short-circuit in real-time. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then looks down at the legal pad like it might contain an emergency exit strategy.

"I- That is not what I meant," he sputters, the flush creeping up his neck more obvious.

“It’s really easy to fluster you,” I reply, a smile tugging at my mouth as I clearly succeed in doing exactly that.

Benny lets out a long, suffering sigh, dropping his head back against the back of the couch. "I’ve survived three tours, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to be taken out by a single conversation on my own couch."

Chuckling, I pull the pad closer to me. “Can we circle back to the clitoris now?”

“You’re going to quickly realize why you can’t say ‘circle’ and ‘clitoris’ in the same sentence,” he mutters. “I’m starting to wonder if you’re fucking with me.”

“No, but I want to,” I reply, light and teasing. “Hence this…enlightening educational experience.”

He lets out a short breath of a laugh, then looks at the page again, his expression tightening as the instructor part of him clicks back into place.

“Right,” he says after a beat, tone leveling out. “Any questions so far?”

“Is the clitoris as small as it seems? Is that… maybe why I’ve never been able to find it?”

“Yes and no. It’s actually a lot bigger than that visible part,” Benny replies. “What you’re seeing here is just the external tip. It extends internally under the surface.”

I lean in a little without thinking. “Sorta like an iceberg?”

“Yeah, exactly.” He glances up at me briefly, a faint hint of approval in his expression. “The internal part is what people call the G-spot. It’s part of the same overall structure, but it’s not visible from the outside. Stimulating it, either with a penis or fingers or a toy, can contribute to a lot of pleasure for people.”

I sit back a little, processing, drawing my brows together as I try to make the pieces fit in my head.

“So… If you can stimulate it with a penis, why has it never really felt that great for me?” I ask slowly. “Shouldn’t I have… I don’t know… felt something more?”

My voice trails off a little at the end, quieter now, less confident.

His expression tightens slightly, more serious now. “Even though there’s an internal part, penetration alone doesn’t work for a lot of women. Most women can’t orgasm without stimulating the clitoris. You know, the part on the outside.”

I blink at him, then at the aggressively annotated vulva still sitting between us. This is too damn complicated.

“Dare I even ask how best to do that?” I question.

A short, almost helpless laugh slips from Benny. I don’t think he expected the follow-up question.

“I mean,” he says, bobbing his head back in forth in consideration, “there are a few ways. But the point is… it requires a conscious effort. It’s not really something that just…happens on its own most of the time.”

I nod with the seriousness of someone absorbing critical mission intel.

“So,” I say slowly, leaning back into the couch as the realization settles in, “what you’re telling me is I’ve basically been aiming at the wrong ‘goal’ this entire time, and nobody thought to mention the target is in a completely different arena?”

“Yeah,” he says. “That unfortunately sounds right.”

I let out a breath that’s part laugh, part disbelief, shaking my head slowly. “I’ve basically spent years operating on completely incorrect assumptions. Great.” I gesture vaguely at myself. “I think my body deserves compensation at this point.”

A small huff of laughter slips out of him, but his expression stays soft.

He studies me for a moment, his expression steady but intent. “You weren’t given the information,” he assures me. “A lot of people failed in educating you. You can’t fault yourself for that.”

A beat.

“And for what it’s worth,” he adds, mouth twitching slightly, “you’re correcting course pretty damn fast.”

I offer him a smile before leaning in again, studying the drawing like it might suddenly make more sense if I stare hard enough.

“Is this for real? This isn’t something you made up to impress me, right?” I ask.

Benny looks offended in the way only someone being questioned about highly personal, improvised anatomy can look.

“Yeah, I had a gorgeous as all hell woman beneath me, but stopped and thought, ‘You know what would really help me seal the deal? A competitive round of draw what you think anatomy looks like from memory using a Sharpie and pure panic.”

“I mean, your drawing is so realistic. It doesn’t put you in the mood?” I question jokingly.

Benny lets out a long, suffering sigh.

“I’m retiring from art immediately,” he mutters.

I laugh, shaking my head. “Stick to your day job.”

My eyes drift back to the page, specifically to the aggressively circled spot he’d labeled. My mind swirls as I try to take it all in, a faint disbelief creeping in. How did I make it this far without knowing any of this?

“Can I ask you something?” Benny asks after a minute, his tone careful again, as though he’s testing the edges of the conversation. “I mean, it might be a little too personal.”

I glance at him sideways. “At this point, I don’t think there’s a category of question that qualifies as too personal.”

That earns a faint, relieved huff of laughter from him. He hesitates anyway, then finally asks, “If you’ve had sex before… how did you not know about any of this stuff? Didn’t your boyfriends do any sort of foreplay? Anything to help make you come?”

“I’ve only had one before you,” I admit. “We were together for a while, and he never…” I gesture vaguely at the paper between us. “Any of this. He never mentioned it. Never asked anything. He’d just… do his thing and be done.”

I swallow, the words feeling a little heavier now that they’re out.

“And I thought…” I trail off with a small shrug. “I thought that was how it was supposed to be. Just… get through it and make the man happy.”

Benny goes very still. “I’m going try really hard not to say anything disrespectful here.”

“That bad?” I ask, wincing a little as I brace myself for the answer.

“Let’s just say he would not pass this class.”

That makes me laugh again. “Is there at least some hope for me?”

Benny’s mouth twitches. “Oh, there’s hope,” he replies. “I’m very concerned for the guy who came before me though.”

I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. “I mean… literally came, right?”

Benny chuckles, but there’s a faint edge of disbelief under it. “I’m surprised he at least knew how to that. Did he even put it in the right hole?”

I blink at him for a second, then a small, incredulous laugh escapes before I can stop it.

“I think we at least got that part right. Give me some credit.” I shake my head slightly, a breath of disbelief slipping out of me. “It’s just… I came from a conservative background,” I add, glancing away for a second. “And Kyle…” I hesitate, jaw tightening faintly. “He was honestly kind of a selfish asshole. It took me too long to realize that.” I let out a quiet, humorless huff. “I don’t think he’d recognize a clitoris if it was labeled, highlighted, and circled on a diagram in front of him. Not because he couldn’t figure it out,” I say, meeting Benny’s eyes again, “but because he never cared enough to try.”

Benny’s expression changes, the humor giving way to something quieter, more contemplative. His eyes stay on me. He’s putting the pieces together, and he doesn’t like what he sees

“I’m sorry he didn’t give you what you deserve.”

There’s no edge to it, no performative anger. He is steady and sincere, and that lands deeper than I expected.

I huff out a soft breath, glancing down at my hands for a moment before looking back at him.

“I didn’t really know there was anything missing,” I admit. “It’s hard to miss something when you don’t know it’s supposed to be there.

His jaw tightens just slightly, not at me, but at the idea of it.

“Well,” he says after a beat, “you know now.”

Something lighter starts creeping in. Tilting my head, I say, “Hypothetically, if someone were to want to further fix a gap in knowledge…”

Benny’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Hypothetically?”

“In actuality,” I correct, my voice more confident now. “Would that require more…hands-on instruction?”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“I mean,” he replies playfully, “there is only so much I can teach with a Sharpie.”

I glanced at the legal pad again. “Yeah, I think I’ve reached the limit of what the sad clam can offer me academically.”

Benny lets out a laugh at that, quick and genuine, like it catches him off guard, then drags a hand down his face, still shaking his head. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“Not a chance,” I reply lightly.

I shift on the couch, suddenly hyper-aware of everything: how close he is, how the space between us doesn’t feel uncertain anymore, just warm and charged in a quieter, steadier way. My own heartbeat feels louder than the room.

“I think I’m ready for a more practical lesson.”

His expression changes immediately. It’s subtle, but unmistakable, like something in him sharpens and softens at the same time. The humor fades, replaced with attention that’s fully focused on me.

“You sure?” he asks.

I nod once, even though my nerves flicker at the edges. “Yeah. I am. Will you help me?”

Benny doesn’t look away when he answers.

“It would be my pleasure,” he says, then immediately winces at himself. “Well, no. That sounded way better in my head. I mean, this is about your pleasure. Mine is…secondary. Extremely secondary. Not the point.”

A small laugh slips out of me, the tension easing just enough that I can finally breathe again.

“Noted. Glad we clarified the priorities.”

A boyish grin spreads across his face.

There’s a different kind of pause now. Less chaotic. More real.

Then, because apparently, I have completely lost the ability to be normal tonight, I add, “Show me, Benny. Help me understand what I’ve been missing.”

That does it.

The humor in his face shifts, turning into something more serious underneath.

“Okay,” he replies simply.

Benny stands and holds out his hand. A simple offering. I take it, letting him help me up, my heart picking up in a way that feels different now. Less anxious, more anticipatory.

His bedroom is dim, the air cooler against my flushed skin as he guides me inside. It feels private here. The outside world can’t reach us.

I stand near the edge of the bed, acutely aware of my own body. My heart hammers against my ribs, anticipation coiling low in my belly.

His focus narrows like I’m the only thing in the room.

“We don’t have to do this,” he says softly, brushing hair from my face. “There’s absolutely no pressure. We do whatever you want on your time.”

“No,” I argue immediately, voice steady. “I want this.”

His eyes search mine, like he’s making sure there’s not a single flicker of doubt there.

“I’m serious, Benny,” I add, firm in a way that surprises even me. “I want you to show me what it’s supposed to feel like. Show me what my body is supposed to do. Make me…” I swallow, thinking of the word he used earlier. “Make me come.”

His breath catches slightly, enough to notice. His eyes turn dark, and he gives me the deadliest smirk.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Benny pulls me toward him, kissing me slow and steady, no hesitation left in it now. His hand is firm at my waist as walks me backwards until the back of my legs hit his bed.

Gently, he guides me down onto the mattress, his movements deliberate. He doesn’t rush to undress me or himself. Instead, he settles beside me, one hand sliding beneath the hem of my shirt to rest against the heated skin of my waist. His thumb traces lazy circles there, grounding me, while his mouth finds mine in a deep, slow kiss.

It’s different from the frantic making out on the couch. This is purposeful. He’s taking his time, letting me get used to the weight of his hand and the way his body fits against mine. When his fingers finally drift upward, cupping my breast through the lace of my bra, I arch into him instinctively, a soft gasp escaping my lips.

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” he murmurs against my mouth, his voice low and warm.

His hand drifts downward at first, then pauses, like he’s reconsidering, before sliding upward instead. His fingers slip beneath the edge of my bra, brushing over my skin before finding my nipple.

The touch is gentle at first, exploratory. My reaction is anything but. He exhales softly against my lips, the sound catching somewhere between surprise and approval while he feels the way my body responds beneath his hand.

His thumb sweeps over the sensitive peak, and I practically jerk off the mattress. It’s electric, a sharp, sudden jolt that shoots straight down my spine and settles low in my belly. He does it again, a little slower this time, rolling the tight bud between his fingers, and a broken sound escapes my throat that I don’t even recognize.

Benny doesn't let up. He watches my face with dark, hungry eyes while pinching gently, tugging just enough to make me sigh. Every pull sends a shockwave through my system, turning my muscles to jelly and my brain to static. I’m gasping, my hands fisting in the sheets, completely at the mercy of a few fingers and a little friction. It’s maddening, the way he’s playing me like an instrument, drawing sounds out of me I didn't know I could make, and he hasn't even touched me there yet.

His gaze lingers on my face for another moment, cataloging every gasp and flutter of my eyelids before his hand retreats from beneath the lace. The loss of heat makes me whine low in my throat, a sound I barely recognize as my own, but he hushes me softly, his hand moving to the hem of my shirt.

"Let's get this out of the way," he murmurs, his voice rougher than before.

He sits back slightly, creating space between us, and grips the fabric. I lift my arms without hesitation, surrendering to whatever he wants to do to me. He pulls the shirt over my head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor.

The cool air of the room hits my skin instantly, raising goosebumps along my arms, but the warmth under my skin doesn’t let up. I’m left in my bra and leggings, feeling suddenly bare under the weight of his stare. Benny doesn't rush to touch me again. Instead, he takes a moment, his eyes tracking the exposed lines of my body with a focus that feels heavy, almost reverent. It makes me want to cover up, but the way his jaw ticks tells me he likes exactly what he sees.

"You have no idea," he says quietly, more to himself than to me, "how long I've wanted to see you like this."

He leans back in, but this time his hands go to my back. With a quick, dexterous flick of his fingers, he undoes the clasp of my bra. The tension releases instantly, and he slides the straps down my shoulders, pulling the lace away until I’m completely bare to the waist.

My instinct to cover myself wars with the hungry way he’s looking at me. But Benny doesn't give me a chance to shy away. He dips his head, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of my shoulder and down the slope of my breast. His facial hair scrapes against the sensitive skin, sending jolts of electricity skittering across my nerves, and when his mouth finally closes over the tight peak of my nipple, I cry out.

He doesn't stop there. He takes his time, worshiping one breast and then the other with a patience that unravels me. His tongue circles and teases while his hand continues its downward exploration, fingers tracing the waistband of my leggings. I suck in a sharp breath when his hand slides beneath the fabric, his palm resting flat against my lower belly, searing me with his touch.

Benny smirks against my body, clearly pleased with the reaction he’s wrung out of me. His fingers slip under the waistband, reaching down and encountering the damp fabric of my underwear. He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my chest.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers, his voice low and satisfied.

The words hit me like a bucket of ice water, dousing the heat in an instant. My stomach twists into a knot of mortification. I snap my knees together, trapping his hand, and scramble backward.

“Oh my god,” I breathe, my hands flying up to cover my face. I’m burning alive. “I am so sorry. That is…that is so gross. Did I-”

"Stop," he commands gently, but firmly enough to cut through my spiral. He doesn't try to pull his hand free, just holds it there, a steady, grounding weight against my panic. "Look at me."

I force my hands away from my face, my eyes darting anywhere but at him before finally landing on his. He isn’t grimacing. He doesn’t look grossed out. Instead, he looks intense, focused, as though he’s trying to defuse a bomb with nothing but his calm voice. My ex had always acted like anything involving my body was messy, wrong in some way. Like even normal reactions were something to be ashamed of.

"It is not gross," he says, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "It is the opposite of gross. It’s a biological response. It means your body is working exactly the way it’s supposed to. It means you’re aroused." His thumb strokes idly over the fabric covering me, sending an involuntary shiver up my spine. "Do you have any idea how much of a turn-on it is to know that I did that? To know that you want this just as much as I do?"

"It's a good thing," he insists, his voice dropping to a rough, intimate register that makes my toes curl. "It makes everything easier, makes it feel better for you. If you were dry, it would hurt. This is your body taking care of you, getting ready for me. Please don't apologize for wanting me."

His words sink in slowly, pushing back the shame. He doesn't sound like he's lying. He sounds like he's in awe. The panic in my chest loosens, replaced by a slow, pulsing warmth.

"Okay," I whisper, my voice shaky but trusting. I force my muscles to unlock, my legs relaxing their death grip on his wrist. "If you say so."

"Do you trust me?" he asks, his eyes locked on mine, searching for any lingering hesitation.

"Yes," I breathe out instantly. "You know I do."

"Then let me take care of you." He changes his weight, pressing his hips into the mattress to hold me still while his hand retreats long enough to hook his fingers into the waistband of my leggings. He pauses, a silent question, and when I lift my hips in permission, he slides them down, taking my underwear with them in one slow, deliberate motion. The air is cool against my overheated skin, but his gaze is scorching, tracing the lines of my body like he’s committing them to memory.

"Do you know how beautiful you look right now?" he asks, his thumb tracing the crease where my thigh meets my hip. "Flush. Swollen. All for me."

"I feel... exposed," I admit, my voice barely a whisper. "I don't know how to just lie here and let you look."

"You don't have to do anything," he says, his eyes returning to mine. "Breathe. Let me handle the rest."

His hand shifts, slowly sliding inward from my hip. The anticipation is a physical weight, tightening my chest and making my breath hitch in my throat. When his fingers finally brush through my folds, the sensation is so sharp, so overwhelming, that I gasp, my eyes fluttering shut.

"God, Benny," I breathe, my head falling back against the pillows.

"Easy," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble as his hand stills.

His fingers remain exactly where they are, resting heavily against that sensitive bundle of nerves without giving me the relief of pressure or rhythm. The denial of movement is its own kind of torture, a sweet, tormenting friction that winds me tighter than I thought possible.

My hips twitch instinctively, seeking more, chasing the friction I desperately need, but he holds firm, anchoring me to the bed with a calm dominance that makes my head spin. He’s dictating the pace entirely, forcing me to exist in this suspended state of anticipation where every nerve ending is screaming for attention.

"Please, Benny," I whimper, my hips canting upward in a silent demand for more contact, for anything to relieve the unbearable throbbing that has taken up residence between my legs.

He hums, a dark, satisfied sound, but instead of giving me what I want, he lowers his head. His breath is a ghost of sensation against my inner thigh, hot and teasing, before he presses a deep, wet kiss dangerously close to where I needed him.

"Not yet," he scolds softly, his eyes locking onto mine. "We're going to take this slow. You need to learn exactly what you like, and I'm not going to let you rush past the best parts."

When he finally leans in, it isn’t the fast, aggressive rhythm I expected. He flattens his tongue and drags it upward in a deliberate, devastating lap, circling my clit with precision.

A sharp, broken cry tears from my throat, my back bowing off the mattress as the sensation blazes through me like a live wire. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt, wet, hot, and overwhelmingly intense. My fingers fly to his hair, tangling in the short strands to anchor myself against the sudden shockwave of pleasure.

"Feel that?" he mumbles against my skin, the vibration of his words nearly undoing me. "That's the spot. I'm going to stay right here until you're shaking for it."

He does exactly that, alternating between broad, flat strokes and tight, sucking pulls that build the pleasure higher and higher, winding me tight like a coil ready to snap. My fingers tug desperately, but he groans and redoubles his efforts, holding me on the knife-edge of release without letting me fall.

He pulls back when the pressure starts to become too much, leaving me gasping at the sudden loss of heat. I look down at him, dazed and desperate, my chest heaving.

"Shh, I know," he soothes, bringing his hand up to replace his mouth. He hovers his index and middle fingers over my entrance, letting them rest there without pushing inside, a maddening tease. "I'm going to slide inside you now," he informs me, his eyes never leave mine. "And I'm going to curl my fingers up, toward that spot you learned about earlier. I want you to tell me when I hit it."

He pushes forward, sinking his fingers deep in one slow, relentless glide. The stretch is sharp, a fullness that steals my breath, but he doesn’t stop. He crooks his fingers upward in a “come here” motion, rubbing firmly against the sensitive ridges on my front wall.

A gasp slips from my lips as my body bends instinctively, tension pulling me toward him the moment he hits exactly where it matters.

"There," he growls, his voice dark with satisfaction. "Right there, isn't it? That's the spot. Does it feel good?"

"God, yes," I sob.

He begins to move then, a slow, torturous rhythm that drags against that bundle of nerves with every thrust. His other hand comes down to press flat against my lower belly, holding me in place as he works me over.

“Take it," he commands softly, his pace steady and unyielding. "Don't try to run from it. Just breathe and let me make you feel it."

The dual sensation of his fingers stroking deep inside and the anchor of his hand on my stomach is overwhelming, pushing me until I am teetering on the edge of oblivion, begging him for the release only he can give. That coil in my belly is winding so tight it hurts, a sweet, agonizing pressure that has my muscles locking up in anticipation.

"Benny, please," I gasp, my voice barely recognizable as my own. "I can't...I need..."

"You can," he corrects me gently, though the pace of his fingers never stumbles. He shifts slightly, pressing the heel of his hand against my clit while his fingers continue that relentless, curling stroke inside me. The added stimulation is a match to a fuse. "I can feel you. Let go. I've got you. Come for me."

The command in his voice shatters whatever resistance I have left. The pressure snaps, sending me spiraling over the edge with a hoarse cry. My inner muscles clamp down around his fingers, pulsing rhythmically as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me. Benny doesn’t stop, milking every last spasm out of me until I am a trembling, gasping wreck, completely undone beneath his hands.

I drift back to reality slowly, like surfacing from deep water, my body feeling heavy and loose in a way that is entirely foreign to me. The room is quiet except for my ragged breathing, and Benny is still there, watching me with a dark, hungry gaze that tells me he isn't nearly finished with me yet. He carefully withdraws his fingers, the loss making me shiver, and presses a tender kiss to the inside of my knee before moving to kneel between my legs.

"Do you have any idea how incredible you look when you come apart for me?" he rasps, reaching for the button of his jeans. His movements are methodical, unhurried, giving me a front-row seat as he strips off his clothes.

My eyes trace the broad expanse of his chest, the defined muscles of his abs, and finally settle on the heavy, flushed length of him as he frees himself from the denim. He wraps a hand around his base, stroking slowly as his eyes roamed over my bared body.

"I could watch you do that all night, but I think you’re ready for the next lesson."

He reaches over to the nightstand, fumbling in the drawer for a condom, and the sound of the foil wrapper tearing makes my breath hitch in my throat. He rolls it on, and I can't look away. His jaw is tight with the same restraint he’s been exercising all night. He lowers himself over me, bracing his weight on his forearms to cage me in. When he settles his hips against mine, the hot, hard length of him presses against my still-sensitive entrance. It’s a stark, delicious reminder that while I found my release, he has been holding back the entire time, waiting patiently for his turn.

He captures my mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing my gasp as he begins to rock his hips against me. He hasn’t entered me yet, just letting me feel the weight and heat of him, sliding the slick length of his erection through my folds to coat himself in my arousal. The friction is maddening, making me pull my hips up without thinking.

Benny pulls back to look me in the eyes, his gaze intense and searching, checking for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he reaches between us to notch himself at my entrance, the blunt head pressing forward enough to stretch me.

"Relax for me," he coaches softly, his thumb stroking my cheek. "Remember, breathe. I'm going to take it nice and slow. This time, I want you to come on my cock."

“I-I don’t know if I can.”

“You can do it. I know you can. I’ll help you.”

He pushes forward with agonizing patience, letting me feel every inch as he stretches me open. The burn is there, a sharp sting that makes my breath hitch, but beneath it is that rising tide of pleasure he so carefully cultivated. He pauses when he’s halfway in, giving me time to adjust to the intrusion, his jaw clenched tight with the effort of holding still.

"You're taking me so well," he praises, his voice ragged. "Look at us. Look at how we fit together." He surges forward the rest of the way in one smooth, fluid motion, burying himself deep, and the sudden fullness knocks the air out of my lungs.

When my hips shift restlessly beneath him, practically begging for friction, he knows I am ready. He draws back slowly, almost all the way out, before sliding back in.

The rhythm he sets is punishingly slow, a deliberate glide that forces me to acknowledge every ridge and vein of him as he drags against my inner walls. He isn’t merely fucking me. He’s worshipping me, his hips rolling in a deep, languid wave that leaves my body trembling beneath him, my thoughts scatter completely.

“God, look at you," he grits out, his voice straining with the effort of maintaining his control. He captures my wrists, pinning them above my head against the pillows, interlacing our fingers to anchor us together. "You're so tight, so perfect. I can feel you fluttering around me, trying to pull me in deeper."

Each thrust is a lesson in patience, dragging ragged moans from my lips as he hits that spot with unerring accuracy, stoking the fire he built inside me until I’m a trembling mess beneath him.

My body isn’t my own anymore. It’s a live wire under his touch, strung tight with a need so sharp it borders on pain. I try to move faster, to arch up and take control, but he holds me firm, denying me the quick friction I crave.

"No," he commands gently, nipping at the sensitive skin of my throat. "Don't rush. I want you to really feel it. I want you to remember exactly how this feels, how I fill you up, how hard you make me."

He shifts his hips slightly, changing the angle to grind against my clit with every thrust, and the added stimulation shatters what’s left of my composure.

"Benny, please," I sob, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes as the pleasure crests higher, threatening to drown me. "I can't take it. I need..."

"You can, and you will," he growls against my mouth, finally picking up the pace just enough to push me over the edge. He drives into me harder, deeper, his rhythm turning relentless as he chases my release. "Let go for me. I want to feel you come around my cock. Now."

Once more, the command is my undoing. With a broken cry, I shatter, my orgasm ripping through me with the force of a tidal wave. I convulse around him, my inner muscles clamping down tight as wave after wave of ecstasy obliterate everything else. He rides me through it, his own rhythm fracturing as my body grips him. His groan of release mingles with my gasps as he follows me over the edge, burying himself deep and pulsing inside me as we collapsed together in a tangle of limbs.

I drift in the haze for what feels like an eternity, my body humming with a residual sweet ache that’s entirely new to me. When I finally blink open my eyes, Benny is still hovering over me, his weight resting on his elbows to keep from crushing me. His hair is damp with sweat, a stray lock falling over his forehead, his eyes locked on my face with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. He brushes his thumb over my cheekbone, swiping away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen, his expression softening into something so tender it makes my chest ache.

"You did it," he murmurs, a crooked, tired grin tugging at his lips. He presses a lingering kiss to my forehead, then to the corner of my mouth, before shifting to sit up.

I make a small, involuntary noise of protest at the loss of his warmth, but he hushes me softly, reaching for the base of the condom to tie it off.

"I'm not going anywhere. Just hold on a second." He moves with the same deliberate care he’s shown all night, disposing of the condom and grabbing a few tissues from the nightstand to clean me up. His touch is gentle as he wipes away the sticky evidence of our lovemaking, his eyes tracking every movement like he’s memorizing the moment.

When he’s done, he reaches down and pulls a blanket up over us, cocooning us in the warm, heavy weight of it. He settles back against the pillows and pulls me into his arms, tucking my head securely under his chin. I curl into him instinctively, molding myself against the hard lines of his body, my leg thrown over his hip.

The silence that settles over the room isn't empty or awkward. It’s heavy, sated, filled with the sound of our slowing breaths. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of soap and sex and Benny, feeling the frantic beat of his heart gradually slow down to match mine.

The silence stretches on, comfortable and warm, but my brain is finally starting to reboot. As the post-orgasmic fog begins to lift, snippets of the night drift back to me. The diagrams, the instruction, the way Benny had practically turned my nervous system into his own personal science experiment. A huff of laughter escapes me, bubbling up from my chest.

Benny shifts slightly, his hand stroking lazily up and down my spine.

"What's so funny?" he murmurs, his voice raspy and thick with sleep. He presses a kiss to the top of my head, his breath rustling my hair.

I tilt my head back, grinning up at him.

"I was thinking," I say, tracing the constellation of freckles across his shoulder with my fingertip. "That was a lot. Lots of theory. Lots of practical application." I bite my lip to suppress a smile, looking at him through my lashes. "So, as the instructor... Do you think I passed?"

Benny lets out a low, sleepy chuckle, the sound vibrating through my chest where it’s pressed against his. He tightens his arm around my waist, pulling me impossibly closer until there is no space left between us.

"Passed?" he teases, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looks down at me. "Honey, you didn’t just pass. You graduated with honors. Fuck, I’m pretty sure you set the curve."

A flush heats my cheeks, but I can’t look away from his soft, adoring gaze.

"I don't know," I counter, feigning doubt even as I smile. "I think you might be biased. You seemed to be enjoying the curriculum a little too much."

"Trust me, that lesson was mutually beneficial," he says, his expression sobering slightly as he brushes a stray lock of hair away from my face. He traces the line of my jaw with his thumb, his touch reverent. "But if you're worried about your grades, we can always schedule a few review sessions. I'm thinking nightly. Possibly multiple times on weekends."

I snort against his skin, the warmth of his chest seeping into mine and making me feel drowsy and safe.

"You think you have that kind of stamina, Professor?" I tease. "I'll have you know I'm a demanding student. I may require a lot of hands-on attention."

"I'm willing to risk it. Besides," he mumbles, his voice already growing heavy with sleep, "someone has to make sure you don't forget the material. Repetition is key to retention, or whatever it is they say in school." He yawns widely, his jaw cracking, and then tightens his hold on me possessively, like he is afraid I might try to sneak out and take the final exam without him.

My heart gives a little flutter at that, a stupid, sappy reaction would have had me rolling my eyes at in anyone else. But here, wrapped in his arms with the smell of us clinging to the air, it feels right. I settle back against him, listening to the steady, rhythmic thump of his heart beneath my ear.

"Alright," I whisper into the quiet room, closing my eyes as a sense of profound peace settles over me. "I guess I can fit a few tutoring sessions into my schedule. But promise you won't go easy on me."

"Deal," he whispers back, his voice already slurring with sleep as he tightens his hold on me.

Within minutes, his breathing evens out, but my mind is still wide awake. I lay there tracing the lines of his palm, my thoughts racing. For years, I had treated my own body like a stranger, a piece of machinery I didn't know how to operate, convinced it was broken because I’d never been given the manual. But tonight, Benny didn’t only hand me the manual. He taught me how to read it.

As I drift off, secure in his arms, I know one thing for sure: I am done being ignorant. I want to know everything there is to know about this machinery, and I am more than ready to explore more.

----

It’s a Friday night, three months post-sexual awakening, as I’ve started calling it in my head. The bar is loud, packed with the after-work crowd. Benny has his arm draped comfortably over my shoulders, his thumb rubbing absentmindedly against my sleeve. I feel loose, happy, and significantly less clumsy in my own skin these days.

Then, I see him.

My ex, Kyle, is standing near the dartboards, holding a beer and laughing with a group of friends. The sight of him hits me like a splash of cold water. It isn't heartbreak or longing. It’s...annoyance. The memory of years of faked sighs and unfulfilled promises rushes back, followed immediately by the knowledge of what I’d been missing out on the entire time.

Benny must have felt me tense against him because he stops rubbing my arm and follows my gaze. His body goes rigid, the easy warmth vanishing instantly.

"Do you know him?" he asks, his voice low and vibrating with a sudden, dangerous tension. “Oh shit. Is that… Is that him?”

"Yeah," I mutter, trying to steer us toward the exit. "Let's go, Ben. It's not worth it."

But I don’t move fast enough.

Kyle spots us and raises his glass, a smug, oblivious grin plastered on his face. He starts to push through the crowd toward us, seemingly ready to offer some backhanded compliment about how "healthy" I look.

Benny doesn’t move toward the door. He plants his feet, his jaw clenching tight enough to grind diamonds. I see the exact moment recognition and comprehension dawn on Benny's face. He isn't looking at a guy he’s jealous of. He’s looking at a man who had wasted years of my time, and the realization makes something snap behind his eyes.

Before I can grab him, Benny is already moving, stepping in front of me with an aggression that makes the crowd part like the Red Sea.

By the time he reaches Kyle, Benny has already transformed into a solid wall of barely contained fury. He doesn’t say a word, just steps directly into Kyle’s personal space, forcing the other man to stumble back a step. The smirk slides off Kyle’s face as he looks up, realizing he is shorter than Benny and significantly less prepared for a fight.

"You must be the ex," Benny says, his voice terrifyingly calm, yet it cuts through the din of the bar like a knife. He doesn’t offer a hand to shake. Instead, he crowds Kyle back until my ex is nearly tripping over his own feet.

"I have a question for you. How? How did you look at her every day and not make sure she was satisfied? How do you keep someone like that in your bed and never once bother to learn how to make her fall apart?"

Kyle blinks, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, clearly stunned by the verbal assault.

“I… Excuse me? Who the hell are you?" he sputters, his face turning a splotchy red. He tries to puff his chest out, but Benny doesn’t budge an inch, looking down at him with a mix of pity and disdain that is far more insulting than actual rage.

"I'm the man who actually gives a damn," Benny snaps, taking another step forward that forces Kyle to recoil into a nearby table. His voice drops to a dangerous growl, and for a second, I genuinely think he is going to throw a punch, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "You had the most incredible woman in your bed every night, and you treated her like a piece of furniture. You didn't only cheat yourself out of a good time. You made her feel like she was broken. You owe her an apology for that."

Kyle looks wildly around the room, searching for an escape route or perhaps a bouncer, his bravado completely evaporating under Benny’s blistering scrutiny.

"Look, I don't know what she told you, but we had...different priorities," he stammers, trying to save face, but he only looks smaller, more pathetic. He doesn’t even look at me once, his eyes darting anxiously between Benny and the exit sign.

"Different priorities? That’s an awfully funny way of saying you were incompetent,” Benny shoots back, his lip curling in disgust. He leans in close, looming over Kyle. “You couldn’t find a clitoris if it was labeled for you.”

Kyle huffs, trying to claw back some dignity. “She never complained,” he says, shrugging like that settles it. “Seemed fine to me.”

Something in Benny’s expression goes completely still. Not louder. Not angrier. Worse.

He steps in closer, slow and deliberate, until Kyle has nowhere left to go but the edge of the table digging into his back.

“Yeah,” Benny says quietly. “That’s the problem.”

Kyle scoffs, but it’s shaky now. “Man, I think you’re blowing this way out of proportion. She-”

Benny leans in just enough that Kyle has to tilt his head back to keep eye contact.

“If you say one more word that even sounds like you’re blaming her,” Benny says, voice low and razor sharp, “you’re going to need a dentist.”

Kyle freezes at that, whatever comeback he had dying in his throat. For a second, it looks as though he might push it anyway. His jaw tightens, his pride scrambling for something to hold onto.

But then he glances around.

People are watching now. The bartender. Couples at a nearby table. The energy has shifted, and Kyle knows it. He swallows hard, shoulders pulling in just slightly, like he’s trying to make himself smaller without admitting it.

“Yeah,” he mutters, not meeting either of our eyes. “Whatever, man.”

The words land week.

Benny studies him for one long second, seeming to calculate whether there’s anything left worth saying.

There isn’t.

He straightens, the tension rolling off him as quickly as it built. When he steps back, it’s controlled.

“Yeah,” Benny says flatly. “That’s what I thought.”

He turns away, tossing over his shoulder, “Remember: clitoris. Look it up.”

A smug smirk tugs at Benny’s mouth as he walks back to me.

“You ready to go?” he asks.

I nod, still a little stunned.

Benny reaches for me, his hand gentle despite the adrenaline still coursing through him. Steadily, he steers me toward the door, leaving Kyle standing there with his drink and his bruised ego.

The night air hits us as we step out onto the sidewalk, shocking my overheated skin. The adrenaline pumping through my veins makes my hands shake.

Benny doesn’t stop until we’re halfway down the block, putting distance between us and the noise and smell of stale beer. He comes to an abrupt halt under a streetlamp, turning to face me, his hands settling gently on my arms.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice low and unsteady. "I know I shouldn't have done that. I know I embarrassed you. I just... I saw his face and realized he was the reason you spent so long thinking you were broken, and I lost it."

I stare at him, stunned for a different reason now. For the first time all night, the tension in my chest unravels, replaced by a warm, bubbling sensation that makes me want to laugh out loud.

"Embarrassed?" I repeat, stepping closer, pulling a hand off my shoulder to hold it. "Benny, that was the hottest thing that has ever happened to me. You told off my ex for not knowing where the clitoris is." I can’t help but laugh. I squeeze his fingers, leaning into his space. "I didn't know you were the jealous type."

He laughs, the tension in his shoulders easing away as he looks down at me, his eyes softening.

"I'm not usually," he admits, slipping an arm around my waist to tug me against him. "I don't like assholes. And that guy... he wasted years of your life because he couldn't be bothered to pay attention. It pisses me off." He leans down, resting his forehead against mine, the familiar scent of him grounding me instantly. "He had no idea what he had," he whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth. "But I do. And I'm going to make sure you never forget it."

I smile against his mouth, feeling the last of the lingering tension evaporate into the night air.

“You know,” I murmur, pulling back to look up at him, “I’ve been doing a little research… and I might have a few new experiments to test out when we get back to my place.”

Benny grins, that familiar, crooked smile that still makes my knees weak. "I am absolutely available for peer review," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple.

I laugh, a warm, unburdened sound that spills out of me more easily than it ever has before, wrapping my arm around his waist as we turn away. The ghost of the girl who had felt broken for years is officially gone, and in her place is someone who finally knows her own worth. And her own body.

"I think you're going to like my presentation," I tease, leaning my head against his shoulder as we walk toward my apartment.

“You’re… giving this to me,” you ask, dragging the question out.

The Mandalorian stands at your doorstep. Unreadable beneath hard shiny metal and illuminated only by the entry light of your home above your door. The chilly night air bites your cheeks but he stands unfazed.

“As a thank you,” he explains. “You were a big help to my kid and this was the only thing I had that seemed like something you’d enjoy.”

All you did was give his little green kid some medicine. It’s not like it was even your first interaction with the infamous hunter. He’s stopped by your apothecary a couple times. Passing by so swiftly you hardly even knew he was there if it wasn’t for the lingering stares from other customers. If you recall correctly, he only ever picks up supplies to replenish a med pack or bacta spray for wounds.

Until you suddenly found him at your doorstep the other night with his adorable little green baby in his arms. The poor little guy was running a fever, coughing up a storm, and had even refused food for over a day. Any parent would be frantic. And so you didn’t even think twice to let them inside.

Luckily your small shop is attached below your home, so you were quick to find the right tinctures for his illness. The Mandalorian paced circles in your kitchen as you administered the medicine and blotted his kid’s little forehead with a cool damp cloth. It took some time and a lot of reassurance to a very nervous father, but after a few hours the fever broke.

You sent them home with some herbal tinctures and even some homemade hard medicinal candies for stubborn coughs and that was it. Hardly any words were exchanged between you that night that didn’t pertain to the child. Only a heartfelt thank you, goodnight, and a promise to pay you back somehow. You assured him that it really wasn’t necessary, that you were glad to help.

You’ve admittedly always been curious about the man. With his stoic demeanor and a reputation that preceded him like lightening preceded thunder. He’s somewhat of a local legend, menace, and hero all wrapped up in one. And now he’s at your door. With booze. Definitely a man of his word, this guy.

“You’re giving this,” you repeat with astonishment. “This whole bottle, to me?”

“Yes,” he answers again. “Is it a special one or something?”

“This is Andoan wine,” you emphasize, holding out the clear glass bottle. “You can only find these on Coruscant now. Very delicious, very rare, very expensive.”

“Is it,” he asks nonchalantly. “I’ve never tried it before. But I hope you enjoy it.”

“You really don’t have to,” you tell him.

“I insist. I didn’t know the first thing to do so I appreciate your help.”

You chuckle. With your limited interactions, you’re starting to see that he’s short and to the point with his words. Almost like he’s not entirely used to speaking with people.

“I…” You nearly argue it again but decide against it. He really didn’t have to give you such a lavish gift for something any good person would do in a situation like that. It was only natural. But at this point, refusing him might come off as rude so…

“Thank you very much.”

The Mandalorian acknowledges your gratitude with a tilt of his helmet, then turns on his heels to leave without another word. And for some reason, you linger at the door. You watch him go down one step, then another, then-

“H-hey, Mando?”

Your sudden call stops him in his tracks on the stair case and he turns to look back over his shoulder. The dim light gleaming over his steel.

“Yes?”

“I…. w-well…”

You’re stammering. Just come out and say it.

“If you’ve never tried it… would you like to share it with me?”

He stands there silently looking at you and the awkwardness crawls your skin.

“I’m not busy at the moment and it’s not really in my culture to drink alone.”

Culture your ass. You just want to drink with him. It’s unclear why in particular but… you’re curious about him. Other than the company of his kid, he seems alone. You wonder if he prefers it that way or if it’s for another reason entirely. Either way, the offer was worth a shot.

There’s more silence and the only noise in the air comes from the gentle chirp of some lava crickets and the breeze brushing the trees in the street. And it’s in that moment that regret starts to burn in your stomach

He’s gonna say no. A pause like that doesn’t necessarily mean yes. But it would be rude not to offer, right? A bottle this nice doesn’t come by these parts and it’d be a shame to drink it alone. It’s reasonable to offer the gesture. After all, he went out of his way to come here from across town. It’s the least you can do to show your appreciation in return.

“Alright.”

The word that falls out of him so effortlessly hits you like a punch to the chest. Are you nervous? Absolutely. But how many people can say they shared a drink with the Mandalorian?

A few minutes later, you find yourself standing on your tip toes, grabbing a couple earthenware ceramic cups in your kitchenette cabinet while Mando stands in your living room. His helmet follows the various potted plants, momentos and knick knacks from your travels littered around your home. Even tracing his gloved fingers over some of them.

“You have a nice home,” he says. “I didn’t notice before. Very lived in.”

“Lots of junk,” you joke. “You can say it Mando, I won’t mind.”

“My place is still new. Doesn’t feel like a home just yet.”

“That’ll change over time,” you assure him. “After a while, your home becomes a collection of memories.”

His attention gets drawn to a particular item on your wall. It’s an old worn down canvas satchel bag that hangs on the wall. At one point it was a life line. Now it serves as a reminder that no matter how hard life gets, showing a little kindness can go a long way for someone.

“What’s this memory?”

“That? That memory is what got me here.” You smile to yourself as you wipe down the cups with a clean kitchen rag.

“A few years ago, I was on Pantora with just some spare change and the clothes on my back. I was desperate to leave so I ended up hitching a ride on a freight ship. I worked on the ship in exchange for a ride to Corellia. Their language was difficult to learn and I had a rough time getting things done because for some reason everything was written in the native language and not aurebesh. On a stop to Tattooine, I accidentally labeled a pallet of coaxium as a pallet of scrap metal. That “scrap” was sold to some Jawas and by the time everyone realized my mistake we were already halfway to the next planet.”

“Was that before you came the Nevarro?”

“That was the reason I came to Nevarro,” you clarify. “It was their next stop so they dropped me here.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, ouch,” you laugh. “Anyway, I guess one of the workers felt sorry for me and left me that satchel with a couple credits and some ration bars inside. Buuut my mistake turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Nevarro turned itself around. I have my own little business. I’m even able to save a little bit of money now. For the time being, things are comfortable. I’ve hopped around the system a lot as you can see. But… this is a place I can always come back to.”

“Something reliable,” he adds.

“Exactly,” you say softly, smiling at the sentiment.

You look up at him. And you didn’t notice as you were cleaning those cups that he’s now completely facing towards you. His visor is trained on you. And it’s then that you realize how small your home really is. Because Mando is broad.

His crossed arms accentuate his wide shoulders. His chest plate follows the lines of his trim torso. Even those plates of beskar armor can barely hide the bulk of his biceps. Your eyes briefly, briefly take a tour at his waist line before you realize how incredibly rude you’re being.

He’s a guest. And a customer. Don’t. Check. Him. Out.

Heat starts to rise in your cheeks. Focusing back on the cups, you round the kitchen counter and walk over to him.

“I’m sorry. All this talking suddenly got deeper and I feel like I haven’t really introduced myself. We’ve only ever passed by each other before,” you chuckle, shaking away the nerves.

In hindsight you should’ve just introduced yourself the other night, but truthfully you were in care-taker-mode and it didn’t occur to you at the time. Plus you didn’t think you’d have an encounter with the man again other than seeing him briefly in your shop every so often. But he seems like a nice enough person with the limited knowledge you do have with him. And after tonight you’re bound to cross paths again. So you happily extend your hand out and give him his cup along with your full name.

There’s a couple beats of silence and you’re starting to see that’s his default. But it doesn’t stop you from second guessing your words as if you’re crossing an unknown boundary. There’s a slight tilt downward with his helmet and he responds with a regretful “I’m sorry, but-“

“You don’t have to tell me your name,” you immediately add. “I know there’s… principles you must have. I just wanted you to know me. That’s all.”

Another beat passes before he finally reaches out to take the cup in his hand. He repeats your name and the way it comes out of his voice holds a whole new flavor. Soft and curious even through the warble of his vocoder. It’s almost like he’s seeing how it tastes.

You like it. You like it a lot.

“It’s nice to meet you.” The voice wears the vocoder like a veil but you still catch a hint of a smile by his relaxed tone. No real logical way to know for certain, just a gut feeling.

“Likewise,” you smile back.

“So,” he exhales. “You want to know how two Mandalorians drink?”

“Sure. Sounds educational,” you joke.

With a tilt of his helmet, Mando steps further into the living room area and you follow behind, cup and bottle in hand. Walking over to the couch, his gloved hand reaches for the small round pillow resting there. His smokey grey cape flows over his shoulder and for a moment you’re mesmerized by the movement. As he turns on his heel, his fingers release the pillow. Letting it fall to the thin rug with a muted poof.

“Right here.” Mando gestures to the floor and you waltz over to take a seat on the cushion, crossing your legs. It doesn’t escape your notice how he doesn’t grab the only pillow for himself. Opting for your comfort over his own.

He takes a minute to look around the room. Probably checking for anything reflective. Then with a swish of his cape to the side, Mando settles in the floor behind you. When his back presses against yours, you expect a wall of cold hard metal beneath the cape. But instead there’s warmth. Strong and firm, but still warm and giving.

“It’s customary to sit on the floor when drinking with a war band. Usually outside around a fire. When it’s just two, it’s back to back.”

“Aaah,” you drawl. “Very practical. I like it.”

The top of the bottle comes off with a pop and the rich scent caresses your nose like a hug. After pouring about two fingers worth into Mando’s cup you pour one for yourself and settle in.

“Are we drinking to anything tonight ,” you ask him.

“Not sure. How about…,” he pauses for a moment before deciding. “To that Pantoran who gave you the satchel.”

That makes you laugh out loud. But you can’t help but feel a little pleased at that. If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t be on Nevarro, wouldn’t have a home. And you definitely wouldn’t be drinking with Mando tonight. For that you’re especially grateful.

“You know what, yeah,” you chuckle. “To the Pantoran.”

Mando extends his arm back to reach your cups and you meet him halfway. Letting them touch with a soft clack.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

There’s an unclicking sound and you sense that he’s probably tilting his helmet back to drink. You ignore the small tinge of disappointment that he didn’t take it completely off. But it’s understandable. He doesn’t know you well. Even drinking like this with an outsider is probably a big deal for people of his creed. His back presses a little further against yours as he takes his first sip and you take yours.

The wine is rich and dry, and a bit smokey. But the underlying taste of tangy fruit blends well with the flavor. Going by the color, it has to have been bottled for a decades. The alcohol runs warmly down your throat and settles like smoldering ember in your stomach. It’s like no other alcohol you’ve ever tried before. Not even close.

“Hoooh,” he hisses after that sharp bite of alcohol.

“Yeah,” you agree knowingly. Already sensing that this bottle is getting finished tonight.

The conversations flow pretty easily after the first drink. He tells you about how his boy came into his life and how he suddenly found himself being his father. You tell him that you can only dream of having a parent like him because you never got to know yours. You half expected he would cut the interaction short and only accept one drink. But when you offer a refill, he gladly accepted which warmed you from the inside.

Admittedly you ask a few curious questions about his creed and he indulges you a bit. And he asks about how you got into medicine making. But for the most part you both stick to easier topics like current events on Nevarro, work, and food. Eventually two drinks turn into three and somehow you’ve both dipped into topics like past relationships. Which is dangerous territory after drink number three.

“It was baaad, Mando. I’m telling you. I mean, really! Who gives two shits who makes more money than who? Or am I in the wrong here?”

“Nah, definitely not,” he replies. His speech now more relaxed but a little raspy from the alcohol. “Honestly, he sounds like a little bitch if that was his main concern.”

“Yeah! Like, what is it with these men and needing to feel superior in such bullshit, inconsequential ways?”

“You seem strong willed. Weak men are intimidated by that.”

“Yeah well, then every man I’ve met in this galaxy was weak,” you groan. “I mean, c’mon. Am I that intimidating? Is it the yapping? It’s probably the yapping.”

“I think someone who’d be deterred by something that trivial doesn’t sound worth a damn anyway.”

With that, you let out a deep sigh and slump against the man behind your back.

“Eh, you’re probably right,” you exhale. You toss back the last little sip in your ceramic cup, savoring the flavor.

“You know what, it’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll just be that shop girl around the corner who throws herself into her work, makes her little remedies, and stays happily independent. I think I can live with that.”

A pause streches between you.

“You don’t sound too convincing, Shop Girl,” he teases.

“Shit,” you tsk.

You both wheeze with laughter, your bodies rumbling against one another and it’s so… relaxing. He’s surprisingly easy to talk to. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t say much. Or that what little he does say is said with a sincerity you’re not used to. Or you’re drunk. It could very well be that.

But in a galaxy full of deceit and unknown dangers, it’s refreshing to talk with someone as honest as him. He’s authentic, unapologetically so.

“Hey so… can I ask you something?”

“You’ve been asking things this whole time,” he teases.

“I know, but… it’s technically a helmet question. And you can tell me to fuck off if it’s too much.”

Mando hums and the rumble reverberates through your body, nesting warmly in your chest. He’s settled comfortably against you and it makes you feel close enough to ask what you want to ask. After thinking it over he gives you permission.

“Can’t wait to hear this,” he sighs with a little amusement.

You smile. To your surprise, he actually has a good sense of humor. A dry, blunt one . But humor nonetheless. You run a finger over the rim of your cup, finding a little more courage.

“Mando… Have you ever kissed anyone before?”

It’s a simple enough question, right? It’s within the ballpark of the topics you’ve been discussing. And you’re both adults. It’s not like it’s inappropriate…Right?

Oh god, you really are drunk…

Regret rises with each passing second and you wonder why you even brought it up. It’s probably some kind of insult to his creed to ask something like that. 

“Too much,” you broach gently.

“No,” he says softly. “You’re not exactly the first person to ask that. Doubt you’ll be the last.”

He pauses for a moment to find the right words. Then with a heavy exhale he gives you an answer to your insanely intrusive question.

“I was pretty young when I took the creed,” he states. “Ten, twelve maybe? Too young to be interested in those kinds of things. Never looked back since. To be completely honest, it’s not even something I really think about in adulthood. Never understood the hype.”

“Sooo, I’ll take that as a no.”

“No,” he breathes. “Never kissed anyone.”

Never kissed anyone? Never felt a person’s soft lips against his own or graze his skin? Does that mean he hasn’t gotten to experience more than kissing? Licking? Biting? Or…

Do not finish that thought…

“Huh… Well, that’s a shame,” you say without thinking, quickly adding “-but at the same time, I completely understand it too! I mean, it shows a lot of self discipline, you know? To resist that kind of… temptation. Most people don’t have any reason to be disciplined enough to stay chaste. I can admire tha-"

“I said I’ve never kissed anyone, I didn’t say I never fucked.”

Thank… the Maker… you’re not face to face. Because the way your eyes bulged just now would’ve been downright embarrassing had it been caught. He didn’t just say sex or even screwing. The Mandalorian fucks. The alcohol in your blood seems to conjure a brief glimpse of what that might look like before you find enough coherence to shew it away.

“…oh,” you breathe out, effectively stopping your rambling. “I-I guess I just assumed…”

A deep exhale blows out of his nose. He hums, seemingly entertained by the foot you’ve put in your mouth. But also making the air light between you.

“Well, you assumed wrong.”

The humor in his voice settles your nerves a bit. Thankfully there isn’t an awkward air at the sudden change to such a topic despite hardly knowing each other. And oddly enough, it feels easy to talk about it for that very reason.

“You’re rather chatty when you drink, Mandalorian. I feel like I’m learning all sorts of things about you tonight.”

“You’re right,” he breathes. “I spoke without thinking, I apologize.”

“No, It’s fine. I don’t mind at all. It’s a relief to know there’s a man under all that armor and not solid metal.”

He hums again and the noise stirs something in your chest.

“Well, even so… It’s late… Probably best if I stop drinking.”

You look into your empty cup. Then glance over to the bottle with barely a drop left inside. Something inside you wilts. There’s nothing to keep him here any longer…

“Yeah… Me too.”

You’re not sure if you wait for him to move first or if he’s waiting for you. But both of you remain still for nearly a whole minute. Silent and hesitant to end the night. As comfortable as it is, you feel Mando’s back lean away from yours and you miss the warmth. You turn on the floor to find him standing up as he adjusts his helmet clasp and places his empty cup on the table.

“You were right. It tasted better shared,” he admits. A satisfied smile curls your lips.

“If you learned anything about me tonight, Mando, it’s that I am always right when it comes to liquor.”

“I appreciate the hospitality.”

“I appreciate the company.”

You place a hand on the table as an anchor in an attempt to stand up and follow him to the door. But as you try to stand straight, the room spins and your knees buckle.

Nope. Not doing that.

You sit your ass right back down on that cushion before you make an even bigger fool of yourself. Quick to respond, Mando catches your free arm. Making sure you land back down safely.

“You ok,” he asks, concerned but with a hint of humor.

“Pfft. Yeah, I’m good. I think I’ll just stay down here for a minute,” you chuckle, running a hand through your hair and closing your eyes for a moment.

For sure you’ll have a hangover tomorrow. Shit. You work tomorrow. There’s a couple things you’re running low on, too. You’ll have to request an order through the trading guild. That’ll cost credits. Maybe if you get that Chiss man again you can manage a trade and he can throw in those dried flower buds for that tea that keeps getting sold out.

You know you’re already a bit dizzy. But behind closed eyes you feel like your head is swaying. Or rather… that it’s being moved. Something warm and firm holds your jaw up and when your eyes flutter open again you’re met face to face with dark silver.

The Mandalorian stands barely a foot in front of you. Visor fixed down on your face. Maybe the wine has made your brain slow but it’s only when you follow the path from his shoulder and down his outstretched arm that you realize what’s holding your jaw… is his hand.

With a subtle pass of his thumb along your cheek you can feel warmth starting to pool in your face. Awareness pricks the hairs on the back of your neck when you realize your position. Sitting on your knees, face barely level to his waist as a wall of steel and muscle towers over you.

“Your cheeks get flushed when you drink,” he mutters.

When I drink. Suuuure.

“Now you know,” you mumble without thinking. It grants you a satisfied hum from his helmet and you feel it travel through your ears and under your skin.

“Now I know…,” he repeats.

There’s no movement, no words. But there’s something thick in the air. It’s heavy and enticing. It’d be so easy to get wrapped up in it with any sudden movement. You look up at him through half lidded eyes and you get a gut feeling that they’re meeting his. You’re not sure what his are giving away. But yours have to be hinting something you’ve been trying to hide all night.

With a sharp intake of air, Mando steps back and releases your face. Your head drops a little at the loss of support and it follows his direction as he walks towards the front door with quick, heavy steps. With a press of a button on the wall panel, the door panels slide open and just before he steps outside… he stops. Not looking back, just standing there at the edge of your home with his stand still resting on the doorway.

“Don’t invite me in again.”

And then he’s gone. The door panels shut swiftly, leaving you alone and more confused than when he showed up at your door.

…what?

•

Din wishes he could say that the first thing he thinks about when he got home that night was his sleeping kid safe in the crib. Or at the very least about how incredible that wine tasted. But after he undressed and collapsed down onto his bed half drunk, the only thought he couldn’t stop thinking about as he stared at the ceiling was…

Damn… it’s been a while.

For the past few years, Din’s life has flipped around a number of times. Between barely scraping by as a bounty hunter, saving an orphan kid from an imperial psychopath, losing said kid, then having him return and be by his side to reclaim the Mandalorian home-world, there’s not much time to indulge those kinds of needs. But just because Din found himself being a busy father later in life doesn’t make certain things dead.

No. Everything felt very much alive and kicking by the end of that bottle.

Behind closed eyes, his room feels like it swirls. After that wine, his body feels loose and relaxed. Something he rarely gets to experience these days. Images dance across his closed lids. Delicate, slender hands around a handmade cup. A pink flush on smooth skin. Plump tinted lips between his fingers, softly parted and begging to be touched. The intrusive impulse to dip a finger between those lips was so strong he could feel his hand move into the action before he could even think to do so.

All thanks to that one question. That simple, innocent question activated a deep part of his brain that lay dormant. And then he decided to shatter the care free atmosphere by with a crass remark about sex.

Never in his life has he regretted saying something so fast. You barely even know each other. Admittedly, Din isn’t exactly a refined person, far from it actually. But after his third glass, any semblance of manners flew right out the window. His mouth did the walking with little thinking involved.

Yet, you didn’t get uncomfortable. You handled the slip up with humor instead of getting offended or something just as bad. Using humor to make the air light again. It surprised him how easily you did it. How easy the conversation was all night, really. It’s not everyday he’s able to let his guard down with another person.

Once he was aware of that, he became aware of everything. How late the hour was, how drunk you both were, and how your bed was right behind where you both sat. Only separated by a simple room divider. Even when he tipped up his helmet, there was a heady herbal scent from you that kept swimming in his nose and it was just as intoxicating as the wine. He couldn’t trust himself to stay any longer. And now, in the safety of his own home, he finds himself preoccupied with a mountain of questions.

What kind of person are you? What’s your daily life like? What other places have you seen? What troubles you? You seem to be rooted here in Nevarro for the time being. But from what you’ve mentioned about your past, you have a kind of nomadic life. What happens if he… if the kid gets attached and you decide to move on to another planet? But then again, it’s not like he’s not one to talk though is he?

Loyalty. Solidarity. These are things that have been etched to his core since childhood. But giving those things to something that could be fleeting? That’s a risk he’s avoided for most of his life. Those kinds of wounds never heal.

But as much as he tries to distance himself, it’s not always in his control.

Three weeks go by and they couldn’t end soon enough. When he offered to work with Teva (or Blue as he usually calls him) on a case-by-case basis, he figured they’d be more involved than the bounty hunting trade. He’s spent up to a month off planet at times in order to capture a quarry so it’s not exactly new to him.

But that was when he had the Razor Crest. With a cot to rest in, a weapons locker, and supplies readily at hand. In that regard, the N-1 leaves much to be desired. Plus Din’s back isn’t what it used to be and long rides in that ship are killer. And to add insult to injury, this last case with Zeb was especially complicated to resolve. It left him and the kid completely drained.

After finally landing back in Nevarro with fresh credits, there is absolutely nothing Din wants more than to just go home, bathe, and sleep for at least a day. But he’s got a very hungry green mouth to feed and there’s no way Din is fixing up any dinner tonight.

Street food it is.

“Alright, we’re making this quick. In and out. I’ll get you as much food as you want and you can pick out one sweet. Not five. One. Got that?” Grogu tilts his head at Din curiously from where he follows behind on the cobblestone street and he’ll just take that as a yes.

Dozens of food stalls are gathered at the main square in town as he approaches. Adorned with all sorts of neon signs, string lights and colorful banners. It’s a busy atmosphere filled with people laughing, vendors calling out for customers to stop by, and sounds of clanking and sizzling as they cook.

Din gravitates towards the skewers stand. He knows Grogu is going to down ten of them by himself so he opts for something easy, filling, and cheap. He catches sight of those spicy chunks of fatty meat searing over lava coals and his mouth waters.

“Okay, which onesss-“

Din reaches down to pick up his son only to find the street bricks.

“-Sssshhhhit,” he hisses under his breath, glancing around. This fucking kid. He knows better than to run off.

The crowd is thick and it’s getting dark. He scans through the sea of people and vendors but doesn’t find that familiar pale green.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

With a tap of his helmet side panel he switches to the tracking beacon screen. After enough scares like these he’s learned to have a tracker sewn into his clothes at this point.

Blinking red arrows come into his view and he follows the path. Not caring whose shoulders he budges or what food he knocks out of someone’s grip to get through. The red arrows turn yellow. He’s getting close but there’s still no visual of the kid and he’s starting to panic. He pushes through, scanning side to side and calling out his name in an orchestra of noises without reply.

Yellow turns to green and he’s still out of sight. He’s tiny and easy to miss. Grogu could be anywhere, he could be in any one of these stalls. What if he’s taken? What if someone else is tracking him? He could be picked up by a total stranger and taken away again.

Just as that thought crosses his mind, there’s a small separation in the crowd. Big floppy ears come into view and he’s definitely been picked up. But it’s no stranger that holds him.

“And here comes dad~” A voice soft as silk rings inside his helmet.

Relief floods his body as well as caution when he taps his screen clear. Only him. Situations like this only happen to him. It could’ve been Karga. It could’ve been anybody. But it had to be you that found him.

It was barely two minutes. But within those two minutes Din’s head flooded with every worst case scenario possible. And here he is. Happily babbling in your arms like he didn’t just give his dad a fucking heart attack.

“I know, I know,” you assure him like you can already tell where his head’s at, trying to speak over all the noise. “Don’t be too hard on the little guy. I already gave him a bit of a lecture for running around at night.”

Din wants to. It’s honestly his first reaction. But a cooler head prevails and he decides against it after a second thought. He reminds himself (once again) that Grogu is still young and that getting angry would only make things worse. What matters is that he’s safe and that he managed to find you.

“At least he won’t have to hear it twice,” he exhales, pushing out the stress sitting in his lungs. “Sorry about him.”

“No, no sorry needed. He’s smarter than he lets on. At least he ran to someone he knew. I’m glad I was around.”

Din opens his mouth to speak but ends up falling short with his words. Now that some of the stress has left his body, his eyes take you in at a second glance. Unclouded by the adrenaline.

Your hair is tied up with a pin with a few loose pieces falling at the nape of your neck and around your face. With the heat persisting into the night, you decided to wear a thin strap tank top that hangs low on your chest. It exposes miles of smooth skin, from your shoulders all the way down the arms wrapped around his kid. A dusty blue apron wraps around your waist over some baggy cargo pants so you must’ve came here right after work. There’s a glow from all the neon lights that adorns you and he has to will his mouth to move before he gets caught staring.

“Here.” He extends his hands to you. “I can take him back. Thank you for catching him. C’mon, bud. Let her get back to shopping.”

“It’s no problem,” you assure him with a smile. Your hands hooks under Grogus tiny arms and start to pull him off your torso. “Back to dad you go.”

But the moment he’s barely lifted, he cries out in protest with a shrill whine. Refusing to leave your side. You pull him back in instantly and run a soothing hand on his back.

“Oh! Okay, okay. You can stay with me for a minute,” you giggle in a sugary voice to Grogu. Bouncing him on your hip.

You both exchange a look of surprise (as much as his visor can give off anyway). What kind of person are you that Grogu prefers your embrace over his own father? He doesn’t know whether to be jealous or impressed.

But it’s getting late, they need to eat and get home and you probably need to get back to your own errands. Din’s hands extends again to take Grogu but you shake your head with a little smile. Letting him know it’s not an inconvenience to you.

“Here, wanna help me pick out some sweets?”

Grogu coos at your request, toying with the glittering silver chain pendant on your neck. You rest his kid on your hip effortlessly and the motion of it pinches something deep in Din’s chest. Turning to the assorted trays of sugared fruits on skewers, you list the various kinds for Grogu to pick out. Talking back with him like you can actually understand his little babbles. You answer him with “ooh, that’s a good choice” and “these are my favorites”. 

Din just stands aside, watching the way you both interact and it’s admittedly a bit pleasing to see how natural you are with him. Most people think he’s a pet at first glance. Karga treats him like a newborn. Talking gibberish and doting on him despite him handling a 50 year old. You, on the other hand, just treat him like a regular kid. And it’s refreshing to see.

His son’s head spins back at his father with the biggest set of sparkling inky eyes and Din can see the pleading question in them. He tilts his helmet at him and reminds him “one”. Those large ears deflate a little and you giggle at the interaction. Din offers to pay for your skewer along with Grogu’s as another thank you for looking after his son (again). The vendor gathers the treats in paper wrappers to take to go.

You turn to ask Din something, but it’s covered by the noise of yelling and cooking. He tilts his head a bit lower to try and catch what you’re saying. Then, without hesitation, your hand finds purchase on the pauldron on his shoulder. Prompting him to lean in closer to you so you can speak within earshot.

“It’s been a minute since I saw you last,” you remark with a raised voice. “Everything good?”

Shit.

For a second he freezes. Partly at the lack of distance between you, but mostly because the last time he saw you he stormed out of your place like it was on fire without so much as a goodnight. You’re probably wondering what the hell that was about and he honestly can’t answer that himself. Although your expression seems more cheerful than troubled. He crouches closer to your ears and replies with caution, hoping to avoid the direction of that conversation.

“Yeah, we’ve been um… traveling a lot lately. I get contracted by the new republic pretty often these days. Leaving him behind with someone whenever I’m off planet for too long doesn’t seem fair to him so he’s always by my side no matter what.”

“Ah, that makes sense. You usually stop by for medkit supplies so when I didn’t see you last week I figured you were away.”

Din mentally smacks his forehead. Right. Of course you meant the shop. Because what else would you be implying to a fucking customer? You’re just making small talk. Something he has never really gotten the hang of. Seems pretty damn easy when he’s drinking though…

“We actually just got back. Too tired to fix something up so I figured I’d grab us something quick and easy before heading home.”

“Ugh. I feel that. When I get home I’m crashing on the first soft surface I see,” you groan, still bouncing Grogu on the curve of your hip. Those hips…

No. Stop it.

“Busy day,” he asks and your eyes roll upwards.

“Busy week,” you exclaim. “I swear I think about quitting at least once a day. But I like it too much. Plus it’s the only thing I’m any good at. Otherwise I’d probably be some kind of criminal.” You pause then laugh at the thought before adding, “then you’d probably have to hunt me down, huh?”

That… is a scenario that he already knows is going to stick in his brain for a while. It’s such an enticing thought that he doesn’t bother to tell you he’s not in that business anymore. A tiny part of him would much rather have you think he’d chase you. Obviously you’re not serious, but he can’t help but lean into the joke.

“I don’t know,” he says unconvinced. “Might be pretty easy to find you. All I have to do is look wherever there’s street food.”

A laugh bubbles out of you and there’s a strange feeling that radiates in his chest at being able to make you laugh. Pride maybe? No, more like… satisfaction.

“Don’t underestimate me, Mando. I know my way around the outer rim. I’d make you work for it,” you say. Taunting him with a knowing smirk.

A smile tugs higher on his hidden face. The thought of you making him work for anything will no doubt be food for thought later. And instinct tells him that might’ve been your intention. But two can play at this game.

You’re already nearly face to face but he inches even closer, almost close enough for metal to meet skin. Ensuring you catch every word right into your ear.

“I’d like to see you try, Shop Girl.”

Your eyes grow a little wider at the sound of your nickname and he takes pleasure at just how effective it is. It’s another reminder of that night. A name that was spoken within an intimate atmosphere that only the two of you occupied. And by your expression, that same thought crosses your mind too.

You bite your bottom lip in a smile. The same lips that were between his hands. The only lips he can’t seem to forget. The shape, the color, and how fucking edible they look. He’s even noticed how they pout a little when you’re concentrated on a task. More questions surface.

What do they feel like? What do they taste like? What makes a kiss so good that everyone can recall their first?

The bubble created is suddenly burst by the outside world. The stall vendor gleefully hands over the candied fruit over the counter in their wrappers and you take them with your free hand. Handing the mixed one to Grogu because he couldn’t decide on just one flavor. Reality returns to Din’s head and his thoughts immediately sober up.

What the hell is he doing?

He tears his eyes away. Even if you can’t tell, looking at you like that for too long feels wrong. You’re a good person, you’re trying to live a normal life, and what you’ve told him you’re not looking to get involved in any drama. He has to keep reminding himself of those things.

That same instinct to leave hits him again. Because that urge to do something he can’t take back flares up again and it’s best to not give that feeling any more energy. For both your sakes. He gestures his hand in a hand-him-over motion, signaling to you and Grogu that it’s time to go.

“Alright, time to go kid. Say goodnight.”

Grogu whines with a mouthful of sweets and a face covered in sugar and it makes him chuckle to himself. Din would normally find the defiance a little cute, if it wasn’t for the stunt he pulled earlier. You carefully hand him over with both arms leaning in close and again he feels another pinch in his chest at how carefully you exchange him.

Your bare arms graze against his clothed ones and he pulls away the second he has hold of his kid. He ignores the small current of electricity from the contact and maneuvers Grogu into the crossbody bag to his hip. Which, of course, makes him protest.

“Nope. You had your chance. Now you get the bag.”

“Aw c’mon,” you scold “He was just playing around. Now he’s in bag jail?”

First the kid and now you? He can tell his son no, but it might be a little harder to tell you that.

“Yeah, yeah. Maybe next time he’ll think twice about running off in a crowd,” he groans.

Once the kid is settled in the bag, you follow him down. Crouching down, you sit face to face with Grogu as he stuffs his face with the candied fruit. Resting your free hand on his fuzzy head as the other holds your own skewered treat.

“Kay, little rebel. Go stuff your face with some good food. And take it easy on your poor dad, alright? He’s not built for that kinda stress.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” he asks, kind of amused by your ribbing. He can count on one hand the people who are undaunted enough to make playful jabs at him.

Your lips twist and your eyes take a tour up to your brows as you think of your reply.

“Hmm… just the way you get a little impatient sometimes. You were like that when you brought him over and paced my living room for an hour,” you chuckle. “You seem like the kind of man who gets antsy when something’s not in your control.”

A smile threatens to crawl his face. Pretty presumptuous. But he can’t deny how true that statement rings. Especially nowadays when it’s not just himself he has to worry about.

“Maybe so,” he replies with a hint of humor in his voice. “Patience isn’t really my strong suit. Although this one seems to enjoy testing it.”

“Patience is bitter,” you muse as you rub the top of Grogu’s head with your thumb. He coos with delight and the softest gaze glows on your face. Then from your crouched position, your eyes glance back up at Din and add, “…But the fruit is sweet.”

His jaw flexes beneath his helmet, and heat now courses through his veins.

That can’t be a good sign. He already enjoys your banter too much as it is. But that look just now was dangerous. It dredges up thoughts he shouldn’t have about you. Thoughts like kissing someone he barely knows. Feeling skin on skin. Showing you what a man like him can do to you compared to the boys of your past.

He saw it all over your pretty face when he held it in his hand. That flush on your cheeks, your dilated pupils. Hell, he even saw your heat signature rising in his helmet screen for fuck sake. There’s an attraction and that’s fine (and not completely unreciprocated) but it can’t be anything more than that.

You and him live completely different lives. There’s no need to uproot your peace and get involved in his complicated affairs. Even if something happened, it wouldn’t be long before the allure of the suit and mystery people usually perceive of Mandalorians would turn into repulsion.

That’s how it’s gone before. That’s the way it is.

•

You’re a bad person. A horrible human being and a shameless lowlife. Downright beyond saving.

I’d like to see you try, Shop Girl.

The damn sentence won’t stop replaying in your head. It’s not just a nickname. It’s a nickname he gave you. One that’s covered in underlying context and memories that only the two of you share. One that peppers your skin with goosebumps when it comes out of that raspy modulated voice. It’s even worse when your brain starts intrusively placing it in all sorts of sentences.

That’s it, Shop Girl…

You’re doing so well, Shop Girl…

Bend over for me, Shop Girl…

That last one has crawled into your dreams more often than you’d care to admit lately.

You need to get a grip. It’s just an attraction. You’ve been alone for too long and you’re getting all wound up over a smidge of attention. He’s just a regular decent person with a kid to take care of who also just happens to have an amazingly muscular body and a voice of sin. Simple as that.

Right. Simple.

After that night at the food stalls, the Mandalorian and Grogu have been visiting your humble Clinic Shop on a more frequently. Usually you'll see them a couple times a week if they're not on one of their long haul trips. Missions? Jobs?

It's not like Mando has any reason to let you know ahead of time. But when a week or so passes with no sign of silver or green, you can't help but feel a little down. You've come to look forward to seeing your regulars. But they grown to being your favorite customers.

And if you're being honest, theres a growing part of you that feels tied to the man in silver beskar. When he's here, the part blossoms. And when he's gone, it feels... wilted. It's unexpected and confusing to say the least. The closest feeling you could label it is homesickness. And truthfully, you're not really sure if you want to feel such a heavy thing towards anybody right now.

There's a lull in the store this hot muggy afternoon. You've already finished your prescription orders, restocked your shelves, even watered all the potted plants outside the entrance. Since you finally have some down time, you figured you might as well get to making some of your popular tea mixes.

On the back counter, you have a variety of dried herbs, flower buds, tea leaves, and a few large mixing bowls. The scent in the shop is incredible right now. Swirling around on the wind propelled by the metal fans around the shop. Spiced and aromatic with a hint of fruitiness. You let the smell fill your lungs and relax your body as you place measured scoops of the mix into small paper bags. A bead of sweat tracks down the back of your neck. Even with pinning your hair up and the strapless wrap you chose to wear today, the heat of the day still clings to your damp skin.

A cool glass of that Andoan wine would be so good right about now...

Maybe it was instinct, or maybe there really is some kind of invisible tie. But something makes your head tilt to the side and glance at the open entrance. And it's then that a glint of sliver light reflects on the stucco walls. A flutter of anticipation strikes through your chest and your eyes are locked at the entrance. Then, that familiar Silver T-visor and a pair of floppy green ears peek around the corner.

The smile that spreads across your cheeks is so big it almost hurts.

"Hey," you exclaim from the back of the store. You leave your station and excitedly make your way across the store to the pair as they step inside.

“It’s been a whi-“

“Ah ah, sorry," you cut Mando off mid greeting, halting him with your pointer finger. "Grogu gets first dibs.”

Mando shakes his head but you can tell he's humored. Turning his hip to the side and giving you access to the canvas crossbody where Grogu resides.

“Even though I'm a regular customer," Mando retorts.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that sounded a teensy bit like jealousy. You smirk, giving eyes only to the little green baby.

“Not when you’re as cute as him.” You say, placing Grogu on your hip and giving him little scritches on his wrinkled head.

“Isn’t that right, Kid. Mando wishes he could be half as cute as you.” The child coos at you and Mando shakes his head. But you can tell by his body language that he's at least a little amused.

You walk back to the back counter with the kid in your arms and Mando in tow behind you. And the feeling you have in this moment is oddly... domestic? You're not entirely sure if that's the right word. In your life you've never experienced domesticity. But you figure it's similar to that homesick feeling you get.

You place Grogu on top of your station and pull out an herbal lollipop from your apron for him. You like to keep a few handy for kids and they also help with coughs. The kids inky eyes gleam as he babbles and plunges the sugary candy in his mouth. 

"Any chance that delivery for those new Pharmakits arrived yet," Mando asks, leaning a hand on the counter next to you.

"They did," you nod. "Any chance you're planning on taking on an army on your next trip?"

He shrugs, tilting his helmet to the side in that way he does when he's being aloof.

"Doesn't hurt to keep one on hand. You never know."

You hum in acknowledgment but inside a pit forms in your stomach. The danger he faces whenever he goes on these "jobs" isn't lost on you. Lately, it's been on the back of your mind more often than not. On his last visit, when he asked about ordering stronger meds and triage supplies, it hit you just how much his long absences affect you. And just the thought of never seeing him or his little boy again stirs up something vile inside.

“You seem to be busy today,” he remarks, pointing out all the open jars and mixing bowls with various dried leaves and herbs.

His remark takes you out of your thoughts. You must've been silent a second too long for him to change the subject like that. With a deep inhale and slight embarrassment you shrug off the negative thoughts and ground yourself back to reality.

“Yes and no. I’ve been restocking while it’s dead to keep busy.”

He leans in a bit to get a closer look at the contents of the bowl. Close enough for you to catch the scent of smoke and musk on his clothes.

“You’re mixing… tea?”

You hum a yes and nod.

“Tea can be used for lots of medicinal purposes. Many people prefer natural remedies to pharmaceutical ones. I try to have a mix of both.”

“So this is medicine?” You sway your head to the side, trying to think of the best way to explain the purpose of the tea.

“Kiiind of. You could say it’s preventative.”

“What does it prevent?”

“Pregnancy.”

A clearing of his throat follows your answer. You turn toward him with a smirk and a raised brow but his visor has now turned away your face.

Most fearsome bounty hunter in the outer rim, everybody.

“You asked, man,” you chuckle with a shrug.

“Guess that’s on me,” he says.

“This is actually one of my best sellers,” you tell him. You grab the wooden scoop and raise up the floral mix, letting the various petals and herbs rain back down into the bowl. The motion makes the sweet scent drive up in the air. “I have customers tell me they don’t leave the house before their daily brew.”

“I’m glad business is going well for you,” he deflects, making you fold your smile in your teeth. And suddenly your brain sees a prime opportunity.

“You know, Mando…,” you drawl as you mix the petals. “If you’re ever in a pinch and you need some, I could give you a sample.” The way his helmet jerks to face you almost breaks your nonchalant smile.

“That’s um… very generous but it’d be wasted on me.” His body straightens stiffly and you can tell the topic makes him a bit uneasy. But you press on anyway.

“You sure? You can never be too safe. I’m sure any visitors would appreciate it.” He sighs deeply and turns away, shaking his head in annoyance.

God, this is too much fun. Teasing him is so easy. If it wasn’t for the helmet you bet he’s sweating right now. He might look cool and collected. But after drinking with him, you know there’s in fact a man under all that metal.

“I’m sure,” Mando confirms. “I'm not seeing anyone at the moment.”

And there’s the answer you’re looking for.

Was it a bit sneaky? Yeah. Yeah, it was sneaky. But it rules out the theory that reason he told you not to invite home again was because he’s currently taken. It’s still an enigma as to why. But honestly there’s still the gut feeling that you did something to make him uncomfortable that night.

Maybe you crossed a line with one of your questions. You tend to ask a lot of questions. Your filter also isn’t everybody’s flavor. Even so, you had a great time talking, even joking around with him. You’ve come to cherish that night in your memory. And the thought that you obliviously might’ve said something to offend Mando in any way makes your chest ache.

But if that was the case then why has he been stopping by your store more frequently since then? He always says he’s restocking his med kit but you get the feeling there’s more to it than that. Almost as if he’s checking up on you. Making sure you’re doing ok. And above all, that’s what scares you.

It’s scares you how good that thought makes you feel.

“Picking up an order!” An unfriendly voice bellows from the entrance where a Trandoshan man in fine robes stands waiting. “Name’s Samir T’ar.”

It takes a second to snap back into action. But you slap on your best customer service smile and leave your task for later. Rounding the corner past Mando and the kid and walking to the Medicine Cabinet. Wiping the non-existent dust on your hands on your waist apron.

“Hi, yes! I’ll grab that for you right now.”

The Trandoshan stands waiting at the counter as you sort through the assorted orders in the glass case. Looking for the right name tag and plucking the tied linen bag. You dont turn your eyes toward him, but Mando’s pressance is all your body is aware of. You can tell he’s miandering through the shop, looking at various items on the shelves. Which, to you, is a bit funny since hes been here plenty of times by now.

Is he playing the curious customer right now because there’s someone here?

You rest the tied bag next to the register as you run the total. All while the Trandoshan taps his clawed fingers impatiently on the check out counter.

“‘Kay with the compounded medicine and the herbal soak salts, that puts you at… fifteen credits today.”

“It was twelve the last time.”

“Yyyeesss, some of the ingredients for the meds were hard to come by this time around. Outer rim shipping routes, and all that,” you smile, trying to humorously reason with the man.

“And that’s supposed to be my fault? Just make it the same price as before and I’ll be on my way already.”

Ugh, great. One of those.

“I understand where you’re coming from, really. But fifteen is pretty fair considering the initial cost of acquiring ingredients of this high quality. Can’t beat the price compared to those New Republic clinics-"

“Nonononono," he waves with both hands in disapproval. “I’m not paying a single credit more for something I can make myself.”

That’s kind of the point of it buying here, right? To save yourself the trouble of making it?

“Sorry. Price is firm," you say confidently but kindly. "Buuut, how about if I throw in a couple sample heating pain patches. Free of charge,” you chirp, unfazed by his condescension.

Work with me, guy. There’s a man packing heat in the back…

“How about I give you ten for the order and leave? I don’t need you to peddle your-“

It’s a hand that shuts him up. Not yours, as much as it twitches to swipe that bag and toss in it the trash. No. This hand is big. Leather clad. And planted firmly on the counter between you and the customer.

“You can pay the fifteen or you can leave. But what you won’t do,” Mando leans in towards the Trandoshan for effect. “-is talk to her like that again. Make your choice.”

With his chest pressed to the back of your shoulder, you struggle to not squirm. You can feel his heat on your body. His frame eclipses yours from behind. The smell of gun smoke and musk caresses your nose and you die a little inside. But it’s his words that make you want to melt into a puddle.

He didn’t just ask, he demanded for you to be treated with respect. Not that you can’t hold your own when it comes to defending yourself against snarky customers. But the way Mando didn’t even hesitate to intervene on your behalf. It stirs up all sorts of thoughts.

Oh maker, you really are a shitty person. The man stands up for you and all you can think about is how hot he sounded.

The Trandoshan swallows hard. Mando might as well a knife to the guy’s throat with the look of silent terror on his reptilian face. Without even breaking eye contact with Mando, he stuffs his clawed hand in his pockets, and pulls about 20 credit chips without counting. Letting them clatter on the counter as he tosses them.

“H-here,” he stutters. “Fifteen is fair.” With that he snatches his order from the countertop and makes a hasty exit.

“Have a nice day~,” you sing-song as he scurries out onto the street.

You shift your eyes up to Mando, his palm still pressed flat against the counter with his other hand thumbing his belt. His visor follows the customer as he leaves and you can tell that his body language doesn’t relax until the he’s completely out of sight.

“Fucker…,” he mutters under his breath. When he finally turns his visor to you, he finds a knowing little smirk on your face.

“What?”

“You know, if you really wanted to scare him, you could’ve just pulled out your blaster.”

His visor turns away and he takes a step back as if he’s been caught doing something out of character. And if it wasn’t for his confident stance, you’d almost say he got a little flustered just now.

“I didn’t like the way he spoke you,” he grumbles. Which only makes you giggle.

“You’re right,” you agree with a serious tone. Slamming your palms on the counter. “That’s the last straw! I’ll have to close and resort to a life of crime after all!”

Although you can’t read his face, his body language says it all. He tilts his head to the side in a way that can only mean “are you fucking kidding me” and it only makes you smile harder.

“C’mooon, it’s funny,” you say. But he’s still not charmed.

“Does he always treat you like that,” he asks like he needs to know for certain.

You fold your lips between your teeth to hide your smile. He’s concerned for you and you can’t help but bathe in it. At least for a little bit.

“And if I said yes?”

“I’m being serious.”

“It’s fine, Mando. It’s really not a big deal for me. Look, if I let every snippy customer get to me, I wouldn’t have a business. I’m a big girl. I can fight for my honor all on my own, don’t you worry.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Yeah? What is your point then?”

He steps in closer. Forcing you crane your neck to face him. Your backside unconsciously presses against the back of the counter and you’re pinned. He’s impossibly close. Close enough to see your eyes reflected on the inky black screen. Knowing he’s captured your full attention, he hits you with a bombshell that devastates you.

“I wouldn’t let anyone disrespect you when I can do something about it,” he says crystal clear, lowering  his voice. “If someone gives you trouble, they’ll deal with me before they mess with you... Understand?”

That shuts you right up. Your playful expression falls, now replaced with silent astonishment. He keeps saying things that reach deep inside you, making your chest tight. Words like that make it hard to breathe.

You feel utterly captured and it’s no wonder he was the best hunter in the outer rim. Because even though he’ll defend your honor and call you sweet nicknames… all he has to do is stand his ground in front of you to make you feel like prey. And fuck, do you wanna be caught…

“Ok,” you breathe when you find the courage. “I understand now.”

“Good…”

Silence streches between you and it feels as though you’re both waiting for something to happen. Something that feels like it’s been teetering on the edge since the night you drank together. It’s connected and deep in a way you’ve never experienced before. You can tell it’s something he’s afraid to say out loud.

What you’re both afraid to say out loud.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t add anything to his statement. He’s got you locked in his gaze with no escape. And for a moment you wonder if he’ll take hold of your jaw again. Goosebumps rise to your skin because it wants so badly to close the gap.

Suddenly, a call rings from the vambrace on Mando’s forearm, abruptly breaking the tension. At first he hesitates to address it, still locked onto you. But after the second ring he lets out an aggravated sigh and steps away to check the incoming call.

You walk back to your work table and mixing bowl of tea to give yourself something to do while your breathing returns to normal. Scooping a measured cup from a large jar of dried leaves before adding it in.

Grogu sits with his little feet dangling over the table, now finished with the lollipop and looking at the candy-less stick with droopy ears. And before Mando turns to look, you sneak his son another herbal lollipop from your apron.

"Don't tell your dad," you whisper, pressing your index finger over your lips. Which earns you a happy little "Batu" in understanding.

Mando is pacing around now. Conversing with a gruff sounding Lasat. You don’t eavesdrop per se, but words like “new lead”, “investigation”, and “high-risk” get your ears to perk up.

“Shit,” he sighs deeply once the call is done. Planting his hands on his hips.

“Work call?”

“They like to keep me busy, that’s for sure. Best not keep them waiting.”

“R-right! The pharmakits."

You walk towards side of your shop in the back closet where your new inventory sits in their delivery crates. Grabbing one case but then after a second thought grabbing another before turning back and handing them to Mando. When you return Grogu is already back in his father's tote still nursing his treat.

“Couple things," you disclaim, handing the cases to him. "Keep these in a dark cool place if you can. Heat can spoil some of the medicine. And if you ever find yourself needing the epibacta, I’d advise you to take in a safe place. This dose will knock you out cold for a while. Emergencies only.”

He takes the cases by the handles and gives you a nod of understanding.

“I appreciate it. I’ll try to avoid needing it.”

“Just… be safe.”

“I will…”

Another beat of silence. At this point it's starting to feel like you're waiting on the other person to break the ice. But after a moment, he clears his throat.

“Well... Until next time, Shop Girl.”

“Until next time,” you repeat.

He really should stop calling you that. But you just can’t bring yourself to stop him. What do even tell him if he asks why?

You turn to the holopad on the front counter and check the inventory list to give your hands something to do. Chewing your bottom lip as walks towards the exit. One step, then another…

“And thank you,” you quickly add before he steps out. His foot stalls just before reaching the street and you tap on the screen pretending not to notice. Your eyes glance up to him, catching his helmet peer at you over his shoulder “…for stepping in.”

“Anytime,” he says softly. He step out into the street and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You lean on the counter with your chin propped in your palm, now free to watch them go without notice.

Grogu turns back to look at you one last time, his tiny arm fighting against the fabric of his bag before popping out and waving at you. The adorable gesture makes you giggle. The little guy must know exactly how stinking cute he is. You wiggle your fingers back at him from behind the counter. Mando takes notice of his kid, turns his head back, and finds your gaze.

For a moment, everything’s frozen. People cross and mix in the street between you. Life seemingly goes on like any other day for everyone in town. But in your eyes, there’s only him. Only bright silver fills your vision. After a moment, Mando raises a hand for a final farewell, and in the next, he’s gone. Blended into the crowd.

An ache spreads in your chest, and that confirms it. You can’t deny that what you’ve been pushing down for months isn’t just an attraction. Strangers can be attracted to each other but he feels like anything but.

You like him. You like how you feel when he’s around and how safe his presence feels. You like that little skipped beat you get when something you said earns even the smallest chuckle from him. You like that he trusts you around his kid.

And you love that he keeps coming back.

You’ve tried to rationalize as just a simple customer acquaintance. But you can’t keep kidding yourself. Its always felt more than that. And you want to know more about him.

At the end of the day, you roll down the metal doors of your humble apothecary and walk the same 15 steps up to your home as you do everyday. You bathe, put on your most comfy shirt and sleep shorts, make yourself a simple meal, and wind down for the night. It’s been your routine everyday since you made this place your home.

Only tonight, despite all your trinkets, all your memories, and all your comforts, tonight your home feels a bit empty. Like something important has been removed and you can’t place what it was. With your dinner bowl in hand, you almost take your seat on the couch before thinking twice on it and choosing the floor of your living room instead tonight.

You actually find it to be pretty comfortable. More grounding. You only wish you had something warm to lean back on.

•

Din thought Guild Master Greef Karga had an inflated ego. But High Magistrate Greef Karga makes that Karga look like a Jedi monk.

He finds himself sitting on a leather chase with his legs propped on the window ledge in Karga’s high tower office. He watches him spread and maneuver a 3D hologram model of Nevarro and the town. His voice filled with ambition as he explains all his new projects for the upcoming year.

“We’ll put the lodges here, here, and here. They’ll have access to the hot springs in the crawling canyons and docks will be built around the water edges. I’ve spoken with that lovely Twi’lek bathhouse owner and she’s spending her best architects to Nevarro as a personal favor to me. It’s going to be the jewel of the rim I tell you!”

Much of the dialog goes over Dins head. Mostly because he’s dead tired and currently operating on less than four hours of sleep. They only landed a couple hours ago from another grueling mission. He partly listens to Karga’s plans, partly watches Grogu quietly sit on the hologram table as he stuffs his mouth with blue cookies his “uncle” has given him. But mostly, Din gazes out one of the many windows in his 360 degree office. Watching the sun set over the canyons and turn the sky a dusty pink.

The shiny bronze protocol droid shuffles around the office with a silver tray with two crystal glasses of spotchka. He offers a glowing glass to Karga who gladly takes it. Then the droid starts to approach Din with the platter, offering him a glass as well.

“Uh no no, he doesn’t drink,” Karga quickly corrects, taking a momentary pause from his plans. The shiny droid fumbles a bit, flustered, then offers an apology before scuttling away with the tray.

Mando doesn’t even bother to correct them. Too much energy. It’s true, he’s never accepted alcohol in front of Karga. Especially in those early guild days when trust was low. But even to this day, Din doesn’t drink around people.

Well… most people, that is.

An image of last time Din saw you pops into his head. That thick, slightly mussed hair tied up with a hair stick. Dewy skin. All smiles and laughter. You wore a deep blue torso wrap that time, His eyes kept following the lines of your collar bones and all that exposed skin seemed to glow in the reflected sunlight in the shop.

And those lips. Those goddamn pink tinted lips that he can’t get out of his head. If that’s not the definition of beauty he doesn’t know what is.

Your teasing is something he’s growing used to. But that day you pushed too far. You weren’t taking him seriously and you shouldn’t be the only one who gets to tease, right? When he cornered you against the counter, he made it known just how serious he was about defending you. That flush came back to your cheeks and your breathing had picked up. You had no idea, but your eyes had found his and it made heat pool in his lower abdomen as he got lost in the color of them.

In that moment, Din wrestled back the impulse to lift you up on that countertop, spread those perfect legs and-

“-Right, Mando?” Karga’s voice interrupts just as that train of thought was getting good. Din turns his visor over to him.

“Hmm?”

“You just agreed to let the kid spend the night here.”

“Right. Yeah,” Din scoffs. “Was that before or after I sold my ship to the Jawas,” he replies in a gruff tone. Karga doesn’t find the sarcasm amusing.

“Alright, alright.”

“Maybe I’ll sell them my armor while I’m at it.”

“I get it,” he exclaims. “You weren’t even listening! I was talking about the space port proposal and I can’t even tell where you clocked out. That's not like you, Mando.”

“I’m tired. I just got back from a long trip.” Kargas eyes glance between Din and the window he's been looking out from.

“I wouldn’t say tired. More like… Distracted.”

He says the word with an insinuation Din would rather do without.

“It’s nothing,” he deflects.

“Hey, you know me, Mando. I’m not one to judge,” Karga says, throwing his hands in the air. “If there’s anything on your mind I’m all ears. Money, politics, work, women-“

“There’s nothing to discuss. I’m fine," Din deadpans.

Kargas covers Grogus ears, who is too preoccupied by his munching to mind.

“Sounds like you need to get laid.”

Maker...

“You’re sordid,” he grumbles, shaking his head and turning back to the window. Karga just laughs. Amusement written all over his wrinkled face.

The arguments were one of the main things that changed between them over the last few years. Now they bicker like two old friends instead of two business associates. But one thing that has never changed is the way Karga tries to pressure him into revealing things out of him. Imperfectly human things.

He’d offer Din all sorts of things like spice or Twi’lek bathhouses just to see if he was capable of being tempted. And right now… there’s only one other person Din can think of capable of doing that.

“You know what I think? I think you’re starting to outgrow this lone wolf lifestyle of yours,” he speculates. “You’re a father now. Don’t you think the little one needs a mother?”

Dins helmet swivels back to Karga.

“Don’t you think you should stick to governing your town?”

“I was just getting to that," Karga exclaims excitedly. "You know we really should consider moving a few of the-“

“Here we go…,” Din sighs to himself.

What should’ve been a quick visit has turned into a one sided yap session. It’s been a couple weeks since he left and he’s eager to re-supply for his next run with Zeb. He’ll need to head to the square at some point as well. His home is in desperate need of a re-stock. And of course, a visit to the clinic probably wouldn’t be a bad idea if he’s already in the area.

Even from up here, your store can be seen at the far corner of the plaza. And every couple minutes, he can see you. Popping in and out of the small store and rearranging some of the potted plants outside. People greet you from the street and you turn to wave back.

It’s getting harder and harder to find excuses to go there that sound necessary. Last time he was there he picked up two new pharmakits, even though another two regular medkits sit unopened in his home. He’s been buying that energy tea you make, despite him being a kaf drinker his whole life. He keeps going back for shit he really doesn’t need. But if he was pressed to give a better reason, it’s mostly because he feels a need to check on you.

True, Nevarro has become significantly safer, but that doesn’t make it safe. Especially for a woman living completely on her own. You’re a kind hearted, giving person in a galaxy that does nothing but take. And someone like that should be protected. He’s looked the other way too many times in the past and he doesn’t want to be that person anymore. And plus the kid enjoys the visits.

Sure, the kid. Keep telling yourself that, Din…

A chiss man with a floating pallet of goods approaches your shop entrance and your attention turns from watering the plants to greet the vendor with a bright smile. You speak animately. And it would normally be endearing, if it wasn't directed towards another man. In the privacy of his helmet, Din grimmaces.

He shouldn’t be surprised. You’re well traveled, knowledgeable. It’s no wonder you’re able to buy products from so many places. But this particular vendor is getting a bit too close for Din’s comfort.

As usual, you talk with much enthusiasm. Sparking a conversation with the man. It’s clear you’re familiar with each other by the body language you both give off. And he’s not sure if it’s because you regularly get inventory from the man, or something beyond that.

You turn around on the balls of your feet to dip back inside the shop and as you do you’re completely oblivious to the way the Chiss’s head tilts to the side so his crimson eyes can roam your backside. And the only reason Din caught it was because the binocs in his visor seem to have unconsciously been turned on by his finger on his vambrace.

You return to with a small wooded box and open the lid to show him mineral salts, the kind he’s seen you make herbal soaks with. The vendor offers a large lidded glass jar of some kind of dried purple flower buds from his cart. With the added exchange of some credit chips, there’s more talking and smiling. Something he said makes you laugh as you sign his holopad and Din has to flex his fingers to stop them from clenching into a fist.

Enough. Stop watching.

The mental check forces Dins attention to shift back to whatever Karga keeps droning on about. You can associate with whoever you damn well please. It’s none of his concern who you do business with or what your personal life is like. Din nearly turns his visor away. But out of the furthest corner of his eye, he catches something he can’t tear away from.

The distance between the Chiss and you has suddenly shrunk. The moment unfolds in slow motion as his eyes chew on every second. The Chiss steps closer to lean down then…

Din’s arms uncross when the Chiss leans in close to your face. And before he knows it, the fucker plants a quick peck on your cheek. And you return it! The whole exchange lasts less than a second before you wave each other goodbye and he goes his separate way. You return inside with the product like nothing and Din sits there, completely rattled.

What… the fuck?

Was it a casual kiss? Did you even know that he was checking you out? If you did, was that a friendly goodbye gesture or was it flirtatious? That son of a bitch gets to walk around with bliss on his cheek all day now. Oddly enough, that’s what puts Din over the edge. A complete fucking stranger knows how your lips feel and he doesn’t.

Never in his life has he harbored thoughts like these. It’s downright pathetic. He feels corrupted.

“Fuck it,” he growls to himself beneath his breath.

“-Anyway, back to my point. I was considering having a port built for- hey!”

Before Karga has a chance to monologue further, Din has picked up his son from the edge of the desk—grubby hands still clinging to the bag of cookies—and has placed him right into Karga arms.

“I need you to watch over him for the night. I’ll come back for him in the morning.”

“Okay then? Fine by-.” Din doesn’t bother to listen because there’s no ending to that sentence that matters to him in this moment. He makes his exit, the slide doors opening as he nears them.

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going all puffed up like that?”

“I need to settle something,” he tosses back before letting the doors shut behind him.

The sun is getting low and a few other vendors are starting to take down their signs and close their doors. You’re probably getting ready to close up for the day yourself. Hopefully he’s able to catch you before then.

Each step on the cobblestone is heavy with purpose. And it's not unoticed the way several people on the street see an armor clad Mandalorian and scurry out of his way with a petrified look on their faces. But right now he doesn't particularly care. Right now everything in his head is clouded with the exception of one objective.

From a couple stores away, you catch him approaching from your peripheray. And he's not sure how to describe it, but it's like something in your body language softens when you see him. Your shoulders become less tense, your eyes gleam, and you cast him that bright toothy smile that could stop any man's heart.

“Ah! Hey! It’s been a while, Mando! How’s-“

“I need to have a word with you.”

Both your expression and your hand freeze momentarily in place, minus a suspicious quirk in your brow.

“Okaaay, you have my attention,” you chuckle, but there’s a nervous tone riding on it. “What can I do for you today?

“I need to speak with you," you tells you bluntly. "Privately.”

Confusion paints across your face and your smile falls a bit. Understanding how serious his request is.

“Like, right now,” you ask hesitantly.

“Preferably, yes,” he answers.

“Ok, yeah sure. Um… I’m just about to close up and we can head upstairs in a minute.” You start to turn away but then quickly turn back to him and immediately add “or we can go somewhere you’re more comfort-“

”It’s fine,” Din quickly interjects, stopping that train of thought. “This won’t take long anyway.”

You blink at him a couple times and give him a quiet “ok then” before turning around and preparing your shop to close.

Seems that Din’s command from his last visit was taken seriously. Regret over those words washes over him. If he’s being honest, being inside your home again sets off several red lights in his head. But he’s already on the verge of blurting out something teetering on the edge of his brain. Better to wait until he’s behind closed doors and away from any prying eyes. Or flirtatious vendors. This shouldn’t be complicated. He’ll make it quick.

He decides to wait around the corner of the shop where the stone steps meet your front door. He leans against the wall with his arms crossed and his finger nervously tapping his arm brace. After a few minutes you round the corner with your bag over your shoulder and lead the way into your home. Instinctively, he looks around for any eyes before entering and closing the door behind him.

“So where’s your boy,” you ask, tossing your bag on the couch and walking towards the kitchen. “I have to say I’m kind of surprised not to see him on your hip. You seem inseparable.”

Your voice is chipper but he can tell by your stiff body and lack of eye contact that you’re not entirely comfortable. For a moment Din reconsiders this encounter. But no. The sooner he this bug out of his system the better.

“He’s… spending the night with a friend,” he answers. Grabbing one of those ceramic cups from the cabinet, you fill it with water from the sink and he’s starting to think that you’re only doing that to keep your hands busy.

“Aaww, a sleepover? Is it his first-”

“If you don’t mind,” he cuts off. “I’d like to get to my point.”

“Oh… Y-yes, I'm sorry. I’m rambling,” you say sheepishly. “I’m just…,” you take a deep breath, rest the cup of water on the counter, and lean back against it. Eyes fixed to the floor.

“…it’s just what you said the last time you were here. And the way you approached me earlier, you seemed kinda… I don’t know, upset? I know you don’t wanna be here so I’m wondering what I did to upset you that you’d come here.”

Damn it… He’s such an asshole.

He should’ve never said that. You've been thinking this entire time that you’re at fault for his shitty social skills. Truthfully, with the way that wine had his head so deliciously foggy, he had to leave before his body did something it was aching to do, begging him to do. But how does he even begin to explain that?

“You didn’t do anything,” he answers immediately. But thinks on it once more. “Well… technically you did. But I’m not upset with you.”

“You’re not,” you ask him sheepishly.

“I’m not,” he assures.

A beat passes in silence as you chew over his words.

“Okaaay,” you say with a smirk, “now you really got my attention.”

That mischievous tone travels through Din’s helmet, in his ears, and settles warmly in the pit of his stomach. Something about the combination of your sweet voice and relaxed shift in your body language makes this whole interaction even more nerve wracking.

“Sooo, you wanted to talk to me about something I did?”

“Right.”

“Okay, sooo...” He feels you urging him to continue but now Din finds himself more cautious of his words now. If you’ve been silently worried about offending him the last thing he needs is for this to come off wrong way.

“It’s… a bit hard to explain,” he exhales. If he could pinch his brow right now he would. “To put it plainly, the night we drank together, you said something that’s been… stuck in my head.”

“Was it the thing about the name?”

“N-no.”

“Was it the Pantora story?

“No.”

“Was it the comment about knowing my liquor? Because I like a drink from time to time but I don’t have like a problem or anything-“

“No- Can I finish,” he asks impatiently.

“Okay, okay. Sorry. Go ahead.”

“When we were drinking, and talking… we said a lot of things and got into some deep conversations. And at one point, you asked me if I ever kissed anyone before. I said no back then because… I've never given it any thought in the past. But now it’s got me… curious.”

Your quirk your brow at him.

“Curious how?”

“I want to know what it’s like,” he answers plainly.

“… Sorry, what?”

“I need this… curiosity out of my head. It’s driving me crazy and I need it out of my system. So I figured… since you’re the one who mentioned it in the first place, you can help me kill it.”

“You’re… Okay so, hold on…,” you say with a shaky breath. “Are you… asking me to kiss you?”

“That’s… an oversimplification. But yeah.”

“You’re asking me to be your first kiss? Am I understanding you right?”

Maker, you ask a lot of questions. Are you always like this? You did the same exact thing when he gave you the wine. On any other day it would’ve been endearing but he didn’t anticipate the conversation lasting longer than a minute. Now his request sounds more and more lecherous with each passing second.

“I won’t bother you again after this. You have my word. It’s completely casual. Just killing a curiosity.”

“There’s a preeetty common phrase about curiosity and loth cats that goes differently.” A giggle tumbles out of your mouth on the tail end of that sentence and humility crawls under his skin.

“Sorry to waste your time.” He starts to turn towards the nearest exit when you step in to stop him. Placing a hand briefly on his arm in the space between his armor and the contact sends a current of electricity up his spine.

“No wait, don’t be like that,” you toy with him.

“I’m not laughing,” he spits. But you still have the nerve to giggle.

“It’s okay, Mando,” you laugh assuredly.

“No, it’s not. It’s ridiculous. I hate it. I hate that you put this in my head.”

You fold your lips between your teeth to try to hide your amusement. But you still can’t help but crack a smile a little at his frustration. He basically just confessed to having this obsession for months and he can tell by your smug expression that you’re enjoying how incredibly uncomfortable he is about this.

“You’re right. I’m… sorry,” you say under your breath. Trying to fix your face.

There’s a beat of silence. Stepping in closer, he tilts his head down to you. Locking you in his gaze. He takes pleasure in being nearly a full head taller and the way your breathing picks up before he says in a low gruff voice…

“No, you’re not.”

You smile behind your hand as your eyes dance across his visor, unknowingly locking eyes with the man beneath. You know you’re not sorry, just like he knows he’s not particularly sorry either. It’s not just this moment. It goes back to every interaction you’ve had together. The banter, the nicknames, the visits. He’s as much to blame as you are. And then… you slowly you shake your head, agreeing with him and confirming his suspicion.

Fuck, you’re cute. He hates that he loves how cute you are. He hates himself for not being stronger.

“Ok,” you nearly whisper. Looking up at him with the sweetest eyes. “I’ll help you.”

•

“Is all this really necessary?”

Din currently sits on the floor of your living room. The same spot as last time in fact. Your were the one that insisted on it and honestly he couldn't bring himself to tell you no. Since he sat down in the soft carpet, you've been flitting around your home turning off lamps, closing blinds, and covering any reflective items. Which, admittedly, he's greatful for. But the more time he spends here, alone with you, the more he's not going to want to leave.

“It’s not everyday you get your first kiss, Mando. I wanna make sure it’s a good one. I wish I could re-do mine.”

Gloves fingers flex and stretch restlessly on his knees as you approach the last lamp sitting on a side table in the living room and pause.

“Are you sure about this?”

Fuck no he’s not. But the sooner he does this, the sooner he can find some normalcy in his head again.

“Flip the switch," he says in a low modulated voice.

You fold in a growing smile before taking a deep breath and flicking the switch. Bathing the entire home in inky darkness. The silhouette of you through turns to hues of thermal green and red, carefully maneuvering through your living room by memory before finding your seat in the floor in front of him. And with slight hesitation, Din reaches up to remove the last barrier he has.

“Can you see anything?”

“Not a bit,” you answer.

With that confirmation, he unclasps the chin strap and slowly lifts the helmet up and off. He blinks several times to adjust his vision before finding the outline of the table and placing his helmet there. On the return, his head bumps into your outstretched hand. Not knowing that you had moved.

“Agh.”

“Sorry sorry,” you pull away. “Give me a moment, I’ll find you.”

Your hands search in the dark for him. He can’t see much but he can tell your hands land on nothing by the way the air between you moves and he doesn’t feel any contact on his person. So he reaches out, bumping into your arms and taking hold of them. Following the line of your forearm until he reaches your hands.

“Here,"  he murmurs. Gloved hands wrap around your wrists and gently lift them up. He guides your hands forward until…

You let out a small gasp when your hands find the warmth of his bare face. Soft and giving as opposed to the cold, unyielding beskar. Their movements are slow and explorative. Running your thumbs over his stubble. Surprisingly his hands don’t release their grasp. His leather clad digits press against the racing pulse in your wrist as his thumbs run over the back of your palm.

“This help?”

“Yes, thank you,” you whisper.

From sound of rustling on the rug, Din can sense your body leaning in. Your breath brushes over his skin for a moment before something warm presses against his chin and it takes a second to register that it’s your mouth. You ease him into the build up and he’s greatfull for it. Jaw. Then cheek. Then just grazing the furthest corner of his mouth.

And then… contact.

At first it doesn’t feel like much. Just something soft and warm pressing against his mouth. What most people refer to as a peck, he assumes. But it’s when you barely pull back and return for another that a shiver wracks his skin. Your lips lock in the return, molding together in perfect unison. And it’s fucking electric.

Just by feel alone, he senses that your lips are slightly open. So he mimics you. Giving his jaw just enough slack to respond as you go in again. The sensations have his mind in a thick fog. The soft flesh, the sweet taste, the faint suction. His skin feels like there’s live wires going off underneath. Giving in completely, he finally returns the kiss. Pressing into it with more confidence.

You hum against his mouth, and he dies a little inside.

That’s when the real hunger builds. There’s a slow simmering heat rising between you now. Without thinking, his hands grip your wrists a little harder. Pulling you in closer. The kiss grows a bit stronger with each return back into each other with no loss of contact. Lingering longer and breathing against one another.

He feels your head tilt more to the side and again he mimics your movement. The break only lasts a fraction of a moment. But in the re-entry, the tip of your soft tongue happens to brush his mouth. Sweet wetness coats his bottom lip and it’s in that instant Din feels all restraint leave his body.

Taking your face in his hand, he kisses you open mouthed, inviting you in. Your tongues slowly graze one another and if he fucking died in this moment he’d be ok with it knowing that he got to know how you taste.

The hunger becomes unbearable. Soon enough the breathing becomes heavier and the air becomes hot. Your arms end up wrapping over his shoulders, pulling him deeper and he’s more than happy to dive further. Another small noise escapes your throat and the vibration travels through his entire body.

He needs to feel you. To taste you. Devour you. He needs you.

A break for air is the only thing that throws him back into semi-consciousness as you pull away. The heat built up between you makes him dazed. Hot breaths fill the small space between your lips as you lean your forehead against his.

“Mando?”

“Yes,” he responds in a raspy whisper. A few moments pass as you collect your words and catch your breath.

“Is this really just about curiosity…?”

Your words lean more towards a statement than a question. There’s no point in denying it now. As much as he tried to convince himself or rationalize his strange request, he does feel a pull towards you. Much more complicated than just attraction. The more he sees you, learns about you, and talks with you, the more… inevitable you feel to him. There’s a gravity to you that he can’t escape from. Nor does he want to.

“Yes and no.”

“What does that mean?” The breath of your question brushes the heated skin of his cheek. And right now, he can't think of any answer that wouldn't give him up.

So he lets it fly.

“It’s not just the kiss I’m curious about.”

The silence in the air is thick. The only thing between you are the sounds of both of you catching your breath. It’s possible he might have ruined everything with that one sentence. But it’s the truth. It had nothing to do with the kiss and everything to do with you. Your kindness, your banter, your hospitality. All of it.

There’s no way of telling what you’re thinking at the right now. It’s in this moment that he wishes the lights weren’t out so he can at least read your expression. But then after what seems like an eternity, your forehead nudges against his and you blow a deep sigh of relief. Arms still draped over his shoulders.

“Oh good… I thought it was only me,” you confess with a skittish laugh.

And that tightly pulled restraint finally snaps inside him when he hears that.

Without any hesitation, he dives back in. Kissing you like a man starved. Just like that night, he feels drunk. Only this time it’s on the taste of you and the feeling of your hands finally on him. It’s that thought that drives him to rip off his leather gloves and toss them aside without breaking contact once. His bare hands find your waist and the strip of bare skin between your shirt and linen pants.

“Is this what you meant,” you pant. “When you told me not to invite you in again.”

“Yeah... it is.” He pants the confession as his mouth trails down the line of your jaw and finding your neck in the dark.

“That’s a relief,” you chuckle. “I was worried I offended you.”

“The only thing that’s offensive is that I can’t see that pretty pink flush on your face right now.”

“Should I get a blindfold,” you tease.

What a fucking woman. The mental image of you in a blindfold, only a blindfold, pours fuel on an already blazing fire. But for now, he’s more than ok feeling his way around tonight.

“Next time.”

It comes out of his mouth confidently and without hesitation. Because you both know there will be a next time. He’s bitten into the forbidden fruit and now he’s addicted to the taste.

With a simple shift, his hands dip beneath the thin fabric of your shirt and find the delicious heat of your soft belly.

"Lay down for me."

With your arms draped over his shoulders, you eagerly comply. Slowly dragging him down with you. He careful not to press all his weight on you—being crushed by beskar would definitely kill the mood—but it doesn't stop you from pulling tighter. Craving connection. All while Din rains wet kisses and soft bites upon your pulse.

So this is what your skin tastes like. Slightly salty, sweet, and smooth between his teeth. He might eat you whole if he’s not careful. He nips at the skin of your exposed collar bone and you writhe. Arching to press your chest to his. So he decides to give it some attention.

“Take it off," you pant with an neediness that drives him pull the damn shirt off in one swift motion.

His bare hand crawls up your sternum. Exploring the valley of soft skin free of any restricting fabric. The moment his fingers find the stiff peak of your bare breast he pinches eagerly. Earning the sweetest little whimpers from you as his mouth works on the other nipple. Biting and sucking the soft point. He can’t see a thing in the dark, but what’s lacking in sight is made up by sound with the delicious breathy moans you let out for him.

“Mando…”

Fuck, does he love the way you call out for him. Every touch, kiss, and  suck he gives elicites the most gorgeous sounds out of that perfect mouth. The sounds to straight to his cock, now painfully stiff. It's tempting to just dive into you right now. But he's waited this long. So why not take his sweet time with you. With his face still burried between your breasts and you fingers raking through his hair, Din feels a press of your hips against his armor. And he needs more.

“Shop Girl…”

The nickname doesn’t catch your attention. You’re either too lost in the moment or too breathless to answer. It’s only when he uses your given name that your body perks up and you give him a raspy “yeah?”.

“Do you want this," he asks.

His right hand has found its way to the waist band of your work pants. Ready and waiting for your answer. You try to grind against his hips but he presses your hips down firmly. He knows damn well neither of you want to stop. But he needs to hear it. There's no going back after this.

"Is this ok?"

He doesn't know if you're unsure. Or if maybe your trying to meet his eyes through the darkness. But there's a long pause. Only the sounds of heavy breaths and the pulse beating hard in his ears. And every second that passes has him hanging on the edge of madness.

"Yes...," you finally breathe. "I need you."

She needs me.

The words leave him winded. Months of questions and pining suddenly feel well worth the wait just to hear those words. They not only affirm going further, but the bond that's been steadily growing between you. Not a single ounce of hesitation survives after he hears that. And with one hand, Din loosens the tie of your pants and dives in beneath the fabric of your underwear.

By feel alone, Din manages to pull your pants down to your thighs and you kick them off your feet. His hands roam over all the smooth exposed skin and he can only imagine how perfect you must look if you feel this good. The tips of his fingers finds the dampness between your legs, running along the seam, and he slowly pushes inside until his knuckles meet your entrance.

You release a soft gasp and he swallows it with a deep kiss. You both sigh into each other's mouth. As if you need the other to even breathe. Din's lips never leaves yours as he does an experimental curl against the fleshy part of your walls and you arch your body against his.

“This where you need me," he huffs against your lips. "Right here?”

“Right there... Perfect..."

"I wanna taste you." The confession comes out before he can even think about it.

"Then taste me, Mando."

He can hear the smile in your voice. The taunt. And he's more than happy to reciprocate it.

He rises above you and you whine from the lack of contact. But the loss doesn't last long. Because before you even can register what he's doing, his head has already lowered between your legs.

"What are you- ah."

That gasp you let out when his mouth envelops your pussy is downright tortured. Good too know you were just as desperate as he was.

"Fuck! I thought you meant... You were gonna... Shit..."

No fucking way would he be satisfied tasting you on just his fingers.  The sweet tangy flavor explodes over his tongue and he groans. Fucking hell, you taste good. He doesn’t even know what the hell he’s doing but that’s sure as shit not stopping him. He drowns in you. Lapping and sucking on your swollen little bud and loving the way it makes you cry out. Two thick fingers pump into your wet heat as you melt in his mouth. Such a fucking treat.

You writhe beneath him. Squirming and clawing at anything to hold on to as he works you up. Eventually your hands finds his hair again. Taking a fistful and pressing his face further against your cunt. The sting on his scalp makes his cock twitch in his flight suit and he groans.

“You want me to make you come, Shop Girl," he mumbles against you.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Make me come, Mando... Please…”

He doesn't break pace, doesn't falter, doesn't change a damn thing what he's doing because he can feel close to the edge you are. You tighten around his digits as the pump in and out. And with a firm suck on your clit you let out a strangled gasp.

"Oh Fuck! Fuck! Mando!"

Your breathing becomes short and shallow. Panting so hard right before holding your breath and tipping over the edge with a strangled cry. You come long and hard. Trembling so much he has to hold you steady by the hips.

Through the waves of your climax, Din continues to eat you. Lapping at your perfect pussy like it's wine and he doesn't waste a single drop of you. Even sucking and licking his fingers clean as you lay breathless before him. They come out of his mouth with a wet pop and he can’t help but let out a small breathy laugh.

“I’ve always wanted to try that…” he confesses.

You let out your own exhausted little laugh and he can already tell he wants more. More laughter, more of those pretty sounds, more of you.

It's with that in mind that Din starts pulling his cape off.

Piece by peace, he silently removes his armor. And after a few moments, a second pair of hands joins in. You fumble in the dark with his chest piece first. Helping him out of his armor one section at a time. They fall to the carpet with a soft thud along with the crumbling pieces of the restraint he’s built since that first night.

There’s no signs of stopping. You keep giving him more. More heat. More yearning. More questions.

What makes you laugh? What gives you pleasure? What makes you feel good and whole and satisfied? He needs to know.

And now that he’s gotten a taste, there’s no way he’s leaving here tonight until you’ve both had your fill.

•

If this is what happens when you invite the Mandalorian into your home, let your door never close.

Getting to your bed was easier than you thought it’d be in pitch black darkness. The only thing keeping your ‘bedroom’ separate from the rest of the home is a wooden lattice divider from the ceiling to the floor.

He lays you down on the soft futon on the floor and you open for him like a flower. Two strong palms drag and paw all over your body as his mouth works magic on yours and it makes you dizzy with desire.

Maker, he’s so good with his hands.

His body separates from you only to remove his flight suit and you whine at the loss of contact. Naked and panting for him. Within seconds he’s back on top of you and the feeling of his bare skin against yours makes your head spin. With everything so dark you wonder if this is even real. Maybe this is all a fever dream.

“Are you gonna show me how Mandalorians fuck this time,” you tease against his lips. Calling back to when he showed you how they drink. With your bare legs around his hips, you tease his resolve by running your inner thighs over his sides and you’re rewarded with a low hum. The hand supporting your neck slowly drags forward to find the base of your throat.

“You don’t need to know how Mandalorians fuck.” His wide grip gently squeezes the sides of your throat, just enough for you to feel the power in those hands. “Just how I fuck.”

Holy shit. You thought him gripping your jaw was hot. But this? This might’ve awakened something you didn’t even knew you wanted.

A whimper escapes you only to be muted by his mouth again. His tongue swirls with yours with a hunger you’ve never knew was there these past months and it’s such a relief to know that you weren’t the only one pining.

Mando’s mouth travels to your cheek, then jaw, finally finding purchase on your neck. Biting and sucking as his body presses into yours. He’s insatiable right now. There's no doubt that you'll find yourself covered in marks when the lights come back on.

You’re so lost in the moment that you almost don’t notice when something hard and warm presses against your inner thigh. Out of nowhere, a thought you haven’t even considered before decides to pop into your head at the very last minute.

“H-hold on!”

Your hands find his shoulders, urging him to pause. His lips unlatch themselves from your neck the second you blurt it out. Instantly propping himself above you with his hands on either side of your head.

“You want me to stop?,” he pants.

“No… Hell no. It’s just…”

How do you even begin to ask this?

“Um… I know I probably should’ve asked earlier but… you’re human, right?”

Mando blows out a low chuckle, understanding your underlying meaning. He feels human, from what your hands can tell anyway. He could be like his kid for all you know. It’s not that you’re not willing to go Inter-species, but your experience is mainly human. Plus with the lights off it’d be pretty difficult to figure out fitting things.

Taking your hand from his shoulder, he presses it against his chest where you can feel a dusting of hair. His skin is hot, damp with a thin layer of sweat and his breathing is heavy. He continues to lead your hand further down his torso so you can feel every hill and valley of his muscles. Eventually your hand hits a trail of hair down the middle and then…

Oh shit.

His hand guides you along the length of his cock. Encouraging you to explore every ridge from the thick base all the way up to the damp tip. He’s stiff and hot in your palm. When you give him a firm squeeze he groans and twitches in your grip.

Oh shit.

“Does that answer your question?”

The human part, definitely. Fitting is still debatable.

He lets you handle him. Giving you free rein to tug and tease as he bucks into your hand. He groans with pleasure and the power trip you feel knowing exactly how you affect this fiercely disciplined man makes the pulse between your legs throb harder. After a minute, his hand snatches yours to a halt, making your grip around his cock tighter.

“Show me where you want it,” he demands in a gruff breath. And you do just that. Pressing the damp tip against your clit. The contact sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine.

“Inside,” you plead. “I need you inside me.”

With an impatient huff, his hand comes down to take hold of your leg behind the bend of your knee. Spreading you wide and teasing your entrance before pushing himself inside. You gasp at the initial stretch, digging your nails into his shoulders. Mando curses under his breath and as he pushes you worry for a moment if there’s an end to him.

It’s slow, deliberate. Feeding his cock into your tight cunt until he’s pressing the limits of your walls. You shudder together when he’s completely sheathed and his hands grip your hips so hard his fingers dig into your flesh.

“Mando…” You throw your head back. Arching your whole body, waiting it to adjust to him. “Fuck!”

“I knew it,” he pants. “Fucking knew you’d feel good…”

He splits you in half and before you’re even ready the first hard thrust hits you. You whimper from impact and he thrusts again. Pinning you down by your hips to keep you at the perfect angle. Soon he sets a steady pace as he fucks you into delirium. It’s too much, he’s too much. Yet you moan and whine for more like each thrust might be the last. He feels incredible and you can only claw at his trim waist as it moves for you.

“That’s it… Good girl… Taking me so well… I wanted this… I want you to know every part of me.”

His words plunge into your chest like a dagger. Laced with a meaning that goes far beyond sex. Because you feel it too. You wanted him to be closer. You wanted him to know your name, know you. Even if it took this long to get here.

You feel one hand find your leg. Hiking it up so the back of your thigh lays flat against his chest. His hand drags up and down, caressing the soft flesh without losing a beat with his thrusts. A kiss presses on your calf and your head feels like it’s spinning. One moment he’s rearranging your insides and the next he’s giving your body sweet affection.

Tension builds in your core. Growing tighter and tighter with each hard thrust. Usually the second orgasm is more elusive to chase on your own. But this man is about to push you right into the next one not five minutes after the first one.

“Don’t… Stop…,” you pant. “Don’t stop, I’m so close, Mando…”

“Come for me... Let me feel you."

Then it comes. Tensing your entire body before coming down like a crashing wave. It’s spreads through every inch of your body, making you pulse and shake beneath his frame. You cry out in the midst of the euphoria, clinging to his shoulders, and everything feels so right. He moans along with you, feeling every tight pulse around his cock and letting you ride out the remaining waves.

“That’s two now, Shop Girl. You gonna give me a third?”

You let out a breathy laugh, still coming down from the clouds.

"I... I'm not sure I can," you chuckle.

"Yeah, you will," he pants. Amusement lacing his raspy voice.

Without out warning, Mando takes both your legs. Placing your calves over his shoulders as his leans forward. Folding you in half. And with one hard thrust, his cock drives back into you at a deeper angle. Your back bows and you swear you see stars in the blackness of the room. His lips land on the corner of your mouth and kiss their way to your lips. Offering a soft apology after the roughness. His strong arms are propped around you and you feel eclipsed under his broad body.

Soon his rhythm picks up. Becoming more desperate as he chases his own release. The room fills with the sound of your bodies meeting and you don't think you've ever heard anything more perfect. His panting picks up, his moans become louder, and the quivering breaths he makes when he finds a particularly deep spot will no doubt live in your mind rent free forever.

“You wanted me bare, didn’t you,” he huffs, pressing his damp forehead to yours.. “When you offered me that tea? You thought about me coming inside this perfect cunt, didn’t you.”

Caught red handed. Sure, you wanted to know if he had a partner as well. But the thought did cross your mind when he cornered you against the counter. You wanted to know how he felt bare, with nothing between you. Even dreamt a few times about it.

“Yes… Fuck, yes! Please! I want it!”

“You gonna come with me, Shop Girl? Hmm?”

“Maker, Mando! I’m right fucking there, please! I… I’m… ah-“

His firm hand grips your jaw. Whipping your face back to him so he can cover your mouth his. He kisses you deep, open and messy. No technique, just raw desire as he eats you alive. You moan and whimper against his mouth with each debilitating thrust he makes. He drives into you faster, harder. Relentlessly pushing you closer to the edge.

When it arrives, the orgasm hits you at full force. Wracking your whole body in convulsions as you scream, actually scream against his mouth. Your toes curl, your nails dig into his back and your cunt squeezes on to him for dear life like he’s never allowed to leave again.

Mando hisses through his teeth and he's right there with you. Ramming into you with relentless force as he chases his own release. His face dives into the crook of your shoulder and his arms scramble to take hold of you and he loses control. Letting out a sharp groan as he comes.

“Fuck.. Fuck,” he shudders in your ear. “Agh!”

His hips jerk against your body, driving himself as deep as you can take him. You feel his cock throb as he pumps into you again and again. Filling you to the point of spilling out and it’s... everything. Connected in such a profound way you’ve never felt before. In this moment, it’s hard to tell your bodies apart. You’ve melted and mixed and you never want to separate.

You ride it together, mold together, lose control together because you both knew it’d come to this. In the end this was inevitable. And in a galaxy filled with unknowns, in this you can be certain. A connection like this is few and far between. It’s real and raw and rare. Resisting that feeling was never an option, so why try?

Even in the climb down he doesn’t stop. Those hard demanding thrusts slow to a gentle drags as if he doesn’t want to finish yet. Hands glide all over each other’s bodies, soothing the other. All along his tense shoulders, you pepper soft kisses to his skin. Easing you both down from the clouds. He hums in the decent and it lulls you into an exhausted bliss.

Everything feels hazy and soft. You’re not sure how long you stay melted together like this. Minutes? Hours? But it’s needed. After a while, the breathing becomes steady and a soft, drowsy satisfaction settles between you.

“That’s the first time someone's come inside me,” you quietly confess. For a moment, Mando absorbs what you just said. Then you feel him prop himself in his elbows above you.

“Really?”

“Yeah…,” you breathe. Running your hands up the sides of his neck and resting them on his stubbled face.

“You know… since we’re sharing firsts tonight.”

He smiles and this time you’re able to know for certain by the feel of it in your hands. Leaning down, his forehead finds yours in the dark and you don’t think you’ve ever felt so whole before.

“I’m your first, huh,” he breathes. “I like that.”

There’s so many layers to this man. Quiet and withdrawn. Rough and demanding. Soft and caring. Each one is a trait you’ve come to cherish. You’re not sure if you love this man. But you’re definitely starting to fall for him. You can explore that treasure box later though. For now, you’ll take tonight for tonight and let whatever comes next between you arrive in its own good time.

“Me too, Mando...”

•

•

•

💕 THANK YOU FOR READING 💕

But there was also downsides, plenty of them. The unfinished half of the chores when he was away saving the world with Sam, his ability to always eat your leftovers despite promising he wouldnt the night before.. Even the lack of privacy. Joaquin often forgetting to knock in the blaze of his enthusiasm to show you something.

Which.. Unfortunately, leads you to now.

Joaquin stands in your bedroom doorway holding a box that immediately makes your blood run cold. Its clear its been torn open by eager hands, the flaps up and thick tissue paper poking out from the gaps you can see. Packaging that, much to your utter horror, reads 'pleasure guaranteed' in sleek black lettering.

You know exactly whats in that box and clearly, so does he.

The horror you feel is the kind that paints itself on your face as you take in the sight, a mortification thats bone deep and sifiling.

So much for being discreet you think abashedly.

"So uh, slight mistake" Joaquin starts, cheeks a little pink but a glint of mischief in his eyes you recognize instantly. He gestures to the box with one hand, holding it steady at his side with the other. "This is yours. Mail man caught me as i was coming back from the gym and i uh.. I thought it was mine... Clearly opened it expecting.. Well, something else!"

Hes visibly trying so obviously not to fail at stifling his amusement, placing the box on the edge of the bed beside you.

And now Joaquin could leave it alone and go watch tv, or perhaps find something to eat.. But instead Joaquin makes a choice. An absolutely agonising choice. To Tease.

"I mean you can imagine my shock" he grins, bright teeth on display as he crosses built arms across his chest. "Expecting Miami jerseys and instead i find 'King Cock the 8inch dildo of your dreams'"

You squeal in embarrassment, skin heating as you scrabble to grab the box and stuff it under your bed. "Stop it! Oh my god Torres shut up! "

"Im just sayin!" he laughs, the sound making everything feel worse as Joaquin shifts, resting his hands on the top of the doorframe inquisitivly. "Sides, I thought you were seeing that guy from the restaurant anyway? You know, penguin guy"

"Penguin guy?"

"Yeah, you know! Wears the red tie?"

Your jaw opens and closes, mind reeling before you realize who the hell Joaquin means by 'penguin guy'. Then it clicks, david, the on-off-on-off again guy you'd been seeing, who worked as a waiter at some fancy restaurant in town that required frankly ridiculous uniforms.

The same David you'd obviously forgot to tell Joaquin you'd called it quits with, Again.. Although this time for good.

Also coincidentally the reason 'king cock' was in that box stuffed under the bed. It'd been a while and your fingers just weren't doing it for you anymore.

"Oh him!" you hum, straightening your back up a little, head shaking. "No. God no, called that off-"

"Agai-"

"Dont. Just.. Dont" you sigh, and Joaquin snorts a little laugh, heading over to sit on the end of your bed.

"So.. Take it thats what king cocks about then? He asks, tone still playful and yet.. Theres something else hidden beneath it. A quiet curiosity that should overstep any and all roommate/best friend boundaries.. Except, you trust him, you feel safe enough in your relationship with Joaquin to know if you really wanted him to stop he would.

So, you take a breath, shrugging before shoulders as your fingers tangle with one another as a wordless distraction from any embarrassment you might feel under the surface. "Uh, yeah. Yeah i guess.. I dont know"

"You dont know? Cariño, talk to me" Joaquins hand finds your knee, bent from your criss crossed legs, offering it a gentle squeeze.

"I guess i wanted to try something new" you breathe, the words tumbling in a heap between you, the room feeling a little smaller at the confession. "I've just never.."

Joaquin watches you consider your words, fingers picking at one another in a way he knows is more anxious embarrassment than distraction now.

"Bought a toy?" He finishes for you then, a boyish, crooked smile stretching across his plump lips.

Your head shakes, a bashful smile tugging at your lips. "No. God no. S' not that- how the hell do you think I got through college?"

His chuckle is deep and rich, warming your chest in a way that doesnt always feel as platonic as it should. Yet Joaquin still doesnt push, just keeps his hand on your knee and his gaze soft, watching and waiting.

"I- i've never, You know, gotten off from penetration.. So i figured I'd.. try?"

A silence stretches over the room, joaquins head nodding slightly.

"Do you want me to go so you can..you know?" he shrugs, casual. "I can, uhh, kill some time in the park?

You both share a look, something silent and unaddressed untangling between your gazes, his voice a little less confident as it finds your ears.

"Or.. I could stay? If you wanted that..?"

"While i..?"

"Yeah. Yeah no that was stupid igno-"

You cut him off, hand quickly reaching out to grab his wrist before he can move.

"No. No please i want.." you murmer quietly, honest, your eyes pleading in a way that makes his cock perk up slightly in his shorts. "Y-You can stay. Please."

The agreement is immediate, here and now, wholy trusting in a way that crosses any and all bounds of friendship. Whatever happens next.. Well thats for later.

"Would you.. I mean.. Can i help? Fuck you with it like you deserve?

Your mouth goes dry, a warmth blossing in your belly. "And it.. It wouldn't mean..?" you ask hesitantly, wanting to ensure your on the same page about this.

"No. No not unless you want it to be. M' just helpin you out" his smile is so genuine despite the fire that twinkles in his eyes, lips curved in such a way its easy for them to transfer into a smirk.

"And distracting you from the fact i forgot to do those dishes in the sink last night.. Like a good roommate"

True to Joaquin's word he distracts you alright, his lips hungry yet cautious as they press against yours. A clash of teeth and tongue that extends to every inch of your neck and chest as he strips you bare.

Joaquin even spending enough time, so much so your almost concerned for his breathing, between your thighs. His mouth getting you ready to take the toy you'd bought so confidently as it sits now clean and waiting on your nightstand.

He's leisurely with how he eats you, flicks and curls combining with Lavishous laps and suction that makes you sob out and thighs tremble. His own shirt discarded so you can claw at him better.

"Quino.." you whine softly when he finally lets you rest flat against the mattress, legs eased open and cunt so soaked shes dripping onto your sheets. Joaquins fingers curled around the toy, sliding it up and down your slit carefully. He lets you feel each ridge and bump, each imitation vein until your hips are chasing the feeling, bucking and writhing. Then, and only then, does he indulge you.

"Thats it, there you go.." he murmers, free hand rubbing soothingly up ajd your your spread thigh, his smile reassuring as you gasp at the slightest pop of the tip dipping into you. "Nice deep breaths okay cariño, s'just me."

"Mhmm, j-just you.." You mewl, chest stuttering at the intake of breath as you feel the press of silicon against you, the toy fully seated now.

Joaquin thrusts it slow, draws out that are followed by a slick sound as he pushes back again. His gaze struggling between watching the haze of pleasure take over your expression and the gorgeous sight of your cunt swallowing the dildo not far bigger than himself.

"S'that feel good hm?" he asks as your sounds grow a little nore frequent, soft whines moving to quiet moans and gasps. The drag of the cock against your walls feeling different to the last time you were with anyone.

"S' nice.. Good.. But i dont- m' not sure its enough" you murmer, hands coming up from the sheets to cup and squeeze your tits. The stimulation making you gasp as your fingertips brush over the pert swells of your nipples.

"Then just enjoy it cariño.. Get outta your own head, Focus on that pussy.. Focus on how good she feels. Ive got you"

And your trying, so hard. The feelings flickering at the burning coil in your belly, hips rocking back and forth as they chase each thrust moving that little deeper. Joaquins expression doesnt help, the smirk adorning his lips and burning interest at your soaked pussy making you writhe just as much.

He seems to take notice, eyes meeting yours when your moans grow that little more true, mind slowly floating as he angles the dildo to bump against your spot with each push inside.

"So fucking gorgeous you know that baby? Takin all that cock so well, good girl"

You yowl at that, back arching as the feeling grows, your focus soley on the soaked slap of the silicon meeting your skin and the burn of your spread thighs. Everything feels good, too good, hands gripping at your chest tighter in an attempt to ground yourself.

“Shhh.. S' alright baby-” he coos softly, nodding comfortingly when you interrupt

“Mmhm, right there.. oh god- Feels-“

“-Good, i know. Ive got it Amor, I’ve got you. Just let it happen, whenever you need to”

It’s perhaps a handful of jerks later Joaquin shatters you, the toy pumping steadily in his hand, your own clutching tight against skin. Your vision spots, hazy around the edges as he keeps his pace, letting you ride it out in broken moans and squirmed hips, until your thighs close and you cry out.

Your chest heaves as your head lifts from the pillows, a lazy yet triumphant grin on your lips. Not once had he touched your clit, nor had you, the feelings he had bestowed just too great to even think about sliding a hand down like you always had. You'd cum, albeit on a toy, from penetration alone.. And Joaquin had gotten you there.

As if on cue he grins, that same boyish one from earlier, his free hand stroking your thigh gently. "So.. Was it everything you hoped?" he asks.

Your head bounces in a nod, a little whine filling the room as he eases the toy out. Your skin burns at the creamy ring around the base, soaked and slick, your hand meeting his before he can place the dildo down, a playful grin across your lips as you pant.

SMUT ⋆｡°✩

he can't last slow and steady chunky glasses reverse riding changing room the list pt. 1 creampie for dessert little spoon practice makes perfect cherries 'n cream

FLUFF ⋆｡°✩

Two weeks.

That's how long it's been since you've seen Frank.

Since he called you that night.

Since you’d fallen asleep with your phone clutched against your chest and woken up feeling just as hollow as before.

Everything after that had existed in this strange, careful limbo. Frank hadn’t pushed. Not once. A text every morning. A text every night.

Hope you ate today. Foggy says Matt’s making coffee strong enough to qualify as chemical warfare. Saw your favorite flowers outside a bodega today. Miss you. No pressure to answer.

Sometimes you replied. Sometimes you stared at the messages until your chest hurt too much and put the phone facedown instead. And every single time, Frank respected it.

No guilt. No anger. No showing up unexpectedly. Just… patience so gentle it almost hurt worse. The ring still wasn’t on your finger. Frank still had it. You hadn’t asked for it back. He hadn’t tried to force it there either. Which somehow made everything harder. About a week in, Matt had managed to drag you out of the apartment for something other than groceries or coffee.

You squeeze your eyes shut hard enough to hurt.

The apartment is dark except for the weak glow of streetlights leaking through the curtains. Somewhere in the living room, Matt shifts on the couch springs with a quiet creak. Awake. Probably listening to your heartbeat tear itself apart through the wall. You roll onto your side, curling tighter into the blanket.

God, you miss Frank.

You miss stupid things. The weight of his hand on your thigh while he drives. The way he always steals bites off your plate and then acts shocked when you get annoyed. The sound he makes when you play with his hair absentmindedly during movies. The way he sleeps curled around you like he’s scared the world might take you if he loosens his grip for too long. Your throat tightens painfully. You haven’t seen him in two weeks. And somehow he’s still everywhere. The thought alone makes tears burn behind your eyes again. You scrub angrily at your face.

Enough.

You are so tired of crying. Your phone buzzes softly against the mattress beside you. Your chest immediately clenches. Frank. Of course it’s Frank.

Every night around the same time. Never demanding. Never asking where you are. Never asking when you’re coming home. Just checking in. You stare at the screen for a long moment before opening the message.

FRANKIE Hey pretty girl. FRANKIE Matt said you skipped dinner again. FRANKIE Y’gonna make me start bribing Foggy to force feed you. FRANKIE …You okay?

Your bottom lip trembles instantly.

God.

Even now, he’s careful with you.

You type three different responses before deleting all of them. You swallow hard and lock the phone before you can spiral again, pressing it face-down against your chest. And somehow, impossibly, that makes it worse.

A soft knock echoes from the door.

You sink into the bed further, sniffling and trying to school your breathing as deep as it can go.

"Sweetheart, I know you're awake. I hear you cry yourself to sleep every night." You sigh, rubbing at your eyes.

"I'm fine, Matty." There's a scoff on the other side of the door.

"Bullshit. C'mon let me in. I got some mac'n'cheese for you." Reluctantly, you get up out of the bed. Your legs are wobbly, you haven't really used them for things other than toilet breaks and showers. You click open the door, and your brother strides in, one hand pressed to the wall to guide himself. Matt’s head lifts immediately the second the door opens fully. And then he goes still. Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would probably notice. But you know him. You know the exact moment he hears your breathing hitch wrong.

“…Jesus,” he murmurs softly. You look awful. You know you do. Your eyes burn from crying, your hoodie hangs off one shoulder, and your legs wobble hard enough that Matt’s free hand immediately finds your elbow before you can pretend otherwise. “Easy,” he says quietly.

“I’m fine,” you mumble automatically. Matt snorts.

“Yeah, and I’m the fuckin’ Pope.” he says softly, guiding you back toward the bed. "C'mon, sit down before you fall down." Matt sets the bowl carefully on the dresser before turning back toward you, head tilted slightly the way it always is when he’s listening too hard.

“You haven’t slept,” he says softly. You shrug.

“Can’t really.” His jaw tightens a little at that, but he doesn’t push. He never pushes when you get like this. Instead, he reaches out carefully until his hand finds your shoulder and squeezes once.

“You wanna talk to me?”Immediately, your throat burns.

“I don’t even know what I’d say.”

“Try anyway.” You laugh weakly through your nose, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself.

“It’s just…” Your voice cracks almost instantly. “God, Matt, I love him so much.” Matt goes quiet. “And I know he didn’t mean to hurt me,” you continue shakily. “I know that. I know Frank. He thought someone needed help and he went because that’s who he is.” Your eyes sting harder. “But it still hurt.” Matt nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says gently. “I know.” You shake your head hard, frustrated tears slipping free again.

“And the worst part is I miss him constantly. Like—constantly.” Your voice breaks apart around the word. “I wake up missing him. I go to sleep missing him. Every stupid thing reminds me of him and I’m so angry because part of me feels like I should still be mad but all I wanna do is go home.” Matt’s face softens into something aching.

“You know what I think?” he asks quietly. You sniff hard.

“What?”

“I think two things can exist at the same time.” He leans carefully against the dresser beside you. “You can love somebody enough to miss them every second they’re gone…” He pauses. “…and still be hurt by them.” Fresh tears spill immediately. “Frank made a mistake,” Matt says carefully. “A pretty big one.” Your chest tightens. “But sweetheart…” His voice lowers. “That man has been losing his goddamn mind without you for two weeks.” You let out a shaky breath.

“He’s trying to respect you,” he says softly. “Not because he doesn’t want you there.” Your eyes close briefly.

“I just keep thinking…” You swallow hard. “What if this is always gonna happen? What if every time somebody needs him, I come second?” Matt goes very still. Then he sighs quietly through his nose.

“You know what your problem is?” he asks gently. You blink at him tiredly.

“What?”

“You think loving someone means never getting scared.” Your brow furrows slightly. Matt’s hand squeezes your shoulder again.

“Frank loves hard,” he says quietly. “Violently hard. The kind that makes him run toward danger before he thinks.” A faint smile ghosts across his mouth. “Trust me. I know the type.” You huff weakly through your tears. “But loving you?” Matt continues softer. “That scares him too. Because you matter to him in a way nothing else does.” His expression tightens slightly. “And I think when Karen called, he reacted like the guy he used to have to be before he remembered he had something to lose.” Your chest aches so badly it almost feels physical. Matt hears your breathing hitch and immediately softens further.

“I’m not telling you what to do,” he says carefully. “You don’t owe anybody forgiveness on a schedule.” A pause. “But I don’t think Frank’s sitting somewhere wondering whether he loves you enough.” That breaks something in you completely. You cover your face with both hands as a sob finally slips free.

“Sweetheart,” he says gently “if Frank wanted Karen, he wouldn’t spend two weeks looking like somebody shot his dog every time your name comes up.” You laugh weakly through tears at that. Matt sighs. “I’m serious. The man’s miserable.” But fear is ugly. Once it gets inside you, it starts making homes out of things that aren’t true.

What if someday Frank does choose someone else first again? What if loving him always means standing second to emergencies, to guilt, to his need to save people?

Your chest hurts.

Because the awful truth is—you understand why he left that night. If Karen had been in danger, Frank would never forgive himself for ignoring it.

That’s who he is.

The same man who stops to help strangers. The same man who carries groceries for old ladies without being asked. The same man who sits beside hospital beds for hours because someone is scared.

The same man who loves you so hard it frightens him.

And maybe that’s the real problem.

You don’t doubt Frank loves you anymore.

You doubt whether love will always come with collateral damage.

“I miss him,” you whisper miserably.

Matt pulls you gently against his chest immediately, one arm wrapping around your shoulders.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your hair. “I know.” Your throat tightens instantly. Matt smiles faintly. “You know... Frank's so in love with you it’s actually disgusting.” A weak laugh escapes you before another tear slips down your cheek.

“Then why does this still hurt so much?” Matt is quiet for a second.

“Because loving somebody enough to build a life with them is scary,” he says simply. “And because he hurt you.” He reaches over, squeezing your hand gently. “Both things can be true at once.”You look down at your finger. The missing ring still feels phantom-heavy. Matt notices immediately, because of course he does.

“He still carries it around, you know.” Your head snaps up.

“What?” Matt shrugs lightly.

“I can hear it when he fidgets.” A tiny smile tugs at his mouth. “Which is constantly lately, by the way. Very annoying.” Your chest physically aches.

“He keeps it in his jacket pocket,” Matt continues quietly. “Like if he puts it down somewhere, something bad’ll happen.” That does it. You break again silently, covering your face with your hand. Matt immediately pulls you sideways against him without another word, arm wrapping around your shoulders.

------------------

You physically can't bring yourself to eat.

Or sleep.

Or do anything that requires you to get out of this bed.

You just keep on replaying that night- how you walked out, how you handed him the ring and told him to throw it away.

God, if you had stayed....

You shake your head, pushing down the thought.

If you had stayed, you never would've found out that Karen was lying. You would've forgiven him- and he would've done it again.

As usual, Matt is holding you through your sobs like he does every other night recently, whispering that you'll be okay into your hair - knowing you don't believe it but also knowing it helps cal you down enough for you to actually sleep.

Matt waits until your breathing evens out a little before carefully easing out from under you.

“You stay here,” he says softly. “I’m gonna go make tea.” You nod weakly against the pillow, too exhausted to argue. The second he steps out into the hallway, the softness leaves his face. Because this has gone beyond heartbreak now.

You’re barely eating. Barely sleeping. Half the time Matt hears you pacing the apartment at four in the morning just to keep from crying hard enough to throw up. And every single day, Frank keeps his distance because he thinks giving you space is the right thing to do. In some ways, Frank isn't wrong.

But Matt has had enough. The space Frank is giving you is just splitting the ridge between the two of you wider.

Frank blames himself.

You are scared to be second to someone else again.

You two seriously need to learn to communicate better.

Matt leans heavily against the kitchen counter for a moment, jaw tight.

“This is a terrible idea,” he mutters to himself. He dials anyway. The line rings twice.

"Red?” Frank’s voice is rough with sleep deprivation. Guarded immediately after. Matt can practically hear him standing up somewhere. “The fuck’s going on? Is she okay?” That answer alone makes Matt’s chest ache. Because there’s no hesitation. No annoyance. No bitterness.

Just panic.

Matt closes his eyes briefly.

“She’s breathing,” he says carefully.

Silence.

And then very quietly—

“What happened?” Matt hears it instantly. The panic Frank is trying to bury under restraint. The way his breathing changes. The way his voice drops lower, tighter, controlled in the dangerous way men get when they’re terrified and forcing themselves not to spiral.

“She eat tonight?” Frank asks before Matt can answer. Fast. Immediate. “She sleepin’ at all? Matt—”

“She’s not okay,” Matt says bluntly. The line goes dead silent. Not disconnected. Just… silent in the way someone goes silent when the thing they feared most finally gets said out loud. Matt rubs a hand over his face. “She’s trying,” he says quieter. “But she’s falling apart, Frank.”

On the other end, he hears a shaky exhale.

“Fuck,” Frank whispers. And that one word sounds wrecked. Not angry. Not defensive. Just devastated. Matt leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“She loves you,” he says simply. “That’s the whole problem.” Another silence.

Then, low and broken:

“I know.” Matt hears movement on the other end. Pacing probably. Frank always paces when he’s upset enough.

“She thinks if she comes back,” Matt continues carefully, “she’s teaching herself this is okay. That she’ll always come second to whoever needs saving.” Frank makes a soft sound in the back of his throat like the words physically hurt him.

“She doesn’t,” he says immediately. Fierce. Certain. “She never—”

“I know that,” Matt cuts in gently. “You know that. She doesn’t yet."

Matt swallows hard. “She needs you.” The line goes completely still.

“Red…” Frank says carefully, painfully. “I’m trying real hard not to cross a line here.”

“I know.”

“She asked for space.”

“And you gave it to her,” Matt says firmly. “For two goddamn weeks, Frank.” His voice softens slightly. “But she’s not sleeping. She barely eats unless I physically hand her food. She cries herself sick every night and then pretends she’s okay in the morning.” Frank makes a quiet sound that almost sounds like pain. Matt hears him breathing hard through the phone.

“Jesus Christ,” Frank whispers.

"You two need to figure your shit out, because I won't sit by and watch my sister kill herself because you can't fucking communicate like a grown adult, Frank."

Another long silence.

Then, rougher:

“I know.” Matt leans back against the counter. Frank exhales shakily. “I fixed it.” Matt’s brow furrows slightly.

“What?”

“I went to Karen after she left,” Frank admits quietly. “Told her to lose my number. Told her if she ever involved my girl in anything again, we were done permanently.” His voice hardens briefly. “There is no world where I choose Karen over her.” Matt closes his eyes.

He knew it.

Of course he knew it.

Frank continues before Matt can answer.

“I didn’t tell her because I wasn’t trying to win her back with it,” he says quietly. “I just… handled it.” Matt sighs heavily through his nose.

“She doesn’t know that.”

“No,” Frank says softly. “And I wasn’t gonna pressure her with it.”

The apartment falls quiet around Matt. Then he says the thing he probably shouldn’t.

“Come get your girl.” Silence.

“Matt—”

“She needs to know you’re still gonna show up,” Matt says firmly. “Not with pressure. Not demanding forgiveness.” His voice softens. “Just… show her she’s still yours to take care of.” Frank goes completely quiet. And for a second, Matt can practically picture him standing somewhere with one hand over his mouth trying not to fall apart.

“You really think she wants me there?” he asks finally, voice so careful it hurts to hear. Matt looks toward the hallway leading to your room. Toward the faint sound of you crying again into a pillow because you think nobody can hear you.

"Just get your ass over here before I change my mind."

Frank doesn't have to think twice. It doesn’t take long. Too short, really. Matt is still standing in the kitchen when he hears it—the lock. Three sharp turns. Fast hands. Familiar.

His jaw tightens.

“Of course,” he mutters under his breath. And then the front door opens. Frank doesn’t come in like he owns the place. He comes in like he’s afraid to breathe too loudly in it. He looks… wrecked. Not loud about it. Not dramatic. Just the kind of exhaustion that sits deep in the bones. Stubble darker than usual, eyes too sharp, shoulders tight like he’s been holding himself in a single position for days and forgot how to let go. And then his gaze flicks past Matt. Down the hallway. To your room. Everything in him changes. Matt sees it instantly—the shift from restraint to something barely contained. Not rage. Not panic anymore. Need.

Frank swallows once.

“She in there?” he asks quietly. Matt nods.

“Sleeping. Barely.” That does it. Frank’s hands flex at his sides like he’s physically stopping himself from running straight down the hall. He turns away from Matt, slowly making his way towards the door, the floorboards creaking beneath his combat boots.

Like every step matters. Like he’s walking toward something he’s not sure he deserves to touch. The door is slightly ajar. He stops just outside it. He can hear you before he sees you. Breathing uneven. A small, broken sound in your sleep that isn’t quite a sob but isn’t peace either.

His hand hovers near the doorframe.

"Fuck," He rasps, shaking his head. He pushes the door open, and the sight of you almost makes his fall to his knees.

You’re curled into yourself, like you’ve been trying to take up as little space as possible. Blanket twisted around your hands. Face turned slightly into the pillow like you’re hiding from the world even in sleep.

Frank stops. Something in his chest caves in quietly. He doesn’t move for a second. Just looks at you. Like he’s memorizing the fact you’re still here. Still breathing. Still real. Then he crosses the room carefully and sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips slightly under his weight.

You stir.

Not awake yet—just that faint shift of awareness.

As if it's second nature, Frank's hand comes up to cup your cheek softly, his thumb pressing into your cheekbone softly. He whispers your name, although it sounds louder than a whisper in the quiet, and he winces. You shift, flipping onto your other side, facing him. Your eyelashes flutter and god, frank had forgotten how fucking beautiful you are. He sighs, sniffling.

"Baby.." Your eyes open slowly. Not fully awake at first—just that hazy, fragile in-between where the world hasn’t quite decided what it is yet.

And then it clicks. Frank. Your breath catches so sharply it hurts. For a second, you don’t move. You just stare at him like he might disappear if you blink wrong. Like your brain is trying to protect you from hope. Frank stays perfectly still.

Like he’s afraid of spooking you.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, voice rough. Quiet. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve— I shouldn’t be here if you don’t want me here, I just—” His words fall apart slightly at the edges. “I needed to see you.” That breaks something in you. Not cleanly. Not neatly. Just all at once. Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Your throat feels like it’s been scraped raw for days. Frank watches you carefully, every muscle in him tense like he’s bracing for you to pull away. For you to tell him to leave. For you to freeze again.

“I can go,” he says quickly, softer now. Immediate correction. “I will. I just— Matt said you weren’t eating. Or sleeping. And I— I couldn’t—” His voice cracks slightly. He stops himself. Takes a breath. “Just tell me to go,” he murmurs. “I’ll go.” Silence. You don’t tell him to go. You sit up instead.

Slowly.

Like your body doesn’t fully trust the decision. Frank’s shoulders tighten instantly, readying for distance. But you don’t move away. You move toward him. And that’s what breaks him. You crawl across the bed in small, unsteady movements, like you’re afraid he might vanish if you go too fast.

Frank freezes completely.

“Hey—hey, sweetheart—” he starts softly, unsure now. “You don’t have to—” But you don’t stop. You reach him. And before he can even process it, you’re in his lap. Straddling him. Clinging to him like something inside you finally gave up pretending it didn’t need him. Frank makes a broken sound in the back of his throat, hands hovering for half a second like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you.

“Jesus—” he whispers, breath shaking. “Okay. Okay, I got you.” And then he holds you. Carefully at first. Like you might shatter. One hand at your back, the other at the back of your head, pulling you in just enough that you’re pressed against him fully. You collapse against his chest immediately. Like your body has been waiting two weeks for this exact moment to fall apart. And you do. You break. It starts as a small sound. Then it becomes everything. Frank stiffens for a second, then pulls you in tighter, his chin pressing into your hair.

“I’m here,” he says, voice rough and steadying at the same time. “I’m here, baby. I’m here.” You shake your head against him, fingers clutching his shirt like you’re terrified he’ll disappear again.

His hands are everywhere at once but never rough. One at your back, pulling you in. One at the back of your head, cradling you like you’re something fragile and priceless and barely held together. He presses his face into your hair. You feel him shake.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry." Not performative. Not controlled anymore. Just raw guilt spilling out of him like he can’t contain it.

You cling to him instantly. Like your body remembers before your brain can catch up. Frank makes a broken sound at that—half relief, half pain.

“Hey, hey—look at me,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to see your face. His thumbs are on your cheeks immediately, wiping tears like he’s been waiting two weeks to do it. “Hey, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, okay? I’m right here.” His hands don’t stop moving. Like he needs proof you’re real. Like he needs to memorize you again.

“I should’ve been here,” he whispers, forehead almost touching yours. “I should’ve come sooner. I should’ve—God, i'm so fucking sorry—” His breath shakes. That makes your face crumple again. He pins you tighter against him, pressing kisses wherever he can reach, clinging to you like you might turn to ash if he doesn't.

You make a broken sound against his chest. And Frank flinches at it. Not away from you—toward you. Like your pain is magnetic and he can’t help but move closer to it.

“I’m sorry,” he says again immediately, voice cracking properly this time. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I am—fuck, I am so sorry.” His hand tightens at your back, then loosens like he’s terrified of hurting you with even affection. Then tightens again because he can’t stop himself. “I didn’t—” He cuts off, jaw working like he’s forcing the words into shape. “I didn’t think it would do this. I thought giving you space would help you breathe. I thought I was doing the right thing.” His breath shakes. “And I was wrong,” he says, quieter now. Honest in a way that sounds like it costs him something to admit. “I was so fuckin’ wrong.”

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your whole body is just clinging to him like instinct has taken over where thought used to be. Frank feels it. Every part of it. And it wrecks him all over again.

“Hey—hey, look at me,” he murmurs suddenly, gentler now, like he’s afraid the guilt in his voice will spill onto you if he keeps talking like that. His hands come up immediately, cupping your face. Careful. Reverent. Like you’re something he’s terrified he doesn’t deserve to touch.

“Hey,” he repeats softly, thumbs wiping your tears before they even fully fall. “I’m here. I’m here, okay? I’ve got you. You’re safe.” You finally break properly at that. A sound slips out of you—small, devastated—and Frank’s whole expression collapses.

“Oh, sweetheart…” he whispers, pulling you back into him instantly. There’s no hesitation now. No distance. He just gathers you up like it’s the most natural thing in the world for you to be there, in his lap, folded into his chest like you belong there more than anywhere else. His arms lock around you tighter. Not controlling.Just desperate.

Like he’s been holding himself back from this exact moment for two weeks and doesn’t know how to do it gently anymore.

“I missed you,” he admits, voice breaking on the words like they don’t come out clean. “I missed you so much it made me fuckin’ stupid.” You clutch him harder. Frank immediately responds, one hand sliding up your spine, the other cradling the back of your head like you might fall apart if he lets go for even a second.

“Come home with me,” he says softly against your hair. Not a demand. Not pressure. Just truth. “Please. Let me take you home.” And when you don’t argue— when you just nod into his shoulder and hold on tighter— Frank exhales like he’s been drowning for days and just finally found air.

He shifts carefully, standing with you still wrapped around him like you belong there. Like he’s done it before. Like his body remembers even when everything else is broken. You don’t let go. Not even a little. Your arms stay locked around his neck, face buried into him as he carries you out of the room. Matt is somewhere in the apartment, but neither of you really speak to him. Frank just gives a small nod in his direction as he passes—quiet gratitude, quiet understanding—and Matt doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t need to. Frank walks you out like it’s the only thing keeping him steady. The hallway feels too bright. Too real. But you don’t look up. You just cling tighter when the world shifts around you. Frank presses another kiss to your hair as the door closes behind you. He doesn't put you down until you're downstairs and in the car. Matt brings down some of your laundry in a bag and hands it to Frank. He gives him a stern look and mutters something you can't hear from inside the car.

The drives go by quiet.

They don’t really need words on the way back. Frank keeps one hand on the wheel, the other on you the entire time—resting on your thigh like it belongs there, like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded enough to drive straight. His thumb moves in slow, absent strokes, but his attention keeps flicking over to you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear between red lights. You’re still clinging to him a little even in the passenger seat. Not as tightly as before. But enough. Enough that every time you shift, Frank’s hand instinctively tightens like a reflex he can’t unlearn.

“You okay?” he asks once, quietly. You nod. It’s not convincing. He doesn’t push. Just exhales through his nose and leans his head back against the seat for half a second like he’s trying not to fall apart right there.

“Yeah,” he murmurs anyway, mostly to himself. “Me too.” It takes too short a time to get back. Too fast for something that feels like it should’ve taken longer to fix. When Frank parks, he doesn’t immediately get out. His hand stays on you. Just… holding. Like if he lets go first, something will break again.

“We’re home,” he says softly. You don’t move right away. neither does he. Then, carefully, like every motion matters, Frank gets out first and comes around to your side. He opens your door, but he doesn’t pull you out. Not yet. Instead, he just looks at you for a long second. Like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to hope. Then his hand reaches in. Palm open. Waiting.

“C'mon,” he says gently. “Let’s go inside.” You take it. And he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since two weeks ago. The apartment is… different. You notice it the second you step in. Not in a loud way. In a careful way. Cleaner. Put back together. Things aren't where they should be, and some things have been replaced. You gulp as the smell of your shared space hits you so hard, and you stumble. Frank's hand lands on the small of your back, and he slowly guides you into the living room. He sits you down on the couch and kisses your forehead, sighing heavily.

"I'll be right back, kay ?" You nod without really trusting your voice. Frank watches you for a second longer than necessary—like he’s memorizing the fact you’re sitting there, real and breathing and not slipping away again. Then he nods once.

“Okay,” he says softly. He disappears into the kitchen. You hear him moving before you see him—cabinets opening and closing with quiet purpose. Nothing rushed. Nothing chaotic. Just… focused. Like he’s trying to do something normal with hands that don’t quite know how to stop shaking yet. You stay on the couch. Still.

Tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.

A few minutes pass, and then the smell starts to change. Warm. Familiar. Comforting in a way that makes your chest tighten immediately. Frank comes back out a little later with a bowl in one hand and a plate in the other. He sets them down carefully on the coffee table like they matter more than anything else in the room.

“I didn’t know what you’d eat,” he says quietly, rubbing the back of his neck once like he’s unsure. “So I made a couple things.” You glance down. Simple food. Nothing complicated. Soft, warm, easy. The kind of food you don’t have to fight. Frank sits on the edge of the coffee table instead of beside you, leaning forward slightly so he’s closer without crowding you. His hand reaches out slowly. Not grabbing. Just resting near yours.

“If you don’t like it,” he adds immediately, softer, “I’ll make something else. Or we can order. Or—whatever you want, okay?” You swallow.

“…you made all this?” His mouth twitches like he’s almost embarrassed by the question.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Figured I should start somewhere.” There’s a pause. He finally sits beside you properly this time, close but not overwhelming, his knee brushing yours like it’s instinct now.

“Can you try a little?” he asks gently. “Just a few bites. Please.” That “please” lands heavier than anything else. Not pushy. Just… worried. You hesitate. Frank doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t move. Just waits, watching you like you’re the most important thing in the room. Eventually, you pick up the fork. Frank exhales so quietly you almost miss it.You take a bite. It’s warm. Simple. Exactly what your body has been rejecting for days and suddenly realizes it needed.

Frank doesn’t speak. But his hand slowly slides closer to yours on the couch, until his pinky touches yours. Light. Careful. Like a question he’s afraid to ask out loud. You don’t pull away. His breath catches.

“Good?” he asks softly. You nod again. Something in his expression shifts immediately—relief so sharp it almost looks painful.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice rougher now. “Okay. Good. That’s good.”

He watches you take another bite. Then another. And only when you’ve eaten a little more than “just a few bites” does he lean back slightly, like he finally trusts the moment not to break.

“You know,” he says quietly, after a while, “This place felt so fuckin' empty without you." You glance at him. Frank looks down at his hands. He sighs heavily. “I didn’t tell you everything,” he says after a beat, quieter now, hand reaching for yours as if he needs to contact to keep talking. “About Karen. I should’ve.” Your breath stutters. He feels it instantly and rushes to steady you, rubbing slow circles into your palm.

“Hey—no, listen,” he says quickly, softer but urgent now. “Listen to me. I didn’t go to her to choose her. I went to shut it down. Completely. I told her she doesn’t get to be part of my life anymore. Not even on the edges of it.” A pause. His voice drops even lower. “I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t trying to win you back with it,” he says carefully. “I wasn’t trying to fix what I broke with some big gesture. I just—handled it. Because it needed to be done. For you. For me. For us not to have that shit hanging over your head anymore.” His grip on your hand tightens slightly. “I should’ve told you anyway,” he adds immediately, guilt creeping back in. “I know that. I know I should’ve.”

Your voice finally comes out, but it’s wrecked.

“…I thought you chose her.” Frank goes still. Completely still. Like the words physically hit him. He looks up at you, his eyes wide. He inches closer to you, his large hand grabbing your cheeks, shaking his head.

“No,” he says immediately. Fierce. Certain. “No. No, baby, never. Never even close.” He pulls back just enough to make you look at him. And it hurts to see how much he means it. “I chose you before I even knew I was choosing anything,” he says, voice low and shaking. “That’s the problem. That’s why I fucked this up so bad. Because I didn’t think I had to prove that to you.” His thumbs wipe your cheeks again. Like he can’t stop. Like he needs to keep touching you to stay grounded.

“You are not second,” he says quietly. “Not to anyone. Not to anything. Not to my past, not to my instincts, not to some bullshit emergency that doesn’t matter more than you do.” Your breathing shakes. Frank leans in again, forehead resting against yours this time. So close you can’t escape his words. “I’m sorry it took losing you for two weeks for me to realize how badly I needed to say it out loud,” he whispers. “But I need you to hear me now.” A pause. Raw. Earnest. “I want you. I choose you. I don’t want my life without you in it.”

You set the plate down, and wrap your arms around him again. This time there's no hesitation. His arms come wrapping around you instantly, lifting you into his lap, kissing his way up to your face. You sniffle, pulling back to cup his cheeks and run your fingers through his hair, taking him in, memorizing every crooked curve of his nose, every slope of his cheekbones, ever sharp angle of his eyes and the way his lips twitch into a small smile as your run your fingers through your hair. You gulp.

"You promise ?' You manage, your voice hoarse. He nods immediately.

"Yeah. You're all I want." He sighs and reaches down into the collar of his shirt. He tugs at the chain around his neck- the one where he keeps Maria's wedding band on- and it thuds against his chest. Maria's gold wedding band glimmers in the lamp light, but it's joined by another ring.

Your ring.

You reach out to touch it before you can second guess yourself. It's cold against your fingertips, and you look up at him, eyes wide. His hand clamps down on yours hovering over his chest, pressing the rings and your palm to his sternum.

"You're it f'me." He says, reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from your face. The thought of him putting that ring on the same chain as Maria's - the thought of him wanting to keep it close, as if you were gone, just like she is, makes your heart split open.

"I couldn't put it away," he admits, his voice a low, rough whisper against your hair. "Couldn't leave it in a drawer. Felt like… like I was putting you away. And I couldn't do that. Even if you never came back, I had to keep you close." That's it. That's the final crack in the dam holding everything back. A raw, wounded sound escapes your throat, and you surge forward, crashing your lips against his. It's not a gentle kiss. It's desperate, messy, two weeks of agony and longing poured into a single, frantic connection. Frank responds instantly, his mouth opening under yours with a choked groan that sounds like relief. One arm bands around your waist, hauling you impossibly closer, while his other hand tangles in your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss. It's all teeth and tongues and ragged breaths, a frantic attempt to crawl inside each other's skin and erase the space that's been poisoning you both. He tastes like coffee and regret and the faint, sharp edge of whiskey he probably had to get through the night. You taste like salt and tears and the hollow ache of missing him. It's perfect. It's agonizing. You're devouring each other on his couch, the forgotten bowls of food growing cold on the coffee table, the world outside this apartment ceasing to exist.

"Frank," you gasp, pulling back just enough to breathe, your forehead resting against his. His chest is heaving under your hands, his eyes dark and wild in the dim light.

"Right here," he pants, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "M'right here, baby. I got you." You shift in his lap, a slow, deliberate roll of your hips that has nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with need. The friction is electric, sending a jolt straight through you both. Frank's breath hitches, his grip on you tightening almost to the point of pain. His eyes flutter shut for a second, his jaw clenching.

"Easy," he warns, though his voice is strained, his body betraying him as he pushes up slightly against you. "Easy, sweetheart. We don't gotta—"

"I want to," you cut him off, your voice firm despite the tremor running through it. You pull back just enough to look him in the eye, letting him see every fractured piece of you that's been held together by the thought of him. "I need to. I need to feel you, Frank. Please." His eyes search yours, looking for hesitation, for uncertainty. He finds none. All he finds is the same desperate, aching need that's been eating him alive for fourteen days. Something in him finally breaks. The restraint. The careful distance. The fear of pushing too hard.

"Okay," he breathes, the word barely audible. "Okay." His hands are everywhere, frantic and possessive. They slide down your sides, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him as he rocks his own hips into yours. The hard, thick ridge of his erection presses against you through the layers of clothing, a blatant, undeniable promise of what's to come. You moan into his mouth, your own hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, tugging at it until you hear the seam protest.

"Off," you demand against his lips. "Get this off." He complies, letting you go for just a second to yank the shirt over his head, tossing it aside. Your hands are on him the moment he's free, tracing the familiar landscape of his chest, the scars you know by heart, the warm, solid muscle that's been your anchor. He shudders under your touch, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder as he lets you explore.

"Missed this," he grits out, his voice muffled by your skin. "Missed your hands on me. Christ, I missed everything." His own hands are busy, tugging at the hem of your hoodie, his knuckles brushing against the bare skin of your stomach. The touch is so simple, so innocent, but it makes your whole body light up like a live wire. He pulls it over your head, his eyes going dark and hungry as he takes in the sight of you, bathed in the soft glow from the streetlights outside. You're not wearing a bra. You never do to sleep.

"Fuck," he whispers, the word reverent. He reaches out, his calloused fingertips ghosting over your ribs, tracing the curve of your breast. "Look at you. So fuckin' beautiful."

His hands aren’t rough tonight, not really. There’s too much reverence beneath the hunger, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he pushes too far, too fast. It’s almost funny—Frank Castle, the only man you’ve ever known to break another human being’s arm on a dare, is hovering over your body like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch you. You rake your nails down his back, leaving angry red lines in your wake just to remind him you’re not going to break. His breath stutters, head dropping to your shoulder for one raw second before he’s got your wrists in one massive hand and pins them above your head.

“Missed this so fuckin’ much,” he groans, pressing his chest to yours. Frank slides his hands under your thighs and lifts you, pulling you closer until you’re pressed so tight against him you can feel every stutter of his breath. You’re so aware of how big he is, how easy it is for him to move you, how you could struggle all night and he’d never let you go if he didn’t want to. The thought makes your head go cloudy with want.

He’s looking at you like you’re made out of something he could break with just his hands, but also like he knows you’re the only thing on earth that could break him, too. You dig your nails into his shoulder, half to hold on and half to ground yourself, and he grins against your neck, all teeth and heat. He flips you around so that you’re on your back, pressed against the couch cushions, and gathers your wrists in his hands. Frank’s fingers are so big they overlap your wrists even when he’s gentle. He holds them up, forearms caging your head, and you feel small, breakable, safe in a way that only comes when the man over you could unmake the world but chooses—again and again—not to. His face is close, his nose brushing against yours. His voice comes out gravel, but there’s no roughness in it for you.

“Hold still, baby,” he whispers, and it lands like a command and a promise. He lets your hands go, just to push your arms further up, sliding down your body until his mouth finds the hollow of your throat. He bites, not enough to mark, just enough to feel, and you arch against him, the contact sending a shockwave down to where you want him most. His hands track every twitch, every shiver. His palms are calloused and the drag of them over your skin is all you’ve wanted for the past two weeks. His free hand works on pushing his sweats and boxers down, groaning as his thick length slaps up against his stomach. He’s so much thicker than you remember. Maybe it’s the two weeks, maybe it’s the way the ache in your chest has traveled south, but the sight of him—red and heavy, already drooling from the tip—makes your mouth go dry. Frank follows your gaze, a slow, dangerous smile curling his lips. He fists himself lazily, just once, and the sight of his hand barely wrapping around the shaft makes your belly clench.

“Missed you staring at me like that,” he mutters, voice rough and fond and a little cocky. “Think about this every fuckin’ night. Every time I close my eyes.” You tremble, heat slicking between your thighs, the ache throbbing so hard it borders on pain. You want him in you so bad it feels like hunger, bone deep. He makes quick work of the rest of your clothing, yanking your shorts and underwear down your legs with one practiced, greedy motion. Goosebumps race up your skin, the sudden exposure so sharp and cold you shiver. Frank’s hands come back immediately, warming your thighs with his palms as he pushes them apart, the stretch of his arms gentle but insistent. He kneels between your knees, the couch dipping under his weight, and you feel so small caged by his frame; his shoulders are wide enough to block out the light behind him, his shadow crawling up your body, the heat of him radiating off his skin.

He bends low, pressing his mouth to the inside of your knee, working a trail up your thigh. His beard scrapes your skin, rough but not unpleasant—it just reminds you that it’s Frank, always Frank, who’s between your legs. He kisses up, soft at first, but the closer he gets, the more his lips linger,the more impatient you get. Your hands fly down to grip his shoulders, whimpering as you pull him up.

“Frankie.” You whine, pulling him up towards you. He chuckles, shaking his head, kissing his way up your body, his hand grabbing your thigh and inching it up so that your calf rests of his shoulder. His hand splays wide and large on your abdomen and he presses a kiss to your ankle. He’s panting now, his tip nestled above your folds and resting heavily against your clit. He looks down at you, concern flashing through his features.

Just an hour ago, you were crying in bed because of him.

Guilt racks through his body, and he hesitates. His hands softly rub circles into the thigh he’s pressed to his chest, something he always does when he takes you missionary- just to make the stretch less painful. He looks down at you, his chest heaving. You frown, your hands reaching up to trace the V-line on his abdomen. You can't reach up for him- you right leg is up on his shoulder and he's so much taller than you.

"Frank..?"

He’s so close, you taste him in the air—salt, sweat, and that sharp, late-night chemical edge. He’s shaking a little, and it jostles your whole body, so you reach for his hand, thread your fingers with his. He doesn’t let go. If anything, he squeezes tighter. He ducks his head, and his hair falls across his brow, just enough to shadow his eyes. “If you’re not sure, we don’t gotta,” he mumbles, and for a second he’s all hesitation and old wounds. You use your other foot to nudge his hip.

“Don’t be an idiot, Frank.” His mouth tips up, relieved, desperate. He shifts his hips, and you feel the thick heat of him notch against your entrance. God, the stretch. You’d almost forgotten what it was to want him like this—how you always think you’re ready, and then he slides in and you remember no, you never really are. You forget the way the first inch stings, even when you’re soaking wet, even when you want it more than anything. You forget the way he talks you through it—one of his hands coming up to cradle your face, his thumb stroking your cheek as he pushes past the resistance. “That’s it, baby,” he says, his voice low and sweet and thick with pride. “You’re doin’ so good. I know it’s a lot. S’okay. You can take it.” He’s careful, holding perfectly still once the head of his cock is inside you, letting you get used to it before he presses deeper. It’s the opposite of everything he is in the world, this slowness. Like he wants to memorize every shudder, every whimper. He leans down, bending your leg up even more so your knee brushes your shoulder, and you feel the shift all the way up your spine. You whine, eyes squeezing shut, and Frank freezes.

“Too much? You want me to stop?” He’s panting, glassy-eyed with want, but his hands never stop their soothing motion. The worry in his voice is real, the kind that makes your heart twist. You shake your head, using your core to tilt your hips up, inviting him deeper.

“No, don’t stop, just—” The words tangle up in your throat. “Just fuck me, please.” You whimper, eyes fluttering closed. Frank’s whole body shudders, the thick heat of him splitting you open in slow, deliberate increments. He’s not even halfway in but you swear you feel him in your chest, pressure blooming up your spine and out through every limb. The pain is sharp for a second, but it twists instantly into something greedy, something that wants more. You dig your nails into his wrist, and he groans, forehead dropping to yours as he hovers over you.

“Jesus, look at you,” he mutters, voice gone breathless and hoarse. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ well. So goddamn good for me.” His thumb drags over your cheek, almost reverent, and he pushes in a little further, grinding his hips to let the head of his cock sink deeper. You gasp, arching into the stretch, and he’s right there with you, matching every tremor, every shiver. He’s so gentle, but it’s killing you. Frank groans, a deep, guttural sound that rolls through your core and makes your hips jerk against his.

“Good girl,” he whispers, voice trembling at the edges. “Fuck, you’re good. Always so fuckin’ tight for me, s’like you’re made for it.” The praise makes your whole body shiver, heat unfurling in your stomach, flooding you with white noise. He’s only half inside, the stretch already so much it aches, but you tilt your hips to chase more. He cocks an eyebrow, the old, mean smile slicing through the softness. “That’s right, take what you want,” he rasps. “Thought about this every night, how you’d beg for it.” He pushes deeper, slow and steady, filling you until the pain gives way to something dark and sweet. You can barely catch your breath. Each inch splits you open in the best way, makes you feel so full you could break. Your nails rake down his abdomen, and his grip on the leg slung over his shoulder tightens, and he pushes in again. His balls slap against your ass and you moan, back arching as you feel him fill you completely. The sound that tears out of your throat is wild, nothing like the soft whimpers you made before; it’s a broken, unspeakable surrender. You want to open wider for him, give him everything, but your leg is pressed up so high your thigh is trembling. He keeps you there, braced wide with one hand, the other stroking, soothing, massaging your hip. He never stops talking you through it, the words a constant, low mantra in your ear, everything soft and rough at once.

“Good girl, good fuckin’ girl. You take me so well—knew you would, knew you’d let me all the way in. Just a little more, sweetheart, just a little more, yeah? S’almost over. You got it.” He rocks forward with each word, his cock filling you in slow, devastating increments, until you can feel the stretch all the way to your ribs. You’re sobbing, babbling his name.

Frank drives in, relentless, the pace brutal and perfect, and you can’t keep quiet anymore. He’s so fucking thick and so deep that your vision sparks, every nerve ending lit up, and it feels like it should be too much but it’s not—it’s exactly the right amount of everything. His mouth finds your neck, then your collarbone, biting hard enough to leave bruises, and it’s all you can do to keep from screaming. He keeps the pressure on your thigh, your leg bent up by your head, pinning you open for him.

“Good girl,” he rasped, grinding deeper, as if there’s even a millimeter left to give. “Knew you could take it, baby. Look at you. You got me so fuckin’ deep.” He slows, just for a second, drawing almost all the way out—just enough for you to feel yourself clench around nothing—and then he slams back in, making the whole couch jolt. Frank’s rhythm falters just enough to register his own surprise, then he slams home again, so deep you feel every inch of him in your spine. His hands never leave you—one bracing your thigh, the other cradling your jaw, thumb at the corner of your lips like he’s mapping the way you fall apart. He keeps his face close to yours, so close you can taste his ragged breath, so close you could count every shade of brown in his eyes if you could keep them open. But you can’t. The pleasure rakes through you in waves, relentless, and you’re drowning in him, the heat, the stretch, the way he doesn’t let you break even as he shatters you piece by piece.

He pulls almost all the way out, cock dragging slow and heavy along your slick walls, then fucks back in with a force that makes the couch groan. The sound it wrenches out of you is feral, and your head tilts back. His grip on your thigh tightens, keep you nice and spread open for him, and your eyes blow open with the sudden need to look at him. God, he’s beautiful.

You’d forgotten how fucking he beautiful he is.

The chain is bouncing against his chest and he ruts into you, soft groans tumbling from his lips. The diamond on your engagement ring- the one you’d handed back to him just two weeks ago- catches the light. Frank’s rhythm falters, eyes locked on the way your lips part, how your teeth catch your bottom lip and hold, desperate to keep quiet. He wants you noisy. Wants to hear every gasp, every whimper, every raw-edged syllable of his own name. He pins your thigh higher, bent almost cruelly toward your chest, and drives in so deep you swear you can feel him in your lungs. The sting licks up your spine, but you want more. You want everything. He leans down, sweat-slick chest pressed to yours, and kisses you open-mouthed and wild, his tongue delving between your teeth, tasting the salt of your tears. The chain around his neck swings forward, the cold brush of metal a shock at your clavicle, and the rings thud softly against your chin. You catch the chain with your teeth, the weight of Maria’s gold band and your diamond ring clinking against enamel, and you bite down hard on the diamond ring, eyes rolling back. Frank sees you bite the ring and his eyes go wild—something unhinged and worshipping, the way a man looks at the last glass of water in the desert. He groans, deep and ragged, and fucks in hard enough to make your teeth clack on the metal. The chain snaps taut between your mouth and his throat, and you taste steel and salt and him, all tangled together. He grins, sharp and hungry, and surges forward as if he wants to brand you with the memory of this: you, open and shaking and wearing his claim between your teeth.

He keeps one hand on your thigh and the other snakes up your body, palm flat on your sternum, right over your heart. He can feel it hammering, rabbit-quick, and he presses down just enough to let you know he’s got you—he’s the reason you’re alive, the reason you’re full, the reason you’ll never be empty again.

“Yeah? That what you want, sweetheart?” His voice is a little more than a rasp. “Want everyone to know you’re mine?” He punctuates ‘mine’ with a deep, grinding thrust, and your head slams back into the couch. The chain snaps taut, the rings tugging at your lips, and you let them slip free with a gasp. Frank’s hand comes up, rough and trembling, to brush the sweat-slick hair back from your forehead. His thumb lingers just at you temple, stroking the spot where your pulse leaps wild as a rabbit’s. He watches you, his gaze fixed and hungry, like he’s trying to memorize every flinch, every shudder, every trembling gasp that tears its way out of your throat. You feel so full you might split, skin drawn tight, every inch of you straining around him. He never breaks eye contact. Not even when his hips ground in, slow and mean, making you whimper—like he needs the proof of you pleasure more than his own.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, voice low and hoarse, “let me see you, sweetheart. Let me see that pretty face.” You can’t keep her eyes open, not when the world keeps blinking out in flashes of white-hot pleasure every time he bottoms out inside you.

The pressure in your core keeps building. Frank is relentless but attentive, his hips rolling in that steady, devastating way that makes your toes curl. He’s still talking, always talking, even now:

“That’s it, baby, you’re takin’ me so good. Never seen anything prettier than you spread out for me. Fuck, you squeeze so tight—can feel you everywhere.” It’s a litany, a confession, a prayer muttered into your skin. You can’t understand half of it, can’t answer except to sob his name and hold on. He keeps the rhythm, gentle in his own way, but relentless enough to keep the pleasure blooming white-hot behind your eyes. Everything narrows to the stretch, the burn, the heat of Frank inside you. You can feel your own slick coating his cock, feel the way he grinds in on each thrust to catch your clit and make sparks go off in your chest. Your eyes roll back and you claw at his abdomen as he straightens up again, getting a better angle to go in deeper. Frank’s hands never stop moving—never stop touching you. His big palm splays wide over your chest, thumb rubbing side to side in time with the frantic tempo thundering underneath your ribs. The friction of his cock inside you is pure, bright agony, the drag of every vein, every ridge, sending shudders up your spine so intense you can’t make your mouth work right. All you can manage is a string of broken whimpers, fingers digging into the meat of his abdomen like you could climb him if you tried hard enough. He sounds just as wrecked as you feel, the gritted words pouring hot into your ear.

“That’s it, baby, fuck, you’re so tight for me—never had anyone fit me like you do, never. Gonna make me come just from how you squeeze me alone.” He rocks in, and it’s a punch to the gut, a flare of heat so sharp your eyes slam shut. Your nails dig into his thigh, whimpering as he inches your legs higher on his shoulder.

“Mmph- god- Frank- oh my god, oh my god, frank- Yeah, right there- oh fuck, i’m gonna come-” You whine, writhing beneath him, your hips slamming up to meet his. He tips his head back, body falling backwards a fraction as you rut against him like a wild animal.

His arm grabs your leg and hitches it higher, lifting your hips off the couch. The shift in angle is catastrophic. Frank is so deep you think he’s scraping something that isn’t meant to be touched, and the way he grinds his hips up is a torment you want to last forever. You can’t breathe, can’t think, everything blurs into the frantic wet slap of skin, the relentless pressure inside you, the sweet, mean drag of his cock hitting that spot over and over until you’re on the edge of something enormous and terrifying.

“C’mon, baby, you’re right fuckin’ there,” he pants, voice gone raw with need. His hand clutches your thigh in a death grip, the edge of pain - so sharp, so grounding -keeping you tethered while the rest of you dissolves. You try to say his name but it’s just a breathless gasp, your head tipping back as the world whiteouts, nothing left but burning light and the wild pulse beneath your skin. You come undone in a flood,your body jerking against him as your hands press against his abdomen to try to get him to slow down. You’re shaking. Limbs gone useless, lungs fluttering behind your ribs as the aftershocks rattle through you, and you can’t even close your legs, not with the way Frank’s braced them open and is still, somehow, moving in you. He’s talking you down, voice gone wild: lower now, words less like English and more like the snarl of someone starving and finding a meal at last. He’s bent double over you, forehead pressed to the hollow of your throat, every shudder of his hips sending another spike of pleasure up your spine, bright and mean and so, so necessary.

“C’mon, that’s it, that’s my girl, you’re so fuckin’ good, proud of you, so goddamn perfect, can’t believe you’re—” The rest blurs into nonsense, a moan and a curse and your name, carried on a breath hot against your skin. His cock pulses inside you, relentless,throbbing as he hammers in, over and over, until he can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t even remember his own name. Just yours, on repeat. You feel the snap in his body, the way he goes rigid, muscles locked up so hard the tremor rolls through both your frames as he comes. Frank spills hot and thick inside you, the surge so intense it makes your own aftershocks crackle through your nerves all over again. He keeps going even then, grinding through the finish, until the pain-pleasure blends into a single endless note in your skull. Then he’s collapsing over you, a dead weight, all six feet of him slumped across your torso, your leg still hooked over his shoulder. He’s breathing hard, one hand blocking out most of your vision. You can’t move except to wheeze in air, half-laughing, half-crying,voice raw and hoarse.

“Jesus fuck, angel, you gotta quit doin’ that, you’re gonna kill me.” His chest is slick against your shoulder, the length of him flush to your skin, and the rings leave an indent where they pressed hard into your collarbone. You can’t unclench your hands. Everything is quivering, your legs like jelly, your lungs dragging in ragged, uneven breaths, but Frank’s keeping you locked in place, caged and safe and his. He shifts, careful not to crush you, but he won’t let you go, not yet. Your thigh slips off his shoulder, landing heavy on the outside of his, and Frank slides down, kissing your knee where it folds over his ribs. Then, slower, softer, his lips trail up your thigh, over your hip, to the hollow below your ribs. His nose nudges at your skin and it makes you shiver, the sensation almost too much after what he just did. He looks up at you, all the earlier guilt creeping back in, and he slowly presses his thumbs into your hips.

“I gotta get'cha cleaned up, baby.” You're not sure how he manages it. How the same man who just pressed you open on a threadbare sofa and fucked you into a sobbing, shaking mess can move so gently, so reverently, the same way you’d carry an armful of dandelions through a tornado. Frank eases out of you, slow enough that the aftershocks go on forever, then kneels between your legs in the puddle of his own ruined self-control as he slips his sweats back up his legs. He’s saying something—baby, easy, right here—but you can’t hear it over the blood rushing in your ears. You can’t hear anything except the slick sound of yourself and the ache between your legs, the stinging, glorious heat of it.

"C'mon, pretty girl. Up and at'em." he slings you up, arm hookie beneath your knees as he plops you down on his shoulder. Frank’s already halfway to the bathroom before you can even properly protest, one hand under your knees, the other steadying your back like you’re made of something far more fragile than you actually are.

“Don’t start,” he mutters, voice still rough from everything that just happened, but there’s warmth under it now. Familiar. “You’re not walkin’ around like that.”

“I can walk,” you say, but it comes out weak, more amused than convincing. He glances down at you in his arms, one eyebrow lifting. “Yeah? You wanna prove it?” You open your mouth, think better of it, and shut it again.

“Smart choice,” he says, like he’s satisfied, and carries you the rest of the way. The bathroom light flicks on, harsh for a second, and you groan into his shoulder.

“Jesus, Frank—warn a girl.”

“You were just yellin’ my name ten minutes ago,” he says dryly, setting you down on the counter with ridiculous care. “Now suddenly you’re shy about lighting?”

“That’s different,” you mumble.

“Oh yeah?” He leans in, hands braced on either side of you, eyes flicking over your face like he’s making sure you’re actually okay underneath all the chaos. “Explain.” You squint at him.

“I don’t need to explain anything to you.” A beat. Frank hums.

“Mm. Missed this.” You blink.

“Missed what?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you.

“You bein’ a pain in my ass.” Your laugh slips out before you can stop it, small and cracked but real. His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile too much too fast, like he doesn’t want to scare it off.

“There she is,” he murmurs. You roll your eyes.

“Don’t get sentimental.”

“I’m not,” he says immediately, too fast.

“Liar.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.” His hand is on your face before you can finish the sentence, thumb dragging lightly over your cheekbone. Not forceful. Just there. Present. Grounding.

“You done?” he asks quietly.

“With what?”

“Actin’ like you’re not mine again yet.” Your breath catches a little at that, not from insecurity this time—just from how normal it sounds now. Like it was never in question, even when everything was falling apart. You study him for a second. Then shrug slightly.

“I might need convincing.” Frank exhales like he’s been personally challenged by that.

“Yeah?” he says, low. “Pretty sure I just convinced you on that couch." He hums, grabbing a wet tea towel and wringing it out, before shoving your legs open and softly dragging it across you. The towel is warm, careful, methodical in his hands, and despite the teasing, his touch stays soft. Focused. Like he’s still taking care of you first and everything else second.

“You’re insufferable,” he mutters.

“You love it.” A beat. Frank doesn’t answer right away. Just glances up at you again, slower this time.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, like it costs him nothing at all. “I do.” That wipes the smugness off your face for half a second. Frank notices immediately.

The towel is warm, careful, methodical in his hands, and despite the teasing, his touch stays soft. Focused. Like he’s still taking care of you first and everything else second.

Frank notices immediately.

“Oh?” he murmurs, satisfied now. “What happened to all that attitude?”

“I’m thinking,” you say.

“Dangerous.” You kick his hip lightly with your heel. He catches your ankle instantly, holds it for a second, then lets go like he’s reminding you he could absolutely keep you there if he wanted to. Not that he would. Not unless you asked. The towel moves again, slower now, and he leans in a little closer between your legs, voice dropping back into something calmer.

“You alright?” he asks, quieter. Not teasing anymore. You nod after a moment.

“Yeah. A little sore.” Frank studies you like he doesn’t entirely trust simple answers yet. Then he exhales through his nose, like he’s letting himself believe it.

“Good,” he says. “Because I don’t feel like dealin’ with Matt if I mess this up again.” That gets a laugh out of you—real this time, breathy and tired.

“Oh my God,” you say. “He’s not your probation officer.” Frank snorts.

“He might as well be.” You tilt your head back against the cabinet, watching him as he finishes up. His focus is so intense it almost makes you want to annoy him on purpose again just to see it break.

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

“So are you.”

“I’m cleanin’ you up.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not staring.” Frank pauses again. Then looks up fully.

“…Yeah, well,” he says, completely unbothered now. “I missed you.” That lands softer than anything else he’s said tonight. Your teasing dies down a little. Frank notices the shift immediately and softens right back with you, stepping closer again instead of letting the moment stretch too long.

“C’mere,” he says quietly. You do. Of course you do. He helps you down from the counter carefully, like you might forget how to stand again if he lets go too fast, and then just… holds you for a second. Not intense. Not desperate. Just Frank with his arms around you like it’s the most normal thing in the world again. His arms are tight around you, and you breathe in his scent, fingers trailing along the edges of his muscles. He pulls back slightly to cup your cheeks, staring down at you. Your hands are pressed to his chest, and your hands drift up. Your fingers tangle in the chain, biting your bottom lip.

It'd be hypocritical to ask for it back, right ?

I mean two weeks ago you practically threw it at him.

Your finger hooks around the band holding the diamond, carefully avoiding Maria's golden band. Frank notices the gesture, and his heart cracks.

God, he loves you.

You are the woman he loves, and yet you know that you're not the first one. And he's always admired how you respected that- how you came with him to the graveyard on birthdays, and how you never - never- asked him to take the band off.

Frank goes still the second your fingers touch the chain.

Not in a tense way.

In a listening way.

Like his whole body has learned to register you before anything else.

He watches your hand hover there, careful—almost hesitant—and something in his expression softens in a way that makes your chest ache more than anything sharp ever could.

“Hey,” he says quietly. Not a question. Just… there. You swallow.

“I was just—” You stop, shake your head a little like you’re trying to clear it. “Sorry. I don’t know why I—” Frank’s hand comes up immediately, cupping your wrist before you can pull away from the chain. Not stopping you. Just grounding you there.

“Don’t,” he says gently. You blink up at him. He’s not teasing now. Not joking. Not deflecting. Just Frank—solid and warm and looking at you like you’ve never been anything but safe to him.

“You don’t gotta apologize for touchin’ it,” he says quietly. Your fingers curl tighter around the chain anyway, like you don’t trust yourself not to let go.

“It’s weird,” you admit, voice small. “Still feels like it shouldn’t be mine.” That lands between you both. Frank exhales through his nose, slow. Then he leans in, resting his forehead lightly against yours.

“It is,” he says simply. You let out a shaky breath.

“I gave it back.”

“I know,” he says. No judgment in it. No correction. Just fact. His thumb strokes once over your wrist like he’s reminding you he’s still here, still steady. Your throat tightens. You look down at it again.

Maria’s ring sits there too, calm and familiar, like it’s been there through every version of Frank’s life without ever demanding to be anything other than what it is. And yours—your ring—rests beside it.

Different. But not separate. Frank watches you carefully, like he’s waiting for you to decide what this moment is. You swallow. His hand slides up from your wrist to your cheek again, steadying you there like he always does when your thoughts start spiraling too fast.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.” You do. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t fill the silence. Just waits until you’re fully there with him. Then, quieter: “She mattered to me,” he says honestly. You nod slightly, because you already knew that. You’ve always known that. Frank continues, voice steady but careful. “And she still does. In a different way.” A pause. “But she’s not you.” Your breath catches a little. Frank doesn’t stop there—not because he’s trying to fix anything, but because he’s making sure you hear him clearly this time. “She was my past,” he says softly. “You’re my now.” Your fingers loosen slightly on the chain without you realizing. Frank notices that too. His thumb brushes your cheekbone again, gentler.

“I don’t compare you two,” he adds. “I don’t need to.” Your throat works like you’re trying to find words that won’t break in half. "And you will never.. never, come second to anybody. Ever again." Your chest aches, but it’s not sharp this time. It’s full. Frank watches your face carefully, like he’s checking where the line is between reassurance and too much. When he sees you’re still with him, he exhales slowly. Then, with that familiar Frank half-smirk creeping back in just a little, he adds:

“Besides,” he mutters. “She would’ve kicked my ass for the whole Karen thing and moping around this long anyway.” You giggle into his chest, and he smiles, rubbing your arms. He pulls back, reaching behind his neck. He unclasps the chain and dumps the rings into his hand. His thumb drags along the golden band, smiling to himself softly. He clears his throat, slipping Maria's band back on the chain and securing back around his neck before softly grabbing your hand.

"Baby." He hums.

You look up at him, frowning.

"Will you do me the honor-"

"Oh my god, Frank-"

"Shh, let me finish." Frank looks entirely too pleased with himself now. Like he’s been waiting for you to interrupt him so he could ignore it anyway. He keeps hold of your hand, thumb tracing lazy circles over your knuckles as if nothing in the world could possibly rush him.

“Will you do me the honor—” he starts again, slower this time. You groan immediately.

“Frank.”

“—of letting me finish my sentence,” he continues, completely unbothered. You narrow your eyes at him.

“That’s not what you were gonna say.” He tilts his head slightly, all innocence that absolutely does not belong on a man like him.

“Yeah it is.”

“Frank.” He sighs like you’re the difficult one here.

“Alright,” he admits. “It’s not.” You exhale, already tired of him and also very clearly not tired of him at all.

“Go on then,” you mutter. Frank hums like that’s fine.

"Miss Murdock. Here, in our dingy bathroom. As you stand butt naked- Will you do me the honor- again- of being my wife ?" Frank says it like it’s the most ridiculous, obvious conclusion in the world. His thumb is still moving over your knuckles, slower now. Less teasing. More… careful. And then, softer than everything that came before it, he adds:

“I mean—” a tiny exhale through his nose, almost a laugh at himself, “—you can say no if you want. Obviously. But I’d prefer you don’t. Obviously.” That finally cracks something loose in the air. Your laugh comes out small, disbelieving, a little shaky.

“Frank.”

“What?” he says immediately, like he hasn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of a bathroom in the least subtle way possible. “I’m bein’ clear-"

"Oh my god, Frank !" You laugh, "Just give me my fucking ring back." A grin breaks out on his face, and he slips the ring on your waiting finger.

“Alright,” he says, voice warm with amusement, “so that’s settled." You lift a brow at him.

“Is it?” He nods once, very serious.

“Legally? Emotionally? Spiritually? Yeah. I think I’m done panicking for the day.” That gets a laugh out of you—proper this time, not the fragile kind from before. Frank exhales like he’s won something. “Good,” he mutters. “Because I don’t have the energy to propose again. That was stressful.”

“You were the one doing it,” you point out, still smiling.

“Yeah, and I didn’t rehearse it,” he says, like that explains everything. He glances you over properly then—still sitting on the counter, still very much not dressed—and his expression shifts immediately into something softer, fond, and just a little exasperated.

“…Alright,” he says, pointing at you gently. “New plan. We’re gettin’ you dressed.” You blink.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re naked in a bathroom,” he says flatly. “You’re not ‘fine,’ you’re dramatic.” You huff.

“I prefer ‘romantically liberated.’” Frank snorts.

“Yeah? Romantically liberated people get panties on. C’mon.” He turns, already carrying into the room. He drops you down on the bed , and he starts rummaging through a drawer like he’s done this a thousand times, tossing you one of his shirts without even looking back. It lands on your lap.

“You’re bossy,” you tell him, pulling it on anyway.

“I’m efficient,” he corrects.

“And smug.”

“Also accurate.” You slide off the bed, still adjusting the shirt as it swallows you whole, and Frank immediately steps in like it’s instinct—fixing the collar, tugging it straight, hands briefly brushing your waist just to make sure you’re steady as he slips panties up your thighs.

“You good?” he asks, quieter again, like it matters more than the joking. You nod.

“Yeah.” He studies you for a second longer, then seems satisfied and relaxes back into himself.

“Good,” he says again, softer now. “Because I’m not dealin’ with another existential crisis tonight.” You smile up at him.

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“It is absolutely a me problem,” he agrees. He reaches for your hand again anyway, threading his fingers through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then he gives you a look—fond, tired, a little amused at both of you—and adds, almost like he’s signing off on something bigger than the moment:

“For better or worse, right?”

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You step back from the mirror, smoothening your hands over your shirt, biting your bottom lip. You twist on yourself, frowning as you try to figure out what's wrong with your outfit.

You ruffle your hair, pull on the shirt here and there. You huff out an annoyed breath, slipping the shirt off. You turn and dig back into your closet, pulling out all your options and holding them up to the light as you hear the bathroom door open.

You finally decide on this tight white button up and tie it up and pulling down the short jean skirt you paired it with. You smile at yourself, finally happy with the way you're looking- when a low whistle echoes behind you. You spin around, the heels of your cowboy boots clicking on the hardwood floor.

Frank stands there, black button up tight on his huge chest, his jeans loose on his waist. His eyes drink you up, his jaw slack.

"Jesus H. Christ." You grin.

"You like it ?"

"Like it ? Baby.." Frank takes a slow step forward, eyes dragging over every inch of you like he’s committing it to memory. His hands settle on his hips, head tipping back with a quiet groan.

“Baby… if you walk outta this room lookin’ like that, I’m gonna spend the whole night fighting for my damn life.” You laugh softly, heat blooming in your cheeks.

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m serious.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “That skirt oughta be illegal.” He closes the distance between you, big hands finding your waist instantly, thumbs sliding beneath the hem of your shirt just enough to brush warm skin. Your breath catches as he pulls you against him, chest to chest.

“You been in here this whole time worried about your outfit,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “and meanwhile I can barely remember my own name lookin’ at you.” Your grin turns shy despite yourself.

“So… I did okay?” Frank stares at you for a long second, then leans down until his forehead rests against yours.

“Sweetheart,” he says quietly, “you walk in beside me dressed like this, every man in the county’s gonna hate me.” You snort a laugh, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

“Good thing you look pretty enough to survive it.” That earns you a deep chuckle. He ducks his head, pressing a lingering kiss beside your mouth before finally giving in and kissing you properly - slow, warm, and possessive enough to make your knees weaken in those boots. You hum against his lips, tapping his chest as you lower yourself down from your tiptoes back onto flat feet.

"Uh-uh. Nope. You promised me a night out." He groans, tipping his head back, clearly already regretting his promise. He shakes his head, sighing.

"We can go tomorrow." He offers. You shake your head, stepping out of his grip.

"Frank." The warning in your voice makes his eyes flick back to yours. You cross your arms, trying not to smile at the guilty look creeping across his face."We haven't had a normal night in months. You said you would take me dancin'. I spent an hour getting ready.” His gaze drops again immediately, completely unapologetic.

“Yeah,” he mutters, “that’s part of the problem.” You laugh, grabbing your purse off the dresser and slinging it over your shoulder. Frank watches every movement like he’s hypnotized by you.

“C’mon, cowboy.” You point toward the bedroom door. “Behave.” He scoffs under his breath.

“Impossible.” Still, he follows after you, one large hand settling at the small of your back the second you walk past him. His touch is warm and steady, guiding you through the hallway and toward the front door. You barely make it three steps before he pulls you back gently against his chest.

“Frank—”

“Just one more.” Before you can answer, his mouth brushes your neck, slow and lingering. A shiver races down your spine instantly. He grins against your skin like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You smell good,” he murmurs.

“You’re stalling.”

“Mhm.” Another kiss, softer this time. “Still not seeing the issue.” You turn in his arms, trying to glare at him properly, but the look falls apart when you catch the way he’s staring at you again - all soft around the edges now, affectionate beneath the teasing. His thumb brushes your cheek. “You really are beautiful, honey.” The sincerity in his voice steals your breath for a second. Your expression softens.

“You clean up pretty nice yourself.” That crooked grin spreads across his face again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smooth down the front of his black shirt. “Now take me out before I change my mind.” He catches your hand before you can pull away, lifting it to his lips.

“Dangerous thing to say to me.” You roll your eyes, laughing as he finally opens the front door for you. But even then, as you step out into the warm evening air, you can still feel his eyes on you — proud, smitten, and just a little bit obsessed.

You two end up in this crowded bar in Hell's Kitchen, music thrumming around in the air. The air smells of stale beer and deep-fried food, and the live band is playing music that's already got you swaying back and forth as Frank directs you towards a booth.

Frank keeps one hand low on your waist as he guides you through the crowd, broad shoulders parting people almost effortlessly. The second someone bumps into you too hard, his palm tightens instinctively against your side. Protective. Automatic. You glance up at him with a smile.

“You planning on glaring at everyone in here?”

“I ain’t glaring.” You snort.

“Baby, half this bar looks terrified of you.”

“Good.” The live band switches songs, the bass vibrating through the floor beneath your boots. Neon lights flicker across Frank’s face in blues and reds, catching the sharp line of his jaw while he scans the room out of habit. Even relaxed, he’s still Frank — still aware of every exit, every raised voice, every movement near you. But tonight there’s something softer woven into it too. His attention keeps drifting back to you.

Your laugh.

The sway of your hips to the music.

The way your skirt rides up slightly every time you hop onto the barstool beside him.

Frank notices everything. The bartender definitely notices you too. He leans on the counter longer than necessary while setting down your drinks.

“For the lady.” You smile politely.

“Thanks.” Frank’s fingers tap once against his whiskey glass. The bartender lingers another second.

“You two celebrating something?” Before you can answer, Frank slides an arm around the back of your stool, voice calm and flat.

“Yeah.” The bartender blinks.

“Oh yeah?” Frank doesn’t even look away from you when he answers.

“She still likes me.” You burst out laughing, nearly choking on your drink. The bartender chuckles awkwardly before wandering off to the next customer. You turn toward Frank, grinning.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Mhm.” He takes a sip of whiskey, eyes dragging over your face. “You flirt with everybody?”

“I said thank you.”

“He almost proposed.” You laugh harder, leaning into his shoulder. Frank’s mouth twitches despite himself, clearly fighting a smile. A few songs later, the bar gets louder. More crowded. People pressing shoulder-to-shoulder near the dance floor while the band plays some old rock song everybody seems to know except you. Frank’s hand stays planted on your thigh while you sit beside him at the booth, thumb absently brushing back and forth beneath the table. Possessive without even realizing it. A man passing by slows noticeably when he sees you. His eyes flick over your legs, your waist, your face.

Frank notices immediately. The guy keeps walking after one look at Frank. You catch the entire interaction and grin into your drink.

“You know,” you murmur, “normal boyfriends usually just pee on their territory.” Frank nearly chokes on his whiskey. He coughs once, glaring at you while you laugh uncontrollably beside him.

“You think you’re funny?”

“I think you’re one bad day away from growling at people.” His hand slides higher on your thigh suddenly, fingers squeezing once. God, he feels so possessive of you.

He can't explain it, not without sounding like some red-neck misogynist, which he isn't. He knows you can handle yourself, hell the first time the two of you met you practically flip-slammed him onto his back. And you are clearly in love with him.

That, he knows for sure.

So it’s not distrust twisting low in his chest every time somebody stares too long. It’s something uglier. More instinctive.

Mine.

The thought settles heavy in his ribs while his thumb drags slowly against your thigh beneath the table. Because you keep looking at him like that. Like he hung the damn moon. Every guy that has even attempted to chat you up, you've ignored like your senses are fine tuned to him and only him. But he can't help the little jealous flame that threatens to engulf him when someone gets too close to you.

You’re halfway through laughing at something he muttered under his breath when another man approaches the table. Younger guy this time. Probably mid-twenties. Button-down shirt rolled to his elbows, expensive watch glinting beneath the neon lights.

“Hey,” he says to you, completely ignoring Frank. “You wanna dance?” Frank goes still beside you. Not tense. Still. You glance up at the stranger politely.

“I’m here with someone.” The guy finally notices Frank sitting beside you. His eyes flick over the broad shoulders, the tattooed forearms, the expressionless stare. Still, somehow, he keeps going.

“I mean… one song isn’t gonna kill him.” He smiles at you again. “Right?” Frank’s jaw ticks once. You feel it before you even look at him. The slow shift in the atmosphere beside you. But then your hand slides immediately onto Frank’s chest, fingers curling lightly into his shirt.

“Sweetheart,” you say sweetly to the stranger, “one song actually might kill you.”Frank chokes on a laugh beside you — rough and sudden, ducking his head into his whiskey glass. The guy blinks. You smile apologetically. “Have a good night, though.” And just like that, you turn fully back toward Frank. Like the other man stopped existing the second the conversation ended. The stranger mutters something awkward and disappears into the crowd. Frank watches him go for exactly one second before his attention drags back to you instead.

“You enjoy causin’ problems?” he asks quietly. You grin.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re the one sitting here lookin’ like an attack dog.” His eyes narrow slightly, though there’s no heat behind it.

“And yet they keep comin’ over.” You lean closer across the booth until your mouths are barely inches apart.

“Maybe because they don’t realize I’m obsessed with you.” That lands. Hard. You physically see it hit him. Frank’s entire expression shifts — something softer cracking through all that rough-edged jealousy and restraint. His hand slides from your thigh to your waist, pulling you closer across the booth automatically.

“Careful,” he mutters. “You keep sayin’ things like that in public…”

“What?” you tease. “You’ll growl at somebody?” This time he actually smiles. Small. Crooked. Dangerous enough to make your stomach flip anyway. Then the band changes songs again. Couples start drifting toward the tiny dance floor near the stage. You hum around your straw, your eyes going wide.

"Oh my god ! I love this song !" You grin, perking up as you slide out of the booth. You turn to face him. "Come dance with me."

"Oh, mama, I don't dance." Frank chuckles, shaking his head as he swirls his beer in his cup and takes a sip. You frown, pouting.

"You do tonight." You grab his arm. "Come on !" He gives in, of course he does. He lets you drag him out of the booth, his hands subconcsiously tugging your jean skirt down a little as you lead him through the crowd of already dancing drunks. Frank lets you pull him into the middle of the crowd with the expression of a man marching toward his own execution.

“You’re enjoyin’ this way too much,” he mutters as you spin to face him.

“Oh, absolutely.”

The second the beat drops, your grin widens. The entire bar erupts around you — drunk people shouting lyrics, boots stomping against the floor, neon lights flashing overhead while the bass rattles through your ribs. And then you start moving. Frank exhales sharply the moment your hands slide up his chest.

“Jesus…” You laugh, swaying closer until your back brushes his front. His large hands land automatically on your hips, rough palms spreading wide like he doesn’t trust the crowd not to steal you away from him. The music pulses louder. Faster. You roll your hips teasingly against him and feel Frank go completely still behind you for half a second.

“Oh, you’re evil,” he says directly into your ear.

“You came willingly.”

“Didn’t know I was bein’ set up.” You glance over your shoulder with a wicked smile, moving against him again just to watch his jaw clench. Frank’s grip tightens immediately. Not enough to stop you. Just enough to say mine. The crowd presses tighter around you both as the song gets louder. Somebody whistles nearby when you throw your head back laughing, your skirt riding higher against your thighs while you dance. Frank notices the whistle instantly. His eyes snap toward the sound with enough force to make the guy immediately look somewhere else. You feel the shift in him and laugh softly.

“Baby.”

“He was starin’.”

“It’s a bar.”

“You’re grinding on me in a skirt that barely qualifies as clothing.”

“And?” Frank stares down at you with dark, dangerous eyes.

“And I’m thinkin’ violent thoughts.” You nearly melt on the spot. Instead of answering, you take his hands and drag them fully around your waist as you spin around, facing him , pressing yourself flush against him while the beat pounds through the room. Frank lets out this rough noise low in his throat — halfway between a groan and a warning. You laugh, reaching up to rest your hand above his heart, forcing him to sway with you.

"C'mon, Frankie. Dance with me." Frank looks at you like you’ve personally orchestrated his downfall.

“Woman,” he mutters, one big hand spreading against the small of your back, “you are tryin’ to kill me.” You beam up at him completely unrepentant.

“Little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“No.” The answer comes instantly, dead serious, and it makes you laugh harder. The song pounds around you while the crowd jumps and sways shoulder-to-shoulder, but Frank’s attention stays locked on you completely. He’s still moving stiffly, like dancing is some kind of tactical operation he never trained for. You shake your head fondly.

“You dance like a dad at a barbecue.”

“I am old enough to be somebody’s dad at a barbecue.”

“You’re thirty-something, not deceased.”

“Technically, I am.” You roll your eyes.

"Alright, Pete. Will you at least pretend to have a good time ? You mutter, your shoulders dropping a little, pout turning genuine for half a second. Frank sees it immediately. And because this is you — because he’d walk barefoot through broken glass if it made you smile at him like that again — he sighs dramatically toward the ceiling.

“Alright,” he mutters. “Fine.” Your eyes narrow suspiciously.

“Fine what?”

“Fine, I’ll dance.”

“That’s already what you’re doing.”

“No,” he says, tightening his grip on your waist before pulling you flush against him again, “this is what old people do at weddings.” Before you can answer, Frank actually starts moving with the music. Not stiff swaying anymore. Not awkward dad-foot shuffling. Real dancing. Your jaw drops instantly.

“Frank Castle!” A crooked grin pulls at his mouth as he spins you once beneath his arm, surprisingly smooth for a man built like a tank. You laugh loudly, nearly stumbling back into his chest when he catches your hips again. “Oh my god,” you gasp between laughs. “You liar.”

“What?”

“You absolutely know how to dance!” Frank shrugs with fake innocence.

“Might’ve picked up a thing or two.”

“From where?”

“Couple bars. Couple bad decisions.”

“That explains literally nothing.” He just laughs under his breath and dips his head toward yours while the beat pounds around you. The neon lights flash across his face, catching the rare looseness in his expression. You can’t remember the last time you saw him like this — relaxed enough to tease, to laugh, to let himself exist without carrying the whole world on his shoulders. It makes your chest ache a little. You’re both laughing now, the kind of easy, uncontrollable laughter that leaves your cheeks aching. Frank keeps you close while the crowd surges around you, one hand warm at your lower back while the other catches your wrist and spins you again just to hear you squeal dramatically.

“There she is,” he says when you grin up at him breathlessly.

“Who?”

“That girl Karen’s been yellin’ at me to bring back.” Your expression softens instantly. “Frank…” He shrugs one shoulder, suddenly looking a little bashful beneath all the rough edges.

“Missed hearin’ you laugh like this.” The music keeps pounding around you, but for a second everything else blurs at the edges. You reach up, smoothing your hand along the back of his neck.

“Missed this version of you too.” Something warm flickers across his face then. Quiet. Real. Then you ruin the moment immediately by gasping dramatically. “Oh my god, is that Pitbull?” Frank stares at you in disbelief.

“Ain’t no way you just got more excited.”

“Mr. Worldwide is a lifestyle, Frank.”

“You say insane things with a concerning amount of confidence.” You grab his hands again before he can escape.

“Dance, cowboy.” He groans loudly while you laugh yourself breathless all over again, dragging the giant ex-marine deeper into the chaos of flashing lights.

After what feels like a decade, and six songs, you break away from him, panting.

"Oh, i'm so thirsty." You breathe, licking your lips. Your hair is sticking to your forehead with sweat and Frank laughs, pushing it away.

"You wanna take a break ?" He asks. You nod, patting his chest.

"I'm going to get us another round. Wait for me at the booth ?" You ask, and he nods. You grin, reaching up to peck his cheek before scurrying off through the crowd. Frank shakes his head, snaking his way through and slumping down at the booth.

You lean against the bar, grinning at the bar tender as you ask him for two more drinks. He smiles and nods, turning around to fix them up.

God, you can't help the giddy smile spreading on your lips.

"Hi there, little lady. What's a fine lady like you doin' here ? On a night like this ?" You turn to face the voice. It's a man, mid-forties, a fat beer belly and a drunken look on his face. You clear your throat.

"Out with friends." you answer, quipped. The man laughs, a cracked, scratchy sound that makes you wince.

"Well.. Can i buy you a drink ?" You look at him, trying to smile politely.

"Oh. No, thank you. That's alright." You turn back to the bartender, watching him mix up your vodka-cranberry, when a hand snakes on your lower back, creeping towards the bottom of your skirt.

"C'mon..." He mutters, like your answer was optional. Your entire body goes rigid. The hand isn’t heavy at first—just there, like he’s testing boundaries he was never invited to cross. Then it slides lower. Too low. Familiar in a way that makes your skin crawl instantly.

“No,” you say immediately, sharper this time. You step forward, breaking the contact, grabbing your drink the second the bartender slides it over like it’s the only solid thing in the world. “I said no thank you.” You try to turn away.

Try being the important word.

Because his hand catches your arm. Not gentle. Not casual anymore. Firm enough to stop you mid-step like you’re not a person, just something he can redirect.

“Hey, I’m just bein’ friendly,” he slurs, annoyed now. Something cold settles in your chest. Not fear exactly. Not yet. But that very specific kind of awareness that says this just escalated. You tug your arm once.

“Let go of me.” He doesn’t. Instead, his grip tightens like he’s deciding you’re the problem here. Like your discomfort is negotiable if he just insists hard enough.

"Don't be a tease. Come join me and my friends-"

"No." You spit, still struggling in his grasp. His face turns to a snarl. His grip tightens, and that snarl turns uglier—like your refusal is an inconvenience he’s deciding to ignore rather than respect.

“C’mon, don’t make a scene,” he mutters, yanking your arm a little harder like that’s supposed to settle it. “You were fine a second ago—”

“I said no,” you snap, louder now, trying to pull free. Your drink sloshes in your hand, fingers tightening around the glass so hard it almost hurts. “Let go of me.” People nearby are starting to notice. You can feel it—the shift of attention, the awkward glances, the way the noise around you dulls just slightly like the room is holding its breath.

But no one steps in.

The man leans closer instead, breath heavy with alcohol.

“You think you’re better than—” And that’s when the air behind him changes. Frank arrives like a quiet storm. Not fast. Not loud. Not explosive. Just there. At first, he doesn’t even look angry. In fact, his expression is almost calm—too calm—as he steps up beside you and glances down at the man’s hand still wrapped around your arm.

“Hey,” Frank says evenly. “Why don't you let the lady go, huh ?” It isn’t a question. But it also isn’t a threat. Not yet. The man laughs like this is just some jealous boyfriend situation he can talk his way through.

“Relax, man, we were just talking—” Frank exhales through his nose, slow. Controlled.

“Oh, were you ?"

"Frank, I'm fine. I promise." You rasp, eyes flickering between the two. Frank sighs, shaking his head.

"Yeah, she don't look like she wants to talk to you. Let go,” he repeats. Still calm. Still measured. You glance at Frank, heart pounding—not from fear now, but from the way his control feels like it’s stretching thin under the surface. The man finally loosens his grip on you just slightly, but instead of letting go completely, he shoves your arm down like he’s dismissing the situation.

“She was fine until she started actin’ all whorish—” That’s when Frank moves. It’s not a warning anymore. Frank grabs him. One hand clamps around the back of his shirt and the other hooks under his arm, and before the man can even process it, Frank rips him off you and drives him straight into the bar counter. The impact is brutal—glass rattles, bottles clink, the bartender flinches back, and a sickening crack echoes in the bar as the man's nose splits open.

“Frank -!” you gasp, stumbling a step backwards. But it’s already done. The man cries out as Frank pins him there, forearm pressed across his upper back, keeping him down like he weighs nothing. The bar goes dead silent now. Frank leans in, voice low and lethal.

“You touch her again,” he says, “and I break more than your nose.” The man struggles, panicked now, trying to twist free.

“Dude—dude, I didn’t—” Frank doesn’t even let him finish. Frank releases him like he’s nothing, stepping back as the guy collapses against the counter, clutching his hand, face pale and twisted in shock and pain. Security starts moving in the distance now. People are backing up. Someone swears. Frank doesn’t even look at him anymore. He turns straight to you. And just like before, everything in him shifts the second his eyes land on your face. The violence doesn’t disappear—but it gets buried. Controlled. Contained behind something steadier.

“Hey,” he says immediately, stepping closer, hands up just slightly like he’s grounding himself through you now. “You alright?” You're shaking, nodding as if it's all you know how to do. Frank reaches into his waller, tosses some crisp bills on the bar.

"Close out our tab." He softly takes the drinks from our hands. "Give these to whoever will have 'em." He grabs your arms, softly tucking you into his side as he presses a kiss to your temple.

"C'mon, baby, let's get you home." Your body is still a little locked up in that half-second after everything happened, like your brain is trying to catch up with what your eyes already saw. The noise of the bar rushes back in—music, chatter, the scrape of chairs—but it all feels distant, muffled at the edges. Frank’s hand stays steady on your arm. Not tight. Not controlling. Just there. Anchoring. You blink once, then again, and let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Yeah,” you manage, voice a little unsteady but real. “Yeah… okay.” Frank nods like that’s enough for now. Like that’s all he needs to hear to move forward. He guides you through the shifting crowd without hesitation, palm firm at your back again as people part instinctively around him. Someone bumps your shoulder and immediately mutters an apology, like they can feel the leftover edge of what just happened. Outside, the air hits you colder than expected. It snaps you back into your body a little more. You inhale sharply, gripping Frank’s shirt for a second without thinking. He notices immediately—of course he does—and slows down just enough to match your pace instead of pushing it.

“You good?” he asks again, quieter this time. You swallow, then nod.

“Yeah,” you say, more certain now. “I’m good. Just… adrenaline.” That earns a faint exhale from him, almost like relief he didn’t want to admit to.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Got that.” A beat passes between you on the sidewalk—cars passing, distant bass still bleeding out of the bar behind you—but Frank doesn’t let go of you. Not even as he hails a cab, helps you inside. Not during the whole drive home, or the elevator ride up, or when he pushes the door open.

You gulp, tucking your hair behind your ears.

"I'm sorry, Frankie." You breathe, shaking your head. Frank's head snaps up to your voice as he takes his shoes off.

"Sorry ? Fuck you mean, sorry ?" He asks, crossing the space to you in a quarter of a second, his brows furrowed.

"I ruined our evening. I mean, I can usually handle those guys. My guard was down, and I just-" Frank's large hands cup your cheeks, shaking his head. He tuts.

"Hey. Nah, i'll be having none o'that. Half of the guys in that bar were just askin' to be punched if you ask me. Lookin' at you like you're a piece of fuckin' cake." His hands stay on your face, thumbs steady at your cheeks like he’s anchoring you there on purpose, making sure nothing from that bar follows you into this room. “You don’t apologize for other people bein’ animals,” he adds, voice lower now. Controlled, but there’s still that edge underneath it. “That’s not how this works.” Your mouth parts like you might argue anyway, but he’s already shaking his head. “Not hearin’ it.”

A beat.

Then, softer—but no less certain:

“You were just standin’ there gettin’ a drink. That’s it.” Your breath wavers a little at that, and Frank notices immediately. Of course he does. His eyes narrow slightly—not at you, at the memory of it. “Guy put his hands on you,” he says, like he’s still trying to process the stupidity of it. “In a room full of people.” His jaw flexes once. “And nobody did a damn thing.” There it is again—that protective anger, not aimed at you, never at you, but still burning hot under his skin like it doesn’t know where else to go. He exhales through his nose, forcing it down. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he says more quietly. “You hear me?” You nod, but he doesn’t let it go that easily.

“Say it.” You blink.

“Frank—”

“Say it,” he repeats, not loud, but absolutely unmovable. Something in your chest softens despite everything, and you huff out a breath.

“I didn’t ruin anything.” Frank studies your face for a second longer, like he’s making sure you actually believe it, not just saying it to make him stop. Then he nods once.

“Attagirl.” Only then does he step back—but not far. Never far.

“You know what I kept thinkin’ in that bar?” he says after a moment. You glance up.

“What?” His mouth twitches faintly, humorless but real.

“That I should’ve never let you outta my sight.” A beat. “And that every guy in there looked like they needed learnin’ how to behave.” The way he says it isn’t dramatic. It’s matter-of-fact. Like it’s simply true. Your pulse kicks a little anyway. Frank steps closer again, crowding your space just enough that the world outside the apartment feels even farther away. Then, quieter:

“Especially the ones that looked at you like that.” Your brows lift slightly.

“Like what?” Frank’s eyes hold yours.

“Like you were somethin’ they could just take.” Silence stretches for a second. Then he exhales, shaking it off like he doesn’t want to stay there too long. His thumb brushes once over your wrist—slow, grounding.

“I don’t like that,” he admits simply. You let out a small, breathy laugh.

“Frank…”

“What?” he says, already turning toward the kitchen like this is a normal conversation. “It’s true. You're my girl.” You watch him for a second as he moves around your space like he owns it in the most comfortable way possible—opening cabinets, pulling things out, already deciding what happens next. Then he glances back at you over his shoulder.

“And now,” he adds, tone shifting just slightly—lower, rougher in a way that sends heat up your spine without warning, “I’m hungry.” A pause. His eyes flick over you once. Slow. Intentional. “Worked’ up an appetite,” he mutters, like it’s obvious. And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he nods toward the kitchen counter. “C’mere.” You pad over, rolling your eyes.

"What are you gon' force feed me something-" You barely finish your sentence when he's lifting you off the floor and plopping you down on the counter. You yelp, hands flying to his shoulders to stabilise yourself. He grins at you, leaning in, lips warm against your neck as he works on unbuttoning your shirt. You swat at him, laughing.

"Frank-"

"I'm never lettin' you out of this house ever again, y'hear ?" You freeze for half a second—then immediately laugh, breath hitching when his mouth lingers at your neck like he’s trying to erase the memory of the bar off your skin.

“Frank,” you warn, but it comes out softer now, breathier, because his hands are already busy at your shirt like he’s decided the night officially ends here. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He pushes your shirt off your shoulders, and you shiver at the cold air, before his restless hands shift to the button on your skirt.

“I’m serious,” he mutters against you, voice low, rough around the edges in a way that makes your stomach flip. “Every idiot in that place looked at you like they had a right to.” Your fingers tighten instinctively on his shoulders.

“They didn’t do anything—”

“That’s the problem,” he cuts in immediately. Frank pulls back just enough to look at you, and there it is again—that intensity. Not angry at you. Never at you. But still sharp enough to feel like it’s pulling the air tighter around the two of you. “They looked,” he says, like that alone is enough. Like that alone is unacceptable. Then his hand settles at your waist again, firm. “Don’t like it,” he adds simply. You blink at him.

“You don’t like… people looking?” His jaw ticks once.

“I don’t like people thinkin’ they can look at what's mine.” he corrects, quieter now—but more dangerous in a way that isn’t loud. He nips at your skin, pushing your skirt down your legs. “I don’t fuckin' share." He rasps.

And then he drops down to his knees.

"Now you got sumn' else to say, or you gon' let me enjoy my meal ?"

Frank’s hands are already up and creeping towards your panties, callused fingers digging in at the meat of your thighs, pressing them apart like the stretch is some kind of reward he’d earned. You brace on your palms behind you, breath coming faster, watching him through bleary lashes as he crouches between you knees. There's something almost reverent in the way he does it, rough hands sliding slow with a patience that makes your chest tight. He yanks your underwear all the way off, lips pressed in a hard line as he looks up at her, face shadowed by the angle. You can taste the need in the air, thick and sour and sweet, like ozone before a summer storm.

“You want me to stop, you tell me,” he mutters, voice so low it vibrated in your ribs. You nod, swallowing hard, and then his face is buried between your thighs, hot breath ghosting your awaiting folds.Frank doesn’t even take his time —he just tears into it, mouth open and greedy, tongue slick and unforgiving. You’d always liked that about him, that he didn’t hesitate. That rough, ugly hunger. He licks you like you're the only thing in the world, like he’s been gone for days and this is the only way to come back. He presses his face in closer, nose bumping the inside of your thigh, the sharp scrape of his stubble catching on skin that feels too tight for your bones. You try to keep your eyes open but they flutter shut, your head thrown back as your fingers reach for anything—hair, his ears, the edge of the countertop. He always makes you so fucking loud, even when you try to keep it in. Your thighs jerk and squeeze around his head but Frank just shoves them apart, holding you open with those hands like he’s handling a loaded gun.

“Fuck, Frankie—” You whine, biting into your bottom lip so hard you swear you can taste blood. He’s practically fucking you with his mouth; it’s all tongue and suction and the kind of pressure that makes your hips buck involuntarily. He pins you tighter, the countertop cold and slick under your ass, his grip like iron on your spread thighs—no chance to close them, no chance to steady yourself, just the sensation of being fully, perfectly devoured. He grunts low, the sound vibrating hot against you, and you hear yourself whimper, one hand knotted in his hair and the other scrabbling for stability. The world narrows to the wet, obscene sounds he’s making, the scratch of his stubble, the constant, relentless pace of his mouth working you over. Frank likes it messy. He always has. He spits and licks and sucks on your clit until you're shaking, until the inside of your head is just white noise and static. You can barely breathe. You catch yourself moaning his name, only half-aware that you’re saying it, and for a split-second the sound and the sensation and the taste of him is everything. He moans into you, like he likes hearing it, like it’s the only thing that means shit to him right now. Your back arches, a sharp, painful curve that presses you harder against his face, and the cry you let out is ragged, torn from your throat.

“God, Frank—” He answers you by doubling down. One hand leaves your thigh, and you whimper at the sudden loss of pressure, but it’s only for a second. You feel his fingers, thick and calloused, sliding through the slick mess he’s made of you. He doesn’t tease. He doesn’t prep. He just pushes two fingers inside you, a brutal, perfect stretch that makes your vision go white at the edges. He curls them immediately, finding that spot that makes your whole body seize up, a live wire of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

“There she is,” he growls against your clit, the words vibrating through you. “That’s my good fuckin’ girl.” He sets a punishing rhythm, his mouth working your clit in time with the relentless drive of his fingers. It’s too much. It’s exactly what you need. The coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter, a hot, heavy thing that’s both agony and ecstasy. Your hand flies from the countertop to his shoulder, nails digging into the worn leather of his jacket, trying to anchor yourself as the world dissolves into sensation. It only takes a few minutes of this before you’re right at the edge. You try to warn him—try to say his name, try to pull his hair and get a breath in to tell him you’re about to— but it’s too late, and you come so quick it’s almost embarrassing, legs locked hard around his thick neck. Frank groans, keeps going, keeps eating you through it like he’ll never have another chance. You hear yourself gasp, then whimper, then just breath, your body a shaking, twitching mess against the counter. He finally comes up for air, face and mouth wet, eyes dark as sin. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning up at you. You're breathless, your chest heaving, your breasts tinted a light pink colour and your skin slick with sweat. Your thighs are shaking, your whole body trembling as he pushes your thighs open to stand between them. You tug at the back of his shirt, whining impatiently. He laughs, shaking his head.

"Who's the hungry one now, huh ?" He teases, nose nudging against your jaw. You rolls your eyes.

"I'm the only naked one. It's not fair." You breathe. Frank steps in, crowding your space until you’ve got nowhere to go except pressed, bare and sticky, against the counter. The way you throb, still clenching around nothing, is heightened by how he just stands there a beat, tall and mean and dripping need like it’s sweat. He’s got this grin—crooked at one corner, wolfish—and you want to wipe it off his face, but you’re shaking so bad it’s hard to even reach for him. Your laugh comes out weak. “Seriously, Frank, I will die right here if you keep looking at me like that and don’t take off your pants. You’re cruel.”

“That’s the point,” he says, but there’s a flicker of softness in his eyes as he works his belt open. The noise—the zip, rough and businesslike—echoes in your skull alongside your heart’s ricochet. He doesn’t bother with much besides shrugging his shirt off and freeing himself, jeans shoved down just enough for the bare minimum. He’s not showing off, not making it pretty for you. Just taking what’s his, and that thought sends another weak, hot pulse through your belly. Frank’s cock is flushed, heavy, and already leaking—all unfairly thick and a little mean-looking, like the rest of him. You don’t even have time to be self-conscious: he’s already lining up, one hand bracing on the counter behind you, the other wrapped around his length, stroking just once before guiding himself forward. Something in the way he looms, the way his shadow falls over your skin, makes you shiver.

“You good?” His voice is a little softer than before, a little—if you had to name it—uncertain, but you know him well enough to catch the thread of worry behind all the posturing.

“Yeah.” Your voice sounds totally shot, silvery and stretched. “Please, Frankie. Just—” He doesn’t tease. Presses in, slow at first, just the head, a hot, sharp stretch you can feel up your spine. You grab at him—shoulders, arms, whatever you can get—and his mouth goes hard with focus. He pushes a little further, and you make a sound that’s mostly choke and some kind of pleading. Frank hisses, his own hips hesitating:

“Fuck. You take me so good, I—” broken off by a low groan as he feeds you another inch, and another, until you’re upright on the counter and stuffed so full you can feel your own pulse echoed where he splits you. You’re shaking, but it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt. It’s messy, not gentle at all, but he’s holding you up with both hands now—one splayed at your hip, the other pressed flat to your lower back, keeping you locked in place like you’re some precious specimen that needs careful handling or you’ll shatter. “You tell me if it’s too much,” he grits out, nose almost buried in your throat.

“Want all of it, Frankie.” You whine, head falling back. Frank moves in a little deeper, groaning as you clench around him.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby.” You whimper, and he pats your cheek. “Hey. You okay ? You good ?” His hands are featherlight on your hips, his nose nudging yours, and you nod, jaw slack from the push-pull ache between your legs and the molten tenderness behind his stare. You want to say something clever or at least coherent—maybe a “fuck me, Frank,” or an “I can take it,”—but nothing comes out except a sound so needy you want to hide your face. Shirtless, he’s so much bigger than you, so much heavier—animal, but not reckless. Each time you tighten up, he murmurs something under his breath, and the stretch becomes pleasure, each thrust hitting deeper until you can’t think straight. Frank keeps you right there, right up against that point where pleasure and pressure blur together. Where you can’t decide if you want him to go harder, or if you’ll die if he does.

“You make so many pretty fuckin’ noises, baby,” he growls, and you can feel the smile in the scrape of his teeth at your jawline. “Could listen to you all night. S’only thing that makes sense anymore.” It’s so raw it punches straight through you. You nod, gripping him tighter, and he groans, deep and broken like a threat and a promise at the same time.Frank doesn’t hesitate. His hips snap forward, a little harder, just shy of brutal, and all you can do is take it. Each thrust slams the edge of the counter into your spine, but the sting gets lost in the bright-hot pulse of him moving inside you. He groans, the noise low and primal, vibrating straight into your chest as he pulls you in, over and over, like he’s trying to fuse you to himself. Your arms wind around his shoulders, clutching him like a lifeline, feeling the slide of sweat between his skin and yours. There’s nothing else. No noise from the street outside, no hum of appliances—just the wet slap of bodies and Frank’s voice, ragged in your ear.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this.” He’s panting and you barely recognize his own voice, gone rough as ground glass. He braces you harder, palms digging in obscene at your hips as his rhythm picks up. “All stretched out for me. Nobody else gets to see you like this, yeah ?” The words hit somewhere low in your gut, already tensed and aching from being used so deep. Every thrust burns, yet you keep tilting closer, messier, like if you can just get him closer you’ll finally come apart right. You buck into him and he bears down, sweat dripping from his brow onto your throat.

“Good girl. That’s my fuckin’ girl,” he grits, and the pride in his voice feels like a fever, shivering pleasure up your spine. Your legs, still half-wrapped at his hips, start to shake again, and Frank just holds you tighter, talking you through it: “That’s it, just take it, just like that—fuck, you take me so goddamn good, baby—” and you almost tip over right there, throat fluttering with every needy sound you never meant to make. He must see something on your face—maybe the way your eyes roll back or how your mouth falls open—because Frank pulls out almost all the way, just barely inside, and waits. The absence is scalding, hollow, but the look he levels at you is even more so: hungry and sharp, but absolutely yours.

“You want it, you ask for it,” he says, low and dangerous, like he thinks you won’t. You grit your teeth, white-knuckled at the counter.

“I want it, Frank. I want you. Please—”He snaps his hips in, all at once, and it wrenches a sob out of your throat.

“Jesus, fuck,” he growls, and his mouth is at your neck, biting a line up to your jaw as he ruts in with furious, perfect rhythm. Sensation piles up too fast—everything sticky and hot and increasingly frantic. Every time he bottoms out, every time the head of cock catches against your cervix and you whine. He’s just fucking you open: snap-and-thrust, his cock choking every thought from your head, making you feel every bit as owned as the words he spit out earlier. The sound is obscene—your body wet, him groaning and cursing whenever you clench around him like you’re trying selfishly to keep him inside. He fills you up and then some, cock so thick it hurts at first, but that’s always been the best part: the burn, then the way it all melts down to a slick, perfect fit. You claw at his biceps, hips canting, and all you can manage is,

“Mmph, Frankie,” because he’s so deep you swear you can feel him in your fucking heart. He’s barely holding himself together. You can see it in how he clenches his jaw, lips pulled back from his teeth, rattling out every breath like it’s a war he’s gonna lose. Everything about this is too much, and you want more—always have.

“C’mon,” he grunts, like it’s your job to swallow him whole, like you’re both monsters and you’re supposed to be devouring each other. And shit, you want to. You want to crawl inside his skin and never leave. He pulls you forward, forcing that last inch, and the blunt force of it flattens you against his chest, flush, like he could grind you straight through the countertop. All the air knocks out of your lungs. Your nails dig marks into the washed denim pulled tight over his shoulders.

“God,” you whisper, which is funny because he’s got you bent in half and branded with his bite marks, but the word fits. It’s worship, the way Frank drags his cock out almost all the way—lets you feel the sweet, empty ache—and then slams back in, locking your hips in place with both hands. The friction is relentless, a steady, punishing pace that wrings every sound out of you whether you want to give it up or not. Your body sings. Every thrust sets you on fire, tightens your muscles, arches you against him for just one more second of that thick, delicious drag. You’re still so sensitive from his mouth but it’s good, it’s more, it hurts but you want it. You’re so full your knees shake. The edge comes back fast, climbing up your spine on all fours. Frank must feel it too, because his rhythm shifts, gets meaner; he fucks into you so hard the counter judders under your ass. His head dips, nose jammed in your neck, breath harsh and hot against your skin.

“Mine,” he rasps, and the word vibrates straight through your blood. “All fuckin’ mine. Look at me.” It’s not a request. You look. He’s right there: wild, sweating, mouth slack and twisted with grit and something like awe, like he’d wreck a city to make you cum for him one more time. He holds your gaze even as he grinds in circles with his hips, cock hitting that spot inside you with precision that’s probably criminal. “God, you’re so fucking beautiful, baby. So fuckin’ gorgeous.” You never get used to how ugly the pleasure is with him—how the swelling heat and the too-much stretch just coil together and leave your mind empty. You’re so wet you hear it, slick and messy, and every time he buries himself to the hilt you want to cry out. Frank leans forward, caging you entirely, forehead touching yours, damp hair brushing your cheeks. He’s panting, jaw clenched.

“God, you’re tight,” he says, almost wounded. “If you clench any harder I’m gonna blow.” His words go straight to your gut, new heat rolling through you. He slides his hand between your bodies and rubs your clit, mean and fast, and the overload makes your legs seize so hard your vision sparks. You gasp—more a barked sob than a scream—and the whole world locks down to the unbearable pleasure where his thumb works rough circles, where the thick drag of him inside splits you open again and again.

“Frank, Frank—” The words tumble half-formed, stuttered to splinters by every thrust. He’s not slowing down; he only bears down harder, like you’re something to bring to heel. His mouth finds yours and swallows the sounds, tongue bruising and bruised, like he wants to taste the way you fall apart. You can feel when it starts to break open—that ache in your gut turning radioactive, nerves singing, every part of you squeezed tight around him—then everything detonates at once, blinding and sharp. Your whole body buckles. For a second, you can’t even hear. Just the blood in your ears, shuddering through every vein, your mouth open but no air, no thought, just heat and wrench and the fullness of him jammed in so deep it’s all you can do to hold on and let the current drag you. Maybe you black out for a second. Doesn’t matter. Frank catches you, both arms wrapped around your back, holding you upright as you spasm and shake apart. Your chest heaves against his, your nails scoring angry lines up his neck, and he fucks you straight through it, relentless even as you crumple around him.

He finally lets up, just a little, rocking into you shallower, like he knows how much it hurts right after but can’t bring himself to stop, not now, not ever; not when you’re making those tiny, wet hiccuping sounds, not when you’re so soft for him. He noses down your neck, breathing you in, and the words thread out unsteady between clench-teeth and stutter-breath,

“That’s it, come on, you’re fuckin’ perfect, c’mon baby—” like he needs you to finish before he even gets to consider his own pleasure. When you finally do, the pressure gives way so sudden it feels like falling, no parachute. The last wave barrels through and leaves you a limp, trembling ragdoll, boneless in his grip, so sore but so, so good. His hands keep working—petting your thighs, smoothing your hair, thumbing the sweat from your cheekbones, each motion rough but careful, like after all that he’s scared you’ll disappear. For a second neither of you speak. Just pant, cave in, wait for the world to catch up. You manage to lift your head. Frank is right there, maybe an inch away, brows slammed together, gaze so hot it hurts. He’s still inside you, cock twitching, not a hint of detachment in him—just obsession, need. You reach up, touch his jaw, and he blinks like he’s coming to, like you’ve called him out of wherever-was-worse. You feel the stubble rasp your palm, the sweat and heat and the little tremor in his cheek where he can’t calm down. He kisses you, slow this time. There’s blood on his lip—yours, from where you bit down, and he pulls you forward, groaning into your kiss. The overstimulation in your overworked cunt has you seeing your stars, and with the way Frank has slowed down, you can feel the pressure building again in your stomach. Frank presses his hand to the cabinet behind your head, his pants turning into strained groans. The counter edge digs into your tailbone, hips braced wide as he pistons into you—never too rough, always exactly what you beg for, even if your voice is less words now and more just sound. He likes how you come apart. You can tell from the way his grip shifts, pressing into the soft of your thigh, thumb stroking circles that are half-soothing and half-reminding you who put you here, who was going to do it again. You bury your face in his neck, sweat and aftershave and the ghosted memory of gunpowder. He moves with a steadiness that’s military, but there’s a wild streak underneath it—like something snapping each time he bottoms out, like he needs you as much as air.

Maybe more.

Your pulse thuds under your jaw, matching his. He hits that spot over and over until the edge comes back so fast it sets your teeth on edge, every muscle coiled hard as piano wire but helpless to do anything except let him keep going. He feels it too; you can hear it in how the rhythm gets sloppier, how he grunts each time you clench, how he goes from cursing under his breath straight into saying your name like a prayer. The heat in your stomach isn’t like before—this is different, a second wave, more desperate. It makes you frantic. He must feel you start to come again, because that’s when Frank Castle groans and pistons into you harder. A full-body quake, impossible to mask, shakes through you as he sets his jaw, eyes fixed on your face. He wants to watch the moment you break, the exact instant you stop fighting it and shatter all over his cock. He pummels the spot inside you with every ragged thrust, words tumbling out gritted and genuine:

“There you go, c’mon now, you know I got you—fuck, that’s it—let me see it, sweetheart—“ You fall apart, a knot snapped so savagely it leaves you bracing with both hands behind you, forehead pressed to his shoulder. The blinding relief cues something in him: his hips faltere, the tight hold on your thigh spasming, forcing you down hard to take every last inch. He rutts in three final, punishing strokes. Then he groans, low and broken, and you feel him stutter, cock pulsing as he spills inside you until it’s leaking out, a mess only you get to feel: warm and thick and wholly, perfectly his. He doesn’t slow or pull away, just keeps rocking, gentler now, like he thinks you can handle the overload forever. Maybe you could. For a few long seconds you just cling to him. His heartbeat thumps as fast as yours. He nuzzles into your ruined hair, his lips ghosting a line up the side of your forehead, like he can;t help himself. He mumbles something—your name, probably. Definitely not a full sentence.

"Baby." You're pulled back to reality, your whole body buzzing. His brows are furrowed, his usual soft demeanor flooding back into him. "You alright ?" He murmurs, kissing your cheek. You manage a weak nod, your throat too tight for words. He kisses your forehead again, a soft, lingering press that’s a stark contrast to the bruising force from moments before.

“Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Okay. Gonna get you cleaned up. Just… stay still for me.” He stays inside you for another moment, letting you adjust, his hand stroking soothingly up and down your spine. Then, with a carefulness that’s breathtaking, he begins to withdraw. It’s a slow, deliberate process. He pulls back just an inch, watching your face intently. You hiss, a sharp intake of breath at the sudden, hollow ache. It’s not painful, not really, but it’s overwhelming. The feeling of emptiness after being so completely, utterly full.

“Shhh, I know, I know,” he whispers, immediately stilling. He presses a kiss to your temple. “Breathe, baby. Just breathe with me.” He inhales deeply, and you try to match the rhythm, the simple act grounding you. He pulls back another inch, and this time it’s a little easier. The sting is still there, a dull throb of overuse, but it’s mingled with a strange, lingering warmth. Finally, he’s out, and the sudden loss makes you whimper.

“I got you,” he says instantly, his voice firm. He keeps one hand on your hip, a solid, grounding weight, while the other gently sweeps your hair away from your face. “You’re okay. I’m right here.” He doesn’t leave you. He just shifts, grabbing the dish towel that was slung over the oven handle earlier. He wets it at the sink, the water running for a moment before he turns it off. The silence that follows is soft, comfortable. He comes back to you, standing between your legs, which are still dangling limply off the counter. He’s gentle. So gentle it makes your chest ache. He parts your thighs with careful hands and begins to clean you up. The warm cloth is a soothing balm against your sensitive, swollen flesh. He wipes away the mess—the combined evidence of your pleasure, his possession—with meticulous, almost reverent care. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his touch so at odds with the man who was just fucking you into the countertop. Frank doesn’t rush it. He never does, not when it matters like this. His hands are steady as he cleans you up, warm cloth moving slowly, deliberately, like he’s trying to bring you back down piece by piece. Every time you twitch from sensitivity, his grip shifts instantly—softer, adjusting, giving you a second to breathe.

“Too much?” he asks quietly. You shake your head immediately, even though your body is still buzzing, still too full of feeling.

“No,” you murmur. “Just… sensitive.” That gets a low hum from him. Not satisfaction exactly—more like acknowledgment. Like he’s filing it away carefully.

“Yeah,” he says, almost to himself. “Figured.” His thumb brushes your thigh once, grounding you again before he keeps going, wiping slow and careful until there’s nothing left but warmth and that lingering ache that still makes you clench around nothing. When he’s done, he doesn’t step away right away. Instead, he just stands there between your legs, hands resting lightly at your hips like he can’t quite make himself let go yet. His eyes flick over your face. And something in his expression shifts. The heat is still there—but it’s buried now under something heavier. Something quieter. Protective. Possessive in a way that isn’t loud anymore, just… absolute.

“You scared me back there,” he says finally. It’s simple. Flat. Honest. You blink.

“Frank—”

“No,” he cuts in gently, but firmly enough that you stop. His hand tightens slightly at your hip. Not painful. Just there. “Don’t do that. Don’t downplay it.” His jaw ticks once like he’s trying to keep himself steady. “I saw his hand on you,” he continues, voice rougher now. “Saw you tryin’ to pull away. And nobody moved.” A beat. His eyes darken—not with anger at you, but with memory. “That ain’t happenin’ again.” You swallow, your voice softer.

“You can’t control every room I walk into.”

“I don’t need every room,” he says immediately. “Just the ones you’re in.” That lands between you like something heavy and permanent. Frank exhales through his nose, slower now, like he’s forcing himself back into the present. His thumb strokes once along your hip again, calmer. Then his tone shifts—still serious, but lower, closer.

“You don’t ever stay quiet like that again,” he adds. You frown slightly.

“Quiet?”

“When he grabbed you,” Frank says, eyes flicking to your arm briefly like he can still see it there, “you went still for a second.” His voice drops even further. “I didn’t like that.” There it is again—that edge under everything. Not rage now. Something more instinctive. Something rooted. You lift a hand and touch his wrist gently.

“I wasn’t scared of him,” you say honestly. “Not really. I was just… waiting for you.” That makes him pause. Really pause. His eyes search yours like he’s trying to figure out if you mean it the way he hopes you do. Then his grip shifts—sliding from your hip to your waist, pulling you a little closer without thinking about it.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly. You nod.

“Yeah. I knew you were coming.” Something in his expression breaks just slightly at that—not soft, exactly, but unguarded in a way Frank usually isn’t with anyone. He exhales, long and slow.

“Good,” he mutters. A beat. Then, quieter still: “‘Cause I don’t like the idea of you thinkin’ you gotta handle that shit alone.” Your fingers curl into his hair automatically.

“I wasn’t alone,” you say. His eyes flick down to your mouth for half a second before returning to yours.

“No,” he agrees. Then, after a pause: “You weren’t.” Silence settles again—but it isn’t heavy. Just full. Frank finally shifts, lifting you slightly off the counter like it’s nothing, setting you back on your feet with a care that contrasts sharply with everything that came before. He slips your panties back onto you and slips his own shirt over your shoulders as he pushes up his own boxers.He doesn’t let go immediately, though—keeps one arm around you as he reaches for a glass of water and presses it into your hand.

“Drink,” he says. You take it, still watching him. He studies you for another second, then brushes his thumb under your eye like he’s checking you’re still here. He presses a kiss to your shoulder.

"I love you." He whispers. You smile.

"I love you too." You sigh, pulling back to look at him. "And next time we go out, we're going to a gay bar." Frank frowns, scoffing.

"What ?" You yawn, leaning into him.

"Like that i'll be the one breaking noses for someone hitting on you."

taglist !

Frank and you are what other people around you would describe as a velcro couple.

Which is fair.

You’re pretty sure there hasn’t been a single day in your relationship where one of you wasn’t touching the other somehow. Frank’s hand at the small of your back while you brush your teeth. Fingers linked in grocery store aisles. Kisses stolen in hallways. Sleepy morning quickies and rough goodnight fucks because the man is insatiable and you are constantly aroused whenever his hands reach anywhere near your waist- which is constantly.

You live off him.

His touch.

His attention.

The weight of his eyes on you from across a room.

And Frank? Frank is somehow worse.

The man acts like prolonged physical separation causes him actual psychological damage. If you walk past him, he reaches for you automatically. If you’re standing nearby, eventually you end up tucked against his chest whether you remember moving there or not. Half the time he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it anymore.

Which means, honestly, the two of you are unbearable in public. Not in an obnoxious way. Just in a deeply obvious one.

The kind of couple that naturally gravitates toward each other in every room without even thinking about it. Frank standing behind you while you make coffee, chin on your shoulder, massive arms wrapped around your waist like he physically cannot start his morning unless you’re pressed against him. You absentmindedly stealing bites off his plate while he pretends to be annoyed despite immediately sliding the entire thing closer to you. Nobody has ever seen Frank Castle willingly share food before you.Now he hands you the last fry without even looking up.

Humiliating behavior, honestly.

And the touching never stops. If you’re sitting beside him, eventually his hand ends up on your thigh. If Frank’s sitting down anywhere for longer than five minutes, he’s tugging you into his lap automatically, barely interrupting the conversation while doing it. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world for a six-foot-three wall of muscle to casually manhandle his girlfriend into his lap in the middle of game night at Karen’s apartment.

“You know chairs exist, right?” Curtis asked once. Frank didn’t even look up from where his chin rested against your shoulder.

“Mhm.” That was the entire response. Meanwhile you were curled against his chest looking unbearably pleased with yourself.

It gets worse at home. Way worse.

Because the second the apartment door closes behind you two, personal space completely ceases to exist. You’re draped across him on the couch within minutes. Frank’s fingers hooked lazily beneath your shirt while he watches TV, absentmindedly tracing shapes against your stomach. Your legs tangled together under blankets. Slow kisses traded between conversations. Foreheads pressed together while brushing your teeth because apparently standing separately in the bathroom is unacceptable now.

And sleeping?

Forget it.

Frank sleeps like he’s trying to fuse your skeletons together. One arm around your waist. One leg thrown over yours. Face buried against your neck. If you move too far away in your sleep, he unconsciously follows until you’re tucked back against him again. Sometimes you wake up at three in the morning practically pinned beneath two hundred pounds of warm, snoring ex-marine.

And somehow you still sleep better like that. Frank claims he does too.

But you’re just as bad. Maybe even worse.

You are constantly reaching for him, hands slipping up his shirt to trace the outline of his muscles, hands drifting towards his pant buckle the second there's the semblance of privacy. You are a freak for this man. Everything he does turns you on.

Hands sliding up his chest while you compliment him. Kissing the corner of his mouth just to watch his expression change. Whispering filthy things into his ear while he’s trying to focus in public because you enjoy watching the exact moment his composure starts cracking.

Frank always starts out pretending he’s stronger than this. But the truth is Frank folds almost immediately when it comes to you. The second you start kissing his neck slowly or climbing into his lap with that look in your eyes, the man is done for.

Gone.

Especially when you get clingy about it. That’s what really destroys him. The way you seek him out first. Like you can’t help yourself. Like your body naturally gravitates toward his whenever you want attention or affection or him specifically. Which is often.

Very often.

So who can blame you when he walks out of the bathroom, smelling like cologne and wearing that tight suit of his ?

You look up from the vanity, pressing your earring clasp closed just as the door thuds behind him.

It’s unfair, honestly.

Frank always cleans up well, but suits on that man should probably qualify as psychological warfare. The dark fabric stretches tight across his shoulders, sharp enough to make him look even broader somehow, and the white dress shirt beneath it is rolled just enough at the forearms to expose strong tan skin and thick veins running down to his hands.

His hands.

Which already ruin your life on a daily basis.

And then there’s the smell.

Warm cologne layered over soap and Frank himself - clean but still distinctly him underneath it all. Your stomach flips instantly.

Frank notices immediately.

Of course he does.

His eyes flick toward you while he adjusts the cuff of his sleeve, and there’s a tiny pause when he catches the look on your face.

“…What?” he asks slowly. You stare at him for another full second. Then your eyes drag deliberately down his body. Back up again. Frank exhales once through his nose, already recognizing that expression.

“No,” he says immediately, pointing at you before you can even speak. “Absolutely not.” You blink innocently.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” He’s trying to sound firm about it, but there’s already amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. Which means you’ve already won, really. Your gaze drops again while he reaches for his watch on the dresser. Big mistake. The movement pulls the fabric tight across his back and shoulders, and your entire brain melts straight out of your ears. And god- you can see the firm outline of his dick pressing through those tight dress pants, and you have to bite your lip to stop yourself from dropping to your knees in front of him right then and there and wrapping your lips around him just to suck him dry- for what would be the third time today.

Jesus Christ.

You stand slowly from the vanity stool and walk toward him without breaking eye contact. Frank watches you approach with immediate suspicion.

“Baby.”

“Hm?”

“We gotta leave in twenty minutes.”

“I know.”

“You’re lookin’ at me weird.”

“I’m looking at you respectfully.”

“Bullshit.” You smile sweetly as your hands slide up his chest, smoothing over the front of his dress shirt. Even through the fabric you can feel the solid warmth of him beneath it, broad and steady and distractingly strong. Frank’s jaw tightens a little. “There it is,” he mutters.

“What?”

“That look.”

“What look?”

“The one that gets us banned from being on time to things.” You laugh softly, stepping closer until your bodies press together. Frank’s hands land automatically on your waist like muscle memory. Always there. Always touching you somewhere. Your fingers drift up to straighten his tie unnecessarily slowly.

“You look really pretty tonight,” you murmur. Frank snorts quietly.

“Pretty?”

“Mhm.” Your nails scrape lightly along the back of his neck. “Very pretty.” His eyes darken immediately.

“Careful.”

“You smell good too.”

“Baby.”

“And this suit?” Your voice drops softer. “Actually evil of you.” Frank’s grip tightens slightly at your waist.

“You’re startin’ shit.”

“Am I?” You tilt your head innocently before leaning up just enough to press a slow kiss beneath his jaw. The reaction is immediate. A rough inhale. His fingers flex against your hips.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath. You hide your smile against his neck and kiss him again. Slower this time. Lingering just enough to feel the exact moment his composure starts slipping. Which is your favorite part. Frank tries so hard at first. That’s what makes this fun. Because he always starts out acting like he has self-control. Like he’s capable of resisting you when you decide you want his attention.

Meanwhile you know exactly how easy he is for you.

One kiss to his neck and the man starts looking at you like he’s fighting for his life. Your hands slide beneath his suit jacket, palms flattening against his chest. Solid muscle shifts beneath your touch, warm and familiar and addictive enough that you honestly don’t know how you’re expected to function around him daily.

“You know,” you murmur thoughtfully, “we could skip the event.” Frank lets out a low laugh.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” You pout slightly against his throat.

“But I’m a lawyer. I can make excuses professionally.”

“You are not seducing me outta your work thing.” You lean back just enough to look up at him.

“Feels like I am, though.” Frank visibly clenches his jaw. He shakes his head and pushes you away from him firmly.

"Baby, this is the first time i'm meeting your colleagues." You snort, smoothing your hands on the silky red fabric near your waist that has now been ruffled by Frank's bruising grip.

"No , it's not. You know Matt and Foggy already." You tease, turning around to lean over the vanity and check your lip liner. Frank scowls.

"Alright then. First time meeting them as a normal human and not someone that needs to stand trial for murder." he taps his foot on the floor. "What i mean to say is- these people are your friends. I want to make a good impression."

"Of course you will, Frankie. How could you not ?" Frank sighs, shoving his hands down his pant pockets, which does nothing to relieve the stretch around his groin, making your eyes drift down naturally, and your thighs clench.

"Well, for instance, they won't like me much if you're not behaving."

You freeze.

Frank immediately regrets the wording. He sees it happen in real time - your shoulders going still, your head tilting ever so slightly as your eyes lift to meet his in the mirror.

“…Excuse me?” you ask slowly. Frank pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You know what I mean.”

“Oh, I know exactly what you mean.” You turn around fully now, leaning back against the vanity with your arms folded across your chest. The silky red dress hugs your body distractingly tight, and Frank has to actively force his eyes back to your face. “Behave?” Frank sighs.

"Just for one night, baby. One night. Hell, not ever the whole night- just the few hours of the event."

You stare at him for a long moment.

Then slowly - very slowly - you narrow your eyes.

“Frank Castle,” you say with dangerous calm, “are you asking me to stop expressing my love for my own boyfriend?”

“I’m asking you to stop trying to climb me in public.”

“That feels oppressive.”

“That feels accurate.” You scoff dramatically, pushing off the vanity.

“One night?” you repeat softly.Frank nods cautiously.

“One night.”

“No flirting?”

“Within reason.”

“No touching?”

“You can touch me.”

“Oh, thank god.”

“Normal touching.” You blink at him.

“Frank, define normal.” His jaw tightens instantly because he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“Baby.”

“Is thigh touching normal?”

“No.”

“Chest touching?”

“You already do that too much.”

“Kissing?”

“Not every five seconds.” Your expression turns genuinely offended.

“Frank.”

“What?”

“That is our culture.” A laugh escapes him before he can stop it. Low and rough and fond despite himself. You immediately perk up at the sound. Frank drinks you in - and god, a part of him is scolding himself for not taking you up on your offer to just stay home. That fucking dress on you is- well, it's doing things to him. The silky red fabric hugs every inch of you like it was designed specifically to ruin him. Tight around your waist. Dipping low enough at your chest that his eyes keep dragging there against his will. The slit along your leg flashes skin every time you move, and Frank is pretty sure he hasn’t had a coherent thought since walking out of the bathroom.

For a second neither of you moves. Then Frank sighs heavily, like he’s preparing himself for battle.

“Alright,” he mutters. “Rules.” You gasp softly.

“Rules?”

“Yes.”

“This is getting kinky.”

“Jesus Christ.” He drags a hand down his face while you beam at him. “No whisperin’ filthy shit in my ear in front of your coworkers.” You pout immediately. “No sittin’ in my lap during dinner.”

“That feels targeted.”

“No disappearin’ into bathrooms together.” You look horrified now.

“Frank.”

“And no givin’ me that look across the room all night.” You blink innocently.

“What look?”

“The one that makes me forget my own name.” A pause. Then your entire expression melts into delighted satisfaction. Frank groans quietly the second he sees it. Frank points at you instantly. “See? That face right there. That’s exactly why we need rules.”

-------

Unfortunately for Frank, his rules forgot to include dirty texts.

The venue is jam-packed. You have no idea how Matt and Foggy managed to fill up this venue, but they did. However, you lost Frank about ten minutes in. Matt dragged him off to talk about "life" which is obviously a stupid code word for whatever vigliante shit is going on in Hell's Kitchen.

And you are incredibly bored.

You watch the ice swirl around your cup, the little umbrella perched inside the fruity drink Foggy pushed your way now laying limp and damp. Across the room, Frank stands with Matt and Foggy, looking deeply uncomfortable despite the glass of whiskey in his hand. His suit jacket stretches distractingly across his shoulders as he listens to whatever Matt is saying, expression unreadable but clearly not enjoying himself. it does make your heart clench though. Because hes' trying - for you.

He knows how much you love Matt and Foggy. You grew up with Matt- and obviously met Foggy when Matt started bringing him around during his uni days.

Frank’s trying.

He really is.

Because this matters to you. These are your people. Your friends. Your world. And he wants them to like him. Which means he keeps trying to focus on Matt talking about neighborhood cases and Foggy complaining about paperwork and Karen laughing somewhere nearby.

Frank keeps glancing toward you between conversations. Not constantly. He's trying very hard not to. Which honestly makes it worse. Because every few minutes his eyes flick across the room automatically like he needs visual confirmation you’re still there, and every single time he looks at you, you catch him staring. The first few times, he recovers quickly.

Looks away. Takes a sip of whiskey. Pretends Matt wasn’t mid-sentence when Frank completely stopped listening.

But god, the sight of you in that fucking dress, sipping on your drink, talking to one of your old clients, it breaks him down into pieces.

He tells himself to stop looking. He doesn’t. The third time he catches your smile from across the room, it’s over. Matt is still talking - something about procedure, or patrol routes, or whatever legal-adjacent thing he thinks Frank is supposed to care about - but Frank is already gone mentally. His grip tightens slightly around his glass.

And you're not doing any better. It's like you've been physically restrained- only a great amount of distance will make you keep your hands to yourself. And it's taking every inch of your will to stay rooted in place. You shift in your seat, crossing your legs a little tighter under the table. It doesn’t help. Not even slightly. Because Frank looks unfairly good like this. Suit jacket open now, sleeves pushed just a bit higher like he’s forgotten they’re supposed to stay neat. The whiskey glass in his hand does nothing to soften him - if anything it makes him worse. Too controlled. Too grounded. Like he belongs exactly where he is and not, objectively, across the room from you. Matt says something and Frank smiles and answers lively. Foggy laughs at something and Frank reacts, grinning as he takes a sip of his drink.

Without thinking, you pull your phone out of your purse.

YOU i'm wet just looking at you

You watch as Frank's hand instinctively goes to his pocket when his phone buzzes. He pulls it out, glances down, and immediately stills. Even from across the room, you can see the slight tension that settles in his shoulders. He stares at his phone before putting the phone back down, clearing his throat. You smirk, taking a slow sip of your drink before typing back.

YOU i need you inside me. like so fucking bad, frankie.

Frank's eyes lift from his phone, scanning the room until they land on you. The look he gives you is part warning, part something darker that makes your stomach clench. You bite your lip, enjoying this far too much.

YOU Remember this morning? When you had me bent over the kitchen counter?

You watch his throat work as he swallows. He shifts his weight slightly, and you know you're getting to him. Frank types something, then deletes it. Then types again. Deletes it again. He's half in the conversation with the others, half staring at his phone as if someone just texted him with extremely important news. So, just to add more fuel to the fire -

YOU [six attatchements]

The first image appears - it's you from a few weeks ago, sprawled across your bed in that black lace set he loves. The one he said made you look like something out of his dirtiest dreams. Frank's jaw tightens as he swipes to the next one. This time, you're on your knees, hands pressed to the bed in front of you, your breasts pushed up in the lace, and Frank runs his tongue over his teeth, as if remembering what the material felt like against his lips as he ripped it off. Matt notices Frank's distraction mid-sentence.

"Frank? You with me?" Frank clears his throat, locking his phone without responding to your texts. He slams his phone down, hands shaking, trying to hide the heat rising up to his cheeks. He clears his throat, one too many times, before grabbing his cup and downing all of it, breathing hard. You turn away from him, sipping on your drink, trying to not look too satisfied with yourself as you send him another final text.

YOU I want to go home right now and I want you to eat me out

God, if they were anywhere else, Frank would've dropped everything and dragged you home. One thing Frank loved more than you in this life ? Spending hours- and I mean hours- between your legs, holding your thighs apart, devouring you like a man who hasn't had access to fresh water in weeks of travelling in the dessert.

But here? Now? With Murdock and Nelson watching?

Frank's face is a study in self-control. A muscle jumps in his jaw. He picks up his empty glass, stares at it like it's personally offended him, and then sets it down with a click that's just a little too loud. He's trying to listen. He really is. Matt is saying something about… zoning laws? Frank nods along, but his eyes have that glazed-over look of a man running on pure instinct and pure spite. You can practically hear the thoughts screaming through his head.

Don't look over. Don't you fucking dare. You're doing this on purpose. You knows exactly what you're doing. Think about you moaning his name baseball. Think about the way you take all of him so well … dead puppies. Think about anything other than your thighs wrapped around his head.

It's a losing battle. His gaze betrays him, flicking across the room to you for the hundredth time. You catch it, of course. You always do. And you reward him by slowly, deliberately, crossing your legs. The silk of your dress whispers against your skin, and you see his throat work as he swallows hard. He looks away, but the damage is done. You've got him. Matt, bless his oblivious heart, is still talking.

"—so the precedent is tricky, Frank. If we can establish a pattern of negligence on the part of the landlord, we might have a case, but it's going to require a lot of footwork." Frank makes a noncommittal sound, a low grunt that could mean anything. His hand is clenched into a fist on the bar. Foggy, thankfully, seems to have picked up on the tension, or maybe he's just excited about the mini egg rolls coming around on a tray. He engages Matt in a side conversation about the merits of tempura versus fried, giving Frank a precious moment of reprieve. Frank doesn’t even realize he’s made a decision until he’s already acting on it. It starts small - subtle. A shift in posture. A slow exhale through his nose like he’s thinking too hard about something that absolutely does not require thinking. Matt is still mid-sentence, Foggy is laughing at something off to the side, and Frank is nodding at all the right moments while clearly hearing none of it.

Then his phone buzzes again in his pocket. He doesn’t look at it this time.

That’s new. Instead, he sets his empty glass down with controlled precision and clears his throat once. Twice. Like he’s trying to reset his entire brain.

“Everything alright?” Matt asks, head tilting slightly. Frank doesn’t answer immediately. Because across the room, you shift again - just slightly - and it looks like an accident to everyone else. But Frank knows better. He drags a hand over his mouth, eyes narrowing faintly as if he’s just remembered something genuinely urgent. Something catastrophic. Something that absolutely requires him to leave this building right now or the world will collapse.

“…Yeah,” he says finally. Foggy pauses mid-bite of something fried.

“That sounded like a lie.” Frank ignores him. Already reaching for his jacket.

“I gotta go.” Matt blinks.

“Go?”

“Yeah.”

“Frank, we’re kind of in the middle of—”

“I just remembered that i left the oven on.” Silence. Even Foggy stops chewing. Matt slowly tilts his head.

“Your… oven.”

“Is on,” Frank repeats, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah.” You, across the room, straighten so fast your drink nearly tips. Foggy frowns.

"You started cooking before you came to an event ?" Foggy asks. Frank rambles, shaking his head, swaying on his feet.

"Yes, I did." He clears his throat. "Excuse me." Matt opens his mouth, then closes it again. Because even he can tell something about this is wrong, but he’s not entirely sure what. Frank is already moving. He doesn’t run. Frank Castle does not run out of social situations. He simply exits them aggressively with purpose. He’s halfway across the room in seconds, threading through people like he’s on a mission—because, technically, he is. You’re watching him approach now, eyes bright with something dangerously amused.

“Frank - ” Matt starts, but Frank is already gone from that conversation mentally. He reaches you. Stops just long enough to grab your wrist.

“Frank?” you ask sweetly, like you didn’t just dismantle his entire self-control with six images and a sentence that should probably be illegal. He leans in slightly, voice low.

“We need to get the fuck out of here,” he mutters. You blink.

“Why the urgency?" There’s a beat. You stare at him.vFrank stares back, dead serious. Frank stares at you like you are the only stable object in a universe currently trying to kill him.

“We need to leave,” he repeats, voice low, clipped, absolutely final. You tilt your head.

“You already said that.”

“Yeah."

“And you also said something about an oven.” Frank’s jaw tightens.

“It’s still on.” You blink slowly.

“Frank.”

“What.”

“We don’t even own an oven that works properly.”

“That’s irrelevant.” Behind him, Matt’s voice cuts in—careful, confused.

“Frank, are you sure everything’s—”

“It’s fine,” Frank calls over his shoulder immediately, too fast, too loud. Then, softer, to you again: “We are leaving. Now.” You don’t move. You just look at him. And Frank—who has faced actual armed men without flinching—visibly loses another percentage of his sanity. You’re being half-dragged now, heels catching slightly as he steers you through the crowd with zero patience left for anything resembling dignity.

“And also,” Frank adds, as if remembering a second disaster mid-escape, “the kitchen’s on fire.”

“Frank.”

“And the dog is on fire.”

“Frank!" That finally breaks you. A laugh slips out, sharp and breathless, and Frank tightens his grip on your wrist like he’s punishing you for it.

“Stop laughing,” he mutters.

“You’re insane,” you whisper back, still laughing.

“Yeah,” he says simply. “Move.” Behind you, Foggy is openly wheezing now. Matt is calling your names like he might actually try to follow. Frank doesn’t slow down once. He gets you out into the hallway, door swinging shut behind you both with a heavy thud.

And the second you’re outside the noise, outside the crowd, outside everything— Frank stops. Turns to you. Looks at you in that suit, that dress, that expression that still has him absolutely wrecked even after all that chaos. Then he exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath for ten straight minutes.

“…You done?” he asks. You tilt your head.

“With what?” Frank’s eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before snapping back up.

“Playing with me.” You smile slowly.

“No.” A beat. Frank closes his eyes like he’s praying for strength he does not possess.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Knew that was gonna be the answer.” Then he’s already pulling you down the hallway toward the exit again—faster now, less controlled, like the last thread of his restraint finally snapped clean through.

And honestly?

You don’t resist. Not even a little.

He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t explain. Just mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “never letting you bring a phone anywhere ever again,” and keeps moving like if he stops, he’ll lose the last shred of restraint he’s been clinging to all night.

You, unfortunately, look delighted.

The walk to the car is quiet in that charged way where neither of you can risk speaking too much. Frank opens the passenger door for you with a little more force than necessary. You slide in, smoothing down your dress like you haven’t just ruined a man’s entire evening with six images and a single sentence. Frank shuts the door. Hard. He gets in on his side a second later and just sits there gripping the wheel for a moment like he’s recalibrating his entire nervous system.

“You’re unbelievable,” he finally says. You tilt your head.

“You love me.” A beat.

“…Yeah,” he mutters, like it annoys him that it’s true. The drive is painfully slow. Not because of traffic—because Frank is driving like every red light personally insulted him. His hand keeps flexing on the steering wheel, jaw tight, eyes forward, but every few seconds his gaze flicks to you anyway. You’re not helping. You’re sitting there all soft and smug, legs crossed, fingers resting in your lap like you didn’t just set his brain on fire. Every time you adjust your position slightly, the fabric of your dress shifts, and Frank exhales like it physically pains him.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he says once.

“Doing what?” He glances at you briefly.

“Existing like that.” You smile.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He lets out a short, humorless laugh and shakes his head, like he’s trying to decide whether he’s in love or losing his mind. By the time you reach the apartment building, Frank is done pretending he’s fine. The elevator doors close behind you with a soft ding, and the second you’re alone, something in him snaps. It’s not gentle. Frank steps into your space immediately, hands going to your waist like it’s instinct, like he’s been holding himself back all night and the second he’s allowed, he just stops.

“Frank - ” you start, but it comes out breathier than intended when he pulls you in.

“Don’t,” he mutters. Then he kisses you. Hard. It’s not patient or teasing or even particularly careful. It’s the kind of kiss that carries hours of restraint and frustration and the memory of your texts still burned into his brain. His hands slide up your back, fingers tightening at your waist like he’s anchoring you to him, like if he doesn’t hold on, you’ll vanish again and he’ll lose his mind. You make a small sound against his mouth that only makes him groan low in his throat. He backs you up against the elevator wall, your back thudding the metal bar. You groan, and he slips his tongue in your mouth, hand tangled in your hair.

The kiss is all teeth and desperation, a frantic clash that tastes of whiskey and the lingering sweetness of your drink. His other hand slides down from your waist, over the curve of your hip, to grip your thigh through the silk of your dress.

"Frank," you gasp, pulling back just enough to breathe. He doesn't let you get far, just follows your mouth, kissing you again, deeper this time, his tongue exploring your mouth like he's trying to memorize every inch of you.

"Shut up," he mutters against your lips, his voice rough with need. "Just… shut up." You obey without a second thought, and his hands grip at your ass as he presses you against his erection, one hand drifting up to softly wrap around your throat to keep you steady as you trying your best to not rid him of his clothes in this public elevator.

"I hope you know-" he breathes between kisses, "That the second we get into that apartment you're done for, woman." The threat is a promise, and it sends a fresh wave of heat pooling in your stomach. You can't help the small, breathy laugh that escapes you, a sound that's pure challenge. His eyes, dark and wild, meet yours. He doesn't like being laughed at, not now, not when he's this close to the edge. His grip on your throat tightens just enough to make your breath catch, not to hurt, but to remind you who's in charge here.

"Think that's funny?" he growls, his voice a low rumble against your lips.

"I think you're all talk," you taunt, your voice a whisper. "Unless you're planning on taking me right here in this elevator." His jaw works, and for a split second, you think he might actually consider it. The idea is intoxicating—being taken by him here, in this cold, metal box, the ding of the floors marking the rhythm of his thrusts. But then the elevator shudders slightly, a sign that you're approaching your floor, and the moment is broken.

"Fuck," he mutters, pulling back just enough to look at you. "You're so fucking beautiful." he rasps, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip, gathering the smudged lipstick off your chin. Your lips graze his jaw, his soft spot, and he shudders against you, hands palming your waist as he drags your forward again. He groans, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. "You're going to be the death of me."

"What a way to go," you whisper, your hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair. You pull his head back, forcing him to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with lust, and you feel a surge of triumph, hot and potent. Frank makes a sound that’s half warning, half surrender.

And then— The elevator dings. You both freeze.

Too late. The doors slide open on the next floor and a group of people step in mid-conversation, laughing, talking, completely oblivious to the fact that Frank Castle currently has you pressed against the wall like he forgot how elevators work. There’s a beat of silence. Someone clears their throat.

“Oh—sorry,” a woman says quickly, eyes flicking between you both like she’s trying not to assume anything. “Didn’t realize—” Frank immediately steps back like he’s been burned. You straighten your dress slowly, trying very hard not to laugh.

“Going up?” one of the men asks awkwardly. Frank nods once, jaw tight.

“Yeah.” The doors close again. The elevator is suddenly packed, way too small, way too bright, and absolutely suffocating in the worst possible way. Frank stands rigid behind you, one hand gripping the railing like it’s the only thing keeping him from continuing what he started, the other still steady on your waist, keeping you pinned to him, conveniently hiding his arousal. Everyone in the elevator is busy with something- too busy , in fact , to notice Frank's hand snake up the back of your dress. To notice the way his thumb presses against the cotton of your panties from behind. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from gasping. His thumb is a brand, a point of searing pressure against the damp fabric, moving in slow, deliberate circles that are designed to drive you insane. You can feel the heat of his palm through the silk of your dress, his fingers splayed across your lower back, holding you in place. It's a silent, secret assault, a punishment for your earlier taunts, and it's working. Your knees feel weak, your breath catching in your throat.

"Frank," you whisper, your voice barely audible, a plea and a warning all in one. He doesn't answer. He just leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear.

"You wanted to play," he murmurs, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrates through your entire body. "We're playing."

He presses his thumb harder, rolling it in tight, agonizing circles until you nearly forget there’s anyone else in the cramped, fluorescent-lit box. A bead of sweat slicks down your spine. You keep your gaze pinned to the floor numbers, refusing to blink, and let your lips part just enough for a slow, careful breath. Your pulse thuds in your throat, loud as gunfire. Frank moves with military efficiency—nothing wasted, nothing visible from the front. Anyone who glances your way will just see the two of you pressed a little too close, maybe think you are the couple that can’t shut up about each other for five minutes. His eyes are fixed on the cheap steel paneling, but the set of his jaw says he’s doing nothing but counting the seconds until this ride ends. You can’t stand still. The pressure of his thumb sends little electric shocks up your legs, and you press your knees together tight, shifting your weight from foot to foot. His thumb hooks over the side of your panties, softly moving the wet fabric to the side, his fingers tip dragging against your folds. You look back at him, eyes wide.

“Frank-” He tuts, shaking his head.

“Don’t make a sound,” he says, barely moving his lips. His thumb slides between your folds and finds the slick, sensitive swell of your clit, and you nearly loose your grip on the polite-lady mask you’d hastily reassembled after the other passengers had entered. It would have been embarrassing if you didn’t want it so badly. If you weren’t already soaked through and desperate for him. The elevator is practically humming with the small talk of strangers, some blather about brunch plans and the weather—shit that barely registers over the white static in your head. Guilt and delight warr in your belly as you feel Frank’s thumb work impossibly slow circles, every movement careful, controlled, just this side of mean. A bartender would kill for a hand that steady. He knows he’s tormenting you back for that stunt you pulled. You can feel the smug, possessive tension radiating off him, shoulders squared, jaw set. And you can’t do a thing about it except stand there and take it. There are only three more floors. That’s a mercy and a curse. Frank eases the tip of his finger inside you, just enough to make you breathe out hard, then curves it up and away with devastating precision. There’s a moment - a suspended half-second - where you genuinely think your knees might go, right here in the moving tin can, with the nice couple and the guy in basketball shorts two feet away. You press your tongue hard against your back teeth, every inch of your body straining not to react. The elevator dings. One of the guys steps out, the conversation behind you still going but probably about to drop off a cliff if any of them actually looked over. Frank doesn’t stop. His hand is careful and relentless, moving just so, like he can already hear exactly what it would take to make you lose all coherence and is timing it down to the wire.

Ding !

7th floor. Your floor.

You break away from Frank, who is smirking at you as you dash out of the elevator. The doors close and you slap his chest.

“What the fuck, Frank ?” He smirks at you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple as he reaches into your purse for the keys blindly.

“You started it, mama. Don’t forget that.” He gets the keys in on the first try, which he privately scores as a minor victory given the state of his brain. The lock gives a stutter, then the door swings in and he crowds you inside. The apartment is cold and dim, just the little orange lamp on the credenza flicking some warmth over the wood floors, but he doesn’t even bother with the lights. He just sets you against the inside of the door and kisses you again, arms braced around your shoulders like a barricade. There’s a laugh still trapped in your lungs, and he swallows it, one hand holding your chin steady, the other wandering—a little lost, a little starved—down the slick of your dress and into the thigh slit.

“Frank,” you say, muffled, but you’re already looping your arms around his neck and pulling yourself up, both feet off the ground, until his hands catch under your thighs. “If I had known this is what a simple text would get me… I’d have texted you before we even left.” You breathe into his mouth as he drops you on the kitchen counter, spreading your legs so wide you feel a twinge of pain in your hips bones. His large hands push up your dress, his eyes filled with hunger as he drops down to his knees, kissing his way up your legs.

“You’re fuckin’ evil, y’know that ? Hell, i was tryna get to know your friends- and you’re sending me nudes.” You scoff, helping him rid you of your panties for good.

“Not nudes. Explicit images.”

“Still.” He looks up at you and god- the sight of him. That suit, the watch, the very smell of him is intoxicating. Your pussy pulses at the sight and you whine. He frowns at you, but it’s harmless. “We had rules, baby. You said you would behave.” You laugh, breathless, finding his hair with both hands.

“Yeah, well. I lied.” You tip your head back as his lips travel higher. “I was going to.. but then I saw you across the room and all I could think of is how fuckin’ big you are and how full you make me feel-”

“Baby-”

“And how badly I needed you.” You gasp, looking down at him. He’s starting up at you with his lips parted, inches away from fully giving in. You can tell he’s a little bit ticked off- he did genuinely want to get to know your friends.

But you just scramble his brain.

You fuck him up to a point of no return, and god, how is he supposed to say no to you when a single graze of your skin against his makes him go hard like a teenager that cant control himself. He groans and before he can decide against it, he pushes his nose against your clit, his tongue lapping at your folds. You whimper, falling back against the counter, eyes rolling back, hand tangled in his hair. Your thighs wrap around his head and he has to stop himself from moaning at the sensation. Your stiletto heels dig into his back, and he softly hooks his arms around your thighs to drag you further against his mouth. He works his tongue in slow, devastating circles, not bothering with teasing because both of you know exactly what you want and how you want it. The scratch of stubble against the soft skin of your inner thighs is a threat and a promise—he’s not stopping until you shatter. The noise you make is animal, an open-throated whine that only eggs him on. It’s so unfair, how broad he is, how the span of his hands presses your legs apart until you’re splayed open on the edge of the counter, legs shaking from the effort of keeping yourself upright. You clutch his head in both hands, knees threatening to buckle even though you’re already seated, and all you can do is let Frank devour you like you’re his last meal. He’s always been greedy—never enough, never satisfied with just a taste. His tongue fucks into you, fast and slick, and then he pulls back, lips shiny, steadying your hips while his thumb finds your clit and just holds it there—a slow, grinding pressure that makes you see stars. He doesn’t stop. Not when your moans get louder, not when you try to clamp your thighs around his head, not when you plead and curse and dig your nails into his scalp. If anything, he redoubles his effort. Jesus Christ, he looks so good like this. The suit. The hands. The intensity of his focus. Like he could do this forever, just keep you pinned to the counter, legs spread, and eat you out until you forget your goddamn name. You come so hard you almost black out, vision blurring white at the edges, a sob catching in your throat. Frank doesn’t let up, not even as you shudder and gasp, his tongue flicking slow and gentle now, coaxing every last spasm out of you before he finally pulls back. His face is flushed, lips wet, eyes black with hunger. He stands up, licking at his lips.

He does not take his eyes off you as he rises, huge hands sliding up your quaking thighs, thumbs pressing bruises into the soft flesh above yout knees.

The suit is a mess now, tie askew, top button lost somewhere in the blur, and he looks gorgeous like this: rumpled, flushed, wrecked on you and by you. He leans close, breath hot on your ear, and you shudder when his zipper rasps down.

“You think you get to act like that, huh?” His voice is rough, gravelled. “You think you can just wind me up in public, send me pictures, get me hard for you like a fuckin’ teenager?” His knuckles drag up your inner thigh, just shy of too rough, and he grins when you flinch and then spreads your legs even wider for him.

“You proud of yourself?” You want to say yes but it comes out as a whine, his name wrecked. Frank’s hands—those enormous palms, the ones that had once broken a man’s jaw with a single punch—slide up your thighs, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He keeps you wide for him, thumbs digging deep into the delicate flesh above your knees, a half-growl of approval rumbling in his chest as he looks at you: slick, open, and already starting to tremble from the aftershocks. He’s hard as a fucking rock, the outline of his dick straining so high against his pants that it looks comically obscene, threatening to tear clean through the expensive wool. Frank leans in, crowding you back against the cabinets so completely that you couldn’t slide away if you tried, his mouth at your ear again. “Gonna fuck you so good,” he mutters, and it’s both a promise and a threat. He’s promising to fuck you so good you never pull a stunt like that again- even though you both know you will.

This magnetic attraction between the both of you is palpable, always has been- and it’s not going away anytime soon. He shoves his pants down enough to free himself—fuck, he’s so hard it hurts just looking at him, the head of his dick flushed dark, thick veins standing out along the length. He gives himself a rough stroke and you feel the heat pool low in your gut all over again, greedy and desperate. You can hear how wet you still are when he lines up against your slick entrance and notches in, the stretch already making your legs shake. He doesn’t ease himself in, not really; he’s too big for that, and both of you know it, so the first push is bruising, the head splitting you open in a way that’s almost too much, but you can’t get enough of it. You whine, fingers digging into his shoulder blades. he groans at the feeling of your nails through the shirt, wanting to feel you against his skin. His hand comes up to roughly cup your cheek and jaw, pressing comforting kisses to your face.

“Y’alright ?” He rasps, hips softly nudging as he pushes himself in a little bit more. “S’not too much ?” You nod, though the gasp that escapes you sounds guttural. Every nerve ending feels inflamed, every cell in your body calls out for more. Frank isn’t even all the way in yet and already you want to sob from the stretch, the pressure, the feeling of being split open by a man who acts like he wanted to climb inside and fuse himself to you. “Good girl,” Frank says, voice breathy with restraint, eyes locked on the place where he disappeares inside you. He grips your hips, rolling them forward, and you feel him push deeper, impossibly so, the whole length of him crowding every inch of your insides. He watches your face, brow creased, and his own breathing staggers. The kitchen counter bites into your ass but you don’t care, didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world as Frank buries himself to the hilt. You could never get over it, how absurdly big he is. Frank's hand tightens around your hip.

"J's breathe through it, mama. That's it. Attagirl." He hums, softly rubbing circles on your hip as he works on unbuttoning his shirt with one hand- the need to feel your hands pressed against his skin is overwhelming, like a living thing burning inside of him.

Frank finally gets the last button undone and shoves the dress shirt off his shoulders—leaving the sleeves bunched at his elbows, but he can’t be bothered to care about anything except the need to get his skin on yours, to feel you clawing at his back, your hands trembling and desperate. He sucks a shallow breath in as you wrap your arms around his neck, your body going molten and loose as he rocks into you. The stretch is relentless in the best way, each thrust knocking moans out of you that barely sound human, each one making his cock twitch and pulse inside you like he’s seventeen again. He likes the way your hips fight him, instinctively trying to jerk back from the fullness, but he stills you with a hand wide across your stomach, holding you flush and tight against him.

“Fuck, look at you,” he grits out, voice pure sandpaper, watching the way you bite your own hand to keep from screaming.He fucks forward, slow at first but so deep you swear you could feel him in your ribs, and you lose all sense of time or place.

“That’s it, baby, that’s it,” he grinds out, pacing himself only because he wants to draw this out, wants to ruin you completely. His praise goes straight to your head, between your legs, and you can’t help sobbing out his name. “So fuckin’ good for me. Always so good.” Every thrust rocks your body against the counter, your back arching, chest pressing against him. He’s barely pulled back before you’re clawing at his arms, pulling him deeper, loving the way his cock drags along every nerve ending, perfectly punishing. Frank’s rhythm is a hard, steady piston, helmed by those slabs of muscle for shoulders, and it’s all you can do to hold on, to ride the bright edge of pain-pleasure that he’s mastered like a science. He frames your face with both hands, fingers sticky where they’d just been inside you, and he kisses the side of your mouth like he’s trying to memorize how you taste after you’ve come.

“Always knew you were trouble,” Frank huffs, his voice shredded, “but I didn’t think you could ruin me like this.” He’s not lying. You see it in the way his gaze skips down your body, jaw flexing. There’s a reverence there—a kind of awe that you can make him feel this out of control, that he wants you this bad. God, you never should’ve gone to that stupid event.

You should’ve stayed here and done this, over and over again- all night.

“God, you’re so fucking perfect.” He leans in, biting the corner of your jaw, and you feel his stubble burn against your cheek.His hand curls under your ass, hefting you closer, and you can’t contain the desperate moan bubbling up in your throat as the angle digs into that spongey spot deep inside you.

“Frank- mmph- fuck !” You whine, thighs wrapping tighter around his waist, sucking him in deeper inside you. He’s all muscle, all heat and hardness and relentless drive, his voice a low, cracked thunder in your ear.

“You know what you do to me? Fuck, you drive me insane. Can’t think straight, can’t walk into a room and not wanna take you apart.” There’s a possessive edge to the words, like he needs you to know how completely he’s ruined. He braces one arm beside your head and uses the other to pull your thigh over his shoulder, opening you as wide as you’ll go on the cold granite. You’re panting, slick and open and so wet you can hear it every time he pounds in, the slap of his hips against you obscene in the stillness. You feel him everywhere – in your bones, in your teeth, your skull buzzing with pleasure. Your eyes roll back and you press your hands to the hard planes of his chest.

“God, so good, Frank. Fuck-” You choke on a sob as he hits that same spot again. Frank’s grip is bruising and perfect, and he slams into you with a precision that’s half violence, half worship—like he’s trying to prove something, to mark you in a way that’ll hum in your bones for days. You can’t even catch your breath properly, not with how deep he’s fucking you, not with the way it keeps getting better every time, like he’s always been meant for this, for you. Your nails drag down his chest, scoring tracks over the ridges of muscle, feeling the sweat starting to bloom under his skin. He loves it, that feral scrape of pain and ownership, and he’s not even trying to hide how much.

“Goddamn, baby, you’re—” He can’t finish, not with the way you clamp down on him, not with how you melt under his hands. The words fracture into a choke and he just watches you, drinking in your desperation, the way your mouth falls open. Frank’s hand slides up, tracing the line of your throat, his thumb braced under your jaw, holding you still so he can see every flicker of pleasure on your face. He needs to see it—needs to memorize it, the way your mouth drops open, the way your eyelids fluttered and your whole body tense in his grip.

Jesus, he wants to live here, right at this edge, right in this moment where you can’t stop repeating his name, where you cling to him like you’d drown if he let you go. He loves that you let him do this to you, that you always meet him headlong, hungry, never shy, never pulling back. Every time, you let him take you apart and build you back up. He can’t imagine wanting anything else. Not ever. He presses his forehead to yours, sweat slick between your skin, and slows his hips just enough to make you whimper, to make you open your eyes and the look in them is pure desperation and unequivocal love.

“Yeah, baby ? Pretty girl wants to come ? Hmm ?”You nod, jaw clenched, lungs burning. You want to say something, anything, but all you can do is reach for him, clutch at the back of his neck, needing him impossibly close. Frank’s hand tightens at your waist, anchoring you as he drills into you—harder, deeper, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. You feel yourself spiral, every muscle tensing, pleasure spiking hot and bright through your core until it’s all you are, until everything narrows down to just him and the way he fills you.

“God, baby, look at you,” he says, voice a snarl softened into something starved. “So fuckin’ pretty, so fuckin’ sweet. Look at the way you take it. Always take all of me, don’t you? Fuck, I love you.” You make a sound, a wretched, greedy noise, and it’s so undignified but you don’t care. You’re nothing but need. Frank has you locked down with the weight of his hips, the crush of his chest, and the absolute conviction in his hands. For a beat, it’s just the two of you in the universe: the electric taste of skin; the ragged gasp of breath; the way you go molten when he grits out “so perfect for me, always my perfect girl, always.” The words are rough, more like a dare than a compliment, but with Frank you know it’s the highest praise in the world. You want to live up to it, want to be every bit as good as he says.

He braces you with one arm, holding you steady while the other hand comes up to your face, thumb rough and sweet at your cheek. You feel him shake - he’s trying so hard to hold back, to make it last longer. The silk of your red dress is completely crumpled now, bunched up so high on your hips that you fear no amount of ironing or steaming will bring it back to it's former glory. Frank reaches up and tugs the front of the dress down, revealing the heavy swell of your breasts he adores. He pulls the straps down your shoulders, baring you for him, filling his hands with you, like he wants to remind himself you’re real, that this is happening, that you’re his. He thumbs your nipple, and the sensation is so sharp it ricochets straight to your core, wrung out and raw and so close you could cry. He keeps his eyes fixed on you—hungry, reverent, desperate—and you see it in his furrowed brow and trembling lips, the way he’s holding himself back for you, for this, for as long as he can manage.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Frank mutters against your skin, voice gone hoarse with need. He bites just enough for you to feel it, then soothes the sting with his tongue, laving circles until your head tips back, eyes squeezed shut. “You love it, don’t you? Love when I take it all for myself.” You nod helplessly, nails digging half-moons into his shoulders. Your whole world telescopes down to the way he bites and sucks, the obscene, slick drag of him inside you, the counter edge cutting cold against your ass while everything else burns. Every nerve ending is tuned to his rhythm, every cell in your body screaming more, harder

“Come on, sweetheart. C’mon.” It’s a plea and a command. His face is right in yours, sweat beading at his temple, and you lose all sense of dignity, legs locking around his hips, dragging him even deeper. The next thrust is a knockout punch, a shockwave that rips through every cell, and you’re gone. The orgasm is blinding, a detonation that rips all language from your brain, replaces your veins with liquid fire. Frank is right there with you, his hands clutching so tight at your ass and thighs you know you’ll find fingerprints in the morning, every muscle in his body locked and trembling. He buries his face in your neck, groaning into your skin, breath hot and damp as your name slips out in a strangled, desperate whisper. He keeps moving, slower now but just as deep, coaxing every aftershock until you think you might actually collapse, arms and legs trembling with the wreckage of it. He grinds in, not letting you escape the fullness, and you can feel the twitch and pulse of him as he comes, cock jerking against your walls, his whole body shuddering through the release. The sound he makes isn’t even human – a raw, wrecked noise, like he’s breaking apart. His grip on the leg slung over his shoulder tightens and he groans.

“Fuck- fuck.” You whine at the overstimulation, your body jerking. Frank tries to gather himself, bracing against the countertop, but his vision stutters, blacks out at the edges. He rides the waves of aftershock, savoring the pulsing grip of you around him, the way your slick, overheated body trembles in his hands. There’s a cut on his knuckle—he must’ve knocked it on the edge of the counter in his rush to pin you down. He notices it only because you touch the back of his hand, thumb stroking soft over the abrasion, grounding him. For a second, there’s just the sound of both your harsh breathing, the sting of sweat in his eyes, the residual buzz of that elevator adrenaline. The world could go to hell outside and he wouldn’t care. Frank leans into you, presses his brow to your collarbone, waits for his pulse to come down.The world narrows to the ache of him inside you, still pulsing, and the warm, wrecked hush of your mingled breathing. He holds you there, his arm banded tight around your waist, his other hand still cupping the back of your head like you might tip off the counter and drift away if he lets go. He noses into the shallow of your neck, the scruff of his jaw scraping a path up to your ear.

“Jesus - fuck,” he mutters, barely audible.

You giggle, a hiccup of relief and disbelief, and the sound vibrates through his lips where he presses them to your collarbone. He kisses you there, soft this time—a thank you, a benediction. Your dress is a massacre, rucked past your hips, the straps sliding off your shoulders,yet to frank you’ve never looked more beautiful. He eases your leg off his shoulder and you whine, eyes flying shut. He shushes you, brushing your sweat damp hair away from your face.

“Hey.. hey.. You okay, baby ? You with me ?” You can’t answer, not at first. The aftershocks roll through you in dizzy waves, every nerve still vibrating. Frank’s hands are everywhere, broad and grounding, and you can’t remember how language works, let alone how to get your lips and your lungs and your brain to collaborate on a single word. He tuts.

“Baby, i need you t’talk to me. You alright ?” He asks, cupping your cheek and kisses your forehead repeatedly. You nod, gripping his wrist as you lean in to the affection, eyes fluttering closed. He holds you steady, breathing hard, still cradling your face like it’s the only thing that matters. His thumb skims your cheekbone, lingering in a slow, lazy sweep, and he searches your eyes for something—confirmation, maybe, or just the reassurance that you’re really, blissfully here with him. When you finally manage a word, it’s more a sigh than a sound.

“Holy shit.” Frank’s mouth curves into a battered little smile. He presses a kiss to the corner of your lips, then your jaw, then down the column of your throat, making a slow, careful inventory of everything he bruised or bit or worshipped. He relishes the heat coming off your skin, the way your pulse still goes wild under his tongue. You can feel the bruises blossoming already, and you hope they last.

He leans back to look at you properly, hair mussed, the collar of his shirt hanging half-off, body still flush against him. You let your face rest in his palm, cheek smashed against stubbled knuckles, and try to blink your vision back online. The kitchen tile is cool under your heels. The world wobbles and pivots, everything off-kilter but in a way that makes you want to laugh.

He kisses your forehead again, softer.

“That’s my good girl. Knew you could take it, huh?” His voice is smug but his thumb swipes a lazy, loving line over your cheek. Frank chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. He shifts his weight, still buried deep inside you, and the movement sends another wave of pleasure-pain rippling through your oversensitive body. You whimper softly, clutching at his shoulders as if trying to anchor yourself to reality.

"Easy there, mama," he murmurs against your temple. He grips your hips, kissing your forehead again. "Gotta pull out, sweet girl. Breathe f'me alright ?" You nod. Slowly, he pulls himself out of you, the drag sending your body into overdrive. Your eyes clench shut, nails digging into his biceps. Frank swears under his breath the second he feels you clench around nothing. His forehead drops briefly to your shoulder, eyes squeezed shut like even pulling away from you takes effort.

“Christ,” he breathes. Your body jerks at the loss of him, thighs trembling violently around his hips, and Frank is immediately there again—hands firm on your waist, keeping you steady while your breathing goes ragged.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, softer too. “I know, sweetheart.” You’re still floating somewhere several feet above your own body, head fuzzy and warm, every inch of skin oversensitive. Frank reaches down automatically, thumb stroking slow circles against your thigh, grounding you while he presses lazy kisses along your jaw.

“You still with me?” he asks again. You blink at him slowly.

“Unfortunately.” That gets a tired laugh out of him. Real this time. Deep and wrecked and fond.

“Unfortunately?”

“You nearly killed me.”

“Mhm.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “And whose fault was that?” You think about it seriously for half a second.

“…Yours.” Frank snorts.

“Absolutely not.”

“It literally started because you wore a suit.”

“You saw me wear the suit before we left.”

“And I suffered privately at first.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“You can’t prove that.” He shakes his head against your shoulder, smiling despite himself. There’s lipstick smeared faintly near the corner of his mouth now, and his hair is completely destroyed from your hands tugging through it. He looks ruined in the most spectacular way imaginable. You reach up weakly and smooth your fingers through the dark strands near his temple.

“You look pretty again,” you murmur. Frank groans instantly.

“Baby,” he warns.

“What? It’s true.” Your thumb traces lazily across his cheekbone. “Very pretty. All sweaty and mean.”

“I was not mean.”

“You fingered me in a crowded elevator.” His mouth twitches.

“…Alright. Little mean.”

“Mm. Criminal behavior, honestly.”

“Says the woman sendin’ me filth while I was tryna make friends.” You grin sleepily.

“Did they like you?” Frank huffs out another laugh and finally straightens enough to look at you properly. His eyes drag slowly over your face, then lower—taking in the state of your dress, the marks blooming across your skin, the completely dazed expression you’re failing to hide. And something in his face softens immediately.

There it is.

That look.

The one underneath all the heat and possessiveness and rough hands. The one that always catches you off guard no matter how many times you see it. Like he still can’t believe you’re real. Like loving you is the easiest and most terrifying thing that’s ever happened to him. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw carefully.

“You okay?” he asks quietly. The concern in his voice is so genuine it makes your chest ache. You nod, leaning into his palm without thinking.

“Better than okay.” Frank studies you another second like he’s making sure. Then he kisses you again—completely different this time.

Slow.

Tender.

Still hungry, because Frank honestly doesn’t know how to touch you without wanting more, but softer now. His mouth moves against yours with exhausted affection, stealing little breaths between kisses while his thumbs stroke along your waist beneath the ruined silk of your dress. You hum against his lips, melting instantly.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“My girl.” The words hit you right in the chest. You smile lazily, hooking your arms around his neck again.

“You’re clingy.”

“Says you.”

“I’m adorable about it.”

“You’re a menace.”

“But I’m your menace.” Frank’s expression immediately goes helpless in that way it only ever does with you. Like you’ve reached directly into his ribcage and squeezed his heart in your fist.

“…Yeah,” he says quietly. “You are.” For a minute neither of you moves. You just stay there tangled together in the dim kitchen, breathing each other in while the city hums faintly outside the apartment windows. Frank’s hands roam absentmindedly up and down your back beneath the dress, soothing now instead of demanding. Your fingers trace the warm skin at the nape of his neck. Eventually, you glance toward the hallway.

“We never ate dinner.” Frank follows your gaze for half a second before looking back at you. Then, without warning, he bends and lifts you straight off the counter into his arms. You yelp softly, clutching his shoulders automatically.

“Frank!”

“What?”

“You can’t just pick me up every time I say something.”

“Watch me.” You laugh, breathless, as he carries you toward the bedroom like you weigh nothing at all.

“I thought we were getting food!”

“We are.”

“When?” Frank nudges the bedroom door open with his foot, eyes already darkening again as he looks at you sprawled in his arms.

There’s something unfairly comforting about sitting on Frank’s lap.

Maybe it’s because he’s so big—warm and solid everywhere. Maybe it’s the way he automatically spreads his legs the second you come near him, making room without even thinking about it. Or maybe it’s because Frank holds you like he’s never once considered letting you fall.

Either way— you love it.

Frank notices, obviously. Frank notices everything. So it becomes a thing. Movie nights. Takeout. Late nights on the couch while he cleans guns or talks to Micro on the phone, one hand absentmindedly rubbing circles into your hip while threatening somebody in that rough voice of his. And eventually, you stop waiting for him to pull you down first.

You just climb into his lap automatically.

The second you get home from work. Halfway through conversations. While he’s drinking coffee. While he’s reading reports. Like your body already decided that’s where it belongs.

Frank fucking loves it.

You can tell by the way his hands grab your hips instantly every time. By the low sound he makes in his chest when you settle against him properly. By how his thighs spread wider automatically to make room for you, one hand sliding beneath your sweater to rest warm against your stomach.

And God. That hand.

Big. Rough. Always touching you somewhere. Resting against your waist. Slipping beneath your shirt just to feel your skin. Squeezing your thigh when you shift around too much in his lap.Especially when you squirm.

Frank likes when you squirm. You learn that very quickly.Because the more you crawl into his lap, the more obvious it becomes that Frank is very into having you there too. His grip tightens when you straddle his thigh instead of sitting sideways. His breathing changes when you absentmindedly wiggle around getting comfortable. Sometimes he buries his face against your neck like he’s trying to get himself under control.

Which honestly only encourages you.

And tonight, you want to crawl out of your own skin.

You kick your heels off by the door, groaning as you let your work bag slip down your shoulder and hit the hardwood. Your entire body is thrumming with the urge to just crawl into Frank's lap and forget about today. You stumble your way into the bedroom, already working at the buttons on your shirt.

"Baby? That you ?" You hear him call from the living room, and the hairs on the back of your neck prick up. You make quick work of getting out of your work clothes and slipping into the comfiest clothes you can find - one of Frank's old shirts that slips down your shoulder and a pair of shorts that disappear beneath Frank's shirt. You yawn as you pull your hair out of it's tight bun, and make your way to the living room, shoulders tight and tense from your day at work.

He’s exactly where you knew he’d be. Sprawled on the couch, one arm thrown along the back, the other resting on his stomach. The low glow of the television casts flickering blue light across his bare chest and the worn grey sweats riding low on his hips. He’s got that focused look, eyes narrowed slightly at whatever documentary is playing, but his attention shifts the second you appear in the doorway. His gaze sweeps over you, soft and immediate. A slow, easy smile touches his lips as he takes in his shirt on you, the way it hangs off one shoulder. He doesn't have to say a word. He just lifts the arm from the back of the couch in a silent, unspoken invitation, his legs spreading slightly to make space.

It’s all the encouragement you need.

You cross the room in a few steps, not bothering to be graceful, and climb right into his lap. You swing a leg over his thighs, settling directly over him, your knees bracketing his hips. It’s instinctual, the way your bodies fit together. Frank’s hands are on you instantly, warm and heavy, resting on your hips. His thumbs begin their familiar, slow strokes back and forth, a silent question and a steady comfort all at once.

"Hey, pretty girl." He hums, kissing your temple. You grumble in response, burying your face in his neck as you shift closer.

“Rough one?” he rumbles, his voice a low vibration against your ear as you lean your head against his shoulder. You just hum in response, too tired to form words. The tension from the day is a knot between your shoulder blades, a tight band around your chest. But here, in his lap, with the smell of him - clean soap and something uniquely Frank -surrounding you, it starts to loosen. You close your eyes, breathing him in. His other hand comes up to rest on your thigh, fingers tapping a slow, idle rhythm against your skin. You let the documentary’s narration wash over you, a meaningless drone of sound.

All you’re aware of is Frank.

The steady rise and fall of his chest.

The heat of his skin.

The reassuring weight of his hands on you.

It’s grounding. It’s home.

But the knot of tension isn't gone. It’s just… waiting.

Lurking.

And as you sit there, a new kind of energy starts to build beneath it. A slow, simmering restlessness. You shift, trying to get comfortable, and the seam of your shorts brushes against the worn fabric of his sweats. A faint spark of pleasure ignites, and you still. Frank’s hand stills on your hip. He doesn’t say anything, but you feel the change in him. The subtle tightening of his muscles. The way his breathing hitches for just a second. You do it again. A deliberate, slow rock of your hips. This time, the spark is brighter, a warm wave that spreads through your lower belly. Frank lets out a low sound, almost a grunt, and his hand tightens on your thigh, holding you still.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice a little rougher now. “Easy.” But you don’t want easy. You want to feel. You want to burn away the memory of your terrible day with the friction of his body against yours. You lean forward, bracing your hands on his broad shoulders, and press your lips to the side of his neck. He tastes like salt and skin. You lick a slow stripe up to his earlobe, nibbling gently. He shudders, a full-body tremor that you feel everywhere you’re touching him. His head falls back against the couch, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat to you. You take the invitation, kissing and sucking a path down his neck, your hips starting to move in a slow, grinding rhythm. It’s not frantic. It’s deliberate. A steady, rocking pressure against his growing erection. Each roll of your hips sends a jolt of pleasure straight through you, stoking the fire in your belly higher and higher.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands sliding from your hips to your ass, squeezing hard as he pulls you down against him. “Jesus, baby…” You can feel the last threads of his control starting to snap. His hips begin to lift to meet yours, a shallow, involuntary thrust that matches your rhythm. It’s intoxicating, the power of it, the way you can unravel this strong, steady man with nothing but your body and your mouth. You’re just getting lost in it, in the slick heat building between your legs, in the low, guttural sounds he’s making, when his hands suddenly still on your ass. He grips you hard, stopping your movements.

“Wait,” he pants, his voice strained. “Wait a second.” You pull back, confused and more than a little frustrated. He’s breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, his eyes dark with a mix of lust and concern. He loosens his grip on you, but he doesn’t let you go.

“Hey,” he says softly, one hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your jaw. “Look at me.” You meet his gaze, your own breathing ragged. “What’s wrong?” He asks. You blush furiously, shaking your head.

“Nothin’s wrong,” You go to move off of him, suddenly embarassed.

"Hey, wait, no-" He grabs you by the waist, forcing you to stay seated exactly where you are. You shake your head, trying to escape his grip, not daring to make eye-contact.

"No, it's fine, Frank-" He frowns, clearly confused.

“Baby. Stop." He sighs, exasperated. "What’s gotten you so worked up, huh?” He asks, pushing your hair away from your face. You duck your head immediately, mortified now that the heat of the moment is fading just enough for embarrassment to creep in.

“Nothin’,” you mumble. Frank gives you a look.

“Sweetheart.” One big hand squeezes your hip. “C’mon.” You groan quietly and hide your face in his shoulder. Which only makes him more suspicious. “There it is,” he murmurs, amusement creeping into his voice now. “That’s the face you make when somethin’s goin’ on in that head.”

“There is no face.”

“Mhm.” His hand slides up your back slowly. “So you always grind on me like that after bad workdays?” Your entire body heats instantly.

“Frank.”

“What?” he asks innocently, though the grin tugging at his mouth says otherwise. “Just askin’ questions.” You try to climb off his lap again out of pure embarrassment, but his arms lock around your waist immediately. “Nah,” he mutters. “You started this. Sit back down.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” Unfortunately, he sounds very sure of that. You bury your face harder into his neck with a miserable little groan, and Frank laughs softly under his breath, holding you tighter against his chest.

“Talk t’me, baby.” You hesitate. Then mumble against his skin:

“…like sitting on you.” Frank goes very still for half a second. Then:

“Yeah?” His voice drops lower instantly. You nod once without lifting your head. “Feels nice,” you admit quietly. “Makes my brain shut up.” Something in Frank’s expression softens so much it almost hurts to look at.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, guiding your face up gently with his hand. His thumb drags slowly across your cheek while he looks at you like you’re something precious. “Y’know I’d let you sit on me whenever you want, right?” Your stomach flips embarrassingly hard.

“I gathered.” A rough laugh leaves him. He cups your cheek, kissing your temple.

“And if grindin' down on me is your way of relieving whatever bullshit those people put you through today- be my fucking guest because I ain't complainin'." He teases, smiling with his tongue trapped between his teeth. You groan, embarrassed.

"Frank." You mutter. He laughs, head tipping back.

"No, mama, i'm serious." He sighs, look down at where your hand is resting on his bare abdomen. "You jus' gotta tell me, alright ? Don't want you doin' all the work. Wanna help make you feel better." He hums.

You swallow hard, suddenly unable to look at him. Because that’s the problem. Frank always sounds so sincere when he says things like that. So steady. So genuinely willing to give you anything you ask for that it makes your stomach twist up into knots. He taps a finger against your cheek.

"Baby." He hums. "C'mon, sweetheart, look at me." Your eyes drift over to his, chewing on the inside of your cheek. He grins, his head tilting to properly catch your eyes. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Y'want to keep grinding down on me, or y'want me to help you ?" He asks, his voice sincere and so full of love you almost sink to your knees in front of him. Heat crawls all the way up your neck at the question. Frank watches it happen in real time, eyes going darker immediately.

“Frank,” you whisper weakly.

“What?” he murmurs, completely unrepentant. “Asked a simple question.” His hand slides slow up your thigh, rough palm warm against your skin. “Wanna know what my girl needs.” Your stomach flips hard at that. My girl. You duck your head, suddenly shy under the weight of his attention. Which is ridiculous considering you were just grinding yourself against him five seconds ago, but Frank has this way of looking at you that makes you feel completely exposed.

“You,” you mumble finally.

“Hm?”

“I want…” You trail off miserably. Frank’s mouth twitches.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Use your words.” You glare at him halfheartedly before grabbing his wrist and guiding his hand downward toward the waistband of your shorts. Frank lets you for exactly two seconds before a startled laugh punches out of him.

“Whoa—hey.” His hand catches yours gently. “Not that kinda help.” You blink at him, confused.

“…What?” Frank just grins. Slow and crooked and dangerous enough to make your pulse stutter.

“Cute, though.”

“Frank,” you complain, fully embarrassed now. “What does that even mean?”

“Means,” he says, already shifting beneath you, “I got somethin’ else in mind.” Before you can ask what the hell that means, Frank’s big hands settle on your hips and lift you easily. You let out a startled noise as he maneuvers you forward so your knees stay planted on the couch cushions.

“Frank—”

“Relax.” He kisses your thigh absently through your shorts. “Lemme take care of you.” And then— to your complete confusion— he slips downward off the couch. You stare as this giant man settles onto the floor between your knees like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His back slides against the couch until he’s comfortably sprawled there, broad shoulders pressed into the cushions, head tipped back slightly so he can look up at you properly. He watches you from the floor, eyes level with your knees. There’s a cocky set to his mouth—your favorite one, the one tucked in the left corner that means he knows something you don’t. His hands are gentle, guiding your thighs apart like he’s posing a painting, and you let him. The air in the room gets syrup-thick; the taste of your own heartbeat pulses in your tongue. He tugs you to the very edge of the couch so your legs flank his shoulders. His palms skate up your bare thighs, thumbs stroking lazy up-and-down lines along the soft skin just beneath the hem of your shorts. You yelp, hands gripping into his hair.

“F-Frank, what are you-” You gasp, shaking your head, unease shooting up your spine. His hands are warm, grounding you, and all you can focus on is how enormous he looks below you, an immovable force wedged between your trembling thighs. His hands bracket your knees, thumbs stroking softly, steady and patient. His eyes flick up to meet yours, the sharp blue of them calm and so sure, and he grins in that slow, crooked way that got you into this mess to begin with.

“Relax, honey,” he says, voice low and level, almost soothing. “You’re good. S’just me.” Your legs are shaking a little, but it’s not from fear—at least not completely. It’s more anticipation, a hot coil of anxiety and longing twined tight through your gut. You try to say something, anything, but your voice cracks on the inhale, and Frank just watches you with a rare, gentle patience. His hands come up, grip steady but light, thumbs brushing up and down along your thighs until your skin feels electric. With a slow, practiced touch, he slides his thumbs under the hem of your shorts, waiting for your not-even-a-nod before peeling them down, tugging them over your knees, leaving the oversized t-shirt and nothing else. Embarrassment scalds through you as you realize how exposed you are, perched at the edge of the couch, knees spread, Frank’s face right there. It’s the kind of thing you should only ever fantasize about, not actually experience—but it’s happening, and you’re not dreaming, and Frank Castle is still patiently grinning up at you like your bare skin is some kind of reward. You can’t look at him. All you can do is stare at your own hands, knuckles pale from gripping the couch cushions, as warm air ghosts over the inside of your thighs. He presses his mouth there first, just above your knee. One lingering kiss, then another, and another, slow and deliberate, marching his way up toward your center. You want to close your legs, or say “Wait,” or do literally anything except sit here quivering, but he’s so goddamn tender. His lips are warm, and his beard is just a scratchy promise, and the whole thing is so unexpectedly gentle it makes your chest feel wobbly and exposed. You feel his hands splay out on your hips, pulling you a little closer, anchoring you to this moment. He sucks a mark just above the line where your thigh meets your core, not even close to where you want him, and you shudder, letting out a sound you’d never admit was yours. He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“There she is,” he murmurs, lips ghosting the words against your skin. “C’mon, pretty girl, let me hear you.” Frank ducks his head, mouth finding your inner knee—he always starts here, just to kill you with the anticipation. The first kiss is barely pressure, a ghost; the next, a slow drag of stubble that rasp-burns sweet enough to make your toes curl. His fingers tease upward, grip warm and wide, and the closer he gets to where you want him, the heavier your breath. He can’t miss it. Your lungs are making these embarrassing micro-hitches, and you can feel the heat blooming beneath your skin, spreading out in nervous waves. He drags his nose up the inside of your thigh and just… inhales. Slow, deep. It’s obscene, the way his nostrils flare. He opens his mouth to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss just above the leg of your shorts, his tongue sneaking beneath the fabric for a fraction of a second. You both exhale at the same moment, like you’re sharing the same pair of lungs. Frank edges your panties down, easing them past your hips with big, patient hands. He’s not rushing. He’s not ever in a hurry with you, apparently. You look down, and Frank catches your gaze, holds it as he hooks his fingers around the waistband of your underwear. His thumb strokes absently at your hip, again, always grounding you when it should be the opposite.

It’s almost enough to make you laugh out of sheer nerves, but then he’s got his mouth right where you want him. He kisses your folds, slow and deliberate, lips pressing soft and then hard, the way he always kisses your mouth when you’re half asleep and pliant in his arms. There’s a gathering tension in your spine, a knot unspooling. Every cell in your body is buzzing with the need to move, to do something, to run or crawl out of your own skin. But you can’t, because Frank’s hands are holding you open, holding you here, and his mouth is warm and hungry and home. The first stripe of his tongue—flat and broad, from bottom to top, flicking at your clit, and your entire body rocks forward in surprise, clit bumping deliciously against his large nose. Your yelp turns into a startled moan as he grips your thighs harder and nudges his nose harder against your clit, groaning beneath your folds. You’re terrified of putting your whole weight on him, so much so that your thighs are shaking with the effort to stay hovering above him, to keep your thighs from clenching. You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair and the other clasped around a cushion, your entire body tense with unease.

You’ve never done this before and your body is making it clear. The shame is enough to make you want to vanish—levitate right off the couch, become air, become molecules. There’s nothing in your brain except the white-noise roar of panic and the sticky, needy pulse between your legs. You catch yourself holding your breath, releasing it in little shocked bursts every time Frank does something unexpected. Like he knows this, his hands move up, palms flattening on your waist to steady you.

“Breathe, sweetheart.” He says it quiet, not a command but a kindness, looking up at you like you’re the only person on earth. His mouth glistens, beard a little damp, utterly patient.

“S’okay, I got you. C’mon.” He squeezes your hips, grounding you, and just like that, your brain clicks back online, a little. Air in, air out. You let yourself lean on him, just a hair more weight, and Frank makes this low appreciative noise like you’re doing him a favor. He mouths at you, slow and open, tongue tasting everywhere like he’s mapping you for future reference. He’s not pretty about it—his beard is rough and his jaw is strong and the groan he makes when he feels you shake is raw and real and a little bit ugly, the way he never bothers hiding how badly he wants you. But then, when you think you can’t do this, that you’re floating somewhere ten feet above your own body, he flicks his tongue right around your clit and everything telescope-zooms back to center. You choke on a gasp, and he grins up at you, eyes crinkled in real delight.

“Good?” The words vibrate against you, and you manage a weak nod. He hums approval into your skin, nosing further in, and you realize you’re gripping his hair so hard it must hurt but he makes no complaint. Frank’s hands knead your ass, coaxing you to move, to use him; you try, just a little, rocking forward a millimeter, and he rewards you with a strong broad lick and a filthy moan. His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs and he keeps you spread, keeps you tuned to his mouth. He taps your thigh, urging you to rock against him, and you whimper, shaking your head. You can hardly breathe, straddled over Frank Castle’s jaw, your thighs quivering with the effort not to crush his face or fall backward off the couch entirely. The thought of your full weight on him is mortifying, but his hands only tighten on your hips, pulling you down like he means to anchor you there for days. His tongue curls through you, patient, unhurried, mapping every slick contour with the greedy, single-minded devotion you’re used to seeing when Frank takes apart a gun. You drag a hand through his hair—sweaty, yeah, but it’s Frank, and it’s softer than you expect—and the moment your grip tightens, he grunts like you’ve yanked the leash on a wolf. That rough sound vibrates through your whole pelvis and jerks you forward, dizzy and hollowed out. You’re shaking, trembling in every muscle group you’ve got, but Frank keeps murmuring

“Good girl,” between swipes of his tongue, half-drowned by you and impossibly smug with his mouth full. You know you’re soaking him, know the mess you’re making, can feel the tacky wet of your arousal under his jaw, but

Frank.

Doesn’t.

Care.

Every second he just gets hungrier, thumbs gripping you harder, kneading the soft of your ass. There’s a stubble burn developing along your inner thigh, the delicate skin starting to scream, and it only makes you more frantic. The panic is still there, an icy knot in the back of your head. Frank is fucking gigantic, sprawled on the floor, one arm hooked around your thigh to keep you from running, but every time you start to freeze up, he pulls back just enough to catch your eyes with his own. The look is so goddamn fond it almost hurts; he’s grinning, a little drunk-slow, like he can’t believe what he’s doing is legal. You’ve never felt so seen, so wanted, and it lights you up from inside.

You can’t make herself move at first, but Frank seems determined to eat the shyness out of you. He murmurs,

“C’mon, baby, don’t be shy. Ride it. You know you want to.” The words are absurd, ridiculous, but the deep kindness in his face leaves no room for shame. You try, finally, hips barely inching downward, and holy fuck do his arms flex, pulling you flush to him. You practically yelp, and Frank starts to laugh, the sound muffled and filthily happy, like he’s waited his whole life for this exact moment. Frank’s tongue is obscene, relentless, circling your clit, then dragging broad and flat and greedy. He doesn’t have a rhythm; he improvises, like he’s learning her on the fly, sucking, licking, then finessing the tip of his tongue in tight, fast, deliciously mean flicks. You don’t notice you’re humping his face until his hands slide up your back, big palms bracing her, encouraging your to grind down harder. The praise spills out of Frank in a litany between desperate swipes of his tongue:

“Fuck, attagirl, that’s my good girl, just like that, ride it, sweetheart—" The heat in his eyes, the way he holds you, the praise spilling shameless—it’s almost worse than the sensation, the way you start to feel yourself unraveling under his mouth.

“You’re so good,” he keeps muttering, tongue flat and wide, chin slick, beard sticky. “So fuckin’ sweet, baby. Give it to me, go on.” The mortification peaks and dissolves, replaced by a trembling need to grind down, mashing your pussy over his nose and mouth, the pleasure so far past overwhelming it’s almost panic again, but good, the kind of panic that feels like survival. Your hands twist in his hair. His tongue flicks fast, relentless, and when he senses you trying to clench your thighs together he only shoves his head in further, greedy, devouring, brutal and perfect.

“Fuck, Frank, I—” is all you can say before your body’s convulsing, legs suddenly useless. You whimper, nearly sob, press yourself so hard against his face it’s a miracle he can breathe—but Frank fucking loves it, moaning into you, clutching your ass and pulling you down until your cunt shakes apart on his tongue. The afterspasms roll for a long time, your vision blurring, your hands fumbling for purchase on anything, his hair, the couch, your own legs, but nothing holds. Frank just pets you, hands moving up and down your thighs, stroking slow. It feels like he’s humming, and if you look down, you’d see him smirking, mouth glistening, beard even messier than before. He keeps kissing, licking soft, until you yelp and try to crawl away.You can’t breathe. You can’t move. Everything is numb except your thighs, which are shaking against either side of Frank’s face, and the wet, frantic throb between your legs. Your body wants to pitch itself off the couch and into the drywall, but Frank’s grip is relentless, holding you in place while your hips stutter and jerk—like he’s trying to squeeze every last tremor out of you, like he can’t believe his goddamn luck to have your cunt flush against his mouth. He only lets you pull away when your whimper turns desperate, when you’re halfway to tears from the aftershocks. Even then he doesn’t go easy; he licks you slow and purposeful, gentle only when you start babbling his name and scrabbling at his hair to stop.

The whole world is white noise and heartbeat. You can’t remember how to talk or move. Frank looks up at you, mouth and beard glossy, blue eyes so hot and pleased you feel yourself clench again just from looking at him. He presses a last kiss to your thigh and slides his hands up to cradle your hips, steadying you when you almost collapse sideways onto the couch.

“Shit,” you manage, voice hoarse. “Fuck, Frank—” He wipes his mouth, grinning crooked, and squeezes your thigh.

“You did so good, baby. You’re so fuckin’ good for me.” He sounds half-wrecked, proud like he’s just set a new world record or something. You want to sink through the floor, but he props his elbows on your knees and just… gazes up, like he’s never going to get tired of this view. The embarrassment is a slow, molten ache that somehow makes you want him even more. You shake your head, try to cover your face, but he tuts and grabs your wrists, pushing your hands away so he can see you properly.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, all rough affection. “Don’t go shy on me now.” His voice is gentle, which is almost worse than if he teased. Like you’re something breakable. Like he cares. You whimper, your thighs shaking, and he props himself up, concern knotting between his brows. “Hey, hey… shh, pretty girl. You okay ?” You nod, and his hands wrap around your waist. “C’mere.” He hums, and he softly drags you down his body until you’re on the floor with him, body shaking as you straddle his lap once more. He kisses your forehead, your temple, hands soothing at your back. You’re still trembling, your limbs rubbery and untrustworthy, but he stays so close, holding you up, petting your hair, pinning you there with the steady weight of his hands. You can’t meet his eyes—he looks too proud, too hungry, too much—and it burns all the way through you that you want him even more now, even as your whole body is a raw, throbbing wire. Frank tucks your hair behind your ear, the gesture so delicate it nearly undoes you again.

“Easy,” he murmurs, like you’re a skittish animal. But you don’t want easy. Not right now. You feel broken open, desperate in a way you’ve never been before, and you can feel the hard length of him pressing against your pussy so deliciously that it clenches at the mere thought of having him inside you after what he just did. You kiss at his neck, a harmless gesture, and he holds you against him tighter, feeling the heavy rise and fall of his chest. Your hand trails down his chest, going for his waist band- He catches your wrist, gentle but inescapable.

“Uh-uh,” he says, smile gone crooked and fond. “You’re sensitive right now. Lemme—”

“It’s not fair if I leave you like this.” you say, surprised by how rough your own voice sounds. “Please, Frankie, i need it." It’s barely a whisper and it’s still nearly ripped out of your throat. You meet his eyes, pulse wild, and you see his pupils blow wide.

“Baby,” he says, his thumb stroking circles on your hip. He wants to say no. You can see the words forming behind his teeth. But he’s soft for you, always, even when he’s hard everywhere else. “You know it’s gonna—”

“Don’t care.” You surge up, hands in his hair, mouth on his jaw, anywhere you can reach. You need him, need to feel him heavy and real, pinning you to the world. For a second Frank just holds you there, like he’s bracing you both against a wave. Then he groans, low and dangerous, and cups your face, forcing you to look at him again.

“Honey, no. I’ll hurt you. Don’t wanna do that.” He tuts. You whine, shaking your head.

His refusal only makes you hungrier. The thick band of him pressed between you, the way his hands tremble against your hips like he’s weighing how far he’s allowed to go—every ounce of resistance from him is just a dare. You shudder, hips rocking harder, chasing the friction, and Frank’s grip tightens. There’s a hot, pained flare behind his eyes. He holds you pinned to him, unmoving, but you can feel it: the throb of his cock, the way his breath shakes when you rut down slow and deliberate, grinding his length through layers of cloth. All at once, you think you might start sobbing if he doesn’t fuck you immediately.

“Frank,” you beg, and it’s the only word that matters. “Please.” He groans, shaking his head.

“I just had you fucking shaking as you rode my face, pretty girl. Don’t really wanna turn you to jelly just yet. I’ll be fine.” He hums, trying to drag you into him for a soft hug. You whine, grinding down on him, your hand falling flat on the hard ridge of his cock through his sweats as your tongue trails up the ridges of his chest muscles. He groans, teeth gritted, trying to hold onto his control.

“You tryna kill me, mama ?” Your shudder of need makes his effort at self-control moot, and Frank breaks first, just like you always knew he would. Big hands slide up, surround your jaw, frame it. He looks at you, really looks—blue eyes huge, so hot and grieving and desperate.

“Fuck it,” he murmurs. “Come here.” Then he’s kissing you, mouth filthy with your own taste, his tongue pushing you open, forcing you to feel every inch of the mess he’s made of you. You can hardly keep up, clinging to his shoulders .

“Ten seconds ago you were shaking so bad I thought you were gonna pass out,” he says against your lips, but he’s already shifting, hiking your hips up and dragging his sweats down just enough. The heat of him hits your tender skin and you flinch, a full-body shiver, but you keep going, greedy and insistent. He stops you with a hand on your hip, his thumb pressed hard to the bone. His cock springs up, flushed and leaking, heavy and thick enough you can’t believe it didn’t split the fabric. For a second you freeze, staring, because holy shit, everytime you see it you have to remind yourself that that’s not just tall guy big, that’s fucking dangerous. Your boyfriend could seriously do some interior damage, ruin you for anyone else.

It’s a good thing you only want him, then.

You grab his cock, base to tip, and it feels so hot and solid in your grip your brain whites out. He hisses in a breath as your hand barely wraps around his base, his hand darting out to grab your wrist as his eyes roll back.

“Fuck- Fuck, wait.” He rasps. His eyes fly open to take you in, gulping. “This isn’t a good idea, baby. You’re gonna hurt yourself.” He says, his voice rough. You chuckle, shaking your head.

“I always do when i take you.” You hum. His face twists.

“That’s not fucking funny. I’m serious. You get really sensitive after you come. Trust me, I know. Let’s just take a few minutes-” You shake your head.

“I don’t want to wait a few minutes. I want you, now.” He expects you to play along, but you just tip the head of it up and smear the precum across the top with your thumb, the sensation so fierce you nearly combust. Frank’s mouth falls open, gorgeous and a little scared, like he can’t believe how bad you want this. He says your name, pleading, but you only line up the slick tip and start sinking down, slow and careful, so careful it damn near splits you in half. He groans, body arching up, hands bruising on your hips, and the stretch is so intense you whine, forehead dropping to his sternum. He goes still at the sound, shaking his head in a panic at your pain.

“Fuck- Nah, baby, I fuckin’ told ya-” You shake your head, hand clamping down on his mouth as your body trembles with the anticipation of how much more you still have left to swallow.

“Shut the fuck up, Frank.” His eyes narrow, and you watch with covetous pride as Frank’s whole immense body braces for impact, like he’s about to be shot. You take him slow, but deliberate; it’s the only way you can handle the stretch, the burning fullness that feels more like a punishment than a reward. You whine in pain, and. your hand slips off his mouth, fisting into the couch cushion behind his head.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he groans, and it’s like a prayer. You shudder, the blunt head of his cock slotting even further until you’re trembling with the effort of taking his size. “You’re a goddamn maniac. You know that?” You can’t answer, not when you’re sweating bullets, not even sure you’ve made it halfway down. Every inch is a sweet, punishing burn. But you’re grinning uncontrollably, pride sparking, because he’s the one who’s speechless now. You push your hips forward, greedier, and he’s digging blunt nails into your ass to steady you, not daring to thrust or even move except for the way his body trembles beneath you, muscles flexing, straining restraint.

“Attagirl,” he whispers, helplessly. “Christ, look at you. Takin’ me so fuckin’ good. You’re incredible, you know that?” You whimper, greed for praise overriding the pain. He kisses your cheek, your temple, your ear, anything he can reach.

“You’re doin’ amazing. Just—just like that, baby, c’mon. You can do it, I got you.” Hand braced on his broad chest for leverage, you rock your hips in tiny increments, letting up, then down, taking centimeter after centimeter. Each pulse brings a new shock of sensation; it throbs, sends filaments of raw heat up into your guts. Frank’s breathing is staccato in your ear, like he’s terrified and awed at once. “I need a sec,” you gasp, panting. His body goes still, and his hands grip onto you so tight to keep you incredibly still.

“You okay ? Shit, baby, do you wanna stop ?” He asks, his voice rough. The idea is absurd, infuriating.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” You manage, and you dig your nails into his chest, use the hurt to balance the overwhelming fullness everywhere else. Frank forces his head back, staring down at where you’re connected.

You’re barely halfway down.

Frank is watching, stunned and reverent, eyes shot with panic and worship. You can see it—his desperation to take care of you warring with the crude awe of being split open by him, of letting him see every humiliating little sound and twitch and tremor your body can make. It’s almost worth the pain, just to see his breath hitch and his hands clench helplessly at your hips, to feel his cock pulse and twitch inside you, like he honestly can’t believe you’ll let him this deep.

“Mmph,” you rasp, teeth gritted. “Fuck, Frank—please—I can't do it alone. Need you to- Need you to push yourself in all the way.” He clamps a hand over his face, half laughing, half moaning as your thighs start to shake with the effort of slow descent.

“Baby. You sure? There’s no fuckin’ shame, you walk away right now and I’ll still brag about you for the rest of my life—”

“If you stop, I’m going to kill you,” you gasp. It’s not even a joke; you’d bite him. “Just—bottom out, c’mon, I need it.” He groans, so sin-soaked it’s almost broken.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he says again, desperately, as if the name itself might actually save him—or you—from this. His hand slides from your hip up to your chin, tilting your face until you’re forced to look him in the eye. Even as you bear down, greedy for the rest of him, his thumb skims your cheek, gentle as a prayer. “You ever want me to stop, you better say so. You’re the boss, baby. Always.” You nod, barely coherent, and shove down the last impossible stretch, gasping when you finally sink, all the way, onto his lap. You swear your vision goes black around the edges for a second, but the bloom of pain is beautiful, dizzying. For a full moment neither of you can move, both too paralyzed by the sensation. Then the shock passes and you’re filled, completely, by a sense of ownership—yours, his, it doesn’t matter. The word you groan becomes a vowel, not a name. Frank’s eyes are squeezed shut, jaw clenched so hard you hear his teeth grind. He’s trembling like it’s his first time.

“Fuck,” he snarls. “You—good?”It’s not enough to nod; you need both hands braced on his chest, need to feel the pure animal strength beneath your palms as you start to move. The first roll of your hips makes you both gasp, and Frank’s hand flies to your lower back, broad palm spreading out over your skin to hold you steady, to keep you from flying apart.

“Jesus, baby. Attagirl. Givin’ me a fuckin’ heart attack over here.” You can’t find the words. All sensation, no language. You rise, grind, sink back down. The fullness never wanes, never gentles, but there’s an edge of heat now that makes every motion urgent. The head of his cock drags over a spot so deep you whimper, clutching at him. He sits up a bit more, moaning. His arms curl around you, cradling your lower back as he shifts, gentle and cautious—a man holding a live bomb to his chest. He whispers your name like he can will you whole, as if the syllables could knit your insides back together after he’s torn you open. But you don’t want that. You want to feel this, the shattering. You want him to watch you break and know he was the one who made you. Every roll of your hips makes him shudder, the tip of him bumping so deep you think it might break through your ribs. Frank pants, smearing kisses all over your jaw, his hands reverent on your sides but so desperately tight you know you’ll bruise. He tries to keep still, lets you set the pace, but you can feel his body’s rebellion: the trembling in his thighs, the way his stomach jumps with each movement, the wild flare of panic in his eyes every time you whimper.

“You’re so good for me, sweetheart,” he grits, voice low and taut, a prayer scrabbled together with spit and sweat. “Fuckin’—just a miracle, you are.” He watches, eyes dark and greedy, as you start to ride him with more confidence, the punishing fullness fading to something hot and wet and wonderful—like you can finally control it, direct it, make it part of you. The friction makes your nerves burn, but you want to bask in it, want to see what you look like with Frank Castle’s cock splitting you open. You can’t stop grinning, draped over him, loving the way your nails leave angry half-moons in his muscle. You lean up, just to see his face. He’s split wide open, not tough or hard but fragile, like he’s seeing a sunrise for the first time—in awe, in agony, in love.

“You okay, big guy?” you tease, and immediately he growls, arms flexing to haul you flush against his chest. The new angle makes him throb inside you, makes you gasp and grab at his hair.

“Don’t fuckin’ joke right now,” he breathes. “I’m hangin’ on by a thread, baby, you keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m gonna lose it.” His hands slip beneath your ass, steadying you as you start to ride in earnest, the heat building, slick and unrelenting. It isn’t graceful, but it’s honest, raw; he lets you use him as leverage, lets you go wild if that’s what you need. You catch his mouth, bite his lip, moan into him with every bounce. The coil of heat in your belly is stretched so thin it sizzles, and the pain is gone, replaced with an electric need to finish, to crash through. Frank makes desperate, soft noises every time you clamp down, every time you mutter his name.Frank’s hands roam your body, never still. He rakes through your hair, cradles the back of your neck, runs a worshipful palm down your spine to splay across the small of your back.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful. You are-” He breaks off, tongue thick. “-you’re incredible.” He means it, you can hear it in the reverent tremor of his voice. “Could watch you all day. Watch how you take me. No one else gets to see you like this, d’you know that? No one.” His words are pure worship.

“My gorgeous, greedy girl.” You whimper at the praise, hips stuttering, and the needy sound goes straight to his head. He meets you halfway, arching up to grind into you, thick arms braced under your thighs. The new angle makes you sob, a moan punched out against his throat, and Frank’s face goes slack with open-mouthed awe.

“That’s it, baby,” he pants. “Attagirl, just like that, c’mon, keep going for me.” He punctuates each word with a thrust upward, so gentle for a man who could tear you in half, but the force of him is still enough to send you reeling each time. You drag your hips up until just the head is inside, linger there for a heartbeat, then slam yourself back down like you want to shatter on his cock. Frank lets out a noise you’ve never heard—a bark of disbelief, utterly defeated—and his head thuds against the couch pillar with a force that might give a normal man a concussion.

“Oh my fucking god,” he chokes. He’s clutching you so hard it hurts, but it only makes you wetter, more reckless. The pain is a live wire in your core, but every second is worth it. You never want to let him go: you want to wring him dry, flatten yourself into his chest, drown in the sharp heat of him. You’re greedy now, riding him in desperate, ragged strokes, whimpering with every bounce. Frank’s face is contorted in pleasure and disbelief, sweat slicking the hair at his temples, mouth open and helpless as you take him over and over again. Every thrust makes the world go white around the edges; you can feel yourself getting closer, the sensation almost too much to bear, but you don’t stop, can’t stop.

“Fuck, baby, if you keep going like that, you’re gonna make me—” Frank’s voice cracks, and you feel the words more than hear them. He’s so deep your entire body pulses with the beat of his heart, and every flex of his hips threatens to tip you over the edge. He groans, a rasping crunch of sound behind his teeth, and his hands grab your waist, not to slow you but to anchor himself as he bucks upward. You whine as you can physically feel him pressing against the walls of your stomach, the thick outline of him pushing against the skin. You ride him like you want to leave marks he’ll never scrub off, nails digging in, hips slamming down. Frank’s begging now, except he won’t use words, just lets out long, ragged moans that sound nothing like the man you’ve ever known. Every time you drive down hard you swear you see stars, blacking out for a second, barely breathing through the overload. Frank curses, voice punched out, and tries to slow you, but you snarl at him, toss your head and clench harder. The veins in his neck pop, and he whines, an honest-to-god whimper, and you nearly lose control just from that.

“Jesus, baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight - gonna break me, you know that?” He pants, shaking, and you shiver with pride.

“That’s the point,” you groan, rocking down until you’re mashed flush to his hips, skin burning from the friction. He’s so deep you see double, splitting you open, his hands shaking where they clutch your thighs. You want to memorize this stretch—the way he can’t decide if he’s worshiping or afraid, the way he’s melting and unraveling and alive under you, for you, by you. It builds, slow at first, then all in a rush. Your legs start to give out, but Frank holds you steady, his palm gentle on your spine, cradling the back of your neck.Frank’s hand, bruised and calloused, slides up to the center of your chest, splay-fingered, pinning you gently to keep you from launching yourself into orbit.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he rasps. The vein in his neck stands out, pulsing wildly, his eyes gone hazy and soft and just this side of unhinged. You bear down, riding him like a challenge, every greedy bounce lighting up your nerves, and he just lets you—lets you use him, arms locked around your hips but only to hold you together, not to control. He’s pliant, worshipful, at your mercy.

“Frank,” you whine, desperate. The pressure crowds your senses, heavy and bright, and you grind down hard so he’s somehow even deeper, the tip of him pushing your cervix into the bruised shape of his want. He shakes his head, wild with pride and terror.

“You’re… you’re fuckin’ unreal, y’know that?” He means it. His hands stroke your body, coaxing and possessive, as if trying to memorize the way your skin slicks together, the way your muscles tense around him. He keeps steadying you, guiding your rhythm without ever slowing you. Everything in him pulls towards you: his eyes, his voice, the shudder of his hips. You snarl through your teeth, and he laughs, a raw, unguarded sound.

“C’mon, baby, show me what you’ve got. You wanna take it all, don’t you? Wanna milk it outta me?” He rocks up into you, just once, and the crash of sensation makes you jerk, nails carving his shoulders open. You want to break him. You want to break yourself, just to see how far you’ll both go. Every thrust, every tight grind, sends that white heat up your spine. You barely remember your own name, only his. Only Frank, breathing you like oxygen, savoring every pained whisper.

“That’s it, that’s my girl. You can do it, ride it out for me, I got you,” he says, over and over, like he’s holding you together from the inside out. The words melt your insides, make you slick and reckless. You bounce, hard, angling your hips to drag against him, and the friction is blinding. The pressure builds sharp and mean, and you chase it, dizzy for release. He groans, losing himself in it, the edges breaking down.

“Don’t stop, baby, please—fuck, please,” he’s murmuring now, needy and on the edge. His cock twitches inside you, and you can feel every frantic pulse. You seize the moment, grind him in deep and slow until you’re both quaking. Your vision swarms with stars. You’re going to fly apart, but you don’t want to stop. You feel him lose his restraint, his body clenching, cock swelling, everything bracing for the crash. But you want to shatter at the same time he does. You grind down, finding that sweet, impossible angle, rocking back and forth so every movement draws a guttural moan from both of you. Your forehead presses to his, sweat mingling, and your bodies lock together, legs quaking so hard you think you might break.

“You’re - fuck, you’re gonna make me-” Frank doesn’t finish. His breath leaves him in one long, starving gasp, and you feel him spill inside you, so hot it burns, so much you shudder and cry out. The aftershocks rip through your body, nerves fraying to ribbons, and you clamp down hard, milking every last spasm out of him. He coaxes you through it, never letting go, whispering,

“That’s it, that’s my girl, you did so good, so fuckin’ good -” even as his own mind blanks out from the overload. You stay locked together for a long, shaking moment. His arms come up, cradle you, and for the first time since he pulled you into his lap, Frank’s body is gentle. He clutches you as you whimper, just keeps you sealed tight and caged in his arms, his nose in your hair, both hands carding up and down your slick, burning back. Your brain is a blank white roar. You’re shaking-quivering, really, spasming a little with the aftershocks that keep rolling up from where he’s still impossibly thick inside you. You’re not sure you could get off of him even if you wanted to.

“I told you I’d fuckin’ hurt you,” he says, voice hoarse but warm. “Warned you. Jesus.” His fingers slide up to wipe tears off your cheeks. He holds you, so careful now, like your body’s glass and you might shatter if he lets go.

“Easy, easy, I got you, honey.” He’s still hard inside you but you’re so raw and overstimmed you can hardly stand to breathe, let alone move. He doesn’t so much as twitch—not until your gasping slows, your full-body tremor easing off, the noise of your cries hollowed down to tiny little sighs. His hands stay, palms wide on your back, one thumb sliding up to trace the curve of your jaw, checking you, checking every inch like maybe you’re bleeding on the inside.It takes a minute to realize you’re whimpering, tears still leaking messily down your face. Frank’s thumb chases after every one, collecting them, dabbing at your cheeks with a gentleness that doesn’t match how he’s splitting you open below.

“You with me?” he says, voice low and sweet, the kind of tone you’ve maybe never heard from him before. Like you’re something precious that might crack if he raises his voice, something he can’t afford to let break. You try to nod, but your head is too heavy. Frank’s hand curves around the back of your neck, massaging the tensed muscle, and you melt a little more against his chest. He kisses your hair, the top of your head, your temple, your eyelid, giving you time, anchoring you piece by piece.

“Did so good, baby. You’re incredible, you hear me? Fucking superwoman. But—” he cuts himself off, cupping your cheeks to get a good look at your face, searching your eyes for any sign that you might actually be broken. “But you gotta tell me if you’re hurt. Like for real, honey. I mean it.” His concern flickers through the haze, and you manage a hoarse, breathless laugh.

“I’m fine,” you whisper, then, with more force, “I’m so fucking great.” You flex your inner muscles, and he groans outright, tipping his head back. “See? Still alive.”

“Don’t do that to me,” Frank growls, but it’s ruined by the open adoration on his face, the way his hands won’t stop stroking you everywhere, mapping your body like he might never get another chance. “’M'serious. Next time you want to do that right after coming all over my face, there’s gotta be a...a resting period. Like you work up to it, y’know?” He gives you a lopsided, sheepish grin, and it’s so stupidly earnest you nearly start crying again. You bury your face in his throat, breathing him in. You can taste your own sweat, his too, and the cleaner you’d used to wipe down the couch this morning—so basically domestic bliss, if domestic bliss came with the ability to walk the next day in question.

“Hey. Sweetheart, what do you need? Anything? Water, or—”He can’t seem to finish the sentence, instead pressing a reverent kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then down the sticky line of your jaw. “Didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m sorry, baby, shit, I’m so sorry.” You shake your head, still not ready to let go of him, arms clutching his shoulders so tight your knuckles shine white.

“M’good,” you breathe, voice breaking on the first syllable. “You feel so good, Frank. S’not bad, I promise.” The soft insistence in your voice cuts through the last of his panic, and he laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. His hand cups the back of your skull, holding you to him. His eyes scan your face, his chest heaving. “Frank, I’m good. Swear.” You nuzzle into his skin, until he’s forced to believe you. He holds you like that for a long stretch, strong arms locked around your waist while you slowly remember how to exist. Eventually, when you feel almost normal, you try to shift your hips, easing up—but the fullness is so complete you gasp, breath knocking out of you. Frank tenses instantly, pushing your hair back to check your face.

Frank tenses instantly, both hands coming up to your face like he can physically steady the moment through touch alone.

“Hey—hey, look at me,” he murmurs, voice rough but controlled. “Still with me? You hurt anywhere?”

You shake your head quickly, breath catching as you try to settle your weight. It’s overwhelming in a different way now—less sharp, more full-body, like your nervous system hasn’t caught up yet. Frank studies your expression for a long second, jaw tight, eyes scanning every flicker of discomfort.

Then he exhales.

“Okay,” he says quietly, like he’s talking himself down as much as you. “Okay… c’mere.”

One hand slides to your waist, firm but careful, and he shifts beneath you with slow, deliberate patience. There’s no rush in him now—just focus. He eases you down against his chest, guiding you so you’re braced against him instead of holding yourself up at all.

“Gonna move you off me, alright?” he adds softly. “Nice and slow.”

When you nod, still a little dazed, he carefully helps you off his lap entirely with a careful, controlled exhale, trying not to beat himself up as you whine and clench your thighs together. He kisses your forehead. "I know, baby, i know."

He kisses your forehead again, a soft, lingering press of his lips. "Just stay right there. Don't move."

He's surprisingly gentle as he maneuvers, easing you off his lap and onto the couch cushion beside him. You whimper at the sudden emptiness, at the slick mess between your thighs, but he's already moving. He stands, his sweats still hanging open, and you watch him for a moment—the powerful lines of his back, the confident way he moves even when he's just grabbing a throw blanket from the armchair.

He comes back, kneeling in front of you, and starts cleaning you up with the soft fleece. It's so careful, so methodical, it makes your chest ache. He wipes your thighs, your stomach, his brow furrowed in concentration like he's disarming a bomb. When he's done, he tosses the blanket aside and starts to get dressed again, pulling up his sweats and adjusting himself with a wince. He finds his discarded t-shirt and pulls it over his head, then turns to you.

"C'mere," he says, his voice still rough but softer now. He helps you sit up, his hands steady on your arms. He grabs your shorts from where they'd been kicked under the coffee table and holds them out for you to step into, his hands lingering on your hips as he pulls them up. Frank gets himself sorted next—sweats adjusted, shirt back on—then immediately returns to you like there’s no question about where he belongs. Before you can even fully settle, he’s lifting you again. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just Frank. He sits back down on the couch and pulls you right into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, arms circling you to hold you there securely against his chest. You go willingly, folding into him with a tired little exhale that melts straight into his warmth.

“There,” he murmurs. “Better.” Your head ends up tucked under his jaw, cheek pressed against his collarbone, his heartbeat steady under your ear. Frank reaches for the blanket and drapes it over both of you without thinking twice, tucking it around your legs like he’s done it a hundred times before—and probably wishes he had. For a while, it’s just quiet.His hand rubs slow, grounding circles along your back. Yours, meanwhile, finds its own rhythm—light, absentminded tracing along his face. Your fingertips brush his jaw first… then his cheek… then finally settle along his lips, just barely pressing there like you’re testing the shape of him. Frank huffs a quiet laugh through his nose.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “That what we’re doin’ now?” You don’t answer right away. You’re still catching your breath, still coming back into yourself, but the touch helps. Keeps you anchored. His lips part slightly under your fingers, and he gently kisses the pad of one of them without thinking. That makes you smile. A beat passes. Then, very matter-of-factly, you shift a little more comfortably against him and say,

“I think I found my new favorite place to sit.” Frank pauses. Looks down at you like you’ve just said something extremely important and also extremely correct.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, tone suddenly lighter. You nod once, serious about it in a way that makes it funnier. Frank’s mouth twitches into a slow grin.

“Well,” he says, tightening his arms around you just a little, “that works out real nice for me.” You blink up at him.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I’m kinda partial to it too.” That earns a soft laugh from you, and Frank’s expression warms instantly at the sound—like it resets something in him.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumble, still tracing lazy lines along his lips.

“Mm,” he agrees easily. “But you’re sittin’ on me anyway.”

“I didn’t say it was a complaint.”

“Good,” he says, leaning back into the couch like he’s fully settling in for the long haul. “’Cause I’m not lettin’ you up anytime soon.” You tilt your head.

“Yeah?” Frank looks down at you properly, blue eyes steady, a little amused, a lot fond.

“Oh, I’m 100% down with this arrangement,” he says. “My girl’s got a favorite spot, I’m just lucky it happens to be me.” That makes your smile turn soft again, your fingers slowing against his mouth as your breathing finally evens out. Frank catches your hand gently before it drops, holding it for a second and pressing another quiet kiss to your knuckles. Then, after a beat—his voice drops just a little, teasing again:

“And for the record? Whether you wanna sit on my lap of my face, I’m a real big fan of bein’ your furniture.”

taglist !

Your arrival at the Daily Planet had become a little strange. Honestly, if you were being truthful with yourself, your position as an “artist” had changed over time without you fully noticing it. Now you were an “editor,” though not the kind of editor who corrected articles line by line, making sure every comma was perfectly in place. That was never your thing. You were more like the person who had boosted the Daily Planet’s traffic after presenting that incredibly well-made report suggesting the newspaper redesign its website structure. You proposed making it more eye-catching, easier to navigate, and more adapted to the technology that advanced day after day. You talked about adding infographics, more interactive options for readers, and you even met with a college friend who knew programming to pitch the idea of creating a Planet news app for phones. Even so, Perry White, the boss, believed that when there wasn’t someone designing an illustration of a fire, or a new building that would become Metropolis’ newest attraction, or a drawing of Superman, then the newspaper lost part of its essence, even online. It was exhausting work, yes, because sometimes you had a thousand things to do at once, but if you were honest, your true passion had always been drawing, and that was what made you happiest.

You had notebooks with worn-out pages, the kind that felt soft to the touch because you had opened them so many times. Inside them, you had captured landscapes from your travels, the faces of strangers you found interesting on the subway, animals you spotted in the street while walking to work. It was an art you never intended to let go of, because drawing was like breathing to you. So having a job as an illustrator, even while doing other things at the Planet, felt perfect. You wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Perry usually asked you to draw Superman. It was always Superman. Superman from the waist up for an opinion piece, Superman flying above the buildings, Superman standing in the middle of Metropolis, Superman stopping a plane from falling apart midair. That happened whenever Jimmy Olsen failed to capture his essence with the camera. You would simply watch the news footage that recorded the moment, pause the image at the exact second, and sketch that frame for the article. Done. That was your job whenever something important happened. Somehow, drawing Superman so many times in that heroic suit with the enormous S across his chest, with his strong and calm face, made you feel as though you knew him without actually knowing him. You knew how his lips curved when he smiled, how his hair fell over his forehead, how his muscles showed beneath the blue fabric. You had drawn him so many times that he felt almost familiar, even though you had only seen him in person once during an interview Lois Lane conducted.

“He’s ridiculously sexy,” Sam said, laughing while staring at your iPad.

Sam was one of your closest friends. She documented fashion shows in Metropolis and sometimes traveled abroad to cover international events. Occasionally, you illustrated for her because she insisted fashion should be captured in drawings, not just photographs, that brushstrokes held something cameras could never truly catch. You laughed at her comment because, deep down, you knew she was right. You looked at your iPad screen, where you had just finished the final adjustments for tomorrow’s article. There was your drawing of Superman, detailed down to the smallest feature, along with the edits prepared for both the website and the physical newspapers sent to print every night.

“No wonder Perry’s been in such a good mood today,” Cat Grant said as she walked by with a coffee mug in hand, stopping the moment she noticed the drawing. “Look at those shoulders,” Cat added, pointing at the screen with her finger.

You looked at your drawing while Sam held the iPad in her hands, admiring it like a work of art.

“Right?” Sam said with a grin stretching from ear to ear. “If I had your drawing skills, I would’ve already created every single scenario I’ve imagined with Superman and locked myself in my room for an entire week,” she admitted shamelessly.

Cat laughed when she noticed your cheeks turning bright red. You couldn’t believe the things they were saying, but you also couldn’t deny you’d thought something similar more than once.

“No… that’s… unprofessional, isn’t it?” you said, though your voice sounded more like a question than a statement. “I mean, wouldn’t that count as some kind of crime or something?” you added, feeling slightly guilty just for imagining it.

“Unprofessional? Please,” Cat said, shaking her head. “Thousands of people on Pinterest do that all the time. They call it fanart. I would’ve done the same years ago if I knew how to draw like that,” she said before taking a sip from her mug.

“Actually,” Leslie chimed in, your editing assistant, who had been listening from behind her desk before approaching, “I would’ve drawn myself next to Superman, holding onto his arm. That would make a pretty incredible thing to hang on a wall,” Leslie said with a knowing laugh.

Everyone laughed, and you felt yourself relax a little. Apparently, you weren’t the only one.

When everyone left to gather their things and finish up the last tasks before heading home, you stayed alone at your desk. You picked up your iPad and looked at Superman’s face. It was a half-body portrait, his face looking straight ahead, and you realized just how well you knew his features. His broad shoulders, his powerful chest, the sharp line of his jaw. You had only seen him once in person, during that interview Lois held on a rooftop terrace. You watched him from afar, hidden behind a column, your cheeks red as tomatoes. You remembered that he looked at you for a second, just a brief instant, and your stomach twisted like you’d been thrown onto a roller coaster. Of course he was a man with presence; there was no denying that. And you couldn’t lie to yourself either: sometimes your hands wanted to draw Superman without the suit, just in regular clothes, or with even less clothing, but you always told yourself that would be unprofessional. Now that you knew other people—or several other people—had the exact same thoughts, maybe you could draw him without guilt. Maybe.

Your breathing caught slightly at the thought. You looked at your notebook with the worn pages, the one you always carried with you, and carefully picked it up. You packed everything into your bag: the iPad, your pencils, the charger, the notebook. You slung the bag over your shoulder, but before leaving, you scheduled the next day’s posts and triple-checked everything because that was who you were: careful, organized, professional.

You walked toward the elevator with your mind somewhere else, thinking about lines and shadows and muscles. You were so distracted that when you stepped inside, the doors were already slowly closing, and you didn’t notice someone approaching behind you.

“I’m going down too,” you heard a voice say just as the gap between the doors narrowed.

Your eyes widened instantly, and the moment you reacted, you pressed the “open doors” button. The doors stopped and slid open again. And when they did, you saw Clark Kent standing there. He looked slightly hunched as always, his gaze lowered toward the floor, almost as if he’d been saddened by the thought that you’d left him behind. Or maybe he thought you ignored him on purpose. No… you knew Clark. He’d been your coworker for years. You knew he was clumsy and shy and always bumping into tables. But everyone in the office said his destiny was tied to Lois Lane’s, that they were meant for each other. Then you remembered you were about to go home and draw Superman, the very same man Clark had interviewed countless times, the same man who seemed so completely different from Clark in every possible way.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, feeling a little guilty for leaving him out. “I was distracted, I didn’t see you coming. I’ve had a thousand things on my mind at once and didn’t realize you were back there. Sorry.”

“No… I’m sorry… yeah,” Clark said, nodding several times in a row as though agreeing with something he hadn’t fully said out loud. He adjusted his glasses with his finger, something he always did whenever he got nervous. Then he stepped into the elevator and stood beside you, leaving a polite amount of space between you.

The doors closed, and the elevator slowly began to descend.

You smiled and looked forward again, watching the numbers change on the screen. You hesitated. Was what you were thinking appropriate? Absolutely not. But you had imagined it, of course you had, even before your coworkers planted the idea in your head. And now you couldn’t stop thinking about it while Clark stood right next to you.

“How was your day?” Clark’s voice interrupted your thoughts. You looked up at him, and the moment he met your gaze, he blushed immediately. Or maybe it was just the warm yellow light inside the elevator. But his cheeks were definitely pink.

“Exhausting,” you answered with a tired sigh. “I edited everything that’s going out tomorrow. But it’s all ready now, so I don’t have to worry about it until morning.” You paused before adding, “I heard Lois is interviewing the president tomorrow. And you’re interviewing Superman, right?”

Clark looked at you with wide eyes behind his glasses, as though he couldn’t believe you paid attention to the things he did.

“You know about that?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised. Like it was some secret only he knew.

“Well… Perry mentioned it this morning during the meeting, and everyone’s been talking about it in the break room,” you replied, not understanding why he seemed so shocked. It was public knowledge around the office.

“Right… right, that’s true,” Clark said, looking away and pushing his glasses up again with his finger. He swallowed and fell silent.

Once again, uncomfortable silence settled between the two of you. But your thoughts drifted elsewhere again. Muscles. Superman was incredibly strong; that much was obvious. He had to be perfectly built beneath that suit. You could already imagine the drawing in your notebook, the lines of his back, the curve of his arms. You sighed without realizing it, a deep sigh Clark definitely heard. How tall was Superman exactly? He was certainly taller than you; you knew that much because when you saw him in person, you’d had to tilt your head back to look at him properly. But how tall exactly? Then you glanced sideways at Clark and noticed his height. He was very tall, much taller than the other men in the office. You should compare his height to Superman’s. They were probably the same height, or close to it. You looked at him again discreetly, but you’d seen photos of Lois and Superman together, and Lois was fairly short. When Clark walked beside Lois, he looked just as tall next to her. When you glanced sideways once more, he was looking at you too. Both of you looked away at the same time. Clark’s cheeks turned red as an apple.

“How tall are you, Clark?” you suddenly asked before you could stop yourself.

Clark looked at you in confusion, frowning slightly.

“Why do you want to know that?” he asked.

“Curiosity,” you admitted with a shrug. “Just curiosity. I’ve always wondered how tall you are.”

“I… well, I think the last time I checked, I was around six foot three, I think,” he said as though recalling something from years ago. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up slightly. “It’s been a while since I measured myself, honestly. But around that.”

“Oh,” you said, your mind instantly making calculations. Superman was probably the same height. How strange. You stared at the floor for a moment, and Clark kept looking at you as though expecting you to say more, something that never came. Then the elevator doors opened on the ground floor.

“Goodnight, Clark,” you said without waiting another second.

You stepped out of the elevator quickly, your heart beating slightly harder than usual. You didn’t turn around to see whether he stayed watching you or followed behind you. You kept walking toward the building’s exit, toward the cold streets of Metropolis, and made your way home without rushing, though not exactly calmly either. Your thoughts were filled with muscles and measurements and how you would draw that night.

When you arrived at your building, you took the elevator up again, reached your floor, and once you were finally inside your apartment, you put everything in order for the next day. You hung up your jacket, put away your shoes, and set your bag on the dining chair. But you didn’t place your notebook or pencil back into the drawer like you usually did. You were going to need them tonight. You changed into your soft, comfortable pajamas—the ones covered in little stars—and before locking yourself in your room, you grabbed a large glass of water from the kitchen because you knew you’d get thirsty while drawing. Then you went straight to your bedroom, specifically to your desk, your chair, the place where you had drawn ever since moving into that apartment.

You loved drawing. You loved it with all your heart. Even when editing was involved, you first created sketches in your worn notebook before transferring them to your iPad apps for the final touches—color, lighting, shadows, everything. But tonight you weren’t going to use the iPad. Tonight you would use your pencil and notebook, just like when you first started, and you were going to take your time. You opened the notebook to a blank page, rested the pencil against the paper, and closed your eyes for a moment.

You decided to draw Superman in the middle pages. Nothing unusual at first. Just ordinary Superman, little Superman logos here and there, things you’d drawn a thousand times before, especially because you were still hesitant. You weren’t sure how far you wanted to go tonight. But once the first page filled with logos and Superman in different poses, you looked at the next blank page and sighed. Without thinking too hard, you drew his face, just like always, knowing him in a way that surprised even you. You traced his firm jawline, his lips that you always sketched slightly curved as though he were on the verge of smiling, that curl falling over his forehead that never seemed capable of staying perfectly in place. Then you moved down to his neck, broad and strong, and you knew the next step should’ve been drawing the cape and the suit, the way you always did.

But it wasn’t.

Your hands moved on their own, almost without your permission. You drew his shoulders, wide and rounded, but without the fabric of the suit covering them. You outlined them like bare skin, giving them a soft yet firm contour, as though you could feel the warmth of those shoulders simply by looking at them on paper. Then came his chest, and imagining it made your pupils dilate slightly. Placing your hands there had to be… an entirely new sensation, you told yourself, smiling with a flushed face. Then you drew his pectorals, sharply defined, as though he’d spent endless hours training. You imagined how they would look under the light, how they would move with each breath. Then you moved lower, and you knew you were reaching his hips. You knew that going any farther would bring you dangerously close to a place that made your cheeks burn red. You stopped right there. Took a breath. Started another drawing.

You made several sketches in different poses. In one, you drew him with his head tilted slightly, as though he were watching something with interest, wearing that deep gaze only he possessed. In another, his hair was messy, as though Superman could sweat after a difficult fight. You added droplets sliding down his bare abdomen, glistening, while his fingers brushed over his own skin as though teasing, as though he were playing with someone. Then you drew another pose where you almost went lower than his lower abdomen, and you had to put the pencil down for a moment because it felt like the air had left your lungs.

Then, in the seventh drawing, he was no longer alone.

There was a waist. Nothing more at first, just a woman’s waist with Superman’s hands resting on it, squeezing gently. In the next drawing, it wasn’t only a waist anymore. There was wavy brown hair falling down someone’s back. Coincidentally, that hair looked identical to yours. You stared at it and couldn’t deny it. It was coincidence, wasn’t it? Just coincidence. Then came a nose, a mouth, the woman slowly taking shape beneath your fingers on the page, and you knew perfectly well it was you. You sighed as you looked at the lines. It was a drawing of yourself. His fingers so large, so firm, pressing into your waist as though he never wanted to let go. Your hands resting against his bare chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your palms. Your mouth slightly parted, his the same, both of you desperate, so close to one another you could almost feel warmth radiating from the paper itself.

Then you drew another one. Another pose. The same scene but with sharper, more intense features. Your blouse clinging tightly to your skin, so tightly that you sketched your breasts pressed against him without any space between you. His hand beneath your chin, lifting it as though he wanted you to kiss him, and his other hand on your waist, but higher now, nearly at the middle of your back. Then you stopped. Your legs pressed together uncontrollably. Your breathing became uneven, short and quick. You snapped the notebook shut as though you could trap inside it everything you had just drawn.

“Too many drawings,” you muttered aloud before pausing. You closed everything, slipped the notebook into your bag to take to work the next day because you couldn’t leave it at home—you still needed to finish the building illustration Perry had requested. You went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on your face again and again, trying to stop thinking about those lines, those hands, that gaze. You sighed at your reflection in the mirror and decided it was finally time to sleep. But sleeping turned into an entire mission on its own.

You climbed into bed, turned off the lights, and closed your eyes. But your mind refused to quiet down. You tossed and turned repeatedly, thinking about the drawings, the lines you created, the way his abdomen looked beneath the imagined light, how it would feel to have his hands on your waist for real. Hours passed like that, staring at the dark ceiling while listening to cars driving far below. And only when exhaustion finally overtook you, when your eyelids could no longer stay open, were you able to rest. You slept without dreaming, or at least without remembering the dreams once morning came.

The next morning, you woke up with sunlight pouring through the window. You barely remembered the drawings, only a distant echo in your mind, like a dream fading away beneath daylight. You showered with hot water to wake yourself up properly, ate toast with jam and a glass of milk for breakfast, changed quickly into the first clothes you found in your closet, and rushed to work with your bag hanging from your shoulder, almost forgetting your keys in the door.

When you arrived at the Daily Planet, the first thing you did was check that everything was running smoothly with that day’s publication. You called the printing company, and they confirmed the newspapers had already been distributed all across Metropolis. You sighed in relief. Then you checked the website—everything was functioning perfectly, the articles were in place, the drawings looked good on every screen. Sam started monitoring the views from her desk, moving numbers and graphs around.

“So far, they’re doing great,” she told you with a thumbs-up.

Then you got to work on a new sketch. According to the email Perry had sent that morning, you needed to create an illustration of a building that would be completed within a month. It was called the Wallers Building. Perry wanted a polished illustration, something that would make people look at it and think, what a beautiful building, I want to visit when it opens—a modern tower with shining stores, something that would keep people excited for its grand opening.

“Here.”

A voice made you look up. It was Clark. He had walked all the way to your desk without you hearing him approach, and now he was placing a steaming cup of coffee beside your keyboard. The smell reached your nose, and you realized you desperately needed it.

“Thanks, Clark,” you said with a smile. “I already told you not to bother. Jimmy’s the one who should feel bad for not getting that picture on time.” You slid your chair slightly to the side and gestured for him to bring his over, the way you sometimes did whenever you wanted to talk for a while.

Clark sat beside you, a little clumsy as always, and his knees bumped against the leg of your desk.

“Oops,” he muttered, adjusting his glasses.

“Well… it’s still my article,” Clark said in that soft, calm voice of his. “I should thank you for finishing it. It turned out really well. Honestly. Perry told me it was one of the best drawings you’ve ever done of Superman.” He paused and glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “What are you working on now?” he asked, but the moment he looked at you directly, his gaze darted quickly toward your computer screen instead.

“The next drawing,” you said, pointing at the half-finished sketch in your notebook. “The Wallers Building. They say it’ll be a huge success once it opens. Perry asked me to draw it so people will already have it in mind before construction is even finished.” You showed him the sketch: a tall tower with large windows and plants hanging from the balconies.

Clark leaned in slightly to get a better look.

“It’s beautiful,” he said. “You’re really good at drawing buildings too. Not just people.”

You smiled and closed the notebook to put it away.

And then you went pale.

Because the moment you shut the notebook, you noticed the edges of the pages, and you saw the faint outlines of last night’s drawings. A line here, another there, like they were trying to escape from the paper. Suddenly you remembered everything at once: the pectorals, the sweat drops, the waist, the brown hair, your hands on his chest. You admitted to yourself that bringing the notebook to work had been far too reckless. Far too reckless. Someone could see it. Someone could accidentally open the notebook, flip through the pages, and discover those images you had drawn the night before. Your cheeks heated just thinking about it.

Luckily, Clark hadn’t noticed. He was looking elsewhere now, out the window, with a calm expression on his face. He hadn’t seen anything.

“Are you okay?” Clark asked, turning back toward you. “You suddenly went pale.”

“Yes, yes,” you answered quickly, shoving the notebook deep into your bag and zipping it closed all the way. “Just… too much work. I forgot to eat this morning.”

Clark frowned with concern.

“You should eat something then. Want me to go to the cafeteria and get you something? Maybe a sandwich?”

“No, don’t worry about it,” you said, even though what you actually wanted was for him to leave quickly so you could check whether the drawings were visible from outside the notebook. “I’ll eat later. Thanks for the coffee, really.”

Clark nodded and stood up from the chair, awkward once again.

“Well… if you need anything, let me know,” he said before walking back toward his desk, nearly tripping over a chair along the way but catching himself just in time.

You watched him leave, your heart beating faster than normal. Then you slipped your hand into your bag, touching the notebook through the fabric, and sighed. You had to be more careful. You couldn’t let anyone see those drawings. No one. Especially not Clark, who worked so closely with Superman.

When the day finally ended, you stretched like a cat waking from a long nap. Your arms extended toward the ceiling, and your shoulders cracked softly from spending so much time sitting in front of the computer. You packed your belongings slowly: pencils into their case, charger into the front pocket, headphones neatly wrapped. But you left the notebook for last. You held it in your hands instead of putting it away, almost afraid you’d arrive home and somehow not find it, as if someone might steal it along the way. You preferred carrying it yourself, feeling the weight of the pages in your hands, making sure it was still there.

As you approached the exit, you passed by Clark’s desk like you always did. It had become a habit over the past few months, though you had never told him why. Maybe you simply liked saying goodbye before heading home. Or maybe you just liked seeing him one last time before he disappeared into the streets of Metropolis. That afternoon, he was gathering papers and organizing them with his large, clumsy hands, stacking them into a folder beside him. He looked focused, his brow slightly furrowed behind his glasses.

“New investigation?” you asked, leaning lightly against the edge of his desk.

Clark looked startled, as though he hadn’t heard you approach. His shoulders tensed, and his cheeks instantly turned pink.

“Yeah,” he answered quickly, nodding several times, almost like a child caught doing something he shouldn’t. He stuffed the papers into the folder and shut it firmly.

“Heading home now?” he asked, looking at you over the top of his glasses. His eyes seemed wider than usual, like he was waiting for your answer with too much anticipation.

But before you could reply, you heard quick footsteps behind you. Sam and Cat rushed over, pointing toward the television playing in the corner of the room. It was the last TV still turned on, and someone would shut it off once everyone had gone home. Clark used the distraction to take a drink from his water bottle, shifting his gaze toward the screen.

“That’s exactly what I was talking about,” Sam said excitedly, pointing insistently at the television.

You looked closer at the screen and realized they were airing a Superman story. But it wasn’t new. It was from the previous week, footage you had already seen before, from the fight where he faced some massive enemy that appeared out of nowhere and destroyed everything in its path. During the fight, the creature had ripped Superman’s suit along his side, exposing part of his abdomen—defined, tan, and firm. The footage replayed the moment in slow motion over and over again, like the news station knew exactly what it was doing. You watched without fully understanding why Sam seemed so excited.

“That tear where the enemy ripped his suit makes women imagine way too many things, doesn’t it?” Sam said, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow with a mischievous grin.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Leslie added, appearing behind Cat while narrowing her eyes at the television. “Life is so unfair. If the tear had gone just a little lower, I’m sure my boss here would’ve had no choice but to draw what Superman’s hiding under that suit.” Leslie laughed and looked toward Cat and Sam, who nodded in total agreement.

You blushed at the exact same moment Clark choked on his water.

But it wasn’t a small cough. It was violent, almost making him spit the water out completely. Some of it splashed across his carefully organized papers, and he dropped the bottle, which rolled across the desk before falling onto the floor with a loud thud. You turned immediately at the sound and saw him with cheeks red as tomatoes, coughing while trying to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Clark!” you exclaimed, crouching beside him to help gather everything.

The wet papers had scattered across the floor. Some were soaked, others luckily untouched. You picked them up one by one, careful not to tear them, handing them back to Clark as you gathered them. He accepted them without looking at you, his hands trembling slightly. Once you’d collected them all, you searched for something he could use to clean his glasses, which had also been splashed. You found a tissue in your pocket and offered it to him.

“Your glasses,” you said with a small nod toward them, but he didn’t look at you. Instead, he turned away and wiped them with his sleeve, giving you his back.

When he turned around again, he grabbed the papers from your hands quickly, almost snatching them away, and looked elsewhere immediately. You didn’t understand what was happening. He was acting strange, even more nervous than usual, and Clark was always nervous. But this felt different. You didn’t understand any of it, though you decided not to ask. The other girls were already walking toward the elevator together, laughing among themselves, and you followed after them. Clark came behind everyone else, holding his briefcase in one hand and the damp papers pressed against his chest with the other.

“Are you okay?” you whispered once you ended up standing at the very back of the elevator, directly behind him while the doors closed.

“Yeah,” Clark replied, his voice slightly rough. “Just swallowed wrong. The water went down the wrong way.”

You nodded, though you weren’t entirely convinced.

The ride down passed in silence. Once you reached the lobby, you waved goodbye to everyone—Sam, Cat, Leslie, the rest of the employees heading out. Clark lingered a step behind, staring at the floor. You smiled and wished everyone goodnight before heading home through the streets of Metropolis without any trouble at first. One by one, the city lights flickered on as evening settled in, and the air smelled faintly of street food and car engines.

You walked slowly with your hands tucked into your jacket pockets, thinking about what you had just seen on television. Superman with the ripped suit along his side, that firm abdomen, that hard muscle beneath tan skin shining under the midday sunlight. Your cheeks flushed red just remembering it. You could draw more, you thought. You could draw so much more. Tonight, once you got home, you could open the notebook again and let your hands do whatever they wanted. You didn’t have to feel guilty anymore, right? Nobody would ever see it.

Though maybe it would be smarter to tear those pages out of the notebook and use a different sketchbook entirely. That way no one would risk finding them. You could rip them out and hide them somewhere in your apartment—under the mattress, inside a locked drawer, anywhere no one else would ever discover them. Just for yourself. That would be safest.

When you looked down at your hands, you realized you weren’t holding the notebook.

You went pale. Your heart shot straight into your throat. You assumed it was in your bag because it was always there—it was your most precious possession. But then you remembered you’d carried it in your hands from your desk all the way to the elevator. For a moment, you thought maybe you’d left it back at the Planet on your desk, but no, you clearly remembered having it with you. Then you looked at your hands again. Empty. You yanked your bag open and shoved your hand inside. Nothing. You dug through everything: the pencil case, charger, headphones, a pack of gum, your keys. Nothing. The notebook was gone. You didn’t have it because you’d waved goodbye with one hand while the other held your bag—but the notebook… the notebook required one free hand to carry, and you couldn’t remember holding it after leaving the elevator.

Then you thought about Clark.

Clark Kent had choked on his water, of course he had. Papers had fallen everywhere, some wet, and you crouched to help him gather everything. You handed him every paper you picked up from the floor. The tissue for his glasses. And the notebook. Your notebook. In the chaos, while rushing to gather everything before everyone left, it must have mixed with his papers without either of you noticing. You handed him everything from the floor, and he accepted it without looking, his hands trembling. Your notebook had been among those papers.

You went even paler, if that was possible. Your hands started trembling violently. You yanked your phone from your pocket so fast you nearly dropped it. You tried retracing your steps, but you’d already walked several blocks away. You didn’t know what to do. You looked around desperately for a taxi, but naturally, none were passing. The streets were too quiet. You knew where Clark lived because once, you had accompanied Jimmy to pick up something from his apartment when Clark claimed he was sick. You remembered the address, the building, the apartment number. You could walk there, but it was far—too far—and if you ran, you’d arrive breathless and drenched in sweat.

Your hands shook harder. You opened your phone, found Clark’s contact, and called once. The phone rang once, twice, three times. Voicemail. You hung up and called again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Every time you heard the automated recording, it felt like the ground beneath your feet sank a little deeper.

Then the taxi appeared.

It seemed to come out of nowhere, like a miracle in the middle of the empty sidewalk. You raised your hand immediately, barely thinking, and the car stopped right in front of you. You climbed in without hesitation, gave Clark’s address in a shaky voice, and once the taxi lurched forward, you pulled out your phone again, your hands still trembling. One message after another spilled out without pause, your fingers moving on their own across the screen.

“Clark you took my notebook,” you sent first, immediately realizing it sounded harsher than you intended, but it didn’t matter.

Right after that, without giving him time to respond, you typed: “Please don’t open it.” Your fingers were damp against the glass screen. Then: “I have private things in there.” The moment you pressed send, regret hit you. It sounded suspicious, like you were hiding something terrible. So quickly, trying to cover yourself, you added: “I have my credit card numbers and passwords written in it.” A lie, obviously, but a believable one. Anyone would understand not wanting someone to see that kind of information.

The taxi turned a corner, and there it was: traffic. Endless rows of stopped cars, glowing red brake lights, distant honking. It had to be a joke from the universe, right when you needed to get there quickly. You pressed your forehead against the window and closed your eyes for a second, trying to breathe deeply. It didn’t help. You called again. Once. Twice. Three times. Clark didn’t answer. Every ring felt like another stab twisting into your stomach.

Your pulse was erratic, swinging wildly between too fast and too slow, like your heart didn’t know what to do with so much panic. Imagining Clark opening that notebook made you feel physically sick. Clark, who knew Superman. Clark, your coworker who had always been kind to you, who brought you coffee without being asked, who blushed whenever you spoke to him. He would think you were a pervert. A lunatic. Someone wildly unprofessional who spent her nights drawing things she shouldn’t. The shame burned inside you like fire.

When you looked out the window and realized there were only two blocks left, you couldn’t wait anymore. Traffic hadn’t moved at all. The cars were completely stuck.

“Let me out here,” you told the driver, throwing cash at him without waiting for change, without even checking how much you handed over.

You jumped out of the taxi, nearly tripping on the curb, and started running. Two long blocks filled with parked cars, glowing streetlights, and strangers staring at you like you were insane. Your bag slammed against your hip while air tore in and out of your lungs like you’d just finished a marathon.

You reached Clark’s building and yanked open the front door. You took the elevator, pressing the button for the fifth floor over and over as though that would somehow make the doors close faster. You watched the numbers climb on the screen. Fifth floor. Right. That was it. The moment the doors opened, you practically sprinted down the hallway until you reached his apartment door—the same one Jimmy had knocked on that day you both came together. You recognized it from the small scratch in the wood and the slightly crooked doormat.

You rang the doorbell while knocking against the door with your knuckles at the same time, breathing hard, unable to stay still. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

Then the door opened.

You froze the moment you saw Clark. His hair was damp and pushed back, tiny droplets of water still sliding down the side of his neck. He wore a gray long-sleeved shirt and black pants, simple but comfortable, like casual sleepwear. He looked freshly out of the shower—or maybe the bath. That’s why he hadn’t answered his phone, you realized. That’s why he ignored the messages. You looked at him, and despite the panic and embarrassment, your cheeks turned red instantly because you couldn’t deny he looked good.

“Hi,” Clark said with a small smile, tilting his head slightly like a puppy recognizing its owner.

“You accidentally took my notebook, Clark,” you blurted out, the words rushing out faster than you intended. Then you took a breath, trying to calm yourself before adding, “Hi.” You bit your lip nervously without noticing.

Clark’s eyes widened slightly, like he had only just understood the situation. He ran a hand through his damp hair and nodded.

“Oh, right. I realized when I got home,” he said calmly—far too calmly. “I put it in my bag so I could give it back to you tomorrow at the office. I didn’t realize you needed it that urgently.”

He turned around and walked deeper into the apartment, leaving the door open behind him. You stayed frozen in the doorway, too nervous to step inside. You wanted to go home. You wanted to run away again. But fear rooted you in place. You couldn’t leave without that notebook in your hands. You just couldn’t. So you waited there, fingers gripping your bag tightly while listening to his footsteps disappear and then return.

Clark came back holding the notebook.

He offered it to you with that awkward little smile of his, and you grabbed it like a recovered treasure. Relief rushed through you so intensely it almost escaped as a moan. You clutched it against your chest, feeling the familiar weight of the pages and the rough texture of the worn cover. It was there. Everything was fine.

“I should’ve called you,” Clark said, guilt written across his face. “Sorry. I didn’t think you’d worry this much.”

“You…” You swallowed hard because the question felt dangerous, but you needed to ask it anyway. “Did you open the notebook?”

Clark stared at you for a second that felt endless. His blue eyes behind the glasses didn’t blink.

“No,” he said.

You nodded with a relieved smile, feeling the weight of the world fall from your shoulders. Suddenly you felt lighter, calmer, like you had been holding your breath for hours and could finally exhale.

“Good… I… thank you,” you said, your voice no longer shaking as badly. “And sorry for showing up like this, out of nowhere, without warning. I just panicked. But it’s fine now. I’m going home. Bye, Clark.”

You walked away down the hallway without looking back, clutching the notebook tightly against your chest along with your bag. This time, you walked toward the elevator more calmly, no longer running, feeling like the night had finally returned to normal.

When you got home, you locked the door behind you as though someone were chasing you. You tossed your bag onto the couch and pulled out the notebook Clark had returned. You held it in your hands for a moment, staring at the cover like you could somehow see through it. Your fingers still trembled slightly. You opened the notebook halfway and flipped through it page by page, slowly and carefully.

They were all there.

Every drawing. Half-body Superman. Flying Superman. Small Superman logos. Defined muscles. Then you reached the middle pages, the drawings from the night before. The abdomen with sweat drops. The wandering hands. The waist with fingers digging into it. Your face. Your parted lips. You sighed in relief so deeply your chest almost hurt. Everything was still there. Nothing was missing. Clark hadn’t seen anything.

But you couldn’t keep doing this. You couldn’t continue carrying that notebook everywhere with those drawings hidden inside it. Someone else could see them, not just Clark. Sam, who was curious and always grabbed your things without asking. Perry, who sometimes borrowed your notebook to check your sketches. Anyone at the office. So you decided to tear the pages out.

Carefully, you removed each page containing those drawings. Shirtless Superman. The abdomen. The sweat drops. The hands. You tore them out gently but firmly, enjoying the crisp sound of paper separating from the notebook. Then you folded the pages in half and slipped them into a large envelope from your desk drawer. Afterward, you went into the kitchen, found one of those white adhesive labels you used to organize your things, and wrote clearly across it:

“Private drawings.”

You stuck the label onto the envelope and hid it beneath your mattress, deep enough that nobody would ever think to look there.

Then you picked up the notebook again. You grabbed another label and wrote:

“Daily Planet Notebook.”

You stuck it directly onto the cover, right in the center where it would be impossible to miss. That way you would never make the same mistake again. The work notebook was only for work drawings. The other one—the real one, the one you had named “Superman Notebook”—was only for you. For your thoughts. For your fantasies.

You felt calmer after that.

You drank an entire glass of water in one go, then finally went to bed without overthinking it anymore.

But Clark would never tell you that. Never tell you the truth.

Clark would never admit that he opened your notebook out of pure curiosity. He always looked at your drawings, even if you never noticed. Whenever you were focused, your head tilted slightly down, your tongue peeking between your lips, he simply couldn’t help himself. He loved watching you like that, so absorbed in your work, so dedicated. It was one of his favorite parts of the day. So when he got home that night, after you left, he sat down on the couch in his living room and let out a long sigh. He arranged the damp papers across the coffee table, the ones he had picked up from the floor, and while organizing them, his eyes landed on your notebook. He had taken it by accident, mixed in with his own papers. A smile tugged at his lips. How clumsy of him. Well, he would just return it to you at the office tomorrow.

He picked it up and opened it without thinking, almost instinctively, while settling back against the sofa cushions. He only wanted to take a quick look, just for a second, to see how far you had gotten with the Wallers Building sketch you showed him before leaving. He liked looking at your art. He liked the way you drew Superman’s features over and over again with such detail, such precision. And still, after all those drawings, you never suspected Superman was him. That you were drawing him without knowing it. That every line you traced along that face, those shoulders, that chest, belonged to his face, his shoulders, his chest.

He smiled again, warmth blooming quietly in his chest. He flipped through the first few pages filled with normal Superman sketches, tiny logos, poses you already knew by heart. Then came the Daily Planet notes, headline ideas, infographic concepts. He adjusted himself more comfortably on the couch, feet resting on the coffee table, and kept flipping through the pages.

Then he searched for the Wallers Building sketch. He wanted to see how much progress you’d made since showing it to him earlier.

He turned one page.

Then another.

And the moment he reached the next one, his eyes widened.

It was Superman shirtless.

Not the usual Superman in the blue suit and red cape. It was Superman bare-chested, every muscle carefully defined, the abdomen carved into the kind of perfect lines magazines obsessed over. The drawing was so detailed it almost looked like a photograph. Every shadow, every curve, every line of his body was there on the page with such accuracy that it stole Clark’s breath away.

He swallowed hard.

His fingers trembled slightly as he turned the page.

More drawings.

Superman with his head tilted, wearing an intense expression. Superman with messy hair and drops of sweat sliding down his abdomen, as though he had just come out of a brutal fight. Superman with his fingers brushing over his own chest in a pose that wasn’t heroic, wasn’t noble, but something else entirely.

Something intimate.

Something forbidden.

Then he reached the third page.

Superman holding a woman’s waist.

Her face wasn’t visible yet, only her hands tangled in the fabric of a shirt. Clark felt heat spread along the back of his neck. He turned the page again.

And there you were.

Your face, completely recognizable. Your features, your nose, your parted lips, your wavy brown hair spilling over your shoulders. His fingers traced over the drawing carefully, almost afraid to touch it, like he could somehow feel your skin through the paper.

Then he turned the page again.

The same drawing.

But more detailed.

Much more detailed.

His large hands were buried against your waist, gripping the fabric of your blouse. Your shirt clung tightly to your body, enough to reveal the curve of your waist, the shape of your hips, and your breasts pressed firmly against his bare chest. Your nipples strained faintly beneath the fabric, and even though it was only a drawing, Clark could imagine it perfectly. Your hand rested against his chest, fingers slightly spread as though you were caressing him. His other hand tilted your chin upward, like he wanted you to kiss him. Your eyes looked bright and dark with desire. His lips were parted too, ready to meet yours.

The entire drawing radiated need.

Urgency.

Desperation.

And Clark felt all the blood in his body rush downward.

A hard ache formed beneath his pants, impossible to ignore. He grew hard seeing you like that, seeing you drawn with him, with Superman. He imagined you drawing it. Imagined your hands moving the pencil across the page, slowly creating that image. He imagined whether you had pushed your shirt up while sketching him, whether you had touched yourself while drawing him. He could imagine your bare skin. Your naked breasts pressed against him without fabric between you. Your hardened nipples brushing against his chest. Your warm breath against his neck.

A rough sound escaped his throat before he realized it.

His hand moved on its own.

It dropped toward his lap, pressing against the hardness beneath his pants. No… was this right? he thought. You were his coworker. The woman who drew Superman without knowing he was the man beneath the cape. Someone he respected. Someone he admired. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t sit there aroused, staring at your drawings like they were something filthy.

But he couldn’t stop.

He stood from the couch abruptly and crossed the apartment toward his bedroom. He locked the door behind him, twisting the lock until he heard the click. As though someone could walk in. As though you could somehow appear there out of nowhere. Then he crossed to the window and shut the blinds completely, pulling the heavy curtains closed.

No one could see him.

No one could know what he was about to do.

He sat on the edge of the bed with the notebook open beside him on the most detailed drawing, his erection straining painfully beneath his pants. His cock throbbed, hard and hot, the skin stretched tight and sensitive. He freed himself from his clothes and sighed at the feeling alone.

Your drawings were everything he had forbidden himself from imagining about you.

He had denied himself thoughts like these countless times. At the office, whenever you leaned over your desk and your blouse shifted open slightly, he forced himself to look away. When you laughed with Sam and tipped your head back, exposing your neck, he bit down on his tongue to stop himself from staring. But having those drawings there in front of him, seeing you wrapped around him, pressed against him, wanting him—

It made him close his eyes while his hand finally moved.

Up and down.

Up and down.

The rhythm started slow, almost hesitant.

Then faster.

More desperate.

His breathing turned heavy and uneven. The image of you wouldn’t leave his mind. Your parted lips. Your shining eyes. The outline of your breasts beneath your blouse. His fingers dug into your waist.

He could imagine you moaning his name.

Imagine your back arching against him.

And by the time he reached the edge, the final sound torn from his throat was your name. A rough whisper, almost pleading. Your name spilled from his lips as release overtook him, white streaking across his hand and part of his shirt while his entire body tensed sharply. He came once, then again, trembling through it, mouth open in a silent groan before finally collapsing backward onto the bed, chest rising and falling heavily, his hand sticky and warm.

He snapped the notebook shut immediately afterward, like he could trap the guilt inside it.

Then he stood with shaky legs and disappeared into the bathroom to clean himself up. He turned on the hot water and scrubbed his hands again and again until nothing remained on his skin. Afterward, he stepped into the shower, letting the water pour down his back and over his hair, washing away every trace of what he had just done.

When he finished showering, the shame had dulled slightly, though embarrassment still lingered beneath his skin. Embarrassed that he had lost control. Embarrassed that he had used your drawings that way without your permission.

He sighed quietly while drying his hair with a towel, running it through the damp strands over and over again.

Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He picked it up and finally saw your unread messages.

“Clark you took my notebook.”

“Please don’t open it.”

“I have private things in there.”

“I have my credit card numbers and passwords written in it.”

You were coming.

You would arrive at his apartment at any moment.

Panic surged through his chest instantly.

Using the same speed he used to save people, he changed into his pajamas in less than a second: gray shirt, black pants, simple and normal. Then his eyes landed on your notebook where he had left it on the bed. He picked it up carefully—very carefully—and found the final drawing again.

The most detailed one.

The one that had driven him into sin.

His hands still trembling slightly, he tore the page from the notebook, wincing at the sound of ripping paper because it seemed deafeningly loud in the silence of the room. He folded the page in half and hid it deep inside his drawer beneath stacks of papers where nobody would ever find it.

Then he slipped your notebook into his work bag, the same one he carried to the office every day. That way, he could pretend he intended to return it tomorrow morning.

Like nothing had happened.

Like he had never opened it.

Like he had never seen anything at all.

You would never realize one drawing was missing.

Between the panic and your nerves, you didn’t notice when you tore the pages out at home. Maybe you counted wrong. Maybe fear convinced you they were all there. But the most detailed drawing—the one showing your breasts beneath the fabric, his hand beneath your chin, your shining eyes—

That one was no longer inside the envelope hidden beneath your mattress.

That drawing now rested at the very bottom of Clark Kent’s drawer.

Clark couldn’t stop staring at you during the following days.

Whenever you turned toward him, he would look away too quickly, cheeks turning pink while thoughts of you, the drawings, and that night in his apartment flooded his mind again. He sighed constantly, as though he carried something heavy inside his chest. And maybe he had developed a new habit too: every night before bed, he opened his drawer and looked at the drawing he had kept—the most detailed one, the one of the two of you wrapped in each other’s arms—with a stupid little smile he simply couldn’t wipe off his face.

You noticed none of it.

Not really.

You continued on normally, doing your work, sketching buildings and landscapes and Superman whenever Perry asked for him. Maybe you noticed Clark blushing sometimes, but Clark always blushed, you thought. It was part of him, like the glasses and the clumsiness. Sometimes you saw him returning from the bathroom with flushed cheeks and slightly damp hair, like he had splashed water on his face, but you barely paid attention.

And maybe, just maybe, Clark wished you actually would notice.

He wanted you to ask him why he stared at you so much. Why he always hovered close to you. Why he got nervous whenever you smiled at him.

But you were so distracted, so lost in your world of lines and colors, that you never saw what stood directly in front of you.

“It’s only three pieces of furniture,” Jimmy said one afternoon, appearing at your desk with a huge grin while leaning both hands against the edge like he was about to share a secret.

You looked up from your iPad, confused.

“And why does that involve me?” you asked, frowning slightly. You didn’t understand why Jimmy looked so excited.

“Come help us. Lois is bringing pizza, which means you’ll eat for free,” Jimmy said, wiggling his eyebrows like he was offering you the greatest deal in the world.

You thought about the free pizza. You had spent the entire week eating sandwiches at your desk because you never had time to go to the cafeteria. The idea of a hot slice sounded heavenly.

You smiled.

“Fine,” you said, locking your iPad. “But only for the pizza.”

Jimmy laughed and slapped your shoulder lightly. “That’s my girl,” he said proudly, like the two of you were longtime partners in crime.

Jimmy was a good friend. You had worked together for years. But his insistence felt strange this time. Usually he hired movers for things like this, or asked Clark to handle everything himself because he was the strongest one. Maybe, without realizing it, Jimmy had already noticed the way Clark looked at you and was secretly trying to play cupid.

But you couldn’t prove that.

In the end, you agreed with a sigh and slipped your work notebook into your bag. You put on your jacket, said goodbye to the people still working, and followed them through the streets of Metropolis toward Jimmy’s apartment.

When you arrived at Jimmy’s building, the three pieces of furniture were already waiting outside the entrance. According to Jimmy, a delivery truck had dropped them off an hour earlier after he bought them from a same-day delivery store.

There was a massive new couch upholstered in gray fabric, the kind that looked soft enough to fall asleep on while watching television. A tall wooden wardrobe with two mirrored doors. And a white refrigerator, sleek and modern, still wrapped in plastic and cardboard, sitting on the sidewalk like abandoned giants waiting to be claimed.

“Well,” Jimmy said, rubbing his hands together, “we’ve gotta get all of this up to the fifth floor.”

Lois rolled her eyes immediately. She wore a fitted skirt and heels clearly not made for carrying furniture, and the look on her face made it obvious she had no intention of helping.

“I brought the pizza,” Lois declared, lifting the large box in her hands. “My job ends there. I’m going upstairs to unlock the apartment and set the table.”

“But Lois—” Jimmy started.

“Without me,” Lois cut him off while already walking toward the building entrance, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement.

You looked at Jimmy, then Clark, then the furniture.

Clark was already shrugging off his jacket silently, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. His arms looked broad and strong, even though he tried to hide it by hunching his shoulders the way he always did.

“I’m not carrying anything,” you said immediately, raising both hands. “I’m an artist, not a mover. Besides, I’ve got a notebook in my bag and I don’t want it ruined.”

Jimmy sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. Go upstairs with Lois. We’ll handle it. But at least put on music or something while you wait.”

You smiled and followed Lois inside the building. The elevator was tiny, but there was enough room for both of you. Most of the ride passed in silence until Lois suddenly spoke without even looking at you.

“Clark looked at you again before you left,” she said casually, like she was commenting on the weather.

Heat rushed into your cheeks.

“Clark looks at me all the time,” you answered with a shrug. “That’s just his face.”

Lois laughed softly. “No, it’s not his face. It’s his eyes. And he’s had them on you for a very, very long time.”

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open.

“But hey,” Lois added while stepping out first, “not my problem. I’m just here for the pizza.”

Jimmy’s apartment was small but nice. Large windows overlooked the city, an open kitchen connected to the living room, and a narrow hallway led toward the bedrooms. Moving boxes sat scattered around the floor beside old furniture Jimmy still hadn’t decided whether to keep or throw away.

Lois set the pizza box on the kitchen table and opened it immediately. The smell of melted cheese and tomato sauce filled the apartment within seconds.

Your stomach growled.

“Want some?” Lois asked while reaching for the cutter.

“Yes, please.”

She handed you a huge pepperoni slice, and you sat down at the kitchen table where you could see the window. Lois sat across from you with her own slice, and the two of you ate quietly while listening to the distant noise of the street below and, occasionally, Jimmy’s strained complaints echoing up from downstairs.

Minutes passed.

You finished your first slice and accepted a second without hesitation. From the window you couldn’t see much beyond the entrance below, but you imagined Clark and Jimmy hauling the couch up the stairs, stopping every few flights because Jimmy got tired. Clark, on the other hand, probably could’ve carried it alone without much effort. Maybe a little sweat, but still. He had the build for it.

“How much longer?” Lois muttered mostly to herself.

At that exact moment, heavy footsteps echoed through the hallway. Doors slammed. Jimmy’s exhausted voice rang out:

“Almost there! Don’t fall asleep up there!”

Lois laughed and you did too.

It felt nice. Just sitting there together eating pizza, thinking about nothing serious.

And yet, something kept bothering you.

Clark had been looking at you differently these past few days.

And without meaning to, you had started noticing him more too.

His hands.

His back whenever he bent down.

The way his shirt clung to him when the weather got warm.

“You okay?” Lois asked suddenly, narrowing her eyes at you.

“Yes,” you answered too quickly. “Just tired.”

Lois didn’t reply, but she kept staring at you like she knew you were lying and was waiting for you to confess. You didn’t.

Instead, you stood to grab a glass of water.

That was when you heard the building’s main door downstairs slam open again. Voices followed. Jimmy complaining. Clark saying something low and calm.

You stayed beside the kitchen counter, glass in hand, and peeked toward the doorway without meaning to.

Jimmy appeared first, sweating and red-faced while carrying the back end of the couch. Clark carried the front.

The couch was enormous, yet Clark held it like it weighed no more than a pillow. His arms were tense beneath his rolled sleeves, and strands of hair had begun falling across his forehead.

You stared longer than you intended.

“They’re here,” you murmured.

The two of them carried the couch inside and dropped it into the middle of the living room with a dull thud. Jimmy collapsed onto it immediately, plastic wrap still covering the cushions, breathing like he had just run a marathon.

“That was… only one,” Jimmy wheezed. “Two more to go.”

“The wardrobe and the refrigerator,” Clark added while wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, though honestly you barely saw any sweat at all. One of his shirt buttons had popped open while lifting.

You stared at your water glass.

At the floor.

Anywhere except him.

But it was impossible not to notice him.

He stood only a few feet away, hair messy, the top three buttons of his shirt accidentally undone, looking completely different from how he looked at the office.

Bigger.

More real.

“Do you want water?” you asked suddenly, lifting your glass slightly without even knowing why you spoke.

Clark looked at you and his cheeks flushed pink instantly.

“Yes, thank you,” he said softly before walking into the kitchen to grab his own glass.

His fingers brushed yours when he reached for it.

A shiver traveled all the way up your arm.

“Let’s go get the wardrobe,” Clark said before leaving the apartment again, not even giving Jimmy time to complain properly.

Jimmy groaned dramatically while dragging himself after him, making you smile despite yourself.

When they came back again later, your eyes immediately found Clark.

Your heartbeat sped up the moment you saw his shirt.

Jimmy was panting loudly and gulping water while Lois teased him mercilessly, but your attention stayed fixed on Clark.

You kept staring.

You couldn’t stop.

Something about him felt different now. Something you couldn’t name. Maybe it was the evening sunlight pouring through the windows. Maybe it was exhaustion.

Or maybe it was because his glasses had slipped crooked from all the lifting, making his face look stronger.

More like…

Clark suddenly looked up and caught you staring.

His cheeks turned red instantly and he looked down toward the floor. You did the same, quickly finishing your water in one long gulp just to give your hands something to do.

“The refrigerator’s last,” Clark announced before disappearing again with Jimmy stumbling after him.

“If I die doing this, I won’t even get to use my furniture,” Jimmy complained miserably.

You waited.

Your gaze drifted toward your empty glass.

No. It was impossible, you thought. People resembled each other all the time, didn’t they?

Then they came back.

This time, you were already standing near the apartment entrance waiting.

Not because you wanted to help.

Because you wanted to see him up close again.

You wanted to confirm what you were thinking.

The refrigerator was enormous, white and sleek with double doors. Clark carried one side while Jimmy struggled with the other.

“Put it there,” Jimmy panted while pointing weakly toward an empty space in the kitchen. “Next to the wall.”

They lowered it into place. Jimmy nearly collapsed, but Clark adjusted the entire refrigerator in his arms and set it down smoothly.

Then he straightened up and wiped his forehead with his forearm.

His glasses slipped from his nose and hit the floor with a soft clack.

He bent down to pick them up.

But before putting them back on, he looked at you.

And smiled.

A soft smile. Calm. Closed-lipped.

Like he had nothing to hide.

Like he didn’t mind you seeing him that way—without his glasses, hair stuck to his forehead, cheeks flushed pink, blue eyes brighter than you had ever imagined.

Your heart stopped.

Those eyes.

That deep blue you had drawn a hundred times.

That messy hair falling over his forehead exactly the way you always drew it.

That jawline.

Those lips.

Your mind flashed back to the drawings hidden in your private notebook.

Superman shirtless.

Superman with messy hair.

Superman holding a waist—your waist—while looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

And suddenly you remembered something else.

In those drawings, Superman looked like someone.

And that someone was standing right in front of you now, crouched beside the refrigerator with his glasses in his hand and his chest still rising from exertion.

Clark was Superman.

Superman was Clark.

Everything clicked into place instantly.

The height. The shoulders. The smile. The way he always disappeared whenever danger appeared. The way he returned late and disheveled after Superman saved the day. The times he lifted impossible things while claiming he was “stronger than he looked.”

You stood abruptly without thinking.

Your legs trembled.

The glass slipped from your hand and rolled across the floor.

“I need to go,” you blurted out suddenly, your voice strange and uneven. Your cheeks burned.

Lois narrowed her eyes. “Are you okay?”

You nodded too quickly, forcing a smile that didn’t feel real. “Yes, yes, I just… remembered something. Something urgent. At my apartment.”

“But we just got here,” Jimmy said from the couch, confused. “And you barely ate any pizza.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I really have to go,” you said while already grabbing your bag from the back of the chair.

“Want me to walk you home?” Clark asked.

His voice sounded so close it sent a chill down your spine.

He was standing again now, glasses back in place, though his hair remained messy and his eyes stayed fixed on you with an intensity you didn’t remember ever seeing before.

“No, thanks,” you answered quickly, almost too sharply.

You couldn’t look at him.

If you looked at him, you were afraid you’d point at him and scream, “You’re Superman,” right there in front of everyone.

So instead you kept your eyes locked on the door handle.

Anywhere but him.

You left the apartment in hurried steps, took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, and by the time you reached the street, the cool evening air hit your burning face immediately.

You walked fast without looking back, thoughts spinning wildly inside your head like trapped hornets.

Clark was Superman.

All this time, you had been drawing Clark without ever realizing it.

While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”

“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”

You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”

“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”

“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”

“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”

“You’re leaving? Why?”

“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”

Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”

Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”

“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”

You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”

“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”

Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”