the vibes: investigating something weird in the forest; missing people with strange symbols left behind; unsettling noises in a foggy forest; believing what you can't see
summary: Dex follows you, eventually meeting you in a club where he finds that you love to dance. after he gets your attention, though, he doesn't know who has fallen the hardest.
warnings: slow burn, masturbation, voyeurism, eventual smut, dex follows reader, reader likes to dance, dex has low self-esteem, reader knows that dex is bullseye, freak4freak
note: the next part will be published in a week or two. i have no date set yet, because it will take a while.
minors dni! or you will be blocked!
part I
The humidity of the apartment complex was nearly claustrophobic for Dex, if not for the open window that was you, allowing his nostrils to flare and intake as much air as you granted him.
He followed you upstairs, his heavy feet stomping on the staircase. He counted each step in a familiar tune, one, two, three, and he remembered how close your hips were to his, how comfortable you were popping the bubble he was in, and entrapping him in your gaze.
You reached into your purse with loose fingers, searching for the keys that dangled and clanged; Dex wondered if you remembered the key that was hidden atop the door trim when you found the set in your purse, unlocking the door and letting yourself inside.
He was expecting the door to slam, for the little vision into your life to end and for him to wake up alone in his tidy bed, but was surprised when you turned around and leaned against the door frame, holding out your phone.
“Can I have your number?” You asked the question with a devious sincerity, your doe eyes juxtaposed by the thin curl to the ends of your lips.
Dex wasn’t looking at your face though. He stared at the phone, wondering what excuse he could make for himself, because he didn’t expect things to go this way. In fact, Dex didn’t expect you to approach him; his plan was to watch you, and ‘accidentally’ bump into you at the end of the night.
“I don’t have a phone right now.”
It was an earnest attempt at best, and you chuckled not in disbelief, but in intuit, as you felt a rectangular shape on his right hip when you were dancing with him at the club. “Can I give you my number then?”
You didn’t know if this olive branch was to be left neglected, untouched, until you tried. Dex nodded, and watched as you disappeared into your apartment for a second, scrambling to find a pen and paper; you returned and jotted your digits onto a sliver of paper, using the threshold as a steady brace.
“I’ll call you when I find a payphone.” Dex grinned at you, and didn’t even wait until he turned the corner to remove his burner phone from the hidden pocket of his jacket and call you.
“Dex?” you answered, voice fuzzed with static.
“Yeah, hi. I found a phone just around the block. I just forgot to ask you something.” he replied, heart seizing temporarily as he heard your voice say his name in a hopeful manner.
“Shoot.”
“Thanks for dancing with me tonight. I’m not used to doing that.” Dex rested his back against a dirty concrete building, omitting his usual rule for absolute cleanliness. He was speaking the truth - Dex had never danced with anyone willingly, let alone someone in whom he was romantically interested (as he was aching for connection, not release, and detested how much others, including yourself, treated your body like an object).
“Did you want to go out? There’s a place we could go to.” Your question came hastily, as if it was wearing on your mind.
Dex knew he had to rest a beat before replying, as to not sound too desperate, as if he was following your every move. “Sure.”
“11pm Saturday night. Can you come pick me up? We can split the taxi.” Dex was bothered that you didn’t disclose the exact location of the venue, but allowed for it since he heard your smile through the phone.
“Absolutely.”
You hung up, and Dex didn’t realize that he responded to you calling him by his real name when you answered the phone; he strolled home with his hands in his jacket pockets and a smirk plastered across his face.
—
The week passed, Dex befuddled with the thought of you for each day until Friday, when his schedule was clear and he decided to check on you.
It was a shear that broke the promise he made to himself on the way to his apartment after the conversation with you: he vowed not to follow you, to allow himself to be surprised with the version of yourself that you determined to wear on your date with Dex on Saturday night; yet Dex was untrained and lacked self-control, the impatience crawling underneath his skin like parasitic insects.
He snuck through the fire escape as quietly as he could, avoiding windows from the business complex across your apartment building. He rested on the rooftop, nestling his body comfortably behind a gargoyle, as he unclipped his monoscope from his holster and peeked at you through your open curtain.
Black heels. Black stockings, with a run on the thigh that ended in a place Dex wasn’t allowed to see. A black peplum top reflecting professionalism, the seams as clean as they could be. And your pencil skirt, jet black with breathy fabric that hugged your lower body, fell to your kneecaps.
Dex swallowed hard. He felt this lump in his throat, the burning that he warned himself was the result of poor choices and thoughts he shouldn’t dare entertain; he breathed shakily as he watched, taking a moment to look away with a pink tint along his cheek scar when you began unclipping the back of the peplum top near the window. When Dex’s eye returned to see you, your top and skirt were found tossed on the futon in the middle of your living room - you were nowhere to be found. Dex’s eye wandered through the neighboring window, into your bedroom, a place he found to be too invasive for his eyes to search through; nobody was there.
He blinked, and you appeared in the open window of the living room wearing a wirefree bra, and the same stockings Dex stripped his attention from. He found the beginning of the run when you turned around, your back to the window as you bent over to reach for something in your purse.
It was perverted, wrong for him to look at you like this. But you were near the window, for anybody to see, right?
Surely this was not intentional, because Poindexter was skilled in his ability to lurk in the shadows when he wanted.
His tongue flicked out to lick his lips when your fingers hooked around the waistband of the stockings, pushing them off from your legs. The color of your skin was soft, tender, close enough for Dex to wrap his fingers around and caress and kiss and-
Your underwear fell to the ground with the puddle of the stretchy stocking fabric, and Dex lost his train of thought. On the rooftop, he shifted his position, uncomfortable with the warmth accumulating in the bottom of his belly.
Desperately, Dex watched, unable to look away. He watched your fingernails scrape against the curve of your outer thigh, and the way your muscles flexed when you walked to the futon, and laid down; Dex noted how radiant you appeared when your hair sprawled out above your head like a halo - such an angelic being you are, he thought to himself - an image projected onto you until he witnessed your fingers moving somewhere new. Some place he hadn’t seen you use them.
They inched down from your waist to your hips, and dipping to your slick heat. Dex exhaled breathily moments after you did, becoming a possessed man unwilling to sever himself from your most intimate actions meant for only yourself.
Yet the curtains were still drawn. Your face was lit by the natural sunlight made possible by the open window.
Your fingers circled your clit, and Dex, a professional lip reader, swore he could make out his name falling from your lips in a silent prayer.
Nobody saw. Nobody, a blond man whose hair stuck to his forehead from the sticky grime and sweat that accumulated; nobody, a man whose shoulders rounded, but still stuck out in his silhouette; Nobody named Dex.
His name fell from your lips again, and Dex's lips quivered as he felt his dick rise from its grave, resurrected out of lust and impure desire.
Your legs parted, heated joy directed at the window while your lower back lifted from the couch. Your upper body sat upright, propped against the small cushions, while your knees pointed in opposite directions, and your lips parted.
“Dex.” This time it was intentional, his name leaving your chest with a breathy moan that he wished he could hear. He became jealous of the way he couldn’t make you feel this way, have you unraveling in seconds the way you were; but it was him on your mind, his name repeatedly falling from the cliff of your bottom lip as you chased your own release.
“Fuck.” Dex stammered as a palm rubbed his clothed erection, heavy tension building in his lower stomach. The hand that held the monoscope was trembling, as were your legs, approaching your orgasm rapidly.
He bucked his hips into his palm, mouth agape as he shamelessly watched your head fall back and jaw lax as you reached your heightened state. Dex didn’t want to make himself cum, not here at least, and clenched his jaw as a last resort of self-control and restraint to prevent a mess from forming in his pants, similar to the one forming on the fabric of your couch.
Dex rushed away as the sun set, and after he left, making a bee line toward his apartment, you stepped back to the window and stared straight at the rooftop of the building opposite yours, a cheshire smile formed on your flushed face.
Your legs trembling, silent gasps and moans exiting your mouth - every image of you that Dex mentally captured haunted him on his way back, and as soon as he entered his apartment, he shut the door and rested his back against the door, palming his erection with need. He unzipped his tactile pants and dropped them to his ankles, careless of the clacking noise of his sheathed blades hitting the ground with it.
“Fuck, the things you do to me.” Dex was speaking to you, wishing you could hear the curses that fell from his lips, or the way that he let out a strangled moan when his fingers wrapped around his thick cock, stroking it hard.
“Shit.” Quiet words struggled to leave him. He fucked into his hand, brows furrowing as he was disgusted with his own lewd behavior. The repugnance manifested as a dark lust, fuel to the wildfire already spreading too quickly for him to put out; it was too late now, with Dex’s hips snapping into his fist, and eyelids fluttering shut as he surrendered to the darkness that finally consumed him.
“Dex…” he swore he heard your name moaning out to him, and it was enough for him to choke out a feeble cry, hips stuttering as ropes of cum spurt from his cock.
After resting his weight on the door, Poindexter moved to the small kitchen island, tearing two pieces of paper towels to blot the cum that dripped onto the wooden floor. He grimaced at the texture of it.
As he walked toward the bathroom, removing his tactile clothes, he turned the knob of the shower, setting it to a cooler temperature as a punishment for engaging in such sin before a proper date with you. It was wrong.
Consumed by the colony of wasps that circled him in the shower, Dex couldn’t hear the window of his living room opening, and a body leaving the apartment, quietly closing the window shut as you left with a proud smirk on your face, and a dagger from Dex’s pants firmly in your pocket as a souvenir.
Inside the cubicle of the shower, Dex relaxed his muscles enough for the final tension to release: his fists unclenched, biceps lax as the suds from the bar of soap washed away into the sewer along with Dex’s concupiscence and shame, leaving only his tanned skin and dirty blond hair on the phantom of a man.
His sweatpants were neatly folded outside of the shower, atop the wire floor shelving. He stepped out and dried himself deliberately, patting his face dry with a separate towelette, before slipping on his sweatpants and tank top.
Before he left the bathroom, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror, tidying his hair to a side part with strands of hair falling out of place; Dex no longer cared for the extreme order with his physical appearance and even welcomed the ways in which his hair acted on their own accord.
Picking up his tactile pants from the ground, Dex removed the belted holsters, all but one blade accounted for. Thumb tracing along the leather pocket, Dex contemplated if he lost it on his trek back from his hideout spot. He didn’t think twice about the possibility that you stole the finely pressed steel for your own benefit, to run the edge along your skin while you rode your dildo in your lonely apartment, thinking of the ways Dex could take you, if he allowed it; of course he would allow it - you knew he was watching you for weeks - but was he ready to embrace the darkness that you wanted to invite him into?
Dex sat on his couch, back against the cushions. He thought about the way your back fell against the cushions, your ass widening as it flattened against the futon material, and when he opened his eyes and looked down at the source of the pain in his core, he found his dick half-erect, ready for another go.
Lowering the sweatpants to his knees, he stroked his cock on the couch, head falling back as the pleasure stung him. Your name escaped his lips in a slither, so beautifully sung as he came.
pope can't help but feel excited when you hurry into the living room. he's sitting on the couch with his brothers, talking about nothing really important, when you emerge from the hallway, a small smile on your lips and wide, excited eyes. you say hi to the guys and hold out your hand, grabbing at pope until he stands and puts his palm snuggly in yours. craig gives a knowing smile as you pull him away and down the hallway to his bedroom. you enter the room first and pope drops your hand for a moment to close the door and lock it behind him. when he turns around, you're already sitting on the bed, patting the covers like you were looking for something. he's already half-hard in his jeans, heart hammering in his chest as his mind races. he loves when you're needy. loves sporting the red scratches and love bites on his skin. from the urgency of your escape, he assumes that tonight will be extremely enjoyable. your brow is slightly furrowed as you move the sheets to the side. pope climbs onto the bed beside you, fingers deftly unbuckling his belt and popping the buttons of his jeans.
you're still not looking at him, so he grabs your chin and pulls your face up, crashing your lips to his. he's needy, whining into your mouth as his tongue breaches the seam. you give a little squeak of surprise as his hand comes up to cup your breast, squeezing the flesh between his fingers. your hands come up to his chest and you push him away gently, separating the kiss. pope sits back a bit, confused and he lets out a little pained whine.
"wh...what're you doing?" he mumbles, desperation clear in his words.
"what are you doing?" you shoot back, eyes wide with surprise.
"i'm..." he gestures vaguely into the air. "you dragged me to the bedroom i thought..." you let out a little laugh and pope felt a pang in his chest.
"yea," you say, fingers finally finding what you were looking for in the covers of the bed. the tv remote. "a new episode of love island came out? we need to watch it?" pope let out a groan of annoyance as his head falls back. fucking love island. the show you had practically forced him to watch every night before bed, cuddling up next to him and arguing with the screen while he just sat there quietly. he didn't really mind it, he loved seeing your dramatic reactions to something as simple as reality tv. it was domestic. it was cute. but it was not what he wanted to do with you in the bed. his fingers trail up your thigh.
"can't we wait a bit?" he mumbles, putting on his best puppy eyes that he knew got you melting in his touch. but not tonight.
"i'm going to pretend you didn't just say that." your eyes narrow and your tone is clipped. you pull back the covers and motion for pope to join you. "get in." pope grumbles, but ultimately succumbs to your request. he takes off his jeans so he can get comfortable and slips into the bed next to you. you nuzzle up against his chest and put on the show. you press a kiss to his cheek. "after." you whisper "i promise." pope gives an unenthusiastic hum and wraps his arm around your shoulders, preparing himself for the next hour of watching other people make out and ignoring the way his body yearned for your attention.
summary : sex with frank has always felt a certain way- until one day it didn't
warnings : whoo wee hold onto your panties this is a wild one - smut, p in v, MDNI, squirting (oops), size kink, praise kink, size difference, angst (just a smidge), a truck ton of fluff, soft!frank, established relationship, slightly innocent!reader, porn with no plot
word count : 6.7 k
a/n: don't ask. not proofread !
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."
titus is the kind of guy who would fuck you on the heaviest day of your period to help distract you from the cramps. he just so sweet and caring for his baby girl.
not because he loves having blood on his coc— *gun shot*
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