The first shot is your idea.

The fourth is Frank's fault.

By the time the bartender slides two fresh beers across the scarred wooden counter, you're both laughing hard enough that the regulars have started looking over.

"I am tellin' you," you insist, pointing at him with far too much confidence for someone who's definitely buzzed, "you absolutely danced." Frank snorts into his beer.

"I did not."

"You did."

"I shifted my weight, mama."

"You line danced."

"Baby - I threatened a jukebox."

"You two-stepped."

"I was avoidin' a drunk."

"You were the drunk."His mouth twitches.

"You got proof?"

"I've got witnesses."

"They're all drunk too."

"They're still witnesses." Frank shakes his head, a reluctant grin tugging at his beard. It's rare to see him like this. Relaxed. His shoulders aren't wound up around his ears. The permanent crease between his brows has softened. He looks... younger somehow. Not carefree.Frank Castle will probably never be carefree.

But lighter. You reach over and steal his fries. He catches your wrist halfway to your mouth.

"Thought those were mine."

"They are."

"So why're you eatin' 'em, pretty girl?"

"'Cause yours taste better."

"They're literally off my plate."

"Exactly." He rolls his eyes, but lets go anyway.

"You rob me blind, baby."

"You let me."

"I tolerate you."

"You adore me."

"I endure you."

"Liar." His gaze flicks up to yours. For a second, the noise of the bar fades. The dart game behind you. The football on the television. The laughter. It all blurs into the background.

"You got somethin' on your face," he says.

"I do?"

"Mhm." You rub your cheek. "No. The other side." You rub again. "Nope." He sighs dramatically. "C'mere." His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth. Slowly. Deliberately. He wipes away what turns out to be nothing more than a speck of salt from one of the fries. "There." Your heartbeat stumbles.

"...Thanks." He doesn't move his hand right away. Neither of you says anything. Then the bartender slams another basket onto the counter.

"You two gonna keep makin' moon eyes at each other," he says, "or are you actually gonna eat?" You jerk apart.Frank clears his throat.

"We're eatin'."

"You sure?" Frank shoots him a look. The bartender wisely wanders away.By the time you leave, it's started raining. Not a downpour.Just one of those steady summer rains that paints the streets gold beneath the streetlights. Frank shrugs off his jacket before you can protest and drapes it over your shoulders.

"What about you?"

"I'm fine."

"Frank."

"I run warm."

"You are such a liar."

"You gonna argue or wear it?" You slip your arms into the sleeves.

"...Thanks." He hums. The walk home is slow. Neither of you is in any hurry. Your fingers brush once. Twice. The third time, he simply catches your hand. Like it's the most natural thing in the world. His palm is rough.

Warm.

Your fingers lace together automatically.

"You know," you murmur, looking up at him, "you're awfully affectionate for somebody who spends all day pretending he's scary."

"I am scary."

"You bought me dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets last week."

"They were on sale."

"You made little ketchup volcanoes."

"They needed lava." You grin.

"You made sound effects."

"I was committed."

"You roared."

"I did not roar."

"You absolutely roared." He bumps your shoulder with his.

"You been keepin' score?"

"Always."

"You've got too much free time."

"I spend most of it watchin' you." His expression shifts. Just slightly. The teasing fades around the edges.

"You do?" You shrug, suddenly feeling far less brave.

"My favorite hobby." He stops walking. Rain continues to patter softly around you.

"You mean that?" You look at him.

"Every word." Something vulnerable flickers across his face before it's gone again. He reaches up, tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear.

"You've had too much to drink, mama."

"I have."

"And?"

"And..." you smile. "...I'm still right." He laughs quietly, shaking his head.

"You're trouble."

"So I've been told." The apartment isn't far. By the time you make it inside, you're both damp from the rain, laughing as you kick off wet shoes in the hallway. Frank locks the door behind you. The apartment falls wonderfully quiet. Just the rain against the windows. The hum of the refrigerator. You shrug his jacket off your shoulders and hand it back. He takes it. But instead of hanging it up...he keeps looking at you.

Neither of you moves. The laughter fades into something softer.

Warmer.

"You've got..." he starts, stepping closer.

"What?"

"Rain."

"Where?" He reaches up. His knuckles brush your cheek as he wipes away a stray droplet. Neither of you says a word. The space between you suddenly feels very, very small.

His knuckles linger against your cheek. You can feel the heat of his palm, even through the cold rain still slicking your skin. The hallway lamp flickers overhead, warping the shadows around his face, deepening the lines that only soften when he looks at you. There's nothing else to look at, really. The rest of the place blurs out of focus. Just Frank, right here, close enough that even the air seems to bend around his shoulders. Closer, then. He doesn't ask. His hand finds the back of your neck, thumb tracing the line where your hair sticks to your skin, and then he's kissing you. No warning, just hunger—open-mouthed, rough at first, then softer, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your lips. You sink straight into it, hands clutching at the front of his shirt, knuckles digging into the muscle beneath.

He tastes like bourbon and rainwater. You slam against the wall, knocking a crooked picture frame even more off-kilter. He pins you there, the press of his body all heat and mass. You don't think—there's no room left for thinking. Just the strain of your arms around his neck, the way his beard scratches your jaw, the slick heat pounding between your legs. You're giggling, or maybe moaning, and at some point your back hits drywall and he just keeps kissing you, deeper every time, until you're dizzy.

Frank grins against your mouth. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging hard. He just grabs you around the thighs and hauls you up, easy as bench pressing a kitten. You wrap your legs around his waist, boots clunking off the wall, and he grinds you into the plaster until there's friction, merciless and perfect. You bite his lower lip. He growls, actually growls, and palms your ass so hard you think you might bruise. The size of him is overwhelming: arms like steel cables, hands broad as dinner plates. You can't help it, a giddy little laugh bubbles up as he carries you down the hallway, kissing you like he's starving, like he's trying to bruise your lips onto his. "You're so fucking big," you pant, and he just grins wider, teeth bared, liking the way it sounds coming from you.

You crash onto the couch, a tangle of limbs, and you land ontop of him, thighs bracketing his lap. Frank sits up, grabbing your hips, and suddenly you’re the one pinned, his hands bracketed around your waist, squeezing hard. You feel the size difference everywhere—his massive fists wrapped almost all the way around you, the width of his shoulders crowding your entire field of vision, the heat of his thighs under yours. He leans down, kisses you again, open-mouthed, tongue battering into you like he’s got something to prove. One hand slides up, cradles your jaw, and you can’t help the helpless noise you make, half-moan, half-laughter, when he tilts your head just where he wants it and devours your mouth.

You grind down, shameless, chasing friction. He’s already hard beneath his jeans and it’s almost funny how easy it is to make him come apart. He always looks so unbreakable, unmovable, but now he’s clutching at your hips like you might drift off if he lets go. You can feel him, hot and solid, the press of him trapped between layers of damp denim. You move again, harder this time, and he groans into your mouth, hips surging up.

“Christ,” he mutters, “you’re gonna kill me, baby, ” but he says it like it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for him. You nip at his throat, leave a mark, then rest your forehead against his.

His hands slip up under your shirt, fingertips splaying wide like he can’t get enough of touching you. He drags rough palms up your back, mapping every inch, then down again, cupping your ass and pulling you flush against him. He’s not even trying to hide how much he’s into it, and somehow that’s even hotter.

“Goddamn, you’re strong,” you gasp, not even embarrassed. You love the way he manhandles you. You love knowing he wouldn’t ever hurt you, but that he could. The power in his arms, the way his body dwarfs yours—it just makes you want him more. “Bet you could pick me up with one hand.”

“Maybe,” he teases, voice gone gravelly, “if you keep being good for me.” He kisses you again, softer this time, but then bites your lip and tugs like he can’t decide if he wants to eat you alive or worship you. He starts to rock you against him, slow at first, then faster, riding the edge of control. You’re making noises you don’t even recognize, greedy and desperate. He’s still muttering praise between kisses—good girl, so pretty, sweetest thing, fuck you feel so good against me—and each word goes straight to your core. At some point your shirt comes off, and he spends a long, reverent moment just looking. His hands roam everywhere—shoulders, ribs, the curve of your chest—like he’s trying to memorize you by touch alone. He mouths at your collarbone, teeth scraping, and you’re grinding down so hard now that the fabric between you is soaked through. Frank's thumbs hook under your bra, and you barely have the presence of mind to help him yank it overhead. His hands cup your breasts, gentle for a moment, then greedy, squeezing and thumbing your nipples until your back arches and your hips stutter against him. He looks up at you from under heavy lashes, pupils blown wide. He mouths at your chest, licking a stripe across your skin, and the heat of his mouth—God, it makes you want to climb all the way inside him.

He’s so big under you, hard in every sense, and you want to see how much he can take. You grind down, rough and perfect, and the heavy drag of denim on denim is just enough to make you whine. Frank holds your hips steady, controlling the pace now, and rocks you against him in slow, devastating circles.

“Jesus,” he groans, “look at you. You’re gonna make a mess o'yourself, aren’t you, mama ?”

He’s soaked, you’re soaked—every part of you blurs together, hot and slick and shaking. You rut against each other, desperate, and there’s no finesse left, no pretense. You chase it, both of you, panting, laughing with the sheer sick want of it.

“That’s it,” he urges, “fuck, good girl, just like that, fuck yourself on me, you can do it—”He keeps one hand at the center of your back, pressing you closer, impossibly closer. Every inch of him is hard and hot, and the way he keeps muttering, “so fuckin’ sweet, never get enough,” makes your head spin faster than the whiskey. Frank’s hands are everywhere, calloused fingers mapping the bare stretch of your back, thumbs digging into your hips. He moves you in tight circles, perfect friction, almost punishing, and you never want him to stop. He’s not shy about the sounds he makes—grunts and curses against your skin, all praise, all want. He’s so big, so solid, and you can feel his heart hammering through his chest, pounding in time with yours.

You get greedy. You ride him, hands braced on his shoulders, and he lets you take what you want. Lets you use him, like he wants it just as bad. He’s still fully clothed, still so much bigger than you, and when he sees you looking at his hands, his arms, the thick line of his neck, he just smiles, lazy and proud.

“You like that?” He squeezes your ass, grins when you whimper. “Like how I can move you?” He shifts, easy, and the new angle sends pleasure sparking up your spine. “Could do this all night, sweetheart.” He’s so much, it’s almost overwhelming. But you love it. Crave it. You grind down harder, chasing the heat pooling in your stomach, and he meets you every time.

“Frank—” you gasp, because that’s all you can manage. He kisses you, deep, bites your lip again, and his hand slips up to tangle in your hair. He tugs, gentle but possessive, and you moan into his mouth. You can feel him trembling, just a little, holding himself back.

You don’t want him to. Not tonight.

His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise, and when he starts grinding up into you, it’s desperate, frantic. The wet heat between your legs is unbearable now, every shift grinding your clit against the denim. The pressure builds, sharp and heady, and you cling to him, arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder.

He’s talking you through it, every second, voice hoarse:

“That’s it—good girl, just like that—c’mon, make a mess for me—fuck, you look so pretty like this.” You're on the ragged edge—he can see it, taste it in the shallow little pants you presses into his jaw, the feral way you cling to him. He cradles you tighter, one heavy hand spanning the entire small of your back, the other wrapped around a thigh, squeezing as if he could fuse you to his lap. The friction is everything—you're rutting against him, lost in it, the denim darkening between your legs, every grind leaving a wet starburst on his jeans. Frank basks in it. Lets you use him, ride him, coat him in your mess. God, you're hot like this—soaked, wild, desperate. He wants to see you splatter the whole world.

He kisses your teeth, your chin, the taste of rain and sweat sharp on your skin. You bite at his jaw, needy, and he just holds you right there, makes you take the pace he sets. You've got her own rhythm, wild and staccato, but he’s stronger—always stronger—and when he wants you to slow down, you have to. When he wants you to chase it, he rolls his hips up and you shudder, your thighs trembling against his. You're coming apart for him, right here, shameless, in clothes damp from the rain and still almost fully dressed. He grunts your name into your neck, teeth scraping your pulse, and your whole body tenses up in his arms.

The sound you make is a fucking prayer.

Broken, shattering, almost a sob, and the feel of you clamping down, humping, wringing the last drop of friction—he’s never wanted to fuck someone so bad in his life.

Frank could crush you if he wanted.

But he's too drunk to do anything more, so he just holds you, lets you ride it out, lets you rub your mess all over him until you whimper, limp with relief. You make a noise that’s almost a laugh, breathless and punch-drunk, and he wants to bottle the sound forever.

“Jesus, Frank—” You pant, boneless in his lap.

He grins, wide and wolfish, and brings a hand up to cup your face, thumb swiping through the blotchy heat of your cheek. You roll your hips experimentally, as if to test what’s left of him. Frank’s cock is a steel rod in his pants, wet with you, and he’s not even pretending to hide it. He lets his head tip back, a long groan scraping from his chest, and lets you see exactly what you've done to him. He hisses, a savage sound, and jerks your hips down until you're pinned, helpless against the thick press of him.

“Gonna make me come in my fuckin’ jeans, sweetheart,” he warns. You beam at him, victorious, and grind down, slow and deliberate. You grind down again, just to test him, and he groans like you’ve got him on a rack. The sound vibrates straight through you—Frank Castle unstrung, finally fucking helpless. You do it again. Harder, slower, using every inch of slick friction, and he shivers, a low snarl curling at the back of his throat. His grip on your hips bruises—you’re absolutely going to feel it tomorrow, and you want that, want to see his fingerprints mapped on your skin in the blue rinse of morning.

“Fucking—,” Frank spits, jaw cording tight, “you’re gonna make me—” He’s breathing so rough it sounds like he might black out. You dig your nails into his shoulders and roll your hips, and he’s right there, pressed up to the hilt in his jeans, cock trapped and leaking, so hard you almost want to laugh. You don’t. Instead, you lean in and mouth at his throat, teeth grazing his pulse.

“C’mon, Castle, thought you could keep up?” Your voice is trembling and mean, but you can barely keep your own pace, thighs already shaking with aftershocks. He just stares up at you, eyes black and bright, and then he jerks you down hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.

“You want it?” he grinds out. “I’ll give it to you. I’ll fuckin’ ruin you.” Each word slams up into your core, the rhythm so brutal you have to bite his shoulder just to keep from screaming. You’re still humping, greedy and relentless, and Frank’s hands are everywhere, cradling your ass, the small of your back, one hand fisted in your hair. He pulls your head back and looks at you, really looks at you, like he’s trying to burn the scene into memory for the lean miserable years ahead.

“Look at you,” he says, voice still hoarse. “Fuck. So pretty when you’re desperate.” You’re not going to last—you’re still twitching from the first wave, but he’s got you locked into a grind so perfect, so sharp-edged, your vision goes white around the corners. He keeps his eyes on you, almost daring you to blink.

“You’re so—” you try, but can’t finish. So big, so strong, so good, so fucking much. The words blur. All you can do is rut down, chase the end, and try to make him break first. You want to see him lose it completely—the indestructible Frank Castle, undone by a little friction and the weight of you in his lap. So you grind down again, then again, dragging the soaked crotch of your jeans over the thick length of him until you’re making full-body shivers with every drag. Frank’s hands dig so hard into your hips you can feel the bruises blooming already, but you love it. Love the easy push-pull of it, the helplessness of being manhandled by someone who wants you this much. Your own hands fist the collar of his shirt, stretching it out, and when he growls, you bare your teeth, daring him to snap. He rises to the challenge—hips jerking up, eyes gone black, breath ragged.

“You’re gonna ride me ’til I fuckin’ break, huh?” he mutters, and there’s something reverent in the way he says it, like your hunger is a miracle. He’s got you completely blanketed, big enough that you feel like you’re perched in the lap of a mountain, but all you want is more. The pressure is building, friction sweet and punishing, the seams of your jeans grinding against your clit so perfect it borders on savage. He doesn’t stop moving you. His hands just keep you sliding, relentless, catching you at the downstroke, grinding you hard enough that you would squeak if you weren’t so out of your mind with want. You’re chasing it, desperate, rutting, and Frank just lets you do it, lets you use him, because he wants it—wants you to come apart, wants to drown in your need. The thought of it makes you dizzy, makes your hips stutter, makes your head go white at the edges.

“Yeah, fuck, that’s it—” he rasps into your ear, “look at you, so fuckin’ needy, so wet for me, god you’re such a good girl—” and the words are gasoline. You want to please him, want to ruin him, want to mark him up and wear the evidence like a badge. Your shirt is gone, your bra somewhere on the floor, and you’re grinding bare skin against denim and rain-soaked cotton, and it’s filthy and perfect.

You can feel him getting close—his cock hard and thick, trapped and leaking, the heat of him burning through the fabric like he could set you on fire just by willing it. You’re not doing much better—your thighs are shaking, your breath is a wreck, and you’re so close you’re not sure if you’re going to scream or sob or both. You want it to last, want it to go on forever, but the slick slide of wet jeans and the way he keeps talking you through it—

“that’s my girl, c’mon, I got you, fuck, you’re makin’ such a mess, you’re perfect, just perfect”—it’s too much. You’re coming again before you even mean to, hips locking, mouth pressed to his neck to muffle the whine. It’s hot and sudden, clenching around nothing, a flood of heat and relief, and Frank just keeps you moving, slow now. Frank makes a noise you’ve never heard before—not a grunt, not a growl, almost a sob. He goes rigid, every muscle locked, his cock jerking under you, and you know—know—he’s coming hard, the heat of it soaking straight through his jeans and into you. He drags you down and holds you there, shuddering through it, face buried in your neck. You feel the wet bloom spreading between you and god, a low moan leaves your lips. Frank bucks his hips up, whining lowly, his eyes drawing shut. Frank's chest rises and falls, all tension, all heat. He doesn’t let go, not even after he’s finished. His arms stay locked around you, that big hand sprawled across your spine, like if he loosened his grip the world might come apart.

You’re not sure it didn’t, honestly.

The denim’s wet between your thighs, sticky and hot, and the mess of it makes your brain whirl. You’re boneless against him, arms and legs useless, lungs still dragging desperate little breaths. Frank is solid beneath you, unmoving except for the twitch in his jaw and the heavy pulse still beating against your hip.

After a minute, you start to giggle. Just a little, but it erupts and you can’t stop, and then Frank is laughing too, the sound low and surprised, rumbling up from somewhere deep. You nudge your nose into the crook of his neck and suck in the smell of gun oil and aftershave and—you realize, sharply, when he shifts his hand to your waist—the thick, embarrassed sweetness of you, clinging to his wrist. You bite your lip.

“Shit,” you say, half-shocked, half-proud, the shape of it a little more than a whisper in his ear. “We’re a disaster.” Frank snorts, still a little dazed, and then he sits up fully, shifting you in his lap so your knees knock together and your soaked jeans grind against his. The pressure is still there, insistent and endless. He looks at you. Really looks, the way he does when he’s inspecting an injury, or a weapon, or something he wants to keep. He slides his thumb along your jaw, almost reverent. His pupils are blown, breath ragged, but he grins at you, crooked and hungry.

“C’mere,” he mutters, and you lean in, expecting another kiss, but instead he scrapes his teeth along your earlobe and hums, “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous like this. Could watch you do that all night.” Your brain barely catches up before his fingers are inside your waistband, working the button open. You half-protest, half-laugh,

“Frank—” but he’s already got his hand inside your jeans, palm broad and warm, finding you soaked and swollen through your underwear. He sucks a breath between his teeth, and the sound is filthy, drawn out.

“Christ, you made a mess.” He strokes you, slow, broad and confident, like he’s savoring the feel of it as much as you are. You bury your face in his neck, fighting the urge to melt. Frank moves his hand, up and down, dragging the wet through the cotton, fingers so big they’re practically covering you. You rut against his hand, helpless, your thighs trembling against his lap. He pulls his hand out, and you watch, delirious, as he brings his fingers to his mouth and tastes you. Just dips the first two in, tongue greedy, and then licks them clean. His eyes never leave yours.

You almost combust on the spot.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing,” he says, and you nearly choke on your own tongue. You stare at him, high on the way his jaw flexes, the dark stubble bristling morning-rough against the cut of his cheek. You’d chew his name to pieces if you could, let the sound of it rip up your throat and spill out everywhere, but he’s already taken the wind out of you. You look down at his hand, thick fingers glistening, and want to taste yourself there, want to let him paint you with it.Frank makes a show of licking his fingers clean, and every second of it drags a new pulse up your spine. You don’t know if you want to slap him or crawl inside his chest. Maybe both. He looks satisfied, smug, the kind of man who’s been hungry for too long and can’t believe his luck. He kisses you again, this time slow, tongue deep and languid, and you taste yourself on his mouth. It’s filthy, it’s perfect, and you moan into him, hands fisted in the fabric at his shoulders.

You want to say something clever, or maybe just “holy shit,” but your brain is still catching up. He moves you in his lap, the friction wet and dirty, jeans plastered to your thighs. The mess is everywhere, but he doesn’t care—or maybe that’s what he likes best, judging from the way he stares at the dark patch spreading along the seam of your jeans. You whine at the movement, your thighs shuddering and trying to clamp shut. He stills your hips, leaning up to press a kiss to your temple.

"Guess shots aren't a great foreplay tool, huh ?" He asks. You pull back just enough to look at him, to see the dark satisfaction in his eyes, the way his pupils are still blown wide. The mess between you is cooling, sticky and uncomfortable, but neither of you moves to fix it. There's something sacred about it, about the evidence of what you've done to each other.

"We're disgusting," you say, but there's no heat in it. Just wonder.

"Yep," Frank agrees, easy as anything. He shifts you in his lap, and the movement sends a fresh jolt through your oversensitive nerves. You hiss, and he stills immediately. "Shit, baby - M'sorry."

"Don't be," you whisper. "Just... tender."

His hands, so impossibly steady now, settle at your waist. He waits a beat before moving again, giving you every chance to stop him. When you don't, he shifts you with painstaking care until you're sitting comfortably against his chest instead of awkwardly across his lap.

"There," he murmurs. "Better?" You nod.

"A little."

"I'll take a little." He brushes a thumb beneath your eye, catching the dampness gathered there. His brow pinches.

"You always cry easy after I make you come."

"Okay, big shot. Calm down."

"What- other men have made you orgasm so good you started crying ?" He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath your cheek. Frank raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

"Well?" he asks. You squint at him through sheer exhaustion.

"You're bein' obnoxious."

"So that's a no."

"You already know it's a no."

"I just like hearin' you say it." You let out a tired groan and lightly smack his shoulder.

"Ow," he says without a trace of conviction.

"I barely touched you."

"You wounded me."

"I should've aimed harder."

"There she is." His smile softens almost immediately, replaced by concern as he notices the way you wince trying to settle against him.

"Easy," he murmurs.

"I know."

"No, you don't."One of his hands stays firm against your back while the other rubs slow, absent-minded circles over your side. He doesn't rush you, doesn't ask anything more of you. He simply waits until your breathing evens out again. "You achin'?" he asks quietly.

"A little."

"A little?" You give him a look.

"…More than a little." He nods, guilt flickering across his face.

"Yeah."

"Hey."

"Hm?"

"Don't do that."

"What?"

"That face."

"What face?"

"The one where you're about to apologize another forty times."

"I was thinkin' twenty." You smile despite yourself.

"I'll survive."

"I know you will."

"But…" His thumb brushes gently across your shoulder. "…I still don't like seein' you uncomfortable."

"I know."

"I mean it."

"So do I." Silence settles comfortably between you. The room is warm, the rain tapping softly against the windows. Neither of you seems in any hurry to move. Finally, Frank lets out a quiet sigh.

"C'mon." You don't budge.

"Mmm."

"You gotta let me take care of you."

"I am letting you."

"No, you're lettin' me hold you."

"Aren't those the same thing?"

"They're related." A sleepy laugh escapes you.

"You always get bossy afterward."

"I always get worried afterward." You reach up, your fingertips brushing through the short hair at the back of his neck.

"You worry too much."

"I've earned it."

"You've earned gray hair."

"I had that before you."

"Liar."

"Mostly." He leans down and presses a lingering kiss against your forehead. "I'm gonna grab a couple towels and some water."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

"You always say that."

"'Cause I always mean it." He starts to shift away, then pauses.

"You think you can stay sittin' here for thirty seconds?" You tighten your arms around him instead.

"…Maybe not." He chuckles, low and affectionate.

"Alright." Without another word, he carefully slides one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, lifting you as though you weigh nothing at all. You instinctively tuck your face into the crook of his neck.

"There she is," he murmurs.

"So dramatic," you mumble.

"Says the woman who just declared herself incapable of sittin' alone for half a minute."

"I never said incapable."

"You implied it."

"I strongly implied it."

taglist !

Pissing Frank off is such an easy and enjoyable activity.

The way he gets all red faced, the way his knuckles clench and his jaw ticks as he fights the urge not to snap at you because he hates yelling at you.

It is, quite frankly, adorable.

You discover this on a Tuesday.

By nine in the morning, he's already regretting waking up.

He's making coffee when you wander into the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from your eyes. Without thinking, you wrap your arms around his waist.

"Mornin', Matt." Frank goes completely still.

"…Excuse me?" You blink innocently.

"Oh." A dramatic gasp. "Sorry." You pat his chest. "Morning, Frank." He stares at you for a long moment.

"…Very funny."

"I thought so." At lunch, he's mostly forgotten about it. Mostly. The two of you stop by Curtis's garage to drop something off. Curtis gives you a quick hug goodbye. You wave as he disappears inside. Then you slip your hand into Frank's.

"Curtis, say bye to Frank." You stammer. "I mean- Frank, say bye to Curtis." Frank snorts.

"You done?"

"What?"

"You're smilin'."

"I always smile."

"You got that look."

"What look?"

"The one that says you're about to become my problem." You squeeze his hand. The afternoon brings a trip to the grocery store. You're wheeling the cart, deliberately ramming it into his heels every few feet. He finally turns, grabbing the handle with a sigh.

"Give me that before you break my ankles."

"Whatever you say, Dave." You let go, watching his shoulders tense. He doesn't say anything, just grips the cart so tightly his knuckles are white. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing. Later that evening, you're curled up on the couch, a blanket over your lap as you scroll through your phone. Frank comes in, having just finished a shower, his hair still damp. He leans over the back of the couch, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Whatcha watchin'?" Without looking up from your phone, you lean into his touch.

"Nothing much, Billy." He straightens up slowly. You can feel the shift in the air, the sudden drop in temperature. You risk a glance up at him. His face is a mask of controlled fury, his eyes dark and fixed on you.

"You think this is funny?" His voice is low, dangerously quiet.

"What? I was distracted." You try for innocent, but the smirk tugging at your lips gives you away. Frank doesn't answer immediately.

He just watches you. Really watches you. His jaw flexes once. Twice.

"You've called me Matt." Silence. "Then Curtis." Another beat. "Then Dave." His eyes never leave yours. "And now Billy." You shrug, still smiling.

"I've had a long day."

"Mhm."

"I'm tired."

"Mhm."

"So maybe I just forgot your name." He lets out a quiet laugh. It isn't amused.

"You forgot my name."

"It happens."

"No." He takes one slow step toward the couch. "It doesn't." You tuck your legs beneath you, still looking entirely too pleased with yourself.

"I've known a lot of men." His eyebrow lifts.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"So maybe I got confused." Another step.

"Confused."

"Mhm." Frank nods once. Slowly. "You know what I've been thinkin' about all day?"

"What?"

"Every damn time you said somebody else's name…" He shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, like he's physically stopping himself from reaching for you. "…I wondered if that was the point." You tilt your head.

"And was it?"

"You wanted me jealous."

"I might've." He studies you.

"You succeeded." That catches you off guard.

"You were?" His laugh is humorless.

"You called me 'Matt' while your arms were around me." Another step.

"You hugged Curtis."

"He hugged me."

"I know."

"You thanked 'Dave' for pushin' a grocery cart." Your smile grows.

"And Billy?" His jaw tightens.

"You let me kiss your forehead…" He looks almost offended. "…and then you called me Billy." You can't help it. You laugh. Frank doesn't. Instead, he rounds the couch. The room suddenly feels much smaller. "Still funny?" You bite your lip.

"…A little." He plants one hand on the back of the couch behind your head.

Not slamming it. Just there. Close.

His other hand slips into your lap, gently lifting your phone away before setting it on the coffee table. All of your attention is on him now.

"All day." His voice has dropped lower. "You've been sayin' other men's names to my face."

"I was teasing."

"I know."

"You know?"

"I know." A beat. "But I still didn't like it." His eyes search yours. "I don't like imaginin' you with anybody else." Your teasing smile softens.

"Frank…"

"You're mine." The words land with the weight of a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. The playful tension that had been crackling between you all day curdles into something heavier, something primal. Your smirk is gone, replaced by a sudden, breathless awareness of the man caging you in.

"Frank…" you start, your voice softer now, the apology you hadn't realized you needed to make already forming.

"Shh." He leans in closer, his free hand moving from the back of the couch to cup your jaw. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, a possessive, grounding gesture. "I'm not done." His gaze is intense, burning with a raw, unfiltered emotion that makes your stomach clench. This isn't about the stupid game anymore. This is about the fact that you'd made him feel something he hated, something dark and sharp and ugly.

"You don't get to do that," he murmurs, his lips hovering just inches from yours. "You don't get to make me think about you with someone else. Not even for a second."

"I wasn't," you whisper, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady, solid beat of his heart beneath your palms. "It was just a stupid joke."

"I know." His thumb presses gently, parting your lips. "But my brain doesn't always listen. It just… sees things. Sees you with Curtis. Sees you laughing with Micro. Sees you looking at someone else the way you look at me." His voice cracks, just a little, on the last few words, and it's that tiny crack in his armor that undoes you completely. He's not angry. He's scared. The thought is staggering.

"I only look at you like that, Frank," you breathe, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "There's no one else." He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he closes the remaining distance between you, his mouth crashing down on yours. It's not a gentle kiss. It's a claiming. A punishment and a reassurance all at once. It's deep and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to stake its territory, his hand moving from your jaw to the back of your neck, holding you in place, making sure you can't escape. You melt into him, your body arching against his, a silent surrender. You let him take what he needs, let him erase the day, erase every other name, every other face, until there's only him. Only Frank. When he finally pulls back, you're both breathless. His forehead rests against yours, his breathing ragged.

"Say my name," he commands, his voice a low growl.

"Frank," you whisper, without hesitation.

"Again."

"Frank." He kisses you again, softer this time, but no less possessive. His hands slide down your body, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him. You can feel his arousal, hard and insistent against your belly.

"You're going to remember who you belong to," he murmurs against your lips. "You're going to scream my name tonight until it's the only one you can remember." His hands drag the blanket off your lap and toss it to the floor. You’re wearing nothing but an old t-shirt and boxers. Frank lifts you up without warning, manhandles you until you’re straddling him, his arms caging you in, his grip bruising on your thighs. He makes you feel small. Even when you’re taunting him, running your mouth, you’re always aware of just how much bigger he is. How dangerous his hands can be. You’d be lying if you said that wasn’t a huge part of the appeal.Frank kisses you like he wants to fuck you with his tongue alone. He’s hot and wet and insistent, mouth opening wider when you try to keep up with him. His hands are busy, kneading the backs of your thighs, shoving you closer, grinding you down against his sweatpants-clad cock.

God, he’s already hard. Course he is. Your own breath stutters in your lungs as Frank rocks his hips up, a slow deliberate grind, all that heat and pressure focused right where you’re already aching for it. He mashes your bodies together, like he’s trying to brute-force your atoms into a single, messy unit. You cling to his shirt as if it’ll keep you afloat, like any second now the undertow of him might swallow you whole. His hands are everywhere, greedy and insistent: kneading your ass, palming over your back, clawing you closer even as there’s literally nowhere else to go.

“Frank—” It comes out half-whine, half-moan, your brain flickering like a dying lightbulb. He bares his teeth in a grin, all wolfish satisfaction, and shoves a hand under the hem of your t-shirt. His fingers splay out hot against the small of your back.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he murmurs. “Somethin’ you need?” There’s a roughness to it, a cockyness that makes your body fire up with need. Frank shoves the t-shirt up over your ribs, not bothering to take it off. His hands are broad and greedy and everything he does is with total, singular focus—holding your waist, dragging your dick against the heat of him, grinding you down until you see little explosions behind your eyelids. One of his hands slips between your bodies, tracing the shape of you through thin, cotton boxers. His jaw works tight, like he’s biting back the urge to just rip the whole thing away and devour you in one go.

"You really think you want this?" His thumb rubs slow circles over your cock through the fabric. "If I fuck you now, I ain’t stoppin’. Not ‘til you remember only me." Your whole body draws tight as a bowstring. You can’t even summon words; you just nod, desperate and dizzy. Frank just stares you down, heavy-lidded, mouth bruised from kissing and still hungry. His thumb drags a slow line up your spine, making every muscle shudder. You try to look away, but he won't allow it; with a single fist in your hair he angles your head back, exposing your throat. His face softens for a split-second, amused. Then he bares his teeth and takes you apart. His mouth leaves a wet, vicious trail along your jaw, nipping hard enough to sting. Marking, claiming, like a dog with a favorite bone. You try to steady yourself, but there isn't a steady bone left in your body. You can feel his cock, a monster of a thing, bulging against your core. His hands ghost over your breasts and you shudder. Frank’s hand finds your throat in the next instant, thick fingers splaying over your pulse. Not choking, not really, but holding you still, pinning you in the moment. Your cock throbs in your boxers, every heartbeat a jolt in his palm. He licks a rough line behind your ear, teeth scraping your skin, and you gasp, everything in you going pliant and feverish.

He forces you to look dead at him, even as he grinds the sharp bone of his own hips hard against your ass. The friction makes you dizzy, makes you want to sob. You'd been taunting him all day for this. Toying with him, poking the animal until you forgot it might one day snap the leash.

“No more games?” He speaks low and clear, like a threat or a prayer. A noise leaves your throat, nearly a whimper. You want to say his name but your tongue won’t work, not with the way he’s caught you, not with hunger rolling off him like a heatwave. Frank shoves his own sweatpants out of the way with one hand, cock springing free, obscene in your periphery. You steal a glance, and the size of him makes your blood pressure spike—thick, demanding, angry-red and beading at the tip.

“You’re gonna take all of it,” he growls. “Take every goddamn inch. You got it?” His thumb presses under your chin, the grip in your hair unyielding. You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a choked little sound, equal parts awe and terror. You nod, because you can’t do anything else. You barely see it; Frank’s hand dips between your legs, knuckles pushing your boxers aside, two fingers already slick as they sweep through you. He doesn’t start easy. He’s not gentle. He stretches you, wide and demanding, opening you on his hand like he wants you to remember the ache and remember it’s his.

“Such a fuckin’ brat,” he says, like he’s explaining a math problem. His teeth are in your shoulder now, biting down hard enough to warn, to promise bruises tomorrow. “Wanted to get my attention all day. 'S that right?” Your breath is coming in shuddery little gasps. You shiver in his lap, barely able to hold yourself upright on trembling thighs. He gives you no time to answer, just twists his fingers until your whole body seizes up, pleasure and pain in one bright, fanged burst. He grinds his cock against you, the heft of it hot and heavy, like he wants you to feel what you’ve gotten yourself into.

“I should make you say it, but you got me too fuckin’ riled up. Gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t even think about anyone else's name. Gonna fuck you til you forget your own.”

You believe him. You really do.

Frank yanks your hips down, seats himself into your pussy with a single brutal thrust. You swear, near scream; your whole body goes rigid on impact, back arching, mind blanking out to a white-hot buzz. There’s no easing into it, no slow burn. The soft Frank that kisses your hair line and inches you down slowly, asking if you’re okay, has taken a backseat spot this time around. There is a psychic sound in your head, somewhere between a car crash and a cathedral bell. Too full, too soon, too much. Your hands scrabble at his forearms, your nails digging in, and a small, incoherent sob punches out of your chest. He takes it as encouragement. Of course he does. He fucks up into you, hard enough that you hear the slap of his skin over your own blood-rush, hard enough that for a second everything is static. He gives you a second—just one—before his hands wrench you down again, pulling you open. Built for him. That's the thought glittering in your brain, the raw animal possessiveness he's always carried like a scar, now inside you, all the way up, right against your lungs. Every inch, every pink desperate nerve, stretched to the point of snapping.

He doesn't just move—he uses you. Fucking into you like you're his only tether, like there's nowhere else on earth for him to be. His hand fists in your hair again, dragging you down for a kiss that isn't really a kiss, just a brutal mashing of teeth and tongue. He keeps his eyes on you the whole time. Watching. Daring you to look away. You can't. You wouldn't if you could. Every pump rocks your whole body, the friction inside you close to unbearable, the cock splitting you open hotter and harder and more than you should ever be able to take.

"You feel that?" His voice is rough as gravel, chest heaving. "That's me. Only me. Say it." You try, mouth wide, soundless on the first attempt while he fucks you with relentless, punishing rhythm. Your brain is sliding to pieces, overloaded, every pulse and throb between your thighs building into tsunami.

"You—fuck—Frank—" It's a panic, a prayer, a surrender. You clamp down out of reflex, the sound of his answering groan instant and feral. His hand stays at your throat—reminding, not hurting—and you realize you love it. The sense of helplessness, of being owned and ruined and wanted so much it hurts.

"Good girl." He bites the words against your neck, hips rutting in tight, bruising snaps. "Take it. Take all of it. That's what you wanted, right? Wantin' me desperate, wantin' me mean." A sound leaves you that's not human; you don't care. You almost can't breathe, but every time you try to squirm away he drags you back down, impales you, makes you ride out every sharp stretch and relentless stroke. Your clit rubs against the base of him, every thrust hitting the spot that makes you see stars. There's a sick gratification in feeling how desperate, how fucking needy he is for you. You've never felt needed like this. Not by anyone.

Frank lets go of your hair only to grip your jaw, squeezing just enough to make you meet his eyes.

"You like this?" he hisses, spit-slick lips grinning. "How 'bout now? You gonna say someone else's name?" You shake your head, wild and eager. The orgasm builds inside of you at extreme speed, and just when you think it' might tear you apart- Frank stops. You jerk upright like a puppet with strings cut. The pressure, the friction, the delicious pain, it's all gone too soon—leaving your body trembling and your pussy fluttering empty around absolutely nothing. Your vision blurs, soaking your eyes, and a pathetic mewl bubbles in your chest. You can't believe he stopped. You can't believe you ever thought you were in control. Frank's hands slide up under your jaw, thumbs pressing into the hollows of your cheeks. He looks you dead on, pupils blown, lips slick and gritted with restraint, and you know, you know, he's doing it on purpose.

The bastard is grinning.

"You wanna come, baby?" His voice is silk now, mocking you, enjoying every ragged gasp you make. He keeps you perched on his cockhead, barely inside, just enough to make you feel the void, make you beg for it. You try to chase it, grinding down, but he's holding you up, strong as a dock piling, not letting you take what you want. Your whole body throbs, cunt slick and pulsing, insides gone molten with need. Your fingernails score the thick muscle of his shoulders and find no purchase. You're shaking. You're not even pretending not to whine anymore.

"Frank—please—" He kisses you, soft as a secret, and you hate him for it.

"You only come when I say. You wanna remember my name so bad, you can be a good fuckin' girl and ask. Say it." You do, choking on shame and relief—

"Frank, please, please let me—" He thrusts up, slow and mean, filling you in one greedy surge. There's no patience in him now. He's relentless, one hand fisting your hair, the other palming your ass, dragging you down in time with every slam of his hips. You see white, stuttering, every nerve lit and shorting out and crying for more. He fucks you hard, the kind of hard that would embarrass you if you weren't too far gone to care, if you weren't grinding your hips to meet his every thrust, if you weren't moaning, stupid and open-mouthed, into his shoulder. Your thighs start to shake. You can feel the way he splits you open, the way your cunt stretches and aches and hugs everything he gives you. You've never felt so full in your life. You're so close you think you might die. He pulls you down on a savage angle, and suddenly he's pounding your g-spot with every thrust. Your brain rewinds and hiccups. You can't remember your own name, let alone anyone else's. Hands in your hair, voice in your ear, every atom of him inside you: it's all just Frank, Frank, Frank. 

Frank's rhythm is merciless, every thrust a reminder and a punishment, driving your insides to raw, delirious peaks. The world narrows to the sound of his pelvis hammering yours, the thick, ragged breaths in your ear, the slap and glide and brutal fullness. You can't even pretend to want it gentle. You want to be ruined. You want to be his. You want to be nothing at all.m Your body is a pulse, a knot, a high wire about to snap. Frank fucks you through the first orgasm like it’s nothing, like every clench and spasm just spurs him on. Your cunt goes electric, muscles locking around him while you sob into his neck, gasping and choking on air and pleasure and the shame of being so easy, so desperate for it. He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t let you coast down. He wants you undone, wants you trembling and pleading and slick all over his lap. The second peak comes on too fast, a static bombshell detonating low in your belly, and you hear yourself scream, just a ragged, wordless cry, your fingernails leaving angry arcs down his back.

Frank's hands are everywhere—one clamped over your mouth so you don't wake the neighbors, the other shoving your hips down, forcing you to take him to the root, like if he could crawl inside your bones he'd do it in a heartbeat. His sweat slicks your thighs. You taste salt and skin and the metal tang of your own blood where you bit your tongue. You’re limp in his arms, spent and shaking, and it’s still not enough for him. He grinds you down until you’re a soaked, shuddering mess, whispers into your hair, low and hoarse:

“That’s it, baby. Just like that. My girl, my fuckin’ good girl—look at you.” His voice is a gentle shock. You crack your eyes open, vision swimming, see him staring up at you like he’s proud, like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted in his life. You sob out a sound that might be his name, might be nothing at all. He grins, wolfish and tender at once.

“C’mon,” he says, “you got more in you. Don’t let me down now.” You shake your head, but your body says otherwise. He knows your tells. He pushes you until you’re riding him, until you’re fucking yourself on his cock, every bounce and grind a fresh humiliation, and you love it, you love it so much it’s like dying. The overstimulation is a live wire, agony and ecstasy in equal parts. Frank slows, changes angle, and suddenly you’re there again, everything going white, body jerking and clenching so hard you feel like you could break in half. He holds you there, trembling and on the verge of collapse, and slows the rhythm until it’s just a deep, rolling grind. You pant into the crook of his neck, hair matted to your forehead with sweat, the taste of him thick in your mouth. Everything inside is raw, edges sanded off by the relentless drag of his cock. The only word left in your head is Frank—Frank who holds you together when you’d rather come apart, Frank who knows exactly how to keep you on the knife’s edge, just this side of sanity.

He pets your hair, almost tender, but the next thrust is another deliberate punch deep inside. You find a whine in your throat, a wet, animal noise, and he laughs, the sound rough and sweet all at once. “You like that, huh. Look at you.” He moves you, bounces you slow and mean, the slick sound of it obscene in the open air. His hand drifts up your back, holds you steady at the nape of your neck so you can’t hide from him. He wants to see all of it—every twitch and gasp and flutter, every time your body gives up more than it means to. You try to fight it—clamp your thighs, ride it out, hold onto the last fragments of self—but Frank’s got your number.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, voice all grit and pride, “take it for me, take it all.” You do, because there’s nothing left in you but obedience, nothing but the need to please, to hear the pride in his voice when you fall apart again. He snaps his hips up, and the pressure detonates behind your eyes, another climax ripping through you without mercy. You collapse forward, chest to his, arms shaking, body empty and yet wanting more. He keeps you there, rutting up into you in short, savage bursts, cock still hard and thick inside your cunt. You sob into the hollow above his collarbone, beg a little, maybe say his name, but it all blends into a single sound: need. He waits it out, rides the waves of your aftershocks, then flips you with a single roll of his hips, bracing your shoulders against the couch. Your legs splay open, trembling and useless, and he just stares for a second—like he’s memorizing the mess he’s made.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says, and kneels between your thighs. He lines himself up and drives in again, no warning, no mercy, just the solid, hot weight of him to the hilt. Your body seizes, then melts into the cushions, and he laughs—deep and satisfied, like the world finally makes sense. He fucks you in a slow, dragging rhythm, letting the brutal stretch of every stroke remind you exactly who’s in charge. There’s no end to it, just wave after wave, each one higher than the last. He leans down, palm cradling the side of your face, thumb tracing your slack jaw.

“You with me?” he asks. You must look wrecked, but you nod, dazed and grateful. “Good. Gonna make you come for me again,mama.” He says it soft, like it’s a favor, but you can hear the threat in it too: he doesn’t plan to stop until you’re boneless and emptied and barely a thought left in your head. The couch cushions creak under the force of him. Each thrust sets off a fresh tremor in your thighs, blunt shocks of sensation that make your vision swim. Frank’s thumb scrapes your cheek, smearing spit and sweat, and you realize you’re crying, maybe a little. He notices. Of course he notices. He slows, just for a breath—a single, tender second—then fucks you harder, the pace cruel and perfect.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he pants, watching your face for every twitch and flicker, “want you to make a mess for me. C’mon, show me.” You try to answer, but your body’s abandoned language. All you can do is clutch at his arm, dig your nails in, let the heat and stretch and pressure tunnel through you like a fever. Your cunt contracts around him and he groans, a low, ragged sound of approval. You shatter again before you can brace for it. Your back bows, toes curling, pussy fluttering around his thick cock. Frank hisses and bites your neck, not gentle. You grind up against him, greedy for the friction, the pain, the relentless stretch. You want him to hurt you; you want him to ruin every inch. You want to be so thoroughly claimed that you’ll never joke about another man’s name again. He keeps you pinned, locked to the couch by the weight of his hips and the clamp of his hand on your jaw. His mouth crashes to yours, tongue slicking inside, swallowing every gasp and whimper. He fucks you with a purpose: to erase you and build you back up in his own image.

When he finally slows, the edges of the world have blurred; your thoughts run like water. Frank gathers you up, arms under your knees, and hauls you higher, bracing your back against the armrest. You slide down, helpless, as his cock pops out and then pushes back in, deeper than before. You shriek. He muffles it with his palm.

“Shh. That’s right, honey. You take it for me. All of it.” His voice is so close, the words vibrating in your ribs. Your nipples brush his chest with every thrust, the heat of him soaking through your skin. You’re desperate, completely ruined, and his cock is the only thing holding you together. He pushes your knees up, folding you almost in half, and fucks you straight down, hitting a spot so overwhelming you think you might black out. You can’t even beg anymore. All you can do is sob and let him use you, let him drive you to the next peak and the next, each one burning hotter, brighter, until you’re molten and screaming and trembling everywhere. He seems to savor it, watching you, licking sweat from your jaw while he pistons in and out, every stroke a shockwave through your core. He’s close, but he won’t let himself finish. Not yet. He wants more from you.Frank's hands pry your knees wider, one beefy palm holding your thigh hard to the couch and the other angling your jaw so you have to look right at him, so you can see the scarred terrain of his face as he splits you open.

No room to hide, not from that look. Not from the power in his hips as he drives into you. The world is sweat and skin and bruises blooming under his fingers, and the endless, ragged sound of your own voice—crying, pleading, gone completely out of your control. You've never been this fucked, never been this taken apart. He keeps his eyes locked on yours while he fucks you. There is no pretense in it, no mercy.

"C'mon, baby, gimme one more," he pants, the words grinding out of him like he's hauling each one up from the bottom of a well. "Know you got it in you. Open up, that's it—show me." The angle hits so deep you almost fold in two. Pressure building, pressure breaking, white noise and heat. Your body bucks, tries to curl away, to get a single breath above the drowning tide of sensation, but Frank won't let you. He holds you there, fucks you through it, makes you take every goddamn inch. You hear yourself scream, see his face twist with satisfaction. He loves it. He fucking loves it.

"That's my girl," he growls, voice raw, "look at you, fuckin' perfect. You wanna come again, don't you? Say it. Tell me." He is relentless, the tempo brutal enough to make the couch frame creak. Your whole body is one raw, exposed nerve, and the pleasure borders on pain in a way that makes you sob. You don't even know what you're saying, just babbling his name, babbling anything that might keep him fucking you this good, this hard, forever. He slows, just for a second, like he wants to drag it out, savor every twitch and flutter. Then he slams in, three deep, punishing strokes, and you shatter. You come so hard you think you might pass out, clenching around him so violently your vision goes gray at the edges. Frank hisses, like you've bitten him, and keeps pumping, keeps you racked up high on the edge and then off it again and again.

The world comes back in pieces. You are limp on the cushions, legs thrown over Frank's shoulders, his weight crushing your hips to the couch. His cock still stuffed inside you, still rutting, like he's trying to find the bottom of you and then build a new low. He slides one hand under your back, arching you up, and bends over you until his chest is a wall at your nose, until you can inhale the salt-and-cologne heat of his sweat.

"You wanna be a brat, you better be ready for the consequences," he grunts, biting the words against your lips. "Fuckin' with me all day—" He snaps his hips on the word, sharp enough to make you yelp. "Thinkin' you can get away with it—" Another thrust, another yelp. "This is what happens." Frank goes feral, the tempo turning punishing. He braces your thighs wide, bends you in half, and hammers home with a rhythm that shakes the battered couch and sets every nerve in your body on fire. You're not even aware of your own voice anymore—a high, raw, desperate sound, punctuating every stroke as he fucks you deeper, harder, until the feeling of him is all you know. Your mind whites out at the edges; your skin is electric, slick and tingling and oversensitive. Each thrust rakes over a sweet spot inside until you're convinced you'll split on it, until you're ruined and remade in his image.

He doesn't give you a second to recover. Doesn't care that your legs are jelly, that your body is vibrating with every stutter and snap of his hips. He wants you on the edge, teetering, trembling, bratty little attitude wrung clean out of you. He wants you to never forget who fucks you this open. You can't even look at him—your vision is nothing but sweat and the flat planes of his chest, the bruising press of his hands pinning you down. Frank's face is a blur above you, but you know the look on it: hunger, pride, a little mean, a lot possessive. You love it.

You try to reach for his arm, to anchor yourself to something, but your hands flop uselessly against his forearm. He grunts, leans hard into you, and the new angle makes you want to scream. He's everywhere: in you, on you, under your skin, inside your head. Your own voice is sobbing out his name, a mantra, a plea, the only thing you can say.

"Yeah, that's it," he huffs, voice thick and wet with arousal. "Let everyone hear you, baby. Say it. Say who fucks you this good." He gives you a savage thrust for punctuation and you break, high and needy, the pleasure a punch to the gut.

"Frank—oh, fuck—Frank, Frank—" You're almost crying with it, the mess between your thighs slick and obscene. He loves it. He praises you, filthy, soft, relentless.

"That's my good girl. You take it so good—shit, look at you, takin' every fuckin' inch. This pussy's perfect, made for me." He palms your cheek, forces you to meet his gaze. "You gonna come again for me? Gonna show me how grateful you are?" You nod, whimpering, desperate for it. The heat in your belly is a live wire, every movement a fresh, white-hot spike of pleasure. He slows, just for a moment, grinding deep with a mean little circle of his hips that makes you see stars.

"You like makin' me crazy?" he asks, and you don't even know if it's a question that needs answering. Doesn't matter. You're beyond words, beyond anything but the feeling of his cock splitting you open. He slaps your thigh, a crisp, mean crack, and the sting fans the fire inside you. You clench around him, milking him, and Frank fucks you like the world's gone dark and hot and everything outside this moment's been blown to glass. He wants you split, spent, every sensation spiking until there's only him left in your skull, until if you ever tries to say anyone else's name again your body'll reject it like poison. You're a fucking mess—hair everywhere, tears on your cheeks and spit on your jaw, your voice gone strange and high and sticky from the way he keeps you right there, trembling on the couch, legs crooked up on his shoulders. He can hardly see straight for how much he wants you. It's a sickness, the kind that eats out everything that isn't need. That last orgasm knocked something loose in you, left you blubbering and gasping, and Frank grins like a fucking wolf at the way you clamp around him every time he grinds in deep. He sets a slow rhythm now, dragging it out, letting the stretch and heat build again. He wants you to remember this for a week. He leans in, crowding you, forearms braced on either side of your head. Your whole world's bracketed by his arms and sweat and the sharp, salty tang of sex. You're sobbing, little sounds he used to think meant stop but now he knows mean fuck yes, more, don't you dare stop. He drags his lips along your jaw, nipping and licking, then says it in your ear, quiet and mean:

"This all you got? I thought you were tough." You mewl, tries to squirm away, but he's got you caged. He wants you pinned and wild and shattered. He wants you to never forget his name again. "You like when I fuck you stupid?" he pants, voice breaking on the upstroke, "You like it when I make you cry?" He doesn't expect you to talk. You can't. Your nails dig into his biceps, desperate, searching for something to hold. He fucks you through the shakes, through the endless aftershocks, and the way your body milks him is going to destroy him if he's not careful.

He tries to wait it out. Tries to be good, to make you come again, but you're so hot and tight it's like a goddamn vise—he's never felt anything like it. You're whimpering, helpless, and the sound rips through him.

“Fuck- Say - Shit, mama, say my name.”

“Frank.”

The last of his patience unspools. He slams in deep, stays there, and his vision explodes. He comes hard as he's ever come, the pleasure mean and electric, his hips jerking with every pulse. He's still growling your name—your real name, goddamn it—like if he says it enough times it'll erase every other man who ever looked at you. He collapses on top of you, crushing you a little, and slides a hand up to cup your throat, thumb stroking the pulse point as your bodies cool. His cock stays inside you, fat and spent and still twitching. He feels you shiver as he shifts his weight. He should pull out. He can't. He needs you to know, to feel it for hours.

His cock’s still locked inside you, thick and swollen and leaking, even as every muscle in your body shudders with oversensitive aftershocks. The air’s sharp with ozone and sweat and the raw, animal edge of the two of you. You can feel him softening only a little, but the heat’s still there, the weight of him a constant, insistent throb inside you. He’s made a mess—a slick, hot flood that seeps out around the base of him, pooling out and streaking wet down the backs of your thighs and onto the couch.

You half expect him to pull out,to clean you up and cradle you, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stays buried deep, his body a wall against you, his hand heavy on your thigh, fingers digging in with a need to keep you exactly where you are. Your cunt pulses around him, desperate and hollow and full at the same time, the sensation so sharp it makes your eyes water. You try to shift your hips, to ease yourself off the impalement, but Frank grunts and tightens his grip, holding you still.

“Don’t move,” he mutters, voice rough and shredded. He sounds equal parts threat and plea. “Just—gimme a second.” You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Every nerve sings, every clench sets off a fresh splash of slick between your legs. You’re not sure if you could stand up, even if he let you. Frank’s hand slides up, palm warm on your belly. He flexes his arm and pins you down, like he’s afraid you’ll evaporate if he lets go. He nudges his hips forward, slow and deliberate, forcing another inch inside you. You whimper, the sensation almost too much, but you want it, need it, love that he can’t stop himself even now. You feel the way his cock twitches, a slow, aftershock pulse, the slide of his spend leaking out and then forced back in as he gives a shallow thrust.

He’s not done. Not even close.

He pulls your hips up, finds a new angle, and grinds himself in again. You can feel every vein, every shift, the thick stretch of him carving you open. He moves slow, deeper than before, dragging the oversensitive seam of your cunt until it blurs the pleasure and pain together. Your walls flutter and clamp down, desperate to keep him, and Frank’s hand finds the nape of your neck, holds your face-down in the battered cushions.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he slurs, almost too quiet to hear. “Keep you plugged up, yeah?” His hips stay welded to you, cock still inside, and you can feel him—Frank's come, thick and hot, slowly leaking out and then forced right back in by the lazy clutch of your body and the thick, insistent length he refuses to let go. The mess of it drips from your cunt, sticky and slippery, trickling down your ass and pooling under the curve of your thigh. Frank's hand slides with you, guiding the slick back up, circling the rim of your overstretched hole and then pushing it in again with a gentle, careful thumb. He does it slow. So slow. Like he's pressing a memory into you. He keeps you folded, legs wide, the angle obscene and utterly helpless, and you can't move, can't even twitch. Every time you think he's done, that he's squeezing the very last drop of himself inside you, Frank drags his thumb down again, collects what's escaped, and traces it back up the seam of your pussy, watching it pearl and disappear where the base of his cock splits you open. He groans—quiet, like he's talking to himself—and gives a little grind, just enough to stir everything up, to make your insides ripple and push out another thick rope of spend around his cock. The sensation makes you sob. It’s almost too much, but the way he does it, so careful, so fucking gentle, is nothing like the bruising violence of ten seconds ago. He keeps you impaled, keeps you gaping underneath him, and just... admires his handiwork.

“Look at that,” he says, but his voice has gone soft, gone almost lost. “Made a mess of you.” He sounds almost reverent. He runs his palm up your thigh and presses the flesh until it dimples, like he needs the proof that you’re real. The couch shakes with every little shift he makes, every micro-thrust, every exhausted clench of your cunt milking him for more. You try to blink your way back into reality, but your body’s fried, nerves sparking and shorting out with every new sensation. The room is spinning, the taste of sweat and spit and salt thick in your mouth, but Frank is steady, an anchor in the haze. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll fall apart if he lets go. You expect him to snap back to the old Frank any second—rough, gruff, never sentimental—but instead he bends low, presses his forehead to yours, and stays there, breathing you in. His breath is hot and sour with effort. He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t even soften all the way. He stays where he is, like if he stops, even for a second, the world will cave in.When he finally pulls out, you whine, instinctive and high, the emptiness a shock after all that relentless fullness. The mess is immediate—warm and thick and slick, his cum painting your thighs, smeared across every inch of you. Frank stares at the sight, breath ragged, chest heaving. There’s a wild pride in his face, his work here, the evidence of how thoroughly he’s ruined you.

But then it hits him what he’s done. That he’s made you cry, that your legs don’t work, that you’re so open and spent and marked by him. He crowds in close, hands gentle now, running down your back, smoothing out the ridges of your spine.

“Shit.” The word is rough and sticky, like his mouth doesn’t want to let go of it. He's never seen anyone look so finished. Not just tired—wrecked, splotched under the eyes, face swollen with tears. The sound in your throat isn't even a whimper, just a shaky, airless wheeze as you try and fail to move your leg, which is still flopped useless over his shoulder. The stark panic that hits him is visceral. He did this. He wrecked you. He spent all day thinking about it, but now that it's real, now that you're slumped under him all glassy and trembling, a cold trickle starts up the spine. He tries to shift back, but you flinch and he sees the fresh tears, the way your thighs clamp shut before he even moves.

“Hey, hey—shit, honey, I gotcha,” he mumbles, voice turned all thick and soft, nothing like the man from thirty seconds ago. His hands move gentle now, thumbs tracing soft circles in all the places he’d used to bruise. You can’t meet his eyes. You just lie there, cheek mashed to a throw pillow, the mess of wet on your face drying sticky and sweet. You blink at a spot on his chest, like if you look anywhere else you might float right out of your body. Frank feels the zip of guilt, a live wire through his sternum. He tries to nudge you upright, to cradle you, but you just curl tighter. He tugs the ruined t-shirt down to cover your chest, suddenly desperate to shield you from even the air.

“C’mere,” he says, voice wobbling in that way you only ever hear when he’s scared. “C’mere, I’m sorry, I’m so fuckin’ sorry—I got carried away, I didn’t mean…” He can’t finish. He’s never seen you look so small. He pulls you into his lap, cradling you with arms that only minutes ago could have ripped you in half. You shiver, clutching at his forearm, nails digging in like you’re afraid he’ll vanish. He pets your hair, wipes the sweat from your brow, and presses his lips to your head. It’s not until you start to breathe again—really breathe, slow and deep and shaky—that he allows himself to speak above a whisper.

“Did I hurt you? Hey, look at me—tell me. Did I hurt you bad?” The panic is naked on his face, no armor left. You try to answer, but the words tangle in your throat. You shake your head, burrow closer, the heat of him grounding you. He waits, silent but vibrating, for the next breath, and the next. Only after a long minute do you force out a croak:

“Just—lot. Lot all at once.” Your laugh is bruised and wet, but it’s there. Frank holds you like you’ll break, palms wide and steady on your back.

“Baby, you gotta tell me if it’s too much,” he says, voice so raw you almost don’t recognize it. "Jealous craze or not , I never wanna fuckin' hurt ya." You shake your head.

"S'exactly what i wanted." Frank's entire face softens. The panic doesn't leave. It just changes shape. He searches your face with frantic, guilty eyes, brushing damp strands of hair away from your forehead over and over, as if he can't stop checking that you're really here.

"You sure?" he asks quietly. You nod against his shoulder.

"'M sure." He exhales, but it's shaky. Not relief. Not completely. His thumb keeps tracing slow circles across your back.

"I lost my head."

"I know."

"I got jealous."

"I know."

"I should've reined it in." You lift your head just enough to look at him.

"Frankie. I did it on purpose. I wanted this to happen." He rolls his eyes.

"I'm aware." He huffs. "Doesn't change the fact I should've been more careful." He lets out a shaky breath, his forehead still pressed to yours. The tension in his shoulders doesn't ease, but something in his eyes does—like he's finally letting himself believe you.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he murmurs, but there's no anger in it. Just a raw, terrifying sort of acceptance. His thumb traces your jawline, then dips lower, brushing against the pulse in your throat. "Making me lose control like that." You manage a weak smile.

"You looked pretty in control to me." That gets a huff of laughter out of him, short and sharp.

"Yeah, well." He shifts slightly, careful not to jostle you too much. "We oughta get you some glasses, mama."

You snort, the sound small and scratchy.

"Glasses?"

"So you can tell the difference between me and every poor bastard whose name you decided to call me today." You let your head fall back against his shoulder.

"I knew exactly who you were."

"Oh, did you?"

"Mhm."

"And yet I spent the whole damn day bein' Billy, Matt, David…" He counts them off on his fingers with exaggerated annoyance. "Think you even threw Foggy in there at one point."

"I might've."

"You absolutely did."A sleepy smile pulls at your lips.

"You were cute when you got jealous." He gives you a look.

"Cute?"

"So cute."

"I was havin' a crisis."

"You were pouting."

"I do not pout."

"You do."

"I brood."

"You pout while brooding." He huffs, but there's no heat behind it.

"You've got a dangerous definition of entertainment."

"I had fun."

"I noticed." His hand slides slowly up your back, warm and steady, never rushing, never asking for anything. Just holding you.

"You still with me?" he asks quietly. You nod against him.

"Mhm."

"Tired?"

"So tired."

"Hungry?"

"Little."

"Thirsty?"

"Yeah." He kisses the top of your head.

"I'll fix both."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

"You always say that."

"'Cause it's true." He shifts carefully, making sure you stay wrapped in the blanket he'd pulled around your shoulders before easing you off his lap just enough to settle you comfortably against the couch cushions. "Don't move." You smile without opening your eyes.

"Bossy."

"Damn right." He disappears into the kitchen for less than a minute before returning with a glass of water.

"Easy," he says, slipping an arm behind your shoulders to help you sit up. "Small sips." You obediently take a drink. He watches until you've swallowed. "Another." You roll your eyes.

"Yes, sir."

"Smartass."

"You love me."

"I do." The answer comes so quickly it steals your smile for a second. He notices.

"What?"

"Nothin'."

"You got that look."

"What look?"

"The one where you're thinkin' too hard." You study him. His hair is still a mess. There's a faint crease between his brows that hasn't disappeared. His breathing is normal again, but every few seconds his eyes flick over you like he's checking you're really okay.

"You still feel guilty." He doesn't answer immediately. Finally, he nods once.

"Little."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

"But I'm gonna anyway." You reach for him.

"C'mere."

He sits back down without hesitation, and you immediately curl into his side again. His arm comes around your shoulders. Instinct. Like it belongs there. You rest your palm against the center of his chest. His heart is finally beating at something close to normal.

"There," you murmur.

"What?"

"That's better." He covers your hand with his.

"You scared me."

"I know."

"I don't like seein' you cry."

"I wasn't crying because I was unhappy."

"I know."

"I was just… overwhelmed."

"I know." He presses a kiss into your hair. "I'm still gonna worry."

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't." That earns a quiet laugh.

"You are impossible."

"So I've been told."

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