Author's Notes: this a draft of a draft of Frank’s Birthday, which I’m pretty sure I’ve already posted here.
Warnings: Smut
The kitchen still smelled faintly of chocolate and whisky when the idea struck you.
Frank had just settled onto the couch—shirt slightly more undone now, sleeves still rolled, that new watch catching the low lamplight every time he moved his wrist. One arm stretched along the backrest, the other resting over his stomach, eyes half-lidded in that quiet, content way he only ever allowed himself at home.
You watched him for a moment from the doorway.
Relaxed. Warm. Yours.
…Too peaceful.
A slow smile crept onto your face.
Terrible idea.
Perfect idea.
You slipped away quietly, bare feet silent against the floor, and returned a minute later armed with a bright plastic water pistol you’d found buried in a drawer—leftover from some forgotten summer.
Frank didn’t notice.
Of course he didn’t.
The man could coordinate military strikes across continents, but put him on a couch after whisky and cake and he’d fall asleep like a sedated bear.
You crouched slightly, aiming.
And then—
Pshht—pshht—pshht.
Cold water hit his face.
Frank jerked awake immediately, a sharp inhale cutting through the quiet as his hazel eyes snapped open, disoriented for half a second before narrowing on you.
You stood there, grinning like an absolute menace, still firing.
“Happy birthday, Lieutenant!” you chirped.
Another spray hit his cheek.
Frank blinked once. Twice. Slowly wiped water from his face with the back of his hand.
Then, in that deep, gravelly baritone—still thick with sleep—he said,
“…You’ve made a tactical error.”
You gasped dramatically. “Oh no, is the big scary general going to file a complaint?”
You squeezed the trigger again.
Pshht.
He didn’t even flinch this time.
Just… looked at you.
Calm. Assessing.
Dangerous.
“Run,” he said flatly.
You dropped the second water pistol onto his lap like a grenade and bolted.
“I’ve upgraded to guerrilla warfare!” you shouted over your shoulder, disappearing down the hallway.
Behind you, you heard the slow creak of the couch.
Then his voice, louder now, edged with something amused and predatory:
“You have ten seconds to reconsider your life choices.”
You ducked behind the bedroom door, stifling a laugh as you grabbed your actual weapon—another water pistol, slightly larger, clearly superior.
“Too late!” you called back. “I’ve already committed to chaos!”
Footsteps.
Unhurried.
Of course.
Frank didn’t run. Frank advanced.
You peeked around the corner just as he appeared at the end of the hallway, now holding the other water pistol, his shirt slightly damp at the collar, white hair mussed from sleep.
He looked… unfairly attractive for a man who’d just been ambushed.
Hazel eyes locked onto yours.
“Last chance,” he said, raising a brow.
You fired.
Pshht—pshht—pshht.
Water splashed across his chest, darkening the fabric of his shirt.
There was a beat of silence.
Frank looked down at himself.
Then back at you.
“…Right,” he said.
And suddenly—
He moved.
Fast.
You yelped, turning and sprinting down the hallway, laughter bubbling out of you as you heard him behind you now—actual footsteps, heavier, closing the distance.
“Frank, no—this is supposed to be fun, not terrifying!”
“You started a war,” he called back, voice carrying that low, dangerous amusement. “I’m merely responding proportionately.”
“Proportionately?!” you laughed, ducking into the bedroom. “You’re chasing me like I owe you money!”
“I do owe you something,” he said, stepping into the doorway.
You froze for half a second.
Big mistake.
He fired.
A direct hit to your shoulder.
You shrieked. “That’s cold!”
“That’s the point,” Frank replied calmly, advancing another step.
You scrambled onto the bed, trying to gain some kind of strategic advantage, firing wildly in his direction.
“Stay back! I’m armed and emotionally unstable!”
“Clearly,” he muttered, taking another hit to the arm without so much as blinking.
Then, with terrifying efficiency, he reached the bed, grabbed your ankle, and pulled.
You collapsed onto the mattress with a gasp, laughter spilling out of you as you tried to wriggle away, still clutching your water pistol.
“Frank—Frank, ceasefire—!”
“No,” he said simply.
He climbed onto the bed, caging you in easily, one knee pressing into the mattress beside your hip, one hand pinning your wrist above your head while the other took the water pistol from your grip with minimal effort.
“Unfair,” you panted, laughing breathlessly. “You’re bigger than me.”
“Correct,” he said, utterly unbothered.
Then he leaned in slightly, close enough that you could feel his breath warm against your cheek, voice dropping lower—
“And more experienced in combat.”
You squinted up at him. “You’re not allowed to use your résumé against me.”
“I’ll use whatever advantages I have,” he murmured.
And then—
Pshht.
He sprayed water directly down the front of your shirt.
You gasped, arching slightly at the sudden cold, eyes widening. “Frank!”
He hummed, entirely too pleased with himself. “Effective.”
“You’re evil.”
“Efficient.”
You glared up at him, chest rising and falling, damp fabric clinging slightly to your skin now.
He looked at you for a moment longer than necessary.
Not at your face.
Lower.
His gaze lingered on the damp fabric clinging to your blouse, the thin cotton now almost translucent where the water had soaked through—your bra faintly visible beneath, the outline unmistakable.
One of his brows lifted, slow and deliberate.
“…All’s fair in love and war,” Frank said, voice low, edged with something far less innocent than a moment ago.
You stared at him for half a second—then burst out laughing, squirming beneath his weight.
“Oh my God, you’re such a pervert,” you shot back, writhing as you tried (very unsuccessfully) to free your pinned wrist. “This was a water fight, not a strip interrogation.”
Frank didn’t dignify that with a response.
Of course he didn’t.
His hazel eyes stayed exactly where they were for a beat longer—thoughtful, assessing, entirely unapologetic—before he leaned down.
Closer.
Your laughter hitched slightly as his presence closed in, solid and warm and just a little too heavy to ignore.
“Frank—” you started, still half-laughing, half-breathless.
He cut you off by brushing his nose—hooked, familiar—lightly against the curve of your jaw.
“Don’t start a fight you’re not prepared to lose,” he murmured, baritone soft against your skin.
Then his mouth followed.
A slow, deliberate press of his lips just beneath your ear.
Not rushed. Not clumsy.
Intentional.
You exhaled, the sound catching somewhere between a laugh and something softer.
“That’s not losing,” you muttered, though your voice had lost some of its bite. “That’s you cheating.”
“Mm,” Frank hummed against your neck, unconcerned. “I prefer to think of it as adapting.”
His hand—still holding your wrist—shifted slightly, not tightening, but grounding you in place as his mouth traced lower.
Another kiss.
Warmer this time.
Slower.
Down the side of your neck.
You squirmed again, not quite as playfully now, your free hand instinctively finding his shoulder, fingers pressing into the fabric of his damp shirt.
“You’re impossible,” you breathed.
“I’ve been told,” he replied quietly, his lips brushing the sensitive hollow at the base of your throat.
He paused there for just a second.
Then continued.
Down.
To the edge of your collarbone.
To the neckline of your blouse—where the fabric clung and dipped slightly, water-darkened and revealing more than it had any right to.
Frank didn’t rush it.
He never did.
His mouth hovered just above the edge of the fabric, breath warm against your skin, his thumb brushing absent-mindedly along your wrist like he hadn’t noticed he was doing it.
Like this was still just… play.
“…Still think I should’ve asked for a watch?” he murmured.
You let out a quiet, helpless laugh, tilting your head back against the mattress.
“You did get the watch,” you reminded him softly.
“Mm,” he said, lips grazing just along the edge of your blouse now, barely there, teasing. “And yet…”
His eyes flicked up to yours.
That same calm. That same quiet, dangerous amusement.
“…this still seems like the better gift.”
You huffed a breath, trying very hard to hold onto your earlier indignation—and failing.
“Franklin Benson,” you said, attempting sternness and landing somewhere much softer, “you are unbelievable.”
He smiled against your skin.
Slow. Satisfied.
“And you married me anyway.”
The room had warmed, the air thick with the lingering scent of chocolate cake, smoky whisky, and something sharper now—salted skin, damp cotton, the faint metallic tang of anticipation hanging low between you.
Frank’s gaze didn’t waver.
Not when your chest rose under him.
Not when your breath hitched.
Not when his fingers, rough and steady, slid from your pinned wrist down to the hem of your blouse.
Then—
He grabbed the fabric and tore it with minimal effort.
Rrrrip.
The sound was sudden, violent in the quiet room.
You gasped. “Frank!—I liked that blouse!”
He barely even looked at it.
The ruined fabric hung open now, split down the front, exposing the soft curve of your breasts beneath your bra, damp lace clinging to your skin where the water had soaked through.
Frank’s jaw flexed once, eyes darkening in a way that had nothing to do with the playful fight anymore.
“I’ll buy you another one,” he muttered, distracted—his baritone rough, almost absent—as if the promise was an afterthought.
Christ… I’ve missed this. Missed her like this—warm, soft, mine.
His hands moved immediately.
No hesitation.
No apology.
Thick fingers hooked under the edge of your bra, dragging it down just enough—just enough—for one breast to spill free into his palm.
You sucked in a breath.
“Frank—”
“Quiet,” he murmured, not harsh—just… focused.
His thumb brushed once over the sensitive peak, slow, testing, watching your face as your body reacted—your back arching slightly, your lips parting.
Then—
He leaned down.
And took you into his mouth.
“—ah—f-fuck—Frank—”
The sound that tore out of you wasn’t dignified. Not even close.
His mouth was warm, deliberate, tongue dragging slow, heavy circles around your nipple before closing in tighter, sucking with a quiet, steady pull—slk… mmm…
His other hand braced against your side, fingers spreading wide over your ribs, holding you exactly where he wanted you.
“Sensitive,” he muttered against your skin, voice vibrating through you.
You grabbed his shoulder, fingers digging into the damp fabric of his shirt, nails pressing through to the heat beneath.
“That’s—n-not fair—”
“War,” he reminded you softly, mouth still working, lips pulling, tongue flicking in slow, controlled strokes. “You started it.”
Your hips shifted beneath him, instinctive, seeking friction, seeking something more than the teasing pace he’d set.
Frank noticed.
Of course he did.
He always noticed.
His eyes flicked up briefly, catching the movement, the tension in your body, the way your thighs pressed together.
A slow, knowing exhale left him.
“Impatient,” he murmured.
You laughed breathlessly, though it came out more like a broken sound. “You’re—taking your time—”
“Mm,” he hummed, switching—releasing your breast only to drag his mouth across your chest, slow and deliberate, leaving a trail of warmth and dampness in his wake. “I waited all day.”
His hand slid lower.
From your ribs.
To your waist.
Then down further, fingers slipping under the waistband of your pants with unhurried confidence, rough fingertips brushing against the heat gathering there.
You jolted slightly.
“Frank—”
“Relax,” he said quietly, his voice low, grounding, even as his fingers tested the dampness already building between your legs. “I’ve got you.”
His thumb pressed just slightly, just enough—
You gasped again, sharper this time, hips lifting into his touch without permission.
“There it is,” he muttered, almost to himself.
His mouth returned to your chest, this time slower, heavier, sucking deeper, his hand working in contrast—fingers pressing, sliding, mapping you with the same calm precision he brought to everything else.
The room felt smaller now.
Closer.
Filled with the sound of your breathing, uneven and quick, and the quiet, deliberate rhythm of him—his mouth, his hand, his control.
Your blouse hung in pieces around you.
His shirt was still half-on, damp and clinging to his broad chest, that slight softness at his middle pressing against you as he leaned over, solid and warm and completely immovable.
You twisted beneath him again, a soft, helpless sound leaving your throat.
“Frank… please—”
He paused.
Just for a second.
Lifted his head.
Looked at you.
Really looked.
Hazel eyes steady. Focused. Warm, but edged with that same dangerous patience.
“Careful,” he said quietly, thumb pressing again, slower this time, drawing another sharp sound from you. “You know I like hearing that.”
Your fingers tightened on him, your breath catching again as he leaned back down, mouth returning, hand continuing—unhurried, relentless, entirely in control.
The war had shifted.
And Frank Benson, calm as ever, intended to win it properly.
You pulled him closer—really pulled, fingers hooking into the damp collar of his shirt, dragging his weight down until his mouth brushed your ear. Your breath hitched once, then steadied, lips grazing the shell of it as you spoke low and deliberate:
“It’s your birthday.”
Frank barely reacted at first.
A distracted hum, his mouth still warm against your chest, his hand still moving slow and maddening between your thighs like he hadn’t even processed the words.
“Mmh,” he rumbled.
Then you added it—soft, wicked, intimate enough that it slid straight under his skin:
“I want to suck your dick.”
That did it.
Frank stilled.
Not completely—his fingers still pressed against you, still holding you open—but there was a pause. A hitch. A subtle tightening through his shoulders, through his jaw.
Then—
A shudder.
Not exaggerated. Not dramatic. Just a deep, full-body reaction that rippled through him, chest to hips, like something old and visceral had just been dragged to the surface.
“…Christ,” he muttered under his breath, baritone roughened, almost hoarse.
His eyes closed briefly.
And his mind—traitor that it was—went straight back.
God, the last time…
You on your knees.
Hands braced on his thighs, fingers digging into the fabric of his trousers as your mouth took him in slow, deliberate pulls—wet, warm, relentless. The way your tongue had worked him, the soft slk… glk… sounds that filled the room, the way your eyes had flicked up to meet his while you were stretched around him.
His cock twitched just thinking about it.
“Fuck,” he breathed, quieter now.
And then—
Further back.
Years.
That filthy alley behind the pub—brick walls slick with old rain and piss, the sharp stink of stale beer and cigarette smoke hanging thick in the air. A flickering overhead light buzzing like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to live or die.
He’d barely known you.
Hell—he hadn’t known you.
Didn’t even know your name.
Just you—there, looking up at him with that same focus you had now, lips parted, breath warm against his cock as you’d sunk down on him without hesitation.
Not drunk.
Not sloppy.
Intentional.
Hungry.
I should’ve walked away…
His jaw tightened.
…should’ve had the sense to at least ask her name first…
Instead—
You’d taken him deep, choking slightly, a soft “mmh—ghk—” slipping from your throat before you adjusted, relaxed, took more.
And that had been it.
That moment.
That exact second.
That’s the woman I’m marrying.
Didn’t matter that his divorce papers were barely dry. Didn’t matter that it was reckless, impulsive, borderline insane.
You’d looked at him like that—like he was something worth taking into your mouth, worth wanting—and he’d been done for.
Hooked.
Finished.
Yours.
“…didn’t even know your name,” he murmured now, half to himself, voice low and thick with memory as his thumb pressed just a little firmer against you, drawing another sharp gasp from your lips.
Your fingers tightened in his shirt. “What?”
His eyes opened, hazel darker now, something deeper simmering underneath the usual calm.
“That first time,” he said, voice dragging slow, rough. “That alley. You remember?”
You blinked—then huffed a breath, half-laugh, half-embarrassed exhale. “Oh my God—Frank—”
“You weren’t drunk,” he went on, like he couldn’t quite stop himself now. His hand slowed between your legs, but didn’t leave. “That’s the part that got me. Not a drop in you. Just—looked at me, dropped to your knees, and—”
His jaw flexed.
“—went to work like you meant it.”
Heat flooded your face, but your body reacted all the same—hips shifting, pressing into his hand despite yourself.
“I—” you started, then cut yourself off with a breathless laugh. “I liked older men, alright? You had that whole… grumpy, dangerous thing going on.”
“Dangerous,” he echoed dryly, one brow lifting slightly.
“You looked like you could ruin someone’s life and then go home and read the newspaper about it,” you shot back, breath catching as his fingers moved again—slow, deliberate strokes that made your thighs tense around his hand. “It was… attractive.”
A low sound left him—something between a chuckle and a growl.
“And the blowjob?” he pressed, voice dropping again, closer to your ear now. “What was that about?”
You swallowed, pulse racing. “Curiosity.”
“Mm.”
“Confidence,” you added, quieter.
His thumb pressed just right.
You gasped—“ah—!”
“And?” he murmured.
Your fingers slid up into his hair, gripping lightly, breath unsteady.
“And you looked like you needed it.”
That—
That made him laugh.
A deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest, through you, warm and pleased and just a little dangerous.
“Needed it,” he repeated, amused.
“You did,” you insisted weakly, though your voice wavered as his hand shifted again, slower now, teasing the edge of something you wanted far more than you were willing to admit out loud. “You looked like a man who hadn’t been touched properly in a long time.”
His laughter faded.
Not completely—but softened.
Turned into something quieter.
More thoughtful.
His gaze dropped to you again, really seeing you—flushed, breathing unevenly, blouse torn open, skin still damp, body reacting to every small movement he made.
“…you fixed that,” he said finally, voice low.
Your lips parted slightly.
“And I kept you,” he added, almost casually—but there was something heavier underneath it, something firm, decided. “Seemed like the logical next step.”
You smiled—soft, a little breathless, a little fond. “Very strategic of you, Lieutenant.”
“Mm.”
His hand withdrew slowly.
You felt the absence immediately—your body reacting with a small, involuntary shift, a quiet sound slipping from your throat.
Frank noticed.
Of course he did.
He always did.
His hand moved instead to his belt.
Slow.
Unhurried.
Metal clinked softly as he worked it loose, his eyes never leaving yours.
“If it’s my birthday,” he said, voice steady again, that calm authority sliding right back into place like it had never left, “then I suppose I should accept the gift properly.”
The belt slid free.
His trousers followed—unzipped, pushed down just enough.
And there—
Thick.
Heavy.
Already half-hard, length pressing against the fabric, twitching slightly as the cool air hit him.
You exhaled slowly, eyes tracing him without even trying to hide it.
Frank’s hand came to your jaw, rough fingers tilting your face up just slightly.
Not forceful.
Just… guiding.
Grounding.
“Go on,” he murmured, baritone low, steady.
And when you shifted beneath him—when your hands moved, when your mouth parted—
His other hand slid into your hair.
He squeezed your hair, pulling you closer, and you let him—your body shifting forward between his thighs, knees pressing into the mattress, your palms braced against the solid weight of him. His belly softened the line of his torso just slightly, warm and firm beneath your hands, his chest rising slow and steady above you.
You leaned in, tongue dragging once—slow, deliberate—up the length of his cock, tasting salt and heat.
“—mmh…”
The sound slipped from you, low and hungry.
Then you took the head into your mouth.
Frank sighed—deep, full, the kind of exhale that came from somewhere buried in his chest—as his head tipped back against the pillows, throat exposed, the column of it flexing as he swallowed.
“Christ…” he murmured, voice already roughening.
His hand stayed in your hair, not yanking—never frantic—but firm, guiding. Holding.
Steady. Don’t rush it. Let her take her time… God, I’ve wanted this all day.
Your lips sealed around him, tongue flattening beneath the weight as you sank down a little more—slow, controlled—until the tip pressed deeper, your breath warming him.
“Fuck—” he breathed, quieter now.
You pulled back just slightly, lips dragging, a wet sound—slk…—filling the space between you, then took him in again, deeper this time, your jaw relaxing, your tongue working along the underside.
Frank’s fingers tightened in your hair.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to feel.
He shifted slightly on the bed, spreading his legs wider, giving you space, his free hand bracing against the mattress as his hips lifted just a fraction—meeting you halfway.
His eyes flickered open.
Down.
To you.
Your mouth wrapped around him, your cheeks hollowing slightly as you sucked, the faint sheen of spit catching the lamplight.
“Yeah,” he said softly, almost approving. “That’s it.”
You hummed around him—“mmh—”—the vibration pulling a sharper breath from his chest, his stomach tightening under your hands.
He glanced at his wrist.
The watch.
A small, almost absurdly composed movement in the middle of this.
He checked the time.
Then looked back down at you, one brow lifting slightly, that familiar calm threading through the heat.
“Five minutes,” he said, voice low, baritone settling into something darker. “You make me come in five minutes—”
His hand tightened just a touch in your hair, guiding you down another inch.
“—I’ll put my mouth on your cunt,” he continued, slow, deliberate, watching your reaction. “Take my time with it.”
Your breath hitched.
Your lips parted just enough for him to slip free for a second, a soft, needy sound spilling out of you—“ah—fuck—”
“I’ll lick you open,” he added, quieter now, almost conversational despite the weight of it. “Nice and slow. Make you shake.”
Your thighs pressed together instinctively.
Your hands gripped his hips.
“And then,” he went on, thumb brushing once along your cheek as if to ground you, “I’ll fuck you properly.”
Your mouth went dry.
“You like that?” he asked, tone steady, knowing full well the answer.
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