22 just putting this out there as recent events have made things controversial, I am very left leaning, I do not support that man, but I do support the objectifying of the people who do support him as a face claim to a FICTIONAL story. I do not support the actions of the RLP, but again this is for fiction.
ohhh frank holding your arms above your head so peter can eat you out for as long as he wants :(( them having you on your back and frankie being behind you, your head in his lap as he peers over you and looks down at peter absolutely devouring you.
peters tongue circling around your sensitive clit and then pushing it into your slit, groaning beneath you like he’d been starved. he’ll mumble things like, “taste so good for me..” and plead, “just one more pretty girl, gimme one more.” in between breaths! and his biceps will hold you down, arms wrapped around your thighs and meeting at your tummy, just laying there and not letting you move or struggle.
before, peter had made you came once with his mouth and his fingers, and that felt amazing as always, it left you panting and your eyes squeezed shut.. but as peter was looking between your legs to see the mess he made he saw your arousal drip down your hole and onto the bed, just riling him up and his mouth was latched back onto you. eyes widening, your hands flew to his head, grabbing at his hair from the stimulation. sobs of “s’too much peter I can’t..”, were falling from you lips but he wouldn’t stop licking :(( just lapping up your cum so pathetically
you were closing your legs around peters head, hands still tugging on his locks as you try to pry him off, only to be met with franks hands above you, gathering your hands in one and pulling them to his lap. you could only whine out at that, “f-frankie!” pulling your hands and writhing as your boyfriends make your body feel so hot and overwhelmed. “you gotta let pete get his fill of that sweet pussy baby, don’t be mean. be a good girl and cum for him again yeah?” frank would purr above you, his other hand reaching out to squeeze and pull at your tits.. and you thought that it would be just one more. hiccuping in relief when peter makes you shiver and orgasm on his tongue for the second time, that heat in your tummy going down.. only for his head to not move an inch after that. the loudest whimper comes from you when neither of the men move, peter still in between your legs with his arms locked around you and plunging his tongue into your sweet overstimulated cunt. and frank still holding your arms in one while he jerks off to the sight of you, cooing “oh you can take it sweetheart I know you can, bein so good.. keep your legs open for peter—im not telling you again baby.” offering you all this faux sympathy just so he could get to see you cum again :((
summary : when frank comes home late from a mission after being hit by a suspicious powder, he wonders why he can't bring himself to take his hands off of you.
warnings : SMUTTTT !!!!!, minors please dni, somnophilia (oops), size kink, praise kink, needy!frank, desperate!frank, rough!frank (the list goes on honestly), p in v, unprotected sex, overstimulation, some angst. (both characters in this fic are fully consensual)
word count : 16 k (oops ?)
a/n : based off this gem of a rq and not proofread (as always what do yall expect) also yes this is an au where frank alr works with the avengers sue me
The warehouse is quiet.
Too quiet.
Frank knows better than to trust quiet.
He moves through the darkness with practiced efficiency, boots barely making a sound against the cracked concrete floor. His pistol hangs low at his side. Every muscle in his body is loose, ready.
Three men. One on the catwalk. Two below. He counts them automatically. A fourth steps out from behind a stack of shipping crates.
Frank doesn't hesitate. The first shot echoes through the building. Then everything explodes. Gunfire ricochets off steel beams. Someone shouts. Another body hits the ground.
Frank ducks behind a forklift as bullets tear through the rusted metal above his head.
"He's over there!"
"Move!" One comes around the corner too fast. Frank catches his wrist, twists until something snaps, and drives the man into the wall hard enough to leave a crack in the drywall before finishing the fight with brutal efficiency. Another rushes him with a knife. Too slow. A sharp elbow. A disarm. Done. The warehouse falls quiet again. Frank scans the room.
One…
Two…
Three…
Four.
All down.
His breathing is steady as he steps over the bodies toward the office overlooking the floor. Whoever had been running tonight's operation had been smart enough to stay hidden. Until now. The office door bursts open. An older man stumbles out, coughing violently, clutching something metallic in his hand. Not a gun. A canister. Frank raises his pistol.
"Don't." The man smiles. Not afraid. Almost… relieved.
"You should've stayed away." Frank fires. The man jerks backward. But not before his thumb slams the button. The canister hisses. A burst of fine crimson powder erupts into the air. Frank instinctively turns his face away.
Too late.
The cloud engulfs him. It coats his jacket. His neck. His face.
He coughs once. Twice. The powder tastes metallic. Bitter. Like copper and ash.
"What the hell…" The old man collapses before he can answer. Silence settles over the warehouse once more.
Frank waits.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Nothing.
He wipes the red dust from his cheek onto his glove.
"…Weird." He holsters his weapon. Checks the room one final time. Collects the drive he'd come for. Then heads for the exit. Halfway across the parking lot… Something feels wrong. At first it's subtle. His collar suddenly feels too tight. His jacket heavier than usual. He unzips it. The cold November air should help.
It doesn't. By the time he reaches the van, heat is blooming beneath his skin. Not outside. Inside. Like someone lit a match behind his ribs. He frowns.
"Jesus.." He slides into the driver's seat. Starts the engine. The heater is off. The windows are down. Still… He's sweating.
His pulse pounds in his ears. His shirt sticks to his back. The skin along his neck prickles. Burns. The drive home becomes a blur of red lights and clenched teeth. By the time he parks outside the house, he's gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles ache. His vision swims. His breathing comes too fast. Every inch of him feels feverishly hot. Like his blood has been replaced with molten metal. He nearly stumbles climbing the porch steps. The key misses the lock twice before he finally gets the door open. The house is dark. Quiet. Safe. He closes the door behind him and leans against it, breathing hard.
The familiar scent of home hits him immediately. Lavender detergent. Fresh coffee lingering from that morning. And you.
Somewhere upstairs. As if pulled by instinct alone, Frank starts climbing. Each step feels heavier than the last. His skin burns. His heartbeat refuses to slow. His wedding ring feels too hot against his finger. The hallway swims in and out of focus. He reaches your bedroom door. Pushes it open. Moonlight spills through the curtains. There you are. Curled beneath the blankets. Fast asleep. One of his old black T-shirts hangs from your shoulders, slipping enough to reveal one bare shoulder against the pillow. Your hair is spread across the sheets. One hand tucked beneath your cheek.
Completely unaware that your husband is standing in the doorway.
The heat that was solid in his chest spreads down and down to rest between his legs.
You grumble in your sleep, shifting your hips upward. The duvet slips off, revealing the soft curve of your naked thigh, and the soft pink lace of the panties laying beneath the shirt.
The sight of you, so soft and vulnerable in the moonlight, is like a physical blow. The heat that was simmering in his groin explodes into a full-blown inferno. His cock, already half-hard from the fever, thickens and strains against the confines of his jeans, a sudden, urgent ache that steals his breath. He grits his teeth, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He should go to the bathroom.
Turn on a cold shower.
Stick his head under the water until this… this thing passes. It has to be the powder. A delayed reaction. Some kind of chemical weapon designed to incapacitate.
He knows this, logically. He knows it.
But his body doesn't care about logic.
His feet move of their own accord, carrying him silently across the room. He tells himself he's just checking on you. Making sure you're okay. Making sure the house is secure. It's a lie, and he knows it. He's drawn to you like a moth to a flame, and he's terrified he's about to get burned. He stops at the edge of the bed, his shadow falling over you. You shift again in your sleep, a soft sigh escaping your lips, and the sound goes straight to his cock. It's agony. It's the sweetest sound he's ever heard. He reaches out, his hand trembling, his fingers hovering just above your shoulder. He just wants to touch you. Just a little. Just to feel the warmth of your skin, to ground himself.
His fingertips make contact.
It's a mistake.
A jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shoots up his arm, so intense it's almost painful. Your skin is so soft, so warm, and the contact sends another wave of heat crashing through him. He can't stop the low groan that rumbles in his chest. He snatches his hand back as if he's been burned, his breathing ragged.
'"Fuck." he rasps, hand going for his jeans, palming himself shamelessly.
He should go.
Go sleep on the couch, wait for this to pass.
But then you shift again, turning your back to him fully, the shirt riding up your waist and god- Frank almost comes in his pants. The heat threatens to consume his whole body, and he falls forward, fingers tangling in the mess of sheets as he tries to reign in his self control.
But the thin thread that usually is his self control is a mere scrap tonight, and it breaks in the span of an instant. Before Frank can even realise what he's doing, he's shedding his outer layer of clothes, leaving him in his boxers, and he slides into the bed with you, his body seeking your warmth.
You shift again, and the scent of your hair, your skin, it hits him like a drug. The need is immediate, primal, and so sharp it drowns out the last of his thoughts. He curls around you from behind, the mattress dipping under his weight, his arm heavy and hot as it wraps around your waist and anchors you to him. You make a soft, sleepy noise—surprised, but not afraid—just as his hand slips beneath the taut hem of the black T-shirt. He palms your stomach, sliding up to cup your breast, and you arch into his touch out of instinct. A silent plea for more. Frank presses his face into your hair, breathing you in, jaw clenching against the urge to rut like an animal right then and there. He wants to be gentle, slow, but the heat inside him is so pure, so urgent, it takes everything just to keep from tearing the panties from your hips and driving himself into you. His cock is hard, hot, and leaking, pinned between you and the sheets. You squirm back against him, a wordless encouragement, and the friction is a mercy and a torment. You groan in your sleep as Frank softly peels the fabric of your panties to the side, a sleepy huff leaving your lips. Frank can’t resist.
He pulls his boxers down and without a second thought, grabs his cock in one hand and pushes it towards your folds. Frank pushes the head of his cock through your folds, dragging it through the slick heat, and the sensation is so overwhelming he almost blacks out. He can feel the precum leaking, painting your skin, and he wants—fuck, he needs—to be inside you. But you’re so soft underneath him, breathing slow and deep, eyelashes trembling against your cheek, that he hesitates at the last second. Your body is so warm, so inviting, and the urge to just take is a living thing in his blood. He lines himself up, gripping the meat of your hip so tight he’ll leave bruises.
The first push steals his breath. You’re so wet, so impossibly tight, the resistance making him groan into your shoulder. Your body wakes in slow motion, hips shifting unconsciously, a low whine leaking from your lips as he pushes in, stretching you inch by impossible inch. He’s big, always has been, but tonight he’s swollen, almost angry in his hardness, and the way you squeeze him is enough to make him see stars.
“God, baby,” he grunts, voice all gravel and hunger. He’s halfway in when you wake, startled, breath catching and body tensing in his arms.
“Frank?” It’s a question, sleepy and confused. He buries his face in your hair, his breath shuddering through your roots.
“Sorry,” he mutters, but there’s nothing sorry in the way he grinds against you, pushing deeper. “Need you so bad. Can’t—can’t fuckin’—” He groans, the sound guttural, primal. You writhe, caught between sleep and the sudden, aching fullness inside you.
“Frank, what—” You cut yourself off with a gasp as he bottoms out, the head of his cock kissing your cervix, the heat of him splitting you open. The stretch is so much, so sudden, your body clamps down, trembling. He holds you tight, one hand splayed over your belly, thumb rubbing circles just below the hem of your shirt.
“Shh, that’s it, you take it so good,” he says, voice low in your ear. He starts to move, shallow thrusts at first, testing your give, your grip. Every time he pulls back, your walls try to drag him in, greedy for more. Your hand scrabbles for the sheets, hips arching back helplessly, and Frank loses whatever fragile grip he has on self-control. He thrusts hard, burying himself inside you over and over, each slide slicker, hotter, more desperate.
“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so tight—squeezing me so fuckin’ good—look at you, taking every inch. My girl.” The praise slips out like a confession, rough and needy. You shudder, the words hitting you somewhere deep.
“Frank—oh, god, Frank, it’s—” He finds your hand and laces his fingers through yours, anchoring you as his pace picks up. His cock fills you, stretches you, and every thrust knocks the air from your lungs. Frank feels his heart hammering inside his chest, a booming drum against your spine. The grip he has on your hip is vice-like, holding you in place while he fucks into you with a pace that would shame him in the morning, but right now he’s too far gone to care. There’s only the velvet clutch of your heat, the way your body yields and draws him in, and the choked, breathless sounds you make every time he bottoms out. You’re whimpering now, the little noises you usually try to swallow down coming out bright and desperate. The sound of it is like gasoline on fire. He feels every inch of you, every pulse, every tremor, and he can’t—not for the life of him—slow down. His cock is thick, splitting you open, and you clamp around him so tight his vision goes white at the edges. He can’t tell if he’s drooling or if it’s sweat slicking his lips, but he’s got his mouth buried in your neck and he grinds his teeth together, trying not to lose it in the first minute.
“Jesus Christ—fuck, baby, you’re so fuckin’ perfect—” He bites the words into your hair, his lungs on fire. “Can’t stop, need to fill you up, need—” You just moan and buck back against him, your body greedy for every inch he gives you. Frank can feel you trembling, the way your thighs strain and your ass rocks against his hip, seeking out every thrust. He keeps telling himself to be gentle, to ease up, but every drag of your heat over his cock is ecstasy. He hammers into you, chasing the buzz building at the base of his spine, rolling his hips so deep you whine his name into the mattress.Frank can’t get enough. The words burned into the meat of his brain, pulsing there with the same desperate, animal rhythm he’s using to fuck you. He’s not even thinking about the mission anymore, about the canister, about the city he probably just infected with whatever the hell this is. He’s thinking about you, the shape your body makes under him, how you cling to him like you know exactly how close he is to breaking.
He’s close. So close it hurts. Every time your pussy milks him he wants to howl, wants to make you scream his name so loud the neighbors call the cops, wants to rut so deep into you it fucks the fever right out of his bloodstream.
You’re gasping now, not even trying to muffle it. The sound is everything. It’s everything. He grinds his cock into you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other clamped over your hip, using you to chase his own high. You’re so wet he can hear it, obscene and messy, every slam of his hips into yours punctuated by the filthy slap of skin on skin. He can feel you getting close, your muscles spasming around him, and he wants to drag it out, wants to make you come so hard you see stars, but he’s losing it. He’s never felt this out of control, like something in that powder rewired every nerve in his body, lit up every one of his instincts. He’s not just thinking with his cock—he is his cock, every fiber of him tuned to your body and the way you fuckin’ tremble underneath him.There’s no way you’re going to last. Not at this pace. Not with the way his cock fills you, the way his words break over your skin and pool in your belly, thick and sweet and filthy. You’re awake now, fully awake, and every inch of you is burning. The heat radiates off Frank like a fever, a wet, hungry furnace clamped to your back, and you never want it to end. He doesn’t slow down, not even when you’re keening his name into the pillow, not even when your body jerks and tightens and you come so hard you see black behind your eyelids. Frank just holds you tighter, shushing you, telling you how fucking good you are, how perfect, how you’re made for him, and the words turn your bones to water.
He doesn’t stop.
He’s not going to stop.
You can feel it—he’s close, he’s shaking, and the hand he has on your hip digs in hard enough to bruise. His thrusts grow ragged, desperate, and you know he’s about to— He curses, voice thick and hot in your ear.
“Fuck, fuck—sweetheart, can’t—can’t stop—” The heat in your belly doesn’t fade. If anything, it intensifies. You’re high on it, delirious, and still you want more. Frank doesn’t let up. He pulls you tighter, shifts your hips up just so, and starts to move again, slower this time, but just as deep. You whine, nails digging into the sheets, but he just pets your thigh, soothing and rough all at once.
“That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of me.” He sounds ruined, but there’s a pride in it—a marvel at how much he can give you, how much you can take. You can barely think, every inch of your skin stretched taut with need. He sets a rhythm, brutal and sweet, and his fingers find your clit, rubbing circles that make you shake. You lose track of time. There’s nothing but Frank and the feel of him inside you, the sound of your bodies and his breath and the words he can’t keep to himself:
“so fucking tight—so good—my girl—my perfect girl—” and it never ends. He loses it first.
He’s never come this fast, not even as a dumb teenager, but tonight it’s like every nerve in his body is wired straight to his cock. He slams in, buried to the hilt, and lets out a groan that’s half agony, half worship. The first spurt of cum is so intense he shudders, vision blurring. His body stills, and his breath is so heavy on your neck. Your whole body is shaking and you whine as you pull yourself off him and turn to face him.
His whole body is covered in sweat, and his brows are pinched in pain.
The joke you were going to make about him missing you too much dies in your throat as concern spikes up through your chest.
“Frankie ?” You ask, trying to reach out to touch him. The second your hand touches his bare bicep, his hips rut towards you and a loud unabashed moan leaves his lips. His large hand comes down and wraps around his cock, his fist pumping around his length as he pants.
“Frank, what-”
“Shit, shit, baby- I think - I think- I think somethin’s wrong with me.” He writhes on the bed, clearly uncomfortable. “I thought- maybe if i- i thought it’d go away-” He moans, his eyes flying open to stare at you.
Yeah. It’s defintely not gone away.
The tension in his jaw is visible, the way his hand moves over himself so desperate, so unlike the usual Frank. Not controlled, not careful—just raw and frantic. You’ve seen him after missions, shaking with adrenaline, but never like this. His cock is flushed, almost angry, the head slicked and red, and he’s rutting into his fist with a single-mindedness that makes your mouth go dry.
You try to reach for him again.
“Sweetheart—don’t. I can’t—” His voice is all gravel, unsteady. He looks at your hand like it’s fire. “If you touch me, I swear to god—” He shakes his head, but it’s a threat with no teeth, because the next second he grabs your wrist, the grip almost bruising, and yanks you into his lap. The world goes sideways, your thighs splayed over his, the shirt riding up to your hips. His mouth is on you, not soft or sweet but open and desperate, biting at your collarbone, dragging his teeth down the slope of your shoulder. You giggle, delirious.
“Is this a new kink I don’t know about?”
“Fuck.” He’s red in the face, hair stuck to his forehead, pupils dilated so wide it swallows the blue. “I shouldn’t touch you. I’m— I’m fucked up. I should go.” But he doesn’t go. He’s already got you pinned a, his cock rutting against the crease of your thigh, leaving smears of precum all over your skin. He’s shaking so hard it vibrates through the bed. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but it’s like moving under a sandbag.
“Babe, maybe we should—” Frank just grunts, He pants into your skin like he’s drowning and you’re the only air.
“Need you,” he mumbles, the words slurred and low. “Need to fuck you, please, I—” He cuts off with another moan, huge hands hauling you up so the head of his cock slips between your folds. You’re already aching, slick from the first round, but now you feel an answering heat, an insistent, hungry want that’s not entirely your own. He doesn’t guide himself inside—he lifts you and drops you down, and the stretch is so sudden you yelp.
“Oh my god- Frank-” He buries his face in your neck, breath ragged.
“God, baby, so fucking tight,” he breathes, hips bucking up, driving you down to the hilt. It’s a lot, more than usual, and you have to cling to his shoulders just to keep from being fucked straight off him. Frank sets a brutal rhythm, all upward thrusts, his thighs flexing beneath you. He mutters into your skin, endless filthy praise—
“so good, so fucking good for me, made to take me, you’re perfect, fuck, my perfect girl”—and your body can’t help but respond, the words turning to liquid heat in your belly. You ride him, helpless to do anything but take and take, the pleasure almost overwhelming. He’s relentless, fucking up into you so hard you see white at the edges of your vision.
“Can’t stop,” he grits out, voice nearly gone. “Can’t—fuck—can’t stop unless you want me to—” He makes it a question, somehow, but you just dig your nails into his back and rock into him, letting him know you want more, need it as bad as he does. You’re so full you can barely breathe, every inch of your insides stretched around him. It’s more than you can remember, somehow, thicker, longer, and when you look down you see the way he’s split you open, the obscene bulge where his cock seats itself deep inside. The sight of it thrills you, makes you want to be ruined. Makes you want to take all of it, every frantic thrust.
You start to break — the way you always do when he gets like this, when the praise pours out like it’s the truth of him, when the thick hot weight of him pounds you open and the world narrows to the sound of your bodies slapping together and the hunger in his voice. You dig harder into his shoulders, nails scoring lines down his back, and his grip on your hips is bruising, anchoring you in place, and all you can do is hang on. The whole bed rocks under the violence of it, and your breath shatters, every exhale coming out as a broken whimper or a plea. Frank’s head tips back, his neck corded and slick with sweat, face gone slack with animal need, and you see the wildness burning bright behind his eyes. It’s too much, and it’s not enough, and you can feel the orgasm rising, savage and relentless, the friction of him inside so hot it verges on pain. You can’t think, can barely remember your own name, and Frank’s hand stays splayed flat on your back, fingers digging in, holding you down as his hips jackhammer up, merciless and perfect. You lose track of how many times you come, the edge blurred into a single long frantic wave, your staring eyes and raw throat and overheating skin all proof that you’re still alive, still tethered to this earth by the iron will of the man fucking you apart.
You collapse against his chest and he doesn’t slow, not even when you start to cry, the tears hot on your cheeks, the sobs punched out by each new thrust. He fucks you through it, each new climax wringing your insides tighter, until you’re trembling, clinging, babbling his name over and over. And he matches you, each time you squeeze down his cock he shudders, the veins in his neck standing out. Frank drags you higher on his lap and fucks up into you, hard enough you see stars. You sob, nails digging bloody half-moons into his shoulders, but the pain is good, it’s grounding, it’s proof that this is real and happening and not some fever dream. He’s soaked in sweat, skin slick and burning hot, and you feel him pulsing inside, the head of his cock battering places you didn’t know you had. He won’t stop. He can’t. His hands grip your waist and throttle you down, using you as leverage, rutting in single desperate slams that make your vision flicker white. You think you’re going to pass out. You want to. But he fucks you alive.
“M’sorry-” He rasps, his chest tense. “M’so sorry, mama-” He rasps, mouth grazing over your collarbones. His hips piston up, his cock splitting you on every thrust, and you’re so oversensitive it’s a miracle you don’t faint. Frank’s got you held up like a rag doll, hands locked around your waist, flexor tendons standing out in relief under his skin, and he’s making these animal noises deep in his chest, almost a whine, like even the shame can’t touch the need that’s got him by the throat. You try to say his name but it comes out as a wail, your body wrung dry, so full of him it feels like he’s rearranged your ribs. He thrusts up again, hard, and you see black behind your eyelids, a hot flash of white that rips through the mush of your brain and leaves you blank except for the feeling of him, the heat of him, the words he pours into your ear in a frantic, hungry spill.
“So good, baby, so—fuck—never felt you like this, you’re fucking perfect, so perfect, fuck, mama, look at you, taking all of me.” You do. You force your eyes open, and the sight of where your bodies meet should be obscene, but it’s gorgeous, it’s art, the way he disappears into you, the way you clamp down on him, shuddering and limp at the same time.
He can’t stop. It’s not just that he doesn’t want to — his body won’t let him. You see the panic in his face, the way he tries to slow, but every time he bottoms out, every time your heat milks him, it’s like he’s possessed.
He comes again, the heat of it flooding you, and you yelp, the sensation so much you spasm around him, another little aftershock wringing through your pelvis. Frank doesn’t even have enough air to groan — he just shivers, teeth grit and eyes squeezed shut, and then he slumps, just barely, his grip loosening a little. Your whole body slumps forward, and you grip onto his hair, whimpering at the soreness between your thighs. Frank groans, shaking his head. You gulp, looking up at him.
“Are you- Are you okay ?” You ask. You’re limp on his chest, so full you’re leaking down his balls, but even that spills more want into his bloodstream. He lifts you, and your cunt makes a wet, lewd pop as his cock drags out, thick and purple and smeared with both your releases. Frank is still hard. Still leaking. Still burning under every inch of skin. He tries to slow his breath, the drag of air through his lungs, but it’s like trying to wrangle a livewire with his bare hands. The need doesn’t fade. It only coils tighter, meaner, sharper against the base of his spine. He’d always prided himself on self-control, on discipline, but whatever was in that powder, it’s bending him backwards over his own rules, turning every nerve ending into a live fuse. You’re sprawled across his chest, boneless and slick, but the scent of you is gasoline in the furnace. He looks down, watches the way his cock stands, angry and thick and still twitching above the mess he’s made of you. He thinks: he could die this way. He’d be fine with it. You nuzzle your face into his neck and laugh, lightheaded.
“Are you seriously still—” He grunts.
“Don’t—don’t look at it.” You do. Both of you. Your hand drags down his chest, tracing the ridges of his body—slick with sweat, shuddering in the aftershocks, so alive it’s almost painful. You move to touch his cock and he flinches, a sharp inhalation, but he doesn’t stop you.
“Frank, you’re—oh my god.” You squeeze your hand around the shaft, thumb swiping over the slit, and Frank’s whole body seizes. He nearly throws you off in the spasm, but you’re still locked around his hips, and the movement only grinds you down over his lap, cock slipping between your folds in a slick, obscene slide.
“Fuck—” He’s biting down on his own knuckles to keep from making noise, but it’s helpless. You’re laughing, delirious with the power of it, and the sound is a hook in his ribs. He wants to be embarrassed, but it’s gone, burned out of him by the liquid hunger that soaks every thought. He needs to be inside you again. He needs it like air. All you want is to collapse, to melt into the mattress. Frank doesn’t give you the chance. Not even a full breath later, he’s up on his knees, cock still rock-hard and glistening. He drags you by the hips until you’re on your back, knees crooked open, and spears himself in one brutal thrust, splitting you apart again.
“Fuck- I’m sorry-” He rasps. The sensation is so sharp you see stars, a shriek punched out of your chest when he bottoms out, rutting into you like he’s never going to stop.The pressure is so much, all at once, Frank’s vision tunnels. He can’t even hear above the roar of blood in his ears. The bed rattles. The whole goddamn planet could rattle apart and he wouldn’t stop. He’s fucking you through the mattress, through the next dimension. He can’t catch a full breath. He gasps for air and tastes your sweat, your scent, the ozone tang of the fever now churning through him like black fire. You’re screaming. The raw, high sound of it rips the last discipline out of him. Some part of him tries to be gentle, tries to hold back, but his body goes on autopilot, rutting harder, faster, every thrust shoving his cock deeper into you, until it feels like he’s turned you inside out. You go limp, then rigid, then limp again. The only thing holding you together is his hands. He braces his forearm across the small of your back and folds you in half, his weight crushing you into the ruined tangle of sheets. He’s got you locked in, locked down, and the only thing you can do is take it, over and over, every stroke. Your sobs go silent, lungs emptied, and you’re reduced to shuddering and twitching, a gooseflesh wreck. It should scare him, and somewhere, deep behind the thick fog of want, it does. But your body milks him, clings to him, wants him just as much.
You’re still trying to crawl up his cock, even as it’s too much, even as you whimper “please—please—Frank—” and he loses the thread of what you’re even asking for. You come again, your pussy clamping so tight he almost blacks out. The bedframe slams against the wall, a steady drumbeat to the obscene, wet slap of your bodies. Frank’s not sure there’s anything left to give, but his balls ache and his cock throbs and he’s still not done, not even close. He’s barely human, all muscle and bone and nerve endings, and he’s so deep in the need it’s like swimming blind. The pulsing heat should fade, but it doesn’t. His cock stays hard, the ridge of it throbbing against your walls, and you can taste the panic in the way he looks at you, eyes wild, brow shiny with sweat. You’re so full it feels like you’ll split, like he’s pounding straight through your core. He fucks you with a single-minded desperation, every thrust a promise he can’t break, and you ride each wave with him, helpless to do anything but take and take until your mind blanks out and your body remembers nothing but the shape of him inside you.
Frank’s world is the inside of your cunt. He’s got no purchase outside it. Every time he tries to slow, just breathe, it’s like the fever burns hotter, pushes him right back to rutting into you like he’ll die if he stops. You’re not even crying anymore; the sound you make is a dull, broken gasp at every shove into your center, and still you’re so fucking good for him, you take it, you take him, you always do. He’s never been rough with you like this, never let himself, but there’s no pulling back, nothing but the thick slap of skin and the way your body folds around him, greedier than anything Frank’s ever known. Sweat pours off him, mouth gone dry, every muscle in his arms and gut straining to keep you locked onto his cock.
You shudder your way through three orgasms. Four. He loses count, can only track the relentless pulse at the base of his cock, the way every new wave of your desperation clenches him tighter, tries to milk him dry. He wants to say he’s sorry, wants to fucking stop, but if he stops he’ll die right here, naked and empty with nothing but want. He crushes you to his chest, presses his brow to yours, and his voice shreds in his throat.
“Honey—fuck—don’t know what’s wrong—can’t—” He can’t finish. He reaches down, grabs your thighs, and pushes them up, your knees by your ears, so he can watch his cock disappearing into your ruined cunt. The sight turns his brain to static. He fucks you through his own softening, the rawness of it sending his balls tight, a pulsing ache so deep it’s like punishment. You blink up at him, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted in a soundless plea. Frank heaves in ragged breaths. He wipes the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand, but it’s useless, just keeps coming. You try to touch his face, but your hand falls limply to the pillow.
“Can’t—” you try, voice so hoarse it’s a rasp, “Frank, too much—”
“I know, baby, I know,” he chokes, but he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, the rhythm just slows, each push in and out a new kind of agony. You’re so full you’re leaking, the pale mess of him painting your thighs, every thrust making a fresh drip down to the sheets. He can’t get enough of it. He can’t get enough of you. He thinks—maybe, if he comes again, this will break. Maybe it’s just a matter of getting it all out of his system. Frank’s hips keep going, chasing something neither of you can name, deeper and harder, until even the friction starts to blur into a numb, syrupy ache. You’re not sure your body can take another orgasm, but Frank’s cock doesn’t slow, doesn’t even twitch toward softening inside you. He’s still diamond-hard, still rutting in mindless, ragged thrusts, the tip of his dick punching against your cervix so sharp you nearly sob. You want to stop, want to tap out, but you can’t say the words, not with the way his body cages yours, his forearm braced above your head. Every time you so much as gasp for air, he hushes you, whispers more praise into your skin.
“Good girl, fuck, you’re such a good girl, baby—so tight, squeezing me, you wanna make me come again? Huh? Want me to fill you all the way up?” His voice cracks, goes thin and desperate, and you almost come just from the sound. The praise is a wire wrapped around your spine, drawing you tighter, tighter, until the next orgasm hits like a rubber bullet and rips a wail out of your chest. Frank’s cock doesn’t give you a break to even register the aftershocks before he’s already pounding you through another. Your thighs shake, your calves spasm, even your toes curl up tight. You’re crying again, you think, but it’s not from pain, not really. It’s because your body’s hit max capacity and refused to let go, and Frank’s not slowing down, not even to catch his breath. The bed frame is a lost cause, the cheap wood splintering against each slam of Frank’s hips. You grip the pillow, face buried in the wet cotton, and try to ride it out.
You want to tell him to stop, to check if he’s okay, but every time you try, you just get another mouthful of “Frank, fuck, Frank—”
He’s panting so loud his breath sounds like a threat. His hand finds the back of your neck, palm warm and damp with sweat, and holds you down, grinding his cock so deep you shiver. The sound that comes out of him isn’t human: a full-body groan, like coming is the only relief left in the world. His cock throbs, thick and pulsing, and you feel the heat spill inside you, a flood that has you clenching, wringing every drop out of him. He collapses on top of you, and you shudder in pain, your body begging for a break. Frank groans, his shoulders shaking. He peels himself away from you, shaking his head, his chest heaving.
He’s in pain. You can tell.
He faces the wall as he tries his hardest to settle his breathing, and you can see his cock, pressed against his stomach- still red and hard and bulging. Your insides churn with ache, and you whine.
“Frankie-”
“N-No, baby, i gotta- I gotta stop.” He rasps, shaking his head. But his body disagrees. Frank’s hand finds the headboard and he grinds the heel of his palm into his brow, eyes clenched, like that might squeeze the need out of his skull by force. He tries to turn away, but your hand is there, cupping his jaw, so gentle he almost sobs from it.
“It’s okay.” Your voice is thin, spent, but there’s not a trace of fear in it. Only worry. Only the same devotion he’s always known, the kind that makes his chest ache on a normal day, and now it’s a knife. You look up at him, lashes stuck together with tears and sweat, and he sees it—what he’s done to you. The red handprints on your thighs, the way your lips are bruised from your own teeth. He’s never hated himself more. He tries to say your name but his throat seizes, a dry, animal noise spilling out, and it takes everything not to punch a hole through the fucking drywall just to have something to break. You crawl into his lap, soft and warm and so goddamn patient, and rest your head on his shoulder. The touch is an IV drip straight to what’s left of his self-control. He wraps his arms around you, desperate to keep you safe, but the second your cunt grazes his cock he’s hard again—no pause, no mercy. Your body folds around him, open and wrecked and beautiful, and the urge to fuck you into the floorboards is so strong it’s all he can do not to bite your shoulder until it bruises. He’d always thought himself a man of limits. Rules. But this is new country. This is past the boundary of pain and into the realm of need that’s got no words. He wants to stop, but his cock is already rutting against your heat, and you’re slick, still so wet he can feel the mess soaking his thighs. You ease back, the weight of you on his lap, and thread your hand through his hair.
“Frankie, you’re burning up,” you whisper. Your palm settles on his chest, like you could press the fever out of him with enough pressure. But it’s not just fever. It’s a bomb—ticking. He can’t remember the last time he felt this powerless.
“God, it’s that fuckin’ red powder- I don’t- I don’t know what was in it-”
“It’s okay, Frankie.” You huff.
“No, it’s not fucking okay !” He yells, whining as his hips rut up, chasing the feel of your pussy clamped on him. His eyes fly open, and he takes you in. “Baby, look what i’ve fuckin’ done to ya.” He rasps, shaking his head.
“Frankie-”
“Please- get- get off me, mama, please- I don’t wanna hurt you anymore, i-” You see Frank’s resolve start to buckle. The panic in his eyes crashes up against the tidal wave of need that’s got him rutting into you even as he begs for distance, for mercy, for anything to keep you safe from his own treacherous body. You shift in his lap and he moans, the sound so raw and petulant it threatens to break your heart. You bury your face into his neck, lips pressed to the salt and heat there, and you try to anchor him with your words.
“I’m not afraid of you, Frankie. You’re not gonna hurt me. I want to help—” You’re cut off by a shudder as his cock twitches, fat and fever-hot, pressing up against your drenched folds. Even through the haze of soreness, you can’t help but want him, the way he fills you, the way he worships every inch of you with his eyes and hands and words. He tries to scoot back, but you wrap your arms around his shoulders, locking him in place.
“Frank. Look at me.” He tries to obey, but the shame is a physical force, tethering his chin to his chest. You take his face in both hands and lift it, so he’s forced to see you—your ruined makeup, your puffy lips, the tears still drying in sticky trails down your face. He trembles, and the glassy, pleading look in his eyes is almost more than you can bear. You force yourself to smile. “It’s not you, Frankie. It’s whatever they hit you with. You’re not going to break me. I know you.” You guide his hand so it cups your hip, thumb stroking over the place where his fingerprints are already bruising your skin. “Let me help you. Please.” A sob racks his chest, but you don’t let go. You shift your hips, the soreness blooming into a fierce ache, but the sharp stretch of him splitting you open is its own kind of mercy, a reminder that you’re real, that he’s real, that everything that has you gasping and groaning and crying is because the man you love can’t stop loving you back, even when it shreds him to the bone. He mutters something—could be your name, could be some broken apology—but you cut him off by grinding down, forcing the thick head of his cock inside again. You both moan, the sound a harmonized exhale of pain and relief and want. You ride him slow, savoring the way his hands grip your ass, the way his mouth stutters against the hollow of your neck.
“Baby—fuck—don’t wanna—don’t wanna ruin you—” he whimpers. You’ve never seen him lose it like this. The red powder’s got him raw, desperate, every boundary burned away by the chemical fire in his veins. His face shines with sweat and tears, and his voice is so cracked and pleading it makes you want to cry for him. You whine as you overstimulated clit bumps against his pubic bone and you shake your head.
"Just- ah shit, wanna help-" You manage, your face drawn up in pain.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck-" Before you can understand what's going on, you're ripped off of him, and your cheek meets the pillow as your ass is propped up. Frank’s got you on your stomach, ass in the air, and the whole world narrows to pressure, his hands locked around your hips so hard you can taste the bruise forming. He’s inside you before your brain catches up—a single mean thrust, bottoming out, and your mouth opens but nothing comes out except a stuttered gasp. He doesn’t move at first, just holds you there, cock throbbing so deep you can feel it behind your navel.
His voice is a raw scrape: “Sorry, sorry—can’t—” and then he fucks down, fucks through you, every stroke hard enough to punch the air from your lungs. You try to brace your hands but your shoulder gives out, leaving you cheek-down on the pillow, drool pooling in the crook of your mouth. You think you might cry, but it turns to a wail instead, a high desperate sound muffled by the bed. Frank’s not slow, not at all—he’s relentless, hips snapping, spine bowed over your back, the heat of him rolling off in waves. He mutters your name into your hair, worship and apology in every syllable, but he doesn’t stop, not even when your thighs seize up and your body starts to shake.
It’s like he’s in a race to fuck the poison out of himself, a self-punishment as much as a need. He doesn’t just pound, he grinds, the fat ridge of his cock scraping every hypersensitive spot and making you see colors behind your eyelids. He gets a rhythm going, a brutal, unyielding cadence that’s all force and no mercy, the wet slap of skin so loud it drowns out your own whimpers. He’s saying something—maybe a prayer, maybe a curse—but your ears ring too loud to tell. Frank’s rhythm shudders, then redoubles, each thrust a new promise he can’t keep—he’s sorry, he’s trying, but his body won’t even let him lie. All you can do is take it. Your hips knock forward with every impact, your knees gone numb, your hands scrabbling at the sheets. He’s a furnace at your back, sweat dripping from his jaw onto the nape of your neck. Your cunt is raw, fluttering, so full of him you feel like his cock is splitting your spine in half, pulse after pulse hammering your insides. The praise keeps coming, wrecked and hoarse, every word scraping the meat of your brain:
“That’s it, mama, god, you’re so good for me, fucking perfect, fuck, fuck, look at how you take it—” His hands bracket your waist, thumbs pressing so hard you’re sure you’ll wear his fingerprints for days. The bed gives a death rattle under the both of you, and for a second you’re sure you might break through the floor. It’s not just the pain, it’s the stretch, the impossible misshape of him inside you, the friction grinding against nerves you didn’t know you had. Each time he bottoms out, your whole body spasms, jaw slack, and your eyes roll up until all you see is white. You want to say it’s too much, you need to say it’s too much, but your throat can’t find the air. All you can manage is a strangled sob and a whimper, the sound burrowing straight into Frank’s brain. He’s so loud you barely hear yourself. He can’t stop moaning, every inhale a curse, every exhale a plea for you to hold on, to keep going, to save him from this. His cock throbs inside you, thick as a goddamn fist, and you feel every vein, every twitch.
You can’t even squeeze him now; you’re so open, so obliterated, but he uses you anyway, cocking his hips to make sure he grinds against every raw inch of your walls. It’s a mercy when you come again—your pussy fluttering, a helpless, shivery clamp that wrings a keening noise out of both of you. He feels it, all of it, the heat and the pulse and the way your body tries to milk him dry, and it snaps something vital in him.
He shoves forward, so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach, and he grunts a broken “fuck—” as he spills inside you again, so much it leaks out the second he starts to move. He doesn’t soften. Not even a little. He leans over, body caging you in, his huge hand coming to cradle your head, gentle and sweet and so at fucking odds with the way he rails you from behind, over and over and over. You think you might faint. You hope you do, but Frank won’t give you the out. He drags you up onto your knees, keeping you impaled, your ass flush against his hips. His chest is a solid wall at your back, every breath a ragged hurricane. You lean into him, and the only thing keeping you from sliding forward is the white-knuckle grip he’s got on your hip. Every muscle in his arm is bunched and trembling, and you can’t see his face, but you can hear him, every breath a broken, bruised whimper. The pressure inside you is so intense it feels like he’s going to split you, and the wet mess leaking out onto your thighs is obscene, but you can’t stop clenching, can’t stop reaching for every last inch he gives, even when it knocks a raw scream out of you.
He’s not talking anymore; he’s just animal, all want and motion, the drag of his cock so deep it makes your vision rattle. He’s fucking through every stop sign his brain tries to throw up. It’s not anger—he’s not rough, not really, not even when the thrusts get mean. He’s wounded, desperate, every snap of his hips a white flag of surrender to whatever’s in his blood. There’s a low, guttural moan in the back of his throat that never quite makes it out—just a vibration that crackles down his spine and into yours.
The only words he manages are yours: your name, and then sorry, then your name again, and then “please, please, please,” like there’s a finish line he can barely see.
You try to push up, to arch back into him, and he groans like he’s in pain. The new angle gives him enough to work with that he slams in even deeper, punching the air out of your lungs. The slap of your bodies is filthy, echoing off the drywall. You’re not sure you can take it, but every time you think you’ll fall apart, he tightens his fingers and pulls you closer and you break in a new way, shattered and made again in the space of a heartbeat. His cock is so hard it feels like a weapon, the head swelling every time your pussy convulses around it. You’re so full it’s like he’s rearranging your guts, and the ache is a raw, sweet line from your cervix to your clit, every stroke against that spot another quicksilver jolt.
He keeps muttering—“fuck, fuck, fuck, baby, good, that’s it, take it, take it, please”—each phrase more frantic than the last. His balls slap your clit with every thrust, a wet, brutal rhythm that leaves you shaking. You can’t move, not really, just grip the sheets and let him fuck you through the next dimension. Your body responds with a will of its own, cunt fluttering, greedy, and he all but howls, the pitch of his voice climbing as you milk him. He wraps a hand over your mouth, not to silence you, but to keep himself from biting into your shoulder. Your vision blurs at the edges, black stars exploding behind your eyes with every brutal slap of Frank’s hips. You don’t remember the last time you took a breath that wasn’t torn from your lungs; you don’t remember the last time you wanted anything as bad as you want him to finish—just finish—so you can collapse and glue your bones back together.
He holds you locked against his chest, your knees straining and your hands scrabbling for the headboard, but your arms are noodles, your muscles shaking with nothing left to give. He fucks you like he’s trying to get through to the other side, like if he just goes hard enough, deep enough, the chemicals will burn themselves out and he’ll stop being an animal. The sounds coming out of him are wild, nothing you’ve ever heard in your own bed—raw, grunting, half-sobbed apologies and broken praise.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, please, baby, need you to take it, need—can’t—” Frank’s voice is a rasp, a snapped wire, and you can feel his cock twitching, so hard you think he could split you in half with it. Each time he bottoms out, it punches a fresh scream out of you, but you clamp your jaw down, try to muffle the madness of it. He’s never rough with you, not like this, never so greedy, but you get it. Something is wrong, and you want to help—want to be the answer, the antidote, the safe place for him to burn out and come back to himself. He holds your waist so tight you can feel each ridge of his fingerprints, bruising you into memory. You want to say it hurts, but the words won’t come. Your pussy is on fire—raw, stretched, so abused it’s gone numb and then come back to life even sharper. The mess is everywhere: leaking out around him, slicking your thighs, running down to stain the sheets. All you can do is ride the waves and hope you don’t drown.
The only noise in the room is the animal rhythm of bodies and Frank’s voice, disbelieving and desperate: “So fucking tight, fuck, mama, so good, can’t stop, can’t—please don’t make me stop—” He thrusts so hard your hips jar forward, your face mashed into the bed. You start to sob, not from pain, not really, but because it’s too much, because you’ve never seen him like this, never heard him cry out with so little control. You want to help, that’s what matters—help him, take all of it, prove you’re strong enough. You push back into him, arching your ass higher, and the noise he makes is so grateful it breaks your heart.
“Good girl,” he says, voice shredded and hoarse. “Perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, sweetheart, doing so good, just gotta—” He loses the thread, ruts into you so deep your vision whites out. His cock pulses, and you feel a new rush of heat inside, and that does it. You clench down, body wracked by the kind of orgasm that hurts, hurts so good you see stars.
He lets you drop back down against the mattress, and you struggle to keep yourself upright. You scream yourself hoarse, your pussy clamped down vice-tight. You feel everything, every pulse and stretch and starburst, and Frank howls against your shoulder. The noise doesn’t even sound like him—it’s wounded and messy, his breath burning loud in your ear. You can’t move, can’t breathe, can only let him use you, rail you, like he’ll die if he doesn’t get it all out. The aftershocks won’t stop, not for you, not for him. He stutters through another frantic thrust, and you feel his cock jerk, another hot wave of come flooding you, and you go limp in his hands, deadweight against his chest. He keeps moving, barely half a second between one orgasm and the next, and you’re sobbing into the pillow, your senses so blown you can’t tell if you’re still coming or if the world just feels that sharp now. You want to beg for mercy, but Frank doesn’t have any to give. His grip shakes. His whole body shakes. He clings to you like he’ll fall apart if he lets go, every inch of him slick and hot, pressing you into the mattress until you’re shaped to it. You can hear the edge-of-panic in his voice, the way he repeats your name and sorry and “baby, I can’t—can’t stop, can’t stop.” He’s terrified of himself. You know it, and it makes you want him more, want to fix it, take the ache out of him even if it means breaking yourself in the process.
He lifts you higher, knees scrabbling to keep you upright, and then he’s fucking up into you again, as frantic as the first time. It’s a miracle you’re still wet, still open, but the heat between your legs is unreal—slippery, raw, your clit throbbing with every slap of his body. You don’t think you’re meant to come this many times; it’s like your nerves are fried, but every time his cock grinds against that spot inside you, you jolt and seize and scream. The room smells like sex, thick and musky and everywhere. You’re distantly aware of how filthy it is, how you both sound like animals, how you must look wrecked beyond repair—but Frank won’t even let you hide your face. He grabs your jaw, turns your head so you’re looking at him, his eyes wild and glassy and pleading.
“Need you,” he says, and it sounds like a confession. “Can’t—please, baby, don’t let go—” You nod, tears streaming down your cheeks, because you can’t talk, and the way he looks at you—like you’re the last thing tethering him to the planet—makes you want to endure a thousand more hours of this, if it’ll help. You squeeze around him, even though you’re not sure you can take any more; you brace your arms against his, let him rut into you until you both lose track of time.
Frank’s hand slides up the back of your neck, fingers in your hair, not pulling, just holding. Like if he lets go, he’ll float away. You feel his lips at your skin, a blur of kisses and apologies, but it’s not enough to gentle the pace. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t soften, just fucks you through every last bit of resistance. You can’t even squeeze him, but he doesn’t need it—he’s so big you’re stretched taut, every vein and ridge inside you, scraping against a spot that makes your eyes roll up. He leans over, flush against your back, and you feel the tremble in his chest—like he’s sobbing, too. His whole body shakes, and you realize with a lurch that he’s crying.
You turn your head, try to see him, but all you get is the hot rush of his breath in your hair, the way he chokes on another “sorry, sorry, baby, fuck—” before slamming in so deep you swear he’s fucking your soul out of your body. He doesn’t stop. Not even when you start to tremble, then seize up, body clamped so tight around him you think it might snap him in two. He keeps moving, relentless, grinding you to dust on the inside and the outside, and the sounds coming out of his mouth break open something raw in your chest—a wet, hiccupping sob choked down between every thrust. He feels everything too much, all at once, and it hurts, you can see it in the way his hands shake against your skin, the way he buries his face in your neck like he’s trying to hide from himself.
You want to tell him it’s okay, that you want it, that you want him, but your tongue is heavy, glued to the roof of your mouth. All you can do is take it, take him, every brutal inch, and hope it helps. The room is a blur: lamp tipped on its side, blood pounding in your ears, the hot animal stink of sweat and sex and desperate, chemical need. You’re so full it hurts, but you keep clenching, greedy for more, even as your muscles threaten to give out.
He pins your wrists to the mattress, fingers threaded through yours, so tight it burns. You twist under him, searching for leverage, but he flattens you, cages you, and there’s no air left in your lungs. His cock pistons in, then out, a punishing, friction-sharp rhythm that makes you see strobing white. You feel it all: the stretch, the obscene wet slap, the pulse of blood behind your clit, the way your body tries to force him out but can’t. For a second, you wonder if it’s permanent, if you’ll ever be able to close again without the imprint of him inside you. He keeps his hand on your throat, not squeezing, just holding, grounding himself with your pulse as he chases that feeling through you. The pressure behind your eyes is unbearable; you can’t tell if you’re lightheaded from the lack of air, or from the way he pounds you, relentless even as your body goes limp.
“Ah shit, ah shit- baby- He rasps. You can feel his body burning so unbelievably hot that it burns your skin.
“Shit, baby, i think i’m gonna come-” He rasps, and his hips pick up speed. You’re not sure if you’re even conscious when it happens; your body is numb but your brain is a live wire, the noise in your skull too loud to parse. He moves again, humping at you in little, frantic jerks, already hard, never soft. He sounds panicked, desperate, like he’s drowning and needs you to save him.
“Please, baby, fuck, please,” he gasps, and you push back into him, let him set the new rhythm, not even thinking. You’re beyond pain, beyond thought; just animal, just wet and open and clenching down because you have nothing else to give. You feel every inch, every vein, every frantic stutter of his cock, and it’s like you were made for this, for him, for the way he fills you up and burns you clean from the inside out.
Frank’s cock jerks inside you and the heat floods out in a wave, so much come you can feel it forcing its way out past the seal of you both, drooling down your thighs and pooling under your knees. He collapses against your back, and the world goes silent except for the crash of his heartbeat and the rasp of his breathing. He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move at all, not even to loosen the grip he’s got on your wrists. For a second, you think he’s passed out. Then you hear it—a soft, broken noise in the hollow of your shoulder, the kind of sound that only comes out when the body runs out of things to burn. He shudders, the shift of his body smearing sweat and spit and tears down your back. You’re both shaking, but his is an aftershock, yours is still the quake. He buries his nose in your hair, inhaling like it might save him. A minute passes. Then another. He’s still inside you, and you can feel every twitch, every minute pulse, like your walls are mapped to his heartbeat.
“Baby,” he croaks, and his voice is so small you almost don’t hear it. “Jesus. Fuck. Are you—” He can’t finish. He’s breathing like he’s been sprinting for miles. You can’t breathe right. Every inch of skin feels flayed, body spasming around the thickness of him still buried in you. Frank is nothing but heat and bone and the low, sick whimper echoing in your ear. You don’t know if you’re crying, but your face is wet and your teeth ache from clenching. You’re glad you didn’t say no—glad you could take it, for him, whatever this is. You’re glad to be the thing he needs, even if you don’t understand the why of it. He doesn’t move. Not one millimeter. You try to flex around him, a weak squeeze, and he makes a soft, torn sound. There’s shame in it. You don’t have to see his face—you can feel it in the way he goes slack against your back, the way his arms drop away from you like he’s afraid of his own hands. He pulls out so slow you want to scream, cock dragging against your swollen, battered walls, and the afterrush of everything floods out between your thighs. You collapse onto the wet, ruined sheets, legs so dead you couldn’t move if you tried.
“Shit, shit !” He rasps, gently reaching for you and flipping you over to your back. The haze that filled his eyes is gone now, and he looks at your body in pure horror.
Bruises.
Bite marks.
The indentation of his fingers.
You blink into the light. You’re vibrating apart, every nerve raw and humming. Frank’s hands hover, then drop. He’s kneeling above you, shaking, looking down like he’s a monster who’s just drawn a bloodline in the sand and crossed it. Frank stares at the marks on your hips in horror, mouth open but no words coming out, breath rattling. He drags a hand over his face and looks at you, really looks, and his eyes go wide and dark like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“Jesus, baby, I—fuck, I’m—” He can’t even say it. His hands flutter, wanting to reach, not daring. You’re splayed open, cold now that he’s not filling you, the wet between your legs turning sticky against your skin. It’s obscene, the way your body wants him even now, the ache in your cunt still a live wire, pulsing. You press your legs together but he’s left you so stretched there’s nothing to squeeze. Frank scrambles off the bed and almost falls, legs shaking, cock slapping wet against his thigh. He’s pale and sweating, haunted, retreating from you like you’re radioactive. In the bathroom you hear him gag, then the faucet running, then another low, choked noise that’s all guilt and fear.
You lie in the mess and wait. The ceiling is just a white blur, your blood humming in your ears.
You could sleep forever.
Or die.
Either would be a mercy. You roll to your side, wince at the wet slap between your thighs, the way your body won’t hold you together. Your hand comes away sticky, smeared with both of you. You wipe it on the sheets, a halfhearted gesture, and laugh—quiet, ugly, edged with hysteria.
Frank comes back in, eyes rimmed red. He’s holding a towel and a bottle of water, both with the same careful gentleness that he used to carry your favorite takeout after a long shift. He doesn’t look at you while he presses the towel between your legs, mopping up the worst of the mess. His hands are shaking so bad he can’t get it right, so you grab the towel, dig it in yourself. The rough scrape hurts and you do it anyway.
He sits on the edge of the bed, as far from you as he can get without falling off, and stares at the wall.
“I don’t know what the fuck—” he starts, but his voice cracks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I’m so fucking sorry.” Frank's voice cracks on the last word, the sound swallowed by the thick, oppressive silence of the room. He can't look at you. His gaze is fixed on the wall, but he's not seeing the paint or the framed photo of your wedding day. He's seeing the imprint of his hands on your skin, the way your body went limp under his, the sounds you made that were half pleasure, half pain. He's seeing a monster wearing his face.
"Frankie," you start, your own voice a raspy whisper. You push yourself up, ignoring the screaming protest of every muscle. The sheet sticks to you, damp and cold. "Frankie, look at me." He flinches like you've struck him. He doesn't turn.
"Don't. Don't… don't be nice to me right now. I don't deserve it."
"Deserve's got nothing to do with it," you manage, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The world tilts, and you brace a hand on the nightstand. "What happened? The powder. You said something about red powder." His shoulders hunch. He runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, the gesture sharp and agitated.
"It was during my stupid mission. In the warehouse. Some old bastard… thought he was carrying a piece but he wasn't. Had a canister. I shot him, but he… he popped it. Red dust. Got all over me." He finally turns his head, and the devastation in his eyes makes your chest ache. "It was nothing at first. Just… weird. Then driving home… it was like a fire got lit inside me. A fever. And then… and then I saw you."He says it like a confession. Like seeing you, safe and asleep in your bed, was the catalyst that turned a chemical reaction into an act of violence. To him, it was.
"Okay," you say slowly, trying to piece it together through the fog of exhaustion and lingering arousal. "So it was a drug. Something that made you… like this."
"I didn't want to hurt you," he says, the words rushing out, thick with unshed tears. "I swear to god, I tried to stop. I tried to leave the room. I tried to… fuck, I don't know what I tried. Every second I was fighting it, but my body… it wasn't mine anymore. It was just… need. And you were there." You reach for his hand, and he lets you take it, his fingers cold and limp in yours.
"We need to figure out what it was. What it's doing to you." Your mind races, sifting through the limited options. The fever, the relentless… need. It's beyond anything you understand. "Frank… we should call Bruce. He knows this stuff. Chemicals, weird science, biological reactions. He could help." The reaction is instantaneous and violent. Frank snatches his hand back as if you've offered him poison. He's on his feet, pacing the small space at the end of the bed like a caged animal. The movement is jerky, still fueled by a residual tremor in his limbs.
"No. No fucking way."
"Frank, be reasonable," you plead, trying to stand, but your legs give out and you sink back onto the mattress. "You were burning up for almost three hours. We don't know if this is… if it's actually over, or if it's going to cause damage to you long term. He's the smartest guy we know. He could probably identify it over the phone."
"I said no!" he snaps, the voice of the Punisher cutting through the raw, wounded man from a moment ago. He stops pacing and glares at you, but the anger is all directed inward. "You think I'm gonna call that green freak and tell him I lost control? That I drugged myself and used my wife like a goddamn fleshlight until she passed out? You think I want him to know what I did to you?" The words are ugly, brutal, and they hang in the air between you. But you hear the fear underneath. The shame.
"Frank, it wasn't you," you insist, your voice gaining a little strength. "It was whatever was in that canister. Bruce would understand that."
"I don't care !" he shouts, running both hands through his hair in frustration. "I'm not telling him! I'm not telling anybody! The last thing I need is… is a lab coat poking at me while I explain how I couldn't keep my dick in my pants!" He stops, his chest heaving. He looks at the mess on the bed, at the marks on your skin visible even in the dim light, and the anger drains out of him, replaced by a crushing wave of self-loathing. He sinks to his knees at the foot of the bed, far enough away that he can't touch you, close enough that he can see the damage.
"Forget fucking Banner right now," he says, his voice quiet now, broken. "Forget everybody. Just… just let me take care of you. Please. We can call whoever the hell you want in the morning, sweetheart, i just-" He looks up at you, his eyes pleading. He rests his forehead against the mattress, his whole body trembling with the force of his regret. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry." You run your fingers through his hair.
"It's okay, Frank." He shakes his head so hard it almost looks painful.
"No." His voice is barely audible. "No, don't…" Another shake. "Don't say that." You frown.
"Frank—"
"I hurt you." The words come out flat. Certain. Like a verdict that's already been handed down. "I've spent years making damn sure I never did." He laughs once. It's a horrible sound. Empty.
"You know…" His eyes stay fixed on the floor. "I've broken bones with these hands." He holds them out in front of him. They won't stop trembling. "I've killed with these hands." His fingers curl into fists. "But every time I came home…" His voice cracks. "…I left all that outside." He looks up at you then, eyes red and swollen. "I never wanted you to be scared of me."
"I'm not."
"You should be."
"I'm not."
"I left bruises on you." You instinctively glance down. Finger-shaped marks are already darkening across your wrists and hips. Frank follows your gaze. Whatever composure he'd managed to hold together shatters.
"Oh, God…" He covers his face. "I did that."
"You were drugged."
"I did that."
"It wasn't your choice."
"It was my hands." His breathing starts to hitch. Not panicked. Not angry. Just… broken.
"I've spent every day since we got married trying to be gentle with you." He laughs bitterly through tears. "Remember the first time I helped you out of the shower after you sprained your ankle?" You nod. "You kept telling me I was holding you like you were made of glass."
"You were."
"'Cause I was scared I'd hurt you." Another tear slips down his face. "I've always been scared I'd hurt you." His shoulders begin to shake. "I know what I am."
"No."
"I do."
"Frank."
"I know what I've done." He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I can live with what I've done to people who deserved it." His voice drops to almost nothing. "I don't know how to live with doing it to you." You slide carefully off the bed. Every muscle protests. Your legs are unsteady. Frank notices immediately. His head snaps up.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm coming here."
"No." He backs away on instinct. "Don't."
"Frank."
"I'm filthy."
"No."
"I don't deserve—" You ignore him. You kneel in front of him anyway. It hurts. He notices that too. His face crumples.
"Baby…" You take his face in your hands. He tries to pull away. You don't let him.
"You have never once hurt me on purpose." He closes his eyes.
"That doesn't make this disappear."
"No. It doesn't." You rest your forehead against his. "But neither does you punishing yourself." His breath catches. "I married a man who checks the water temperature before I get into the shower." A tiny smile threatens at the corner of your mouth. "The man who apologizes if he bumps into me in the kitchen." He lets out a watery laugh."The man who still asks before touching me if he thinks I've had a bad day." Another tear rolls down his cheek. "That's my husband." You squeeze his hand. "Not whatever you think that powder turned you into." For a long time he doesn't answer.
Then, finally.... He leans forward. Just enough to rest his forehead against your shoulder. His entire body starts shaking.
Years of discipline. Years of control. Years of refusing himself the luxury of falling apart.
Gone.
He cries. Quietly. Like he's ashamed to even make noise. You hold him. Running slow circles across his back. Neither of you knows how long you stay like that. Eventually, his breathing evens out.
"I'm so tired," he whispers.
"I know."
"I'm scared to sleep." You pull back enough to look at him.
"Why?"
"What if it isn't over?" The fear in his eyes is raw. "What if I wake up like that again?"
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"No." You brush damp hair back from his forehead. "I don't." A beat. "But if something's wrong…" You lace your fingers through his. "…we'll face it together." He nods once. Reluctantly.
You convince him into a hot shower—not together, just enough to wash the chemical residue and sweat away. He insists on checking the water temperature for you before you step in, a habit so familiar it almost makes you cry. Afterwards he helps you into one of his old T-shirts and fresh pajamas with painstaking care, asking every few seconds if you're hurting, if you're dizzy, if he's moving too fast. When you finally crawl back into bed, he doesn't touch you. He lies on his back, rigid, leaving almost a foot of space between you. As though he's afraid his own skin might betray him again.
You reach across the mattress. Find his hand. He startles.
"It's okay," you whisper.
He hesitates before turning his hand over and intertwining your fingers. Neither of you says anything else. Exhaustion eventually wins.
-------
Morning arrives gray and quiet. You wake first. Frank is wrapped around you so tightly you fear he might actually suffocate you.
One arm is around your waist.
The other is tucked protectively beneath your neck.
One leg is hooked over yours.
You're fairly certain if someone tried to kidnap you, they'd have to take Frank with you. You blink up at the ceiling.
"…Frank." A sleepy grunt. "You are crushing me." Another grunt.
"No, I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
"I'm protecting you."
"From oxygen?" His eyes stay closed.
"…Maybe." You smile despite yourself.
"Frankie."
"Hm?"
"I need circulation."
"You've got circulation."
"My left arm is completely numb." He cracks one eye open.
"That's because you're dramatic."
"Oh, I'm dramatic?"
"Very." You wiggle experimentally. Every muscle below your waist immediately protests. You hiss through your teeth. Frank is fully awake before the sound has even finished leaving your mouth. His entire body goes rigid.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What hurts?" You sigh.
"My everything." His face falls. Immediately.
"Oh…" He sits up so fast the mattress bounces. "I'm sorry."
"Frank."
"I'm so—"
"Frank."
"I shouldn't have—" You reach over and flick him lightly on the forehead.
"Ow."
"Good." He rubs the spot with exaggerated offense.
"You flicked me."
"You were spiraling."
"I wasn't."
"You apologized three times in six seconds."
"I could've hit seven." You can't help laughing. The sound makes his shoulders loosen just a fraction. "There's my girl."
He reaches toward you automatically. Then hesitates halfway. His hand hangs awkwardly in the air. You notice. Without saying anything, you take it yourself. His fingers close around yours immediately.
"I'm sore," you admit.
"I know."
"But I'm okay."
"I know."
"You look like you're about to throw up."
"I might." You roll your eyes.
"If you pass out before breakfast, I'm divorcing you." That earns the tiniest smile.
"You'd miss me."
"I would."
"You love me."
"Unfortunately."
"Hm." He nods once. "Still marrying me again."
"Maybe."
"Definitely."
"Depends."
"On?"
"Whether you make coffee." Without another word, Frank stands.
"I'll make coffee."
"And pancakes."
"I'll make pancakes."
"And bacon."
"I'll make bacon."
"And you're doing dishes." He points at you.
"Now you're pushing it." You grin.
"There he is."
"Who?"
"My grumpy husband."
"I was always here."
"You disappeared for a bit." His smile fades.
"I know." The room grows quiet again. You squeeze his hand.
"We're still here." He nods.
"We're still here." An hour later, the kitchen smells like coffee and burnt toast. Frank glares at the toaster.
"It betrayed me."
"You forgot to push it down."
"I was distracted."
"By?" He glances at you.
"You walked funny." You freeze halfway to your chair.
"…Excuse me?"
"You winced."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I tripped."
"You tripped while standing still."
"I was thinking."
"You were limping."
"I was not limping." Frank raises one eyebrow. You sigh dramatically.
"I was… walking thoughtfully." He snorts into his coffee.
"Thoughtfully."
"Exactly."
"You've got a hitch in your step."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"No." You smile into your mug. "I really don't." His expression softens again.
"I'm sorry." You point your fork at him.
"That's apology number… honestly, I've lost count."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." You reach across the table.
"I know you are." He looks at your joined hands. Then down at his plate.
"I've never…" His voice trails off.
"I know."
"I've always worried…" He swallows. "…about bringing that part of my life home."
"You never did."
"I almost did."
"You came home because you trusted me."
"I came home because I didn't know where else to go."
"And that's okay." He nods slowly.
"Still hate that you're hurting."
"I'll survive."
"I know."
"I've survived your cooking."
"The toast wasn't that bad."
"It achieved a level of carbon previously unknown to science."
"It was artisanal."
"It was charcoal." He chuckles quietly. The sound feels like sunlight. After breakfast, Frank disappears into the laundry room. A minute later you hear,
"…Sweetheart?"
"What?"
"Where're the freezer bags?" You blink.
"The… freezer bags?"
"Yeah." You find him standing over yesterday's discarded clothes with a pair of barbecue tongs.
"…Frank."
"What?"
"Why are you holding my kitchen tongs?"
"I'm not touching that stuff."
"You literally fought an entire warehouse."
"Bullets don't usually come covered in mystery chemicals." Fair point. You hand him a box of large zip-top storage bags. He carefully picks up his shirt with the tongs.
"You know," you say, leaning against the doorway, "Bruce is never going to let you live this down." Frank stuffs the shirt into the bag.
"He says one word—"
"He'll say at least twelve."
"I'll leave."
"You can't."
"I absolutely can."
"You need him."
"I know." He seals the bag with excessive force. "I'm just not happy about it." You laugh.
"I'm putting money on Tony finding out within the hour." Frank looks horrified.
"…Don't even joke."
"I'm serious."
"He'll make a PowerPoint."
"He'll make merch."
"He'll name the chemical after me."
"'Castle Syndrome.'"
"'Frank's Bad Decision Dust.'"
"'Horny Powder.'" You burst out laughing. Frank pinches the bridge of his nose.
"I hate all of you."
"You haven't even left the house yet."
"I'm getting a headache in advance." You tuck the sealed evidence bag into another airtight container.
"There." You smile up at him. "Ready?" Frank takes a long breath. His eyes drift briefly to you, checking—again—that you're steady on your feet.
"You sure you're okay to go?"
"I'm sure."
"You'll tell me if you're hurting?"
"I will."
"You promise?"
"I promise." He studies you for another second before nodding. Then he picks up the container with the contaminated clothes as though it contains a live grenade.
"Let's go." You slip your hand into his free one.
"And maybe," you add, "let's not open the conversation with 'Hi, Bruce, I accidentally got dusted by horny cocaine.'" Frank groans.
"…I'm driving."
"You say that like it solves the problem."
"It solves my problem."
The drive to the Avengers Compound is unusually quiet. Normally, Tony would have received at least three sarcastic voice messages by now. Today, Frank's hands stay locked around the steering wheel. Every few minutes, he glances sideways.
"You okay?" You nod.
"I'm okay." Five minutes later—
"You sure?" You smile faintly.
"I'm still okay." Another red light.
"You dizzy?"
"No."
"You nauseous?"
"A little." His grip tightens.
"Frank."
"What?"
"You've asked me twenty-three questions."
"I have not."
"You absolutely have."
"…Twenty-two." You snort. He doesn't. He's serious. Painfully serious. You reach across the center console and squeeze his forearm.
"I'm fine." His eyes remain on the road.
"I know."
"No." You shake your head. "You don't." He finally looks at you for half a second.
"I don't know anything right now." Bruce is already waiting when the two of you arrive. He takes one look at Frank's expression and immediately frowns.
"…Frank."
"Banner." Bruce's eyes move to you.
"You alright?" You answer before Frank can.
"I'm sore." Frank visibly winces. Bruce notices.
"So… why don't we start from the beginning?" Frank sets the airtight container on the lab bench like it's an unexploded bomb.
"I brought the clothes." Bruce blinks.
"…Good?"
"I wasn't touching 'em."
"You carried them with barbecue tongs," you add. Bruce looks between the two of you.
"…You carried contaminated evidence with kitchen utensils?" Frank crosses his arms.
"They're stainless steel." Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.
"I'm… not sure that's the issue." Frank shrugs.
"They were clean."
"They're definitely not anymore."
"They're in the dishwasher." Bruce sighs.
"I'm suddenly very concerned about your dishwasher." Despite everything, you laugh. Frank looks relieved just to hear it. Bruce pulls on gloves and carefully removes Frank's shirt from the bag. The fabric still carries faint reddish stains near the collar.
"Hm." He transfers tiny samples into a glass dish. The lab falls quiet except for the hum of machines. Frank paces. You sit on one of the stools, trying very hard not to shift your weight. Every muscle in your hips protests. You ignore it. Frank notices anyway.
"You alright?"
"Yep."
"You just made a face."
"I was… thinking." Bruce looks over his shoulder.
"Thoughtfully?" You glare.
"He's infected everyone." Frank almost smiles. Almost. Bruce spends another several minutes scanning the residue, and taking a blood sample from Frank. Then he pauses.
"…Well." Neither of you likes that tone.
"What?" Frank asks immediately. Bruce adjusts the image on the monitor.
"It's… not exactly what I expected."
"What is it?" Bruce folds his arms.
"The compound appears to be an engineered biochemical aerosol." Frank stares.
"In English." Bruce sighs.
"It hijacks several neurochemical pathways simultaneously."
"…English."
"It artificially stimulates areas of the brain associated with sexual arousal, reward, impulse suppression, and temperature regulation." You blink.
"So…" Bruce clears his throat.
"It's… essentially a weaponized aphrodisiac." Frank looks horrified. Bruce continues, almost apologetically. "An extremely aggressive one."
"…You're telling me I got hit with sex pollen?" Bruce hesitates.
"…Scientifically speaking…Yes. Your sex drive went into overdrive."
Silence.
Frank rubs both hands over his face.
"Fuck's sake. I got taken out by horny fairy dust." The lab doors slide open.
"Please tell me somebody said 'horny fairy dust.'"
Tony.
Of course.
He strolls in carrying a coffee the size of a flower vase.
"I leave for one meeting…" His eyes land on Frank. "…and somehow Castle has managed to invent a brand-new category of workplace incident." Frank groans.
"I knew it." Tony points dramatically.
"I called it!"
"You weren't here."
"I psychically called it." Bruce mutters,
"I absolutely did not tell him."
"I have ears."
"You have surveillance software."
"I have excellent surveillance software." Tony finally notices you.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine." He nods. Then his eyes catch something near your shoulder where your oversized T-shirt has slipped. A dark bite mark. He winces.
"…Wow." Frank immediately turns.
"What?" You instinctively pull the collar up.
"Nothing." Frank's face drains of color. He'd seen the bruises. He hadn't seen that. Tony opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
"I'm gonna make exactly one joke." Bruce sighs.
"Tony."
"I'm exercising tremendous restraint."
Bruce looks back toward the monitor.
"Based on your blood sample, i'd say the toxin has been cleared from your system." He says. He looks back up at Frank. "Do you have any idea how ?" Frank freezes beside you. His ears go bright red.
"Uh.. Well.." he starts, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor tiles. "There was… a lot of… liquid intake." Tony’s coffee freezes halfway to his lips. His eyes widen in dawning, gleeful comprehension. Bruce, bless him, just looks confused.
"Liquid intake?" Bruce asks, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Hydration is good, but I'm not sure how that would metabolize a complex neurotoxin this quickly. We're talking about a half-life of—"
"He doesn't mean he drank a lot of water, Bruce," Tony cuts in, his voice dripping with suppressed laughter. "He means Mrs Castle here had a lot of liquid intake." He makes a vague gesture towards Frank's groin. Frank’s entire face is now the color of a stop sign.
"Stark, I swear to God—"
"What ? You gonna hit me because you came in your wife ?"
"Tony !" You hiss, stepping between them before Frank can actually make good on the promise in his eyes. "He's not the only one who came, you know. It was a team effort." Tony blinks. Frank, who had been coiled to strike, freezes so completely you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. He slowly lowers his fists, turning his head to look at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. Tony, however, recovers instantly. His grin becomes a thing of legend.
"A team effort," he repeats, savoring the words. "I like that. Collaborative problem-solving. Very Avengers of you. So, just to be clear for my notes, was this a… simultaneous deployment, or a series of controlled bursts?" Bruce finally catches on, and a horrified blush creeps up his neck.
"Tony, for the love of God, stop."
"No, no, this is a legitimate scientific inquiry!" Tony insists, pointing a finger at Frank. "Because, and I'm just spitballing here, you didn't know this would work, did you, Castle? You just went for it. You looked at a situation involving a weaponized aphrodisiac and your solution was… what? More sex? Rougher sex? Did you have a hypothesis? 'If I just rail her into next week, maybe the chemical bonds will break from sheer force of will?'" Frank's jaw works, but the rage is being replaced by a deep, soul-crushing mortification. He looks at Tony, then at you, then at the floor.
"It… seemed like a good idea at the time, I couldn't exactly control it." he mumbles, the words barely audible.
"It seemed like a good idea," Tony crows, delighted. "The man's entire tactical genius boils down to 'it seemed like a good idea at the time'! I'm putting that on your tombstone. 'Frank Castle: He Had A Good Idea Once.'" You can't help it. A small, helpless laugh escapes you. Frank shoots you a wounded look, but you just pat his arm.
"He's not wrong," you whisper. 'You did come home quite charged and didn't really think." Bruce, desperate to regain control of his lab, clears his throat loudly.
"Okay. Fascinating as this… post-op analysis is, we should discuss the aftereffects." He looks at you, his expression professional but tinged with concern. "The chemical was designed to lower inhibitions and increase physical endurance. The… physical activity… would have been intense. You should be checked over. Just to make sure there are no… internal injuries." Frank's head snaps up, his face a mask of renewed horror. He looks at you, his eyes wide with a fresh wave of guilt.
"Jesus," he breathes. You feel your own cheeks heat up. You wave a dismissive hand, trying for nonchalance and probably failing.
"Oh, I'm… I'm fine. Really. Just… a little tender."
"Tender?" Tony jumps on the word. "Tender is for steak! Jesus, sweetheart, you have a bite mark on your shoulder ! I frankly don't even want to see what you're hidin' under them clothes."
"Tony, I swear to God—" Frank starts, but you cut him off.
"I'm fine. I swear." you manage, your throat dry.
"Listen, i know this is awkward but-"
"Seriously, Bruce. I'm fine." You say. Bruce pushes his glasses up his nose, his expression shifting from concerned to deeply uncomfortable.
"I know you are, but I need to be sure. We don't have enough data on the transmission vector of this compound. Frank's blood is clear, but we only tested his. The toxin was primarily absorbed through his respiratory system and skin. However, the… fluid transfer… creates a new variable." You frown.
"What variable?" Bruce sighs, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth.
"We don't know if the compound can be passed between hosts like a sexually transmitted disease. Frank's system may have flushed it out, but if there's any residual trace in his semen, and if it's still viable… it could reinfect you. Or worse, it could mutate. We have no precedent for this." The lab goes dead silent. Tony, who had been smirking with self-satisfaction, slowly lowers his coffee mug. The humor drains from his face, replaced by a dawning, clinical curiosity that's somehow even more unnerving.
"Whoa," he says softly. "Reinfection. Mutation. So, what you're saying is, Castle's… cure… might actually be the carrier for round two?" Frank looks like he's been physically struck. He stares at Bruce, his face a mask of horror, all the blood having drained from it. He glances at you, his eyes wide with a fresh, sickening wave of guilt. It's one thing to have lost control in the heat of the moment; it's another thing entirely to have potentially poisoned you with it.
"So… what?" Frank asks, his voice a hoarse rasp. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Bruce says, choosing his words with extreme care, "that until I can run more simulations and analyze the data, you should… abstain. From any and all sexual intercourse. Just to be safe. We need a clean baseline to make sure she's not carrying it either."
"Abstain," Frank repeats, the word sounding foreign and wrong in his mouth. Tony, ever the helpful one, chimes in.
"Yeah, you know. No more 'collaborative problem-solving.' No more 'controlled bursts.' You're on a mandatory dry run, Castle. For science." You can't help it. A small, hysterical bubble of laughter escapes your lips. It's either that or cry. Frank looks at you like you've grown a second head.
"Sorry," you choke out, waving a hand. "It's just… the timing." Frank just stares at you, then at Bruce, then at the floor. He looks utterly defeated. He came here for answers, for a clean slate, and instead, he's been handed a life sentence. He nods, a short, sharp, jerky motion.
"Right. No… that. Right." He turns to you, his expression a mixture of apology and profound misery. "Let's… let's go." He doesn't wait for a reply. He just turns and walks out of the lab, his shoulders hunched, his steps heavy. You shoot a helpless look at Bruce, who just gives you a sympathetic shrug, and then at Tony, who has the decency to look at least a little bit ashamed. You hurry after Frank, catching up to him just as he reaches the elevator. The doors slide shut, enclosing you in the small, silent space. He doesn't look at you. He just stares at the numbers counting down, his jaw clenched so tight you're surprised his teeth don't crack.
"Frank," you say softly. He doesn't respond. "Frank, it's okay."
"It's not okay," he says, his voice low and rough. "I… I hurt you. And now… now I can't even… touch you."
"You can touch me," you say, reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. "Just not… that." He lets out a short, bitter laugh.
"Might as well be the same thing." The elevator doors open, and he walks out into the garage, heading straight for the car. He's quiet on the drive home, staring out the window, his jaw working. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head, replaying every humiliating moment. When you get back to the apartment, he heads straight for the kitchen, pulling a beer from the fridge. He twists the cap off and takes a long swallow, leaning against the counter.
"He's never gonna let it live it down, is he?" Frank asks, his voice low and rough.
"No," you say gently, moving to stand in front of him. You take the beer from his hand and set it aside, then wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his chest. "He's going to have PowerPoint presentations. There might be merch. He's probably already designing a logo for 'Frank's Bad Decision Dust.'" Frank's arms come around you, holding you tight. You feel him let out a long, shuddering breath.
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice muffled in your hair. "For all of it. For… last night. For this morning. For… all of it." You pull back just enough to look up at him.
"Hey. Look at me." He meets your gaze, his eyes filled with a familiar, weary self-loathing. "We're okay. You hear me? We're okay."
"I hurt you."
"And I'm sore," you admit. "But I'm not broken. And you didn't mean to. It wasn't you."
"It felt like me," he says quietly.
"It wasn't," you say, your voice firm. "It was the… fairy dust." You can't help but smile a little. "The horny fairy dust." A tiny smile touches his lips, so faint you almost miss it.
"Horny fairy dust," he repeats, shaking his head. "Jesus."
synopsis : At a crowded party, Frank Castle overhears you telling a friend that big noses are attractive for very specific reasons. Once he gets her home, he demands she demonstrate exactly what she meant.
warnings : oral sex, face-sitting, established relationship dynamics, and references to violence (implied through character background only)
wc : ~750 words
The music at the warehouse-turned-loft party was too loud, the lights too dim, and the crowd too packed with people pretending they weren't carrying. You'd lost sight of Frank twenty minutes ago—probably making the rounds, scanning exits, doing that whole broody guardian thing he did even when he was supposed to be relaxing.
You leaned against the exposed brick wall, nursing a beer that had gone warm, while your friend waved her hands around about some guy she'd matched with on Tinder.
"He's got this nose," your friend was saying, wrinkling her own. "Like, prominent. Roman statue vibes."
You snorted. "I don't know, big noses are kinda hot."
She paused. Turned to you. "Really?"
"Really." You shrugged, feeling the pleasant buzz of your drink. "When you ride their face, you know? It feels good. Better angle or something. More to hold onto."
Maya's eyes went wide, then she dissolved into giggles, swatting your arm. "Oh my god, you're ridiculous."
"I'm serious!" You laughed, but you were already feeling the heat creep up your neck. "Don't knock it till you try it."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say—"
You didn't notice the shadow that lingered a beat too long near the hallway behind you. You didn't see the way Frank's jaw tightened, his eyes tracking the line of your throat before he slipped back into the crowd.
The ride back to your place was silent in that heavy, charged way. Frank drove his truck with both hands on the wheel, knuckles white, eyes fixed on the road like it had personally offended him. You'd tried making conversation twice. Gotten grunts in response.
"Everything okay?" you asked finally, reaching for the radio.
Frank caught your wrist before you touched the dial. His thumb pressed against your pulse point, deliberate, and your breath caught.
"I heard you," he said. His voice was gravel over glass.
"Heard me what?"
"At the party." He glanced at you then, and there was something dark and focused in his eyes that made your stomach flip. "Talking to your friend. About what you like."
Your brain stuttered. Rewound. Oh. Oh.
"Frank—"
"Big noses," he said, almost casual, but his grip on your wrist tightened. "Said they feel good. When you—" He stopped. His jaw worked. "Show me."
Your mouth went dry. "What?"
"You said it feels good." He turned onto your street, the truck's engine rumbling low and hungry. "I want you to show me."
Your apartment door barely clicked shut before he had you pressed against it, his hands framing your face, his thumbs dragging across your cheekbones. You could feel the calluses, the violence he carried in his skin, but his touch was careful. Reverent.
"You sure?" you breathed, even as your fingers found the hem of his shirt.
"Yeah." He kissed you then, rough and claiming, and you felt it in your knees. "Want your thighs around my ears, sweetheart. Want you to tell me how good it feels."
You laughed, breathless, and he swallowed the sound.
The bedroom was dark, just the streetlight filtering through the blinds. Frank sat on the edge of your mattress like he was waiting for orders, and you climbed over him, your dress riding up, your hands shaking only a little. He helped you, big rough palms sliding up your legs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin of your inner thighs.
"Come here," he murmured, and you went.
The first roll of your hips made him groan, the vibration of it sparking up your spine. He wasn't gentle—he didn't know how to be—but he was there, present and desperate and yours, his hands gripping your hips to guide the rhythm, his nose pressing exactly where you needed it, the angle perfect in a way that made your vision blur.
"Frank—" You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling. "There, right there—"
He made a sound against you, encouraging, hungry, and you felt it building fast and sharp, coiling tight in your belly. You rode him like that, shameless and loud, the wet sound of it obscene and perfect, until you were shaking, until your thighs were trembling and your head fell back and you came apart with his name breaking across your lips.
He didn't stop. Kept you there, oversensitive and writhing, until you were pushing at his shoulders, laughing and gasping and begging.
"Okay," you managed. "Okay, you proved your point—"
Frank finally pulled back, his mouth glistening, his eyes blown wide and dark. He looked wrecked. He looked proud.
"Good?" he asked, rough and smug.
You slapped his chest, weak and giggling. "Shut up. You know it was."
He caught your hand, pressed a kiss to your palm, and the tenderness of it after the filth of before made your chest ache. He helped you down, eased you onto the mattress beside him, and pulled you into the circle of his arms.
"For the record," he mumbled into your hair, his heartbeat thudding slow and steady against your back, "you can talk about me like that anytime you want. I'll be listening."
You huffed a quiet laugh against his chest. "Seriously?"
Frank let out a low breath and covered your hand with his. "Yes." His voice was rough, softening at the edges with exhaustion and something warmer. "You looked at me from across that room and I was done. Three seconds. That's all it took."
You turned your head to press a kiss to his jaw, feeling the smile there. "Hopeless."
"For you?" His arm tightened around you, anchoring you close. "Yeah. Always."
You drifted off like that, tangled in him, the party and the world and everything else fading to nothing. Just you. Just him. Just the quiet after.
faux sympathy during sex with frank is like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. the two things are good on their own, but work so fucking well together.
he had been pounding into you for who knows how long. pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you. if he could, he'd keep going until the sun came up. but he was older. not in his prime anymore. combine that with an aching back and he's ready to tap out after the fifth or six time. but you're barely getting started.
you wanna keep going, baby? that's fine with me. but you gotta get on top, then.
you whined but complied anyway. you were what most would call a pillow princess. frank rarely, if ever, let you get on top. not because he didn't like it, but he just preferred taking care of you. however, on nights like tonight, when you're sex drive is still high, he allows himself to push aside his pride and let you take control for a bit.
your thighs were beginning to burn. truthfully, you weren't sure how much longer you could keep this up. you pawed at his chest, a soft whimper getting dragged out of you when his tip hit the right spot.
"frankie... please," you mumble, tears threatening to spill over.
"aww, what is it, baby? thought you wanted this? but if you don't..." he shifts, acting as if he's about to pull out.
"no! i do, i do!" you exclaim, sinking onto him even deeper. a low groan slips from his lips. goddammit, you're just sucking him in. "but 'm tired. i need your help."
frank clicks his tongue. "oh, baby's tired, huh? well, you said you could do this all by yourself. my big girl can take care of herself, isn't that right?"
you nodded, hurrying up your pace. he rests his hands on your waist, helping to guide you up and down. he just can't help himself. the man takes pleasure in helping out his girl.
"there ya go, baby. knew that you could do it. just needed daddy's help, huh?" he teases.
he thrusts into you, with you matching his pace as you grind down. once, twice, until you both come simultaneously. you lean forward, eyes already closing shut. you feel so full of his come that it warms you from the inside out.
"yeah, go to sleep, sweetheart. daddy's gotchu now," he whispers into your hairline, kissing you gently.
frank may have faux sympathy in bed, but his love for you is universal.
The bedroom is soft with lamplight as you settle back against the pillows. Ben hovers at the edge of the bed, looking at you with wide, nervous eyes. His hands twist in the hem of his shirt.
"Are you sure about this?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper. "I don't… I've never…"
You reach out, taking his hand and pulling him closer until he's kneeling between your legs. "That's okay. I'll show you."
He swallows hard but nods, letting you guide his head down until his breath ghosts over your inner thighs. His fingers tremble as they trace the edges of your hips.
"Just start slow," you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair. "Kiss me there first."
Ben obeys, pressing tentative kisses along your inner thighs. Each touch is feather-light, almost reverent. His breath hitches when he finally reaches your folds, pausing as if gathering courage.
"Keep going," you encourage gently. "Use your tongue."
The first swipe is clumsy, too broad and unfocused. You bite back a sigh, instead shifting your hips slightly to guide him.
"Right there," you breathe. "That spot. Circle it with your tongue."
He follows your instructions so perfectly, so eager to please. His movements become more confident as you praise him, soft words of encouragement spilling from your lips. "Just like that, Ben. You're doing so well."
His fingers dig into your thighs as he finds a rhythm, alternating between broad licks and focused circles around your clit. The sight of his dark head between your legs, his shoulders tense with concentration, sends a fresh wave of arousal through you.
"Look at me," you command softly.
He glances up, eyes dark with desire and something else , vulnerability. He's completely at your mercy, waiting for your next instruction, your next word of praise.
"Put your fingers inside me," you say, voice husky. "One at first."
Ben's hand shakes as he complies, carefully sliding one finger into your wet heat. He watches your face intently, gauging your reaction as he begins to move it in time with his tongue.
"Another," you gasp, hips arching off the bed. "Please, Ben."
He adds a second finger, stretching you perfectly. The dual stimulation pushes you closer to the edge, your breath coming in ragged pants. His name falls from your lips like a prayer as he continues his diligent exploration.
"Ben," you moan, fingers tightening in his hair. "Don't stop. Right there. I'm so close."
He doubles his efforts, tongue working furiously as his fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur. The orgasm crashes over you suddenly, waves of pleasure so intense you can't form words, just broken cries of his name.
Ben doesn't stop until you push his head away, oversensitive and trembling. He looks up at you from between your legs, his face glistening with your arousal, eyes searching yours for approval.
"Did I… was that okay?" he asks, voice rough.
You reach down, pulling him up until he's hovering over you. "More than okay," you whisper, kissing him deeply. "You're a natural."
A slow smile spreads across his face, relief and pride mingling in his expression. "Really?"
"Really," you confirm, rolling him onto his back. "Now it's my turn to show you how good that feels."
As you straddle his hips, his hands come to rest on your thighs, still trembling slightly but with anticipation now rather than nerves. You lean down, capturing his lips in another deep kiss, letting him taste himself on your tongue.
"Ready for round two?" you murmur against his mouth.
His answer is a breathless nod, his hips already rising to meet yours.
You're sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Will pacing at the foot of the bed, while Macklin is kneeling on the floor beside you, his head resting on your thigh. Both are already stripped down to their boxers, their bodies tense with anticipation.
"Patience," you murmur, your fingers combing through Macklin's hair. "We talked about this."
"Sorry," he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your knee. "It's just… been a while."
Will stops pacing, his eyes fixed on you. "It's been three days, Mack. Don't be so dramatic."
"Three days is a long time," Macklin insists, looking up at you with wide, pleading eyes. "Right?"
You smile, scratching lightly at his scalp. "It can feel like a long time when you're waiting for something you want."
Will scoffs, but he's moving closer now, drawn in despite himself. "We could always take matters into our own hands. If someone's too busy to take care of us."
You raise an eyebrow, your hand stilling in Macklin's hair. "Is that what you want, Will? To take care of it yourself?"
He hesitates, his gaze dropping to the floor. "No," he mumbles. "I want you to take care of it."
"That's what I thought," you say, patting your thigh. "Mack, up. On the bed. Will, you too. Kneeling."
They scramble to obey, Macklin moving with an eagerness that makes you smile, Will with a reluctance that's clearly feigned. They settle on the bed, kneeling in front of you, their eyes fixed on your face.
"Good boys," you praise, reaching out to trace the line of Will's jaw. "So obedient tonight."
He leans into your touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips. "Always for you."
You laugh softly, your other hand coming up to cup Macklin's cheek. "What about you, Mack? Are you always this good for me?"
He nods vigorously, nuzzling against your palm. "Yes. Anything you want."
"Anything?" you challenge, your thumb brushing against his lower lip. "That's a big promise."
"I mean it," he breathes, his eyes fluttering closed. "I'll do anything."
You glance at Will, who's watching the exchange with a mixture of amusement and envy. "What about you, Will? Anything?"
He hesitates for a moment, then nods. "Within reason."
"Reason is boring," you tease, pulling your hand back. "Mack, lie down. On your back."
He obeys immediately, stretching out on the bed, his body taut with anticipation. You straddle his hips, leaning forward to bracket his head with your arms.
"Look at you," you murur, your lips brushing against his ear. "Already so hard for me. And I've barely touched you."
He whimpers softly, his hands coming up to grip your waist. "Please," he begs. "Touch me."
"In a minute," you say, straightening up. "First, I want you to watch."
You turn your attention to Will, who's still kneeling, his eyes dark with desire. "Come here," you command, patting the space beside Macklin.
He moves to obey, settling on the bed next to Macklin. You lean over him, your hair falling around his face as you kiss him deeply. He responds eagerly, his hands tangling in your hair as he deepens the kiss.
When you pull back, both of them are breathing heavily, their eyes fixed on you.
"Please," Will begs, his voice strained. "I need more."
"You'll get more," you promise, your hand sliding down his chest to the waistband of his boxers. "When I'm ready."
You tease him through the thin fabric, your fingers tracing the outline of his hard length. He bucks into your touch, a desperate sound escaping his lips.
"Easy," you chide, pulling your hand away. "Don't get greedy."
"Sorry," he mumbles, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment and arousal.
You turn your attention back to Macklin, who's watching the exchange with wide, hungry eyes. "What about you? Are you going to be good for me?"
He nods frantically, his hands gripping the sheets beneath him. "Yes. Please. I'll be so good."
You smile, leaning down to whisper in his ear. "I know you will."
You kiss him then, a deep kiss that leaves him breathless and wanting more. As you pull away, you trail your fingers down his chest, stopping just above the waistband of his boxers.
"Please," he begs, his hips arching off the bed. "Please don't tease."
"But teasing is half the fun," you reply, your fingers dancing along the edge of his waistband. "Isn't it, Will?"
He doesn't answer, too focused on the way your hand is moving, so close to where he wants it but not close enough.
"Answer me," you say, your voice firm. "Isn't teasing fun?"
"Yes," he manages, his voice strained. "It's… fun."
"Good boy," you praise, finally hooking your fingers under the waistband of Macklin's boxers and pulling them down slowly.
His cock springs free, hard and leaking against his stomach. You wrap your hand around him, stroking him slowly, teasingly.
"Fuck," he groans, his head falling back against the pillows. "That feels so good."
"You like that?" you murmur, your thumb swiping across the tip. "You like my hand on your cock?"
"Yes," he whimpers, his hips bucking into your touch. "So much."
"Good," you say, increasing your pace slightly. "Because I like touching you."
You glance over at Will, who's watching with rapt attention, his own cock straining against the fabric of his boxers.
"You want some too?" you ask, your voice teasing.
He nods eagerly, his eyes pleading. "Please."
"Say it properly," you command. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you to touch me," he begs, his voice cracking. "Please. I need your hands on me."
"Since you asked so nicely," you say, releasing Macklin and turning your attention to Will.
You pull his boxers down, his cock springing free, already leaking with anticipation. You wrap your hand around him, stroking him in the same slow, teasing rhythm you used on Macklin.
"Shit," he groans, his head falling forward. "That's… yeah."
You smile, leaning in to kiss him as you continue to stroke him. He responds eagerly, his hands coming up to grip your shoulders, holding you close.
"Easy," you murmur against his lips. "Don't forget who's in charge here."
"Sorry," he mumbles, relaxing his grip. "It's just… you feel so good."
"I know," you say, pulling back. "Now, I want you both to touch yourselves. But don't you dare come. Not until I say so."
They obey immediately, their hands wrapping around their cocks as they start to stroke themselves. You watch them, your body humming with arousal as they get closer and closer to the edge.
"Please," Macklin begs, his strokes becoming faster, more desperate. "I can't… I'm gonna…"
"Don't you dare," you warn, your voice firm. "Stop. Both of you."
They freeze, their bodies trembling with the effort of holding back. You can see the desperation in their eyes, the need for release that's almost painful.
"Please," Will begs, his voice strained. "Let me come. I need to."
"Not yet," you say, a wicked smile playing on your lips. "First, I want you to beg."
And they do, their voices blending together in a desperate chorus of pleas and promises. You let them beg for a few more minutes, savoring their desperation, before finally taking pity on them.
"Okay," you say, your voice soft. "You can come. But only when I say so. And only if you look at me when you do."
They nod, their eyes fixed on yours as they start to stroke themselves again. It doesn't take long, their bodies already primed for release.
"Now," you command, and they both cry out as they come, their bodies shuddering with the force of their orgasms.
You watch them, a satisfied smile on your face as they collapse against the bed, spent and trembling. You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to each of their foreheads.
Fleury’s like a little mouse prince that was turned into a human and Marchy is like a New York sewer rat that was turned into a human, however I love them both
SUMMARY: You and Ben Kindel share his first time together in a long, patient, highly instructional night. It begins with you on top of him on the couch, kissing and grinding. When he admits he’s a virgin, you gently take the lead and teach him everything step by step.
WARNINGS: Explicit sexual content, virginity loss / first-time sex with detailed instructions, oral sex (both giving and receiving), penetrative sex in multiple positions, handjob, blowjob, boob job, dirty talk and pet names, references to reader having big boobs and ass
Requested: Ben Kindel + nervous for his first time, he lets you guide him until He´s eating you out and fucking you the way you like
You were laid fully on top of Ben, your body draped over his on the couch, soft and heavy in all the places that made him breathe a little faster. Your full breasts pressed against his chest through your clothes, your thick thighs bracketing his hips, the heat of your pussy already noticeable even through the layers of fabric as you slowly rolled your hips against the growing bulge in his jeans.
You started kissing him, slow at first, then deeper, tongues sliding together while you kept grinding down in lazy, deliberate circles. Every time you dragged your clothed pussy over the hard line of his cock a soft moan slipped out of you into his mouth.
His hands rested on your waist, then slid lower to the full curve of your ass, squeezing almost without thinking.
When his fingers finally slipped under the hem of your shirt and brushed the soft underside of your breast, he froze completely “I’ve never… done any of this,” he admitted against your lips, voice low and unsteady. “Not even close. I’ve thought about it a lot, but… actually touching someone? Feeling this? I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”
You didn’t laugh or pull away. You just smiled, cupped his face with both hands, and kissed him soft and slow until the tension in his shoulders started to melt “That’s okay, baby,” you murmured against his mouth, sweet and steady. “I’m going to teach you everything. You just keep talking to me—tell me what feels good, what feels too much, what you want to try. I’m right here with you.”
He nodded hard, eyes dark and hungry. “Okay… just don’t stop talking either. Please.”
You sat back on his thighs, still straddling him, and peeled your shirt off over your head. Then you reached behind yourself and unhooked your bra.
The second the cups fell away and your full, heavy breasts spilled free, Ben’s breath punched out of him like he’d been hit “Holy shit,” he whispered, staring. “They’re… fuck, they’re so big. I didn’t— I mean I could feel them through your shirt but seeing them like this—” His hands hovered in the air, almost shaking. “Can I… can I touch them? Properly?”
You took his wrists and guided both of his big hands straight to your breasts, pressing his palms flat against the soft, warm weight of them.
They overflowed his fingers immediately “Of course you can, baby,” you said, voice low and sweet. “Squeeze. Not too hard at first. Just feel how heavy they are. Feel how soft. Look at how they fill your hands. Do whatever feels good.”
Ben made a broken sound in his throat as he obeyed, fingers sinking into the plush flesh. “Jesus Christ… they’re so soft. And heavy. I can barely—fuck, I can barely get my hands around them. Is this okay? Am I squeezing too hard?”
“A little firmer, baby,” you instructed gently, arching into his touch with a soft moan. “Yeah… just like that. Now use your thumbs, rub slow circles over my nipples. Feel how they get harder when you do it. You’re doing so well already.”
He did exactly as he was told, eyes locked on the way your nipples tightened under his touch. When you moaned again he groaned right back “They’re so fucking pretty,” he breathed. “I want—can I put my mouth on them? Please?”
You leaned forward, cupped one breast, and fed the peaked nipple between his lips.
“Of course, baby, open up. Suck, use your tongue—slow circles first, then flick it. Don’t rush it baby, learn how it feels when I react. I’m right here.”
Ben’s mouth closed around you with a desperate little moan. He sucked carefully at first, then more confidently when a longer, sweeter moan slipped out of you and you threaded your fingers into his curly hair.
He switched sides when you guided him, licking, sucking, burying his face between the soft weight of your breasts like he couldn’t get enough of the smell and the heat of them.
“Fuck, they feel so good in my mouth,” he mumbled against your skin. “They’re so big I can barely—god, I could stay here forever. Am I doing it right? Tell me if you want more pressure.”
“You’re doing perfect, baby,” you whispered, stroking his curls as another soft moan left you. “A little more suction… yes—ah—just like that. Keep going as long as you want.”
You stayed there for a long time, teaching him the exact rhythm and pressure that made you moan louder, until your thighs were restless and wet against his.
Finally you stood. You pushed your shorts and panties down your legs and stepped free. Ben’s eyes dropped instantly to the bare, glistening skin between your thighs, then lower to the full, round curve of your ass as you turned slightly.
“Christ,” he breathed. “Your ass is… fuck, it’s huge. Thick. I want to grab it so bad already.”
You took his hand and placed it right over your pussy, letting him feel how soaked you already were.“This is my pussy, baby,” you said, voice steady and sweet, a little breathless. “Feel how soft and wet it is? That’s because of you. Now—right here.” You shifted his middle finger so it rested directly on your clit. “This little spot is the most sensitive. Rub slow, firm circles. Don’t press too hard yet, just learn the shape of it. You’re doing so good.”
Ben’s fingers moved carefully, eyes flicking up to your face every few seconds. “Like this? Does that feel good? Fuck, you’re so wet… it’s dripping on my fingers. I can feel how hot you are. Tell me if I need to go faster or slower.”
“A little slower, baby… yes—mmh—” you moaned softly, hips twitching. “Perfect. Keep talking to me. I love hearing you.”
You rocked gently against his hand, guiding him with soft moans and softer words until he found a rhythm that made your breath catch.
After a minute you asked, “Can I take these off, baby? I want to see your cock. I want to touch it.”
He stood immediately, helping you shove his jeans and boxers down. His cock sprang free, thick, flushed dark, already leaking at the tip. You wrapped your fingers around him and stroked once, slow and firm from base to head.
“Handjob first,” you told him gently. “So you feel what it’s like to have someone’s hand on you. Watch how I do it. Firm grip, twist a little at the top, use the precum to make it slick. You’re so hard for me already…”
He nodded hard, already breathing faster. “Okay—fuck, that feels insane. Your hand is so soft and warm. Can I touch you while you do it? You said I could touch wherever I wanted…”
“Of course you can, baby. Do whatever you want.”
His hands went straight to your ass. Both of them. He gripped the full, thick cheeks hard, fingers sinking deep into the soft flesh, spreading you open a little as he squeezed.
“Holy shit,” he groaned, staring down at the way your ass filled his hands. “It’s so fucking big and soft. I can barely—god, I want to dig my fingers in and just… hold on. Is this too hard? Does it feel good when I squeeze like this?”
“It feels perfect, baby,” you murmured, still stroking him with a soft moan of your own. “Squeeze as hard as you want. I like it. Keep going.”
You kept teaching him the pace while he kneaded your ass like he was trying to memorize the shape of it.
After a while you sank to your knees “Blowjob next, baby. I’m going to take you in my mouth. You can put your hand in my hair… and you can push me down against your dick if you want. As hard as you want. Just feel it. Tell me everything you’re feeling. I’m right here.”
You took him between your lips—slow, wet, deliberate—letting him feel the heat and the slide of your tongue along the underside. Ben’s hand slid into your hair almost immediately. When you hummed around him he carefully pushed, guiding you deeper the way you’d said he could.
“Oh my god—your mouth is so hot and wet—fuck, I can feel your tongue—I’m not gonna last, I’m really not—you feel too good—can I look at your tits while you do this? They’re just… hanging there and bouncing a little every time you move and I can’t stop staring—”
“Of course you can look, baby,” you pulled off just long enough to say, voice soft and a little messy. “Look all you want. Push me however you need. You’re doing so well for me.”
He came the first time with a startled, broken moan, spilling across your tongue while his hand stayed gentle but firm in your hair. You swallowed, kissed the tip, and looked up.
“Still good, baby?”
“Yeah,” he panted. “Fuck… yeah. That was… I’ve never felt anything like that.”
He asked you to teach him how to fuck you. You pushed him back onto the couch so he was sitting, cock already hardening again against his stomach.
You straddled him but didn’t take him inside yet, just rubbed your soaked folds up and down the thick length, coating him in your wetness, letting him feel every soft, wet drag of your pussy against his cock while soft moans slipped out of you.
“You’re probably going to come first, baby,” you said honestly, still grinding, voice sweet and breathy. “That’s okay. It’s your first time feeling a pussy around you, just enjoy how hot and tight and wet it is. Look at how your cock looks sliding against me. You’re being so good.”
Ben’s hands hovered awkwardly until you guided them “Here—on my ass, baby. Feel how thick it is. You can move me if you want me to bounce harder. Or my tits. They’re right in front of your face. Do whatever feels good. I’m yours right now.”
When you finally sank down and took him inside, the stretch made both of you gasp. Your face immediately twisted with pure pleasure, lips parted, eyes fluttering, brows knitting together as you felt just how thick and deep he was. You clenched hard around him almost immediately, a long, filthy moan spilling out of you.
“Fuck—Benny… your dick is so good,” you breathed, voice already wrecked. “My pussy is just for you, baby. Feel how tight I’m squeezing you? That’s all yours.”
Ben’s head fell back “Fuck—fuck, it’s so tight—so wet—I can feel every part of you squeezing me—your tits are right here and they’re so heavy against my chest—can I grab them while you ride me? Please?”
“Of course you can, baby,” you moaned, putting his hands on your breasts as your face contorted again with how good he felt. His other hand stayed on your ass, gripping the full cheek hard as you started to move. “Bounce on it slow at first. Feel how deep you are. Tell me how it feels every time I take you all the way in. You’re doing perfect—ah, fuck me, baby—”
You clenched around him again and again, moaning his name under your breath—“Ben… ah, Benny—” every time that thick cock dragged against the perfect spot inside you, your face soft and open with pleasure.
When he got close his hips started snapping up faster, more desperate, chasing the release he couldn’t hold back “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—can I? Please—” he gasped, fucking up into you harder, almost frantic.
“Yes, baby—come for me—”
He finished with a low, desperate moan, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you, still gripping your tits and ass like he needed something to hold onto.
You kept riding him through it until your own orgasm rolled through you, clenching tight around his thick cock while you moaned his name “It’s okay, baby,” you soothed after, staying on him. “You did so good. I’m right here.”
Afterward he asked, almost shy but still vocal, if you would teach him how to eat you out.
You laid back on the couch, spread your legs wide, and guided his head between them. Your hands slid into his soft curly hair right away.
“Open me with your fingers, baby… yeah. Look at how wet I am from you. Now suck right here.” You showed him with two fingers exactly where your clit was. “Gentle at first. Use the flat of your tongue. Don’t stop when I start moving my hips. Keep talking if you want—tell me what it tastes like, how it feels. You’re learning so fast.”
Ben licked carefully, then more confidently when a sweet moan left you and your fingers tightened in his hair “You taste so fucking good—sweet and wet—your thighs are so soft against my face and I can see how big your ass looks from this angle and it’s driving me crazy—am I sucking the right spot? Do you want me to go faster? Harder? Tell me.”
“A little faster, baby… yes—ah, Ben—” you moaned, hips rolling against his mouth while your hands stayed buried in his curls. “Perfect. Keep going. You’re making me feel so good.”
He listened. He learned fast. And when you came on his tongue you moaned his name louder, thighs trembling around his head, fingers tight in his hair while he made a quiet, proud, hungry sound against your pussy and kept lapping gently through it.
You looked down and saw he was hard again, cock thick and flushed and ready. You reached for him, pulled him up over you, and guided his cock back to your entrance.
“Put it in, baby. Move as fast as you want this time. Grab my tits, grab my ass—they’re yours to hold while you fuck me. Just keep talking. Tell me how it feels. Ask me if I’m okay. I want to hear every filthy thought in your head. You’re being so good for me.”
Ben slid home in one smooth thrust, already breathing hard. You clenched hard around him the second he bottomed out, your face twisting with pleasure again as a broken, filthy moan of his name left you.
“Feels so fucking good—your pussy is still so tight and wet from coming—god, your tits are bouncing every time I thrust and they’re so big I can’t stop staring—can I squeeze them harder? Can I go deeper? Faster? Tell me if it’s too much—I want to make you come again before I lose it—fuck, your ass feels incredible in my hands, so soft and thick, I just want to dig my fingers in and pull you onto my cock harder—”
“Of course you can, baby,” you moaned, dirty and open. “Harder. Deeper. Fuck me, Benny. My pussy is just for you—your dick is so fucking good—ah—”
After a few deep thrusts Ben’s voice turned almost hesitant but eager “Can I… can I rub your clit while I fuck you? With my fingers? I want to feel you come harder…”
“Yes—yes, baby, please—”
The second his fingers found your clit and started rubbing firm little circles while his thick cock kept driving into you, the pleasure became overwhelming. Your face contorted, mouth falling open, eyes nearly rolling as loud, broken moans tore out of you.
“Benny—fuck, Benny—your dick is so good—don’t stop—ah, fuck me—my pussy is yours—”
The dual stimulation was too much. Your moans turned high and desperate, thighs shaking, and then you were squirting hard around his cock, wet and pulsing, soaking his stomach and the couch beneath you while you cried out his name.
Ben’s eyes went wide with awe, hips stuttering as he watched you fall apart on him. When he got close again his thrusts turned faster, harder, almost frantic with the need to come.
“I’m gonna come—fuck, I need to come inside you—please—” he gasped, pounding into you with desperate snaps of his hips while you clenched and moaned around the thick stretch of him.
“Yes, baby—fill me up—”
He finished with a broken, grateful moan, spilling deep while you were still pulsing around him from the aftershocks of your squirt.
After a while Ben’s voice turned almost pleading again “Can—can we change? I want you to sit with your back against my chest… so I can see how your ass bounces on my dick. Please? I need to see it.”
You smiled, still breathless, kissed him softly, and turned around without hesitation “Of course, baby.”
You sank back down onto him facing away, your back pressed to his chest, his arms wrapping around you immediately—one hand claiming a heavy breast, the other gripping the thick curve of your hip.
From this angle he could look straight down and watch every bounce of your full ass as you rode him.
You clenched around his thick cock again and again, moaning his name every time he thrust up especially deep, your face still open and pleasure-drunk.
“Fuck—look at it,” he groaned against your ear, voice wrecked. “Your ass is bouncing so hard on my cock—it’s so fucking thick and soft and I can see everything—can I go faster? Can I hold onto your tits tighter while I watch?”
“Of course you can, baby,” you moaned, leaning back into him. “Do whatever you want. Bounce me as hard as you need. You’re doing so well… feel how deep you are like this? Ah—Benny—fuck me—”
He kept fucking up into you, vocal and overwhelmed, telling you over and over how good it felt, how big your body felt in his hands, how he couldn’t believe this was real.
When he got close his hips snapped faster, more desperate, chasing the release while you clenched and moaned filthy praise around the thick cock stretching you so perfectly. He finally came with a broken, grateful moan against your neck, still holding onto your tits and ass like he was afraid you’d disappear.
When you finally slowed and stopped, you lifted off him carefully. You turned around and sat right back on his lap—not taking him inside again, just straddling his thighs so you could face him.
You cupped his face, kissed him slow and deep, and praised him softly between kisses “You did so good, baby… so good for me. You listened to everything. You talked to me the whole time. I’m so proud of you.”
Ben’s hands rested on your waist, still a little shaky. His eyes were wide, dazed, completely overwhelmed by everything that had just happened, the first time, the intensity, the way your big soft body had felt under his hands and around his cock, and especially the way you’d squirted for him.
You stayed straddled on his lap, still facing him, your soft bare breasts pressed against his chest while you kissed him slow and deep.
Between kisses you pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, voice warm and honest “Baby… you know you’re the biggest dick I’ve ever had, right? Thickest too. You filled me up so good I could barely think.”
Ben’s face went bright red instantly. A shy, almost embarrassed little sound left his throat and he immediately ducked forward, burying his face and all that soft curly hair right between your heavy breasts like he could hide from the praise.
“Don’t say that,” he mumbled against your skin, voice muffled and flustered. “You’re gonna make me—fuck, don’t look at me when you say shit like that…”
You just smiled and cradled the back of his head, letting him stay hidden there while you stroked his curls. You could feel it almost right away, his cock twitching, then steadily hardening again against the wet heat of your pussy.
He didn’t say a word about it. He just kept his face buried in your cleavage, breathing a little faster, clearly too shy to admit he was getting hard again so soon.
You felt every inch of him thickening against you. Without making a big deal of it, you shifted your hips, lined him up, and slowly sank back down onto his cock, taking him inside again in one smooth, wet slide.
You clenched hard around the thick stretch of him and moaned his name right into his curly hair, your face going soft with pleasure again.
Ben’s whole body jolted. A broken little moan spilled out against your breasts.
“You don’t have to hide, baby,” you whispered sweetly, starting to rock your hips in slow, gentle circles, still clenching and letting soft, dirty moans of his name slip out. “I can feel how hard you got for me again. It’s okay. Just stay right here and let me ride you nice and slow… you’ve earned it. My pussy is just for you, Benny…”
He kept his face pressed between your soft tits, arms wrapping tight around your waist as you moved on him.
Every time you sank all the way down and squeezed around him he made another quiet, overwhelmed sound, still too shy to look up, but his hips started meeting yours in little instinctive thrusts.
“Feels so good,” he admitted in a small, muffled voice. “You’re so wet again… and warm… and your tits are all around my face and I can’t—fuck, I can’t think straight when you’re on me like this… I’m gonna come—please—”
You kept the pace, clenching and moaning for him until he finished with a shaky, grateful moan right against your skin, holding onto you like he never wanted to let go.
Before bed the two of you stumbled into the shower together, still a little shaky and flushed. Warm water cascaded over your bodies while you kissed under the spray.
You could see how obsessed he still was with your tits, his eyes kept dropping to them, hands reaching almost without thinking, so you smiled, pressed them together around his already hardening cock, and gave him a slow, wet boob job right there under the water.
“You like these so much, baby,” you murmured sweetly, sliding your heavy breasts up and down his thick length while he watched, mesmerized. “Go ahead… fuck them if you want.”
Ben’s hips stuttered forward, sliding between the soft, soapy cleavage with a broken moan “They’re so soft—fuck, they feel so good around my dick—can I come like this? Or… can I fuck you against the wall? Please?”
“Of course you can, baby.”
You turned to face him, lifted one leg to give him better access, and let him push inside you against the cool tile.
His hands immediately claimed your heavy breasts, squeezing and holding on while he fucked you hard and deep, water streaming down both of your bodies.
You moaned his name, face twisting with how perfectly his thick cock filled you, clenching around him every time he bottomed out “Benny—fuck—your dick is so good—harder, baby—my pussy is just for you—”
He pounded into you with growing desperation, hands full of your tits, eyes locked on your pleasure-drunk face. When he got close his thrusts turned frantic, faster, almost frantic with the need to release.
“I’m gonna come—fuck, I need to come inside you—you feel too good—” he gasped, hips snapping hard while you moaned and clenched around the thick stretch of him.
“Yes, baby—fill me up—ah, Benny—”
He finished with a loud, broken moan against your neck, spilling deep while still holding tightly onto your breasts, completely lost in how good your body felt around him.
After the shower you dried off, pulled on a soft oversized shirt just for comfort, and the two of you settled into bed. Ben immediately curled in close, still looking a little dazed and overwhelmed by everything that had happened.
He hesitated for a second, then asked quietly, almost shy again “Can I… put my head inside your shirt? I just want to suck on your tits while we fall asleep. Is that okay?”
You smiled in the dark, brushed his curly hair back from his forehead, and answered in that same sweet, explicit voice you’d been using all night “Because you were such a good boy for me today… I’m actually going to take my shirt off so you can do whatever you want with my boobs, baby.”
You sat up just long enough to pull the shirt over your head and toss it aside. Your heavy breasts settled naturally, soft and bare in the dim light. Ben’s eyes went wide with pure happiness. He looked like you’d just handed him everything he’d ever wanted.
He immediately burrowed in, resting his head on your chest, one warm hand cupping the underside of a full breast while his mouth found your nipple and gently latched on.
He sucked slow and lazy, completely content, making soft little sounds of pleasure every time he tasted you “Thank you,” he mumbled around your nipple, already sounding half-asleep and completely blissed out. “You’re the best… your tits are so soft… I could stay here forever…”
You stroked his curls, held him close, and let him nurse as much as he wanted while the two of you drifted off. Ben fell asleep with his face buried in your bare breasts, mouth still gently attached, the happiest he’d ever looked in his life.
description: Ben lets you use him however you want.
CW: Smut, mdni, dry-humping, sub Ben.
Ben’s lying on his back, looking up at you with wide, dark eyes, his hands fisted in the sheets above his head like you told him to. He’s already breathless, his chest rising and falling in shallow pants and you haven’t even touched him yet.
“You’re being so good for me, baby,” you say, your voice a low purr as you crawl onto the bed, straddling his thighs. He’s just in his boxers, the thin fabric doing little to hide the hard, eager line of his cock.
He whimpers, a soft, desperate sound that goes straight to your core. “Please,” he whispers, his hips twitching up involuntarily.
“Please what?” you ask, leaning forward, your hands braced on his chest. You’re in just your bra and panties, a matching set of black lace that you know drives him wild.
“Please touch me,” he begs, his eyes fluttering shut. “Anything. Please.”
You smile, a slow, predatory curve of your lips. You love him like this, so undone, so willing. You lower yourself down, the thin fabric of your panties brushing against the sensitive head of his cock.
He gasps, his whole body arching off the bed.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands clenching and unclenching in the sheets. You can see the struggle in his arms, the desperate need to reach out and touch you.
“Uh-uh,” you chide gently, placing your hands on his hips and pushing them back down onto the mattress. “Keep your hands up. Or I’ll stop.”
He whines, a high, needy sound, but he obeys, his hands fisting tighter in the pillow above his head. “Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll be good.”
“I know you will,” you murmur, leaning down to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone. You can feel his frantic pulse against your lips. You start to move, a slow roll of your hips that drags your clothed core against his cock.
You can feel how wet you are as you set a torturously slow rhythm, grinding against him, watching his face as he falls apart beneath you. His eyes are squeezed shut, his mouth open in a silent cry, his brow furrowed in a mixture of pleasure and desperation.
“Look at me,” you command, your voice firm. “Open your eyes, Ben. I want you to watch.”
He forces his eyes open and the raw need you see in their depths makes your head spin. He’s so beautiful like this, so completely at your mercy.
“Please,” he whispers again, his voice ragged. “Please, can I… can I touch you? Just for a second?”
You consider it for a moment, a flicker of power coursing through you. “No,” you say, your voice soft but unyielding. “Not yet.”
He whimpers again, but there’s a flicker of relief in his eyes, a gratitude for the clear boundary. You pick up the pace, your movements becoming more fluid, more urgent. You’re chasing your own pleasure now, using his body, his desperation, to get yourself off.
The friction against your clit is heavenly, a perfect, steady pressure that builds and builds, coiling tight in your stomach.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, his hips straining up to meet yours, a desperate, seeking motion. “So fucking good.”
You can feel him getting closer, his cock twitching against you, his breaths coming in ragged, uneven gasps. He’s trying so hard to hold on, to be good for you, but you can see he’s right on the edge.
“Are you gonna come for me, Ben?” you ask, your voice a low, breathy whisper. “Are you gonna be a good boy and come all over yourself?”
He lets out a strangled cry, his whole body tensing. “Please,” he begs, his eyes locked on yours. “Please let me come. I need to. I need to so bad.”
“Come,” you command, your voice sharp and clear. “Now.”
With a final, shuddering gasp, he comes, a warm, wet spot spreading through the thin fabric of his boxers. He arches his back, a silent scream on his lips as his body trembles with the force of his orgasm. The sight of him, so completely undone, is all it takes to push you over the edge too.
You collapse on top of him, your body slick with sweat, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his chest. He’s still trembling, his arms finally free, wrapping around you and holding you tight.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, his voice a hoarse, reverent whisper. “That was… holy shit.”
You laugh, a soft, breathy sound. “Yeah,” you agree, pressing a soft kiss to his chest. “It was.”
hii could i req beckettsennecke x reader where they are high school sweethearts. his gf is jealous of his following (she knows abt it bc of the follow tracker on twt but she doesn’t even follow it) but keeps quiet because she wants to be the understanding lover so she unintentionally pulls away. lots of hurt/comfort with a happy ending! (and maybe some smut afterwards hehehe)
follow tracker | bs⁴⁵
pairing: beckett sennecke x girlfriend!reader
in which: beckett didn’t realize how much he unintentionally upset you with his tendencies to follow women on social media, but he’s got his ways of making it up to you.
The fact that Beckett follows more women than you do, is something you’re trying not to worry about. You just brush it off because you don’t want to be seen as the controlling partner that can’t trust her boyfriend.
He’s never given you no reason not to trust him. You’ve been together for years—since high school—after Beckett asked you out first. You’ve supported him throughout his entire hockey career, from the OHL to the NHL.
You know that Beckett being a hockey player means that he’ll be popular among female audiences. It was to be expected—he’s attractive, tall, and has this odd deep voice that some women find appealing. But despite all of this, you’ve never had any issues with other girls in the past.
Beckett never intentionally gave you any reason to be insecure, not until you came up with the stupid idea to open Twitter. That’s probably the worst thing you could’ve done, because after a couple minutes of scrolling, an account that posts about NHL players’ followings suddenly popped up.
You thought nothing of it at first, so you just brushed it off—up until you saw a post about Beckett following a bunch of random girls. You know that he has female friends, but some of them don’t even follow him back.
You also thought that it would be a one time thing, which you were wrong about completely. His following only went up as the days passed by, drowning in random girls he probably doesn’t even know. Some of them don’t even remotely look like you, and that just makes it even worse.
So you’ve kept your thoughts bottled up. You want to be the understanding girlfriend. You don’t want to be excessively clingy, or push Beckett away because of something as stupid as him following a bunch of random girls.
It’s been a few days since you first found out about that account. You live with Beckett, which means you have so many opportunities to bring it up to him, but you haven’t. You’ve just been avoiding him around the apartment; going to bed while he’s at his games so you’re asleep when he comes home, and barely talking to him when it’s his off-day.
It’s late now. You’re standing in the kitchen, cleaning the counter after making dinner. You’re by yourself since Beckett has a game, and you came up with the poor excuse that you were feeling sick and wouldn’t be able to make it. You could tell he didn’t exactly believe the excuse, but he said that he’ll take care of you when he gets back home.
You’re planning on going to bed early again. You don’t want to talk to him, because you know you’ll probably end up mentioning his following. You also know that Beckett isn’t exactly serious when it comes to things like this. He’s a twenty year old boy. He’s not going to take you seriously if you’re upset over something as stupid as him following multiple women over the span of a couple days.
You expect Beckett to come home at around twelve. You know he probably has interviews or media stuff to deal with after the game, so you’re not in a rush to clean. It’s only eleven, which means you’ll probably have time to shower, then get into bed before he gets back.
You’re sure you won’t have to see him, until you hear the front door open. He’s back earlier than expected, which is something you would appreciate on a good day. But it’s not, it’s been a bad week entirely.
Beckett walks into the kitchen, duffel bag slung over his shoulders while he wears the typical athletic clothing you’d expect from him. He smiles instantly when he finds you awake, dropping the bag and walking over to you.
“Hi, baby,” Beckett whispers, finding his familiar spot behind you. His torso is pressed against your back as be wraps his arms around you, resting his chin on your shoulder. He places a few light kisses on your neck, mumbling I missed you into your skin.
You just give him a low him as a response, clearly not returning the same energy. “I’m tired, Beckett,” you mumbles, wiggling out of his grip. You’re not tired at all. You had a long afternoon nap, and you’ve been at home all day. You don’t have any reason to go to sleep this early.
Beckett frowns as his eyebrows furrow. He’s scratching the back of his neck, awkwardly standing in the same place. “Is something…wrong?” he asks cautiously. He’s not used to conflict, not when it comes to your relationship.
You shake your head, forcing a smile that’s just you pressing your lips together. “I just need to sleep,” you tell him, turning on your heel and walking away.
Beckett’s left alone in the kitchen, feeling more confused than ever. He waits for a few moments, trying to think about if he’s done anything wrong recently. Off the top of his head, nothing comes to mind. He follows after you, pausing in the doorway when he sees you in bed, your back against the headboard.
You’re not intentionally trying to pull away from Beckett. He hasn’t specifically done anything wrong, you’re just overthinking like usual. You hate it. You don’t want to bring up the follow tracker, but it’s kind of starting to bother you. With slight hesitation you eventually ask, “Why do you keep following random girls?”
Beckett blinks, freezing like a deer caught in headlights. He lets out an awkward, breathless laugh as he walks deeper into the bedroom, settling on the edge of the bed on the side you’re at. “You’ve been checking my following?” he questions.
When he says it like that, it sounds horrible. You sound like some sort of jealous girlfriend. It makes you feel sick, and you don’t even want to say anything else. It feels like if you continue talking, you might end up crying.
Beckett notices your silence. He places his hand on your leg, rubbing his thumb against it. “Baby, y’know you can be honest with me, yeah?” he reminds you.
You’ve been in a relationship for years. You’ve been with him during every crucial point of his life and hockey career. You were there when he got drafted to the Ducks, when he got his first NHL goal, when he found out the team clinched the playoffs.
You bury your face in your hands, exhaling. You just need a moment to gather your messy thoughts. “I just…I saw this weird follow tracker the other day, and since then it says you’ve been following a bunch of random girls,” you explain. “And Beckett— I mean, half of them don’t even know you. You follow more girls than I do, do you not understand how that would make me feel?”
Beckett had no idea it was that big of a deal. He doesn’t want to use that reason to excuse his actions, but at the end of the day, he’s a guy. Yes, a guy with a long-time girlfriend he loves, but a guy before anything else. Of course he didn’t realize it would upset you like this. He’d never want to do that to you.
“Shit,” Beckett mumbles, dragging his hand over his face. “I didn’t— not on purpose, you know? I mean, fuck, most of them are mutual friends, or just people I know.”
“Not just people, Beckett. Girls, models, women that literally have nothing in common with me,” you correct him. “I’ve literally been comparing myself to all of these girls for the past week.”
You’re upset now, more than you wanted to be. It was never supposed to affect you like this. You can feel the tears pricking your eyes, fighting to give way over something as stupid as this.
“I’m a fucking idiot, and I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, before shuffling closer to you. He cups your cheek, using his thumb to wipe away a few tears you really didn’t want to let slip. “I can’t see you sad, baby.”
You sniffle, shaking your head. “I’m not— I’m okay, I’m not sad,” you insist, though the words come out hoarse. Truly, you’re fine, just glad that he’s acknowledged that he’s an asshole for what he did. There was just the mere thought you had that he’d be a dick about it, and try to brush it off.
Beckett sighs heavily as he looks at you, wrapping his other hand around your thigh. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes again, moving around until his body is above yours, keeping his hands on either side of your legs. He leans in closer, placing his lips on your neck. “‘M so sorry,” he apologizes again. “I need you to forgive me. Tell me what you want me to do.”
“I forgive you,” you mumble, meaning it. You cup his cheeks with your hands absentmindedly, holding him in place as he continues to suck and kiss your skin. “But I need you to do more than just kiss my neck, Becks,” you say, pushing him away. He’s eye level to you now, his face close to yours.
“I’ll unfollow all of them,” Beckett tells you. He’s being honest. He’d never want to intentionally hurt you, not after everything you’ve been through together. “I’ll make you feel better, I promise,” he draws out before he returns back to your neck, dragging his lips against it.
You don’t protest. You just keep your hands on Beckett as he kisses down your body, moving his hands to firmly grab on your bare thighs. You’re wearing shorts, it’s easy access to him—just how he likes it. He moves your legs, one hanging of the bed as the other spreads wide for him. He’s on his stomach, dragging his lips against your thigh and teasing the heat between your legs.
“Beckett,” you huff. Your hand finds itself in his hair, tugging on his messy waves. It’s still a bit damp from his post-game shower.
You don’t even have to say anything else for him to understand what you want. “I know,” he whispers against your skin, hooking his finger around the waistband of your shorts and panties after you lift your hips. He’s slow with his actions, dragging them down at an excruciatingly sluggish pace until you’re left bare for him.
Beckett licks a long stripe across your wetness, teasing and tasting you. “Hm,” he hums approvingly, swiping his tongue across his bottom lip. He leans in until his face is flush against your heat before he fully latches his mouth around your clit. Your breath hitches at the sudden contact. “So sweet,” he murmurs against you. He gets off from it, gets off from how good you taste.
And this may not be what it takes for you to forgive him, but you’ll take it for now. You know you’ll lecture him after, just to make things clear, but he’s on the right track so far. Though you do wish he wasn’t so good at this, it would make it easier to stay mad at him.
You slide your hands into his hair, holding him still. “Don’t stop— Beckett, please,” you whine between gasps. You’re moving your hips, point blank fucking his face.
Beckett comes up for a moment, just to catch his breath and give you a good look at his chin glistening with your arousal. “Wasn’t planning on it,” he whispers before he’s on you again, flattening his tongue and sucking your clit like a starved man.
He’s alternating between using his slender fingers to part your folds for easier access, to prodding your entrance with one of them. He’s mumbling against you. You can’t hear him, too focused on your approaching orgasm and how good his mouth feels on you. You don’t know what he’s saying, but you’re sure it has to do with him begging for you to forgive him.
“I’m— Beckett, shit, shit.” You can’t even form a functioning sentence, cutting yourself off with these incoherent babbles slipping from your lips. “Close,” you manage, fingertips digging into his scalp.
For a few seconds, he lets you squirm, just from his tongue. But you’re shifting around too much, so Beckett places his hand on your lower stomach, applying pressure and forcing you to stay in one place. You know he’ll tease you about it later; your sensitivity and lack of the ability keep still.
Becket speeds up, relentless, with the strong intent of making you finish. It doesn’t take long for that to happen, a satisfied sound leaving his lips as you come undone. Your release gets everywhere—it coats his cheeks, chin, your thighs, and the thin blanket beneath you. It’s even managed to reach the collar of his Ducks shirt. Yet he fucks you through it, continuing to suck on your throbbing bundle of nerves until you’re whining about it being too much.
Beckett finally pulls back, kissing your cunt before he gives it an obnoxious little pat. “You feel better now?” he asks, looking up at you with a grin on his lips. It’s the annoying one where his tongue peeks out between the gap, and his smile lines are evident.
“No,” you mumble unenthusiastically, half-joking as you reach for the nearby box of tissues. “I mean, just don’t do anything like that again, please. I won’t let you off easily.”
Beckett nods his head, understanding what you mean. He can’t just come out and say that you’re wrong for being mad at him, because that would mean he’s invalidating your feelings. And yes, he may be an asshole at times and not take things seriously when he needs to, but he loves you. He understands everything about you, which is to be expected after years of being together. He treasures your relationship more than anything else in his life.
“You know I’ll make it up to you,” Beckett tells you, still lying down. He’s moved now so his chin is on your stomach, purposely obstructing your efforts to clean yourself up. “Give you whatever you want, whenever you want, like you deserve. Just tell me, yeah?”
You nod, pushing his hair out from his face. It’s all fucked up after the way you were pulling on it, but he looks good. He looks pretty—though he despises whenever you use that word—with his flushed cheeks and glistening lips.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” you tell him pointedly, twirling his hair around your fingertip. He comes up, body pressing against yours to place a kiss on your lips. You don’t stop him, even though you hate whenever he does that after eating you out. “Gross,” you utter, no real resistance behind your words.
“Tomorrow. I’ll take you to that restaurant you like,” he tells you, brushing your hair from out of your face. “I love you, and I’ll make it up to you, I mean it.”
“I love you too, Beckett.”
🐰 sorry anon this took so longggg
i literally just wrote a bunch of nonsense at the end idk just go with the flow ❤️
Imagine riding sub!Mack‘s thigh (his legs are so pretty omg)
Take the Edge Off
pairing: sub!Macklin Celebrini x female reader
description: You come home after a brutal day at work and Macklin's more than eager to let you use him to relieve all your tension.
TW: Smut, MDNI, thigh-grinding, subby Mack, established relationship.
masterlist
After arriving home, you immediately drop your keys into the bowl with a clatter that seems too loud, your shoulders slumping under the weight of the day. Every muscle in your body is coiled tight, a knot of stress that refuses to loosen.
You walk into the living room and find Macklin on the couch, scrolling through his phone, but he looks up the instant you walk in. His whole face lights up, a hopeful, eager expression that makes your chest ache. He tosses his phone onto the cushion beside him, sitting up straighter.
"You're back," he says, his voice soft. "Bad day?"
You just nod, too tired to even form the words. You kick off your shoes, not caring where they land and make your way toward him.
He pats his lap, an open invitation. "Come here."
You don't need to be told twice. You collapse onto the couch beside him and he immediately wraps his arms around you, pulling you close. His warmth seeps into you and your heart feels a little lighter already.
"What can I do?" he whispers, his voice cracking slightly as his lips tremble against your hair. "Anything. Please, just tell me what you need."
You turn in his arms, your faces inches apart. His eyes are wide and glassy, his entire being focused on you, waiting for you to tell him what he can do to help. To make you feel better.
You close the distance, pressing your lips to his.
It starts soft, a gentle press of your lips against his, but it doesn't stay that way for long. You need more. You part his lips with your tongue, sliding inside to taste him.
He makes a small sound, a soft gasp and then he's melting against you, his body going pliant as he surrenders to the kiss. He lets you take the lead, his tongue meeting yours hesitantly at first, then with more confidence as you guide him. It's wet, messy, the kind of kiss that steals your breath and fogs your mind.
Without breaking the kiss, you maneuver yourself onto his lap, straddling his thighs. His hands come to rest on your hips, his grip loose, waiting. You can feel him growing hard beneath you, but he doesn't do anything about it.
You pull back just enough to speak, your lips still brushing against his. "I want to ride you," you breathe, the words slightly ragged.
His eyes widen, a flash of excitement crossing his face. He nods enthusiastically, almost frantic. "Yeah, yes, okay," he babbles, his hands already moving to the waistband of his shorts.
But you stop him, your fingers wrapping around his wrists. "No," you say, a smirk playing on your lips. "Not like that. I want to ride your thigh."
His breath hitches, a choked, desperate sound. His eyes, wide and glassy, go dark with a new kind of desire. "Oh," he whispers, the word barely a puff of air. "Okay. Y-yeah. We can do that."
You can feel the heat radiating from his skin even through his shorts. You start to rock against him, a slow, careful grind that has you both gasping. Your hands find his legs, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his thighs and he shudders. You can see his cock straining against the fabric of his shorts and he lets out a broken whimper as you let one hand graze over the obvious bulge.
"Fuck," he breathes, his head falling back against the couch. "Th-that's… oh god, yeah."
You lean in, capturing his lips again in another sloppy, desperate kiss. Your hips move with more purpose now, finding a rhythm that has your clit rubbing against the hard muscle of his thigh. With every roll of your hips, you can watch him twitching against his shorts, a needy, helpless rhythm that matches your own.
"Take off my skirt," you command, your voice husky.
He fumbles with the button, his fingers shaking so much he can't get it undone. You have to help him, your hands covering his as you guide them. Finally, the zipper gives way and he's tugging the fabric down your hips. His knuckles brush against your skin, sending sparks of pleasure through you.
"And my panties," you add, your voice barely a whisper.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband, slowly dragging the lace down your legs. His eyes are fixed on the space between your thighs, his pupils blown wide with desire.
You settle back onto his thigh, the direct contact of skin on skin making you both cry out. You're already so wet, your arousal slicking his leg, making the glide of your body against his effortless.
"God, you're so… so wet," he breathes, his eyes wide with wonder. "Is that… is that all for me?"
You just nod, too lost in the sensation to speak. You start to move again and he flexes his thigh, the muscle hardening beneath you, adding an extra layer of pressure that sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.
"Yeah, just like that," you gasp, your nails digging deeper into his legs.
His hands roam, tracing up your sides, his thumbs brushing against the underside of your breasts before sliding back down to grip your hips. He's trying to help, trying to guide you, but his movements are clumsy and uncoordinated.
He's so turned on it's physically painful for him, his breath coming in ragged pants.
"God, you're so… so beautiful like this," he forces out, his voice strained. "All… all desperate and needy. For me."
You can feel the pressure building, a tight coil in your stomach that's about to snap. You move faster, your hips bucking wildly against his thigh.
"Please," he begs, his hands tightening on your hips. "Let me… let me help. Let me make you feel good. Please, I wanna be good for you."
"You are so good, Mack," you praise, your voice thick with pleasure. "Such a good boy for me."
He whines, a high, desperate sound that goes straight to your clit. "Yeah? I'm… I'm good?"
"So good," you confirm, grinding down harder. "You feel incredible. Your thigh… fuck."
His hands grip you tighter, his knuckles white. "I… I can… I can flex more? If you want? Just… just tell me what you need. Anything. I'll do anything."
You just moan in response, your movements becoming more erratic. He takes that as encouragement, flexing his thigh in a steady rhythm that matches your grinding and it pushes you closer and closer to the edge.
"That's it, baby. You're doing so good," he praises, his voice cracking with emotion. "So fucking good for me. Look at you… using me to get off. It's… it's the hottest thing I've ever seen."
You cry out his name, the sound raw and unrestrained. "Macklin… it's—nnh...you feel so good."
He whimpers, a high, desperate sound that makes your toes curl. "You… you feel amazing too. So… so wet. All over me. It's… fuck. I can feel how… how close you are. Please, baby. Please come for me. I need you to come for me."
His words dissolve into a string of incoherent babbles, a mix of curses and praises that's the most erotic thing you've ever heard. He's so lost in it, so completely consumed by his desire for you, that he can barely form a coherent thought.
"Please," he begs again, his voice cracking. "I wanna… wanna feel you come. All over my leg. Please, baby. I'm… I'm so hard for you. It hurts. Just please... use me. I need you."
You can feel yourself getting close, the pressure building to an almost unbearable intensity. "Mack," you gasp, your head falling back. "Please, don't stop."
"I won't," he promises, his voice a desperate whisper. "I won't stop. Not until you… until you come all over me. I wanna… wanna feel it. Please, baby. I need it."
That's all it takes. The coil in your stomach snaps and you're coming, crying out his name, digging your nails into his legs hard enough to leave marks. He holds you through it, his hands steady on your hips, his thigh flexed to give you the pressure you need.
When it's over, you collapse against him, your body limp and sated. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his heart pounding against your chest before pressing a soft kiss against your forehead.
Helloohh, could you please do something angsty with Sid, where the reader is almost 15 years younger than him
Fifteen Years
pairing: Sidney Crosby x younger!reader
description: You struggle with the weight of the fifteen-year age gap between you and Sidney as his teammates' thoughtless comments at a team function expose your deepest insecurities about your relationship.
CW: Age gap relationship, angst, insecurity, hurt/comfort, established relationship.
The low hum of conversation fills the banquet hall of the Penguins charity event. You're perched on a velvet chair, swirling champagne in a glass you have no intention of finishing, watching Sidney across the room.
He's in his element, shaking hands and laughing at jokes you can't hear from this distance. At thirty-eight, he moves with an easy confidence that still takes your breath away, even after two years together.
"Quite the man, isn't he?"
You turn to find Jake smiling down at you, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners.
"He is," you agree, returning the smile.
Jake takes the empty seat beside you. "How's school going? Still finishing that master's?"
"Just one more semester," you confirm. "Then I'm officially unleashed upon an unsuspecting job market."
"You'll be great," he says, then leans in conspiratorially. "Sid talks about you all the time, you know. How proud he is."
Your chest warms at his words. "He's pretty great too."
"Hey, lovebirds," Bryan interrupts, clapping Jake on the shoulder before nodding at you. "Enjoying your night off from being a student?"
"It's nice to dress up occasionally," you say with a laugh.
"Speaking of dressing up," Bryan says, his eyes twinkling mischievously, "did you guys get carded at that restaurant last week? Sid was telling us how the waitress thought you were his daughter."
The air stills. You feel your smile freeze as Jake shoots Bryan a warning look.
"Dude," Jake mutters.
"What?" Bryan asks, genuinely confused. "It was funny. She wouldn't believe you were dating until he showed his ring."
"She's twenty-two, Bryan. Not twelve," Jake says pointedly.
"I know, I know," Bryan backtracks quickly. "I just meant..."
"Hey," Sid's voice cuts through the awkwardness. He's suddenly beside you, his hand possessively on your shoulder. "Everything okay over here?"
"Everything's great," you say, a little too brightly. "Just catching up."
Sid's eyes narrow slightly, taking in your tense posture and Bryan's uncomfortable expression. "Right. Well, I was hoping to steal my girl away for a dance."
You let him lead you to the dance floor, his arm wrapped securely around your waist as you sway to the soft music. For a moment, you allow yourself to relax, to melt into his embrace and forget the sting of Bryan's words.
"You okay?" he murmurs against your hair.
"Of course," you lie. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Sid pulls back just enough to look at you, his hazel eyes searching yours. "Because Bryan has the subtlety of a hippogriff in heat and I saw your face when he said that."
"It's fine," you insist, though your voice has lost some of its conviction.
"It's not fine," he corrects gently. "I should have shut it down sooner."
"It's not your fault," you say, even though a part of you blames him a little, for being older, for being famous, for making people see you as some kind of trophy or novelty.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of forced smiles and polite conversation. By the time you're home, the weight of the evening has settled heavily on your shoulders.
"Talk to me," Sid says, following you into the bedroom where you're already changing out of your dress.
"There's nothing to talk about," you reply, avoiding his gaze in the mirror.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "This is about the age thing, isn't it? About what Bryan said?"
"It's not just Bryan," you admit quietly. "It's everything. The looks we get, the questions people ask, the fact that your teammates still see me as some kid you're mentoring."
"They don't..." he starts, then stops himself. "Okay, sometimes they do. But they don't mean anything by it."
"Maybe not," you say, turning to face him. "But it doesn't change the fact that when you were starting your rookie season, I was still learning to ride a bike. When you won your first Stanley Cup, I was worrying about middle school dances. When you were..."
"Hey," he interrupts softly, closing the distance between you. "None of that matters."
"It matters to me," you insist, tears welling in your eyes. "Sometimes I feel like I'm living someone else's life, you know? Like I'm playing dress-up in a world I don't belong in."
Sid's expression softens, his thumb gently wiping away a tear that's escaped. "Is that really how you feel?"
"Sometimes," you admit. "When people say things like what Bryan said tonight, it reminds me of all the reasons this is… complicated."
He's quiet for a moment, just looking at you with an intensity that makes your heart ache. "Do you remember when we first met? At that charity hockey clinic for kids?"
You nod, unable to help the small smile that forms. "You thought I was one of the volunteers."
"And I couldn't figure out why this incredibly smart, beautiful university student was wasting her Saturday helping a bunch of eight-year-olds learn to skate," he continues. "Then you explained that your research was on youth sports development and I was completely captivated."
"I was trying so hard to be professional," you recall with a laugh. "Meanwhile, I was having a full-on internal meltdown because Sidney Crosby was talking to me."
"Even then," he says, his voice dropping lower, "I knew there was something different about you. Something that made me want to know more."
"But I was so young," you protest.
"You were brilliant," he corrects. "You still are. Age has nothing to do with what's between us."
"Easy for you to say," you murmur.
His jaw tightens at that. "I hate that. I hate that anyone looks at us and sees anything other than two people who love each other."
"I know you do," you say, reaching up to cup his cheek. "But it doesn't change how it makes me feel."
"Then let me change it," he says, turning his head to press a kiss into your palm. "Let me remind you why we're here, why we work."
He leads you to the bed, settling you against the pillows before lying beside you. "When I'm with you, I don't think about the age gap. I don't think about what anyone else thinks. I just think about how lucky I am to have found someone who understands me, someone who challenges me, who makes me laugh, who sees me as just Sid, not as some hockey legend."
"You are a hockey legend," you point out.
"Not to you," he says with a small smile. "To you, I'm the guy who leaves his socks on the floor and sings terribly in the shower and can't make toast without burning it."
"You do burn a lot of toast," you agree with a watery laugh.
"Exactly," he says, growing serious again. "You see me. All of me. And that's something I've never had with anyone else."
You're quiet for a moment, considering his words. "What about when I'm eighty and you're ninety-six? Will you still feel the same?"
"I'll feel even more strongly," he says without hesitation. "Because by then, we'll have a lifetime of memories together. We'll have argued about stupid things and made up in the middle of the night. We'll have traveled the world and stayed home on rainy Sundays. We'll have built a life that's ours, regardless of what anyone else thinks or says."
A single tear escapes, tracing a path down your cheek. "What if I can't get past it? What if it always bothers me?"
"Then we'll deal with it," he says simply. "Together. Every day, if that's what it takes. Because fifteen years, fifteen years is nothing compared to forever."
I keep seeing this quote on tik tok “we were so mean in the end that I almost forgot how nervous I was to tell you I loved you for the first time” and I’m wondering if you could write something angsty with Fraser about him and the reader having a bad breakup but they see each other again a little while later and slowly build their relationship back up? I love your writing so much 🥰
The Ghost of Firsts
pairing: Fraser Minten x female reader
summary: You and Fraser had a breakup so ugly it erased the good, but then you see him again months later and old feelings come crashing back.
CW: Angst, breakup, emotional conflict, references to past toxicity, fluff.
The coffee shop smells of roasted beans and cinnamon, a stark contrast to the chill that settles in your bones the moment you see him. Fraser is standing by the pickup counter, his back to you, but you'd know those shoulders anywhere.
The way he holds himself, the slight dip of his head as he checks his phone, it's all achingly familiar. It's been six months since the last slammed door, since the final, venomous words that burned bridges you thought could never be rebuilt.
You tell yourself to turn around, to leave, to get your coffee somewhere else. But your feet are rooted to the spot. He turns then and his eyes find yours across the room. For a moment, you're both just staring, the air between you thick with everything that was left unsaid and everything that was said too loudly.
He gives you a stiff, almost imperceptible nod, before grabbing his coffee and moving toward the door. He doesn't say a word. He just walks past you, a ghost of a person you used to know and disappears onto the busy street.
You see him again a week later. This time, it's at the grocery store, in the frozen food aisle. You're both reaching for the same bag of frozen peas. Your hands brush and you both snatch them back as if you've been burned.
"Sorry," he mumbles, his gaze fixed on the shelves.
"It's fine," you reply, your voice barely a whisper. The silence stretches, uncomfortable and heavy. "How, uh… how have you been?"
He finally looks at you, really looks at you, and the exhaustion in his eyes takes you by surprise. "Okay," he says, though it doesn't sound convincing. "Busy. You?"
"The same." It's a lie. You've been terrible. It's easier to focus on the anger than the good stuff. The good stuff hurts more.
"Well, I'll let you…" he trails off, gesturing vaguely at the peas.
"Right," you say, stepping aside. "See you around."
You walk away, your heart pounding.
The third time is different. It's late and you're walking home from a friend's place when a light rain starts to fall. You're fumbling with the hood of your jacket when a car slows down beside you. It's Fraser. He rolls down the passenger window.
"Get in," he says, his voice flat. "You're going to get sick."
Part of you wants to say no, but the rain is getting heavier and the thought of a cold walk is too much. You slide into the passenger seat, the inside of the car instantly warming you. The ride is silent, the only sound the rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers.
He pulls up in front of your building and puts the car in park, but he doesn't turn it off. He just sits there, his hands gripping the steering wheel, staring out at the rain-slicked street.
"We were so mean in the end," he says suddenly, his voice quiet, rough. "So fucking mean. That it almost made me forget how nervous I was to tell you I loved you for the first time."
The words hit you like a punch to the gut.
You remember the way he couldn't meet your eyes, the way his hands were shaking, the way he blurted it out like he was afraid he'd lose his nerve.
Tears well in your eyes, hot and sudden. "I remember," you whisper, your voice cracking. "You were fiddling with the drawstring on your hoodie."
He turns to look at you then, his own eyes shining with unshed tears. "I hated fighting with you," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "I hated who we became."
"Me too," you admit, a tear finally escaping and tracing a path down your cheek. "I missed you. Not the fighting. I just… I missed you."
He reaches out, his thumb gently wiping away your tear. It's the first time he's touched you in six months and the contact sends a jolt through you, a spark of something you thought was long dead.
"I missed you too," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "So much."
He starts texting you after that. Not every day. Just a simple "How's your week?" or a picture of a dog that looks ridiculous.
You text back. It's slow, this rebuilding. It's like trying to piece together a shattered vase, knowing it will never be exactly the same, but hoping it can still hold water.
A month later, he asks if you want to get coffee. You agree. You meet at the same coffee shop where you ran into him that first time. This time, there's no shock. You talk for hours. It's easy. It's comfortable. It feels like coming home.
He walks you to your door afterward, the silence between you no longer heavy, but filled with a gentle, buzzing anticipation.
"I had a really good time," he says, his hands shoved in his pockets.
"Me too," you say, a genuine smile on your face.
He looks at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours. "I'm still in love with you, you know," he says, his voice quiet but sure. "I don't think I ever stopped."
Your heart swells, a wave of warmth washing over you, chasing away the last of the chill. "I'm still in love with you too," you reply, your voice steady.
He steps closer, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away, but you don't.
You meet him halfway. The kiss is soft, hesitant, a question and an answer all at once. It's new. It's a beginning.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. "We'll take it slow," he murmurs. "I promise."
"Okay," you whisper, closing your own eyes and just breathing him in. "Slow."
Hey 🙂 Fraser request please; you’ve been fwb for a couple of months now. Both agreeing to keep it casua. Until the night out a picture surface of Fraser with another girl. Jealousy and hurt set in. You purposely start distancing yourself because you realize your feelings are deeper than they should be. Fraser not understanding why you’re not returning his text or call and missing you like crazy. He matters into has own hands with a plan to lay out his feeling for in hopes to fix whatever is going on and to make casual to something more.
More Than Casual
pairing: Fraser Minten x fwb! reader
description: You thought your arrangement with Fraser Minten was just casual until a photo of him with another girl sends you spiraling, making you realize your feelings run much deeper than you'd ever admit.
CW: Friends with benefits, jealousy, emotional conflict, unrequited feelings (initially).
The first few months are perfect. No strings, no expectations, just mind-blowing sex and comfortable companionship. Fraser is funny, attentive in bed, and surprisingly easy to talk to for a professional athlete. You both explicitly agree on casual only, no catching feelings.
"Rule number one," he'd said that first night, tracing patterns on your stomach as you both caught your breath. "We don't do relationships. We're just having fun."
"Rule number two," you'd added, turning to face him. "We can see other people. No jealousy."
"Deal," he'd agreed with a grin before kissing you again.
The rules work beautifully until they don't. It's a Tuesday night when you see it—a photo on Instagram of Fraser at some trendy downtown restaurant, his arm wrapped around a pretty blonde with a perfect smile. They're leaning into each other, laughing at something only they can hear. Your stomach drops.
You tell yourself it's fine. This is exactly what you agreed to. No strings, no jealousy. But as you scroll through the comments—people tagging them as "couple goals" and speculating about their relationship—you feel something sick and hot rising in your chest.
That night, when Fraser texts asking if you're free, you ignore it. The next morning, when he calls, you let it go to voicemail. You tell yourself you're busy, that you need space, but the truth is much uglier. You've broken the cardinal rule of your arrangement—you've caught feelings.
A week passes with no response from you. Fraser's texts grow more concerned, then frustrated.
"Everything okay?" — Tuesday
"Did I do something wrong?" — Thursday
"Seriously, what the hell is going on?" — Saturday
You read each message, your thumb hovering over the screen, but you can't bring yourself to reply. What would you even say? "Sorry I can't fuck you anymore because I accidentally fell in love with you"? The thought makes you cringe.
Meanwhile, Fraser is going out of his mind. He's tried everything calling, texting, even showing up at your building only to be told by your roommate that you're "not home." He doesn't understand what happened. One day everything was perfect, the next you've completely ghosted him.
The photo with the blonde, his teammate's sister, for the record, someone he's known since he was a kid, meant nothing. It was just a friendly dinner, but he can't explain that if you won't talk to him.
Friday night, he's sitting alone in his apartment, scrolling through your message history, when he makes a decision. If you won't come to him, he'll come to you.
Your heart pounds when you hear the knock on your door Saturday afternoon. You're not expecting anyone, and your roommate said she'd be out all day. You consider not answering, but the knock comes again, more insistent this time.
"Open up," comes Fraser's voice through the door. "I know you're in there."
You hesitate, your hand frozen on the doorknob. Part of you wants to keep hiding, to let this embarrassing crush fade in private. But another part—the part that's missed him like crazy all week—needs to see him.
When you finally open the door, Fraser looks relieved and frustrated all at once. He's wearing a simple hoodie and jeans, his hair slightly messy, like he's been running his hands through it.
"Hi," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
"Hi?" he repeats, incredulous. "You ghost me for a week and all I get is 'hi'?"
You step aside to let him in, closing the door behind you. "I've been busy."
"Bullshit," he says, turning to face you. "What's going on? Did I do something wrong?"
You shake your head, unable to meet his eyes. "No, of course not."
"Then why?" he asks, his voice softening slightly. "Why are you avoiding me?"
You take a deep breath, deciding there's no point in lying anymore. "I saw the picture."
He looks confused for a moment before realization dawns. "Oh. The one with Jessica?"
"I don't know her name," you say, your voice tight. "Just saw you with some girl at a restaurant."
"Jessica's my teammate's sister," he explains, running a hand through his hair. "We were celebrating her birthday. There were like ten other people there. It meant nothing."
"I know," you say quickly. "I mean, I know it meant nothing to you. And that's fine. That's what we agreed to."
He studies your face, his expression unreadable. "But not to you?"
You shake your head, tears pricking at your eyes. "No. Not to me anymore."
The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken words. Fraser steps closer, his hand reaching out to touch your arm.
"I've missed you," he says softly. "Like crazy. I thought—I thought maybe you found someone else or got tired of me or—"
"No," you interrupt. "Never that."
"Then what?" he asks, his thumb stroking your arm. "Talk to me."
You look up at him finally, your vision blurred with tears. "I broke the rules, Fraser. I caught feelings. And I can't do casual anymore, not with you."
His expression shifts, understanding dawning. "Oh."
"Yeah, oh," you say with a watery laugh. "Pretty stupid, right?"
"No," he says, his voice firm. "Not stupid at all."
Before you can process what's happening, he's kissing you. It's different from your usual kisses—deeper, more meaningful, like he's trying to say everything he can't put into words.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. "I don't want casual either," he admits. "Haven't for a while now."
You pull back slightly to look at him, your heart pounding. "Really?"
"Really," he confirms with a small smile. "I was just too scared to say anything, to ruin what we had. But when you started ignoring me… I realized I'd rather risk everything than lose you completely."
Tears stream down your face now, but you're smiling. "I'm sorry I ghosted you. I just didn't know how to tell you."
"I get it," he says, wiping away your tears with his thumbs. "So what do we do now?"
You consider it for a moment before grinning. "I think we break all the rules."
He laughs, pulling you into another kiss. "Deal."
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