𖦹 porco galliard and new york pizza late at night.
he's sitting with you, thighs pressed against each other, shoulders brushing at every breath. his skin is hot and slightly dewy in the heat of the small space. directly across the bar table is the kitchen, he's almost nose to nose with the chef whose focus hasn't left the dough. the smell of people and greasy baked goods clings to his clothes and the inside of his nostrils. it's home.
porco leans against you to hear you better through the endless chatter, or maybe it's just to be close to you, either way you don't mind. when he's beside you all his troubles seem to just wash away.
when he's here with you in a small and insignificant pizza shop in the big city of new york, surrounded by people but not really being seen, he can truly breathe. the pressures of everyday life mean nothing at this hour.
he could go on and on about the environment. how comfortably tiny he feels in the endless city, the way the lights sit dimly enough where he's hidden, even how your chest slowly rises and falls with each breath. in truth, the environment doesn't matter. the heat is just a feeling, this pizza is just a meal, and new york city is just a place when you're at his side.
i went to a place like this last night in nyc. i just had to put my inspiration for it somewhere, thought id give porco some attention. i actually love how this turned out
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summary : you're untouched, inexperienced, and completely wrong for a man like Frank Castle. Which is exactly why he can’t stay away from you.
word count : 7.6 k
warnings : buckle up bc this is a long one - smut, minors DNI, 18 +, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap that shi up), popping of one's cherry, mentions of blood, soft but not really!frank, implied age gap, inexperienced reader, praise kink, size kink, canon-typical mentions of violence, explicit language
a/n: yall come up with the shit i wouldn't even think abt (like this here) but im always so glad to write it !!! my requests are open to any and all characters, so keep em comin' - as usual, not proofread !
Karen introduced you to Frank Castle on a Tuesday, and afterward you blamed her for it constantly. At first, he was just the terrifying guy who showed up at her apartment bleeding half to death and refusing medical help like it was a personality trait. You thought he was rude. He thought you talked too much. Karen thought you were both idiots almost immediately.
But then Frank kept showing up. Always with some excuse. Information for Matt. Coffee for Karen. Food nobody asked for. And somehow he always lingered longer when you were there too. You fell for him slowly.
In stupid little pieces.
The way he remembered your coffee order after hearing it once. The way he automatically walked closest to the street at night. The way his giant terrifying self softened every time you laughed at one of his dry muttered jokes like he couldn’t help it.
And Frank— God.
Frank fell hard.
Karen noticed first.
“You’re staring again,” she told him one night while you sat on the floor stealing fries from the takeout container in your lap.
“I ain’t starin’.”
“You absolutely are." Frank looked at you like you were something dangerous in the best possible way. Like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure he was allowed to. That was the thing about him. He never pushed.
Not once.
You dated other guys before Frank. Plenty. But they always got impatient eventually. Always acted like sex was some finish line they deserved to cross if they waited long enough. So you kept saying no. And after enough bad experiences, the fear just… stayed. Frank never made you feel guilty for it. The two of you became disgustingly affectionate anyway. Constantly touching. Your legs over his lap on the couch. His hand at your back guiding you through crowds. Falling asleep tangled together during movies. Stealing his shirts. Sitting between his knees while he cleaned guns and listening to him grumble about your taste in music. But every time things almost turned sexual, panic crept in. And every single time, Frank stopped immediately. One night he walked you home and looked at your mouth long enough to make your knees weak.
“If I kiss you,” he asked quietly, “you tellin’ me to stop?” You panicked. And Frank stepped back instantly like your comfort mattered more than breathing. That was probably when you realized you loved him. Not because he wanted you. Because he didn’t need anything from you to stay.
----------
You stand in the bedroom, pacing back and forth, chewing on your thumb.
God, you feel so stupid.
Your heart is pounding hard enough to make your ribs ache. You’ve faced armed men before. You’ve patched bullet wounds with shaking hands. You’ve stared down monsters and lived through it. And somehow this is worse. Because this is Frank.
Frank, who kisses your shoulder every morning without fail.
Frank, who drapes himself over you on the couch like a weighted blanket because he knows you secretly love it.
Frank, who always reaches for your hand first in crowded places.
Frank, who has spent months loving you with his entire body while carefully avoiding the one line you kept drawing between you.
Not because you hated touch.
God, no.
You’re practically glued to him half the time. You sit in his lap while he cleans guns. Fall asleep with your face in his neck. Steal his shirts and crawl into his arms every night like it’s instinct. And the need that crawls inside your skin when you see him shirtless, or doing anything with his hands- god. It's insatiable.
But sex— Sex always felt different to you.
Too vulnerable.
Too permanent.
Too much.
And every guy before Frank eventually got tired of waiting. Some were patient at first. Most pretended to be. Then came the guilt trips. The sighs. The passive-aggressive comments. The inevitable: What, you don’t trust me?
And eventually, somehow, time just… kept passing. Until suddenly you were here.
A grown virgin.
In Frank’s apartment.
In Frank’s clothes.
Hopelessly in love with a man who has never once made you feel bad for being scared. Which honestly makes this so much harder. You stop pacing long enough to stare at yourself in the mirror.
“You are a grown woman,” you mutter weakly. The reflection looks unconvinced. From the living room, you hear the low murmur of the TV and the faint clink of a beer bottle against the coffee table. Frank’s home from a job. Showered already. Clean black t-shirt. Gray sweats hanging low on his hips. You know because you’ve spent the last twenty minutes trying not to think about it. You squeeze your eyes shut.
Fuck it.
Before you can lose your nerve, you walk out into the living room. Frank’s sprawled on the couch, one arm stretched across the back cushions, beer balanced against his stomach while some old war documentary drones quietly from the television. The second he sees you hovering there, he frowns slightly.
“You alright, baby?” he asks. You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Frank immediately sits up straighter.
“That bad, huh?” You blurt it before you lose your nerve.
“Frank, I want to have sex with you.” Frank spits beer all over himself. You jump backward as he starts choking violently.
“Jesus Christ—”
“Oh my God.” He’s coughing hard enough his face turns red.
“Sorry-shit-” Frank wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at you like you just confessed to arson. “You—what?” Your face burns.
“Well now I regret bringin’ it up.”
“No, hold on.” He sets the beer down carefully like sudden movements might scare you off. “What?” You groan and cover your face.
“This is humiliating.”
“Sweetheart.” His voice softens immediately. “C’mere.” You shake your head aggressively.
“No, because now you’re gonna look at me weird.”
“I have literally never looked at you weird a day in my life.”
“You absolutely have.”
“Okay, fair. But not for this.” You peek at him through your fingers. Frank still looks stunned. Not upset. Not uncomfortable. Just deeply confused. “You wanna…” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “With me?”
“Frank, there are no other people in this apartment.”
“That ain’t what I mean.” You know that. Your stomach twists violently. Frank studies you carefully now, all teasing gone.
“I thought you didn’t want that stuff,” he says gently. “And I was okay with that.”
“I do want it.”
“Then why’ve you looked ready to bolt every time things got heated?” Your face gets hotter.
“Because I’ve never done it before.” Silence. Frank blinks once.
“…done what before?” You stare at the floor.
“Any of it.” Another beat. Then:
“…Baby.” You want the earth to swallow you whole.
“I’m a virgin, okay? I've never been kissed, never been touched by anyone except myself. ” you blurt out finally. “And before you make a face about it—”
“I ain’t makin’ a face.”
“You are internally.”
“I’m really not.” You risk a glance up. He genuinely isn’t. He just looks… shocked.
“You never—?”
“No.”
“And nobody ever—?”
“No.” Frank leans back slowly against the couch cushions like he just got hit with something.
“Jesus Christ.”
“I know. God, i'm so fucking embarassing.”
“No, sweetheart, I just—” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I thought maybe you just weren’t comfortable with physical intimacy.” You snort nervously.
“I’m literally attached to your spine twenty-four hours a day.”
“That’s true.”
“I love physical stuff.” Your voice gets smaller. “I just… wanted my first time to actually mean something.” Frank goes very still at that. “And all the guys before you kept acting like they deserved it eventually because they waited long enough.” You shrug tightly. “So I kept saying no.” Something ugly flashes across Frank’s face. Not at you. Never at you. At them.
“I’m gonna need names,” he mutters darkly. Despite everything, you laugh.
“No, you absolutely do not.”
“They sound annoyin’.”
“They were.” A silence settles between you. Not awkward. Just… full. Frank looks at you for a long second, something almost painful softening his face.
“You know I’d wait forever, right?” he says quietly. Your chest aches instantly.
“I know.”
“And I mean forever.”
“I know.”
“You don’t gotta prove anythin’ to me.” Your throat tightens.
“That’s kinda the problem,” you admit softly. Frank frowns slightly.
“What d’you mean?”
You stare down at your hands.
“I mean…” God. “I’m not doing this because I feel pressured.” Your voice gets quieter. “I’m doing it because I’m in love with you and I trust you and I think about you constantly.” Frank exhales sharply.
“You gotta stop sayin’ stuff like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m tryin’ real hard to keep actin’ normal.” Your stomach flips. You walk closer to him, just so he can drag you to stand between his legs, his hands on your waist. You force yourself to keep talking before fear catches up again.
“I think about you kissing me,” you admit quietly. “And touching me.” Your face burns hotter. “And I think about your hands a lot, which honestly feels medically concerning at this point.” Frank makes a strangled sound. You look up just in time to see him drag a hand over his face.
“Sweetheart,” he rasps.
“And I know I’m late to all this and weird about it and probably overthinking everything—”
“Hey.” His voice cuts through immediately. Firm. “None of that.” You stop. Frank leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on yours with that terrifying intensity he gets when he means something completely. “There is nothin’ wrong with you.” Emotion punches straight through your chest. He softens instantly seeing your face change.
“C’mere,” he says quietly. This time, you go immediately. Frank catches you the second you lean into him, pulling you straight into his lap like it’s instinct. His arms wrap around your waist automatically, warm and solid and safe, and you bury your face in his neck with a shaky breath.
“There she is,” he murmurs softly against your hair. You cling harder.
“I’m nervous.”
“I know.”
“You still want me?” Frank actually leans back enough to look offended.
“Baby, I have wanted you since the second you yelled at me in Karen’s kitchen for bleeding on her floor.” A startled laugh escapes you.
“You remember that?”
“You threatened me with a mop.”
“You were bleeding everywhere.”
“And I still thought you were cute.” You groan into his shoulder.
“This is awful.”
“No,” he says softly, one hand sliding up your back. “This is you trustin’ me.” His thumb strokes slowly along your spine.
“You sure about this?” he asks quietly. You nod against him.
“Yeah.”
“And if you change your mind at any point?”
“I’ll tell you.”
“And then we stop."
“Yes.” Frank studies your face carefully for another second. Then his hand slides gently into your hair.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. Your heart practically stops. You nod once.
“Yeah.” Frank closes the distance so gently you almost don’t feel it at first—just the soft, rough drag of his thumb along your jaw, then his lips, warm and chapped, brushing yours. It’s not the kind of kiss you expected from Frank. You were bracing for a car wreck, something bruising and violent, the way he is on a job. But it’s nothing like that. He kisses you so slow, so careful, like you might shatter.
You don’t shatter. Not exactly. But the sensation is so intense you feel yourself splitting open from the inside out. His hand cups the back of your head, steadying you.
He pulls back barely an inch.
“You okay?” Voice low, hoarse.
You nod, but it’s not enough, so you push forward, mouth crashing into his, desperate for the centrifugal force he’s been holding back. He lets you, lets you climb messily into his lap, lets you fist your hands in his shirt. And when your tongue nudges against his, Frank gives a little grunt and opens for you, just a hair, just enough. Every nerve in your body catches fire. You’d thought, maybe, that the first time would feel awkward. Like taking a test you never studied for. But Frank makes it easy. He keeps checking in with you, saying your name between kisses, grounding you with his hands, never letting you get lost in the panic of it. At some point, you realize you’re straddling his thighs and he’s got one palm splayed wide over your lower back, the other bracing your jaw, like he’s afraid you’ll tip out of gravity if he ever lets go.
“You still good?” he rasps.
“Yes,” you say, and it comes out as a gasp. You’re trembling. Not with fear—the opposite. You want to crawl out of your skin. Frank’s hands are on your hips now, then under your shirt,dragging slow up your ribs. He keeps it gentle, keeps it steady, like he’s reading your mind. When his thumb sweeps over one nipple, you arch so hard you nearly headbutt him. He huffs a tiny laugh, then grins, wide and wolfish.
“Sensitive?”
“Shut up.” He does, at least for a second. His mouth finds your neck, then your collarbone, then the top of your breast. He peppers all of it with slow, open-mouthed kisses that threaten to melt your brain. He lifts the hoodie up and off in one slow motion, and you almost laugh at yourself for being nervous; it’s just Frank, looking at you like he’s been starving and you’re the only meal he’s ever wanted.
“Christ,” he says, low and reverent, and runs a thumb just under the swell of your breast, gentle, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll spook. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, and the words go straight to your cunt. You whine, grinding down against him on instinct, and he groans, hands darting out to steady you. He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you part for him. You feel his hands everywhere—your back, your hips, your thighs—steadying you, coaxing you closer. His touch is a little rough around the edges, always bordering on too much, but never quite crossing the line. He’s so careful with you it almost breaks your heart. He pulls back long enough to look you up and down, like he’s memorizing you. There’s a heat in his eyes that makes you shiver, but it’s the possessiveness that really undoes you. Like he can’t believe you’re letting him see you like this.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growls, low and rough, and you nearly combust. You can’t stop touching him—his shoulders, his jaw, the back of his neck. He likes it, you can tell, because he keeps pressing you closer, like he wants to crawl inside your skin.
“Can I touch you?” you whisper. You don’t even recognize your own voice, breathy and shaking. Frank’s face goes soft, like you just handed him a live wire and told him to hold it for you.
“Baby, you can do whatever you want to me.” He grins, then kisses you again, slow and deep, while guiding your hands under his shirt. You run your fingers over his chest, all scars and muscle and heat. His skin is hot to the touch, the steady beat of his heart pounding under your palms. You dig your nails in, just a little, and Frank makes a sound that’s half-growl, half-moan, like he’s straining not to just take you apart right there.
“You good?” he asks again, voice ragged. You nod, then remember to say it:
“Yeah. Yes. I’m good—you’re…” You can’t finish the sentence, so you just kiss him again. It feels less scary now, more inevitable, like gravity. He lets you push him back against the couch, your thighs tight around his waist. His hands slip from your ribs to your ass, squeezing gently, like he’s testing how much you can take. You whimper, hips jerking forward, rubbing against the hard line of him through his sweats. Frank curses, low and frantic, and you get drunk on the sound.
“Shit, sweetheart,” he pants. “Gotta slow down or I’m gonna blow it before we even start.”
“Don’t slow down,” you say. “I want—” You don’t know how to finish the sentence. Frank does it for you.
“You want me?” He’s grinning, but his eyes are almost desperate.
“Yes,” you say. “Frank, I want you.” Something in him snaps. He reaches down, clearing his throat as he taps your thighs.
“Sit up, baby.” He hums. You lean forward, sitting up on your knees. His hands are slow and careful as they pull down your shorts, and you bite your bottom lip as he softly coaxes it off your legs. Your wet cunt soaks through your panties, and when you sit back down on his sweatpants, that extra barrier of tissue removed makes the strain in his pants much bigger against you. He’s hard as hell now, and you can feel the heat of him even through his boxers. Your thighs tremble. The air in the apartment seems thinner, more electric. Frank’s hands run reverently up your thighs, slow, no rush, but the tension in his arms says he’s holding himself back. It makes you feel powerful. It makes you feel safe.
“Gonna take these off, sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb sliding under the band of your panties. He’s watching your face, checking for panic. There isn’t any. Not anymore. You nod, and he peels them down, slow, exposing you inch by inch. When the fabric finally drags off your ankles, you’re left straddling his lap, bare except for your tank top, skin goosepimpled and desperate. Frank’s hands splay wide over the soft meat of your ass, kneading you, warm and solid. He guides you forward, grinding you down against the bulge of his cock, and you gasp. The friction’s almost too much. Not enough. You can feel yourself slick up, can see it glistening on his gray sweats when you grind on him again.
“Fuck, look at you,” Frank rasps, voice tight. “So fuckin’ wet, baby.”
Your face should be burning, but you just want more. You want him everywhere. You want to come apart all over him. It makes you brave.
“Can I see you?” you whisper, hands curling under the hem of his shirt. Frank doesn’t answer. He just lifts his arms, lets you peel the shirt up and off, revealing the wild scar-mapped planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle , the old bullet wound you once stitched shut with trembling hands. You run your fingertips over every inch, tracing him like you’re memorizing a map you’ll never get to visit again. He shivers under your touch.
“God,” you murmur, awe in your voice. He grins, lopsided and a little shy, and pulls you in for another kiss. This one’s dirtier—the way his tongue drags over yours, the way his hands squeeze your waist, the press of his cock as he grinds up into you. He’s leaking through his boxers now, hot and slick, and you rub yourself shamelessly against it, chasing the friction. Frank groans, deep and desperate.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he breathes. “We got time.” You don’t know how you’ll survive it. He nudges your thighs apart, makes a show of looking down at the space between your bodies. All his focus is on you: on your bare knees bracketing his hips, the hungry, worshipful way your chest rises and falls with each shaky breath. It’s more than he deserves, and he wants to say something gentle to you, but all that comes out is a low,
“Fuck, baby. You’re drivin’ me crazy.” You laugh, but it’s nervous, hands trembling a little as you brace them on his shoulders. Frank has to slow down, to make sure his hands are steady as he slides them up and down your sides. You’re soaking wet—so wet the slick’s already darkened the front of his sweats, and his cock is straining, thick and angry, beneath the fabric. The look on your face terrifies and thrills him, like you’re balancing right on the edge of a rooftop, dizzy from the height and the want. He wants to say something to make it easier.
“Hey. We can stop anytime, you hear me?” He cups your face in one big hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. You nod, but the motion’s a little frantic, like you’re trying to prove you’re not scared. He’s never seen anyone so fucking brave.
“I don’t want to stop,” you whisper, voice shaking, “I just—” You squeeze your eyes shut, like you’re embarrassed. Your hands dig into his shoulders. “Frank, I don’t know what to do.” He nods, softly guiding your hands down to his sweats. He kisses your temple.
“Take these off.” Your hands fumble at the waistband, palms slick, vision swimming with nerves and need. You hook your fingers under the elastic and pull, unsure, but he lifts his hips to help and the gray cotton peels away easy as a wish. His cock springs free, heavy, flushed, the head slicked already, and you stare, breath burning in your throat.
He’s… god, he’s big.
You don’t even have enough data points to compare, but your brain still tries, and it short-circuits. Frank watches you with a patience that’s almost predatory, like he’s holding himself together with staples and baling wire. His hand covers yours, guiding it, and you curl your fingers delicately around the shaft. He hisses, jaw clenched, and the muscles in his thighs jump against your knees. Your thumb drags along the vein, and god, it’s hot, how responsive he is. How it makes him shudder.
“You’re a quick study,” Frank murmurs, voice gone low and rough. “Jesus.” He slides his hand up your thigh, kneading gently, and then reaches between them, thumb brushing over you where you’re soaked and swollen. The touch is electric, makes you jerk forward, grinding against his cock. The head bumps you clit, and you whimper, dizzy with it. He holds you by the hip, steadying, anchoring.
“You want to keep going, baby?” You nod, frantic and eager. He grins, but there’s an edge to it; it looks like he might snap in half from wanting her. You bite your bottom lip, face flushed. Frank’s watching your face hard.
“Hey. You okay?” You nod, eyes never leaving him. He’s so solid. So alive. The kind of body that absorbs bullets and wins bar fights and breaks things for a living. You want it inside you. That realization hits so hard it makes you whimper. Frank bites the inside of his cheek, hand gentle as it cups your jaw, pulling you back to him for a kiss. “Don’t gotta do anything you don’t want,” he rumbles. “Just say the word.” You shake your head.
“I want to. I just…” The words get stuck in your throat, so you scrape them out: “I don’t want to be bad at it.” Frank actually laughs, low, delighted.
“You’re not gonna be bad at anything, baby. Not with me.” He pulls you in and the kiss goes molten, needier, his hands anchoring your hips and rocking you down against his cock, bare now, the heat and velvet of it dizzying between your legs. He groans into your mouth, one hand finding your thigh and urging it higher, opening you more. The stretch is intense but perfect; you want to be wrecked by him, want to feel it for days. He strokes his thumb up and down your thigh and says, almost reverent,
“You’re dripping.” You hide your face in his neck, mortified, but his hand finds your hair and tugs you back, just a little, so you have to look at him. “Nothin’ to be nervous about,” he says softly. “This is supposed to feel good, sweetheart. Let me make it good for you.” You nod, not trusting your voice. Frank sucks in a harsh breath and lines himself up, guiding the head of his cock through your slick folds, rubbing slow circles right at your entrance. You see stars. Every part of you is wound so tight you feel like a strummed string.
“Gonna go slow, okay?” he murmurs. He’s all gentleness, which would piss you off if you weren’t so desperate for it. His cock pushes in, just the tip at first, and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for something to hold. There’s an ache, deep and unfamiliar, but it’s not bad. Not really. Frank watches your face, waiting for a flinch, for a stop, but you just nod and grind down, needing more. He exhales sharp, lets you take him another inch. Then another.
“There you go,” he says, voice a rumble in your chest, “you’re doing so good—shit, better than good, you’re doing fuckin’ amazing.” The pain is blinding. Stars explode behind your eyes, your eyes clenched shut. You’re clinging to him, shaking, every muscle locked up with that dizzying, too-much pressure. Your nails dig into his shoulders so hard he thinks he’ll feel them for days. The pain-pleasure blend is exquisite. Frank moves slow, gives you time, lets you adjust, but it’s still a stretch—he’s not small, and your body’s never done this before. He cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking over the spot just under your ear.
“Breathe, baby. That’s it. You’re doin’ perfect. All you gotta do is breathe for me.” You nod, jaw clenched, and force yourself to inhale. The ache eases a little, edges softening, and then you’re not so much impaled as full.
So, so full.
Like Frank is the only thing holding you to the world now, insides stretched almost to breaking, but in a way that makes you feel alive and forged. He’s not moving, just letting you get used to it. You try to shift, testing the fit, and holy shit, it’s… you have no words. It’s everything. His patience is infuriating and tender at once.
“Hurts?” he asks, all concern and hands.
“Yeah. But… not bad.” You burrow against him, seeking his pulse with your lips, needing the distraction. “Just—give me a second.” He does. He’d sit here all night if you needed, hold you open and safe, and never ask for more than you could give. But it doesn’t take long.
You’re greedy beneath the nerves, hips rolling forward for more before you’re halfway ready. Frank groans, the sound vibrating through her whole body, and drops his head back against the couch. His hands find your waist, bracing you, guiding every tentative movement. He’s letting you control this, but he’s not shy about what he wants, either; he helps you set a rhythm, each grind down taking him deeper, your slickness making it easier with every slow, careful stroke. Frank’s hands steady your hips, anchoring you to him, and every measured inch you take feels like the world dividing into before and after. Your thighs tremble, every muscle in yout legs a live wire; your knees dig into the worn cushion, and you’tr sure there will be bruises tomorrow, bruises shaped like Frank’s hands and your own hunger. You can’t imagine anything more perfect.
It’s all so much. Too much, and not enough. Every time you rocks your hips down, he lets you take what you want, but the stretch is so heavy it’s almost dizzying. Your breath comes out in little, shaky bursts, and your hands scrabble for purchase—his shoulders, the rough line of his jaw, the knotted muscle of his biceps. He likes that, you can tell by the way his whole body goes taut when she squeezes. You lose yourself in the mess of it, in the heat pressed chest-to-chest, in the pulse of his cock inside you, in the rasp of his voice when he says your name. You’re barely moving, just grinding yourself down, but it’s everything. Every inch you take feels like a little victory. Frank’s patience is a living thing, the tension in his arms shaking by the second, and the only way he lets it show is the bite of his fingers into you skin and the scruff of his jaw brushing you cheek.
“Attagirl,” he rumbles, voice shredded. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good.” You whimper, overwhelmed. The pain’s still there, but smaller now, a bright spot eclipsed by the full, shuddering pleasure carving up your spine. You shift your hips forward again and the angle changes and—oh—your thighs lock up with the shock of it. You gasp, head falling forward onto his shoulder, hair falling between your faces. Frank groans, arms squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe, and the sound is so raw, so animal, you want to cry. You try to move, to find a rhythm, but it’s awkward at first, your body still learning the mechanics. Frank seems to sense it, thumbs stroking slow circles into your hip bones, talking you through it with broken little instructions.
“Just like that,” he says, his hand guiding the small of your back. “Easy, sweetheart. Let me help you.” He moves with you, not against, and suddenly it clicks, your hips rolling forward and up, down, forward and up, and his cock—God, it’s so deep—rubs along something inside you that makes your whole body lock up. You cry out, surprised. Frank’s teeth find your shoulder, biting down just enough to ground you, and then he’s kissing the spot, like an apology.
“Good?” he grits out, barely holding on. You nod, but it’s not enough, so you rock down harder, desperate for more. The friction is brutal, the stretch never-ending, and you want it to last forever and end now, all at once. You grab his face in both hands and kisses him, messy, desperate, Your tears breaking loose and trailing down your nose onto his face. Frank's breath hitches, and for a second, you think you've broken him. His whole body goes rigid under you, and then he's kissing you again, harder this time, like he's trying to crawl inside you through your mouth. One of his hands slides up your back, fisting in your hair, holding you in place while the other grips your hip, guiding you into a rhythm that's less tentative and more purposeful.
"Fuck, baby," he pants against your lips. You try to laugh, but it comes out as a choked sob. You're overwhelmed—by the sensation, by the emotion, by the sheer Frankness of it all. He's everywhere. His scent, his taste, the feel of his scarred skin under your hands, the sound of his ragged breathing in your ear. It's a sensory overload that threatens to short-circuit your brain.
"Frank," you whimper, burying your face in his neck again. "I can't—"
"Yes, you can," he growls, cutting you off. He shifts his hips, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, slow and deliberate. The drag of him against your inner walls is exquisite, a perfect, friction-filled agony that makes your toes curl. "Feel that? That's you takin' me. That's you, sweetheart. All you." You nod, but it's a frantic, desperate motion. You're chasing something, a feeling building deep in your belly, a coil of heat that gets tighter with every thrust. Frank seems to sense it, his movements becoming a little more forceful, a little more confident. He's still letting you set the pace, but he's not just a passive participant anymore. He's an active force, a storm you're willingly riding.
"God, you're tight," he grits out, his voice strained. "So fuckin' tight for me. Squeezin' me so good." His words are filthy, but his tone is reverent, and the combination is heady. It makes you feel powerful, desired, like you're the only thing in the world that matters. You rock your hips faster, matching his rhythm, the awkwardness of before replaced by a desperate, primal need. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a vulgar, beautiful symphony that's all yours. Frank's hands are everywhere now—one gripping your ass, the other sliding up your back to trace the line of your spine. He's mapping you, claiming you, and you've never felt more seen. Your head falls back and Frank lets out a low guttural groan, his hands squeezing your waist to help you grind against you harder.
The new angle is a revelation. It’s like he’s found a secret switch inside you, one you didn’t even know existed. The head of his cock drags against a spot so sensitive, so electric, that a sharp cry tears from your throat. Your back arches, a deep, involuntary curve that presses your breasts against his chest, and your hands fly from his shoulders to tangle in his hair, holding on for dear life.
“Jesus,” Frank grunts, his voice a raw, ragged thing. He’s watching you, his eyes dark and intense, drinking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face. “Right there, huh? Found it.” He doesn’t sound surprised. He sounds like a hunter who’s finally cornered his prey. He does it again, a deliberate, grinding roll of his hips that sends a shockwave of pure, unadulterated bliss through your entire system.
Your answer is a broken moan, your hips moving on their own now, chasing that feeling, chasing him. The rhythm is frantic, messy, desperate. You’re no longer thinking, no longer worrying about being good at it or doing it right. You’re just feeling. Every nerve ending is on fire, every muscle in your body strung tight as a bowstring. The coil in your belly is winding tighter and tighter, a hot, heavy pressure that promises an explosion.
“Frank, Frank, Frank,” you chant his name like a prayer, a mantra, the only word your brain can still form. It’s a plea and a praise all at once.
“I got you, baby,” he growls, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of letting you lead. His hands are bruising on your hips now, his grip the only thing keeping you grounded as you start to lose yourself to the sensation. Your thighs are trembling, your whole body on fire as your hands slide up to tangle in his hair.
You've only ever come on your own fingers.
This.. This feels different.
The pressure building in your stomach is tighter, more feral.
It’s not a wave you can ride out. It’s a dam breaking. A fault line splitting open. The pressure in your stomach doesn't just crest; it detonates. A sharp, guttural cry is ripped from your throat as your entire body seizes, your back bowing so violently you’re surprised you don’t snap in two. Your inner walls clamp down on him, a rhythmic, pulsing grip that you have no control over, and the world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot static of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Your eyes go wide, at the feeling, thinking something is wrong.
"Oh my god, Frank- I - I might- I don't-"
"No, no, baby, hey, look at me." Frank's voice cuts through your panic, rough with his own impending release but sharp with command. His hands leave your hips, one flying up to cup your jaw, forcing your wide, terrified eyes to meet his. "It's not wrong. You're not wrong. You're just feelin' it. Let it happen. That's it, that's the good part." His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, a frantic, grounding motion.
"Don't fight it. Jesus Christ, don't you fuckin' fight it, just let go." Frank’s name is a shattered gasp on your lips as you shatter, your nails digging into his scalp, your body convulsing with the force of it. It’s endless, a series of crippling, ecstatic spasms that wrack you from the inside out, leaving you a trembling, boneless mess in his arms.
“Fuck,” Frank snarls, the sound torn from his own chest as your orgasm drags him over the edge with you. The tight, milking grip of your cunt is too much, a final, perfect torment. He buries himself to the hilt with a hoarse, desperate groan, his hips jerking as he pours himself into you. You feel the hot, pulsing rush of his release, a deep, primal claiming that seems to go on forever, his body shuddering against yours with the force of it. For a long, stretched-out moment, you’re both frozen, locked together in the eye of the storm. The only sounds are the frantic, ragged pulls of your breaths and the frantic hammering of his heart against your ribs. You’re limp, a dead weight in his lap, every muscle liquefied, your brain a blissful, static-filled void. You’ve never felt so completely wrecked. So completely whole.
Your entire body is spasming in his grip.
Frank’s breathing is still ragged against your throat, his arms locked around you like if he loosens his grip for even a second you’ll disappear. Your whole body trembles uncontrollably, tiny aftershocks rippling through your thighs and stomach, and he notices every single one.
“Easy,” he murmurs, voice wrecked soft now. “Easy, sweetheart. I got you.” His palm slides up and down your spine slowly, grounding you back into your body piece by piece. You’re still shaking so hard your teeth almost chatter. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this exposed before. Not physically.
Emotionally.
Frank presses a kiss to your damp temple, then another to your cheek, slower this time. Careful. Like he’s trying to soothe the very nerves he just set on fire.
“You okay?” he asks again quietly. You nod weakly against his shoulder.
“I think my soul left my body.” That earns a rough little laugh out of him. The sound vibrates warm against your skin.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Mine too.” Your muscles finally start unlocking enough for you to realize how boneless you’ve gone in his lap. Frank shifts carefully beneath you with a low grunt, one hand rubbing your thigh.
“C’mere,” he says softly. “Lemme clean you up.” You make a tiny noise of protest when he helps lift you off him. The sudden emptiness makes you whine before you can stop yourself, legs trembling violently the second your knees touch the mattress. Frank freezes like the sound nearly killed him.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasps. You bury your burning face in his shoulder immediately.
“Don’t.”
“No, sweetheart, you don’t get it,” he says, sounding half tortured. “You keep makin’ noises like that and I’m gonna need another minute.”
“You are such a pig,” you mumble.
“Correct.” You hear the smile in his voice. Then he reaches for the discarded t-shirt on the floor beside the couch, gentle again as he wipes carefully between your thighs. You hiss softly at the sensitivity, instinctively trying to squirm away.
“I know,” he murmurs immediately. “I know. Sorry, baby.” The nickname settles warm in your chest now instead of frightening you. Frank glances down as he cleans you up. Then pauses. You notice the tiny streak of red a second later. Your stomach drops.
“Oh my God.” Frank looks up instantly.
“What?”
“There’s blood.” Panic climbs your throat so fast it makes your voice pitchy. “Frank, there’s— I—did I start my period? Oh my God, am I bleeding? Did something tear?” Your breathing starts speeding up again immediately. “Jesus Christ, am I dying?” For one single second he just stares at you. Then a startled laugh bursts out of him. Not mocking. Just genuinely caught off guard.
“Baby,” he says gently, trying very hard not to smile now. “You are not dyin’.” You blink at him, horrified.
“There’s blood!”
“Yeah.” He brushes his thumb soothingly against your knee. “That can happen your first time.” You stare.
“…what?” His expression softens instantly at your confusion.
“You were a virgin,” he says carefully. “Little bleeding’s normal sometimes. Especially ‘cause I got carried away.” Guilt flickers briefly across his face at that last part. “You ain’t hurt bad. Promise.” Your entire body floods with relief so intense you nearly flop sideways.
“Oh my God.” Frank finally chuckles properly now, rubbing a hand down his face. You hide your face against his shoulder with a groan of humiliation while Frank keeps quietly laughing above you, warm chest rumbling beneath your cheek.
“Don’t make fun of me,” you mutter.
“I ain’t makin’ fun.” Another tiny laugh immediately betrays him. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“You’re awful.”
“Mm.” His hand slides lazily up and down your thigh. “Still alive though, right?” You smack weakly at his chest. Frank catches your wrist easily, bringing your knuckles to his mouth for one absentminded kiss before helping tug your shirt back down properly over your stomach. The tenderness of it nearly kills you more than the sex did. You let him guide you sideways across his lap once you’re dressed again, your legs draped over the couch cushions while he settles back with a long exhale. His fingers trace idle circles against the soft skin just above your knee, grounding and warm. The apartment feels different now.
Quieter. Softer. Like something huge shifted without either of you knowing how to name it yet. You stare at the wall for a long second before mumbling:
“I really thought I was bleeding internally.” That gets another laugh out of him, fuller this time. He drops his head briefly against yours.
“Baby, you work in medicine.”
“Not vagina medicine. And my parents never really taught me this stuff. They assumed Karen would.” Frank barks out an actual laugh at that, shoulders shaking beneath you. You can’t help smiling a little yourself.
“Fair point,” he admits. Silence settles again after that. Comfortable this time. His fingers never stop moving against your leg. Then quieter:
“You okay?” he asks again. Not physically. Everything. The emotion in his voice catches you off guard. You tilt your head enough to look up at him. Frank’s eyes are already on you, darker now without all the urgency from before. There’s still heat there, sure—but underneath it is something almost nervous. Like he’s waiting for you to regret this.
Regret him.
Your chest aches suddenly.
“I’m okay,” you say softly. His whole body loosens at that. Tiny. Almost invisible. But you feel it. Frank swallows once, gaze dropping briefly to where his hand rests on your thigh.
“I know tonight was a lot,” he says carefully. “And I know I probably shoulda slowed down more—”
“You did slow down.” His eyes flick back to yours.
“You were scared.”
“I was nervous,” you correct quietly. “Not scared of you.” That one lands somewhere deep. You see it happen in real time. Frank goes still. Your fingers slide up over the back of his hand, threading through his.
“I trusted you,” you admit. He stares at you like the words physically hurt him. Then he leans down and presses his forehead against yours, eyes closing.
“Christ,” he whispers roughly. One of his arms tightens around your waist. Not possessive. Protective. Careful with you in a way nobody ever has been before. “You got no idea what that means to me,” he says softly. Your face falls and you reach up, wincing at the pull in your legs. You reach up, wincing slightly as your body reminds you it’s still catching up to everything that just happened. Frank notices immediately—of course he does.
“Hey,” he says softly, catching your wrist before you can push yourself too far. “Easy. Don’t go doin’ that.”
“I’m fine,” you insist automatically. Frank gives you a look that says he does not believe a single word of that.
"Sweetheart, you just impaled yourself on my dick for your first time. I have reason to worry."
You freeze.
Then slowly turn your head to look at him.
“…you’re going to make me die of embarrassment after I survived everything else?”
Frank doesn’t even pretend to feel bad.
A faint, crooked grin tugs at his mouth. “Seems fair.”
You groan and drop your forehead against his chest, fully intending to disappear into him as a person.
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling under you, and his hand immediately comes up to your hair—slower now, soothing instead of teasing.
“Hey,” he says again, softer. “I’m not makin’ fun of you.”
“Yes you are.”
“A little,” he admits.
You make a small, muffled sound of protest. Frank presses a kiss into the top of your head like he’s apologizing anyway.
"Y'know what this means, right baby ?" He asks, his hand trailing up and down your side.
"No. Enlighten me." He squeezes you into him as he leans over and reaches for his beer. He sits back down, groaning as he takes a sip and presses the cold bottle to the back of your neck.
"You're never fuckin' gettin' rid of me. I was your first time." He says. You roll your eyes.
"Oh, shut up, Frank." He laughs.
"No, no, i'm serious. I should get like.. a certificate. Frame it and put it up on the wall where everyone can see when they walk in-"
"Oh my god, Frank."
"—'Certificate of Deflowering: Awarded to Frank Castle for Services Rendered Above and Beyond the Call of Duty.'" You can't help it, a snort of laughter escapes you muffled against his chest. The cold bottle against your neck is a shock, but a pleasant one, grounding you in the ridiculous, wonderful reality of the moment.
"Oh my God," you groan, lifting your head just enough to glare at him. "You are the worst human being I have ever met."
"Yep," he says, popping the 'p' with absolute relish. He takes another swig of his beer, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "And the man who just took your virginity on a couch that's probably seen at least three separate gunfights. So, you know. We all have our complexities."
summary : you're untouched, inexperienced, and completely wrong for a man like Frank Castle. Which is exactly why he can’t stay away from you.
word count : 7.6 k
warnings : buckle up bc this is a long one - smut, minors DNI, 18 +, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap that shi up), popping of one's cherry, mentions of blood, soft but not really!frank, implied age gap, inexperienced reader, praise kink, size kink, canon-typical mentions of violence, explicit language
a/n: yall come up with the shit i wouldn't even think abt (like this here) but im always so glad to write it !!! my requests are open to any and all characters, so keep em comin' - as usual, not proofread !
Karen introduced you to Frank Castle on a Tuesday, and afterward you blamed her for it constantly. At first, he was just the terrifying guy who showed up at her apartment bleeding half to death and refusing medical help like it was a personality trait. You thought he was rude. He thought you talked too much. Karen thought you were both idiots almost immediately.
But then Frank kept showing up. Always with some excuse. Information for Matt. Coffee for Karen. Food nobody asked for. And somehow he always lingered longer when you were there too. You fell for him slowly.
In stupid little pieces.
The way he remembered your coffee order after hearing it once. The way he automatically walked closest to the street at night. The way his giant terrifying self softened every time you laughed at one of his dry muttered jokes like he couldn’t help it.
And Frank— God.
Frank fell hard.
Karen noticed first.
“You’re staring again,” she told him one night while you sat on the floor stealing fries from the takeout container in your lap.
“I ain’t starin’.”
“You absolutely are." Frank looked at you like you were something dangerous in the best possible way. Like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure he was allowed to. That was the thing about him. He never pushed.
Not once.
You dated other guys before Frank. Plenty. But they always got impatient eventually. Always acted like sex was some finish line they deserved to cross if they waited long enough. So you kept saying no. And after enough bad experiences, the fear just… stayed. Frank never made you feel guilty for it. The two of you became disgustingly affectionate anyway. Constantly touching. Your legs over his lap on the couch. His hand at your back guiding you through crowds. Falling asleep tangled together during movies. Stealing his shirts. Sitting between his knees while he cleaned guns and listening to him grumble about your taste in music. But every time things almost turned sexual, panic crept in. And every single time, Frank stopped immediately. One night he walked you home and looked at your mouth long enough to make your knees weak.
“If I kiss you,” he asked quietly, “you tellin’ me to stop?” You panicked. And Frank stepped back instantly like your comfort mattered more than breathing. That was probably when you realized you loved him. Not because he wanted you. Because he didn’t need anything from you to stay.
----------
You stand in the bedroom, pacing back and forth, chewing on your thumb.
God, you feel so stupid.
Your heart is pounding hard enough to make your ribs ache. You’ve faced armed men before. You’ve patched bullet wounds with shaking hands. You’ve stared down monsters and lived through it. And somehow this is worse. Because this is Frank.
Frank, who kisses your shoulder every morning without fail.
Frank, who drapes himself over you on the couch like a weighted blanket because he knows you secretly love it.
Frank, who always reaches for your hand first in crowded places.
Frank, who has spent months loving you with his entire body while carefully avoiding the one line you kept drawing between you.
Not because you hated touch.
God, no.
You’re practically glued to him half the time. You sit in his lap while he cleans guns. Fall asleep with your face in his neck. Steal his shirts and crawl into his arms every night like it’s instinct. And the need that crawls inside your skin when you see him shirtless, or doing anything with his hands- god. It's insatiable.
But sex— Sex always felt different to you.
Too vulnerable.
Too permanent.
Too much.
And every guy before Frank eventually got tired of waiting. Some were patient at first. Most pretended to be. Then came the guilt trips. The sighs. The passive-aggressive comments. The inevitable: What, you don’t trust me?
And eventually, somehow, time just… kept passing. Until suddenly you were here.
A grown virgin.
In Frank’s apartment.
In Frank’s clothes.
Hopelessly in love with a man who has never once made you feel bad for being scared. Which honestly makes this so much harder. You stop pacing long enough to stare at yourself in the mirror.
“You are a grown woman,” you mutter weakly. The reflection looks unconvinced. From the living room, you hear the low murmur of the TV and the faint clink of a beer bottle against the coffee table. Frank’s home from a job. Showered already. Clean black t-shirt. Gray sweats hanging low on his hips. You know because you’ve spent the last twenty minutes trying not to think about it. You squeeze your eyes shut.
Fuck it.
Before you can lose your nerve, you walk out into the living room. Frank’s sprawled on the couch, one arm stretched across the back cushions, beer balanced against his stomach while some old war documentary drones quietly from the television. The second he sees you hovering there, he frowns slightly.
“You alright, baby?” he asks. You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Frank immediately sits up straighter.
“That bad, huh?” You blurt it before you lose your nerve.
“Frank, I want to have sex with you.” Frank spits beer all over himself. You jump backward as he starts choking violently.
“Jesus Christ—”
“Oh my God.” He’s coughing hard enough his face turns red.
“Sorry-shit-” Frank wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at you like you just confessed to arson. “You—what?” Your face burns.
“Well now I regret bringin’ it up.”
“No, hold on.” He sets the beer down carefully like sudden movements might scare you off. “What?” You groan and cover your face.
“This is humiliating.”
“Sweetheart.” His voice softens immediately. “C’mere.” You shake your head aggressively.
“No, because now you’re gonna look at me weird.”
“I have literally never looked at you weird a day in my life.”
“You absolutely have.”
“Okay, fair. But not for this.” You peek at him through your fingers. Frank still looks stunned. Not upset. Not uncomfortable. Just deeply confused. “You wanna…” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “With me?”
“Frank, there are no other people in this apartment.”
“That ain’t what I mean.” You know that. Your stomach twists violently. Frank studies you carefully now, all teasing gone.
“I thought you didn’t want that stuff,” he says gently. “And I was okay with that.”
“I do want it.”
“Then why’ve you looked ready to bolt every time things got heated?” Your face gets hotter.
“Because I’ve never done it before.” Silence. Frank blinks once.
“…done what before?” You stare at the floor.
“Any of it.” Another beat. Then:
“…Baby.” You want the earth to swallow you whole.
“I’m a virgin, okay? I've never been kissed, never been touched by anyone except myself. ” you blurt out finally. “And before you make a face about it—”
“I ain’t makin’ a face.”
“You are internally.”
“I’m really not.” You risk a glance up. He genuinely isn’t. He just looks… shocked.
“You never—?”
“No.”
“And nobody ever—?”
“No.” Frank leans back slowly against the couch cushions like he just got hit with something.
“Jesus Christ.”
“I know. God, i'm so fucking embarassing.”
“No, sweetheart, I just—” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I thought maybe you just weren’t comfortable with physical intimacy.” You snort nervously.
“I’m literally attached to your spine twenty-four hours a day.”
“That’s true.”
“I love physical stuff.” Your voice gets smaller. “I just… wanted my first time to actually mean something.” Frank goes very still at that. “And all the guys before you kept acting like they deserved it eventually because they waited long enough.” You shrug tightly. “So I kept saying no.” Something ugly flashes across Frank’s face. Not at you. Never at you. At them.
“I’m gonna need names,” he mutters darkly. Despite everything, you laugh.
“No, you absolutely do not.”
“They sound annoyin’.”
“They were.” A silence settles between you. Not awkward. Just… full. Frank looks at you for a long second, something almost painful softening his face.
“You know I’d wait forever, right?” he says quietly. Your chest aches instantly.
“I know.”
“And I mean forever.”
“I know.”
“You don’t gotta prove anythin’ to me.” Your throat tightens.
“That’s kinda the problem,” you admit softly. Frank frowns slightly.
“What d’you mean?”
You stare down at your hands.
“I mean…” God. “I’m not doing this because I feel pressured.” Your voice gets quieter. “I’m doing it because I’m in love with you and I trust you and I think about you constantly.” Frank exhales sharply.
“You gotta stop sayin’ stuff like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m tryin’ real hard to keep actin’ normal.” Your stomach flips. You walk closer to him, just so he can drag you to stand between his legs, his hands on your waist. You force yourself to keep talking before fear catches up again.
“I think about you kissing me,” you admit quietly. “And touching me.” Your face burns hotter. “And I think about your hands a lot, which honestly feels medically concerning at this point.” Frank makes a strangled sound. You look up just in time to see him drag a hand over his face.
“Sweetheart,” he rasps.
“And I know I’m late to all this and weird about it and probably overthinking everything—”
“Hey.” His voice cuts through immediately. Firm. “None of that.” You stop. Frank leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on yours with that terrifying intensity he gets when he means something completely. “There is nothin’ wrong with you.” Emotion punches straight through your chest. He softens instantly seeing your face change.
“C’mere,” he says quietly. This time, you go immediately. Frank catches you the second you lean into him, pulling you straight into his lap like it’s instinct. His arms wrap around your waist automatically, warm and solid and safe, and you bury your face in his neck with a shaky breath.
“There she is,” he murmurs softly against your hair. You cling harder.
“I’m nervous.”
“I know.”
“You still want me?” Frank actually leans back enough to look offended.
“Baby, I have wanted you since the second you yelled at me in Karen’s kitchen for bleeding on her floor.” A startled laugh escapes you.
“You remember that?”
“You threatened me with a mop.”
“You were bleeding everywhere.”
“And I still thought you were cute.” You groan into his shoulder.
“This is awful.”
“No,” he says softly, one hand sliding up your back. “This is you trustin’ me.” His thumb strokes slowly along your spine.
“You sure about this?” he asks quietly. You nod against him.
“Yeah.”
“And if you change your mind at any point?”
“I’ll tell you.”
“And then we stop."
“Yes.” Frank studies your face carefully for another second. Then his hand slides gently into your hair.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. Your heart practically stops. You nod once.
“Yeah.” Frank closes the distance so gently you almost don’t feel it at first—just the soft, rough drag of his thumb along your jaw, then his lips, warm and chapped, brushing yours. It’s not the kind of kiss you expected from Frank. You were bracing for a car wreck, something bruising and violent, the way he is on a job. But it’s nothing like that. He kisses you so slow, so careful, like you might shatter.
You don’t shatter. Not exactly. But the sensation is so intense you feel yourself splitting open from the inside out. His hand cups the back of your head, steadying you.
He pulls back barely an inch.
“You okay?” Voice low, hoarse.
You nod, but it’s not enough, so you push forward, mouth crashing into his, desperate for the centrifugal force he’s been holding back. He lets you, lets you climb messily into his lap, lets you fist your hands in his shirt. And when your tongue nudges against his, Frank gives a little grunt and opens for you, just a hair, just enough. Every nerve in your body catches fire. You’d thought, maybe, that the first time would feel awkward. Like taking a test you never studied for. But Frank makes it easy. He keeps checking in with you, saying your name between kisses, grounding you with his hands, never letting you get lost in the panic of it. At some point, you realize you’re straddling his thighs and he’s got one palm splayed wide over your lower back, the other bracing your jaw, like he’s afraid you’ll tip out of gravity if he ever lets go.
“You still good?” he rasps.
“Yes,” you say, and it comes out as a gasp. You’re trembling. Not with fear—the opposite. You want to crawl out of your skin. Frank’s hands are on your hips now, then under your shirt,dragging slow up your ribs. He keeps it gentle, keeps it steady, like he’s reading your mind. When his thumb sweeps over one nipple, you arch so hard you nearly headbutt him. He huffs a tiny laugh, then grins, wide and wolfish.
“Sensitive?”
“Shut up.” He does, at least for a second. His mouth finds your neck, then your collarbone, then the top of your breast. He peppers all of it with slow, open-mouthed kisses that threaten to melt your brain. He lifts the hoodie up and off in one slow motion, and you almost laugh at yourself for being nervous; it’s just Frank, looking at you like he’s been starving and you’re the only meal he’s ever wanted.
“Christ,” he says, low and reverent, and runs a thumb just under the swell of your breast, gentle, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll spook. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, and the words go straight to your cunt. You whine, grinding down against him on instinct, and he groans, hands darting out to steady you. He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you part for him. You feel his hands everywhere—your back, your hips, your thighs—steadying you, coaxing you closer. His touch is a little rough around the edges, always bordering on too much, but never quite crossing the line. He’s so careful with you it almost breaks your heart. He pulls back long enough to look you up and down, like he’s memorizing you. There’s a heat in his eyes that makes you shiver, but it’s the possessiveness that really undoes you. Like he can’t believe you’re letting him see you like this.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growls, low and rough, and you nearly combust. You can’t stop touching him—his shoulders, his jaw, the back of his neck. He likes it, you can tell, because he keeps pressing you closer, like he wants to crawl inside your skin.
“Can I touch you?” you whisper. You don’t even recognize your own voice, breathy and shaking. Frank’s face goes soft, like you just handed him a live wire and told him to hold it for you.
“Baby, you can do whatever you want to me.” He grins, then kisses you again, slow and deep, while guiding your hands under his shirt. You run your fingers over his chest, all scars and muscle and heat. His skin is hot to the touch, the steady beat of his heart pounding under your palms. You dig your nails in, just a little, and Frank makes a sound that’s half-growl, half-moan, like he’s straining not to just take you apart right there.
“You good?” he asks again, voice ragged. You nod, then remember to say it:
“Yeah. Yes. I’m good—you’re…” You can’t finish the sentence, so you just kiss him again. It feels less scary now, more inevitable, like gravity. He lets you push him back against the couch, your thighs tight around his waist. His hands slip from your ribs to your ass, squeezing gently, like he’s testing how much you can take. You whimper, hips jerking forward, rubbing against the hard line of him through his sweats. Frank curses, low and frantic, and you get drunk on the sound.
“Shit, sweetheart,” he pants. “Gotta slow down or I’m gonna blow it before we even start.”
“Don’t slow down,” you say. “I want—” You don’t know how to finish the sentence. Frank does it for you.
“You want me?” He’s grinning, but his eyes are almost desperate.
“Yes,” you say. “Frank, I want you.” Something in him snaps. He reaches down, clearing his throat as he taps your thighs.
“Sit up, baby.” He hums. You lean forward, sitting up on your knees. His hands are slow and careful as they pull down your shorts, and you bite your bottom lip as he softly coaxes it off your legs. Your wet cunt soaks through your panties, and when you sit back down on his sweatpants, that extra barrier of tissue removed makes the strain in his pants much bigger against you. He’s hard as hell now, and you can feel the heat of him even through his boxers. Your thighs tremble. The air in the apartment seems thinner, more electric. Frank’s hands run reverently up your thighs, slow, no rush, but the tension in his arms says he’s holding himself back. It makes you feel powerful. It makes you feel safe.
“Gonna take these off, sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb sliding under the band of your panties. He’s watching your face, checking for panic. There isn’t any. Not anymore. You nod, and he peels them down, slow, exposing you inch by inch. When the fabric finally drags off your ankles, you’re left straddling his lap, bare except for your tank top, skin goosepimpled and desperate. Frank’s hands splay wide over the soft meat of your ass, kneading you, warm and solid. He guides you forward, grinding you down against the bulge of his cock, and you gasp. The friction’s almost too much. Not enough. You can feel yourself slick up, can see it glistening on his gray sweats when you grind on him again.
“Fuck, look at you,” Frank rasps, voice tight. “So fuckin’ wet, baby.”
Your face should be burning, but you just want more. You want him everywhere. You want to come apart all over him. It makes you brave.
“Can I see you?” you whisper, hands curling under the hem of his shirt. Frank doesn’t answer. He just lifts his arms, lets you peel the shirt up and off, revealing the wild scar-mapped planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle , the old bullet wound you once stitched shut with trembling hands. You run your fingertips over every inch, tracing him like you’re memorizing a map you’ll never get to visit again. He shivers under your touch.
“God,” you murmur, awe in your voice. He grins, lopsided and a little shy, and pulls you in for another kiss. This one’s dirtier—the way his tongue drags over yours, the way his hands squeeze your waist, the press of his cock as he grinds up into you. He’s leaking through his boxers now, hot and slick, and you rub yourself shamelessly against it, chasing the friction. Frank groans, deep and desperate.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he breathes. “We got time.” You don’t know how you’ll survive it. He nudges your thighs apart, makes a show of looking down at the space between your bodies. All his focus is on you: on your bare knees bracketing his hips, the hungry, worshipful way your chest rises and falls with each shaky breath. It’s more than he deserves, and he wants to say something gentle to you, but all that comes out is a low,
“Fuck, baby. You’re drivin’ me crazy.” You laugh, but it’s nervous, hands trembling a little as you brace them on his shoulders. Frank has to slow down, to make sure his hands are steady as he slides them up and down your sides. You’re soaking wet—so wet the slick’s already darkened the front of his sweats, and his cock is straining, thick and angry, beneath the fabric. The look on your face terrifies and thrills him, like you’re balancing right on the edge of a rooftop, dizzy from the height and the want. He wants to say something to make it easier.
“Hey. We can stop anytime, you hear me?” He cups your face in one big hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. You nod, but the motion’s a little frantic, like you’re trying to prove you’re not scared. He’s never seen anyone so fucking brave.
“I don’t want to stop,” you whisper, voice shaking, “I just—” You squeeze your eyes shut, like you’re embarrassed. Your hands dig into his shoulders. “Frank, I don’t know what to do.” He nods, softly guiding your hands down to his sweats. He kisses your temple.
“Take these off.” Your hands fumble at the waistband, palms slick, vision swimming with nerves and need. You hook your fingers under the elastic and pull, unsure, but he lifts his hips to help and the gray cotton peels away easy as a wish. His cock springs free, heavy, flushed, the head slicked already, and you stare, breath burning in your throat.
He’s… god, he’s big.
You don’t even have enough data points to compare, but your brain still tries, and it short-circuits. Frank watches you with a patience that’s almost predatory, like he’s holding himself together with staples and baling wire. His hand covers yours, guiding it, and you curl your fingers delicately around the shaft. He hisses, jaw clenched, and the muscles in his thighs jump against your knees. Your thumb drags along the vein, and god, it’s hot, how responsive he is. How it makes him shudder.
“You’re a quick study,” Frank murmurs, voice gone low and rough. “Jesus.” He slides his hand up your thigh, kneading gently, and then reaches between them, thumb brushing over you where you’re soaked and swollen. The touch is electric, makes you jerk forward, grinding against his cock. The head bumps you clit, and you whimper, dizzy with it. He holds you by the hip, steadying, anchoring.
“You want to keep going, baby?” You nod, frantic and eager. He grins, but there’s an edge to it; it looks like he might snap in half from wanting her. You bite your bottom lip, face flushed. Frank’s watching your face hard.
“Hey. You okay?” You nod, eyes never leaving him. He’s so solid. So alive. The kind of body that absorbs bullets and wins bar fights and breaks things for a living. You want it inside you. That realization hits so hard it makes you whimper. Frank bites the inside of his cheek, hand gentle as it cups your jaw, pulling you back to him for a kiss. “Don’t gotta do anything you don’t want,” he rumbles. “Just say the word.” You shake your head.
“I want to. I just…” The words get stuck in your throat, so you scrape them out: “I don’t want to be bad at it.” Frank actually laughs, low, delighted.
“You’re not gonna be bad at anything, baby. Not with me.” He pulls you in and the kiss goes molten, needier, his hands anchoring your hips and rocking you down against his cock, bare now, the heat and velvet of it dizzying between your legs. He groans into your mouth, one hand finding your thigh and urging it higher, opening you more. The stretch is intense but perfect; you want to be wrecked by him, want to feel it for days. He strokes his thumb up and down your thigh and says, almost reverent,
“You’re dripping.” You hide your face in his neck, mortified, but his hand finds your hair and tugs you back, just a little, so you have to look at him. “Nothin’ to be nervous about,” he says softly. “This is supposed to feel good, sweetheart. Let me make it good for you.” You nod, not trusting your voice. Frank sucks in a harsh breath and lines himself up, guiding the head of his cock through your slick folds, rubbing slow circles right at your entrance. You see stars. Every part of you is wound so tight you feel like a strummed string.
“Gonna go slow, okay?” he murmurs. He’s all gentleness, which would piss you off if you weren’t so desperate for it. His cock pushes in, just the tip at first, and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for something to hold. There’s an ache, deep and unfamiliar, but it’s not bad. Not really. Frank watches your face, waiting for a flinch, for a stop, but you just nod and grind down, needing more. He exhales sharp, lets you take him another inch. Then another.
“There you go,” he says, voice a rumble in your chest, “you’re doing so good—shit, better than good, you’re doing fuckin’ amazing.” The pain is blinding. Stars explode behind your eyes, your eyes clenched shut. You’re clinging to him, shaking, every muscle locked up with that dizzying, too-much pressure. Your nails dig into his shoulders so hard he thinks he’ll feel them for days. The pain-pleasure blend is exquisite. Frank moves slow, gives you time, lets you adjust, but it’s still a stretch—he’s not small, and your body’s never done this before. He cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking over the spot just under your ear.
“Breathe, baby. That’s it. You’re doin’ perfect. All you gotta do is breathe for me.” You nod, jaw clenched, and force yourself to inhale. The ache eases a little, edges softening, and then you’re not so much impaled as full.
So, so full.
Like Frank is the only thing holding you to the world now, insides stretched almost to breaking, but in a way that makes you feel alive and forged. He’s not moving, just letting you get used to it. You try to shift, testing the fit, and holy shit, it’s… you have no words. It’s everything. His patience is infuriating and tender at once.
“Hurts?” he asks, all concern and hands.
“Yeah. But… not bad.” You burrow against him, seeking his pulse with your lips, needing the distraction. “Just—give me a second.” He does. He’d sit here all night if you needed, hold you open and safe, and never ask for more than you could give. But it doesn’t take long.
You’re greedy beneath the nerves, hips rolling forward for more before you’re halfway ready. Frank groans, the sound vibrating through her whole body, and drops his head back against the couch. His hands find your waist, bracing you, guiding every tentative movement. He’s letting you control this, but he’s not shy about what he wants, either; he helps you set a rhythm, each grind down taking him deeper, your slickness making it easier with every slow, careful stroke. Frank’s hands steady your hips, anchoring you to him, and every measured inch you take feels like the world dividing into before and after. Your thighs tremble, every muscle in yout legs a live wire; your knees dig into the worn cushion, and you’tr sure there will be bruises tomorrow, bruises shaped like Frank’s hands and your own hunger. You can’t imagine anything more perfect.
It’s all so much. Too much, and not enough. Every time you rocks your hips down, he lets you take what you want, but the stretch is so heavy it’s almost dizzying. Your breath comes out in little, shaky bursts, and your hands scrabble for purchase—his shoulders, the rough line of his jaw, the knotted muscle of his biceps. He likes that, you can tell by the way his whole body goes taut when she squeezes. You lose yourself in the mess of it, in the heat pressed chest-to-chest, in the pulse of his cock inside you, in the rasp of his voice when he says your name. You’re barely moving, just grinding yourself down, but it’s everything. Every inch you take feels like a little victory. Frank’s patience is a living thing, the tension in his arms shaking by the second, and the only way he lets it show is the bite of his fingers into you skin and the scruff of his jaw brushing you cheek.
“Attagirl,” he rumbles, voice shredded. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good.” You whimper, overwhelmed. The pain’s still there, but smaller now, a bright spot eclipsed by the full, shuddering pleasure carving up your spine. You shift your hips forward again and the angle changes and—oh—your thighs lock up with the shock of it. You gasp, head falling forward onto his shoulder, hair falling between your faces. Frank groans, arms squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe, and the sound is so raw, so animal, you want to cry. You try to move, to find a rhythm, but it’s awkward at first, your body still learning the mechanics. Frank seems to sense it, thumbs stroking slow circles into your hip bones, talking you through it with broken little instructions.
“Just like that,” he says, his hand guiding the small of your back. “Easy, sweetheart. Let me help you.” He moves with you, not against, and suddenly it clicks, your hips rolling forward and up, down, forward and up, and his cock—God, it’s so deep—rubs along something inside you that makes your whole body lock up. You cry out, surprised. Frank’s teeth find your shoulder, biting down just enough to ground you, and then he’s kissing the spot, like an apology.
“Good?” he grits out, barely holding on. You nod, but it’s not enough, so you rock down harder, desperate for more. The friction is brutal, the stretch never-ending, and you want it to last forever and end now, all at once. You grab his face in both hands and kisses him, messy, desperate, Your tears breaking loose and trailing down your nose onto his face. Frank's breath hitches, and for a second, you think you've broken him. His whole body goes rigid under you, and then he's kissing you again, harder this time, like he's trying to crawl inside you through your mouth. One of his hands slides up your back, fisting in your hair, holding you in place while the other grips your hip, guiding you into a rhythm that's less tentative and more purposeful.
"Fuck, baby," he pants against your lips. You try to laugh, but it comes out as a choked sob. You're overwhelmed—by the sensation, by the emotion, by the sheer Frankness of it all. He's everywhere. His scent, his taste, the feel of his scarred skin under your hands, the sound of his ragged breathing in your ear. It's a sensory overload that threatens to short-circuit your brain.
"Frank," you whimper, burying your face in his neck again. "I can't—"
"Yes, you can," he growls, cutting you off. He shifts his hips, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, slow and deliberate. The drag of him against your inner walls is exquisite, a perfect, friction-filled agony that makes your toes curl. "Feel that? That's you takin' me. That's you, sweetheart. All you." You nod, but it's a frantic, desperate motion. You're chasing something, a feeling building deep in your belly, a coil of heat that gets tighter with every thrust. Frank seems to sense it, his movements becoming a little more forceful, a little more confident. He's still letting you set the pace, but he's not just a passive participant anymore. He's an active force, a storm you're willingly riding.
"God, you're tight," he grits out, his voice strained. "So fuckin' tight for me. Squeezin' me so good." His words are filthy, but his tone is reverent, and the combination is heady. It makes you feel powerful, desired, like you're the only thing in the world that matters. You rock your hips faster, matching his rhythm, the awkwardness of before replaced by a desperate, primal need. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a vulgar, beautiful symphony that's all yours. Frank's hands are everywhere now—one gripping your ass, the other sliding up your back to trace the line of your spine. He's mapping you, claiming you, and you've never felt more seen. Your head falls back and Frank lets out a low guttural groan, his hands squeezing your waist to help you grind against you harder.
The new angle is a revelation. It’s like he’s found a secret switch inside you, one you didn’t even know existed. The head of his cock drags against a spot so sensitive, so electric, that a sharp cry tears from your throat. Your back arches, a deep, involuntary curve that presses your breasts against his chest, and your hands fly from his shoulders to tangle in his hair, holding on for dear life.
“Jesus,” Frank grunts, his voice a raw, ragged thing. He’s watching you, his eyes dark and intense, drinking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face. “Right there, huh? Found it.” He doesn’t sound surprised. He sounds like a hunter who’s finally cornered his prey. He does it again, a deliberate, grinding roll of his hips that sends a shockwave of pure, unadulterated bliss through your entire system.
Your answer is a broken moan, your hips moving on their own now, chasing that feeling, chasing him. The rhythm is frantic, messy, desperate. You’re no longer thinking, no longer worrying about being good at it or doing it right. You’re just feeling. Every nerve ending is on fire, every muscle in your body strung tight as a bowstring. The coil in your belly is winding tighter and tighter, a hot, heavy pressure that promises an explosion.
“Frank, Frank, Frank,” you chant his name like a prayer, a mantra, the only word your brain can still form. It’s a plea and a praise all at once.
“I got you, baby,” he growls, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of letting you lead. His hands are bruising on your hips now, his grip the only thing keeping you grounded as you start to lose yourself to the sensation. Your thighs are trembling, your whole body on fire as your hands slide up to tangle in his hair.
You've only ever come on your own fingers.
This.. This feels different.
The pressure building in your stomach is tighter, more feral.
It’s not a wave you can ride out. It’s a dam breaking. A fault line splitting open. The pressure in your stomach doesn't just crest; it detonates. A sharp, guttural cry is ripped from your throat as your entire body seizes, your back bowing so violently you’re surprised you don’t snap in two. Your inner walls clamp down on him, a rhythmic, pulsing grip that you have no control over, and the world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot static of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Your eyes go wide, at the feeling, thinking something is wrong.
"Oh my god, Frank- I - I might- I don't-"
"No, no, baby, hey, look at me." Frank's voice cuts through your panic, rough with his own impending release but sharp with command. His hands leave your hips, one flying up to cup your jaw, forcing your wide, terrified eyes to meet his. "It's not wrong. You're not wrong. You're just feelin' it. Let it happen. That's it, that's the good part." His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, a frantic, grounding motion.
"Don't fight it. Jesus Christ, don't you fuckin' fight it, just let go." Frank’s name is a shattered gasp on your lips as you shatter, your nails digging into his scalp, your body convulsing with the force of it. It’s endless, a series of crippling, ecstatic spasms that wrack you from the inside out, leaving you a trembling, boneless mess in his arms.
“Fuck,” Frank snarls, the sound torn from his own chest as your orgasm drags him over the edge with you. The tight, milking grip of your cunt is too much, a final, perfect torment. He buries himself to the hilt with a hoarse, desperate groan, his hips jerking as he pours himself into you. You feel the hot, pulsing rush of his release, a deep, primal claiming that seems to go on forever, his body shuddering against yours with the force of it. For a long, stretched-out moment, you’re both frozen, locked together in the eye of the storm. The only sounds are the frantic, ragged pulls of your breaths and the frantic hammering of his heart against your ribs. You’re limp, a dead weight in his lap, every muscle liquefied, your brain a blissful, static-filled void. You’ve never felt so completely wrecked. So completely whole.
Your entire body is spasming in his grip.
Frank’s breathing is still ragged against your throat, his arms locked around you like if he loosens his grip for even a second you’ll disappear. Your whole body trembles uncontrollably, tiny aftershocks rippling through your thighs and stomach, and he notices every single one.
“Easy,” he murmurs, voice wrecked soft now. “Easy, sweetheart. I got you.” His palm slides up and down your spine slowly, grounding you back into your body piece by piece. You’re still shaking so hard your teeth almost chatter. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this exposed before. Not physically.
Emotionally.
Frank presses a kiss to your damp temple, then another to your cheek, slower this time. Careful. Like he’s trying to soothe the very nerves he just set on fire.
“You okay?” he asks again quietly. You nod weakly against his shoulder.
“I think my soul left my body.” That earns a rough little laugh out of him. The sound vibrates warm against your skin.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Mine too.” Your muscles finally start unlocking enough for you to realize how boneless you’ve gone in his lap. Frank shifts carefully beneath you with a low grunt, one hand rubbing your thigh.
“C’mere,” he says softly. “Lemme clean you up.” You make a tiny noise of protest when he helps lift you off him. The sudden emptiness makes you whine before you can stop yourself, legs trembling violently the second your knees touch the mattress. Frank freezes like the sound nearly killed him.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasps. You bury your burning face in his shoulder immediately.
“Don’t.”
“No, sweetheart, you don’t get it,” he says, sounding half tortured. “You keep makin’ noises like that and I’m gonna need another minute.”
“You are such a pig,” you mumble.
“Correct.” You hear the smile in his voice. Then he reaches for the discarded t-shirt on the floor beside the couch, gentle again as he wipes carefully between your thighs. You hiss softly at the sensitivity, instinctively trying to squirm away.
“I know,” he murmurs immediately. “I know. Sorry, baby.” The nickname settles warm in your chest now instead of frightening you. Frank glances down as he cleans you up. Then pauses. You notice the tiny streak of red a second later. Your stomach drops.
“Oh my God.” Frank looks up instantly.
“What?”
“There’s blood.” Panic climbs your throat so fast it makes your voice pitchy. “Frank, there’s— I—did I start my period? Oh my God, am I bleeding? Did something tear?” Your breathing starts speeding up again immediately. “Jesus Christ, am I dying?” For one single second he just stares at you. Then a startled laugh bursts out of him. Not mocking. Just genuinely caught off guard.
“Baby,” he says gently, trying very hard not to smile now. “You are not dyin’.” You blink at him, horrified.
“There’s blood!”
“Yeah.” He brushes his thumb soothingly against your knee. “That can happen your first time.” You stare.
“…what?” His expression softens instantly at your confusion.
“You were a virgin,” he says carefully. “Little bleeding’s normal sometimes. Especially ‘cause I got carried away.” Guilt flickers briefly across his face at that last part. “You ain’t hurt bad. Promise.” Your entire body floods with relief so intense you nearly flop sideways.
“Oh my God.” Frank finally chuckles properly now, rubbing a hand down his face. You hide your face against his shoulder with a groan of humiliation while Frank keeps quietly laughing above you, warm chest rumbling beneath your cheek.
“Don’t make fun of me,” you mutter.
“I ain’t makin’ fun.” Another tiny laugh immediately betrays him. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“You’re awful.”
“Mm.” His hand slides lazily up and down your thigh. “Still alive though, right?” You smack weakly at his chest. Frank catches your wrist easily, bringing your knuckles to his mouth for one absentminded kiss before helping tug your shirt back down properly over your stomach. The tenderness of it nearly kills you more than the sex did. You let him guide you sideways across his lap once you’re dressed again, your legs draped over the couch cushions while he settles back with a long exhale. His fingers trace idle circles against the soft skin just above your knee, grounding and warm. The apartment feels different now.
Quieter. Softer. Like something huge shifted without either of you knowing how to name it yet. You stare at the wall for a long second before mumbling:
“I really thought I was bleeding internally.” That gets another laugh out of him, fuller this time. He drops his head briefly against yours.
“Baby, you work in medicine.”
“Not vagina medicine. And my parents never really taught me this stuff. They assumed Karen would.” Frank barks out an actual laugh at that, shoulders shaking beneath you. You can’t help smiling a little yourself.
“Fair point,” he admits. Silence settles again after that. Comfortable this time. His fingers never stop moving against your leg. Then quieter:
“You okay?” he asks again. Not physically. Everything. The emotion in his voice catches you off guard. You tilt your head enough to look up at him. Frank’s eyes are already on you, darker now without all the urgency from before. There’s still heat there, sure—but underneath it is something almost nervous. Like he’s waiting for you to regret this.
Regret him.
Your chest aches suddenly.
“I’m okay,” you say softly. His whole body loosens at that. Tiny. Almost invisible. But you feel it. Frank swallows once, gaze dropping briefly to where his hand rests on your thigh.
“I know tonight was a lot,” he says carefully. “And I know I probably shoulda slowed down more—”
“You did slow down.” His eyes flick back to yours.
“You were scared.”
“I was nervous,” you correct quietly. “Not scared of you.” That one lands somewhere deep. You see it happen in real time. Frank goes still. Your fingers slide up over the back of his hand, threading through his.
“I trusted you,” you admit. He stares at you like the words physically hurt him. Then he leans down and presses his forehead against yours, eyes closing.
“Christ,” he whispers roughly. One of his arms tightens around your waist. Not possessive. Protective. Careful with you in a way nobody ever has been before. “You got no idea what that means to me,” he says softly. Your face falls and you reach up, wincing at the pull in your legs. You reach up, wincing slightly as your body reminds you it’s still catching up to everything that just happened. Frank notices immediately—of course he does.
“Hey,” he says softly, catching your wrist before you can push yourself too far. “Easy. Don’t go doin’ that.”
“I’m fine,” you insist automatically. Frank gives you a look that says he does not believe a single word of that.
"Sweetheart, you just impaled yourself on my dick for your first time. I have reason to worry."
You freeze.
Then slowly turn your head to look at him.
“…you’re going to make me die of embarrassment after I survived everything else?”
Frank doesn’t even pretend to feel bad.
A faint, crooked grin tugs at his mouth. “Seems fair.”
You groan and drop your forehead against his chest, fully intending to disappear into him as a person.
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling under you, and his hand immediately comes up to your hair—slower now, soothing instead of teasing.
“Hey,” he says again, softer. “I’m not makin’ fun of you.”
“Yes you are.”
“A little,” he admits.
You make a small, muffled sound of protest. Frank presses a kiss into the top of your head like he’s apologizing anyway.
"Y'know what this means, right baby ?" He asks, his hand trailing up and down your side.
"No. Enlighten me." He squeezes you into him as he leans over and reaches for his beer. He sits back down, groaning as he takes a sip and presses the cold bottle to the back of your neck.
"You're never fuckin' gettin' rid of me. I was your first time." He says. You roll your eyes.
"Oh, shut up, Frank." He laughs.
"No, no, i'm serious. I should get like.. a certificate. Frame it and put it up on the wall where everyone can see when they walk in-"
"Oh my god, Frank."
"—'Certificate of Deflowering: Awarded to Frank Castle for Services Rendered Above and Beyond the Call of Duty.'" You can't help it, a snort of laughter escapes you muffled against his chest. The cold bottle against your neck is a shock, but a pleasant one, grounding you in the ridiculous, wonderful reality of the moment.
"Oh my God," you groan, lifting your head just enough to glare at him. "You are the worst human being I have ever met."
"Yep," he says, popping the 'p' with absolute relish. He takes another swig of his beer, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "And the man who just took your virginity on a couch that's probably seen at least three separate gunfights. So, you know. We all have our complexities."
it’s late when frenchie finds you still working. what starts as fixing up a weapon together turns into an unexpected night out, two tired people chasing a little peace in the city that never really sleeps.
cws ᝰ .ᐟ gender neutral (you/your) ,, mutual attraction ,, friends to lovers ,, mentions of weed (frenchie)
The basement always smelled the same, bleach, solder, gun oil, the copper tang of blood that never left the grout. It was 2:37 a.m. by the cheap clock bolted crooked above the workbench, and you’d been hunched over the monitor for—what, four hours? five? Time in this place folded in on itself.
You rubbed at your eyes, screen burn bleeding into the dark. You wondered, quietly, guiltily, what the point even was. Take one supe down, three more sprouted in its place, shiny as propaganda. The world didn’t shift; it shrugged.
(You hated thinking like that. It made you sound like Butcher.)
The cursor blinked at you like it knew. Mocking. The sound of the old computer was loud enough to fill the silence, old fans whining under the weight of too many surveillance feeds and encrypted Vought server breaches that didn’t lead anywhere useful. You’d cracked half of one, something about a new “PR rehabilitation campaign” for A-Train, and then lost the thread somewhere between the caffeine crash and the ache in your neck.
There were empty coffee cups scattered like casualties across the table. A protein bar wrapper curled against the leg of the chair, crinkling each time you shifted your foot. The lamp buzzed, flickering every few minutes like it was giving up too.
Hughie had told you to go home hours ago. “Seriously, your eyes are doing that thing again,” he’d said, hovering awkwardly at the top of the stairs, backpack slung like it might pull him out of here if he leaned far enough. “You’re starting to sound like Butcher. That’s—uh—not a compliment.” He’d laughed, then grimaced when you didn’t. You’d waved him off, promised you’d shut down in “ten minutes.” That was at least four hours ago.
Butcher’s version of concern was sharper. “You’re an overworked cunt, that’s what you are,” he’d barked earlier that day, shoving a stack of files toward you with his usual charm. “Take a fuckin’ nap before yer brain leaks out yer ears.” Then he’d muttered something about “soft-hearted idiots,” and left you there like a parent storming out mid-argument.
There was comfort in the work, you guessed. It was something you could measure. Something that stayed still when everything else didn’t. The rest of it, the moral lines, the politics, the blood that always came later, it all blurred.
Reaching for the cup beside you, you found it empty, and stared at it like the universe had wronged you. The betrayal felt personal, which was stupid, but that’s where you were at mentally, arguing with a mug because the caffeine had finally run dry. You slumped back in the chair, eyes gritty, stomach hollow.
You told yourself you were done after this next data dump. You’d said that six dumps ago. Every file was the same, corruption hidden behind corporate optimism, blood wrapped in branding. “Heroes,” your ass. You thought about that press conference last week, the one where The Deep had cried about “accountability.” Hughie had shown you the clip on his phone, laughing, saying it was pathetic. But you hadn’t laughed. You’d just watched the screen and thought about the things people were willing to forgive if the apology was shiny enough.
You rubbed your thumb over the chipped edge of the mug. It was one Frenchie had painted himself, a peace sign on one side, a tiny mushroom cloud on the other. Said it was for balance. That was him, always finding poetry in contradiction.
The creak overhead grew louder, footsteps, quick and uneven, followed by the metallic clatter of the trapdoor latch. Then a voice, half a whisper, half a yawn.
“Mon ange, why are you still awake?”
Frenchie descended the stairs two at a time, the soles of his sneakers scuffing against the concrete. He looked like chaos incarnate, oversized jacket hanging off his shoulders like it used to belong to someone bigger. Layers, always too many layers, dark jeans, jacket, a shirt with a fading graphic that might’ve been a band logo once. He moved like the world had never told him to slow down, hands talking faster than his mouth, eyes darting to everything at once. A gold chain caught the light when he shifted, flashing warm against the olive of his throat.
You blinked up from the monitor, brain half in the code and half in the quiet, and managed something like a shrug. “Working,” you said, the word scraping its way out. “What are you doing here?”
He grinned, but it was the tired kind, the kind that meant he knew he shouldn’t be smiling at all. “Eh, I told M.M. I would finish the modification for the launcher tonight.“ He gestured vaguely toward the workbench in the corner, where pieces of dismantled tech lay in chaos. “But then I… how do you say…” He snapped his fingers, searching for the word. “procrastinated.”
You gave him a look over your shoulder. “So you came back in the middle of the night to do it?”
He raised his eyebrows in mock offense. “Non, I came back because I am a professional. And because… well.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe I smoked a little. Time slipped away from me.”
Yeah. That tracked. He smelled like weed and cold night air, like the alley behind the pawn shop you were under and the chemical bite of whatever project he’d abandoned halfway through. His eyes were glossy, the edges of his grin softened by something looser than sleep. He looked like freedom, the reckless kind, the kind that never waited for permission.
You leaned back in your chair, half-smiling despite yourself. “You’re high.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “Me? I am insulted.” Then, after a beat, with a grin: “Only a little.”
You shook your head, eyes dragging over the glow of your monitor again. “You could’ve finished that thing tomorrow. You don’t have to keep showing up like the lab elf at 3 a.m.”
“But then I would not get to see you looking like death, eh?” His voice was teasing, but gentle underneath. He drifted closer, scanning the mess of blueprints and empty mugs around you. “You work too much.”
“Wow,” you muttered, pretending to type. “Thanks.”
He laughed under his breath. “You have been down here too long. The world upstairs still exists, you know.”
You arched an eyebrow at him, half a smirk tugging through your exhaustion. “I’m not the one who just smoked and immediately thought to come work.” It came out dry, but not unkind. Just tired. You let the words hang there, waiting for him to grin, and sure enough, Frenchie’s mouth curved, slow and wolfish.
“Ah, but that is different,” he said, wagging a finger, the accent curling around his words. “For me, it is inspiration. It helps with the creativity. Opens the mind, lets the ideas crawl out from where they hide. You see?” He sets a wrench he had picked up down, stepped back from the bench, and gestured with both hands like a magician revealing his latest trick. “Come. You will see what I mean.”
You exhaled through your nose, already half-smiling despite the weight behind your eyes. “Frenchie—”
“Come, come,” he interrupted, waving you over with a grin that felt stitched from mischief and sincerity both. “You can take a break from staring into the computer abyss. Two minutes, that is all I ask.”
You hesitated, then pushed yourself up from the chair, the motion slow, reluctant, like your body wasn’t entirely convinced you could still move for something other than work. He met you halfway, still buzzing with whatever cocktail of adrenaline and THC and other miscellaneous substances kept him upright at this hour.
The launcher sat on the worktable, a Frankenstein’s monster of Vought tech and Frenchie’s imagination: compact, ugly, beautiful in its purpose. You recognized parts of a supe-grade tranquilizer gun spliced with a destabilized sonic shell, something he’d probably scavenged from one of Butcher’s “souvenir” raids.
“You’ve been working on this since last week,” you observed, tracing the mess of soldered wires, the faint scorch marks around the barrel.
“Oui.” He leaned beside you, shoulder brushing yours. “But now, it sings.”
“That thing ‘sings’? It’s a weapon, not a guitar.”
“Ah, mais non,” he countered, smiling, eyes half-lidded but alive. “Everything sings, if you build it with enough love. Even something meant to destroy.”
You looked at him then, really looked, the old scars climbing up his skin like faded ghosts, the restless fire that never seemed to leave him alone. You’d seen that look before, after a mission went bad, after he’d nearly blown himself up making something to keep you all alive. The line between creation and self-destruction was razor-thin with him; sometimes you weren’t sure which side he stood on.
(And wasn’t that the story for all of you? Butcher with his vendetta, Hughie with his guilt — all of you pretending that vengeance could pass for purpose.)
He twisted a small valve on the side of the launcher, the device letting out a soft hiss. The smell of ozone filled the air, electric and faintly sweet. “See? Better. She breathes now.”
You leaned closer out of habit, peering at the mechanism. “That’s… actually kind of impressive.”
“Kind of?” His hand found the small of your back, guiding you closer to the table. “No, no. It is completely impressive. The difference between life and death, she is in the details. I know this.”
You tried not to smile. “You also once glued a suppressor on backward.”
“Eh, that was artistic license.”
You shook your head, rubbing at your temple, feeling the beginnings of a headache soften under the sound of his laughter. Maybe he was right, maybe you had been down here too long, hunched over keys and numbers, trying to solve a war through code. Maybe this was the real work, standing beside someone who refused to let the darkness swallow everything whole.
Frenchie nudged the launcher toward you as if it were a living thing that needed approval. “Place your hands there.” he instructed, voice sticky-sweet with the cloak of his high, eyes bright and too direct. “Help me finish.”
You told yourself you were tired; you told yourself you had numbers to parse and a dozen damned files to close. But your fingers moved anyway, reaching for the band of cables Frenchie held out, the same way they always moved when the team needed an extra pair of hands. He handed you a spool of solder like he was giving you a blunt instrument and a confessional. “You know how to do this, yes?” he asked, half-teasing, half-insecure, as if he needed permission to let you touch the thing he’d poured himself into.
“I used to hate electronics,” you said, fingers already warm from the iron, “until Hughie made me solder him back together after he electrocuted himself trying to—” you didn’t finish because the memory of Hughie swearing and blinking like a bug was too soft to be cruel. It belonged to a different kind of moment, one with less guilt and fewer governments.
Frenchie hummed, pleased with the memory. “Petit Hughie is a fragile hero. Like porcelain man.” He squared the component, held it steady with a practiced hand so your solder could pool and form a seam. “Careful.” His breath warmed the corner of your cheek; his thumb brushed your wrist in passing. The iron kissed the metal; the solder bloomed like a tiny, obedient river. You watched the bead form, how it took the heat and turned dull and firm, how something unstable became whole in a blink if you kept the flame steady. You thought of how that might translate to people, how many seams in ordinary lives could be mended if someone bothered to hold the thing steady while the heat did its work.
Frenchie talked while you worked, half monologue, half poem: stories of nights at the Clarkson Avenue lot when the Haitian Kings had laughed too loud, when they’d taught him to weld, when he’d eaten fried plantain out of a paper bag and sworn they’d taste like home. The launcher began to look less like jury-rig and more like a tool with a temperament: dial set to pulse, not long-wave; damping plate cross-braced with braided cable; a crude but elegant trigger that would, if the plan held, do more than make noise. You adjusted a screw Frenchie had over-tightened; he made a face and admitted, sheepish, “Too excited.” That made you laugh properly for the first time in five hours.
You tightened the final clamp. Frenchie handed you a rag; you wiped your hands on it, leaving little black streaks on your palms like trophies. He tapped the barrel lightly. “She will sing, mon ange. She will sing.”
Then, predictably, he sparked up a joint like it was a metronome, two hours without it was apparently a crime against Frenchie’s nervous system, and the room filled with a fragrant smear of smoke. He rolled the ember between his fingers, inhaled deep and slow, then exhaled.
“C’est la muse,” he pronounced, jazzing the word with a flourish. “Inspiration requires lubrication.” He offered you the joint in a showman’s bow that was half flirtation, half apology for the smell. You declined with a tired little shake of the head, you’d had enough chemical company for one night, but you didn’t mind the cloud.
Frenchie dug through his pocket for the safety goggles, they were old, lenses scratched with the history of every near-miss he’d ever had. He pushed them toward you with a grin that split his face. “For safety,” he said. “We cannot be sexy and blinded at same time.”
You laughed and accepted the goggles. He put on his own, oversized and slightly askew, then did a dramatic thumbs-up as if the entire world depended on that single gesture. “Okay,” Frenchie said, voice turning businesslike (which for him was a curious mix—part craftsman, part poet, part small-time arsonist with a conscience). He flicked a tiny dial; the launcher hummed with the stir of a beast waking. He counted under his breath in that soft, mumbling French of his, “Un. Deux. Trois.” He glanced at you, eyebrows raised, the “do you trust me?” question folded under the cadence. You gave the most tired, honest nod you had in hours.
Frenchie grinned, half triumphant, half child, and pointed the barrel into the center of the room, away from the workbench, away from the monitors you loved and feared in equal measure. “We will do it small,” he said. “Like a whisper.”
He flicked the switch.
The sound that came out was not a roar. It was a thing that moved through the room like wind through reeds, a frequency that left the air standing on edge. Papers danced; stray screws jumped off the bench like nervous insects; a pen rolled across the table and leapt to the floor. The cheap clock above the workbench juddered and then slowed, its hand trembling like a heartbeat slowed by narcotic, until finally it stuttered and stopped in the middle of its tick like it was confused by the echo.
A paint can on a shelf rattled open and a smear of blue, bright, accidental, beautiful, spattered across the cement like someone had thrown a sky at the floor. The monitor speakers hiccuped and spat a thin line of static that looked for all the world like a cartoon ghost trying to whistle. A stack of files collapsed in a paper avalanche. For a second the basement looked as if a small hurricane had moved through.
Frenchie whooped. It was a high, feral sound that made you grin despite the mild terror. He clapped his hands once, glee splattering across his face like paint. “She sings!” He danced a little jig between the overturned coffee cups and the fallen files, and the joint shook in his hand, embers glowing.
You, by contrast, sat very still, mouth a small O, goggles fogging slightly with your breath. The clock on the wall ticked one slow, indignant tick and then, perhaps in solidarity with you, died utterly.
He leaned in close, eyes bright and wet with triumph. “Perfect. Perfect.” he said. “We will blame Hughie.”
You laughed, a real, ragged laugh that loosened something in your chest, because of course he would blame Hughie, because of course Butcher would rant, and because Frenchie, even stoned and ridiculous, had a way of making ruin feel like rehearsal for something beautiful.
Frenchie’s excitement was the kind that filled every inch of the air; wild, buoyant, infectious. He was still talking to the launcher like it was a beloved pet, gesturing at it with the joint clutched between two fingers. “You see? She listens to me. She listens because I treat her with respect,” he declared, tapping the metal like it had a heartbeat.
You shook your head. “I should get back to work,” you acknowledged, glancing toward your monitor. Frenchie caught the glance, the instinctive retreat into exhaustion. “Non, non, non,” he interrupted, wagging a finger. “The world can wait. You cannot code revolutions on an empty stomach.” He was already moving, the kind of person who never really stopped once he started. “I am starving. Are you starving? You must be starving.”
“I’m fine,” you tried, but it came out soft and unconvincing.
“Nonsense,” he said, waving the protest away as if it were cigarette smoke. “We will eat. Something with grease, maybe cheese. Oui, cheese solves many problems.”
Frenchie had insisted, of course he had, that the night was young, that genius required fuel, and that you’d been indoors so long your skin was starting to look “like one of those little mushrooms that grow in the dark.”
So now you were here.
A half-dead diner on Clarkson, fluorescent and flickering, pretending to be open twenty-four hours because no one told the lights they were lying. The vinyl booths stuck to your skin, smelling of syrup and bleach. A ceiling fan turned with the slow rhythm of someone counting down their last shift. Outside, the city breathed its usual poison, neon haze, cigarette steam, and a siren wailing so far away it already sounded tired.
You sat opposite Frenchie in a booth too small for his restless energy. He’d slung his jacket onto the seat beside him, chain glinting against the collar of his shirt. He was a little damp from the drizzle outside, his eyes still glossy, a shade too red for this hour. He looked like he belonged anywhere but here. Or maybe everywhere at once.
The waitress poured coffee without asking, the kind that tasted like exhaustion, and you took it anyway because it was hot.
You both ordered without much thought, something fried and over-salted, the kind of meal that coated your arteries and made you question life choices halfway through. Frenchie, with his elbows on the table and eyes still glassy from the smoke, looked entirely too pleased with himself.
“You’re going to regret that,” you commented on his order, stirring your coffee with the tiny metal spoon, watching the ripple fade into the dark surface.
“Mon ange, I regret everything I eat in America. That is not the point.”
You laughed under your breath, the sound foreign in your own throat. When the food came, he tore into it with childlike delight, half the fries gone before the plate even touched the table. He started talking again, mouth half full, hands alive with motion. Something about his last job before he met Butcher, some mad story involving a Latvian arms dealer, a briefcase of diamonds, and an ostrich. You barely followed it, but it didn’t matter. Because he was alive. You were alive.
“You’re telling me the arms dealer had a pet ostrich just hanging out in the room?”
Frenchie held up a fry like it was evidence. “Not just any ostrich. This one wore a gold chain. Much better dresser than the dealer, if I may say so.”
You smiled in disbelief. “Right, because fashion sense is what really matters when you’re trafficking weapons.”
“Exactly! It’s the little details that show taste. If I ever become a criminal again—”
“If?”
He ignored you, waving his fry. “—I will have a pet flamingo. He will smoke clove cigarettes and judge everyone.”
You nearly spat out your coffee. “A judgmental flamingo. That’s exactly what this team needs.”
“Don’t mock him. He has feelings.”
You tried to hold a straight face and failed. “You’re insane.”
“Oui,” he said, with that infuriating little shrug that was half pride, half confession.
You glanced at him again, his hands still restless even when he wasn’t talking, like something in him was always building, breaking, rebuilding. “You ever miss it?” you asked. “The part before all this? Before the hiding and the running and… Vought?”
He looked at you for a long time, the grin fading but not gone. “Miss it? No. I miss who I was before I knew better. That’s not the same thing.”
You nodded, though something in your chest tightened. “Yeah. I get that.”
For a moment, Frenchie had nothing to say. He looked out the window like he was debating his next move. “They ruin everything, these supes. Not just cities, not just lives—” he tapped his temple lightly “—they ruin the idea that anyone else can matter. They make gods out of accidents.”
You swallowed. “And we clean up the mess.”
“Oui.” He looked at you again, softer now. “But maybe that is what makes us… human. We are the ones still trying to fix what they break.”
You didn’t know what to say. You just sat there in that cheap booth, half-empty plates between you, the neon sign outside flickering red and blue across his face. He smiled again, smaller this time. “Also, I fix rockets. That helps.”
“Yeah,” you said, pushing his fries toward him. “You fix a lot of things.”
He raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t say anything right away. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“What, fixing stuff?”
“Mm. No. Caring about broken things.” He shook his head. “Most people don’t. They throw it away, find a new one. Cleaner. Easier. You and I—we stay until it’s working again.”
You let out a huff of humorous air, staring down at the scratched tabletop. “Yeah, well. Maybe I just don’t know when to quit.”
“Or maybe you know that quitting is boring,” he countered, leaning forward now, elbows on the table. His eyes were sharp, but warm, too warm. “There is honor in being stubborn, mon ange. Especially when the world tells you to stop.”
The word mon ange hit different this time. Maybe it was the way he said it, quieter, less playful, like he didn’t even realize it had come out. Your pulse skipped, but you tried to hide it behind a sip of coffee that had long gone cold.
He noticed, of course. He always noticed. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said too quickly. “You’re just—” You gestured vaguely. “You’re very French.”
He grinned. “Ah, yes. My greatest crime.”
“Second greatest,” you said before you could stop yourself. “First is your fashion sense.”
He gasped, clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him. “My fashion sense is revolutionary!”
“It’s chaotic.”
“It is artistic chaos,” he corrected, flicking his hand dramatically. “You Americans—”
“Oh, here we go.”
“—you have no appreciation for expression! You wear your souls in beige.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “You wore two jackets to dinner.”
“It was cold,” he said, unconvincingly. “And also, they both had excellent pockets.”
He was ridiculous. Infuriating. And god, you didn’t want to stop talking.
The laughter lingered, sinking into something softer the longer the night went on. You caught yourself watching him, the easy way he existed, how everything about him was motion and warmth. He was all contradiction: sharp edges and open palms, danger and gentleness bound together in a way that shouldn’t work but did. He tilted his head. “You are thinking too loudly,” he called you out.
You blinked. “What?”
“I can hear it. You are in here—” he tapped his temple “—building something again. Always working, even when you sit still.”
You smiled. “Maybe I just like fixing things too.”
He nodded, almost to himself. “Then we are the same kind of broken.” The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Just heavy enough to mean something. The world outside went on, but in that booth, it felt like everything had slowed down. “Next time, you pick the restaurant. Somewhere with better coffee.”
“Deal,” you said, but your voice was quieter now, steadier.
He stood first, tossing a few crumpled bills on the table, and when he looked back at you, the grin was back. “Come on. Before I decide to order dessert and regret everything I eat in America twice.”
You followed him out into the night, the door jingling shut behind you, and it hit you, somewhere between the smell of rain on concrete and the sound of his laughter, that maybe you already liked him more than you should.
The street had that strange, in-between stillness of too-late hours, when the city wasn’t asleep, just waiting for morning. The rain had eased into a mist, silvering the pavement, and the air smelled like wet roads and sugar from somewhere nearby. Frenchie shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, humming some old song under his breath. You didn’t recognize it, but it fit, the kind of melody that only exists at 4 a.m. He kicked at a stray bottle cap and sent it skittering down the sidewalk. “You know,” he started, glancing over, “you could smile more. The world will not end if you do.”
You rolled your eyes. Does anyone actually like being told that? “You’d find a way to make it my fault if it did.”
“Of course,” he said without missing a beat. “I would say, they smiled, and boom—apocalypse.”
You laughed, soft and tired. The sound carried, brushing against the empty street. Then you saw it, the flicker of pale blue light across the fog. A run-down arcade wedged between a pawn shop and a nail salon, half the bulbs in the sign burnt out so it just read AR ADE.
Frenchie followed your gaze and stopped. “Ah, mon dieu,” he said reverently. “A temple of wasted youth.”
“It’s probably closed.”
“It is never closed for destiny,” he said, already striding toward it, yanking the door handle like a man who refused to be told no. It gave with a rusty creak, the little bell above it jingling weakly. Inside, the air was thick with dust and old electricity. Frenchie’s eyes lit up immediately, glossy from smoke and nostalgia.
“Look at this,” he said, touching the claw machine like it was sacred. Inside, an army of plush toys stared out with soulless eyes. “It calls to me.”
“You’re high.”
“I am inspired.”
You shook your head, but your lips twitched anyway. After purchasing some tokens he fed a few coins into the slot, the joystick moving as he maneuvered the claw toward a stuffed bear with beady black eyes. The claw dropped, wobbled, and somehow—miraculously—caught. When it thunked down the chute, he gasped like he’d just defused a bomb. “Regarde! Victory!”
You covered your mouth, laughing harder than you had in days. “That’s horrifying,” you said as he held it up.
“She is beautiful,” he defended, smoothing its matted fur. “I will name her Butcher, because she terrifies me.”
You shook your head, wiping tears from your eyes, and turned away partly to hide the stupid warmth in your chest, because why did that feel like the funniest, softest thing you’d heard all week? Why did he make you laugh when nothing else had been able to pry you open lately? Why did you care? Why was he so goddamn funny?
You drifted toward another machine, the glow pulling you like gravity. It was an old prize crane with peeling stickers, its theme a mash-up of old cartoon characters and plushes. Tucked in the corner, half-buried under a stuffed dinosaur and a Pikachu, was a plush that looked exactly like something Frenchie would lose his mind over, some bizarre little gremlin thing with giant eyes, a stitched scowl, and a tiny plastic knife in its felt hand. A “Killer Critter,” the tag said.
Of course he’d love the one holding a weapon.
You fed coins into the slot. The claw shuddered to life with a sad whine. The first attempt missed completely, grabbing uselessly at air before scraping down the glass. You felt your cheeks heat, why were you even doing this? Why did it matter? Why did you want this stupid gremlin for him so badly?
(Because he looked at you tonight like the world hadn’t beaten you down yet. Because he makes ruin feel bearable. Because you want to give him something.)
Because . . . because.
You tried again.
The claw lowered, wobbling like it was drunk, closed around the gremlin’s oversized head—and held. You didn’t breathe as it lifted, swayed, and dropped the plush through the chute with a soft thunk. You froze for a second, staring at it, as if the tiny stitched knife might come alive and congratulate you. Then you picked it up and turned toward Frenchie, extending it out to him.
He was already watching.
He must’ve seen you win it, his hands stilled mid-gesture, grin softening into something that lived in the space between surprise and tenderness. His eyes flicked from the plush to your face, and all that chaotic, relentless energy of his paused. Just… paused. “For me?” he asked, voice small in a way you’d never heard from him.
You shrugged, trying to play it off, trying to keep your heartbeat from leaping out of your chest. “Yeah. I mean—yeah. I thought you’d like it. He’s armed. Seemed your type.”
Frenchie pressed a hand over his heart as if physically wounded. “Mon ange… he has a knife. He is perfection.”
You laughed, and he stepped forward, taking the plush from your hands like it was something precious. His fingers brushed yours, warm, paint-stained, smelling faintly of smoke, and for once he didn’t crack a joke or toss out a flirt or deflect with chaos. For once, he didn’t say anything. Not a word, not a quip, not a half-mumbled line in French. He just stood there, plush clutched between his hands, his expression softening in real time, as if he was feeling the warmth instead of outrunning it for once.
It was strange seeing him like that.
Quiet. Still.
His eyes flicked down to where your fingers had brushed, then back up to your face, and you could almost see the gears start to spin, not the ones that built bombs or launchers or improvised rocket systems, but the ones that processed feelings, and god, those were always harder to engineer.
He blinked once, twice. “You are… very close to me,” he said finally, a little dazed, like someone noticing the weather for the first time.
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one holding my hand, Frenchie.”
He looked down, as if he needed visual confirmation, and when he realized he was, in fact, still holding onto your fingers, he let go too quickly. He cleared his throat, straightened his jacket, tried to pretend that didn’t happen. “Ah. Yes. I was protecting you. From the plush. He looked violent.” He laughed once, but it didn’t sound like his usual laugh. This one stayed small, caught somewhere in his throat.
For a guy who could disarm a bomb in twelve seconds flat, he suddenly looked completely out of his depth.
You turned back toward the next row of machines, coins clinking in your hand. Neon light flickered against your skin, pink, blue, pink again, and he watched you like he’d never really looked before. He followed you to the basketball hoop game rolling his shoulders, loosening his wrists. “You are going to lose,” he said, tone cocky.
You shot first. Swish.
He blinked. “Okay. Beginner’s luck.”
“Sure,” you said, grinning.
He missed the next three in a row. Blamed the rim. Blamed the angle. Blamed America. (“The hoops are smaller here, I swear.”) When you laughed he looked at you like he’d just accidentally set off fireworks in his chest.
By the time you’d won — decisively — he was standing too close, shoulder brushing yours as you both watched the score blink red on the screen. His voice dropped a little. “You are dangerous when you are focused like this.”
You looked up at him. “Dangerous?”
He nodded, eyes steady. “Oui. You make me forget I am supposed to be winning.”
The air between you charged. He stepped back, shook it off, and grabbed another token. “Now,” he said quickly, like he had to move or the feeling might swallow him whole. “I will destroy you at air hockey.”
You followed him to the air hockey table, and Frenchie rolled up his sleeves like he was preparing for combat. The puck dropped, and he was relentless. Every shot you took, he countered with lightning precision, the disk ricocheting between your paddles in a blur of light and sound. You laughed through it, cursed him once under your breath when he scored again, and he just grinned wider.
By the time the game ended, the score wasn’t even close. He leaned on the edge of the table, breathing fast, triumphant. “See?” he said, voice rough from laughing. “You cannot win everything. Sometimes you must let me be impressive.”
“Let you?” you scoffed, grabbing your jacket. “You played like your life depended on it.”
He shrugged, tilting his head, eyes warm and a little too steady on you. “Maybe it did.”
You froze for half a second before he broke the moment with a wink, flicking the puck across the table toward you. The lights of the arcade had softened by then, the once-bright chaos settling into something quieter. A few kids ran past with tickets spilling from their pockets; the machines clicked through their idle loops, half asleep. Outside, the sky had shifted, deep violet bleeding into orange, the last thread of sunlight stretching over the lot.
You both lingered there longer than you meant to, standing side by side beneath the flicker of a “GAME OVER” sign. He looked out at the street like he was trying to memorize it, like this tiny, nothing-night had turned into something worth keeping.
When he finally spoke, it was softer than you’d ever heard him. “You should probably sleep,” he said. “Before you start seeing double and accuse me of cheating again.”
You smiled. “You did cheat.”
“Oui,” he admitted easily, his grin returning, “but beautifully.”
He walked you to your car, hands tucked into his jacket, shoulders relaxed but eyes still restless, still glancing your way like he didn’t quite trust this new, warm thing in his chest not to spill out.
“See?” he said. “The world did not end.”
Not yet, you thought. Not tonight.
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Just watched you, the kind of look that seemed to pull every thought you had straight out of your head. Slowly, he reached up, brushing his fingers against your cheek. His thumb hesitated there, the barest touch, and the world seemed to narrow to the space between you. It wasn’t even about what might happen next, it was the pause. The quiet, unspoken something that had been building since the diner, since the laughter and the tokens and the plush. It felt bigger than the night, and smaller too, like something you shouldn’t look at too directly, or it might vanish.
You could feel your own pulse in your throat, that dull ache of being too tired to think, too wired to rest. The kind of tired where everything honest slips out, the kind where you stop pretending you’re fine, or detached, or that this person standing in front of you doesn’t make the world feel less heavy for a minute.
Frenchie let out a small, shaky laugh. “You are very bad for my sleep schedule,” he joked, voice half gone, but still laced with that humor he used like armor.
You smiled. “You started it.”
He tilted his head at that, eyes bright and soft all at once. For a moment, he looked like he might say something — something stupid, or brave, or both — but instead, he just nodded a little, fingers tracing down before dropping away.
“Then,” he paused, “maybe I should finish it.” He took a slow step back, eyes catching the last smear of sunlight. “Bonne nuit, mon ange.”
When you drove off, he was still standing there under the glow of the arcade sign, half-smiling like someone who’d just realized he might be in trouble.
You sat in the car for a while after you got home, fingers still tingling where he’d touched you. The street was half-lit, washed in the kind of shade that made everything look like memory instead of moment. You stared through the windshield at the slow sweep of dawn climbing over the skyline, and it hit you like a punch, that instinct, that ache in your chest that wasn’t fear or lust or adrenaline, but something heavier. Something close to care. You didn’t know when it started. Maybe when he called you mon ange with a grin that didn’t mean it, or when he’d actually gone quiet, like maybe he did.
You hated that feeling, the need to protect. Because it was the same thing that got people killed. It was the same thing that made Butcher the way he was. And for the first time, you got it.
It wasn’t just hate that fueled him, it was grief. Love, in its ugliest form. The world was full of monsters in capes tearing holes in everything good, and it made people like you reach for whatever scraps were left, a moment of warmth, a joke, a person whose laugh made the noise fade out for five seconds. You wanted to guard that. Keep it safe. Keep him safe.
But the truth stung as you thought it. That kind of wanting, that kind of care, it always came with blood on its heels.
You didn’t want to be like Butcher.
But maybe you understood him more than you wanted to.
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summary | in your darkest hour, matt doesn't answer the phone. but frank does.
warnings | blood, death, violence, attempted robbery, religious trauma, possible infidelity, matt's lowkey kind of a bitch in this but that's ok, probably deviates from canon at times but fuck it we ball, MDNI 18+
word count | 3.5k
// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //
Blood wept from your fingertips, dripping onto the asphalt.
It had soaked through the man’s shirt. Oozed from the scattered holes in his chest, pooling around his torso. His lungs breathed no air. His eyes didn’t blink, gazing sightless up towards the Heavens.
Sickness hit in a crushing wave.
You doubled over, clutching your stomach as bile surged up your throat, burning over your tongue. The gagging continued long after there was nothing left, saliva dribbling from your bottom lip.
Then there was stillness.
Not the stillness of calm, or peace. But punishment. Sentencing. The solemn gaze of an all-forgiving Father as he stands before you, stone in-hand.
[To kill is a violation of Faith—]
{—You or them?}
The gun had still been smoking when it’d clattered at your feet.
Regret felt like a wet blanket on your shoulders, suffocating in its weight. You couldn’t stand it.
Couldn’t stand.
Asphalt dug into your knees, crumpling at the man's side. Your hands had been shaking as you grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse, praying for it in the way a sinner prays for absolution.
You found none.
No pulse. No absolution.
Still, you tried. Locked your fingers over his chest—pressing and pressing, trying and trying. Until thick ribs cracked and caved, until your palms were drenched in warmth and death and–
Rain.
It was raining.
Little drops, softly pattering all throughout the alleyway. You watched, dazed, as they slid down the lit-up screen in your hands.
You didn’t remember pulling out your phone, but you remembered making the call.
Calls.
In the Bible, the number seven is considered sacred. Symbolic of divine oaths and promises, of perfection in the purest, most angelic sense.
Seven times you called the Devil.
Seven times he didn’t answer.
You tilted your head back. The rain fell faster, cool drops steady rolling down your cheeks. The sky was a yawning, starless expanse. In the past, you’d always said that’s why you hated the city. The lack of stars—veiled by pollution and human selfishness, replaced by a twinkling skyline made of artificial hope.
But tonight was different. Tonight, you were glad for their absence.
At least the stars hadn’t seen what you’d done.
Blood smeared across the phone screen as you dialed your eighth call. A different tone than before; a number not saved but remembered.
A number you’d promised Matt you’d never call again.
{In case you ever need it—}
[—I don’t trust him.]
What is trust?
Once, it felt like the comfort of sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Sitting amidst the oaken pews with a man at your side—a soft man dressed in a sharp suit, his glasses tinted red and his heart pure gold.
Now, trust felt like the relief of a call that rang only once. Of cold fear melting into the gruff warmth of another’s voice, heavy with concern as they answered: “You alright?”
You almost laughed.
No. Of course not—because why would you call Frank Castle if you were anything other than desperate?
“Are you busy?” you asked, awkward and hesitant.
In hindsight, the question felt stupid. There was a body lying in front of you, and certainly no amount of busyness took precedence over that. But then, Matt must’ve been busy. Playing dutiful layer or God’s lone soldier. That’s why he hadn’t answered.
Unless…
[Elektra’s just a friend—]
{—That what we are?}
On the other end of the line, Frank urged, “C’mon now, doll, you gotta answer me, alright?” Had he asked something? You hadn’t noticed. “Where’re you at?”
“An alley.”
A rough, humorless chuckle. “Little more specific, sweetheart.”
Five blocks from Matt’s apartment, you thought.
“Off West 51st,” you said.
“Don’t move.” There was the sound of a door slamming, of boots pounding down a flight of stairs. “I’m on my way.”
Panic thrashed in your veins, anticipating the sharp click of a call gone dead. “Wait!” A cry, a plea—but for what? You had no clue what to say next.
You hadn’t told him about the man, or the gun, or the sin.
And Frank hadn’t asked. You knew this was because the Why? for your call hadn’t mattered to him.
Only that you had.
{You call, I come—}
[—Frank Castle is a murderer.]
Your eyes squeezed shut. You went to rub them, then remembered the blood dripping from your hands.
So am I, you thought. So am I.
Frank said your name. Once, twice.
Quietly, you asked, “Will you stay on the phone?”
The sound of another door pushing open, a great whoosh! of air as the city unfolded around him: sirens screaming, traffic blaring. With your eyes closed, you could almost see—shoving from his apartment building, marching down darkened sidewalks with a determined clench in his jaw.
It wasn’t a man coming to save you, nor a vigilante.
It was a soldier.
After drawing in a breath, Frank uttered, “‘Course.”
Time dragged.
Hell’s Kitchen droned around you. Occasionally, Frank would ask: You good? to which you replied: How far are you? At some point, you drifted further from the man’s body. Ended up sitting on the ground, your back pressed to a brick wall.
Your emotions were still fuzzy, as dull as the blunt edge of a knife. But your nerves… those were razor sharp.
You watched both ends of the alleyway. Vigilant, afraid. Your muscles tensed whenever a car door shut too loud, whenever a stranger passed beneath the distant, buzzing streetlights.
What if someone noticed?
Gunshots weren’t such a strange thing in the Kitchen. The Devil couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the cops were either too busy or too lazy to investigate every bang! in the night.
But if someone noticed you like this—curled on the ground, a dead man at your feet and violent red on your skin…
He started it, you reminded yourself. Self-defense is absolvable.
[To a judge? Or to God?—]
God doesn’t matter.
[—Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?]
Why didn’t you answer?
Your grip tightened around the phone. “How far now?”
“Check your nine.” In the second it took for you to envision a clock, Frank had already amended, “Left, sweetheart.” There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. “Look left.”
You did.
Frank was little more than a formless figure approaching. He was dressed in all black, his hood up against the rain. You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ease the frantic beat of your pulse.
When he was close enough to hear, you hung up the phone. Wiped your nose on your sleeve and sniffed, “Took you long enough.”
Cool and calculating—two descriptors that fit Frank best as he scanned the scene. He took note of the discarded gun, the puddle of watered down blood, the man with three bullets in his chest.
You were the last thing he noted, and the only one to put a crack in his stern exterior.
“Smart enough to practice law,” Frank lightly joked, “but not to read a goddamn clock, huh?”
A laugh sputtered past your lips, melding into a broken sob.
“Paralegals don’t practice,” you argued, ignoring the tears wetting your cheeks. “And I can read a clock just fine, asshole.”
There was a softness to his face, one brow raising. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” So long as it’s in front of you, and you’re telling time and not direction.
Frank hummed, his knees popping as he crouched down beside you. “Well I ain’t got a watch,” he said, “so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”
Another weak laugh faded into quiet.
Then, more hesitant than you’d ever heard him before, Frank asked, “You wanna tell me what happened?”
Something about the way he said it struck you as odd. Like it was a choice—that you didn’t have to explain. If you wanted, the secrets of tonight could remain just that: Secrets, known only by you and a man who had no voice to share them.
[Do you remember Psalm 80:9?—]
Even secret sins are exposed in His light.
{—How do you deal with it? All Red’s Catholic bullshit?}
By believing in it.
Frank took your silence for an answer. Shifted as if he might reach out, offer comfort. Instead, his fingers curled into loose fists.
“How ‘bout you go wait around the corner,” he offered, “and let me take care of all this?”
You weren’t sure what Frank’s version of ‘taking care of this’ entailed, but you knew you were comfortable with never finding out.
Frank followed suit as you pushed off the ground. His movements were precise and easy, while yours were graceless and weighted. Standing, the world seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your mind was still hazy, your bones tired.
Existence had become an arduous task.
“When you’re… done,” you managed, your arms curled tight around your waist, “what then?”
You didn’t want to go home—or to Matt’s.
You didn’t want to feel alone.
As if he understood this, Frank simply answered, “I’ll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up, let you rest awhile.” His head tilted slightly. “You like pizza?”
The world was ending.
And yet here stood Frank—no Bible quotes or Hail Mary’s, no judgement for the sin you’d committed or the mess he had to clean. He offered only calm, only patience—and pizza of all things.
[What do you see in him?—]
{—Let me take care of all this.}
You nodded.
Frank’s apartment was bleak.
One room total—unless you counted the cramped shoebox of a bathroom, which you did not. The front door opened into a shoddy kitchenette, connected to a living room that clearly doubled as his bedroom.
He owned minimal furnishings. There was a lumpy couch, a small table with one chair, an old doormat that read Stay Awhile! except the Awhile had been all but completely rubbed off. You assumed that’s why it was inside instead of out—because even indirectly, Frank Castle wasn’t the type to ask anyone to Stay.
Behind you, Frank grunted as he kicked his boots off onto the mat. You wondered if you should do the same, but didn’t.
It felt strange to be in Frank’s apartment. Not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it didn’t. You felt fine. Still shaken, still a little sick—but safe.
Would Matt be able to tell? Would he smell the gunpowder and Old Spice clinging to your skin and know that you’d been with Frank?
That’s how you knew when he’d been with Elektra. You didn’t need super senses to smell her perfume—a heady mix of cloves and something citrus, lingering on his shirts as plain as if it were lipstick on the collar.
Unthinking, you said, “You should get a bird.”
Frank chuckled. “Yeah? And why’s that?”
You weren’t sure. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, a means of evicting Elektra from your thoughts.
“It could liven the place up,” you suggested. Though, after taking another glance around, you realized that might be asking too much of one little bird.
He’d need a flock.
Frank slipped past you, warmth crawling up your spine at the slight brush of his hand against your back. You told yourself it was unintentional—no more intimate than someone scooting past you in a crowded bar or a grocery store aisle.
Still, the warmth lingered.
“Don’t think I’m much of a bird guy,” Frank admitted from the kitchenette. Then, nodding towards the couch, he added, “Sit.”
You drifted that way and sank into the cushions. The springs were practically nonexistent, and the brown leather peeled like a bad sunburn—impossible not to pick at.
“What kind of guy are you, then?” you asked, more interested in a distraction than his answer.
Frank dug around in the cabinets, grabbed a plastic mixing bowl, and went to the sink. “I like dogs,” he told you, loud enough to be heard over the running water filling the bowl.
You pretended not to hear him anyway.
After starting at Nelson & Murdock, you’d planned to get a dog. It seemed like the right time. You had your own place, your own income—and you knew Foggy would love having something cute and furry around the office. But then you got closer to Matt, and the dream died before it ever began.
Dogs were too much for Matt. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many textures. Back then, you’d thought it was a reasonable sacrifice. No dog in exchange for an incredible boyfriend.
You knew better now.
You should’ve picked the dog.
Dragging the lone chair from the table, Frank settled in front of you with the bowl of steaming water and a thin cloth. His eyes went straight to your hand. You assumed it was because of the dried blood until he said, “You’re fucking up my couch.”
You stopped picking, dusting the flakes of leather onto the floor. “It was already fucked,” you defended.
“So you gotta make it worse?”
You fixed him with a blank stare. “Nothing could make this couch worse.” Short of setting it on fire, that is.
“That how we’re gonna play this?” Frank looked like he was holding in a laugh. “I let you in, offer you food—and you pay me back by talkin’ shit about my couch?”
“It’s not just the couch,” you stated plainly. “It’s the whole apartment.”
It reminded you of prison—a place that you, Foggy, and Matt had worked hard to keep Frank out of. Even if the trial hadn’t gone as expected, you hated the idea that all that fight had been for this: A peeling couch, a faded doormat, a lonely little chair.
Frank deserved better than that.
[Have you forgotten?—]
[Castle was charged with 37 counts of murder]
[—Why are you so attached to this case?]
With the bowl balanced on top of his legs, Frank dipped the cloth in and wrung it out as he joked, “Guess I need that bird.”
Your lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
“Guess so.”
Frank held out an open palm. Without thinking, you laid your hand against his.
The water was too hot. Not quite burning, but still uncomfortable as he pressed the cloth to your wrist. But you didn’t flinch, utterly motionless as he wiped in slow, circular motions.
His touch was far lighter than you’d imagined.
Not that you ever had imagined it.
As the cloth moved down to your fingers, Frank’s focus grew more intent. He was meticulous in cleaning every line of your knuckles, the dried blood caked under your nails.
Only when the water in the bowl had turned the color of rust, the cloth stained and your skin spotless, did Frank trade one of your hands for the other.
Only then did you confess.
“He had a knife.”
Half a second—that’s how long Frank’s movements faltered before he kept on cleaning. You were thankful he didn’t try to look you in the eye. That he didn’t have to for you to know he was listening.
“Foggy has a deposition in the morning,” you continued shakily. “He always forgets to print his motion, so I stopped by the office to do it for him and… I don’t know. On the way back home, I could just feel it, you know? That someone was there. That they were following me.”
An understanding nod as Frank moved the cloth to your index finger.
“I know it’s stupid,” you told him. “But I thought if I cut through the alley, got closer to Matt’s, then–”
He’d hear it, if the worst happened. The Devil would come. Your boyfriend—if you could even still call him that—would save you.
But that had been a stupid, childish thought.
“I figured I could lose him,” you said instead. “That I could turn the corner and just run in circles until he gave up. But he was fast. I wasn’t even halfway down the alley when he ran up behind me, when grabbed my shoulder and–”
Your breath caught. Frank’s touch moved slower, gentler—a feat you wouldn’t have thought possible. His eyes caught yours in a concerned glance. Only then did you remember how to breathe.
“It was just a knife, Frank. A knife—and I pulled out a gun!” A short, hollow laugh. “I should have let him rob me,” you rationalized. “At least a wallet can be replaced. But him, his life–”
Frank cut you off. “How do you know?”
Your brows furrowed in answer.
His hand went still against yours, holding the cloth wrapped around your ring finger. “That that’s all he wanted,” Frank gruffly clarified. “To rob you.”
“I don’t, but–”
“You remember what I told you? When I taught you how to shoot?”
{You or them?—}
Frustrated, you insisted, “It’s not that easy, Frank. It’s not my choice!”
[—It’s up to God, who lives and who dies.]
Frank shook his head. “That’s the Catholic in you,” he argued.
“I’m not Catholic,” you snapped, low but harsh. Frank looked confused, and you fought to keep the shame from your voice as you muttered, “Not anymore.”
Religion, you learned, was a funny sort of thing. Even when you stop believing, it never truly goes away. God becomes a ghost under your skin, a divine haunting that borders on insanity. You will always think in terms of Sinners and Saints. You will always know that no amount of repentance will ever mold your soul into something more like the latter.
Frank wasn’t the type to pry any further.
Instead, he adjusted your hand. Carefully dragged the cloth along the curve of your fingernail. The water had cooled, now too cold where it was once too hot.
“It doesn’t matter what he was going to do,” you decided. “It only matters that I killed him.”
This time, it was Frank’s breath that hitched.
“No you didn’t,” he said, and you had never heard someone tell a lie so matter-of-fact.
“I did–”
He looked up. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and when he spoke, it was with the steely resolve of a Marine.
“No. I did.”
You blinked at him.
“I gave you that gun,” he continued. “Gave you that goddamn advice, too. That no matter what, you always gotta pick you. And see, I don’t regret that shit either because all that? It kept you alive. Kept you breathing. And if some no-good prick’s gotta so you get to live? Fine. Good.”
You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at him.
“But if someone’s gotta bear the weight of that guy’s miserable life,” Frank told you, “then let it be me, alright?” His gaze fell, lingering on your lips a moment too long before he uttered, “‘Cause I ain’t gonna let it be you.”
[You care about him—]
[—Don’t you?]
Do you care about her?
[Elektra’s just a friend—]
…
[—Can you say the same about Frank?]
You studied the man before you.
Frank Castle. The Punisher.
The one you shouldn’t call, shouldn’t trust. A murderer and a felon, a crack in your already crumbling relationship. Someone you tried to stay away from, tried to forget.
A number not saved, but remembered.
No, you thought, and wondered if Matt already knew. I can’t.
Swallowing, you looked down at your joined hands. The blood was almost all gone now, washed away by someone far more damned than you.
“Okay,” you said. There was no need to say anything else, no need to keep bearing the crushing weight of your newly acquired sin—not when God was a ghost and the Devil had abandoned you, not when a Soldier was so willing to bear it for you.
“You know,” you said, deftly changing the subject, “my brain’s a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure you promised me pizza.”
Frank fought the subtle curve of his lips. “Did I?”
You nodded, and he chuckled.
“Fine–” he refocused, back to cleaning off the last of the blood–“but you’re placin’ the order.”
You mocked him, Fine!, while sliding your phone from your pocket. The screen lit up with two missed calls and one text.
Matthew: Sorry, got caught up with something. Everything OK?
Your thumb hovered over the message.
In the Bible, the number eight is symbolic of many things. Resurrection is one of them; something dead brought back into eternal life. Once, you would’ve seen Matt’s text—a string of eight words—and wondered if that meant something. If maybe there was something left of your love to be resurrected.
Now, you stole a glance at Frank—your eighth call—and thought of new beginnings. Of choosing your own path.
You cleared Matt’s message.
Tapped on the Safari icon and asked, “Do you want somewhere specific?”
“Ever been to Lombardi’s?” suggested Frank.
You shook your head. “Is it good?”
Frank cut you a look. “‘Course it’s good. But knowin’ you, you’ll probably shit talk it the same way you did my couch.”
A smile tugged at your lips. “Keep it up,” you teased, already typing the restaurant into the search, “and your only company’s gonna be the couch and the bird.”
He chuckled. “I ain’t gettin’ a bird.”
You'd just pressed the phone to your ear, already listening to it ring when you built up the nerve to ask, "What about a dog?"
Frank set the cloth in the bowl. Gave your hand a gentle squeeze.
“Maybe a dog.”
a/n - this has been sitting in my drafts literally since january. i can't decide if i like it or hate it, but i've gotten into too much of a habit of writing, overthinking, and then never posting---so, here it is! thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it <3
summary: when andrew opens the backseat of the car, you're looking up at him with wet eyes and tied hands, silent and compliant just like he knew you would be. and even though this definitely isn't one of his best ideas, staring down at you, he thinks it's definitely not his worst either.
word count: 19k
tags: kidnapping! probably out of character for pope but i tried. heavy stockholm syndrome, being eaten out in the forest after being chased through said forest. mentions of masturbation and pope watches (1) one time, cameras/monitoring without consent, daydreams of thigh riding because duh, mating press/breeding/creampie, things from the show that didn't make sense aren't included. yippee! :)
note: shea 'sweden' erwinsvow strikes again.
andrew thinks that their plan had been incredibly solid.
they were supposed to be in and out—deran in a nice suit, disguised as a potential parent looking for a good school for his kids. if anyone asked, he had two of them, four and six, and his partner was home with them since their youngest was sick right now, otherwise he would have brought the whole family.
he distracted the people outside with questions while andrew and the others were supposed to make quick work of the principal’s office. at first when the job was pitched, it sounded stupid. why would the principal of some fancy private school have money stored away in his office from their stupid fundraisers and open-house? but a little deep diving had revealed that the principal was skimming from the top, and the leftover money and anything else they could use as leverage against him was probably in that office somewhere. if there was a safe, they might take the whole thing with them.
and that led to another can of worms—how do they get out with the safe? getting in was the easy part. deran and baz and andrew dressed in nice clothes blending in, craig pretending to be a caterer with the event, j waiting in a construction truck down the road. but getting out, let alone with a safe, would be difficult. they had to look at blueprints, smuggled from the town hall through a contact they didn’t even want to use.
andrew didn’t know what to think of the whole thing. it felt like too much work for an undetermined reward, though the others didn’t seem to agree with him. they kept saying it would be worth it and outnumbered, feeling as though despite what he said they wouldn’t agree with him, he complied.
the blueprints revealed an out through an adjacent room—they didn’t know who was occupying until they went in to canvas after hours, pretending to check the smoke detectors. andrew stood in front of the closed door, staring at a cute, childish sign printed in loopy writing: school nurse.
but there was a window large enough for any safe they encountered and just a wall of plaster separating the two. they wouldn’t even need any heavy machinery to get through the walls and out the window to the car. the open house was scheduled for a saturday, meaning the school nurse, who ever it was, wouldn’t be there.
so all in all, a solid plan from what information they had gathered. saturday morning, andrew put on a long-sleeved button up shirt and an uncomfortable tie and walked into the school.
(playing pretend was more fun than he would like to admit. a stranger came up to him and asked him how old his daughters were and he actually laughed. “how do you know i have daughters?” he had asked, and the stranger had looked at him, laughing in reply. “you look the type,” and then andrew had to tear his mind away from the thought for the next hour, trying to forget the momentary joy the sentence had brought him. he looked the type. and then he said he had twin daughters, about to start first grade, and the lie felt sweet on his tongue.)
it’s always the jobs where everything’s going according to plan. those are the ones where something always ends up going wrong because it’s when you least expect it. that’s what had led to his arrest—and he was extra mindful now, trying in his head to think of all the ways this could go wrong.
they had made it inside the school. snuck into the nurse’s office—a cutely decorated place with lollipops and crackers in big jars and fun colors strewn throughout. the desk is against the wall they’re carving up and there’s cute decorations on it. a vase with fresh flowers. a mug with cartoon characters on it. there’s a huge poster in the shape of a tooth and then bright letters above it spelling out lost tooth club. there’s dozens of names written on and under the poster, a basket of toys and stickers.
baz is about to start swinging right in the middle of another bulletin board, prettily decorated with hours of work. the letters had been cut by hand, little paper flowers glued together individually. it said spread kindness, not germs in large yellow letters.
“d-don’t ruin the poster. go next to it.” he doesn’t know why he said it. they were already robbing a school, it’s not like the punishment would be worse because he left a poster untouched. but it felt wrong to demolish the nurse’s office and destroy her hard work.
they get a hole big enough in the wall, even find the safe and get it out into the nurse’s office to the open window. everything according to plan. everything going as best as it could.
and then the door swings open and you walk in.
you take two, maybe three steps before stopping in your tracks and staring at the scene in front of you with wide, unblinking eyes.
“oh. oh, i-” they’re not wearing ski masks this time, not worried about it since there wasn’t any cameras in the two offices. and now you’ve seen their faces.
“grab her, pope!” he hears from baz, and without thinking twice about it, he does. a huge hand goes over your mouth, silencing you, and the other around your two wrists. it’s easy to subdue you, and you thrash up against him but it’s over quickly.
andrew keeps them pinned down while baz runs over with rope for your hands and then he’s taking you outside through the window, to the truck, and despite how badly he feels about it, he holds you tight and tells you not to scream. while they load up the safe and hop into the truck he keeps his hand still tight across your mouth. your eyes are filled with fear, huge and watery and your body trembles like a shaking, frightened animal.
andrew leans in, unsure of why he’s even doing it, and whispers as quiet as he can without the others hearing you.
“i promise i won’t hurt you.”
a drive later, they pull up to the house, though they really should have taken you somewhere else. as carefully as they can without prying eyes from the neighbors, he carries you out and they put you in andrew’s bedroom, and then they lock the door from the outside.
+
you come to a little bit later, unsure of when you had passed out. the entire thing feels like a bad dream—a nightmare after watching one of your shows too late before bed, but when you blink open your eyes and stare around the room, you realize this not a nightmare.
this is so much worse.
your wrists are bound to the bedframe with thick rope, made of fibers that dig into your skin and leave it raw and scorched underneath. you stop fighting against it to preserve your strength and stare around the room.
plain painted walls and a navy blue comforter under your body. you’re in the room of one of these men who took you—you can tell that much, despite how barren the room is.
you’d think it was a guest room if you didn’t know any better. but there’s folded laundry at the foot of the bed and a half-open closet where you can see button up shirts hanging neatly. there’s nothing else to identify where you even are, though you’re sure it can’t be too far from the school.
you don’t know what to do now. for all your smarts and the crazy shows you love so much and using logic to help you through other situations, you have no idea what to do right now. there’s no way to escape the rope and no way to figure out where you are.
fuck. no one at school even knew you were there, or someone might have noticed you were missing. but it’s an open house for the next school year and the last day of classes was the previous week. you’re out for the summer, meaning no one there would notice your absence.
you didn’t know many of the teachers at the school. the secretaries you passed on the way to your little nurse’s office every day were polite, but not much more than that. the principal only ever came to speak to you if he needed to speak with the student you were with.
and your friends, well—
you don’t think many of them would notice if you went missing. fuck. you should have never cancelled plans so many times. you should have put in more effort to going to mixers and staying in touch when school ended and done all the things that normal people do because now—
you hear people talking from outside, sounding a little far away but still clear, like they’re raising their voices, and the ones inside your head die down immediately.
if you shut your eyes to try and pay attention to it, you can make sense of the conversation taking place, though your head is pounding and it’s hard to focus.
“she didn’t see anything,” you hear a man argue, and then he’s interrupted by second person.
“she saw our faces, man. that’s risking too much-”
“we need to take care of this,” a woman says, and then there’s a pause.
and outside, with his mind still on the promise he made you, andrew stares at smurf, as she finishes her sentence.
“you need to take care of this, andrew.”
it was a screwed up job to begin with. they should have never done it—no matter the fact that there’s almost twice what their jobs normally make sitting in the safe next to them right now. that money is about to become blood money. and as always, andrew has to do the dirty work.
“i didn’t even want to do this job. and you’re-you’re going to make me fix this-”
“andrew,” smurf says, and it feels final with the tone she uses. the tone of, of course you’re going to fix this. as if the burden doesn’t weigh on his shoulders with every step he takes. doesn’t plague his mind within every single thought. like these responsibilities that he has to handle and take care of aren’t the very reason he can’t sleep at night.
deran and craig looked checked out—staring at him like they don’t already know the answer. baz look at him expectantly and it’s so easy for him to do so. he gets to go home each night to a wife that loves him and a daughter that adores him and gets to put his head against his pillow and hold his wife with unmarred, clean hands because andrew will take care of it.
he looks up at smurf and he knows what will happen if he resists. if he says no to this, she might do something to you herself, and your blood will still he on his hands.
“okay." andrew says, and that’s that.
“alright. wait until it’s darker outside-”
“i know what to do.”
and inside the bedroom, dread creeps in slowly into your body until it consumes you entirely. you process the words—that andrew, whoever he is, whichever one he is, will take of it. take care of you.
you almost want to laugh with how incredibly unreal this is. getting kidnapped is the craziest thing that’s ever happened to you in your short life and now it’s going to be the reason that you die.
dead, just like that, over a robbery at a goddamn private school. dead, waiting for the executioner to come get you from his bedroom while they talk about your life over their table like it’s nothing but lunch-time conversation.
you thought adrenaline was supposed to make you near superhuman, make you do something, figure out how to get out of here and run for your life. nothing’s coming to mind just yet, though, as you stay frozen on the bed and wait to hear if the people who took you say anything else.
the door opens suddenly and you flinch—you hadn’t heard any footsteps and he caught you by surprise.
this must be andrew, which means he’s the same one who covered your mouth and took you to begin with. he opens the door and stares at you, keeping eye contact as he shuts the door behind him and comes in closer. you should stare back, try to convince him (and yourself) that you’re not afraid of him, but you’re not that girl.
you look away the second he takes a step closer to the bed. andrew doesn’t stop, coming in closer until he’s sitting at the edge. you scramble to sit up, bringing your knees in closer to your chest, trying to make yourself smaller and get away from him all at once. it’s a hot day and you’re in a thin dress that comes down to right above your knees—and the fabric slides up as you scramble.
you were supposed to go pack up whatever you needed from your office and then stop to get a coffee from your favorite shop near the school and read the book that’s currently sitting on your desk at work—if it was still there. you don’t know what they did to the room after andrew took you to the truck.
your day was supposed to be for you, for once. an iced drink and the romance-comedy you read in your free time between little kids who didn’t feel good and lunch at a local place to celebrate another school year coming to an end.
and now you’re about to walk to your death, refusing to make eye contact with the man who’s going to be killing you.
as morbid as the thought is, you wonder how he’ll do it. he said he wouldn’t hurt you but the decision sounded pretty final out there, at least it did to you. something painless, hopefully?
you’ve watched enough shows to know all the ways but your mind runs empty. you finally move your gaze back to andrew in the corner of the bed, sitting and staring at you. you can see his shoulders rise with every deep breath, can hear the sharp exhale from his nose after each one. you want to say something. you think you should plead for your life.
but the way andrew’s looking at you, you almost believe what he said to you in the truck. i promise i won’t hurt you.
how could he have promised you such a thing?
when he finally speaks up, it begins to make sense, you think. that, or you’re not nearly as smart as you thought you were.
“i have to take you away from here.”
“i-i heard you. outside. you promised-”
“i’m not going to hurt you. just-just, when i take you out there, pretend to be scared.”
“what?”
“p-pretend to be scared. hit me and-and fight. i’m gonna tape your mouth.”
“what? no-”
“just listen to me,” he says, and it comes out differently from the other words he’s said to you. it’s final and stern, and the way his hazel eyes stare into yours, you really believe him, as incredulous as the thought is. “i’ll get you out of here. just listen to me. i’m not killing you. i’m not killing anyone.”
his sentences sound as though he’s trying to convince himself, rather than you, and you have to physically shove the thought aside before you burst into tears from how scared you are. but andrew, for everything you can tell, is being honest with you.
you’re halfway decent, you’d like to think, at telling when people are lying. students come into your nurse’s office every single day trying to lie to you, trying to avoid a certain peer or a certain class or assignment, filling your ears with lies about aching stomachs and pounding heads.
you’ve got your own ways of telling truths from lies, and andrew, with his never-ending eye contact and firm words, is telling the truth.
at least you hope he is.
“o-okay. okay, i will.”
you do try your best to put on the show—pounding on andrew’s back, crying out against the duct tape he puts over your mouth—and have to remind yourself it’s not really a performance. you’re just as terrified as you were an hour ago but something inside you twists and turns at andrew’s sincere-sounding words. you don’t look at any of the others there, don’t try to meet their eyes because they might see that you’re not really as scared as you should be.
he puts you in the bed of the truck under a black cover, and you stare up at him with real fear. even if you weren’t claustrophobic, the enclosed area induced anxiety in you from the moment you figured out what he was doing. you think this might be it—your only chance to make a run for it, if you could wrangle out of andrew’s incredibly strong grip, if you could keep your balance with your tied ankles.
and then he looks down at you and shakes his head slightly, so slightly that the movement is almost undetectable. there’s eyes on him—of this you’re sure—and he still tries to remind you that he won’t hurt you when he feels your body tense up under his hands.
you kick your feet without much energy behind it and let andrew push you into the bed of the truck. he gets in and starts driving, and then a few minutes later, he pulls over.
you blink up at him stupidly when he helps you out, thinking that he’s letting you go just a few miles from his home. you try to speak but there’s still duct tape over your mouth. andrew gives you his hand to help you sit up and then opens the backseat door of his truck for you, helps you inside, and then keeps driving.
and against every greater instinct you have or have been taught, you sit in the back quietly and let him drive you wherever he’s taking you, stupidly assuming it’s to safety.
you hope he’s taking you to safety.
no, you think—still a little stupidly—you know he’s taking you to safety.
+
andrew drives you for what feels like forever. wherever he’s taken you, it’s far from the house you were at and far from the school, meaning it is also far from your tiny apartment. you watch the sunset from the back seat and wonder who, if anyone, would even notice you’re missing this early.
your rent and bills are on auto-pay. the sweet, older lady who lives alone next to you forgets her own name sometimes. and staring at the back of andrew’s head—dark brown curls that glow auburn when the golden sun hits them—you realize there’s really no way out of this.
through, it is.
it’s dark when the car finally slows down on an empty dirt road. you don’t recognize any of the scenery, but andrew drives through the terrain like he’s well acquainted with it, avoiding bumps and ditches easily. when he stops the car, you sit up a little straighter in the back.
you should be thankful he didn’t keep you in the bed of the truck the entire time, thankful that he let you realize you’re about two hours from home. thankful that he hasn’t hurt you yet, just like he had promised.
your wrists and ankles ache. every muscle in your body is screaming at you from the adrenaline rush that did absolutely nothing to help you get out of this situation. and though a smarter girl might try to knock andrew out and run through the woods until you found someone to help you, you’re beginning to realize you’re not nearly as smart as you think you are.
everything in you is telling you to trust him and listen to his instructions and make him keep his promise by not giving him any reasons to hurt you.
he turns the car off, takes a deep breath, and then opens his door to get out. then he opens your door and stares down at you.
this is just like a scene from one of your crime shows. you can’t believe that’s the thought in your head right now, but it’s the only thing coming to mind. the specifics of the show merge into all the others, but you remember something about making eye contact and trying to humanize yourself so the kidnapper remembers you’re a person and not just an object.
so you need to look into his eyes. and you think that’s easy enough, that you can do it and that he’ll realize how obscenely wrong this entire situation is and let you go home tonight.
you flick your eyes up to meet his. you knew he was already staring at you but it’s somehow so much worse than you could have imagined. he’s not just looking, his eyes are boring into your soul. he doesn’t look away or blink, just keeps his gaze focused while staying completely silent. you’ve never been good at eye contact or being particularly demanding or combative, but you think this is an emergency and surely, you can manage for now.
you last all of two seconds before looking away.
you focus on the ropes on your wrist and how irritated the skin underneath looks and you let andrew figure out whatever it is he needs to figure out in silence, save for your breaths.
“c’mon,” he says after some time. “inside. come on.”
he gives you his hands to help you up—you guess at the very least, at least he’s chivalrous—and then he holds you by the rope to guide you. he’s not even pulling very hard on it but the force is enough to make sure you don’t go running and screaming in the opposite direction.
you realize you should have tried to take in the exterior of the cabin as soon as you walk inside, something else that your shows should have taught you, but you’re too busy being pulled around by andrew like a ragdoll. he brings you inside and then flips light switches.
the place is, for a kidnapper’s secondary location, quite nice. it looks like it was decorated a few decades ago—entire place shrouded in gingham and floral prints with vintage looking light fixtures and bookshelves with dust bunnies. you can’t imagine he picked these things out himself, especially not when you remember how bare-bones his bedroom was.
this place is much nicer. homey and dusty and quiet, you conclude after looking around. andrew doesn’t tell you to sit so much as he puts you down in a love seat and leaves you there, tied and taped up, waiting for him to come back. he walks into another room, which you can only assume is the kitchen, and then comes back.
“oh. i-i’m sorry,” he says and your eyes shoot up to him, unsure of why he’s apologizing. he gets closer and lifts his hand and you flinch, before his fingers go to the duct tape covering your mouth. you wince while he pulls it off, slowly and then faster, like he’s trying to get it over with faster, and you can’t help the tears that well up and slip down while he does it. you thought in vain that it might feel like a bandaid. it didn’t.
andrew apologizes again and you try to tell him it’s fine, but it doesn’t come out. your mouth is dry and you realize you haven’t had any water since you got taken at the school, so it comes out in a choked fragment of a sentence.
you finally find the courage to look up at him with wet, blinking eyes.
“can i have water?” it comes out as a whisper, and andrew doesn’t say anything, just rushes back to the kitchen and comes back out with a half-filled glass. he almost hands it to you before realizing your hands are still tied and then he brings it to your mouth, tilting the glass so you can drink it. he doesn’t do it too quickly, making sure you don’t choke on it, but a droplet still runs down the side of your mouth. when he takes the cup away you stare up at him.
he almost lifts his hand to wipe away the water. his fingers twitch over the empty glass.
“how long do i have to stay here?”
andrew pauses like he’s thinking about the answer. the truth, of course, is that he doesn’t know how long you have to stay. the answer to your question is that you’ll stay as long as he wants.
“i don’t know. as long as it takes.”
“as long as what takes?”
“the bedroom is over here. come on.”
+
andrew, for all you have learned about him, remains very chivalrous. it’s been two days, and you keep track with a piece of scrap paper in the room he keeps you in. he brought you in here and kept you tied up while he made sure all the windows in the house couldn’t be opened anymore and did something to the door too, you’re sure, though you didn’t actually get to see it.
he probably didn’t have to go through all that trouble. you conclude after forty-eight hours that you have terrible survival skills and are closer to being a perfect victim, a thought that makes your stomach turn. but you are, really. you haven’t once tried to fight him, save for the time he told you to, and the thought of escaping is a miniscule idea buried in the very back of your head.
you eat what he makes—though you are getting very tired of dry sandwiches and sugary cereal—and drink the water he gives you.
you think he’s testing you. and you have never, ever been one to fail a test. you comply with his instructions even when it’s incredibly embarrassing, like when he asks you how he should respond when you get texts and calls to your cell-phone. with your face burning you tell him there’s probably not going to be any of those to worry about, and he stares at you while you evade his eye contact.
(if you had just looked, you would have recognized the way he’s staring at you. it’s different than the others. like he’s just unlocked a new piece of you with this information. it’s good that you didn’t, though. it makes him want to keep you all the more.)
andrew hasn’t been obvious enough with his absence that the others have noticed—yet. he needs to go back to oceanside and stay there, and this two hour drive he’s been doing for days isn’t exactly helping him. the first night he’d driven back at three in the morning, after you’d fallen asleep and he’d made sure everything was locked until he came back in the morning, and he’d had to deal with smurf, awake and waiting for him, waiting for the proof that he had taken care of it. taken care of you.
the day after, baz stops him when he’s on his way out, to come back to see you, to tell him about a new plan he had for a job.
he realizes that the closer they get to a new job, the less he’d be able to come to the cabin. it seems there’s only one obvious solution—letting you leave the bedroom you’ve been confined to when he’s not there with you. so far he’d let you into the living room while he’s there, and the two of you sit in silence. (that silence is better than any conversation he’s had with his family in the last month, but you don’t need to know that.)
and the only way to make sure you’re alright in the cabin when he’s not there is to physically watch you and be sure of it, which means the real solution to andrew’s problem is cameras.
he installs them while you’re asleep. it’s only been a few days and you don’t make much noise as it is but when he hears the soft snoring, he knows you’re out. one in the living room and another in the kitchen, and a final one outside the cabin. the man at the store had explained it had motion sensors and would alert his phone if animals or people were outside. at the time, it seemed like a perfectly good idea.
the man at the store had said something else too, something about how this is the best safety system and it’s what he uses at home to keep his family safe and he would recommend it for andrew’s wife and kids too. and maybe the assumption that he was doing all of this for your protection got to his head a little too quickly.
he’s been down that road before, but he still installs them all the same.
he lets you out of the room and tells you he’ll be back in a few days and that there’s food in the fridge and you can move around the house if you’d like. you look at him like you’re surprised, with less fear than he anticipated, and nod. and then you tell him quietly, so quiet he can barely hear it—thank you.
(you wait for a reaction, but you don’t get one. he takes another heavy breath and then leaves, closing the door behind him and then locking it how he always does, leaving you alone again. and somehow, it feels so much worse to be alone.)
andrew drives for a few minutes before he gives into the urge of checking the camera’s footage. he sees you padding carefully through the living room, stopping at the bookshelf and reading all the titles.
he checks it again throughout the day, even though he really shouldn’t. he runs the risk of someone seeing it over his shoulder and you have become something he really, really doesn’t want to share with his brothers.
he doesn’t know how to do this. it’s not like he’s ever kidnapped someone before. he didn’t have any time to think it through, to make a plan, to gather supplies. he’s here in oceanside—maybe he should stop by your apartment. he has your phone and your purse and that should be enough to determine your address, and he can figure out how to get inside. maybe he should bring you some of your belongings, so you don’t feel as…
andrew doesn’t know what word he can use there. he doesn’t know what you’re feeling. frightened, he supposes. maybe it won’t make you feel as frightened if you had some of your things with you. he could bring you puzzles and books and the types of things that girls need with them—little bottles of expensive products and sweet smelling perfumes and whatever else you’d like. if it would make you more comfortable, he’d bring it.
fuck. and clothes—he needs to bring you clothes. you’ve been wearing the same dress the entire time and he hasn’t brought you anything to change into. if he goes to your home, he can bring some of your clothes.
(every time he’s come to the cabin so far, every time he’s opened the door, he waits in the foyer. he hears your footsteps padding up to the bedroom door, sees your shadow underneath it, like you’re making sure you didn’t imagine the noise. and when he goes over and unlocks it, you’re waiting for him in your sundress on the bed and the thought makes him so distracted he has to pull himself away from it. he has to close the door shut in his mind because if he doesn’t, he’s going to get so hard he can’t think anymore. and suddenly his mind fills in the blanks and he decides if he goes to your closet, he’ll only bring you dresses back.)
when andrew checks the video feed again, he’s noticed that you showered. he can tell from your wet hair, and for the first time, you’re not in the dress you were wearing when he took you. you’re in a plain shirt, one that’s too big on you. cotton and black.
one of his shirts. it’s from the dresser in the bedroom, he knows, since it’s only a one-bedroom home. the room he’s been keeping you in was supposed to be his room, and the drawers are filled with the clothes he’d brought there.
you’re wearing his clothes. and suddenly the thought of going to your apartment goes to hell. he’ll keep you in his clothes for as long as he can, until you say something or ask for something. (he knows you won’t. he’s figuring he knows an awful lot about you in a handful of days. that can’t be a coincidence, can it?)
and then craig says something about how he’s never seen andrew on his phone this much and you got some porn on there or something? and he shoves the device into his pocket and tries to remove you from his thoughts.
tries and fails, that is.
andrew gets a stinging scrape on his upper arm trying to get out of the job. he wasn’t actively thinking about you but he knows somehow he was distracted because of you, because he couldn’t put you out of his mind for thirty seconds longer, wondering if you were still awake on the couch or back in the bedroom and if you’d eaten and if you were maybe, just maybe, waiting up for him.
he ignores the others telling him that he needs to get his arm fixed and he suffers through another hour at smurf’s, eating dessert that tastes like nothing, and then he gets in his truck and pulls out his phone.
and you’ve fallen asleep on the couch. he sighs, part relief mixed with something else. his arm seems to hurt less, he thinks. and then andrew drives two hours to go back home to you.
+
you wake up when the door opens. first your eyes flutter open, and then you turn your head to make sure it’s andrew—though the chance of it being someone else are nonexistent. then another thought, for a split second, racing through your body and mind like a strike of lightning.
you hope it’s never anyone but andrew opening that door.
you’re distracted from the thought when andrew groans, and you hear a pitter patter noise that sounds suspiciously like rain—but it’s not raining. when you lift yourself up in the dark, andrew’s leaning against the doorframe, raising his other hand to turn the switch on, and when the bulb flickers and light fills the cabin, you see it. blood, lots of it.
your instinct is to get on your feet right away, to usher andrew to the couch where you had fallen asleep and help him take his shirt off so you can see the wound clearly.
you don’t panic, something you’ve gotten good at in your field. panicking makes the little kids even more frightened, so you’ve mastered the art of staying calm while assessing the situation. quick movements—your feet bring you to the bathroom for clean towels and hot water like you’ve lived here forever.
you wash the wound carefully, pleased that it’s only skin-deep and that the bleeding should stop with some prolonged pressure. you sigh a breath of relief, holding the towel to his arm tightly, and then you realize you and andrew haven’t spoken a word this entire time.
you have to say something. you’re supposed to keep the patient distracted, get their mind off of their injury so they don’t subconsciously make it worse. you’ve always been good with your students, rambling about a new movie or what flavor lollipop they’ll pick on their way out and anything else that comes to mind.
but staring at andrew, realizing that you’ve forced yourself not to panic but feeling the dread still seep in, you realize you have nothing to say. you’re so thankful his wound isn’t too bad and logically, you compute, while his hazel eyes stare at you and you stare at his arm (a huge, thick bicep with veins that pulse under your touch), that it must be because if something happened to him, no one would ever find you.
that has to be it. there’s no other reason why you should feel like this—and you can’t even describe what this is, you just know that it’s there, a pale glowing ball of thank god he’s okay hovering in the pit of your stomach, making you almost nauseous with how relieved you are. no other reason.
you pull away the towel and the bleeding has stopped. you sigh again, reaching for another towel to wipe the wound clean and turning to meet andrew’s eyes, which are already on you, to ask him if he has a first aid kit. but he speaks first.
“thank you.” two words, said quietly, staring into the depths of your soul and not blinking once. you want to say something to make him smile but you don’t know how to do that. (yet.)
“of-of course. first aid kit? i need a bandage. to wrap your arm.”
“it’s under the sink. i can get it.”
“no, no,” you insist, letting go of andrew’s arm. your hand still feels warm where you were gripping him and his blood is all over your fingers. you dart off in the right direction and come back with the box, opening it up and seeing what you can use.
you wrap it around his arm carefully, apologizing when you press against him in a way that makes him wince.
“you should buy some more bandages like this. the waterproof kind. when you can. and i-i can change the dressing for you,” you ramble, unsure of how to make andrew feel better, if you can at all. he might be more upset that you’re still talking and not shutting up, and still—
he brings his other hand around and clasps it around your wrist. he’s holding on tightly but it doesn’t hurt. that’s not his intention right now. you looked into his eyes when you felt his touch but that was a mistake. blinking quickly, you try to move your gaze anywhere but the man in front of you.
“can you look at me?” you can’t help it, it’s like your body has this urge to just listen to him, to comply, to try and please him with your deference. as painful as it is, you stare into his hazel eyes for what seems like ages. they’re mostly green but the brown is so much more apparent from this close to him. the realization is so stunning you almost feel like you’ve been zapped with an electric current—andrew has beautiful eyes. “thank you.”
“oh. i-” you pause yourself before you say something that doesn’t make any sense. “of course. y-you saved my life. it’s the least i can do.”
and that realization is equally disorienting, like a bomb has been dropped between you two. he might have taken you and brought you here and kept you locked up but he did save you. from almost certain death.
andrew doesn’t say anything, even if he’s thinking something. he stares and when you try to look away again, he lets go of the hand on your wrist and brings it to the side of your face instead. he tilts your head towards him until you’ve locked eyes again.
you think your heart is going to fall out of your chest with how fast it’s beating.
“stop looking away.” his words come out quietly.
andrew is so close to you, that almost by nature of instinct, your eyes flutter shut. you don’t know what exactly you’re expecting, and something inside of your brain screams at you, reminding you how incredibly stupid you’re being.
but then andrew brings you closer to him with his hand warm on your cheek and your lips brush his for a second, maybe two, and they’re soft just like you imagined, and then—
you two jump apart as his phone goes off. you don’t know how far back you jerked, but andrew lets go of your face immediately. he stands up to answer it, reminds you to be quiet by putting a finger in front of his lips.
"what is it, baz?"
you tiptoe back to the room and close the door as quietly as you can. and then you bury your head into the pillow.
stupid. stupid. stupid. kissing—or almost kissing, or whatever the hell that was—your captor. you seriously cannot descend into a further level of stupidity. as if your life was some badly written mafia romance, the kind you should be overindulging in right now instead of being locked up in a cabin with a complete stranger and then trying to kiss said stranger.
(do not, you’re forced to remind yourself over and over again, do not think about his green eyes and his soft lips and the way he held your face tenderly. do not. do not.)
a little while later, you hear andrew’s voice quiet down and his footsteps come to your door. he stands outside and your heart picks up wondering if he’ll knock or come back in to finish what he started, but it settles into a dull thudding rhythm again once he walks away. then the unmistakable sound of the front door, his truck starting, and tires on the dirt road that leads to this place.
you don’t know why you let your expectations get carried away for a moment there. andrew’s not going to give you some grand, dramatic kiss or knock and give you a romantic speech from the other side of the door. that’s not him, you know that much at least. the crime television series are merging with the romantic books in your head and creating a perfect storm to cloud your senses.
maybe it’s a good thing. maybe it’s a coping mechanism, or something. you’ll figure it out in therapy if andrew ever lets you go.
you open the door and go back to where you were sleeping on the couch. it’s comfortable, and it’d be perfect to curl up and watch a movie in, if there was a television around. you miss your laptop and post-work routine a little bit more than you have the entire time so far.
you want to get back under the blanket but you still feel flushed from the kiss, if you could even call it that. the almost, maybe-it-happened kiss. you lay on top of the blanket and stare at the ceiling and feel your heartbeat in your ears.
fuck. you really shouldn’t. but resisting it—especially when your eyes shut and you recall how andrew’s skin felt against yours, how it felt to be so close to him that you could see all his freckles, how he looked at you and made you look at him—takes every ounce of strength in your body.
and you’re really, really not that strong.
you lift up the shirt you’ve been wearing today, the one that’s undoubtedly his from the familiar detergent and the size of it, and your fingers find their familiar pattern themselves.
you trace little circles on your clit and keep your eyes closed tightly, like opening it and seeing what the hell you’re doing might chase away the orgasm that’s getting closer and closer. instead there’s other images—andrew’s arm tensing under your touch. the veins that go all the way down to his forearm. other places he might have veins like that.
then it’s something else—the fact that he almost kissed you. what it could have led to, what it means for you. the fact that he wants you, that maybe he’s wanted you all along. that maybe that’s why he took you.
your orgasm hits you like a brick at that very thought. you ride yourself through it like you’ve always done, covering your mouth even though you don’t have neighbors here, sweaty and out of breath and satisfied but not entirely. like you know what it could have been like, that there’s someone who could have made it better in ways that you can’t even piece together right now.
you groan into the cushion, loudly, frustrated with yourself. it’s one thing to develop a lite version of stockholm syndrome but it’s another entirely to finish to the thought of the man. especially when you can’t remember the last time you had a feeling like this towards anyone.
it’s just so stupid. you can’t get over it. you’re so stupid. the feeling of clarity washes over you but you still don’t completely understand it. you don’t know what it is about him. maybe you just want to be wanted—that has to be it. how else can you justify what you just did to the thought of your kidnapper?
you lay back on the cushion and curl up under the blanket and with that thought haunting you, you fall asleep.
and half-way to oceanside, andrew watches the feed for the living room and clenches his fist around the steering wheel.
+
andrew comes back the next day, and you two don’t talk about anything, just like usual. you’re making yourself lunch when he opens the door and you look his way briefly, before heading back to make him a plate too. you try to justify it internally—he made you meals not so long ago. granted, you were tied up with rope at the time, but still, he could have let you starve and he didn’t.
it turns into a little habit. you’ve never particularly loved cooking but one of the dusty bookshelves in the house had a cookbook that you’ve been stealing recipes from. it’s just something to keep you a little busy and if you’re going to improve any of your skills, it might as well be this one.
it’ll still be useful to you when you leave. if you get to leave.
you’re not entirely sure but you think andrew likes having you there as a personal cook. he washes the dishes and cleans the kitchen without complaint, and he forces you out of there, not letting you help. it’s sweet, you think, watching him from the living room with whatever book you’re reading now.
there’s other things too—he’s brought you books. you’re not sure from where, but you read them all the same, laughing internally when you think about if it’d be impolite to ask him for a dvd player or something.
you change the dressing on his wound each day, and it’s healing well so far. it’s been maybe four or five days since he got hurt—since you almost, maybe kissed him and then definitely, certainly orgasmed on his couch—and you feel…confused, for lack of a better word.
you feel like you’re in a routine like how a couple who’s getting used to living with each other is—first tip toeing around, and then gaining comfort and ease, until finally, it feels normal.
this can’t be right—how routine it feels to make andrew lunch, even when you’re not sure if he’ll be back in time. to flip through a cookbook wondering what recipe he might like. to smile at him when he brings you another book since he somehow knows you’ve gone through most of the shelf already.
the days melt into each other—but you had expected that. you think asking andrew about an update in the whole letting you go free thing might upset him, and you still really, really want to avoid that.
so you remain confused and turbulent and fighting an internal dilemma between two sides of you. one that just wants to give in and stop thinking so hard about this and the other that thinks you should be scared for your life and stop pretending that this is anything besides what it really is—stockholm syndrome changing your brain chemistry and making you think that you’re going to be just fine.
while the two sides are duking it out, you and andrew continue the routine—or maybe it’s a charade, one side argues—like usual. you think it’s been two weeks of being cooped up in this house when he brings you a magazine.
“can you circle what you need?”
you look up at him. he’s sort of trained you into the eye contact thing, and though you can’t withstand much of his intense staring, you’ve gotten marginally better at it. (you’re sure he’ll like that, that it must please him that you don’t always look away. and then you remind yourself where you are and your head begins to hurt.)
“yes. sure. thank you,” you say, opening up the catalog. there’s a section for clothes and another for beauty and skincare, and as stupid as it is, you still circle some of the makeup you like. and some of the stuff that you always deemed too expensive to buy, because if andrew’s paying, you might as well get to try it out. you justify it all—doing such elaborate mental gymnastics that you think you’d medal gold at this point.
but that’s what you have to do, right? you ponder the thought as you hand andrew back the circled pages, with him telling you he’ll get the stuff as soon as he can. that new clothes and skincare might make you, at the very least, feel like a person. help you not lose all of your identity as you merge into this persona for andrew—personal chef and nurse and someone he almost, maybe kisses.
and there’s other things too. when you wake up, he’s always hovering somewhere near you, as though he’d been watching you sleep. you guess there’s nothing inherently wrong with that—it sort of makes butterflies flutter around your stomach, since the idea that he likes to pass time by looking at you is very overwhelming—but you keep reminding yourself to stay rational.
it’s hard to ground yourself but you need to keep it up—even though more often than not, thoughts of andrew, even when he’s not there with you, plague you, like you’re some teenager with a crush.
it’s because you know, know deep down in your bones that some part of andrew likes some part of you. that you do, indeed, have a soft spot for your kidnapper, built from making lunches and conversations without words. that you ignore your instincts so much you’re not sure you can even call it an instinct anymore, because your newfound impulses just want to do whatever you can to please andrew, even when he doesn’t express it through words, just through eye contacts and barely there touches.
the realization makes you want to throw up. there’s not enough justification in the world for this, it doesn’t matter if he said he wouldn’t hurt you or he makes sure you’re safe here.
it’s been more than two weeks now. he could have let you go. but then again, he could have done a lot of things.
you’re finishing making lunch when you notice it—that the door seems slightly ajar, like he’d forgotten one of the locks or something. maybe he had on the second trip out to get the groceries for you so you could start cooking. he used to make sure you were in the bedroom, locked inside, when he opened and closed the door. but he hadn’t done that in a few days.
because he trusted that you wouldn’t run.
if the door is open, you could try to get outside while andrew is washing the dishes and cleaning up after the two of you eat. but it’s probably not—he’s much more careful than that.
but still, sitting at the tiny round dining table across from him, you can barely eat a few bites, heart racing at the idea. it’s stupid—the idea of running away. where would you even go? you don’t know the terrain, don't know where you are. you don’t even wear shoes in the house, prancing around barefoot in one of the new dresses andrew brought for you like some sort of twisted housewife.
once it got dark, you’d be in real trouble, with whatever wildlife is out here and how far away the main road is, if there was even other cars on it to begin with. you can’t remember much from the drive over here and you curse to yourself.
“something wrong?” andrew asks, and you blink at him dumbly.
“no, nothing. i-i-” quick. think of something. before he gets worried. “i just didn’t like this recipe as much as i thought i would. not my best work.”
you try to laugh it off, even though your words sound stupid. andrew stares at you until your smiles melts away and you take a tiny bite.
“it tastes good to me,” he says, and you feel your heart fall. your idea seems further and further away.
like always, andrew takes the dishes to the kitchen and when you hear the sink turn on, you leave your spot on the table and go to the living room. but instead of taking a seat on the creaky couch and opening your book, you tiptoe to the door.
your heart is beating so fast you can hear it in your ears, trembling hand reaching for the doorknob.
and for the first time, it twists and gives way to the door opening.
you are stupid, you conclude, for thinking about running away from this, from him. but you can’t get over the circumstances that led you here—his crazy family, the fact that he was partaking in a robbery of your goddamn school, that he had no issues with taking you to begin with.
and despite the part of you that thinks you could really, really get used to this—or the harrowing reality of the fact that you already have—you step outside and start running.
but andrew has become somewhat of a bloodhound when it comes to you. he waits for the telltale signs that he always hears when he’s the kitchen—the groan of the sofa cushions as you sit down and get comfortable, the rustle of your book opening, the flap of the blanket as you spread it over your legs.
he knows because he’s always greeted with that same sight every time he comes out into the living room, one he’s become well acquainted with and has been the source of a rare piece of happiness for the last several days.
it takes him a few minutes to realize he didn’t hear it. another few to wonder if you went to the bedroom—but he didn’t hear any doors open or close. and it takes him about thirty seconds to realize his mistake with leaving the door unlocked because he was worried about the groceries in the back—specifically a pint of melted ice cream he brought here for you.
the dish clatters into the sink and he races out to the living room. andrew’s never been a religious man but he prays then, quietly to himself, just for a split second. hoping that you’re just curled up on the couch quietly, that when he turns the corner, you’ll still be there.
his heart skips a beat when he realizes that you’re not. then he walks through the open door with an understanding that he won’t stop running until he finds you.
+
hindsight really is twenty-twenty.
you ran for maybe ten or fifteen minutes before realizing that this was a huge mistake—one that you can’t just repair with an apology and a sincere smile. just a while ago this felt like your only chance to get freedom and get as much distance between you and the kidnapper you’re half in love with—another realization that strikes you like something akin to a knife in the stomach.
you keep running, bare feet getting achy already from the cold, hard dirt and rocks. you wonder if andrew’s noticed yet or if he’s still standing in the kitchen. he’s going to be so disappointed. and all this time, you’ve been trying so hard to avoid that very thing. all your effort was for nothing—it’s not like he’ll forgive you for this.
you’ve gotten so far that you don’t recognize anything, and with your muscles burning, you slow down. you can’t stop for long—you don’t know where the nearest road is, and it might be an hour of running before you get there.
you try to catch your breath and get back up to keep going, when a thought crosses your mind.
what are you really scared of? because it can’t be staying with andrew—he’s done nothing but take care of you. it can’t be that he’ll hurt you, because he’s already had the chance to do so a thousand times and he’s never once taken it.
if anything, he’s protecting you from the rest of his family. putting himself on the line by hiding you instead of just doing the easy thing and killing you, dumping your body somewhere where no one will ever find it and letting the school report you missing in three months when you don’t show up for the first day of class.
you think you know what you’re scared of right now—being stuck in these woods when it’s dark out, alone and trapped, with the possibility that if you run too far, andrew might not be able to find you.
if he even tried to find you. he might not care now that you broke his trust by running away. he might let you stay stuck out here until the forces of nature get to you, if you’ve gone too far.
you collapse down against a tree, that thought making your knees weak as you fully process it. and then you wait.
and a few minutes later, you hear the stomps—even they sound angry—getting closer and closer, and you look up to find andrew, like always, staring at you. he looks flushed and though his expression hardly ever changes around you, remaining consistently unphased, you can tell he’s upset with you.
you two have never needed many words to communicate.
“i’m sorry,” you say quietly, before he can say anything, if he even will.
you’re not sure it goes from here—you’d thought about the other side of your original plan, running to the nearest road and flagging someone down and whatever else you thought adrenaline would allow you to do. you think your subconscious was trying to protect you from thinking about andrew being angry at you and dragging you back to the cabin by your hair.
weakly, you think it’s what you deserve for running away in the first place.
and andrew wonders why you stopped running, his mind running in circles around the fact that you had your perfect chance to escape and you took it, and you still stopped. you don’t look too hurt—though there’s scratches on your bare feet and ankles from the branches and twigs. you hadn’t even thought to put your shoes on. that’s how badly you wanted to get away from him.
and can he really blame you? he couldn’t have expected you to willingly stay just because you’re gentle when you clean his wound and you two share meals like husband and wife. it’s a fantasy concocted from being in the cabin with you for too long—and he firmly reminds himself of that right now, staring down at you.
but the way you look at him, watery eyes and an expression like you don’t even understand your own actions, makes resisting the fantasy so hard. he thinks it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.
he crouches down to be at eye-level with you, your back still perched against the trunk of the tree. you draw your knees in towards your chest and he watches as the fabric of your dress moves with the motion, revealing more bare skin to him.
“why-why’d you do that?”
“i’m sorry, andrew-”
“i haven’t hurt you. i kept my promise.”
“i know, i-i-”
“you’ve been good so far.”
“i’m sorry,” you say again, and with that one, fat tears drip down your cheeks. you are sorry—if only you had a way to convince him of it. or to go back in time and not do any of this, if only to save you both the pain of this conversation.
“why? i want an answer.” firm and final and said in a tone that you had never heard from andrew so far.
“i…i guess i needed to know if you’d come after me or not.” it comes out as a shuddery breath of words. it’s only partially the truth—but it’s the most you can confess to right now.
maybe some part of you knew it would happen like this. the truth is that you’re scared of how andrew might feel about you and you’re even more scared of what you feel towards him.
“of course i would,” he says and you shut your eyes, taking a shaky breath. you feel andrew’s hands on your knees, warm and tense and his grip tight like you might scamper off again. “i would-" he cuts himself off before he can finish the sentence. do anything for you. i would do anything for you.
“d-don’t say that-”
“why not?”
when you open your eyes, andrew’s already looking at you, with an intensity you’ve seen one other night—the time you helped him when he was hurt, the night of the kiss. you don’t have an answer for him.
“can i prove it to you?” andrew’s words make a shiver run through your body. you stare at him, finally not looking away for once, wondering how different things will be after this.
you think you’re fine with it. and then you feel andrew guiding you—instructing you to lay your body down flat in the grass. his hands are like ropes holding you in place, exactly as he wants you—and when he spreads your legs wide and lowers his head between your thighs, your own head hits the soil with a thud.
your eyes shut with anticipation, though andrew doesn’t move for what feels like ages. like he’s observing and taking it all in—which is somehow even more shameful. how wet you are from a few words and touches, how ready you are for him. but he’s going to show you and you think all you should do—all you can do, with how dizzy you feel from it—is lay back and take what he gives you.
his words run through your head like a loop—you’ve been good so far. and thinking about those words, when andrew presses the flat of his tongue against your leaking cunt, all the way up to your throbbing clit, you let out a moan closer to a scream, and you can, since no one can hear you for miles around.
he seems incredibly encouraged by that—speeding up his pace, lapping up everything you give him.
you don’t know when your fingers got wrapped up in andrew’s hair, but they do, and you pull hard when he slips one finger, then two inside of you. you feel it—the knot tensing in your stomach, feeling andrew’s thick fingers spread you open, feeling his tongue against your pussy and lavishing attention on your clit.
you can’t believe you thought your stupid fingers would compare to the real thing—you were wrong, again. nothing you could have thought of could compare to andrew’s hot mouth on you, his huge hand holding you down while the other thrusts fingers in and out of you.
and it’s this realization that tips you over the edge—that even when you tried to run away from this, you’re still back in andrew’s arms, like a star that can’t escape its orbit.
you finish in andrew’s tight grip, your entire body spasming and shaking as it courses through you—hot and wet and sending lava through your arteries and veins. andrew doesn’t stop until your body is limp and you have to try and push yourself away from him—using what little energy you have left in an unsuccessful attempt to do so.
and then he pulls the skirt of your dress down, picks you up in his arms, and carries you back to the cabin. you feel wetness—your wetness—on his fingers where he holds you and how warm his chest is against your cheek, and you fall asleep somewhere on the walk back.
when you wake up, you’re in the familiar bed, tucked under the covers. andrew is asleep next to you on top of the sheets.
+
two days later, andrew has to leave for a job. it almost hurts more now that you’ve gotten to experience a slightly different side of things. you think you’ve gotten used to waking up beside him and going to sleep next to him.
but on the other hand, him leaving does have its perks. he hasn’t touched you like that since you were in the woods with him, and as much as you love playing house with andrew, you’re so pent up that you think you could touch yourself all day and it still wouldn’t get rid of it. the burning, sticky ache inside you that wants andrew all the time—that wants him to pin you down and do whatever he’s been harboring thoughts about this whole time.
memories of his single hand being enough to hold down your entire thrashing body in the woods is enough to make all the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. so you make yourself cum until you can’t anymore (that’s your limit—you don’t think andrew would have a limit for you, though, and you’re sure you’ll find out soon enough) and carry on your little routine and wait for him to come back home to you.
it feels like a certain weight has been lifted from your shoulders, you think, with how easy everything feels now. like you don’t have to fight a battle in your head over every encounter, like you don’t have to justify every emotion. you’re here, and you have andrew, and you’re going to appreciate what you and him have because you know it’s something special.
maybe it’s a little delusional, too, but you’ve been here almost three weeks without seeing another person and you’ve been tepidly awaiting some sort of punishment for running away and it hasn’t come yet. every time you think you know what andrew is going to do, you find yourself completely mistaken.
andrew does come home—and times like this, you really wish you had some way to communicate with him. a satellite phone or a carrier pigeon or something to tell him you’ve gotten your period and there’s nothing in this house that you can substitute like you’ve done with all your other needs.
he has the usual groceries and a box of brownie mix for dessert because ice cream doesn’t last the drive back here. and then he hands you another bag that you accept with a quizzical look on your face, since normally you two put everything away together.
and inside is a box of pads and a box of tampons. you look straight up at him and blink.
“how did you know?”
“know what?”
“that i got my period. you weren’t even here-”
“it’ll be a month soon and you haven’t said anything yet. i just assumed.”
“you assumed?”
“i have a-i had a sister. i know things.”
“oh.” the realization that andrew is a complete stranger startles you for a moment, like it hasn’t in a while. you felt like you knew so much about him from your interactions that you forgot the two of you haven’t ever really talked about his life or your life or anything beyond the four walls of this cabin. “i’m sorry.”
and a little bit later, while you mix the brownie batter and add butter, not oil and milk, not water, you ask andrew questions about his sister and listen as he answers quietly. the way he looks at you after a certain question makes you think no one's ever taken the time to ask him these things before, and that makes your heart hurt in a way you can't really understand.
and then you sit beside him on the couch and read your book aloud while he listens, and you think maybe you don't need to understand everything.
+
andrew thinks you’re getting antsy when you have to be at the cabin alone without him. he wasn’t completely sure, but you’ve started asking when he’s leaving and when he’ll be back almost every time. he thinks maybe he’s just not to used to someone asking, or rather someone wanting him to stay, but now you do, and he doesn’t have a real answer for you.
that’s because the answer is dependent on his brothers and smurf and it changes daily based on if he can avoid their suspicion and the glances they exchange with each other when he says he’ll be busy again. and unsure of how much longer he can keep it up, worried that anything he does might reveal your existence to them, he needs to stay away from you for longer chunks of time, as hard as that thought is for him to swallow.
he doesn’t want to. maybe he never has, now that he has something to come home to, something waiting for him half-asleep on the couch and leaving plates of dinner in the oven and something that takes him by the hand and brings him to the bedroom to sleep next to each other.
the solution comes to him when lena is telling him about a girl at school who got a kitten for her birthday, and if he’d help her convince baz to let her get one too.
he doesn’t know how to explain that baz is never going to agree to that, when he goes to the shelter, he thinks that if he ever gets to introduce you to lena, she can play with the one he’s about to get you.
the worker at the shelter shows him the kittens, playful and hyperactive and running around in their pen. the woman there starts explaining what each of the little kittens are like, identifying them by their collars, but he doesn’t hear half of it.
there’s a little orange one that’s quiet, tucked away and not as energetic as the others. he thinks that’d be perfect for you—to have a calm kitten dozing off in your lap while you read or follow you around the kitchen. and when he picks it up, it barely takes up the size of his hand. yes, he thinks, this is exactly what you need.
the worker has him fill out papers and tells him the different things he needs to buy—though he knows some of it already—and asks him if the little kitten is for him.
“no. no she's for my girl-my girlfriend.” she harps on about how sweet that is and that he’s being a great boyfriend, and andrew swallows uncomfortably.
it didn’t feel like a lie.
when he comes home that day, he finds you, like always, waiting for him. he thinks stupidly that he should have gotten a basket or a ribbon or something, to make the kitten feel more like a gift for you, but it slipped his mind while he was trying to fight off intrusive thoughts about your reaction.
and it’s everything he thought it would be.
as soon as you hear the quiet mewing, you stand up, the blanket that always covers your legs falling to the ground.
you rush over to him, your body pressed close against him and fingers brushing as you pet the nape of the kitten’s neck.
“oh my god. oh my god-” he’s never heard you sound so excited—and your tone is nearly intoxicating for him. he wonders what else he can do to get you to stay this happy forever.
“she's for you.”
“oh my god. andrew. she's so cute. hi,” you coo at her in a voice that only gets more excited when he helps the kitten into your arms. and then you beam your bright smile up at andrew and he momentarily gets all the wind knocked from his lungs. “what should we name her?”
we. like this cat is both of yours—yours and his. it’s the things like that—the ways you subconsciously reveal that you think of him as yours, that everything you two is together. that this kitten is for the both of you. and andrew thinks if this is how you’d react to everything, there’s nothing he could ever deny you.
he watches you play with the kitten for a while before he has to leave—not entirely sure how to break it to you that he’ll be gone for longer than usual this time. maybe you’ll stay so occupied you won’t notice it. you use one of the toys he brought, a little rod with a toy fish on a string, and drag it across the floor while the kitten chases it. and then you accumulate enough cuteness aggression that you bring her in for a hug and laugh while she curls up against you.
(and andrew, who thinks he’s never had a thought like this before, wonders briefly what you’d look like with a baby in your arms.)
you’re sad when he says that he has to leave but at the very least, he knows you’ll be occupied. he thinks he did the right thing, and then he knows he did the right thing, when you scoop up the kitten and bring her to the door to say goodbye to andrew with you. then you turn your head to give andrew a kiss on his cheek and thank him again and he drives to oceanside wondering why he didn’t think of this sooner.
you wrangle the kitten for the better part of two days before andrew comes back.
he’d told you it would take longer but every passing minute that he’s not home with you or driving towards you makes him antsy. makes his skin hum and vibrate with anticipation of when he can leave. by now, the others must have noticed that something’s going on, though if they have, no one says anything. he doesn’t know if it’s from a lack of concern or out of fear for his answer, but either way, he’s glad they haven’t.
they don’t need to know about you. that’s why all of this has felt so perfect to andrew so far—because his family isn’t around to taint it and ruin it. to scare you off or hurt you and all the other things that would happen if they realized you were still alive.
and though you and him don’t talk about much, there’s an understanding between the two of you, one that’s only been strengthened since the day when you had run away and stopped so he could find you. that maybe, as twisted as all of this was, it was meant to happen. that you two were meant to find each other.
it’s a heavy thought for the drive back to the cabin. it weighs over him like a storm cloud—the battle of trying to recognize if he’d done the right thing by bringing you here or not. maybe he should have let you go the day after smurf and his brothers had stopped bringing you up, once they thought you were dealt with.
but when he opens the door to the cabin, you’re curled up with the cat, asleep on the couch just like he had envisioned. what’s more is the overwhelming notion of the fact that you had fallen asleep there waiting for him, like you always do.
you feel you’ve almost been trained to wake up to the sound of the door closing. when you open your eyes, still heavy with sleep, andrew’s perched on the couch next to you, petting the kitten lying to you.
“i didn’t mean to wake you up,” he says quietly. you sigh, a surprisingly sweet noise that comes to him like a melody.
“that’s okay,” you sit up, yawning and stretching. “i don’t want to sleep if you’re here.”
and he doesn’t know what to do when you say things like that—because really, what is he supposed to say? your words have an almost otherworldly effect on him when he processes what they mean.
that you want to wake up when he comes back home. that you don’t want to miss a moment of time with him. that you want him there with you.
the last one hits him the hardest.
andrew stares in silence while you stretch your arms and then bring the kitten back into your hands, cuddling against her and nuzzling your face against hers. the kitten had looked comically small in his palm but perfectly at home in yours.
“did you pick a name?”
“maybe. i wasn’t sure what you’d like,” you say, meeting his eyes for longer than you usually do—something you’ve been working on. the two of you stay like that for a while, glancing between yourselves and the kitten mewling and traipsing around the space between you and andrew.
“you should pick. she’s for you.” you smile at andrew when he says that, and for some reason, all of this just feels so much more domestic than it ever has before. his hand turns into a fist at his side because it is overwhelming—incredibly so. he wants to lay down next to you and watch you play with the kitten and tell him every thought in your head and fall asleep to the sound of you talking.
but he can’t do any of that, and he can’t tell you, either. so he attempts a small smile back at you and you tell him you think you like the name wren.
“it was in one of the books,” you say, though you’re lying through your teeth.
“wren?”
“what? what’s wrong with it?”
“n-nothing. i just thought… i don’t know. it’s not really a cat name, is it?”
“what? you want me to call her mrs. whiskers?”
he laughs when you say that, and so you laugh too. surprisingly calm, and the rest of the world forgotten for a few minutes. andrew doesn’t understand such a human name for the kitten, but it’s yours. he think he’d let you do whatever you want if you keep laughing and smiling with him.
you get up to make lunch, and andrew and wren both follow you into the kitchen, and the hours of the day pass by quickly when andrew’s there with you. since you learned about his sister, you like to ask him questions, and though he was hesitant at first—you’re not entirely sure why—he’s begun asking you questions too, about when you’d become a school nurse and if you liked it and the book you’re reading this week.
andrew avoids personal questions. the fear of reminding you of the life you left behind, or snapping you back to the reality of how you’re stuck here with him frightens him too much to ask. but you ask him questions—lots of them, all about his life and his family and how long they’ve been doing these jobs.
you get sad, he can tell since you’re bad at hiding your emotion and they paint over your face immediately, when he tells you about how long he’s been doing this. about stolen gas station wallets and the people smurf always had over and how every day was about him trying to protect his siblings.
you get sad even to the point of tears, something he can’t understand. you don’t know him enough to cry over him, do you? or is this just what you’re like—crying over your kidnapper’s childhood stories, curling up next to andrew on the couch with the kitten between you two, holding his hand and pleading with him to stay the night.
is this what you’re like? or is this what he’s made you into?
you fall asleep somewhere between the answer to another question you’ve asked him and the cat’s soft snores next to you. it’s easier once you’re asleep—to gaze over you and not have to hold back the smile that takes over him. you’re so trusting it almost frustrates him.
he picks you up gently, carrying you back to the bedroom. the cat wakes up from the movement and meows at him, but all she does is follow andrew as he carries you and jump onto the bed when he sets you down. while unfolding the blanket to cover you, a piece of paper falls out and lands on the ground near his feet.
you and wren are both sound asleep now. he should go back to the living room—sleep there or leave, but the idea of you waking up alone makes him feel miserable inside. or rather, another day of waking up without you.
he opens the paper—there’s names written in pen all over. at the top is andrew in your pretty handwriting, with different letters crossed out. and then underneath are all different names using the same couple of letters.
warden
wander
dawn with a maybe???
rand
red
then raw, crossed out several times and a big no written next to it. and then finally, wren, circled and with several exclamations following it.
oh. so that’s why you named the kitten wren. he stares at you asleep next to her, having brought an arm across her, even in your sleep, like you were trying to keep her close to you.
oh.
wren—using the letters of his name. emotions surge through andrew like they haven’t in a long time. the sad, pathetic yearning turning into something he doesn’t think he’s felt before—the urge to make you happy because you make him so happy, without even trying to.
and though he knows he should get in the car and drive back to oceanside before anyone can bother asking where he is, the urge to stay with you is stronger than the rational logic of leaving. so, he gets into bed next to you and wren.
andrew doesn’t sleep much, though it’s hard to fight sleep when he can hear your gentle breathing. and it’s really, really hard to fight sleep when your arm makes its way across his chest, the warmth burning through his shirt.
he does fall asleep—maybe the best he’s slept in years. and when he wakes up to the sunlight, you’re curled up against his side, the cat somewhere at your feet, holding onto him like you’re worried he’ll leave.
thoughts plague him about how you don’t even know if he’s really there, that sometimes he leaves when you’re asleep and you wake up alone more often than you wake up to him. you’ve been knocked out since last night, at least he thinks, because if you had gotten up he would have noticed.
but andrew watches you hold onto his arm, your face smushed against his chest as you take sleepy breaths and snore softly, legs tangled together, and he has to think it’s happening for a reason.
groggily, he wonders if you’ve been sent just to test his willpower. memories flood him quickly—when you had touched yourself after he kissed you, what he’d done to you out in the woods after he’d caught you (or rather, caught up to you—because you had stopped. you had waited for him.)
he thinks he just ignores his morning wood on most days but it’s especially hard when your soft skin is pressed against him and he can see miles of it exposed since you kicked away the covers. the little noises you make as you get comfortable and stay nestled against him don’t help either—and just when he questions what exactly you might be dreaming about, his phone goes off.
fuck. stupid fucking phone—he needs to make it not so loud or destroy the thing entirely. he reaches over to the night stand to grab it but the damage is already done, your eyes jump open from the terrible alarm and you take about half a second to realize how close you are to andrew. you meet his eyes and then he answers his phone and you unpeel yourself from his side, if a bit begrudgingly.
andrew stares at you while you stare at wren, hoping she stays quiet so the person on the other line can’t hear her. you take heavy breaths and andrew notices that you look flushed and warm, and you keep moving around, changing your position as if you can’t get comfortable. squirming, even.
which leads him back to his original question—what the hell were you dreaming about? he gets lost in the possible answers and makes baz repeat himself three times before he answers. in an attempt to get him to hang up, andrew agrees with whatever he says and you sit patiently, taking wren into your arms so she doesn’t make any noises for attention. she still mews quietly a few times and you pick her up, taking her into the living room as carefully as you can
“is that a cat? where are you?” baz asks on the other line and andrew hangs up without saying goodbye.
he walks into the living room and you stand up once you see him, leaving wren on the couch.
“i’m so sorry. i didn’t think she’d-”
“that’s okay. i-i have to go.”
you sigh and your shoulders drop, your hopeful expression changing into one of disappointment before his very eyes. maybe he’s never hated anything as much as how you’re looking at him right now.
“already?” the words make andrew’s knees feel weak.
“i don’t have a choice. i…” he trails off, wondering how to finish the sentence, how to articulate the thought.
how to sum up the fact that he would stay here, with you, all day if he could. that watching you cook and curl up in the sun and play with the kitten that you refer to as ours is enough to sustain him for the rest of his life. that whenever the day comes that you get to leave this place, he will never forget about you—not your sweet smile or your sincere expressions or how earnestly you look at him when you don’t want him to go.
but he doesn’t know how to tell you any of that.
“i’m sorry,” he finishes quietly. and like always, you smile at him.
“it’s okay. we’ll just miss you.” you turn to look at wren and then look back, and somehow, though you must think this every single time, andrew’s stare feels different than usual.
like there’s so much swimming around in his mind that he’s not telling you. he doesn’t say it back, that he’ll miss you both too. instead he walks up closer to you, and you hold in a breath, unsure of what’s coming, before he leans in and gives you a kiss on the forehead. you feel every muscle in your body relax when his lips press to your skin, eyes fluttering shut.
he murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like be good, and then you nod in response quickly.
and then he’s gone again.
you crawl back into bed, the motivation to make breakfast or do much of anything long gone.
not to mention that one of his stupid brothers—you know their names but you didn’t know which one had called, though it was probably baz since he always interrupted everything—had woken you up from the best dream you’d had since you’d been stuck here. your thighs feel sticky and your entire body squirms with the realization that if you had stayed dreaming any longer, you probably would have started rubbing yourself against andrew in your sleep.
and as embarrassing as that thought it is, it’s equally intoxicating to wonder what he would have done about it.
in the dream you had been riding his thigh—your own thighs splayed out wide against him, and in the dream andrew had been watching you, like he always does. except this time you know it was different, like you could see the lust behind the hazel, like he was using all of his self control to not do more.
would the real andrew do the same? after so many close calls and whatever the hell that was in the woods and the two of you being so close together in the same bed yet so incredibly far? you don’t know the answer, though you think you’re about ready to find out.
it’s not very fair—he kisses your head like he’s your husband or something, and then leaves you pent up and yearning for more like he’s nothing but your captor. he hasn’t even touched you in a way that could be deemed as inappropriate since the woods and you’re left to believe that maybe he just doesn’t want to cross that line.
you don’t know andrew’s rules when it comes to you, though it seems like he’ll break them if he’s pushed to it.
that’s what you’re thinking when you fold a pillow—the one andrew slept on—in half and mount it as if it could possibly compare to your dream and what andrew’s thigh or arm might feel like in reality. but you still try, lifting up your (his) shirt and letting your hips move against the cold pillow, grabbing your tits and teasing your nipples, wondering if this is what andrew would do. you think he would get sick of the teasing and finally bend you over, but then you think he wouldn’t do that until you’ve finished already. he’s too generous for that.
and though the thought of andrew and his generosity with you, in bed, one day, is enough to normally tip you over the edge, something inside of you just won’t let you finish. you hump the pillow for what seems like ages, but you don’t get any closer to finishing.
maybe it’s just because your body knows what it feels like when andrew’s the one making you cum, and it won’t settle for your pathetic excuse of an orgasm anymore.
so with burning, aching thighs and an entirely unsatisfied feeling in your chest, you collapse against the bed and sigh. when you look over on andrew’s side of the bed, you just get a sense of longing that fills your entire body.
wren cries out and you see her sitting in the doorway, eyes focused on you, her own way of asking for your attention.
“okay, okay, i’m coming,” you say, before getting up. you walk over and pick her up and she doesn’t stop staring or blink once. “just like your dad, huh?”
+
on the drive back to you on the following day, andrew thinks long and hard about what baz said to him.
it started as an innocent conversation—baz brought up the cat again, saying how lena’s been asking for one and he wants to make sure andrew’s not gonna surprise her with it. with a blank stare, andrew told him that he must be imagining things because he wasn’t near a cat.
then the conversation had shifted—about his absences and how he’s been gone all the time and no one’s seen him at smurf’s or his place or anywhere else.
baz’s words linger in his head on the drive. where’ve you been going, man? is this about that girl? we’re sorry you had to take care of it but we didn’t have any options, pope. is that what this is about?
it’s as if it’s impossible for them to understand that everything in his life is about you now—centered around you. he finally made a decision for himself, for once, not just blindly following along with whatever smurf wanted.
it’s so easy for the rest of them to think that whatever’s wrong with him is about you—when they don’t even know you. not like he does—not in the way that andrew’s gotten to know you over the last weeks.
your gentleness, even to your kidnapper. your sweet smiles that keep him going through each day. how memories of his hours with you stay in his head for long after he drives away from the cabin.
that for the time he stays there with you, there’s nothing wrong with him, there’s nothing to fix, nothing broken that you haven’t already seen. he’s just andrew to you—nothing more. you say his name without burdens or expectations. you want him to stay longer. you run away and then sit down and wait for him to find you. he gives you a cat as a goddamn distraction and you name the thing after him and dote on it.
but for everything you do for him, and the way you make him feel, he can’t keep you here. maybe he knew all along this was a temporary thing, that it was just to hide you away until his family well and truly believed that you were dealt with and taken care of. that you were never meant to stay with him, to be his. the idea now seems ridiculous—a sweet girl like you, so compliant even when he’s been holding you hostage.
but even you had to give into your instinct, the one that told you to flee when you saw the open door. how can he blame you? that should have been your natural reaction from the first hour you’ve been in the cabin.
briefly, he thinks he can’t blame you for any of it. the fault is all his—and he’ll start rectifying it now. if baz was wondering about his absences and if it has anything to do with you, then smurf must be too. before long, all of them would be. and then it wouldn’t take long to figure out he’s kept you hidden this whole time, and then they’ll really hurt you, and he can’t have that.
he pulls onto the dirt road that leads to the cabin and drives down it slowly, like he knows whatever you two had has to come to an end today.
andrew rests his head against the steering wheel, hand a little shaky.
it’s for you, he reminds himself. he can do it because it’s for you, for your safety, for your life. there’s no future for you cooped up here all alone while he abandons you every other day. just a deplorable fantasy from a man who has always been alone about to be alone again.
you’ll be happier once you’ve left this place—he’ll take you to your apartment and give you cash so you can leave and start over wherever you’d like. that’s the plan right now—get you home to get your belongings, and figure out what you’ll tell your job and how to get you as far away from oceanside as he can.
it means in a few hours, he’ll be telling you goodbye for the last time.
he opens the door, and like always, you’re waiting for him. wren follows you around as you make your way to the door to greet him, beaming up at him like you have been. you linger as though you want to do something else—maybe you want to kiss him, or pull him into a hug, but you don’t.
you stare up at him while he stares at you, until you finally speak up.
“well, i made lunch. let me go get it ready for you,” but when you turn, he grabs onto your arm. you spin back to face him again with a confused expression. “andrew?”
“i-i have to get you out of here.”
“andrew?” you question again, voice a little shaky. “what do you mean?”
“my family. they’re…noticing. i’m gone all the time and no one-no one’s reported you missing. i need to get you out of town. maybe another state.”
“andrew-”
“i’ll drive you back to your apartment. you-you can take whatever you need from there. and here too, uh, wren’s stuff,” he looks around, trying to see what else you had even brought here. and then he realizes it was never the things, it was you, that always made this place feel like home. your presence and the blanket that told him you were reading on the couch and the pulled curtains and the smell of something you baked in the air. “i can get you new papers, if you want. you can go wherever. i can figure out how to get you there, but-”
“you’re not coming with me, are you?” the way you say it, the expression on your face, it’s enough to make whatever resolve is still standing in him crumble.
“i can’t. it-it’s for your own safety. you have to get away from here. if i stay you’ll just get hurt-”
“that’s not true,” you plead, realizing sadly that this is the most you and andrew have spoken to each other about something that didn't start as a question. your conversations have never needed so many words. “you kept me safe all this time-”
“i can’t, anymore. if they find out that you’re here-”
“they won’t,” you say, getting closer and bringing your hands to his chest, pressing them flat against him like you have to remind yourself he’s still there. you keep looking at him, not breaking the eye contact like you always do, though it feels like andrew’s gaze is burning holes through you.
“they will. they always do. they’ll hurt you.”
“no, andrew, please-”
“we need to go. we have to get the things you need and leave-” andrew tries to move away from your grip, but you follow him, hands on his shoulders, standing in front of him again to block him from doing anything else. “i-i don’t understand. why? why don’t you want to leave? this isn’t a life. i-i’m keeping you from your life.”
“you’re not keeping me from anything. i-i like being here with you-”
“no, no, you don’t. that’s not right. i-i should have never brought you here.”
“you saved my life, andrew,” you say softly, blinking up at him with teary eyes. you hadn’t realized when you’d started crying.
“i’m gonna get you killed if i-”
without thinking anymore about it, realizing that andrew might very well be as serious as you’ve ever seen him, you lean in to bring your lips to his. you kiss andrew with all the emotions floating around your brain—hurt and fear and want and need all merging into one.
your arms wrap around his neck and you hold him in the kiss as best as you can, feeling his grip tighten around your waist as you two don’t let go of each other. andrew kisses you with a fury, like he’s just realizing what’s been waiting for him all this time.
your back ends up pushed against a wall gently—and even then, andrew keeps his hands on your waist and uses them as a barrier against the surface so you don’t get hurt.
with swollen, aching lips and weak knees and feeling his tongue prod into your mouth, you think you’d be stupid to ever walk away from this.
when you pull away to breathe, andrew’s mouth goes to your neck, littering kisses up the column until he gets to your jawline. you finish your sentence in a broken daze, the thought half forgotten already-
“you would never let me get hurt,” you whisper, taking his face into your hands and forcing the two of you to stare at each other. he takes it in—your wet eyelashes and puffy lips and how you look with desire spelled all across your face—because of him.
you lean in for another kiss, only pulling away to keep telling him everything he’s done for you. you feel it against your thigh—his hardness pressing into you, proof that he wants you, the proof you’ve been wanting all along.
(though, you think stupidly, dazed by andrew’s hot touch and how tightly he holds you, going against everything he’s been telling you since he came back home to you—a home that you are not, in any way, ready to give up or hand back without at least something of a fight—you can figure out how to convince him.)
and then andrew moans against your lips and you forget everything you’ve been thinking. you pull at his shirt, wanting it off, eager and with every limb shaking from anticipation. you’ve wanted this for so long you can’t even remember to remind yourself it’s andrew—the man who took you and brought you here, offering to set you free, and you’re trying to convince him not to, like a puppy who doesn’t want to go back to the shelter.
because isn’t that what all of this is, in the end? you can try to fight it as much as you want, but until you met andrew, until you became something that belonged to him, someone that he gets to come home to every day and someone that asks you questions and listens to the answers and does things for no other reason than he thought it would make you happy, what really were you?
you were alone, and you didn’t have anybody. and now you have andrew, and you think it’s worth fighting for.
you’d been joking to yourself about stockholm syndrome lite, but you’re pretty convinced you’ve got the deluxe version now. though when andrew picks you up, your legs wrapping around his automatically, feeling his hardness press against your wet, clothed cunt, it’s easy to forget about everything else.
andrew brings you into the bedroom and lays you down. you stare at him while you take heavy breaths and try to not pass out from sheer excitement that the thing you’ve been fantasizing about is finally happening. it seems silly, but you want to remember this forever. andrew pulls his shirt off, hovering over you, and you take a hand and press it against his bare skin, traveling up his chest and to his arms and then his forearms.
your fingertips dig in before running over the veins you’re seeing the full length of for the first time, and above you, andrew closes his eyes and shudders at your touch.
you bookmark it for later—that he enjoys the feeling of his veins being traced, and focus instead on andrew, meeting his eyes again.
he stares at you differently this time—hungry, like all the words you’ve been saying are enough to convince him, finally, that this is a good idea. that this is right.
you’re half a housewife already, anyways. this is the least you deserve, though you stay quiet, letting andrew decide what he wants to do to you.
he leans in for another kiss, sweet and gentle, and your body melts into the bed. his hands roam your body, sliding the fabric of your dress up until he can pull it off of you. you lift your arms and head so he can do it easily—not even remotely concerned that you’re naked in front of him now. your hands go to his belt, but he puts his own over yours, taking over. he undoes his belt and pulls it out of the loops, while you stare at him from your position, chewing on your lip and seeing how andrew’s eyes focus on your heaving chest.
and then, unsure if you have even a moment’s more of patience in you, you pull andrew into another kiss and wrap your arms around his neck and legs around his waist to keep him there.
“inside, please, andrew, inside,” you whine like a demanding, spoiled child, though you haven’t asked andrew for anything all this time. you think he just brings it out in you.
he murmurs something against your neck while he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses there, something like be patient.
when you feel his fingers brush over your bare, leaking cunt, your entire body tenses up before melting back into the bed. one rough finger rubs against your clit and you seize up, squealing because you haven’t felt his hands on you in what feels like forever. he continues the motion, rubbing circles while you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, and then just when you’ve lost all sense of what words mean, he pushes a huge finger inside of you.
“andrew, yes, yes, yes,” you moan, realizing just like in the woods, that you don’t have to be quiet here. you cry out his name when he pushes another one in, plunging the pair in and out of you.
“have to get you ready,” he says, focused like he’s on a mission, not getting strayed by your incessant begging to just put it inside already. he scissors his fingers and keeps rubbing your clit with his thumb and it feels so good that you almost don’t want to give in—you want to stay like this forever, as long as he’ll let you.
that it feels so good, fulfilling every fantasy you’ve had about him—that he’s a giver and he’s generous and he wouldn’t dream about cumming until you have first. that’s just your andrew, you guess.
when he leans in close to your ear and whispers it to you—can you be good for me? can you cum for me?—that’s when your orgasm hits you without any control behind it. you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted—the white-hot feeling washing over you from head to toe, your cunt squeezing around his fingers. you’re so wet that you must have left a puddle on the sheets, entire body spasming and shaking until andrew slows down his motions.
he pulls out his fingers and your eyes flutter shut, entire body exhausted—and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. when you blink them open, feeling andrew’s weight on top of you, you catch the ending glimpses of it—him licking your juices from his fingers, enjoying it. like he’s missed the taste of you.
your eyes flutter shut again quickly.
you pant out words that don’t really make sense—just a request, in as few words as you can manage. inside. andrew. please.
and he’s nothing if not generous to you. he always listens. you hear andrew’s deep breaths as he positions himself on top of you, taking your legs onto his shoulder as if it’s nothing for him to fold you however he wants. the thought makes you more and more lightheaded.
you bring your hands to his arms to hold on, feeling them pulse under your touch. you think it’ll be impossible to keep you away from him, now that you’re getting a taste of everything you’ve been dreaming about. momentarily, as you feel andrew’s thick head line up with your wet entrance, you think that you’ll never let him leave you. that you don't want him to leave, ever. and if this is how you have to convince him to stay, you’ll do so happily.
and then andrew runs his tip over your cunt, bumping it against your clit and making your body spasm while he collects your wetness, and you forget what you were thinking again.
he’s so big—every part of him is big, so you should have seen it coming, but it still takes you by surprise. the sheer thickness prodding against your hole makes you dig your fingers into his arm, thinking later that you’ll have to apologize for the marks you’re leaving on him.
andrew uses one hand to guide himself inside, and leans in to kiss you while he does so. and when he pushes inside, sheathing himself fully, resting there while he lets you adjust, you cry out against his lips.
“i know. i know,” he breathes against your mouth, pulling out slightly and making you squeal again. “just relax. you’re-you’re taking it.”
you think it’s meant to reassure you, to remind you that you’re doing good, but it comes out in the form of a groan, like andrew’s realizing just how tight and pent up you really are. he tells you the words like there’s no choice in the matter—that you’re taking all of him whether you can handle it or not.
the thought is enough to make your head thud against the pillow and your eyes roll all the way back.
“please, andrew,” you whine, leaning in for another kiss. “please-”
not entirely sure what you’re begging for, he complies, like always. he pulls out slowly, and then slams back inside of you, almost as if he can’t control himself.
and really, he can’t. he’s cum to you so many times, spilled over his hand in the truck and in the shower, imagining this very moment. he’ll be surprised if he lasts any longer, the urge to fill you up getting stronger and stronger with each passing minute.
he keeps going—picking up a brutal pace that brings you further and further away from being level-headed with each thrust.
you blink open your wet eyes, unsure of when you’d closed them or when you’d started crying, staring at your ankles in the air before focusing on andrew. he’s always been handsome but seeing him like this—flushed and sweaty, curls damp against his forehead, his expression twisted up in pleasure—and the realization that for once, you’re making him feel good is almost enough to tip you over the edge.
you want to look into his eyes, almost laughing internally at how much you’ve changed from not even being able to hold eye contact for more than a few seconds to asking for it while you’re stuffed full of him, but he’s looking somewhere else.
his eyes are locked on your cunt—where the two of you meet and where you’re swallowing him inside like you were made for him.
maybe, andrew thinks in a lust-blown haze, maybe you were.
he keeps battering inside of you, hitting a spot somewhere deep inside that you’re not entirely sure had existed. the second orgasm washes over you and leaves you completely feeble—muscles screaming at you as the lightning courses through every nerve. your cunt squeezes and tightens around him, and he groans with pleasure, a noise you want to hold onto forever.
but andrew keeps you in place, even when your eyes shut again. maybe you had passed out, though the thought isn’t exactly surprising. when you open your eyes again, andrew is still going, each grunt getting louder and louder. your fluttering cunt pushes him closer to the edge, and you lock your legs around him.
when andrew looks at you, you meet his eyes.
“please, andrew, i want it inside,” you plead, and he knows he’s fucked—that he’s never been able to say no to you and he can’t start now.
inside, it is. the thoughts plague him as his hips stutter—that this could very well be the moment he’s getting you pregnant. the fact that you’re begging for it, and that there’s no knowing how long you’ve wanted this.have you imagined it too? wanting andrew so badly—wanting a family with him, a life with him? half a housewife, half a captive. you’re so much more now, though, something he can’t put words to.
his. all he needs to know is that you’re his.
“please,” you cry again, leaning up for a kiss. andrew presses his lips against yours while the pace slows down and his moans get louder. “keep me forever, andrew.”
it’s all he can take—burying his head into your neck while he groans against your skin, giving you every ounce he has. the warmth of his cum fills you up until you can feel it leaking onto the sheets, making a mess of your thighs when andrew finally pulls out.
he lays next to you, catching his breath and hoping you can catch yours too.
the reality of everything—his family back home and if they figure out that you’re still alive and what’ll happen if they find out he lied rushes through him, though he wishes he could fight it off to enjoy this for a moment longer.
you’re warm and flushed against him, bringing your head to his chest and leaning there. you two stay silent, though it’s not unusual.
outside of the doors of this cabin, the real world, with questions that he doesn’t have answers to, awaits. but inside is his own personal paradise, complete with you—fucked out and sleepy and with nothing to worry about if he can help it. you’ve been right all along—he’s kept you safe so far, and there’s nothing and no one that can stop him from taking care of you and protecting you. how a husband protects his wife, he thinks.
“andrew?” you ask quietly, throat sore and entire body exhausted. he looks at you, pressing another kiss to your forehead.
something something jack abbot telling you about his leg in attempt to scare you or push you away. he sits you down and gives you the whole “i have to tell you something that you’re not gonna like and i understand if you wanna end this because of it” speech and basically tells you about his disability and the backstory and stuff.
at the end he just sits there with his signature meep and you’re still quiet, nodding and sort of leaning in to let him keep talking- but he’s just sitting there quiet. “keep going jack, i’m listening.” and he’s just confused because he just told about this whole thing thinking you would run out the door. “i- that’s it” you eyebrows furrow “yeah about your amputation but what were you gonna tell me that ‘might make me end this’?” you say as you do air quotes with your hands.
so now you’re both confused. “well…i just told you..? it’s my leg?” you give him a puzzling look. “you thought i was gonna pass on a hot, silver fox doctor with huge biceps just because you’re disabled?” jacks eyes almost bulge out of their sockets “well- i mean it wouldn’t be the first time..” now it’s your turn to peel your eyes “really? oh my god that awful i’m sorry, but for the record…this doesn’t change anything”
he can feel warmth spread through his entire chest. a smile stretching on his lips. “besides…you have a leg to make up for in between your thighs….” he’s jaw hits the floor, laughter filling the room. “how do you even know that? we’ve never…you know” you just giggle at him. god he’s so cute . “fucked? yeah well last week when we were making out i kept feeling something, so you either keep a flashlight in your pocket or i make you ver VERY happy” he keeps laughing. “jesus christ- you’re gonna make me pop a vein” you shove him playfully “hopefully i’ll make you pop something else” you say, as you laugh
listened to everywhere by fleetwood mac while writing this! got inspired by this post
summary: being in and out of the hospital all the time has never been an enjoyable experience. But after meeting a certain ED doctor who you can't seem to get away from, things just might start looking up.
warnings: probably inaccurate medical procedures (i’m usually unconscious or incapacitated when they do this stuff to me) past medical gaslighting (not from Jack ofc) Javadi is ur roommate idc that it’s inaccurate, unresolved sexual tension cause i don’t write smut
a/n: abbot said “is anyone gonna take care of her?” and didn’t wait for an answer. anyways me and my oomfie @leeknowpegger came up with this in the comments of one of my posts cause we both are in desperate need of this man
──────────────────────
"I’d rather take my whiskey neat
My coffee black and my bed at three
You’re too sweet for me.”
—Too Sweet, Hozier
──────────────────────
Being a frequent flier in lots of places gets you perks. Free coffee, rewards points, stuff like that.
Being a frequent flier in a hospital is just depressing.
You’re only about three or four months into your recent move to Pittsburgh when you get sick. And you’re one of those, special, lucky people who has the immune system of an un-vaccinated Victorian orphan, so despite having several hours worth of college assignments waiting for you, you’re currently lying on your bathroom floor, face smashed against the cool tile.
It is, genuinely, the only comfortable place in your shitty apartment. (At the moment.)
You pull the thermometer out of your mouth and slowly blink at the reading:
100.2 degrees.
Like you usually are. Just barely outside the normal range. Well, normal range can eat bricks because there’s no way having a mild fever is making you feel this bad. And you’re not being dramatic. Your throat genuinely feels like it’s on fire, and every breath is laborious and agonizing. Your face and head feel like they’re about to explode, and you’re pretty sure someone or something is stabbing you over and over again in your legs and lower back (which also feel like they’re on fire.)
Time passes in a weird way on the bathroom floor. Not really slow, but the pain and discomfort of each breath keeps it from moving too quickly.
You recognize, distantly, that you’re really sick. Really sick even for you.
There usually comes a certain point in the common cold that never fails to absolutely destroy you when it faces a fork in the road: get better or get much, much worse.
It’s fairly obvious which path your immune system decided to take.
There’s a large puddle of drool wetting your cheek because swallowing hurts too bad, and it’s not like you can breathe through your nose anyway. You don’t even have the energy to be grossed out.
You never really do.
Being sick is all about distracting yourself from how much pain you’re in until the worst of it passes, but right now you’re only getting worse. You can’t keep anything down, not even water, which means you’ve just been digesting snot for the past two hours which is bound to make you throw up (again.) No matter what kind of sickness you get, you always end up throwing up.
You measure how much time has passed by how large the puddle of drool grows. When it surpasses hand-sized, you attempt to haul yourself up, maybe take some more ibuprofen (you really shouldn’t, your liver is honestly toast at this point) but upon making an effort, you find that you can’t.
It feels like executive dysfunction. You want to get up. You need to get up. You cannot get up.
You’re so tired.
Alarm bells are ringing in your head. The same alarm bells that went off the time you had walking pneumonia and genuinely came to terms with dying in your sleep. It’s a spike of panic in your chest, a small dump of adrenaline and cortisol that’s just barely enough for you to haul yourself upright.
The action takes more energy than it feels worth, and you feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest.
You kind of feel like you’re dying. And honestly, with how bad you feel, you wouldn’t mind going to sleep and not waking up.
And that isn’t a usual thought to have when you’re sick, not to level of sheer apathy and exhaustion you’re feeling now, so you think that maybe it’s time to go to the Emergency Room.
You come to that conclusion about the same time that your roommate, who you aren’t quite friends with, comes into the bathroom and promptly screams when she finds you lying on the floor. (You don’t remember lying back down.)
“Hey,” She says, kneeling down and shaking your shoulder, “I think you need to go to the hospital.”
—
On another day, maybe when you don’t actually feel like death warmed over, you might be thankful that there is at least someone to take you to the hospital, to grab your hospital bag (you’d had to tell her where it was when you first moved in, and being a medical student herself, had understood your need for it) and to already have the route to the ED memorized. Probably because she currently works there.
“You’ll be fine,” Victoria rambles as she pulls into the parking lot with practiced ease, “I’ve worked with the night crew before, they’re great. They’ll make you feel better.”
Unlikely, you think.
Maybe you look particularly awful, or maybe it’s not that busy in the ED, or maybe you get some sort of special treatment as the roommate of a medical student, but before you know it, you’re shivering in a triage bed, still drooling uselessly into a wad of paper towels Victoria had been kind enough to shove into your hands.
It’s weird being in a hospital that doesn’t know you.
Nurses come and go, asking questions you barely answer and poking and prodding and you think, probably, that you should communicate that while on the worse end of the spectrum, this is still fairly normal for you. Being this sick from the common cold.
You think Victoria is talking to whoever is working on you, and then you’re in a wheelchair, and then they run more tests you don’t remember and then you’re in a bed.
“Dr. Abbot is gonna come see you,” Victoria tells you, looking mildly uncomfortable in a chair to your left.
She's honestly been so nice for this whole thing. Like, way too nice, considering that you guys aren't really friends (yet?)
“You should go home,” You tell her, speech really only possible because of the Toradol they gave you a few minutes ago, “You have work in the morning.”
She purses her lips and looks like she’s going to argue, so you painfully swallow and speak again.
“Go. I’ll be fine here. You said it yourself.”
It takes a few minutes to get the words out, and you have to pause more than once, which probably isn’t very reassuring, but logic seems to win out because she makes sure that you have everything you need before heading out.
And then you’re alone.
You attempt to pass the time by sleeping, to no avail. Discomfort, ever the unwanted companion, makes itself incredibly known. The Toradol helps, but since it’s basically just ibuprofen in IV form, there’s only so much it can do.
You’re just about to slip into a doze when a knock on the door frame rouses you. As the current pulls back, you have exactly one thought:
Victoria could’ve warned me that Dr. Abbot is insanely fucking hot.
“Hello there,” The man says, grabbing some hand-sanitizer which only served to extenuate the rippling muscles and veins of his forearms and biceps, “I’m Dr. Abbot. Javadi told me you weren’t feeling so good?”
Okay, focus. He can definitely see the heart-rate spike on the monitor. He’s just another doctor. You’ve had hot doctors before.
(Not like him.)
You shrug with the non-chalance of a twenty-something year old who has designated hospital clothes.
“Been better.” Kind of.
“Well, let’s see if we can’t get you better.”
He asks the same series of questions that Javadi helped you answer before since your brain still feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, but Dr. Abbot is patient and listens attentively while you stumble through answering every single one.
“Any pre-existing conditions?”
“Yes and no.”
He raises an eyebrow, finger hovering over the tablet in his other hand. “That sounds like a story.”
You wince. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult.”
“You’re totally fine,” He immediately soothes before you can continue, voice rich and smooth like high-quality chocolate, “You’re actually the nicest patient we’ve had so far tonight.”
“Really?”
“Yep. No screaming, no cursing, you haven’t asked a billion and one questions or needed anyone to explain every single thing we’re doing.”
He grabs one of the spinny-stools on the other side of the room and wheels it over, sitting down with his tablet in his lap.
“Now. About those pre-existing conditions?”
You slowly and painfully explain your situation— very obviously chronically ill to pretty much everyone except the doctors you need to diagnose you.
Dr. Abbot doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t defend the doctors you’ve seen, just dutifully jots down everything you tell him.
“Any history of heart issues?”
You nod. “I went to a cardiologist last year and did a few tests. Second degree AV block, um, I think Mobitz one? And mild diastolic dysfunction.”
Another eyebrow raise. “And your cardiologist didn’t decide to move forward with any sort of treatment plans?”
“Just diet and exercise. He told me to drink more water.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Your eyes widen. “Sorry?”
He sighs, looking up from his tablet. “I apologize, that was unprofessional of me. I agree that Mobitz one is normally benign, so long as you’re asymptomatic or old. But coupled with that ‘mild’ diastolic dysfunction and the fact that, from you’ve told me, you are experiencing symptoms means it’s something that should be addressed.”
Oh.
Dr. Abbot barrels on. “I’m going to give you a referral for a cardiologist I know. She’s good.”
“Thank you so much,” You croak, barely able to believe what’s happening. "I don't know how to thank you. Um. Other than saying thank you."
He gives you a tiny grin, like this interaction is some sort of secret you're sharing. Is he not aware of the effect he has on patients? On you?
"Don't worry about it, kid. Call it duty of care."
Kid.
The way he says it doesn't make it seem condescending or pitying. It's an acknowledgment.
It makes your skin feel hot.
(That might be the mild fever.)
He breezes through the rest of the preliminary examination, questions all answered and typed into his tablet, which just leaves the physical examination.
He has gloves on, stop freaking out. And there's like, no way he isn't married, and he's literally your doctor for crying out loud. Don't make this weird.
No amount of internal begging to keep your rampant issues under control actually keeps said rampant issues under control. At the very least, you hope it isn't too noticeable when you bask in the feeling of his blissfully warm (you're already running a fever, so really, it should be uncomfortable) hand as it palpates here and there. Checking for internal bleeding, probably. Or an inflamed appendix. Or something like that.
Palpating is likely one of the least sexy touches a human being can experience, and yet, presumably due to the fact that hospitals are actually nostalgic to you and palpating is an experience you go through more often than most other people, and, you know, your issues, you genuinely manage to get a little... hot under the collar.
Like, his hands are right there. Gloved, sure, and he's not actually touching your skin, just the battered band t-shirt you've been wearing since you got sick three days ago, so again, really not hot circumstances, but his deliciously freckled and really enticingly well-muscled forearms are right fucking there.
Can Toradol make you high? Are you having an allergic reaction to the fluids? Has the common cold finally decided to snatch your soul, leaving you the shuffle miserably off this mortal coil?
He glances up at the monitor.
"Bit of a heart-rate spike there."
Oh sweet mother of Christ.
Dr. Abbot gives you a little knowing smile, which does nothing but make you want to crawl in a hole and die, and finally finishes his palpating.
"So from the look of things, you really do just have the common cold--" He winces when you groan, "I know, I know. But you do have a touch of strep-throat, which I think might be contributing to your general awfulness and malaise. Your labs came back a little all over the place, so we're going to send you home with a prescription for some broad-spectrum antibiotics. Have you ever taken Azithromycin before?"
You shake your head no.
"The coarse is only for a week, and you'll take them twice a day. As for your cold symptoms, I'd have to recommend your basic over-the-counter cold medicine and lots of rest. Sound good?"
You nod. "Thank you so much."
Another heart-rate-spiking smile. "Anytime. I hope you feel better, but come back straight back here if you feel any worse, okay?"
You agree, and offer him another thanks and pretend like you're not going to be silently wondering if this is who your roommate works with every day.
—
A few days of antibiotics later, you're staring at yourself in the mirror after a late-night everything shower, and you think you might be cursed.
"Hey Victoria?" You shout through the door to where you know she's studying in the nearby living room. "What are the normal symptoms after taking Azithromycin?"
"Uh, none?"
"Thanks!"
Motherfucker. Who the fuck is even allergic to antibiotics? They're antibiotics.
You stare at the rash-slash-hives that's developed on your arms and legs (you convinced yourself it was razor burn the first two days) and wonder how life threatening it really is. Like, what could even really happen?
You skip lotion and throw on what was supposed to be a cute-pajama set, but now the striped tank-and-shorts combo serve to be functional— no fabric touching the sensitive skin where the rash covers and for ease of access, because of course you're going to run it by Victoria before you jump to any sort of conclusions about severity and allergic reactions.
Maybe this just one of those things. Like when doctors say "Just a little pinch" or "You'll feel some pressure" and then you go on to experience a level of agony previously only experienced by mafia traitors.
Like, maybe you won't even have to go to the ER. It might be a low-level twenty-four-hour-clinic type of deal.
—
So apparently between the rash, your flu-like symptoms (you thought you were just sick) and the fact that your heart rate has been all over the place since starting the antibiotics, Victoria does, in fact, insist that you go to the ER. Again.
At least this time you're lucid enough to drive yourself.
You've only just checked in, settling in the moderately-empty waiting room, cursing your existence when a familiar face walks in the front door, backpack slung over his shoulder and a cup of coffee in his hand.
It's pure coincidence that you happen to be sitting in like, the only seat in his direct eye-line as he glances down and then comes to a full-body stop. You shove down the shiver that threatens to overwhelm your body as a sharp, calculating gaze scans up and down your body before coming to rest on the visible rash on your legs.
He blows out a breath.
"Oh, kid."
Dr. Abbot leaves in the waiting room with the promise to return shortly after he clocks in and does his... whatever it is doctors do upon clocking into work. Rounds? Or is that a general medicine thing?
Before he walks through the door, he points a finger at you and says:
"Stay."
Like the loyal dog you are, you comply. First of all, where would you even go, (do patients jump ship often??) and secondly, like there is any universe in which you are arguing with that man.
YOUR DOCTOR, you mentally correct. HE'S YOUR DOCTOR. THERE ARE LITERALLY LAWS IN PLACE FOR THIS KIND OF THING. HE'S ALSO PROBABLY MARRIED. GET A GRIP.
It doesn't take him long to return to you, and like, isn't that unusual? Don't nurses and whoever usually get patients instead of like, the doctor on shift?
He gets the door for you (which is hot, even though he literally has to since it's only opened via staff-issued key-card.)
You feel kind of bad for skipping the line, cause there's other people in the waiting room, and surely some of them have more pressing medical concerns than your little rash?
You paraphrase this to Dr. Abbot as he leads you down the hallway towards one of the triage rooms, but he just snorts.
"You questioning my triage and risk assessment skills?"
Horror fills every aspect of your being.
"No no no no no, no, of course not, I didn't mean—"
Then he starts laughing.
"Relax, kid," He huffs, shoving his hands in his pockets, eyeing you from the side, "I was just poking at you. I think it's very... sweet, that you're worried about the other patients, even if it's unnecessary. I promise, if someone else had a more pressing medical concern, they would get seen first."
You deflate a little at his reassurance, though you still feel thoroughly mortified.
"Besides," He continues, pulling back a curtain and gesturing for you to take a seat in one of the large triage chairs, "You're having a fairly serious allergic reaction. I'm guessing this started after you started taking the Azithromycin?"
You nod as you situate yourself. "Yeah, sorry. Um, it started—"
He holds up a hand, and you cut yourself off.
"Respectfully," He starts, his hands clasped in front of his mouth. "What the hell are you apologizing for? And don't say being allergic to Azirthromycin."
"Um... For having to bother you again..? Right when you get on shift?"
"Kid," That shouldn't be hot, that shouldn't make your stomach flip-flop around, "Didn't I tell you to come back if you got worse?"
"Yes."
"And did you come back because you got worse?"
"...Yes?"
"Yes, you did. It was good that you came back," He says the second sentence slow and careful, like he's trying to cement it into your brain.
"It says on your intake form that you were experiencing fast and irregular heartbeats and dizziness accompanying the rash and hives, is that correct?"
"Yes. I thought I was just having a flare-up. And I kind of thought the rash and hives was just razor burn, but I don't shave my upper-arms, so."
He nods slowly. "...Right. I know that you've had a lot of unfortunate experiences with doctors and treatment in the past, but that's not going to fly with me, understand? There's a very real chance that if you'd ignored your symptoms you would've gone into anaphylactic shock. And while I trust Javadi to recognize the symptoms of a severe allergic reaction, I also know that she spends most of the day at the hospital or at lectures, meaning that if you had gone anaphylactic, there wouldn't have been anyone home to help you."
Dr. Abbot leans down when he notices you staring at your lap, sheepish, avoiding his gaze. "I don't say any of this to scare you. I just need you to understand the seriousness of your reaction."
He snatches the tablet off the cart. "You can't minimize your health issues. They're real. If you do, doctor's won't take you seriously. And you get enough of that without contributing to it or doing it yourself."
There's a few beats of silence while he types some things on the tablet and you digest his words.
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."
He flashes you a grin, a little sharp. "Like I said before. Duty of care."
—
Victoria is happy that you had such a nice experience at the PTMC —"I told you they were great!"— and both of you are happy that the new antibiotics are working the last dredges of your cold are fading.
Since you finally feel (relatively) well, you decide to go to the coffee shop Victoria has been trying to convince you to go to for ages. Apparently, she loves their coffee so much she gets it there on hospital days and lecture days, despite it being much closer to the hospital than it is to the university. Thankfully, the apartment you share is fairly close to the hospital (a win both for your constant medical issues and for your roommates chosen career) so the coffee shop is within walking distance. Honestly, living in the city like this, there aren't a lot of things that aren't within walking (or bus, depending on the weather) distance.
You arrive to the cafe roughly around the time it opens, desperate to get as many hours studying and playing catch up as you can. Most of your professors were understanding when you explained your frequent health problems and the fact that you had to go the ER twice in the span of a week, and gave you extensions, but there's always a few no-nonsense hard-asses who think a 6,000 word paper can easily be accomplished from a hospital waiting room or bed, even when you explain how incapacitated you were. And to top it all off, in your endless wisdom, you hadn't thought to ask Dr. Abbot for a doctor's note that you could've held over the aforementioned hard-asse's head's, since they have to comply when you have actual evidence of illness, signed by a medical doctor.
So yeah. Lots of work, very little time.
You order yourself a gigantic coffee with several extra shots of espresso, heart-problems be damned, because there's no way you're accomplishing the amount of assignments you have without drugs, and since you can't do drugs, medically inadvisable amounts of caffeine is the next best thing.
Sure, the caffeine kind of makes your chest feel like it's floating, but the study work-flow you manage to accomplish is unparalleled.
With your headphones on and your eyes glued to your laptop screen your neck might as well be made of stone. Which means you don't really notice the man who's approached the table in the corner you've tucked yourself into.
"Do I even want to know how many shots you had them put in there?"
You jump, launching yourself backwards and straightening, causing your skull to crack rather unpleasantly against the wall behind you. You hiss in pain at the same time that Dr. Abbot says "Shit."
"Sorry," He rumbles, stepping forward. "Can I see?"
He really didn't have to ask. He could've just told you that he was going to look and you wouldn't kick up a fuss. You'd like it actually, if he told you what to do. What's that line from Fleabag? “I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like, what to hate, what to rage about." Yeah. Dr. Abbot could do all of that for you.
Still technically your doctor you depraved lunatic.
You must've nodded or made a noise of affirmation or something (or maybe he got tired of waiting for you to respond) but he steps forward and. Well. Okay. You had this idea, in your head about what him 'seeing' actually entails, and conceptually, you understood that it involves him touching you, without gloves or a sterile, anti-septic wall between the two of you, but actually feeling his large, warm hands (is he always this warm, then? You remember how warm they were at the hospital) cradling the back of your head, fingers rubbing along your scalp, checking for a bump or scratch or whatever is a completely different ballpark.
If you thought the palpation was difficult to endure, it doesn't hold a goddamn candle to him leaning over you, dressed in his own clothes that smell like him, hands bare (!!) and actually touching you, skin-to-skin. There's no rumpled band tee or blue latex gloves between you now.
"No bump," He affirms after a few (unrequited and one-sided) sexually charged moments. "Sorry about that."
"No, it's not your fault. Coffee makes me jumpy."
His eyes skate down to the large, mostly empty cup next to your laptop. "And I'm sure the quantity was helpful."
You smile, more than a little embarrassed. He's charted your medical history. He knows exactly how stupid it is for you specifically to be drinking a twenty-four ounce iced cold brew with five extra shots of espresso. Realistically, that is an unhinged and borderline masochistic coffee order for a normal person.
"Enlighten me," He starts, his head tilted to the side, eyes once again looking you up and down. But this time, his gaze isn't clinical. Maybe you're imagining it, making things up to feed your delusions and issues, but right now, it's almost like he's looking at you like he's... hungry.
"Why would little-miss-mild-diastolic-dysfunction be drinking a concentrated heart attack?"
Jesus H. Christ.
"—Little-miss—“
This is genuinely becoming a very serious problem. You might have to leave Pittsburgh forever. Forget your master's program. Maybe your professors will understand that you ended up with a giant, overwhelming, unhinged, and slightly insatiable and completely inappropriate crush on the ER doctor you are definitely going to be seeing a lot of.
That's it. You can never come back to this coffee shop. Or go to the ER again. Ever. You'll just die next time you have a health problem, thanks.
Oh, fuck. How long have you been just staring at him?
He's smiling at you, all teeth and a knowing sparkle in his eyes and you know what, you actually hate him, he's such an asshole--
"You know I'm willing to bet I'd see a spike if you were still hooked up to that heart monitor."
"Oh, fuck you," You laugh, your shoulders relaxing.
"She does bite back," He says, humor clear on his features. "Was wondering if I should start concussion protocol."
You roll your eyes. "If you must know, I have a mountain of homework to do and very little time to do all of it, so."
You gesture to your coffee cup. "Caffeine it is."
"You know, as your former doctor, I'd have to advise you against finishing that. Please tell me you at least ate something with it?"
"... I had a pack of fruit snacks from the bottom of my bag?"
Dr. Abbot sighs, looks heaven-ward and mutters "kids" under his breath and, in a mirror of the week prior in the hospital room, points one finger at you and says:
"Stay."
Again. You're not sure where you would go and you are very inclined to listen. Probably too inclined to listen. Whatever.
He returns after a few minutes with a large iced water, a ham-and-swiss croissant on a plate, and another coffee, this one hot.
Then, smooth and confident, he moves your laptop back to make room, and sets the plate and water in front of you.
"Eat that," He points to the croissant, then to the water. "And drink that. All of it."
Your eyes widen. "Dr. Abbot, you didn't have to--"
"Jack."
"What?"
"We're not in the hospital. And I'm not your doctor."
Your face feels so hot. It has to be on fire. Are you on fire?
“I really can’t—“
“You can,” He assures, self-confident and jeez-us there is no way you’re not thinking about that in bed tonight. Or like, maybe forever?
You want to fight him on this, maybe push back a little, because there’s absolutely no universe in which this means what you want it to mean, but—
There’s a certain temptation to give in. Plus, who knows what other downright sinful things he’d say if you kick up more of a fuss?
“Okay,” You acquiesce (it feels a lot more like melting, though.)
Dr. Abb— Jack doesn’t say anything as you dutifully sip the water and take a bite, he just—
Watches. It’s almost worst than anything that could come out of his mouth.
“There we go,” Okay, you take it back that is a million times worse, “You’d better finish that, you hear me?”
“I will. I promise.”
Jack hums, then pulls a pen out of the pocket of his hoodie and scribbles something on a napkin. He hands it to you, then says:
“Call me.”
And then he just. Turns around, and walks out the door, coffee in hand.
What. The. Fuck.
—
Two things occur after your interaction with Jack in the cafe. Well technically, don’t occur, since the first thing is that you don’t tell your roommate that her kind-of boss maybe possibly flirted with you a teeny bit and gave you his number?
There isn’t really a way to bring that up organically, so you just. Don’t.
The second thing is that after an embarrassing long time about what to even name him in your phone (you settle on Dr. Jack Abbot, keeping the Dr. part as if you’re going to forget) you do not, in fact, call him. Or text him.
So yeah, actually, two things do not occur. There is no occurring. There is a severe lack of occurring.
It’s not that you don’t want to text him (you really do) you’re just not sure how to go about doing so? Like, what does that first text even look like?
‘Hey, thanks for not medically gas-lighting me, wanna get coffee? Except you probably don’t want to get coffee with me, because you’ve seen first hand how neurotic coffee makes me. So, drinks?’
No. Not happening.
You mainly just try to focus on staying busy. Which is easy, because master’s programs are so incredibly good at making sure you never have a waking moment to yourself. It’s so great. (You’re dying.)
Weeks come and go in a blur of late nights, intense study sessions, and minor breakdowns over your workload that turn into major breakdowns about your life (you are now the not-so-proud owner of homemade nose piercing, courtesy of you, Victoria, and two bottles of rosé.)
Soo the nose piercing probably wasn’t the best idea, but now you’re kind of too scared to take it out and honestly it doesn’t even hurt. Victoria made sure that everything was clean and sterile, and honestly she did an amazing job with the placement, so no complaints there.
You just now have a semi-permanent reminder of why not to get drunk when you’re having a bit of a breakdown. At least you didn’t tell Victoria about Jack. You might’ve given yourself bangs.
As it stands, though, the whole “don’t get drunk when you’re having a breakdown” apparently didn’t stick, because a dark Wednesday evening has found you at a bar Victoria told you was great, nursing a a third or fourth beer you really don’t have the money to be drinking.
(It was the cheapest thing the bar sold, anyways.)
You stare at the ring of condensation on the counter in front of you, thinking about the un-texted and un-called contact that’s currently burning a hole in your pocket. For some reason, no matter how busy you get, you never really manage to forget that it’s there.
“Call me.”
God, you think to yourself, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes, the memory of the low timber of his voice and how warm and nice it felt to be the center of his gaze; the center of his attention.
The memory makes your skin flush, so you throw back the rest of your beer so you can blame the heat on the alcohol.
It’s an unconvincing lie and a miserable action.
“Didn’t know you were old enough to drink.”
You really need to stop taking Victoria’s recommendations. Or maybe remember where she works.
You don’t bother turning to face him, because he sidles up next to you at the empty bar seat.
“I’m legal,” You mumble, the tiniest bit buzzed from the beer.
Glancing over turns out to be a mistake, because he’s wearing a button down with the sleeves rolled up, which means that the arm he has propped on the bar is exposed in all it’s deliciously muscled and freckled glory.
And he’s looking at you. Eyes a little narrowed, tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
He’s a bad idea, is what he is. Just like the sparkling stud in the side of your nose. Except that tiny piece of jewelry doesn’t look nearly as fucking good as he does.
You might be a little more than buzzed, if how much you want to kiss him is anything to go off.
“You stare more than you talk,” Jack says, curling his fist to prop his head up, absentmindedly waving the bartender over. “Always looks like there’s a lot going on in that pretty head of yours.”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Cause I’m not sure you mean them.”
The silence between you too isn’t really silence. Not with the dull sounds of bar chatter and shitty bar music and Jack telling the bartender to pour him a drink.
Whiskey, neat.
Figures.
“I would’ve told you that I meant them,” He tosses back the whiskey, almost all in one go. Leaves a tiny bit at the bottom of the glass, swirls it around before continuing. “If you’d called.”
More not-quite silence.
“I wanted to.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” You turn your body to face him, newly mirroring his position, “…I almost did. A few times.”
“Why?”
“Why didn’t I?”
“Why did you almost call?”
You swallow, nearly choking on the sudden lump in your throat. “Um.”
Very eloquent, you are. Truly, a master of poise and class.
“Need some liquid courage, sweetheart?”
“I’ve been drinking beer all night,” You say, sheepish. Sweetheart. God. It’s like he’s trying to torture you.
Is he?
“That’s not real alcohol. Come here.”
The next chain of events are much too sexually charged to happen in a cheap bar with a man who used to be your doctor.
It happens anyway.
You don’t move closer— frozen stock-still in something like apprehension or fear. But not necessarily the unpleasant kind?
The ‘Come here’ must’ve been figurative or metaphorical or something, or maybe he knows that you’re too nervous to comply (even though something in you desperately wants to) because he moves.
Jack reaches a hand up— slow enough that you could back up or push it away if you wanted to.
You don’t. You don’t want to, anyways.
His fingers ghost up your neck before settling on the edge of your jaw, his thumb pressed firm against your chin. He tilts your head back, just a slight angle, and then—
He takes his glass, the one with that little bit of whiskey in it (oh god, did he plan this? Did he leave that whiskey in there on purpose?) and raises the glass to your lips, letting the rum rest heavy against your mouth.
“You ever had whiskey before, kid?”
You shake your head no. You probably have, at some point, but relaying that would require a certain amount of effort and speaking skills— neither of which you are in current possession of.
“It’s gonna burn a little. Swallow it quick.”
What the fuck? Is—
He—
Then he tips up the glass, and you really don’t want whiskey on your face, so you part your lips enough to let the amber liquid be poured into your mouth, and he’s right, it does burn, and it kind of tastes gross.
You screw up your face at the flavor, but do your best to swallow it quickly, feeling the burn of it lick down your throat before settling like a warm, heavy weight in your stomach.
Like that was a normal thing to do, like nothing out of the ordinary just happened, he sits back onto his stool, releasing your face and resuming his position propped up on the bar.
“So. When did you almost call me?”
You don’t drink often. It’s honestly way too expensive, you despise hangovers (you have headaches and migraines all the time, why induce one?) and you don’t much care for the taste of most alcohols.
All of that to say. You are an embarrassingly easy lightweight. A cheap drunk, if you will.
“First time was two weeks ago,” You mumble, maybe not loud enough for him to hear over the shitty bar music, “Got a tea instead of a coffee to study with. Wanted to text you a picture.”
Jack has this easy, warm, but also simultaneously shit-eating expression on his face, which you take to mean that he’s aware of your incredible intolerance for alcohol.
“And what reason did you whip up in that pretty head of yours as to why you shouldn’t?”
You shrug. “Thought you wouldn’t care. Like, maybe you just want to hookup.”
“I do not want to hookup.”
“Oh.”
He motions to the bartender, who pours him more whiskey. What is it with men and whiskey?
“And the other time?”
This one you don’t really want to tell him, but with the alcohol burning away in your stomach and Jack’s equally burning stare, you give in.
“… Wanted to call you and ask you to yell at one of my professors. Cause he’s a dick and doesn’t believe in giving extensions or allowances even if you go to the hospital.”
He snorts. “And why didn’t you?”
You let your head flop onto your arm, halfway on the bar halfway off. “Didn’t wanna bother you. Seemed stupid. Plus, I managed to catch up on all my homework.”
Jack finishes the rest of his drink, then nudges your head off the bar and back onto your arm with the back of his hand. “Don’t lay on there. It’s gross.”
You whine. Your arm isn’t as comfortable as the solid bar top.
He didn’t really respond to your explanation (at least not in any normal way) so instead you decided to amuse yourself by just staring at his face. It’s a nice face.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Did you get me drunk on purpose?”
“No.”
“Then how come I’m drunk?”
“Because you’re a lightweight and whiskey has a higher alcohol content than beer.”
“Oh. Was that flirting? With the—“
You gesture vaguely to his glass and then to your lips. He just raises an eyebrow.
“Do you really need confirmation?”
“Yes.”
His face makes a funny expression. “Yes, that was flirting. The thing at the cafe was too.”
“Oh. That’s good to know. I wasn’t sure.”
“You weren’t sure?”
“Yeah,” Your neck is starting to hurt from lying there, so you prop it up with your hand. It’s only mildly more comfortable. “People don’t flirt with me very often.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s true.”
“Have you ever considered that maybe they are and you just don’t notice?”
“I would notice.”
“Kid, you just asked me if hand-feeding you my whiskey was flirting.”
You shrug, jostling your head and nearly slipping. “I don’t come to bars like, ever. Maybe that’s normal bar etiquette.”
“If you don’t come to bars, then why are you here tonight?”
You arm is too tired to keep holding your head up and your vision feels like it’s processing at a lower frame rate, like an old video game, so you put your head back on the bar top. Jack does a funny little huffing noise, and sticks the palm of his hand under your head right before it lands on the table, so you’re lying on his hand instead of the bar.
“Your hand is warm.”
“Is it now?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know.”
His eyes catch on the piece of jewelry now adorning your nose.
“When’d you get that?”
“Last week. Got drunk with Victoria— uhm, Javadi.”
“I know what her first name is, thank you sweetheart.”
“Right. Anyways, she had some nose jewelry from her mom, and kept drinking rosé and crying about our workload, I mean, hers is like, definitely worse than mine, you know, medical student and all, but we were drunk and we thought why not? Like, she’s a doctor, she knows how to sterilize stuff and keep it clean. She chickened out and wouldn’t let me give her one. Which makes sense. Cause I didn’t give myself a nose piercing. I had her do it.”
“You been keeping it clean?"
“Mhm. Twice a day.”
“Good girl.”
Jack sighs a little, the thumb that’s pressed against your temple beginning to sweep back and forth.
“You don’t belong in a place like this, kid.”
“I don’t?”
“No.”
“Oh. Okay. I think I wanna go home.”
Jack just nods, still rubbing your temple. It feels too intimate for a bar, but it feels really nice, and you don’t really want him to stop.
“Do you have a ride?”
“No. Victoria went to sleep before I left. She has an early morning. She works really hard.”
He hums. “I’ll walk you home.”
“You don’t have to,” You mumble, “I know you’ve got the. The leg.”
Some sort of unreadable look flashes across his face, the kind of look you probably wouldn’t be able to decipher even if you were sober and fully in possession of all your faculties.
“I know I don’t have to. But I’d feel better if I saw you get home safely with my own two eyes.”
You huff. “This isn’t some sort of sex thing, right? Like, you get me drunk so you’ll have to take me home, and then you know where I live, and then you take me to my room and then I’m drunk so i’m easier to coerce—“
“Fuck, no. Has someone ever tried that with you?”
“No. I’ve heard about it, though.”
“Look at me,” He raises your head a little with his hand, eyes searching your face. “You ever feel uncomfortable or unsafe, in any way, call me. I don’t care what time it is or if you think you’re bothering me. You’re not. Okay?”
That’s probably too intense for… whatever thing you guys have going on. But you’re not really normal, and it just sounds so nice, having someone to call.
“Okay.”
Jack nods again. “Alright. Let’s get you home. Come on, up we go.”
He manages to get you too your feet after a minor amount of stumbling on your part —“Jesus, kid, you are a lightweight”— and keeps one stabilizing arm around your waist as he helps you home.
“Your arm feels nice.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
He doesn’t talk very much except little mutterings here and there.
“Careful— there’s a big crack there.”
“Don’t walk into that trash can.”
“Keep your eyes open.”
“Almost there.”
The walk back to your house isn’t far, like most of the places you go to since moving to Pittsburgh.
“I can get up there myself,” You say, motioning to the stairs that lie in front of you and lead up to you and Victoria’s apartment, “Thank you, though. I’ll text you in the morning. I promise.”
Jack let’s go of you and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Don’t forget to drink water before you go to bed. At least a full glass.”
You clasp your hands behind your back. “Goodnight, Jack.”
“Goodnight, kid.”
—
Two days later finds you sitting at your tiny table, phone sitting face-up, Jack’s contact open and painfully empty.
You forgot to text him in the morning, because your hangover was fucking awful (You can’t even think about whiskey without getting nauseous again) and then you had school and… well. Now it’s been two days, and you still need to text him.
Victoria walks past you, two steaming mugs of coffee in her hands. She sets one down in front of you and sits down at the table.
“Still haven’t texted him?”
Apparently, Victoria had set an alarm on her phone to check if you’d made it home okay and ended up seeing you and Jack outside the apartment. She’d had the kindness to wait until the next morning before asking:
“So, you and Dr. Abbot?”
Vomiting had saved you from answering immediately, though you did end up telling everything that had happened after you finished worshiping the porcelain altar. Talking and throwing up don’t mix.
“No,” You answer her miserably. “I just don’t know what to say.”
“I mean, it’s pretty obvious that he’s into you. Based on,” She winces, “Past evidence. I doubt a text is going to put him off. Probably?”
“I told him I’d text him yesterday morning.”
“In your defense, you spent pretty much all day yesterday dying, so. I’m sure he figured that might happen.”
You take a generous gulp of coffee. “Should I just say hi?”
“I’m really not the person you should be asking for romantic advice.”
You take her by the shoulders. “You’re all I have, Victoria.”
“Um,” She sets her mug down. “Maybe something like, hello? Say sorry for not texting?”
You hum, typing out the sentiment, then slide the phone over to her. “Does that sound awkward?”
“Again. I really do not think you want to ask me.”
You chew on your lip, drink the last of your coffee in one go, totally burn the shit out of your tongue, then send the text.
You promptly stand, your chair screeching loudly as it nearly tips over, and run over to your fridge.
“Fuck. Do we have any of that rosé left?”
“It’s seven in the morning?”
“Desperate times, Victoria.”
She leans over, glancing at your phone, then gasps. “He’s typing!”
“Already?!” You screech, running back over to the table and hunching over your phone. Sure enough, the little bubble is on your screen, little dots jumping.
“What’s he saying?”
“I don’t know! You read it!”
Victoria snatches your phone and stares at it with the same amount of focus that you’ve previously only seen when she’s an hour deep into some medical textbook.
“Oh my god.”
“What? What?!”
She shoves the phone into your face.
Don’t worry about it, kid. Thought you might be hungover. You could always make it up to me, though.
“Oh my god,” You repeat. “Is it weird that I think it’s hot when he calls me kid?”
“Like, in the grand scheme of things? No. But probably.”
You pick absentmindedly at your hangnails. “I’m gonna text him back."
You type out a quick message and hit send before you can chicken out.
How am I supposed to make it up to you?
The dots reappear for a few seconds.
Let me take you on a real date.
You slam your hands (and phone) onto the table and whip your head to Victoria.
“He wants to take me on a date!”
The apartment becomes filled with the shrill squeals and screams of hysterical joy.
“Say yes!” Victoria screams. “You have to say yes. Please. For both of our sakes.”
“Shouldn’t I play hard to get? Don’t guys like that?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t you like, already unintentionally done that? Plus, Abbot is a pretty straightforward guy.”
“You’re right.”
When are you free next?
Tomorrow. You?
I have class until 3 :/
I’ll pick you up at 5.
You squeal again, practically jumping out of your seat and running to your room, throwing yourself on your bed.
Victoria follows a few minutes after, though in a much calmer manner.
“I can’t believe this is happening. You’re going on a date with my boss—“
“Oh my god, don’t say it like that.”
“So we’re ignoring the age gap?”
“No.”
“No judgement here, I know some people think experience is quite the kink—“
“Shut up—“
She laughs, leaving your room but leaving your phone on the nightstand by your bed.
You’re actually going to do it. You’re going on a date. With Jack Abbot. He wants to go on a date with you.
You only manage to stop screaming into your pillow when the downstairs neighbors shout for you to stop.
—
5 pm the next day arrives in a whirlwind of panic, about two million outfit changes, desperate makeup application, and way too much deliberation over what panties to wear for somebody who never has sex on the first date. Or like, ever, really.
By the time Jack has arrived (bearing a bouquet of flowers. Not roses, not the cheap dyed ones, but the kind of selection that takes time to make and time to choose) you’ve worked yourself into a frenzy about possibly being both under and over-dressed at the same time.
All Jack says, however, when meet him downstairs is a sort of winded:
“You look beautiful.”
And then you’re off.
The date itself is actually relaxing and easy, like being in Jack’s presence usually is. He asks about your schoolwork and classes and actually listens when you tell him what you’re studying. He doesn’t belittle your major or make himself seem self-important, like his job and career are better than yours. He actually says that he’s impressed that you manage to balance your health and workload so well, to which you respond by pointing at your nose stud and say “Not all that well.” which makes you both laugh.
He glares at you when you even glance at the check, which kind of makes you want to punch him and kiss him senseless.
He walks you home and, when you hesitate to initiate, pushes you against your apartment door and kisses you so hard your lips are tingling when he whispers a breathless:
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
After that, Victoria bans you from speaking about anything beyond talking or hanging out that happens on your dates, because: “I still have to look him in the eye at work, and I really don’t want to hear about how good my boss’s tongue feels in your mouth.”
You can’t exactly blame her for that.
One date becomes two which becomes three, then four, and then you start staying over at his place a couple times a week because it’s way nicer than yours anyway.
One of the adjustments of your boyfriend (can you call him that? Are you guys dating? Or just going on dates?) being a doctor, and also apparently caring about you as a human being on a fundamental level, is that he actually worries about your health. Like, always.
“Put the ibuprofen bottle down, you’ve already had five today.”
“Are you tracking my medication usage?”
“Yes. Who else is going to stop you from giving yourself liver failure?”
Or:
“What’s your heart rate average been today?”
“…One-forty?”
“So do you think having an energy drink for breakfast is a good idea?”
“…”
“That’s what I thought.”
In some ways, it’s annoying. But in a lot of other, overpowering ways, it’s so… relaxing, to have someone around to think of you. You don’t really understand why or how he gets fulfillment out of helping you manage your life day-to-day, but he does, and does anything else really matter?
There are, of course, hiccups. There is the awkward moment where a two-week long flare sends you to the PTMC because you faint at school and school protocol requires they dial 911, and then even after the paramedics arrive and you explain to them that your body just hates you, your heart rate won't lower from the low 120's so then they insist they take you to the hospital, where Dr. Robby gets to meet you for the first time. And the entire day shift. It's about as awkward as it sounds.
Sometimes Jack has bad pain days too. He gets a little waspish, a little snappy, because being the man that he is (and just a man, at the end of the day) he doesn't like acknowledging that not having a leg means he has limitations. But just like he doesn't pity you or make you feel incapable when you hate your body or get sick for the thirty-millionth time, you do your best to make sure he knows that you get it, and he's still the ridiculously hot doctor you wanted to bang even with a 100.4 degree fever.
"It was actually 101.4," He likes to correct from the bathtub, steam curling around his neck and shoulders. "Your heart rate would spike every time you looked at me."
You bear through the reminders of your own awkwardness for his sake. Plus, it's hard to hate him for it, especially when he's always coming up with new and inventive ways to thank you for taking care of him (even though you insist he doesn't have to, because he's literally been taking care of you since the day you met.)
And, you know. There are worse ways to spend one's time.
To the 11th Street Kids. We came, we motherfukcin' rocked it! No matter how far away we are from each other, even our boy Economos, no one will ever break us apart.
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Summary: you've been crushing on a regular who's been coming in at 7:30 on the dot. your co-worker ends up taking the initiative for you and writes your number on his cup. but why is there someone else who shows up for your date?
i swear i saw this prompt somewhere on tumblr, and now i can't find it
Pairings: joaquin torres x fem!reader and slight bucky barnes x fem!reader
WC: 3.8K
Warnings: meet-cute gone wrong, flirty!joaquin, when is he not, anxious!reader, bucky barnes being a gentleman, slightly awkward!bucky, congressman barnes, sam being sam-he's living for this, miscommunication, fluff, language, fem!reader with vague description, little to no use of y/n, and proofreadish.
Author's Note: ah! my first time writing for bucky despite being an og bucky girl. takes place before cabnw. hope you guys like it and feedback is always appreciated. (: you can find my masterlist here
requests are open ✨please check my rules & guidelines before requesting.
"Will you quit staring at the door? You look like a pathetic puppy waiting for its owner. It's too early for you to be pining," Your co-worker, Rose, comments.
You tear your gaze away from the door and go back to filling the beans.
"I wasn't staring... that much."
She laughs as she restocks the milk fridge. "I'm surprised you haven't tried to write your number on his cup yet."
"Are you kidding me? I could never." Even the mere thought of writing your number on his cup has you freaking out. "You do know who he is, right?"
"Just because I don't watch the news doesn't mean I don't know who Joaquin Torres is."
"Shh!" You frantically hush her.
Even though the cafe is in the middle of its typical morning rush, with customers ordering, the espresso machine constantly steaming milk and pulling shots, you're still worried someone might have heard her.
Rose rolls her eyes. "If you won't do it, I will...write your number on his cup."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
"Okay, then watch me combust into flames when I get rejected," you dramatically say.
"No, bursting into flames when you're on the clock," your manager, Nikki, teases as she passes by.
Rose gets your attention. "Please, who says he would reject you?"
"Um, hello? Do you remember who we're talking about? I bet he has hundreds of women throwing themselves at him."
"Yeah, but he always asks for you when he comes in."
You brush off her comment. "Because I know his order."
"So, do I," Nikki butts in, "Wait, who are we talking about?"
Before you can open your mouth, Rose answers first. "The Falcon."
"Oh! He's the cute regular who comes in at 7:30 and orders a mocha with an extra shot."
You glance at the clock above the employees only door and see that it's 7:25. Your heart starts racing at the thought of him coming in soon.
"Here, you cover register since your man is going to be here soon," Rose says and shoves you towards the front counter.
7:30 right on the dot, Joaquin Torres walks in.
Be cool, be calm. You mentally chant to yourself as he approaches the counter.
How can he be so smiley so early in the morning?
Joaquin says your name cheerfully once he's in front of you. "Hey, how's it going?"
You watch as he leans against the counter, bringing him a little closer to you.
"G-good. How are you doing?" You reply, doing your best to remain composed despite your thudding heart.
"Well, I'm doing better now."
"Yeah, the smell of coffee can do that to you."
His smile widens. "I wasn't talking about the coffee."
You freeze like a deer in headlights and try to rack your brain to say something not stupid. You can feel Rose and Nikki staring at the two of you, and it's not helping your anxiety.
By default, you fall back into customer service mode and quickly look at the POS screen in front of you.
"So, the usual, right?" You ask and keep your eyes on the screen, praying to yourself that your face remains its natural skin tone because your hands are starting to get slightly sweaty.
Joaquin laughs. "Am I that obvious?"
You glance at him with a slight smile. "There's nothing wrong with being a creature of habit."
"I dunno, maybe one of these days I'll switch it up. You know, keep you on your toes."
"Oh, how will I ever handle the excitement?" You sarcastically reply.
"Please, am I not your favorite regular?" He bats his eyelashes at you.
"Mhh... I'm more partial to those black coffee drinkers," you joke.
"Yeah, why's that?"
"They're quick, efficient, and it's the easiest drink to make."
Joaquin pretends to be offended. "Well, maybe I'll be drinking my double-shot mocha somewhere else."
"That's fine with me. It's not my extra time added to my commute to work," you banter back.
He smirks. "So, you have been listening to me when you're making my drink."
"It's kinda hard not to. Your voice carries over the espresso machine."
"Or you're just that fascinated by me."
You roll your eyes. "Yes, I'm so obsessed with you, Joaquin."
"That's my kinda girl. I was wo-"
The person behind Joaquin loudly clears his throat, and you glance over at him. Typical finance bro, who's impatiently tapping his foot, and making a show of checking the time on his phone.
"Are you going to pay or just yap all day?" He rudely asks.
"Well, I'm a yapper," Joauin replies and throws you a wink.
You quickly ring up Joaquin's order before the guy behind him throws an actual tantrum. It's too early to deal with that.
Joaquin waits over by the barista counter, where customers can watch their drinks being made. Before you can ring up the finance bro, Rose swoops in and switches positions with you.
"Go make his drink," she hisses in your ear.
Joaquin lets out a sigh of relief when he sees you take over the bar from Rose.
"Thank god, you're making my drink."
You laugh while starting to pull his double-shot. "Something wrong with the way Rose makes your drink?"
"She doesn't make it with love, like you do," he smoothly replies.
Thank god you're steaming the milk because you can feel your face getting warm, and it's not from the steam wand.
"Sorry, what was that?" You pretend you didn't hear him over the espresso machine, even though your heart says otherwise.
What you didn't expect was for him to repeat himself by shouting at the wrong time. The shots are done pulling, and the steam wand is off. A few teenage girls behind him start giggling and whispering to each other.
Joaquin doesn't fear social anxiety. Sadly, you do.
"I was kidding. I heard you the first time," you mumble as you dump his shot in the cup.
"Well, I wanted to make sure you heard me. Make sure you feel appreciated."
"You're impossible."
You're about to start pouring his milk in and start the latte art when he stops you.
"Wait, wait. Come closer, I like watching you do that fancy milk art."
You laugh, but motion him to walk with you down to the end of the bar, where nothing is obstructing his view.
"It's called latte art, but sure."
He intently watches as your every motion as you start making his tulip.
It's perfectly laid out and centered.
Joaquin pouts a bit. "No, heart this time?"
"I'm changing it up. You know, keeping you on your toes."
He points and smiles at you. "Obsessed. Knew it."
"Just take your coffee and go to work before you get yelled at again."
"Fine, fine. Same time tomorrow?"
"I'll be here."
The message you wrote on his cup is: 'more espresso, less depresso.'
---
The next morning is a complete chaotic disaster. Not only are you, Rose, and Nikki dealing with the morning rush, but you are also handling two large coffee catering orders.
It feels like you've been running around like a headless chicken. You haven't had a moment's rest since opening, and you didn't even realize it was 7:30 when Joaquin appears at the register.
You're so out of it, you don't even realize it's him for a moment.
"Hi, what can I get for you?" You rush out as you're simultaneously packing the catering orders.
"Crazier than usual, huh?" He remarks, and you look up once you recognize his voice.
"Oh, Joaquin, hi. Sorry, one second."
"Sorry, I'm getting several drinks."
"That's fine," you reply, and he tells you his order. He watches as you punch in his order and spots an angry-looking red burn mark on the top of your hand.
He's reaching out to touch the back of your hand without thinking. "Did you hurt yourself?"
Your heart skips a beat when his hand makes contact with you. "Huh? What?" You glance down at what he's referring to. "Oh, yeah. I guess so. It's been so crazy here, I haven't had time to do anything about it."
Joaquin frowns. "But you guys have a first aid kit, right?"
Yeah, somewhere in the back office, but you don't know where.
"Of course we do. Don't worry, I'll take care of it later."
Joaquin doesn't seem too pleased with your answer, but he lets it go.
He ends up getting his usual drink, a black coffee, and a latte.
Sadly, due to the craziness and morning rush, you don't have time to talk with him or make his drinks. Rose has been holding down the bar, and you don't want to get in her way again. That's how you burned yourself the first time.
Joaquin calls out your name before leaving and waves at you, which you return and watch as he disappears out the door.
Your heart drops a little that you weren't able to talk with him that morning.
It's around mid-day when it finally dies down, and the three of you are beat.
"God, I want to die," you moan out.
"Take me with you," Nikki replies, and you both giggle.
Rose has been unusually quiet all day, which is a little unusual.
"You good, Rosie?" You ask.
"I'm perfectly fine, and so will you."
"What does that mean?"
"Have you checked your phone recently?"
Of course you haven't. You've barely had time to breathe.
"No, why?"
She smirks and lifts a shoulder. "I'm guessing a certain someone is going to be texting you."
Your face falls. "What did you do?"
"What you should've done a long time ago."
"Rose, you didn't!"
---
A few blocks over, Bucky Barnes is currently listening to Sam and Joaquin bicker back and forth about something he's lost interest in.
"Man, you're still a kid. What would you know?"
"Not you making this an age thing," Joaquin snaps back.
Bucky can feel a headache coming on, and he didn't even think that was possible for him. Sam and Joaquin are that special.
"Guys!" He interrupts, and they both look at him. "Can we get back on topic?"
"What were we even talking about?" Joaquin asks.
Bucky rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his coffee. As he's putting it back down, he sees something written on his cup.
It's a phone number with a coffee pun that makes him smile.
"Great, and now Buck is smiling. Is that even a smile?" Sam says.
"Call the press, Congressman Barnes can smile."
"Alright, that's enough. Of course, I can smile," Bucky mutters back.
"I can't remember the last time I've seen you smile. Probably when John Walker was getting his ass handed to him by Dora Milaje," Sam remarks with a smile of his own as he thinks about that moment.
Joaquin checks his phone and starts gathering his stuff.
"Where are you going?" Bucky asks. He's never seen Joaquin leave in such a hurry.
"Running a few errands, don't have too much fun without me," Joaquin replies over his shoulder and races out the door.
Sam shakes his head. "That kid is going back to that damn cafe."
"What cafe?"
"The same place where he got your coffee."
Bucky shrugs. He doesn't see anything unusual about getting coffee twice a day. "Okay, and?" He asks Sam.
"It's clear he's not going for the coffee."
"He's not? But it's good coffee."
"Bucky, it's not about the coffee," Sam replies.
"Well, what's it about if it's not about coffee?"
"It's about a girl!"
Bucky's eyebrows raise. "Oh."
He glances back at the message on the cup, and he doesn't know what to make of it. He has been to that cafe a few times, but it's been a while.
His name is written on the cup, so the phone number must be for him.
"Sam, take a look at this." Bucky passes his cup to Sam, who starts chuckling.
"You're what? Almost 110 and you still got game."
"What are you talking about?"
Sam rolls his eyes at Bucky. "Sometimes I forget you do act your age sometimes. Someone is making a pass at you, flirting with you."
"Really?" Bucky's voice sounds strained, and he's getting the familiar panicky feeling in his chest. He hasn't had a date in years. The last time he went on a date, it didn't end well, and since then, he's avoided them like the plague.
"Bucky, you should text them."
"I should what now?"
"C'mon. I think it's time you try it again," Sam encourages.
"I dunno, man. Me texting a stranger?"
"Think of it as a blind date. You've been on one of those before, right?"
Unfortunately, yes, he has.
"Yeah, but-"
"What's the worst that could happen? I mean, worst-case scenario, you can just ghost them."
"I can what them?"
---
A few days pass, and Joaquin still hasn't texted you, and you don't dare bring it up when he comes in each morning. That's too embarrassing.
And worse, he's acting like he didn't get your number. So each time he comes in, it takes everything in you not to hide in the backroom.
Rose is trying to remain positive, but it's not helping.
"I told you," you say to her as you leave for the day.
But, later that night, Joaquin Torres surprises you.
Unknown: Hello, I got your coffee message.
Oh my god, it's him. You quickly sit up on the couch, your heart is racing.
You: I didn't think you would text me, lol.
Joaquin: I was a little hesitant to reach out.
You frown.
You: What do you mean?
Joaquin: I've never really done anything like this before.
You're a little surprised that Joaquin hasn't received phone numbers from random women before. Maybe he's just saying that to make you feel better.
You: That's a little hard to believe.
Joaquin: Why?
More like, why is he asking you that? It doesn't help since it's through text, but his texts seem a little dry...bored-sounding.
Oh my god, what if he's just being polite? And pity texting you.
Joaquin: How was your day?
You relax. This is good, you can answer that without overthinking.
The rest of the night, you and Joaquin text back and forth. This goes on for a few days. And each morning, Joaquin comes in to get his usual. He doesn't mention the texts, so you don't either.
There's a stark contrast between talking with Joaquin in person and texting him. Perhaps it's due to his line of work and the people he works closely with. That's what you tell yourself each night you text each other. Or he could be exhausted from that day's work.
And that was when you found yourself with a date with Joaquin Torres for Friday night.
---
"See, I told you, he's into you," Rose gushes and nudges your side.
"Yeah, yeah, just wait until the date happens. Or what if he stands me up?"
"Stop. Joaquin doesn't seem like that type of guy."
"I dunno. You should see how he texts."
You can go ahead and show her the messages between you and him.
"He's kinda a boring texter. No emojis or anything."
You shrug. "Not everyone our age uses emojis."
"I pegged him to be an emoji guy. Also, why does he sound like an old man when he texts?"
You laugh at her comment. "Stop, it's not that bad."
"No, seriously. That almost three-paragraph message, where he suggests places to go on a date. And I didn't take him for a museum guy."
"Okay, that's enough. Or else you're going to make me second-guess this date."
Across town, Bucky is having a full-blown panic attack.
"Oh my god. What was I thinking?" He rants as he paces Sam's office, and Sam is watching quite amused.
"What's going on in that head of yours?"
"This date was a bad idea. What if I'm going on a date with a teenager? That's going to look so bad."
Sam sits up. "Did the baristas look super young the times you went in?"
Bucky scoffs. "Everyone looks young to me."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Well, just get there early and scope the place out like you usually do and wait until they show up. And if you get the feeling they are too young, just dip."
"Just what?"
"Leave, scram, mottor, high tail it out of there."
Bucky sighs. "They don't sound young over text. They sound quite educated."
Sam groans and throws his hands in the air. "Geeze, go, don't go. Seriously, make up your mind."
Joaquin walks in at the right moment and sees the stressed-out look on Bucky's face.
"What's going on?" He asks, looking between Sam and Bucky.
"The old man has a date."
Joaquin holds his hand up for a high-five. "Nice! With who?"
Sam starts cackling. "That's the thing he doesn't know. He's going in blind."
Joaquin is surprised. "Really, a blind date?"
Bucky rubs his temple. "Yeah, please let's just drop it."
---
It's officially date night, and you're freaking out. You're anxiously waiting for Joaquin at the west entrance of the museum, where you told him you would be at 7:00 o'clock.
You glance at your phone and see it's 6:55. As the time draws nearer to 7, you start worrying he won't show.
You're staring at your phone when you sense someone standing a few feet away from you. Glancing over, you almost drop your phone.
It's the Bucky Barnes, well, Congressman Barnes. You've only seen him on TV when he's forced to do interviews outside the courthouse.
It's remarkable to see him in person, standing just a few feet away from you. He's even more handsome in person and taller if that's possible.
You quickly look away when you catch his eye.
It's a bit past 7 and still no Joaquin. You take a deep breath and decide to shoot him a text. The moment you send the text, you hear a phone ding next to you, and you see Bucky take his phone out.
Huh, weird.
You sneak glances as Bucky types something on his phone and then puts it away. Your phone vibrates in your hand.
You're slowly connecting the dots, but there's no way it could be what you're thinking.
You look at the text from Joaquin
Joaquin: Yes. Standing at the West Entrance.
You glance at Bucky again and test your crazy theory.
You: What are you wearing?
Bucky frowns at the odd question and texts back.
Joaquin: Semi-casual clothes: slacks, blue sweater, and shoes.
You almost faint when you get the text from 'Joaquin'.
There's no way you've been texting Congressman Barnes this whole time.
A big part of you wants to run away, hide, move out of state, and change your identity. A smaller part of you feels bad and almost shocked that Bucky Barnes even agreed to go on a date with a total stranger.
You suck it up and slowly walk closer to him.
"Hi, Con-Bucky?" You hesitantly say, and he looks at you.
"Hi."
"Um...this might sound crazy, but I think you're my date."
Bucky lifts a brow when you show him your text from him. "Think? Was this some kind of a setup?"
The way he asks that makes you panic. "Uh-I...uh-"
He quietly laughs. "I'm joking. I kind of figured you're the girl I've been texting."
"R-really?"
Because he isn't the person you thought you were texting.
"Yeah, the meeting location and time. Plus, not many people come to this museum."
You awkwardly laugh. "Right, of course."
Once the semi-awkward introductions are over, the two of you go inside.
This has to be the strangest "date" you've been on. At first, it was very awkward. Neither one of you said anything to the other. It doesn't help that he's a bit intimidating, even if he's trying not to be.
It's not that Bucky is rude. He's a good listener, a little quiet, something you don't mind, and he has crazy good eye contact when you're talking to him.
The awkwardness begins to slip away as you approach the art exhibit floor. You and Bucky have stopped in front of a modern art piece, and he's staring at it thoughtfully.
"What do you think?" He asks as he turns to you.
"Uh, you want my honest opinion?"
"Of course."
"I think it looks like garbage."
Bucky laughs. It's loud, and you're smiling at the sound. It's just you and him in the room, so there's no one else to see him like this.
"You're right. I don't get it either. I mean, Steve used to draw all the time."
You stare at his profile when he mentions Steve. "What would he draw?" You carefully ask.
"Oh, anything, and everything. He had a real talent," Bucky replies with a smile and a faraway look in his eye. He tells you about some of Steve's early drawings and how terrible they had turned out.
"Practice makes perfect. That's what he would say," Bucky says as he finishes telling you a story about one of those drawings.
You find yourself enjoying Bucky's company as the date draws to an end.
"This wasn't what I expected," Bucky honestly says as he turns to you outside the museum.
"Trust me, I wasn't expecting this either."
Bucky chuckles. "C'mon. I couldn't have been that bad. I know I'm a bit rusty when it comes to dates, but..."
"No, not at all. You were a true gentleman."
Bucky smiles. "So,"
"Um, can I be honest about one more thing?"
He nods.
"Okay, I kind of thought the date was going to be with someone else," you blurt out.
Bucky doesn't seem too surprised. "Yeah, I was picking up on that during yesterday's messages. When you asked if my mocha was too sweet."
You grimace slightly. "Why didn't you say anything?"
He shrugs. "I wasn't sure if that was an innuendo or not. Also, I was curious about you and wanted to meet you in person."
A younger you would have swooned, passed out, and thought this was a dream. Never in your life would you think you would hear Bucky Barnes say he was curious about you or wanted to meet you.
"That's so sweet. I really did have a good time."
"Can I ask you something?"
"What?"
"Who were you hoping to go on a date with?"
When you tell him who, he just gives a mysterious smile.
The "date" with Bucky ends with a friendly hug and a promise of keeping in touch.
A week later, you find yourself on a date with Joaquin Torres.
"I can't believe you went on a date with Bucky Barnes, thinking it was me," he teases.
"Shut up. I was mortified when I found out who I was texting."
"Now I wanna see those texts." He pretends to reach across the table for your phone.
"No, those are private and between me and Bucky."
You're more embarrassed about the awkward exchanges you had with Bucky over text when you thought you were texting Joaquin.
"Ah, already stepping out on me with Barnes, huh?"
You roll your eyes. "If you keep pestering me about the texts with him, I might go on another date with Bucky," you joke.
I actually do feel like the "unemployed friend on a Tuesday" meme actually helps de-stigmatize unemployment because it frequently affirms that when you don't have a job you're more likely to be getting up to some weird shit rather than just lazing around. But I also feel like the unemployed friend is frequently up to some random shit because there's a whole pile of miscellaneous life tasks that full-time employment keeps people from. The unemployed friend is helping their cousin move, or babysitting, or checking in with a neighbor with mobility issues. The unemployed friend is a walking thesis on the inflexibility of our current labor landscape and just how much work exists outside of work.
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Do you ever think back on old memories at all or do I ever cross your mind?
reiner still misses you. months have passed but somehow all roads lead back to you.
now playing: Do I ever cross your mind by Chet Atkins♬♪
cw: Reiner and Reader broke up months ago, angst, regret and general depressed and miserable Reiner
Watching raindrops slide down the giant glass panels in this lecture hall seemed more entertaining than following the professors words. Someone yawned. Reiner saw it in his peripheral vision.
He's wearing a shirt in the same shade of that hoodie of yours. The one you got for Christmas, that you initially hated so much you banished it to the back of your closet but then felt bad for hating it and begrudgingly wore it out until you really loved it.
It wasn't even that early in the morning, Reiner glanced at the clock. 10:48. There was no way he could attribute his thoughts to non sufficient sleep. And he couldn't attribute them to the lecture either, he was only 28 minutes in. One more hour to go.
I guess he really couldn't shake the memory of you after that girl in the tram had the same perfume as you. It hit him, suddenly on his way to uni. And technically he knew that it wasn't your perfume, he still had half a bottle that he never returned to you at his place. But the base notes were the same and it was enough to get your memory to occupy his thoughts.
But really it was no surprise that the perfume reminded him of you, because that girl had the exact same keychain that you had. It was dangling off of her backpack, and even though yours always hung in your room, he couldn't escape the memory of him standing in front of it and admiring the handiwork. How you bedazzled it yourself, the shiny coats of glitter creating a stunning visual effect.
And he knew that she didn't have the same keychain, yours was one of a kind. And really, the picture was not that similar, but what do you do when your everyday life is akin to walking through a minefield of painful memories?
You and him just crumbled because the fights were piling up before you could resolve them, because you were so busy and buried yourself in academia, because-
Reiner was trying excuses out like a picky teenage girl looking for her dream prom dress. He tried to cope and somehow rationalize why you and your breakup was still on the forefront of his mind after multiple months.
He just wanted to see you again, he wanted to hold your hand between his warm palm and say what he wasn't able to say the first time around He wanted to figure it out with you.
But Reiner didn't know anything. He didn't know what you were up to now and whether you started dating again. He saw what you wanted him to see. And at this point he knew you well enough to know you were only posting photos underlining your happiness, not because you were truly that happy but to show that you could be happy without him.
But also you were posting way less than usual, which could be a sign too. He knew that. And yet it gave him no satisfaction, it only strengthened the regret that was forming a pit in his stomach.
The lecture washed over him. He spent the ride home looking at people's faces, to remind himself that they have nothing to do with you. That they're not you and that they just remind him of you because his heart is playing tricks on him.
And yet the way a teenage girl's hair falls, the way a middle aged man folds his newspaper, the way a mother places one leg on the other, they all scream your name to him.
He couldn't help but wonder, do you go through the same things? Does reiner haunt you the way you haunt him?
In the end Reiner couldn't stop himself from sending that text that he knew Berthold would berate him for. The blue bubble bloomed in an otherwise empty chat.
