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The strongest memory Gerard had of Frank—the one that played behind their eyelids whenever they caught him smirking during a reprimand—wasn’t from the office. It was from a Thursday afternoon six months ago, when Frank had leaned against the copy machine with a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and a misprinted contract in the other, grinning as if he’d just won something. 

“You realize this is the third time this month you’ve used the wrong template,” Gerard had said, adjusting their cuffs with deliberate precision.

Frank crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the recycling without looking. “Yeah, but it’s fine. I caught it before it went out.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” Frank licked mayo off his thumb. “The client’s happy, the numbers are right—”

Gerard’s fingers tightened around their pen just enough for the plastic to creak. “The point,” they said, voice low, “is that I shouldn’t have to rely on you catching your own mistakes after you’ve made them.”

The thing about Frank was that he listened, but never heard. Gerard had seen him memorize entire case files overnight, recite deposition transcripts verbatim, yet somehow still miss the glaringly obvious that rules existed for a reason.

The second strongest memory Gerard had was from three weeks ago, when they’d walked into the break room to find Frank perched on the counter, swinging his legs like a kid while he explained to a Junior Associate how to bypass the document review system. “Just submit it straight to drafting,” he’d said, tossing a sugar packet into his coffee. “They never check the headers anyway.” Gerard had cleared their throat. Frank hadn’t even startled. He just turned with that same infuriating smile and said, “Hey, boss. You want in on this? Saves like twelve hours of—”

The memory resurfaced unhelpfully as Gerard stared across the conference table.

“You’re impossible,” Gerard said now, tossing the corrected contract onto the table between them.

Frank leaned forward, elbows on his knees, sandwich forgotten. “Yeah, but you love me for it.”

Gerard’s pen hovered over the final clause of the contract, their knuckles going pale around the grip. “Love,” they repeated, the word sharp enough to make Frank’s smile twitch. “Is that what you think this is?”

Frank stretched his arms behind his head, the hem of his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a strip of skin above his belt. “Dunno. You tell me.” He tilted his chair back on the two legs, balancing precariously. “You keep me around. Even after the— what was it? ‘Goddamn trainwreck of an exhibit list last month.’”

The chair legs hit the floor with a crack as Gerard stood, looming over him. “I keep you,” they said deliberately stern, “because when you’re not cutting corners, you’re the best goddamn legal assistant in this firm.” They leaned down, bracing one hand on the armrest of Frank’s chair. “But don’t mistake tolerance for affection.”

Frank’s throat bobbed. For once, he stayed quiet.

Gerard straightened, adjusting their cuffs. “And sit properly. You’re not a teenager.”

Frank exhaled sharply through his nose, almost a laugh. His fingers tapped once, twice against the armrest of his chair before he deliberately planted both feet flat on the floor. “Yeah, okay,” he said, voice lighter than his expression. “But you do tolerate me. Kinda feels like affection coming from you.”

Gerard didn’t blink. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet.” Frank spread his hands, palms up. “Here we are.”

For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the office HVAC. Then Gerard turned away, grabbing their briefcase from the edge of the conference table. “Pack up. We’re going to dinner.”

Frank blinked. “What?”

Frank didn’t move. His fingers twitched against the armrest, his usual smirk frozen halfway to forming. “Dinner,” he repeated like the word was in a foreign language. “Like… client dinner?”

Gerard didn’t look up as they snapped their briefcase shut. “No. Like food. At a restaurant. Unless you’ve forgotten how to eat between rewriting deposition notices and dismantling my filing system.”

Frank’s chair creaked as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re not serious.”

Gerard straightened their jacket with a sharp tug. “Seven-thirty. Villa Toscana. Don’t be late.” They turned toward the door, heels clicking against the tile.

Frank’s laugh was sudden, bright, and entirely too loud for the office. “Holy shit, are you asking me out?”

The office door clicked shut behind Gerard, leaving Frank stunned and staring at the frosted glass panel like it might offer some explanation. His fingers drummed against the armrest again, three quick taps, then two slower ones. He grabbed his phone and fired off a text to his best friend, Ray: "Think I just got asked out by Satan in a pencil skirt."

Villa Toscana was the kind of place Frank usually avoided. White tablecloths, wine pairings, waiters who looked like they’d judge him for using the wrong fork. He showed up fifteen minutes early anyway, which was unprecedented enough that Gerard raised one perfectly arched brow when they found him already seated, fidgeting with the stem of his water glass.

"You’re never early," Gerard said, sliding into the chair across from him. The candlelight caught the sharp angles of their cheekbones, casting shadows that made Frank’s throat go dry.  

Frank shrugged, aiming for nonchalance and landing somewhere closer to nervous. "Yeah, well. Figured you’d leave if I was late." 

Gerard unfolded their napkin with deliberate precision. "I would have."

Frank’s fingers twitched against the tablecloth, tracing the rim of his glass like he was mapping the edge of something dangerous. The waiter appeared with menus thicker than some of the briefs he’d filed, and Frank almost laughed at the absurdity of it—Gerard, watching him over the top of their wine list like this, was another deposition.

“You’re staring,” Gerard said without looking up.

Frank leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs under the table until his foot brushed Gerard’s ankle. He didn’t move it away. “Just trying to figure out if this is a business dinner or if I should be nervous.”

Gerard's gaze flicked up, sharp as a blade between his ribs. "Would you be nervous?"

The air between them crackled with something Frank couldn’t name. Tension? Anticipation? He swallowed, suddenly aware of the way Gerard’s collar dipped just low enough to reveal the hollow of their throat. “Depends. Are you gonna yell at me over scallops?”

Gerard set their menu down with a quiet finality that made Frank's pulse jump. "I don't yell over dinner." Their fingers tapped once against the stem of their wine glass. A tell Frank had catalogued months ago during various client dinners, the only outward sign of irritation they ever allowed themselves. "I yell in my office. With the door closed."

Frank's grin faltered as Gerard's heel pressed deliberately against his instep under the table, the sharp point of it digging in just enough to sting. The waiter reappeared with two glasses of red. Gerard's usual order, and, Christ, they'd gotten Frank's preferred Malbec without asking. Frank took a too-big gulp, the tannins drying his mouth as Gerard watched him with that infuriatingly patient expression, like they were waiting for him to misstep so they could correct him.

“Relax,” Gerard murmured, swirling their wine. “You’re fidgeting.”

Frank forced his fingers to unclench from around the glass. “You’re not exactly making this easy.”

“That’s the point.” Gerard leaned forward slightly, the candlelight catching the silver threading through their dark hair. “Tell me why you really rearranged the Clarkson deposition schedule last week.”

Frank's fingers tightened around his wine glass. He could lie. He could say he'd done it for efficiency, could claim some half-baked reasoning about overlapping depositions, but Gerard's gaze was already stripping him bare. "Because," he said, voice lower than he intended, "you were scheduled for three back-to-backs, and I knew you wouldn't cancel even though your back was fucked from working that trial last month."

Gerard’s expression didn’t change, but their fingers stilled against the stem of their glass. “You could have asked.”

Frank snorted. “Right. Like you’d ever admit you were in pain.” He traced the rim of his glass, avoiding Gerard’s eyes. “Besides, it worked. Nobody noticed, you got a break, and the client didn’t complain.”

"That's not—" Gerard cut themself off with a sharp exhale. The waiter arrived with their appetizers, and Gerard waited until he'd retreated before continuing, voice dangerously quiet. "You don't get to decide what I can handle."

Frank stabbed a fork into his bruschetta harder than necessary. "Yeah, well. Somebody had to."

The silence between them stretched tight as piano wire. Gerard's fingers flexed around their wine glass, the candlelight catching the sharp edge of their ring as they set it down with deliberate precision. When they spoke, their voice was low enough that Frank had to lean in to hear them over the ambient clatter of silverware and murmured conversations. "Do you really think so little of me?"

Frank’s fork clattered against his plate. “What?”

"That I wouldn't notice." Gerard's gaze locked onto him, unblinking. "That I wouldn't care."

Frank's throat worked around nothing. He'd seen Gerard eviscerate opposing counsel with that same calm intensity. He had watched them dismantle entire arguments without raising their voice. But this wasn't cross-examination. This was something far more dangerous. 

Gerard tilted their head slightly, the movement predatory in its precision. “You rearrange my schedule. You intercept my coffee orders after midnight filings. You—” Their lips thinned. “You hover, Frank. Like I’m some fragile thing that needs protecting.”

Frank’s pulse hammered against his ribs. He’d seen Gerard like this before. Eyes dark with something between fury and fascination, but never directed at him outside the office. Never over candlelight and half-finished wine. “I don’t think you’re fragile,” he said voice rough. “I think you’re—”

"Exhausted," Gerard finished, sharp as a blade between his ribs. "Which is rich, coming from someone who hasn’t slept more than four hours a night in months."  

Frank’s fingers twitched against the tablecloth. "How the hell do you know that?"  

Gerard’s smile was razor-thin. "Because I pay attention,  Frank. Unlike you, I don’t just assume things will fix themselves."

Frank’s wine glass hovered halfway to his lips, the Malbec suddenly tasting like iron on his tongue. The ambient noise of the restaurant faded into white static—just the rapid thud of his own pulse and Gerard’s unwavering stare pinning him to his chair. 

Frank’s wine glass hovered halfway to his lips, the Malbec suddenly tasting like iron on his tongue. The ambient noise of the restaurant faded into white static. Just the rapid thud of his own pulse and Gerard’s unwavering stare pinning him to his chair. 

“You’ve been tracking my sleep schedule?” Frank managed, his voice too light for the way his knuckles whitened around the stem of his glass.

Gerard’s fingers traced the rim of their wine glass, deliberate as a chess move. "Noticed," they corrected softly. "The bags under your eyes. The way you jerk awake when I call your name after lunch. The three—" Their lips quirked. "—very creative typos in last week’s motion that only happen when you’re running on caffeine and spite." 

Frank exhaled sharply through his nose, the laugh sticking somewhere between his ribs. "Jesus Christ. You’re terrifying." 

Gerard leaned forward, the candlelight carving shadows under their cheekbones. "And yet," they murmured, echoing Frank’s words from earlier, "here we are."

Frank’s fingers tightened around his wine glass until he felt the delicate stem might snap. The waiter reappeared with their entrees—Gerard’s impeccably plated sea bass, Frank’s eggplant parmigiana—but neither of them moved to eat.

“You know,” Frank said finally, dragging his thumb through the condensation on his glass, “most people don’t memorize their coworkers’ sleep schedules.”

Gerard sliced into their fish with surgical precision. “Most coworkers don’t make it their personal mission to rearrange my life like some—” The knife scraped against the porcelain. “—overprotective stray.”

Frank stabbed his eggplant hard enough to send a dribbling pool of marinara sauce across the plate. “Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t work yourself into an early grave.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to drown in. Gerard set their silverware down with deliberate care, folded their napkin, and leaned forward until the candlelight caught the flecks of gold in their green eyes. "And who," they asked softly, "is making sure you don’t?"

Frank’s fork froze halfway to his mouth, the bite of eggplant suddenly tasteless. Gerard’s question hung between them like a blade. Sharp, deliberate, and impossible to ignore. He opened his mouth to deflect, to crack a joke about surviving on spite and energy drinks, but the words died in his throat when Gerard reached across the table and caught his wrist with surprising gentleness.

"You’re shaking," Gerard murmured, their thumb brushing over the rapid pulse point beneath Frank’s skin.

Frank swallowed hard. "I’m fine."

Gerard’s grip tightened fractionally. Not painful, just present, grounding in a way Frank couldn’t articulate. "Try again."

The restaurant noise faded into static as Frank stared at their joined hands. Gerard’s perfectly manicured nails against his chipped black polish, the contrast stark under the candlelight. “I don’t—” His voice cracked. “Nobody’s ever asked me that before.”

Gerard’s fingers didn’t move from Frank’s wrist. Not tightening, not retreating, just there, an anchor point in the storm Frank hadn’t realized was raging inside him until now. The ambient clink of silverware and conversations faded into the white noise, leaving only the sharp hitch of Frank’s breath and the way Gerard’s thumb pressed lightly against his pulse point, counting each rapid beat like evidence in a deposition.

"Tell me," Gerard said, voice low enough that Frank had to lean in to hear it. Not a demand. Not a request. Something in between. An order wrapped in velvet.

Frank’s throat worked around nothing. He could lie. He could crack a joke about surviving on caffeine and spite, a call-back on what Gerard had quipped about earlier, but Gerard’s gaze was already stripping him bare, peeling back layers Frank hadn’t realized he’d built so high. "It’s just—" He exhaled sharply, fingers twitching under Gerard’s grip. "Nobody’s ever noticed before."

Gerard’s expression didn’t change, but their fingers flexed slightly around Frank’s wrist. A silent go on. 

Frank swallowed hard, still staring at the way his chipped black polish contrasted against Gerard’s flawless manicure. "My mom got sick last year," he said, the words rough as if dragged over gravel. "Nothing terminal, just— Chronic. Expensive. And my sister’s still in school, so I—" His thumb traced the rim of his wine glass, avoiding Gerard’s eyes. "I picked up overtime at the firm. Started freelancing after hours. Figured I’d sleep when she was better."

Gerard didn’t move. Their grip on Frank’s wrist stayed firm, their expression unreadable in the flickering candlelight. Frank expected judgment. Pity, even. But Gerard’s voice was startlingly soft when they finally spoke. "And now?"

Frank’s laugh was brittle. "Now she is better. Mostly. But the bills aren’t." He dragged his free hand through his hair, tugging at the roots until the sting grounded him. "And I’m—" The admission caught in his throat like a fishhook. "Tired. Jesus Christ, I’m so fucking tired."

The words hung between them, raw and exposed. Frank braced for the inevitable you should have told me, the reprimand about proper channels and HR protocols. Instead, Gerard’s thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle over his pulse point. “You idiot,” they murmured, so quietly Frank almost missed it.

Frank’s head snapped up. “What?”

Gerard’s grip tightened, not enough to hurt, just enough to make Frank focus. "You could have come to me." Their voice was low, measured, the same tone they used when explaining a particularly complex legal strategy to a junior associate. "At any point. For anything."

Frank’s pulse jumped under Gerard’s fingers. The wine glass slipped from his grip, rolling onto the tablecloth with a dull thud. "Yeah, right," he muttered, staring at the spreading stain like it was easier than meeting Gerard’s eyes. "And what? You’d have patted my head and written me a check?" His laugh was too sharp, too loud for the hushed restaurant. "Come on, Gerard. You don’t do charity cases."

Gerard’s fingers tightened as they leaned forward, the candlelight carving shadows under their cheekbones. "No," they said, voice dangerously soft. "But I do expect my legal assistant to function." Their thumb pressed into Frank’s wrist, right over the erratic flutter of his pulse. "Which you clearly aren’t."

Frank’s breath hitched. He could feel the heat of Gerard’s palm through his sleeve, the slight roughness of their signet ring against his skin. "I’m fine," he lied, automatic as breathing.

Gerard’s exhale was almost a sigh. They released Frank’s wrist just long enough to flag down the waiter and murmur something about settling the bill. Frank barely registered the exchange. His whole world had narrowed to the imprint of Gerard’s fingers on his skin, the way their gaze never wavered from his face.

"Come on," Gerard said, standing with that fluid grace Frank had always envied. They tossed a black card onto the table without looking. "We’re leaving."

Frank didn’t argue when Gerard steered him out of the restaurant with a hand between his shoulder blades. Firm, unyielding, guiding without force. The night air hit his face like a slap, sharp and bracing after the cloying warmth of candlelit wine. Gerard’s car was parked illegally at the curb where the valet had left it, hazards blinking red in the dark like a warning. Frank expected them to shove him into the passenger seat with another clipped order. Instead, Gerard paused, their fingers lingering at the small of Frank’s back just long enough to feel him shiver.

"Get in," Gerard said, but it lacked their usual edge; it was softer, almost concerned, which was somehow worse.

Frank slid into the leather seat, the scent of Gerard’s bergamot cologne clinging to the upholstery. He stared at his own hands, the chipped black polish stark against his pale knuckles. The driver’s side door opened, and Gerard slid in with that effortless precision Frank had spent a year failing to emulate. The engine purred to life, but Gerard didn’t pull away; they just sat there, fingers drumming once on the steering wheel before stilling.

"You’re not taking me home," Frank realized aloud, his voice rough.

Gerard didn’t look at him. "No."

The car smelled like bergamot and something sharper. Tonka bean, maybe, with the faintest hint of cigarette smoke clinging to Gerard’s collar. Frank pressed his forehead against the cool window glass, watching streetlights blur into streaks of gold as Gerard drove without speaking. He should’ve asked where they were going. Should’ve made a joke, deflected, done something to break the tension thickening between them. Instead, he traced the condensation on the window with one fingertip and said nothing.

Gerard’s building was all steel and darkened windows, the kind of place that looked expensive just standing still. Frank followed them through the lobby in silence, his usual smirk absent for once. The elevator ride was worse. Too small, too quiet, the only sound the soft hum of machinery and Frank’s own pulse thudding in his ears. Gerard’s keys jingled once, sharply, before the front door swung open to reveal an apartment as immaculate as their office; everything in its place, nothing out of order.

"Sit," Gerard said, nodding toward the leather sofa. Not a request.

Frank sat. The leather creaked under him, cool against the backs of his thighs. He watched Gerard move through the space with familiar precision, hanging their coat and pouring two fingers of whiskey into a tumbler without asking if Frank wanted any. The glass appeared in front of him with a quiet click against the coffee table.

"Drink," Gerard ordered, standing over him with their arms crossed. The dim lighting caught the silver strands in their hair, the sharp line of their jaw. "Then we talk."

Frank wrapped his fingers around the glass but didn’t lift it. The whiskey swirled amber in the low light, catching the shadows under Gerard’s cheekbones as they stood over him. "What’s there to talk about?" he said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. His voice cracked on the last word.

Gerard’s sigh was almost imperceptible. They sank into the armchair across from him, legs crossing at the knee, fingers steepled under their chin. "You know exactly what." Their gaze pinned Frank to the spot. Not angry, not even disappointed. Just waiting.

Frank swallowed hard. The whiskey burned its way down his throat, but it did nothing to loosen the knot in his chest. "I fucked up the Clarkson filings," he muttered, staring at the ice melting in his glass. "I know. You don’t have to—"

"Not the filings." Gerard’s voice was quieter now, edged with something Frank couldn’t name. "You’ve been lying to me for months."

Frank’s head snapped up. "I didn’t lie. I just—"

Gerard leaned forward, elbows resting on their knees. The dim light caught the hollow of their throat as they spoke, their voice low and deliberate. "You didn’t just omit things, Frank. You actively hid them. Rearranged my schedule behind my back. Covered your tracks when you were exhausted. That’s not just ‘not telling me’. That’s deception."

Frank’s fingers tightened around the whiskey glass, the ice clinking softly. "What was I supposed to do? Walk into your office and say, ‘Hey Boss, I’m drowning, mind throwing me a lifeline?’" He laughed, sharp and humorless. "You’d have fired me on the spot."

Gerard’s expression didn’t flicker. "Try again."

Frank exhaled sharply through his nose, his thumb tracing the rim of the glass. The silence stretched between them, thick enough to choke on. Finally, he set the whiskey down with a quiet click and met Gerard’s gaze head-on. "I didn’t want you to see me like that," he admitted, voice rough. "Weak. Struggling. Failing."

Gerard’s fingers twitched where they were steepled under their chin. "Weak," they repeated, the word slow and deliberate. "Is that what you think this is?"

Frank’s mouth opened, then closed. Gerard’s gaze was a scalpel peeling back his defenses layer by layer, exposing the raw nerve beneath. “Isn’t it?” he challenged, but his voice lacked its usual bite.

Gerard stood abruptly, the movement so fluid Frank barely registered it until they were looming over him, one hand braced on the back of the sofa beside his head. Their bergamot scent enveloped him, sharp and unyielding. “No,” they said, voice low enough to vibrate through Frank’s ribs. “It’s called being human. Something you seem determined to avoid at all costs.”

Frank's breath hitched when Gerard's free hand came up to grip his chin, forcing him to meet their eyes. Their thumb pressed against his bottom lip, the same way their heel had dug into his instep under the dinner table. "You think I keep you around because you're perfect?" Gerard murmured, their breath warm against Frank's cheek. "I don't. I keep you because you're brilliant, even when you're a mess."

Frank’s pulse thundered in his ears. He should pull away, crack a joke, deflect. But Gerard’s grip was firm, their gaze unwavering, and for once in his life, Frank couldn’t look away.

"You're exhausted," Gerard continued, thumb tracing the curve of Frank's lower lip. "You're overwhelmed. And instead of asking for help, you've been running yourself into the ground trying to prove something to me that I never asked for." Their fingers tightened fractionally. "That stops tonight."

Frank’s breath caught when Gerard’s grip shifted from his chin to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the short hairs at his nape. The pressure was firm and grounding. Impossible to ignore. “Look at me,” Gerard murmured, and Frank’s eyelids fluttered open before he’d realized they’d fallen shut. Gerard’s expression was unreadable in the dim light, but their thumb traced the line of Frank’s jaw with deliberate precision. “Tell me what you need.”

Frank’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Gerard’s fingers tightened in his hair, and he exhaled sharply through his nose. “I don’t—” His voice cracked. “I don’t know how to.”

Gerard’s thumb brushed over the hinge of his jaw. “Try.”

The word landed like a gavel strike. Frank swallowed, the whiskey burn long faded to an aftertaste. His fingers twitched against the sofa, itching for something to hold onto. “I need—” The admission lodged in his throat like a bullet. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Fuck. I need you to make me.”

Gerard went perfectly still. The hand in Frank’s hair didn’t move, but their breath hitched audibly. “Make you what?”

“Stop.” Frank’s pulse rabbited under Gerard’s fingertips. “Just— stop thinking. Stop running. For five fucking minutes.” He laughed, jagged and raw. “Pathetic, right?”

Gerard’s hand slid from Frank’s hair to cup the back of his neck, their grip unyielding. “No,” they said, voice low and certain. “It’s not pathetic.” Their thumb pressed against the rapid flutter of Frank’s pulse. “But it is reckless.” 

Frank exhaled shakily, his fingers curling into the sofa leather. Gerard’s breath was warm against his cheek, their cologne sharp and grounding. “Tell me,” Gerard murmured, their lips brushing the shell of Frank’s ear, “have you ever done this before?”

Frank’s throat worked. “Not— Not like this.”

Gerard’s fingers tightened in Frank’s hair, pulling just enough to make his scalp sting. “Good,” they murmured, their lips grazing the curve of Frank’s ear. “Then you’ll listen when I tell you how this works.” Their free hand settled on Frank’s thigh, the pressure deliberate through the fabric of his slacks. “You don’t move unless I say. You don’t speak unless I ask. Understood?”

Frank’s breath hitched when Gerard’s nails dug in slightly. “Yeah,” he managed, the word rasping out of him.

Gerard’s grip shifted to his chin, tilting his face up with unyielding precision. “That’s ‘yes, Gerard.’” The correction was soft but absolute.

Frank’s pulse jumped under Gerard’s fingers. “Yes, Gerard.”

“Better.” Gerard stepped back, their heels clicking against hardwood as they circled the sofa. Frank tracked their movement by sound alone, his shoulders tense under the weight of anticipation. The air smelled like bergamot and something darker; whiskey and leather and the faint metallic tang of Gerard’s ring when they pressed it against the nape of his neck.

Frank inhaled sharply as Gerard’s ring pressed cold against his skin. The weight of their silence coiled around him tighter than any command. He could hear the rustle of fabric, the deliberate click of their heels circling him. Predatory and precise. But he kept his hands relaxed on his thighs, eyes fixed straight ahead.

"Stand," Gerard said, low and firm from somewhere behind him.

Frank stood too fast, his knees cracking against the coffee table. Gerard's hand landed between his shoulder blades, steadying him without gentleness. "Slowly," they corrected, fingers splaying possessively over his spine. Their breath ghosted warm over the shell of his ear. "You don’t rush unless I tell you to."

Frank swallowed hard. "Yes, Gerard."

Their palm slid down to the small of his back, guiding him forward until his shins hit the edge of the sofa. "Knees."

Frank’s knees hit the rug before Gerard finished speaking. The impact vibrated up his thighs, the fibers scratching through his slacks, but he didn’t shift. Not when Gerard’s heels clicked closer, not when their fingers threaded through his hair with deliberate ownership. 

“Good,” Gerard murmured, their thumb tracing the shell of Frank’s ear. The praise landed like a live wire down his spine. “Now look at me.” 

Frank tilted his head back, throat bared without conscious thought. Gerard stood over him, backlit by the dim lamplight, their skirt brushing his shoulders. Their free hand unknotted their tie with practiced efficiency, the silk whispering against itself. “Open.” 

Frank’s lips parted on an exhale. Gerard looped the tie around his throat, not tight enough to restrict, just enough to leash. The silk warmed against his skin as Gerard tugged, guiding him forward until his forehead pressed against their thigh. Their fingers tightened in his hair. “Breathe.” 

Frank inhaled shakily, Gerard’s scent flooding his senses. Their thumb brushed his cheekbone, then slid lower, pressing against his bottom lip. “Wider.”

Frank’s lips parted further, the silk tie tightening fractionally as Gerard’s thumb pressed down on his tongue. The bitter tang of their ring flooded his mouth. Metal, salt, and something indefinably Gerard. His jaw ached instantly, but he didn’t pull away; he couldn’t.

"Good," Gerard murmured, their voice gone dark at the edges. Their thumb dragged slowly over Frank's tongue, pressing down just shy of gagging. "You take direction beautifully when you're not fighting me."

Frank's pulse hammered against the silk looped around his throat. He watched, wide-eyed, as Gerard unfastened their belt with their free hand, the leather sliding through the loops with a whisper that made his stomach tighten. The belt joined the tie; it was loose, just for show, but the zipper's rasp was unmistakable. Frank's breath hitched when Gerard guided his face forward, their fingers tightening warningly in his hair.

"Don't rush," they chided, their thumb hooking in the corner of Frank's mouth to keep him open. Their other hand slid into their underwear, pulling themselves out with deliberate slowness. Frank's vision blurred at the edges; Gerard was half-hard already, flushed and perfect in the low light. "Look at you," Gerard murmured, tilting Frank's head back further. "Desperate for it and you haven't even touched me yet."

Frank whined around Gerard's thumb, his own cock throbbing untouched in his slacks. Gerard's grip shifted, their fingers dragging through his spit-slick lips to wrap around their length. They stroked once, twice, watching Frank's pupils blow wide, then guided the head to his lips. "Go on," they murmured. "Show me how badly you want this."

Frank's breath shuddered out of him when the blunt head of Gerard's cock nudged against his lips. The scent of them, warm skin and something faintly musky, flooded his senses, thick enough to taste. He hesitated, just for the space of a heartbeat, and Gerard's fingers tightened in his hair.

"No thinking," Gerard murmured, their voice velvet-dark. "Just do as you're told."

Frank opened wider, letting the weight of Gerard settle on his tongue. The groan that ripped from Gerard's throat when he took them deeper sent a violent shiver down Frank's spine. His jaw ached instantly, his lips stretched obscenely around Gerard's girth, but the sharp pull on his hair kept him from pulling back.

"Good," Gerard breathed, hips rocking forward in a shallow thrust. Their free hand tangled in the silk tie still looped around Frank's throat, not pulling, just holding. Anchoring. "You look perfect like this." Their thumb swiped over Frank's spit-slick lower lip, catching on the stretch of his mouth around them. "Such a pretty mouth when you're not running it."

Frank's eyelids fluttered shut, his fingers clawing at his own thighs to keep from reaching up. Gerard's grip tightened, tugging his hair sharply. "Eyes on me, Frank." The command required no argument. Frank forced his gaze upward, meeting Gerard's hooded stare through his lashes. Gerard's lips parted on a silent exhale when Frank swallowed around them, the wet heat of his mouth drawing another broken sound from their throat.

Gerard’s fingers flexed in Frank’s hair, guiding his rhythm with ruthless precision. Every shallow thrust punched a ragged noise from Frank’s throat. Half-choked, half-wanting, and that seemed to vibrate straight through Gerard’s hips. They watched, rapt, as Frank’s lips stretched redder, as his eyelashes fluttered with the effort of holding still, as the silk tie darkened with spit where it pressed into the hollow of his throat.

"Slower," Gerard murmured, pressing their free hand flat between Frank’s shoulder blades to still him. Frank froze instantly, his breath hitching through his nose, their cock resting heavy on his tongue. Gerard traced the damp line of his jaw with their thumb. "Good. Now take it properly."

They pushed in deep, past the point where Frank’s breath stuttered, until his nose brushed the crisp fabric of their skirt. Frank’s fingers spasmed against his thighs, his nails biting crescents into the fabric of his slacks. A low, punched-out sound escaped him, and Gerard’s hips jerked in response.

"Christ," Gerard breathed, their grip tightening reflexively in Frank’s hair. They held him there for a long, suspended moment, savoring the tight clutch of his throat around them, the way his body trembled with the effort of staying pliant. When they finally pulled back, it was only to thrust in again, slow and inexorable, their fingers twisting tighter in Frank’s hair with each inch.

Frank’s eyes watered, tears clinging to his lashes, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t even try. Gerard watched, fascinated, as his throat worked around them, as his Adam’s apple bobbed with each forced swallow. They crooked a finger under the silk tie, tightening it just enough to feel the rapid flutter of Frank’s pulse. "You’re doing so well," they murmured, their voice gone rough at the edges. "Taking me just like I asked."

Frank’s breath stuttered through his nose, his lips stretched obscenely around Gerard’s cock. Every slow thrust punched a whimper from his throat, but he kept his hands locked on his thighs, fingers trembling with restraint. Gerard’s grip shifted from his hair to cradle his jaw, their thumb pressing against the stretched corner of Frank’s mouth. “Look at you,” they murmured, voice gone dark with approval. “So good for me when you’re not fighting.”

The praise burned hotter than the stretch of his jaw. Frank moaned around them, the vibration drawing a sharp inhale from Gerard. Their hips jerked forward instinctively, pressing deeper, and Frank gagged—once, twice—before forcing himself still. Gerard’s fingers flexed against his cheekbone. “Breathe,” they ordered, pulling back just enough to let Frank drag in a ragged gasp.

Their thumb swiped through the spit slicking Frank’s chin. “You can take more,” Gerard decided, watching the way Frank’s throat fluttered at the assertion. They guided his head forward again, their free hand sliding beneath his jaw to feel the bulge of their cock as Frank swallowed them down. “That’s it. Just like that.”

Frank’s vision blurred at the edges, his whole world narrowing to the weight on his tongue, the press of Gerard’s thighs against his shoulders, the silk tie tightening fractionally with each shallow thrust. He could feel the moment Gerard’s control frayed. The stutter in their rhythm, the way their fingers dug sharper into his scalp, sent a violent shudder down his spine.

Gerard cursed under their breath, hips snapping forward once, twice, before stilling deep. Frank’s throat convulsed around them, his eyes watering, but he didn’t pull away. He just let Gerard fuck his mouth with slow, deliberate rolls of their hips until they came with a bitten-off groan, their fingers tightening almost painfully in Frank’s hair.

Frank swallowed reflexively, the bitter tang flooding his mouth as Gerard's grip kept him pinned in place. His jaw ached, his throat burned, but the sharp pull on his hair grounded him, an anchor point in the storm of sensation. Gerard's breath hitched above him, their thighs trembling against his shoulders as they rode out the aftershocks, their fingers still twisted tight in Frank's hair.

"Good boy," Gerard murmured at last, their voice rough as they carefully withdrew. Their thumb swiped across Frank's lower lip, catching the mess there. "Such a good boy for me."

Frank's breath came in ragged pants, his lips swollen and slick. He didn't move, didn't speak, he just waited, his gaze fixed on Gerard's face, the tie still loose around his throat. Gerard's expression was unreadable in the dim light, their pupils blown wide as they traced the reddened curve of Frank's mouth with their thumb.

"Stand," Gerard ordered softly, their fingers sliding from Frank's hair to cup his jaw.

Frank rose on unsteady legs, his knees protesting after so long on the carpet. Gerard's hands settled on his hips, guiding him backward until the sofa hit the backs of his thighs. Their touch was firm. No hesitation, no uncertainty. Frank shivered as Gerard's palms slid up his sides, pushing his jacket off his shoulders in one smooth motion. The fabric pooled on the floor behind him, forgotten.

Gerard’s hands didn’t pause at Frank’s shirt buttons. They tore his shirt open with a sharp twist, sending plastic skittering across the hardwood. Frank gasped at the sudden exposure, his chest heaving under Gerard’s appraisal. Their nails scraped down his sternum, leaving faint pink trails that burned hotter than any whiskey.

"Strip," Gerard commanded, stepping back to watch. Their skirt clung to their thighs as they leaned against the armchair, fingers drumming once on the leather. "Everything but the tie."

Frank’s fingers fumbled at his belt, the silk tie still looped loosely around his throat, brushing his collarbones with every ragged breath. Gerard watched, impassive, as Frank shed his ruined shirt and kicked his slacks and underwear away, leaving him bare except for the tie and the flushed, desperate line of his cock curving against his stomach. 

Gerard stepped forward, their heel catching the discarded fabric and sliding it aside with clinical precision. "Turn around," they murmured, fingers trailing down Frank’s chest to hook in the silk tie. "Hands on the sofa."

Frank obeyed without hesitation, bracing himself against the leather backrest. The tie tightened as Gerard wrapped it once around his fist, the silk whispering against Frank’s throat before Gerard wrenched it between his teeth. Frank groaned around the makeshift gag, his shoulders tensing as Gerard’s free hand traced the dip of his spine. 

The silk tie pulled taut between Frank’s teeth, Gerard’s knuckles pressing into the hollow of his cheek as they secured the knot behind his head. A whimper escaped Frank’s throat, half-protest, half-submission as Gerard’s free hand slid down the trembling plane of his back, pausing just above the curve of his ass.

"Count," Gerard commanded, their voice razor-sharp. The first slap landed with calculated precision, the crack echoing off the apartment walls. 

Frank jerked forward against the sofa, the number "one" muffled around the gag. His fingers clawed at leather cushions as Gerard's palm connected again, harder this time, the heat blooming across his skin in waves. By "five," tears pricked at the corners of his eyes; by "ten," his thighs trembled with the effort of staying upright.

Gerard paused, their breath warm against Frank's shoulder blade. "Still so stubborn," they murmured, tracing the reddened skin with feather-light fingertips that made Frank shiver. "But not for long." Their hand disappeared, returning slick with lube from the side table, and Frank tensed instinctively. 

The first finger breached him without preamble, pressing deep in one smooth motion that punched a ragged groan from Frank's chest. Gerard's teeth grazed his earlobe. "Too much?" they taunted, crooking their finger just enough to make Frank's knees buckle. "You've taken worse from me."

Frank nodded frantically, the silk tie soaking through with drool as Gerard worked him open with ruthless efficiency. Their free hand tightened in his hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat. "Words, Frank."  

"Y-yes, Gerard," he gasped around the gag, his voice cracking when they added a second finger without warning. The stretch burned, just shy of pain, and Frank rocked back instinctively, chasing the pressure. Gerard chuckled darkly, their thumb circling his rim where they were stretched taut around their fingers.

"Disgraceful," they murmured, scissoring their fingers in a way that made Frank's vision blur. "Begging for it like this after all your lip today." Their free hand trailed down his flank, nails scraping lightly over his ribs before wrapping around his cock. "Especially after that little stunt with the Clarkson deposition."

Frank whimpered, hips jerking into Gerard's grip as they stroked him. Once. Twice. Before releasing him with a sharp slap to his inner thigh. "No," Gerard chided, pressing their fingertips against his prostate in slow circles. "You don't get to come until I say."  

Frank's thighs trembled violently, his breath coming in ragged bursts around the gag. Gerard twisted their fingers deep, their other hand pinning his hips flush against the sofa when he tried to rut back. "Still," they commanded, and Frank froze, sweat beading along his spine as they fucked him open with deliberate precision.

Gerard watched the tears clinging to Frank's lashes, the way his shoulders shook with restraint. "Count," they ordered, curling their fingers just enough to make Frank's breath hitch. "Every time you ruined my schedule this week."

"Mm—" Frank's throat worked around the silk, his fingers clawing at the leather as Gerard stroked over his prostate again.

"One," Gerard supplied, snapping their fingers sharply against his inner thigh when Frank's hips jerked. They continued the ruthless rhythm, two fingers pressing deep on "two," a third stretching him obscenely on "three" until Frank's thighs were slick with precome, his cock flushed and leaking untouched.

Gerard's breath ghosted hot over the shell of Frank's ear when he reached "seven," their fingers stilling just shy of his prostate. "Look at you," they murmured, twisting their wrist to watch Frank's body clench around them. "So desperate to be good now that it matters." Their thumb pressed against his perineum, the pressure just shy of painful. "You could have had this anytime if you'd just listened."

Frank sobbed around the gag, his knees buckling as Gerard withdrew their fingers entirely. The sudden emptiness wrenched a broken noise from his chest, his hips chasing their retreating hand fruitlessly. Gerard's palm landed sharply against his ass cheek—once, twice—the sting blooming hotter than the whiskey they'd shared earlier. "Hands behind your back," they ordered, catching Frank's wrists in one smooth motion before securing them with the loose end of the silk tie.

Frank trembled violently as Gerard guided him forward until his chest pressed flush against the sofa back, his cock trapped between leather and his own stomach. Gerard's knee nudged his thighs wider, their fingers trailing down the dip of his spine before circling his abused rim. "Tell me why you're here," they murmured, pressing just the tip of one finger inside.

Frank whined high in his throat, the silk gag muffling his attempt at speech. Gerard tugged it loose with a sharp jerk, letting it dangle around his neck. "Words, Frank."

"B-because I fucked up," Frank gasped, his voice wrecked. Gerard's finger pushed deeper, curling just enough to make his vision blur. "Because— ah— because I didn't listen!"

"Again," Gerard added a second finger, scissoring them slowly. Frank's hips jerked, but the silk around his wrists held firm.

"Because I'm yours!" The confession tore from Frank's throat raw and unvarnished. His chest heaved against the sofa, tears streaking his flushed cheeks. "Fuck— Gerard, please—"

Gerard's fingers stilled inside him. The sudden absence wrenched a sob from Frank's chest. "On your knees. Since that wasn’t enough for you," Gerard commanded, stepping back just far enough to watch Frank scramble onto the carpet. Their polished heel pressed into the dip of his spine when he arched too eagerly. "Slowly."

Frank forced himself still, trembling as Gerard knelt behind him. The silk tie brushed his collarbones—still damp from his own spit—before Gerard wound it twice around their fist. "Open." Frank obeyed instantly, the silk pressing heavily on his tongue as Gerard knotted it securely behind his teeth. Their thumb swiped through the tears on his cheeks. "Count every time you disrespected me this week again."

The first slap landed with surgical precision. Frank's muffled "one" dissolved into a whimper when Gerard's fingers returned to his rim, circling without penetration. The second strike overlapped the first, the heat blooming across his skin as Gerard murmured, "Two. You rearranged my deposition schedule without consultation."

Frank's thighs trembled when Gerard finally pressed a finger back inside, just the tip, before withdrawing again. "Three." Their palm cracked against his other cheek. "You rolled your eyes during the Thompson reprimand." They punctuated each number with alternating strokes. One finger breaching him on "four," two twisting cruel and slow on "five", until Frank's choked counts dissolved into wordless pleading.

Gerard's free hand fisted in his hair, wrenching his head back to expose his throat. "Six." Their fingers curled just shy of his prostate while their thumb pressed bruising-hard against his perineum. "You called the Morgan files 'a tomorrow problem' in front of associates." Frank's body convulsed, his cock dripping untouched onto the carpet. The silk tie muffled his scream when Gerard added a third finger without warning.

Frank's hips jerked forward involuntarily, his cock dripping onto the carpet beneath him. The silk tie muffled his desperate whimpers as Gerard's fingers twisted deep inside him. Three now, stretching him obscenely wide with every slow scissoring motion. Tears streaked his flushed cheeks, his whole body trembling with restraint.

"Please," he gasped around the gag, the word barely intelligible. "Gerard— fuck— please let me—"

Gerard's fingers stilled, pressing hard against his prostate. "Let you what?" they murmured, their breath hot against the shell of Frank's ear. Their free hand trailed down his chest, nails scraping lightly over his ribs before wrapping loosely around his cock. "Use your words."

Frank sobbed, his thighs shaking violently. "Let me come," he begged, his voice raw. "Please—I  can't— I need—"

Gerard's grip tightened fractionally, their thumb swiping over the slick head of his cock. "No," they chided, their voice razor-sharp. "Not yet." Their fingers withdrew entirely, leaving Frank clenching around nothing, his breath coming in ragged bursts. "Turn around."

Frank twisted onto his back, the silk tie still tight between his teeth, his wrists straining against their makeshift bindings. Gerard loomed over him, skirt riding up their thighs as they knelt between his legs. Their fingers traced Frank’s inner thigh, slow and taunting, before dragging upward to circle his twitching hole.

“Please,” Frank slurred around his gag, hips jerking weakly. His cock lay flushed and untouched against his stomach. “Gerard— Fuck— Let me—”

Gerard’s thumb pressed hard against his perineum. “Let you what?”

Frank’s vision whited out for a split second. ‘Come,” he begged, voice cracking. “God, please— Just let me—”

Gerard’s fingers returned to his rim, pressing in shallowly, just the tips, before withdrawing again. Frank whimpered, thighs trembling violently. “Look at you,” Gerard murmured, tracing the slick mess Frank had made of himself. “Disgusting.” Their thumb smeared precome across Frank’s lower belly. “Go on.”

Gerard's fingers pressed just inside Frank's rim, not enough to satisfy, just enough to tease, and Frank's back arched off the carpet like a live wire. "Gerard—" His voice cracked around the silk tie, spit soaking the fabric where it stretched between his teeth. "Fuck, just— just fuck me already—"

Gerard's thumb swiped over his perineum, pressing hard enough to make Frank's vision blur. "You'll take what I give you," they murmured, their voice low and dangerous. Their fingers twisted shallowly inside him, retreating every time Frank tried to rock back onto them. "And you'll come when I say."

Frank sobbed, his cock twitching against his stomach, untouched and leaking. He writhed beneath Gerard, his bound hands clawing at nothing behind his back. "Please," he begged, the word slurred and wet. "I can't— I need—"

Gerard's free hand wrapped around his throat, not squeezing, just holding. Their fingers stilled inside him, pressing firm against his prostate without moving. "Come," they ordered, their voice razor-sharp.

Frank's whole body locked up. His back bowing, his thighs trembling, before he came untouched, his cock pulsing against his stomach as white streaked his chest. The orgasm ripped through him violently, his vision whiting out for a split second before crashing back into his body with shuddering gasps.

Frank's vision swam back into focus in fractured pieces. The silk tie still knotted between his teeth, their fingers sliding wetly from his body. He made a noise of half-protest, half-plea that dissolved into a whimper when Gerard merely wiped their hand on his trembling stomach.

"Again?" Gerard murmured, arching one eyebrow. Their thumb pressed against Frank's lower lip, tugging the silk tie loose enough for speech. 

Frank gasped around the spit-slick fabric, his voice shredded. "Want— want you inside. Properly." His hips jerked weakly, oversensitive and twitching. "Fuck me, Gerard, c'mon—"

Gerard's laugh was a dark, velvet thing. They curled two fingers back inside him without warning, scissoring sharply. Frank's back arched off the carpet, a broken scream muffled by the gag. "You can barely take my fingers," they observed, twisting their wrist to watch Frank's body clench around them. "And you want my cock?" 

Frank nodded frantically, tears streaking his temples. Gerard withdrew their fingers with a wet pop, pressing them against Frank's tongue instead. He sucked greedily, hollowing his cheeks, until Gerard wrenched his head back by the tie.

Frank's lips moved soundlessly around the silk tie, his tongue darting out to lick uselessly at Gerard's fingers still pressed against his mouth. His hips twitched involuntarily. Tiny, aborted thrusts into empty air as aftershocks wracked his oversensitive body. Tears blurred his vision when Gerard's thumb swiped through the mess on his stomach, smearing it across his heaving ribs.

"Pathetic," Gerard murmured, their voice rough with something darker than amusement. They dragged their damp fingers down Frank's sternum, watching his muscles jump at the contact. "Look at you. Came untouched like a desperate whore and still begging for more."

Frank's throat worked around the gag, his bound hands flexing uselessly behind his back. He tried to speak. To plead. But all that emerged was a wet, garbled noise that made Gerard's lips curl. 

Their hand slid lower, fingertips tracing the trembling line of Frank's inner thigh. "You really think you can take me?" Gerard asked, tilting their head as they pressed two fingers back inside Frank without warning. His body clenched violently around them, his scream muffled by silk. "Your hole's practically weeping already." They crooked their fingers just enough to make Frank's vision go white again. "You really think you can handle that?"

Frank nodded frantically, his eyelashes sticking together with tears. Gerard's fingers withdrew with a filthy sound, replaced instantly by the blunt head of their cock pressing against his ruined rim. Frank whimpered high and broken as Gerard leaned over him, their breath hot against his ear.

Gerard pressed in with torturous slowness, their hips rolling forward inch by relentless inch. Frank’s whole body convulsed beneath them. It was too much, too soon after his first orgasm, his muffled scream vibrating against the silk ties still knotted between his teeth.

"Breathe," Gerard murmured, their hands bracketing Frank's hips as they bottomed out. They held there, unmoving, watching tears track down Frank's temples while his muscles fluttered violently around them. Their thumb swiped through the mess on Frank's stomach, still warm from his first release, smearing it across his trembling abdomen. "Look at you. Ruined already and I've barely started."

Frank whined high in his throat when Gerard withdrew halfway, only to sink back in with the same deliberate pace. His thighs trembled against Gerard's hips, his cock twitching pathetically against his stomach. Still oversensitive, still leaking. 

Gerard set a rhythm that was almost cruel in its restraint; deep, rolling thrusts that dragged against Frank's prostate with every pass but never quite built to relief. Their fingers tangled in the silk tie still looped around Frank's throat, using it to tilt his head back. "You'll come again like this," they murmured, watching Frank's eyelashes flutter. "Just from my cock. No hands." 

Frank sobbed around the gag, his hips jerking weakly when Gerard changed angles to grind harder against his prostate. The pleasure built in slow, unbearable waves; each thrust pushing Frank closer to the edge, only to retreat at the last second. His second orgasm crashed over him without warning, his body seizing as he came dry; nothing left to spill but the violent contractions of his muscles around Gerard's cock.

Gerard didn’t pause, didn’t slow; just kept fucking him through it, their rhythm unbroken as Frank’s vision whited out. His oversensitive body convulsed with every thrust, his cock twitching emptily against his stomach as tears streaked his temples.

When Gerard finally pulled out, Frank's hole clenched around nothing, reddened and twitching. Gerard's fingers traced his ruined rim, pressing just inside to feel the way Frank's body still trembled. "Again." they taunted, watching Frank's exhausted nod. His cock stirred weakly against his thigh, half-hard despite his exhaustion.

Gerard flipped him onto his stomach without ceremony, his bound hands trapped behind him. They pressed back in with a single brutal thrust that punched a scream from Frank's chest. This time their pace was relentless; no teasing, no restraint, just deep, punishing strokes that jolted Frank forward with every snap of their hips.

Frank's third orgasm hit like a delayed reaction; his body seizing violently as he dry-heaved around the gag. Nothing came out but spit and broken sobs as his prostate throbbed under Gerard's merciless attention. Gerard's fingers dug into his hips hard enough to bruise when Frank's hole fluttered uselessly around them, still trying to milk their cock despite having nothing left to give.

Gerard's rhythm stuttered then, a single ragged thrust before they buried themselves deep with a bitten-off groan. Frank felt the hot spill inside him, Gerard's hips jerking through the aftershocks as their fingers twisted tight in his hair. They held there for a long moment, their breath hot against Frank's shoulder blade, before slowly pulling out.

Frank came back to himself in slow, fractured pieces. First, the press of carpet fibers against his cheek, then the dull ache in his wrists where the silk tie still bound them. His entire body felt liquid and heavy, his limbs refusing to obey simple commands. Distantly, he registered the wetness between his thighs, the cooling mess on his stomach, the raw ache of his throat. 

Gerard’s hands were gentle as they untied the silk from his wrists, and then the back of Frank’s head, loosening the gag, their fingers massaging the indents left behind. Frank whimpered at the touch; oversensitive and overwhelmed, but Gerard didn’t stop, their thumbs circling the delicate bones of his wrists with practiced care. “Easy,” they murmured, their voice softer now, stripped of its earlier edge. “I’ve got you.”

Frank blinked up at them, his vision blurred with unshed tears. Gerard’s face was unreadable in the dim light, their expression hovering somewhere between satisfaction and concern. They cupped Frank’s jaw, their thumb swiping away a stray tear. “Can you sit up for me?”

Frank tried, he really did, but his body refused to cooperate, his muscles trembling violently when he attempted to push himself upright. Gerard didn’t scold him. Instead, they slid an arm beneath his shoulders, lifting him with effortless strength until his back rested against the sofa. Frank sagged against the leather, his head lolling to the side until Gerard guided it to rest against their shoulder.

A blanket materialized from somewhere, soft, warm, and draped over Frank’s shaking frame. Gerard tucked it around him with meticulous care, their fingers brushing his collarbones as they adjusted the fabric. Frank leaned into the touch, his eyelids fluttering when Gerard’s palm settled against his chest, right over his heartbeat.

“Breathe,” Gerard murmured, their lips brushing his temple. Frank hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until the command loosened something in his chest. He exhaled shakily, his ribs expanding beneath Gerard’s palm. “Again. Slower this time.”

Frank obeyed, his breath hitching on the inhale. Gerard’s hand moved with the rise and fall of his chest, their touch steadying. Frank’s fingers twitched where they lay limp in his lap, half-open until Gerard took one hand in theirs, kneading the tension from his palm with deliberate strokes.

“There you go,” Gerard murmured when Frank’s breathing evened out. Their free hand carded through his sweat-damp hair, their nails scraping lightly against his scalp. Frank shuddered, his eyelids drooping. “Good. Just like that.”

A glass of water appeared in Frank’s line of sight, condensation beading on the rim. Gerard guided it to his lips, their fingers steadying his chin when his hands proved too uncoordinated to hold it himself. The first sip was lukewarm, the second cooler as Frank’s awareness sharpened fractionally. He drank greedily until Gerard pulled the glass away with a soft click of their tongue.

“Enough,” they chided, setting the glass aside. “You’ll make yourself sick.” Their fingers returned to Frank’s hair, combing through the tangled strands with unexpected gentleness. Frank leaned into the touch, his body growing heavier with each passing second, pulling him towards sleep.

Frank blinked awake to the press of warm lips against his forehead, soft, lingering, and the scent of bergamot soap filling his lungs as Gerard towel-dried his hair with methodical precision. The bathroom tiles were warm beneath his bare feet, steam curling around the edges of the shower door where Gerard had washed him with clinical care, their hands never lingering, never teasing. Just efficient strokes of a soapy washcloth over every trembling inch of him, rinsing away sweat and semen with the same focus they’d once used to dismantle his legal briefs.

"You with me?" Gerard’s voice was low, roughened at the edges like worn leather. Their fingers traced the hinge of Frank’s jaw where the silk tie had left faint imprints just noticeable enough to make his breath hitch when their thumb brushed the spot.

Frank nodded, his eyelids fluttering as Gerard guided him back to the sofa, where a fresh shirt and sweatpants lay folded. The clothes smelled faintly of Gerard’s detergent; the same crisp linen scent that clung to their office suits. Frank swayed slightly as Gerard dressed him, his limbs leaden and pliant under their hands. The sweatpants were too long, pooling around his ankles until Gerard rolled the cuffs twice with precise flicks of their wrists.

"You kept these here," Frank mumbled, his tongue thick with exhaustion. He stared at the rolled fabric. "For me."

Gerard’s hands stilled on his waistband. They exhaled through their nose, a quiet, measured breath before smoothing the fabric over Frank’s hips. "Yes."

The admission hung between them, heavy as the silence that followed. Frank watched Gerard’s fingers pull the shirt over his head with methodical care, their nails catching faintly on the fabric. They’d done this before, he realized. Planned for it. Imagined the aftermath down to the extra toothbrush now sitting by their bathroom sink.

Gerard’s palm pressed between his shoulder blades, guiding him forward until his forehead rested against their collarbone. Frank inhaled sharply as Gerard’s fingers carded through his damp hair. "You’re thinking too loud," they murmured.

Frank’s laugh came out cracked and watery. "That’s my job." 

"No." Gerard’s thumb traced the shell of his ear. "Your job is to let me take care of you. Just this once."

The words unraveled something in Frank’s chest. He pressed his face harder against Gerard’s shoulder, his fingers twisting weakly in their skirt. They allowed it, allowed him to cling, their arms tightening around him in silent answer.

Gerard’s heartbeat was steady under Frank’s cheek. Slower than his own frantic pulse, measured in a way that made his breathing sync without thought. Their fingers traced idle patterns down his spine, each stroke lingering over vertebrae as if memorizing the terrain.

"You kept count," Frank mumbled into their collarbone. His throat ached. "All those times I fucked up."

Gerard’s exhale ruffled his hair. "Of course I did." Their palm settled between his shoulder blades, warm through the borrowed shirt. "You think I’d miss a single one?"

Frank’s laugh hitched. He’d expected—hell, he didn’t know what he’d expected. Anger, maybe. Disappointment. Not this: Gerard’s hands carding through his hair with methodical care, their voice low and rough at his temple. Not the way the shower handle needed a quarter-turn to the left for perfect heat. Not the way they’d washed him without speaking, their touch firm but never cruel, rinsing shampoo from his hair with cupped palms.

"You’re quiet," Gerard observed. Their fingers skimmed the nape of his neck, blunt nails scraping lightly. "That’s new."

Frank swallowed against the lump in his throat. "Counting," he rasped. "My fuckups." His fingers twisted in Gerard’s sleeve. "You remembered all of them."

Gerard’s thumb pressed against his pulse point. "I remember everything." The words landed like a punch to the ribs. "Your deposition notes from April. The way you take your coffee." A pause. "The look on your face when I called you into my office that first time."

Frank’s breath stuttered. He remembered that first time, too. Gerard’s glacial tone, the way their pen had tapped once, precisely, against the desk blotter. The way his stomach had dropped when they’d said his name without looking up.

"You terrified me," he admitted into their collar.

Gerard’s chuckle vibrated against his forehead. "Good." Their fingers tightened in his hair; not painful, just present. "You needed terrifying."

Frank exhaled shakily, his breath warm against Gerard’s collarbone where their shirt had fallen open. The admission hung between them, and for once, he didn’t rush to cloak it in sarcasm or deflection. Gerard’s fingers stilled in his hair, their grip shifting from possession to something quieter, more deliberate. 

You've been pounding on Frank's trailer door for the past half an hour now, your knuckles raw from the efforts. He’s either dead or ignoring you, neither particularly surprising given the nature of your relationship nowadays. Grumbling under your breath, you sift through your bag in search of the spare key you’ve learned to keep on hand for moments exactly like this.

With one final bang on the door, you shove the key into the lock.

“I'm coming in,” you yell. “You better be dressed.”

The stench that hits you is downright putrid, the door swinging open to reveal a trailer that looks like it's been ransacked. Sour sweat and stale liquor cling to the air, the scent thick enough to make your eyes water and nose twitch. You’re not deterred, forcing your way through the minefield of empty cans, bottles, and trash littering the floor.

The sound of soft snores lead you deeper into the trailer, weaving your way around the clutter and mysteriously large stains as best as you can. As expected, there he is, passed out on the couch in the same outfit from last night, boots partially kicked off and one arm dangling uselessly over the edge of the cushions.

“Frank,” you hiss. “Wake up.”

The snoring continues.

“Frank!” you grumble a little louder, harsher.

For a moment, you just stare, eyes raking over the unsightly image of him sprawled out and reeking of liquor, blissfully unaware that the rest of the band and crew have been ready to go for hours, waiting on him. Even worse, he's got a fat hickey on the side of his neck, the sight coaxing an ugly, involuntary snort out of you. Whatever patience you have left for him evaporates instantly, and before you can stop yourself, you dump your coffee across his chest.

“Get the fuck up!”

Frank jolts upright with a startled yell, eyes flying open in a panic, practically tumbling off the couch.

“What the fuck?!” He sputters, glaring up at you, annoyance cutting through the last remnants of sleep.

You ignore him, kicking an empty can out of the way. “Let’s go. We’re already an hour late.”

He doesn't respond, rolling over and burying his face in the couch cushions. You watch him flatly, unimpressed, tipping the last of your coffee over him.

“Jesus, fuck!” he curses, lashing out with his leg in a half-hearted attempt to kick at your knees. “I'm up!”

You sidestep the kick with ease, glancing down at your watch. “It's almost seven. We were supposed to hit the road an hour ago.”

Frank stares at you blankly, expression completely vacant.

“For the interview?” You draw out slowly. “The one with W Magazine?”

He squints at you, the words clearly failing to land whatsoever, rubbing his forehead in a futile attempt to think through the hangover.

“The one I reminded, no, warned you about like five times last night?” You pause. “Or were you too busy getting shitfaced to remember?”

“Don’t answer that,” you scoff, turning on your heel and heading to the door. “And pull yourself together. You fucking reek.”

To most people, the relationship between you and Frank would be described as… unorthodox, to say the least. You’re Leathermouth's newest touring manager, and in theory, your responsibilities should be split evenly across the band and crew. Instead, the majority of your time is spent chasing Frank down, hauling him off of his ass, and sobering him up just enough to look somewhat presentable for the next show.

You insult him, he insults you right back, most nights ending in the two of you bickering loud enough the entire crew can hear. By all accounts, the arrangement is toxic, unhealthy, absurdly unprofessional; yet… you haven’t been fired.

You keep Frank in line on a tight leash and even stronger grip, dragging him headfirst through everything life on the road throws at you. Miraculously, he responds to it. Not easily, not gracefully, but enough that it works. After all, you’ve been the longest touring manager they’ve kept since the formation of the band.

Whatever.

You’re not paid to like him.

You finally arrive at the shoot, spending the remainder of the morning apologizing profusely to editors and photographers, sacrificing what little dignity you have left on his behalf. Meanwhile, word gets to you that Frank has barricaded himself in his green room, refusing entry to three makeup artists, two assistants, and anyone else brave enough to approach.

You shove your way past the creatives swarming around his door, wrenching the handle open and slipping inside without a second thought.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” You sigh, storming across the room. “Why are you refusing help? People being paid to make you look good?”

He doesn’t look at you, smearing concealer over the mark on his neck to no avail. If anything, he’s making it look worse.

“I’ll do it myself,” he grumbles.

You roll your eyes, stepping forward and pluck the sponge from his hand before he can protest.

“You’re doing it wrong. Color corrector first, then concealer, remember?”

You pull out a small palette and tissue from your bag, wiping away the streaks littering his neck.

“Here.”

Your other hand catches his jaw, forcefully tipping his face up towards you. You dip your finger into the yellow corrector and begin working it over the bruise, fingertips working nimbly to blend the pigment into his skin.

“It blends better when you use your fingers,” you mutter, quieter now, laser focused.

He lets out a long sigh, expression defeated.

“What’s wrong?” You grumble.

Frank mutters something beneath his breath, eyes flicking to your reflection in the mirror.

You know him well enough by now, far beyond what any professional relationship should allow. Beneath all of the drinking, self-sabotage, and parade of terrible decisions, Frank always crumbles the same way. Over the past month, you’ve talked him down from more disasters than you can count: “breakups,” hangovers, panic spirals at three in the morning. Whatever the problem is, your job reminds the same: get him functional enough to work.

Right now, you know he needs reassurance, a little softness even. And you’ll indulge him; play the dutiful manager long enough to get him back on his feet.

“That’s okay,” you say, voice softening slightly. “You don’t have to tell me.” You finish blending the concealer, dusting a light layer of powder over the spot and pulling back to admire your work.

Perfect.

Completely hidden.

“Look, if this about earlier… I’m sorry,” you pause. “You’re a good guy, Frank.”

The faintest trace of a smile tugs at his lips.

“Now, are you ready to get to work?”

From there, the rest of the shoot goes off without a hitch. Frank provides thoughtful answers to each interview question and poses for the photos without a single complaint. The change in his mood is obvious to everyone, smiling easy and cracking his signature jokes as naturally as they come. Good. As far as you’re concerned, this is a job well done. Keep him in a decent mood before the show and the rest will take care of itself.

While he charms the editors and photographers, you throw yourself back into your actual work, checking in with the rest of the cast and crew and tackling the mountain of tasks that have piled up throughout this morning’s “ordeal.”

You find yourself lingering in the hallway with one of the sound techs, savoring a rare quiet moment together. He’s been eyeing you for most of the tour, persistent enough that even you’ve noticed. An accidental brush of fingers here, a conversation after load-out there, and an endless willingness to listen to your increasingly long rants about a certain someone.

He’s patient. Polite. Unfamiliar, in the best possible way.

“So, drinks tonight?”

Before you can respond, a sinewy arm loops around you from behind, dragging you back.

Lo and behold, it’s Frank: restless, grinning, invading your space, but there’s something sharper beneath it. His hand digs into your hip and yanks you into his side, gaze slipping past you for a beat before returning.

“There’s my girl,” he grins, though the smile doesn’t fully reach his eyes. “I was lookin’ for you.”

You pry yourself out of his grasp, the reaction immediate enough to make Frank’s smile falter for a fraction of a second before returning.

“What’s this about drinks?” He scoffs.

“Nothing,” you cut him off, stepping back defensively. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the show?”

“I was just headin’ out. Forgot you were off tonight.”

"Yeah," you grumble, turning back to him. “You can handle that, right? Probably won't even notice I'm gone.”

The words hit harsher than they should. You don’t catch the way Frank’s jaw tightens slightly, or the way his hand curls into his side hard enough his nails dig crescents into the skin. If anything, he welcomes the sting, giving him something sharp to focus on instead of the uncomfortable twinge in his chest.

If only you knew.

For once, Frank doesn’t touch a bottle during the show. Not because he doesn’t want to, or because he’s trying to prove a point of some kind. No, it’s thoughts of you that keeps his hands away from it, the thought of someone else stealing your affections away driving him mad, souring every scream and note as he leaps across the stage. The handful of times he’s managed to make you smile are few and far between, but he clings to the memories all the same as the night goes on.

Even after the show, the unease refuses to settle, gnawing at him like a moth to a flame, so much so that his feet carry himself to your door before he fully realizes it.

Inside, you scurry around your trailer, working the last of your makeup into place. You’ve dressed appropriately for the humid evening, your favorite dress and a jacket slung over your shoulder for when the temperature drops later. It’s been weeks since you’ve had a night off, a night to yourself, his emergencies” calling you back time and time again.

Your thoughts are interrupted by an abrupt knock, and for a moment, you assume it’s your date here to pick you up. You smooth the front of your dress, taking a steadying breath and yanking the door open.

Your smile falters instantly.

Frank stands on the steps of your trailer, hair damp from the show, sweat clinging to his clothes and brow.

“Frank?”

He doesn’t answer you, eyes raking over your form from head to toe, scrutinizing every detail. The silence hangs heavy between you, tension stretching uncomfortably before he finally speaks. “Can I come in?”

You step aside, not like you have much of a choice anyways, scurrying back to the bathroom mirror to add final touches.

“What’s wrong?” You call out.

Frank lingers near the door, hands shoved in his pockets awkwardly, uncharacteristically quiet for after a show. He exhales sharply, letting the door shut fully with a soft click.

“I came to…” he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “… Apologize.” The words are so soft you almost don’t hear him at first.

“What?”

He grimaces, evidently chewing on his words.

“… For this morning,” he grumbles, even quieter.

You place the tube of your mascara down and walk back into the living room. “No, I heard you.”

The vulnerability on his face vanishes instant, replaced with something colder, more irritable.

“Can you take me seriously for one fucking second?”

“Can you?!” You fire back, the words escaping automatically. Another jab. Another fight. Normally, he’d fire something right back, but this time, he doesn’t. He just stands there, expression almost grim, unreadable.

"Y'know what… Nevermind…” he mutters under his breath, turning towards the door. “I’m gonna go.”

Something in his voice makes your chest tighten. You reach out to him before you can stop yourself, hand catching his arm and halting him in his tracks.

“Wait,” you sputter, teasing edge gone. “I’m listening.”

Frank turns back to you, a deep flush creeping up the corners his neck, gaze darting away the second it lands on you. “I wanted to…” he mutters, the words slipping away. “You,” he corrects himself, clearing his throat. “You look… nice.”

Silence.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Oh.

You don't know what comes over you; confidence, curiosity maybe, closing the distance between you in several quick strides. Every so often, when he’s sober enough to remember, you take absolute joy in flustering him, and right now, he’s making it far too easy. Frank swallows thickly, body rigid, a shaky exhale escaping him. Before you can overthink it, you lean forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“Thanks,” you smile, pulling back. A strangled sound escapes him, face erupting in a furious shade of red. His hand shoots out to you on instinct, catching your wrist before you can fully retreat. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you back in.

Frank is on you before you can even think, chapped lips crashing into yours, stubble scraping against your chin. The kiss is rough, greedy, forceful in a way that steals the breath clean out of your lungs.

“F-Frank,” you manage between uneven pants, “W-we shouldn’t.”

He claims your lips once more, biting down onto the shell to work his way inside. It’s too much, too intense, his breath tasting of the Newports he sneaks behind your back.

“I’m — fuck — s-serious,” you whine, the words falling on deaf ears as he descends upon your neck, nipping and biting at the sensitive flesh. Frank’s hands trail down your body, frantic and everywhere at once, arms hooking around your waist to hoist you up. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, throwing caution to the wind under the weight of his attention. He manhandles you across the room with ease, your little resistance only turning him on more, slamming your back on the couch hard enough you both lose balance.

Frank hovers on top of you, pulling back to admire the bruises littering serpentine down your neck. He can see the anger in your eyes, but the edges have softened, overtaken by a hunger that leaves satisfaction coiling low in his chest.

“There,” he sneers against the curve of your neck, a wicked smile on his lips. “Try explaining that to your date.” The words are low, dripping with venom, the rage in your chest boiling over so fast you can’t stop yourself. A slap echoes through the trailer, your hand stinging at the contact.

“You’re a fucking dog,” you spit, the wetness pooling in your panties unbearable at this point, rubbing your thighs together in a futile attempt for friction. Frank doesn’t let you, knee wrenching your thighs apart, dragging your body down to meet him. Fuck, he knows just where to drag it, the hardness grinding up against your clit with every steady push.

“I… hate you,” you manage through stuttered moans, Frank’s brawny hands sliding under your dress and up your thighs. You’ve never wanted anything so bad, hips squirming into his touch, loving every second of the abuse.

“You don’t hate the way I’m touching you,” he lilts, hiking up the skirt of your dress. “Look at this.” Frank’s fingers brush against your clothed core, a shiver going straight up your spine at the contact. “Soaked through. How cute. You must really want me after all.”

His teasing is interrupted by a rough tug of his hair, your fingers digging through the strands and yanking him off by the root. “Just shut up and come here,” you mouth at him, legs tangling with his, hands fiddling with his belt buckle. He can feel the impatience watching off of you in waves, hands stopping you to pin your wrists to the couch. “Nuh uh,” he tsks. “Ask me nicely.”

Your face burns in shame, shock and disbelief twisting low and sending heat straight to your core. You silently curse your body, disgusted by how well it responds to him instinctively. Frank slips his hand below your panties, fingers parting your folds to tease at the wetness building there. He finds your clit with ease, the rough pads of his fingers adding a texture that has your back arching off of the cushions.

Frank works his fingers down nimbly on the bundle, testing what feels best for you by the sounds of your little gasps and whimpers. He’s surprisingly perceptive, patient even, far what you’d expect from him and especially not in bed. Somehow, that only makes it worse.

“You’re a wet little thing, aren’t you?” He grunts, completely mesmerized by your expressions, his other hand flying to the clasp of his belt buckle and pulling his boxers down. Frank’s cock hits your thigh with an agonizingly wet slap, precum dribbling off the fabric of your dress and onto your skin. He’s thick, way more than average, tip flushed and…

Holy shit.

It’s so small you don’t even see it at first, nothing more than a glint of silver catching the dim lights of the trailer.

Is that a…?!

You jolt upright in disbelief, eyes widening in shock as you struggle to prop yourself up under him. Sure, you’ve seen pictures, know he’s no stranger to piercings, but this?! What the fuck was he thinking?! The barbell is tucked into the underside of his tip, taunting, impossible to miss now that you’ve noticed it. Jesus Christ, he could break you with this thing if he isn’t careful.

You can’t help the unconscious whine that slips out of you at the thought.

“F-fuck, Frank,” you whine, hooking your legs around his waist to pull him in. He leans in, guiding his cock into a lengthy drag against your folds, spreading the almost uncomfortable wetness growing between you. You can feel the piercing brushing against your clit with every grind of his hips, slipping past your entrance and building a rhythm that has you begging for reprieve, for something.

Frank doesn’t need to draw this part out, grasping his cock and pushing in slowly, crude curses escaping his lips at the feeling of your walls clenching around him. It’s taking everything he has not to just fuck into you like an animal, reveling in the crease of your brow at the feeling of being stretched to the brim. Even with all his teasing, the sting is evident, your nails digging into his shoulders the deeper and deeper he goes. He bottoms out with a gentle snap of his hips, eyes glued to the way your cunt sucks him in greedily with every push.

You’re half expecting him to just rip into you, but no, Frank builds a steady pace, hips rocking into you in a way that has you trembling in his grasp. Even if you never say it, an undeniable truth rises anyway, rearing its ugly head with every gasp and stutter of breath. You’re his, and he knows it, even if you’re still fighting the realization. And sure, he’ll fuck you in all the ways you’ve ever dreamed, all the ways you’ve ever desired, because he’s the only one who can.

The thought has him keening, hands gripping the flesh of your hips to fuck you back onto him halfway. There’s no ease or gentleness to his method, pounding into you rough enough the sounds of wetness and skin slapping echo throughout the room. The piercing grazes your walls with every stroke, foreign but not unpleasant. If anything, it only makes you hotter for him, your pathetic gasps and whimpers escaping freely now.

The pride on Frank’s face is evident, smug, snaking one of his hands down to rub your your clit in time with his thrusts.

“Fuck,” you gasp, snapping your eyes shut at the feeling of him so deep. “Gonna cum.”

“Yeah?” He grunts, unrelenting, a devious grin spreading across his features. “Gonna cum from my cock inside you? Stuffing you full?” You’re too blissed out to respond, locking your ankles at the back of his back, the heat in your core driven so taut it could snap at any second. You’re close, so close, body and mind reeling in anticipation. You need this, you really do, but just before you can jump over that starry expanse, all movement stops completely.

Frank pulls out of you abruptly, the shock so sudden it’s almost painful, leaving you gasping and trembling at the loss of warmth. Your eyes burn into his, the fury in them so intense he has to bite back a needy moan.

“What the fuck?!” You hiss, all tension in your muscles dissipating instantly. Frank hoists you up, hands grasping, tearing, ripping your dress off in one rough swoop. He flips you around wordlessly, hands digging into your lower back, arching you into him and easing back inside of you with a steady push of his hips.

“We’re not done yet,” he snarls, rolling into you at a bruising pace, the angle penetrating deeper than anything you’ve ever thought could. Frank is unbelievably pent up, unbelievably turned on at the feeling of holding back his own orgasm to watch you squirm. He bites back another filthy moan, resentment twisting in his gut at the thought of the nights spent wasted in his hand, nights that should have been spent inside of you, keeping you stuffed and sated like a proper lover should.

“Tell me you’re mine,” Frank growls, nails digging into your ass possessively. You don’t respond, muscles protesting the angle, too fucked out to even form a coherent sentence.

“Say it,” he hisses, rhythm faltering. God, it’s fucking sadistic the way he works at you, ordering you around like it’s nothing.“Say it and I’ll let you cum.”

“Fuck,” you sob into the pillows, mascara streaking down your cheeks, makeup completely ruined. “I-I’m yours, Frank.” You cry out. “Only yours.”

He rewards you, leaning down over you to kiss at your shoulder blades. “Good girl,” He coos, breath hot against your ear, the weight of him on top of you addicting. “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

You’re not sure if it’s the pity or the praise, but his approval sends you crashing straight over the edge, cunt clamping down hard on the thickness inside of you. It’s euphoric, the tension snapping deep and low, coursing through you so intensely no sound comes out at first. Frank’s not much better, moaning shamelessly into your hair, rhythm stuttering with the tightness and warmth. With one final snap of his hips, he’s shooting deep within you, snapping your hips down harshly to meet his one final time. It’s so much, hot and sticky as it pools. He continues to pump into you, prolonging it as long as he can.

Frank’s arms practically give out, crashing his body down onto the couch beside you. For a moment, it’s dead silent, the trailer filled only with the sounds of panting as you both struggle to catch your breath. Even he’s winded, fucking you so thoroughly he got himself fucked out in the process. Truly, a success. He doesn’t pull out of you, determined to make sure not a drop of cum leaks, repositioning you both as best he can to be comfortable.

You’re exhausted, eyes growing heavier with every passing second as you wait for your breathing to even out. Frank presses a sweaty kiss to your temple, wiping the sweat off of your forehead as best as he can before drifting off beside you.

The first thing you feel the next morning is warmth, solid and comforting beneath you. You lie there groggily, shifting slightly, enjoying the steady rise and fall of Frank’s breath beneath your cheek.

You’re sprawled across his chest, his cock soft within you.

“You awake?” he mumbles into the top of your hair, his voice thick with sleep.

“Mmhm,” you murmur back, pressing your ear against his chest to listen to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

You both lie there in comfortable silence, neither of you rushing to get up, content to exist solely in the other’s company for a little while longer. Your fingers skate along his arm, tracing the lines of ink and muscle before trailing to the scorpion tattoo on his neck.

He notices.

“I’m thinking about getting it removed.”

You tilt your head up toward him, surprised.

“Why? I love this one.”

Frank doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to, the soft look in his eyes more than enough. Instead, he presses a gentle kiss to the crown of your head, pulling you in tighter.

“Yeah?” He grins.