feeling very normal about the idea of Frank coming home after a particularly bad day and needing to be inside you, feeling like it's not quite enough. Being that deep in you is all he has to hold on to-- it's the closest he can get to believing that you're here and you're safe and you're with him without crawling into your skin. His fingertips are sunk so deep into your hips and thighs that he thinks to apologize while he's still got you in his lap, a strained "fuckin' bruisin' you doll and I know it but I just need to feel you like this" murmured into your ear. He'll hate himself for it later. He cups his hand on the back of your head as he pumps into you, pushing you into his chest and you let out a tiny cry-- half in pleasure and half in sadness for the way Frank can't seem to be sated. You try to soothe him, landing a soft hand on his stubbly cheek and try to get him to look you in the eye but his brows are furrowed and his eyes cast down at where you both connect, like he needs to witness it to believe it. "S'ok Frankie," you mumble, petting his face, "I'm here. S'alright" but he can only shake his head, still not meeting your eye. "Didn't see what I saw sweetheart," he grunts in reply, slamming his hips up into you just a fraction more, enough to make you bounce and grab ahold of him to steady yourself. "So fuckin' sorry sweetheart," he adds, leaning his head onto your shoulder a moment as he exerts himself, and you're not sure what he's sorry for -- the fervor and pace he's fucking you, the life he's subjected you to, his past. It doesn't really matter because you don't need an apology anyway and you tell him so. "None of that Frankie," you say running your hand through his cropped hair along the back of his head, scratching your fingernails on his scalp. He groans at the sensation and you feel him release inside you, pausing only for a second to shudder through it before he sets a new pace and continues.
