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A pressure nudged at your consciousness, making you all too aware of Frank’s presence in the bed you shared with him. His figure hovered over you, rough sweeps of his hand beginning at the nape of your neck and ending at the curve of your hips. You blinked awake, confused by the sudden alertness. You were facedown, hugging his pillow to your chest. Glancing at the clock, you realized you must’ve dozed off while waiting for Frank to come home.  

Confusion muddied your senses. It was only two in the morning. Normally, Frank was out until dawn, only crawling into bed with you as the sun was rising on Hell’s Kitchen. 

“It’s early, Frankie,” you mumbled, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. “Is everything okay?” 

He pressed his lips to your shoulder, nipping at the cool skin he found there. A slight grunt pulled your attention to his face, finding a spattering of new bruises across his face. His cheekbone was slightly swollen, purple pooled under his right eye, and his jaw was littered with differing shades of red. 

“Jesus, Frank,” you stuttered, turning to fully face him. “What happened?” 

His voice was pure heat as he shook his head, avoiding the question. His eyes raked down your body, clothed in only one of his old t-shirts and a pair of panties that you knew drove him insane. A smile tugged at your lips, but only slightly. The hollow look in his eyes, the bruises littering his perfect face, and the stiffness of his spine told you it had been a rough night. You could think of a thing or two that might take his mind off it for a while. 

Your fingers found the hem of your t-shirt, slowly creeping the fabric up your torso and over your head. His tongue darted across his lower lips as your tits bounced slightly. His eyes were so dark that they almost looked black in the dim light of the bedroom. 

He shifted, capturing your nipple in his mouth in a swift, hurried movement. His hand quickly found your other breast, running his violent hands over the sensitive area with fervor. A small whine escaped your throat at the rough contact. 

“Tell me to stop,” he grunted, voice low enough to send heat directly to your core. His mouth made its way up your chest in a whirl of tongue, teeth, and desire. He paused to nip at the sensitive area on your neck before pulling away to look at you again. “Tell me to stop, sweetheart.” 

“I can’t,” you breathed. 

You knew Frank would stop everything if you asked, but the look in his eyes told you he needed this. You were his home – his life – and he needed you. 

“I want you to, Frankie,” you uttered, brushing your fingers through the hair on the back of his head, “I need it too.” 

The remarkable restraint Frank had somehow been reigning in since he noticed your pretty pink panties finally snapped, and suddenly you were being pulled to the edge of the bed and flipped onto your stomach again. A small squeal left your lips, electricity buzzing in the air as Frank manhandled you. 

“You look so fucking pretty,” he said, hands squeezing your hips hard enough to bruise, “Can’t think straight when you look like this, baby.” 

You gasped as Frank’s hand swatted your ass, branding the soft skin with his handprint. 

“I always look like this, Frankie,” you said, smirking as you worked him up even further. 

Another smack. A sinful moan escaped your lips as he grunted, “I know, baby. ‘lways look so fuckin’ perfect for me.” 

His hands smoothed over the skin on your ass, probably already welting from all the attention. His fingers slipped beneath your panties, teasing your clit with slow circles. An unforgettable groan sounded in his throat when he found evidence of your arousal. 

“Perfect,” he breathed, clenching the fabric of your panties with his free hand. 

You whined as he slid two fingers into you at a torturous pace, watching as you squirmed beneath him.  

“Oh fuck, Frank,” you moaned, clenching around his fingers.  

Suddenly, he removed his fingers, but before you could whine at the loss of contact, you felt the unmistakable tug of Frank ripping your panties from your body. The fabric, now torn beyond repair, was thrown to the side. Frank dropped to his knees, wrapping his massive hands around your thighs. 

“Changed my mind,” he said squeezing, “Need to taste you.” 

You barely had time to process the shift before his tongue was attacking your folds. You buried your head into the blankets, moaning. His tongue was a work of art, you decided, as he toyed with your clit. Your legs shook with sudden pleasure, and another sinful moan echoed off the bedroom walls. 

Frank might be incredibly reckless and aggressive in every other aspect of his life, but he was surprisingly detailed when it came to eating you out, though there were still hints of his violent nature in the way he attacked your clit. His tongue knew exactly where to press, lick, and suck to bring you closer and closer to the edge. He teased your entrance with his tongue more than once, eliciting a whine every time. When his fingers finally found their place again, pumping in and out of you, he hummed against your clit. 

A delightful laugh tumbled out of you, already so close to coming. Frank was very good at giving you orgasms, a trick that he’d showcased as frequently as he could. He knew your body better than you, and you couldn’t help but lean into the feeling as he took control of your pleasure. 

His fingers sped up, shaking the bedframe as he continued eating you out. Heat was building quickly in your core, begging for release. 

“Frankie,” you whined, “’m gonna come. Can I?” 

You knew that question would please him. Frank wasn’t the type to tell you what to do, but he loved when you submitted to him in the bedroom. Frank pulled away from you for a moment, and though you couldn’t see him, you knew a wide smirk was plastered on his face. 

“Come for me, sweetheart. You’ve earned it,” he said, bringing his other hand to your ass, squeezing the flesh before returning his lips to your sensitive pussy. 

His fingers curled at the same time that his tongue pressed against your clit. Your orgasm crashed out of you, pulling all the air from the room for a moment. Your pussy clenched around his fingers, begging for more. Your legs shook, heat washing over your body as stars overtook your vision. 

When your vision finally cleared, you breathed heavily into the blanket. Frank, the sinful man that he was, hadn’t slowed his pace. His fingers continued to pump in and out of you. His tongue flicked your sensitive clit, overstimulating you beyond belief. 

“Fuck, F-Frank,” you swallowed, squirming. 

Seemingly satisfied with his work, he slowly pulled his fingers out of you. He pressed a kiss to your pussy, standing to watch you slowly make your way back to him. He rubbed the sensitive skin on your ass, kissing the welts with a sort of gentleness that only Frank could muster. 

“My panties,” you whined, eyeing the fabric he’d so carelessly tossed to the floor earlier. 

Frank grinned, pinching your hip before picking up the underwear. He held it up by the string, wincing a little at the carnage. 

“I’ll buy you new ones.” He said, dropping them to the floor and settling onto the bed next to you. 

“You said that last time.” You arched an eyebrow at him, resting your head on your hands and sighing. 

“And the time before that,” he added, chuckling at his own joke. 

You shook your head, grinning. 

“They better be expensive. And pink. Better yet, get me two pairs since you can’t help but tear them apart anyways.” 

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” 

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But maybe too much, because the look he was giving you looked like he didn’t want to make it out the house.

Still, you give him a proper 360, a twirl as your cowgirl boots clunk against the wood floor of your home. You return facing him, placing a steady hand on your hip as you tipped your hat to him.

“Cowboy.” You fake a southern twang and the man barks out a laugh. He walks over to you, hands finding your waist as his eyes marvel over your frame.

“You are somethin’ else, Mrs. Castle.” His brown eyes shining with admiration.

“I keep your life interesting.” You shrug nonchalantly and he laughs.

“That you do.” He agrees, hand coming up to your chin and tilting your head up. You take your hat off before he presses his lips against yours. He grunts, tasting your strawberry lip gloss and has to lick his lips because its his favorite flavor of yours. He pulls away, looking down at you as you look back with a knowing grin.

"Something on your mind, partner?" You continue the southern twang and he has to chuckle again.

"You wore this damn lip gloss on purpose, huh?" Frank accuses and you simply grin.

"I know it's your favorite," you say before taking his hand into yours, "figured I'd put it on since you're humoring me for the night." You say, taking your free hand and adjusting his shirt. He grabs at your chin again, bringing his lips down and kissing you once again.

"Love you, mama." He says against your lips and you grin, quickly pecking him.

"Love you too, Frankie. Now, let's do a little pregame and head to the bar, huh?" Frank grunts in approval before allowing you to guide him to the kitchen.

And by little pregame, it wasn't little at all.

You were drunk by the time you two reached the bar.

There were a decent amount of folk when you two finally showed up. The moment Frank saw several men he put a protective hand on your exposed hip, silently staking his claim. You lean into his warmth as you two find two stools at the bar. He helps you onto your stool before sliding onto one next to you.

The bartender, a woman who happens to be your favorite, recognizes you two immediately. You wave the young lady down as she approaches with nothing but smiles.

"Well well, isn't it my two favorite patrons in the world," she says, setting down napkins in front of you, "the usual I assume?" She asks which consists of two double shots of whiskey and a local draft beer on tap. To which you nod eagerly.

"Yes please." You purr, your flirty side coming out and she winks at you. Frank only watches, nodding whenever the bartender looks at him for confirmation. She turns away and you bring your attention back to your husband.

"Frankiee," you start off, grabbing onto his chin to bring him closer to you, "I know I've told you a thousand times but you look so good in this western look." You tell him and he laughs because it's true. You haven't stopped complimenting him the moment the alcohol hit your system.

"Darlin' you are drunk." He deflects and you pout.

"Doesn't mean I'm lyin'." You say before kissing him, allowing him to taste your newly applied gloss. A greedy hand comes up to the back of your neck, pulling you closer to deepen the kiss. His tongue slides across your plump bottom lip before the sound of your bartender returning causes you two to separate. Feeling like two horny teens caught making out as heat flushes your cheeks and his ears go slightly red.

"Sorry to interrupt," the bartender winks at you and you flush harder, "but heres two beers and two double shots of whiskey. Let me know if you two need anything else!" She says before tending to more patrons that sat down. You turn your attention back to your husband, grinning from ear to ear before picking up your shot.

"To us having fun?" You say as he picks his up. He holds it up before clinking against your glass.

"To us having fun, bunny." He says and you two take a charitable gulp.

And then like any drunk person with good music playing. . .

You have to start dancing.

You don't leave the bar, no you're within a couple feet from Frank as your hips catch the rhythm of the song. He watches in awe, realizing he doesn't see you dance nearly as much as he should. The twist of your hips and beautiful expressions upon your face made you the most stunning person in the bar. Frank would be lying if he said he didn't notice the way people did double takes at you and part of him couldn't blame them. You were stunning and so carefree as you continued to dance. It was like anything bad that you two endured together never happened. You two were plain civilians that never had to suffer horrors you two experienced.

Seeing you like this was a piece of heaven on Earth.

Sensing he was staring at you, your eyes open and you look at Frank and your breath catches in your chest. His gaze is a mixture of something soft, tender, and lusty as he takes in your form. His eyes were raking across your revealing outfit all night, loving the way it accentuated your body and highlighted your skintone. You're a goddess everyday but you were especially right now. You felt like it with the look Frank was giving you.

You smile flirty at him before giving another twirl of your hips. You're getting lost in the rhythm again, eyes closing before you sense a body next to you.

"Excuse me."

Your eyes rip open and you look into the eyes of a stranger. He's look down at you, eyes raking up from head to toe and you raise an eyebrow.

"Yes?" You ask, slowly stopping your dancing but you're still swaying your hips to the country song.

"You're beautiful and you dance amazing. Can I buy you a—" Before he can finish you bring your left hand up. Your index finger of your right points to the ring finger on your left. You point to the diamond ring and wedding band that catches the light.

"Married, buddy." You say simply before a body presses into yours. You know it's Frank when a strong hand comes onto your hip.

"Spoken for," He says with a stern tone, causing the man to gulp, "I'd appreciate if you walk away from my wife and find someone else to buy a drink." The man doesn't need to be told twice, especially given Frank is twice his size. He scurries away, mumbling a quick apology and disappearing into the crowd that steadily grows. You look up at your husband to see that look in his eye.

That one he gets when he feels the need to remind you and himself that you're his.

"I didn't flirt with him." You tease, seeing the way he's looking at you and his jaw tenses at the thought.

"I know you didn't. But seeing the way all the men are looking at you in here..." He trails off and you shake your head.

"And I only want to ride this cowboy in front of me." You say, grabbing onto his shirt before kissing him. He kisses you back, groaning before pulling away.

"What's that shit you were saying when we were on the way here earlier?" Frank asks and you grin, looking up at him into his eyes. Your bite your lip, lowering your face into a seductive glint.

"Save a horse, ride a cowboy." You say. Frank nods, humming before replying.

"How about we go put that motto to use, huh?"

"Oh, fuck!"

You don't remember how you made it home, but now you're mounting your husband on the couch of the living room, too horny to make it to the bedroom. Frank is grunting beneath you, shirt gone and jeans pushed to his ankles as you bounced up and down. Your top is gone but skirt is pushed up to your waist. You have his hat on as you move your hips sinfully against him.

"Sweetheart you ridin' this cock so good." Frank says, completely blissed out as he has one hand behind his head and one steady on your hip. You moan at his praise, moving your hips in a circle before riding back and forth.

"Told you I was gonna save a horse." You huff, determined to earn more grunts and groans out of him and you do. His chest raises as his nails dig into your skin.

"Fuckin' save that horse, bunny." He grunts out and you giggle before bouncing again. The lewd smacking of your cunt against him echoes throughout the room, layering with your moans. You ride with no hands, putting on a show that leaves Frank breathless and biting his lip.

"Hmmphh—fuck!" His tip pushes just right in you and you bounce again. He grunts, feeling your cunt suck him in deeper as you refused to let him leave. Your wet walls coat his cock in arousal, sticky with cream and it only makes the sounds of sex wetter. Frank looks down, seeing a creamy ring form at the base.

"Gettin' off to riding me, huh," he whistles, putting a thumb at your clit and you cry out, "soaking my cock, sweetheart." He watches the cream ooze from the tip and down the shaft. You whimper, continuing to ride him but with the added stimulation of him rubbing your clit your moans are getting louder.

"Frank, fuck!" You sigh, throwing your hips back down onto your husband. He continues grunting underneath you, rough thumb circling your clit as he takes in your face. Your lips parted as moans continue to tumble out, your tits bouncing and beautiful nipples making his mouth water.

"So fucking beautiful riding me like this,” He encourages, “my beautiful fuckin’ wife.” He says and the word wife sends a shiver down your spine. You moan, nodding as you look at him with hooded eyes.

“I love being your wife, Frankie.” You say, moving your hips faster and alternating between bouncing and swirling your hips.

“Love being your husband, baby.” He says and you smile. You lift yourself off of him briefly before turning around into the reverse cowgirl position. You make a show of reaching between your legs, grabbing his cock as you bring the tip to your awaiting lips. Frank groans, watching the way you sink down on him, cock disappearing between your wet folds. He brings a hand up to smack your ass, causing you to yelp before you begin bouncing. Frank moans seeing the way your ass moves with each impact against his pelvis. You look over your shoulder, still bouncing on Frank and taking in how wrecked the man looks.

Frank didn’t allow you to take charge often, but when he did it was a sight worth beholding.

“You like it like this, daddy?” You ask sweetly, still bouncing and his eyes never leave your ass.

“Fuckin’ love it, baby, don’t fucking stop.” He says and you giggle, sinking yourself down on him harder and earning moans from both of you.

“So fucking big, Frankie.” You whimper, thighs starting to burn but you refused to stop. The more you kept bouncing the closer you felt. Your cunt was tight around him, begging for him to cum so you could milk him for every drop.

“You’re doing so good sweetheart. I'm so fuckin' close.” Frank warns you and you hum, his words causing your body to shiver.

“Me too, Frankie.” You whimper, changing your position slightly before panting your feet firmly on the couch. You place a steady hand onto Frank’s burly thigh before bouncing faster and harder.

“Jesus christ—fuck, bunny!” Frank grunts, struggling to catch his breath while watching the way your ass moves with each bounce. The view hypnotizes Frank, seeing a peek of your pretty cunt between your cheeks. Your sticky cream is spilling out, running down his cock and painting it as it drips to his base.

If Frank wasn't old fashioned, he probably would have snapped a picture.

But instead, he grunts heavily before smacking your ass. The sting causes your cunt to twitch around him and clit ache with need. You whimper, bringing a finger to your swollen pearl and rubbing soft circles. You throw your head back, crying out as you felt yourself tipping over the edge. Frank sees and he sits up, bringing your back flush to his chest before places his hands on both of your hips. You open your eyes before the man starts moving you up and down on his cock faster. You choke, whimpering as high pitched gasps begin to leave your mouth.

"Oh—fuck, Frank!" You cry.

"Rub your clit faster, sweetheart. Rub it for me, baby." He commands, knowing exactly what you need and you obey. That ribbon of desire is unraveling faster and faster as you pant out whimpers, whining with desperation.

"It's okay, Frankie's got you I know exactly what that pussy needs huh," he says, words filthy in your ear as he continues grunting, "you rode my cock so good now be a good wife and come for me." He says before slamming you down onto him. You cry out, screaming as he does it again, and again. The sensation of his thick cock brutally stretching you out, your finger on your clit, and the dominating commands that Frank gives pushes you to the edge.

"Frank!" You scream, cunt squeezing him as you felt your body get pushed into the white hot euphoria you had been chasing. A string of curses and cries tumble from your lips as your orgasm shook through you. Frank is grunting in your ear, moving your fingers away from your clit to rub harsher circles to send you tumbling deeper. You jerk in his lap with overstimulation, trying to get out of his hold but he only holds onto you tighter.

"Fraaannk." you whimper and he kisses your shoulder. He still slams his cock inside you over and over again, wetness drenching his thighs and making an obscene sticky mess. Something about the sight and your whining pushes him over the edge.

"Fuck!" Frank feels his cock swell before he spills himself deep inside you. By this time Frank worked you into another orgasm and you're cumming for a second time. You're screaming his name this time as tears stream down your cheeks at the pleasure. You're overwhelmed and your body starts shaking as Frank finally slows down his thrusts.

You two tangle into a pair of sweaty and sticky limbs onto the couch, spent from the sex and come down from the alcohol. Frank tucked you into him, rough hands gently scratching at your scalp as you mewl into his strong chest. He places a soft kiss long your hairline and when you finally feel like you're back to Earth you peer up at him. He looks down at you, eyes trained as he looks for any signs of discomfort in your face.

He sees none.

All he sees back is his beautiful wife who he would burn the entire world for. The only thing that could anchor him and keep him sane from the wars that plagued his mind. The only person who could convince him to go out and dress up for a western night.

“I told you.” You say, dopey from your orgasm and pensive look from your husband. However pensive turns confused as he raises an eyebrow.

“What was that?” He asks.

“That I was gonna save that horse.” You sigh, yawning. Clearly tired from all the festivities and Frank can only chuckle. He leans down, kissing your awaiting lips.

“You are somethin’, else.” He says against your lips and you smile before kissing him.

“I love you, Frankie.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

🐰 you’re always close to him anyways. not in an overwhelming way, but constant - your hand resting on his arm, fingers hooking into his shirt, your head against his shoulder when you sit together. and he starts to notice the little shifts, like how you go quieter when you’re not touching him, how you linger nearby when you need it.

🐰 so eventually, he starts reaching for you first.

🐰 nothing big at first. just his hand settling on your lower back when you walk past, pulling you into his side without really thinking about it, nudging your knee under the table. small, steady things that add up.

🐰 if you ask him straight out - “frank, can i have a hug?” - there’s no hesitation anymore. no teasing. his arms are already open before you finish the sentence. “c’mere, sweetheart.”

🐰 and when you relax into him like that, he feels it. the way you kinda sink, like something in you finally lets go. he doesn’t say anything about it, but it always sticks with him

🐰 you’re sensitive in those quiet ways - too much noise, too many people, everything getting a bit too loud inside your head. frank picks up on it quicker than you think. he’s always watching, even when he looks like he isn’t. most of the time, you don’t even have to ask, his hand already on your back, guiding you somewhere quieter, his voice low and steady. “you’re alright. i got you.”

🐰 he’s not really the type to talk about feelings much, but with you it comes out differently. not just in words, but in how he handles you, sooo much softer than even you would expect. and careful, like he knows you’re gentle and refuses to be the thing that roughens you up.

🐰 after a while, petnames just start to slip out around you. “baby,” “sweetheart,” “honey.” always low, a little rough around the edges, but warm

🐰 on days where you’re extra clingy - following him around, sitting right up against him, asking for kisses every few minutes - he doesn’t get irritated. if anything, he starts to expect it. he might mutter “you’re needy today, huh?” but his hand’s already on your waist, pulling you in closer while he says it, like he doesn’t actually want you anywhere else

🐰 sometimes he’ll look down and you’re half asleep against him, still holding onto his shirt like you’re worried he might move. he’ll just press a quiet kiss into your hair, tighten his arm around you, and stay still so he doesn’t wake you

🐰 and after a while, it’s not just you anymore. he starts to want it too - your touch, your closeness. he won’t say it out loud, but it shows. the way he sits closer than he needs to, the way his hand just rests on you like it belongs there.

 and on the days you don’t ask? he notices straight away.

 “you alright?” he’ll ask, already reaching for you before you even answer.

 because by then, it’s not just your habit. it’s his too!!!

🪩 FRANK CASTLE : @stvr-dust, @uncertified-doc, @erospecies, @seasonofthenerd, @the-dixon-effect

@sreidmia, @10ava01, @divierses, @408destiiny, @tinyminxi

@tcddszn, @xanaxiii, @Blu-jays, @chaoticcoffeequeen, @frankies-girl

@person-005, @malfoys-demigod, @wkhannah, @superlegend216, @Arlostefan

@ultraviolnce, @arthurmorganswifexx

He’d left behind an eyeless corpse. Put two bullets into Russo himself. The final nail in the coffin, even if the night will haunt him until the end of his days. Even as he’s tried to move on - the dark stubble on his jaw growing long.

But it had been enough that he’d tugged on his jeans. The cord of his boots biting into fingers as they were laced tight, a dark hood pulled up as he had woven through the streets. The autumn air cool in the late-night hour, the metal of the fire escape like ice as he had scaled his way up.

Fingers catching on the worn wooden window frame. A beat, as he had stood, stock-still.

Letting all the reasons why he shouldn’t run through his mind again, all the while his hands still move.

Lifting, pushing.

For a moment, he hopes it won’t budge.

That maybe you’d free him. That you’d moved on, and that with time - he could learn to do the same.

Even the thought has something winding around his ribs, green and burning like acid. But he tells himself he’d try.

The window gives, though. A smooth slide of rope as the wood moves up. More easily than nights he remembers before.

Maybe you’ve cleaned it up, recently - and that thought has something else inside him flaring to life.

It’s familiar, the way his back bends. The curl as he fits through the frame. Boots touching down on the hardwood floor.

A quick step to the patterned floral rug, one’s he’s helped you clean with baking soda and vinegar - the evidence of another night scrubbed away.

And you’re there.

Features soft, freed of the worry you carry for him. Because of him. Sleeping so sweetly, and it slips from him without thinking.

“Shouldn’t leave this unlocked, sweetheart.”

The residual panic from the dream tinges his words. A whetstone with the way they sharpen - the city lights cutting across your face as you try to blink awake at the sound of his voice.

It echoes in his head, again.

Bad fucking idea.

His hand still lingers on the windowsill. Can still slip back through - let you think this is just a dream-

“Take the spare,” You yawn, as if it’s that simple. “And maybe I’ll stop.”

It comes out sleepy, the heel of your hand pressing into your eyes. A jolt in his stomach that steals his breath for a moment - thinking about the extra key that lives in the coffee cup by your front door, collecting dust.

You don’t mean it. You can’t.

That’s meant for someone else. Not for someone like him.

“You hurt?” The bedside lamp clicks on, bare legs swinging out from the thick nest of blankets.

That’s what gets him moving. Three long steps taking him to the side of the bed. A hand catching at your thigh, urging you back into the warmth before you can wake fully.

“‘m fine, sweetheart.” Frank rasps, “Go back to bed.”

“Only if you come with me.” Your fingers reach out, curling around his hand with a tug, “No-“

“Boots, though.” He can’t help the slight tug of his lips, already reaching down to loosen the laces with the other, “I know.”

His boots are left, lined up beneath your bed. An old habit, your eyes catching on the roll of broad shoulder. Jacket slung over a chair. T-shirt tugged off with it.

A soft sound when his hands drop to loosen his belt. A silent assurance he’s here to stay, and he doesn’t miss the way your eyes soften with your smile, as you shift back to make room for him.

The hours he snatched were scant compared to the ones spent awake. A bone-deep weariness already easing as he switches the light back off, slipping beneath the covers with you.

But not the itch inside - his fingers curled into fists, as if that would be enough. Trying to sink into the stillness, and shed the weight he’s been carrying.

It only lasts a moment before your thigh is hitched over his waist. One more, before he’s had enough - rolling you beneath him.

Slowly easing down, until he’s pressed against you, and you unfurl so sweetly around him.

Thighs inching wide to make room, a muffled hum as the heel of your foot hooks around his shin - skin still chilled from the long walk over.

Frank defrosts in your arms. Contrary to the dream where you bled out in his - yours instead wrap around, drag him close.

You’re more open, in the late hours like this. Still toeing the line of sleep, languid in the way you sigh - arching to meet him.

He knows from experience that it won’t last long. The soft hum that turns needy when his mouth presses to your throat.

Teeth skimming your skin, testing against the edge of your jaw. How your breath turns shorter, his name something certain as it passes through your lips.

As you moan beneath him, a hand dragging down his chest. Across old scars and ones you’ve tended, tracing over muscle and the scattering of dark hair. Toying with the elastic band of his boxers, and he’s too happy to let you explore.

“Thought I was still dreaming,” Your voice drips like honey, sweet and smooth.

There’s a jolt in his belly. His own nightmare flickering at the corner of his mind, all while his hips hitch into your touch.

“You dreamin’ about me?” It comes out rough. A hint of something almost like hope.

Desperate to find out what waits on the other side of sleep, for someone who’s not trapped between the echoes of their past or an alcohol-soaked oblivion.

“Mhm,” You squirm, as his hands mimic your path - slowly bunching up the over-sized fabric of the shirt you’re sleeping in.

“What were we doin’?”

Tugging it off, a rough exhale of breath as he finds you bare beneath, fingertips tracing over your hip.

There’s a little, embarrassed huff. Your face tucking into his neck, and fuck - now he needs to know.

His fingers trace circles - the curve of your thigh, dipping down to the crease. Coaxing it from you.

“Tell me, baby.”

You moan, as your hand finally dips beneath. Finding him hard for you already, his hips bucking into the cup of your hand.

“I was out. A party or something. I was looking for you, I think. Needed to find you.”

His heart still lingers in the pit of his stomach, but your fingers are still skimming along his length. Oblivious to the flashes of images in his mind, replaying his own.

“You found me first. I knew it was a dream then, because you didn’t have this,” You tease, your other hand shifting to tug at the edge of his beard, “Backed me into a corner and kissed me. A-And-“

So different than his own. That tight knot easing, as his curiosity piques. As you finally wrap around him and squeeze.

“And?“ He prompts, fingers part on either side of your clit. Feather-like strokes as you hips jerk into his touch, breath hitching.

“A-and that was it. I woke up.” Your answer comes a little too quickly.

“You sure?” Frank can’t help the way his lips tug up, “Nothing else happened?”

You squirm, as your head shakes - and he can’t help picturing what the rest might have been. Were you dreaming about him eating your pretty little cunt again?

He can’t pretend he hasn’t thought about that, himself. Half-temped to slip down the mattress and hoist your thighs on either side of his head, tonguing at your clit until you soaked his beard.

Instead, he can’t help but give in.

Always bending, when it comes to you. So fucking greedy, and it’s all he can do to stay away when it gets to be too much.

When he wants too much.

Letting himself sink into it tonight. He’s already here, after all.

Letting his mouth drop to yours just as his thick fingers part you. Proof that you hadn’t been entirely truthful, as they slide up your slit. Fucking drenched, and he can’t help the groan that rattles in his chest. One that you echo, as they slip against your clit.

Drawing circles as your lips part. The sweep of tongue and scrape of teeth as he licks into your mouth, deepening the kiss as he teases at your entrance.

Something low slipping from him, when you finally suck in a breath.

“Maybe you’re still dreaming.”

“Yeah,“ It’s dazed, and there’s the curve of a smile against his mouth, “Think I am.”

Something twists, deep in his chest.

His hand has to shift to make way for the way you arch against him. Fisting in the sheets as your tits crush against his chest, hand curving against his neck to tug him closer.

Legs inching wider as one hooks around his hip, and he’s all too happy to keep you beneath him. Let your lips press along his jaw, as you rock against him.

He’s hard. Blood rushing south, trading the stroking tease of your fingers for the warm heat between your thighs.

Letting his cock slip down, sending him against you each time you move. Acting out your dream, or a fantasy - he doesn’t give a fuck which, as long as you keep moving.

As long as you let him meet you, match you. A rough “fuck” rumbled out as you his shaft grows slick with your need.

The way his name comes out hushed as the head of his cock catches on your opening. Slipping past in a slick slide against the curve of your ass, as you clench around nothing.

There’s something he needs, but he can’t voice it. Not fully.

It’s in the harsh pant of his breath, at the way your hips hitch, roll. Rubbing yourself against him, the little whine again when his cock slips between you again.

Bumping up against your clit, nails biting into his shoulders.

It comes out a different way. Filtered and roundabout, low and rasping.

“You still takin’ those pills?”

He’s watched you take them a dozen times. The pack sits on the little ledge in your bathroom - default jingle on your phone familiar, enough that the sound of it on the street stops him in his tracks.

“Yes.” It’s sighed out.

Frank still gives you a moment.

So sure you’ll stop him. You should, after all.

Shouldn’t even be letting a man like him put his hands on you.

Much less let him bury himself inside you, with nothing between them.

Should just yank that drawer of your side table open. Embrace that thin layer of space between them, even if the thought has never been more unwelcome.

You must sense his hesitance. Or you’re too wound up in your own need - these few seconds your own form of torture. Knowing what he’s asking - because of course, you do.

“Fuck, I want to feel you,” The hands at the back his neck slip forward. Thumbs pressed against his jaw, forcing him to watch the way your lips form the words.

“Please.”

He doesn’t expect you to beg for it.

It’s happened in his dreams - ones that fill the empty stretches of daytime - but that’s all they were. Moments of greed that slip into his consciousness. Teeth gritted as the phantom echo of your cunt squeezes around him, eyes sliding shut as he paints the shower tile with his spend.

Aching to feel you bare. The tight slick heat, all his.

His teeth grit. A hand pinching at your hip as the other fists his cock. Still just a hairsbreadth away, as he fits himself against you. Slowly pushing in, as your warmth surrounds him.

This time, each expression is cataloged by moonlight.

Always too dark, before. Too far away - bent over the kitchen island. A palm flattened against your shoulder blades, as your back arched on the mattress. Pressed up against the bathroom door in the dead of night.

The pinch of your brow and how your eyes widen as you take him. That shaky, inhale of breath as something soft slips from him without thought.

“You can take it.” Another shift of his hips, as you give around him, “Always so fuckin’ good at takin’ it. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Your answering hum pitches high.

So damn snug, even with how wet you are for him. Clutching around each inch he gives you, until the curl of his fingers are pressed against your folds. Until you’re making room for the rest of him, his thigh nudging against yours as he finally pushes flush.

And the bliss of holding himself there, fully hilted in you, is short-lived. As good at it feels, he has to move.

He can go slower, later.

Another night, when his blood isn’t pounding. When this urge doesn’t crackle through him, needing to make the most of what he’s given.

You move with him - the roll that starts at his hips, curving up to his shoulders. Fucking you into the mattress. Pink scrapes along his back with the way you cling to him, your nails making their own marks among his scars.

He growls at how wet you are for him, the slick slide into warmth and the slap of his skin against yours as you take him, again and again. How your breath goes ragged when he shifts. Palms flattening against the mattress, pushing himself up. Hands skimming along your sides to grasp at your hips, bringing them with him.

Tilting, sending his cock against a spot his fingers know well.

“Oh god.” You moan, and Frank swears he can feel his cock twitch inside you, “There.”

“Yeah?” It’s gritted out, as he strokes against it again.

His palm dragging against your abdomen, thumb pressed snug against your clit. Giving you something to grind against, as he looks down.

You’re splayed out below him. Pale light tracing your curves - the sway of your tits, one of your hands cupping and pinching as the other latches onto his wrist.

Thighs hooked around his hips, knees biting into tender ribs. A flicker of pain flares to life each time he ruts into you washes over him, melding with the pleasure.

“Please-“ It’s slips out on an exhale. Your fingers flexing and tugging, urging his fingers to press harder.

Your breathing growing short, with each brutal thrust. Stealing your breath and he swears he feels a tremor in your thighs, a stiffness in the way your back arches.

“You gonna come, sweetheart?” It’s low and rough, his fingers swirling against slick skin, “Gonna come on this cock with nothing between us?”

“Yes,” The words come quickly now. “Oh my god, yes. I need it-“

And fuck - he loves hearing what you need, as long as it’s him.

Giving it to you, until you’re moaning beneath him, pitching high and loud and he hopes that fucker next door can hear what he’s doing to you, as you fall apart beneath him.

A flutter in his stomach as the way you grip him as you come, making a mess of his cock. Slick and hot and fluttering around him, far better than he had imagined.

And it’s only after the bite of your knees ebb, that he realizes how close he’s been to the edge as well. Holding himself there, teeth gritted so you could seek your end first.

He won’t - can’t - last long, now.

Another stroke, and he’s almost there.

“Where do you want it?” It builds and builds. That sharp twinge, as his muscles tighten.

Desperation in the way he hilts himself each time. Sinking into your wet warmth as you wrap around every inch of him, gripping him as if to keep him there.

You’d look pretty with his come on your tits. Painted across your stomach. Christ - smeared against your pussy.

“In me.” You whimper, and he doesn’t miss the way your thighs tighten around his hips.

The way your words make him stutter. Rhythm going sloppy as he growls - hips snapping harder. Bringing him closer, lower until he’s just arched over you again.

“Yeah? You gonna take that, too?”

He’s already let himself fall this far tonight. Too late to turn back now and play the man he should be. Not that he could, not with the low tightening in his belly, a plucked string of pleasure from your pleas.

You moan tell him everything. That you want this as well, have been thinking about him filling you. That just his cock hasn’t been enough - that you need more.

His head dips, pressing into the curve of your neck as he comes. Thrusts shallow and sloppy, and goosebumps raise against your skin, at the way he groans in your ear.

Rough and filthy, as your legs tighten - driving him deeper as his spend spills into you.

Hips flexing with each jerk of his cock. Shallow thrusts so he can stay deep. Make sure every fuckin’ drop ends up where it should be.

Going still, while all the sharp edges of his mind finally goes soft, bones turning leaden. Finally shedding the nightmare that’s followed like him a shadow.

You whine when he leaves you empty, and it almost does him in.

It’s enough that he’s moving without thinking. The mattress dipping as he settling on his side - a hand tracing down your sternum, stomach.

Ghost-light when they meet the juncture of your thighs. Swirling through the slick that dampens your skin, the shine of where he leaks from you. Gathering it up on two fingers, before he’s pushing it back back in.

And fuck, he’s never had you like this.

A second round isn’t unusual, but he’s always spent himself against skin or silicone. The noise filthy as he finger-fucks his come deeper inside you, feeling the tight warmth of your needy little cunt around his fingers.

He wants to leave a piece of him with you. Cock already twitching at the thought of himself dripping out of you all day. The slick cling of cotton and tender ache between your thighs a constant reminder as you go about your day.

Make you think of him as much as he does you.

“Greedy thing, isn’t she?” Frank’s voice is a purr in your ear, “Help me out, baby.”

Your fingers are quick to join him. Snaking down your torso, timing the circling press of your fingers with the crook of his.

Gasping when his mouth presses against your throat. Shoulder. Closing around the tight peaks of your tits - bearing down around fingers stroke inside you, again and again.

“Frank,” You gasp, “Gonna make me come, I-“

Another whine, as your eyes slip closed. Sharp breaths hissed through your teeth, as the tension inside you winds tighter and tighter.

He needs it. Needs one more, after the night he’s had.

“Good fucking girl,” Frank croons, “Know you’re almost there.”

Accustomed to your tells, even when your words fail you. The tightening of muscles and the slope of your brows. How you tilt toward him, fingers pressing harder. Senseless babble rushing together - gasps melding with pleas, as his come-soaked fingers crook.

Wrenching another from you, as you shatter again. Working you through it, even as your own coordination fails - fingers leaving your clit to bite into his wrist. His own voice low and rough, the words lost in the night.

There you go. That’s it, sweetheart.

Give me another.

So fuckin’ gorgeous when you come. You know that?

Better than a dream, he’s certain.

The room is dark, as you drift back down. A burst of stars slipping back to the painted pattern on your ceiling.

Achingly aware of the way you feel against him. Curved into his side, a damn near perfect fit. Enough to make him content to stay where he is.

Senses dulled to world outside.

But with it, the slow realization is like a knife to the jut. Shoved deep and twisting, until it’s lethal.

Something he’s known deep down, but hadn’t wanted to admit. Slashes the pieces and tucked them all away before they could make something recognizable, but right now they’re fitting together again too quickly to ignore.

It’s been there, ever since the beginning.

The first peek of your wide, determined eyes as he bled out on your fire escape. Your smile. The laugh that slips out, and the flicker of pride when he’s the one that pulls it from you. The hours spent in the low light of your kitchen, feeling like the only two people awake.

That first kiss, tucked away in the bathroom, and every moment that’s followed.

It makes him certain.

That this won’t ever be enough.

You were both unpacking boxes when you heard him call out from the other side of the room "where’s this one go honey?" he says holding up an unmarked box. Your eyes went wide immediately registering what was in it. "Oh its okay Frankie I'll sort that one out" you reply way too quickly. Franks eyebrows shoot up in suspicion. As you sheepishly take the box from him.

Later that night when you're both sitting on either side of the couch eating your take away dinner he asks "so.. you gonna tell me what was in that box or what?" kind of joking but also kind of serious. Keeping your eyes fixed on the TV you reply "just some.. stuff.." you reply, not even convincing yourself with that answer. " Frank looks at you, eyebrow cocked "riiiight, so can i see what the 'stuff' is?" he asks with a low chuckle as he see's the little twitch you do with your lips when you're embarrassed or trying to hide something.

You put your food down on the coffee table and turn to face him with a huff you know he won’t let this go, and when he wants to know something he will find out. "its my fucking vibrator Frank, happy?". Franks response was interesting, it starting with a shit eating grin then turned into something a bit more pensive

“Hm, still use it?” He asks willing his voice to sound cool. Even Frank was confused at what he was thinking. Admittedly the thought of you pleasuring yourself with a vibrator between your legs was a sight he would love to see. But there was also a twang he felt… did he not make you feel good enough? maybe he hadn’t found all the ways to make you scream yet? Had you ever faked it with him?

“Oi.. Frankie” you say softly trying to bring him back “I haven’t used in a long time.. used to use it before.. when you’d leave a lot and I’d miss you.. a lot” you continue. “Yeah?” He pauses “used to leave you a lot huh” he says, voice quiet sounding a little disappointed in himself.

You put your food down and crawl over to him “hey, look at me Frank. You did what you needed to do. It’s the past now, it’s not like that anymore... yeah?” you reassure him. He looks deep into your eyes, "yeah.." he replies, seemingly accepting your words.

You both finish your dinner silently watching whatever rerun was on the TV.

—

After unpacking a few more boxes you’re both showered and in bed. Your head lying in the nook of his shoulder as his arm lazily traces patterns on your back. “Did it make you feel good?” He asks a little abruptly, breaking the silence. “Huh? Did what?” You asked confused. “Your.. y’know? ...the vibrator did you.. like it?” he asks, voice sounding way too small for the behemoth of a man that he is. Your heart swells a little, it was almost endearing.. how shy this was making him. You wonder what’s going on in his mind for him to bring it up again. “Hmm it did the job I guess.. but nothing makes me feel as good as you baby” smile up at him.

He’s looking up at the ceiling, a slight upward twitch of his lips at your words, arm still wrapped around you tracing shapes on your upper back. You prop your head up and look at him “Frankie… what’s going on in there?” You coo rubbing the centre of his chest. He looks at you after a moment of contemplation.

"can you promise me something?" he asks quietly looking into you eyes "ofcourse baby" you reply, a hint of worry in your eyes now. "Promise me you've never faked.. y'know faked it?" he asks you so sincerely it makes you want to grab his shoulders and shake him. Your beautiful hunk of a boyfriend, who would rather die than not make you come at least twice before he does, who makes you feel like a pervert for how badly you want him ALL THE TIME, is asking you if you have ever faked it?! You sit up a little more "Francis. David. Castle. if you think I have ever faked an orgasm with you, you have lost your damn mind" you reply shocked, hand on your heart for dramatics. That gets a bit of a laugh out of him "I'll actually lose my damn mind if I ever find out you faked it with me" he replies with a hint of sarcasm. You go serious for a second "baby, I swear, never. you make me feel so good I don't think I could fake one even if I tried, if anything I have to try and stop myself from coming too quickly.. its embarrassing sometimes how fast you can make me come" you blurt out.

Frank's just looking up at you while you ramble as if you've hung the moon and the stars. He pulls you down to him "s'not embarrassing, its fuckin hot" he laughs, giving you a kiss and wrapping his arms around you.

—

A few moments later he breaks the silence again, the images of you squirming with your hands between your legs flooding his mind wins over.

“…can you show me how you use to use it” he all but whispers, you see his ears turning a little pink. You can’t help but smile a little, your big man feeling so embarrassed about this. "Yeah frankie? you wanna see?” you coo, nuzzling into him. "yeah.. wanna see how you touch yourself when you think about me" he says lowly, sounding a little desperate now.

You slink out of the bed, pad toward your wardrobe and pull out the box. Grabbing out the purple silicone wand, you turn back to him. He eyes the wand in your hand, looking at the shape of it. He wonders how many times you actually fucked yourself with it and how many times you just circled the tip of it over your cilt. His cock jumps at the thought.

"Keep your panties on, shirt off" he commands a little breathlessly, you don't reply with words simply peeling of your his big t-shirt. Leaving you standing there in your simple grey cotton panties.

Frank slides up on the bed, resting on the headboard, spreading his legs making space for you "c'mere" he says. You take your place between his legs, your back resting against his solid chest. "Tell me what you used to think about it baby" he whispers into your ear, pulling your hair to one side to open up your neck for him. You feel his breath fan out down your neck, instantly making your nipples perk up. Frank smiles at the sight.

You take a breath in, your palm starts running up and down his thigh. He grabs your wrist and puts them back on your legs "said I want to see you touch yourself, not me sweetheart" he coos, you nod "used to.. used to think about how your lips would feel when you kiss up and down my neck..." your hand start snaking its way in between your legs over your clothed pussy, other hand coming up as you take one finger in your mouth.

"yeah? this pretty neck?" he rasps, running one thick finger down the side of the, not giving you his mouth. "mhmm, and how good it feels when you suck on my tits.. god they'd feel so sensitive baby, feel so good when you suck on them" you whimper softly, bringing your wet finger down to circle your peaked nipple, franks eyes following your fingers, his mouth watering, hungry for your tits in his mouth. Your breathing picking up now. Your legs splay out further as your thighs rest atop his big ones.

"a-and how wet you would make me just from that, fuck you have no idea what you do to me baby" you whisper into his ear. You feel his cock jerk under your lower back where he's pressed up against you. You grab the vibrator with the hand that was on your breast. Pushing just the tip of it into your mouth to get it wet you then click it on to the lowest setting before bringing the saliva slicked tip of it on your nipple.

The sensation making your chest hitch up, a sharp gasp leaves you. "fuck baby" you hear frank mumble into your ear as he looks down at you. You trail the wand down your tits till the tip of it meets your clit over your grey panties. Dark grey patch now evident from your arousal.

A mewl leaves your mouth. Frank grunts in your ear "then what did you think about" his palms now resting on your inner thighs. "Would think about how good your mouth would feel on my pussy baby” you sigh. “how you eat me out. The way your tongue would lick through me and how you -fuck- how youd suck my clit just right" moaning louder in his ear you press the vibrator down harder on your clit. Franks eyes growing wild watching how your grey panties now turn almost black with how wet they are.

"atta girl, look how soaked she’s gettin f'me. yknow how much i fuckin love tasting your pussy" he grits into your ear, palms grasping firmer on your thighs. The words he’s spitting in your ear and the way his gripping your thighs spurs you on even more. You pull the grey soaked panties to the side, revealing your glistening cunt to him. You feel his rock hard cock poking into your back now "jeesus christ honey fuckin soaked" Frank pants, his palms start rubbing up and down your thigh, you feel a slight thrust of his hips.

You bring the vibrator onto your bare cunt now, the sensation of the vibrator on your clit making your hips jerk. "oh frankie.." you mewl. "mmfuck right here baby, keep showing me, doin so good sweetheart so fuckin proud of you" he rasps giving you a kiss on your neck as a reward.

Your cunt flutters at his praise, god you loved when you were good for him. You sink the purple wand into your hole as one of your arms hooks itself behind his neck. "used to.. fuck baby.." your panting as you pull the wand out, seeing it covered in your slick as you circle it around your clit again. Franks hands twitching to touch you "used to what baby? tell me cmon" he pleads. "Used to think about how full you'd make me feel, I-I would try and pretend it was you and how your big cock would stretch me out so fucking perfectly" you cry pathetically “nothing feels like you Frankie” you tilt your face towards him, eyes silently begging for a kiss. He takes your lips instantly, his tongue swiping through your mouth as one of his hands cradles the back of your head. You continue to push the wand into your hole, mewling into his mouth "frankie please.. want you, t-to touch me please" you beg quietly. He looks into your teary eyes, they all but melt him "i'll give you what you want baby, but you gotta show me once yeah? just one time please angel" his brown eyes stare into you. "mhmm okay frankie" your high pitched whine leaves you. "thank you baby" he whispers into your mouth giving you another kiss.

He see's you trying to hold your panties to the side as you fuck yourself with the purple wand. His poor girl, legs and hands trembling, trying so hard he thinks. He grabs your panties for you pulling them to the side, giving himself a better view of your crying hole in the process. "go on baby, make yourself come" he whispers giving the side of your forehead a kiss. Your now free hand starts rubbing circles harder at your clit, angling the wand up so it was massaging that spongey spot inside of you (still not feeling as good as frank does).

"mm fuuuuuck baby, used to think about how much i missed feeling full with you - ah- how perfect your cock fits inside me" your hips bucking wildly as you hook your legs harder around Franks. "yeah fits so perfectly inside this pretty pussy baby" he rasps in your ear, pushing you closer to your release.

"yeeah frankie, fuck love how your come feels inside of me oh fuckk-fuck gonna come frankieee fuck" youre whining in his ear, tits pushing up further as you heave up. your free hand grasping tightly behind his neck as you pant into him. "godddd baby look at you, she’s fuckin crying f’me aint she baby" frank grunts.

"Mhhmmm fuckkk baby making me come so hard just thinking about your cock" your eyes roll back as you feel the euphoric release take over, your body writhing in his safe, strong hold . "thasssit baby" he coos "such a good girl f'me yeah? making yourself feel good. so fuckin perfect". Small gasps of air leaving you in response as frank starts to gently rub his palms up and down your body as the jerk of your hips slow down.

Franks peppering the side of your face with kisses as you slowly pull the wand out of your sopping hole. You start to grab your wipes to clean it and put it away before he pulls it out of your hand, smirking "nah aint done with this yet baby". He locks his eyes onto yours, switches it off and licks your cum off it. Your pupils go wide with lust, oh this is far from over..

—

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

slow. deliberate. his thumbs hook into his belt.

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

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

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

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

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

“frank…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your breath catches in your throat.

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

something shifts in his expression when you say that.

sir.

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

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

“show me.”

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Frank never had sex with you the day after having you the way he did last night. At most, he would only ever go down you with gentle healing laps through your folds, kissing his sorry's all through your lips and inner thighs with gentle suckles on your sensitive clit. And he was unwaveringly strict about it, he never played around when it came to your aftercare. Especially when you give yourself to him in the way that you do.

But god look at you

Your teary pleading doe eyes looking down at him begging for more as his head rested between your legs. "please baby, just one its okay I promise" you sigh at him, hoping he'll give in to the flutter of your eyelashes.

He sighs as he climbs his way back up next you, cradling you into his side with one of his big arms as his other palm cups over your pussy - warm and protective. You see the twitch of his nose as he looks down at you with his lips and chin glistening with your slick. His brown eyes dart between yours, torn between giving in and staying true to his word "sweetheart... you know the rules.." he coos, eyebrows furrowed.

"i-but i'm not too sore Frankie, pleeease, just-just want you" you whine softly as your hand snakes around his neck pulling his face closer to yours. You lick his lips tasting yourself on them before he opens his mouth and takes your lips into his. He feels your hole pulse when his tongue slips into your mouth. The tip of his middle finger resting just at your entrance, so close to getting sucked in. "J-just one finger baby please" you sigh, your hips with a mind of their own grind a little further down. The action makes the first inch of his middle finger slip in to your wet and wanting hole. Even just that little bit makes a gasp leave your mouth which Frank swallows with a kiss.

"honey..." he warns lightly, his resolve wavering - chest heaving. "p-please if it's too much i-'ll tell you" you whimper with another testing grind of your hips. He drops his forehead to yours and breathes out as his thick middle finger covered in your slick gingerly moves up and kisses your clit. Causing you to moan into his mouth "so wet baby, need you" you whisper - and he cracks. How could he not when you sound so sweet and desperate, your body writhing underneath him for his touch inside of you.

He lifts his head up slightly, kissing your forehead - his puppy eyes bore into yours "need you to tell me if shes too sore baby.. promise?" he asks softly. "mhmm promise frankie" you breathe out shakily, waiting and desperate. His eyes stay on you, scanning each of your features as he slowly inches one meaty finger in. You're so soaked that it just glides right in, so worked up that you could have come just from that first inch. Still a little sore and sensitive with the stretch, your eyes still staring into franks as your mouth forms a little O as you gasp. Frank doesn't even realise the way his face and mouth mirror yours - his eyebrows furrowed together, so focused on making sure you weren't in pain. When he's knuckle deep in you he stays still for a few seconds, eyes darting between your own.

"feel okay baby?" he asks softly

"s-so good" you mewl, with a small nod of your head.

He smiles - his baby, so desperate for him.

You feel him kiss his way back down your body, your legs splaying wider to accomodate his mass between your legs again. He starts working his thick digit in and out of you, keeping the pace slow and gentle. You feel his lips circle around your clit again causing your hips to twitch. "y-yesss frankie" you softly cry out. He feels the way your walls are pulsing around his finger, so soft and wet and warm.

Your fingers slide through his hair and grip on as your hips start bucking up ever so slightly. He knows you're close, but he keeps his fingers working at that same slow pace, drawing in and out of you as he pulls you closer to your release. "f-fra-ankie c-close" you breathe out. "yeah i know sweetheart, s'ok let go" he coos before sucking your clit into his mouth again.

He feels your walls flutter around his finger as his rhythmic sucks bring you over the edge. Your soft breathy moans fill the room as your hips writhe in his hold. "oh-god.. b-baby" you whine as he feels your cum coat his finger and his chin. He gently pulls his finger out when he feels your walls relax, sucking your juices from it before his tongue returns to your soaked pussy.

You feel the soft laps of his broad tongue through your folds, drinking up your cum as his soothing palms run up and down the outside of your thighs.

After leaving a final soft kiss on your clit and hole he makes his way up beside you again, scooping you up fully in his hold. You wrap your arms around his neck and take his lips to yours, kissing him slow and sweet with your taste all over him. "thank you Frankie" you coo softly, unable to stop the yawn that escapes you. "i love you honey" he smiles a little kissing you back.

He holds you tight to him, your head tucked under his chin as he rubs his palms up and down your back. Not even two minutes pass before he hears your little snores. "baby?" he whispers as he pulls apart slightly to look down at you - you're out like a light. Just needed your Frankie to make you cum so you could fall asleep he laughs to himself.

--

She didn’t mean for it to be this way, but honestly, she couldn’t imagine anything better than Frank kneeling in front of her, lapping away at her cunt as she tried to cook dinner. Frank wasn’t a loud man. She’d been around him long enough to know that he preferred peace and quiet over most things. Nevertheless, it surprised her just how loud he’d get when his head was crammed between her legs, eating like a man who’d been starving for weeks. 

She struggled to focus on the task at hand – chopping vegetables for the stew she was supposed to be cooking for dinner. Her dad had specifically requested it. He had claimed that it was Frank’s favorite dish of hers, though she knew better than that. Frank’s favorite dish was her pussy, and it had been for a long time. 

Her dad didn’t know – of course he didn’t know – that she was fucking his oldest friend. They’d been the most discreet about this arrangement, sneaking around the house when her dad was away, and they never intended on getting caught. He’d probably have an aneurysm if he could see them now.  

Frank’s tongue circled her cunt again, sending a shiver down her spine. He was so damned good at this part. She knew he was detail oriented because of his job, but she hadn’t anticipated how focused he could be when he was determined to get things done. His current obsession was making her come as many times as humanly possible in the hour before her father got home from work.  

He was working on number three now, gripping the back of her wobbling knees to hold her steady. She watched the knife shakily chop another carrot, feeling a million miles away from the girl in the kitchen. Her vision swam as heat coiled in her core. The calluses on his palms scraping against her bare thighs is what did her in. Frank greedily drank her third orgasm of the afternoon, smirking into her cunt. 

He pulled away, watching her resolve crumble. She sighed, closing her eyes as waves of pleasure overtook her senses. The knife she’d been cutting with was flat against the cutting board, squished beneath her palm. He eyed the sharp blade, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to ruin her high. 

When she finally blinked down at him, it was with flushed cheeks. He loved that about her. She’d never been able to hide her feelings from him. He wanted to do it all over again – lift the skirt of her dress up and plunge into her again with his tongue – but she pressed her palm into his cheek and tutted. 

“Greedy,” she muttered, running her fingers through his hair. 

He leaned into her touch, squeezing her ever-wobbly legs. Yes, greedy was a good word to describe how he felt about her. He couldn’t get enough, and she was ever so generous. They were perfectly matched in that department. 

“How long do we have?” He asked, inching his fingertips up the back of her thighs. 

“Not long enough,” she replied, glancing at the clock on the wall. 

A car door slammed somewhere nearby, sending a shock through both of them. They’d lost track of time. Her dad was home and would be walking through the kitchen any second now. They glanced at each other for a single moment, wide-eyed and frantic, before moving in unison. 

Frank unfolded from his stooped position, wincing when his knees popped in protest. If they weren’t in such a hurry, she’d giggle and call him old. She cursed, running her hands through the wrinkles on her dress. 

“Dinner’s not ready yet,” she murmured, pulling her hair back into a knot at the nape of her neck. 

Frank, who was normally much more coordinated, crashed into the bar stools on the other side of the kitchen in his attempt to put some distance between the two of them, causing alarm to flit across her face. She opened her mouth to chastise him when the door swung open, revealing Frank’s oldest friend. Her father moseyed through the door carrying a briefcase, a day-old coffee mug, and the coat he’d worn out the door that morning. 

The thing about her father was that he really wasn’t a terrible guy, just busy. He’d raised his only child by himself, making sure she was taken care of and well-fed, even when his empty belly ached at the dinner table. He hadn’t a lot of money, but he had a lot of love, and he, like all great parents, made do with that until they figured it all out.  

Frank felt sick to his stomach every time he came face to face with him. He didn’t mean to fall for his best friend’s daughter either, but it didn’t seem like his choice. Their budding relationship seemed inevitable from the moment she returned from college, eager to help her dad out around the house. Frank didn’t know she would be so...agreeable. 

“Hey, old man,” her dad said, patting Frank on the back with a wide grin. He eyed his daughter, focused solely on the carrot that had surpassed sliced a while ago and was approaching pulp-ish. “Hi, honey.” 

“Hey, how was work?” She replied awkwardly, flicking her gaze from the vegetable to her dad, then to Frank and back to her dad. “I’m almost done with dinner.” 

She turned back toward the cutting board, listening to him recount a story about one of his students forgetting to cite his sources in his semester essay. It was almost Christmas. She felt like maybe the student deserved a break, but she wasn’t a college professor, so what did she know? 

“I’ll go get ready for dinner.” Her father finished his story, turning towards Frank. “D’ya want something to drink? I raised her to host better than that, y’know.” 

He shot her a pointed look, amusement clear in his eyes. She blushed. While that was true, she didn’t think Frank minded that they’d chosen to forego drinks and jump straight into oral when he’d arrived. 

“She always takes good care of me,” Frank cleared his throat, sending another shiver down her back. She threw the vegetables in the stew, choking on the gasp that had lodged itself in her throat. 

“Right.” She nodded, trying to play it cool. “I offered earlier, dad.” 

She finally let her breath loose when her father disappeared deeper into the house. Frank smirked. 

“Frank-” 

He brought his finger to his lips, reminding her to keep her voice low. 

“You’re awful! He’s going to catch on!” She whisper yelled across the kitchen. Frank was already closing the gap between them, unable to keep himself away from her. Her hips were a magnet for his hands. He had no power over it. 

“He won’t suspect a thing.” Frank smirked, wicked thoughts clear as day on his face.  “Will there be any dessert? I already know what I want.” 

She rolled her eyes, giggling. 

“Not if you can’t keep your terrible mouth shut during dinner!”  

She nudged him towards the table, turning back to her stew moments before her dad rejoined them in the kitchen, none the wiser. 

When dinner was done, she piled pots, pans, and plates into Frank’s hands at the sink. He always insisted on helping her clean the kitchen. She knew it frustrated him that her dad never offered, but those complaints were met with firm shushing from her. It wasn’t his business what her father did or didn’t do. 

“Same time next week?” She asked as she walked Frank to the front door. 

He’d been sitting with her dad in the study for an hour, joining him only after the dishes were completely washed, dried, and put away. She didn’t mind sharing him with her dad. Frank was the only person who came around anymore besides solicitors and the occasional girl scout. It made her feel less guilty for stealing all of Frank’s attention.  

“Same time as always,” Frank said, tapping her nose with a wink. “Thanks for dinner.” 

She knew what he meant. In a few hours, she’d be plundering across the lawn, bundled against the cold with a very specific destination in mind. Frank’s back door was always unlocked. She’d know her way from stoop to stoop with her eyes closed.  

Her father joined her at the window as she watched Frank mosey down the street, hands tucked in his pockets.  

“You’re nice for letting him come over early, honey. I don’t think he talks much to other people. Mrs. Cross said he spoke to her in mostly grunts at the workshop the other day.” 

“Was Mrs. Cross trying to talk her way into free repair?” She pressed, arching an eyebrow. 

Frank often vented to her about the jobs that people in town tried to get him to discount. Mrs. Cross was a steady regular for him, but she was the cheapest lady he’d ever met. Frank had worked on almost everyone’s house in town at one point or another. He was the resident-fixer-upper, and he also happened to be one of the only handsome bachelors in town. Women hired him all the time to do random things around their house when their husbands weren’t home. Frank hated it, but it paid the bills. 

“She must’ve left that part out,” her father conceded, sipping his whiskey. “Still, I think he’s a little lonely.” 

“I think he gets on just fine,” she murmured, adjusting the curtains over the window once Frank was out of sight. “Besides, don’t you think people say the same about you?” 

Her father had been a bachelor just as long as Frank, prioritizing work and raising a child over developing a relationship with someone new. Women hounded the widowed professor almost as much as they hounded Frank. Still, having a grown daughter living with him seemed to keep them off his back. Mostly. 

“Never.” He shook his head. “I have you, remember?” 

She nodded, half-smiling as he made his way down the hall to his study. He did have her, but he wouldn’t always. She’d have to grow up someday. They both would. 

When her father had finally lost his battle to whiskey and sleep, she found herself creeping into Frank’s dark house, removing her shoes by the door. He always made fun of how quiet she forced herself to be, knowing that the only person in the house was him, but it was a force of habit. She’d been quietly tiptoeing around her house for years. 

It always went something like this. Every night, she made her way up the stairs, overly familiar with his house, and inched the bedroom door open. Every night, Frank met her at the door, shirtless and oh-so-fuckable, tugging her lips against his in breathtaking swiftness. Every night, they tangled themselves in the sheets and each other, deepening their connection and furthering their affair. 

Inbetween kisses, he gasped into her mouth, “What took you so long?” 

Inhale. Kiss. Exhale. Kiss. 

“He was doing the crossword. You know Thursdays are the trickiest-oh!” 

In one sweeping motion, he’d lifted her off the ground bridal-style and chucked her on the blanketed bed, erasing any thoughts of gridded puzzles.  

“Thought you weren’t coming,” he said, hovering over her frame. 

“I’ve been here every night for months,” she replied, running a cool fingertip down his exposed bicep. “I’ll always come.” 

“Always? Promise?” 

He winked at her, barely visible in the dim light of his bedroom, but it sent another flurry of butterflies through her core. Smitten was a good word to describe her. Smitten and damned, because she didn’t care how wrong it made her feel. 

“I promise,” she said candidly. 

And she really believed she meant that. 

x 

Frank had quite the stamina for an older guy. It’d been almost an hour, edging himself closer and closer to coming every time another orgasm tumbled from her lips. She was currently on her stomach, wedged between him and the comforter. Her arms were crossed behind her back, held tightly by Frank’s large hand as he pounded into her. Hot, pleasurable tears streamed down her cheeks.  

She arched against his weight, trying to stave off another orgasm, but it spurred him further. He slammed into her with such force that an unsolicited moan forced its way from her throat. 

“Frank,” she started, swallowing thickly. 

His hand met her throat, tugging her head back even further. She groaned at the new position. He was somehow even deeper inside than he’d been before. 

“What do you need, baby?” He cooed, breathing into her ear. Goosebumps skittered down her spine in response. 

“P-Please,” she whined. 

“You’re doing so good for me, sweetie. Can you give me one more?” 

“Frank-,” she mewled into the comforter, muffling the sound. 

“Just one more, baby,” he coaxed, pressing a kiss to her hair. “You can do it.” 

She wasn’t sure she could. Frank had enticed more orgasms out of her over one evening than she’d ever had in her life. Even so, the familiar heat coiling in her core told her she’d be trembling with pleasure again soon.  

“You look so pretty like this,” he murmured, rutting into her. “Wish I could keep you in my bed forever.” 

It had taken her a while to get used to Frank’s praise. He was relentlessly flattering, and what’s worse is he meant everything he said to her. She’d spent most of her life trying to understand the people around her; hours spent deciphering the words they used when they meant something completely different. Yet, Frank’s words were always genuine, and she never doubted their truth. 

“C’mon, baby,” he whispered, kissing down the slope of her spine, “I know you want to.” 

She really, really did. Frank was an all-consuming, overwhelming force taking her exactly where she wanted to go. He squeezed her throat, eyes lighting up as a slew of curses left her lips. She was already gone, lost in a haze of pleasure reserved only for Frank. She relished in the sturdiness of his body, pressed against her in a way that made her feel whole.  

Finally, he let go of the leash he’d been holding on himself, bucking forward and holding himself deep inside of her. His delicious groan pushed her even further over the edge. A beautiful cacophony of heavy breaths and moans surrounded the two of them. 

When she finally blinked her eyes open, Frank was coaxing her back to life with gentle kisses down her spine. She relaxed into his touch, heart pounding.  

“You’re perfect, sweetheart,” he breathed, rutting into her a final time for emphasis. “I can’t believe how perfect you are for me.” 

He dropped to the bed next to her, still breathing heavily. She couldn’t wipe the goofy grin off her face. He really was the most handsome bachelor in their town. 

“Do you ever wish that I was older?” She asked, suddenly shy in front of the man that had seen her naked in a multitude of positions. 

His gaze snapped to hers. 

“What do you mean?” He asked. 

“I just mean- Like if I was older, maybe we wouldn’t have to hide it from everyone.” She said, gnawing on her bottom lip. 

“I don’t care how old you are,” he shook his head, sitting up. “I care about hurting your dad, hurting you, but I don’t care about the rest of it. I’m not hiding you because of that.” 

She nodded, understanding but still disliking it. She wasn’t sure her dad would ever come around to the idea of Frank and her together, and she was too much of a coward to tell him about it. 

“Are you thinkin’ about telling him?” Frank asked, arching an eyebrow at her. 

“No.” Shook her head. “The opposite actually. I don’t think we’ll ever be able to tell him.” 

He ran his hand along her back, soothing the anxiety before it could bubble into something worse. 

“And that makes me sad,” she murmured, eyes glossy. 

“I know it does, baby,” he said, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “ ‘m sorry we can’t be more open about us.” 

His quiet whisper broke her heart. She’d never been this enraptured by another person. Frank was kind and didn’t make her feel weird for being herself. It was unfair that she couldn’t publicly celebrate the only person in the world who knew her. But her dad wasn’t a progressive man, to say the least, and he’d likely try to kill Frank for even looking at her in a suggestive way. 

“Do you ever think about running away?” She asked, curling against Frank’s side and relishing the warmth that radiated from his skin. 

“With you?” He sighed. “All the time.” 

“Me too,” she said, closing her eyes and imagining it. 

They could go anywhere, but she knew they’d end up near the ocean. She was hundreds of miles away from one, but they’d figure it out. 

“We could get a house on the beach,” she said, smiling. “I could take you out and not have to worry about running into anyone we know. I could show you off, like I want to do now.” 

Her heart ached at the thought of it. She knew Frank was hurting too. It was all a silly, out of reach dream that they had. The world was much smaller than they wished it to be. It didn’t matter how they felt about one another if her father wasn’t okay with them being together. 

“I’ll buy you that house on the beach one day, sweetheart,” Frank sighed again, running his fingers up and down her back, “And we’ll run away together; have a life outside of the four walls of this bedroom.” 

“You promise?” 

She looked up at him with sadness in her eyes and hope in her heart. Everything about their situation was troubling, but she couldn’t possibly end it. She loved Frank, even if it meant isolating herself from the rest of the world. 

“I promise,” he said. 

And she really believed he meant that. 

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Frank comes home at six-thirty five.

You know because you've been watching the clock — not waiting, monitoring, there's a difference — and you hear his key in the lock and the particular two-step rhythm of him toeing off his boots in the entryway without untying them, which drives you insane, and then he's in the kitchen doorway.

He looks tired.

Not injured-tired, not Frank-Castle-met-someone's-fist tired, just worn down by the world in the ordinary human way that only you ever really get to see.

His jacket's off, shirt untucked, the shadow on his jaw two days past a shave. He looks at you standing at the stove and something in his face shifts — not a smile, Frank doesn't really smile, but an easing. A release of held tension.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey yourself." You nod toward the pot, keeping your eyes on the sauce. "Thirty minutes." A pause. You stir unnecessarily.

"Okay," he says. That lasts four minutes. You feel him before you see him — the warmth of him, the sheer mass, arriving at your back. His hands come to your hips and he ducks his head down, mouth finding the side of your neck with the specific unerring accuracy of a man who has conducted extensive research.

Here is the thing about Frank Castle that no one would guess: he is relentless.

Not frantic, not desperate — Frank doesn't unravel, not even here. It's the relentlessness of a man who has decided on something and sees no reason to stop, and more than that, a man who understands that he doesn't have to ask. He touches you constantly. Casually, almost. Like you're something that belongs to him and he sees no reason to pretend otherwise. He'll be reading, and his hand will find your ankle, your calf, your knee, moving slowly without him looking up from the page — not seeking your reaction, not checking if it's okay, just doing it, the contact as natural and unconsidered as breathing. You've learned that this is one of his ways of keeping track of you.

He doesn't explain it.

He doesn't need to.

When he's paying full attention, it's something else.

He doesn't treat you like you're his toy...

Not really.

And he would never just use you for your body. But he does know when to be authoritative.

But with you, authority becomes intimacy. Frank doesn’t demand submission from you.

He creates the kind of safety that makes you want to hand it over willingly. There’s a difference. It lives in all the tiny moments nobody else would notice. The way his hand settles at the back of your neck when he guides you through a doorway.

The low “eyes on me, sweetheart” when your thoughts start spiraling too fast.

The calm expectation in his voice when he tells you to sit still while he cleans a scrape or fixes the hem of your shirt or presses a glass of water into your hands because you forgot again.

And the thing about Frank is that once he decides you’re his to take care of, he becomes immovable about it.

Relentless.

You feel it now in the kitchen. His chest warm against your back. One heavy hand spread possessively across your stomach while the other wraps around your wrist, stopping the lazy stirring motion entirely.

“Enough,” he murmurs against your neck.

“There are literally onions burning, Frank.”

“Mm.” Not remotely concerned. “Can smell that.”

“Then let me fix it.”

“No.” The simple refusal sends heat curling low in your stomach embarrassingly fast. Frank notices immediately, because of course he does. You feel the faint shift of his mouth against your skin. Not quite a smile. More dangerous than one.

“There she is,” he murmurs softly. You hate how easily he can pull reactions out of you. Hate it even more because he knows. Frank turns the stove burner down himself without ever fully letting go of you, then crowds back into your space instantly like the few seconds apart offended him personally.

“C’mere,” he says again, rougher this time.

“I am here.”

“Not enough.” And that’s the thing. With Frank, closeness is never casual. Not really. It’s claiming.

Not ownership in the cruel sense — never that — but in the deeply instinctive way wolves probably mouth at each other just to confirm pack bonds are still intact. Frank touches like reassurance.

Like proof.

Like if his hands are on you, then you’re safe and real and staying.

One large palm slides up your ribs slowly until it settles just beneath your chest, holding you flush against him while his nose drags once along your jaw.

You melt a little despite yourself.

Immediately, his grip tightens.

Reward.

Frank loves that.

Loves feeling you soften for him.

Not because it gives him power.

Because it gives him trust.

And God, Frank treats your trust like something holy.

Your whole body wants to lean into it immediately. That's the problem with Frank — your instincts are completely useless around him. You fight them down.

"Frank."

"Mm."

"I'm cooking."

"I know." He doesn't stop.

"I have a knife in my hand."

"That's fine." His hands slide around your front and you put your elbow back into his ribs — not hard, just pointed — and he makes a short sound that might be a laugh.

"Not hungry." His voice is low, rough at the edges. His mouth grazes the curve of your neck. "Not for food."

You bite back a smile and stir the sauce. "That's too bad. I made your favorite."

A sound rumbles in his chest—something between a growl and a laugh. His fingers tighten, pulling you back against him, and you feel exactly how much he's not interested in dinner. His teeth catch your earlobe.

"You're gonna make me wait?"

"I'm going to make you eat a real meal first, yes." You reach over and turn off the burner, then twist in his grip just enough to look at him. His eyes are dark, fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. "You look like you haven't eaten since yesterday."

"I haven't." He crowds you against the counter, caging you in with his arms. His jaw is tight. "And right now, the only thing I want to put my mouth on is you."

God. You have to take a breath. Have to remind yourself that you're in charge of this moment, even if every nerve in your body is screaming at you to let him have whatever he wants.

"Thirty minutes," you say again. "Go sit down." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel as you turn around again. That's something. A pause. His hands still. Then, very calmly:

"No."

Your stomach does something complicated. You turn around anyway — which requires stepping into him, which puts you closer, which is a tactical error you register immediately, but backing up into the stove would be worse and you refuse to give him the satisfaction of flinching. He's looking down at you with that expression. Patient on the surface.

Not patient underneath.

The dark eyes, steady and certain, doing what they always do to your ability to reason.

“You eat today?” he asks quietly. You hesitate.

Wrong answer.

His hand stills completely against your ribs.

“…Sweetheart.”

“I had coffee.” Frank exhales once through his nose.

Slow.

Controlled.

The kind of restraint that always makes your pulse jump harder than anger would.

“That what we’re doin’ now?” he asks mildly. “Livin’ off caffeine an’ bad decisions?”

“I was busy.”

“Mhm.” That rough gravelly hum settles right into your bloodstream. Before you can protest further, Frank turns you gently in his arms. Big hands settling on your hips immediately. Grounding. Directing. Your body reacts automatically. Always does. Because Frank looking at you head-on when he gets like this is devastating. Steady eye contact. Broad shoulders boxing you in against the counter. Complete focus. Like nothing else in the world exists while he’s paying attention to you.

“You forgot t’take care of yourself again,” he says quietly. Not accusatory. Worse. Certain. You open your mouth anyway.

“I was making dinner.”

“For me.” The words land warm. You shrug slightly, suddenly embarrassed. Frank watches you for one long second before his expression softens around the edges.

“Baby.” His thumbs rub slow circles into your hips. “You don’t gotta earn me.” That one hits harder than it should. Because Frank understands something about you that most people don’t:

You accommodate instinctively.

You anticipate needs before they’re spoken.

Make yourself useful automatically.

Fold yourself smaller around people you love until caring for them becomes second nature.

And Frank — Frank notices every single time.

Which means he also notices when nobody’s taking care of you back. His hand slides up, fingers curling gently around your jaw until your eyes lift fully to his.

“There you are,” he murmurs softly, like he’s been waiting for your attention specifically. You feel ridiculously held under his gaze. Not trapped. Held. Frank studies your face another second before giving a quiet order:

“Go sit down.” You blink.

“The food—”

“I got it.”

“You just got home.”

“And?”

“And you’re tired.” His eyes narrow slightly.

“That ain’t what I said.” Heat prickles instantly up your spine. Not fear.

Never fear.

Just that dangerous little thrill that comes from Frank getting firm with you. Because when Frank decides something, arguing mostly becomes theater. You both know it. He steps closer once, crowding you back lightly against the counter until your breath catches.

“Go sit,” he repeats quietly. “Lemme take care of you for a minute.”

God, you want to listen.

But instead, you shake your head.

"No." Frank's eyebrows shoot up at the refusal. "You go sit down. I need to finish making dinner." His whole entire body tenses, and his head tilts to the side.

"Baby." He rasps. You shake your head.

"Frank, please. I've been slaving away all day for this meal. I won't have you throw it away because you came home horny." You mutter, shaking your head, already regretting the words as they leave you.

Making Frank wait when he wants you never ends well.

Tried and tested.

Frank goes very still.

Not angry-still.

Worse.

Controlled.

The kind of stillness that means every thought in his head just narrowed into one sharp line.

Your pulse skips immediately.

Because you know this version of him.

The one that goes quiet instead of loud. The one that gets softer somehow, which is infinitely more dangerous.

Frank’s eyes stay locked on your face for a long moment. Then they flick slowly down your body before returning to your eyes again.

“You think that’s what this is?” he asks mildly.

You swallow.

“It’s part of what this is.”

“Mm.” His hand slides from your jaw down your throat. Gentle. Heavy. Possessive in a way that makes heat bloom low in your stomach instantly. “An’ the other part?”

You hate that he can do this.

Pull answers out of you like he already knows them.

“The other part,” you say carefully, “is that you’re tired and I wanted to do something nice for you.”

Something shifts in his face at that.

God.

It always does.

Because beneath everything else — the dominance, the control, the way he handles you like something precious he’s terrified to break — Frank is still a man fundamentally wrecked by being cared for. His thumb strokes slowly against your throat.

“You made me dinner,” he says quietly.

“Yes.”

“You waited up.”

You shrug faintly.

“You track what time I come home.”

“…Monitoring,” you mutter weakly. That almost gets a smile out of him. Almost. Then his eyes darken again.

“And you think I came in here wantin’ t’throw you over the counter because I don’t appreciate that?” His voice drops lower with every word. “Because I’m too horny t’notice what you do for me?” Your stomach twists.

“Well when you say it like that—”

“C’mere.” You already are. But Frank means something else when he says it like that.

You feel it instantly.

The shift.

The expectation.

Your body responds before your brain catches up, moving into him automatically as his hands settle on your waist. One firm squeeze. Approval.

Heat floods your face. Frank notices. Of course he does.

“You get all bratty when you want attention,” he says softly, studying you with awful accuracy. “Been thinkin’ about me all day, hm?”

“No.”

“Liar.” You open your mouth to argue and Frank’s hand slides suddenly to the back of your neck. Not rough. Never rough. Just firm enough to make your thoughts short-circuit. Your breath catches.

Immediately his eyes sharpen.

That.

That reaction.

Frank loves it. Not the power of it. The trust. The fact that you go pliant for him so fast without even realizing it. His forehead drops briefly against yours.

“Pretty thing,” he murmurs, almost to himself. "You remember what happens," he says conversationally, "when you make me wait." Your mouth goes dry.

You do remember.

That’s the problem.

Your entire body heats instantly, pulse fluttering low in your stomach while Frank watches every reaction cross your face with infuriating patience.

Because when Frank wants you and you make him wait, he gets…

Focused.

Not cruel. Never cruel.

Just deeply, intensely determined.

“You get bossy,” you mutter weakly.

“I get what?” His thumb presses lightly into the back of your neck. A warning disguised as curiosity. You glance away. Wrong move. “Eyes on me, mama.” Immediate. Automatic. Your gaze snaps back to his before pride can even catch up. Frank’s expression changes the second you obey. Softens. God, that’s the worst part. The approval. Heat crawls all the way up your throat. He studies you another second, then lowers his voice.

“You gonna keep fightin’ me over this dinner?”

“Yes.” The answer comes faster than expected. Frank blinks once. Then exhales slowly through his nose like you’ve become the single most exhausting thing in his life.

“Baby,” he says, almost pained now, “I have been thinkin’ about gettin’ my hands on you since three this afternoon.” Your stomach flips.

“That sounds like a you problem.” His eyes narrow. There it is.

That tiny flicker of irritation you secretly love provoking out of him because Frank irritated is terrifying to everybody else and devastatingly attractive to you. You know immediately you've made a tactical error. Not because Frank does anything dramatic. He never does. It's the opposite — he goes very still, the way he does when he's made a decision and is simply waiting for the right moment to act on it. His eyes stay on yours and the irritation doesn't disappear so much as get absorbed, folded down into that bottomless patience, which is somehow so much worse.

"A me problem," he says.

"Frank—"

"Three hours," he says quietly. "I've been out there, in the cold, thinkin' about comin' home to you. Thinkin' about bending you over this goddamn counter-" he pauses, jaw shifting once— "And I walk in and you're gonna stand here and tell me that's a me problem." Your mouth opens. Closes.

"The pasta—" you try.

"Is right there." He doesn't even glance at it. "It'll keep."

"It won't, actually, if you let it sit it gets—"

"Hey." Just that. Low and even. And your sentence dissolves completely, midair, gone, because that's all it takes and you hate it, you genuinely hate how fast it works. His thumb moves once at the back of your neck. "You done?" You press your lips together.

"…Mostly," you say. Something moves through his expression. Not quite the smile. The thing that lives next door to it, darker and warmer at once.

"Mostly," he repeats.

"I still think we should eat first," you say, quieter now, the conviction behind it somewhat undermined by the fact that you haven't actually moved and his hand is at your neck and you are looking up at him like — well. Like you have been thinking about him since three in the afternoon too, probably, though you will take that particular truth to your grave. Frank looks at you for a long moment.

"You been home all day," he says slowly, like he's working something out.

"Yes."

"By yourself."

"That's generally what alone means."

"Mm." His other hand slides from your waist up your back, slow and deliberate, pressing you incrementally closer. "So you had all day to do whatever you wanted." His voice is thoughtful. Conversational. This is somehow more alarming than irritation. "Could've done anything. And what you decided to do—" his eyes drop briefly to the stove, then back to you— "was make my favorite. And then wait for me. And then pick a fight with me the second I walked in the door." You say nothing.

Because when he lines it up like that you sound absolutely transparent and you both know it.

"Wasn't a fight," you mutter.

"No?"

"It was a boundary." Frank actually laughs at that. A short, real sound, rough at the edges, and it does catastrophic things to your ability to stay annoyed. His forehead comes down to rest against yours and he exhales, warm and slow, and his hands settle — both of them, heavy and certain at your back, holding you in place in that way he has, like you're something he's decided isn't going anywhere.

"A boundary," he says, still with the ghost of that laugh in his voice.

"Yes."

"Over pasta."

"Over dinner, Frank, it's a whole—"

"You missed me." He says it simply. No fanfare. Certain the way he's certain about most things involving you. Your face goes hot.

"That has nothing to do with—"

"You spent all day making something for me, you tracked what time I'd be home, and now you're telling me I'm not allowed to fuck my wife the second I get home because she wants to force feed me pasta ?"

Your mouth opens. Closes again. Because when he says it like that, you sound insane. Frank watches the realization hit you in real time. Slow. Thorough. Appreciative.

“There she is,” he murmurs softly.

“Oh my God, you’re impossible.”

“And you’re stalling.” His hands tighten once against your back. “Why?”

“I’m not stalling.”

“Mama.” Just your title this time. Low. Knowing. Your stomach flips hard. Because Frank only uses that voice when he already has you figured out and is waiting for you to catch up. “You missed me,” he repeats quietly. You look away again out of pure self-preservation.

Wrong move.

Frank’s hand slides back up to your neck immediately, fingers spreading warm and firm beneath your hair as he guides your face back toward him.

“Ah-ah,” he murmurs. “Stay here.” Your pulse stutters. It’s ridiculous how effective he is at this. Not because he’s controlling. Because he pays attention. Because he knows exactly which tone settles your nervous system and which one turns your thoughts syrup-thick and compliant. Frank watches your breathing change and something hungry flashes behind his eyes.

“Thought so,” he says softly. You hate how much you like his approval.

“You’re very smug for someone getting denied.”

“Denied.” He repeats it like he’s testing the word. Then his gaze drifts meaningfully over your face, your mouth, the way you’re already leaning into him despite yourself. “Baby, does this look like denial to you?” Heat rushes straight to your face.

“You’re annoying.”

“You’re needy.” You gasp quietly.

“Frank!”

“What?” His expression stays maddeningly calm. “You think I don’t notice?” One hand slides lower, spanning your waist possessively. “You get all worked up when I’m gone too long. Start hoverin’. Cookin’ for me. Mouth gets smart.” His thumb strokes once against your side. “Then you act surprised when I come home wantin’ my hands on you.” Your brain is short-circuiting a little now.

“Oh my God,” you mutter, horrified. “You’re unbearable.”

“Mhm.” His nose brushes yours once. “Answer the question.”

“You make everything sound ridiculous.”

“You makin’ me wait over noodles is ridiculous.”

“It’s not noodles, it’s linguine.”

“Jesus Christ.” That rough almost-laugh again. “You hear yourself?” You try to glare at him. Frank’s hand tightens at the back of your neck immediately, thumb stroking once just beneath your hairline, and the glare dies before it properly forms. His eyes darken.

“Cute,” he says softly. Your stomach flips hard. Because Frank loves this. Not arguments exactly. But you pushing just enough to make him work for your submission a little. To make him pin you down with his attention and peel your resistance apart slowly with those awful steady hands and that voice that gets rougher the more affected he is.

“You know what your problem is?” he asks.

“You ask me that constantly.”

“And you keep havin’ the same one.” His hand slides lower, spanning your waist. “You think because you take care of everybody else all day, nobody gets t’tell you what t’do.”

“I don’t like being ordered around.”A pause. Then Frank leans closer until his mouth is right beside your ear.

“That so?” Your breath catches immediately. Traitorous body. Frank hums low in his throat, hearing it. “That’s not what your body says.” Heat flashes all the way through you.

“You’re smug.”

“I’m right.” Unfortunately, he is. And the worst part is that Frank never pushes for surrender in a way that feels selfish. That’s what makes him impossible to resist. Even now, standing there crowding you against the counter with that heavy warmth and certainty, every inch of him says the same thing:

I’ve got you.

It’s dominance stripped down to its barest form. Not intimidation. Care sharpened into authority. His hand leaves your waist only long enough to turn the burner fully off.

“There,” he says simply. “Dinner survived.”

“Frank—”

“Now.” His eyes pin yours again. “You gonna keep pretendin’ you don’t want me touchin’ you right now?” Your face burns.

“You are touching me right now.”

“Not enough.”

God. There it is again. That insatiable thing in him.

Frank touches you like deprivation physically hurts him. Like six hours apart is offensive. Sometimes you think if he could keep you tucked against his chest twenty-four hours a day, he genuinely would. He sleeps wrapped around you. Sits with your legs over his lap automatically. Hooks two fingers through your belt loops in crowded stores. Pulls you between his knees while he cleans weapons just to keep contact.

And when he’s had a bad day? Forget it.

Then he gets almost greedy about closeness. Mouth against your shoulder. Hands under your shirt. Pulling you into his lap while he breathes you in slow and deep like you’re medicine. Tonight is clearly one of those nights.

“You’re clingy,” you mutter weakly. Frank’s expression doesn’t even flicker.

“Yeah.” The immediate honesty catches you off guard enough that he uses the distraction to guide you backward a step until your hips bump the counter edge.

“Frank—”

“Been wantin’ this all damn day.” His voice has gone rougher now. Less patient around the edges. “Wanted you in my lap while I was drivin’. Wanted your hands on me while I was dealin’ with idiots. Wanted t’come home an’ put my mouth on you until you forgot your own name.” Your knees nearly give out. Frank notices instantly. And that finally — finally — seems to cost him a little control. His jaw flexes hard.

“Christ,” he mutters under his breath, gripping your hips tighter. “You do that on purpose?”

“Do what?”

“Get shaky when I talk t’you like that.”

“I am literally standing still.”

“Barely.” You hate that he’s right. Again.

Frank stares at you for one long second like he’s trying very hard to behave himself and rapidly losing interest in succeeding. Then, quieter:

“Tell me t’stop.” The words hit differently than all the authority does. Because beneath all of this, always, is choice. He’d stop instantly if you wanted. You both know it. And maybe that’s why your resistance finally starts crumbling for real.

Because Frank could take.

But what he actually wants— every single time— is to be let in.

Your fingers curl slowly into the front of his shirt.

Frank goes very still.

“You’re manipulative,” you whisper. His mouth brushes the corner of yours.

“An’ you like it.” Frank doesn’t kiss you, not right away. He just lets his mouth hover centimeters from yours, like he wants you to understand it’s his to give, not yours to take. You breathe him in, the salt-sharp tang of his skin, the vague echo of gun oil and cold wind and aftershave that’s faded to almost nothing. His hands tighten, bruising but careful, and then— He bends you over. A single smooth motion, as if you weigh nothing at all, and suddenly your hips are flush against the counter, your palms bracing on the laminate, every nerve in your body lighting up like a string of cheap Christmas bulbs. One of his palms flattens against your back, urging you down just enough, and the other brackets your hip, keeping you exactly where he wants you. You shiver. Not from cold—never from cold—but from the way he makes your body a pulsing, needy thing, every inch of you tuned to the pressure of his hands, the heat of his breath. You can hear your own heartbeat like a second ticking clock, frantic and unsteady. Frank crowds in behind you, his body massive and hot and inescapable.

“Look at you,” he says, and the words rumble through his chest into your spine. “You fight me all night, and this is what you wanted.” His hand slides up, catches the hem of your shirt, pushes it up just enough to bare your lower back. You feel the rough drag of his knuckles against your skin. He palms the curve of your ass, fingers splaying wide, squeezing once—almost contemplative. You arch, unthinking, chasing the contact. He notices. Of course he does.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice softer now. Almost fond. “Give it to me.” The hand on your back moves up and tangles in your hair, just tight enough to make you gasp, and then he’s tugging your head back so your mouth opens on instinct. He finally, finally kisses you, from behind, over your shoulder, hot and demanding and so deeply familiar you know you’ll taste him for hours after. He makes short work of your jeans. There’s nothing graceful or delicate, just the efficiency of a man who knows exactly what he wants and how to get it. The denim pools low on your hips, and he slides his hand down the waistband of your underwear, knuckles dragging hot and slow against bare skin. You whimper—actually whimper—and Frank’s answering hum is a whole-body thing, vibrating through him into you.

“Goddamn,” he rasps. “Always so good for me, huh?” He works a finger between your legs, finds you wet and wanting, and you have to bite your own arm to keep from moaning outright. You hear him laugh. Not loud, but dark and wicked and so fucking sure of himself. His other hand leaves your hair and slides up your shirt, not gentle, but not cruel either—just so you feel how big he is, how completely he can cover you. He palms your chest, thumb rolling over your nipple until you squirm, then back down, fingers digging into your hips so hard you know you’ll have marks tomorrow. He slides two fingers in, just like that, no warning, no gentle easing, and your knees actually buckle. The counter edge bites into your hip bones so hard you think you might bruise, but you don’t care, you don’t fucking care, you just brace yourself on your forearms and breathe through the shock of it. Frank has never been shy about the size of his hands, but when he fucks you open with them like this—slow, deliberate, watching for every twitch—he makes you feel small in the way you crave and hate yourself for craving. The hand on your hip grips tighter, steadying you, and you feel the hard line of him pressed against your ass through his jeans. He works you open with ruthless patience, just his fingers at first, and when you whimper again he laughs—low, dark, affectionate.

You force yourself not to beg.

Not yet. You know how he loves to draw it out.

“Good girl,” he mutters, and you feel the words like heat all the way down. “Knew you could take it.” You don’t mean to, but you arch back for him, shameless, needier than you want to admit. He rewards you with another finger and you damn near sob. He stretches you, careful but unrelenting, until you’re shaking and desperate, rocking back onto his hand like you’re starving.

“Still wanna wait till after dinner ?” He teases. You choke on a sob.

“Oh, fuck you.” His hand comes up, palm landing flat and hard on your ass with a clap—loud, deliberate. You gasp, the sting immediate, bright, but what gets you is the sound Frank makes in response: a low, appreciative rumble, near a purr. He does it again, not as punishment but as punctuation, like he can’t help himself. Each spank sharpens you, narrows your focus until there’s nothing but the burn of his hands and the way he fills the room, the way he fills you without even being inside you yet. He leans down so his mouth is against your ear.

“Listen to yourself,” he growls low, and the heat of his breath on your ear sends a full-body shudder down your spine. “All that talk, and now you’re fuckin’ soaked for me.” He bites, careful but not gentle, on the thin skin just behind your ear, and you almost lose your grip on the countertop.

He keeps you bent there, trembling, every inch of your flesh mapped and learned under the rough drag of his palms. You want to be coy, to push back like you always do, but with his fingers working you open, with your face pressed to the cold laminate and his body caging yours, all you can do is gasp and bear down on the intrusion, pulse thudding wild where his hand circles your throat. He knows, somehow, exactly how much you can take. Every time you think you might break on it, he backs off just enough to let you catch your breath, only to drive you higher the next second. He fucks you with his hand and you’re teetering on the edge of something, desperate and humiliated and grateful all at once.

He pulls his hand out, slow, and you feel suddenly empty, ruined. But then his jeans are open, his cock harder than steel and pressed between your cheeks, and your mind goes white with want. He lines up with a grip so tight on your hip you can feel the individual bones flex. The first push is slow, deliberate, all hot blunt pressure. The burn is exquisite, and you’re sure you’re going to split in two, but Frank just laces his fingers through yours on the counter and leans over you, chest to your back, mouth at your ear.The ache is good. The stretch is better. It’s obscene how deep he gets, how he makes you feel stretched to the breaking point, and you can’t stop yourself from whining into the counter, from clawing at the slick surface for traction. He presses himself against you, letting you feel the size of him, thick and hard and absolutely merciless.

“You ready?” he asks—not a question, just a courtesy. You nod, forehead dropping to the cool counter. He laughs, soft and almost tender. “Good girl.” He lines up and pushes in, slow at first, just the head, just to watch you squirm. The burn is instant, a heavy, insistent ache that makes your toes curl in your socks. He waits, breathing hard, one hand tangled in your hair again, the other tracing lazy circles over your spine.

“Too much?” His tone is all concern, but he’s already rocking his hips, the head of his cock sliding wet and insistent against you. The stretch burns, rips you in half, and you groan, trying to push him away, shaking your head.

“Frank, you’re—” you try, voice breaking, “Oh, fuck, I can’t—” He hushes you instantly with another sharp slap, the bite of it driving the air out of your lungs.

“Yes you can,” he says, and the words are solid, immovable, stone-etched truth. “C’mon, baby, you take it like this every time. Let me in.”

“Breathe,” he says, and you crave the command so much you obey without thinking. He rocks in and you sob, body clamping down hard around him. Frank makes a raw, guttural sound in the back of his throat that you’ve never heard before, and the knowledge that you’re the cause of it is its own kind of reward.

“Fuck me,” he mutters, like a prayer, like a curse. “You’re unreal. Always so damn tight for me.” He drives in slow, so fucking slow, but doesn’t stop until he bottoms out. Your body protests and melts at the same time, every nerve ending tuned to the length of him inside you. He doesn’t move, just holds you there, lets you adjust, lets you feel every trembling inch. It’s not a tease. It’s ownership. It’s the comfort of knowing Frank will never take more than he can give back.

“You feelin’ that, sweetheart?” he says, voice rough as gravel. “You feel how deep you let me get?” His hand strokes your side, possessive. “That’s my girl. Christ.” You whine again, helpless, and rock your hips back into his. You know what he wants. You know what you want, too. So you take him, inch by careful inch, until you’re shaking with it. Your hands are shaking so hard they’re tapping against the counter, your eyes scrunched shut in pain. The faint smell of the tomato sauce lingers in the air. You whine, shaking your head, your legs threatening to give out from underneath you.

"Frank - fuck - I can't-" The pain in your voice is real, so real it makes him hesitate. Frank’s hands are on you in an instant, both of them, kneading your hips in blunt, careful arcs, not just holding you in place but steadying you, soothing the ache that splits you open. He bends closer, his body curving with yours, and you feel the slow tremor running through his arms—like it costs him to hold back. His mouth finds the curve of your shoulder, and he presses his teeth in—not gentle, but not cruel—a distraction, the sting pulling you out of the pain and back into your body.

He doesn’t move. Not yet. Just holds you, skin to skin, breath ragged in your ear.

“Shh. It’s all right,” he says, and it isn’t patronizing, even though it should be. It’s just Frank: solid, certain, the voice that always finds you in the dark. You can’t see his face but you can imagine it—jaw clenched, the line between his brows, the need there and the patience. How he wants to ruin you, but only in ways you want.

He strokes the arch of your spine, calloused palm dragging comfort into every vertebra.

“Easy, now,” he murmurs. “We can go slow.” And you believe him. You have to. You close your eyes, press your cheek to the cold of the counter, and breathe the air that tastes like tomato, garlic, him. Frank holds, and holds, and slowly you feel your hips unlock, your muscles letting down, the pain leeching out and leaking into something else entirely. The fullness is staggering, a pressure that keeps opening and opening you until there’s no resistance left, just shock at how good it feels once the tide turns. It’s too much and exactly enough at the same time.

“Goddamn,” Frank groans beneath his breath, and you feel him shake, just a little. His thumb moves over the waistband of your underwear—soothing, grounding, as if you might bolt. “You okay?” he asks, but doesn’t move until you give him something. A hand, twitching back to grab at his, squeezing until he knows you want him there.

“Okay,” you whisper. Your voice sounds broken, new. “You can move.” It’s all the opening he needs. He starts moving, shallow at first, barely pulling out before easing back in, careful and coaxing. The burn is still there, but it’s sweet now, tinged with something molten. You gasp, fingers digging crescent moons into the laminate. Frank stays close, his breath landing hot at the side of your neck, his hand smoothing up your ribs and under your shirt. He finds your chest, palm wide, covering your heart, and you arch into the contact, shameless.

“Good girl,” he rumbles, and this time you preen under the words, the praise sinking straight to where he’s moving inside you. He slides out an inch further, then presses in again, harder, and the stretch makes your vision stutter white at the edges. He repeats it—each time deeper, each time pushing you until you shudder and groan and have to remember your own name.The rhythm rides a tightrope—just enough, then more, then a little more. The ache morphs into an ache to be filled, to be fucked open further, and every single pull drags a startled sound out of you, half-humiliation, half-hunger. You’re so wet now it should be embarrassing, slick pooling between your thighs, leaving Frank’s cock glossed every time he pulls back. He leans over, and his chest presses into your spine. You feel the sweat at his sternum, the tremor in his arms. The hand at your breast curls in, rough thumb flicking your nipple until every nerve is shot through with want. He holds you up when your knees go soft, body folding around you.mHe grinds in slow and deep, and your eyes squeeze shut, all your leverage melting away. You don’t even mean to, but the sound escapes again—a whimper, desperate, pathetic. Frank’s breathing stutters, the raw edge of it scrubbing at your ear.

“That’s it. That’s my girl,” he says. The words come out like he’s proud of you and it scalds every soft part inside. “Taking me so good. Didn’t think you could, but look at you.” His palm shifts from your ribs to your stomach, and it lingers there, hot, like he’s stamping you for keeps. He sets a rhythm: in, all the way, grinding so deep you swear you can feel him where your breath should be, and then out, just enough to tease, and again. And again. It’s relentless, and you want it, you want it even when the pressure goes sharp and the world narrows to the counter edge and the squeeze at your hip where he still holds you steady. He talks the whole time, soft and relentless.

“You like it like this, huh? Bent over for me,” and, “Could stay right here all night, fuck you through the goddamn floor,” and, “Sound so pretty when you’re full, baby, goddamn.” You choke on a half-laugh, half-sob.

“Frank.”

“Right here,” he answers, instantly, squeezing your joined hands. “Not going anywhere. You’re all right?” You nod so hard it startles both of you, your forehead bouncing lightly on the countertop. He rewards you with a snap of his hips, a hard, brutal drag that has you seeing stars behind your eyelids. You don’t have the words; they’re gone, lost to the burn and the praise and the weight of him inside you. He leans in, his weight bracketing your body, and the hot, ragged drag of his cock inside you lands somewhere between agony and benediction. Frank’s hands never leave you—your hip locked in his grip, the other splayed wide and heavy on your stomach, as if to remind you, in every sense, exactly who’s in charge.

Oh, god, you’re so full it’s eclipsing; you can feel every thick inch, the stretch burning, and you want it, want it bad. He rocks forward, pinning you tighter to the counter, and suddenly your cheek is jagged against the cold laminate, the press of Frank’s chest at your back all the heat in the universe.

He starts to move for real. No slow build now—he’s fucking you in earnest, the rhythm brutal and perfect, every snap of his hips shoving you forward until your breath stutters and the words you want to say collapse together in your throat. It’s all sensation: the scrape of jeans low on your thighs, the ache where his cock has you strung out, the raw heat of his breath in your ear.

“Jesus, look at you.” Frank’s voice is shredded. “Should see yourself, all spread open for me. Bet you never get tired of this, huh?” You want to answer, want to find something smart to say, but every time you open your mouth it’s just these gasping, wet noises, nothing resembling language. He pulls you up by the hair and drags you upright, your back against his chest, and the angle just—obliterates you. You feel every hearty inch inside, the hand at your belly holding you steady while he thrusts up, hard, and you yelp, the sound coming out desperate.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Take it for me,” he growls, voice vibrating against the hinge of your jaw. Then his teeth are on your earlobe, biting down just shy of pain, hand sliding up your ribs to grope your breast through your shirt. You thrash, but it changes nothing—Frank’s grip is iron, his hips unyielding, and he knows exactly what you need before you do. His cock moves deep, then deeper, and you have a moment of wild panic: he’s too big, he’s going to break you, but it’s the best goddamn feeling on earth and you want more, you always want more, you want him to lose it and fuck you right through the kitchen floor. He ruts in, fast and hard, chasing the edge for both of you. He keeps talking, one filthy compliment after another, each one making your insides clench.

“You fight me on everything, but never this. Always open, always hungry for it.” Then he bites your neck, and you nearly scream. The hand at your throat tightens, just enough to make your vision stutter, and the other finds your clit, pinching it sharp, mean, perfect. You shatter—actually collapse, knees buckling so hard Frank has to catch you, folding you forward over the counter and pounding into you through the aftershocks.You can feel him behind you, losing control,soft palm at your stomach as if he’s keeping your guts inside while he splits you open. It’s almost too much, body trembling in the curl of his hold, but even as your throat works for air you’re arching back, chasing the next touch, the next feral pulse of his cock inside you.

“Wanted this all fuckin’ day. You got any idea how good you feel?” The pain and want blur; you can’t tell if each slam is mercy or punishment or a little of both. You bite down on your arm, chew through the moan, still it escapes, a pleading noise. He nearly loses it at the sound, cock swelling harder, pace stuttering. He lets go of your hand and snaps a palm on her hip, the sting leaving you bright and clean for a heartbeat, then gone. You sob into the laminate. Frank, ever greedy, curves over you, a hand flat on your back, holding you in a bend that makes you feel split right down the center.

“So fuckin’ good, mama. Open for me like that. You make me proud, you know?” He doesn’t even sound all there. He’s panting, run dry, every word sticking between you like honey. “Knew this is what you needed.” You want to tell him to shut the fuck up, but it won’t form, not with your mouth numb and jaw slack, tongue hanging on a string. Instead:

“You’re such an asshole,” You gasp. Your voice is broken glass but it’s almost funny, heat running in your veins. “You said dinner. Said we were gonna eat—“

“And we will,” he murmurs. “But you’re feeding me, right now. Starvin’ me all day then doin’ this? That’s cruel, baby.” He bites delicately at your ear and you shudder around him. “You want me to stop? Tell me right now.”You shake your head, but it’s not a no. It’s just the only thing left in your body with a motor function, so it shakes and shakes, and you gasp into the counter, feeling the whine arc out of you like a spark. Frank’s hand smooths higher, sneaking under your shirt to cup your ribs, not gentle, but steady, thumb painting a lazy circle on bare skin. He holds you together with that touch, keeps you from splintering off, and when you arch desperate back into him, the world narrows to the thick, hot grind of his cock inside you.

“No,” you manage, a little more air than sound. “Don’t you dare.” He laughs, low and raw, voice vibrating through your spine.

“Didn’t think so.” The angle changes, his grip caging you, pushing you just a little further over the counter, and your stomach hollows out as he drives deeper. It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s everything you wanted, everything you’d banked away all afternoon, hid from yourself until dinner was simmering and safe. Now you can’t remember what the word “boundary” is supposed to mean; you just want to stay right here, bent and open and completely full, the threat of more always one notch away.

Frank’s hand comes down on your ass, and the slap is perfectly timed, the sound and sting echoing through you. Your hips kick forward, but there’s nowhere to go—his other hand flattens you down, plants you in place. It feels like you’ll never move again. Maybe you don’t want to.

He fucks into you with no more talking—just heavy breath and the gritted-jaw sound he makes when he’s holding back. You know that sound, know it too well, and every time it lands at your ear it’s a new kind of hunger. So you push back, arch up, give him a place to hold you tighter. That’s always what he needs, anyway: something solid to break on. You moan, eyes rolling back, cheek pressed to the counter, nails digging into his hand as he holds onto you. Frank’s rhythm goes even rougher, each snap of his hips sending bright sparks to the backs of your eyes. He’s close—you can feel the torque in his grip, the rising raggedness in his breathing, the way his chest hammers against your spine with every move. You should be embarrassed by how desperate you sound, how greedy, but the words have all been scorched out of you, replaced by low, guttural pleas that don’t exist outside this kitchen, this moment.

He holds you bent over, coating your back with a wall of heat and muscle. Big hands bruise at your hips, relentless, claiming. He fucks you like he’s punishing you and spoiling you at the same time—rough, but with that care seamed into everything, pulling you back so you feel every inch, every drag and push and burn. The only thing sharper is his praise, pouring hot in your ear between thrusts, like it matters more than air. His hand slides between your legs, flattened fingers making quick work of your clit, and the contact is so immediate—so perfectly mean and necessary—you keen, a helpless, broken thing.

You try to get leverage on the counter but your arms are shaking too hard. Frank braces you, steeling your body with his own, all control as he grinds in deep with that touch. You swear you’re about to pass out, the pleasure crowding out every other sense—every part of you tuned to the flick of his thumb, the feral piston of his hips.

You don’t even know you’re coming until the pressure explodes—every nerve ending gone supernova, jaw slack, lips pulled back in a sob. Frank doesn’t slow, doesn’t let up at all, fucking you through it like he wants to draw every last tremor out of your body. You hope the neighbors hear, hope the universe does. He’s saying something—words thick, voice fractured—but all you can process is the heat in your ears and the battering ram of him inside. The hand on your clit is merciless, twisting and coaxing, pushing you past the redline. You clench around him desperately. He sucks in a sharp breath.

“Oh- Fuck- Yeah, baby, yeah.” He rasps. Frank loses the last of his grip and goes for broke: hands like iron about your hips, his cock punching into you with zero finesse now, just this raw, grinding piston that shoves you forward against the counter with every slap. The cabinetry rattles. Your shirt rides up, the cold laminate biting into your tits, but with each pounding thrust he drives the air from your lungs until you’re just a wet, working mouth and a sparking line of pleasure-dumb nerves. No words, now—he doesn’t have any more for you, not even the filth; he’s strung himself out on the feel of you, chasing his own whiteout edge. You can sense him fighting it, the desperate rhythm and the way his hands tremble, big overwhelming paws flexing where they pin your hips.

“Fuck, you’re gonna take it all.” he grits, voice shredded, like he’s warning you or himself. He buries himself to the hilt, so deep the stretch burns, and you arch ragged back to meet him, greedy, always. The grind of his cock sends a second shock through you—fuck, a third, the vibration flicking every switch inside, and even your aftershocks have aftershocks. Your knees don’t work at all anymore; you would have slumped boneless to the floor if he hadn’t trapped you in place, locked down in his grip. He growls—actually fucking growls at you—the sound full-throated, primal. His palm shoves at your ribs, slides higher, and you realize he’s trying to fold you, get you to arch farther, open even wider. You give it without thinking, let him bend you in half over the counter, the angle impossibly deep and obscene. The balls of his hips slap against you, a wet percussive echo, and you swear you can feel every frantic twitch of his cock, every shudder. Your pussy clenches frantically with aftershock, your whole body shuddering. Fuck, Frank’s going to break you. The angle’s impossible, cock driving in relentless, leaving no room for thought. Your face goes numb from the crush of the counter. Your knuckles white, gripping laminate, but he handles you so exactly you feel engineered for this. For him. For this singular violent, filthy purpose. He holds you bent, body trembling, and you feel his hand on your throat again, just the light, possessive squeeze. His words are gone, replaced by guttural noises, almost animal, and every sound punches straight to the base of your spine. He pounds you with all that’s left, no rhythm but need, his cock hitting something deep and perfect; it hurts, shreds you open in the way you crave. The burn at the edge of each thrust is a dare—how much more can you take? More. Always more.

You feel the wet mess between your thighs, the obscene slide of skin and spit and your own wrecked arousal. He slams in and holds, so deep it hurts, and you sob for him, pain tailing out into another, smaller aftershock that leaves you boneless, nothing but sensation and his body braced over yours. The pressure on your neck tightens just a fraction and you jerk, the edge of panic sharpening every other nerve ending.

“Frank—fuck—please,” You whine, shaking your head as your second orgasm builds, your core growing tighter as he continues to fuck into you, his control slipping. You’re going to die. He’s going to fuck you until something vital gives out and you’ll die, happy and ruined, a red smear on this laminate countertop. You can hear him grunting, working out all his anger or love or whatever tangled thing lives under Frank’s skin, jackhammering you in a way that leaves no room for anything else—past, future, shame, the kitchen’s overhead light buzzing like it wants to join in. He chokes up on your hair until your mouth hangs open, babbling, and then lets go so you collapse, raw-throated. Frank’s got you folded, two hands framing your hips as he pounds up and in, every thrust wet and obscene and perfect. He doesn’t modulate—just piston after piston until your body’s a live wire, until the slick slap echoes over the oven timer’s forgotten beep. You feel something break loose in your lower back, a shattershot of pleasure that makes you scream for real, and the sound surprises even you. It’s undignified, wild, but oh god you can’t stop, he’s still there, still pulsing and so big you’ll taste him for days.

He hauls you up, your back to his chest, and wraps a long arm around your torso, cupping your tits through your thin shirt, greedy. He fucks you upright now, slamming into you from behind with a force that rattles the air from your lungs.

“Look at yourself,” he growls, grinding your ass down onto his cock. “You want it this fucking bad?” He bites your shoulder, and the pleasure spikes, ripples pure and sick through your ruined core. You manage a nod, or something like it, and he lets out a sound that might be approval or warning. Or both. He smacks your tits, not gentle, and the shock knocks another broken moan out of you.

“That’s what I want,” he says. “Sound so good for me. Open up, baby.” As if you have a choice. Your legs are dead wires, your jaw gone slack, all the intelligence poured out through the hot white place in your pelvis. Frank owns your body now, your breath and movement and the ugly, delicious noises you can’t hide. He leans forward, presses your belly to the counter again, and fucks you in a way that doesn’t even feel real: the raw wrench of flesh, the base thump of skin and muscle and cock. You can feel him in your fucking throat. He yanks your hair, making your neck arch, and the stretch neuters every thought except more, more, more. Your pussy is so fucking wet it’s messy, you can hear it, you can sense it on your thighs, but Frank is addicted and won’t pull out, won’t even break rhythm. He wants to hammer you through every universe, flatten you into dust, keep you crammed full until the end of time.

Somewhere in the collapse, you barely feel his hand slide up again and take your chin. He wrenches your head sideways, makes you look at your own face in the glass reflection of the microwave above the stove. You see your mouth open, lips purpling, and you whimper. He strangles a curse, thick and slurred, into your hair; his fingers flex against your throat, and you know—know, like a hard-wired law of the universe—he’s about to come. Frank’s voice is an endless, low snarl in your ear—come on, give up, give it to me, fuck, fuck, yes—but what finally breaks you is when he says your name. Not the demented “baby” he uses when he’s being an asshole, not sweet girl or mama, but your real name, snapped out like a curse and a prayer. You choke on it, and come apart again, pussy clamping so tight on his cock it feels like your bones are caving in.Frank chokes out your name in a sound that’s not a word at all, just raw force, and then he snaps his hips in, the punch of it shoving your torso flush against the counter. He’s locked inside, as deep as humanly possible, and you don’t need him to say it to know: he’s coming, hard, with a punishing grind meant to put his mark somewhere far beyond skin. His cock throbs, thick pulse after thick pulse—hot, dizzying—and you can feel every sweep of it, the liquid heat pooling inside and slipping back around the plug of him, messy, obscene, perfect.

You whimper through the stretch, through the electric clench that makes your toes curl so hard you might snap bones. His hand won’t leave your throat, fingers splayed gentle but unrelenting, the thumb tracing lazy, mindless circles over your sweat-slicked skin. You’re trembling, shockwaves rolling through your muscles, and Frank just holds you, his weight a trap and a comfort both.

He pulls your body tight to his, the way you’d drag in a shield during a firefight, and fucks you through the last crest, like even after he’s spent, it’s not enough, like if he keeps you impaled here, desperate and full and twitching, you’ll finally understand what you do to him. Hot breath fans over your shoulder as he bows in, mouth pressed to where the curve of your neck meets your collar. You can feel the shudder run through him. Can taste the vulnerability in it.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, but it sounds less like cursing and more like apology, or confession. The hand on your hip goes soothing, fingers flexing in rough little sweeps, grounding you. “You okay, mama?” The words come out shivery, tattered at the edges. Your voice is past gone, throat seared, but you manage a little noise, maybe words, maybe just a sob. It’s enough. He laughs, soft, kissing your neck; the drag of his stubble is an ache that has nothing to do with pain. He lets go of your throat—slow, almost reverent—and slips his fingers up to your jaw, tilting your head until he can see the mess he’s made of you. You blink up through glassy eyes, and there’s nothing but pride in Frank’s expression, pure and unfiltered. Like winning a war. He snakes his other hand around your waist, palm hot and broad over your shuddering belly, keeping you upright, and you realize with a start that he hasn’t moved at all—still locked inside, softening, but not surrendering an inch of ground. You bask in it, the full feeling, the drag of every heartbeat echoed in your cunt. The aftershocks go on forever; he waits them out, breath syncing with yours, thumb tip rubbing lazy shapes against your lips.

“Hell of a view,” he finally says, voice wicked and fond. “Might have to do all your dinners right here from now on.” He’s panting into your shoulder. When he finally shifts, you collapse forward, a hot, sticky mess dribbling down your thighs. Every limb slack. Your cheek is slick with drool, the inside of your mouth chewed raw from biting down on your own skin. Frank lets you go slow, cradling you upright with a tenderness that aches more, in a way, than anything that came before.

“Shit. Sorry, honey.” His words are soft now, blurry at the edges. “Didn’t mean to…” He snorts, voice cracked and smug. “Well. I did, but. You okay?” You blink, vision shaky.

“Yeah. S’good.” More than good—it’s better than breathing. You can’t say that, so you just nod, letting him gather you up and steady your legs. Frank helps you to the floor, easing you down like you’re made of something expensive, and you want to laugh but your whole body is static. He keeps a hand on the small of your back, rubs slow circles, and his voice changes from that wolf-growl into something human.

“Sit. You’re shaking.” You are. The countertop has a streak of your sweat and a smear where your hand clutched, and you stare at it stupidly, as if trying to read the tea leaves of your own need. Frank crouches beside, knees popping. He’s flushed, hair pasted to his forehead, cock soft and mottled red, already half-slicked by the slick leaking down you, and he still looks at you like none of that matters more than your next breath. He shrugs the kitchen towel off the oven and presses it—sweet, chaste—between your legs, catching the worst of the mess, and he’s whispering little nothings.

“Good girl. Did so good. There you go.” He wipes careful, folds you up in his arms, sits you on his lap as if you haven’t just been gutted and brined. You burrow into him, forehead sunk against the thick heat of his neck. His hand migrates to your thigh, thumb painting calm. Muscles shake still, nerves fizzling, but you let yourself sag, pressed together on a kitchen floor glazed with late afternoon. Frank keeps petting, a running inventory of your limbs.

“You want water? Snack? Another round?” He’s half joking, but his voice’s all concern, and it’s worse and better than the fucking itself. If he starts apologizing, if he softens up further, you’ll probably cry. You shake your head. “You gonna talk to me, or just melt?”

“Melting,” you say, but it comes out in a wobble, and Frank grins, tucks a filthy curl behind your ear, the softest he’s touched you all day.

“Told you this’d be better than pasta. And I was right. I was very right,” he says, and the pride spikes off him like heat.

“You fucker—” He leans back, arms full of you.

“Let me get your sugar up.” He fishes a sleeve of cookie dough from the fridge, peels off a chunk, and pushes it to your mouth. “Eat,” he coaxes, and you do, and suddenly your tongue remembers flavors exist. He feeds you slow, little pieces, and you laugh through a mouthful, almost dizzy from the afterglow. The taste is so sweet it’s chemical, but you let him do it, let him shush the aftershocks, let him wrap both arms around your shaken self and whisper compliments into the wreckage of your hair. Eventually, you start to feel whole again. Not entirely—not when you’re wrapped in a body twice your size, still pulsing with history—but enough to string together questions, to reroute your own pulse. Frank sees it, kisses your forehead, and hums.

He feels the shift in you before you even say anything.

Frank always does. The second your breathing starts evening out and your muscles stop trembling so violently in his arms, his hand moves up to cradle the back of your head. Big warm palm holding you steady against his chest while the other keeps rubbing slow circles into your spine.

“There she is,” he murmurs softly. You make a sleepy little noise against his throat.

“Mhm.”

“That bad, huh?” There’s laughter hiding under the words now. Gentle. Worn-out. The terrifying intensity from earlier gone completely molten around the edges. “Think I knocked the attitude outta you.”

“You’re disgusting,” you mumble.

“And yet.” He presses a kiss into your hair. “You’re sittin’ in my lap like a housecat.” You are. Boneless. Legs tangled over his thighs, face tucked into the warm column of his neck while he keeps feeding you stolen chunks of cookie dough between kisses to your forehead. It’s humiliating.

Also objectively the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Frank shifts slightly beneath you, careful even now. One hand settling instinctively under your thigh to support you better when your hips twitch from soreness.

Immediately his expression changes. Concern.

“You hurtin’?”

“A little.” His jaw tightens instantly. Not angry at you. At himself. You feel it happen under your hands every single time. That strange whiplash in him after sex — going from rough possessive dominance to almost painfully tender guilt in the span of thirty seconds.

“Hey.” You lift your head enough to look at him. “It’s okay.” Frank studies your face hard, searching for any sign you’re lying.

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Softer now: “I’d tell you if it wasn’t.” That seems to matter to him. A lot. His shoulders ease slightly as his thumb drags beneath your eye. Wiping away smeared mascara you hadn’t noticed.

“You got quiet on me,” he murmurs.

“Because my soul left my body.” That finally pulls a real laugh out of him.

Low. Warm.

God, you love that sound.

Frank leans back against the cabinet behind him, arms tightening around you automatically when you melt further into his chest. He can never seem to stop touching you once he starts. Even now his fingers keep moving absentmindedly — rubbing your thigh, smoothing your hair back, tracing slow lazy lines over your waist under your shirt. Grounding himself. Grounding you.

“You cold?” he asks after a second.

“No.”

“Liar.” He reaches blindly for the discarded kitchen towel anyway, draping it over your legs with ridiculous seriousness for a man currently half naked on a kitchen floor. You smile against his shoulder.

“Domestic.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re literally tucking me in.”

“Yeah, well.” He kisses the top of your head. “You got fucked stupid. Somebody’s gotta supervise you.” Your laugh comes out cracked and exhausted. Frank’s face softens immediately at the sound.

There it is again.

That look.

Like seeing you happy does something irreversible to him every single time.

“You okay here?” he asks quietly after a moment. “Or you want a bath?” The fact that he asks gets you more than anything else tonight.

Not the filthy talk.

Not the rough hands.

Not the way he lost control halfway through and said your name like it meant religion.

This.

Frank sitting on the kitchen floor holding you like something precious while asking what you need. You blink hard suddenly. Frank notices instantly.

“Hey.” His hand cups your jaw. “What happened?”

“Nothin’.”

“Bullshit.” You laugh weakly, embarrassed now.

“I just…” Your throat tightens unexpectedly. “You’re nice to me.” Frank goes very still. Not because he dislikes it. Because something about hearing it genuinely hurts him.

“Baby,” he says softly, almost rough with it. “C’mere.”

You already are. Doesn’t matter. He pulls you impossibly closer anyway until you’re practically folded into his chest. His chin resting against your hair. “You don’t sound surprised when you say that,” he murmurs. Your eyes sting a little harder. Frank exhales quietly through his nose like he’s trying not to get angry on your behalf. Then he presses another kiss into your temple. “Always gonna take care of you after,” he says simply. Like it’s obvious. Like there was never another option. “That’s part of it.” You nod against him. Frank’s hand slides slowly up and down your back another few times before he speaks again, voice lower now. “You know you can tap me out anytime, right?” You lift your head enough to frown at him.

“I know.”

“Mean it.” His eyes hold yours steadily. Serious now beneath all the softness. “I don’t care how worked up I am. You tell me stop, I stop.”

“I know, Frank.” He searches your face another second before finally seeming satisfied. Then — because he’s incapable of staying serious too long when you’re curled up all soft in his lap — his gaze drifts toward the stove.

“…Think the pasta’s dead.” You snort so hard it hurts.

“That was your fault.”

“No,” he says immediately. “M’pretty sure this started because you got mouthy.”

“You bent me over a counter over linguine.”

“You were bein’ difficult.”

“I was feeding you!”

“You were denyin’ me access t’my wife.” He huffs. You roll your eyes, fingers trailing along his ab muscles.

Frank catches your wandering hand immediately.

Not to stop it.

Just to hold it there.

His big palm folds over yours against his stomach, trapping your fingers against warm skin while he looks down at you with that lazy, heavy-lidded expression he only gets after he’s wrung both of you completely out.

“You’re trouble,” he mutters.

“You like me.”

“Mhm.” He brushes his nose once against your forehead. “Unfortunately.” You smile into his throat, boneless now. Frank’s hands never stop moving on you for long. One stays spread across your back, slow steady strokes up and down your spine. The other drifts absentmindedly along your thigh beneath the hem of your shirt, soothing instead of possessive now.

The shift always gets you.

How seamlessly he moves from wrecking you to rebuilding you afterward. Like both things matter equally to him.

Maybe they do.

“You okay?” he asks again quietly after a minute. You nod against him.

“Tired.”

“Yeah, no shit.” His voice is fond. Rough around the edges. He reaches behind him blindly for the discarded kitchen towel and wipes another slow pass between your thighs, gentler this time when you twitch.

“Sensitive,” you mumble.

“Good.” A kiss presses into your hair. “Means I did my job.” You smack weakly at his chest. Frank catches your wrist without effort and kisses the inside of it once.

“Don’t start with me again,” he warns softly. “Got one round left in me if you keep actin’ cute.”

“You are a senile old man.”

“And still handled you just fine.” Immediate. You bark out a laugh, scandalized, and Frank finally grins — small and crooked and devastating because it’s real. Frank watches you the entire time. Like he can’t help it. Like even now, with you melted half-naked across his lap on the kitchen floor and the ruined pasta slowly congealing three feet away, he still looks at you with this awful aching kind of tenderness that feels too big for one person to hold. His thumb brushes beneath your eye suddenly.

“You cryin’?”

“No.” You sniff once. “Maybe.” He shifts you higher against his chest until you’re practically sprawled over him completely, your cheek tucked beneath his jaw while his arms lock warm and heavy around your waist.

Safe.

That’s what Frank feels like afterward.

Not despite the dominance.

Because of the care threaded through it.

The listening.

The restraint.

The way he pays attention to every breath you take like it matters.

You tilt your head back enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess. Mouth pink from kissing you stupid. There’s still sweat dampening the collar of his shirt and he looks unfairly handsome sitting on the kitchen floor holding you like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth

“My swwt fuckin' baby,” he murmurs, thumb stroking along your jaw, his eyes soft. “I love you so much. Y'know that ?”

Simple as breathing.

You smile before you can stop yourself.

“Maybe a little,” you admit quietly.

Frank’s entire face softens.

Not smug about it. Never smug when it’s real. Just warm in that deep aching way he gets when you let him see straight through you. His forehead drops against yours with a quiet exhale.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Means m’doin’ somethin’ right.”

“You’re so cocky after sex.”

“After?” One eyebrow lifts lazily. “Baby, I been cocky.” You snort against his throat. Frank’s hand slides slowly up your spine again, petting more than touching now. You lift your head enough to squint at him.

“You literally bent me over the counter before I could finish plating dinner.”

“And?” Completely unashamed. “You’re welcome.”

“That is not how that works.”

“M’pretty sure it is.” His hand drifts down to squeeze your thigh once. “You seem grateful.” You try to glare at him. Unfortunately, you are currently melted across his lap wearing nothing but one sock and his handprint on your hip, so the effect is somewhat ruined.

Frank notices immediately. A slow grin threatens at the corner of his mouth.

“You're real cute, y'know,” he mutters.

“Oh my God.”

“C’mere.” Again.

“You’re already holding me hostage.”

“Mhm.” He settles you even closer somehow, huge body warm around yours. “An’ yet you keep stayin’.” You roll your eyes but curl into him automatically anyway. Frank watches you do it with quiet satisfaction. Like he’ll never get tired of the fact that your body seeks him out on instinct. His stomach growls suddenly. You go still. Then slowly tilt your head up.

“…Was that you?” Frank looks offended.

“No, sweetheart, there’s a bear in the apartment.” You start laughing immediately, the sound weak and breathless from exhaustion. Frank watches you with that same unbearable softness while you do.

“Frank,” you whisper helplessly.

“What?” Innocent. Completely fake. “M’allowed t’love my wife.”

“You make it really hard to stay annoyed at you.”

“That sounds like another you problem.” You gasp.

“That’s my line!”

“M’stealin’ it.”

“You’re the worst.”

“And you’re obsessed with me.” Immediate. You open your mouth. Close it again. Frank’s grin finally appears properly this time — crooked and rough and unfairly handsome.

“Thought so.” You smack his chest weakly. He catches your hand again, kisses your knuckles one by one. Then, without letting go of you, he reaches blindly for his phone off the counter.

“What’re you doing?”

“Ordering food.”

“What happened to the pasta?” Frank glances toward the stove. The pot is still there. The sauce definitely burnt. One noodle is somehow stuck to the cabinet. He looks back at you calmly.

“Pasta died in the line of duty.” You laugh so hard you nearly slide off his lap. Frank tightens his arms instantly to keep you upright, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, already opening the delivery app, “you continue lettin’ me fuck you.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“You want Thai or burgers?” The question is so absurdly normal after everything that another helpless laugh bursts out of you. Frank watches your face the whole time, thumb rubbing lazy circles into your hip.

Waiting.

Patient. Like your answer actually matters.

“Thai,” you decide finally.

“Good choice.” He hums approvingly. “Gettin’ you extra rice.”

“I hate extra rice.”

“You need carbs.”

“You sound ninety.”

“And you sound bratty.” He glances down at you. “Wanna see if your legs work yet?”

taglist !

He came home like normal, a long day of doing construction and avoiding his jackasses of coworkers. He pulled up to the brownstone you two had outside the city in a quiet suburb. Tiredness ached at his eyes and he rubbed a hand through his grown out curls before reaching the door. Unlocking it, he steps inside and is immediately greeted by aromatic spices in the air. A telltale sign you were cooking and his heart flutters with warmth instantly.

Soft R&B music plays from the kitchen, accompanied by pots and pans moving about. He follows the sound, quietly walking along the floor in an effort not to alert you. He's about to round the corner when he hears you humming, singing softly along to the song that plays and his heart seizes even more. Frank turns the corner and sees you and his jaw slackens with awe as he takes you in.

Your back is to him as you focus on the stove that's in front of you. You're adorned in a simple tank top and shorts set, but the outfit feels anything but simple to Frank. Your legs are on display and even a tiny sliver of your skin shows in the clothing break between the top and bottom. Frank's lip twitches when he realizes you aren't wearing a bra either. His eyes go back down to your rear, a gentle sway of your hips occurring as you stir what you're cooking. You're lost in your own domestic world as Frank stares at you with admiration. His beautiful wife who causes him to pause even when you're doing the most mundane things.

Sensing you were not alone and Frank snuck in, you cast a gaze over your shoulder to see him staring at you. Your eyes widen, not expecting to see your husband just staring at you but you give him a soft grin that seems to release him from his trance.

"Frankie." You say and he smiles softly. He walks over, throwing his keys onto the counter with his hands outstretched to you. They find the curve of your waist and you lean back against him. He places a kiss on your temple.

"Hey, sweetheart. Didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't," you assure, looking down at the stew, "when did you get in?"

"Just now," he says, pressing his lips against your temple again, "missed you today." Frank admits and you turn off the stove before turning around to face him. You give him a soft pout, looking up at him before teasing his curls out of his face.

"I missed you too," you admit, "you were gone when I woke up this morning." another pout forms across your face and he fights the urge to kiss it away.

"You looked so peaceful this morning I couldn't possibly wake you, doll." He answers and you hum.

"What a romantic you are."

"Better than any of those damn romance novels you be readin'." Frank picks at you and you roll your eyes.

"Got jokes today huh, Mr. Castle?" You banter back and Frank chuckles.

"Yeah, I do, Mrs. Castle." Frank says and you swoon at your official title. Your eyes flicker to his lips and you stretch up, puckering your lips. Frank meets you halfway, pecking you softly and you smile. You reach for another and he happily obliges.

"Dinner's done. Are you hungry?" You ask and he nods.

"Starvin'."

You two move in a comfortable silence as you plate the food and Frank washes his hands. Frank's stomach growls the moment you set his bowl down in front of him and he thanks you with a kiss. You settle across from him and the two of you start digging in.

“How was your day today?” You ask him after a few moments of silence. Frank looks up at you, mouthful of stew before swallowing.

“Same ole, same ole, how about you sweetheart?” He asks and you hum.

“Good! I did some errands, some cleaning, I went to the grocery store to get that beer you like…” You ramble off all the things you did today, animatedly talking with your hands as you do and Frank stares at you fondly. He even puts his spoon down at one point to give you his full attention, humming and adding a comment here and there when necessary. Its moments like these Frank adores more than anything.

Just a simple dinner with his beautiful wife over an amazingly cooked food.

But then the atmosphere shifts when you mention something bashfully.

“Then I also had a dream while I was napping.” You say and your tone of shyness catches Frank’s attention. He raises an eyebrow, expecting you to go on but all you do is bite your lip.

“Oh yeah,” you nod, “what was the dream, doll?” Frank asks, awaiting your answer because he couldn’t imagine what would have you this shy. His outspoken wife who's never afraid to put him in his place is this shy?

You take a deep breath before looking at your husband in his eyes.

“I had a dream I had your baby, Frank.” You say and Frank’s eyes drop to your stomach thats blocked by the table. He looks back at you, trying to gauge what you were trying to say to him.

“My baby, huh?” He asks and you nod. Your cheeks are so hot as you feel his steady gaze on you. You can't quite read what's going on in Frank's head so you nervously continue.

"Yeah. She was so cute and so small," you ramble, "i was filled with so much love and I remember seeing your face and how excited you were and then I woke up." You frown, distress forming across your face unintentionally. You didn't mean to show how disappointed you were that you woke up with an empty womb and no baby to be heard, but you did and that did not go unnoticed with Frank.

"A girl?" Frank asks, suddenly picturing a baby girl nursing off of you, milk drunk and gurgling at him. A heavy feeling seizes Frank's chest, right where his heart is as you nod.

"A beautiful baby girl." You confirm.

"Do you want that, sweetheart?" Frank asks, watching your expression turn bashful once again. You look down at your stew briefly, chewing on your bottom lip before he calls out to you again.

"Baby?" He calls gently.

"Yes." You say, and he's not sure if you're answering or confirming.

"Yes?" He asks, hand reaching out to grab yours. You smile, looking at your joined hands before looking back at him.

"Yes." You confirm, and Frank knows you want a baby.

"Then lets not keep you waiting, huh?"

You two feverishly make out in the bedroom after abandoning dinner on the table. Frank eventually excuses himself from you, heading to the bathroom to take a shower before committing to his promise.

"Then lets not keep you waiting, huh?"

The sentence echoes in your head as you bite your lip. Your core tingles, fluttering as you listen to the water running in the bathroom. Thighs become slicker with your arousal as you anticipate what Frank was going to do to you. The look on his face when you told him about your baby dream was seared into your brain. That look of awe yet primal lust left you clenching your thighs together since dinner.

And this pathetic excuse of clothing you wore for him was doing a terrible job of disguising it.

You felt hot, anxious as the water cut off before you knew it. You look towards the bathroom, eyes waiting for the door to open from the ensuite.

And when it does, Frank is wearing nothing but a towel. He walks over to you, steam wafting off his skin as he looks down at you. You look up at him with soft eyes.

"You wanna carry my baby, sweetheart?" He asks and you nod. His hand comes to your cheek, caressing it as you look at him with soft eyes.

"More than anything, Frankie." You assure him, hands grabbing at his towel and he lets you undo it. His cock springs free, hard and threatening to leak precum at any second.

"Let me give you one then, bunny." He says before he starts to fulfill his promise.

He starts by reaching down to kiss you harshly, a force that's full of passion of lust. You start to take your cami off but Frank is faster. He quickly breaks the kiss before sliding the cami off of you with a single motion. Before you can say anything he dives back in, sucking on your bottom lip and causing you to gasp. The kisses igniting a fire within you and you feel the heat spreading from your chest to between your legs. A gentle buzz occurs between and you close your legs together, attempting to alleviate the itch but you gasp when his strong hands pry them open.

Frank breaks the kiss as you gasp, his dark brown eyes staring at you with heat and intensity.

"On your back, doll." You obey instantly at the request.

Laying on your back, you look up at Frank as he looks at you. He takes a moment before his hands go to your cotton shorts, strong fingers hooking into the band before sliding them down. Goosebumps erect all along your thighs as you're left completely bare. He raises an eyebrow.

"You hate wearing panties around me, don't you?" He asks and you shrug.

"I might've anticipated this happening." You admit and he chuckles. He says nothing at first, simply parting your thighs to see your soaking folds. His pupils dilate as a soft groan erupts in the back of his throat. Your pretty pussy shiny with arousal and Frank wants to fuck it right then and there. He looks up at you, seeing your eyes hooded with seduction. His cock twitches at the sight and his finger finds itself deep within your cunt.

Frank pumps a second finger in and you mewl, biting your lip as you throw your legs open wider. Your puffy clit opens up to him, standing at attention and begging for him to suck on it. He licks his lips before sinking to his knees.

"Frank!" You cry when his lips wrap around your clit. He suckles on it brutally, tongue flickering hot against it as you arch your back. You moan, a desperate hand coming to his head of curls before gripping hard. He hisses but sucks on your clit even harder.

Your hips start moving on their own accord, winding and grinding along his eager mouth. He's focused and when he adds a third finger, stretching you out, you whine. Your back arches off the bed.

“Taste so good, sweetheart. I gotta have a taste before I put a baby in you.” Frank says against your cunt and you moan, fingers clutching his curls even harder.

"Baby, please." You beg as the tip of Frank's tongue circles your swollen clit. He tongue laps at it messily, spit coating your clit before taking it back in his mouth. Frank messily suckles as he steadily sinks his thick fingers in your soaked cunt. The tips of his fingers curling deep in that spot that earns the most moans out of you.

"Smell so fuckin' good sweetheart," Frank damn near moans against your pussy, "can live between these legs forever." He continues worshipping you between your thighs, licking and sucking on you like a man starved. And you encourage him, pressing his head deeper against you because you couldn't get enough of the way his tongue traced the intricate curves of your folds.

“Frank.” You sigh and he groans at the sound. He kisses your clit before crawling up your frame. His fingers leave, making you feel empty but when Frank rubs his tip up and down your folds your insides shiver.

“Feel that, sweetheart? Feel how eager I am to put a baby in you?” He asks and you nod as he stares down at you. When his tip meets your clit the two of you moan, the sensation driving you both crazy.

“Want your cock in me now, Frankie.” You plead, reaching down with your hand to grab his wrist. He chuckles softly as you try to guide him inside of you.

“Easy easy,” Frank says and you frown, moving your hand from his wrist and allowing him to take control, “I hear you sweetheart, Frankie’s got ya.” He says taking his free hand to lace it with yours. He crawls on top of you, the heat from his body wafting as he shortens the distance between you two. His eyes bore into yours, staring at you as thoughts swim of how beautiful you look beneath him like this. Hair fawned out all sides of you, lips parted as shallow breaths escaped, and your expression so angelic and submissive as you wait for him to make a move.

“Mmph—Frank!” You sigh when he finally pushes into you. The head slipping past your folds and burying itself in the deep parts of you. Frank groans, feeling the way he fits so snug inside you. He rocks his hips softly at first, easing his tip out before sliding back in with the help of your slick. Soft explicit sounds of your wet cunt and his balls slapping against the curve of your rear accompany one another. Then, when Frank picks up the pace you start moaning louder.

“Shit sweetheart you feel so good.” Frank praises, snapping his hips erratically. A high pitched whine escapes your throat, whimpering as his cock nudges that spot deep within you. His hand rests at your throat, fingers splaying up your cheek as he holds your face. You share intense eye contact with him as he keeps his grip on you steady, not letting you turn your head to look anywhere else.

"Frank." You whimper out and he raises an eyebrow.

"Talk to me, doll, what's the matter? Tell me and Frankie'll make it better huh?" He says, still thrusting into you and you cry.

"Want you deeper." You tell him, hitching your legs up higher and Frank catches the hint. He lets go of your neck, grabbing onto your ankles and placing them on his shoulders.

The new position, mating press, opens you up wider and Frank's cock plunges deeper inside you. You cry, feeling every inch of him stretching you out with the new position. Your puffy clit feels the sensation of Frank's course pelvic hairs rubbing against it and you mewl at the added pleasure.

"This how you want it? Folded in half up under me, sweetheart?" Frank teases and you nod, feeling him pick up the pace as he thrusts faster and deeper.

"Yes, you feel s'good, Frankie." You praise, whimpering underneath of him. Your hand comes up to his face, cradling it as you bring his mouth down to yours. Frank grunts, pressing his lips against yours. The two of you makeout nastily, tongues coming out to play as saliva swaps between you two. The taste of Frank drives you wild and you keep diving back in for more. The same could be said of Frank, losing himself every time your tongue came out to dance with his.

You eventually come up for air when Frank snaps his hips harder. You cry out, biting your lip and whimpering as you look down. His thick cock pistoning between your soaked folds that drip with arousal that coats him with a creamy ring. You whimper again at the sight before looking back up at Frank. His wild brown eyes trained on you to look for any signs of discomfort. Shared contact is held and Frank's hand finds your face once more.

His thrusts continue as he takes in the look of you drunk off of him. Your eyebrows furrowed and lips permanently open as whines and whimpers escape from you. He knows this position left you speechless, only saying nonverbal words and his name. Each time he thrust back into you a broken whine fell from you and its one of his favorite things to hear.

“Taking me so good sweetheart, s’good s’tight you really want me to put a baby in here?” Frank taunts, still spliting you open and you nod eagerly. The thought of him cumming inside you, leaving you leaking and possibly forming a life inside you caused a shiver to erupt throughout your body.

“Yes, Frankie please put a baby in me.” You babble, tears forming in the brim of your eyes and Frank flicks them away tenderly as they fall.

“My sweet little wife wants a baby,” he thrusts, “our baby,” he continues, “well i’ll fuckin’ do it sweetheart. Want me to make you a mommy so bad huh?” Frank’s words leaves your head swimming with pleasure. His filthy comments only make your body tingle with the pending orgasm that continues to creep closer and closer to you. Your nipples are hard, your thighs are shaking, and your clit is just aching and throbbing at all the sensations Frank gives you.

“Make me a mommy please, Frankie.” You manage to choke out and he grunts. He draws his hips out slowly, slowing down his erratic thrusts before slamming back in at once, not letting your cunt adjust. You scream, hands flying to his back as your nails make home upon his skin.

“Frank!” You cry, eyes shutting and more tears spilling as he repeats the same thrust again. Easing out slowly to slam back in you deep.

“Gonna make sure you take every drop of my cum,” Frank says, “can’t let any of it go to waste you hear me?” And you nod frantically in response.

“Mmmphh, baby yes yes yes." You chant, "want you to cum inside me Frankie." The words cause Frank to hiss, fighting from cuming inside you right then and there. He's close, cock pulsing inside you as your cunt sucks him in, gripping him explicitly whenever he slams himself back in.

"I know you do," Frank hisses, "I feel your pussy tight around me, baby." Frank casts a look down, seeing the way your arousal continues to drip out of you. The sheet is drenched, soaked with your essence and a low growl vibrates in the depths of his throat.

"Frankie I'm close." You warn, feeling that knot in your core slowly unraveling. Frank knows it, hearing your breathing get heavier and your nails even start to break the skin on his back as you brace yourself.

"I know I know, sweetheart. Want you to be a good wife and come all over me." Frank praises and you moan. He's not far behind you, his grunts become more primal, rumbling deep within his chest as he's determined to make you come.

He picks up his pace, greedily slamming back into you quicker and not allowing you to recover. Silent screams start to fall from your mouth as you struggle to speak. His cock bullying you and your soaking cunt closer to euphoria.

"Frank!" You whine.

"Shit, sweetheart squeeze yourself around me f'me okay?" Frank commands, wanting to feel your cunt even tighter around him. Not only was the pleasure for him, but also for you. You obey, tightening yourself around him when he bullies himself back in and both of you moan.

"Fuck." You cry.

"Atta girl, that's my fucking girl. Do it again." He slides back out and when he thrusts himself back in you do it again. He doubles over, hissing and you become overwhelmed with pleasure. That knot is pulling, pulling, and pulling and suddenly a pulse shoots through your core, tingling your clit as your toes curl.

"Fuck, fuck fuck, Frank!" You sob, tears falling out of your eyes as you shut them tight. Your back arches off the bed, nails pressing further into his back as you surrender to your orgasm. Your cunt squeezes before gushing all around Frank, wetting his cock as your walls flutter and spasm around him. He can't fight it anymore, and his mouth grows slack before a loud groan comes from his mouth.

"Fuck, shit." Frank cums in thick ropes inside you as he pumps you full. He ruts in you deep as he milks himself of every drop inside you. You're shivering, whimpering while you hold onto him as he continues to cum inside.

Frank gradually ceases his thrusts, protective body shielding yours as you continue to hold onto him. His eyes take in your body as you slowly open your eyes.

You stare back at him, eyelids hooded with post ecstasy bliss. A soft lopsided grin is plastered across your face as you stare up at your husband. Your fingers leave his back to play with those curls once again that fall in his face for the second time today.

“Feelin' okay, sweetheart?” He asks and you nod, smile stretching harder because this man who just fucked you to oblivion and back spoke so softly as if you were the most fragile thing. It's an alluring side to see, this man who could kill a man with his bare hands used those same hands to caress soft circles into your skin. Hand back on your cheek, thumb tracing circles along your cheekbone as you come down from your orgasm.

"I feel perfect, Frank," you assure him, "what about you?"

"Peachy, doll." He says as you're bringing a hand to his neck to bring him down to you. He obliges, meeting you halfway with a kiss. It's soft, gentle and tender as if you two were reaffirming your love for one another. Another kiss is shared before you two pull away. Another gentle caress to your cheekbone before he speaks.

"Lets get you cleaned up, huh?" You agree instantly.

Frank, now soft, slides out of you but both of you sigh at the loss. Frank leaves to grab a wet towel and you curiously eye between your legs. And sure enough, the inside of your thighs are dripping with a mixture of you and Frank's cum. A satisfied feeling blooms within your chest and you see even more cum leaking out of your folds. And that's when you realized you need to have more baby making sex with Frank often.

Deep in your thoughts, Frank comes back seeing you stare at the mess and he raises an eyebrow.

"You feel alright?" He asks, wet towel in hand ready to wipe you off but worried something is wrong.

But when you look up at him, eyes swimming with contentment and that gentle lip bite you do when you're feeling shy about something, he knows what you're thinking.

You love seeing his cum drip out of you.

"Never better." You finally reply and Frank chuckles. He kneels in front of you, parting your legs before beginning to wipe you down.

"You're somethin', bunny." Is all he says and you hum. You lay back down, letting Frank clean you up like the spoiled wife you are.

And when he finishes, he scoops you up off the bed, carrying you bridal style to the bath he apparently ran while you were so deep in thought.

And after the bath, you two are wrapped up together in freshly changed sheets. Your head on his broad chest along with your hand that wears your wedding band and ring. Frank watches it catch the moonlight, the diamond sparkling and he grabs ahold of your hand with his. You swoon as you feel him bring your knuckles up to his lips, kissing them softly.

"Would do anything for you, you know that?" His gruff voices breaks the silence and you look up at him, chin resting on his chest.

"I do, Frankie," you say, "including giving me a baby." You say and you watch a genuine smile stretch across his face. It's not often he smiles so wide like this but when he does you feel a cage of butterflies set free in your stomach every time.

"'specially giving you a baby sweetheart." Frank says and you hum, kissing the skin where your chin had rested.

"Again tomorrow?" You ask when you lay your cheek against him again. He laughs, the sound rumbling deep in your ears. He leans down, kissing the top of your head before replying.

"And the day after. Until you get a positive test." Frank promises you and you smile. You settle your face deeper into his warm skin before sleep took a hold of you. When you're snoring gently, Frank finds comfort and finds himself drifting off too.

But little did you both know.

This one session was all you needed

And new life began to flutter and stir within you . . .

→📄 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“No.” 

You stood in the doorway of Micro’s hideout, staring down the most infuriating man you’d ever met. Frank glared at you through the pouring rain, heaving. He was likely injured or in need of a place to sleep, but his stupid, handsome face had soured your mood immensely.  

“Not your call, sweetheart,” he grunted, looking you up and down, though he made no move to shove past you into the hideout. 

“No,” you repeated, crossing your arms. 

Frank’s nostrils flared. Good riddance. 

“Still mad about the last time we saw each other?” He taunted, smirking. 

“Fuck you, Frank.” 

You slammed the door, hoping it whacked him in his large nose. It wasn’t a matter of anger; it was a matter of principle. That’s what you told yourself, at least. Frank had been circling you for years, walking in and out of your life without a second glance. He’d appear on your doorstep, call you pretty, fuck you better than any man should be capable of, and then disappear for weeks again. You’d done this dance so many times that you’d lost count a long time ago. You were not in the mood to dance anymore. 

Frank banged on the door, sparking another wave of anger deep in your bones. He was relentless, but you were stubborn. You ignored it, turning back to the couch you’d been half-asleep on before his unwelcome arrival. A grumble echoed through the door, rattling in your bones. You hesitated, turning back toward the door. You hated yourself for it, but Frank was hard to say no to. He didn’t deserve your kindness, but you extended it to him anyways. 

An annoying grunt left your throat as you swung the door open again. 

“That was pathetic,” you said, glaring at his still-smirking face. You moved to the side, allowing him into the abandoned building. 

“Where’s Micro?” He asked, looking between Micro’s usual haunt in front of the computers and your furious figure. 

“Occupied,” you sent him a mocking smile, plopping down on the couch. 

“Doing what?” His eyes followed your every move intensely. 

“I’m not his mother, Frank. I don’t know.”  

You threw your hands up in exasperation, curling your legs into your body. The TV was quietly playing re-runs of The Twilight Zone. You pretended to watch it as Frank moved to a fro, doing whatever it is that assholes do when they interrupt your very peaceful evening.  

A stifled groan echoed from the small bathroom, pulling your attention away from the show. You blinked, shaking your head. Whatever Frank was doing in there was not your business. You refocused on the tv, hoping the rain would muffle his grunts. It didn’t, of course, and when the groans began ringing in your ears, you found yourself drawing closer to the noise.  

Frank was shirtless, hunched over the sink, gripping a needle and thread in his shaking hand. Blood dripped from a nasty wound on his back, littering the floor around him. A small knife was lodged into his shoulder blade. The sight was nauseating. He was breathing heavily, eyes closed in concentration. 

“What happened?” You asked, moving closer to the trembling figure. 

He jumped, then let out another groan. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he heaved, gripping the sink hard enough to crack the fake porcelain. 

You rolled your eyes, huffing. 

“You have a knife in your back, Frank,” you said, stating the obvious. 

“ ‘m fine.” He attempted to wave you off but immediately grunted at the movement. 

You placed a hand on his unwounded shoulder, hoping to disarm his foul mood. 

“Let me help,” you said, meeting his gaze in the dirty mirror. 

He finally nodded, dropping his eyes to the blood-soaked sink. 

He still towered over you, even hunched forward. You eyed the knife, hoping it’d be an easy removal. You knew your way around injuries, especially knowing Frank for as long as you had, but there were wounds that even you couldn’t fix. This one didn’t seem too deep. 

“Who did this to you?” 

You began inching your way towards the knife, hoping to distract him as you removed the blade. 

“You gonna go after ‘em?” He teased, smirking at your frown. 

“Maybe,” you teased, “Maybe not.” 

“Let me worry about ‘em, sweetheart.” 

He sounded genuinely concerned, which almost made you laugh. You scoffed instead. 

“ ‘m serious. Don’t get involved,” he grunted, meeting your gaze in the mirror. 

“I won't. I was just trying to distract you,” you said, quickly dislodging the knife from his back in one swift motion. 

He stifled a groan, somehow squeezing the sink even tighter than before. You carefully placed the knife on the counter as Frank’s heaving echoed around the bathroom. 

“That fucking hurt,” he finally growled, standing to his full height so that you had to look up at him. 

“Sorry.” You grinned. 

“No, you’re not.” 

You nodded, agreeing with his observation. You were not sorry in the slightest. 

“You’re right. And you’re bleeding all over Micro’s nice, clean floor.” 

He grunted but didn’t move to stop the bleeding. You kept your eyes on his, ignoring the way his muscled chest was heaving so close to your own. 

“We even now?” He finally spoke, dangerously low. 

You rolled your eyes, scoffing. Sure, he’d given you the chance to physically hurt him in return for his swift departure from your apartment the last time you’d seen him, but that didn’t make up for the fact that this toxic relationship was ruining your sense of self. Your self-esteem was at an all-time low. Why weren’t you good enough for him? 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lied, shaking the thoughts from your head. 

“Thought you were smarter than that, sweetheart.” 

He tapped the bottom of your chin with a bloody finger. Teasing. Taunting. Tempting you to bite it off. You pulled away from him, anger renewed.  

“You’re an asshole, Frank,” you sneered, turning to get as far away as possible from him. 

“Woah, sweetheart,” he said, wrapping his hand around your arm and tugging, pulling you flush against his chest. “I was joking. Relax.” 

You shoved against his steel hold around you, letting out a frustrated sigh when he didn’t let go. 

“Don’t fucking tell me to relax. I don’t want to do this with you anymore, Frank.” 

He blinked, then unlocked his arms and took a full step back. You were grateful for the distance, finally able to breathe now that he wasn’t smothering you. 

“I didn’t know,” he simply said. 

“Of course you didn’t. That would require you to care, which you’re clearly incapable of.” 

It felt like a low blow. Frank cared more than anyone you’d ever met, but you wanted to kick and scream, and he was being entirely too levelheaded for your liking. 

“I care,” he sneered, taking the bait. “Don’t say shit you don’t understand.” 

“I understand plenty,” you pointed at him, “I’m not a thing you get to take your sexual frustration out on, Frank. I have feelings.” 

“Oh, I see,” he said, mocking you, “What do you want me to do? Take you out? Treat you like a girlfriend? A wife? I never promised you any of that.” 

“I get it, Frank. Whatever,” you said, leaving the bathroom. Your plan to rile him up had worked, but his words hurt worse than you’d ever admit. Still within earshot, you called out, “Clean up the fucking floor before you leave.” 

You occupied yourself in Micro’s makeshift kitchen, ignoring what you hoped were the sounds of Frank cleaning up and leaving. You never wanted to see his abnormally large nose again. You’d probably punch it. Or kiss it. You couldn’t decide which would be worse. 

Suddenly, Frank pressed against your back, wrapping his arms around your torso. His cheek rested on the crown of your head. Guilt roiled in your gut, but you didn’t say anything. You wanted him to go. You wanted him to stay. You wanted to knee him in the groin. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Let me make it up to you,” he whispered, voice raspy in the quiet kitchen. 

“Did you clean up?” You rested your palms against the countertop, hoping the coolness of the granite would contain the heat climbing up your throat. 

“Cleaner than it was. But that bathroom has never been clean.” 

You bit your lip, hiding the smile that forced its way onto your face. 

“Are you still bleeding all over Micro’s floor?” 

“No,” he shook his head, swaying against you. 

“Leave,” you said, sighing. You didn’t mean it, and he knew it. 

“You know I can’t let you go to bed angry, baby” He teased.  

You felt his smirk against your head. 

“I’m angry every time I see you, Frank.” 

“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you,” he repeated, pressing a kiss to your temple for emphasis. 

“How?” 

You knew he wouldn’t be able to fix everything. It was in Frank’s nature to leave when feelings got too big.  

“The only way I know how,” he whispered, running his hands over your waistband. 

You couldn’t help it. You arched into him, resting your head against his chest. Your shirt, already cropped, revealed goosebumps along your torso. 

“Let me show you how sorry I am, sweetheart,” he murmured, fingers splaying over the exposed skin above your pant line. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”  

You believed him, cursing yourself for allowing him to worm his way back into your good graces. 

“You’re going to run off like you have every other time,” you breathed, closing your eyes. 

His fingers wound their way around your stomach, soothing touches for all the times he’d burned you. 

“I won’t,” he shook his head, “’ll stay this time.” 

“You can’t possibly think I believe that,” you said, scoffing. 

“Let me take care of you, baby,” he murmured, ignoring your statement, solidifying the truth of it. 

You hated him for it. You hated yourself even more for nodding your head, agreeing to his suggestion. Knowing he was a lying snake. Knowing he would do the same thing he always did. Knowing this would end with you alone in bed, again. 

“I hate you,” you whispered, arching further into him. 

“Yeah? You hate me, baby?” He asked, pushing his hand down the front of your pants. Warmth echoed throughout your body as his fingers brushed against your clit. “You’re already fucking soaked. You don’t hate me, sweetheart. You love this.” 

He emphasized his statement by rubbing circles around your sensitive clit. You moaned, leaning into his strength to keep you upright. His free hand was holding you steady against his chest while he teased you relentlessly. 

“I love it too,” he whispered against your ear, sending goosebumps down your back, “I love seeing you so worked up over me. So angry. Makes me hard. I think about it for days afterwards.” 

“Liar,” you gasped, whining when his finger teased your entrance. 

He tutted, wrapping one hand around your throat and lightly squeezing. 

“Don’t be a brat,” he chided, running his other fingers through your wet folds. “’m here to say sorry, remember?”  

You moaned when he finally plunged two fingers into you, pumping in and out as he lightly squeezed your neck. 

“See? You’re so good for me when you’re nice and quiet,” he teased. 

Your jaw dropped, ready to argue. He chuckled. 

“’m joking, baby.” 

He peppered your neck with kisses, emphasizing every pump of his fingers with sloppy nips at your skin. You were wound up tight like a bomb, moments away from explosion. Frank had that effect on you. 

“I’m not forgiving you after this,” you huffed, whining when his thumb brushed your clit. 

He hummed in response, tightening his grip on your throat. 

“Don’t want your forgiveness, baby,” he finally murmured, breath skittering across your exposed skin. Goosebumps fluttered down your spine. “Just need this sweet, sweet pussy.” 

He curled his fingers, sending an electric pulse through your body so overwhelming that your knees gave out. An orgasm ripped out of you so fast you couldn’t catch your breath. You mewled as Frank slowly bent you over the counter, gently pulling his hand out of your pants. Your legs wobbled in sickening desire as he tugged your pants down, exposing your ass. 

“Love that sound you make when you come, baby,” he grunted, kneading the newly exposed flesh between his large hands. “It plays in my head when you’re mad at me. I get hard every time.” 

You huffed in annoyance but didn’t do a thing to stop Frank from rubbing against your bent over figure. He was skilled in two things: fucking and fighting. You weren’t going to complain when he targeted you for the first thing. 

“You’re so wet for me already,” he pointed out, slapping your sensitive mound with his palm.  

You jolted forward, whining when your cheek scraped against the counter. 

“ ‘m sorry, baby,” he said, running a soothing hand up the length of your back. “Do you want me to stop?” 

You sighed, closing your eyes for a moment. Did you want him to stop? Never. You always wanted this and so much more. He wasn’t willing to share that with you though, so you’d accepted a long time ago that this was the only piece of him you’d get to cherish. 

“Baby,” he said, pressing his forehead between your shoulder blades, “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop. Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll go.” 

You blinked your eyes open, ignoring the tear that had appeared on your lash line. 

“I don’t want you to stop,” you murmured, breathing hard as his hips grinded against your bare skin.  

“What do you want, baby?” 

“I want you to fuck me, Frank,” you said, almost whining. It had already been too long without contact. “I want you to fill me up and then I want you to fuck me again.” 

A low groan sounded in his throat. You couldn’t see him, but you knew what his face would look like if you could. His eyes, usually harsh and unforgiving, would be dark with desire. His lips would be plump with need, half-smirked and cocky at your foul words. You knew exactly how to drive him crazy too. 

“Sweetheart,” he said, somewhere between a plea and a moan, “I love it when you talk to me like that. You’re so fucking pretty.” 

You wiggled your ass in response, jumping when his palm smacked against your exposed skin. The sound of his belt being undone made your toes clench. His massive hands wrapped around your hips as he finally pushed into you. Gentle, at first, because you both knew how big he was. This was not the first time he’d bent you over and called you pretty. 

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, smacking your ass again as he began moving in and out of you, “Your perfect little pussy is so fucking addictive. I dream about doing this every night.” 

A moan was the only response you could muster, because he’d suddenly picked up his pace, pounding so deep into you that you saw stars. You gripped the counter, holding on as he slammed into you over and over again. 

“You’re so pretty, baby.” 

It was almost a whine. Almost. You clenched around him, tightening your pussy as he continued sliding in and out of you.  

“F-Fuck,” he grunted, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, “This pretty pussy is going to kill me, sweetheart.” 

You did it again, this time arching off the counter even more. And there it was – a whine so deliciously sinful that you nearly came from the sound of it alone. The only time Frank allowed himself to be vulnerable was when he was with you. You relished in it. The biggest, baddest thing in New York was whining in your ear about your pretty pussy and your even prettier face. It was enough to give a girl an ego. 

Frank wound his arm around your face, pulling you slightly off the counter and arching your back even more. His hand gripped your throat tightly. The new angle allowed him to plunge even deeper, and you couldn’t stop the pleasure-soaked tears from finally spilling down your cheeks. 

“Even when you’re being bratty,” Frank started, emphasizing the word ‘bratty’ with a punishing slam, “You’re fucking pretty. My pretty fucking brat.” 

“I’m not your anything,” you murmured, arching into his touch. 

“You’re my everything, sweetheart,” he grunted. 

“Maybe just your annoying little plaything,” you said, unable to keep the venom out of your voice. 

A firm hand smacked against your ass. You meant what you said, but you didn’t truly believe it. Frank’s pace hadn’t stuttered, but you felt his intense stare as he continued wrecking you. 

“You’re my salvation, baby,” he murmured, barely loud enough for you to hear. So quiet, in fact, that you thought you might’ve imagined it. 

He didn’t give you the chance to think too hard about it. You were very suddenly seeing stars, orgasm sneaking up on your pleasure-filled body. You turned your head, muffling your moans with the countertop before Frank pulled you off the counter again. This time, he pulled out of you completely, turned you around, set you on the counter again, and plunged back into you.  

“Nah, sweetheart,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, “I wanna hear those pretty noises you make for me.” 

You nodded, swallowing thickly.  You’d barely gotten through your first two orgasms. A third seemed unlikely, though Frank’s face was more determined than ever. His hands wound around your hips, helping himself find the right angles to send you spiraling once again. 

You couldn’t help yourself. His face was right there, and you wanted to feel his skin against your palms. You rested your hands against his cheeks, pulling his attention to your face. He hesitated, only for a moment, before pushing his lips against yours. 

It was a frantic, wild kiss, begging to devour you whole. Frank did everything with his entire heart behind it, including kissing you. It wasn’t the first time you’d kissed, and you were sure it wouldn’t be the last, but this one felt different. Hungrier.  

You whined into his mouth, which spurred him to drive into you at an even greater speed. If you weren’t hanging on to each other, you would’ve certainly fallen off the counter. 

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he whispered against your lips, brushing his tongue over the corner of your mouth for emphasis before capturing your lips in another intoxicating kiss.  

 You whined into his mouth, feeling your pleasure heat between your legs for a third time that evening. 

“Frank,” you moaned, arching your back, “I want you to fill me up.” 

You knew that would be the thing that brought him over the edge. He was stoic and quiet in most aspects of his life, but you knew deep down that Frank had a breeding kink. You had put yourself on birth control as a surprise for him. He fucking loved it. 

His hips finally stuttered, plunging deep inside you as he came. You couldn’t stop the heat from overtaking you as well, pulling a third orgasm from deep within your core. Maybe Frank was your kink. 

You wilted against him, worn out and wobbly from the intense make-up sex. Those were always your favorite sessions, even though the feelings that came before and after seemed to get harder every time. 

His strong arms wrapped around you, pulling your legs around his waist and lifting you in the air. You sagged into him, praying to a God that you barely believed in that he would stay. He said he would. You wanted to believe him so badly. 

“Get the lights, baby,” he murmured as carried you towards the bed you sometimes shared with him. 

He plopped you down on the bed, crawling under the covers with you in the dim light of the warehouse. It was still pouring outside, which was maybe God’s fleeting mercy. Frank pressed against your tired body, soaking in the warmth of your skin brushing over his. 

“You’re leaving?” You asked, barely above a whisper. 

“Not yet, baby.” He shook his head. “I said I wouldn’t.” 

“I didn’t believe you.” 

Frank’s mouth formed a small grin before he planted perhaps the softest kiss he’d ever given you on your forehead. You sighed, finally allowing yourself to rest against his chest. You already knew this wouldn’t end well, but that didn’t stop you from hoping it wouldn’t. 

Later, when the rain finally stopped, and only when Frank knew you were in a deep sleep, would he sneak out of the warehouse. When you awoke to an empty, cold bed, you resigned yourself to never speaking to Frank again, knowing you were lying to yourself. You and Frank were in a toxic cycle that you couldn’t begin to pry yourself out of. You rolled over, half-aware that you’d done this to yourself by trusting him again. That didn’t stop the tears from flowing onto your pillow anyways. 

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Ironically, Boyfriend by COIN played through your car. Not now.

“I don’t wanna be your boyfriend,

When you need a little company,

I don’t wanna be your boyfriend,

When there’s not another phone to ring.”

You searched through the passenger seat for your phone once your car was safely stopped at the red light, this was absolutely NOT the song to play. Of all the songs on your playlist, of course it had to be this one. The universe wasn’t done playing cruel jokes on you, it was almost like it wanted to see you suffer just a tiny bit more. A black truck pulled up next to you, in the left turn lane. Frank’s black truck. That Frank was driving. It would take a miracle to save you from driving your car off a cliff, today was testing you and you were losing. He shot you a smile from his driver’s seat, giving you a two finger wave without lifting his hand off the steering wheel.

A smile. The nerve of this guy. The fucking nerve.

The light turned green before you were able to yell all the expletives you knew in all the languages you knew them in. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. You were meeting Tiff at a bookstore for a girls day, she was going to get an earful of what happened five days ago and the fucking nerve he has to act this way. 

“I mean, he is fifty. Right? Maybe he’s just not used to dating culture. He had a wife previously, I think, so just talk to him.” Tiff reasoned, tracing her finger up the spine of a book before pulling it off the shelf to read the description on the back.

“Even if dating culture is different, he gave me his number. Said we’d talk later and has given me the coldest shoulder possible. Then has the nerve to smile at me like none of this has happened.” You whined, frustrated that this was even happening. Initially, you had planned to just be pretty and reap the perks of it this summer. Not get hung up on an older man that’s best friends with your dad. 

“Does he even know you’re angry? I mean he’s not a mind reader and neither are you, ambush his house when you know he’s there. I don’t think he’d shy away from being alone with you.” She teased, poking your side and placing the book back in its rightful spot on the shelf. “Then, you can set boundaries and what not. Fuck. And make up!”

“I would sooner punch him in that smug attractive stupid fucking face.” You rolled your eyes, knowing deep inside the next time he was in your presence and willing to take you to bed that you would be there. You didn’t know how to say no to him. 

“We both know that is the furthest thing from the truth.” Tiff raised her eyebrow at you and cocking her head, daring you to argue about it. 

“Shut up, I’m trying to learn to have some self control.” You tried to hide a smile, failing miserably and rolling your eyes instead. “I’ll ambush him later, he better be there or be prepared to feel my wrath.”

“That’s my girl!” She laughed, clapping her hands the best she could with the books in her hands. “Make sure he really understands the anger. The rage!”

To keep true to your word, you drove by his house on the way to yours to see if he was home. He wasn’t. Fucker. You knew it wasn’t intentional but it sure felt that way, because of all days and of all times he wouldn’t be there. However, to your surprise, he was parked in your driveway. You parked in your usual spot and headed inside, stopping right inside the house when you heard the two men inside.

“How was your date the other night?” He went on a date, what the fuck?

“Horrible. She was still hung up on her ex-husband, talked about him all night.” Good, hope every woman you go on a date with does that. Asshole.

“Sorry man, you’ll find someone someday.” Your dad tried consoling him, your anger was bubbling and the next word of this conversation was going to be your breaking point. Did the sex truly mean nothing to him? Did you mean nothing to him? Were you just a quick fuck to get the desire out and then move on? 

You closed the front door loudly to announce your presence, walking into the kitchen where said men were sitting at the kitchen table. Frank had his legs spread, hand hanging between them with a beer in his hand. The kicker was, he was wearing a cowboy hat, his hair fluffing out on the side. To add onto the never ending list of things making this, currently insufferable, man so attractive he was wearing some sort of red henley with the top buttons undone so you could see the gold chains decorating his neck.

“Hey daddy!” You smiled at your dad, handing him a book he had mentioned twenty times he wanted to read. Your words caused Frank to clear his throat and sit straighter in the seat, you could play his game much worse than he can.

“What’s the occasion, honey?” He always had weird ways of saying thank you, as in he never really did and would instead pay you back by making your favorite food for dinner tomorrow or ordering a dress you really wanted. You figured it was just how he grew up.

“You deserve it, daddy! You do so much for me and treat me so well! I’m gonna take a shower.” And with that you were off up the stairs, flipping Frank off once you got to a point in the stairs where the wall covered you.

You locked your bedroom door. He didn’t need to come in here and desecrate your room anymore than he already had. If he didn’t have such a big dick and fantastic hands you would’ve murdered him already, why bless bad men with great appendages. 

Your mind raked itself for answers, you truly couldn’t come up with one that didn’t end with you not being good enough for him. The date was the trulying baffling part to you, the cold shoulder you could deal with just fine but the date was just cruel. If he didn’t want you he shouldn’t have left his number, shouldn’t have fucked you within an inch of you life, shouldn’t have called you his. He shouldn’t have even read the messages, deleted them and blocked your number. He read them and actively chose to not respond, you didn’t know if it was any worse than just blocking you. If the universe was cruel, Frank castle was worse. 

Your door knob jiggled, quite a few times before you heard the sound of boots going downstairs. You knew he would come up here and try to act like it was all peachy keen, like he hadn’t been twisting the knife he placed in your back. Your phone dinged.

I know you heard, at least let me explain.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes at the absolute nerve he has had today.

No.

Darlin’, please.

Fuck off, Frank.

Fucking COIN was right, he didn’t want to be your boyfriend. How fucking foolish could you have been. How could you imagine he’d settle down for a twenty-two year old girl who was related to his best friend. You flopped down on your bed and let out a very long, very needed, scream. The tears started coming, you hadn’t been this emotional in a very long time, the tears you had initially shed over Frank turned into tears over everything you’d bottled up. Your tears comforted you into dreamland. You awoke to four texts from Frank.

It’s not how it seems. Sent 9:30pm

Darlin’ I swear, I had to do it. Sent 10:05pm

Two nights with you has me ready to fill every ocean with blood, sweat, and tears for you so don’t act like that. Sent 5am

Your dad set up the date, I couldn’t not go. Was I supposed to tell him I’d rather be fucking his daughter? Sent 5:30am

It didn’t matter to you that your dad set the whole thing up, you responded with a simple yes and placed your phone back on the nightstand you picked it up from. Men are so stupid, you could think of two ways he could’ve gotten out of the date without you being involved. Still doesn’t explain the five day freeze out, if he had been honest about the date it wouldn’t have mattered . As much. He better come up with the best damn excuse for this shit or you swore you’d never speak to him again.

Frank’s phone dinged in his pocket, he’d been waiting all morning for you to respond. He knew you would, just as you were his vice. He was yours. The second you walked in the kitchen last night it was taking all his self control to not pull you onto his lap, continue his conversation with your dad, trailing his fingers up and down your leg. He knew you were angry with him, you had every right to be, but he didn’t know how to even begin explaining the situation. Your dad was being suspicious, he thought it was odd that Frank spent an extended amount of time in your room the other night, thought it was weird that everytime your name was mentioned Frank’s nostrils flared and his jaw tightened. It was your dad who suggested setting up the date, watched Frank’s face as he brought it up to see if he’d give away anything. Frank was saving you both, he was doing this for you. In some twisted way.

The date happened the night after he slept with you, he felt guilty to have gone behind your back. He didn’t want to see you look so excited to see him when he felt tainted. He didn’t do anything with the woman, opened her car door and moved back her seat but he never once laid a finger on her. Her smile wasn’t as sweet as yours, her laugh not as gentle and filling, and she wasn’t nearly as beautiful. Frank spent most of the date thinking of you and how he wished it was you in front of him, not this woman who couldn’t be bothered to speak of anything besides her ex-husband. He thought she’d get the hint that he was bored, he stopped responding to her questions and was now scanning the restaurant making up stories about the other patrons to pass the time.

He just wanted to be with His cowgirl.

Seeing you in your car yesterday made the guilt twist in his heart, he needed to speak to you. But you didn’t want to speak to him, especially not after what you heard in the house. That’s why when his phone dinged and he had the feeling it was you, his face lifted and he was filled with a warmth only you could give to him. The one word you replied with had made the past five days almost bearable.

You know I can’t do that. Can I see you after work? Please, darlin’

He placed his phone back into his back pocket, taking a deep breath as he awaited your response. God, he hoped you responded. It didn’t matter if you didn’t say a word to him the whole time he explained it, he needed to see you and he needed you to understand why he did what he did. He meant what he said, he’d fill every ocean on the fucking planet with blood, sweat and tears if it meant your happiness. He’d go back to the life he left to ensure your safety. 

Fine.

If the rest of the day was the worst day possible he could deal with that, he could deal with anything as long as it meant getting to see you when he got off. He truly didn’t know how you would react or what it meant for the two of you going forward. He could only hope for the best. Whatever that even was.

You spent the rest of the day thinking about what he could possibly explain to you, it was clear that he wasn’t as interested as you thought before. Would you even believe it, whatever his excuse was? Or would you immediately forgive him because it meant he would be back in your life, would you forget it even happened and go back to playing girlfriend. You wanted to forget, to act like it never hurt, but you wanted him to understand how it felt. To be treated like the top of the world and then dumped like you meant nothing. 

You wore red.

That was the first thing Frank noticed as you walked up his driveway clad in a flowy red sundress, you remembered his favorite color and the conversation about wearing it the next time you saw him. Forgiveness was in there somewhere, he knew it. You noticed he was wearing that damn cowboy hat again, damn he was playing a hard game. 

“Thanks for coming darlin’, I was kinda worried you wouldn’t.” He didn’t stand up from his chair on the porch to greet you, in some way you were kinda glad but you mostly figured it’s because you’re on his porch and everyone can see.

“Yeah, I just hope you’ve got something real good up your sleeve.” You responded bluntly, sitting in the chair next to him and smoothing your dress out. “You’re an asshole, Frankie.’

“I know, I fuckin’ know baby. Just listen, okay? I’ll explain and then you can fuckin’ obliterate me but I need you to listen.” He sat up straighter, reaching to take one of your hands in his, rubbing his thumb across the top.

“We don’t have all night, I suggest you start talking.” He could’ve swore he saw a hint of a smile playing on your lips as you spoke.

“Your dad, I know I can’t blame it all on him. He came to me, after I left your room, and he hinted he was a bit suspicious of us. What he said doesn’t matter, just know he was suspicious. He said he had a date planned for me, thought it would be nice for me to meet a woman ‘my own age’ and gave me the information. Darlin’, if I said no he would’ve caught on the next time I spent more than a minute with you, I did this for us. For you, baby. I didn’t touch her, barely spoke the whole time. She spent more time talking about her ex-husband, I’m not sure she even knew my name,” you giggled at that, she didn’t deserve to know him,”Took her home, didn’t give her my number. Nothin’. I came here and thought of you, all night. Thought about how I was supposed to tell you. I felt gross, and I’ve done bad things darlin’. Bad things.”

“I don’t care what bad things you’ve done, because that’s not you. Not now.” You whispered, taking your free hand and caressing his cheek. He leaned into your touch, so soft and warm.

“That’s the thing, I’d do it again. I’d do all those bad things again, for you.” He admitted, watching you process his words. It should’ve scared you, should’ve made you run off his porch and block his number. It excited you, made your core throbbed at the thought of someone loving you enough to do those ‘bad things’ he spoke of. You were smart enough to make your own conclusions about what he meant.

“But why did you ignore me? That really hurt, Frankie. It really fucking sucked.”

“I told you. I felt gross, undeserving of you. I went on a date with someone who wasn’t you and it was eating at me, even if my reasons were just.” He truly looked apologetic, you came here looking to stick it to him but you melted the second he started talking. He did it for you and you were sat thinking he just didn’t like you and wanted a quick fuck.

“Frankie..” You whispered, looking at him like he’d hung the moon and all the stars. Scanning the other houses to predict who could’ve seen you here.

“Don’t do that. Don’t look at me like that, darlin’.” He groaned, tipping his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. You were a goddamn dream.

“I’d like a tour of your bed.” You giggled, the way you figured was he at least owed you some sort of makeup sex. You were melting the second he said he’d do bad things for you, he had to fix the problem he started.

“Mmm I can arrange that, c’mon cowgirl.” He tightened the grasp on the hand he was holding and led you inside, it smelled just like he did. Slight scent of gunpowder, tobacco from the cigars he smoked with your father, some sort of leather and coffee. You could drown yourself in the scent.

“Your place is so…you.” You observed. There were more cowboy hats hung up by the door, more boots on the floor, a whiskey cabinet in the living room which led you to assume everything else was held in his kitchen, the lighting was dim. 

“Might shock ya to hear that I live here.” He teased, leading you through the kitchen and down a hallway to his bedroom. His room was sparsely decorated, he was only a man what could he say. 

“I would’ve never guessed.” You smiled, letting go of his hand to flop down on his bed. It wasn’t nearly as comfortable as yours, didn’t have nearly as many blankets and pillows. 

Frank slid his hands down your thighs as they hung off the bed, admiring the sight of you in his bed. He didn’t deserve you or what you were about to give him. But Frank Castle was a greedy man, he’d take everything you were willing to give. Especially when it came to you. He slowly massaged your thighs, moving both hands to one of your legs and massaging all the way down. You propped yourself on your elbows, watching him curiously as he massaged you.

“What’re you doing, Frankie?” You asked softly, genuine curiosity present in your voice. His lips lifted at the nickname, as they did every time you called him that since the first time.

“Jus’ lovin’ on my lady, do you have a problem with that?” He tilted his head down and raised an eyebrow, the cowboy hat slipping a bit as he did so. 

“Nope, no problems. Just thought you were gonna take me to bed, ‘s all.” 

“You know how to pick my brain, findin’ all the right things to say and when to say ‘em. My pretty girl, made just for me. Ain’t that right?” He let go of your leg, hiking your dress up so he didn’t sit on it when he straddled your waist. “Knew this was gonna happen, huh? Did ya find the laciest red panties you could find? You got words, I know you do.”

“For you, told you I’d do it.” You pulled the top of the dress down to realize the matching lacy red bra, all for your Frankie. He let out a low groan, you were too good to a man who didn’t deserve you. Too tainted to touch the pureness of your soul.

Frank helped you out of your dress, throwing it into the corner of his room, he stared at you a long time. The matching red set was something out of his dreams, he wanted to sear  the image of you wearing it in his bed in his head forever. He ran his hands over your stomach, your thighs, anywhere his hands could reach. It’s crazy how fast a person can come to mean so much to you, especially when they’d been around for years. One night changed everything for the both of you, changed the meaning of love for Frank. He’d figure out how to get your dad on board late, for tonight you were his sweet thing to make sweet love to.

The cowboy hat was left on at your request, he didn’t mind as long as you kept letting the giggles out when it bumped your forehead as he thrusted up into you. Your red bra was left on at his request, a reminder that this was all for him. That it was all real and not some cruel dream. Your moans and whimpers a sweet symphony to his ears, he’d pay over and over and over to hear. Your nails gripping his back, when he checked in the mirror later that evening it’d be adorned with light pink scratches and half moons scattered across it, holding onto him like he was going to disappear again. His thrusts were slow but deep, hitting all the right spots inside you, his hands holding your head to look at him as he showed you everything he couldn’t say with words. 

His words were equally dirty and sweet, just like him.

“Pretty baby, you feel how you’re squeezin’ me?”

“God, gonna lock you away. Keep you all to myself, use you when I want. Make you my pretty housewife.”

“”S alright baby, Frankie’s got you. Gonna take good care of this pussy, make ‘er feel good.”

The two of you came together, he talked you softly through the whole thing. Peppered kisses across your face and down your neck, praising you for how good you did even though he did all the work. He traced his initials, FC, above your heart with his fingers before placing a kiss right where he traced. Marking you, invisibly, as his forever and ever. 

“Don’t ever go on another date with another woman.” You teased softly, looking up at him when you came to.

“I’m not doin’ nothin’ with another woman that’s not you. Promise, darlin’.” He placed a soft kiss to your lips, nipping at your bottom lip and pulling away to look at your face. He wiped away the sweaty hairs that had stuck themselves to your face.

“Good, my Frankie.”