what is this even?

There was only one thing you looked forward to a the end of the day- and that was getting your hands on the hot hunk of a man you called boyfriend.

The thought alone sustained you through the endless meetings, the passive-aggressive emails, the traffic that made you want to scream. Eight hours of bullshit, all of it worth it for the thirty seconds when you'd finally push through the front door and find him there.

Sometimes he was cooking. Sometimes he was cleaning his guns. Sometimes he was just sprawled on the couch, shirtless and scrolling through his phone, completely oblivious to the fact that he looked like sin incarnate— all hard lines and dark ink and that perfectly unfair jawline. Today, you were particularly desperate for it. The day had been a special kind of hell, and your skin felt too tight, your patience worn down to nothing. You needed his hands. His mouth. The weight of him pressing you into something solid until the world stopped spinning.

You kick the door shut harder than necessary, dropping your bag with a thud that echoed through the apartment.

"Frank?" you call, already toeing off your heels.

No answer.

You pad down the hallway, heart doing that stupid little flutter it always did when you knew he was close. The bathroom light is on, casting a warm glow across the hardwood, and then— There.

He's leaning against the bathroom sink, fresh from the shower by the look of it, wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets still cling to his shoulders, tracing paths down the valley of his spine, over the ridges of muscle that made up his back. He's shaving, razor dragging slow and careful along his jaw, and the sight of him— domestic and dangerous all at once— stops you dead in the doorway.

"Hey," he says, not turning around, but you see his mouth curve in the mirror. He always knew when you were there. Always. "Rough day?" You don't answer. You can't. You're too busy staring at the way the towel gapes slightly at the back, revealing the dimples above his ass, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the cotton.

"Baby?" He rinses the razor, finally glancing over his shoulder. His eyes— dark and knowing— sweep down your body, taking in your disheveled state, your flushed cheeks, your hands already reaching for him. Something predatory sparks in his gaze. "Oh. That kind of day." You cross the distance in three steps, not caring about your work clothes, your dignity, anything. You just need to touch him. Now. Your hands land on his back first, palms flat against warm, damp skin, and he straightens immediately, setting the razor down with a careful click. You press your forehead between his shoulder blades and inhaled— soap and gun oil and that particular scent that was just him.

"Hey," he says again, softer this time. He turns, and you let him, let him manhandle you until you're pinned between his body and the sink, his big hands braced on either side of you. "C'mere."

You go willingly, boneless and desperate, your fingers finding the edge of his towel and yanking.

"Impatient," he accuses, but he's already smiling, already hard, already reaching for you like he'd been waiting all day too.

"Shut up and touch me," you breathe, and pull him down to meet your mouth. He lifts you with embarrassing ease, his arms locking around your ass, and you dig your nails into his shoulders, too frantic to care if you leave marks—he likes it that way. He walks you backward down the hall, his mouth never leaving yours, except to mutter dark, approving nothings against your jaw. By the time you hit the bedroom door, you’ve already managed to strip your blouse to your elbows, letting it tangle and drag behind you like some kind of flag of surrender. Frank lays you down with more gentleness than you deserve, hunched over the bed, his big hands bracing on either side of you. You try pulling him on top of you but he just grins, slow and smug, and pins your wrists to the mattress.

“Relax,” he rumbles, working his way down your throat, biting, sucking, just enough teeth to keep you present. You squirm, arching up to meet him, wishing you could liquefy and seep right through his skin. He presses a massive hand against your sternum, holding you down.

“Easy. I got you.” His mouth travels lower, between your breasts, sliding the cups aside like they’re nothing. His stubble rasps against your skin, the heat of his tongue a shock after a day of cold indifference. You shudder and try to buck your hips, but Frank only laughs, “Desperate. Always so fuckin’ desperate.” He works you open with his mouth, his fingers, slow and methodical—like he has all the time in the world, and you’re the only thing in it worth working for. He uses his hands to pin your thighs, thumbs tracing lazy circles until you want to scream. You fist the sheets, bite down hard on your own moan. He looks up at you, hands gliding up to your hips, and says,

“You gotta let me stretch you, okay?” The words alone make you tremble. He starts slow, two fingers, then three, his other hand rubbing lazy circles above, keeping you soft and pliant while he works you wider. He talks you through it, praises you for every inch you take, voice made of velvet and gravel. Frank’s hands grip your waist and he guides you down, slow and easy. The pain is sharp at first, then dulls by the heat, the stretch, the certainty that this is what you want. He catches your gaze and holds it, never letting you look away, the unspoken order clear: Stay with me. Don’t drift. You whine as you sink down further, your thighs shaking with the stretch. Frank holds your gaze, knuckles white on your hips. He's patient, but inside, your head's full of static. The end of the day, the pressure, all of it burns you up from the inside and you want—no, need—more. You grind down, greedy for the stretch, desperate for the burn, and he growls approval, low and rough as a drumbeat.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Take it. Look at you.” His praise floods you with heat and you snap, bucking your hips until you’re flush with him, the slick noise obscene and shameless. You choke a curse into the crook of his shoulder.

"Fuck," You manage, and Frank bites down on a laugh, the sound sending a bolt straight through her.

"Good girl. Show me how bad you want it." His big hands move up, spread beneath your ass, hot and rough and insistent. “Move. I want to watch you fuckin’ ride it.” Your vision is full of him—scarred everywhere, those fucking eyes that latch onto yours and never let up. You plant a hand on his chest and does as your told, rolling your hips in hard, frantic circles, every movement sparking a deeper ache, a wild, searing pleasure that makes you see spots. Your brain nearly fries on the feedback loop—Frank, Frank, Frank—his name a mantra, a tether, the single steady thing in a world of chaos.

“You feel that? So fuckin’ tight—never get tired of the way you squeeze me. Always take me so well, baby, look at you.” He’s proud, always so damn proud of you, and it undoes you every time. Your hands claw at his shoulders for leverage. You throw your head back, hair a tangle, mouth open. The bed creaks under the violence, the need. Heat spills through you, every muscle shaking, and you’re so fucking close it hurts. You don’t mean to make the sound you make—half-wail, half-laugh—but Frank loves it, voice taut with delight.

“That’s my girl. Atta fucking girl.”

“Fuck you’re so big, Frankie.” You whine, eyes rolling back. Frank’s hands refuse to let go, keeping you anchored as you bounce, picking up a wet, obscene rhythm. All dignity’s gone, your grip desperate at his shoulders, trying to keep from flying apart. He meets you thrust for thrust, gaze wolfish, lips peeled back in something like a grin. You want to fuck him mean, fuck him hard—punish the mattress, the neighbors, the sun for rising.

“That’s it, baby, use me.” His voice rips through you, low and riotous. You ride him faster, chasing the wild edge that’s building—so close, so fucking close. Each piston of your hips makes the world snap into pure sensation. He grunts, sharp and wrecked, fingers digging in. The slap of skin, your wild whimpers, the way his cock bullies every spot inside you—pure overload. The pressuire builds so fast and so harsh that you choke on air.

“Fuck- Frank-”

“That’s it baby. Ride it out, ride it out.” He moans, throwing his head back, pistoning his hips upwards. You coke on a breath, the feeling clawing up your throat.

“Wait- Fuck - Frank-” You choke, your body shaking with anticipation, “It doesn’t - Shit, it feels-” Frank’s hands don’t let go, not for a second, and the things happening inside you feel so wrong and so right that your brain can’t get a grip on any single thought. You’re past the point of words, mouth slack, every muscle taut, something volcanic pulling deep and hard under the skin. The tension inside is so tight you’re not sure you’ll survive it— And then it snaps. A shockwave punches through your core, tearing a sound from your throat so raw you hardly recognize it, a litany of

“Fuck, fuck, oh fuck,” as you seize around him, as your whole body judders. Your vision tunnels, the world white-hot and airless, and for a moment, you feel like you’re floating, your body barely yours. There’s an impossible, wet heat, a rush and a burst, and it takes you a second too long to recognize what’s just happened. You’re aware of Frank’s hands, still clutching, of the obscene slickness between you. There’s liquid everywhere, a warm, undeniable spray, and your brain screams in horror at the realization.

Everything is wet. All over him. All over the sheets, the mattress, probably even the wall behind. Dread slams through you, hard and cold, and you freeze, muscles locked. Frank exhales a huff of pure amazement, and the sound guts you. You push away from him, sudden and desperate, clutching the sheets to your chest as if you could vanish into them.

“Shit, shit, fuck—” You can’t meet his eyes. The humiliation’s so sharp it bites, and you stumble to your feet, knees barely working, soaked through and ruined. Frank sits up, dick slapping up against his stomach- still heard and ready to burst. Your whole body is shaking, and you stumble away from him, horrified at yourself. Frank looks down at himself, at the wetness collecting on his body, then back up at you.

"Holy shit- Did you just -" You whine, shaking your head, and bolt out of the room. "Wha- Baby, wait !" You choke on a sob as you hear him thunder down the hall behind you, and you reach the bathroom just in time to slam the door and lock yourself in. You slide down the bathroom door until your ass hits the cold tile, pulling your knees to your chest and burying your face in your hands. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter, and you can’t breathe—can’t think—past the roaring humiliation in your ears.

You peed on him. You actually peed on him.

The memory replays in vicious Technicolor: the wet heat, the shocked sound Frank made, the way your body just… released. All over his stomach, his thighs, the fucking bed. You gag on a sob, pressing your forehead to your knees, willing the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

“Baby?” Frank’s voice comes through the door, low and careful. You hear him shift on the other side, his big frame settling against the wood. “Sweetheart, open the door.” You shake your head even though he can’t see it, curling tighter into yourself.

“Go away,” you choke out, voice wrecked and ugly. “Oh my God, please just—go away.” God, you can't breathe. You scramble around the bathroom, grabbing a towel and hurriedly drying between your thighs, sobbing as you sink on the side of the tub and wrap yourself up in the towel.

"Baby are you- Fuck, baby, are you crying ?" The doorknob rattles. "Mama, open this fuckin' door before I break it down. " He rasps, his voice desperate and wounded. "Please, baby, don't be fuckin' crying in there- not when I can't hold you." You hiccup against your knees, the towel scratchy and insufficient against the cold shame crawling under your skin. You can hear him breathing on the other side—heavy, ragged, like he’s trying to keep himself together.

“Baby,” he tries again, voice breaking slightly. “Please. I’m not mad. I’m not—fuck, I’m not anything except worried about you. Please open the door.” You swipe at your face with the towel, but the tears keep coming, hot and humiliating.

“I can’t,” you whisper, knowing he probably can’t hear you. “I can’t look at you. I ruined everything—”

“You didn’t ruin shit,” he snaps, then immediately softens. "Baby, please, my love." You sob harder, shaking your head.

"Frank, i peed on you !" The confession hangs in the air between you—ugly and raw and true. You clamp a hand over your mouth like you can stuff the words back in, but it’s too late. They’re out there now, vibrating in the space between the bathroom tile and his bare feet on the hardwood. Silence. For one heartbeat, two. Then—

“You didn’t—fuck, baby, is that what you think happened ?” You nod miserably, even though he can’t see you.

“I felt it,” you choke out, louder now. “There was so much, and I couldn’t stop it, and you were… you were covered in it—”

“Because you squirted, mama." he says, and there’s wonder in his voice, not disgust. "That’s not pee. That’s… that’s from inside you. That’s you coming so fucking hard you couldn’t hold it back.” Your breath stutters. You stare at the door, trying to process through the panic. He pauses, and you hear his forehead thunk softly against the wood. “It was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I mean that. I’m hard as fucking steel out here just thinking about it again.” You blink, sniffling.

“…You’re not just saying that?”

“Baby, I’m covered in you right now,” he says, rough and honest. “And I haven’t wiped it off because I don’t want to. Because it’s you. Because you trusted me enough to lose control like that, and I’m… I’m fucking honored, okay? I’m not disgusted. I’m in awe.” Your chest hitches. You uncurl slightly, looking at the door like it might offer answers.

“Open the door,” he murmurs, coaxing now. “Let me hold you. Let me show you how much I liked it. Please, sweetheart. I hate that you’re crying in there alone.” You tremble for another long moment, then slowly—shakily—you stand. Your legs feel like jelly, your face swollen and ugly from crying, but you reach for the lock and twist it. The door opens before you can pull it, Frank’s big hand wrapping around the edge, his face appearing in the gap. He looks wrecked—hair wild, eyes dark with worry and still blown wide with arousal, his bare chest heaving. "Oh, baby." Your face crumples, and he rushes forward, gathering you in his arms. He doesn't give you time to retreat or apologize again. His arms lock around you—tight, crushing, like he's trying to pull you inside his own ribcage where nothing can hurt you. One big hand cradles the back of your head, pressing your face to the damp skin of his neck, and he makes this sound—low, broken, grateful—that vibrates through his chest and into yours.

"Shh," he breathes, rocking you slightly, already walking you backward out of the bathroom. "I got you. I got you, baby."

"I ruined the sheets," you mumble, voice muffled and pathetic against his collarbone.

"Fuck the sheets." He kisses your hair, your temple, anywhere he can reach. "I'll buy new ones. I'll buy a whole new bed. I don't care." He carries you to the bedroom—doesn't even hesitate, just lifts you like you weigh nothing—and you catch a glimpse of the mess as you pass. The dark wet spot on the mattress, the tangled evidence of what your body did. You flinch, but Frank tightens his grip. "Don't," he says, firm but gentle. "Don't look at it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like it's something shameful." He lowers you onto the edge of the bed—the dry part, you realize, he's somehow maneuvered you there without letting you touch the wet spot—and sinks to his knees in front of you. His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing over your swollen eyelids, your tear-streaked cheeks. "Look at me." You do. You can't not.

"That was the hottest fucking thing I've ever felt," he says, voice dropping to that gravelly register that always unraveled you. "You. Letting go like that. Trusting me enough to just… go. Do you have any idea what that does to me?" You shake your head, sniffling. He takes one of your hands—your small, trembling hand—and presses it to his chest, right over his thundering heart. Then he guides it lower, over the hard plane of his stomach, until your palm brushes the soft v-line of his stomach. He settles your hand over his dick, and you suck in a heavy breath. His whole body shudders as your fist wraps around his dick, and his head tips forward, a strangled moan leaving his chest. He's still hard. Painfully hard.

"Feel that?" he rasps. "That's what you do to me. That's what watching you lose control like that does. I haven't touched myself. Haven't thought about anything except getting you to open that door so I could hold you and tell you how fucking perfect you are." Your breath catches. You stare at him—really stare—and see the truth of it in his blown pupils, the flush across his cheekbones, the way his jaw clenches with restraint.

"You… you liked it?" you whisper, still not quite believing. Frank actually laughs—quiet, disbelieving, fond.

"Baby, I want to make you do it again. Right now. I want to spend all night figuring out exactly how to touch you to make that happen every single time." He groans as your hand subconsiously tightens around his dick. "Shit- I need you so fucking bad right now, baby." he says, but makes no move to fuck you again- clearly letting you breathe through it and decide for yourself. Your palm is locked around him, pulse racing under your skin, and Frank’s head droops low between his shoulders. The muscles of his arms twitch, hands braced against the sides of your knees, and he breathes like he’s been running for miles—each inhale jagged and thick. You thumb the bead of wetness gathering at the tip and watch his whole body startle, his thighs flexing under the towel now barely clinging to his hips. He looks up. Eyes glassy, black with need.

“You want to keep going?” he says, like it’s a secret, like you could possibly say no. You nod. You don’t even have to think about it. He cups your jaw, guides your mouth open, and kisses you: wet, slow, greedy. He doesn’t flinch at the salt on your cheeks, just licks it from your skin like it’s proof, like it’s holy. When he pulls away, his thumb drags over your lower lip.

“You tell me if you don’t like something,” he says, voice shaking now. “I need to hear you.”

“Frank,” you manage, “just—fuck me.” He laughs, a short, shuddery thing.

“You’re the boss,” he says. Frank stands and tugs you with him, unraveling the towel so it pools on the floor. He drags your legs apart at the knees and sits you at the edge of the bed, cock bobbing heavy and flushed, and you almost want to apologize again for the mess but he grabs you by the hips and pulls you closer like he’s starved for it. Your butt tips off the bed, and he stands at the foot of the bed, slinging your thighs over his shoulders.

“Y’gonna be real sensitive, baby.” He huffs, slowly dragging his cock through your fluttering folds. “Gotta tell me if it hurts.” He pushes in slow, the glide so slippery it feels like nothing and everything, the head of his cock stretching you open in one lazy, relentless motion. You can’t help the way your legs jerk, thigh muscles quivering on either side of his head—he’s so big it’s always a shock, always so much, and you swear you can feel him all the way up your spine. He waits, doesn’t rush, just lets you get used to it, one hand holding your knee steady while the other strokes soothing lines up your shin.

“Holy fuck,” you say, instantly on the verge of tears for a whole new reason. Frank’s hands keep you spread, keep you anchored, but everything else is gentle, so gentle, it undoes you more than any roughness ever could. You blink at the ceiling, vision blurry, and your arms scrabble behind you for purchase. The bed frame rattles a little with every throb. The first thrust is slow and deep, Frank’s body folding you in half, and you swear you can feel the weight of him in every rib. He barely moves, just rocks you, lets you get reacquainted with the feeling of him filling you up. There’s no rush, no violence in the way he holds you, but the praise is relentless, steady as a metronome.

“You good?” he rasps, and you nod, and he gives you a little more, so slow, easing the ache until it melts into something greedy and sharp. Your fingers tangle in the sheets at your sides, knuckles gone white. There’s a slippery sound where you’re joined, obscene, and Frank’s pupils snap wide at the sight of it. He groans, low and strained, the noise vibrating up your thighs.

“Christ,” he whispers, “you’re fucking—” He can’t even finish, just starts to move, measured rolls of his hips. Each time he bottoms out, he swallows hard, watching your face. You feel split, wrecked, but the praise in his eyes, the reverence, makes you want to take it, to show him you can. You shiver, and he smooths a thumb over your knee.

“That’s my girl. Always take it so good,” he says, voice thick. “Can’t get enough of you, I swear.” He gives you more, the rhythm building, and you can’t control the noises you make. Every thrust rocks you up the bed an inch; the friction inside, the slickness, the heat, it’s all too much. He leans forward, folding your legs up higher, and the next stroke hits a spot so deep you yelp, back arching.

“There? That’s the spot, huh?” He’s grinning now, sharp and bright, sweat already shining in the hollow of his throat. He keeps the angle, keeps hitting it, and you’re gone, totally fucking gone, clutching at his forearms, trying to hold on as the pleasure flares white behind your eyelids.

“Frank—” you gasp, but he just hushes you, thrusts deep, and holds you there, a furnace between your legs. “

You’re perfect,” he mutters, “so goddamn perfect for me. Can feel you clenching, baby—fuck, you’re gonna come again, aren’t you?” The words make you dizzy. He pounds into you with more force, and your eyes roll back, fingers digging into the meaty flesh of his thighs. He’s not letting up; every time he slams home he lands a little harder, and the world telescopes to the exact place where your bodies meet. You can’t stop shaking, can’t stop whimpering, the edge inside you a razored line, impossible and bright. Frank’s jaw tightens. He’s fighting for every shred of control, but the way he’s got you folded—the stretch, the angle, the ruthless piston of his hips—he’s not making it easy for himself.

“C’mon, baby,” he groans, sweat dripping down the cords of his neck. “Gimme another one. I know you got more for me.” The praise sends heat streaking up your chest. It’s not just the stretch, not just the muscle or the weight or the filth of what you’re doing; it’s him, the way he sees you, the way each word out of his mouth fuels the fire. “So beautiful when you break for me,” he says, voice like gravel. “Let me see it, pretty girl. Let go.” You don’t even make a noise the second time; the orgasm punches the air out of you, your body clamping down so hard on Frank it’s like you’re trying to pull him inside you. He hisses through his teeth, and suddenly his rhythm stutters, hips juddering against your oversensitive skin. He fucks you through it, hand between your shoulders so you don’t rocket off the bed, and you’re so gone, you don’t notice the tears until he does. He slows, wipes your face with his palm, and kisses the wetness away.

“S’too much,” you slur, but you reach for him anyway, greedy, insatiable, every nerve ending raw and sparkling.

“You take it so good. My brave girl.” He’s gentle now, rolling his hips, riding the aftershocks with you, the way he always does. You feel every inch of him, every pulse, and it’s obscene, the filth pooling out of you, slicking down your thighs, soaking the ruined sheets even more. Frank pulls you upright, your legs still trembling in his hands, and kisses you like you’re a secret worth keeping.

“Ah, shit.” He groans, watching as your slick spreads on his stomach and drips down to where you’re conjoined. He tips his head backwards, pressing a kiss to your ankle, and you can feel his cock twitch inside of you.

“F-Frankie-” You whine, writhing, trying to push away from him but he pins your knees tighter to his chest. He keeps talking, not letting her drift: “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this, y’know? All spread out, taking it so good.” His words hitch, rougher now. “Feel you squeezing me, baby. Never wanna leave you.” His thrusts get faster, wetter, the sounds between your bodies obscene, and all you can do is hang on and take it, let him wreck you as many times as he wants. Your vision pulses, goes to static. The tremor doesn’t build this time—it just detonates, a hot splintered rush, and you cry out, your body clamping down hard around him. Frank groans from somewhere deep in his chest and his rhythm stutters. He doesn’t stop, fucks you through it, until you’re boneless and strangled on your own breath. One hand leaves your thigh to cradle the back of your head—so gentle, impossibly gentle, given the way he’s still moving in you. His forehead drops to yours. Sweat falls from his hair onto your lips.

“That’s my girl,” he pants. “Fuckin’ champion. Still with me?” You can’t speak, can barely see. You slur something that means yes, yes, god, yes into the haze between your mouths, and that’s enough. He gives you everything—both hands on your face now, holding you there, keeping you with him as he fucks you.

“Oh fuck- oh shit- Baby- fuck-” He whines, eyes drawing closed. “Im gonna- fuck, i’m gonna come-” His eyes fly open. “I need to- Shit, i’m gonna pull out.”

“No !” You whimper, clenching around him. “I need you to come in me, please, Frankie, please.” He groans, like you’ve just punched him in the gut, and his grip on your knees turns bruising.

“Fuck. Okay. Okay, baby,” he rasps, and slams home, deep and grinding and so right it hurts. You can feel him pulsing inside you, a raw, hot torrent, and the burn sends aftershocks screaming through your legs.Frank doesn’t even falter, just growls, “That’s it, baby. Take all of me. Want to fill you up so fuckin’ bad.” His hands bracket your hips, holding you locked against the edge of the bed as he spears in, deeper, deeper, the heavy slap of skin getting wetter, louder, each time you squeeze and tremble around him. Your toes curl, stretching high over his broad shoulders, and you writhe under the onslaught, hair fanned out wild, mouth open to catch the hungry air.His name shreds out of your throat—high, ruined—and Frank bows over your body, one hand cupping behind your neck, holding your face close to his while he rides out every last ripple. He doesn’t move for a minute. Just breathes, sweat slicking your skin together, his arms shaking with the effort of not crushing you into the mattress. You’re both trembling, his hair dripping onto your brow, lips parted a hair’s width from yours. His voice is a scrape of velvet and sandpaper:

“You okay?” You want to answer, but the words get lost somewhere between your chest and your tongue. All you can do is nod, blinking dumbly up at him and shaking with aftershocks. Frank huffs a laugh, soft and shredded.

“You fuckin’ kill me, you know that?” He eases your legs from his shoulders, hands gentle as they trace your calves and ankles like he needs to check you’re still in one piece. He lays you back, careful, pride and something heavier etched across his face. He dips his head to kiss the inside of your knee, your thigh, your hip. He mouths “my girl” against the skin, not loud enough for you to hear but you feel the words anyway, a vibration under your ribs. You’re so wrecked, so blissed out, your limbs feel like they’ve been filled with helium. Your whole body is shaking, and you bring your hand down between your legs, feeling his co,e drip out of you and the way your pussy is spasming. He watches you touch yourself—watches your fingers slide through the mess of both of you with a kind of reverent fascination, like he can't believe you’re real, can't believe you let him do that to you, mark you like that.

"Christ," he breathes, still kneeling between your thighs, his cock softening against his stomach but his eyes dark and alert. He covers your hand with his own, pressing your palm firmer against yourself, feeling the wet heat, the fluttering pulse of your wrecked body. "Feel that? Feel what you do to me?" You whimper, nodding, too spent to form words. Your fingers twitch under his, and he takes the hint, gently withdrawing your hand and bringing your fingers to his mouth. He cleans them with his tongue—slow, deliberate, never breaking eye contact—and the intimacy of it makes your chest ache.

"Frank," you whisper, voice shot to hell.

"Yeah, baby?" He lowers himself down, finally, his weight settling over you in a blanket of warm, heavy muscle. He doesn't crush you—he never does—but he covers you completely, one hand sliding under your back to arch you into him, the other petting your hair, your face, anywhere he can reach.

"That was…" You search for words, find none. "So much."

"I know." He kisses your temple, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. "Too much?" You shake your head, and he smiles—soft, satisfied, smug in the way only Frank can be after he's destroyed you completely.

"Good. 'Cause I wasn't stopping."

"You never stop," you mumble, and he laughs—quiet, rumbly, vibrating through your chest.

"Not when you're making those noises. Not when you're looking at me like that." He kisses you properly then, deep and lazy, all teeth and tongue and the taste of you both. When he pulls back, he's breathing hard again, but it's different now—sated, content. "Gonna get you cleaned up, okay? Don't move." He moves to the bathroom, and you hear water running. He returns with a warm washcloth and that patient, focused expression he gets when he's taking care of you. He spreads your legs gently—so gently, after everything—and cleans you with methodical tenderness, wiping away the evidence of what you did together, checking you for soreness, for hurt.

"You okay?" he asks again, because Frank is nothing if not thorough. "Honestly, baby. You were shaking pretty hard."

"Good shaking," you assure him, reaching for his hand. He intertwines his fingers with yours, brings your knuckles to his lips.

"Good shaking, huh?" His eyebrow lifts. You nod immediately.

"Very different category of shaking."

"Important distinction."

"Extremely." Frank huffs a laugh and tosses the washcloth into the nearby hamper. Then he climbs back into bed beside you and immediately drags you against him like he's operating on instinct. Which, honestly, he probably is. The second your cheek touches his chest, his arm locks around your shoulders.

There. Fixed.

You smile despite yourself.

"Feel better now?"

"Mm."

"That wasn't an answer."

"It was a noise."

"It was a terrible answer." His hand slides into your hair, scratching lightly against your scalp. The motion is absentminded. Familiar. Home.

"You know," he says after a minute. The tone immediately makes you suspicious.

"No."

"You don't even know what I'm gonna say."

"Don't care."

"That's rude." You snuggle deeper against him.

"I've earned the right to be rude." A beat.

"Fair." You grin. Then you feel his chest start shaking. You narrow your eyes.

"Frank."

"What?"

"Why are you laughing?"

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm smiling."

"You are absolutely laughing." The smile in his voice is impossible to miss. Slowly, he looks down at you.

"I'm just sayin'."

"No."

"I haven't even said it yet."

"No." His grin widens.

"The water works." You immediately groan.

"Frank."

"The water works."

"Frank!" He starts laughing outright.

"You should've seen your face."

"Oh my God."

"Sweetheart, I thought you were gonna file a police report." You grab a pillow and smack him in the chest. He barely reacts. "You were horrified."

"You were supposed to be horrified."

"Why?"

"Because it was embarrassing!" Frank stares at you for a second. Then cups your face. Gently. Like you're ridiculous. Like he adores you for it.

"Baby."

"What?"

"You could set my truck on fire and I'd still be sittin' here telling you to come on my face." Your mouth falls open.

"That's not the same thing."

"It's exactly the same thing."

"It is absolutely not." He shrugs.

"Close enough." You bury your face against his shoulder with a wounded groan. Frank's laughter rumbles through his chest. A minute passes. Then two. The room settles into a comfortable quiet. The kind that only exists between people who know each other too well. Eventually, his fingers find the back of your neck. Rubbing slow circles.

"You really had yourself worked up over that, huh?" You sigh.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Okay, yes." His hand pauses. Then resumes. Softer this time.

"You don't gotta do that with me." Your chest tightens.

"What?"

"Get embarrassed about every little thing." You lift your head. Frank's expression has changed. The teasing is still there. But underneath it is something warmer. Something honest. "Sweetheart, we've been through worse than a little awkwardness."

A lot worse. The thought hangs between you. Neither of you says it. Neither of you needs to. His thumb brushes your cheek.

"I love all of it." You blink.

"What?"

"The good stuff. The messy stuff. The weird stuff." He smiles. "The parts that panic and run into bathrooms." You groan. He ignores you. "The parts that overthink everything."

"Frank."

"The parts that apologize for things that don't need apologizin'."

"Frank."

"The parts that—" You climb halfway on top of him and slap your hand over his mouth.

"Don't say another word." He laughs behind your hand and softly coaxes it off his hand.

"You're playing a dangerous game, baby." He huffs, staring down at you as you straddled his chest. "Because right now- all I can feel is you dripping on me, and you're giving Frank Jr some dirty dirty ideas." You yelp and scramble off of him. He laughs harder.

"Don't laugh ! Frank, i can already barely walk. I can't do another round." He catches your wrist before you can tumble completely off the bed, his grip firm but gentle, laughter still rumbling in his chest.

"Hey, hey—c'mere. I'm kiddin'."

"You don't sound like you're kidding," you accuse, but you let him reel you back in anyway, collapsing against his side with a dramatic huff. "Your dick has no chill, Frank. It's been five minutes."

"Frank Jr. has a mind of his own," he agrees, smug and unrepentant, but he's already shifting, arranging you on your stomach and settling beside you with his big hand spread across your lower back. "But he can wait. I'm more concerned with you." His thumb finds a knot in your shoulder and presses, working it in slow, methodical circles. You groan into the pillow, melting instantly.

"See?" he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss between your shoulder blades. "You're all tied up. Tense. Barely walked in the door before you jumped me, didn't even let me finish shavin'."

"I was desperate," you mumble, face half-buried in cotton.

"Mm. I noticed." His hand drags lower, kneading the base of your spine, then the curve of your hip—never sexual, just soothing, checking. "You sore?"

"Yes," you admit, then softer: "But I liked it."

"I know you did." He sounds pleased with himself. He keeps working your muscles, patient and thorough, until you're practically purring beneath him. Then he leans down, mouth at your ear: "Gonna run you a bath. Gonna feed you. Gonna put you to bed and not touch you again until you can walk straight." You crack one eye open.

"Promise?"

"Swear." He kisses your temple, then climbs out of bed with a groan, stretching until his joints pop. He stands there naked and shameless, looking down at you with such open affection it makes your chest tight. "But tomorrow? Tomorrow you're mine again."

You bury your face in the pillow, smiling despite yourself. "You're insatiable."

"Only for you, mama." He tugs the blanket up over your bare ass, swatting it gently. "Now, are you going to tell me why you were so desperate for me to be inside you the minute you got home ?" You groan, rolling onto your back and staring at the ceiling, suddenly shy about the truth.

"Work was hell," you admit. "Meetings that went nowhere, my boss being a dick, some client talking down to me like I was a child…" You sigh, rubbing your eyes. "I just… I needed to not think. Needed you to make it all stop." Frank's expression softens—something dangerous and tender all at once. He climbs back onto the bed, caging you in with his arms but keeping his weight off you, his face inches from yours.

"Should've said something," he murmurs, thumb tracing your jaw. "Could've met you for lunch. Taken the edge off." You snort.

"You can't just leave in the middle of the day to fuck me senseless."

"Can't I?" His eyes darken, that predatory glint sparking back to life. "Bet I could sneak in. Find you in that little office of yours, bend you over your desk…" He leans down, mouth at your ear, voice dropping to gravel. "Make you squirt right there in your chair. Soak through that professional little skirt you wear."

"Frank!" You shove at his chest, face burning, but he's immovable, grinning down at you with wicked intent.

"What? You think I couldn't?" He nips at your throat, laughing when you squeak. "Bet you'd try to be quiet. Try to hold it in while I'm pounding you, fingers stuffed in your mouth so you don't scream…" He pulls back, smug and satisfied by your flustered expression. "But you wouldn't be able to, would you? You'd make a mess all over that ergonomic chair HR bought you. Leave a puddle for your boss to find later."

"You're evil," you breathe, but you're smiling, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"I'm practical," he corrects, finally rolling off you and pulling you into his side instead. "Next time you have a bad day, you text me. I'll come fix it. Public indecency be damned." You bury your face in his neck, laughing despite yourself.

"You're going to get me fired."

"Then you'll have more time to be naked in our bed," he reasons, patting your ass possessively. "Win-win."

taglist !

The phone buzzing across the counter nearly makes you jump.

Unknown number.

You almost ignore it until it rings again immediately after.

“Hello?”

Static crackles for half a second before a familiar nervous voice answers.

“Uh—hey. Hey, it’s David.”

You lean back against the kitchen counter, already annoyed. “David.”

“Yeah, hi, listen, I think Frank’s in trouble.”

That gets your attention.

Your stomach tightens instantly. “What?”

“I lost contact with him forty minutes ago.” Fingers clack rapidly against a keyboard on his end. “Phone signal stopped moving. I tracked the last location before it died and it’s— it’s not good.”

Your eyes close briefly.

Of course it isn’t.

A message pings onto your phone. Coordinates.

Deep woods. Middle of nowhere.

“You want me to go out there?” you ask flatly.

“Well… yeah.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “David, why can’t you go?”

Silence.

Then:

“Because I’m supposed to be dead.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Right. Forgot.”

“I just need someone to check if he’s alive.”

The way he says it—too quick, trying to sound detached—tells you he’s already worried Frank isn’t.

You grab your keys off the counter.

“If I die in the woods because of you,” you mutter, “I’m haunting your weird little bunker.”

“That’s fair.”

—

The drive feels longer than it probably is.

Streetlights disappear ten minutes in.

Then houses.

Then even the road starts looking less like a road and more like something people forgot existed.

Your headlights cut through towering trees, branches twisting overhead like claws. The deeper you go, the darker it gets, until the only thing comforting you is the low hum of the engine.

You pull over near the coordinates David sent.

Nothing.

No buildings.

No lights.

Just woods.

Cold air bites your skin the second you step out of the car. You can see your breath instantly.

“Great,” you mutter.

The glove compartment creaks open.

Your handgun sits where you left it.

You check the magazine with shaky fingers before tucking it into the back of your jeans under your jacket.

The silence out here feels wrong.

Every crunch of leaves under your boots sounds too loud.

“Frank?” you call out.

Nothing answers.

The darkness beyond the trees seems endless, swallowing your voice whole.

Your pulse starts climbing.

You move further in anyway, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself against the cold.

“Frank!”

Still nothing.

A branch snaps somewhere deeper in the woods.

You freeze immediately.

Your breathing stops.

The trees around you suddenly feel crowded. Watching.

You strain your ears, trying to hear anything over the pounding in your chest.

Another sound.

Movement.

Fast.

You pull the gun from your waistband instinctively, hands trembling now.

“Nope,” you whisper to yourself. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

David had officially lost his mind.

You take two careful steps backward toward the direction of your car.

“Frank can drag his own ass home,” you mutter under your breath.

You hear it before you see anything.

A shift in the dark.

Not loud. Not obvious. Just… wrong. Like the forest itself just changed its mind.

Your body reacts before your thoughts do.

You turn fast, gun already up.

“Don’t move,” you say, breath sharp, eyes straining into the trees.

Silence.

Then a figure steps slightly forward into the edge of your light.

Your finger tightens on the trigger—

Until you see him properly.

Frank.

Everything in your chest drops at once, like your body forgot how to hold itself together.

You exhale hard, a shaky rush of air you didn’t realise you were holding.

“Jesus—” you breathe, lowering the gun a fraction. “It’s you.”

Frank’s eyes flick to the weapon first, then to your face.

“The hell are you doing here?” he says immediately, like you’re the one who’s lost your mind. “If it weren’t me, you’d be dead already.”

You scoff, still trying to slow your breathing, heartbeat hammering in your ears.

“You’re quiet, asshole,” you shoot back.

“Lieberman was real worried.” You add

That earns a faint scoff from him, like the idea of David Lieberman being “worried” is mildly insulting and slightly deserved.

“He called you?” Frank asks.

“Yeah.”

“He shouldn’t have.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, next time you want to disappear into a forest in the middle of the night, maybe leave a note.”

Frank doesn’t respond to that. He just looks at you for a second—quick scan, head to toe. Like he’s checking you’re intact. Like it’s automatic.

Then he turns and walks past you toward your car like this is completely normal.

He opens the passenger door like it’s his.

“You done yelling my name in the woods?” he asks.

You get in and slam the driver’s door shut harder than necessary.

“What are you doing out here anyways?” you ask, starting the engine.

Frank leans his head back against the seat, eyes still scanning the tree line.

“Following a lead,” he says. “Trail went cold.”

You glance at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

A beat.

Then, quieter:

“Somebody didn’t want it followed.”

The car idles in the cold silence between trees.

You shift into gear.

“So,” you say, pulling back onto the narrow track, “you were out here alone, in the middle of nowhere, and didn’t think ‘hey maybe I should tell anyone’?”

Frank finally looks at you.

“Didn’t think I needed permission.”

You let out a short laugh. “It’s not permission, it’s basic ‘don’t die’ communication.”

He doesn’t respond immediately.

Just watches the dark blur past your windshield.

Then, bluntly:

“You came anyway.”

You grip the steering wheel a little tighter.

“Yeah,” you say. “Unfortunately for both of us.”

The drive back is quieter in a way that isn’t actually quiet at all.

Frank Castle sits in your passenger seat like he belongs there, boots planted, shoulders loose in a way you wouldn’t call relaxed so much as ready. Every so often his eyes flick to the mirrors, the tree line behind you, the dark swallowing the road.

But he talks.

Not about the job. Not about anything useful.

Just… comments.

“You always drive like this?”

“What? safe?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is.”

You snort despite yourself.

At some point he points out your grip on the steering wheel.

“You’re white-knuckling it.”

“I almost shot you in the woods.”

“You didn’t.”

“I nearly did.”

He hums like that’s fair enough, then leans back again like it’s nothing.

And somehow, in between the silence and the paranoia and the cold creeping through the glass, he keeps slipping in these dry little remarks that catch you off guard.

“Next time you come looking for me,” he says at one point, eyes still on the road ahead, “don’t scream my name like that.”

You glance at him. “Oh sorry. Should I have tried ‘Frank Castle, dead wanted fugitive man where are you?’ instead?”

A pause.

Then, unexpectedly—

“Your sarcasms really startin’ to piss me off.”

It makes you laugh before you can stop it.

He looks over at you then. Not smiling, not really. But there’s something in his eyes—something steady, observant. Like he’s memorising the sound of you laughing for no practical reason at all.

You don’t notice how long he looks.

Or maybe you do, and you just don’t say anything.

—

David Lieberman’s place is exactly as you remember it.

Which is to say: it feels like it was designed by a paranoid schizophrenic who hasn’t seen daylight in years.

You kill the engine outside and sigh.

Frank is already opening the door before you’ve fully unbuckled.

“David can come himself next time,” you mutter, climbing out after him.

Inside, the bunker is dim, screens glowing, wires everywhere, the faint hum of equipment filling the air like background noise that never stops.

David looks up the second you walk in.

He freezes.

Then his eyes flick past you.

Land on Frank.

His expression immediately shifts into something between relief and irritation.

You lean against the doorframe, folding your arms.

“David,” you sing, way too casually, “I have your pet.”

You jerk your thumb at Frank.

Frank doesn’t even look offended.

He just scoffs. “Pet?”

David pushes himself up from his chair the second Frank walks in, already worked up.

“Do you have any idea how stupid you are?” he snaps.

Frank keeps walking like he doesn’t care. “Here we go.”

“No, seriously, Frank.” David points at him sharply. “You are a wanted man. You cannot just walk out of here without telling me where you’re going.”

“I followed a lead.”

“That’s not the point!”

Frank shrugs off his jacket, completely unfazed. “Trail went cold.”

David throws his hands up. “And if someone followed you back here? If somebody saw you? You disappearing for hours without telling me puts my family in danger too, you know.”

That makes Frank pause for half a second.

Not guilty exactly.

Just listening.

Then:

“Quit your whining.”

You snort before you can stop yourself.

David turns to you immediately. “Don’t encourage him.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely encouraging this,” you say, leaning against the doorway. “Do you know where I found him?”

Frank gives you a look already knowing you’re about to start.

You point at him. “Wandering around the woods like a lost deer.”

David blinks.

“…The woods?”

“Pitch black woods,” you continue. “Middle of nowhere. Creepy as hell.”

David stares at Frank like he’s lost his mind. “The woods? Anyone could’ve been watching you!”

“Nobody was watching me.”

“You don’t know that!”

Frank scoffs softly, already moving toward the monitors. “If somebody was there, I’d know.”

You fold your arms. “Well I didn’t know and I almost shot you.”

David’s head whips toward you. “You WHAT?”

Frank finally looks over.

“See?” he says calmly. “Anything happened, Y/N was there.”

You stare at him. “That is not the reassuring statement you think it is.”

David lets out a disbelieving laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, I wouldn’t exactly call Y/N backup.”

Frank actually laughs at that. Low and brief.

You point at both of them. “Shut up.”

Time passes in the bunker in a way that doesn’t feel like time at all.

It’s just screens glowing. The low hum of servers. The occasional clink of glass.

Frank is leaning against the counter like he owns the place now, bottle of old wine in hand like it’s nothing special.

You’ve had maybe two drinks—just enough to loosen the tension in your shoulders, not enough to blur anything.

David, however, has not been so careful.

He’s on his seventh glass and talking faster than he’s thinking.

“This is ridiculous,” he says, waving a hand vaguely at Frank. “You don’t just vanish into the woods and expect people not to—”

“I was working,” Frank says simply.

David laughs. Too loud. “Yeah, well, work like that gets you killed.”

Frank doesn’t respond to that. Just takes another sip, eyes steady, unreadable.

You’re perched on the edge of the table, watching them like this is some bizarre domestic argument you accidentally walked into.

Then David’s mood shifts.

It happens fast.

His expression tightens, his eyes flick somewhere distant.

“Sarah…” he mutters.

You straighten slightly. “David—”

He’s already pushing off the chair.

Frank notices immediately. “Hey.”

David ignores him and stumbles toward the desk where his phone is charging.

Frank’s posture changes instantly—subtle, but you see it. The stillness. The readiness.

“Don’t,” Frank says, voice low.

David scoffs. “I’m fine.”

You slide off the table. “David, come on. You can’t— you know you can’t.”

His jaw tightens. “Shut up.”

That lands sharper than it should.

Frank’s head snaps in David’s direction.

“Lieberman!” Frank yells

David doesn’t even look at him. He’s already picking up his phone.

Frank pushes off the counter.

“Lieberman put the phone down”

You lift a hand quickly. “Frank, he’s just wasted.”

“I don’t care,” Frank says.

David, meanwhile, has started dialling.

You move closer. “David, please—”

Frank crosses the room in two steps.

“Put it down.”

David snaps, “I said I’m calling her.”

And then Frank moves.

His hand comes down and knocks the phone straight out of David’s grip. It hits the floor hard.

David stares at it like his brain hasn’t caught up yet.

Then he swings.

It’s clumsy. Drunk. Angry more than accurate.

Frank doesn’t even fully step back—just shifts, lets it miss, and in one controlled motion catches David’s wrist, turns him slightly off balance, and delivers a quick, precise strike.

Not brutal.

Just enough.

David goes down immediately. You blink. “Oh my—Frank!”

Frank exhales once, like he’s annoyed this was even necessary. “He’s fine,” he says.

You stare at David on the floor. “He is absolutely not fine.”

Frank crouches, checks him quickly, then slips an arm under David’s shoulders and lifts him like it’s nothing. Effortless.

“You knocked him out.”

“He’ll wake up.”

“That’s not comforting!”

Frank starts walking.

“Where are you taking him?”

“Bed.”

You follow, still half in shock. “You can’t just—”

Frank glances back slightly. “He passed out on the floor. I’m fixing it.”

You open your mouth, then close it again.

Because honestly… that is very on brand for both of them in completely different ways.

Frank carries David down the corridor like it’s routine, pushes open a door with his shoulder, and sets him down on the bed with surprising care for someone who just dropped him five seconds ago.

He adjusts him slightly so he’s not half off the mattress.

Then straightens up.

You lean in the doorway, arms folded.

“You’re weirdly domestic for a man like you,” you mutter.

Frank looks at you.

“I adapt.”

“He’s loud when he’s drunk.”

You snort. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.”

Frank steps past you back into the hallway.

You fall into step beside him.

“And what was that back there?” you ask.

“He was going to make a bad call.”

You glance at him. “So you slapped him into another dimension?”

Frank’s mouth twitches slightly. Not quite a smile.

“Something like that.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling too now.

“Remind me never to annoy you.”

Frank looks ahead, voice steady.

“You already do.”

An empty wine bottle sits on its side near the sink while another glass is abandoned on the counter.

You roll your sleeves up and start gathering things automatically. Frank notices immediately.

“Hey,” he says from somewhere behind you. “Let him do it in the morning.”

You rinse out a glass anyway. “No, he’ll be in bed ‘til gone three o’clock.”

That earns the faintest exhale through Frank’s nose. Almost a laugh. You shake your head, smiling to yourself as you reach for another glass.

“Y/N.”

“I like to clean, Frank.”

You say it lightly, dismissively, like the conversation’s already over.

Water runs warm over your hands. You focus on that instead of the fact you can feel him standing somewhere behind you.

Then movement. Frank steps closer.

Before you can reach for the dish towel, his hand closes gently around your wrist. Not rough.

Just firm enough to stop you. Your breath catches slightly.

With his other hand, he takes the glass from your fingers and sets it back down on the counter.

“C’mon,” he says quietly. “It’s late.”

He’s close enough now that you can feel warmth radiating off him despite the cold still clinging to his jacket from outside.

You look up at him.

Big mistake.

Because there’s that look again.

Not flirting—not exactly. Frank Castle doesn’t really flirt in the normal sense. It’s more attention than that. Focus. Like when he looks at you, everything else drops out around the edges.

And you hate that your stomach notices.

You’ve spent weeks trying very hard to see him as one thing only:

David’s extremely annoying friend.

A dangerous one. A frustrating one.

That’s all. That has to stay all.

But standing this close to him makes that thought feel thinner than it should Frank’s thumb shifts slightly against your wrist.

“Fine,” you mutter finally, rolling your eyes like that’ll somehow lessen the effect he’s having on you.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

You pull your hand back before he can notice how warm your face suddenly feels and grab your jacket off the chair.

Frank picks up the abandoned wine bottle instead, carrying it toward the bin. “You boss everybody around like this?” you ask.

“Only people who don’t listen.”

You scoff softly. “I was literally cleaning.”

“Mhm.”

You narrow your eyes at his back. “You’re annoying.”

Frank glances over his shoulder at you. There’s that look again.

You should probably leave.

That’s the sensible thing to do.

David is unconscious. Frank is alive. The bunker isn’t actively on fire.

Mission accomplished.

And yet somehow you’re still standing in the kitchen area pretending to reorganise bottles that do not need reorganising while Frank lingers nearby like he knows exactly why you haven’t left yet.

Frank leans back against the counter watching you with his arms folded.

You immediately busy yourself wiping at a spot on the counter that doesn’t exist.

“Y’know,” you say quickly, “for someone who barely talks, you’ve got a lot to say tonight.”

“Wine helped.”

“You’re not even drunk.”

“No.”

You nod once. “Unfortunately.”

He pushes himself off the counter.

You can feel him next to you before you even look up.

Which you absolutely do not do.

Instead you stare stubbornly at the counter like it’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen in your life.

“You avoid eye contact with everybody,” he asks quietly, “or just me?”

“I’m not avoiding eye contact.”

“You are right now.”

“I’m looking at the counter.”

“Exactly.”

You exhale through your nose, fighting a smile.

“This is harassment.”

“Probably.”

You finally risk glancing up at him—

And immediately regret it.

He’s right there.

Close enough that your breath catches.

The low bunker lighting throws shadows across his face, softening the hard edges just enough to make him look unfairly good.

His eyes flick briefly to your mouth.

Then back up.

Your pulse stumbles.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you murmur.

“Little bit.”

You shake your head, looking away again before your brain fully short-circuits.

“This is a terrible idea.”

Frank steps closer anyway.

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

And then he leans in and kisses you.

It’s not hesitant.

Not soft in the uncertain way first kisses usually are.

It’s controlled. Deliberate. One hand settling against your jaw while the other braces lightly on the counter beside you like he’s trying very hard not to crowd you even though he absolutely is.

Your brain blanks for a full second.

When he pulls back slightly, you’re still staring at him in shock.

“You’re not drunk?” you ask breathlessly.

Frank laughs low and rough and warm against your skin.

“No.”

The second he laughs, relief and adrenaline and weeks of tension hit you all at once.

Your hands grab the front of his shirt, pulling him back toward you as your arms slide around his neck.

Frank catches you easily.

Like he expected it.

Your mouth crashes into his again and this time he kisses you harder—deeper—one hand gripping your waist while the other slides up your back.

You can feel the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin, the warmth of him everywhere, the way he exhales through his nose when you tug lightly at his shirt.

“Jesus,” he mutters against your mouth.

You laugh breathlessly before he kisses you again, swallowing the sound completely.

His hands move like he can’t settle on one place for long—your waist, your hips, your back, fingertips pressing into you just enough to make your pulse jump every single time.

You barely notice when he backs you against the counter.

Your fingers slide into his hair instinctively and that gets a reaction out of him immediately—a low sound in his throat that makes your stomach twist.

“Frank,” you breathe as his mouth drags from your jaw down your neck.

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your skin.

You shiver.

“Fuck… we can’t. David, he’ll—”

The sentence dies the second Frank kisses the edge of your collarbone.

Slow. Distracting.

“Fuck David,” he mutters.

You choke out a laugh despite yourself. “That’s your friend.”

“He’s unconscious.”

“That somehow makes this worse.”

Frank lifts his head just enough to look at you.

“He ain’t wakin’ up.”

You narrow your eyes slightly even as your hands stay tangled in his shirt.

“You sound very confident for a man who knocked him out ten minutes ago.”

Frank’s mouth twitches against your neck again.

“Experience.”

“Oh my God.”

But you’re smiling when he kisses you again, and Frank notices immediately.

Of course he does.

His hand slides up your side slower this time, less frantic now, like he’s letting himself enjoy it properly.

“Y/N.”

His voice is lower now. Rough around the edges in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

“Mhm?” you whisper back.

Frank’s hand slides along your waist slowly, thumb brushing against your side beneath your shirt.

“let me make you feel good.”

The honesty of it catches you off guard more than anything else. Your lips curve despite yourself.

“Then do it.”

Something in his expression shifts instantly at that.

His hands tighten on you and before you can properly react, he lifts you effortlessly.

You laugh quietly, grabbing onto his shoulders. “Show off.”

Frank huffs a faint laugh against your neck as he carries you down the hallway toward the small room David had been letting him stay in.

The door shuts behind you with a solid kick.

He sets you down on the edge of the bed carefully—far more carefully than a man like him probably should be capable of after throwing people through walls for a living.

For a second he just stands there looking at you.

You feel it everywhere.

His gaze drags over your face, your mouth, your body like he’s trying to take his time now that he finally can then he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head.

Your breath catches a little he notices immediately, because of course he does.

“What?” he asks, almost amused.

You shake your head once, already tugging your own shirt off. “You know exactly what.”

A faint smirk ghosts across his face before he steps between your knees again. His hands settle on your thighs, warm and steady, and when he leans down to kiss you this time it’s slower than before.

One of his hands slides up your back, fingers spreading there while the other tilts your jaw gently toward him.

You kiss him back immediately, pulling him closer, and Frank lets out a low sound against your mouth that sounds dangerously close to losing control.

“You got any idea,” he murmurs between kisses, forehead resting briefly against yours, “how hard it’s been not doin’ this?”

You smile breathlessly. “You hide it terribly.”

“Yeah?”

“Frank, you stare at me like you want to kill people every time another guy talks to me.”

That actually makes him laugh quietly.

“Maybe I do.”

Your fingers trace lightly across the dog tags hanging against his chest before he catches your wrist gently, pressing a distracted kiss against the inside of it.

His thumbs hooked under the elastic waistband of your leggings—and the underwear beneath them. With a slow, steady pressure, he began to drag them down.

He didn't rush. He let you feel every inch of the unveiling, the cool air of the room meeting the fever of your skin. You helped him, a silent cooperation, bending your knees slightly so he could pull them off completely. They joined your top on the floor.

He settled himself more firmly between your legs, his own jeans rough against your skin. He leaned down again, but this time his destination was clear. His lips found the newly exposed skin of your upper thigh, just shy of where you desperately wanted him to be. He kissed there, a soft, open-mouthed press that made your hips twitch up off the mattress.

“Frank,” you breathed, the word a plea and a warning.

He looked up, his eyes meeting yours from between your legs. The intensity there was overwhelming.

You bit your lip, your knuckles white where you gripped the edge of the borrowed mattress. You could feel your own wetness and you knew he could see it too.

He paused, his face so close now you could feel the warmth of his breath on your most intimate skin. He looked up again, his eyes locking with yours. His voice was a low, graveled whisper, barely audible over your own ragged breathing.

“May I?”

It wasn’t a question about the kissing. It was about everything. About crossing the last boundary. About the act that hovered in th air between your bodies. The word hung there, simple and profound.

You couldn’t speak. Your throat was too tight, your mind too fogged with want. Instead, you nodded. A slow, deliberate dip of your chin.

He shifted his weight, rising up slightly. His hands left your hips and went to his own jeans. You watched, your heart pounding against your ribs, as he undid the button, then the zipper. The sound was harsh in the quiet—a metallic rasp that seemed to scream their intention. He pushed the denim down over his hips, just enough.

He freed himself.

The sight made your breath catch. He was hard, fully, achingly hard. A fresh wave of heat flooded you, you were wet, so wet, and the sight of him, of what was about to happen, made it worse.

He hovered over you, his body a shadow blocking the light from the window. He braced himself with one hand beside your shoulder, the other guiding himself. He was at your entrance. The tip of him pressed against you, a hot, blunt pressure that was both foreign and deeply, deeply familiar.

The initial pressure was intense, a stretching, filling sensation that stole the air from your lungs. “Fuck—” you whispered, the curse torn from you before you could stop it.

His hand came up, not to hurt, but to soothe. He pressed his thumb gently against your lips. “Sh sh sh,” he whispered again, his rhythm a calming counterpoint to the stretch. “Just breathe.”

You tried. You sucked in a ragged breath as he pushed further. It was a struggle.

“Relax, sweet girl,” he whispered, his voice dripping with a patience you didn’t expect. His hips paused, not retreating, just holding that deep, partial pressure. “you’re okay.”

You focused on his words, on the feel of his thumb on your lips. You forced your muscles to relax.

You exhaled, a long, shaky stream of air.

He felt the change. With that exhale, he pressed forward again, a slow, relentless slide until he was there, fully, completely.

The fullness was overwhelming, a sensation so profound it blurred your vision. You felt every inch of him, a hot, solid presence inside you where there had only been empty ache.

He stopped, buried deep. A low, satisfied sigh escaped him. He smiled down at you, a tender, possessive curl of his lips.

“There you go,” he whispered.

He began to move.

“Frank,” you moaned, the name a prayer on your lips.

“Don’t tense,” he whispered, his voice a low thread of sound beside your ear as he moved. “It’ll hurt. Just breathe in and out for me.”

You tried. “Yes—yes, Frank,” you gasped, the words broken by the rhythm he was setting. You forced your eyes open, but the intensity of his gaze, the raw intimacy of his body moving within yours, made you shut them again.

You focused on the feeling—the gentle, deepening pounding, the way your body was learning the shape of him, the way your hips began to move instinctively to meet his thrusts.

The initial sharpness was melting into a throbbing, rhythmic pleasure. Each inward stroke sent a wave of heat through your belly. Each withdrawal left you hungry for more.

Your hands found his shoulders, fingers sliding over old scars and muscle, and the low noise he makes against your mouth sends heat rushing straight through you.

His pace was steady, controlled. He was keeping it slow, mindful of your adjustment, of the need for silence. But you could feel his control beginning to fray.

Then his hand left your shoulder. It came up to your face, his fingers firm but not cruel as they grasped your jaw. He turned your head slightly, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice dropping the playful whisper, becoming a direct command. “Eyes on me.”

You opened your eyes. His were locked on yours, blazing with an intensity that felt like it could scorch you.

He was demanding your presence, your awareness, not just your physical surrender. “Let me see those pretty eyes,” he said, his thrusts not faltering.

Looking at him changed everything. It made it real. It wasn't just a body in the dark; it was Frank.

Seeing your eyes on him, seeing your surrender and your rising need, seemed to change his rhythm.

The gentle, measured pounding became something else. It sped up. The strokes became deeper, more forceful, less careful. The bedsprings gave a faint, protesting creak with each new, driven thrust.

You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. The increased pace sent shockwaves of sensation through you.

“Frank—” you choked out, the word a moan tangled with a plea for more, for less, for everything.

He didn’t tell you to be quiet now. He was lost in it too.

He shifted his angle slightly, bending your legs up a bit higher, spreading you wider. The new position sent him even deeper, hitting a spot that made your vision blur white for a second.

A sharp, sweet cry tried to escape your lips, but you caught it, biting down on it until it was a stifled, desperate whimper.

His thrusts became urgent, frantic, a pounding rhythm that had nothing to do with caution or secrecy.

The sounds were louder now—the slap of skin, the creak of the bed, his ragged groans, your hitched, panting breaths.

"Frank," you whispered, the name dissolving into a gasp as he shifted his angle.

"Shh." His thumb traced your lower lip. "I know."

And he did know. He knew exactly how close you were.

You could see it in the way he watched your face, studying every flutter of your eyelids, every hitch in your breathing. He was reading you like a language he'd already learned by heart.

His pace quickened.

The coil in your core—that white-hot knot of tension—began to wind tighter. Tighter. Your eyes screwed shut. You couldn't help it. The pleasure was too much, too overwhelming.

Your arms wrapped around him, fingers digging into the sweat-slicked muscle of his back, anchoring yourself to something solid.

"F-Frank." His name stuttered out of you, broken and breathless. "It's okay." His voice was at your ear, low and steady "Let go for me."

The permission undid something inside you. He drove into you again—three more deep, punishing strokes—and your body clenched around him, you were still shaking when he pulled out.

"Fuck." The word left you on a trembling exhale. Your legs wouldn't stop quivering, the aftershocks rippling through your thighs in visible tremors. The absence of him was sudden and cold, a hollow ache where there had been fullness.

The bed shifted as Frank moved beside you. "Hey." His hand found your jaw, gentle but firm, turning your face toward his.

His thumb brushed your cheekbone. His eyes searched yours, the intensity still there but tempered now with something softer. "You okay?"

You couldn't speak yet. Your throat was raw, your thoughts scattered so you nodded instead. His brow furrowed. "Was I too rough?"

The question landed somewhere tender. This man—this reckless, dangerous man who'd just taken you apart piece by piece in a borrowed bed while his friend slept down the hall—was worried about you.

"No, Frank." You found your voice, raspy as it was. A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, the muscles still loose and uncoordinated. "Not too rough."

You leaned up and pressed your lips to his.

The kiss was different from the ones before. Slower. Softer.

His mouth moved against yours with a tenderness that made your heart squeeze.

"Thank you," you murmured against his lips.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he kissed your cheek—a soft, lingering press of his mouth to the apple of your cheekbone—and then he was pulling you into his arms.

His chest was warm and solid against your back as he drew the blanket up over both of you. One arm slid beneath your head, a makeshift pillow of muscle and bone. The other wrapped around your waist, his palm spreading flat against your stomach, holding you close.

You could feel the slowing thud of his heart against your spine, the steady rhythm of his breathing as it evened out.

The room settled into quiet.

You smiled to yourself at the risk you were still taking, curled naked in Frank's arms in a room that wasn't yours.

You should have felt guilty. Maybe that would come later, in the harsh light of morning, when you'd have to look at David’s oblivious face over coffee and pretend nothing had happened.

But right now, wrapped in Frank's warmth, still trembling from the aftermath of what you'd done, guilt felt like a distant concept.

"Y/N."

Frank's voice rumbled against your back, a low vibration you felt more than heard.

"Hm?" A pause. His thumb traced a lazy circle on your stomach, just below your navel. "That was…"

He didn't finish the sentence. Maybe he didn't know how.

"Yeah," you breathed. "It was." His arm tightened around you, pulling you somehow even closer. His lips brushed the curve of your shoulder, a kiss so soft it was almost imaginary.

"You're trembling," he murmured. You hadn't noticed. But now that he'd said it, you could feel the fine tremor still running through your legs.

Your body hadn't quite caught up to the fact that it was over. "In a good way," you assured him.

His laugh was a soft huff of air against your skin. "Good."