{18+} •im just here to read and live in my lala land of a brain & write for myself• Love: The Pitt, MCU, X-MEN, DC comics, Fairytail, Criminal minds, Bnha, BSD, one piece, and many more❤️🩹🫶🏻 😥I’m an anxious person I’m very sorry if I comment and delete my comment on anyone’s post ◽️My codes emojis are in my pinned post to clarify any confusion on when I reblog
I don’t want much of my information out on social media, for my comfort I don’t want to give specifics like my name, or anything cause I’m scared of social media and it’s people. on my socials it’s “Nati” so that’s it. A nickname.
I’m a beginner writer & professional procrastinator. I try my best with multiple projects, making edits, working on writing up a fanfic story & making edits of said story on my other social medias like TikTok & Instagram
18+ work, I write in adult themes (trauma & talk of sex, not yet to be determined of a smut futuristically) and mostly torture the fuck out of my ocs but also bless them with happiness :)
I’m a anime lover, fairytail is my childhood, I love dramas & romances, & a book nerd.
Major reader, you can tell by my long list of reblog fics I admire so many of these extraordinary writers and wish them to never stub their toes and to only get good futures and good lives.
I’m a green eyed monster when it comes to fictional characters and their canon lovers😁 don’t judge me. And I don’t love dms, please don’t dm me unless asking a question because I’m very cautious with people on the internet, comments and dms are two different things.
(+if I comment multiple times the same thing and then it’s deleted both times, I overthink and worry about reactions, I’m so sorry😓)
For to see my favorite fics, search “🧸🍞💗” on the my profile, “🥘🥧🧡” means favorite fan art, “🍔💛🥪” favorite gifs, “🟦📻🏷️” my favorite hot-take, & “🤎🧺🐕” favorite post generally
🧸my writing:
— “Enamored”
I have a main original story that is in the works, hopefully a future book publishing, but Currently writing & hyperfixating on The Pitt & my The Pitt x my Oc (Micheal robby Robinavitch x Lailiana Forgotten)
“Enamored”
It’s on wattpad and soon to be here (I’ve just began and working on it, have a process on how to work on it at a pace with all the episodes of pre-canon —> canon —> post canon —> season 2 —> future on):
Read Chapter One: Hi. How did we get here? from the story Enamored (The Pitt x Oc) by ddaayyddrreeammeerr (Day) with 22...
⭑.ᐟ I WISH YOU LOVED ME LESS ── Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch
summary: you put all your efforts during the holiday weekend trying to convince your husband that his three-month sabbatical doesn’t have to end in the unspoken fatality he has been hinting at since it was announced. whilst robby puts all his efforts into pushing you away. (wc: 9.3k)
pairing: michael ‘robby’ robinavitch / f!reader
content: angst with a happy ending. fluffy parts. established relationship. wife!reader. an argument that happens the whole shift. s2 spoilers (the timeline of the show is jumbled for the plot) jealous!robby & jealous!reader? mean!robby. mental health struggles, hints to suicidal intentions, tension in a marriage, death and medical inaccuracies. beating a dead horse with this trope! 18+ suggestive content + smut (fingering and cunnilingus—f. receiving. minor breeding kink. robby is a little delayed in getting it up. unprotected p in v, dirty talk, light dom!robby & creampie)
Dana approaches you somewhere in the hour of 12PM. She looks at you over the rim of her glasses, all blonde strands of hair and each wrinkle in her forehead lined with concern for someone, more or less, adjacent to you. It makes you sink in your seat. You had been residing at the main workstation with three of the residents painfully assorting patient files since the CEO in his Fourth of July garb had made the announcement of preemptively shutting off all computer systems; leaving the ED without electronic health records, connected charting etc.
(You know, all the stuff that makes the department chug on like a semi-well-oiled machine.)
Being somewhat of a specialist in the art of expressions and the silence that comes with it, you were able to conclude that Dana Evans—the guardian of the PTMC—was not approaching you for a long-overdue chinwag.
Quite the opposite, actually.
“You need to talk to him.” Dana commands in her usual gravel tone.
It makes you nervously scratch at your brow-bone. “I know. I’m getting round to it. Just after—”
“Now.” Dana interjects. She leans her whole body into the workstation, her voice drops down to barely a whisper, “He’s acting up. Being a real Fourth of July spectacle. All this before he hops on that godforsaken motorcycle for three months. You’ve got the most Robby jargon out of all of us. Put it to use.”
You let out a deep exhale. “Fine.”
You stand at full height and Dana gives you a half smile that was a tamer version of amusement.
Things were not fine. In fact, things were so far out of the ballpark of fine, that you would never put Robby and the definition of ‘fine’, or ‘okay’ or, overall just ‘good’ in one sentence. He was a man on the precipice of a life-altering decision that those around him would suffer the consequences that he had made; much longer after his three-month sabbatical on the road came to a screeching halt.
The signs had been there. Ever since you had begun at the PTMC as a fresh-faced attending with a basket full of naivety. It just took a couple of years for the signs to start catching up to you. And by then, your efforts to salvage the good pieces of Michael Robinavitch, had fallen through the cracks of a prepaid tombstone.
For the most part, colleagues would acknowledge the mental health problems that trickle down from behavioural changes from their peers, and then they’d be able to go home without the additional weight of it upon their shoulders. No skin off of their noses if they weren’t the ones paying for the extensive therapy sessions.
However, for you, that wasn’t the case. Since—
“He’s your husband.” Dana calls after you.
You throw a hand up in retaliation, the sizeable rock on your ring finger catching the hazy overhead light. “Thank you, Dana.”
The reminder wasn’t needed. Everyone—including the one who married him—was well aware that Dr. Michael Robinavtich had managed to be tied down. Motorcycle and all.
You had fallen in love prior to the catastrophic events from COVID, that had been the pipeline to Robby's mental health downfall. It had been exhilarating, and sometimes still was, at the beginning of the inner workings of a relationship that was blossoming beneath Gloria Underwood’s watchful eye. All the sneaking around, keycards slid beneath clipboards, kissing on company time. The pair of you felt like giddy teenagers copping a feel.
He proposed to you within two years. Now, you were waltzing around the PTMC with a double barrel surname that was seemingly quite the tongue twister for those who took the time to read it. (This including Dennis Whitaker who went beet red when you had corrected his feeble attempt of reciting it back to you.)
You peer into Pedes to find him as predicted—coddling Baby Jane Doe.
Robby’s head turns as you speak, “Hi,” you tilt your head and smile softly at the infant lazily dozing on your husband’s shoulder. “How is she doing?”
“Oh, just lonely.” he lilts.
You nod, smoothing a finger back and forth against her cheek, “She likes you.”
“Well…she’d be the only one.” Robby mumbles as he places the infant back into the hospital cot. You smother the growing frown on your face when he straightens to full height. “You need me for something?” he asks quietly.
I need you to come back to me.
You settle for, “Just making sure you’re okay. You know—After how we left things this morning.” you say, deciding to take the brunt of whatever force you may be hit with—taking Dana out of the collateral damage.
Things had been left on a sour note in the apartment you both shared in the downtown area of Pittsburgh. The looming presence of Robby’s three-month sabbatical with his cognitive well-being balancing on the line of a fraying thread had made quite the topic of conversation over his black coffee and your nourishing choice of breakfast. Therapy was always at the centre of your tedious endeavours to ensure Robby came back to you in one piece during the early hours before work; and getting him to listen was no easy feat.
Your last ditch attempt to undertake your husband’s reluctance to get help was thrown back at you beneath venom and animosity. It had almost given you whiplash. Robby escaped the confines of the apartment with a slam of the door after insisting that if you put more of your efforts into ‘minding your own business’, you’d be able to resolve whatever unearthed issues you had rolling about in your mind—such as your unrelenting desire to help those who don’t want it.
The motorcycle ride without the helmet must’ve given his head a good shake, because when you entered the sliding doors of the PTMC; Robby began loitering around you enough to make it obvious he felt a little guilty on how he had left things.
(Never go to bed angry. Never hop on a death trap after searing your wife with the hot iron rod of your pent up anger. Or, something like that.)
Robby takes a deep inhale, there’s a sort of playful glint in his eye as he speaks, “You know, when you continue to ask someone if they’re okay, it starts to get a little repetitive.”
“Marriage is repetition.” you don’t miss a beat, the lightheartedness that swoops the conversation feels a little foreign; considering the circumstances. “Sue me for taking my vows seriously.”
“Hm.” Robby hums, the blue latex gloves snapping off his hands, “Is this a welfare check?”
He shrouds your personal space for a moment. Not enough to seem intentional, but you knew his actions were the end result of your magnetic presence—hence why he married you. You watch him cock his head in a roguishly handsome way, crows feet beside brown eyes exposed when he scrunches on eye shut. Michael Robinavitch was many things; but dense was not one.
His flirtations were consciously placed.
The room fills with the bustle from the central area of the ED when Robby pushes the door open, wedging it open with one foot to allow you to depart from Pedes. He looks down the slope of his nose at you, a faint smile catches at the corner of his lips when you size him up in passing.
“Are you open to one?” you bump your elbow into the softness of his stomach, habitually holding your hand beneath the sanitiser. It takes all your efforts to not look up at him.
You begin to walk together.
“Uh…nope.”
His answer takes a subtle jab at your heart. “Then consider it as me just being nosy about how you’re feeling.”
“That—” Robby halts you both, his fingers ghosting your elbow to allow a gurney to roll past. His eyes follow it as he continues, “—Is just a less fancier way of dressing this up as a welfare check. Have you seen Dana?”
She’s the one that sent me, is what you want to say.
“She’s talking with Emma.” you reply nonchalantly, “Robby, can you just…talk to me? Please? You’re deflecting.”
“No, I’m running an Emergency Department.” Robby retorts, placing a hand on your back to keep you with him as he wades through the chaos of going analog. His eyes flit to you for a second and he softens at the melancholy you carry in your expression. “Sweetheart, I’m fine and sort of in the middle of something. Pin this conversation for later, okay?”
“Sure.” you murmur when he walks away. Dana takes up the rear-end of the conversation, slotting herself shoulder to shoulder with you—an iPad balancing in the crook of her elbow. You don’t look at her when you say, “That went well.”
“Plenty of time, honey.” Dana grits, patting your back, “You’ll get through to him. As for now, I’ve got a case in South 15. Right up your alley. Lookin’ real pretty for a distraction, hm? Come on.”
Robby is distracted when he returns to the central hub. The patient chart is a mere prop in his hands. The information untouched by his plethora of clinical knowledge, because all he can hear is you laughing at something that the handsome Radiologist—Dr. Barker—has said. It hadn’t bothered him when his staff members, Princess and Javadi, had been stood gawping at the man from afar. Was it a little inconvenient considering the circumstances the ED were squashed under? Yes.
Until it became a hinderance to their performance; it wasn’t his problem.
As for you…it was different.
There was no overt behaviour that would lead anyone to believe that you were doing anything but being friendly until the wet reads came through for your patient in South 15. At an arms length from the guy, but still conversing in a way that shows off two of Robby’s favourite things about you: your genuine toothy-grin and the nose scrunch do when you find something funny.
When Dana throws him a look in passing, he reverts back to the patient chart. Then your laughter carries across the room a minute after, and Robby decides that’s enough time spent with the pretty boy from upstairs that has set up camp in the middle of the ED.
He idles up next to you with all the curiosity of a Chief Attending and not a husband that reeks of jealous intrigue.
(Professional before personal. The walls of the PTMC were a shield to the outside noise.)
“Dr. Robby.” Barker greets.
You turn your head to see Robby practically flush with your back. “Oh—Hi.”
“Dr. Barker.” Robby glances at you from his peripheral and chooses to ignore the mild perplexity that sits in the crease between your brows. His hands clutch his elbows when he crosses his arms across his chest, head tilting at the Radiologist. “How long on this patient’s imaging?”
“Another fifteen minutes. Tops.” Barker answers after checking the process.
“Then I assume you can circle back on the jokes in fifteen minutes.” your head whips to glare at the Chief Attending-gone-rogue on being tactful around his professional peers, “Catalogue of patients on that whiteboard. They won’t treat themselves.” he chides.
You give Dr. Barker an apologetic look and walk by Robby who follows like a dog on a leash. Once the Radiologist is out of ear shot, you speak freely, “Are you seriously time-keeping my conversations?”
“No.” Robby drawls, “Just making sure one of my best Attending still has her head in the game.”
“That’s rich.” you scoff with minimal malice, “Dr. Barker is a good guy. The way you spoke to him back there—”
Robby interjects. “Ho-ho, sounds like you like him.”
“I do.”
“More than me?” he angles his body into yours to make room for an oncoming nurse. (He doesn’t miss the small but wicked smile on your face.)
You mull it over when you reach the board. “Only time will tell. You’re still on probation from your morning tantrum.”
Robby lets out a rare cackle that spreads the amusement across his weathered features and you beam up at the sight of his crows feet making an appearance under the circumstances of lighthearted humour. The palm of his hand rubs the span of your back as you stare at the whiteboard, making it a sight to behold for the forthcoming med students.
“I—Uh,” Robby starts, removing his glasses and scratching the skin behind his ear, “I want to apologise for how this morning went.”
“Mhm.” you only look at him when you feel his eyes bore into your side-profile, “I forgive you. Doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be mad at you, Robinavitch.” you remark setting the base layer tone as nothing short of sarcastic.
Robby inhales and speaks on the exhale, his voice only just audible to you, “Would…a five minute break in an on-call room make up for any of it?”
He looks hopeful.
You pray he shares the same sentiment on his three-month sabbatical. Unlikely, but negativity didn’t pay the bills.
The insinuation is clearer than glass. On-call rooms were meant for a sole purpose of providing the staff at the PTMC a safe space to rest in privacy. It required a keycard to gain access to.
It was also the same space that Robby and you took advantage of for displays of affection that were crossing the boundaries classified in the Human Resources pamphlet you were both given on how to navigate an appropriate workplace relationship; and the power imbalances that could come with it.
Gloria Underwood would turn in her ivory white tower if she knew what the pair of you got up to behind that particular closed door on the company dime.
Robby’s offer was tempting. His handsome face and optimistic eyes were even more.
“I’m happy where I am.” you advise him, without sounding too pained at the sacrifice.
Robby surrenders. “Happy wife, happy life.” he states with his hands up, then deciding to give Ogilvie and Joy a show by pulling you in by your shoulder and pressing a chaste kiss to your temple. It was the least he could do, if the on-call room was off the menu. “Shout if you need me.”
“Shout.” you whisper when he trails off, leaving you with the ambient hospital noises. (And, Joy and Ogilvie.) You point at them, “You two. With me.”
Eventually you return to the middle of the Pitt, swiping two patients off of the white board with two fingers—too lazy to find the eraser. You weren’t sure what part had soured your mood. Either from the med-student Ogilvie’s unwavering need to put his foot in his mouth in front of patients and plummet those all important patient satisfaction scores, Louie’s passing, the foreboding presence of your husband’s three-month sabbatical; or catching the loose ends of Noelle Hastings and Robby’s conversation.
He catches sight of you in passing—your face providing nothing but the word: hypocrite—whilst he absentmindedly bobs his head along to Hastings sugary rambling over McKay’s patient case. His forehead creases as she speaks, scratching at the nape of his neck nervously. Robby’s eyes flit over to you in the hopes that just this once, you may be a figment of his own imagination.
Despite jealously being relatively beneath you in your marriage to one of the PTMC’s eligible bachelors, without being too presumptuous, Robby feared that seeing him converse with his non-committal ex, may be the cherry on the cake for how your day was going.
(Hastings always had a habit of lingering. Which made it look even worse.)
Perlah comes up beside you, patient charts in abundance in her grasp.
“Not bothering you?” she asks with a subtle jerk of her head in Robby and Noelle’s direction.
You shuffle through some results, “Give it a couple of minutes.” you murmur.
Perlah lets out a laugh that catches both Noelle and Robby’s attention nearby. Their heads turn at the abrupt sound, which in turn breaks up their train of thought over the long winded discussion. Noelle squeezes Robby’s bicep before they go their separate ways, and suddenly your patient’s results need to be read millimetres from your face; when Noelle strolls into the workstation with a content expression on her pretty face.
“You did that on purpose.” you whisper to Perlah behind your clipboard.
Perlah shrugs innocently and departs to ask Robby for a second-opinion.
The case manager perches at the edge of the workstation you happen to sit at, happily tapping at the surface of the workstation.
The thing about Noelle Hastings was, that she was neither a friend nor a foe to you. She was simply an extension of Robby’s history of avoidant attachment that extended the length of seven-weeks. There was zero animosity toward her as some would anticipate you to have. She was kind, assisted you in insurance cases on the best outcome for the patient and even when she stepped over the invisible boundary that separated a fleeting situation from a marriage, with nostalgic remarks over her shared time with Robby; Noelle Hastings well-manicured nails were always far from digging into your husband.
She was aware of this. Respectful. Part of you assumes she was trying to find a middle ground to bond over with you. Understandably, it could get a little awkward when your previous sexual endeavours’ wife is waltzing around the workplace.
Even more awkward when she catches herself going all gooey whenever she was within close proximity to his charm. (Worked on her for years. It wasn’t going to stop now. Even if it wasn’t intentional on his part.)
She speaks in the direction of Dana, “You know what Motorcycle Mike’s sabbatical is really about?”
Dana remains unbothered, “I never try to guess what’s going on in that head of his.”
You shift in your seat, and it highlights yourself to Noelle.
“You’re not going with him?” Noelle tosses the net with a polite smile and you’re suddenly pulled into the conversation, no longer a bystander pretending to be busy.
“Uh, no.” you shift, rubbing the palms of your hands against your thighs.
Dana also responds, “You kiddin’? We’d go cuckoo bananas if we lost her to a three-month sabbatical too.” she peers over the brim of her glasses at Noelle, “Behind every great man, is a greater woman.” she proclaims.
“I don’t doubt it.” Noelle laughs. There’s a thought that churns over in her head and you’re left surrendering yourself to yet another boundary crossed when she decides to vocalise it. “It’s just…That’d drive me crazy. You know? Him being off the radar for three whole months. The man couldn’t sleep without the TV on in the bedroom. How is he going to survive all that silence?”
You take the comment in your stride, shutting the monitor off and standing. Dana throws you an empathetic look as a woman has been in the game for thirty years. Someone like that learns to become observational when being patient-facing means the little expressions matter.
And with the rise and fall of your chest; Dana can come to the conclusion that you’re upset by Hastings throwaway comment.
So, she defends where you won’t.
“Little respect, Hastings.” Dana is casual in her directness. She glances at the pretty woman, “It goes a long way.”
Noelle looks mortified. “Oh—No. I’m sorry. I overstepped.”
“It’s fine.” you reassure her, gulping at the tightness in your throat, “You made an observation that has stood the test of time. Robby is a big boy. Three months to reflect, alone, is healthy. TV on or not.”
Now, you’re irritated.
It’s enough for the conversation to not chase you when you depart the workstation—Dana left to lowly chuckle in amusement at the underlying sharpness in your tone. You weave through bodies on autopilot, ears ringing from the seed of doubt planted by Hastings over Robby’s time away. It made you think that perhaps you had been too enthusiastic over the idea of a three-month sabbatical with little to no contact with a man on the brink of catastrophe. Too laidback in putting the power in the hands of his mind that had nothing but malicious intent over his body.
It had sounded like a good idea at the time. Neither you or Robby could recall an official vacation that he had partaken in—aside from your honeymoon. Now? You weren’t so sure.
Everyone else had told you otherwise ever since it had been announced.
“Everything okay?” by some hideous trick of fate, Robby matches the strides in the walk you were taking around the parameters of the department.
He had spotted you from the window of South 22 and excused himself with the reassurance from Dr. Al-Hashimi that she could hold down the fort. Being married to you came with unlimited perks, one being that Robby was able pinpoint your tells that signalled a combative mood. Not necessary toward him; but the idea wouldn’t be so far fetched.
(It was all in the downturn of your lips. And the tightness in your jawline.)
“You tell me. Does having to listen to your ex question my decision to not saddle up on a three-month sabbatical with my flight risk husband, whilst also sorely reminding me that she also knows you leave the TV on through the night, make a good case for everything to be going okay?” you quip, narrowly avoiding Ahmed’s call to the betting pool.
Robby blows out hot air. “Could’ve said devoted husband.” he jokes. It crashes and burns when you spare him a stern glance. “Okay. How about we take in some fresh air in the Ambulance Bay?”
“Lead the way.”
It doesn’t take much further and the summer air of Pittsburgh clings to your bodies in all the wrong places. It preemptively sets the tone as you scuff your feet against the ground, arms tightly bound across your chest in an effort to translate your hardened exterior from the events of the day.
Honestly, it felt close to dogpiling once Hastings became—unintentionally—involved.
Robby takes in the scenes of the empty Ambulance Bay, his eyes find his beloved motorcycle still in tact at the side of the building. He takes a step forward in order to block it from your line of vision.
After a moment, an arm wraps around your shoulder and you’re suddenly curled into your husband’s side. His lips find your temple and they stay pressed against your skin to resolve some of the bad feelings running about in your chest.
You close your eyes as Robby repetitively presses chaste kisses to the same spot, relishing in the physical affection that you will be deprived off for three months. Or further; depending on how far Michael Robinavitch was willing to go.
The thought alone makes you recoil out of his touch.
Robby’s brows quirk in confusion. “Too hot?” he asks naively. Unprepared.
“We—” you sigh, “—We need to continue the conversation from this morning.”
“No…we don’t.” Robby informs, his expression still unwavering in adoration, “It’s water under the bridge. I apologised.”
“I’m talking about the part where you accept the therapy sessions on this sabbatical.” you start, feeling the prompt shift in the atmosphere, “Jack has given me all the information for his therapist—”
“Sweetheart. I am begging you not to start this shit again.” Robby has the palms of his hands flush against each other in a begging motion that’s sent in your direction. “I don’t need a therapist on this trip.”
“Throw me a bone here, Robby.” you exasperate, “You’re obviously not well. Is it really so bad that I’m making sure I get you back by the end of this?” you feel your patience chip, the skin of your neck prickling with frustration.
Robby chuckles. “Oh, you’ll get me back. I’ll make sure of it.”
The morbidity of his answer makes you pause.
You blink at him, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means…stop telling me how to feel.” Robby narrows his eyes, throwing a sarcastic smile your way.
“Then what are you feeling, Robby?” you snap at him, the humid summer air clinging to your skin.
He chuckles lowly, “I really don’t need you to be my shrink.”
You shake your head, “This isn’t what a shrink does. You would know that if you just see one for two days of the week whilst you’re away. Jack’s therapist does virtual appointments—”
“I already gave you my answer to that.”
“Holy shit.” you clench your fists and tap them against your forehead to relieve your frustrations, “I’m not asking you to lobotomise yourself on this sabbatical, Robby. It’s fucking therapy.”
Robby sneers, “No? This—” he gestures to the space between you in circles, “—feels an awful lot like a lobotomy. Cut it out.”
“Cut it out?” you repeat, “I’m not a child.”
“Are you sure about that, sweetheart?” Robby crosses his arms, the argument was beginning to feel like being inside a pressure cooker, “You’re upset over this morning. Over the sabbatical, clearly over whatever bullshit Hastings said to you. About Louie. You can’t regulate your own emotions at work and you have the nerve to tell me I need fucking help? That is fucking hypocrisy.”
“Oh, quit projecting.” you look around for a minute to take a break from the intense stare down.
“Why…are you doing this right now?”
You watch Robby rub at his temples. “Why? Because you’re lashing out. You’ve been doing it to Mohan, Dana and Al-Hashimi all fucking day. You’re upset that Langdon is back and you’re punishing him for your own feeling of failure.”
“Mohan is tough love.” Robby cherrypicks.
“Cut the shit, Robby. You’ve been wearing her down and you know it.” you gesture to the ED just beyond the sliding doors, “She had a panic attack and you belittled her over the same shit you did last year in Pedes!”
Robby shakes his head in disbelief, “You’re really bringing that up right now?”
“Yes. I am.” you retort plainly, “Robby. Can’t you see this is all happening because I love you?” you collect your voice beneath a whisper when an EMT strolls by you.
Robby waits until they vacate the premises to speak as he drags his fingers along creases in his forehead. “Yeah. I do. And, right now…I need you to love me less.” he conveys cruelly.
Your worry ebbs into hurt. Fingers curling tight enough that your nails are pressing crescent moons into the palm of your hands. His words lay flat against your chest like wet cement. Any further rebuttals you had lined up dissipate and you’re left with a blank slate, jaw slack as you try to make sense of it all.
The Ambulance Bay plunges into icy waters. Robby nervously drags his thumbnail across the top of his brow bone as he cranes his neck to look inside the building. It wasn’t evident to you at the time, but his inner turmoil flares at the sight of your broken expression.
Even when you gather yourself up with watery eyes and a wobbling bottom lip, Robby does nothing. He allows you the action of brushing past him to escape the jaws of his verbal brutality, throwing yourself back into the chaos of a holiday weekend.
He’s left with the whir of ambulances in the distance.
Robby watches you leave, mumbling a ‘shit’ under his breath. He drops his head back to take in the humid air through his nostrils; the brief solitude condemned when Baran Al-Hashimi appears.
“Robby?” Baran calls from the doors, offering a hesitant smile, “Perlah has notified me that Ms. Kovalenko—the burn patient—is ready to be seen again.”
Robby swings his hands around his body, releasing the tension by smacking his palm against his other hand that was curled up into a fist. He strains a smile, “I’ll be right there.”
Robby takes a shot at a breath to exhale any leftover poison on his tongue from your spat—being wise to the fact that patient satisfaction scores would increase without personal baggage. The dispenser spits the sanitiser into his hand and he chooses to open the door with his back; checking for any sign of you amongst the sea of people marching about.
The pit in his stomach grows when he can spot you in the middle discussing a case with McKay. Your back is turned, but Robby has been with you long enough to see the tension taught across your shoulder blades from the deep laceration he had caused by projecting his frustrations for a second time that day.
He takes a mental note to make amends by any means possible. And promptly too.
He enters the room with one last look at you. “Hello. How’s it going in here?”
“We were just discussing your wife.” Perlah informs with a friendly smile, fingers busy with the task at hand. When Robby looks inquisitive about how the topic turned to you in his absence, Perlah adds, “She just came to find me for a patient. Said hello. Ms. Kovalenko was curious about the double-barrel surname on her badge. It got us talking. All good things.”
Robby hums warmly. “A conversation I’m always happy to partake in.” he perches himself on the nearby stool—both Perlah and Ms. Kovalenko watching as he fixes his posture.
“Beautiful.” Ms. Kovalenko states.
“Very.” Robby concurs earnestly—he wants to say that you are the eighth wonder of the world.
(The argument puts that sort of compliment on hold for the time being.)
“Too good for you.” The red-haired woman quips.
“Ooh. I’ll have to agree there too.” he lilts, the pang of guilt smothered behind a professional glaze. He pats the tops of his thighs, “Did I miss all the gross stuff?”
“Timed it perfectly.” Perlah replies.
“Excellent. My job is all about delegation and time management.” Robby chides with a brave face; hoping his emotions weren’t too raw on his face over the mention of you.
Perlah and him get into a lighthearted back and forth over his imminent departure at the end of the twelve-hour shift, which piques Ms. Kovalenko’s interest over the finer details.
“He’s leaving us for three-months. On a motorcycle.” Perlah shifts in her chair, happy to invite Ms. Kovalenko further behind closed doors.
Kovalenko’s brows raise to her hairline. “Motorcyle? You’re joking.” she whips her head round to stare at Robby, “Why would you do this?” she asks sternly.
“Why? Why? Because…uh—”
“You’re a middle aged man. Don’t be stupid.” she spits back, “What about your wife? Is she happy about this decision?”
“She is…moderately humble about it.” Robby rolls closer to the sharp-tongued patient, narrowly averting his gaze to the injury concealed beneath a thin cloth.
“Moderately humble.” Kovalenko repeats sardonically with a few nods of her head. “Forgive me for being blunt but, do you think that is the equivalent to being happy, Dr. Robinavitch? I pity your wife. Very sad.”
Robby hangs his head and huffs out a laugh, “We cannot stop the world from spinning just because one person doesn’t like the way it goes round, Ms. Kovalenko—How about we focus on your care?”
There’s a significant pause.
“Us women are what make the world go round,” her lips quirk in satisfaction when Robby’s brown eyes drift from her burn site, “Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Robinavitch?”
Once the elderly, fiery-haired patient with a nasty burn on her thigh is discharged from Robby’s care—not without a stern lecture and some wonderful insight about his lack of appreciation for women in general—it’s evident that all signs are pointing to resolving the conflict that had transpired between you two.
If there was one person Robby was not willing to part with on a sour note for three whole months…it was you.
The better half of him. The center of his gravity. The only person strong enough to flip the heavy hourglass in time before he drains himself entirely.
Also, the woman that was apparently hard to track down in a department he knew like the back of his hand.
(He worries you left. But that wasn’t in your nature. Hurt feelings or not.)
“Where—“ he pauses, “—is my Attending?” Robby checks the surrounding areas as he speaks directly to Dana who was standing at the workstation with Monica Peters—the Pitt’s once renowned cynical clerk until things went south over technology.
Dana lets out an amused scoff, looking down at the clipboard pressed against her stomach; strands of blonde hair loose around her face.
“She’s been demoted to just Attending? What’d she do?” she quips in her usual tone that has Robby flaring his nostrils, “She’s writing up the death note for Javadi. McKay’s cancer patient—Roxie—she passed away.”
Robby frowns, “Where’s McKay?”
“MIA.” Dana drawls, now fiddling with the prescribed box of nicotine gum, “She seemed pretty upset coming from the Ambulance Bay. Anything you want to tell me?”
“It’s been a long day.” he calls flippantly, already parting through the sea of pandemonium.
He puts the plethora of questions about McKay’s whereabouts on the back burner for the time being.
Dana raises her voice over the hospital buzz, “Make amends, Cap.”
He gives the charge nurse a two-finger salute.
For once, he makes it to his destination uninterrupted by an emergency that requires his presence in the trauma room. The door to the room that had been dimly lit aside from the salt lamp glow, clicks open as Robby arrives; finding you slipping out the gap and closing the door quietly behind you.
You haven’t seen him yet.
For observational purposes, the Chief Attending watches you press your forehead against the cool glass of the narrow window of the door. His stomach sinks when he can see your shoulders shudder as you take a deep breath to fill your lungs with air that kept evading you.
He doesn’t feel like there’s ever going to be an appropriate time to speak to you in order to rescind his previous declarations. Even more so now, as you conceal the notion of silently weeping in the middle of the ED.
“You need a coffee?” Robby’s voice makes you jolt. For once, he shrinks in confidence under your unsteady gaze. His tired eyes take in the vision of your watery ones and his expression melts into tenderised sympathy. He nods, “Come on.”
The staff room is empty when you enter, aside from the manikin that Nurse Jesse took great pleasure in decorating, before he was wrongfully detained by ICE agents for intervening with patient care at the core of his interests—just another reason to confirm that the holiday weekend had been nothing short of twenty car pile-up that you were being forced to look at.
The box of donuts from upstairs is empty, the clock above is ticking closed to the end of the day shift; even when the job wasn’t truthfully done at the stroke of 7PM. You take the seat closest to the wall, muscles sighing from the imminent relief of pressure.
Robby stands at the coffee machine—if you can even call it that. It sputters a watery version of coffee into a styrofoam cup, and he dumps two packets of sugar into the liquid in order to salvage some sweetness amidst the bitter tone of the room.
He slides the cup over to you and fishes a protein bar from his pocket, patting it to emphasise the notion that dinner had been served.
Your stubbornness prevails as you push the bar away from you, despite having not eaten for almost seven hours.
Robby sighs at that. The refusal doesn’t surprise him. You were always prone to a petty hunger strike when it came to Robby providing you with food to nourish your body after an argument. It was sort of his way to build up to an apology.
He drags the spare seat across the flooring and plants it in front of you.
The fabric of your scrubs brush against his when his knees bumps yours as he sits. The close proximity invites his scent into your bubble, the undertones of his aftershave prominent enough for you to recognise the fragrance as the one he wore on your wedding day.
Robby rests his elbows on the tops of his thighs as he lean into your space.
As the words form on his lips into a coherent icebreaker that he was easing into, the door to the staff room whips open to reveal Trinity Santos.
You look up at her. Robby doesn’t.
“I need an Attending.”
Robby answers for the both of you.
“Go find Dr. Al-Hashimi.” he sings.
Santos mutters under her breath, rolling her eyes as she shuts the door behind her. You give Robby a certain look—one he’s been given before—that tells him you weren’t in favour of brushing off the RS2 in favour of squashing the hostility that he brought upon the both of you.
He gives you a meek but crooked smile. Crows feet prominent as he tries to warm the atmosphere.
“I need you…to understand something here.” Robby starts, his hands falling to the sides of your kneecaps. He can barely look at you when he talks, “If I don’t go on this sabbatical, I am not so sure it’ll stop me from…” he trails off.
The room falls silent.
He can barely say it himself because verbalising it would make that little more of a tangible thing.
You can’t conjure up the fight to protest; so you hang your head.
“What upset you about Roxie’s case?” Robby takes a different approach. He tilts his head like a curious dog when you look back up from your lap.
You mull it over. “Do you ever stand in a room with a wife and a husband, one of them is dying in front of the other’s eyes. And they just have to watch it happen at their bedside?”
Robby gives a curt nod.
“Do you ever put yourself in their shoes, Robby?” you question, “How that would feel? To have the most meaningful part of you slip through your fingers and you don’t have the control to stop it. This—” gesture with your finger between your bodies, “—Is how that feels for me.”
“Yeah—”
“No.” you shake your head, “You don’t get to sit there and tell me you know how it feels from my perspective. I love you in ways that you aren’t reciprocating. You know why?”
“Why?” Robby whispers.
You continue, “Because, if we loved each other equally, there wouldn’t be a shadow of a doubt to get the help that you fucking need.” your voice trembles, “I cannot keep pushing through this fog around you, Robby.”
“I know.” Robby’s expression melts. Brown eyes softer than ever. “I know.”
“Then get help. Please.”
Robby cups the back of your head when tears begin to shed from your eyes. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it.” he presses his lips to your forehead, “I’ll do it. I’m sorry.”
The moment is held sacred against your hearts. There’s a particular weight that lifts off of your shoulders when Robby gives in, but even then…your heart was still heavy from the outcome of your previous argument in the Ambulance Bay.
Maybe three months apart would mend those open wounds. (Absence made the heart grow fonder. Apparently.)
Robby finally pulls back with a pained expression on his face; as he memorises your features close-up. “What I said before—I didn’t mean it. I’m not sure how I’d do in life if I didn’t have you up my ass about everything.”
“I hear Montana has a lot of fresh oxygen. You can use all of that up with consistent apologies during your sabbatical.” you grouse, wiping at the wetness that Robby misses when he drags his thumb across your cheekbone—ridding you of a lash that had latched onto your skin. “You know, people divorce for less.” you say.
Genuine laughter ripples from Robby’s chest, the moment of reconciliation solidified in your acerbic intonation. (Part of him wonders how many lives he has left before the reality of divorce comes to life.)
Instead of answering back, Robby forgoes professional protocol by pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. It takes a few swallows to dislodge the lump in his throat, smothering his own upset when you pull away to meet his gaze.
The door opens for a second time.
Dana holds onto the handle, staring at the scenes before her over the rim of her glasses. “Would you look at that. It’s a Fourth of July miracle. Can this wrap up so we can do rounds and get the hell out of this godforsaken place? Two more minutes, lovebirds.”
Robby stands at the foot of the bed. It’s well after midnight and whilst you have shed into the comforts of your sleepwear, Robby is clad in a thick Carhartt jacket and dark jeans with his bag slung lazily over one shoulder. He is looking like the epitome of a reckless motorcyclist about to venture on the open road after a gruelling twelve—and some additional hours—shift at the Emergency Department.
You are sat with your legs dangling off the edge of the bed. Ready to bid your husband goodbye; praying it’s rather a ‘see you soon’ sort of farewell.
His confirmation in the Staff Room didn’t sit all that well in your stomach.
“You have got everything?” you ask, twiddling with the hem of his jacket, “Wallet? Phone? Cash? The list of phone numbers I wrote down for you?” Robby nods along as you list it off, “Toothbrush? Phone charger? The little First Aid Kit I bought?”
“Check.” Robby affirms.
There’s an unfamiliar feeling rolling about in the air of your bedroom. Robby and you had rarely spent time apart—as unhealthy as it may sound to other couples, it just works for you. Nothing more than a week, when you decided to take a well-earned break from the seventh layer of hell named the Pitt.
Three months would feel like a lifetime.
You sigh deeply, “Call me. Or text me when you arrive at the first hotel. I love you. Kind of.”
“I love you too, sweetheart.” Robby leans down to kiss you sweetly. His hand captures your jawline to deepen the kiss to gratify his needs. He barely pulls back to look at you, “I’ll miss you.”
“I’d hope so.” you kiss him again. Your hands rest against the broad-line of his shoulders, whilst his free hand clutches your back to press your body into him. You whisper against his feverish kiss, “You’re running late to get on the road.”
“I’ve got time.” Robby answers back.
The change in pace happens abruptly. One minute you’re exchanging a bittersweet goodbye, and the next, your t-shirt has been yanked over your head, leaving your chest exposed; nipples hardening from the cool air.
Robby bends to capture a nipple into his mouth, his beard creating a sweet fiction alongside his tongue swiping at your bud. He groans against your tit, and you take the opportunity to slide his bag from his shoulder—his jacket coming off quickly after.
Once he pays attention to your neglected nipple by repeating the same actions, he pulls back with his hair sticking up in all directions as a result of you tugging at it.
His pupils are blown wide.
“You want me to take care of you before I leave, hm?” Robby asks, his tone dripping in saccharine.
You nod, breathless.
He dips his head to press wet kisses down your navel whilst you instinctively lift your hips when his fingers hook at the sides of your flimsy excuse for underwear; which he stuffs into the back pocket of his jeans for later. The air thickens, the silence filling with lewd groans from Robby’s mouth as he lifts and parts your thighs, pressing them up to your chest to expose your slick core.
His callus palms smooth across the length of the backs of your thighs, creating goosebumps in his wake. Brown eyes drift from your aching pussy, up to your face to observe your reaction when he drags two fingers from your seeping hole and upward to your sensitive clit.
You jolt and whimper from the sensation and Robby clicks his tongue, shushing you as he repeats the same action.
Once he gathers enough of your juices on his two fingers, he applies pressure to your clit and begins to rubbing in slow circles. You whine, legs making effort to drop down to relieve the pressure; only for Robby’s free hand to pin them against your chest again.
“Robby…” you manage to say.
Robby cocks his head to the side to watch your hole clench around empty air. “That feel good?”
Your brows pinch with your eyes fluttering shut. Instead of answering his question, you bring a hand to bite down on—which Robby promptly swats away.
“Talk to me, sweetheart. Let me know.”
You nod, “Uh-huh.”
“Good. Fuck, look at you.” Robby drags his fingers down to your hole and eases them in with little resistance. He groans when your walls clench tightly around his digits, “How can I leave this?”
Unable to respond again, your hips tilt when Robby curls his fingers upward into you, enough to make your jaw clench. He presses his thumb-pad against your clit, rubbing at a pace that he’s well aware that you appreciate.
Long-term commitment does wonders to mapping out the hot spots of your anatomy.
The room fills with a schlicking sound with Robby pumping his fingers in and out of you at a gentle pace.
“I’ve got you.” Robby mumbles, jaw slack at the sight of you arching your back off of the mattress. He takes his free hand that had your legs pinned and applies weight to your lower stomach, picking up the pace with his fingers. “Ooh. There it is.” he says as your walls fit snug against his fingers.
“I’m—Fuck.” you whinge, spots lining your vision. “Robby, please.”
Robby bobs his head a handful of times, arm beginning to ache from the relentless back and forth motion. His restraint is minimal, quick to shift himself halfway off the bed so his eyes are level with your swollen lips. You’re soaked. He can see at the base of his fingers collects your cream, which allows his thought process is thrown out the window.
Suddenly, Robby has all the time in the world before he has to leave.
When his mouths latches onto your clit, that’s when things become a little more desperate. His moans vibrate against you, sending you squirming; stomach tensing as he sucks at your swollen nerves—if anything, he wants to leave a lasting impression upon his departure.
Robby swaps between kitten licks and suckling at your clit—his tongue occasionally dipping to taste the closeness at your hole. His thick fingers work at your insides. Eyes flit up to see your mouth open, bare chest panting from the coil in your stomach on the precipice of snapping.
It is Robby’s favourite things; watching you come undone.
His own hips find friction against the mattress as you let out a guttural moan from the back of your throat, body curling into the orgasm that your husband pulls from you.
You push at Robby’s head when he sucks at your clit out of greed. Too sensitive, you slump into the mattress with the palm of your hand lying flat against your forehead.
Robby straightens up at the end of the bed with a smug smile, eyes twinkling. “You okay?”
You wordlessly give him a thumbs up, whining when he pulls his two fingers from your vagina.
After a minute, you rest on your elbows to watch your husband fiddle with his belt. “Let me help.” you advise, moving onto your knees to assist him.
You’re brought into a bruising kiss as you tug the belt from the belt loops, tossing it to the ground with a ‘thunk.’ It’s light work—removing Robby’s jeans and boxers in one swoop—as you had been in this very position several times throughout your relationship; able to visualise the steps in which Robby matches your nudity.
As you look down, Robby huffs, “Give it a second, sweetheart.”
His cock still semi-soft, he wraps a hand around the hardened base and gives himself a few pumps so the rest of his shaft could catch up.
He sheepishly chuckles, “If I was a few years younger—”
“I don’t care.” you kiss him to halt the self-deprecation, “Means I get to steal more time off of your sabbatical.”
It had always been an explanation during sex. The first time it had happened, Robby insisted his level of attractions toward you hadn’t depleted, rather it was just his age showing at the worst possible time—something he’d take more gray hairs and wrinkles over any day.
Never stunting his performance, nor was it a deal breaking factor for you, every time since Robby’s delay in stiffening; you had to remind him there was nothing wrong with it.
Slow and steady wins the race.
You lick your lips, watching Robby work his shaft in his hand, his wedding band catching the warmth of the salt lamp at your bedside. He lifts his free hand whilst you watch, the two fingers that had been deep inside you now edging their way into your mouth.
His fingers leave your mouth with a faint ‘pop’ and it seems to do the trick as Robby’s tip is flushed red, his slit beginning to bead with precum.
You lower yourself back down onto the mattress with Robby following you. His callus palms come to the plushness of your hips, and he turns you over so your front is lying flush against the tousled sheets.
He dips to press a kiss between your shoulder blades before hiking your hips upward so you are resting on all fours.
Robby hums as he drags his cock through your wetness, “I’m going to miss you.”
Your fingers curl into the cotton sheets, goosebumps trailing up the length of your spine. Robby kisses your back again, the tip of his cock nudging at your hole. He gives you both a minute before sinking himself in inch by inch; his lips pressing to your skin to smother the groan eliciting from his throat.
There’s no rush in his movement. There’s around thirty seconds of adjusting before he sinks further into your pussy, his head dropping back when he is to the hilt.
Robby stays in your warmth without moving for a minute.
After a minute or so, his hips begin to shift, the softest part of his stomach pressing to your ass when he buries himself deep. Stabilising himself by grasping onto your ass cheeks, fingers digging into your flesh; Robby’s brows furrow from the searing pleasure as he looks down to see his shaft already coated in your arousal.
You hang your head, letting out a whimper from feeling so full.
“Jesus—You feel good.” Robby grits behind you. He watches your back muscles tense when he slides his cock out slowly, “Are you going to miss this, baby?”
You can’t answer. The tip of Robby’s cock plunges into a spongy part, and your vision is lined with white spots.
Robby gives you a second and repeats the motion until his desire to hear you reaffirm his question takes over. He frees a hand from grappling at your backside, his fingers curling around your throat to tilt your head back to look him in the eye.
“Tell me.”
You almost cry, “Yes—fuck—yes, I’ll miss this.”
“Uh-huh.” Robby grins, “You will.”
The hand being used to force eye contact is removed and you whine when Robby fully pulls out of you. He flips you back over onto your back with ease, folding your legs up to your chest again before sinking back into you without warning.
Your back arches as much as it can from being pinned; Robby dips to smother it with a sloppy kiss.
Your hands curl around his neck, whimpering when you feel him pulse inside you. Well aware that it wasn’t going to last long.
His thrusts are shallow and restricted to contain his own climax for a little while longer. The tip of his cock brushes against a sensitive part, and he’s left breathlessly chuckling when you tighten yourself around him.
“You’ll make me cum doing that.” Robby lifts his head, eyes squeezing shut. He drags himself out of you until the tip of his cock is at your opening. You clench to suck the majority of his shaft back in. “Shit baby. Fuck it. Keep squeezing me like that. Just like that.”
“Fuck, Robby.” is all you can muster, hands clawing at his back when he picks up his pace.
Robby folds your legs back up to your chest for a third time that night. His thumb catches your clit—unsure if he can drag another orgasm out of you with little recovery time. “Let me fuck you right there. You feel it? You’re so fucking tight.”
“Robby—” you babble.
“Hm? What is it, sweetheart?” Robby pants, the slapping sounds echoing in the room.
You free your legs from his grasp and wrap them around his middle. “I want—I need you to cum inside me.”
“Fuck. Don’t say shit like that.” Robby laughs, his pace faltering. He looks at your expression and realises you’re being serious. “Is that what you want? For me to cum inside you? What if you get pregnant?”
“I don’t care, I don’t care.” you plead.
Robby shakes his head, “Okay, okay. I’ll cum inside you.” his thrust start to get sloppy at the thought, “Are you going to lay here, long after I’m gone, with my cum leaking out of you? Is that what you’re going to do?”
You nod vigorously.
“Fuck. Ask me nicely.” he commands.
“Please, Robby.” you breathe out, “Please.”
Robby nods, sweat beading his hairline from the exertion. He dips his head to bring you into a searing kiss, “I love you.” he mumbles against your lips.
There’s fewer words spoken after that. The bed creaks as Robby begins to pound into your pussy with one goal in mind. His soft stomach brushes against your pubes as he barely pulls out of you, hungry with need to stay deep within your walls.
Your legs lock around his middle and Robby lifts your hips, his fingers digging into the flesh of your backside as he brings your lower half up; fucking into you with desperation.
You babble his name, “I’m going to cum again.” you repeat over and over with the hot feeling returning in your stomach.
“You can do it, sweetheart.” Robby encourages, thumb applying pressure to your already sensitive clit. “Give me one last one before I leave. Let me feel it around my cock.”
The climax ripples through you for a second time at his words. Walls clenching around him so tightly, it made thrusting into you near impossible. Robby continues as best as he can, watching your face twist in painful pleasure.
It’s enough to send him over the edge with you.
“Fuck, fuck!” Robby grits out before his words are smothered beneath deep groans as he shoots hot ropes deep inside you. His body weight slumps on top of you, skin slick with sweat as he ruts into you a few more times for good measure.
You can feel his cum seep out at your opening, around his shaft that was still tucked deep in your pussy. Robby twitches inside of you, moving deeper a few times to ensure you’re stuffed to the brim.
He kisses the side of your face as he pants out, “I have no idea what I’ll do without you for three months.”
The familiar melancholy returns to your stomach at the realisation that this was the conclusion before three months without him.
“…Just come back to me, Robinavitch.”
A/N: thank u to my sweet @novatheory for listening to my rambling over this fic and reading the snippets of drafts i would send at random times. mwah!!!!
slice of life in a world where Frank worked through some of his trauma and you both have a beautiful little girl together. Frankie being the hardworking provider that he is and you both take care of eachother in all the ways you know how to.
Warnings: Husband!Frank x Wife!Reader, Dad!Frank x Mom!Reader, idk what age daughter is a toddler?, Protective!Frank, minor description of violence, fluff, smut, oral (m+f receiving), f! masturbation (kinda?), squirting, kitchen sex, couch sex, finger sucking, mating press, breeding kink, preg!kink and lactation!kink kinda? Or just Frank in awe of his wife and the mother of his child - idk i got a little filthy with this towards the end, theyre both just disgustingly in love with each other okay?
w.c: 6.4k
Frankie ❤️
gonna be late again honey I’m sorry
The little frown on your lips forms before you can stop it as you look over at your daughter. Your lips, your nose (though you wish she had her fathers), his deep brown eyes and unruly tufts of dark hair.
A perfect little mix of you and Frank.
“Daddys gonna be late bubba” you sigh, running a hand through her dark locks.
“Dada late all th-time!” She stomps her feet in a fluster
Yep, she gets her temper from her dad too
“I know babe but daddy works really hard doesn’t he?” You try to calm her down as her eyes start to well up.
And honestly girl, same. But you guess you had to be the adult here.
Frank had been working late every night this week, and Friday nights had quietly become yours and your daughters favourite.
Why?
Purely because it meant Frank didn’t have to leave early to go to work the next day. And that you both got to cuddle up next to him on the couch and watch the millionth re-run of Frozen.
“Mmm” she’s contemplating “ca-we take dinner fa-dada!”
She exclaims like she’s had a eureka moment, bobbing up and down with excitement
"hmm" you glance at the clock, hesitant with how close it is to her bed time. But when you look down you see her sporting those goddamn brown puppy eyes - you wonder when Frank taught her how to flash those pretty browns at you to get what she wants.
And just like with her father, you can't say no to them.
“That’s a great idea bub! You thought of that all by yourself?!” You pick her up, giving her a big squishy smooch on her chubby little cheek as she gives herself a very pleased nod, your little genius, always wanting to take care of her daddy - that she gets from you.
After heating up and packing three containers of baked ziti you throw them in a warmer bag and haul your daughter into the car to commence mission: food delivery. Sending Frank a quick text before backing out of the driveway.
You
Dinner's on its way baby ❤️
Your phone starts ringing almost instantly, connected to the Bluetooth in the car your daughter sees Franks face pop up on the console
“-Dada!!” She squeaks
Laughing as you answer on the hands free
“Is that ma monkey?” He asks on the other end, you can hear how hard he's trying to mask his exhaustion behind the light laugh and sounds of metal clanking away in the background.
Your poor man
She just giggles in response with her little hands covering her mouth, looking at you cheekily through the mirror.
“sweetheart, you don’t have to bring me dinner s’ok - gonna get late for her” he says with a tired gruff referring to your daughters bed time
You look through the rearview at her. Her cute little face almost swallowed by the brown fluff of her bear hoodie. Bright eyes full of excitement, going on an adventure to daddy’s work site.
“she’s not sleeping anytime soon Frankie, plus, we’re already on the way and I’ll put her straight to bed when we get home, promise” you counter
“… alright, m’at the site on the corner of vine see you soon honey” he concedes.. happily
“I know baby, see you soon”
“Byeee monkey!” He calls out
“i seeee you dadaaaa!!” she squeals, waving at Franks contact photo on the console.
After the line disconnects you look back at your little girl, mouth slightly agape as she stares out the window at all the street lights passing by in a flurry.
"watcha thinkin' bout bub?" your chirpy tone pulls her focus back to you
"dada s-eepy?" - you know she means sleepy, and god how you'll miss the broken way she pronounces words when she grows up a little more.
"hmm yeah I think so, but we'll make daddy smile won't we?" amazed at how perceptive she is.
How lucky you are that the best parts of both you and Frank had combined together to make your beautiful little girl.
It’s dark when your car pulls up, you see Franks truck and another one a little further away from his. Pulling it into park you stare up at the bones of the building, wooden pillars with metal scaffolding surrounding it. You wonder where Frank is hidden away in the eerie industrial maze.
You
Here x
Frank's phone buzzes in his pocket and the small smile breaks through when he see's your message.
"be back" he pretty much grunts at the other guy working late with him.
"Ya heading out? I’m done for tonight anyways, hold up i'll walk with ya" he calls out jogging behind him.
Franks eyes roll with an internal groan as he walks out.
“where daddy?” she asks so innocently, big brown eyes blinking up at you
“He’s coming bug” you smile sympathetically.
You both really are cut from the same cloth, she misses her dad and you just miss your Frankie.
“I not a buuug!!!!” She squeals and you can’t help but laugh at the adorable nickname you and Frank both gave her. A very fitting one at that, given she’s always crawling and squiggling about somewhere - always needing to be on the move.
You’re both still debating on who she got that from.
“Reeeeeally? But you’re the cuuuutest bug I’ve ever seen” you tease, reaching your arm back and tickling her pudgy little belly.
The sounds of her cackle warms your heart as you step out of the driver seat.
“Mumma’s just getting dinner out ok babe?” She nods, distracted with her little plushie
The air is a little more crisp outside, picking up the food carrier you pop it on the hood of Franks truck.
When you look up you see Frank walking towards you. That yellow hard hat, the blue button up and those cargos - and all of a sudden you're acutely aware of just how long it's been since your husband has been inside of you. You guessed that’s what having a tornado as a toddler will do.
But, you pack that thought away for later, for now you just unpack dinner.
As the two man walk out of the site Frank sees you pulling containers out as you bounce your daughter on your hip. The fuzzy brown ears on her hoodie flopping up and down and he smiles. Feeling a warmth settle somewhere deep - his girls, his whole world.
"that the old ball and chain there?" The other man laughs pointing at you.
His voice grates through Franks mental sanctuary.
"don't talk ‘bout my wife like that" he gruffs, low.
warning shot one
if theres one thing Frank fucking hated - and never entertained. It was construction talk, the way men would bitch and moan about their wives or the predatory comments about other women.
Especially when some of the men would leer at women walking by a site and he’d hear one them call to him “whewww see the legs on her?” And Franks response, always, was either “thought you were married?” Or “bet your wife’s reeeal fuckin happy bout you lookin’ at other women huh?” With a scoff before walking away.
Every damn day he practiced self-restraint when they didn't end up with a sledgehammer to the face.
Frank had lost a whole family once already and by some miracle was given a chance at another one. He could never wrap his head around how these ungrateful bastards got so lucky to have it so easy.
So yeah, if you wanted to make stupid comments about women - Frank was NOT your guy. And most of the guys on site knew that, except this one - he was new.
Nino? Nick? whatever, he probably wouldn't be around much longer for Frank to find out. Because as they both got closer Nino or Nick decided to dig his own grave.
"daaaaamn that your wife? no wonder you got pissed man, how the fuck'd you get her?" he jests in some pathetic attempt at dude-bro banter. But as they get closer Frank clocks the way the mans eyes rake you.
wrong guy
"said don't talk about her" Frank grunts
warning shot two
"even got yourself a kid huh?" he claps Frank on the shoulder, sleazily eyeing you with your daughter on your hip "yeeeah if I had all'dat ain't no way she ain't staying knocked up, be all up in that every fuckin night"
yep, r.i.p Nino or Nick. the tombstone is carved.
Franks fist finds the mans collar in less than a second and he slams him into the side of his own truck, still covered by the hunk of metal so your daughter doesn’t see.
The rattle of the metal and glass causes your head to shoot up towards him. Still far enough away from the both of you. But Frank see's the concern written on your face from over the truck as you turn your daughter away and distract her.
"talk about m’family again, go on" Frank dares him through bared teeth.
"s-shit man i'm sorry alright" he yells
“tryna scare my kid now? Keep your fuckin' voice down or I’ll rip your throat out” he snarls, nose flared
*crack*
Franks hardhat connects with that mans nose, followed by the sound of squelching flesh and cartilage.
His eyes wide staring back up at Frank as crimson starts pouring out of his nostrils
"try come back tomorrow and y'aint gonna look at another woman ever again" the words spew out of Frank, a promise this time, not a warning.
It takes him a little more than a second for him to scamper off into his truck as Frank loosens his grip before he drives off, not daring to look back at you or your daughter.
As you continue to unpack dinner you watch the gravel and dirt fly up in a trail as the other truck speeds off, and through the dusty cloud you see Frank walking towards you again. Hardhat off as he wipes off the mans blood off on the back of his cargos.
"that my girls?" he calls out
"DADAAA!" your little one screeches as she bolts towards Frank.
"hey bug" Frank laughs with a groan, something tired from the back of his throat but happy nonetheless as he scoops her up in his arms and walks towards you.
One hand wraps around your waist as he pulls you closer, your daugther on his other hip.
"hey mama" he smiles down at you
"hi baby" you smile up at him
theres a silent conversation happening in both your eyes as you stare into his, one of;
"everything all good?" asked with a slight furrow of your eyebrows
"all good, ain't gotta worry bout it" answered in the assertiveness of his tired but firm eyes
You bring your lips to his in a soft but quick kiss that speaks "i miss you, i love you"
The little giggle between you both pulls you apart and finishes your wordless conversation.
"watchu laughin 'bout cheeky?" Frank hums with a grin
"mumma and dada kisssssYYYY" her bubbly laugh, like music to both of your ears as you and Frank both sandwich her squishy face between yours giving her a kiss on either cheek and her giggle erupts into a cackle as the scruff of Franks beard tickles her face.
"and now mumma and dada kissed you!" you poke at her.
Frank seats her down on the centre of the hood of his truck as you open up the the containers. The rich tomato and herby aromatics waft up and with you both here, Frank feels a wave of relief after what had been a rough day. A silent confirmation that, no matter where he was, as long as you both were there, he was home.
"smells amazing honey" he hums and you feel his palm on the small of your back.
"bring-dinner fa-you dada" she beams up at Frank, so proud
"mhm, was all bugs idea" you add, equally as proud smiling down at her
"that right? how'd ya get so smart kid? got that from mama didnt'chya" and Frank's beaming right back at her as he holds the back of her little head lowering his own to give her a kiss on her crown.
“Open up” you say softly as you bring a forkful of baked ziti to her mouth, Frank smiling down at the both of you as she makes a big ‘aaahhhh’ and chomps down her dinner.
The sticky sounds of her chewing are interrupted when she asks curiously "daddys friend go home?"
You and Frank both dart a look at each other "neeeh, not daddys friend, jus some guy, but yeah bug - he's gone home"
"ok" she simply hums as she continues with her dinner
“Ya been good for mama today?” He tries his best to keep a stern tone, but it’s futile - she has him wrapped around her little finger - because he can’t even finish the question without the corner of his lips tilting upwards.
She gives him an exaggerated nod “wanna tell daddy what you did today?” You encourage her along.
“Found-a-pider!!!!” She gasps, half a chewed pasta falling out of her mouth.
Frank takes a few seconds to decipher her words “o-OH you found a spider ?! See that’s why your name is bug” he teases
“Noooo dada he-ma frieeend!” She groans dramatically throwing her arms up in the air
gets that from mama Frank laughs to himself
“Yeah? How’s he ya friend?” he asks mid shovelling down his dinner wondering if he’s going to go home to a pet spider.
Leaning into him you whisper "if she had a sibling maybe she wouldn't be befriending spiders". A cheeky call-back to the talks you and him had been having about trying for another and he just responds with a throaty chuckle and a squeeze of your hip.
“I help’t himmm-help him go back ou-side like this!” She cups her little palms together, showing her dad how she held the spider and took it into the garden.
Frank shoots a quizzical look at you
“It was a harmless one baby” you say softly in his ear with a smile when you see a quick flash of worry across his face.
“You picked up a spider ??! You’re so brave bug” he picks up her soft little palms in his own calloused ones and gives her a kiss
“So brave just like daddy hm?” Now it was your turn to beam at the both of them.
And she nods proudly.
This perfect little moment with your perfect little family.
Three bellies full and a few laughs later you’re all done with dinner. You and Frank move like a well oiled machine - Frank packing up the containers, you wiping the dried remnants of red pasta sauce off the corners of your daughters mouth with wet wipes.
“Alright, way past bedtime kid” Frank scolds affectionately at the big yawn that escapes your little one.
He reaches forward to pick her up
“Nooo-nottt seepy, i-help dadaaa-then-dada come home?” She blinks up at him, rubbing her puffy reddening eyes. Her question asked with such innocence that it melts Franks heart.
Too much time away from his girls this week and he feels it deep, obviously she did too.
“Be home soon okay bug? You gotta show me where Mr Spider-Man lives yeah?” His voice softening into a low gruff as she pretty much curls up in his arms, trying her best to fight off sleep and nodding her head in reply.
His little fighter - like father like daughter
You open up the back door for him as Frank carefully places her down and buckles her up.
“g’night bug, i love ya” he sighs kissing her little hand as she gives him a sleepy wave “nanight dada”
The door softly clicks shut as Frank steps out, leaning back against the door and like instinct you slot yourself between his legs.
Your press your body into his, soft warm hands skimming up his collar and cradle the side of his rough face. Thumbs swiping over his cheekbones and you finally get a good look at him.
Tired lines etched into the hollows of his ember eyes. Pressing a kiss under each one, each kiss speaking “thank you for everything you do for us”
“Been working so hard” you coo at him with a soft kiss now on his lips before looking up at him
“I know baby, few more days yeah?” He wraps his arms around you tight, his sigh of exhaustion filters down the bridge of your nose as he rests his forehead atop yours.
“Your girls miss you Frank… I miss you” you whisper, sneaking a soft kiss down his neck and your bodies press tighter against each other, like they had their own language.
The longing for one another simmering under the skin of the both of you.
Frank steals one more kiss before you pull away to glance through the window at your daughter. Eyes closed and already in dream land.
“see you at home? I’ll go put this one to bed” you hum as your head swings back to his.
“Alright baby, won’t be too far, just gon' lock up” he hums with a pat on the swell of your ass before opening your driver side door for you.
“Thank you for dinner sweetheart” Franks voice cuts through the roar of your igniting engine.
“Anytime Frankie, deserts waiting at home” you wink and he chuckles, deep and throaty as he closes your door and taps the top of your car as you drive off.
The drive home is quiet, the crackle of the radio humming low as you periodically glance back at your girl - still lightly snoring away. A serene comfort that you’re so grateful to have
After pulling into park you carry your sleepy little sack of potatoes into the house. Placing her down, you gently take her out of her jacket and shoes. She stirs a little but she's pretty much knocked out - victory.
By the time you've folded her clothes, put her night light on and kissed her goodnight Frank is back.
You hear the faint clinks of glass coming from the kitchen. When you round the corner you see him standing at the sink, unpacking the containers and loading them into the dishwasher.
Lightly padding up behind him you wrap your arms around his big torso "leave it Frankie I'll do it" you say with a kiss on his scapula.
"s'alright baby, ain't much" he smiles
Stubborn man
He closes up the dishwasher and turns around to face you, eyes still tired but content now that he's at home.
"so... what was that about? ..that guy?" you ask a little hesitantly as your palms run up and down his beefy arms.
"din't know how to quit runnin' his mouth" he shrugs as his palms fall to your hips
you give him a pointed look but can't mask the smirk on your lips "frank, what did he say?"
Unsure if he's about to get a lecture "ehh don’t matter” he drawls with a jerk of his shoulders “ain’t no body talkin’ shit bout' m’girls hm?" and that's the gods honest truth, lecture or not.
You take him in for a moment, his gruff exterior but the most golden heart and you wonder how you got so lucky. Your beautiful man, so protective so caring, so yours.
Coming up on your tippie toes you press your lips to his, lingering there for a second as your hand snakes behind his neck
Oh, no lecture?
"my baby, you do so much for us hm?" you coo between a kiss.
Your other hand trails down his torso, each button flicking under your nail as you undo them till you reach the button on his cargos. Twisting your palm and sliding it over his crotch. You smile into his lips when you feel him hiss at your hard press on his bulge.
"yeah? our big protector, our provider" you croon between another syrupy kiss as your palm slides over his cargos to pull on the zip
Franks chest swells with pride, this is what it was all about - protecting and providing for his girls. Protecting this life that he got a chance to have again.
"aren't you baby?" you whisper as your hand slides into his briefs, wrapping your fingers around his cock, urging an answer out of him, hoping he see's himself as you see him.
"shit" he hisses as you start stroking him.
you look up at him as he nods, eyes locked on yours and you mimick his head movements.
"yeah you are" you smile, sucking his bottom lip between your teeth "m'so proud of you Frankie, you work so hard, we're so lucky"
Your other hand slides over his shoulder, pushing his shirt off him.
“m’the one that’s lucky baby, y’gave me everything” he smiles, his hands return to knead into the flesh at your hips
Pulling apart from his lips you crane your neck down and Frank's eyebrows crease together at the loss of your hand on him.
But when he see's the way you bring your palm up to your lips, keeping your eyes on him and spit your saliva right in the centre of it and his eyes blacken with lust.
desperation and something deeper.
Cupping your palm, you bring it down to spread your spit from the tip of his cock down his shaft, before pumping his cock again in wet long strokes.
When you look up at him you see him glancing down the hall way, having some sort of internal debate and you know exactly whats going through his mind.
are we going to start something we don't get to finish?
"hey, look at me baby" your hand slides from behind his neck to his cheek as you push him to face you again "she’s asleep Frankie" you reassure him
When he looks back at you, you’re already kissing your way down his neck, over the dense muscles of his torso. Appreciating the strength beneath them, the type of strength that comes from hard work and labour - not the show boat-y kind as you slowly sink to your knees in front of him.
“-b-baby w-hat’re you doin?” He asks breathily, voice cracking a little as you peel the waist band of his briefs down to pull him out.
The scent of him, the glistening tip that you love.. you practice an inordinate amount of self-control when you don’t drag him down to the kitchen floor and sink yourself down on him.
Instead
You smile up at him, the weight of his heavy tip resting on your bottom lip pushing it down. “I’m taking care of my husband” you hum as your pillowy lips kiss his tip.
He sucks in a breath as he white knuckles the edge of the counter top that he’s leaning on “a-ain’t gotta do that c-c’mon” he stutters trying to pull you up as you place another kiss on the underside of his veiny shaft.
“Babyyy, I want to, you wouldn’t deny your wife what she wants hmm? That’s not like my husband” you chide, batting your eyelashes at him before licking a long languid stripe from his balls all the way up to his tip.
Cheeky.
Frank bites down hard on his lower lip, trying to stifle the groan in his throat as his head drops back
the most angelic devil woman he’s ever laid eyes on
The first taste of his saline tip on your tongue along with his musk from his hard day of work floods your panties with arousal. As if she’d been dormant for the past few weeks, now violently awoken and hungry for Frank.
You can’t stop the muffled moan that escapes you as you wrap your lips around his girth and push him further into your mouth “uh-mmissed you” you garble out between messy licks and sucks of his cock.
“gggod baby” he breathes, head lolling forward to look down at you.
His perfect wife, head bobbing up and down, craning your jaw open as you try and take more and more of his cock in your mouth. You feels his hands rake under your hair, pulling the strands back
"eeasy baby" you hear him coo softly above you, his grip tightening slightly - guiding your movements. You relax at his touch, your throat even more so, taking him in closer to the back of your throat. “yyyeaah thass’it honey there you go” you love when he lets himself feel good, no guilt, no overthinking, just getting lost in his own pleasure.
The taste of him, his coos from above you and his firm grip on your head has your cunt crying for Frank. Your hand, with a mind of its own snakes up your thigh, under your dress and into your panties.
Your fingers slide through your soaked folds, circling your slick around your clit as your hips start mindlessly bucking back and forth as your other hand pumps away at Franks cock in sync with your mouth. It's not enough though, and you’re already pulling your own panties to the side, lips still locked around his cock, cheeks hollowing and tongue swirling around him as you push two fingers into your sopping wet hole.
Your moan comes out as a hum around him, as you work your fingers in and out of yourself. The vibrations sending a jolt through Frank as his hips thrust forward making you gag. The rings in your throat constrict around him making your pussy constrict the same way around your fingers "christ baby" he grits out
Frank sees your knees splayed out over his feet and your wrist cocking back and forth between your legs. He hears the wet plaps of your fingers diving in and out of your wet hole.
And fuck he's never been so jealous of two fingers in his entire life.
“g-get up baby, need ‘er, need you” he pants as he guides your head off him. You hollow out your cheeks sucking off him with an obscene pop and that cheeky twinkle in your eye.
He pulls you up by your arms guiding them over his shoulders, you hook them around his neck as he claps the back of your thighs, jumping into his hold as he picks you up. Your lips are on each other instantly, tongues exploring each other as he crosses the other side of the kitchen and sits you down on the counter.
Jumping a little at the cold granite on your hot bare skin from where Frank has already started pulling your dress up and flinging it off over the counter "wanna see you baby" he pants, his eyes rake your naked frame. Perfect heavy tits above that perfect soft belly and down to your pretty mommy pussy.
“Been openin her up f’me?” He rasps and you manage a breathy little “uh-huh” before he encircles your wrist that was busy between your legs. He brings it up to his mouth pushing your two fingers in, groaning at taste of you on your fingers as his eyes roll back. “taste so fuckin good baby”
You feel his palm splay wide in the centre of your chest, gently pushing you down, bare back on the granite. Laying you out like the perfect meal.
His perfect meal
Frank takes one of your ankles in his hand and brings it to his mouth. Dotting kisses from the inside of your ankle, the back of your knees and reaching his sweet spot right between your legs he pauses.
Pushing your legs further apart to see your perfect glistening cunt, all his. He takes a deep inhale of your scent "fuck" he mutters before diving tongue first into your heat. The first taste of your slick on Frank's tongue melts his brain - the sweet, tangy elixir that he hadn't tasted in weeks.
That first stroke up your slit has your back arching off the countertop "ohhfuckkk frankie" your moan flies out of your throat before you can stop it.
"sh-shh-shh, wanna enjoy my desert baby, no interuptions yeah?" he smiles with a kiss to your inner thigh as you glance down the hall to check it’s all quiet.
His laps turn feral pretty quickly as he sloppily makes out with your cunt after you nod down at him with the all clear.
Franks tongue alternates between broad laps over your slit to pointed precise flicks over your clit before he fucks his tongue into your hole. Your hand comes over your mouth as you drop down and melt into the cold granite.
“w-wannnittt-inside frankie” you mewl softly, writhing on the counter.
“I know baby, but, been too long yeah? gotta open you up, just gotta gimme one c’mon honey just one” he pants between his licks and sucks.
You’re embarrassingly close, already. So it doesn’t take long when Frank pushes his fat finger inside of you and his mouth returns to your swollen clit. Suckling as he slips another finger inside. Your greedy walls sucking in whatever he’ll give you as he hooks the pads of his digits into that spongy little spot.
The way Frank could be away from your cunt for years but still knows exactly where to find all those spots that make your squirm.
Your hand flys into his hair as you push yourself up, looking down at him in his own personal heaven between your legs. That overwhelming feeling in your belly, the pressure building as your toes curl over the edge of the counter “-yeahh fuck right there baby, oh fuckfuckfuck mcominggg Frankie” you breathe above him, breathy and desperate.
“c’mon baby, soak my face, fuckin’ missed ‘er” he grunts between his suckles on your clit, fingers still pumping in and out and he feels the way your walls are already fluttering around him. You feel his heavy paw press down gently on your lower belly, the pressure getting more intense. "waitwait fra-"
And it snaps.
“ohhhhmyyygoddd” you cry out trying your best to muffle your cries with your fist as you gush around his fingers. Your walls convulse around him pushing his fingers out as all your juices spray his beard and Frank laps it all up with his hoarse grunts like it’s holy water “yeahyeahyeah that’s it baby that’s it gimme it’all” his nose nudging your clit, his jaw open, tongue out begging for it all as his hands keep your legs wide open for him. His lips and his tongue on your cunt guiding you through your peak. Your body twitching, hips bucking in his face as your eyes roll back in your skull.
"f-frankieee please baby, please, need you" your hushed cry pulls him up from his pussy drunk haze as your hips go from a seizured twitching to a slow writhe.
He kisses up your body with a slow reverence from your pussy up over your belly, once swollen and taught now soft. Over the marks that serve as scripture, proof that you brought life into this world, gave him his baby and the start of your family.
The journey of his lips and beard leave a trail of your juices up your navel and between the valleys of your tits. Frank kisses over one of your pebbled nipples, licking and sucking your beautiful tits still swollen from when they were full of milk and he hums in appreciation as he suckles a little harder, massaging the other in his strong hand.
His aching cock leaking at the memory of the milky taste.
“baby…” you sigh at the feel of his tongue over your sensitive peaks “pleasee” you beg again soft and whiny and he finally makes his way back up to your lips.
Your pussy is already trying to suck his cock in when you feel his tip prodding at your hole. Your arms slink around him as your legs hook around his lower back again.
His thick cock starts pushing into your greedy little cunt, the first inch making your head go fuzzy as it lolls backwards.
Frank brings his hands to the side of your face, holding your head up “eyes on me baby” his breath is hot in your mouth, eyes boring into yours.
The stretch is sublime when Frank bottoms out. Moaning as softly as possible into each others mouths.
“Huuuuuhhhfuck there she is baby yeeeah there’s my girl” Frank groans breathily. Your eyebrows knitted together, mouth agape in a soft o as he pushes his tongue into your mouth.
“Hnngggmissed you Frankie, missed you so much” you cry into his mouth between sloppy kisses.
The quiet of the kitchen is interrupted with your breathy and staggered moans and the wet slapping sounds of Frank’s cock pumping in and out of you.
“missed her baby-fuck-missed you” Frank pants into your mouth between long strokes as your hands stay hooked around his neck
You feel his hands drop from your face, one hand pinning your hips in place the other splayed side supporting your weight between your shoulder blades as the pace of his thrusts pick up. And you feel that tightening coil again, winding and winding, hot and desperate low in your belly as his tip bullies its way up to your cervix.
“mmmfuckkk-s-s-so d-deep baby-fuck-so good” you mewl and your desperate sounds spur him on more as he pummels his cock into you.
“Y-yyyeah she-fuck-she’s suckin’ me in baby, ohfuck-yeah she missed me?” His low grunts sounding more depraved as his hips start snapping up harder.
“Uh-m-ye-ah-so-mu-ch” you pant out between each thrust. Your trembling thighs struggling to hold your legs up around him.
Even as he fucks his way through your cunt he notices.
"got you baby" he whispers as he picks your legs up and drapes your calves over his big shoulders, the backs of your thighs pressed against his torso as he lifts you off the counter. Hands firm on your ass as you yelp into his mouth when he starts bouncing you up and down on his cock.
He walks you both over to the living room still slamming your hips into his before lowering you down on the end of the couch, back flat on the cushiony sectional.
Frank wastes no time in ridding himself of his cargos and boots kneeling on the couch.
He brings your legs back to the exact same postition as he lowers his weight down onto you. Folding you into a mating press, he brings one of his palms over your mouth.
He lines up his cock again, and slams his cock into you, filling you up to the hilt. Your cry is muffles under his hand as he tightens it around your mouth. "gotta be quiet honey" he croons softly in your ear but you're so gone, babbling away under his iron grip over your mouth.
The new angle and depth of his cock-so deep you feel him in your lungs. Your eyes flutter shut as you start barrelling towards the light, toes curling and pussy pulsing.
He knows you're close again.
"lemme see those pretty eyes baby" he pleads as his hand drops from your mouth your jaw, angling your face, eye to eye with him. When you open, you see his pupils fully blown, glinting obsidian orbs staring straight into yours.
Hungry and ravenous.
"look at me when you cum, know you're so close baby" he pants as his grip tightens around your jaw. Hips rocking back and forth and you manage a pathetic nod as his tongue swirls around in your mouth.
Each thrust pushing you closer and closer, your muscles taught and tense, nails sinking into Franks thighs as he sends you keening over the edge
"c-cummingggg fffrankie ohhhfuckk" your eyes welling up and fluttering but trying your best to keep them open as Frank stares down at you. Not even aware of the way his features mirror yours - furrowed brows and jaw slack.
You feel every muscle fibre in your body set alight as he sends you keening over the edge "there you go baby-fuck-there you fuckin go" he coos. Your second orgasm hits you harder as you convulse around him, your walls clamping down on his veiny shaft as his hips start to stutter.
"gonna fill 'er up yeeah? take my cum, gonna be so fuckin full o'me-fuckin christ-she needs it huh baby?" he's muttering away nearing his own demise.
The way you feel so consumed by him right now, his words, his weight on you, hands on you and cock burrowed away so deep - mind, body and spirit - all his.
"y-yyyeahhh ne-oh fuck-i need it baby, wanna be soo full and swollen again please, wanna have your baby please frankie" you babble under him, so lost in your high.
and that undoes him - the feel of your cunt sucking him in, your desperate words the vision of you swollen and full, carrying his child.
"christ-im cumminnn baby-fuck-imma make you a mama again yeah-you look so fuckin pretty, carryin ma kid" he grunts, hot and heavy into your mouth as his balls start to tighten. "these perfect tits gonna be so fuckin full o'milk again-yeah?fuck-" he grunts as he lowers his head down to suck your tits into his mouth.
You nod with a whiny mewl, pulling him up closer by the neck.
"yy-yeahh make me a mommy again frankieee" you pant into his mouth, eyes looking straight into him.
Frank sinks his cock into you one last time in a hard thrust and you feel your walls flood with his white hot ropes of cum that your pussy so graciously sucks in deeper.
"gggodd-yeah there you go mama, you take it baby s'all for you, fuck"
His brawny arms circle your body, pulling you even closer to him, his hips rutting into your cunt - like he's trying to fuck his cum straight into your womb.
He lifts his weight a little, freeing your legs so they lazily wrap around him now. He takes a quick glance back, making sure it's all quiet before settling back on top of you. Both hearts racing, panting breaths and bodies sticky with sweat. Cock still nestled inside you, plugging his cum in deep.
"you mean it?" he asks in earnest after a few minutes, his eyes more vulnerable.
your palm comes up to cup his grizzly face "of course i mean it baby, i'd give you anything" you smile up at him with a small nod.
He looks down at you, eyes full of love, adoration and awe. Grateful in a way he could never put into words.
"id give you the world if I could" he confesses, low and with all the truth in the world behind it as he lowers his lips down to yours again.
"you already gave me the world Frank"
🤍
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A little companion piece/blurb HERE
a/n: you guys I swear I was going to end this when reader drives off but I just couldn't help myself, for shameeeeeee soch for shameeeeee
Also wrote the end of this smut with a raging hangover
anyways heres hoping this gets me out of my slump, i hope you guys like this xx
summary: After Frank sees you holding your niece, he’s overcome with baby fever. So of course, when you get home he can’t stop himself and long story short he begs to put a baby in you!! 😃
authors note: read part 1 here!! okay this is basically just the after events of them getting home, Frank tells her how he feels and yk what’s next 🤷♀️🤷♀️ can read this without reading the first part!!
content: fem reader, smut, p in v, oral (f receiving), uhh- major breeding kink, desperate!frank, size kink, spoiler- it doesn’t fit, husband!frank, pet names (mama, sweetheart, baby), praise, yearning!frank, he begs?!, aftercare!! because frank is a real man 🫡
word count: 4.6k
The front door had barely clicked shut behind you before the weight of the evening started pressing down on Frank. The drive home from your brother’s house had been thick with silence, his hand gripping your thigh, thumb stroking over your bare skin like he could somehow imprint the memory of you holding your niece right onto your skin.
Hours later, your house was quiet except for the hum of the city outside the windows. You’d changed into one of his worn t-shirts, the hem brushing your thighs as you moved around the kitchen making tea. Frank had tried to distract himself by flipping through channels, checking his phone, even loading the dishwasher. But nothing worked. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you cradling the baby against your chest, that soft smile on your lips as the little one wrapped her tiny fingers around yours. The way you’d rocked her so naturally, like it was the most effortless thing in the world. Like you were made for it.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop imagining it was your baby- his baby- sleeping against your chest instead.
Two hours have dragged by in this strange, warm feeling. You’ve curled up on the couch together watching something on TV, but Frank barely registers any of it. His arm stays locked around you, fingers tracing slow patterns over your stomach. Every few minutes he presses a kiss to your hair, the curve of your shoulder, each one lingering longer than the last. His body is tense, a low thrum of need running under his skin that wouldn’t settle.
By the time the clock ticks past midnight, his body is aching.
Frank finally stands up from the couch and crosses the room to where you’re standing by the window, staring out at the scattered city lights. He comes up behind you without a word, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you back against his chest with a shaky exhale. His hold is tighter than usual, almost desperate, like he’s afraid you might slip away.
“God, baby,” his voice is rough, overcome with yearning as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. “I haven’t been able to think about anythin’ else since we left your brother’s. The way you looked holding her. Like you were meant to be a mom.”
“Aw, sweetheart,” you say gently, letting your head fall against his, as he breathes into your neck desperately. You knew something’s been up, especially with the way Franks been so quiet, almost something pensive about him.
A large hand of his slides down, splaying wide over your lower stomach, as his fingers press in with a kind of reverence. You can feel how hard he is against your ass, his hips involuntarily rolling forward as if his body is already trying to make it real. You try to stop yourself from letting out a whine, obviously needy now that he’s making all this baby talk.
“I keep picturing you like that with our baby,” he whispers hoarsely, his lips brushing your ear. His breathing is hot and uneven, like he’s not in control of himself. “Your belly full because of me. Your tits all heavy. Fuck, I’m losing my mind thinkin about getting you pregnant tonight.”
He turns you slowly in his arms, cupping your face with both hands. His eyes are glistening with pure, aching want. Gently, his thumbs brush over your cheeks as he searches your gaze to figure out what you think, his breathing ragged.
“I need it, sweetheart. Please-” His forehead drops to rest against yours, voice dropping to a broken murmur. “Let me take you to bed. Let me put a baby in you.” His voice is dripping with desperation, like he needs to see you like that. Holding his child.
“Alright baby, alright” you whisper, moving your hands behind his neck so he can anchor you, knowing the extreme weight of your words. You pull your head back, and nod gently. “I want that too Frank.” you whisper, a little emotional. “I wanna make a family of our own.” You let out a small, choked noise as Frank nods, moving your hair out of your face for you.
He presses his lips to your forehead, still being gentle for you despite how out of control he feels. “C’mere” he says, hands trailing down to your hips, before he lifts you up firmly, your legs wrapping around his torso. You can’t help but squirm, almost bucking your hips into his abs. “Easy, baby,” he murmurs, moving his face to your neck, peppering you with gentle, wet kisses.
You whine, head lolling to the side, and Frank gets it. “Mhm, I know baby, shh,” he coos, lips on your collarbone as you hold onto him desperately. He holds you steadily with one arm, the other reaching down, his fingers brushing against the hem of the fabric of your shirt. Well, his shirt. He lifts it up, and you help pull your arms out of it as he tugs it off, over your head.
You curse yourself for wearing a bra and panties under the shirt, because you need him so bad- but now there’s an extra barrier between you. Your tits are sore and aching, pressing against his chest as he pulls you closer, wanting to feel you against him.
Holding you steadily, he starts taking heavy steps towards the staircase, holding your head against his shoulder carefully, as if to keep you safe. Like a steady rhythm, he presses a kiss to your shoulder each step upstairs. Before you know it, you’re in your room, your bedside lamp filling the space with a golden glow.
You can’t help but gasp and whine at every graze of your skin on his, you don’t know what’s made you so sensitive tonight- besides your desperate want for Frank, to have his babies. “I know, sweet girl, I know,” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with need. He’s laying you on your back, nestling you in the middle of the sheets on your bed.
You gasp at the contrast of the cool sheets on your skin, your body on fire with want. “Frankie,” you whine, clawing at his chest, trying to pull him closer onto you. He’s hastily moving his hands down your body, desperately kissing everywhere he can reach.
You whine, feeling molten as his hands burn into your bare skin. “Mhm sweetheart, we’ll make you feel so good” he coos, kissing your forehead, as one arm lifts your torso from below so he can undo your bra. It’s quickly thrown to the side, and his lips are all over your chest as he feels you with his calloused hands. “There we are baby, s’that better?” he whispers against your skin, palm kneading one of your tits, as his stubble grazes the other one.
His tongue is between your tits, moving lower as he worships his way down your body, kissing and licking until he reaches your stomach. His calloused palm rubs over it gently, his yes filled with longing. “Gonna make you the prettiest mama ever.”
His fingers are tracing the waistband of your lacy panties, and soon he’s sliding them down, discarding them to the side as he settles between your thighs, both his arms hooking under one to reach you better. “There’s my girl, all wet and ready f’me” he groans, inhaling your scent. “Been thinking about this pretty pussy all night.”
Slowly, he lowers his head, the flat of his tongue pressing against your slit. “Ohh, you taste so sweet baby” he murmurs against you, which makes you shudder.
He licks at you slowly, with purpose- like he has to savour the moment. His tongue parts you gently, your slick gathering in his mouth as you whine. “Mph, fuck- you’re perfect mama.” He’s loving on you, pressing messy kisses against you, his tongue working soft kitten licks against your folds, like you’re something fragile.
“Frankie I need you so bad” you moan breathlessly, his gentleness driving you to the edge. He mutters something against your core, and then he’s licking more messily, more fervently. His arms are still wrapped around your plush thighs while he starts to devour you now. You moan every time his nose nudges your clit, back arching up desperately. “Mm, oh- fuck!” you moan, legs feeling like jelly as he eats you like a favourite meal. “Frank- fuck!” you cry out, desperate for release.
Your hands move to his hair, and you push his face down- a little too frantic. He chuckles into your heat, but understands what you need. “Alright baby, easy.” he says lowly, licking noisily at your pussy, moving up to suck on your clit. That nearly breaks you, and you can’t do much but whine helplessly.
“Aw my baby’s so needy,” he groans, voice laced with faux sympathy. His eyes meet yours, mouth still clamped down on you, and his tongue meets your entrance. “Let go baby, alright?” he coos, tongue fucking you gently.
Your hips buck against his face as sweat gathers above your brows. “Frankie I’m so close-” you all but cry, knees weak as his mouth is back on your clit, the pressure deliciously perfect. “Shit- mph- Im gonna cum-” you mumble, barely able to get out a proper sentence.
“Cum f’me baby, that’s it” he praises as you finally break, thighs shaking around his head. Your orgasm hits you hard, back arching as you gasp and cry out his name. Frank licks you through every wave, murmuring sweet filth against your sensitive flesh.
He moves back, climbing back up, beginning to kiss you so deeply that you can taste yourself on his tongue. “My sweet girl” he praises, pulling the shirt off his body in one tug. He hovers over you, undressing himself as you watch him, both your legs limp. Still, his eyes don’t leave yours as he pulls his trousers off, your clothes now in a pile to the side of your bed.
“Look at me, baby,” he whispers, climbing back onto the bed, his cock bouncing against his thigh. He’s big, but thick too, and it’s a real stretch getting him to fit most of the time. He climbs between your thighs again, lifting your head gently to fix the pillows beneath your neck. “There we are mama, get’cha all comfy.”
Though it’s never been said, and he never pressures you into anything, you know one of his favourite positions are missionary. You don’t know it, but it’s because he can see your beautiful face, feel you against his chest as he holds you, makes love to you.
His mouth is beneath your ear, peppering kisses down your neck as he moves further down. He can’t hold himself back anymore, so he takes his dick into his palm, tugging himself a few times, head falling back in need as he groans. He looks back to you, lining himself up at your dripping slit. His aching tip nudges against you, slipping past your clit since you’re both wet with need. You twitch at the brief contact, and Frank tries again, pushing against you till his tip finally slips inside, plopping in place.
You gasp as he finally enters you, pushing in slowly. “There we are baby- god, you’re so tight” he groans, a hand on your hip. He bites his lip in concentration, pushing further as he watches your face. Your eyes close, wincing at how overwhelmingly big he is. “Think you can take it?” he asks sweetly, trailing a hand to the side of your face and cupping it lovingly.
You nod, eyes still squeezed shut as he stretches you out further. “That’s it baby,” he says, thumb moving along your jaw, “let me see those eyes.” You open your eyes and they meet his dark ones, all while he’s still gently pushing into you. “Almost there, you’re doing so well” he praises, leaning down to kiss your forehead. None of this matters to him if you’re not feeling loved.
He’s almost fully in, lips still brushing past your hairline, murmuring words of praise. You gasp sharply, digging your nails into his shoulders at the intense fullness, and he hasn’t even bottomed out yet. You feel like you’re going to tear. “Frank-,” you moan, but youre wincing; it sounds like you’re in pain.
“Hey, hey..” he says, eyebrows furrowed in concern as he moves back slightly to see you, “want me to stop, baby?” He rakes his fingers through your hair, tilting his head as he watches your face.
“I can take it” you say, shaking your head, wanting more.
“I know you can sweetheart, but I can’t let myself hurt you.” His voice is soft and caring, like he’s talking to something fragile. Still, his fingers are running gently through your hair as he watches you with his big dark eyes.
“Please Frankie, I want all of you,” you protest, shaking your head, “I promise I’m okay.” He can’t help but sigh, like he’s fighting with himself. He tilts his head, quiet for a second before he speaks.
“Baby, we can still do it like this, I can’t have you hurting yourself.” he says softly, shaking his head. He looks upset, like it’s his fault you’re hurt. “It ain’t worth it-”
“Frank.” You cut him short, and his hand makes its way to cup your face. “I can take it. I want all of you.” He frowns, watching you like the most treasured thing in his life before he sighs in defeat.
“Anything hurts, and you tell me to stop- okay? Anything.”
You nod, your sweet eyes never leaving his. “Alright baby,” he whispers, clenching his jaw as he pushes himself even deeper. “Deep breaths f’me, that’s it.” You hold his shoulders as he gets impossibly deeper, inhaling and exhaling deeply like he said. His own voice is strained when he speaks, “Attagirl, you’re doing so well.” It’s like he forgets his tight you are every time you fuck.
“Fuckkk” he groans, bottoming out into you. “I’m all the way in, sweet girl. Right up against your womb.” Something about the way he says it so bluntly makes you moan. His thumb drags across your bottom lip as you cry out, he hasn’t even started moving yet.
“Mm, please Frankie,” you whine, bucking your hips against him subconsciously.
“I know mama,” he murmurs, slowly starting to rolls his hips into yours. Your legs burn from having them up for so long in the air, and as if Frank can detect it, he helps you rest them around his hips. “There we are baby,” he groans, a little more need in his thrusts now, like he’s setting the rhythm.
You whine each time his cock grinds in and out of you, deliciously dragging past your walls. One of his hands is working at your tit, squeezing and moulding like you’re made of dough, just so he can feel every part of you. His other hand trails down to your side, stopping at the crease where your hip meets your thigh.
He keeps his hand tight there to keep you steady and continues thrusting- deep, needy rolls of his hips that quickly turn desperate. Skin slaps wetly against skin as he fucks you harder, eyes locked on yours the whole time. "You're so warm," he groans, head lolling back "m'gonna pump you so full tonight, baby."
He looks down, watching your stomach in awe, before guiding your hand to rest over your own stomach. "Feel that sweetheart? I'm so deep inside you." You nod, biting your lip at the overwhelming feeling of being so full. All of your senses are going insane. His own hand presses gently but possessively on your lower belly, feeling the bulge of his cock with every thrust. "That's where our baby's gonna grow.“
You moan and whimper beneath him, legs wrapped tight around his waist, trying to pull him impossibly closer. “You're taking me so well, my sweet girl.” The eye contact makes it even more intimate- his breath mingling with yours as he pants dirty, loving words into your neck. "Gonna cum so deep inside this pretty pussy. Fill you til you're stuffed."
After long, desperate minutes of missionary, his body presses flush to yours as he pants, sweaty and breathless. He kisses you hungrily, your tongues clashing all needily, and then slowly pulls out with a reluctant groan. “On your stomach f’me, sweetheart. Wanna breed you even deeper.”
He helps flip you over, his hands running down the slope of your back, lips following them to press hot, wet kisses all the way to your ass. Carefully, he hovers over you, then covers your back with his much larger body. He pulls your hips up just enough with a soft: “Attagirl,” and places a pillow beneath them. With a few more kisses against the back of your neck, he sinks back inside you in one smooth, filthy thrust. You cry out at, glad he did it slowly before, so at least you knew what to expect.
The new position lets him press you into the mattress, caging you in completely as he starts pounding desperately, like a dog in heat. “Oh fuck, baby, this is perfect. I can feel every inch of this sweet pussy.”His thrusts are deep and urgent, hips snapping against your ass with obscene sounds. If you weren’t so horny, you would’ve told him to quiet down, “incase the neighbours hear”. One hand reaches underneath to rub your clit while the other strokes your back lovingly. “Feel how deep my cock is, baby? Gonna pump load after load into you till you’re leaking me for days.”
You’re crying out into the sheets, pushing back against him desperately as your pussy flutters around his thick length. Frank’s voice stays sweet but deliciously pervy, the way you like it, right by your ear. “That’s my girl. Love how wet you get when I talk about breeding you. Gonna keep you stuffed every night till your belly starts swelling. Can’t wait to see these tits get heavy too- mm, all for our baby.”
You moan louder into the mattress, the pillow under your hips tilting you perfectly for him. Every thrust grinds against that spot deep inside you, making your toes curl. Frank’s weight pins you down so sweetly, as a thick arm braces beside your head, while the other keeps rubbing slick circles over your puffy clit. The slap of his hips against your ass fills the room and makes everything sound even filthier.
“Fuck, listen to that,” he growls against your ear, voice rough and loving all at once. “Taking me so well, brave girl.” He nips at your shoulder with his teeth, then soothes it with the flat of his tongue, all while his hips continue bucking into you restlessly. “You’re so tight, baby. Getting close again?”
You nod frantically, words lost in your throat as another deep stroke forces a broken whimper out of you. He feels your walls flutter harder around his cock, and groans lowly, like he’s pleased.
“Yeah? Gonna fall apart while I breed you? Go on sweet girl, lemme feel it.” His fingers press a little firmer on your clit, and he quickens his pace until finally, the coil snaps. You cry out his name, pulsing and gushing around him as pleasure takes over your body. Frank groans like he’s the one falling apart, his hips stuttering for a split second before he continues to fuck you straight through it, drawing out your pleasure for you.
He doesn’t even stop. If anything, he gets more desperate, like he wants even more from you.
“Attagirl- fuck, just like that.” His hand slides from your clit to grip your hip hard, pulling you back onto him with every thrust. “Gonna fill you up baby, keep this womb nice and full f’me.”
He shifts his angle slightly to drive even deeper, the head of his cock nudging your cervix with every snap of his hips. You’re still weak from your orgasm, whimpering as he uses you, his breath hot against your neck. “You okay baby?” he asks, voice gentle. “Think you can take it? Lemme get you nice and full?”
“Frankie- please-” you manage to choke out, voice hoarse. You push yourself back with all your might, and he understands.
“Alright, mama. I’m right there. Gonna pump you so fucking full.” He presses a kiss to your back, before his thrusts eventually turn erratic, grinding against you like he’s trying to bury himself inside you forever. “That’s it- fuck- gonna breed this perfect pussy.”
With a groan that sounds like it was ripped from his the bottom of his chest, he slams against you one last time and stays there, his cock throbbing inside you as he starts to cum. You’re flooded with that familiar substance, white hot like thunder, as pulse after pulse of it paints your insides.
He keeps rocking shallowly through it, pushing his load deeper, making sure none of it escapes. “Right there, baby, that’s where it belongs.” he groans, holding you tight as his hips continue bucking. His eyes are squeezed shut in pleasure as he groans lowly, and you’ve never felt him so vulnerable inside you.
You’re both panting, skin damp with sweat, limbs weak and limp. Frank stays buried deep against your soft ass, as he carefully collapses his weight onto you in a protective cage. He presses wet kisses along your spine and the back of your shoulder, murmuring praise between each kiss, like he wants your skin to absorb his words.
“Took me so well, pretty girl. Look at you, all stuffed and dripping.” One of his hands slide under you again, resting warmly over your lower belly where he’d pressed his palm earlier. “Can already imagine it. You round and glowing, carrying our little one. Gonna keep you like this, sweetheart. Filled up and loved every fuckin night.”
He stays inside you for a long moment, softening slowly but refusing to pull out yet. It’s like he wants to stay in the comfort of you for as long as possible. Lazy little rolls of his hips keep his cum right where he wants it, deep inside you. Eventually he moves himself to the side, pulling you against him so you’re tucked against his chest, a leg draped over his. His hand never leaves your belly, and as if he’s already protecting something precious, his thumb strokes back and forth against you.
He looks down at your hopeful eyes, and kisses your forehead, before moving to your lips, slow and sweet this time. “Rest up, baby,” he whispers, his voice husky and warm. “Gonna need to fill you at least twice more before morning.”
You stay curled against his chest, both of you still catching your breath. You smile softly against the skin of his chest, already feeling the warm trickle of his cum starting to slip down your thigh, but you know he’ll just push it back in with his fingers- or his cock- soon enough. Frank’s cock has softened inside you, but he keeps you pressed close, an arm around your waist while his other hand continues that soothing moment over your belly like he’s already imagining it round.
After a few quiet minutes, he presses a gentle kiss to your temple and gently starts to ease himself out of you. You whimper at the loss and the sudden feeling of being empty, but he’s already shushing you softly, as a parent would to a child.
“I know, baby. I’ve gotcha.” His voice is low, but so full of warmth as he speaks to you. He rolls you onto your back carefully, before kneeling between your spread thighs, his eyes darkening for a second as he watches his cum slowly drip from your pussy. Before you know it, two of his thick fingers push it back inside you, making you twitch. Your lips part and you whine softly, eyebrows furrowed from how overwhelmed you are.
“I know baby, I know.” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your lower belly, before he slowly climbs off the bed. “I’ll be two secs,” he whispers reassuringly, turning around and leaving your room.
He returns quickly with a damp, warm cloth and a glass of water, watching you with awe as you lay down. He gently helps you sit up first, holding the glass to your lips as you drink. “Small sips, sweetheart. There we go, such a good girl f’me.” You drink obediently as he lets you hold the cup, so that he can move down slightly. He starts to wipe away at the crease between your thighs with the warm cloth, wiping away the mess as he presses small kisses to your inner thighs, urging you to part them slightly.
“Sore?” he asks, noticing the slight tremble in your legs. You nod, and he smiles warmly, setting the cloth aside. “Alright,” he says quietly, moving his big hands to your thighs, starting to work at your them firmly, before moving to your calves.His hands are strong but still gentle as he massages you, until you’re basically melting into the sheets with a soft sigh.
Once he’s satisfied you’re taken care of, he slides back into bed and pulls you beside him, whispering “that’s it pretty girl,” as your head rests near his heart. The covers are drawn up around you, enveloping you both in warmth. The air is warm, but in a familiar comforting way. His calloused fingers trace up and down your back, making you giggle, while his other hand cups the back of your head lovingly.
“You did so well tonight,” he whispers against your hair. “I’m so proud of you, sweet girl.” He tilts your chin up for a slow, deep kiss, and it’s nothing urgent this time, just purely affectionate. His mouth is warm and familiar, and if you could, you’d stay like this forever, with his skin against yours, his lips begging against yours.
“How do you feel? Any pain anywhere?” You shake your head, nuzzling back into his neck. He hums, full of relief and tightens his big arms around you, never wanting to let go.
“I meant every word mama, I can’t wait to watch your body change, to see you carry our baby.” His hand moves back to your belly, rubbing over it tenderly. “Even if it doesn’t happen right away, I’m keeping you stuffed and loved until it does. I’m gonna take care of you baby. Always.”
He reaches over and clicks off the lamp, tucking you even closer to himself as your legs stay tangled together. His voice grows a little sleepier, but it’s still full of that quiet reverence.
“Close your eyes, I gotcha. Gonna hold you all night long. And in the morning, I’ll make you breakfast all nice an pretty, and we can do it all over again if you want.”
You hum quietly, already drifting off to the beat of his heart. All you can feel now is the gentle press of his palm on your belly. You feel safe and cherished, and it’s all you’ve ever wanted.
It’s also all Frank’s ever wanted, after facing all the hardships in his life. A beautiful girl to love, someone he can confide in and call his. And finally, he has it. Nothing could make him happier. And he won’t let anything take this away from him.
He sighs contentedly as your warm breath fans against his skin, knowing you’re lying there, safe and full of him. No matter what, he’ll give you this baby. He’ll help start the family you’ve both always wanted, and be here for you through thick and thin.
As his eyes close, and his arm aches from the weight of your head against it, he thinks about the future you’re going to build together. The sounds of giggles and laughter filling your home. The warmth of a family to call his own.
a/n: foaming at the mouth don't even JOKE LAD. i had so many ideas that i made this a list of headcanons, i hope u love them !!! 🩶
ᴅᴀᴅʙᴏᴅ!ꜰʀᴀɴᴋ ᴄᴀꜱᴛʟᴇ x ᴡɪꜰᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ
⋆ dadbod!frank castle who has put on weight since his Punisher days… because he just can’t say no to his wife’s home cooked meals. you love feeding your man and he loves that you love it.
⋆ dadbod!frank castle who jokes that you're "fattening him up" like he's livestock, but both of you know there's no bite to it. if anything he says it a little fondly, like he can't believe this is his life now.
⋆ dadbod!frank castle who goes quiet and even shy when you tell him you like having "more of him to hold onto" when he complains about his body. “i’m the one supposed to be telling you that, sweetheart.”
⋆ dadbod!frank castle who is so scared of laying on top of you because he think he’ll crush you. you have to keep reminding him that you’re a big girl and that you actually love the feel of his weight and warmth over you.
⋆ dadbod!frank castle who absolutely adores watching you ride his tummy. “didn’t feel so good with my abs, huh?” you can’t answer with more than whines and moans, holding onto his huge shoulders as you chase your orgasm that he receives with soft “atta girl”s.
⋆ dadbod!frank castle who’s body seems to fit perfectly with yours when you’re making breakfast and he hugs you from behind, soft and warm against your back, no hard edges of muscle poking into you, just solid heat you can actually sink into.
⋆ dadbod!frank castle who quickly learns your new fav sex position: prone bone, his entire weight over your back and his big, solid arm wrapped around your neck, applying enough pressure to make you feel all floaty, only enhancing the sensation of his sweaty skin against yours and his thick cock stretching you open.
⋆ dadbod!frank castle who learns fast that laying shirtless on the couch is basically an invitation — you'll find any excuse to end up sprawled across him, cheek pillowed on his chest, his fingers idly twisting through your hair.
⋆ dadbod!frank castle who goes quiet out of nowhere one evening, staring at himself in the mirror a beat too long, and when you ask what's wrong he just shrugs, mutters that he doesn't know why you're still with him, that he's not what he used to be — but you don't let him spiral, crossing the room, hands on his face, making him look at you instead of the mirror. "you think i'm with you because of what you look like? actually, you know what? i am. because you look hot as fuck."
honorable mention !!! ⋆ dadbod!frank castle who has been removing his chest hair for longer than he can remember: he doesn’t even know why he started. however, he stopped after you practically begged him to. he doesn’t really understand the appeal, but he does love seeing your face when he steps out of the shower, droplets of water still rolling down his chest, dark hair sticking to his skin, and you physically can’t restrain yourself from crossing the room to touch him before he's even grabbed a shirt.
Summary: Your first morning as the Castiglione’s starts with sex and ends with something new.
MASTERLIST
Warnings: explicit, graphic smut — MDNI, 18+ ONLY. cunnilingus (whatever that is), piv, breeding kink, reader tops but that don’t mean Frank ain’t soft dom, breeding kink ummm consequences, pron wit some plot, Frank calls reader "little" but I use this as reader being soft, not in actual size.
w/c: 6851
my first ever requested pic!fic! see the req here. requested pic is the first one in the banner
Frank sleeps like a marine is trained to: stone still, without a sound, and alert at the drop of a pin.
So when the paths of early morning sun spill through the sheer curtains of your bedroom and into your eyes for a gentle rousing to the day, you make no sound, no movement, other than fluttering your lashes open.
It’s as though the world’s softly coaxing you to this rare moment— one where you wake up before Frank.
The heavy knit blankets trap in heat from his bare body molded flush behind you, still trying to complete himself through you.
You must’ve fucked him to remission last night because he sleeps. A deep sleep slows his breathing, shoulders unraveled from their usual tension, a heavy arm draped over your body to keep you there. A natural, placid cadence to his body. The gradual rise of his chest with an inhale, white lace bedspread expanding with it.
The easy, prolonged deflation of an exhale. Your husband, finally—finally—at peace.
He’s heavy in the morning. Heavy limbed. Sleep-warmed. Heavy cock jutting against your ass.
You grin to yourself, sleepy victory. Your thighs squeeze together all over again, thinking about last night. I’m the luckiest woman alive, you think, your naked body snug against cotton sheets and the bulk of muscle behind you.
Still new on your finger, on the pillow beside your head, the morning light catches on your wedding ring.
Today begins the very first day as husband and wife…
Today… the start of a new forever.
Today… feels like The Punisher has finished, and Frank Castle can rest. Grow old with you. Learn to enjoy life. Take things one day at a time and unclench his fists, put down the gun.
Yeah…
Today will be different.
Today is everything—the start of something new.
As Frank sleeps, your eyes track your shared bedroom with a new perspective. Since when does everything look so… soft? Like a hole punched out of heaven and transplanted into your life. Your bedroom… it’s a place of patience where love can only grow, nurtured by the placidity of those who inhabit it. Mahogany wood, delicate sheets. Frank’s teased you relentlessly about the grandma decorations, but the rustic quality now shapes both of your lives.
White wedding gown in a lacy heap on the plush carpet, where, last night, Frank knelt before you as he shed it from you like you’re holy instead of human.
Books on the nightstand, a vase of fresh wildflowers that served as your wedding bouquet yesterday. A framed photo of you two, and a second of Maria and the kids beside it. Gone, never forgotten. You don’t want them to be forgotten or put away. So they have a place on the nightstand, right by you and Frank.
And above you… your eyes strain to lift to the wall, glancing at the photo there too. A pond landscape. Ornate details preserved in paint from decades ago. One of your favorites, the artist of no importance other than the serene grounding you feel looking at it.
In the stillness of morning, you decide to try your luck. How much can you get away with before your husband wakes? And what better way to wake than under your touch, being worshipped and appreciated and rewarded?
You arch your ass back, pushing against his dick. A movement easily disguised as shifting in your sleep.
A grunted breath pushes from his nose. An instinctual press of his hips forward, into the plush of you again. Chasing you, your body, even in sleep.
You bite your bottom lip to contain your grin. And for good measure… you do it again. A soft grind. Another sleep-conflicted breath from Frank. Another push of his erection flat against your ass cheek.
Cause and effect.
You move, he moves.
You tease, he seeks.
Somewhere during your experimental touching, Frank’s breathing shifts. The sound ceases. A reflective flex of his muscles as his eyes open. An intentional relaxing as he registers his surroundings.
Frank sleeps like a marine is trained to.
He wakes like it, all the same: muted sound, bracing for trouble, cataloging the world around him.
When there’s no war to be had, no danger to be found, his body slackens. Does some experimenting of his own as his arm curls in, tightens, hand spanning over your bare stomach.
You feel all of it behind you. Frank waking, remembering yesterday, two seconds into consciousness and he’s making his existence about you.
“Good morning, Mr. Castiglione,” you whisper, sleep hoarse and sweetly innocent, cheeks stifling your grin.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Castiglione,” he rumbles in a groggy breath, halfway distracted, probably wondering if what he felt was a dream.
In all honesty… Frank doesn’t hate it. His true last name. You don’t either. It’s something no other woman besides his mom has ever had. It’s his, and he’s giving all of it to you.
“How long you been up, hm?” he asks, thumb making wide arcs along your rib, just barely skimming the underside of your breast.
“Not too long,” you mumble your musing, exposing yourself as you not so innocently push into his hard-on again.
Grunting, Frank catches your hip with the hand from your tum. “Playin’ games, sweetheart?”
“Only ones I intend to finish.” You turn under his arm, face him.
Sleep heavy lines pull his face, but the light of a new day—a brand new day—deepens his complexion, those ever-assessing dark eyes. Makes him… a different man. A softer one. Someone who chose to leave his war and make a home with you instead. Still looking at you with raised brows nonetheless, a playful inquiry to your intentions.
You lift a hand, fingertips dancing featherlight over the bristles of his stubble, simply… admiring the man you share a bed with, a home, a last name… a life.
The affection, so light it’s heavier than a full hand, drags a breath from his nose. His hand traverses your body, full-palmed, memorizing all of you as his wife. The arch of your ribcage. His thumb drags down the middle of your stomach. Over the soft curve of your side. The silky plane of your thigh, winding to your back to claim the small of it.
Gentle exploration in the early morning light. Soft breath mingling. The room smells of your leftover perfume, sleepy skin, the heat of the sun burning through the curtains.
Your affinity makes every little touch galvanic. Quiet gravitation pulls you two closer, drawn by something far greater and far older than attraction.
Your knee hooks over his hip.
His hips rut against you, hard cock prodding your stomach.
You tangle a hand in his hair, panting velvety breaths against the mouth you have yet to kiss today.
Rough hands squeeze and smooth your soft skin with reverence reserved for the holy.
A mutual compulsion for one another; a shared longing for surrender, to be undone and vulnerable at the hands of the person of you love, only to be remade by them, renewed in primal union.
The urge—the yearning—to be… complete.
“Frankie…” you whisper, eyes flickering between the intensity of his stare and his mouth. “I need you, please…”
“You got me,” a promise in a rough murmur as he rolls in closer, your mouths a breath apart. “All ‘a me.”
The clash is desperate, but… venerating.
Frank’s mouth slots to yours, swallowing your stifled moan. The kiss is a form of devotion that goes beyond fidelity. It’s a necessary salvation he can only find in you; loyalty the essence of his being.
Your brows knit as you kiss him back, throat closing because of the overwhelming piety he’s only ever shown you. You fucking taste it on him. You feel it in his hands, his fingers clasping into your side, clinging to the idea of forever like this, with you.
Tongues tease and lap outside of your mouths, just the very tips. A slow, sensual chase that has your thighs wet already.
Your hand drops to his dick, but before you can wrap around him, Frank shakes his head. Pulls back from your lips to mutter, “Nah, sweetheart. Ain’t ‘bout me. Want you. Lemme have you, huh?” An open-mouth kiss, quick and needy like he can’t help himself. “Lemme taste you, baby. Sit on my face, hm? Sit on your husband’s face.”
Sit on his face.
Not on your back, Frank between your legs.
No.
He wants you to use his face like a pedestal, giving you a seat to bare your naked body to the air as he weakens your legs, eats your orgasm out of you.
Your cheeks flare hot. “F-Frank…” weak protest, self-consciousness hesitating your hands on his chest.
“C’mon,” he jerks his chin, pupils swallowing his irises. “Up. Up, pretty girl, wanna taste m’ pretty goddamn wife. Wanna taste ‘er. Lemme help you up, hm?”
Shaking legs shift up, Frank’s hands steadying your waist as he lays back flat.
The blankets fall from your body. Frank’s eyes are everywhere, drinking you in with admiration exclusive to you. Your uncertain face, colored dark from his request. The slope of your shoulders, curve of your neck, plane of your stomach. Your full breasts, nipples hard from the cooler air beyond the sheets.
An enraptured look, an idolatry—his brows pitched up, eyes so soft but hungry, lips parted in awe—that look festered in him the day he saw you. Frank licks his lips. Voice dries to a rasp. “Yeah, baby, yeah. C’mere. Gotchu, pretty girl. Won’ let you be cold.”
He guides you into position.
Your body shakes. Knees bracketing his head on the pillow, your thighs trembling, Frank groans as heat pours from your cunt and over his face. Hasn’t even fuckin’ touched you and you’re hot, needy.
His hands—wide and flat—knead your ass, crawl up your sides, your ribs.
Faced with the picture frame on the wall, you white knuckle the headboard, looking down at him with beet-red nerves, flush deepening as he gapes at your pussy above his face, folds spread and glistening.
“Jesus,” he gruffs, jaw popping, nostrils flaring; primal itch burning his skin to take and claim what’s his. “Got the prettiest pussy, baby, fuck, si’down on me. Yeah, yeah, there you go, c’mere, mmph—”
The first lap comes with a slow, fat tongue. Long, indulgent, pushing through your folds to lick the slick from your hole to your puffy clit. Frank groans into your heat, your taste rolling his eyes back.
Face contorted as you watch him taste your cunt, your thighs quake around his head. Your hands fist into the headboard, rattling the frame.
One taste and he looks at you… And the look he gives is… cruel.
Stomach dropping out, heart hammering, your breath stutters at the blackened intensity of his glare. Eyes narrowed, nostrils wide, mouth tugging as he resists the temptation to devour you to oblivion.
“Fuck,” he praises in a ragged breath, the sweet saltiness of you igniting something dangerous. One fucking taste and he’s like this. Frank yanks your hips down.
You gasp his name as your cunt drops flush to his face, face screwing as you’re eaten alive.
He pins you there, mouth latched onto your slick folds, nose smashed against the hood of your cunt.
And he eats. Devours you, lapping eager worship as he spreads you down the middle with his tongue alone. Sucks your clit into his mouth, releasing in a delicate graze of his teeth but never fully, no. He won’t break off your pussy. Tongue works possessed hunger, hooking into your hole.
He eats and eats and eats.
You try climbing up the headboard for escape as the alarming white-hot elation rakes your insides. Terrifying pressure, that uncomfortable, blissful urgency causing you to try to flee.
Try.
“Stay put.” Frank grunts, forearms banding around your waist to drop you back down—and snare you. He traps you there, riding his face. His tongue, teeth and mouth feed in a frenzy.
Tears in your eyes, you stare at the painting in front of your face. Hips jolting. Thighs seizing. Your cunt suffocating your husband as he feasts on your slick and pussy as though it’s his only purpose.
Saliva and intimacy coat your inner thighs as Frank makes a mess of you. Smears his face every which way, kissing, sucking, snarling into you.
Arms hooking the headboard, you cry and huff a litany of moans in his name. Face to face with the painting above your bed, white-hot sparks searing your nerve-endings, you see your reflection in the picture. It’s you, just… a version of you to only exist with Frank. Mouth agape, jaw slack, desperation stinging tears in your eyes as the smell of sweat and sex basks in the heat of the rising sun.
You see this picture every goddamn day but now—right now, with your husband feasting on your cunt, making a mess of his face and your thighs—you see the fine details. A duckling treading water after its family. The cattails blowing in a gentle breeze. A fawn bent for a drink at the water’s edge.
You can’t stand it. The painting, your reflection, the panicked overstimulation of your clit on the verge of implosion into Frank’s mouth.
Escape futile, your legs cinch either sides of his head, stomach flipping as your peak vacuums out your breath, hips involuntarily grinding down, down, after more friction, more of his mouth. You shove against the headboard, knocking dents into the wall to deepen the ones already there. Drywall dust falls behind the bed.
Beneath you, Frank’s in heaven. Pussy drunk, slick disoriented, he ruts his flat tongue straight down your middle mercilessly. Aggressive scoops through your folds, eating your core out of your body, ending in ruthless swipes over your clit.
The wet suction of his spit mixes between your thighs. Obscene noises that have you blushing, flustered, hot and without a goddamn care because you’re close. “Oh, god, Frank, oh god, don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop—”
Grunts vibrate right into your cunt, starved and sloppy as he gnashes his tongue and lips over your engorged clit. “Yeah, fuck my face,” he snarls against your pussy, dick instinctively rutting the blankets over his lap. “Fuckin’ cum on m’face.”
Beyond your control, greedy and possessed, you rock down onto him. His stubble rakes your thighs raw. Slick sticky on your skin, his face, he groans incoherent praise against you. You can’t hear it, blood rushing in your ears, eyes falling back as your head does, lust disorienting—
“Ooooh, Frank! Fuck! I’m—”
Cumming.
With the sweetest fucking sound he’s ever heard, his name laced with a scream far too obscene for the time of day.
Frank eats you through it. Licks straight from the source of your empty cunt as it pulsates and clenches for something, anything, but he won’t give it to you yet. He slows as you come down from it, your head blooming with hazy pressure, relief.
Licking and sucking turns to rewarding kisses. One against your drenched folds. Another to your sensitive clit, jolting you. Last one with a hum against your thigh.
“Tasted so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, using his hands to move your body for you when you can. “C’mere, Mrs. Castiglione, yeah. Come t’Frankie.”
Limbs reduced to jelly, jostled by the severity of your orgasm, you oblige, head empty, as Frank steers you back down, on top of him.
Curled in on yourself, spine weak so you hunch, straddled on his lap.
Frank tugs the blanket up around your waist, wiping the plaster of your slick from his face onto his shoulder.
“You good?” he asks, smallest smirk pulling the corner of his mouth.
Dumbfounded, forgetting every word in your vocabulary, you nod. Little shaky nods, eyes a thousand yards off, chest heaving.
A chuckle rumbles in his chest. He lifts a hand to beckon you down, come relax, but you stiffen. Shake your head a firm disagreement.
Hand paused mid-reach, Frank quirks a brow.
Exasperated, glowing, you bat his hand off stare down at him like he’s stupid. “I’m not done with you yet, are you kidding me?”
“Yeah?” A brow raises at the attitude, giving you one chance to correct it. “Pretty little wife gonna take this dick?“
“Your wife’s gonna ride your dick, baby.” You straighten on his lap, spine finding strength after the blowout orgasm, reaching behind you and beneath the blankets to pump him. Just to see his reaction.
It’s a jolt, a grunt, his face steeling as he throbs in the wrap of your hand. “Wife’s gonna get thrown on her goddamn knees ‘f she keeps playin’.”
You tut, condescending though you know the threat’s entirely true. Standing tall on your knees, teeth holding your bottom lip, you smear his tip through your sopping wet folds.
You suck in a staggered moan, belly opening and fluttery at the mere thought of having him stuffed so deep inside you.
Frank groans, stomach contracting. His hands plant on your hips, head thrown back on the pillow. Tendons in his neck rope out. Veins thread his forearms. Battling the willpower to not shove you down on his cock, Frank trembles. “Put. It. In.” A low, drawn out demand through clenched teeth. “Playin’ with me all goddamn mornin’. Lemme tell you sumthi— fuckin’ Christ, baby—”
You stop him. Shut him the fuck up. The vise of your cunt splits as you sink on his cock. Walls stretching, burning as the tip carves you out.
“Attagirl, attagirl,” Frank pants, rabid black eyes snapping from your slackened jaw to gawk at how your cunt pulses defiance around the fat inches it has to work desperately to fit. “S’my wife, m’perfect fuckin’ wife.”
Pussy hugging his overwhelming girth, coherent thoughts burn up in your throat, seared dry in your stomach. “Oh god, Frank, oh god, Frank—”
“Yeah? Whatchu prayin’ f’, huh? Prayin’ I’ll go easy? Prayin’ I’ll fill you the fuck up? Fuck you stupid?”
You nod. And nod and nod and nod. Yes, all of it. Yes, to whatever he says.
Feral awe as he stares up at you, Frank eases your hips down. “Last inch, baby, last inch. C’mon, pretty girl, yeah, yeah, there- there she is— fuck.”
His eyes cross, the hard mound of his throat exposed.
Red scrapes rise over his chest as you claw, his blunt tip punching breath out of your lungs.
And you both freeze with his cock bottomed out, head knocked against your cervix.
Cunt flush to his base… you’re fused together.
While you pant and flutter to adjust for his size, Frank marvels over you. His upper lip tugs in a snarl of no sound. Eyes rove. A hand stays planted on your hip to steady you. The other reaches up, pawing your tit, thumbing your perked nipple. “Dirty little wife,” he grits, low, rasped. The sound of complete devotion. “Wakin’ me up jus’ t’sit on my dick, huh? This what you want?“
“Oh, I need it so bad, Frankie. I need- need my husband so bad—” everything else lost to a hum as you start to roll your hips.
“Yeah, baby, c’mon, ride your fuckin’ man.” Head thrown in the pillow, Frank’s face twitches a snarl of pure ecstasy. His thighs jolt under you, animalistic restraint thrumming. “Yeah, ride your fuckin’ husband.”
An angel in slow motion, your head falls back. Mouth slack, slurs of fuck, I love you, Frank, my husband, spilling out in cock-intoxicated freedom. Spine curved in the shape of bliss, your tits bounce on display for your husband, navel taut with your arch.
“Fuck, baby, yeah, s’my beautiful goddamn wife,” Frank grits through his teeth, massive fingers pressed in the meat of your hips, thighs, digging into you for control. Without it? Without binding himself to you? He’ll fuckin’ lose it. Snap. Flip you over and rail you until you’re pumped so full you walk away pregnant.
With every rock of your hips forward, his cock bulges against your stomach. Makes a fucking outline in Frank’s image. Thick and domineering, scorching breath from your throat as he rearranges your insides. Cock so big, crammed to the brim, he hits everywhere you need him to. Tip prodding your cervix. Veined shaft rubbing that perfect spongy spot. Coarse hair at his base grinding your swollen clit.
Self becomes an abstraction. How can you be an independent being when you feel Frank in your stomach? In your throat? Everywhere?
“Pretty pussy’s drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy this mornin’,” his nostrils flare, control collapsing. “Gonna make me bust, that what you want, huh? Want your man t’fill you up?”
“Y-yes, yes, please. Frank, please,” you shudder on his dick, a hand planted in the middle of his chest to steady your grind.
Sweat clings to your bodies. Heat festers in the pursuit of primal release.
“C’mere,” Frank beckons, one hand leaving your thigh to grab your chin, guide you down. “C’mere, princess, yeah, need you closer. Yeahhh, there she is. There’s m’girl.”
Bent over him, bouncing your ass back on his cock, you drop your palms to cage both sides of his head.
“Open,” he orders, eyes fastened to your lips.
You comply. Your mouth opens wide. Wider than necessary, showing him how you’d look with his dick in your mouth. Doe eyed and fucked out.
Frank jams two fingers—middle and ring, left hand—into your mouth.
“Suck.”
You don’t need the order. You already are. Your lips seal around his fingers—his wedding band against your lips—tongue swirling between them, around them, as he finger fucks your mouth.
“Good girl,” Frank coos. “Listen so good f’me, huh? You like that? Bein’ told what t’do?”
The moan you give around his fingers, cheeks full with them, breaks something in Frank.
It starts slow, greedy. He ruts his hips up. Snappy bounces, plunging in so completely your moans punch out and muffle on his fingers. In the span of seconds, he drives faster. Harder. Impaling you on his cock, your ass smacking down.
He’s in your mouth. Your cunt. Your fucking head. You’re stuffed so full of your husband you’ve lost sight of separation. There is no you without him. No him without you.
Your eyes roll around in your head, tits skimming his chest as he pounds you.
The tidal wave builds again. A hot exhilaration rushing through your core, forcing you to writhe above him.
Hooking the two fingers under your tongue, Frank shakes your head. A little sway, keeping you coherent. “Eyes, pretty girl, hm? Lemme see ‘em. You look at me. You do that f’me?”
You wonder how you could be stuffed completely by him, every open, needy hole. Cock-drunk thoughts, but still. Your lashes flutter, perking open at his command.
“You look ‘t your husband when you cum. You hear me?” He draws his fingers from your mouth, licking your spit off them himself.
“Y-yes, Frank. I look at my husband when I cum. I look at my husband when he makes me cum.”
“Gooood girl. You keep bein’ good f’me, hm? Be m’good girl. Cum on your husband’s cock.”
You collapse on top of him. Tits to chest, elbows caging his head, your hands tear into his hair as he fucks you senseless.
“Jesus-fuckin’-Christ, baby, so fuckin’ wet. Drippin’ down my goddamn balls.”
Squelches from your soaked cunt echo in the room as Frank hammers into you. Your thighs are drenched. Your ass is slathered in your juices, his saliva. Everytime you drop down or roll back in time with him, you feel it on his thighs, his balls.
“P-please fill me up, Frank, please,” you whine, words stumbling out as he hammers your cervix. “I want it. All of it. So so so bad. Wanna be filled up, Frankie. Want your cum to stay in. Don’t wanna waste any of it. Please. Please.”
“Fuck.” Snarled temptation. Skin slapping. Greedy, primal inclination to give you what you’re not asking for. Grunted possession as he bands an around the small of your back, hand indented to the flesh of your hip to fuck you down as he spears up into you. “Say what the fuck you mean, hm? Bein’ greedy ‘bout it? Just wanna be filled up with cum, huh? Or you wantin’ somethin’ else?”
“S-something else,” you pant, teeth grazing his jawline in messy bites. “You know what I want.”
“Say it. Fuckin’ say it.”
He fucks up into you. Drags you down in tandem. A filthy grind as he chases your orgasm. Every inch of him driven to please every inch of you. Whatever you want—say it. He’ll fuckin’ give it to you.
Your head spins. Your stomach tightens again, core flaring like a faulty transistor. You’re going to cum again. Cum with your pussy throbbing around Frank’s rigid cock, coat him in it, sucking his out of him.
Sweat sticks your bodies, skin catching friction. Hot, ragged breath shared back and forth. Frank’s grunts into your ear. Your breathless moans into his neck. Not an inch of space to separate you. Sharing breath. Sweat. Hips working an angry pump onto each other.
Heaven.
“Wanna- wanna have a- a baby with you, Frankie, please—”
“Yeah? Wan’ me t’put a baby in you, huh?”
“Y-yes! Yes, Frankie, please.”
“Gonna give you so much fuckin’ load you’ll be spillin’ it out. Give you what you want, baby, yeah, fuck you ‘til you’re full ‘a me.”
“M-make it stick, Frankie.”
“It’ll fuckin’ stick.”
You whine at the idea of being pumped to the brim with his cum, no other choice but to leak what your cunt can’t swallow, using it to make life inside of you.
“Cum.” Frank grits, thrusts slipping pace. A jagged falter as he nears. “Be a good lil’ wife, huh? Cum on my fuckin’ cock.”
You go rigid, muscles locking until they quake, bracing for explosion as his base scrapes your clit, head kisses your cervix, shaft sliding over the sponge of your g-spot. It’s too much. It’s too fucking much.
Panicked bliss peeling your eyes wide, forearms planted by his head, hands ripping into his hair, you plead. “Oh- oh god, Frank. Oh, fuck, you feel so good. Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop, ‘m so close, so close, Frankie—”
His eyes. You’ve never seen something like them before. An innate tenacity twisting his face into a snarl of pure rapture. Eyes lock with yours, tracking every fine detail of your pleasure as he bounces you up and shoves you down on his cock. The warp of your face. Your mouth pulled open in high-pitched moans beyond your control, beyond your comprehension. Brows pinched, your body building up for the demolition at his hand.
And you crumple.
Your hands cage his face, eyes fastened to his while you cum so he can see it—you—all of it, what only he is able to give you. Ecstasy razes you. Shatters your foundation, leaving you crying out for your husband as you fall.
He’s right there to hold you through it. Fuck you through it.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, there she is,” Frank adds to the unbridled fit, his voice raising. “That’s my fuckin’ wife. Fuck, fuck— soakin’ my dick, so fuckin’ tight. Gonna fill you the fuck up, pretty girl, give you a goddamn baby—”
One pump— faltering.
Second pump— faster, chasing, hungry.
Third— final. Buried to the fuckin’ hilt. Frank plunges in balls deep, mouth sealing around yours for a mismatched, groaned kiss as he spews hot, thick ropes deep inside of you.
A percussive silence settles around you. Labored breath, weak limbs. Neither of you kiss properly, but your mouths stay layered, recycling the same shaky breath.
Your hands go lax on his face, and the rest of your body follows. You crumble on top of your husband, cheek smashed over his heart. It beats rapid thunder under your ear, same as yours.
Chest sawing, Frank unravels the binding hold, but thag doesn’t mean he lets you go. No, Frank Castle circles his fingers over your back. Chin tucked to his chest to peer down at you, his other hand smooths hair out of your face. Taking care of you first—always you first—even as his cock flexes aftershocks inside of you.
“Hey,” Frank murmurs, voice spent, rough. His hand tangles in the hair at the back of your head where he holds you. “The Mrs. still alright, hm?”
You manage a weak thumbs up and a croaky, “…never better, Mr. Castiglione.”
Frank actually huffs a laugh. Small, low, but it counts. “Hm. Good.” Two pats to your ass. “Gotta do sumthin’—”
Whoosh. The rustle of blankets. The tossing of limbs.
“Wha– Frank—!” You squeal as he rolls you. Both of you, flipping you onto your back.
Cock still in you, turning your world, you bounce back on the mattress but can’t go far with Frank looming over you.
“S’what you wanted, hm?” Breath heaving from his nostrils, Frank pulls out in a grunt.
You shiver at the loss, but you’re not empty for long.
He uses his middle finger to collect the cream spilling from your cunt. Swipes it up.
Then back in.
Pushes that finger—his cum—back inside, down to the goddamn knuckle.
You gasp in overstimulation, nails digging into his forearm to cease any cruel movements. “Frank, Jesus!”
“Jus’ Frankie, baby,” he teases. “Ain’t gonna do nothin’,” he murmurs sweet assurance, sweeter praise, finger plugging you up. “Jus’ givin’ this pretty pussy what she wants, huh?”
Moan hummed behind your chattering teeth, you nod fervid agreement. You cling to his forearm, his skin torched hot and sticky.
Laid back on the pillows with your legs spread, his finger stopping you up with his load, wisps of hair clinging to your forehead, you’ve never looked so goddamn beautiful.
You’re his. All his.
Name. Pussy. Life.
Mrs. Castiglione, his pretty wife. Leaking his cum. ‘Til the day he fuckin’ dies.
In degrees, your body relaxes around his finger. Your walls flutter, pulsing around him. Shaking, your hands skate up his arms, lying over the slants of his neck.
Frank leans forward. Presses a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead. Then your nose. Then both cheeks. “Tha’s it, baby. I gotchu. Relax, pretty girl. Givin’ what you asked f’, huh? Still want it? Still wantin’ that baby?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, drawing him in close again. That’s all you want. Frank, your husband, as close as possible. You bring him in for a kiss. Passion subdued, but not gone. Lips meet with languid gratitude, still buzzing dormant lust.
A few minutes pass. Soft kisses frequented. Frank’s rumbled whispers, his little crooked grin. Your breathy giggles, face bright with exertion.
After those few minutes, he withdraws his finger from yours. Forehead against yours, he pops his slick-covered finger in his mouth. Sucks it clean. Dips back in, planting a rough kiss to your mouth before he moves off the bed.
Buck naked, standing at full height with a geography of gnarly scars and brutal muscle, Frank takes one step for the door.
One.
“Hey!” You call out, brows pinching as you tuck the blankets over your chest, rising to your knees. “Where’re you going?”
Frank falters. Glances back at you over his shoulder, brows up. “Get you a washcloth, that alright?”
“…no.”
“…No,” he echoes, making sure he heard right.
“Right,” you nod once. “No. I said no.”
“First day married ‘n you’re wantin’ a UTI?”
You roll your eyes. “Nooo, I’m just… not finished with you yet.” A pause. Feigned innocence of your wandering eyes. “Still.”
“Baby… Christ. Permission f’a guy t’ take a piss?”
“Permission de-nied. Get back here.”
Before he can protest, you reach out. Snag his arm. And drag his ass right back to bed.
Four weeks doesn’t change much.
There’s still bills, work, dinner— the mundane routines of everyday life.
Four weeks is certainly plenty of time to forget what you begged your husband for the first day a married couple. He’d forgotten too.
But… it does give time for things to…grow.
As you pile up groceries on the checkout conveyor, you miss the frightened glance the cashier gives your cart.
Two tubs of peanut butter.
Three jars of pickles (bread and butter, dill, and spicy, obviously).
Triple brownie blast ice cream.
Ten pounds of red meat.
Screw vegetables, because yuck.
Mustard, which is for your family-sized bag of potato chips. If Frank gets his paws on these, you’ll have to cut them off. No other option.
Exactly nothing from the list of health-conscious foods you normally buy, because, fuck it, those don’t sound near as good as this assortment.
The cashier, weathered and far too intuitive without a fuck to give, eyes you up and down as you pop in front of the card reader.
“…Expecting?” Donna (according to her nametag) asks, movements mechanical as she scans the items.
Your laugh comes immediately, head shaking as you hover your card over the reader. “Oh, god, no,” you dismiss, humming the last of your laugh.
Expecting. You. No, you’re—
Oh. Oh- shit.
You’re not laughing now.
You’re acutely aware now of how you begged Frank to fuck you to pregnancy. Sound fades to a distant buzz, the register beeps like a distant heartbeat. Everyone goes about their business as you remember.
Make it stick, you begged and panted as he filled you over and over and over.
You gulp. Audibly. Your expression blanks out. Your eyes stare through the total.
Frank promised it would. That bastard. He always keeps his promises.
Donna snorts to knowingly herself, at your reaction, and slaps a box of pregnancy tests over the scanner. “Got three of my own. Crunchy peanut butter’s best with the pickles.” She nods at your wedding wing. “Hope he’s a good one.”
The best, you wanna say, but your mouth’s desert dry.
All you can think about is the possibility that… it stuck.
Your head bobs in time to Shining Star by Earth, Wind & Fire, CD player from the living room booming the fluidity of the disco through the house. One of Frank’s favorites.
Meat sauce bubbles on the stove, fragrant of basil and marinara. Lasagna noodles cool in the sink, cradled by the colander.
Glass bowl of whipped ricotta, chopped parsley, parm, and mozzarella cheese balanced on your hip, you stir the lasagna filling.
Frank will be home from the construction site any minute, and you want this to be… perfect. But also… not a big deal, right? Not… overdone.
You opt to make his favorite dish of yours, the lasagna.
From the oven, fresh rolls swell and carry the scent of dough from the cracked windows.
The pee stick waits on the counter, capped, results down by the calendar. Days change everything. One day, that’s all it takes.
The front door rattles, keys jingling in it.
Your pulse quickens. You stir quicker, like that’ll save you from something.
The heavy, easy prowl of Frank’s boots coming down the hall. You can hear the questions in his gait.
Oh god oh god oh god oh god.
Stirstirstirstir. Like your life depends on it.
Your back stays to Frank as he fills out the doorway, hulking body leaning against the frame. Skeptically amused, lips halfway quirked, eyes narrowed, Frank glances around.
The music. The food. You.
Tongue licking over the corner of his mouth, he nods to himself like yeah, uh-huh, alright.
You’re both aware of each other. You both say nothing. Yet.
He can’t hear your heartbeat, right? It’s not that loud, right? Flush pricks your throat, chest.
“What, uh, whatchu doin’, pretty girl? Hm?” Frank finally asks, head tilted.
“Makin’ dinner,” you shrug a shoulder, flicking a brief glance back at him just to shrug again, lips wriggled in a bashful smile.
“Alright. Whatchu makin’?”
“Lasagna.”
“Occasion?”
“Occasion?” You step to face him, the room’s distance between you. “I don’t need an occasion to make you lasagna.”
That furthers his suspicion. Slits his eyes more, chewing on his bottom lip. He nods at the shove, eyes fixed on you. “Whatchu got in the oven?”
You hesitate, look down at the cheese mix. “…Urmmm… just… buns.”
“Buns.”
“Buns.”
“Buns… with lasagna, sweetheart?”
“Okay, stop analyzing the bread type. I have a bun in the oven, Frank, yes.”
“…Jus’ one? It a big bun ‘r sumthin’?”
Frank pushes off the frame. Ambles for the oven, brushing you as he does. His hand finds your hip, pulling you into his side to trail you along with him.
He stops at the oven, keeping you tucked against him. He bends at the hip to peer in through the glass. Squints a fraction while you’re about to go into cardiac arrest.
“Sweetheart. Those’re rolls,” Frank says, standing upright, pressing a kiss to the middle of your forehead as he mutters, “Ain’t buns.”
Oh my god. You’re dying inside. Your husband. One of the smartest, most capable men you know isn’t getting it. Your shoulders sag. Laughter bubbles up, both over it and genuinely humored. “Frank, please. Give me a break here.”
“What? Jus’ sayin’ they’re rolls, baby.” Frank grabs your chin as he coos at you, evidentially in a very unserious mood. “Teachin’ my girl ‘bout her breads, yeah, can’t have you callin’ rolls buns.”
Normally you’d love it, laugh, slap his chest. Right now you’re about to dump the cheese on him because you’re about to scream with life-altering news.
“Damn it, Frank.” You pivot in. Face to face with him, your expression stone serious and mouth tight. You push the bowl into his chest, yours on the opposite end of the rim of it. “Read between the lines!”
Frank blinks. At you, the bowl. Big, beautiful idiot.
“Frank. Castle. For the love of god. I have a motherfucking bun in my motherfucking oven.”
You watch his wheels turn.
You see the equation solving in his head, his eyes drifting as the answer solidifies.
Bun.
Oven.
You.
Four weeks ago.
“It stuck,” you whisper now, hands shaking, palms sweaty on the glass.
Now he gets it. His eyes jitter, face terrifyingly smooth aside from the line between his brows like the news hurts in the best way.
“You, uh… you sure? Sure it, uh… stuck?” His throat slinks, demeanor ground down to a devastating type of hope. Hope’s a horrifying experience when you’re Frank Castle. His hand hovers by his thigh, fingers reaching for your stomach, stopping short because what if it’s too good to be true? What if he ruins it by touching?
You help him reach. Your fingers curl around his wrist, closing the distance.
Hand splaying wide and possessive over your stomach, Frank blinks a rapid succession as he stares through the glass bowl at your belly. Still not showing, but it’s there. His breath stalls. Words have little meaning compared to the war in his chest.
“It stuck, Frankie,” you whisper, tears streaking down your face the instant you see wet tracks down his cheeks. “It stuck. We did it.”
Shredded and thankful, he huffs a breath. Clears his throat. Fingertips press gently into your skin over your shirt. Red-rimmed eyes flurry to yours, tears exposed and awe on blatant display for you.
“…Thank fuckin’ Christ,” he rasps. “It stuck.”
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divider creds: thecutestgrotto & mieluno / pics from pinterest
Iconic iconic iconic. I love how you wrote their wake up scene together and how it all just built to a moment between them. A hot af moment, but a moment none the less.
Peanut butter and pickles tickled me.
You know how I feel about your writing. 5 star. Stellar.
Pairing: alpha!Spencer Reid x omega!Reader
Word Count: 3.5k words
Warnings: NSFW, smut, a/b/o content, fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, typical omegaverse stuff (ie. heats, scent marking, licking, biting, knotting), technically masturbation at the beginning? technically?, swearing (the least of your worries), creampie, Spencer growls (yeah ik)...
A/N: (REQUESTED FIC) i also need to read spence helping reader through her heat for the first time after presenting as an alpha, anon! how did you know?
He just wanted to run out for some last minute items before your heat started—food, water, blankets and pillows, first aid, a new prescription of your birth control because now he's an alpha now and that changes things (but he also over prepares every time it happens because he's a worry wart who can't stand the idea of not having everything you need).
When he steps inside with too many bags on his arms, the thick, sweet scent of you permeating through the air is so dizzying that he nearly stumbles. He rushes to close the door behind him, keeping as much of your smell trapped inside as he possibly can as he sets everything haphazardly on the counter.
He finds you nestled in bed, surrounded by blankets and clothes and pillows and stuffed animals. You've rolled over on your belly, and he feels like he has to squint to see through the smell of your heat. It's like the room has been filled to the brim with flowers. It's like he's walked into a greenhouse after it's rained, the outside world wet and warm and so sweet. There's an undercurrent of potting soil, clean but earthier than he's used to, and beneath that, spicy and burning.
You're whimpering, whining something needy into the pillow. He crosses the room in a couple long strides, pausing when he sees you laying there with your arm between your legs. You squeeze your thighs together as your hips grind greedily against your arm, trying to find any kind of friction you possibly can to ease the burning, the fire.
Spencer crawls into the bed like a man who'd fallen to his knees in front of his faith and begged to be loved in return (he is).
“Baby,” he says, his voice strained. He can taste your arousal in the air, potent like streams of smoke in a cartoon wafting off a pie in the window. His vision gets a little blurry around the edges, and he's only moving closer. “Hey. I'm here, omega, I'm here.”
You whine again, louder this time, turning over onto your back. You're naked, having stripped yourself from the overwhelming heat making it impossible to get any kind of comfort, especially without him here to put his skin on yours, wrap you in his scent, in his arms. You reach your hands up immediately for him. Your eyes are watering, your face screwed up in pain and dissatisfaction. “Alpha?” you mewl, breath flooded and useless. You reach for him blindly. “Alpha, please, please.”
“I know, angel.” The way you say it, “alpha”, like the word alone is praise. He's choked up looking at you, setting a palm against your scorching skin as he cups your cheek. “I'm sorry. Thought we'd have a bit more time. I'm sorry.” He strokes your temple with his thumb, wiping away a layer of sweat that's begun to build. “You're burning up. My poor girl.”
You're spread out wide, your pussy leaky, your nipples peaked and sensitive, your lips and cheeks wet. “Need you, alpha.” Your hands are tangled in his hair now, pulling and tugging and wanting so badly for him to stop talking so he can kiss you.
“I know,” he says. He can feel his hands beginning to shake, his brain clouded with everything going on. He's so hard in his pants, drenched in you, trying to get his thoughts in order so he can focus on giving you what you need. “I know, I'll make it better. I will, I promise.”
“S-Spence,” you plead. “Hurts. Need you, it hurts.”
Spencer realizes he might be stalling and nods quickly. “Yeah, okay. ‘M sorry. I know, I'm taking so long.”
Before you can whine again, his lips are on yours. It provides a weird kind of relief, not satisfying but a balm to the cracks in your lips either way. You moan into his mouth, feeling like you'll melt any moment now that he's here.
He groans against your mouth, cradling your head in his hands as he slots himself between your legs. Your body leans up to meet him, your hips grinding up in search of more relief. He keeps kissing you, licking along your lips and humming and trying not to grind back down.
But that's not enough for you. You get restless, pulling away from his lips and whining between every peck against your face. “No, no, no, no please.”
“I know,” kiss, “I know,” kiss, “it's okay.” A long, smacking kiss. “I'll make it better.”
Upset, you nearly growl. “Now.” He really needs to get his act together before you start sobbing over how he no longer loves or cares for you. “Now, alpha. Please, need it now.”
He shushes you gently. “I know,” he repeats. His hand reaches down. Just as you go to complain again, his warm hand is cupping your heat. You gasp, sensitivity tenfold now that he's finally touching you. Your head tilts back, your mouth drops open as you wriggle beneath him. “There you go, honey. I got you. Just let me take care of you.”
His finger dips into you, curling up right against the spongey part of you that has you grasping his arms like it's hurting you. He coaxes his fingers in and out of you, slowly, carefully, until his hand is wet and dripping with your arousal. It has his senses soaking in you. It's hard to think, he doesn't even notice himself grinding down against your leg until you're grinding back.
He adds another finger, and the way you moan is so sweet that he can't help but add a third. His hand works in and out of you, and he watches your face scrunch so tight that it looks like it might hurt. You cry out for him, squirming and mumbling in high pitched little whines that make him painfully hard in his pants.
It stays like that for a while. He fingers you until you're crying and shaking, doesn't even touch your clit until you're two orgasms in. At one point while you'd been distracted coming down from a high, he'd stripped down to nothing and crawled back into the bed with your legs over his shoulders.
Your hands move to pull at his hair, despite your insistent keening. “No, no, alpha. Need you.” Tears streak down your cheeks, and something in him feels like it's breaking. He reaches up to wipe your tears away as you continue to babble at him. “Need you to fuck me. Need you inside me, alpha. I need your knot so bad.”
All the other times you'd begged him like this, sprawled in your nest pleading him to knot you, it'd made him feel so horribly bad about the fact that he simply couldn't. He'd just stroke your face and tell you he's going to take care of you and make you cum again on his hands or his mouth, he'd press his hand on your belly and rock into you with a promise to do it as long as you needed.
Now you say it and his cock throbs as he pushes his hips into the mattress to try and quell the need. “Shh,” he says, holding your hips down and stroking his palm over your thigh. “Gonna give it to you, omega. Just wanna do this first, okay? I wanna make you feel really good.”
You stutter on his name, worse when his tongue laps at you with a greedy hum. A part of Spencer's brain melts at the taste of you. Was it always this good? He'd had no trouble spending all his time between your thighs, but this is even better than before. It's like all the sense is gone from his head and replaced with tasting you and making you cum as many times as he can.
You grind against his face and whine and pull his hair. You're still crying, the pain still present but eased enough for you to breathe around the force of it. His tongue licks you up like a man starved, lapping and humming and sucking on you. You leak onto his tongue in generous amounts. It's lewd and sinful and so, so perfect.
He stays right there, pleased and needy as he eats you out, bringing you to orgasm after orgasm until neither of you is really sure how long it's been. The only number Spencer is aware of is how many times you've cum so far.
You've been reduced to nothing but trembling limbs and whining cries and a mess of wet that is becoming indistinguishable from arousal, spit, and sweat. “Please, alpha! Need you inside me now. Please, please, please.”
The sounds come out of you like sobs, throaty and wet, until Spencer really can't hold out much longer. It would be so, so embarrassing if he popped a knot into the sheets the first time he actually gets to use it instead of inside of you where you're begging him to be.
Spencer pulls away from your thighs reluctantly, spending a couple seconds laving his tongue over the skin of your inner thighs just to make sure he's truly everywhere.
Spencer's body leans over yours in a towering way. He looks at you with eyes blown wide and dark with lust. He looks less worried than he usually does when you get this needy. You're used to his brows being pushed together in concern, his words dripping, “I know, I'm sorry. It's okay, I got you. I'm sorry.”
He watches you like he wants to take a bite out of you. It's a lingering look that has you staring back up at him like you're gonna roll over and show him your belly. But you're already showing your belly, and you're dying to have him scratch.
“I'm gonna make it better, omega.” His voice is low, rougher than usual. There's an undercurrent to it that makes your skin prickle with a sensation you haven't felt like this before. “Be good for me, and I can give you what you need. Okay?”
You nod, looking dazed in the way you would when half your brain isn't conscious. “Okay,” you whisper.
He nods, coming down to kiss you once more. You moan into his mouth, every touch sending you into another fit of desperate heat that makes it impossible to think straight.
Spencer takes himself in his hand, and it takes everything in you not to writhe beneath him just to try to get him in you faster. One hand on your hip, and the other on his cock, he strokes himself a couple of times before he's lining himself up with the dripping heat of your pussy.
When he starts to push in, your eyes close and your mouth drops and your head tilts back. You moan at every inch that fills you, every stretch that has you panting for breath. Spencer clenches his jaw tight and tries to keep himself from cumming at the sheer feeling of you—especially with the way his knot has begun to swell, ready and waiting to bury itself inside of you.
You cling to his body like a lifeline. His hips go flush with yours, and you wrap your arms and legs around him because he still feels too far away.
Spencer lingers there inside you, trying to calm his breathing and steady himself. You just feel so good. Better than before. He's so much more sensitive, every squeeze sets him on edge, every drag makes his teeth clench.
He takes one of your legs wrapped around him, hooks it into his hand and pushes it back until you're spread open and wide for him. He watches his cock thrust in and out of you, the gush of your arousal seeping out over your puckered hole. The sight has his hands tightening around your thigh, around the blanket near your head. “My pretty omega,” he says, his voice thick with want.
He doesn't realize how vastly his pace has changed until he hears the way you're crying. Your face is wet with tears, your mouth can't decide between frowning, smiling, or just dropping open to let the sounds flow. You babble beneath him, your hands everywhere and your skin burning and damp with sweat.
“Yesyesyesyesyes, alpha. Please don't stop, I—You're so, n’god.” You stop making too much sense. And as you continue to tighten around him, he continues to lose himself in the ripe desperation of your pleasure. His brain is clouded, and his teeth hurt, and there's a rumbling in his throat that's echoing like a comfort in your ears. “Gonna—alpha, m’gonna–”
Spencer watches, eyes hooded, breath heavy, as you cum around him. He keeps rocking into you, the blunt head of his cock hitting your soft spot every time. You've been rendered speechless. Your head is thrown so far back, your full throat is on display for him like you want him to sink his teeth into you. It would be so easy. He'd be able to taste the salt on your skin, feel the vibration of your moans against his tongue and conducting up through his teeth and into his skull.
You grip him tight, milking him before he's even cum. He dips his head into the crook of your neck, groaning roughly in your ear before he mouths against your skin. You feel his tongue licking out over your scent glands, drenching you in the leathery scent of him while you cry your praise.
“Moremoremore.” Your words are a command in his head. He fucks into you and pretends the roughness of his thrusts are only from your request, instead of a staggering need to imprint himself into your body, molding you to him and him alone.
“Pretty omega,” he growls into your skin. “So pretty, cumming for me. All mine, my omega.”
You nod, sputtering “yoursyoursyours” until your voice is breaking apart. “Need your knot, alpha. Need it so bad. Want your pups, please!”
He growls, pulling out of you so suddenly that you gasp at the loss of him. Your gasp twists into a watery sob. Spencer's hand presses into your tummy again, trying to soothe you with a gentle shush, even as you cry. “No, no, please. Need you in me. Please, I'll be good. Be your good omega.”
“I know you will.” He kisses you slowly, too slowly for you to handle. He flips you over onto your belly, places a pillow under your hips to lift you up as his greedy hands spread you open for him again.
You're wet and glistening, leaking like a faucet. He never ceases to be amazed by just how wet you get like this. The sheets are definitely ruined, and he might have to buy more (again), but he couldn't care less right now with the way your pussy flutters for him.
He presses his chest to your back, wraps his long arm around your neck, grips your hip like it'll keep him from losing the rest of his mind. “Gonna fill you up, angel. Make you nice and full, and then keep it plugged all inside you.”
Your cries are muffled into a pillow. He lifts you up gently by your neck, nestled into the crook of it to keep tasting your leaky glands. When he pushes back inside of you, you go limp in his arms and his hold on you tightens to keep you nice and close.
Then he fucks you in a way he's never done before. He doesn't even realize it. The scent of your heat is making it so hard to think through the haze. His cock pistons inside of you with a need that is purely instinctual. You let him wreck you, rewarding him with moan after sob after moan until your words are nothing but a string of nonsense mixed with “yes, alpha” and “more, alpha” and “please, alpha”.
His hips rut into yours at a punishing pace. He can feel your slick wetting the skin of his thighs each time his thrusts meet you. He pins you beneath his body with more weight than you remember. You feel like you're breathing easier with him on top of you like this, providing a comfortable warmth and pressure to the part of you that feels restless.
His lips come down to your neck, covering you in kisses and licks and little nips of skin that have your toes curling, wanting nothing more than to feel his jaw lock around your throat and clamp down. His knot swells at the base of his cock, a foreign feeling that hurts right now more than it's pleasant.
“Feel so good for me,” he huffs in your ear, his thrusts only getting sloppier. He fawns over you in deep rumbles, lets his teeth scrape against the skin of your back in an attempt to ease the pain in them. The need has never been this strong before. “Pretty omega. Gonna make me–m’fuck.”
You continue to beg and plead. He continues to fuck you like your pleasure is his life force. You feel his hold tighten. You feel his thrusts become more shallow, closer to deep, needy grinds right up against your cervix instead of a full back and forth of his hips. The feeling of his knot hitting your pussy has you dizzy.
The snarl Spencer lets out makes your skin flush with heat. It's almost feral—animalistic—the way he does it. Feeling his knot slip into you is a sensation that has your brain melting in your skull. It fills you to the brim, makes you feel so full to bursting with him. As you clamp down around his knot, you're crying out as he pulls another, bone-deep, more intense orgasm from you that makes your body shutter beneath him like a leaf barely hanging on.
When you feel his teeth sink into your shoulder, your eyes go cross and your lungs fill with air. You gush around him, calling “alphaalphaalphaalpha”. He grinds into you with everything he has, filling you with a warmth that lets the heat simmer down into something manageable.
“Good, good omega. Good girl, just like that.” The stretch of him is delicious, mind-numbing. You feel your muscles loosening, the cries in your chest calmed to something slower, steadier. Your body goes limp on the bed, relishing in the feeling of his body atop your own.
It takes a while for the air to still. Longer for your breaths to follow. Spencer's thumb is circling over the skin of your hip, a soothing touch that has your eyes drooping.
Spencer takes in a deep breath as he comes back from the haze that had filled the room. You sigh happily as you feel his tongue licking over the bites on your shoulder. Your scent surrounds him like smoke, and he's trying not to get too overwhelmed by the way your scent gland seems to beckon to him. He flexes his jaw, lays his forehead on your shoulder where his teeth have imprinted themselves. You'll be smelling of him for weeks. Anyone who gets close will take a single breath of you and know you're his. That only makes it harder not to fully claim you.
Spencer kisses you right over your scent gland. You purr, turning your head so you can peek back at him. He smiles at you, kissing your cheek with the gentlest touch. “Hi.”
You hum, reaching back to grab his hand, encouraging his fingers to wrap around you, your joined hands resting atop clothes and blankets as you both come down from your highs.
“Hi, Spencer.” Your smile widens when he kisses the corner of your mouth. “Mmm, thank you.”
He nods against your skin. You feel him wrap his arms around your body. Still connected, he turns you onto your side as he keeps you close. “Feel better?”
You nod. “Feel like I can think.” You cover his hand on your midsection with your own. “I can, like…breathe again.”
He sighs, nuzzles into you some more. “I'm sorry I wasn't back quick enough. Thought I had time.”
You turn your head as much as you can. “No, baby, it's okay. S’okay, you're here now.”
He smiles and hides his face from you in the crook of your neck. You reach a hand back to card through his hair as you giggle. He hisses in your ear at the way you tighten around him, his hips bucking once out of instinct.
“Ah, fuck,” you whisper.
“Sorry.”
“Mm-mm, s’okay.” You try not to grind your hips back. “Feels good, 'm just sensitive.” You try to breathe around the stretch of him inside you. “You know I've never been knotted before?” You shoot him a smile at his shocked look. “I have a history with betas.” Then you wink, and he's laughing into your neck.
He strokes your side with the gentlest hands. “Yeah, well, next time we tie…I will be looking at you. Wanna see your face.”
You scratch his scalp gently. He hums. “Statistically, the first tie always takes much longer so…maybe we rest and try to eat before we start again later?”
Your eyes are already closed as you hum at his suggestion. The exhaustion creeps into the corners of your eyes and tugs. “M’kay.” Spencer, soft as a pillow, smiles and kisses the back of your neck.
Robby has never been a fan of birthdays. This year, loneliness drives him to download Tinder on an impulse, only to come across the last person he expected to find there: his favorite resident.
warning/tags: minors DNI, p0rn with little plot, masturbating, sexting, pet names (sweetheart and good girl) robby loves talking you through it, unprotected piv, pussy eating, multiple orgasms, body hair, fingering, creampie, handjob, kinda softdom!robby, age gap (I imagined reader being in her 20s or 30s but could be in her 40s too, tried to keep it broad)
For those of you who read it the first or second time I uploaded it: during the days the fic was down, I expanded some scenes, added a bit more dialogue, and made it a little kinkier along the way. You might want to read it again for some extra content
He knew this was stupid, plainly a terrible idea. On any other day, the thought wouldn’t have even crossed his mind, but today wasn’t any ordinary day. Today was his birthday. Fifty-five years old, and he had never felt more lost in his own life. Nothing had turned out the way he’d once imagined it would. If someone had told him, back when he was a resident, that he would still be coming home to an empty apartment at this age, no wife curled up on the couch waiting for him with a tired but loving smile, no chorus of small feet thundering toward the door, shoving drawings into his hands and saying “Look what I made for you today, daddy!” he would have laughed in their face and called it a cruel joke.
Yet here he was. No relationship had ever survived the weight of the hours and the way his mind stayed trapped in the ED long after he left it. He couldn’t be present anymore, not the way a partner deserved. The job had hollowed him out in ways he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.
It had been almost a year since he ended things with Noelle, not long after he returned from his sabbatical. He’d told himself it was the right thing to do. Maybe it really was better this way. At this point in his life, trying again felt pointless, almost selfish. He was saving whatever good women were still out there from the inevitable complications of loving Michael Robinavitch.
But today the emptiness hit differently. The apartment felt quieter than usual, and his thoughts were louder, circling like a vulture. He knew it was the birthday doing this to him. Birthdays had a way of dragging the sorrows out into the light, every missed milestone, every abandoned version of the life he thought he’d have. Jack had tried to pull him out of it, offering a beer after shift, but Robby had politely declined. He wasn’t in the mood for forced cheer, for anyone raising a glass to another year of the same.
He’d made it clear to the whole department that he didn’t want any birthday cake, no cards, no presents, nothing. Still, the well-meaning murmurs had followed him all day: “Happy birthday, Dr. Robby,” each one met with a progressively wearier smile until the words blurred together. By the end of the shift, he was only managing quiet nods of acknowledgment, the kind that said thank you and please stop at the same time.
So here he was, in an apartment that was too big for himself, lying on a couch that felt even bigger, downloading Tinder on his phone. He rubbed a hand over his face, he’d tried Tinder once, maybe two years ago. Downloaded it, swiped for a week, then deleted it when the superficial nonsense started bothering him too much.
He started with the basics. Photos. Robby opened his gallery and scrolled slowly through the meager collection. Most of the images were work-related, grainy screenshots of charts, or blurry shots of trees and roads he’d taken during his bike rides. After a long hesitation, he picked a silly selfie he’d sent Jack a few weeks earlier. He was holding up the book the two of them had been texting about, half-smiling at the camera like he felt ridiculous even taking it. It wasn’t terrible, he supposed. He looked… friendly. Approachable, maybe.
Next, he chose one from the department barbecue he’d actually forced himself to attend last summer. He was wearing the sleeves rolled up on a button-down shirt, and holding a beer in his hand. He didn’t hate it, it showed a version of himself that still showed up for people, even when he didn’t feel like it. The last one was from the hospital fundraiser gala two years ago. He looked elegant in that photo in a black suit, but he had to crop Jack out of the frame, his face was still half-visible over his shoulder. Three photos, not exactly a compelling portfolio, but they were honest, he wasn’t pretending to be anyone other than himself.
He moved on to preferences. Gender: Women. Age range… His thumb froze. At first, he set it to 50–60. Women at the same stage he was, maybe divorced, maybe widowed, or just tired of feeling alone. But then something flickered in his chest, part curiosity and part desperation, and before he could talk himself out of it, he dragged the lower end down. Twenty to sixty. The wider net felt reckless, almost embarrassing. But what if the love of his life existed somewhere in that range? What if he missed her by something as stupid as a single year on a slider?
As if the love of your life was sitting on Tinder on a Sunday night, he thought. Don’t be fucking stupid, Robby.
He stared at the screen for a long moment, and with a quiet sigh that sounded too much like surrender, he tapped confirm. Now it was time for the bio. Robby stared at the blank field for a long minute. What the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t looking for anything specific. Company? Distraction? Someone who wouldn’t mind a man who came home at crazy hours, sometimes covered in blood and whocarried more baggage than he could carry?
He typed slowly what felt the most honest: “ER doctor in Pittsburgh. Love long bike rides to clear my head and 70s rock. Not entirely sure what I’m looking for here, but if you can handle sarcasm and odd hours, we might get along.”
He read it back. It sounded stiff, after all, he wasn’t used to this. But it was him, and so he hit save before he could overthink it more. The app prompted him to start swiping. Robby leaned back against the couch as the profiles began loading, smiling faces, pictures of holiday destinations, and bios full of lists of requirements. He swiped left on most without much thought.
Left. Left. Left. Some of the women seemed nice, but nothing pulled him in. He kept going until the endless scroll of faces started blurring together. No one stuck, just the same hollow feeling that had driven him to download the damn thing in the first place.
But then your profile appeared. Robby’s entire body froze. The photo loaded first: you, one of his own residents. You were standing in scrubs outside the Pitt with the same smirk you got after a particularly chaotic shift. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered as the heat crawled up his neck. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover what he was feeling right now.
At work you were talented and dedicated, but still green enough that he rode you hard during shifts. And here you were on Tinder, of all places. The thought that you, or anyone else from the department, might stumble across his profile made his stomach twist with embarrassment. He could already imagine the gossip: Dr. Robby on Tinder. How pathetic.
He should swipe left immediately, delete his profile, and pretend this never happened. Instead, curiosity won. Robby tapped on your profile, telling himself it was just… professional concern. Making sure you weren’t doing anything stupid. He cared about his residents. Yeah, that was it.
Your bio loaded beneath the main photo: “If you like girls who will force you to watch her Letterboxd top four and then talk your ear off for hours about the hidden meaning behind her favorite songs, then I’m your girl. Emergency med resident with zero free time. Not looking for anything serious, just fun, meeting people, seeing where it goes.”
Robby let out a chuckle despite himself, the sound was unexpected in the quiet of the moment. He had only ever seen you in the chaos of the ED, running on adrenaline and too little sleep. But this version of you felt… different. He found himself thinking about how little he actually knew you. How little he’d allowed himself to know.
He didn’t know where you were from, or what your family was like, whether you had siblings who called too often or parents you tried to make proud. He didn’t know what you did outside of the hospital besides the occasional beer in the park, or what made you laugh until your sides hurt. All those small and ordinary pieces of a life that existed outside the emergency department.
It felt strangely intimate, seeing you like this. Like stumbling across a part of you he wasn’t supposed to have access to. A version of you that wasn’t filtered through the hierarchy of resident and attending. Up until now, you had been “his resident”, contained within the professional boundaries he’d carefully maintained.
He started swiping through your photos. The second picture was you laughing in what looked like a group hike, with your hair windblown and your eyes bright. You looked undeniably pretty. Objectively, he’d always known you were attractive. The kind of natural attractiveness that turned heads in the hospital corridors even when you were exhausted and covered in sweat. But once again, he’d never thought about it. You were a resident, he’d gone down that path before, and it’d ended badly. That made you off-limits, end of story.
The third photo was of you in a cozy sweater, curled up with a book and a mug of coffee. It was cute, almost sweet. The kind of image that made the loneliness in his chest ache. He kept swiping until the last photo hit him like a defibrillator. You were on a beach somewhere sunny and sandy, wearing a bikini. Your skin was glowing under the sun, and you were smiling at the camera in a confident pose, the kind of effortless beauty that could stop any man cold. Holy fuck, your body barely contained by the fabric of the bikini, the photo capturing the gentle swell and the way the light played across your body.
Robby’s mouth went dry, the heat flooded his face and then lower down his body. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t let himself imagine you like this, outside the hospital, undeniably a woman and not just one of his residents. His pulse kicked up, the nervousness made his hands shake and his grip slippery. He fumbled the phone, trying to swipe left fast. Swipe left, damn it, he thought.
But he accidentally jerked his thumb the wrong way, to the right, and the screen lit up with that unmistakable animation.
It’s a Match!
On the other side of Pittsburgh, you had been lying in bed, still trying to unwind after another brutal twelve-hour shift. Sleep felt miles away, so you’d given in to the guilty habit of late-night Tinder scrolling. Sure, swiping at 1 a.m. probably looked desperate to anyone else, but who cared? It wasn’t like you had much of a life outside the hospital anyway.
You swiped left with efficiency. Guy whose entire bio was just a link to his podcast. Left. Gym mirror selfies and nothing else. Left. Self-proclaimed “entrepreneur in the crypto market” with a Lamborghini in the background that probably wasn’t even his. Left.
How was it this difficult to find someone even remotely decent? You weren’t expecting to meet the love of your life in this digital dumpster, but was it really too much to ask for a man with basic social skills and a profile that didn’t scream immediate red flags? Someone whose opening line wasn’t just “u dtf?”
Guy who still clearly lived with his mom. Another left. “No feminists” in the bio, followed by a rant about “high value woman.” Left.
Then your thumb froze mid-swipe. Michael Robinavitch. Your heart slammed against your ribs. There he was, Dr. Robby, looking straight into the camera in one of the photos, that familiar half-smile you’d seen a thousand times in the ED, only now it was on a dating app.
You sat up straighter in bed, suddenly wide awake. What the hell was Dr. Robby doing on Tinder? You’d scrolled through this app for weeks and never seen him before. He must have created the profile recently. The man you’d been quietly (and not-so-quietly) thirsting over since your very first day of residency was right here. One match away.
How could you not like Robby? He was everything you’d ever wanted in a man, strong, steady, impossibly smart, and so damn capable it made your legs weak every single time he gave you a calm and yet authoritative instruction in the middle of a trauma.
You’d lost count of how many times he’d gently reprimanded you for being distracted while charting. He always assumed you were just tired from the long hours. He had no idea that you kept getting lost in vivid daydreams about him: running your fingers through the silver-flecked hair and that coarse, greyish beard, feeling those big hands wrap around your waist, pulling you close.
You loved the way his eyes crinkled warmly behind his glasses when he smiled, the way his voice dropped into that gravelly register when he needed to command attention in the ED… it did things to you. Dangerous, addictive things. Sometimes getting in trouble with him felt more exciting than it had any right to.
His Tinder bio was unexpectedly adorable. He looked a little lost, like he wasn’t entirely sure he belonged on the app but was willing to put himself out there anyway. That bike is not the only thing I’d like to ride, you thought, as a little smile tugged at your lips.
His pictures made you melt and sigh at the same time. That warm, contagious smil, the glasses that struck the perfect balance between hot and endearingly sweet. The silver threading through his beard that made you press your thighs together at the mere thought of feeling it against your skin, between your legs, specifically.
You swiped slowly through the rest of his photos. Those wide shoulders, that tall and solid frame, that soft belly under the button-down shirt… you wanted him in a way you had never wanted anyone before.
It was almost pathetic the way your heart did a little skip every time he complimented your work on a tough case. The way your thighs squeezed together almost involuntarily whenever he stepped in close during a complicated procedure, guiding you step by step, his voice low and patient near your ear. “Yeah, grab the blade like that… make a two-inch incision, softly, very gently.” “Hold the tube with your left hand, tight, don’t move it.”
It made your mind wander to dangerous places. Was he like that in bed too? The kind of man who talked you through it, calm and devastatingly attentive? In your fantasies, he absolutely was. Late at night, alone in this very bed with nothing but your hand and your imagination, you could almost hear his voice murmuring against your skin: “Keep your legs open for me, nice and wide… just like that.” “Look at you… already making such a mess. I’m gonna start with one finger, okay? Think you can be good and take it for me?”
Should you swipe right? It felt like the only logical choice. If he swiped left, which seemed like the most likely outcome, he would never even know you’d swiped on him. But if he did swipe right… then maybe, just maybe, you could end up in Robby’s bed.
Your hopes stayed low. Never in a million years did you actually expect Robby to be attracted to you the way you were to him. You would’ve noticed something by now, maybe in lingering stares, subtle flirting, or any shift in the way he treated you. But he didn’t. He treated you exactly like the rest of the residents: a young doctor he needed to teach, who could sometimes be frustratingly distracted.
Still, you couldn’t contain the tiny, thrilled scream that escaped your lips when the screen lit up:
It’s a Match!
Robby had matched with you. He wanted you too.
“Shit!” Robby dropped the phone onto the couch like it had burned him. It bounced once and landed face-up, the match confirmation still glowing on the screen. He and you had just matched on Tinder. All thanks to that goddamn bikini photo and his clumsy, nervous fingers.
He stared at it, feeling his heart hammering harder than it had during the worst trauma cases. This was mortifying. You’d seen his profile, you’d swiped right, and now you were going to see that he’d swiped right as well. Part of him, the tired and lonely part that had downloaded the app and widened the age range, wondered what you’d think.
A dozen what-ifs tumbled through his mind. What if you saw his profile and laughed? That disbelieving laugh when something genuinely surprised you. What if you messaged him first? Maybe it had been a mistake on your end too. Maybe your phone had slipped, or you’d been swiping too fast after a long shift, half-asleep and a little buzzed. Or maybe… maybe you’d swiped right on purpose, just to tease him. He could already picture the text popping up on his phone: “Oh my god, Dr. Robby. What are you doing on Tinder? lol.”
Robby ran both hands through his hair, exhaling sharply. He picked the phone back up, looking straight at the Send message button. He shouldn’t. The responsible thing would be to delete the app, pretend this night never happened, and go back to being your attending, not your Tinder match.
Instead, he opened your profile again. Robby tried to move past it, he really did, but his eyes lingered on that last photo far longer than they should have. You in a bikini, your skin glowing under warm sunlight. He couldn’t believe that was what you looked like underneath the baggy scrubs you wore every day in the ED.
It felt wrong. Like he wasn’t allowed to see you like this, like he was intruding on something deeply private, crossing a line that should never even be approached between an attending and his resident. Guilt twisted in his stomach, but it wasn’t enough to make him look away.
His body reacted anyway, a sudden heat stirring unwanted, a throb of arousal he hadn’t felt this sharply in longer than he cared to admit. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, hating himself for it even as the reaction deepened. What the hell is wrong with you, Robby? he told himself, but the self-reproach did nothing to dull the pull. What could he do? You were a woman. A beautiful one, and for the first time, he was seeing you not just as his resident, but as someone undeniably, breathtakingly desirable.
Before he could delete his account and go to bed as he should, your message popped up.
You: hii :)
Robby’s breath hitched in his throat. For a split second, he swore his heart actually stopped. Then it slammed back into rhythm, pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears, in his temples, in the tightness of his chest. The little smiley face stared back at him from the screen, innocent and cheerful, as if it hadn’t just flipped his entire night upside down.
You had matched with him. At eleven at night. On his lonely fucking birthday. What the hell was he supposed to say to you at 11 pm. after accidentally matching with her on Tinder? “Hey, funny seeing you” here felt pathetic. “This is wildly inappropriate” felt like a lie because the rush of heat still lingering in his veins said otherwise.
He set the phone down on the coffee table for a moment, dragging a hand over his face for the millionth time. Part of him wanted to delete the match immediately, pretend it never happened, and go to bed like the responsible, professional attending he was supposed to be. But another part, the part that had been sitting alone on his fifty-fifth birthday, couldn’t bring itself to swipe left on this one unexpected connection. So he picked the phone back up and stared at the blinking cursor in the message box.
Another message came through a minute later.
You: robby? it’s me from work... guess you saw my profile too haha
Robby let out a long breath, he couldn’t avoid it now that you’d initiated a conversation with him. It was better to be direct, explain the mistake to you, and shut this down before it got any more awkward.
Robby: hey
yeah, I saw it
listen, this is embarrassing as hell, i was messing around with the app, dropped my phone and it must have swiped right by accident
sorry about that, didn’t mean to make things weird
He hit send and immediately regretted how cold it sounded, but it was the truth. The phone stayed quiet for a moment that stretched too long. He had his eyes fixed on the screen, waiting for your reply so he could shut down this awkward conversation and delete this stupid app before he accidentally matched with anyone else from work.
You: oh. so it was a mistake? damn, i thought you had swiped right on purpose. bummer.
Robby’s eyes widened. You were being direct, not beating around the bush or deflecting by saying it had been a mistake on your end as well. He could practically hear your voice saying it with a teasing edge.
Robby: Sorry about the confusion
i know it might be awkward finding me on here. probably the last person you expected, i don’t usually do this.
You: honestly it was surprising. didn’t peg you as the tinder type at all.
but hey, we all have our moments i guess
Robby: i’m not the type
this is my second time ever downloading it and i already regret it, should probably delete the whole thing before i make an even bigger fool of myself.
You: yeah i get it. i thought the match was mutual so i figured i’d say hi. sorry for texting if it was just an accident. didn’t mean to make it weirder
Robby read your message twice. Thought the match was mutual. The words echoed in his brain. You had swiped right on purpose, not as a joke, not out of morbid curiosity about your boss’s sad dating life. You had chosen him willingly. The realization of what that meant sent a confusing rush through him. You liked him, that had to be it. The thought of you… having a crush on him made a warm feeling run through his body, one he immediately tried to shove down.
Robby: What do you mean you thought it was mutual?
You: idk... i saw the notification and figured you wanted to match with me since it happened. that’s why i said hi right away. didn’t want to leave it hanging if we were both curious
He stared at the screen, his heart beating a little harder. You were so honest and blunt about your feelings, he found himself almost intimidated by it. Some rational part of his brain was trying to tell him this had to be a big joke, there was no way in hell you could like him. You were… you. What would you see in a man like him?
Robby: you wanted us to match? seriously?
You: lol yeah i did swipe right, didn’t i? your profile was actually really nice. the book pic is cute and the 70s rock mention made me smile. plus... i don’t know, you’re interesting. figured why not. no pressure though
Robby: i thought maybe you did it out of curiosity
or just to see if I’d swiped on you didn’t expect you to actually want that
You: well i did. but if it was an accident on your end then no big deal. we can pretend this never happened and go back to normal tomorrow. i won’t mention it at work or anything. promise
Robby let his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes for a long moment as he exhaled heavily. He knew exactly what the responsible Chief of Emergency Medicine should do right now: unmatch immediately, delete his profile, and pretend the entire night had been nothing more than a lonely fever dream.
But tonight… tonight he didn’t want to be responsible. He didn’t want to be Dr. Robinavitch, the attending who had sacrificed nearly every personal connection, every version of a fuller life, on the altar of the ED. For once, he wanted to be Michael. Just Michael. The man who had matched with you on Tinder. The man who was currently staring at his phone with his heart hammering like he was twenty years younger.
Before he could piece together a polite but firm way to end the conversation and retreat back into the safety of professional distance, another message appeared.
You: i think your profile’s part of the reason i swiped right. the book pic’s really nice
He smiled faintly at that, a rare genuine twitch at the corner of his mouth. Robby leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.
Robby: your profile’s pretty good too, better than most of the ones i’ve seen tonight
You: aww thanks. your’s so much better than the usual bullshit on here which is not that hard to be
but still finding you here is a nice change :)
Robby: you on this app a lot? seems like you’ve got the profile down
You: not really. i’ve been on a couple dates from here but it’s honestly exhausting. hard to find someone decent in this city. most guys are either looking for hookups with zero conversation or they’re boring as hell. you know how it is
Robby: fair enough.
your age range must be set pretty high if it pulled me up
fifty five isn’t exactly the usual crowd for you or is it?
You: haha yeah well
i like older men
Those four stupid words hit him square in the chest like a defibrillator. “I like older men.” Robby reread them slowly, feeling a dangerous warmth bloom low in his belly and spread outward through his chest. He was an older man, and apparently, that fit exactly into your preferences. Was that flirtation? Were you subtly implying that he was the kind of older man you liked? Or was it just a casual, throwaway comment, something you’d say to any guy on the app who happened to have a few gray hairs?
No. He was spiraling too deep, overthinking it the way he always did. Your words didn’t carry some hidden, special meaning meant just for him. They couldn’t. And yet… No matter how hard he tried to talk himself down, he couldn’t ignore the flicker of validation that lit up inside him. He felt desired, really desired. Not just by anyone, but by you: someone younger, and so strikingly pretty it almost hurt to look at your photos for too long. Someone who, in his mind, was clearly way out of his league.
Robby: It’s okay to have preferences
everyone does.
You: yeah exactly. i just find older guys more attractive than the ones my age. they’re usually more mature, know what they want, have actual life experience. it’s... hotter, i guess. plus the conversations are better
He swallowed hard, feeling his throat suddenly dry. He could practically see your face as you typed those words, maybe biting your lower lip in that teasing way you sometimes did right after nailing a difficult procedure.
Then the bikini photo from earlier flashed unbidden through his mind, and the heat in his body flared hotter. He pictured you exactly as you’d looked in that shot: sun-warmed skin, curves barely contained by the fabric. The thoughts he had no right to entertain came rushing in anyway, pulling him deeper. Thoughts of having you all to himself, of finally being able to run his hands slowly over every inch of that bare skin, tracing the line of your waist, sliding up your ribs, cupping the soft weight of your breasts. Of putting his mouth on you and every sensitive spot until you were trembling beneath him.
Robby: makes sense
i usually go for women closer to my stage of life
we have more in common that way
You: do age gaps bother you?
Robby: in what way?
You: like as a concept. are they a problem for you?
Robby: i’m okay with consenting adults doing what they want
as long as everyone’s on the same page it’s not my business.
You: have you ever been in an age gap relationship or anything like that?
Robby: i once dated a woman a bit younger than me
but usually around my age
He paused before sending the next part, he shouldn’t keep engaging in this deeply unprofessional conversation, but curiosity was getting the better of him. And you were simply so easy to talk to that he couldn’t stop himself from letting his walls down a little.
He typed before he could second-guess himself.
Robby: how much older are we talking anyway?
the men you usually like i mean.
Your reply came fast, like you’d been waiting with the phone in hand.
You: usually over fifty up until their sixties or so. around that range. but it’s just a preference, nothing crazy. i feel like older men usually treat you better. they’re more gentlemanly, know how to actually listen, and they tend to understand what a woman wants... in every way, if you know what i mean ;)
Robby read the message twice. Three times. Four. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck me. You weren’t just being polite or making casual conversation. That winky face, the implication hanging there about “every way”. You were deliberately flirting with him, there was no other way to see it. He shifted on the couch, suddenly very aware of his own body and the fact that it had been a long damn time since anyone had spoken to him like that.
He took a slow breath and replied, trying to keep some semblance of control.
Robby: do you date men closer to your own age too?
or is it mostly the older crowd?
You: i have tried guys closer to my age. some of them are sweet but a lot are still figuring their shit out. you should try dating a woman younger than you sometime though. maybe it’s exactly what you need.
Robby didn’t know what to say. The words hung there, full of possibilities around them. He was still wrestling with a response when another message from you popped up.
You: anyway sorry again for the confusion earlier. i’ll leave you alone so you can keep scrolling through profiles. i’ll go back to robbing the graves haha (joke, get it? because i like older guys... sorry that was sooo bad)
Robby chuckled despite the whirlwind in his head. The joke was cheesy, so perfectly you that it cut through some of the tension. But it also gave him an out, you were offering to back off and let this weird moment fade into nothing before tomorrow’s shift made everything awkward as hell. Part of him wanted to take the exit ramp, wish you a good night, unmatch, delete the app, and pretend none of this happened. But another part, the one that had been sitting alone on his birthday didn’t want the conversation to end.
He tapped over to your photos again, almost against his will. There it was the last one. You on the beach in that bikini, with the perfect swell of your tits catching the sunlight. Holy fuck. He wanted you, the realization hit him all of a sudden, making him switch back to the chat and move his thumbs almost on autopilot.
Robby: Nothing to apologize for
honestly you’ve kept me better company tonight than I expected
You: see? younger women can be good company too :) you shouldn’t close the door so fast. you could meet someone nice if you give it a chance
Robby: you shouldn’t close the door on guys your own age either
there are decent ones out there, you’ll find someone who can keep up with you
You: out of all the guys i’ve matched with here... you’re easily the best one. no contest
Robby: Really? that can’t be right
you’re selling yourself short.
You: no i mean it. you’re exactly the kind of man i’d usually go for. tall, older, smart... and hot
The word hot hit him harder than it had any right to. His face flushed deeper, his clothes felt constricting, his pants uncomfortably tight. Robby’s cock was already half-hard, thickening and pulsing insistently against the zipper of his jeans with every new message.
All because you’d called him hot. Just a little cheeky, playful comment, and it was enough to unravel him. The touch starvation wasn’t helping. It had been so damn long since anyone had looked at him with real interest, longer still since he’d felt this fluttering feeling low in his stomach. This rush of ego, this sharp need to be close to someone, to be wanted, to touch and be touched.
Robby: thanks i guess
you’ll meet someone worth your time, you’re a good girl
The message was sent before he could fully reconsider the wording. The second it went through, Robby winced. It sounded weirdly sexually charged, maybe it was because he was feeling sexually charged, painfully so. A Freudian slip at its finest.
You: good girl? 😏
Robby: shit i didn’t mean it to sound weird
just a figure of speech i suppose.
You: should i call you daddy then? ;)
Robby nearly dropped the phone again. The winky face, the bold suggestion, the way it played so perfectly into the tension that had been building sent a bolt of pure want through him. He could imagine your voice saying it, teasingly so, with that mischievous glint in your eyes. His mind supplied far too many vivid images: you in nothing but your skin looking up at him, you saying it in person with a flirty smile. He was fully hard. Actually hard, just from a fucking text conversation.
The professional alarm bells were clanging loudly in the back of his head. This was his resident, the age gap, the power dynamic, the fact that you’d have to face each other at the Pitt in a few short hours... it was all wrong. But god, it felt good. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel quite so alone.
He glanced down at the obvious bulge in his sweatpants, his cock straining against the fabric like a flagpole. He couldn’t believe it. One flirty text from his resident and he was rock hard. Don’t get hard for your fucking resident, he thought. She’s one of your own. Off-limits. This is insane. He adjusted himself uncomfortably, trying to will it down through stubbornness, but the ache only sharpened.
You: too much? sorry i was just messing around lol
Robby exhaled and typed back, trying to sound more composed than he felt.
Robby: Don’t worry about it
i know it was a joke, no harm done
You: it was... unless you don’t want it to be a joke
He let out a surprised laugh, his cock twitched again at the follow-up, you were relentless, and something told him you were noewhere near done.
Robby: you’re funny, i’ll give you that.
You: that’s what i’ve been told. glad you’re having fun with me tonight
Robby: Well, I guess I should let you get some sleep
early shift tomorrow and all
You: i don’t mind staying up. i swiped right on you, remember? yk for a minute i really thought you were gonna flirt with me or maybe even ask me to come over to your place or something
The words hung there. You had been excited, you had hoped he would flirt. The image flashed through his mind, you showing up at his door in the middle of the night, stepping inside and… He shifted again, pressing his hand down against his insistent erection through his sweatpants, trying to get some relief even as guilt gnawed at him. This was crossing so many lines he’d promised himself he wouldn’t cross after Heather. But the loneliness that had driven him to download the app in the first place was quieter now, replaced by an electric tension.
Robby: that would be very inappropriate
i’m your boss and there are lines we can’t cross
You: but you’re not dr. robby my attending in here. you’re michael robinavitch, 55, the guy who loves 70s rock and long bike rides. and i’m not your resident in this chat. i’m just a girl who likes movies and older men... and who is really, really into you right now
You were separating the roles so cleanly, drawing a line between the hospital and this private space. It was tempting, dangerously tempting.
Robby: you know it doesn’t work like that
we can’t just turn it off when the shift starts tomorrow
You: nah i’m pretty sure i can
Robby: No.
You: If we really can’t meet then we can do it over text, you know.
He stared at the screen trying to guess if you really meant what you were saying.
Robby: what do you mean?
You: sexting, duh
He let out a short breath, Jesus fuck you were actually gonna kill him tonight.
Robby: that’s basically the same thing.
You: no it’s not. technically we’re not doing anything if it’s just messages. no one has to know.
Robby rubbed a hand over his jaw, his mind was screaming at him to shut this down, but his fingers were already moving. He couldn’t believe he was actually considering to do this.
This was a terrible idea. What difference did it really make whether it was real sex, his hands on you, feeling your heat around him, or just describing it in detail over text messages? A line was still a line. One he had promised himself he wouldn’t cross again. He didn’t want this to end with you giving up your residency, transferring to another hospital, another city, once things inevitably fell apart.
But fuck, his cock was achingly hard, straining against the front of his pants like a caged animal that desperately needed to be freed. The thought of you right now, maybe lying in your bed in, pressing your thighs together, that sweet slick already soaking through your panties because of him… it made it impossible to think straight. He couldn’t leave you like that, so wet, so needy, aching for him.
Robby: what do you want me to say?
You: i don’t know… just say something hot. you’re goot at being hot
He hesitated, he wasn’t sure of what to say. He was scared of seeming naive and old school to you, but he wasn’t used to this whole… sexting thing. The most spicy exchange over texts had been insinuating pictures before asking someone to come over. Okay think Robby, if you can save someone’s life under extreme preassure then you can sext with a woman, just say something typical, he thought
Robby: who’s been a naughty girl?
The second he hit send he regretted it. He winced, already typing another message to backtrack when your reply came through.
You: lmao that was the best you’ve got?
Robby groaned out loud, dropping his head back against the couch.
Robby: forget it. i’m going to bed
You: nooo wait. let’s try again :(
He should’ve put the phone down. He really should’ve. Instead he waited to see if you had anything else to say.
You: you’re so good at giving orders and guiding me at work. maybe you could do that now too? tell me what to do
You were right, in theory. He was good at instructing, guiding, teaching. It came naturally to him to step into that mentoring role, he had always been the one others looked to for direction.
Robby: i feel stupid doing this.
You: pleeeease. i’ve always thought you were the kind of guy who talks people through it in bed. it’s the same here, just write it instead of saying it. tell me how you want me to touch myself
Your words hit him hard. He reread the message twice. He had never consciously thought about it before, but yes… that did sound exactly like him. Fragments of memory surfaced unbidden: the commanding tone he’d used with past partners, the way he’d instructed them. “Open your legs for me.” “Turn around.” “Look at me.” He remembered the way their breathing would change, the way they’d tremble under the weight of his voice and his hands.
Robby: you really want me to talk you through it, sweetheart?
You: yessss that was so much better. keep going
If anyone had asked you how it happened, you honestly wouldn’t have been able to explain it. You weren’t even sure yourself. One moment you were typing a slightly embarrassed apology to Robby for matching with him and the next, the conversation had taken a turn and you were the one demanding he sext you so you could get off. It was bold, stupidly reckless, and yet it felt inevitable.
Robby: good girl that’s exactly what I wanted to hear, i want you to get those pretty legs spread nice and wide for me, can you do that?
You whimpered softly and obeyed him instantly, letting your knees fall farther apart on the mattress. The cool air hit your exposed pussy making you shiver.
You: yes. they’re open
Robby: Perfect
i’d be on my knees between them right now if I could
run your fingers up the inside of your thighs for me slowly, feel how soft they are
As you trailed your free hand up one thigh, you imagined his callused palms and the scratch of his greying beard following the same path.
You: doing it… feels so good thinking about your hands instead.
Robby: that’s my girl
now slide two fingers through your pussy and ell me how wet you are for me
You did exactly as he says, gasping as two fingers glided easily through your slick heat. You were soaked, embarrassingly so, the wet sounds filling the quiet bedroom as you stroked yourself.
You: So wet… i’m dripping. all because of you.
Robby: fuck i knew you would be
i want you to circle your clit for me now
Do it slowly and imagine it’s my tongue instead, licking you just the way you need
i’d take my time, taste every inch of you
Your mons got louder, tipping your head back against the pillows as your fingers obeyed, traxing circles around your clit that sent sparks up your spine. In your mind, it was Robby’s mouth devouring you while his strong hands pinned your thighs down.
Robby: how does that feel, sweetheart? tell me
You: so good, i’m so sensitive. keep talking please
Robby: Good
now slide one finger inside that tight pussy, nice and deep
curl it up just like I would, searching for that spot that makes your legs shake
i’d be watching your face the whole time, telling you how beautiful you look spread open for me, how good you are for listening
When you pushed a finger inside yourself, you curled it upward as instructed to hit that sensitive spot while your other hand kept working your clit in circles.
Robby: add another finger and stretch yourself open
i’d be so much thicker than your fingers, but we’ll start like this
imagine me pumping them in and out while i rub your clit
Adding a second finger, you continued fucking yourself to the rhythm of his words on the screen. It was not enough, it was nowhere near enough to calm the hunger and desperation that was threatening to consume your whole being. You knew nothing would be enough, only feeling him inside of you.
You: wish it was you inside me. can’t get off like this. i need you robby please
Robby: you were the one who told me to do this
You: i know i did. but it’s not enough
send me your address
He was tempted, so tempted that for one second his fingers almost started typing on an impulse. But the reality crashed back in immediately. The risks, the morning after, the way he’d have to look at you during rounds, knowing what you’d done. He was rock hard and aching for you, but the responsible part of him still refused to crumble completely.
Robby: what for?
you’re not seriously thinking about coming over right now, are you?
You: robby i’m literally only like 2 miles away from you. are you dtf? not as dr. robinavitch and his resident, but as two adults who casually matched on tinder tonight. there’s no title or hospital here. it’s just us.
Two miles. You were so close. He stared at your message, feeling his heart slamming against his ribs. His cock gave another insistent throb, the head already leaking a little against his underwear. The thought of you actually coming over, right now, in the middle of the night, made his mouth go dry.
Robby: Send me your address and I’ll order you a ride.
You sent your address a moment later. It really was only two miles away. He confirmed the ride, watching the estimated arrival time tick down. Fifteen minutes… only fifteen minutes until you’d be at his door.
You: this is exactly what i meant earlier about older guys. so much more gentlemanly. taking care of the details instead of just telling me to get there
You had no time to get ready, and honestly, you didn’t care. Makeup? Hair? None of that mattered when you were this desperate, this aching for him. You climbed out of bed still wearing the thin tank top and soft sleep shorts you’d worn to bed, and threw an oversized jacket over everything, one that swallowed most of your body and made you look far more put-together than you actually felt.
Your hands were shaking as you grabbed your keys and phone. The rideshare arrived sooner than you expected. The drive across the city felt both endless and far too short, but eventually the car pulled up outside his building.
You stood on the sidewalk for a second, staring up at the apartment complex, suddenly hit with the full weight of what you were doing, showing up at your attending’s door in the middle of the night, soaked and trembling with need, because a stupid Tinder match had spiraled completely out of control.
But you didn’t hesitate for long, you took a deep breath, pulled the jacket tighter around yourself, walked toward his door and knocked on it.
Robby opened it right away. He didn’t say a word, the second you were in reach, you had one of his strong hands cupping the back of your neck as he pulled you into a kiss. It was electric to say the least. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that stole your breath. His beard was scraping deliciously against your skin as he moved his lips with experienced urgency. You melt into it instantly, fisting your hands in his shirt, tasting the pure, overwhelming taste of him. Finally. Here he was, kissing you like he’d been starving for it just as much as you had.
He kicked the door shut behind him without breaking the kiss, wrapping his other arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his taller frame. You felt the warmth of his hands roaming everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, squeezing the curve of your ass through the fabric of your shorts. In your mouth, he groaned, making a vibrating sound that went through you as he explored every inch he could reach, like he was memorizing the feel of you.
Your breasts were the next to get his attention, he was cupping them with his big hands through your tank top, brushing his thumb over your already hard nipple, while he tangles his other hand in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.
You pulled back just enough to gasp against his lips, “It took you long enough.”
Robby chuckled, the sound coming out breathless. “Took you long enough. You have any idea what it’s like waiting twenty minutes for you with a hard-on?” He pressed you closer, letting you feel the thick and insistent bulge against your stomach.
As if they had a mind of their own, his hands couldn’t stop moving, squeezing, caressing, claiming, running down your back, over your thighs, everywhere he’d fantasized about touching. Before you could respond, he bent slightly and lifted you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively.
The strength in his arms, the way his broad chest felt against you, sent a fresh rush of heat between your legs. He carried you through the house with purposeful strides. The door to your room swung open and he layed you gently on the bed, climbing on top of you immediately until his full weight pressing you deliciously into the mattress.
The kissing resumed instantly, slower now but no less intense. Robby’s mouth was moving from your lips to your neck, sucking lightly and scratching you with his beard in the most perfect way. Now his hands got bolder, continuing their exploration but this time sliding under your tank top, pressing his palms against your bare skin. He lifted the fabric higher, exposing your breasts to the cool air of the room.
“Fuck,” Robby groaned, and maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you, but you could see his soft brown eyes turning darker as he stared down at you. “Look at you. These tits… so perfect. So fucking pretty.” His voice was rough with want, the same commanding tone. He cupped them reverently, as if they were something precious, circling your nipples until they pebbled tighter under his touch. “They’re made for my hands. For my mouth.”
He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking it gently at first, then harder, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak. The wet touch of his tongue made you arch into him with a moan, threading your fingers through his hair as he kept lavishing attention on your breasts.
From one side to the other, Robby switched sides, licking and sucking the other while his hand massaged the first, rolling the nipple between his fingers. The dual sensation, the tingly heat of his mouth and the firm squeeze of his callused hand, had you writhing beneath him, making you so wet you were soaking through your shorts.
The humming of his mouth against your skin sends sparks straight to your core. “So responsive,” he murmured, switching back to the first breast and sucking it harder than before. “These tits are going to ruin me. I could spend hours right here.” Sliding his free hand down your side, Robby gripped your hip possessively, continuing with the worshipping of your chest, licking broad stripes, sucking marks into the soft flesh, massaging and kneading until he had you panting and grinding up against the hard line of his cock through his pants.
The age difference between you only heightened everything, his experience was showing in every skilled touch, in every perfect flick of his tongue. He was being patient but hungry, like he’d been holding back for far too long. You could feel how hard he was, he was making you feel it, pressing insistently against your thigh. The knowledge that you did this to him made you even wetter.
Robby lifts his head briefly to lock his eyes on yours. His lips were swollen and his beard slightly damp with his saliva. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, but his hands never stopped, squeezing and caressing, teasing your sensitive nipples with his thumbs as he waited for your answer.
You shook your head, pulling him back down. You’d rather die than stop right now. “Don’t stop. Please.”
His mouth trailed a hot path down your sternum, over your stomach, scraping you teasinglywith his beard against your skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His hands followed strong, sliding down your sides and gripping your hips as he settled between your spread thighs. The weight of him, the sheer size and presence of this man, made your core clench with anticipation.
“These shorts have been teasing me since you walked in,” he murmured with the same steady tone he used in the pitt, but now turned intimate and commanding. Robby hooked his fingers into the waistband and slowly peeled them down your legs, taking his time as he revealed more of you. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart. Good girl.”
You obeyed instantly, lifting your hips so he could slide the fabric off completely, leaving you in just your thin panties and the tank top. Robby smoothed his hands up your thighs, spreading them wider with gentle but firm pressure. “Keep your legs open like that,” he instructed you. “Nice and wide for me. Don’t close them unless I tell you to.”
You were already moaning softly, and he wasn’t even touching your core yet. Robby dropped his eyes to the damp spot on your panties, making the fabric cling to your pussy lips, and he let out a groan of desire and hunger. He cupped you over the fabric with one hand, pressing his palm firmly against your heated pussy while his thumb found your clit through the material and began rubbing slow circles.
“Oh god,” you moaned, twitching up your hips into his touch, seeking more of the contact. The friction was simply perfect, it was teasing, and it kept building higher and higher. Robby’s callused thumb was applying just the right pressure on your swollen nub.
He watched your face intently through his hooded and lustful eyes as he worked you higher. “Feel good?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady even as his own breathing grew heavier. “You’re so wet already. Soaking through these panties for me. That’s it… rock against my hand, sweetheart. Show me how much you need this.”
Your moans only grew louder and more unrestrained, as he kept rubbing your clit with precision. The fabric added a delicious layer of friction, and every circle sent sparks shooting up your body. He got you gripping the sheets, your thighs already trembling as you fought the urge to close them around his hand.
Robby leaned down to kiss the inside of one thigh, scratching your skin deliciously. “You want my mouth? Want me to taste this pretty pussy? You gonna wrap these gorgeous legs around my neck while I do it?”
“Yes,” you gasped, nodding frantically. “Please, Robby. I need it.”
He hooked his fingers into your panties and tugged them down slowly, revealing your glistening, bare pussy to his hungry gaze. “Fuck… look at you. So wet and perfect.” He kissed along your inner thighs, taking his time, brushing his lips and beard against the sensitive skin as he worked his way closer. “Wrap them around me, sweetheart. Lock your ankles behind my head if you need to. I want to feel you holding me right where I belong.”
You did exactly as he said, wrapping your legs around his broad shoulders and pressing your heels into his upper back. The position left you completely open to him, vulnerable and exposed. Robby groaned, the sound vibrating against your core as he finally leaned in.
The first lick of his tongue was broad and slow, dragging from your entrance up to your puffy clit. The sensation was overwhelming, and it made you cry out loudly, threading your fingers into his greying hair as he began to devour you with the same intensity he brought to every procedure at work. He licked and sucked with precision, alternating between long and flat strokes to tight and quick circles around your clit.
His beard was scratching your inner thighs and outer lips in the most delicious way, adding a kind of texture that made your toes curl. “Robby… Oh fuck, that feels so good,” you moaned, rolling your hips against his mouth.
He hummed in response, pulling back with his lips glistening with your arousal just so he could speak to you. “Tell me how it feels, sweetheart. I want to hear it.”
“So good… your tongue—oh god, your mouth, Robby. It’s driving me crazy. Don’t stop, please.”
“You’re being so good for me,” he praised, diving back in to suck your clit into his mouth, flicking it rapidly while applying suction with his lips.
Before you could register it, he teased your entrance with two thick fingers, slowly sliding them inside you, letting your own greedy hole swallow them. Once he curled them upward to find that perfect spot, the sensation had you moaning loudly and arching off the bed.
Robby pumped his fingers steadily, matching the rhythm of his tongue with his digits. A few moments later, he stopped again briefly, looking up at you with lust-filled eyes and shiny lips. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. Spread open for me, taking my fingers so well. This pussy is perfect, made for me. Keep moaning for me. Let me hear how much you love my mouth on you.”
You obeyed, your moans spilling freely as he returned to his task with renewed hunger. The pleasure built fast and faster, making your thighs tremble around his head and your feet dig into his back as you held him exactly where you needed him. Robby gripped your hip with his free hand, holding you steadily while he worked you closer and closer to the edge with expert skill. Every command, every praise, every flick of his tongue pushed you higher.
Robby didn’t relent, he kept his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking with rhythmic pressure, devouring you like a man starved. “Robby—oh fuck, yes!” The pleasure was overwhelming, every single nerve ending in your body was alight as he worked you higher.
“Keep those legs open for me, sweetheart,” he growled against your clit. “Don’t you dare close them. I want to feel you squeezing around my fingers while I eat this pretty pussy.” He added a third finger slowly, stretching you wider, the burn blending perfectly with the pleasure. “That’s it… take three for me. Feel how full you are? You’re doing so well. Such a good girl taking everything I give you.”
The wet sounds of his fingers plunging into your dripping pussy and his mouth sucking hungrily on your clit filled the air. You were soaking his beard, his chin, his wrist, but he didn’t care. Robby slid a hand under you, grabbing a firm handful of your ass and lifting your hips slightly off the bed. The new angle let him bury his face even deeper, working your clit with more precision while he fingerfucked you harder. “Just like that,” he praised you between licks. “Grind on my tongue, baby. Use my mouth. Show me how bad you need to come.”
You obeyed helplessly once again, rolling your hips and bucking them against him as the coil in your belly tightened unbearably. The pleasure built in powerful waves until your thighs started to shake violently around his head. Robby kept talking you through it, pushing you closer to the edge.
“You’re getting so close, aren’t you? I can feel this tight pussy clenching around my fingers. Come on, let go. Cum all over my tongue. I want to taste it. I want to feel you fall apart for me.”
The orgasm crashed over you with blinding intensity, making your back bow off the bed, a loud and broken cry tearing from your throat as your pussy spasmed hard around his digits. Your thighs were squeezing his head tightly, your heels digging into his back as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you. Robby didn’t stop though, he kept sucking your clit through the peak, curling and thrusting his fingers to draw out every last shudder.
You came harder than you ever had. So hard that your vision went white for a moment as the pleasure bordered on overwhelming. Your moans turned into whimpers as the orgasm slowly ebbed, leaving you limp and gasping on the bed.
Robby finally eased back, gently lowering your hips and kissing softly along your inner thighs. He looked up at you with dark and satisfied eyes. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “So beautiful when you cum for me.”
You lay there panting, your thighs were still twitching, completely wrecked and already aching for more of him. Robby climbed back up your body, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue. He was so close that his hard cock was pressing insistently against your thigh through his pants.
“That was… amazing,” you whisper with your voice hoarse from moaning. “So much better than I ever imagined.”
Robby chuckled softly, the sound warm and genuine against your neck as he pressed a kiss there. “Yeah? Better than your hand?” His eyes were sparkling with lust.
You laughed breathlessly, nodding. “So much better. Your mouth… God, Robby. I’ve never felt anything like that.”
He hummed in satisfaction, grinding his still-clothed erection slowly against your bare, sensitive pussy. The thick ridge of his cock was being pressed perfectly against your clit, giving him some much needed relief while teasing you both. “I loved doing that for you,” he murmured. “You were so good for me, sweetheart. So responsive, so wet. The way you moaned my name and squeezed my head with those pretty thighs… fuck, you have no idea what you do to me.”
Robby rolled his hips deliberately, the friction making you whimper and arch up into him. You could feel how achingly hard he was and how much he’d been holding back. You slid up your hands down his chest, feeling the soft flesh beneath his shirt.
“I want you,” you breathed, looking up at him with need. “Please, Robby.”
He stilled for a moment, as if to pulling himself together. “Tell me what you want. Be specific.”
You bit your lip, feeling the warmth invade your cheeks. “Your cock. I want you to fuck me. I need you inside me.”
Robby let out a groan, sitting back on his knees between your spread thighs. He reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, drawing out the anticipation. You sit up slightly, eager to help, moving your fingers to tug his pants down along with his underwear.
“I’ve been dying to see you,” you confessed as you pulled his pants down his hips. He caught your wrists before you could push his boxers down.
Robby looked almost nervous, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Wait… I, uh—” He cleared his throat, flicking his eyes away for a second. “I haven’t trimmed down there in a while. This whole night was… unexpected. I would’ve cleaned up if I’d known we were gonna end up here.”
He said it like it was something to be embarrassed about. Like it might actually make you want him less. It made you soft, you cupped his jaw, turning his face back to yours.
“Robby. Do you honestly think I give a damn about that? It’s just hair.”
He let out a self-conscious breath, still looking a little defensive. “I know. I know it’s just hair. It’s just… it’s probably a fucking jungle down there right now. You don’t have to— I mean, you don’t have to do anything if it’s too much.”
The way he was trying to give you an out was almost painfully endearing. You shook your head. “Just let me see you,” you whispered.
You slid his boxers down his thighs and freed his cock, it sprang out, thick and hard, the head flushed in a dark red with arousal. It was beautiful, so long, girthy, with a slight upward curve, prominent veins running along the shaft. Exactly like he’d warned, there was a thick, dark mat of coarse hair at the base, dense and untrimmed. He looked completely natural, it was so him, deeply masculine and unpolished.
A fresh rush of wetness slipped down your inner thighs. Your fingers twitched with the need to touch him there.
You looked up at him through your lashes “I love it,” you slowly carded your fingers through the thick hair at the base of his member. “You look so fucking hot like this. I like every single inch of you.”
Robby’s whole body shivered under your touch. “God…” he rasped as he stared down at you. “You’re gonna kill me tonight.”
Almost with instinct, you wrapped your hand around it, stroking the shaft slowly from base to tip, feeling the heat and weight of his member.
Robby hissed in pleasure, twitching his hips forward into your grip as he watched your hand move up and down his cock. “Fuck, your hand feels good,” he groaned, letting you stroke him for a while, savoring the sight of your smaller hand working his thick length, making a bead of precum leak from the tip.
After a few moments, he gently stopped you, wrapping his fingers around your wrist. “Lay back down for me, sweetheart. Keep those legs open nice and wide. Just like before.”
You obeyed, lying back against the pillows and spreading your thighs for him. Robby reached over toward the nightstand, stretching one arm past you as he pulled open the top drawer. He rummaged through it for a few seconds, before his hand closed around what he was looking for.
A moment later he sat back, a condom held between his fingers. He held it up, searching for your eyes with his. “I’ve got this if you want me to wear it.”
You shook your head, reaching up to touch his arm. “No. I want you bare. I’m on the pill.”
You both knew it might not have been the smartest option, doing it raw, with nothing between you. But there was a deep, unspoken trust between the two of you, forged through long shifts, that made you feel safe. And in that moment, that trust felt solid enough to lean on.
The hunger that had taken over both of you made anything else almost unbearable. The need to feel each other completely bare, skin on skin, heat on heat, with nothing separating you, was overwhelming.
“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.” He tossed the condom aside, leaning down to kiss you deeply again. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” you whispered against his lips. “I want to feel all of you.”
He groaned, positioning himself between your legs and nudging the thick head of his cock against your slick entrance. The anticipation felt electric, this was the culmination of over a year of longing, of hours of texts, and now all that was left was this desperate connection. Robby gripped your thighs, spreading you wider as he looked down at you with hunger.
The night is only beginning, and the way he’s looking at you promises he’s going to take his time ruining you in the best possible way.
As his cockhead was being rubbed up and down your folds, teasing your clit with every pass, coating itself with your juices, the sensation felt maddening, promising everything you’d fantasized about for so long. You whimpered, twitching your hips up instinctively to chase more contact.
“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” Robby commanded you softly, the same authoritative tone that had guided you through countless procedures was now guiding you through this. He cupped your chin gently, tilting your face so your gazes locked. “Keep looking at me the whole time. I want to see you while I fuck you.”
You nodded shakily, unable to look away even if you wanted to. Robby continued rubbing the head of his cock against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness, drawing out the anticipation until you were squirming beneath him.
“That’s it,” he whispered against your mouth. “So wet for me already. This pussy is going to take me so well. Breathe for me, relax and let me in.” He pressed forward slowly, breaching your entrance with only the tip. The stretch was immediate and intense, opening you up inch by inch as he sank deeper. Your mouth fell open in a silent moan, but you forced your eyes open, locking them on his as he watched every flicker of pleasure cross your face.
“Easy, baby,” he cooed, stroking your thigh soothingly while the other braced beside your head. “You’re doing so good. Feel how you’re stretching around me? So tight and warm… fuck, you feel incredible.”
You moaned loudly as he continued sliding in, the deliberate thrust filling you completely until he was buried to the hilt, until his hips were flushed against yours. The fullness was overwhelming, his thick cock stretching your walls like nobody had stretched you before, pressing against every sensitive spot inside you.
Robby stayed still for a moment buried deep, resting his forehead against yours as he looked straight into your eyes. “There you go. All the way in. You took every inch.” He started to thrust with deep rolls of his hips that drag his cock along your walls with exquisite friction. “Wrap your legs around me. Hold me close while I fuck you.”
You did as he said, locking your legs around his waist and digging your heels into his lower back. The new angle let him sink even deeper, and you cried out in pleasure, digging your nails into his shoulders. Robby kept talking you through it, just like he knew you liked.
“That’s my girl. Feel that? I’m hitting that spot inside you, huh?” He angled his hips slightly, grinding deep on every stroke. Robby slid one hand up to cup and squeeze your breast, rolling your nipple as he thrusted harder.
Robby moved his hand from your breast to cup your chin. His grip was gentle enough not to hurt, yet firm enough that you felt every one of his fingers pressing against the bones of your jaw. “Look at me. Don’t look away. I want to see how good my cock feels inside this tight pussy.” He tilted your face up and held it there, leaving you no choice but to meet his eyes.
And God… what a glorious sight he was. This handsome man, with his face flushed, his brow glistening with sweat, devouring you with his gaze as he kept driving his cock into you.
His face was only inches from yours, and he kept fucking you in long strokes while he held your chin like that, as if he were starving for every single expression that crossed your face. He loved watching the way pleasure wrecked you. The way your lips parted around helpless moans, the way you bit down on your lower lip only for it to slip free again with a broken sound. The way your eyes went glassy and pleading, silently begging him for more even as your body trembled around his cock. He drank it all in like a man who had been thirsty for years.
With his free hand, he gripped your waist, holding you in place so he could drive into you with more power. Every slide of his cock stretched you perfectly, dragging the fat tip along your g-spot like that was what it was made for.
“Robby—oh god, yes!” You moaned loudly, raising your hips to meet his thrust and tightening your legs around him. Your tits were bouncing with every powerful stroke, and he leaned down to suck one nipple into his mouth again, flicking his tongue as he continued fucking you.
“You feel so good,” he groaned against your skin, switching to the other breast. “So tight and wet around me. This pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it? Taking me so deep.” His hand on your waist slid down to grip your ass, lifting your hips slightly to change the angle as he thrusted harder. “Lift your legs higher for me, sweetheart,” he said against your neck,kissing and nipping the sensitive skin there. Ronny held the back of your thigh, helping guide your leg up. “That’s it… over my shoulder. Let me get deeper.”
You whimpered as he assisted you, hooking your leg over his shoulder. He did the same with the other, folding you nearly in half beneath him. The new angle allowed him to sink impossibly deeper, until he was pressing the head firmly against that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, grinding against your g-spot relentlessly.
“Fuck—Robby, it’s so deep like this,” you moaned, fluttering your eyes shut for just a moment as the intense sensation washed over you.
“Ah-ah-ah,” he chided gently but firmly, cupping your jaw with his hand to tilt your face back to his. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. Keep them open. I want to watch you while I fuck you like this. Don’t look away.”
You forced your eyes open, locking onto his hungry gaze as he continued hammering into you. The eye contact made everything more intimate and overwhelming. The feeling of his hand leavinf your jaw and sliding down between your bodies made you shiver. Robby found your swollen clit and began rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts.
The combined stimulation was devastating. The pleasure was burning higher in your core, so close to finally exploding. Your body was arching and squirming beneath his frame as you scratched down his back and trembled over his shoulders. Every thrust, every rub of his fingers on your clit, every moan and grunt that escaped his mouth pushed you closer to the edge.
“That’s it,” Robby groaned, never removing his sight from yours. “Look at you taking my cock so deep. You’re getting close again, aren’t you? I can feel it. Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you cum all over my cock. Keep your eyes on me when you do.”
You bowed your back off the bed as your climax took over your body. A loud cry tore from your throat as your pussy clenched rhythmically around his length. Your thighs shook violently over his shoulders and you dug your nails harder into his back when the waves of pleasure crashed through you. Robby sekpt thrusting through it, drawing out your orgasm with deep strokes and continued pressure on your clit.
“You look so beautiful when you cum for me… that’s it, sweetheart. Give it all to me. You’re being so good.”
By the time he finally slowed and gently pulled out of you, you were still trembling and gasping. Robby layed back on the bed beside you, with his cock hard and glistening with your release. “Come here, baby,” he said. “Get on top. I want to watch you ride me.”
He helped you shift positions, gripping your hips firmly to guide you as you straddled him. “Easy, sweetheart. Take your time… that’s it. Feel me right there? Let me watch you take every inch.”
You positioned the head at your slick entrance and began to sink down, inch by inch. The stretch was intense all over again, his girth opening you up as you lowered yourself onto him. Robby kept his hands still on your hips to steady you, stroking your skin soothingly while watching every expression on your face.
“Fuck, look at that,” he groaned. “You’re doing so well. Keep going… take a little more. Feel how full you are?”
Louder moans left your mouth as you sank lower, the fullness was overwhelming in the best way. Bracing your hands on his broad chest for balance, you finally took him to the hilt, resting your ass against his thighs. Robby squeezed your hips encouragingly. “Ride me. Roll your hips like that… yes, just like that.”
Whn you started moving, rolling, and grinding your hips in a steady rhythm, the pleasure built quickly. His cock was dragging along your walls as you found a rhythm that made your tits bounce and your clit grind against his pelvis.
Robby kept moving his eyes are everywhere, watching where your pussy stretched around his shaft, sliding up to your bouncing breasts, then locking onto your face. He reaches up with both hands, cupping your tits and rolling your nipples as you ride him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful. You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Keep going… faster if you want. Take what you need from me.”
Without a word, you grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged it upward. He sat up just enough to help you pull it off, and the second the fabric cleared his head, your hands were on him.
God, you loved his body. Your moved your palm slowly over his chest, feeling the coarse hair and the thud of his heart beneath your fingertips. You dragged your hands lower, mapping the soft, rounded curve of his belly with desire. It turned you on more than any gym-honed torso ever could. As you pressed your palms into the softness, your fingers dag in gently. Then you smoothed your hands over it again and again, savoring the way it yielded under your touch.
You were mumbling praises and moans between gasps, completely lost in the sensation. “Robby… you feel so good… so deep… fuck, I love your cock inside me…”
At one point, Robby planted his feet firmly on the bed, bent his knees, and started thrusting up to meet you. The change felt devastating, he was now fucking you from below with powerful strokes that made you cry out loudly as he droveinto you.
The slap of skin on skin grew louder when the slamming into you intensified. “Fuck—Robby!” you moaned, letting your head fall back as the pleasure overwhelmed you.
“Eyes on me if you can, sweetheart,” he growled, moving his fingers down to rub your clit again. “I’m getting close. You feel too good. You’re gonna make me cum.”
You were a moaning and squirming mess on top of him, riding and grinding as he thrusted up harder. His fingers on your clit and his cock hitting deep pushed you toward another peak, but it was his impending orgasm that had you focused on him.
“I’m gonna cum,” he groaned, snapping his hips up faster. “Fuck—can I cum inside you? Please, I want to fill you up.”
“Yes,” you gasped, riding him desperately. “Cum inside me, Robby. I want it. Fill me up. Please—”
With a deep groan, Robby thrusted up hard one last time and came, pulsing nside you, flooding your pussy with thick and warm ropes of cum. He held you down on him, gripping your hips tightly as he emptied himself completely. The feeling of him cumming inside you, fully claiming you, triggered your own smaller orgasm, making your walls clench rhythmically around his pulsing cock.
You both stayed locked together, panting. Robby stroked your back and thighs as you came down from the high befor pulling you down against his chest, kissing your forehead, keeping his cock still buried deep inside you as his release slowly leaked out around him, so much that you could feel the hot nd sticky evidence of his climax.
There were no more walls, just the two of you, finally giving in to everything you’ve both wanted and repressed for so long. You stayed draped on top of Robby for a long stretch of time, both of you catching your breath as the intensity slowly ebbed. Eventually, you lifted your head and looked at him. “That was… amazing. I wouldn’t even have dreamed that it’d be that good.”
He hummed in agreement, continuing his soothing path along your back. “It was. Better than I let myself imagine. You felt perfect.”
The praise made a warm feeling bloom in your chest. After a few more quiet moments, Robby gently helped you sit up, easing you off his cock with a shared sigh. You both winced slightly at the loss of connection and the feeling of emptiness, but he pulled you down beside him on the bed, wrapping his arms around you again as you cuddled into his side.
“So… you don’t regret it, do you?”
He met your eyes as a small smile began tugging at his lips beneath the beard. “Right now? I can’t regret having amazing sex with you. My mind is still somewhere up in the clouds.” He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow when reality hits, but tonight… no regrets.”
You nestled closer, throwing one leg over his. The cuddling felt easy, natural, like you’d been doing this for years. For tonight, the outside world, the hospital, the guilt, the what ifs didn’t exist. There was only the two of you, and Robby might be right about reality hitting tomorrow, but right now, in the darkness of his room, everything felt right.
A/N: Two attempts at posting this fic, and two times Tumblr’s stupid AI mistakenly flagged it😭 I’ve spent days trying to figure out what was causing the problem and doing everything I could to finally get this fic posted for all of you. So if you’re reading this, it means it worked. Hopefully.
If you end up enjoying the fic, I’d really appreciate it if you could help me share it with a reblog (only if you enjoyed the fic) cause I’ve put a lot of work on it
Well, I hope you enjoyed this little something I worked on when inspiration finally struck me. I don’t know if I read it somewhere or if we all collectively decided it, but Robby absolutely feels like the type of guy who talks you through it. You’re telling me the man who spends all day teaching med students and residents how to do procedures wouldn’t also be guiding his girl in bed? It’s literally in his nature!!! This TikTok also got me inspired because, yes, he absolutely looks at you through it too.
I also think Robby’s canon texting style is weirdly inconsistent. In that scene in season one where he’s texting Jake, sometimes he starts messages with capital letters and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he ends sentences with a period, sometimes he doesn’t. In my head, he has perfect grammar but deliberately tries to sound Gen Z and chill when he’s texting someone younger than him lol. Anyway, I tried to replicate that here too.
Thank you all so much for your patience. I really appreciate it, and I hope I can stick around for good this time🩷
Pairing(s): Spencer Reid x Reader (Jennifer Jareau x Will LaMontagne)
Word Count: 4444 words 😳
Warnings: NSFW, alcohol, smut, fingering, thigh fucking, biting, Spencer mentions marriage, oral (f!receiving), swearing...
A/N: Guys I didn't post/write for months and I've posted four fics and two drabbles in like two weeks?? Writing is hard. Anyway enjoy Spencer being a fucking loser.
Spencer is going to have a heart attack.
It's Derek's birthday; and as such, he has made a request for a night at the bar with the team and friends and nothing at all to worry about for the entire night. But your plans don't seem to reflect that last sentiment because you have caused Spencer nothing but unimaginable pain and agony.
Well, not really. But he was ready for a nice and easy night with friends, then here you come along with nothing but sheer audacity and a tiny skirt that hardly covers much of your thighs at all! They just look so smooth and so soft and ready to be adored by him. But he can't because he has to keep his hands to himself. Which is ridiculous! Here you are, looking as pretty and lovely as you do, and he can't do anything to justify that.
“Spence?”
Nevertheless, he must endure.
“Hello? Anybody up there?”
“Oh. Oh! Yeah, sorry,” he clears his throat quickly and forces himself to keep his eyes firmly trained on your eyes and your smile and anything that doesn't make him seem like a weirdo horny perv that stops functioning any time he sees a nice pair of legs.
Or rather, just your nice pair of legs.
The both of you manage to make it to the bar, without Spencer spontaneously combusting into a million different flustered pieces, where you meet a pregamed Derek, Penelope, and Emily.
Your amassed group orders a round of drinks for the table until even Hotch is a little pink in the ears. Spencer, who doesn't drink, is content cradling his scarcely-touched Pepsi and staring at you dancing with the girls (and Derek), a light sheen of sweat on your skin from the warmth and exertion. His eyes are stuck on you like a fly on honey, mesmerized by the way you move and the way you laugh and the way you smile at him every time your gazes catch—which made him choke on nothing all over again and have to dodge the guys’ entirely unfunny callouts.
“So,” Rossi begins, a smug smirk poorly veiled behind a curious brow, “how goes it with you and lover girl?”
“Hm? Oh! Ah—It goes well. Yes, we're doing great,” Spencer smiles, busying himself wiping his napkin down the side of his glass to collect the condensation. “In fact, just the other day we were talking about moving in together.”
“Oh, I know all about that,” Rossi nods, his face playfully taking on a wise persona. “Let me know if you need any advice about the perils of living with a woman.”
“And tell me, Dave, which wife are you on?” Aaron's voice is teasing, more lilts in it than usual with the shots that have loosened his tie.
“None,” he says, quite matter-of-factly. If he'd been any clearer, he'd be wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and delivering a hefty sigh. Dodging bullets left and right, he'd say.
“And that's why you probably shouldn't listen to him, Spencer,” Will chuckles lightly.
“That, and the fact that you'd get dropped faster than a time bomb if you ever took his advice with me,” you say as you come up to the table with a smile and skin lightly flushed with warmth and sweat. You catch your breath in quiet puffs, your hand on Spencer's shoulder. He doesn't even flinch, just looks up at you like you're made of diamond.
“I'd never,” Spencer says, a little too genuine for Rossi’s taste.
“I'll have you know, you don't marry as many women as I have without knowing a thing or two about how to make them happy.” He's grumbling like a grandparent who no longer gets taken seriously, the senile old grandfather who went to war and came back a little crazy.
You chuckle, “And you don't divorce as many as you have without knowing a thing or two about how to infuriate us.”
The boys are laughing, even Derek and JJ, who'd come back for a quick drink.
“I didn't know we were frying Dave, is it my turn?” JJ wonders, long hair falling in front of her face as she guides it back to see. Her skin is pink from exercising beneath Will’s gentle hand on her arm, rubbing up and down.
Rossi wags his finger at you, shaking his head with a teasing glint in his eyes. “See, I always knew I didn't like you.”
You laugh, your hand rubbing gentle circles on Spencer's shoulder blade. He's losing his mind sitting there, your bare thigh pressing into his arm just from you standing so close, your hand on his back warm and soothing. He just stares at his soda to maintain whatever sanity and/or dignity he has left.
“Good thing it's not your birthday,” you smile gleefully. Rossi cracks up, saluting you and Derek with his drink.
“Okay, my turn!” JJ exclaims, eager to get her fill of Rossi burns in as she slides into Will’s side, his arm around her and his lips pressed into the side of her forehead.
Your voice would have startled him if he didn't find it so heavenly. It's a soft lull in his ear as you keep rubbing his back, even slower now as you bend down by his side. “Could you help me with something?” you ask, your voice so achingly genuine that he suspects nothing as he happily agrees with a gentle nod and lips slightly parted in wonder at looking at you.
You offer him your hand, and he takes it almost greedily, standing and following behind you like a puppy as you guide him away from the table and then the dance floor. When you find a dark spot away from prying eyes, you lift your hand to his chin. Your fingers barely brush the stubble beginning to form as you press your back into the wall and lift up on your toes.
Spencer isn't slow to understand what you want because he wants it all the time. He dips his head down quickly, swooping in to kiss you with all the adoration he can manage. Your lips lock together instantly, melding with his as he unconsciously steps into you to press you firmly into the wall. He's got one hand cradling your head and one hand holding your hip like a lifeline as you sigh into his lips.
He pulls away when he runs out of air, breaths mingling between you while you soak in the hunger radiating off of him.
“You've been staring at me all night,” you whisper, your lips so close that they brush every time you move.
“Sorry,” he pants, not sounding apologetic in the slightest.
You giggle. You're drunk on his kiss as you bounce up for another. “Don't be. I think it's hot.”
“Of course you'd find my suffering hot,” he shakes his head woefully, though he captures your lips once more.
“Suffering?” You laugh, throwing your arms over his shoulders to pull him even closer. “Whatever do you mean?”
His hand trails a bit lower, more out of instinct than anything else, as he brings your leg up his side. You hook it around him. “You know what I mean. You in this little skirt.” He makes this whining sound that makes you giggle—he sounds so dejected. “Drives me crazy, you know it does.”
“I know nothing of the sort.” You lift your leg slowly up his side, your skirt hiking slightly up your thigh in the process. He grabs it greedily and cranes his neck to capture your lips again. He sighs against your lips, pulling the smallest whine from you.
Spencer steps impossibly closer, pressing his body so close against you that you have no choice but to allow yourself to relax into him. His hand squeezes your thigh gently, and you can feel a hint of his growing bulge beginning to press into your lower stomach.
Your hands tangle in his hair, and you both become only more breathless as you find yourselves seeking the other out. He's so warm, and the plush of your thigh just feels so nice in his palm as he kneads it eagerly with the kind of greed they spoke of in the Bible.
You're nibbling on his bottom lip when you suddenly pull away, gasping lightly as your face suddenly shines in the dim hall. “I love this song!”
You take his hand, pulling him with you back to the crowd on the dance floor. You find Derek and Penelope, who find you just as quickly as you join them.
Penelope grabs your free hand, pulling you close with a giggly, bubbly laugh. “You're back, my precious girl!” You laugh happily as you dance with her, eventually joined by the other girls as the song plays in your bones.
Meanwhile, Spencer is completely flustered with red cheeks, scattered breath, and a raging hard-on he hopes no one sees.
Derek glances over, a knowing smirk on his lips as he takes in Spencer's dazed expression. “You alright there, pretty boy?”
He turns to Derek, nodding quickly with a harsh swallow. He looks down when you suddenly grab his hand, giving him an innocent look as you set it on your waist. His other hand finds refuge at the other side, he presses his body to your back. You lean into him, swaying your hips with his. Spencer leans into you, his nose buried in your hair where he inhales the scent of your shampoo.
Well…at least your body will hide his erection for now…
~
Spencer doesn't even let you fully step into the apartment before his hands are on your waist and he's got his head buried in the crook of your neck. He pulls your back into his chest just as he had on the dance floor, smothering your neck with lips and teeth and tongue. He kicks the door closed behind him without ever pulling away.
Spencer's back pushes roughly into the wall, knocking the air out of the both of you as you reach a hand up to tangle in his hair. His hands roam your sides eagerly, reaching down to squeeze a handful of ass beneath your skirt and pulling a deep moan from your throat.
“You've been driving me crazy all night,” he huffs, his voice strained with need. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
You're breathless as your bag falls to the floor. His lips are hungry against your neck, and your fingers scratching at his scalp is only encouragement. You sigh shallowly, heavy-eyed as you try to keep your knees from giving out against your desire.
“What, nothing to say now?” he asks, his hand beneath your skirt tracing the edges of your underwear teasingly—far too teasing for someone who claims to be as pent up as he does.
You lean into him, moving your hips back against the hard outline of his cock through his pants. He groans, the sound ending in a slight whimper as his fingers tighten against you. “Please,” is all you whisper.
Spencer's desperate when his hips buck into you, almost like he's not even aware he's doing it. He holds on tightly to you, one hand moving inward along your thigh before hooking around your panties. You gasp at the slightest brush of his knuckles against your folds. “Spencer,” you nearly whine. “Shit, need you.”
“I know, baby, I know,” he says roughly.
He moves your underwear to the side, gliding his fingers along the seam of your pussy to gather the slick beginning to form there. Your eyes close, your breath uneasy as you struggle even now to keep up.
His finger slips inside with ease, long and slender and so deep as your legs momentarily tremble. His arm around you holds you up, smiling against the side of your head breathlessly. “Good?”
“Mhhm, yeah,” you whine. “Yeah, m’good. Jus’ please don't stop.”
He kisses the side of your head, his finger working you with a need that is not lost on you. He laps greedily at the juncture of your neck, tasting your skin and your lotion and the salty taste of sweat brought on by the hot club and your dancing. He inhales a lungful of your perfume so it swirls in his head and makes him dizzy, makes it just a little more difficult to stand properly when his knees feel weak and he's getting so hard, it hurts.
When he buries his second finger inside of you to the knuckle, you think your legs might actually give out first. He wraps one arm tightly around you, holding you up and steady, as he thrusts his fingers in a steady in and out until your breath is thin and gasping.
“S-Spencer, right there.” He smiles against your cheek, continuing to shower you in kisses as you squeeze around his fingers.
When he changes tactics though, you're pretty sure he really is the only thing keeping you upright. The pad of his fingers press against that sweet spot inside of you, curling deep and slow and making you just a little light-headed with how rich the pleasure feels. It's like it's festering somewhere in your abdomen and spreading out along your thighs, your knees, then up into the rest of your body.
Your jaw goes slack when he focuses on that spot. His mouth is at your shoulder and the back of your neck and the spot just below your ear. It's hot and heavy, the kind of hot and heavy you see in those fast-paced scenes in TV shows where it's all breath and shaky cameras.
There's a sharp pull in your abdomen that is only accentuated by the wet sound of his fingers and their thrusting. “Right there,” you huff, firmer this time. “Th–oh, god.”
“There?” he murmurs in your ear, half-teasing.
“M-hm.”
“Right there?”
Without being told, he works his fingers harder again. He moves them fast without sacrificing the precise angle he's reached. Your knees bend, and you only register him hoisting you up more than you register yourself falling. “You're—Spence, you're gonna make me–”
He suckles at a sweet spot, using the palm of his hand to press into your clit.
It never takes long to reach that delicious peak with Spencer. He's too eager to have you falling about in his hands. Too happy to make you feel good to take his time in making you cum—at least the first time. The first one is always a special treat for him, one he takes with open arms and very skilled hands.
You cum around his fingers, clamping down on him with a moan too high and pitchy to not be questioned for fabrication. But he doesn't, because he knows you by now and he knows the difference between your genuine (pornstar-level) moans and the ones you regrettably fake when maybe you've been at it a little too much and your clit is numb with overuse.
He enjoys you coming apart on him, enjoys the small leak it brings when he's brushed that spot in you just right. He keeps at it until your shuddering body feels sharp with pleasure and you're pawing at his hand in a different way from pleading.
He pulls his fingers out of you, his breath just as heavy as yours from just coaxing and witnessing your release. You listen to the suckle of his lips around those same fingers he'd just had shoved inside of you and moan.
“Fuck, Spence,” you smile. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head, still mouthing at your shoulder. “Thank you.” He groans keenly when your hips push back against him.
“Lemme help you,” you whisper breathily. “I'll do whatever you want. My hand, my mouth, inside me?”
He shakes his head, though he's already rushing to undo his belt and free the poor erection caged in his slacks. His other hand is still pawing at your thigh like his own personal stress ball, kneading and squeezing it like dough.
“Need this,” he huffs. Your hand cards through his hair, finding a grip and holding him tight as you moan sigh. “Been thinking about it all night.” He pulls your ruined panties down your legs, taking your skirt with them and abandoning the mission the moment they've fallen, not caring to help you kick them off, as he's already focused on lifting your shirt over your head to see you bare.
You feel his dick pressing against your lower back, a heat against your skin. One of your hands reaches back to circle around him, stroking just a couple times and finding reward in his moans in your ear. You nod happily, “Whatever you want, baby.”
He takes a couple small steps back, taking your hips with you as you lean against the door. He slips easily between the space of your thighs, your arousal offering enough wetness for him as he nudges your legs. “Close them again. Yeah, just like that.”
You squeeze your thighs together, earning yourself a nice little sound from him as he revels in the way it feels to be hugged by your thighs. Spencer loves your thighs. He loves the occasions he gets to see you in short skirts and tiny shorts or wearing one of his shirts and nothing else in the comfort of your home or his.
They're just so soft, so nice to lay his head on, to perch his head between, to play with, to kiss, to fuck. He loves them. He loves on them every chance he gets. God forbid you're out together with the team and he's close enough to get to touch them at dinner or the bar or really anywhere that exists when he sits next to you. He's sure the team is sick of seeing it by now, but he doesn't have the ability to care less about it.
He thrusts his cock into the safety of your thighs, collecting more arousal seeping out of your pretty pussy with each pass. You clench and unclench your thighs in rhythm with his hips, moan in time with his moans. You wish you could see the look on his face, the pretty way his brows furrow, the precious way his lips part to suck more air in and fuel the pleasure flexing in his muscles.
It feels strangely good, being fucked without actually being fucked. His cock rubs happily against your pussy without ever going inside of you. The lewd sound of it dances around your ears. His hands hold you so tightly at your thighs to guide you back onto his hips. Your legs are shaking, and not just from the aftershocks of your orgasm still lingering there in your veins.
“You're wearing too much,” you say clumsily. Although the occasional cool press of his belt into your skin is intoxicating, you think you'd prefer to feel his skin on yours unhindered. And once he relents with no protest, you've only confirmed your belief. He goes straight back to the task at hand while you try your best to remove his shirt from his body while still turned away from him.
He fucks your thighs like it's your pussy, with the clapping sounds it erupts to prove it. You nearly lose your footing when he's stepping even farther away from the wall, forcing you to bend over just a bit more for a different angle.
And that angle works perfectly in your favor because when you feel the head of his cock rubbing against your clit with each thrust, you're a goner.
“D’s s’that,” you puff heavily, “feel good?”
He nods, his eyes closed almost pathetically as whimpers fall from his lips (pathetically). “Yeah. So good, angel. Always perfect f’me.”
You smile, the praise going straight to your head and making it cloudy and happy. It sticks like sap to your tongue until all you want to do is show him just how much you really appreciate him and his love for you (and your thighs). But you hold it in because, right now, the only way to show him how much you appreciate him is by holding still and letting him fuck your thighs until his poor little heart can't take it anymore and he keels over where he stands.
Of course, if he keels over, you'll scream, and it will be a whole ordeal that would probably have your poor little heart giving out, too. But that's besides the point.
The point is, Spencer's face is buried in your neck as he laves kisses into your skin. He's whimpering something about marrying you in your ear, more emphatically when you reach a hand back to card through his hair with the gentlest of yanks.
“Gonna marry you, then ‘m gonna keep you in bed forever so that I can keep making love to you forever,” he huffs, shuddering when you clench your thighs and rub them idly together around his cock, still pulsing and pumping there. “I'm never gonna let you leave. We'll only ever get out of bed so we can…oh, god, so we can fuck on every other piece of furniture in the house.”
Now, Spencer is not an advent cuss-er. He likes to keep his mouth clean, he feels more comfortable that way. But here with you? With your precious thighs quivering around him from standing on your toes so long just so he can reach, too tall to fit otherwise? With your body flush against his, aching to be closer still? With your breaths and your stray whines filling the space of the entrance to the apartment? He couldn't care less. He'd say filthier things than he's ever said in his life in this moment if only you asked him to.
“Where–” you're interrupted by a brief gasp in response to nothing in particular, “Where would you fuck me next?”
He makes this almost choked sound in your ear that has your head spinning. His hands squeeze at your thighs like they're simultaneously driving him mad and keeping him grounded. “I'd turn you around and…and fuck you against this door, so anyone passing by will know what we're doing in here.”
You barely stifle a groan at the idea of it. The creaking of the door fighting against Spencer's needy thrusts, the sound of footsteps faltering when they hear you squeak a moan or whimper his name, it all makes it really hard to think straight.
“And I'd have you in the kitchen and on the couch and—fuck, maybe even on the floor.” He mouths eagerly against your neck and shoulder, his pace faltering as his thrusts become shallow where his hips smack the backs of your thighs. "God, I'm so close.”
You're nodding too fast, whimpering where the flushed head of his cock is rubbing insistently at your clit. The warm, wet feeling of precum leaking from his tip makes the glide against your nerves that much more enticing. “Want you to…want you to cum, Spence. Please, baby, make me all messy for you.”
He hides in your neck but makes no move to stop or slow down. “S’too soon,” he complains weakly, cock jerking. “Just started, angel.”
You shake your head. “Want it. Please, honey.”
Your eyelashes flutter, the knot that had been slowly forming in your gut is close to completely snapping. “Whatever you want.” His jaw ticks, locked tight. “My pretty girl gets whatever she wants. Gonna s-spoil you tonight. Just you—fucking wait.”
His breath is hot against your skin where he's panting. You squeeze your thighs tightly together and cry out when Spencer's teeth sink themselves into your neck. The pleasure explodes at the same time as his own, the both of you moaning and crying out each other's names. Yours is much softer than his own, but the way he's whining and panting in your ear is making you hot.
He grinds himself greedily against you, a guttural moan choking him as your thighs flex and rub around his cock. Hot spurts of cum paint your thighs and the wet lips of your pussy. It dribbles down your legs in a lewd manner.
Spencer's pace slows. He breathes heavily on the crook of your neck, kisses apologies into your skin where his teeth have imprinted themselves. He catches his breath before he murmurs weakly in your ear. “Sorry.”
You smile lazily. “S’okay. It was hot.”
He shakes his head, groans. His body reluctantly steps away from yours. He sets his hands on your hips, turns you around and presses you back against the door to kiss you. Your hands find his shoulders as you breathe him in.
You feel his middle finger slide over your clit and whimper against his lips, your legs trembling. He almost whines, “M’sorry. Didn't mean to cum so fast, I just–”
You cut him off with another kiss. He's quickly distracted. “I love you.”
Those words soothe him. He smiles a little, nods his forehead against yours. He presses a quick kiss to your lips. “I love you, too.” He begins to kneel, holding you like you're something to be revered. To him, you are and more. “That’s why I'm gonna make you feel good.”
You watch him with lust-blown eyes, your breath uneven as your arousal spikes again. Spencer's lips kiss tenderly at your belly, dragging over your skin with the softest of touches. When his kisses trail down and find your mound, he pulls back to look at the mess he's made of you.
Your skin is sticky with his cum. He gazes in awe at the way it's continued to slide down your legs. Lifting one thigh over his shoulder, he leans in to kiss at him, tongue darting out to lick until he's too greedy and his tongue pressed flat against your skin to taste everything. The salt of sweat, the tang of his cum, the sweetness of your arousal. You're huffing above him as you try not to lose your senses at the sight of it.
He looks up at you after a moment, his eyes way too eager and adoring. You think he's going to say something as you card your fingers through the hair at the back of his head. He doesn't. Without a word, he delves into you like candy. He kisses and laps and sucks at your pussy with the happiest of moans. His tongue works you greedily, and you grasp at his hair as you throw your head back and try not to cry his name out too loud.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader
Word Count: 8.8k words
Warnings: NSFW, mentions of oral (f! and m!receiving), fingering, finger sucking, lots of praise, dirty talk, msub/fdom themes, "good boy", nipple play, men whimpering, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), creampie, some denial, talking Spencer through it, a good amount of religious imagery...
A/N: This is technically a sequel to "Only You" that can be read as a standalone. I started writing this almost immediately after that one, so that's how long this took me because writer's block hit me again. Hopefully I'll be back on my game for another spurt but this is what I have until then. Thanks and enjoy!
Spencer has fixed his hair sixteen times, adjusted his glasses twelve times, and brushed imaginary lint off his clothes seven times.
He doesn't remember the last time he's been this nervous. His hands are embarrassingly clammy, and he just hopes you don't open the door, take one look at him, and then decide you don't actually like him as much as you seemed to before.
Before…
God, he can still taste you on his tongue. He can still hear the way your sounds had filled the room, as sweet and musical as the song you were singing when he'd first seen you. He remembers how soft your skin was as his hands stroked your bare thighs. He remembers the way you sang his name like it was worth something. He remembers the way you smiled in the threshold of your dressing room, basking in the warm glow of the mirror’s light bulbs, the way your words had become a promise when you said, “I'll wait for you.”
“Hi, Spencer.”
Spencer is startled out of his thoughts by the sight of you in the doorway. You look up at him with pretty lashes that flutter like butterfly wings. Your face is clean and smiling, you're dressed in the loveliest set of pajamas (purple silk in his favorite color). You look like something from right out of his dreams. Like an angel blessing him with her presence in a form he can safely comprehend.
He forgot to respond.
“Hi. Hey.” He clears his throat, continues to stare wide-eyed at you as you try not to laugh at the look on his face. He's so pretty, so cute.
And he feels severely overdressed in his vest and tie.
“You get all dressed up for me?” you tease lightly, reaching a hand out to gingerly grab his tie. He almost forgets to keep breathing as you thumb the fabric.
If Spencer's skin isn't the brightest red known to man, he'll be completely and utterly shocked. His heart is a mess in his chest, and his skin is burning like summer heat. “Is it too much?” he murmurs nervously.
You shake your head, lightly tugging on his tie before you let it fall back to his chest. “Not at all.” You step aside, granting him his first look at your apartment, your home, a space so sacred to you that you're allowing him to impose on. Just looking at it feels like an invitation into Heaven itself.
“Come on, honey,” you hum.
Spencer holds his breath, bracing himself before he's lifting a foot to step into your home. The moment he's passed the threshold, he's enveloped in warmth and comfort and something sweet like sugar. He looks around in awe at everything—the pictures and paintings on your walls, the knick knacks and figurines on nearly every surface, the books and the binders, sheet music and bags and stray cups and the piano in the corner of the room.
“Are you hungry?” The door closes softly behind you, and he turns to watch you move through your space with a kind of grace and ease reserved for fairytale creatures.
Spencer nods dumbly. “Um, sure.”
He doesn't know where to put his hands. They war between clasping together, resting at his sides, fiddling, and looking for any excuse to move. He shuffles on his feet like he's afraid standing too long in one place will imprint his presence into the room and disrespect the oasis that is your home.
You give him a gentle smile, slowly making your way toward the bundle of nerves in your living room. You stop just a couple steps away from him, not wanting to invade his space and scare him off, and definitely not wanting him to think you're just trying to seduce him.
Spencer looks at you like he's stunned you would even get this close (despite having already been much closer just a couple days before). He almost holds his breath, afraid to sully you with that alone, but the scent of you (something like shea butter and lavender) is much too endearing to lose.
You raise your hands slowly, like he's an animal you don't want to scare, and set them gently on his shoulders. “Relax, honey.” Your voice is slow and gentle, a soothing thing that has him obeying before he even realizes it. “I won't bite.” You pause, take a split second to think, and then a little smirk curls the end of your lip. “Not unless you ask me to, anyway.”
His face is burning, his glasses fogging terribly. He's worried his cheeks look like two red apples waiting for you to take a bite out of them. (He wouldn't mind you taking a bite, now that he thinks about it.)
Spencer gulps as his heart hammers in his chest. You're attentive and charming. You dazzle him with nothing more than a glittery look in your eyes. He fingers the seams of his pants just so he's not so obvious when his nerves make him restless.
“I'm relaxed,” he says, entirely unconvincing and unconvinced.
You level him with a look that makes him shuffle on his feet. His breath catches in his throat when your hands slide slowly down his arms, tracing the fabric so tenderly that he's suddenly upset he chose to wear long sleeves, as you grab his hands in yours to hold. Your touch is so light that he almost thinks he's imagined it. Then you squeeze his hands once, never once breaking his gaze.
He can't bear the look away, no matter how intense it feels to look you in the eyes. Your eyes hold a spell that is utterly captivating; your cheeks are pillow-y soft and they look warm to touch; your lips, though slightly chapped, are the ones that have been at the center of his mind since he first saw you.
He imagines all the ways he's seen them move: the smooth flow of them when you sing, the gentle but defining way that they curve when you smile, the way they stretch and even tremble a bit when you moan his name and tug him closer by the heel of your foot in his back when you beg him for more. God, you're so pretty. Like the stars themselves in the form of a mortal human, ready to burst in a brilliant shining of light and energy.
You watch him watch you. He looks distracted in the most engrossed way possible. He takes in the sight of you like you’re something ethereal, and it’s making you feel some kind of way that’s going to drive you crazy. This man is capable of a devotion that would shake the Earth, and the idea of him applying that devotion to you is a dizzying one. You can already see him begging for you to let him in the attention he gives you. To the end of the world and back, if only you ask. Please just ask.
You tug on his hands a bit as you take a small step back. “C’mere.” He obediently follows, letting you lead him farther into the living room. You stop him in front of the sofa, replacing your hands at his shoulders and gently guiding him down to sit. He drops with a plop, his gaze never once breaking yours.
You step into the space between his legs, and he happily welcomes you. His hands, timid but earnest, find sweet refuge at the dip of your waist where they hold you like something precious. He forgets to breathe, chokes on the one stuck in his throat when your hands come to cradle his pink cheeks, thumbs stroking until he's covered in goosebumps.
You expect him to startle a little when you tilt his head back and lean in close. He doesn't. He thrusts forward until he's meeting you in the middle. There's no hesitation, no timidity—only a lack of discipline that comes with fervent adoration. He kisses you with too much affection, too much urgency, too much feeling. He's not particularly gentle; he's delightfully bruising, like he needs this to survive.
Your knee comes up to steady you, settling in the space between his thighs as you resist the overwhelming urge to fall into him. Your fingers card through the hair at the back of his head, fluffy curls getting tangled and tugged as your bodies gravitate closer.
When you pull back, he chases your lips. You smile, both of your breaths mingling in the tiny space between you as you catch them. Your thumbs stroke his cheeks again before reaching up to fix his glasses, which had been skewed by his enthusiasm. You see his kiss-swollen lips and his heat-kissed cheeks and stifle a fond giggle at the sight of him.
“Relax.” It's a close-lipped murmur. Your insides are molten, softened by Spencer's honest affection. You feel it as he does, releasing a breath that had been lodged somewhere in his chest. “I'll be right back, and then we can start the movie, yeah?”
He nods dumbly. “Yeah.”
You smile and stroke his cheek again with your thumb. Your eyes dart between his eyes and his lips, and he seems to plead for another kiss. “Wait here?”
Another nod. “Okay.”
You glance at his lips one more, and then plant another kiss—much softer, much shorter, something more related to compulsion than seduction. He's got really nice lips.
You step away from him, and his body mourns the loss of you, made cold and lonely by your absence. You let him go and make your way back into the kitchen. His eyes follow every move.
~
Spencer's been rambling. He's trying to stop, but you're tucked into his side like you're trying to mold your bodies together. You watch him speak without an ounce of annoyance or fatigue on your pretty face. Your hands hold one of his, stroking each finger and rubbing his palm like a feather. He can't bring himself to care too much about germs—he'd be honored to contract germs from you. You're warm where you're curled against him, and the scent of your perfume and your lotion and your shampoo tickle his senses until he feels like there's a high buzzing in his head.
Neither of you are paying too much attention to the movie. In fact, all of your attention is on him, and it's making his rambling worse. He talks and talks and talks, picking up whenever you tilt your head and stumbling over his words whenever you smile. He's sure his cheeks are a bright red by now, and the gleaming in your eyes only makes it worse.
“The reason the architecture of Notre Dame is so refined and aesthetically pleasing is because of the use of the Golden Ratio in the construction—also known as ‘sacred geometry’.”
You hum, dragging your knuckles slowly up his forearm. “Which is?” You blink twice, and he imagines butterfly wings flapping in the spring air.
He weakly clears his throat. “The Golden Ratio is a sophisticated kind of mathematics where the ratio between the height of the facade and its width must be as close as possible to the number phi—around 1.618.” His pushes his glasses back up his nose, “It's very likely you've seen it before, it's the mathematical symbol that looks like a swirl.”
You hum again, something akin to an understanding “oh”. His lips tug in a little smile.
“Notre Dame’s facade has a ratio of around 1.725, and it's actually classified as a ‘Golden Rectangle’. The Parthenon and Acropolis structures in Athens are great examples that are similar to this.”
You smile, something sparking in your eyes. “I've always wanted to visit Athens.” Your thumb softly kneads the pad of his middle finger. “It'd be really nice to explore all that architecture and try the food and learn the history. If I had a bucket list, it'd be on it.”
His chest feels warm. One of your thighs shifts, moving farther onto his lap. By now, they're almost draped over it, a warm and comforting weight that he wants to stroke with his palm. He's nervous about touching you, like he'll be doing something wrong if you don't give him permission first. His free hand stays awkwardly balled on his thigh.
“Have you ever been out of the country before?” His voice is gentler, the high of his rambling easing with every moment he spends just taking in the sight of you.
You nod. “Brazil, birthday trip. It was really fun!” The way you smile sends his pulse racing. “I got to go swimming at a really nice beach, and I got this beautiful picture of the sunset over the water.” Your eyes close, something soft and serene gracing your features.
Spencer's heart hiccups, and he launches into another tangent to distract from it. “You know, in many languages, there are specific words to describe the shine of light on water? The Irish word for it is ‘loinnir’. In Korean, it's ‘yunseul’. Turkish is ‘yakamoz’. The closest thing we have to that in English is…”
He trails off, swallowing thickly as the sound of his voice becomes so obvious and almost obnoxious in his head. When your head straightens up at his sudden silence, he speaks quietly, “Am I talking too much?”
Your brows knit together, and you look at him like you cannot believe what he just said. “Absolutely not.” A pleasantness returns to your lips. “You're lovely.” It's gentle, like a confession and a comfort all in one.
Something in him melts. He feels like he's filled with pools of warm honey. “Really?”
You close your hands around his, bringing it to your chest in an absent-minded way. “Of course.” It's too genuine. He can't breathe right. “What was that English word?”
It takes him a second too long to respond. “Sunglint or sunglitter.”
Another hum slips from you, and Spencer marvels at the way it blends so smoothly with the song swelling in the background. You go back to caressing his fingers. “That’s not too bad.”
He shakes his head. “No, it isn't.”
You break his gaze. Nothing but the gentle sound of a lonely voice singing a hopeful motif is heard.
Suddenly an angel has smiled at me, and kissed my cheek without a trace of fright.
Your fingertips trace the lines of his palm, the tickling feeling replaced with nothing but soothing relief as he watches you intently.
You smile at his palm, humming to yourself in a way that is nothing but pleased. “Yeah…” You nod a little. “Your hand would be a perfect fit.”
Intrigued and enamored and clinging to every word, he wonders aloud in a voice afraid to break the peace, “A perfect fit for what?”
Your fingers line up with his, pressing your hands flat together before you're twisting your own slowly. Then they curl between his own until your hands are laced together like they belong. He looks at it like the sight of it has entirely stunned him.
When you look at him again, he's already disheveled and blushing. “Mine.” You say it like a secret, leaning in and lowering your voice to prove it.
I swear it must be heaven's light…
A small sound leaves you, a mix of a breath and a laugh as your eyes continue to travel along his face. Your free hand raises up to his forehead, where you brush a stubborn lock of hair that immediately falls back into place. The tip of your finger stays where it's barely touching his temple.
“You look so pretty when you're flustered,” you smile.
Spencer's response is far too genuine, far too natural. He says it like it's an obvious fact, like it's both a confession and common sense.
“You're beautiful.”
You smile too wide, dipping your head like you're trying to hide. “Thank you.” It's not necessarily bashful, you're not shy. You say it like it comes easily, like you're used to being told, but the words coming from him are more special than they would be coming from anyone else.
You're still holding his hand as the finger on his temple trails down the side of his head to rest beneath his chin. You lean in, and he doesn't have to be told before he's gratefully accepting your kiss, a little softer than before but no less needy.
When you pull back, it's only enough to speak. Your breath still caresses his lips, your noses still bump, his glasses hang low enough to tease you. “Are you still nervous?” you whisper.
Spencer swallows thickly. He's so muted that you hardly make out his words. “I don't want to mess it up.”
His eyes seem to shine in the same way a puppy's would. They stay glued to your face, as if searching for something—reassurance, permission, attention. Your lips part and your lips spread into a wider smile, something soft and warm.
When you shift one leg off his lap, you see him panic for a moment. You soothe him with the gentle squeeze of his hand in yours before gently letting it go. You reach over for the remote on the coffee table, picking it up to turn the volume to that of a low murmur as you adjust yourself to straddle him. You hold yourself up just enough to avoid putting your weight on him just yet. You figure if you do, he'll combust beneath you.
Spencer holds his breath, his hands hovering in the air like touching you would burn him. Your hands come up to his face, brushing gently before they find themselves holding the back of his head in your palms, your fingers tangling in his soft curls.
He looks up at you with a reverent kind of alarm. His lips are parted, his eyes are wide, and he's as red as an apple.
You lean in close, rubbing the tip of your nose against the tip of his. He waits with bated breath, tilting his chin to meet you and mourning when you pull back enough to thwart his kiss.
You smile, a mix between smug and adoring, your voice as light as a hum. “You're not gonna mess anything up, Spencer.”
The breath that leaves him deflates his chest. You watch the bulk of his anxiety escape him until he's not so stiff beneath you.
Still, his hands hover, his fingers tremble. “Are you sure?”
You tilt your chin up, push his glasses higher up his nose, and kiss the space right above where they meet. “Don't be nervous. It's just me.”
It's just you. As if you aren't heaven on Earth.
“Do you want me to talk you through it?” Your thumbs stroke his cheeks.
Spencer nods, dazed and desperate. “Yes.”
You nod back. “Okay.” One of your fingers comes to brush the hair from his face once more. This time, it obeys. “First, can I have a kiss?”
He doesn't even answer you. You just barely get the last sound out before his lips are crashing onto you once again. He's back to frenzied. Too eager, too aching, too much if he doesn't want to appear pathetic.
But he's not pathetic to you. He's something special, something you've never found before. He wants you in earnest. He wants you in a way that's almost a need (it is a need). His eyes don't stick to your chest, they don't linger where they don't belong. They're wide and bright and pleading. They're adoring, not preying. They're devoted, not greedy.
He kisses you like he's suffocating, you kiss him like air. And when you pull away, he's gasping for more.
“Hold my waist.” Your lips brush during each word. Spencer's arms wrap around you tightly, keeping your body flush against his and moaning at the feeling of it. His hands roam, respectful but eager to feel every last inch.
He tastes of butter popcorn and a hint of stale coffee. Swiping your tongue past his lips, you push a little closer and tilt his head back even more as your hands continue to tangle in his hair until it's a frizzy mess on his head.
A large hand strokes up your back along the center of your spine. It moves higher and higher until he's gently holding the back of your neck. Your breath shakes momentarily, and he breathes it in like life force.
One of your hands removes itself from his hair to draw a line down his neck, his chest, stopping to take hold of his tie before you're undoing it with a slow and careful movement. When it's loosened and discarded and your fingers are fiddling at the top button of his shirt, Spencer lets out this dreadful whine in an unspoken encouragement. It continues to ignite the feeling in your belly, spurring you on to undo each belt one by one, taking your sweet time in revealing more and more of his chest.
The hairs on his chest are sparse and light, drowned in the red that colors his skin. He's lean with smooth skin and a soft belly that you can't help but press your fingers to. It responds to your touch immediately as it flexes with the sensitivity you bring out in him.
Your hands find his once more, leading them teasingly slow to grasp at the bottom of your thin tank, the purple fabric silky at his touch. Holding his breath, his eyes flit hastily across your face as he carefully lifts your shirt up. He watches with a mix of anxiety and unwavering desire as he begins to unsheathe you from your clothes.
When he gets closer to your chest, he pauses when his knuckles continue to brush more and more skin. He feels them begin to trace over the curve of your breast bone and takes another breath before lifting it higher still. When he catches sight of your nipples beginning to peek out, all breath just gets stuck in his throat. His eyes flick up to yours, unwilling to continue without knowing whether or not he's done something wrong yet. When you give him nothing more than a smile and the raise of your arms, he lifts the rest of it off until your chest is bare.
He stares. He doesn't mean to, but he does. His hands frame your waist, light and much too respectful. It's like all that intensity, like that desperate need to be pressed up against you was spooked out of him by your permission to do so.
His thumb strokes your side like a feather, following the curve of your breast like it's precious art in a gallery that he shouldn't be touching. He looks up at you, his eyes wide, his mouth open, his voice timid and small.
“Can…” He licks his lips, letting out a shaky breath. “Can I–?”
“Yes, Spencer.”
He's making you a little crazy. He's adoring, reverent. The look in his eyes is nothing if not enchanted. The way he kisses you, like being apart from you would surely be his death, you're more than flattered, you're charmed. You hope to treat him with half as much worship as he treats you.
His hand cups your breast. You pull your bottom lip in, your teeth grazing it as his large hands sweetly hold you. His thumb swipes over your nipple, the touch so light that a shiver rushes up your spine enough to make your breath stutter. He glances up at you, taking in the sight of your eyes lidded in gentle bliss.
The sound he makes is almost a chuckle, almost a whine, but too quiet to tell which one. He recalls the sounds you made when he had you propped against the vanity in your dressing room, knelt between your legs as he tasted you like sugar. The look on your face takes him back, fills him with a boldness that has his fingers gently tweaking your nipples. Every breath is reassurance, every hum in encouragement, every shift of your body fuels his need to make you feel good.
“Good,” you hum, your voice a little higher than before. “Just like that, honey.” Spencer kneads your breasts and flicks your nipples and basks in the sight of your pleasure. His fingers trace patterns into your skin, the warmth of his palm has you leaning in closer. Your fingers comb through his hair, gently scratching his scalp with painted nails as you admire the blush of his skin that makes him look soft and sweet.
Your hands cradle his neck, and the way his lashes flutter have your lips ticking up. You graze your nails along the skin of his neck and enjoy his restless eyes and hastened breaths.
You lean in just enough for your breath to whisper against his jawline. His hands never let up their lavishing. “A hickey would look so pretty on you right…here.” Your thumb brushes the soft spot just below his ear until he shudders beneath you. “Can I?”
He shouldn't. Showing up to work with a hickey wouldn't be so great of an idea. He's got things to consider: professionalism, HR violations, the endless onslaught of torture he would have to endure the moment the team catches a glimpse of it.
But the thought of you marking his skin with your teeth, embedding yourself like you're saying, “This one is mine,” is just too perfect an idea. He imagines seeing it later on when he would catch the sight of himself in a mirror, a splotch of purple and red that would pulse your name in Morse code like his heartbeat had it memorized.
He nods, swallowing thickly as anticipation and nerves and something lovely continue to swirl in his gut. “Yes, please,” he says with all the politeness of being offered his favorite slice of cake. He follows it up with a grateful rub of your nipple.
You smile at him, still stroking skin. “Thank you.”
“Anything.” He says it too quickly and with too much passion.
You drop your head down to his shoulder, dragging your lips along his skin as you turn in, in, in. He shudders from head to toe at the feeling of your mouth on him, pulling a slip of skin between your teeth to nibble in a manner that could only be described as teasing. He makes this dreadful sound anyway, barely managing to hold back the reaching of his hips.
Dropping a little more of your weight onto his lap, you tilt his head to the side and suck at his neck with a precision that makes him restless. More and more driven by his squirming, your teeth continue to graze and your fingers press gently into the soft places of his neck that has his body relaxing into the warmth of you. Your tongue dragging wetly over nibbled skin has him whining.
You continue on, and he lets you without a shred of protest. One of his hands still cups your breast, his thumb working your nipple distractedly. Every time your nose nudges his earlobe, his breath hitches and his thumb flicks you enough to make your breath break.
You finish with a wet smack, pulling away from his neck to admire your good work. His skin is colored pink and red, splotchy with blood and arousal, ridged from teeth and tongue. Dragging the pad of your finger over the skin, you smile when his breath shakes like a leaf, a long whine falling off the edge of his tongue.
“There,” you hum, your hands steady on his shoulders as you look down at his flushed face. “It looks so pretty on you.”
He looks like he's wanting to respond, but no sound comes out. He stares at you with droopy eyes, like the sight of you and the weight of you on his lap is making his brain fuzzy with a comforting high.
You hold his gaze as you let your hands wander down his chest, down his soft belly, to where your fingers meet fabric instead of skin. You wrap them around his belt, slowly working it open as you continue to softly coo at him. “I've been really excited for you to come over, you know.”
He stares at you helplessly, lets you do as you please (and you do).
“The moment I saw you look at me?” You lean in, your lips hovering over his cheek. “I knew you were special.” He lets out this weak little sound that makes you smile. You pull his belt free.
You let your fingers tease the trimmed hair at the base of him, softer than you expected, dark brown and neatly kept. You have half a mind to climb off his lap and nuzzle your nose into the patch of hair that would be so utterly and intoxicatingly drenched in his scent that your brain would leak right out of your ears immediately after the first sniff.
You pull the fabric of his boxers down just enough to finally pull him out of the confines of his clothes. If you hadn't been guiding him up, his cock would have slapped against his belly, it's so hard.
“You're so pretty,” you breathe in an airy whisper, your eyes flicking constantly down to where he's straining in your hand. You can feel the pulse of him, hot and dribbling precum where your thumb idly traces around the flushed pink tip of him. His jaw is clenched tight, he's barely holding back the desperate urge to whine and buck his hips up into the warmth of your hand, too gentle.
Spencer's body is frantic with the panting of breaths that pull insistently into his lungs and back out into the quickly heating air. His solid cock twitches and leaks in your hand, long and full in a way that has you eager to feel how unexpectedly he'd stretch you out.
Your eyes take in the beautiful pathetic sight of him, flushed and flustered, shaking and swelling and still seeping steadily. Your voice is a little lower when you speak again, almost a purr, almost a hum—this low simmering thing that threatens to boil over into something much less controlled than Spencer needs right now.
“You have no idea,” you say slowly, barely restrained, “how hard it is not to just…”
You try to stop yourself, to leave the rest of your sentence as a thought, a note for later, but it's useless. “I wanna taste you so bad.” The words loose from you like an arrow. “I wanna know how deep you'd go in my mouth and…feel how you breathe when I'm down there, learn what you like best. I…” You have to stop yourself, pulling your bottom lip into your mouth to hold it in place between your teeth until you let it go with a cruel-looking bite mark indented into your flesh.
He leans in and catches your bottom lip between his, kissing it soothingly before relenting with a gasp. You sigh lightly, choosing to hold his yearning gaze before you lose track of your actual goal tonight. “Next time,” you murmur, a reminder for you, a promise to him. His stomach clenches at the idea of next time.
You stroke him lazily, your gaze glued to the way his face shifts and twitches. With your other hand, you brush the skin of his shoulder all the way down to the hand on your waist. You clasp your fingers just enough to guide his hand to the familiar space between your thighs, beneath the waist band of your pants, the elastic of your underwear. The moment he feels that warmth, that wet, his hand is charging forward and cupping your pussy like it has a duty there.
You gasp lightly at the enthusiasm, your thighs a little unsteady now that he's touching you. He pulls his hand back a moment later and lifts it to his mouth. He doesn't hesitate to stick two long, slender fingers past his lips, his eyes fluttering closed as he moans at the taste. His tongue licks and sucks around his fingers until it's probably the most lewd sight you've ever seen in your life. The sound he makes when the taste of you fades from his skin is nearly a whine, the smallest sob.
“Spencer!” you squeal quietly, delightfully surprised once again at the desperate need for you in him. His hand halts where the warmth of it pauses against your wet skin. He stares up at you through crooked glasses, a precious mix of worry and a needy plea taking over his face.
“Did I–?”
“No,” you insist before you even let him finish. “You're just so…needy.” The smile you give to him after you've said it prevents him from apologizing. In fact, he feels a strange sense of pride swelling in his chest at the way you look at him, like he's wonderful. You smile, your eyes darting to his pink lips. “Keep going,” you murmur.
He wastes no time. Despite his clumsiness, he manages to rid you of the rest of your clothes until you're hovering bare over his lap. He takes a moment to ogle before his grabby hands are on you again. He rubs his palm along the wet that slickens your pussy and delves two fingers into you until they're buried as deep as they'll go.
Your mouth hangs open slightly, a short gasp slipping like you've been shocked. His fingers stroke inside of you, curling like he's trying to coax something out. He watches your face like he's studying every twitch in your features, like he's mapping out your pleasure by every flare of your nose and every dip of your brows.
His eyes are lidded, his mouth open in awe, his every sense tuned to you. The way your pussy sounds, the wet squelching that comes with particularly nuanced movements and is generally followed by a delighted moan, leaves him utterly fixated on only you.
There's a certain way you look when you're like this. Spencer gets déjà vu watching you now. Your hooded gaze is hopelessly glued to him as your hips steadily search for more of his touch. Your arms come to rest over his shoulders, eventually giving in to the urge to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him close. The scent of you soaks his senses until his brain is hazy with it, and he dips his face into the comfort of your shoulder, wasting no time in painting your skin with his kisses. He mouths at your skin like it's covered in honey, happily moaning and sucking and licking until he's pulling back with a weak whine.
“Can I…” a few puffs of air warm your skin. “Can I leave…marks…on you?” He's breathless as he asks through timid murmurs.
You just smile wide and nod as though you'd asked him and got a yes. He lets out a sigh that loosens his chest and wastes no time in fulfilling his desires. His lips and teeth and tongue paint your skin like pencil and brush as his fingers work inside you, a skilled musician plucking strings and tapping keys with startling precision.
Your hips buck into his hand. You can't keep your eyes open or your breaths steady. The feeling of him at your neck is an intoxicating one, a dizzying feeling that has you panting. His teeth scrape, rolling skin between them until it's sensitive and raised.
Spencer huffs between heated kisses to your skin. His fingers curl and pump inside of you, your arousal dripping into his palm and sliding down his wrist. It's wet and warm and filthy. His mouth waters where his tongue licks along the pulsing vein in your neck.
His fingers press intently into you, prodding until your thighs shake where you hover above him. You gasp into his ear as your body arches closer to him, igniting in him a growing need for your voice begging “r-right there” in his ear. Your fingers tangle in his hair, your moans vibrate beneath his tongue, heat coils in your gut and in your thighs and all the way up your spine until you’re whining.
When your hand caught his wrist, pausing his movements with a gasp, Spencer's gaze snapped to yours in an instant. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
You shake your head quickly, your voice soft but pitched with pleasure. Instead of replying, you capture his lips with your own again to silence his worries as you regretfully pull his fingers from the wet heat between your thighs. He whines in response.
Your thighs shake a little as you continue to hover over his lap. Your gaze stays glued to his like you're hypnotizing him, his focus sole and unbroken.
The smallest, slyest smirk begins to stretch over your lips. As he watches you, you bring his hand up and let your mouth fall open as you slowly guide his fingers into your mouth. Something in Spencer shatters as he watches your lips wrap lewdly around his fingers, licking and sucking yourself from his skin like candy. His mouth parts, his breath leaves him deflated, he watches on with hooded eyes dark with an unbearable desire.
“Angel, I–”
He doesn't get to finish before you pull his fingers wetly from your mouth. “I'm gonna put you inside of me now.”
All the air he'd managed to suck into his lungs is knocked out of him in an instant. He stares, wide-eyed and breathless. Then, wordlessly, he nods.
Your hand drops down to his cock, wrapping around and pumping just a few times. You don't let your gaze break from his as you slowly line him up to where the blunt head of his cock nudges against your pussy.
You hold for a moment, just looking at him as the both of you stall in the held breath between you.
He's so pretty up close like this. Hazel eyes are made dark and melting like caramel. The sparkling of his eyes is awed and pleading. He's got a few freckles dotted sparingly along his face—the darkest one sits on his cheek closer to his left ear, but your favorite is above his right brow. You let your free hand hold his head, your fingertips barely brushing a little freckle in gentle reverence.
“Are you ready, pretty boy?”
His lashes flutter, he lets in a thick breath. With a nod, he says, “Yes, please.”
You smile and brush his cheek again. “Okay,” you whisper. You kiss his brow where the freckle resides. “I'm gonna put you inside me.”
His breath shakes, and he nods again. His eyes focus intently on you, like the suspense is killing him.
The feeling of Spencer's cock slowly sinking inside of you, filling you, stretching you, is electrifying. Your lips part, your breath gets caught. His hands tighten where they hold you at your hips, shaky but enamored. Little whines crackle out of him at will.
When your thighs meet his, and he's deep and snug inside of you, the both of you let out two long breaths. Spencer's eyes, refusing to shut, watch you like he's gone drunk. He's breathing quickly, his muscles flex and relax like he's barely holding back.
You run your fingers through his soft hair. Your voice is gentle, partially a tease, “You're not gonna cum, are you?”
He shudders and shakes his head emphatically. “N-no. No.” He says it like he's pleading with you.
You nod, using the tip of your nose to fix his glasses again. “Good.” Fingers curl through his hair and guide his head back as you lean in close, your bodies pressed against each other. His eyes flutter shut when your lips brush his, smiling when he sighs and humming when he kisses you like he's devout.
You start to slowly grind your hips in his lap. Long and slow strokes make him gasp against your mouth, holding onto your waist for dear life. You watch his face, too blissed out to hold your gaze as his closed eyes flicker behind his eyelids.
He's so beautiful. His skin is red beneath your touch, he's utterly breathless, he starts whining like a puppy—worse when you scratch lightly along his chin. “Good boy,” you whisper under your breath, kissing the very tip of his nose as gently as you can, as though he'd suffocate if you distracted his mouth from breathing air.
He fills you up nice. He reaches deep inside of you, making every slow grind torturous for him as his hands paw at your sides, shaking and straining. His head is thrown back, and his jaw is clenched tight. Your thumbs stroke the muscles in his throat. His hips jerk upwards.
“C-can you…slow—slow down? I can't—Shit, please!” You can feel him pulsing inside of you. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth when you swivel your hips.
As if that wasn't enough, you giggle at him as you slow your pace to something he might be able to manage a little easier. He's not sure how helpful it's going to be when you decide to clench around him while you do.
“Yeah, honey,” you murmur, kissing all over his face as you go. Your lips hover by his ear as you whisper in a smooth, loud voice, “Have you been thinking about this?”
His breath shudders when he sighs, jerkily nodding to your question. “Y-yes.”
You smile, kissing the freckle by his ear before whispering again. “Thinking about me on top of you?”
Again, he nods, this time with a lot more emphasis. Looking in his eyes, though slightly obscured by foggy glasses, you can see just how delirious he actually is. His skin is flushed red, a light sheen of sweat paints his body, and his soft hair falls in brown curls in his face. You guide some of his locks away from his pretty eyes. “Yes, ma'am.”
You bend down to kiss him, and he's capturing your lips easily. You moan into his mouth as his hips buck up into your own, eager for more of you but still too sensitive to take more.
“So polite, baby.” You're still so close, your lips brush with each word. His breath shudders against your own. “Should I reward you?”
His eyes flutter. The way you speak to him drives him insane, makes it hard to think, much less to speak. “W-with what?”
You smile, holding his face in your hands as you begin to grind your hips deeper, faster into his. He presses deep enough inside of you until you feel him with every breath. You squeeze around him once as his hands come to grip your sides, trying so hard not to hold too tight (he doesn't have it in him).
He chokes, shaking his head quickly as he struggles to handle you. “N-no, you can't. I’m gonna—” he gasps desperately, “‘m gonna cum if you do that.”
You tut gently. There's something about the way he breathes, the way he looks at you and pleads when you're up here like this. You can't help but to tease him, to get him to squirm and blush under your charm.
“You can hold it in for me, can't you, Spencer?” You clench down on him until he moans out into the heated air.
“I—I don't–”
“I know you can,” you hum as you kiss him again. “You've been so good for me.”
He can't think really well right now, but he knows for a fact that he wants you to feel good, and he wants to make you proud. He gathers the strength to bring a string of letters together enough to say, “Fuck. Okay. Okay.”
You press your forehead to his, scattering kisses all over his face. “Good boy.”
He lets out a deep, heavy breath, ducking his head beneath yours until it rests gently on your chest. Then you feel his lips press against the skin along your collarbone, trailing down more and more until he's licking patterns along your breasts. When he sucks your nipple into his mouth, a shudder rushes down your body and you're arching into him as you try to catch your breath. Your moans fill the air and only make him all the more eager.
His tongue swipes along your nipple as his teeth just barely scrape the skin, the vibrations of his moans sinking into your flesh all the while. You tangle your hand in his hair as you hold him there, and Spencer is more than content.
He feels so good inside you. It's a nice stretch that sinks deep, each roll a reward. Your eyes shut and your breaths are melodic moans that freely fill the air as you eagerly fuck yourself on his lap. You can hear the sound of your arousal coating the top of his thighs and adding a backdrop to the soundtrack of your pleasure.
Your hand drops down to where the two of you meet, brushing your finger over your clit and gasping at how sensitive you are. Spencer whimpers at the way you pulse around him.
He pulls off of your tit to look up at you, lips swollen and eyes wet with desperation. He's breathless when he speaks, sounding like he's fighting a sob at the back of his throat. “Can I cum? Can I cum please, please, please?”
He looks so pretty like this, aching and hanging on to your every sound. You can't fight the smile that spreads over your face as you slow your hips, the way you shake your head and whisper, “No.” You sound so sweet saying it, too, his angel.
His angel who won't let him cum. He lets out a heaving breath, his thighs shaking beneath him as he struggles to hold back. You bend down to give him another slow kiss, a little relief after being so mean.
It doesn't last long when your hips pick up speed again, grinding until he's bucking up into you again. You moan with every thrust, holding him, kissing him, riding him until he's whimpering with every other roll.
Your lips brush over his. “Faster.”
He shakes his head, his eyes struggling to stay open to behold you. “I can't, ‘m gonna cum.”
His hips falter, and you respond with a deeper roll. “You're gonna cum?” He moans his response. “I'm disappointed…I thought you were my good boy.”
He thinks he's going to shatter. Something in him panics at the notion of disappointing you, whether he knows if it's true or not. He can't fathom having let you down. How could he do such a thing?
He nods quickly, “Okay, okay.” His hands slide down your hips, holding tight as he moves you with him. Before long, his mouth is on your chest again as he keeps sucking faint marks into your skin.
Your hips move with his until you're both barely holding in the sounds of your moans and your whines. You swivel on his lap and shudder. Rubbing your clit in tight, fast circles has you fluttering around his cock, quickening his hot breath as it fans against your chest.
The blunt head of his cock kisses your cervix with every deep thrust he manages to give. Each one drives you further and further to the edge until you're barely holding on.
You fuck yourself on top of him until the room is filled with the sound of your thighs meeting his. You can feel the winding inside of you getting tighter and tighter, your back arching into his mouth.
You take his face in your hands, granting him the softest, shakiest of touches. His hazy eyes meet yours, adoring. “You ready?” you hum breathlessly.
It takes a moment for him to register what you're saying, trying to focus on evening out his erratic hips. “Huh?” Confusion looks good on him. You don't know why.
You lean in until your lips brush his ear with every word you murmur. “Are you ready to cum inside me?”
Spencer nods quickly, a new determination building within him as he moans underneath you. “Yes, yes!”
You smile against his mouth. A moan gasps out of you when his hips buck up right into the spot that makes you weak. He makes it harder for you to think straight, holding you and pulling you close to keep pumping his cock into you while you rub relentlessly at your clit.
His lips slide against yours in messy half-kisses fueled by the need to be as close as you can be. He hiccups on a breath. “Fuck, please can I cum? Needa cum for you, angel.”
The way he says it is nothing short of praise; needy, adoring praise. It has the last threads of control breaking loose as you nod your head quickly. “Yes, Spencer.”
He doesn't need to be told twice. The moment you say it, his body seizes and he sucks in an aching breath. Spencer's mouth falls open, and he's burying his face in the crook of your neck in search of your warmth and your scent. A string of moans and gasps and ‘fuck’s and ‘thank you’s fill the space between you as his hips snap up into you once, a strong thrust that has you staggering as you quickly follow suit.
You slam your hips down and keep yourself as close to him as possible. You swivel your hips to keep his cock pressing up against your cervix as you gasp. Your hands on his face, you pull him into a kiss heavy enough to get him drunk on it.
Spencer spills inside of you as his eager hands keep you pinned to him. You comb his hair from his face with your fingers, you let your broken, breathy moans fill his head. Every time you bite down on his lip, you feel him pulse inside of you in time with surprised whines. It doesn't help when you clamp down around him like you're trying to milk him dry.
The come-down is full of nothing but thick, uneven breaths and hands too restless to be still but too exerted to do more than stroke fingers on skin. You drape yourself against his body, let yourself go limp as you lay your head on his shoulder and drink on the scent of his cologne, his sweat, the conditioner in his hair. Neither of you realizes it when your breaths sync in the quiet between you.
When you do move, it's slowly as you lift yourself up just enough to slip him out of you. Spencer makes this stifled, strangled sound when some of his cum drips out of you and onto the couch. You just chuckle lightly and adjust yourself to sit delightfully in Spencer's lap. He welcomes you happily, his arms wrapping around you easily. You nuzzle into the space of his neck.
A moment passes, and in a quiet voice, Spencer mutters, “Thank you.”
You smile slowly, moving impossibly closer. “Thank you,” you hum. “You were amazing.”
That blush in his skin doesn't get the chance to fade as he hides away his face by looking around your apartment at anything but you. Your lamp, your television, a frame on the wall. Your fingers brushing along his face is what brings him back to you.
The way you smile at him makes him warm and sort of giddy. Your hair is a little messy, your eyes are still blown wide from your high. Spencer can't help but stare, even as this shy little gleam makes its way into your gaze.
“You're so pretty,” he whispers.
You turn away from him to hide the flustered grin that overtakes you. To distract him and yourself, you pull him in for another kiss, this one much slower and more tempered than all the last.
He breathes like your kiss is all the air he needs. His hand comes to cradle your cheek where his thumb strokes gently.
“Thank you.” You brush some hair out of his face just in time to see him turn shy again. Your smile grows, and you finally adjust the glasses that had been perpetually crooked and beyond saving by this point. “Pretty boy.”
He looks up at you like he can see a halo of light glowing beyond you. The wonder glitters in his eyes before he tears his gaze away, chuckling to himself in an attempt to save his thoughts. With another small kiss, he asks so softly, “Can… Can I see you again?”
You couldn't look more charmed by his question. You lean in close until your lips are just brushing. “You're not escaping me that easy, pretty boy.”
Spencer smiles like you've just given him the moon. He holds you a little tighter, pulls you a little closer. Instead of saying anything in return, he just kisses you once more.
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summary : frank doesn't like to hear any other names come out your mouth- unless it's his.
warnings : SMUT, MDNI, p in v, size kink, praise kink, asshole!frank (kinda), sub reader (kinda), possesive!frank, hahahaha breeding kink hahahahah
word count : 8.6 k
a/n: not proofread and based on this rq !! (this is lowk so bad im so sorry)
Pissing Frank off is such an easy and enjoyable activity.
The way he gets all red faced, the way his knuckles clench and his jaw ticks as he fights the urge not to snap at you because he hates yelling at you.
It is, quite frankly, adorable.
You discover this on a Tuesday.
By nine in the morning, he's already regretting waking up.
He's making coffee when you wander into the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from your eyes. Without thinking, you wrap your arms around his waist.
"Mornin', Matt." Frank goes completely still.
"…Excuse me?" You blink innocently.
"Oh." A dramatic gasp. "Sorry." You pat his chest. "Morning, Frank." He stares at you for a long moment.
"…Very funny."
"I thought so." At lunch, he's mostly forgotten about it. Mostly. The two of you stop by Curtis's garage to drop something off. Curtis gives you a quick hug goodbye. You wave as he disappears inside. Then you slip your hand into Frank's.
"Curtis, say bye to Frank." You stammer. "I mean- Frank, say bye to Curtis." Frank snorts.
"You done?"
"What?"
"You're smilin'."
"I always smile."
"You got that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says you're about to become my problem." You squeeze his hand. The afternoon brings a trip to the grocery store. You're wheeling the cart, deliberately ramming it into his heels every few feet. He finally turns, grabbing the handle with a sigh.
"Give me that before you break my ankles."
"Whatever you say, Dave." You let go, watching his shoulders tense. He doesn't say anything, just grips the cart so tightly his knuckles are white. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing. Later that evening, you're curled up on the couch, a blanket over your lap as you scroll through your phone. Frank comes in, having just finished a shower, his hair still damp. He leans over the back of the couch, pressing a kiss to your temple.
"Whatcha watchin'?" Without looking up from your phone, you lean into his touch.
"Nothing much, Billy." He straightens up slowly. You can feel the shift in the air, the sudden drop in temperature. You risk a glance up at him. His face is a mask of controlled fury, his eyes dark and fixed on you.
"You think this is funny?" His voice is low, dangerously quiet.
"What? I was distracted." You try for innocent, but the smirk tugging at your lips gives you away. Frank doesn't answer immediately.
He just watches you. Really watches you. His jaw flexes once. Twice.
"You've called me Matt." Silence. "Then Curtis." Another beat. "Then Dave." His eyes never leave yours. "And now Billy." You shrug, still smiling.
"I've had a long day."
"Mhm."
"I'm tired."
"Mhm."
"So maybe I just forgot your name." He lets out a quiet laugh. It isn't amused.
"You forgot my name."
"It happens."
"No." He takes one slow step toward the couch. "It doesn't." You tuck your legs beneath you, still looking entirely too pleased with yourself.
"I've known a lot of men." His eyebrow lifts.
"Yeah?"
"Mhm."
"So maybe I got confused." Another step.
"Confused."
"Mhm." Frank nods once. Slowly. "You know what I've been thinkin' about all day?"
"What?"
"Every damn time you said somebody else's name…" He shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, like he's physically stopping himself from reaching for you. "…I wondered if that was the point." You tilt your head.
"And was it?"
"You wanted me jealous."
"I might've." He studies you.
"You succeeded." That catches you off guard.
"You were?" His laugh is humorless.
"You called me 'Matt' while your arms were around me." Another step.
"You hugged Curtis."
"He hugged me."
"I know."
"You thanked 'Dave' for pushin' a grocery cart." Your smile grows.
"And Billy?" His jaw tightens.
"You let me kiss your forehead…" He looks almost offended. "…and then you called me Billy." You can't help it. You laugh. Frank doesn't. Instead, he rounds the couch. The room suddenly feels much smaller. "Still funny?" You bite your lip.
"…A little." He plants one hand on the back of the couch behind your head.
Not slamming it. Just there. Close.
His other hand slips into your lap, gently lifting your phone away before setting it on the coffee table. All of your attention is on him now.
"All day." His voice has dropped lower. "You've been sayin' other men's names to my face."
"I was teasing."
"I know."
"You know?"
"I know." A beat. "But I still didn't like it." His eyes search yours. "I don't like imaginin' you with anybody else." Your teasing smile softens.
"Frank…"
"You're mine." The words land with the weight of a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. The playful tension that had been crackling between you all day curdles into something heavier, something primal. Your smirk is gone, replaced by a sudden, breathless awareness of the man caging you in.
"Frank…" you start, your voice softer now, the apology you hadn't realized you needed to make already forming.
"Shh." He leans in closer, his free hand moving from the back of the couch to cup your jaw. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, a possessive, grounding gesture. "I'm not done." His gaze is intense, burning with a raw, unfiltered emotion that makes your stomach clench. This isn't about the stupid game anymore. This is about the fact that you'd made him feel something he hated, something dark and sharp and ugly.
"You don't get to do that," he murmurs, his lips hovering just inches from yours. "You don't get to make me think about you with someone else. Not even for a second."
"I wasn't," you whisper, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady, solid beat of his heart beneath your palms. "It was just a stupid joke."
"I know." His thumb presses gently, parting your lips. "But my brain doesn't always listen. It just… sees things. Sees you with Curtis. Sees you laughing with Micro. Sees you looking at someone else the way you look at me." His voice cracks, just a little, on the last few words, and it's that tiny crack in his armor that undoes you completely. He's not angry. He's scared. The thought is staggering.
"I only look at you like that, Frank," you breathe, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "There's no one else." He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he closes the remaining distance between you, his mouth crashing down on yours. It's not a gentle kiss. It's a claiming. A punishment and a reassurance all at once. It's deep and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to stake its territory, his hand moving from your jaw to the back of your neck, holding you in place, making sure you can't escape. You melt into him, your body arching against his, a silent surrender. You let him take what he needs, let him erase the day, erase every other name, every other face, until there's only him. Only Frank. When he finally pulls back, you're both breathless. His forehead rests against yours, his breathing ragged.
"Say my name," he commands, his voice a low growl.
"Frank," you whisper, without hesitation.
"Again."
"Frank." He kisses you again, softer this time, but no less possessive. His hands slide down your body, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him. You can feel his arousal, hard and insistent against your belly.
"You're going to remember who you belong to," he murmurs against your lips. "You're going to scream my name tonight until it's the only one you can remember." His hands drag the blanket off your lap and toss it to the floor. You’re wearing nothing but an old t-shirt and boxers. Frank lifts you up without warning, manhandles you until you’re straddling him, his arms caging you in, his grip bruising on your thighs. He makes you feel small. Even when you’re taunting him, running your mouth, you’re always aware of just how much bigger he is. How dangerous his hands can be. You’d be lying if you said that wasn’t a huge part of the appeal.Frank kisses you like he wants to fuck you with his tongue alone. He’s hot and wet and insistent, mouth opening wider when you try to keep up with him. His hands are busy, kneading the backs of your thighs, shoving you closer, grinding you down against his sweatpants-clad cock.
God, he’s already hard. Course he is. Your own breath stutters in your lungs as Frank rocks his hips up, a slow deliberate grind, all that heat and pressure focused right where you’re already aching for it. He mashes your bodies together, like he’s trying to brute-force your atoms into a single, messy unit. You cling to his shirt as if it’ll keep you afloat, like any second now the undertow of him might swallow you whole. His hands are everywhere, greedy and insistent: kneading your ass, palming over your back, clawing you closer even as there’s literally nowhere else to go.
“Frank—” It comes out half-whine, half-moan, your brain flickering like a dying lightbulb. He bares his teeth in a grin, all wolfish satisfaction, and shoves a hand under the hem of your t-shirt. His fingers splay out hot against the small of your back.
“Yeah, sweetheart?” he murmurs. “Somethin’ you need?” There’s a roughness to it, a cockyness that makes your body fire up with need. Frank shoves the t-shirt up over your ribs, not bothering to take it off. His hands are broad and greedy and everything he does is with total, singular focus—holding your waist, dragging your dick against the heat of him, grinding you down until you see little explosions behind your eyelids. One of his hands slips between your bodies, tracing the shape of you through thin, cotton boxers. His jaw works tight, like he’s biting back the urge to just rip the whole thing away and devour you in one go.
"You really think you want this?" His thumb rubs slow circles over your cock through the fabric. "If I fuck you now, I ain’t stoppin’. Not ‘til you remember only me." Your whole body draws tight as a bowstring. You can’t even summon words; you just nod, desperate and dizzy. Frank just stares you down, heavy-lidded, mouth bruised from kissing and still hungry. His thumb drags a slow line up your spine, making every muscle shudder. You try to look away, but he won't allow it; with a single fist in your hair he angles your head back, exposing your throat. His face softens for a split-second, amused. Then he bares his teeth and takes you apart. His mouth leaves a wet, vicious trail along your jaw, nipping hard enough to sting. Marking, claiming, like a dog with a favorite bone. You try to steady yourself, but there isn't a steady bone left in your body. You can feel his cock, a monster of a thing, bulging against your core. His hands ghost over your breasts and you shudder. Frank’s hand finds your throat in the next instant, thick fingers splaying over your pulse. Not choking, not really, but holding you still, pinning you in the moment. Your cock throbs in your boxers, every heartbeat a jolt in his palm. He licks a rough line behind your ear, teeth scraping your skin, and you gasp, everything in you going pliant and feverish.
He forces you to look dead at him, even as he grinds the sharp bone of his own hips hard against your ass. The friction makes you dizzy, makes you want to sob. You'd been taunting him all day for this. Toying with him, poking the animal until you forgot it might one day snap the leash.
“No more games?” He speaks low and clear, like a threat or a prayer. A noise leaves your throat, nearly a whimper. You want to say his name but your tongue won’t work, not with the way he’s caught you, not with hunger rolling off him like a heatwave. Frank shoves his own sweatpants out of the way with one hand, cock springing free, obscene in your periphery. You steal a glance, and the size of him makes your blood pressure spike—thick, demanding, angry-red and beading at the tip.
“You’re gonna take all of it,” he growls. “Take every goddamn inch. You got it?” His thumb presses under your chin, the grip in your hair unyielding. You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a choked little sound, equal parts awe and terror. You nod, because you can’t do anything else. You barely see it; Frank’s hand dips between your legs, knuckles pushing your boxers aside, two fingers already slick as they sweep through you. He doesn’t start easy. He’s not gentle. He stretches you, wide and demanding, opening you on his hand like he wants you to remember the ache and remember it’s his.
“Such a fuckin’ brat,” he says, like he’s explaining a math problem. His teeth are in your shoulder now, biting down hard enough to warn, to promise bruises tomorrow. “Wanted to get my attention all day. 'S that right?” Your breath is coming in shuddery little gasps. You shiver in his lap, barely able to hold yourself upright on trembling thighs. He gives you no time to answer, just twists his fingers until your whole body seizes up, pleasure and pain in one bright, fanged burst. He grinds his cock against you, the heft of it hot and heavy, like he wants you to feel what you’ve gotten yourself into.
“I should make you say it, but you got me too fuckin’ riled up. Gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t even think about anyone else's name. Gonna fuck you til you forget your own.”
You believe him. You really do.
Frank yanks your hips down, seats himself into your pussy with a single brutal thrust. You swear, near scream; your whole body goes rigid on impact, back arching, mind blanking out to a white-hot buzz. There’s no easing into it, no slow burn. The soft Frank that kisses your hair line and inches you down slowly, asking if you’re okay, has taken a backseat spot this time around. There is a psychic sound in your head, somewhere between a car crash and a cathedral bell. Too full, too soon, too much. Your hands scrabble at his forearms, your nails digging in, and a small, incoherent sob punches out of your chest. He takes it as encouragement. Of course he does. He fucks up into you, hard enough that you hear the slap of his skin over your own blood-rush, hard enough that for a second everything is static. He gives you a second—just one—before his hands wrench you down again, pulling you open. Built for him. That's the thought glittering in your brain, the raw animal possessiveness he's always carried like a scar, now inside you, all the way up, right against your lungs. Every inch, every pink desperate nerve, stretched to the point of snapping.
He doesn't just move—he uses you. Fucking into you like you're his only tether, like there's nowhere else on earth for him to be. His hand fists in your hair again, dragging you down for a kiss that isn't really a kiss, just a brutal mashing of teeth and tongue. He keeps his eyes on you the whole time. Watching. Daring you to look away. You can't. You wouldn't if you could. Every pump rocks your whole body, the friction inside you close to unbearable, the cock splitting you open hotter and harder and more than you should ever be able to take.
"You feel that?" His voice is rough as gravel, chest heaving. "That's me. Only me. Say it." You try, mouth wide, soundless on the first attempt while he fucks you with relentless, punishing rhythm. Your brain is sliding to pieces, overloaded, every pulse and throb between your thighs building into tsunami.
"You—fuck—Frank—" It's a panic, a prayer, a surrender. You clamp down out of reflex, the sound of his answering groan instant and feral. His hand stays at your throat—reminding, not hurting—and you realize you love it. The sense of helplessness, of being owned and ruined and wanted so much it hurts.
"Good girl." He bites the words against your neck, hips rutting in tight, bruising snaps. "Take it. Take all of it. That's what you wanted, right? Wantin' me desperate, wantin' me mean." A sound leaves you that's not human; you don't care. You almost can't breathe, but every time you try to squirm away he drags you back down, impales you, makes you ride out every sharp stretch and relentless stroke. Your clit rubs against the base of him, every thrust hitting the spot that makes you see stars. There's a sick gratification in feeling how desperate, how fucking needy he is for you. You've never felt needed like this. Not by anyone.
Frank lets go of your hair only to grip your jaw, squeezing just enough to make you meet his eyes.
"You like this?" he hisses, spit-slick lips grinning. "How 'bout now? You gonna say someone else's name?" You shake your head, wild and eager. The orgasm builds inside of you at extreme speed, and just when you think it' might tear you apart- Frank stops. You jerk upright like a puppet with strings cut. The pressure, the friction, the delicious pain, it's all gone too soon—leaving your body trembling and your pussy fluttering empty around absolutely nothing. Your vision blurs, soaking your eyes, and a pathetic mewl bubbles in your chest. You can't believe he stopped. You can't believe you ever thought you were in control. Frank's hands slide up under your jaw, thumbs pressing into the hollows of your cheeks. He looks you dead on, pupils blown, lips slick and gritted with restraint, and you know, you know, he's doing it on purpose.
The bastard is grinning.
"You wanna come, baby?" His voice is silk now, mocking you, enjoying every ragged gasp you make. He keeps you perched on his cockhead, barely inside, just enough to make you feel the void, make you beg for it. You try to chase it, grinding down, but he's holding you up, strong as a dock piling, not letting you take what you want. Your whole body throbs, cunt slick and pulsing, insides gone molten with need. Your fingernails score the thick muscle of his shoulders and find no purchase. You're shaking. You're not even pretending not to whine anymore.
"Frank—please—" He kisses you, soft as a secret, and you hate him for it.
"You only come when I say. You wanna remember my name so bad, you can be a good fuckin' girl and ask. Say it." You do, choking on shame and relief—
"Frank, please, please let me—" He thrusts up, slow and mean, filling you in one greedy surge. There's no patience in him now. He's relentless, one hand fisting your hair, the other palming your ass, dragging you down in time with every slam of his hips. You see white, stuttering, every nerve lit and shorting out and crying for more. He fucks you hard, the kind of hard that would embarrass you if you weren't too far gone to care, if you weren't grinding your hips to meet his every thrust, if you weren't moaning, stupid and open-mouthed, into his shoulder. Your thighs start to shake. You can feel the way he splits you open, the way your cunt stretches and aches and hugs everything he gives you. You've never felt so full in your life. You're so close you think you might die. He pulls you down on a savage angle, and suddenly he's pounding your g-spot with every thrust. Your brain rewinds and hiccups. You can't remember your own name, let alone anyone else's. Hands in your hair, voice in your ear, every atom of him inside you: it's all just Frank, Frank, Frank.
Frank's rhythm is merciless, every thrust a reminder and a punishment, driving your insides to raw, delirious peaks. The world narrows to the sound of his pelvis hammering yours, the thick, ragged breaths in your ear, the slap and glide and brutal fullness. You can't even pretend to want it gentle. You want to be ruined. You want to be his. You want to be nothing at all.m Your body is a pulse, a knot, a high wire about to snap. Frank fucks you through the first orgasm like it’s nothing, like every clench and spasm just spurs him on. Your cunt goes electric, muscles locking around him while you sob into his neck, gasping and choking on air and pleasure and the shame of being so easy, so desperate for it. He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t let you coast down. He wants you undone, wants you trembling and pleading and slick all over his lap. The second peak comes on too fast, a static bombshell detonating low in your belly, and you hear yourself scream, just a ragged, wordless cry, your fingernails leaving angry arcs down his back.
Frank's hands are everywhere—one clamped over your mouth so you don't wake the neighbors, the other shoving your hips down, forcing you to take him to the root, like if he could crawl inside your bones he'd do it in a heartbeat. His sweat slicks your thighs. You taste salt and skin and the metal tang of your own blood where you bit your tongue. You’re limp in his arms, spent and shaking, and it’s still not enough for him. He grinds you down until you’re a soaked, shuddering mess, whispers into your hair, low and hoarse:
“That’s it, baby. Just like that. My girl, my fuckin’ good girl—look at you.” His voice is a gentle shock. You crack your eyes open, vision swimming, see him staring up at you like he’s proud, like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted in his life. You sob out a sound that might be his name, might be nothing at all. He grins, wolfish and tender at once.
“C’mon,” he says, “you got more in you. Don’t let me down now.” You shake your head, but your body says otherwise. He knows your tells. He pushes you until you’re riding him, until you’re fucking yourself on his cock, every bounce and grind a fresh humiliation, and you love it, you love it so much it’s like dying. The overstimulation is a live wire, agony and ecstasy in equal parts. Frank slows, changes angle, and suddenly you’re there again, everything going white, body jerking and clenching so hard you feel like you could break in half. He holds you there, trembling and on the verge of collapse, and slows the rhythm until it’s just a deep, rolling grind. You pant into the crook of his neck, hair matted to your forehead with sweat, the taste of him thick in your mouth. Everything inside is raw, edges sanded off by the relentless drag of his cock. The only word left in your head is Frank—Frank who holds you together when you’d rather come apart, Frank who knows exactly how to keep you on the knife’s edge, just this side of sanity.
He pets your hair, almost tender, but the next thrust is another deliberate punch deep inside. You find a whine in your throat, a wet, animal noise, and he laughs, the sound rough and sweet all at once. “You like that, huh. Look at you.” He moves you, bounces you slow and mean, the slick sound of it obscene in the open air. His hand drifts up your back, holds you steady at the nape of your neck so you can’t hide from him. He wants to see all of it—every twitch and gasp and flutter, every time your body gives up more than it means to. You try to fight it—clamp your thighs, ride it out, hold onto the last fragments of self—but Frank’s got your number.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, voice all grit and pride, “take it for me, take it all.” You do, because there’s nothing left in you but obedience, nothing but the need to please, to hear the pride in his voice when you fall apart again. He snaps his hips up, and the pressure detonates behind your eyes, another climax ripping through you without mercy. You collapse forward, chest to his, arms shaking, body empty and yet wanting more. He keeps you there, rutting up into you in short, savage bursts, cock still hard and thick inside your cunt. You sob into the hollow above his collarbone, beg a little, maybe say his name, but it all blends into a single sound: need. He waits it out, rides the waves of your aftershocks, then flips you with a single roll of his hips, bracing your shoulders against the couch. Your legs splay open, trembling and useless, and he just stares for a second—like he’s memorizing the mess he’s made.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says, and kneels between your thighs. He lines himself up and drives in again, no warning, no mercy, just the solid, hot weight of him to the hilt. Your body seizes, then melts into the cushions, and he laughs—deep and satisfied, like the world finally makes sense. He fucks you in a slow, dragging rhythm, letting the brutal stretch of every stroke remind you exactly who’s in charge. There’s no end to it, just wave after wave, each one higher than the last. He leans down, palm cradling the side of your face, thumb tracing your slack jaw.
“You with me?” he asks. You must look wrecked, but you nod, dazed and grateful. “Good. Gonna make you come for me again,mama.” He says it soft, like it’s a favor, but you can hear the threat in it too: he doesn’t plan to stop until you’re boneless and emptied and barely a thought left in your head. The couch cushions creak under the force of him. Each thrust sets off a fresh tremor in your thighs, blunt shocks of sensation that make your vision swim. Frank’s thumb scrapes your cheek, smearing spit and sweat, and you realize you’re crying, maybe a little. He notices. Of course he notices. He slows, just for a breath—a single, tender second—then fucks you harder, the pace cruel and perfect.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he pants, watching your face for every twitch and flicker, “want you to make a mess for me. C’mon, show me.” You try to answer, but your body’s abandoned language. All you can do is clutch at his arm, dig your nails in, let the heat and stretch and pressure tunnel through you like a fever. Your cunt contracts around him and he groans, a low, ragged sound of approval. You shatter again before you can brace for it. Your back bows, toes curling, pussy fluttering around his thick cock. Frank hisses and bites your neck, not gentle. You grind up against him, greedy for the friction, the pain, the relentless stretch. You want him to hurt you; you want him to ruin every inch. You want to be so thoroughly claimed that you’ll never joke about another man’s name again. He keeps you pinned, locked to the couch by the weight of his hips and the clamp of his hand on your jaw. His mouth crashes to yours, tongue slicking inside, swallowing every gasp and whimper. He fucks you with a purpose: to erase you and build you back up in his own image.
When he finally slows, the edges of the world have blurred; your thoughts run like water. Frank gathers you up, arms under your knees, and hauls you higher, bracing your back against the armrest. You slide down, helpless, as his cock pops out and then pushes back in, deeper than before. You shriek. He muffles it with his palm.
“Shh. That’s right, honey. You take it for me. All of it.” His voice is so close, the words vibrating in your ribs. Your nipples brush his chest with every thrust, the heat of him soaking through your skin. You’re desperate, completely ruined, and his cock is the only thing holding you together. He pushes your knees up, folding you almost in half, and fucks you straight down, hitting a spot so overwhelming you think you might black out. You can’t even beg anymore. All you can do is sob and let him use you, let him drive you to the next peak and the next, each one burning hotter, brighter, until you’re molten and screaming and trembling everywhere. He seems to savor it, watching you, licking sweat from your jaw while he pistons in and out, every stroke a shockwave through your core. He’s close, but he won’t let himself finish. Not yet. He wants more from you.Frank's hands pry your knees wider, one beefy palm holding your thigh hard to the couch and the other angling your jaw so you have to look right at him, so you can see the scarred terrain of his face as he splits you open.
No room to hide, not from that look. Not from the power in his hips as he drives into you. The world is sweat and skin and bruises blooming under his fingers, and the endless, ragged sound of your own voice—crying, pleading, gone completely out of your control. You've never been this fucked, never been this taken apart. He keeps his eyes locked on yours while he fucks you. There is no pretense in it, no mercy.
"C'mon, baby, gimme one more," he pants, the words grinding out of him like he's hauling each one up from the bottom of a well. "Know you got it in you. Open up, that's it—show me." The angle hits so deep you almost fold in two. Pressure building, pressure breaking, white noise and heat. Your body bucks, tries to curl away, to get a single breath above the drowning tide of sensation, but Frank won't let you. He holds you there, fucks you through it, makes you take every goddamn inch. You hear yourself scream, see his face twist with satisfaction. He loves it. He fucking loves it.
"That's my girl," he growls, voice raw, "look at you, fuckin' perfect. You wanna come again, don't you? Say it. Tell me." He is relentless, the tempo brutal enough to make the couch frame creak. Your whole body is one raw, exposed nerve, and the pleasure borders on pain in a way that makes you sob. You don't even know what you're saying, just babbling his name, babbling anything that might keep him fucking you this good, this hard, forever. He slows, just for a second, like he wants to drag it out, savor every twitch and flutter. Then he slams in, three deep, punishing strokes, and you shatter. You come so hard you think you might pass out, clenching around him so violently your vision goes gray at the edges. Frank hisses, like you've bitten him, and keeps pumping, keeps you racked up high on the edge and then off it again and again.
The world comes back in pieces. You are limp on the cushions, legs thrown over Frank's shoulders, his weight crushing your hips to the couch. His cock still stuffed inside you, still rutting, like he's trying to find the bottom of you and then build a new low. He slides one hand under your back, arching you up, and bends over you until his chest is a wall at your nose, until you can inhale the salt-and-cologne heat of his sweat.
"You wanna be a brat, you better be ready for the consequences," he grunts, biting the words against your lips. "Fuckin' with me all day—" He snaps his hips on the word, sharp enough to make you yelp. "Thinkin' you can get away with it—" Another thrust, another yelp. "This is what happens." Frank goes feral, the tempo turning punishing. He braces your thighs wide, bends you in half, and hammers home with a rhythm that shakes the battered couch and sets every nerve in your body on fire. You're not even aware of your own voice anymore—a high, raw, desperate sound, punctuating every stroke as he fucks you deeper, harder, until the feeling of him is all you know. Your mind whites out at the edges; your skin is electric, slick and tingling and oversensitive. Each thrust rakes over a sweet spot inside until you're convinced you'll split on it, until you're ruined and remade in his image.
He doesn't give you a second to recover. Doesn't care that your legs are jelly, that your body is vibrating with every stutter and snap of his hips. He wants you on the edge, teetering, trembling, bratty little attitude wrung clean out of you. He wants you to never forget who fucks you this open. You can't even look at him—your vision is nothing but sweat and the flat planes of his chest, the bruising press of his hands pinning you down. Frank's face is a blur above you, but you know the look on it: hunger, pride, a little mean, a lot possessive. You love it.
You try to reach for his arm, to anchor yourself to something, but your hands flop uselessly against his forearm. He grunts, leans hard into you, and the new angle makes you want to scream. He's everywhere: in you, on you, under your skin, inside your head. Your own voice is sobbing out his name, a mantra, a plea, the only thing you can say.
"Yeah, that's it," he huffs, voice thick and wet with arousal. "Let everyone hear you, baby. Say it. Say who fucks you this good." He gives you a savage thrust for punctuation and you break, high and needy, the pleasure a punch to the gut.
"Frank—oh, fuck—Frank, Frank—" You're almost crying with it, the mess between your thighs slick and obscene. He loves it. He praises you, filthy, soft, relentless.
"That's my good girl. You take it so good—shit, look at you, takin' every fuckin' inch. This pussy's perfect, made for me." He palms your cheek, forces you to meet his gaze. "You gonna come again for me? Gonna show me how grateful you are?" You nod, whimpering, desperate for it. The heat in your belly is a live wire, every movement a fresh, white-hot spike of pleasure. He slows, just for a moment, grinding deep with a mean little circle of his hips that makes you see stars.
"You like makin' me crazy?" he asks, and you don't even know if it's a question that needs answering. Doesn't matter. You're beyond words, beyond anything but the feeling of his cock splitting you open. He slaps your thigh, a crisp, mean crack, and the sting fans the fire inside you. You clench around him, milking him, and Frank fucks you like the world's gone dark and hot and everything outside this moment's been blown to glass. He wants you split, spent, every sensation spiking until there's only him left in your skull, until if you ever tries to say anyone else's name again your body'll reject it like poison. You're a fucking mess—hair everywhere, tears on your cheeks and spit on your jaw, your voice gone strange and high and sticky from the way he keeps you right there, trembling on the couch, legs crooked up on his shoulders. He can hardly see straight for how much he wants you. It's a sickness, the kind that eats out everything that isn't need. That last orgasm knocked something loose in you, left you blubbering and gasping, and Frank grins like a fucking wolf at the way you clamp around him every time he grinds in deep. He sets a slow rhythm now, dragging it out, letting the stretch and heat build again. He wants you to remember this for a week. He leans in, crowding you, forearms braced on either side of your head. Your whole world's bracketed by his arms and sweat and the sharp, salty tang of sex. You're sobbing, little sounds he used to think meant stop but now he knows mean fuck yes, more, don't you dare stop. He drags his lips along your jaw, nipping and licking, then says it in your ear, quiet and mean:
"This all you got? I thought you were tough." You mewl, tries to squirm away, but he's got you caged. He wants you pinned and wild and shattered. He wants you to never forget his name again. "You like when I fuck you stupid?" he pants, voice breaking on the upstroke, "You like it when I make you cry?" He doesn't expect you to talk. You can't. Your nails dig into his biceps, desperate, searching for something to hold. He fucks you through the shakes, through the endless aftershocks, and the way your body milks him is going to destroy him if he's not careful.
He tries to wait it out. Tries to be good, to make you come again, but you're so hot and tight it's like a goddamn vise—he's never felt anything like it. You're whimpering, helpless, and the sound rips through him.
“Fuck- Say - Shit, mama, say my name.”
“Frank.”
The last of his patience unspools. He slams in deep, stays there, and his vision explodes. He comes hard as he's ever come, the pleasure mean and electric, his hips jerking with every pulse. He's still growling your name—your real name, goddamn it—like if he says it enough times it'll erase every other man who ever looked at you. He collapses on top of you, crushing you a little, and slides a hand up to cup your throat, thumb stroking the pulse point as your bodies cool. His cock stays inside you, fat and spent and still twitching. He feels you shiver as he shifts his weight. He should pull out. He can't. He needs you to know, to feel it for hours.
His cock’s still locked inside you, thick and swollen and leaking, even as every muscle in your body shudders with oversensitive aftershocks. The air’s sharp with ozone and sweat and the raw, animal edge of the two of you. You can feel him softening only a little, but the heat’s still there, the weight of him a constant, insistent throb inside you. He’s made a mess—a slick, hot flood that seeps out around the base of him, pooling out and streaking wet down the backs of your thighs and onto the couch.
You half expect him to pull out,to clean you up and cradle you, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stays buried deep, his body a wall against you, his hand heavy on your thigh, fingers digging in with a need to keep you exactly where you are. Your cunt pulses around him, desperate and hollow and full at the same time, the sensation so sharp it makes your eyes water. You try to shift your hips, to ease yourself off the impalement, but Frank grunts and tightens his grip, holding you still.
“Don’t move,” he mutters, voice rough and shredded. He sounds equal parts threat and plea. “Just—gimme a second.” You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Every nerve sings, every clench sets off a fresh splash of slick between your legs. You’re not sure if you could stand up, even if he let you. Frank’s hand slides up, palm warm on your belly. He flexes his arm and pins you down, like he’s afraid you’ll evaporate if he lets go. He nudges his hips forward, slow and deliberate, forcing another inch inside you. You whimper, the sensation almost too much, but you want it, need it, love that he can’t stop himself even now. You feel the way his cock twitches, a slow, aftershock pulse, the slide of his spend leaking out and then forced back in as he gives a shallow thrust.
He’s not done. Not even close.
He pulls your hips up, finds a new angle, and grinds himself in again. You can feel every vein, every shift, the thick stretch of him carving you open. He moves slow, deeper than before, dragging the oversensitive seam of your cunt until it blurs the pleasure and pain together. Your walls flutter and clamp down, desperate to keep him, and Frank’s hand finds the nape of your neck, holds your face-down in the battered cushions.
“Gonna keep you like this,” he slurs, almost too quiet to hear. “Keep you plugged up, yeah?” His hips stay welded to you, cock still inside, and you can feel him—Frank's come, thick and hot, slowly leaking out and then forced right back in by the lazy clutch of your body and the thick, insistent length he refuses to let go. The mess of it drips from your cunt, sticky and slippery, trickling down your ass and pooling under the curve of your thigh. Frank's hand slides with you, guiding the slick back up, circling the rim of your overstretched hole and then pushing it in again with a gentle, careful thumb. He does it slow. So slow. Like he's pressing a memory into you. He keeps you folded, legs wide, the angle obscene and utterly helpless, and you can't move, can't even twitch. Every time you think he's done, that he's squeezing the very last drop of himself inside you, Frank drags his thumb down again, collects what's escaped, and traces it back up the seam of your pussy, watching it pearl and disappear where the base of his cock splits you open. He groans—quiet, like he's talking to himself—and gives a little grind, just enough to stir everything up, to make your insides ripple and push out another thick rope of spend around his cock. The sensation makes you sob. It’s almost too much, but the way he does it, so careful, so fucking gentle, is nothing like the bruising violence of ten seconds ago. He keeps you impaled, keeps you gaping underneath him, and just... admires his handiwork.
“Look at that,” he says, but his voice has gone soft, gone almost lost. “Made a mess of you.” He sounds almost reverent. He runs his palm up your thigh and presses the flesh until it dimples, like he needs the proof that you’re real. The couch shakes with every little shift he makes, every micro-thrust, every exhausted clench of your cunt milking him for more. You try to blink your way back into reality, but your body’s fried, nerves sparking and shorting out with every new sensation. The room is spinning, the taste of sweat and spit and salt thick in your mouth, but Frank is steady, an anchor in the haze. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll fall apart if he lets go. You expect him to snap back to the old Frank any second—rough, gruff, never sentimental—but instead he bends low, presses his forehead to yours, and stays there, breathing you in. His breath is hot and sour with effort. He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t even soften all the way. He stays where he is, like if he stops, even for a second, the world will cave in.When he finally pulls out, you whine, instinctive and high, the emptiness a shock after all that relentless fullness. The mess is immediate—warm and thick and slick, his cum painting your thighs, smeared across every inch of you. Frank stares at the sight, breath ragged, chest heaving. There’s a wild pride in his face, his work here, the evidence of how thoroughly he’s ruined you.
But then it hits him what he’s done. That he’s made you cry, that your legs don’t work, that you’re so open and spent and marked by him. He crowds in close, hands gentle now, running down your back, smoothing out the ridges of your spine.
“Shit.” The word is rough and sticky, like his mouth doesn’t want to let go of it. He's never seen anyone look so finished. Not just tired—wrecked, splotched under the eyes, face swollen with tears. The sound in your throat isn't even a whimper, just a shaky, airless wheeze as you try and fail to move your leg, which is still flopped useless over his shoulder. The stark panic that hits him is visceral. He did this. He wrecked you. He spent all day thinking about it, but now that it's real, now that you're slumped under him all glassy and trembling, a cold trickle starts up the spine. He tries to shift back, but you flinch and he sees the fresh tears, the way your thighs clamp shut before he even moves.
“Hey, hey—shit, honey, I gotcha,” he mumbles, voice turned all thick and soft, nothing like the man from thirty seconds ago. His hands move gentle now, thumbs tracing soft circles in all the places he’d used to bruise. You can’t meet his eyes. You just lie there, cheek mashed to a throw pillow, the mess of wet on your face drying sticky and sweet. You blink at a spot on his chest, like if you look anywhere else you might float right out of your body. Frank feels the zip of guilt, a live wire through his sternum. He tries to nudge you upright, to cradle you, but you just curl tighter. He tugs the ruined t-shirt down to cover your chest, suddenly desperate to shield you from even the air.
“C’mere,” he says, voice wobbling in that way you only ever hear when he’s scared. “C’mere, I’m sorry, I’m so fuckin’ sorry—I got carried away, I didn’t mean…” He can’t finish. He’s never seen you look so small. He pulls you into his lap, cradling you with arms that only minutes ago could have ripped you in half. You shiver, clutching at his forearm, nails digging in like you’re afraid he’ll vanish. He pets your hair, wipes the sweat from your brow, and presses his lips to your head. It’s not until you start to breathe again—really breathe, slow and deep and shaky—that he allows himself to speak above a whisper.
“Did I hurt you? Hey, look at me—tell me. Did I hurt you bad?” The panic is naked on his face, no armor left. You try to answer, but the words tangle in your throat. You shake your head, burrow closer, the heat of him grounding you. He waits, silent but vibrating, for the next breath, and the next. Only after a long minute do you force out a croak:
“Just—lot. Lot all at once.” Your laugh is bruised and wet, but it’s there. Frank holds you like you’ll break, palms wide and steady on your back.
“Baby, you gotta tell me if it’s too much,” he says, voice so raw you almost don’t recognize it. "Jealous craze or not , I never wanna fuckin' hurt ya." You shake your head.
"S'exactly what i wanted." Frank's entire face softens. The panic doesn't leave. It just changes shape. He searches your face with frantic, guilty eyes, brushing damp strands of hair away from your forehead over and over, as if he can't stop checking that you're really here.
"You sure?" he asks quietly. You nod against his shoulder.
"'M sure." He exhales, but it's shaky. Not relief. Not completely. His thumb keeps tracing slow circles across your back.
"I lost my head."
"I know."
"I got jealous."
"I know."
"I should've reined it in." You lift your head just enough to look at him.
"Frankie. I did it on purpose. I wanted this to happen." He rolls his eyes.
"I'm aware." He huffs. "Doesn't change the fact I should've been more careful." He lets out a shaky breath, his forehead still pressed to yours. The tension in his shoulders doesn't ease, but something in his eyes does—like he's finally letting himself believe you.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he murmurs, but there's no anger in it. Just a raw, terrifying sort of acceptance. His thumb traces your jawline, then dips lower, brushing against the pulse in your throat. "Making me lose control like that." You manage a weak smile.
"You looked pretty in control to me." That gets a huff of laughter out of him, short and sharp.
"Yeah, well." He shifts slightly, careful not to jostle you too much. "We oughta get you some glasses, mama."
You snort, the sound small and scratchy.
"Glasses?"
"So you can tell the difference between me and every poor bastard whose name you decided to call me today." You let your head fall back against his shoulder.
"I knew exactly who you were."
"Oh, did you?"
"Mhm."
"And yet I spent the whole damn day bein' Billy, Matt, David…" He counts them off on his fingers with exaggerated annoyance. "Think you even threw Foggy in there at one point."
"I might've."
"You absolutely did."A sleepy smile pulls at your lips.
"You were cute when you got jealous." He gives you a look.
"Cute?"
"So cute."
"I was havin' a crisis."
"You were pouting."
"I do not pout."
"You do."
"I brood."
"You pout while brooding." He huffs, but there's no heat behind it.
"You've got a dangerous definition of entertainment."
"I had fun."
"I noticed." His hand slides slowly up your back, warm and steady, never rushing, never asking for anything. Just holding you.
"You still with me?" he asks quietly. You nod against him.
"Mhm."
"Tired?"
"So tired."
"Hungry?"
"Little."
"Thirsty?"
"Yeah." He kisses the top of your head.
"I'll fix both."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
"You always say that."
"'Cause it's true." He shifts carefully, making sure you stay wrapped in the blanket he'd pulled around your shoulders before easing you off his lap just enough to settle you comfortably against the couch cushions. "Don't move." You smile without opening your eyes.
"Bossy."
"Damn right." He disappears into the kitchen for less than a minute before returning with a glass of water.
"Easy," he says, slipping an arm behind your shoulders to help you sit up. "Small sips." You obediently take a drink. He watches until you've swallowed. "Another." You roll your eyes.
"Yes, sir."
"Smartass."
"You love me."
"I do." The answer comes so quickly it steals your smile for a second. He notices.
"What?"
"Nothin'."
"You got that look."
"What look?"
"The one where you're thinkin' too hard." You study him. His hair is still a mess. There's a faint crease between his brows that hasn't disappeared. His breathing is normal again, but every few seconds his eyes flick over you like he's checking you're really okay.
"You still feel guilty." He doesn't answer immediately. Finally, he nods once.
"Little."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
"But I'm gonna anyway." You reach for him.
"C'mere."
He sits back down without hesitation, and you immediately curl into his side again. His arm comes around your shoulders. Instinct. Like it belongs there. You rest your palm against the center of his chest. His heart is finally beating at something close to normal.
"There," you murmur.
"What?"
"That's better." He covers your hand with his.
"You scared me."
"I know."
"I don't like seein' you cry."
"I wasn't crying because I was unhappy."
"I know."
"I was just… overwhelmed."
"I know." He presses a kiss into your hair. "I'm still gonna worry."
"I'd be disappointed if you didn't." That earns a quiet laugh.
summary: frank arrives home after a long day of dispensing justice. instead of finding his girlfriend's arms around him, he's met with her indifference as she's busy reading a smutty book.
warnings: +18 explicit smut. unprotected sex. rough sex. brief, very brief, orgasm restraint. p in v. couch sex (yeah). swearing. oral (f receiving). frank is jealous during sex, yes.
content: frank is jealous of a smut book. just smut, okay? lmao.
word count: +5k
a/n: one-shot thanks to this request! i apologize for the delay. <3
clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.
Frank had forgotten what silence was supposed to feel like.
For years it had meant the few seconds after pulling a trigger, the ringing left inside his ears after an explosion, the heavy pause between one interrogation and the next while another man decided whether dying was preferable to talking. Silence had never been peaceful. It had always carried the weight of another corpse, another confession, another night that refused to end.
Tonight was no different.
His knuckles ached beneath dried blood that wasn’t his. A shallow cut stretched across his forearm where a knife had managed to find skin before he’d broken the man’s wrist. His back protested beneath the familiar weight of his vest, and every muscle in his body reminded him that he wasn’t thirty anymore.
He barely noticed.
Pain had long ago stopped asking permission before settling into his bones.
The apartment building appeared at the end of the block exactly where it always did, its windows glowing softly against the New York night. Frank climbed the stairs two at a time despite the exhaustion pulling at his legs, already picturing what waited beyond the front door. Maybe you’d be asleep on the couch again, pretending you hadn’t been waiting for him. Maybe you’d have burned dinner because you’d become distracted by whatever book currently occupied your entire personality. Maybe you’d hear his boots outside and throw yourself at him before he even had the chance to complain that you ought to be sleeping.
It happened almost every night.
The first pair of arms around his neck.
The quiet kiss against his jaw.
Your ridiculous habit of greeting him as though he’d returned from work instead of from beating information out of men who deserved far worse.
He never admitted how much he’d grown to expect it.
Maybe because admitting it would mean accepting that somewhere along the way he’d developed routines again. Small ones. Domestic ones. Dangerous ones.
Frank Castle wasn’t supposed to miss being welcomed home.
And yet...
The thought alone was enough to loosen something inside his chest before he’d even unlocked the apartment door.
The lock clicked open with the familiar metallic sound that usually announced your smile long before he heard your footsteps.
Tonight, there was nothing.
Frank stepped inside without bothering to turn on another light. The apartment was already bathed in the warm amber glow of the lamp beside the couch, filling the small living room with the kind of quiet most people would’ve called peaceful. He shut the door behind him with his shoulder, dropped the duffel bag carrying the weight of another night’s worth of violence onto the floor, and stood there for a moment, waiting.
Nothing.
No hurried footsteps crossing the apartment.
No cheerful “Frank?”
No arms wrapping around his neck before he’d even managed to take off his boots.
His brow furrowed almost immediately.
You were there. He could see you from where he stood, curled comfortably into the corner of the couch beneath the blanket you always stole from the bedroom. One leg was tucked beneath you, your nose nearly buried between the pages of an embarrassingly thick smutty romance novel, so completely absorbed that you hadn’t even noticed the front door opening.
For a brief second, Frank wondered whether he’d somehow managed to come home quieter than usual.
Then he noticed the mug of tea resting on the coffee table beside you, still steaming gently.
You were awake.
You simply hadn’t looked at him.
Something unexpectedly sour settled in his stomach.
It was ridiculous.
Completely irrational.
He’d spent the last four hours dragging information out of men whose names wouldn’t survive the week. One had laughed at him until Frank had introduced his face to a concrete floor. Another had cried. A third had begged. By the time he’d gotten what he wanted, his patience had disappeared somewhere between broken furniture and bloodstained walls. His shoulders ached, his ribs complained every time he inhaled too deeply, and dried blood—not his own—had stiffened across the sleeves of his shirt.
All he had wanted during the drive home was you.
Just you.
The thought had carried him through the entire night with embarrassing ease. He’d pictured your sleepy smile, the inevitable little lecture about tracking dirt across the floor, the way you’d wrinkle your nose before pretending the blood didn’t bother you as much as it did. You always kissed him first and scolded him second. It had become a ritual neither of you had ever spoken aloud.
Tonight, that ritual had been interrupted by four hundred pages and what looked like an offensively handsome man on the book’s cover (was it a fairy man?).
Frank stared at it for another second.
“You’re kiddin’ me,” he snorted, as he took off his bulletproof vest and dropped it to the ground without a care.
You hummed absentmindedly, turning another page.
That was it.
A low grunt escaped him before he bent to remove the knife from his belt, setting it beside the duffel with more force than necessary. His boots echoed heavily against the hardwood as he crossed the room, yet even then your attention never left the book.
“Hey.”
You lifted one finger. “One second.”
Frank blinked.
One second?
His jaw shifted.
He had waited outside warehouses in the freezing rain for six hours without moving. He had spent days tracking men across three states. Patience wasn’t foreign to him.
But waiting for a damn smutty novel?
That felt personal.
Frank trudged toward the kitchen, hoping you’d at least say something more, but you remained engrossed in your reading, lost in magical, obscene words. It was insulting that your attention was drawn to some unreal fairy man and not to him, not to your man.
It was absurd. It wasn’t as if Frank was jealous; he was simply annoyed that… you weren’t paying him any attention.
With that thought, Frank quickly washed his hands to remove the blood. One rule Frank Castle had was that he wouldn’t touch you with dirty hands, not with the remnants of the executioner’s justice. He couldn’t defile his sweet girl like that. You didn’t deserve that.
But once his hands were clean? That was another matter.
“Lemme get this straight…” he muttered, stopping beside the couch. “That damn thing’s got more of your attention than I do?”
You smiled to yourself at something you’d just read. “I’ll answer in a minute.”
His eyes narrowed. “Oh, will ya?”
There wasn’t any real anger in his voice, only a rough sarcasm that barely concealed something much softer. If anyone else had heard it, they might’ve mistaken it for annoyance.
You would’ve recognized it immediately.
Frank wanted your attention.
Every last bit of it.
“Hey,” he called you again, trying not to seem interested, but there was still no response from you beyond a giggle, probably due to one of those obscene scenes that you liked so much.
He let out a low grunt and snatched the book from your hands. His dark gaze was fixed on you completely, because everything about Frank now belonged to you, down to the smallest particle of his miserable being, which bore your name. It was pathetic, truly pathetic, that part of him was getting annoyed because his girl couldn’t put down her fairy-tale romance novel for a few seconds, but Frank, in this moment, was beyond all logic. Not after a long day where all he’d wanted was to be in your arms.
“That crap’s really more interestin’ than me, darlin’?” he muttered, looking disdainfully at the book cover for a few seconds and then returning his gaze to you.
Your reaction was instantaneous; you clearly didn’t want to interrupt your reading, the very thing that had kept you awake while you waited for Frank.
“Hey!” you exclaimed, getting up from the couch and letting the blanket fall to the floor. “I was at a really good part of the book!” you said. “Give it back, Frankie,” your tone was the same one you used when you didn’t care about getting into trouble, that same tone that drove Frank crazy in different ways.
Oh, you were really in the mood to annoy him. Not only was your priority a book and not him, but now you were standing up for yourself instead of throwing yourself into his arms.
Frank let out a derisive snort, his nose wrinkling as he caught the faint metallic tang of blood clinging to his jacket. He didn’t care about the plot, the characters, or whatever flowery bullshit was written on those pages. All he cared about was the fact that your attention was somewhere else when he needed it.
“Good part, huh?” he repeated, his voice dropping to a rough, gravelly register.
He approached you with decisive, strong steps. His presence was overwhelming, dominant in the space you shared, but you didn’t move away; instead, you remained planted in your place, letting him press closer, his broad, strong presence crowding your space.
You didn’t hold back or erase that mischievousness so characteristic of yours from your bright eyes; on the contrary, you let Frank present himself to you as the man who filled a room simply by being there, but who was reduced to a disaster because of you.
“Lemme guess. Some pussy-ass poet’s goin’ on ’bout how soft some girl’s lips are... or some poor bastard finally got lucky, huh?” he grunted, staring at you.
He looked at the book again; the cover was a man clearly designed for people whose fantasies lay elsewhere, perhaps for people who didn’t have a man like him to fulfill their desires. He didn’t read the title; he didn’t give a shit about reading now. He simply tossed it onto the coffee table like it was yesterday’s trash. His hands, calloused and rough from years of gripping triggers and breaking bones, slid to your waist, gripping you possessively. He needed to remind you exactly what kind of reality you were dealing with.
“Real shit don’t happen in books, sweetheart,” he muttered against the shell of your ear, his breath hot and smelling faintly of gunpowder and cheap coffee. “You want somethin’ that’ll actually stick with you? Somethin’ that actually fucks with your head?” His grip tightened just enough to be commanding, his dark eyes boring into yours with a raw, hungry intensity that no romance novel could ever replicate. “Look at me.”
Frank was usually the kind of man everyone would think was a beast in bed—and he was—but the truth is, he was generally the kind of man who adored your body, who fucked you with a rhythm that wasn’t lethal in the sense of roughness, but rather in precision. For Frank, exploring your body wasn’t a task, but a reality, as natural as breathing. His calloused hands always roamed your body not with the gentleness of a prince, but with the devotion of a knight errant returning to his lady’s arms.
Frank fucked you like no one ever had, but very rarely had he done it in a way that turned adoration into possession.
And you, at this very moment, wet from a silly smut romance novel, wanted to feel under the power of your beloved Frank. You needed to feel the other side he tried to keep buried most of the time.
You looked at him as he instructed, the blush involuntarily rising up your neck to cover the tips of your ears and decorate your cheeks as your eyes locked onto his intense gaze.
Frank noticed the flush creeping up your neck, staining your cheeks a deep crimson. He wasn’t stupid; he could read your body language better than he could read a target through a scope. That blush wasn’t from offense, it was arousal. The way your pupils dilated, the way your breathing hitched just slightly it told him everything he needed to know. You weren’t reading about some noble knight saving a damsel; you were reading about something filthy. It’s not like he didn’t know it before, but your reaction? Yeah, that confirmed it.
A slow, predatory smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. The cornerstones of his irritation crumbled, replaced by something far more dangerous: genuine interest.
“Fuck,” he rumbled, his voice dropping an octave as he realized what you’d been up to. “So that’s what this is, huh? Reading about some fantasy cock while I’m standin’ right here bleeding from my knuckles. You’re really gonna ignore your man for some made-up asshole?”
He didn’t give you time to deflect or make an excuse. His large hand slid from your waist, moving upward until his palm pressed flat against your sternum, feeling the rapid flutter of your heart beneath the fabric of your clothes. He leaned down until your noses brushed, his stubble scraping lightly against your sensitive skin.
“You want to read about what it feels like to be fucked properly?” he asked, his words dripping with crude provocation. “You want to know what it’s like when someone doesn’t write about it with pretty fucking metaphors, but actually takes what they want?” his free hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose the column of your throat. “Tell me. Was the book better than what I’m going to do to you tonight? Does that imaginary cock feel better than mine, princess?”
A gasp escaped your lips when he tugged on your hair. It felt good, the way his firm hand held you and reduced you to this, to a moment in which he took complete control of the atmosphere.
But of course, you were you. You were the one who won Frank Castle over; your attitude didn’t just disappear.
“I don’t know,” you murmured, a defiant smile playing on your lips. “I don’t know if you could fuck better than him,” you said, staring intently into his eyes; a gaze locked, without a flicker of blinking.
Frank’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant. The sarcasm died, replaced by something far more primal and volatile. That challenge hung in the air between you like gunpowder before a shot, and Frank Castle never backed down from a challenge. He knew you were playing with fire, poking at the beast just to see if it would bite but he wasn’t about to let you win this round. Not today at least, not when he completely needed your attention.
“You really think some ink on paper’s got a shot against me?” he growled, his voice vibrating with a dangerous edge. His grip on your hair tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to assert dominance, forcing you to meet his darkened gaze. “You think some made up bastard could make ya scream like you actually mean it? Some made-up son of a bitch who ain’t even real?”
His free hand slid down from your chest, past the curve of your waist, to your crotch. Frank’s calloused, large hand cupped your pussy through your pajama shorts. Firmly, but gently, he squeezed while two of his fingers moved along the covered slit of your intimacy, making sure you felt the length of his fingers caressing that area.
“Yeah... got you all worked up, didn’t it?” he said, with a smile that wasn’t playful, but rather a warning. “Over a damn book, uh? You got turned on reading about a nonexistent cock? Were you plannin’ to plunge your fingers into your pretty pussy while ya waited for me?”
A husky laugh escaped his throat when he saw your blush deepen, and he shook his head, almost as if your dampness were an insult. He didn’t cause it, but an idiot dressed in silk with ears like Legolas’s.
“That book can’t touch ya. It can’t make your thighs shake or make you beg for it like I can. It can’t fill your pussy over and over again, princess, that little bitch can’t even eat your pussy like you deserve,” his lips brushed against yours as he spoke, his words filthy and direct. “I’m gonna make ya forget every word that asshole writer ever wrote. By the time I’m through with ya, you won’t remember a single word that sorry bastard wrote.”
You let out a shaky breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of his black military jacket. “Prove it then, Frank,” you whispered, your voice a challenge wrapped in silk. “Show me I’m wrong.”
Frank didn’t need permission. He growled low in his throat and claimed your mouth in a kiss that tasted like desperation and possession. This wasn’t a gentle exploration; it was a collision. His tongue invaded your mouth with crude urgency, claiming your territory as he backed you up until your thighs hit the edge of the couch.
His saliva mingled with yours, his tongue conquered yours, and your teeth clashed in a dance born of a primal need to remember. To remind you, rather, that you could only get wet thinking about him.
“Jesus... that mouth’s gonna get you in trouble one day,” he muttered against your lips, his hands working feverishly. He yanked your shirt up and over your head in one rough motion, tossing it somewhere into the darkness of the room. His eyes raked over your soft skin, dark with hunger. “...Christ, you’re beautiful.”
He knelt between your legs, his calloused thumbs rubbing circles into your inner thighs, deliberately working your arousal. When his fingers finally found your slick, swollen clit through your panties, you gasped, your back arching off the cushions. “Frank,” you sighed.
Frank didn’t hesitate to carelessly pull your pajama shorts off. He didn’t care where the fabric fell; at that very moment, he could throw all your clothes out the window just to have you naked and presented to him.
“Shh,” he commanded, his voice raw. “Listen to yourself... already losin’ it” He hooked his fingers under the lace, tearing it aside to expose you completely. He leaned down, his stubble grazing your sensitive flesh as he buried his face between your thighs. The contrast of his rough stubble against your soft folds made you cry out, your fingers tangling desperately in his short hair.
Frank drank you in, his tongue working with precise, punishing accuracy, tasting every drop of your arousal. He wanted to hear you unravel, wanted to hear that angelic voice break into something filthy and undone.
Your hips bucked involuntarily against his mouth, your legs shaking as Frank’s tongue swirled around your clit with brutal, focused intensity. He was emphasizing his point, the inherent ideal within him that you belonged to him completely, even in fantasies.
“Oh fuck, Frank yes… just right there,” you cried out, your head tossing back against the couch cushions. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails leaving crescent marks through his shirt as you felt yourself teetering on the edge of a cliff.
Frank didn’t stop. He wanted to push you further, to drain every ounce of control you thought you had. He swirled his tongue faster, sucking harder on your swollen clit until you were sobbing his name, your cunt milking his tongue with involuntary spasms.
“Look at you, pretty girl” Frank grunted, momentarily pulling his face away from your crotch and using his free hand to run two thick fingers along your wet slit. “A mess…” he chuckled huskily. “Now tell me somethin’... this all because of me…” he asked, his voice dropping lower, “...or that dumb son of a bitch in your little book?”
Frank’s fingers parted your labia, becoming wet with the essence of your arousal and causing the hairs on your body to stand on end at the mere touch.
“F-Fuck off,” you cursed, letting out a trembling sigh as you were denied the sweet sensation of his tongue as you had done moments before.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” his words were accompanied by a firm slap against your pussy. Not hard, but enough to make a gasp of surprise and pleasure escape your lips. “Don’t go gettin’ shy on me now.” Two of Frank’s fingers wandered along your slit, pressing near your entrance to tempt you with the idea of being filled, at least, by his fingers now. “Tell me... was it me…” he asked, tilting his head ever so slightly, “...or that sorry bastard you’ve been readin’ about all night?”
You swallowed hard, the blush that had spread violently across your face being empirical evidence of the mess you were, all because of his tongue, fingers, and words. Even though you were the type of person who didn’t like to back down, the idea of missing out on your orgasm wasn’t something you wanted to think about.
“It’s for you,” you murmured, exhaling shakily. “Only for you, Frankie.”
You saw him smile briefly before burying his face again at the source of your wetness. You moaned loudly as his large hands gripped your thighs and pressed you against him, as if he wanted to merge with you.
His tongue moved with precision, the same precision of a man of slaughter and punishment, but now focused on making you feel the pleasure only he could give. His fingers were hard, strong, digging into your soft flesh, marking the insignificant area while his lips sucked your clitoris and then his tongue circled that spot. You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to imagine his jaw dripping with your pleasure because, at that moment, you didn’t have the strength to keep your vision focused, and you let the sensation of his tongue traveling from your clitoris to your entrance be enough.
His tongue was heavy, precise, and strong as it first circled your entrance and then fearlessly plunged inside. It was almost embarrassing how you disarmed yourself under this man, under the rhythmic touch of his passion for you.
“C’mon, princess. Gimme the first one,” Frank murmured, collecting your fluids with two fingers and then plunging them into your entrance. He soon began to move it, fingering your pussy as he lowered his mouth again to focus on your clit.
When you finally climaxed, your body convulsing as you screamed into the empty apartment, Frank didn’t pull away. He stayed there, tasting the salt and the sweetness of your release, savoring the way your pussy pulsed against his lips.
“That’s it? That’s all you got?” he growled, pulling back to look at you. His face was flushed, his eyes dark with a hunger that was almost frightening. “That pathetic little story didn’t make ya come like that, did it?”
Before you could even catch your breath, he was stripping off his own clothes with impatient, jerky movements. Precision in escaping the fabric prison didn’t matter now; he just needed to fill you completely. When he freed his cock, it was angry and thick, throbbing with need. You reached for him, your eyes glassy and unfocused with lust.
“Frank... fuck me. I need you,” you whispered breathlessly, but without shame, because there was no such thing in the world that was just you and him.
“Hell yeah, you do,” he said, pushing your hands. Frank grabbed both your thighs, hauling you to the very edge of the cushions so you were spread wide open for him. “Open up for me, baby.” He guided the head of his cock against your dripping entrance, pausing for one agonizing second to watch your expression. “Tell me what ya want, princess. Go on... say it.”
“I want your dick inside me,” you whined, your hips lifting off the couch instinctively. “Show me how wrong I was.”
Frank didn’t make you wait. With a guttural growl that sounded more like a wounded animal than a man, he drove himself home. He buried his thick, throbbing cock deep into your soaking wet pussy in one relentless thrust, bottoming out against your cervix.
You let out a strangled cry that was half sob, half moan, your eyes rolling back as your body stretched to accommodate his sheer size. The sensation was overwhelming the fullness of him filling you completely, stretching your walls until you felt like you might split apart. “Fuck, Frank oh god, you’re so big,” you gasped, fingers clawing at his scarred arms as you tried to anchor yourself against the storm he was bringing.
As you dug your nails into his skin, you felt a trace of his blood, a small cut he’d likely gotten earlier that day, and something twisted in you, rather than feeling worried, you found yourself even more aroused because Frank prioritized fucking you over tending to his wound. Even if it wasn’t a deep cut, he preferred the idea of being inside you to caring for himself.
“Yeah? You like that?” Frank grunted, his voice rough with exertion. He didn’t give you time to answer before he began to move. His rhythm wasn’t tender; it was punishing, each thrust a deliberate strike meant to claim you. He pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in, the wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding echoing through the quiet apartment. “This better be better than that fuckin’ book.”
He reached up, his large hands cupping one of your breasts. His thumbs raked roughly over your nipples, which were already peaked and sensitive from your arousal. He squeezed it hard, his callouses grinding against the soft flesh as he leaned down to bite at your throat. “Look at you,” he muttered against your skin. “Fucking drippin’ all over me. My fucking mess.”
You were beyond words. Each thrust sent waves of electricity through your nervous system, your pussy clamping around his dick in desperate, involuntary pulses. You felt the raw power in his hips, the way his muscular frame dominated every inch of your space. “Yes... yes, fuck me like that,” you whimpered, your hips rising to meet every punishing stroke. “Harder, Frank. Don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you gasped between breaths that sought the normal rhythm of the air, but you weren’t going to allow it, not when agitation was synonymous with pleasure and union at this moment.
The friction was building toward something catastrophic. Frank could feel it too the way your cunt was milking him, the heat intensifying between you. His own climax was clawing at his throat. He shifted his grip, hooking his arms under your knees to push them higher toward your chest, opening you up even wider so he could fuck you deeper, harder, more viciously.
“Just me. We clear?” he growled between thrusts. You could feel his balls slapping against your ass, the force of his movements making every fiber of your being tremble, from the physical to the emotional.
The friction became unbearable, a white hot lightning storm building between your joined bodies. Your vision was blurring at the edges, the only thing anchoring you to reality being the crushing weight of Frank’s body and the relentless, rhythmic pounding of his cock inside you. Every time he slammed into you, you felt it in your teeth, in your bones, a raw sensation that stripped away everything except pure, unadulterated need.
“Frank, I’m—I’m gonna,” your voice broke into a high pitched keen as your climax began to build like a tidal wave. Your internal muscles began to spasm uncontrollably around him, milking his cock with desperate, rhythmic squeezes that drove Frank to the brink of madness.
You heard him moan your name in a desperate escape of pleasure. “Go on,” Frank growled, his own composure fracturing. His movements became less controlled, more feral. He wasn’t just fucking you anymore; he was trying to claim your soul. “Come for me, baby. Scream my fucking name.”
He accelerated, his hips moving in a blur of motion, each thrust faster and more violent than the last. The wet sounds of your coupling filled the room, the slap of skin on skin, the squelch of your juices being churned by his dick. Your hips bucked wildly as you finally broke, your body stiffening as a powerful orgasm ripped through you. “Frank! Oh fuck, Frank!” you shrieked, your legs locking around his waist as you convulsed around him.
The way your pussy tightened around his cock seemed to mimic a mold tightening around a sword; it was as if you wanted to melt every detail of it inside you, from the tip to every vein that decorated the cock that remained throbbing and restless inside you.
He was surrounded by you, by the fluids of the orgasm that he himself caused and that bore his name, only his.
Seeing you unravel was the final trigger. Frank’s vision went dark, his entire body tensing with primal force. “Fuck!” he roared, his voice raw and guttural as he gave three last, devastatingly deep thrusts. He buried himself to the hilt, his cock throbbing violently as he unloaded. He could feel his cum pumping into you in hot, thick jets, filling you up while his own climax wracked his muscular frame.
For several long seconds, the only sound in the room was your ragged, desperate breathing. Frank collapsed forward, his sweat slicked chest pressing against your heaving breasts, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to regain your senses. The violence of the act left you both spent, drained, and utterly connected in the aftermath of the storm.
Frank stayed pressed against you for several long seconds, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against his ribs. His cock remained buried inside you, still twitching with the aftershocks of his release, each pulse sending a warm trickle of cum between both of your bodies.
Slowly, Frank shifted his weight, rolling off you just enough so he could prop himself up on his elbows. His hair was disheveled, sweat slicking his forehead, and his eyes, usually so cold and guarded, were still dark with the residual haze of lust. He looked down at you, watching the way your chest rose and fell, seeing the flushed glow of your skin and the way your lips were swollen from his kisses.
A slow, possessive smirk spread across his face. The satisfaction wasn’t just physical; it was a victory.
“So,” he rumbled, his voice gravelly and thick with satisfaction. He reached out, his rough thumb tracing the line of your bottom lip before dragging down to the damp hollow of your throat. “You still thinkin’ ’bout that damn book?”
You could only manage a weak, breathless laugh, your fingers curling into the sheets as you tried to catch your breath. Your body felt heavy, boneless, and completely undone. “I think... I might need a new book so you can show me how good you are,” you managed to whisper, your eyes half lidded.
Frank let out a rough chuckle, leaning down to press a surprisingly tender kiss to your temple before biting lightly at your earlobe. “Yeah? You can throw that shit in the trash,” his hand slid down between you, feeling the slick mess where you two were still joined. “’Cause I’m pretty fuckin’ sure I just proved I’m better than any bastard written on those pages.”
He nipped at your neck again, his tone dropping to that dangerous, possessive growl you loved. “Next time ya want somethin’ that’ll keep ya up at night, sweetheart... just ask me. Ain’t no book gonna beat the real thing.”
notes: i think this is the first time in years i've written anything smutty about frank lmao, i hope it meets the expectations of whoever is reading this ahaha.
summary : frank should be focused on his stake out- but how can he when you're in the backseat ?
warnings : SMUTTTTT, MDNI, p in v, car sex, size kink, praise kink, frank is neeeeedyyyyyyyyyyy, fingering, voyeurism (kinda ?)
word count : 6.7 k
a/n: not proofread, based on this rq
The kitchen smells like heaven.
That's the easiest way you can describe it.
You hum as you sway your hips as you cook, a fat grin on your face.
Frank's been working for so long, staking out a client for Dinah and Micro, and he hasn't been home in hours.
Ergo, that means you're sure he hasn't been able to eat.
You taste the sauce one last time.
Perfect.
Maybe a little too much black pepper. Frank will complain. Then he'll eat every last bite anyway. You smile to yourself.
The kitchen is warm, moonlight spilling through the windows while steam curls lazily from the pot on the stove. You've packed everything the way you know he likes it—pasta still hot in a thermal container, garlic bread wrapped in foil, coffee in the battered green thermos he swears keeps it hotter than any expensive one ever could.
You even toss in a slice of pie from the diner down the street. Just because. You wipe your hands on a dish towel before checking your phone.
No new messages.
Last one was nearly four hours ago.
Stakeout. Might be a while. Love you.
You shake your head.
"Might be a while," in Frank-speak usually means I'll forget food, water and sleep until somebody physically drags me home.
Not today.
His truck isn't hard to find.
It's parked exactly where he said it'd be, tucked halfway beneath the shade of an old oak tree with a clear view of a run-down apartment building across the street. You park two blocks away.
He'll lecture you if you drive straight up to him. Something about compromising surveillance. You roll your eyes affectionately as you make the walk, balancing the insulated bag against your hip. The passenger door opens before you even knock, a gun shoved in your face.
"You got about five seconds to explain why you're sneakin' up on my—" Frank stops. His entire expression changes. "…Baby?" You grin, pushing the gun away.
"Hi, my love." He blinks at the grocery bag.
"…What's all that?"
"Dinner." He looks at his watch.
"…It's almost four in the morning."
"Exactly."
"I was gonna eat."
"Mhm."
"I was."
"You absolutely were."
"I had a plan."
"You had beef jerky in your cupholder."
"…Protein."
"And an empty coffee."
"…Caffeine."
"And…" You lean into the van, peering around dramatically. "…three candy wrappers." His ears redden.
"Those were tactical." You laugh.
"Tactical?"
"Emergency calories."
"Oh, absolutely." You climb into the back seat before he can stop you, setting the bag in front of you. The front seat is crowded with his guns, and attempting to move them so you can sit next to him would be perilous.The truck smells like coffee, gun oil, stale fast food… And Frank. It somehow feels like home. He watches you unpack containers one by one.
"…Jesus."
"What?"
"You cooked."
"I usually do."
"I mean…" He stares at the amount of food. "Enough to feed an army."
"You burn approximately twelve thousand calories a day being dramatic."
"I ain't dramatic." You raise an eyebrow. He sighs. "…Little dramatic."
"Thank you." You hand him a fork. He doesn't take it. Instead, he keeps looking at you.
"What?"
"You drove all the way out here."
"So?"
"'Cause you thought I forgot to eat."
"You did."
"…Yeah." He scratches the back of his neck. "I did." You smile softly.
"I know." His shoulders relax. God. Sometimes you make caring look so easy.
"So…" you say, nudging the container toward him. "Eat."
"You eatin' too?"
"I brought two forks."
"Smart."
"I know my audience." He cracks open the container. The smell hits him instantly.
Fresh garlic. Butter. Tomatoes. He closes his eyes for half a second.
"…Hell."
"What?"
"I'm gonna marry you." You snort.
"You're saying that because you're hungry."
"I'm saying it 'cause you made garlic bread."
"You've got low standards."
"I got perfect standards." He tears off a piece of bread before it has a chance to cool and immediately hisses as it burns his fingers.
"…Hot."
"I did tell you."
"Worth it." He takes a bite anyway. His entire face melts. You beam.
"Good?"
"Mhm." You lean forward from the backseat, resting your elbows on the center console as you watch him eat.
"You're a miracle worker, mama." He hums, tossing a piece of tissues paper into the empty tupperware. He leans backwards to kiss you, short and sweet- but your whole body flares up with need. You lean further against the center console to grab his face again and pull it towards you again. Frank deepens the kiss for a moment before pulling back, his brow furrowed with concern.
"Whoa, slow down there," he murmurs, his eyes darting toward the apartment building across the street. "I'm still on surveillance."
"You've been watching that building for eight hours," you pout, leaning further over the console. "I haven't seen you in almost a day."
"I know, baby, but—" He glances at his watch. "I can't right now. I need to stay focused."
"Five minutes," you plead, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "That's all I'm asking." Frank sighs, his resolve clearly wavering.
"You know I can't. What if something happens while I'm… distracted?"
"Nothing's going to happen," you insist, though your voice lacks conviction. "It's the middle of the night. Everyone's asleep."
"That's when things usually happen," he says firmly, though his eyes keep straying to your lips. "You should go home. I'll be there when I'm done." You pull back, your expression shifting from pleading to something more mischievous.
"Fine," you say, climbing over the seats into the back of the truck. "If you won't help me, I'll just have to help myself." Frank's eyes widen as he watches you settle into the back seat, making yourself comfortable among the blankets and pillows he keeps there for long stakeouts.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing," you say innocently, though your hands are already drifting to the button of your jeans. "Just getting comfortable." He turns in his seat to face you fully, his surveillance forgotten for the moment.
"Baby, don't."
"Don't what?" you ask, your voice dropping to a husky whisper as you slowly unzip your jeans. "Don't touch myself thinking about you? About how much I missed you?"
"Jesus," he mutters, his eyes locked on your hands as they slip beneath the waistband of your panties. "You're killing me here."You high moan slips past your lips, your body arching against his leather seats as your finger circles your clit. Frank turns around, hands clenched around the steering wheel, his jaw ticking as he tries very hard to look forward.
To not turn around.
To not stare at you through the rearview.
"Mama, i'm serious." He hisses, his chest heaving up and down. He grits his teeth and tries to pretend he doesn't hear it—your small, wet sounds, the tiny catch of breath when your fingers begin to circle, the way the zipper of your jeans still hisses open in his brain. His hands ache for something to do. His focus splinters and smolders. You bite your lip and make a show of it, knowing every movement is a private performance: the way you arch your back, pushing your ass into the pile of blankets, the way your knees fall open, denim tugged just enough to leave a strip of pale skin exposed. You glance up, catch his eyes in the mirror, and bring your other hand to your mouth, sucking your fingers slow and deep before sending it down to join the first beneath your waistband. Frank stares straight ahead, but you see his shoulders tense, the bulge of his forearms against the steering wheel. His head cocks, like he's listening for something, but it's not the building across the street—it's you, and the way your thighs hitch upward, the way the wet, slick sound of your fingers almost competes with the hum of the truck's engine.
You moan again, louder this time, and his knuckles go white.
“That's not fair,” he says, voice almost a growl. You can hear him swallow, like he's choking down a mouthful of gravel. “You know I can't—”
“You can't what?” you whisper, breathless and trembling. “Can't stand to watch me?” He doesn't answer. The tension ratchets tight. You know that face, know how much he wants to keep his promises, how much he wants to focus on the job, but you also know how fast his discipline melts under the right kind of pressure. You just keep pushing.
“I’m so wet, Frank,” you say, soft and sulky, like you're confessing a sin. “All for you.” You pull your hand out just far enough to let him see the shine on your fingers before you lick them clean, sucking hard, never breaking eye contact.
“Baby,” he hisses, half warning, half plea. You giggle, petulant and mean.
“You gonna make me finish by myself?” Frank slams a fist into the dash. The truck rocks. Then he’s out of the driver’s seat, yanking open the back door so hard it rattles on the hinges. He climbs in after you, all his weight and heat filling the tiny space. His hands are on you before you can say a word, pinning your wrists above your head, forcing you into the pile of blankets, his mouth crashing against yours and swallowing every needy whimper you give him. He groans into your neck.
“You drive me fuckin’ crazy. You know that?” You tilt up your chin, daring him.
“Do something about it.” And he does. He twists your wrists in one hand, yanks your jeans and panties down with the other. The cold air makes you shiver, but you open your thighs wide, inviting, greedy. He slides two thick fingers inside you, fast, and you gasp. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, brutal circles.
“Goddamn, you’re so tight.” He pistons his hand, rough and practiced, until you clench around his fingers, frantic with need. “That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw, your cheek, your temple in sequence, like he’s marking you with his mouth. “Let me see you. Show me how much you missed me.” You writhe under his grip, wrists aching deliciously in his hold, and your hips twist up, desperate to ride his hand harder. He watches you, unblinking, like he’s memorizing every shake and shudder. When you come, you do it loud and messy, gasping his name, making the truck bounce on its tired shocks. Frank doesn’t let up. He works you through it, coaxing another aftershock out of you before finally slowing down.
He kisses you, sweet and ferocious, then releases your wrists and pulls you upright, tugging off your shirt with a snarl. You barely register the motion before he’s got you on your back again, this time flat, with both your knees pressed up toward your shoulders. His belt’s already undone. His cock is out, thick and flushed, the head leaking. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t waste a second—he lines himself up and pushes inside, stretching you so wide you gasp.
“F-fuck, Frank—” It’s too much, almost, after so long. You shake with it, the burn and the fullness and the way he’s everywhere at once.
“You got this, mama.” He huffs, nosing at your jaw, pressing your knees closer to your head.”Just relax.”
He’s big.
He’s always big, but tonight, crammed in the sweltering truck, the rest of the world erased by soundproofed walls and the stifling smell of sex and old coffee, it’s almost too much. Frank watches your face as he rocks into you, slow, careful, making you feel every inch. You bite your lip and try to breathe, but he’s got your knees locked against your chest and every thrust pushes the air out of you in high, embarrassing whimpers.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his hands cupping the backs of your thighs. “Yeah, that’s it. You take it so good, baby. Just a little more for me.” You nod, dizzy and full and so goddamn happy. He grins, that lazy, cocky smile he only shows you, and grinds in even deeper. The stretch burns but you love it—love how he always acts like you’re fragile and then splits you open anyway, like he can’t help himself. Your knees slip, and his grip tightens, dragging you right back up the seat so he can rut into you, balls slapping against your ass. He keeps his head tucked against your jaw, his breath hot and unsteady.
“Feel how deep I am?” He lets go of your thigh just long enough to palm your belly, pressing in, and you feel him, hard and thick, right there. “All the way inside. Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so tight.” You can barely answer, just clutch at his arm and nod, trying not to come again already. He must see it, because he slows down, rocking in long, punishing strokes. You both know how this works. You make a mess of yourself, beg for more, and he talks you through every second until you can’t think straight. He noses at your ear, lips grazing the shell, voice gone rough.
“Gonna let me fill you up? Let me fuck you full?” You nod again, frantic, and he huffs a laugh. Your hands scramble for purchase, gripping the door handle, your head tipping back. The truck is rocking so violently, the windows all fogged up. Frank’s hand shakes where it frames your thigh, the rough of his calluses scraping against your skin as he draws your knees tighter to your chest. The angle is obscene—your hips cranked up, your ass pressed into the heap of sweated-through blankets, his weight pinning you in place.
You can feel the pressure of him everywhere: in the sharp stretch that makes your whole body tremble, in the grind of his cock nudging deeper, deeper, until you’re sure you’ll split right in half. The stifled, desperate sounds leaking from your mouth would have embarrassed you once. Now you just want him to hear every one. His thumb strokes the edge of your knee, gentle, unhurried. You want to scream at him for it. For the way he always slows things down just when you want to go off the rails. For the way his hands, so brutal everywhere else, turn soft when he’s holding you open like this. He draws his hips back, just enough to feel the sticky friction, then rocks forward again, filling you all the way up. The rhythm is devastating—measured, patient, like he’s determined you’ll feel every inch. The truck creaks in time with him, a steady back-and-forth that makes your brain melt. He buries his face in your neck, breath hot as he mutters,
“Good girl, that’s my good fuckin’ girl.” You tighten around him, helpless, clutching at his bicep. Your nails dig crescents into his skin, and he laughs, thick and guttural, like your pain is the best thing he’s ever tasted. He presses his palm right above your pubic bone, and you jerk when you feel him, hard and solid, pushing up against your skin from the inside.
“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful ,” he whispers, and the words make you clench around him, every muscle going tight and hot. He grinds in slow, barely-there thrusts, letting you feel the pressure for a long, suspended moment before he finally picks up speed. The truck rocks harder now, every slap of his hips against your ass making the world shake. You can’t see anything but him, can’t hear anything but the wet, obscene sounds of bodies slamming together and the low rumble of his voice.
“Wanted you all night,” he says, and the words land heavy in your head. “Missed you so much, I couldn’t even fuckin’ breathe.”Frank is thick, and he knows it, the way it always takes you a minute to get used to him. The way your body fights and then gives in, each inch a negotiation you always lose and never regret. He loves it, the way you shudder and hold your breath, the way your thighs tremble. He tries to keep it slow, tries to be gentle, but it’s four in the morning and he’s been gone too long and you taste like salt and desperation. That first thrust, it nearly undoes him. You arch and whimper, and he curses, low and guttural, and his hand is suddenly on your jaw, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth.
“Oh, baby, you’re so good,” he murmurs, voice gone ragged. “So fucking good for me. Goddamn perfect.” He says it like a prayer, like you’re something sacred. You’d laugh if you could breathe. You throw your arms around his neck, holding on, nails dragging lines down his shoulder blades. Your legs go numb, pinned behind your ears, but you don’t care. You want to remember this. The way Frank’s eyes go black, the way he can’t stop muttering,
“good girl, good girl, look at you, so damn pretty when you take it.” You want to remember the feel of the stubble on his cheek, the taste of garlic bread on his tongue, the way his sweat mixes with yours until there’s nothing left but you and him and the hot, thick air. He kisses you hard, tongue greedy, and the angle shifts. Suddenly he’s so deep it’s like he’s touching your heart, and you can’t even make noise anymore, just open and close your mouth and hope he understands. He does. He always does. Frank doesn’t just hold you in place—he owns the moment, every flex of his arms and every low, throaty
“that’s it, fuck, look at you” branded into your nerves. He keeps you folded tight, your calves locked behind his back, his hips grinding so deep you swear he’s bruising your spine, and each time you gasp or cry out, he fucks you harder, like he wants to carve his name inside you. He pins your wrists above your head again, fingers threaded through yours, and stares down at you—barely a foot away, sweat dripping from his jaw to your chest, his lips curled in that filthy, hungry grin. You can’t look away. Not when he’s got you spread and raw, all your insides tugged taut around him. Your lungs burn; your legs prickle with pins and needles; your whole body feels like a live wire. But every time you think you can’t take more, he leans in to kiss your chin, your cheek, your temple, and the softness breaks you open even further.
“You’re perfect,” he croons, voice gone soft and hoarse, like he’s not splitting you apart, like he’s reading you a bedtime story. He releases one wrist just long enough to palm your cheek, thumb swiping under your eye, gentle as a lullaby.
“You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good, baby. So goddamn pretty stretched around me.” He rocks forward, slow, and you flinch at the ache, but his words, the praise, make you melt into the pain. “You can take more, can’t you? That’s my girl.” He’s not asking. He’s telling. And he’s right. You never really understood the difference between being ruined and being remade until Frank Castle started fucking you like he’d trade his soul for the taste of your sweat. He’s relentless. He shifts his grip, arms bracketing your head, and changes the angle—suddenly he’s pressing right against everything inside you, and you yelp, nails raking his back. The truck stinks of both of you now, so thick and rank it clings to the roof. Frank doesn’t care if you’re loud. He wants you to be. He wants the whole world to hear what he’s doing to you, and you want to give him that, every needy, high-pitched cry, your voice shredded and raw. He bends down, lips trailing over your ear.
“Fuck, yeah. You’re takin’ it so good, honey. You’re fuckin’ perfect.” The rhythm gets rougher—short, deep thrusts, every one a shockwave through your body. Something unravels inside you, and you’re coming again, sudden and violent, whole body clamped down on his cock. You howl, clinging to his arms, and he fucks you straight through it, never slowing, never letting you up for air.He wants to say your name but all that comes out is a groan, half your name and half a curse. He’s close, you know it in the way his rhythm stutters, the way his hips jerk with less control than he’d like. You clutch at his shoulders, dragging him down until your foreheads bump, sweat-slick and breathless, locked in a stare that says everything. The van’s too small for this, too hot, too full of the smell of you and him and the faint ghost of garlic and coffee, but you wouldn’t want it anywhere else. He presses his weight down until your knees nearly touch your chest. The stretch is insane; you gasp, digging your heels into the small of his back. Frank’s breath saws in and out, heavy and fast, but he never stops talking you through it.
“You’re good,” he huffs, mouthing your chin, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. “You’re so fuckin’ good, baby. Never seen anyone take me like this. Never.” He grinds in deeper, rolling his hips so slow, so deep you see stars. “Know it hurts. You can do it, pretty girl. Just a little more.” You cling to him, every muscle gone high and tight. The pressure is obscene, almost too much, but he keeps you right on the edge, working deep, measured thrusts until it stops burning and starts to feel like you’ll never get enough. You slam your hands against his back, leave welts for him to find in the morning. He grins, sweaty and proud, and leans in to suck a bruise into your neck.Frank’s hand slips from your thigh to your hip, holding you in place as he rocks into you with rough, hungry snaps. Every time you think you’re full, he finds a new way to make you feel even more stretched, more helpless against the weight of him braced over you. Sweat stings your eyes. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t loosen the vise of his grip—just drives you back into the seat, so your knees knock the driver’s headrest and your ass grinds into the matted blankets. The world shrinks to the smell of sex and the slap of skin and his desperate, greedy noises. You’re drowning in it.
“Tell me if it’s too much.” His voice is raw, strangled. He says it, but his hips are already rolling harder, pounding the air from your lungs. “Promise me, mama.” You laugh, half a sob, and wrap your arms around his neck.
“Don’t you fucking dare stop.” He grins, breathless, and changes the angle, lifting your hips up off the seat. Your whole body bows, locked tight between his hands and the ceiling of the van. He watches your face with that laser focus, the world outside the windows long forgotten.
“Look at you,” he rasps, thumb dragging slow across your cheekbone. “You make me crazy. You know that? Drive me outta my fuckin’ mind.” You reach down, greedy for more, and claw at his back, raking his skin. He hisses—a sound that’s all pain and pleasure—and pistons in even harder, rutting into you like something feral.
“God, Frank,” you gasp, thighs trembling. He’s so deep it feels like he’s splitting you open, but you want it, want every brutal, greedy inch. His belly slaps your clit, slick and overstimulated, and you mewl, writhing in his grip. He shoves your knees wider, one palm planted above your head, the other locked around your thigh.
“That’s it,” he says, voice gone hoarse. “Take it for me. Take all of it.” He bends to nuzzle your neck, breathing you in. “You’re so perfect, I don’t wanna ever let go.” You want to tell him yes, god, yes, that you’ll never let go either, but you can barely form words. Your vision blurs. He keeps you folded tight, his thrusts relentless, each one punching little sparks of sensation through your nerves. Your whole body shakes. You’re so close it hurts—every flex of his cock inside you drives you closer to the edge. You hang on, nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders.
Frank fucks you like he’s been denied air, like the only way back to life is through the place where your bodies meet. You want to taunt him, to tease some of that cocky control out of his voice, but he’s already gone, all the way gone, every muscle in his arms shaking with the effort to keep you bent under him. The windows are streaked with sweat and fog and you, and the truck is rocking hard enough that you’re surprised the suspension hasn’t given out. You don’t care. You want him to wreck it, to wreck you, to leave the memory of this pressed into your skin in bruises and soreness for days.
There’s a moment, after the second time he makes you come, when you lose track of everything except the way his cock keeps you stretched and trembling, the bright snap of pain that’s already turning syrup-sweet. You’re limp, gasping, but he doesn’t let up. He pulls out slow, almost gentle, and you whine at the empty ache, but he just flips you easy as a pillow, gets you on your knees and elbows, your face mashed into the tangle of blankets. He holds you open, stroking his cock just at your entrance, smearing slick over your thighs. His hand is heavy on the back of your neck, pushing your cheek to the seat. You barely move, the world gone hazy and all of you at the mercy of his hands.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” He rasps just as he rams back in, and your whole body shudders forward. A low grown leaves his lips. “Shit, shit, i fuckin’ love you.” He gasps, shaking his head as he starts to pound his hips into yours. Frank shoves in deep, the sound obscene, your whole body jerking with the force of him. You scrabble at the blankets, but he’s got your hips locked in place, his thumbs digging perfect bruises into the softest part of your thigh. The way he fucks you now is all need—no plan, no self-control, just the frantic, rutting hunger of a man dying for you. He’s talking again, as if he can’t not, the words falling out in a hoarse, endless stream straight into the sweat-matted hair behind your ear.
“That’s it,” he croons. “You’re so good, baby, so fucking good, letting me in, taking every inch. You want it—yeah, I know you do, you’re dripping, fuck—” He sounds half-crazed, half-pleading, like he’s begging you not to vanish if he stops talking for even a second. You try to answer but your voice is dust, so you whine, pressing your ass back into him, greedy for more, always more. He bends over you, chest plastered to your back, hands flattening over your shoulders until you’re caged, the press of him everywhere—his cock splitting you, his breath burning your ear, his palms pinning you down. He’s all around you, every sense filled. You lose track of time, of the rhythm, the world shrinking to the slick, frictionless slide of skin, the little shockwaves in your belly every time he bottoms out, the bare, raw scrape of the carpet on your knees. He won’t let you fall, not even in this. His hand wraps under your ribs, pulling your body up, arching your spine.
“There you go, pretty girl, just like that, fuck—” He sounds so wrecked, every word jagged and ruined. “You feel me, baby? All the way?” As if you could feel anything else. He’s right there, pushing past the last edge of you, and all you want is to open up more, to let him pour himself in until something inside you breaks. You shake, the overstimulation bright and electric. The words pour out of Frank, the only thing keeping either of you together.
“You’re so tight, so fucking perfect,” he mumbles, biting down on your shoulder, rolling his hips slow at first, drawing it out, then pounding so fast it blurs the edge of pain and pleasure. You want to crawl away, you want to fuse into him, you want to scream his name until your voice breaks. You do all three. You’re sobbing now, the tears leaking hot and sweet, and he kisses them from your neck, one hand sliding down your belly to thumb your clit. He does it gentle, slower than the rest of him, and the contrast snaps you wide open. You come again, so hard it feels like you might never come down, your cunt fluttering around him. Frank loses it, then. He shudders, hips jerking erratic, and the growl he gives isn’t even human. He wraps his arms around your middle, crushing you to him as he fucks through the aftershocks, needy whines leaving his lips, his hips rutting against your ass. He’s still in you, twitching, the fat length of him pulsing and wet. You’re a mess, tears on your face, drool on your chin, and the ruined seam of your thighs glued together with sweat and come. Frank isn’t moving, just looming over you, his breath rough in your ear, arms shaking a little where they cage you in. You think he’s going to collapse right there, crush you into the blankets, but instead he slides out, slow, making you moan at the loss and the burn. You try to breathe, but your chest is full of static.
Your whole body collapses forward, your limbs shaking as you choke on a sob. Frank shifts immediately, his body moving with a gentleness that contradicts the roughness of moments before. His hands, which had been pinning you down, now carefully gather you up, rolling you onto your side as he settles behind you. The truck's cramped space means you're pressed flush against him, his chest to your back, his arms wrapping securely around your middle.
"Shit" he murmurs, his voice still rough but softer now, laced with concern. "Easy, baby. I got you." One hand strokes your hair, fingers combing through the sweat-damp strands while the other rests low on your belly, a warm, steady pressure that's somehow more intimate than what just happened. You're still trembling, aftershocks wracking your body, each one making you more aware of the pleasant ache between your thighs, the tender marks on your skin where his hands gripped you, the faint sting on your shoulder where he bit you.
"Frank," you whisper, your voice hoarse from crying out his name.
"Right here," he answers, pressing a soft kiss to the nape of your neck. "Not going anywhere." You lie there for long minutes, just breathing together in the dim light of the van. The air smells of sex and sweat and Frank, and you've never felt safer. His heartbeat thuds steadily against your back, a comforting rhythm that slowly calms your own racing pulse.
"Thirsty?" he asks eventually. You nod, not trusting your voice yet. Frank carefully disentangles himself, reaching for one of the water bottles stashed in the front. He returns, unscrewing the cap and holding it to your lips. You drink greedily, the cool liquid soothing your raw throat.
"Easy," he says again, pulling the bottle away when you try to gulp too fast. "Small sips." When you've had your fill, he takes a drink himself before setting the bottle aside. Then he's back, arranging you more comfortably against the pile of blankets and pillows. His hands move with purpose, checking you over—not clinically, but with the reverence of someone handling something precious.
"Did I hurt you?" he asks quietly, his fingers tracing the faint bite mark on your shoulder. You shake your head.
"No. Liked it." A small smile touches his lips. His hand drifts lower, gently parting your thighs to check the tender flesh there. You hiss as his fingers brush against your swollen, sensitive folds.
"Sorry," he murmurs, withdrawing his hand. "I'm sorry baby."
"I'm fine," you assure him, turning in his arms to face him. "More than fine." In the dim light, you can see the worry etched around his eyes, the way his brow is still furrowed with concern. You reach up, smoothing the lines with your thumb.
"Hey," you say softly. "I'm okay. Better than okay." Frank captures your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm.
"I got… carried away."
"I wanted you to," you insist. "I always want you - in all the ways you have to offer me." His eyes search yours, and whatever he sees there seems to reassure him. He leans in, kissing you gently—nothing like the hungry, desperate kisses from before. This one is soft, sweet, full of affection.
"I love you," he whispers against your lips. "So damn much." He goes to kiss you again when-
"Frank ! Frank, come in !" The radio on the driverseat crackles as Dinah's voice fills the air. Pulling his boxers back up his pants in a haste, Frank scrambles for the radio.
"Yeah, Madani ?" He asks. The radio crackles.
"What the hell are you doing ? The target is on the move, Frank !" Frank cranes his neck to the window. He wipes away the condensation on it, only to see his target sauntering out of the house with his hands tucked in his pants and a hoodie drawn up to his head.
"Oh- Oh, shit !"
"That's what I've been saying!" Dinah fires back. "Castle, he's heading east. If you lose him because you fell asleep, I swear to God—"
"I wasn't asleep." You press your lips together. Frank shoots you a warning look. You innocently examine your fingernails.
"Nope," you murmur. "Definitely not." His ears immediately turn pink. Dinah's voice crackles again.
"...Why do you sound weird?"
"I don't sound weird."
"You sound winded."
"I'm fine." You fail spectacularly at suppressing a laugh. Frank pinches the bridge of his nose.
"...Is she there?" Silence. "...Frank." He closes his eyes.
"...Yeah." There's a beat. Then another. Then Dinah sighs with all the exhaustion of someone who has worked with Frank Castle far too long.
"I leave you alone for one surveillance assignment..."
"It wasn't planned." You cough into your fist.
"He's lyin'." Frank glares.
"You are bein' profoundly unhelpful."
"I think I'm helping."
"The exact opposite." Over the radio comes another voice—Micro this time, barely containing his amusement.
"I've got fifty bucks that says the windows are fogged up." Frank's eyes slowly drift toward the windshield. Every single window in the truck is completely opaque.
"...Son of a bitch." You finally lose it. The laugh bursts out of you so hard you have to cover your mouth. Frank points an accusing finger.
"This is your fault."
"My fault?"
"You distracted me."
"I distinctly remember someone saying, 'Just five more minutes.'"
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I said somethin' similar."
"You negotiated with a federal surveillance operation."
"It seemed reasonable at the time." Micro is openly laughing now.
"Oh, this is better than television."
"Shut up, Micro."
"No chance." Dinah cuts back in before either of them can continue.
"Castle." Frank straightens immediately.
"Yeah."
"The target's getting into a blue SUV." Frank glances outside. The engine across the street roars to life.
"I see him."
"The SUV's pulling away," Dinah says. "Don't lose visual."
"Won't." Frank reaches for his jeans where they'd been abandoned somewhere near the driver's seat. You watch him dress with hurried efficiency, every movement practiced. Belt. Boots. Shirt. Holster. Like watching a switch flip. One moment he's the man who'd just whispered I love you against your lips. The next he's all sharp edges and focus. He catches you watching.
"What?"
"Nothin'."
"You got that smile."
"I like watching you get flustered."
"I ain't flustered."
"You absolutely are." He snorts, shaking his head as he pulls his overshirt on.
"Hopeless."
"So I've been told." He bends to retrieve the blanket that had slipped onto the floor. Without a word, he unfolds it and drapes it carefully around your shoulders, tucking it beneath your arms.
"There."
"You wrapped me like a burrito."
"So you don't freeze."
"It's July."
"The truck's got lousy insulation." You smile.
"You're sweet."
"I ain't."
"You tucked me in."
"I contained you."
"Mhm."
"Different." He crouches in front of you, both hands settling on your knees through the blanket.
"You stay here."
"I know."
"Doors locked."
"I know."
"If anybody comes near this van—"
"I know."
"You call me."
"I know."
"You got your phone?" You hold it up.
"My pepper spray?" You lift the canister from the cup holder.
"My—"
"Frank." He stops.
"What?"
"I promise I'll survive the ninety seconds you're gone." He stares at you another moment before sighing.
"…Yeah." Then, unable to help himself, he reaches up and cups your face. His thumb strokes your cheek.
"You still sore?"
"A little."
"You need anything?"
"You." His whole face softens.
"I'm comin' right back."
"I know." He leans in. Kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then finally your lips. Slow. Gentle. "I love you."
"I love you too." He rests his forehead against yours for one brief heartbeat. "Stay put."
"Yes, sir." He rolls his eyes. "You enjoy bossin' me around way too much."
"I really do." He smiles despite himself. Then he's gone. The cool night air rushes into the truck as he slips outside, quietly closing the door behind him. The warmth disappears with him. You pull the blanket a little tighter. Through the windshield, you watch him become someone else. His shoulders square. His posture changes. Every trace of softness melts away. He moves along the line of parked cars, staying in their shadows. Across the street, the blue SUV idles at the curb. The driver glances in the rearview mirror.
Frank is already there. Hidden. Waiting. The radio hisses quietly.
"Castle," Dinah murmurs. "You've got a clean angle."
"I know."
"Take him before he merges." Frank doesn't answer. He simply steps out from behind the last parked sedan. The target barely has time to register the movement. There's a sharp crack. The windshield spiders. The driver slumps sideways over the steering wheel. The SUV rolls only a few feet before bumping harmlessly against the curb. Silence settles over the street. Frank keeps the pistol trained for another beat.
Watching.
Waiting.
No movement.
"Target's down," he says evenly into the radio. Micro's voice crackles back.
"Confirmed." Dinah follows immediately.
"We've got units en route. You don't need to stick around."
"I'm already leaving." He holsters the pistol in one smooth motion and turns back toward the van. The passenger door opens. Frank climbs inside, shutting it behind him. For a moment neither of you speaks. He lets out one long breath. Then looks at you.
"…Miss me?" You grin.
"It has been at least…" You check an imaginary watch. "…two whole minutes."
"Torture."
"The worst." He laughs quietly.
"You warm enough?" You lift one side of the blanket.
"Only if you get under here too." He shakes his head.
"Gotta drive."
"Boring."
"Responsible."
"Even more boring." He starts the engine. The heater hums to life. As he pulls away from the curb. You rest your head against the window, watching the city slide by.
"Tired?"
"Mhm."
"You can sleep."
"What if you need someone to keep you company?"
"I got you."
"I'm literally about to fall asleep."
"Still got you." You smile without opening your eyes. The truck rumbles through the late-afternoon traffic, warm now, smelling faintly of coffee, garlic, and the two of you. Frank glances over just once. You're already half asleep beneath the blanket he'd wrapped around you. He reaches over at the next red light and gently pulls the edge a little higher over your shoulder.
Without opening your eyes, you smile.
"You're tucking me in."
"Am not."
He chuckles, squeezes your hand once, and points the truck toward home.
Summary: Frank has always loved every inch of your body but theres one area in particular that holds a special place in his heart.
Trigger Warnings: 18+ MDNI smut smut smut, non descriptive reader (moodboard is just for the vibe) oral (f recieving), fingerning, rim job (f recieving), slight masturbation(m), pinv, cumshot. IF I MISSED ANYTHING PLEASE LMK!
Authors Note: Thank you so much for all the love on my first fic! Now im back with a second fic!! I think its gonna be a two parter but its up to you guys!! This one is literally just smut with an inch of plot if you squint! Its proof read but lord knows ive missed something so please ignore it if you find it!
Continue below to read!
Frank was always happy to try anything for you. That random show you heard about online? Sure. A new dish you've concocted? Sure thing, doll. A position you read about in one of the many books you read? Hell, sign him up!
It started out small, you slipped something into conversation about one of the books you were reading and how out there it was but you wouldn't divulge in any of the details that made it "So out there!". He decided to let it lie not wanting to push you or make you uncomfortable, youd come around eventually, you always do.
A few days later you hit him with "have you ever ate someone's ass?" Now, it takes a lot to shock Frank but this stopped him in his tracks. Taking a few moments to actually process the question that was asked he lets out a nervous laugh "Uhh rock n roll girl.." rubbing the back of his neck to try ride the redness creeping up his face and clearing his throat. "Sooooo??" You ask expectantly. "Is this a trick question, sweetheart?" His head slowly turning to now make eye contact with you. "Youre not gonna get in trouble Frank, I know you've been with other people! Its a genuine question!" You quip in a matter of frank tone with your head tilted. "I meannnn, yeah?" His hands crossing under his arms with a shrug. Your face scrunches up "Why havent you ever done it to me?" Franks head leans side to side his answer coming out strangled "its not somewhere id really explore unless, I knew you wanted me to?" Without hesitation you chime in with "Could you do it to me?" Franks eyes bug out of his head as he gulps "Shit doll, now?" Rolling your eyes in response "No not now! But like next time we y'know?" You trail off in a whisper while making a circle with your left and and putting your right index finger into it, this earns you a bark of laughter from Frank. "Sure thing, kid." His mind now going a million miles an hour at the sheer thought of the act. Hes always been an ass man but never thought twice about actually putting you in that position (well sure hes fantasised about it in many many ways, I mean, how could he not?! Your ass is the thing of dreams!) Cock growing under his pants, trying to get the image out of his head, he crosses his legs and pulls you under his arm. Happy with yourself, you draw your attention back to the old Jackass reruns playing on the tv. Frank however, spent the rest of the evening day thinking about the possibilities.
Hes been stewing on the new request trying to wrap his head around why this new thing for you was so out there. It made no sense to him in the slightest considering youre an open book the majority of the time especially, when it comes to recreating scenes from something that youve read. But again, its not an area you have explored together, yourr young and to be fair hes never tried to move further than what he felt you were able for in the bedroom.
The next afternoon you're sitting on the porch reading your book quietly to yourself as the cattle in the next field graze on the pasture, its picturesque. You're blissfully unaware of your surroundings, something he loves about you, soaking in your beauty, you sit there one knee up, the other hanging over the arm of the chair youre sitting in. Cream sundress fluttering in the breeze mimicking the baby hairs hanging loose from the claw clip that was supposed to be keeping your hair out of your face. A basket of peaches sit on a stool close to hand, your hand gracefully reaching down to pick one up. Frank leans against the door way admiring the sight before him, you bring the fruit to closer to your mouth, teeth meeting resistance against the crisp skin until theres a soft pop and its juices leak down your chin and on to your chest. You dont even bat an eyelid, so engrossed in whatever is playing out in your book; you bring the back of your finger to you lip wiping and sucking the remaining juices off it. Franks cock jumps at the sight. "Need some napkins, sweetheart?" Your face drops and your cheeks turn beet red as you snap your book shut. "Oh my god, shut upp!" You giggle. "Must be a very interesting book" Frank chuckled as he waltzes over to pick you up like you weigh nothing and put you on his lap. "Mind if I read over your shoulder? Finished mine this morning" shifting in his lap you feel the ridge in his jeans and lay your head back on his shoulder offering a small kiss to his jaw, the smell of peaches invading Franks senses causing his dick to stir more. "No thanks baby, about a cowboy and his new nanny. You wouldnt like it. Seems like you have something better in mind." Applying some pressure to his crotch as you twist a bit more to get a good look at the man behind you. "You and these goddamn cowboys, girl." He half laughs to himself catching your jaw in his hand and envoleloping you in a searing kiss, the other hand now running up your crossed legs earning him a sweet whine. "Whattya say we get outta here, cowgirl?" Franks guumbles getting up from the chair and walking you back into the house. "Giddy up!" You squeel wiggling your eyebrows.
The sound of Franks heavy boots and both of your breathless pants is all that can be heard through the house as you make your way up the stairs and towards your bedroom. With his broad shoulder, frank pushes the door open and tosses you on to the bed, your hair and dress fanning out around you. Sitting up unable to wait any longer, you grab your dress by the hem and whipping it over your head discarding it somewhere to be found later. Frank shakes his head slowly and lets out a low whistles "wheeeew" taking in the gorgeous woman front of him. Reaching your arms out and opening your legs, you signal Frank to come here with a tint of pink on your face. Undoing his belt, Frank crawls between your legs caging your head in with his two arms, planting soft kisses over your face, down you collar bone and stopping to give some extra attention to your breasts, taking one in his hand he runs his nose along your puckered nipple and flicking it with his tongue, causing a rush of goosebumps breakout across your skin before leaving a trail of wet kisses and licks down your torso stopping at the edge of your underwear. Bucking your hips toward him you whine, "please, Frankie?" Running your hands through his hair. "Thats my girl, always so polite." He hooks his index and middle finger into them on each side getting rid of the last barrier between him and his prize. You can feel his hot breath as he starts to run his fingers through your folds, youre already slick with anticipation, needy and whining just aching to feel him, his tongue, his fingers. Cock jumping at the glistening piece of art on front of him Frank dives in, tongue flat starting from your hole and slowly working towards your clit, his nose bumping every nerve ending on his way up. Your back is already arching pushing yourself closer, desperate to feel the friction of his beard against your sensitive skin. Tightening your fingers in hair as your moans grow pornographic when he adds a finger curling it before pumping it in and out of your leaking pussy causing Frank to let out a low groan as he starts rutting into the mattress. "Can feel her getting close, sweetheart. You gonna cum for me?" All you can offer up are breathless nods as he adds another finger and begining a ruthless pace. "Yeah baby. I know, I know. M'gonna make you feel real good." With that, your walls tighten around his thick fingers. "There she iiis, thats my girl. Make a mess for me sweetheart." He coos his praises at you attacking your clit with his tongue pushing you to your climax. Your thighs snap up each side of his head as your orgasm washes over you. Frank begins to slow down, dragging every last bit of pleasure from youylr body before pulling away his fingers, flipping you over and pulling your hips up to arch your back.
On full display to the man behind you, youre glistening and panting as he strokes his leaking cock, leaning forward he licks another broad punishing stripe up your twitching pussy not stopping until he reaches your tight asshole making you gasp. "Y'kay sweetheart? Tell me to t'stop and ill stop." Shaking your head you push your ass back toward him. "Words, baby. I need to hear you say it." Panting and pushing your hair from your face, you look over your shoulder through your eyelashes "please dont stop, Frankie". Happy to continue Frank places one hand on your cheek opening you up more to him, he laps at your hole moaning with every stroke of his hand on his cock. Shivers run down your body from a mixture of the new sensation and the breeze coming in the bedroom window brushing over the new slick covering your asshole. Its everything you could've imagined, now making you more eager to go ahead with what you had in mind when it came to you asking Frank about this specific request.
Pussy tingling you reach between your legs and add two fingers adding the to pleasure and eliciting shaky moans from you. Frank pulls back to admire the scene playing out on front of him palming his cock and gliding it through your soaked folds and against your ass. "Fuck, you're so beautiful." Rolling your eyes you reach back and guide his cock into your pussy, making both of you sigh and the tight squeeze. Slowly letting out a shaky breath, frank pushes further embracing the way you stretch around him. "Frankie, faster, please. I- I need to feel you." Pushing back on Franks cock as much as you can, having lost all his restraint Frank places one hand on the bottom of your back, the other holding where your hip meets your thigh and gives you his whole thick length in one fluid motion. Gripping the bedsheets you let out a yelp as he pushes his public bone to your ass. "Keep going, baby, fuck me please. Stop being so careful. M'not gonna break." Hesitating at first Frank pulls back slowly but then snaps his hips back into you, watching you for any signs of discomfort. Repeating the motion, his vision is trained carefully on what he can see of your face smashed against the mattress between the way your pussy clenches around him and the blessed out smile, he takes it as his sign to keep going. Between sharp thrusts and panting breaths, Frank talking you through it is like music to your ears ."God you're so good sweetheart, takin' me so fuckin' well." "Shes so tight, suckin' me in." "Couldn't stop if I wanted to." Hes hitting that sweet spot deep in side you repeatedly, making the coil in your stomach tighten and your toes curl. "Frank, fraaank! I-I fee-eel like m'gonna pee!" Franks head is spinning between watching his cock push through your pussy, the sweet noises youre making and how your ass is bouncing back on him with every thrust. "Let it happen sweetheart, I got you" his hand now moved up to your shoulder driving himself deeper, you feel like youre going to explode, theres electricity in your veins and you all that you can hear is your blood rushing in your ears until you hear a squelch and the coil in your stomach snaps. "OH MY GOD FRANK!" Franks movements are getting fast and sloppy as he helps you ride out your orgasm before you know it hes pulling his cock out of your leaking pussy and blowing his load all over your ass with a loud "Fuuuuuckk".
You wince at the loss of frank when he gets up and disappears to the ensuite for a few minutes. Coming back with a warm wash clot he rubs you down with it, getting rid of any evidence of what had just happened. Frank lays down beside you pulling you in against his torso, his beard tickling your shoulder when he plants a kiss to it. "Shit sweetheart, dunno what came over me." Feeling brave, you decide nows your moment. You look back at Frank through your eyelashes relishing in the way hes looking at you; blissed out, rosy cheeks, you can still hear his heart beating in his chest. In the sweetest voice you can muster "Next time, can we try it in my ass, Frankie?".
He freezes. "Thats it!" he thought. That's why the damn book was so out there.
ᓚᘏᗢ ⦂ your boyfriend is not home, that’s the perfect opportunity for his dad to eat your cunt. — likes & reblogs are appreciated!
his tongue is deep in your cunt.
nanami is not teasing. he’s not licking pretty along the outside. he’s got you open, one hand anchoring your thigh against the bed, the other wrapped tight around your hip. and he’s fucking you with his tongue proud.
you don’t know how long he’s been down there. you lost track of time somewhere between your second orgasm and the wet sound of him moaning into you like he’s starving.
his nose nudges your clit every time he thrusts in. you twitch. whimper. try to move, but he just presses you down like you’re not going anywhere until he’s satisfied.
“stay still,” he mutters into your cunt, voice low and rough, hot breath washing over your slick folds. “you keep running and i’ll just have to start over.”
you whimper again, because you can’t stay still, not when he’s curling his tongue like that, not when your pussy’s so wet it’s dripping down his chin.
his mouth is slow but deep, maddening. he fucks into you with thick, measured strokes, tongue dragging along your walls like he’s tasting for something specific.
you gasp sharp when he flattens his tongue inside you and grinds his face up against your clit, letting your cunt pulse around his mouth while he hums low, satisfied.
“tight little hole,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to spit down onto your pussy before diving in again. “sloppy already.”
your legs tremble, one hooked over his shoulder, the other spread wide and shaking by the edge of the bed, toes curling against the mattress.
you’re soaked. soaked. the kind of wet that’s messy, pornographic, shameful. the kind of wet that makes his brows furrow and his eyes flick up to yours, just once.
“you need more?” he asks, voice flat but not unkind. more like he’s taking inventory. like your body is his to manage.
you nod fast, embarrassingly needy and barely able to speak.
“use your words.”
“yes,” you pant. “more, please—fuck, don’t stop—”
he doesn’t. he doesn’t even blink.
his fingers come up, sliding into the mess of your folds, spreading you open while his tongue pushes back in. two fingers press down just above your clit while he tongues you harder, deeper, face flushed against the slick mess of you.
you can feel it building tight in you. it’s so sharp and knotted, like something’s going to snap and nanami knows. of course he knows. he’s too precise not to.
he shifts his grip, presses two fingers to your clit in slow, heavy circles while he tongue-fucks you through the slickest, most humiliating orgasm of your life.
your back arches. thighs shake. your mouth falls open and nothing comes out but a broken little cry as your cunt clenches around his tongue and gushes wet down his chin.
and he doesn’t stop.
not until you’re twitching, boneless, soaked and spent under his mouth. not until he’s sure you’ve felt everything.
he finally pulls back, breath steady, eyes dark.
wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before he calmly adjusts his watch. and that’s when you realize.
𓍼ོ handyman!nanami is strong when he fucks you onto air
you clung to nanami’s broad shoulders, legs wrapped securely around his waist as he held you suspended in the air with effortless strength.
the handyman had come over to fix a few things around your place, but the tension between you had built quickly until clothes were discarded and he lifted you like you weighed nothing at all. his muscular arms supported your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh while he kept you balanced against the wall, cock buried deep inside your welcoming heat.
“hold on to me,” he said in that calm, steady voice, though his eyes burned with restrained hunger. nanami was incredibly strong, his body honed from years of physical work, and he used every bit of that power now. he thrust upward into you with powerful, controlled strokes that made your breath catch each time he filled you completely. the position left you utterly at his mercy, your weight supported entirely by his arms as he fucked you in midair, hips snapping up to meet yours with deep, rhythmic force.
each movement drove him impossibly deeper, the angle allowing his thick length to drag against every sensitive spot inside you. you moaned softly, nails pressing into his shirt as sweat beaded on your skin. nanami’s breathing remained even and measured, but the way his grip tightened on your thighs betrayed his growing intensity. he adjusted his hold slightly, one hand sliding to cup your ass while the other stayed firm under your leg, keeping you spread open for him.
“you feel incredible like this,” he murmured against your neck, lips brushing your pulse point before he nipped gently.
his pace quickened, strong thrusts lifting you higher with every push, the wet sounds of your bodies connecting filling the room. the sheer power in his frame made it seem effortless, his muscles flexing beneath your hands as he drove you closer to the edge. you trembled in his grasp, pleasure building fast from the way he filled you so completely, so relentlessly.
nanami groaned low in his throat when your walls started to flutter around him, his thrusts growing deeper and more purposeful. he held you tighter, fucking you through the waves of your release until your moans echoed around him. only then did he let himself follow, burying himself to the hilt with a final, powerful stroke and spilling hot inside you while still supporting your full weight.
he stayed there for a long moment afterward, breathing steady as he kept you safely in his arms, strong and unwavering even after the intensity of it all.
summary : for you, it's been five years. for him, only a few seconds.
warnings : ANGST. ANGST. ANGST. hurt/comfort, with about 30 % comfort and only like at the very end (oops), this is an alt AU where both frank and reader were part of the avengers (bare with me i swear it makes sense), mentions of depression, mentions of unaliving one's self, oh and did i mention angst
word count : 6.1 k
a/n : not proofread ! blame them. they made me do this. i'm sorry.
The air is so unbelievably thin.
Your chest feels like it's constricting every time you move, your limbs aching and groaning with every sudden movement.
Everything hurts.
The battlefield stretches for miles, painted in smoke and fire and broken metal. The sky itself seems wounded, split apart by ships burning as they fall back toward the earth.
Around you—
Screams.
Orders.
The crackle of energy weapons.
Someone is crying. Someone else is begging.
You can't tell who anymore.
Your sword hangs limp at your side, suddenly far too heavy to lift.
Across the ruined plain, you see Steve drop to one knee. Thor is staring at his empty hands. Natasha's face has gone completely white.
"…What…" The word barely leaves your lips. Thanos stands in the distance. Motionless. The Infinity Gauntlet hangs scorched and smoking from his arm. The stones are dim. His fingers are still spread from the snap.
"No…" The wind changes. You don't understand it at first. A strange current sweeps across the battlefield, carrying gray ash into the air. Then someone screams. You turn. Bucky Barnes looks down at his own hand. It flakes away beneath his fingertips. Like burnt paper. Steve lunges toward him.
"Bucky—" But he can't hold onto smoke. Within seconds… He's gone. Nothing remains but drifting ash.
"No…" Another scream. Sam. Gone.
Someone shouts Wanda's name.
Someone else yells for T'Challa.
The battlefield erupts into chaos.
"No, no, no…" You stumble forward. This isn't happening. This can't—
Movement catches your eye.
Peter. He's running toward you. Your heart leaps.
"Peter!" His mask is already off.His eyes are huge. Terrified. He runs and runs and runs- trying to reach you - until he can't anymore.
Until his legs fade to dust beneath him and he falls, face first onto the ground.
"No !" You screech, your heart jumping into your throat. you reach him just as his face starts to come apart like ash.
"No, no, no, Peter, please." You choke on a sob, looking up. "Tony ! Tony, help !" Your own tears start immediately.
"I don't wanna go." He starts crying. "I don't know what's happening." You pull him tighter.
"I've got you." His body trembles against yours. He looks at his hands. Ash drifts from his fingertips.
You grip him harder.
His fingers clutch desperately at your shoulders.
"I don't wanna go."
"I know."
"I don't wanna go."
"I know."
"I'm sorry." His body begins to come apart in your arms. Not all at once. Slowly. Cruelly. His shoulder dissolves first. Then his arm. You desperately try to hold together someone turning into dust. It doesn't work.
"No!" He looks at you one last time. Eyes wet. Terrified.
"…I'm scared."
Then— He is gone. Your arms close around nothing. Ash slips through your fingers. Silence. You stare at your empty hands.
"No…" Your voice cracks. "No." The tears come all at once. Violent. Uncontrollable. You sink onto your knees in the dirt, clutching the handful of gray ash that slips through your trembling fingers.
"No…" It blows away on the wind. "Peter…" Your entire body folds forward. You sob so hard you can't breathe. Around you, more people disappear. More screams. More ash. The battlefield is ending. The world is ending.
And there is nothing— Nothing— You can do.
A voice comes from behind you.
Soft.
Almost lost beneath the chaos.
"…Baby?" You know that voice. Your heart stops.
Slowly— Too slowly— You turn.
Your husband stands twenty feet away.
His rifle hangs forgotten at his side. He's staring at his own hand. Confused.
"…Frank?" He looks up. Your stomach drops.
Gray ash drifts from the tips of his fingers.
"No." He frowns.
"…Huh." Another piece of him crumbles away. He watches it almost curiously. "…Guess…" His voice catches. "…Guess that ain't good."
"No." You scramble toward him, tripping over broken concrete. "No, no, no, no—" He reaches for you. His hand is already disappearing.
"…Hey."
"No!"
"It's alright."
"It is not alright!" You throw yourself into him. Your arms wrap around his waist. He hugs you back. As tightly as he can. But already… You can feel him becoming lighter. Less solid.
"No." His chin rests on top of your head.
"I'm here."
"You are not allowed to leave me." A sad little smile touches his lips.
"Wasn't plannin' on it." His shoulder begins to dissolve beneath your cheek. You clutch harder. As though you can hold him together by sheer force.
"You promised."
"I know."
"You promised you'd always come home."
"I know." Your tears soak into his shirt.
"I can't do this without you." His remaining hand cups your cheek.
Warm. Familiar. The touch you've known a thousand times.
His eyes glisten.
"I wish…" He swallows. "…God… I wish I had more time."
"Frank, stop it."
"I wanted…" Another piece of him drifts away. "…one more mornin'."
"Stop."
"One more coffee."
"No."
"One more kiss." You kiss him before he can finish. Desperate. Shaking. He kisses you back with everything he has left. When you pull away, half his face is already becoming ash.
"I love you."
"No, no- Frankie."
"I love you."
"Frank—"
"You hear me?"
"Stop!"
"I love you." His voice is fading. "So damn much." His arms weaken around you. You try to hold him up. Instead… He slips through your embrace. Like smoke. Like dust. His fingertips brush yours one last time.
Then— Nothing.
The wind catches him. Carries him away. You collapse forward into empty air. Your hands slam into the dirt where he'd been standing only seconds before.
"No…" The battlefield doesn't stop. The explosions continue. People keep shouting. But for you… Everything has gone silent. You curl around the place where he'd vanished, clutching a handful of ash to your chest as it slips, grain by grain, through your fingers. And for the first time since this war began… You scream.
You don't remember making it back to earth. Back to New York.
Back to the apartment that smells like him, the bed that's still ruffled from when he slept in it last.
You vaguely remember Tony being there.
He's talking to Matt.
At least you think he is.
Their voices reach you like they're underwater.
"…can't leave her alone."
"…she hasn't slept."
"…she hasn't eaten."
"…Tony."
"…I know."
You don't look at either of them. You just stand in the middle of your apartment. Frank's boots are still by the door. One of them tipped over. You stare at it for almost five minutes.
Finally— You kneel. You set it upright.
Then you burst into tears. The funeral never comes. There are no bodies to bury. No caskets. No gravestones. Just photographs. Just names. Just empty chairs. Someone gives you a folded flag anyway. You don't remember who. It sits untouched on the kitchen table for almost a year. The first night, you sleep on Frank's side of the bed.
The second night too. By the third… You stop sleeping altogether. You lie awake listening for the sound of his keys in the lock. For boots in the hallway. For the familiar grunt he'd always make as he shrugged out of his jacket.
Sometimes— For half a second— You swear you hear him.
Your heart leaps. You run to the front door. It's never him. Three weeks after the Snap, Karen brings groceries. You don't answer. She lets herself in with the spare key Frank insisted someone keep. She finds you sitting on the kitchen floor. Still wearing the same sweatshirt you'd worn the day the world ended.
The coffee mug in your hands is empty. Cold.
"…Honey?" You look up.
"…I forgot how to make coffee." Karen kneels beside you. The coffee maker is already full. Ready. You'd just… Forgotten to press the button. She cries harder than you do.
Matt visits every Thursday. He never announces himself. He simply knocks twice. Lets himself in. Makes dinner. Leaves. Some Thursdays, you don't speak. He doesn't mind. He just sits across from you while the apartment echoes with a silence that used to belong to Frank.
Month three.
Steve asks if you'll come back.
"We need everybody." You shake your head.
"No."
"They need you."
"They're dead." His face falls.
"So are we." You close the door. You stop answering your phone. Natasha leaves voicemails anyway. Tony sends texts. Bruce stops by. Rhodey too. Eventually… They stop asking. Not because they've given up. Because they know. Some wounds don't close because someone tells you to keep living. The apartment becomes a museum. Frank's jacket remains hanging by the door. His shaving razor stays beside the sink. His coffee mug never gets washed. The indentation on his side of the mattress slowly fades.
That one hurts the most. You start sleeping there. Not because you want to. Because you can't bear watching it disappear.
Six months.
The nightmares begin. Sometimes Peter is reaching for you. Sometimes Frank. Sometimes both. Every dream ends the same way. Ash slipping through your fingers. You wake up grabbing empty sheets.
One year.
The city has learned to be quiet. There are fewer cars. Fewer lights. Too many empty apartments. The grocery store closes two aisles permanently because there aren't enough customers anymore. Children stop asking where their parents went. They already know. That hurts worse.
You stop being an Avenger. Not officially. You simply… Never come back. Your armor gathers dust. Your communicator dies in a drawer somewhere. The world keeps spinning.
Without you.
Some days… You don't get dressed.
Some days… You forget what day it is.
Some days… You stand in front of the bathroom mirror and think—
It would've been easier if I'd gone too.
The thought frightens you. Not because you want to die. Because you don't care very much whether you wake up tomorrow. There's a difference. It doesn't feel like one.
Year two.
Karen convinces you to walk outside. Just once. The coffee shop on the corner still remembers Frank's order.
"Large."
"Black." The barista starts making it automatically. Then freezes.
"…I'm sorry." You smile. The first genuine smile in nearly two years.
"It's okay." You buy it anyway. You carry it all the way home. You set it on his side of the kitchen table. It goes cold.
Year three.
Steve comes again. This time… He looks hopeful.
"We found something." You don't answer. "There might be a way." Silence. "Time travel." You laugh. Not because it's funny. Because it's cruel.
"You think you can outrun this?"
"We have to try." You shake your head.
"I already watched him die once."
"This would undo that."
"Or I'll watch him die twice." Steve has no answer. When he leaves… The apartment feels even emptier than before.
Year four.
The panic attacks become quieter. More dangerous. They don't make you cry anymore.
Instead… You simply stop. Standing in grocery aisles. At crosswalks. In the shower. You stare into nothing until someone says your name. You forget entire afternoons. Matt notices. He starts staying longer. Neither of you mentions it.
Year five.
The calendar still has Frank's handwriting on it. Dentist - Tuesday. Pick up dry cleaning. Movie night. You never change it. Then… One rainy afternoon…
Tony Stark knocks on your door himself. Not in armor. Just Tony. Older.
More tired. He looks at you for a long moment.
"You look awful."
"So do you."
"Fair." Silence. He doesn't smile.
"I think…" He rubs a hand across his beard. "I think we figured it out." You stare at him blankly.
"What?"
"A way."
"No."
"A real one."
"No."
"We can bring them back."
"No." Tony's brow furrows.
"You don't even know what I'm going to say."
"I know enough."
"You don't believe me."
"I don't believe in miracles anymore." He flinches.
"I don't need you to."
"I watched him turn to dust in my arms." His eyes soften.
"I know."
"I held Peter while he begged me not to let him die."
"I know."
"I buried people who didn't even leave bodies."
"I know."
"My husband disappeared."
"I know."
"My kid disappeared."
"I know."
"My world ended."
"I know." You look away. Voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm tired of hoping." Because hope… Hope is what made you listen for Frank's footsteps every night for months.
Hope is what made you leave his side of the closet untouched.
Hope is what convinced you, for just one impossible second, that every knock at the door might be him.
Hope had become another way to lose him.
Tony doesn't argue. He simply walks farther into the apartment. His eyes land on Frank's boots. Still by the door. Five years later. Exactly where he'd left them. Tony closes his eyes. Then quietly says,
"…I'll bring him home to you, kid." You don't answer. Not because you don't hear him. Because somewhere deep inside yourself- In a place grief buried years ago— A tiny, terrified part of you is suddenly more frightened of hope than it ever was of despair.
Tony leaves.
The apartment falls silent again. You don't call him back. You don't even watch him walk away. The front door clicks shut. And you stand there…
Staring at Frank's boots. Exactly where he'd left them.
You don't join the mission. You don't help build the machine. You don't suit up. You don't answer another phone call. If they truly can change time… You decide you'll find out afterward. You can't survive another promise.
The nightmares get worse. Not louder. Quieter. Some nights Frank doesn't disappear. Instead… He comes home. He drops his keys in the bowl. Calls your name. Wraps his arms around your waist while you're making coffee. You laugh.You kiss him. He asks how your day was. You tell him about Peter. About Karen. About Matt. About absolutely nothing.
It feels…Perfect.
Then— Ash begins falling from his hair. You scream before he even notices.
"Frank—" He looks confused.
"What?" His hand disappears.
"No." His smile falters.
"Baby?"
"No, please—" His face crumbles apart. This time… He isn't even afraid. He simply watches you.
"I'm sorry." Then he's gone.
Every.
Single.
Night.
You stop sleeping in the bed. The dreams are waiting there. Instead you sleep on the living-room floor. Sometimes in the bathtub. Sometimes sitting upright against the wall with a pistol in your lap. If you never really sleep… The dreams can't catch you.
One night… You hear a woman scream.
Real. Not imagined. Outside. Three blocks away. You don't think. You move.
The mugger never sees you coming. One punch. His jaw breaks. He reaches for a knife. You take it away. Break three fingers. Leave him crying in an alley until the police arrive.
When you get home… Your hands are shaking. Not from fear.
For the first time in years… Your mind is quiet. You sleep six straight hours. The next week… It's another scream. Another alley. Another gang. Another fight. Another night without dreams. You begin to understand. Violence doesn't make you happy.
It makes you… Empty.
And empty is infinitely better than drowning. It becomes routine. The city sleeps. You don't. You patrol rooftops. Subway stations. Construction sites. The neighborhoods Frank always insisted on checking twice. You wear no colors. No Avengers insignia. No shield. No emblem.
Just black. Just blades. Just bruises.
The newspapers invent names.
"The Ghost."
"The Widow."
"The Wraith of Hell's Kitchen."
You never read them. Criminals begin whispering. Not because you're theatrical. Because you're efficient. You don't make speeches. You don't threaten. You simply appear. And when it's over… You disappear again.
Matt finds out first. Of course he does. He hears your heartbeat from two rooftops away. Hears the broken ribs. The knife entering someone else's shoulder. The way you stop breathing entirely before you strike.
One night- He lands beside you.
"You need to stop." You keep cleaning blood from your knuckles.
"So stop me." He says nothing. Because he knows. He probably can't. Karen sees you six weeks later. You answer the door with a split lip. Bruised cheek. Fresh stitches across your ribs. She doesn't ask. She already knows.
"You look like him." You freeze.
"What?" She swallows.
"From years ago." Silence. "You look exactly like Frank did." You close the door. You don't speak to her again for three months. The bruises become familiar. The cuts. The broken fingers. The cracked ribs. You patch yourself up the same way Frank used to. Needle. Thread. Whiskey.
Silence.
Sometimes… While sewing your own shoulder closed… You laugh. A small, humorless sound.
"So this is what it felt like." You stop fearing death. Not because you want it. Because it stops feeling important. If someone finally gets lucky… Fine. Maybe you'll see him again.
If they don't… Tomorrow is another rooftop. Another gang. Another night your head stays blessedly quiet. Steve comes looking for you once.
He finds three unconscious traffickers zip-tied to a lamppost. A fourth is coughing blood. You're wiping your knife clean.
"You've changed."
"So has the world."
"This isn't you." You finally look at him. Eyes hollow.
"You don't know who I am anymore."
"I know who Frank would've wanted you to be." That one lands. Hard. You don't answer. You simply walk away. Tony sends Happy. Bruce sends Natasha. Natasha sends Clint. Nobody reaches you.
Not really. You're always somewhere else. Always chasing the next emergency. Because if you're fighting… You're not remembering. If your fists hurt… Your chest doesn't. If your lungs are burning… You're not hearing Peter say,
"I'm scared." You're not feeling Frank dissolve in your arms. Pain has become medicine.
Violence… Anesthesia.
By the time Tony finally calls to say,
"We're ready." Your apartment is almost empty. Frank's boots are still by the door. Everything else… Has been packed away. Not because you've moved on. Because looking at it all finally became impossible. You stand in the doorway for a long time before leaving. Your hand brushes the leather of one boot.
Still dusty. Still waiting. Just like you. You whisper into the silence—
"I hope you're wrong, Tony." Not because you want him to fail. Because you've spent five years teaching yourself how to survive a world without Frank. And somewhere deep down… The idea that he might actually come home feels more terrifying than believing he never could.
-----
The night is quiet. Too quiet.
Hell's Kitchen always sounds different after midnight. Distant sirens. Traffic. Arguments drifting up from the sidewalks. Tonight… Nothing. You stand on the edge of an abandoned warehouse roof, the city spread beneath you in a sea of yellow lights.
Five years. Five years of fighting. Five years of bleeding. Five years of waking up disappointed that you hadn't died in your sleep.
Your suit is torn.
Your knuckles are split open. There's dried blood under every fingernail. Some of it's yours. Most of it isn't. You look down. It's a long way to the pavement. High enough. Probably.
Maybe not.
You don't particularly care. Your fingers loosen around the edge of the rooftop.
"…Frank." The name disappears into the wind. "I'm tired." No answer. Of course not. You laugh. Small. Empty. "You won." Not Thanos. Grief. It won. You close your eyes. One step. That's all it takes. Just—
"Don't." The voice hits you like a gunshot. You spin. Impossible. A man stands in the doorway leading to the roof. Long hair. Metal arm. Blue eyes.
"…Bucky?" He stares at you. Not with confusion. Recognition. Pain. Relief.
"You remember me." You blink.
"…No." He takes one careful step forward. "You…" Your voice catches. "No." His expression crumples.
"I know."
"No." You shake your head harder. "I watched you."
"I know."
"You disappeared."
"I know."
"I watched you turn into dust."
"I know."
"So you're not…" You take another stumbling step backward. "You're not real." His jaw tightens.
"I am."
"No."
"You are."
"No!" Your heel reaches the edge of the building. You don't notice. Bucky does. His entire body goes rigid.
"Don't move."
"I already buried you." His eyes fill.
"You didn't bury anybody."
"I watched you die."
"I know."
"You can't be here." Another careful step.
"I am."
"No!" Another.
"You gotta breathe."
"I'm dreaming."
"No."
"I'm dead."
"No."
"I'm finally dead."
"No." He moves. Fast. Faster than your exhausted body can react. The metal arm hooks around your waist just as your foot slips backward into empty air. You gasp. Suddenly you're no longer falling. You're pinned against a solid chest. Held. Hard. The way someone holds another person when they're terrified of letting go.
"Let me go!" you scream, struggling weakly against him.
"No."
"Let me go!"
"No."
"I have to—I have to be with him- I have to join him-"
"No!" The shout echoes across the rooftops. For a second… Everything stops. His breathing is uneven against your temple. His arms are shaking. Not from effort. From fear. "You don't get to do this."
"I have nothing left! Let me go ! I want to be with my husband!"
"You've got me."
"You were dead!"
"I was."
"You disappeared!"
"I did."
"You—"
"I came back." Silence. You stop fighting. Very slowly… You look up at him. Really look. There's new stubble. A fresh scar near his eyebrow. His heartbeat. You can hear it. Strong. Steady. Real.
"…How?" His throat works.
"Tony." You frown.
"What?"
"He figured it out." Your brows knit together.
"…No."
"He did."
"No."
"We went back."
"No."
"We got the Stones."
"No."
"He snapped." Your stomach drops.
"…Tony?" Bucky closes his eyes.
"He saved everybody." Silence. "But…" His voice breaks. "It killed him." The words don't register. You simply stare.
"He…" You swallow. "…Tony's…" Bucky nods once.
"He saved us.We don't... remember anything. It feels like five minutes ago Thanos did his snap but... it's been five years." The rooftop tilts beneath your feet. You grip the front of his jacket.
"…Peter?"
"Alive." Your breathing catches.
"…Sam?"
"Alive."
"…Wanda?"
"Alive."
"…T'Challa?"
"Alive." Each answer lands like another impossible heartbeat.
"…Frank?" Bucky doesn't answer immediately. Instead… He reaches up with his flesh hand. Very gently… He brushes a tear off your cheek.
"Yeah." One word. That's all it takes. The dam breaks. You fold. Not gracefully. Not dramatically. Your knees simply give out beneath you. A sound tears out of your chest that you've been holding in for five years. You sob. Violently. Your whole body convulses.
"I couldn't—" The words dissolve. "I tried—" Another sob. "I couldn't save them." Bucky lowers himself to the rooftop with you still in his arms. He doesn't try to stop the crying. He just holds on. The way Steve held him after HYDRA. The way someone holds another human being who's forgotten how.
"I know."
"I wasn't there."
"I know."
"I didn't believe Tony."
"I know."
"I wanted…" You choke on the confession. "…I wanted to die." Bucky's grip tightens.
"I know."
"I almost—"
"I know."
"I couldn't do it anymore."
"I know." His own voice starts shaking.
"None of us blamed you."
"I blamed me."
"I know." You cry until there are no tears left. Until you're just shaking. Breathing in broken little gasps against his shoulder. Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Eventually… Bucky speaks again. Very quietly.
"He's been looking for you." You don't respond. "The first thing he asked was where his wife was." Your breath catches. "He thought…" Bucky smiles sadly. "He thought maybe Thanos had gotten to you. He has no idea how long it's been."
It hurts.
God… It hurts.
You stare out across the city. The sunrise is beginning to stain the horizon gold.
"I don't…" Your voice is tiny. "I don't know how to see him." Bucky looks at you.
"What?"
"I spent five years learning how to survive without him. He thinks it's only been a few seconds." Another tear slips free. "What if…" You can't finish. "What if he looks at me and doesn't recognize me anymore?" Bucky's expression breaks.
"He'll recognize you."
"I've changed."
"So has he."
"I became…" You look down at your blood-covered hands."…something awful." Bucky reaches over. Without hesitation… He takes one of those stained hands in both of his.
"I know exactly what it's like…" He squeezes gently. "…to think the person you love will only see the monster." Your eyes lift to his.
"And?" A small smile.
"The people who love us…" His gaze drifts toward the rising sun. "…they usually see the parts we forgot were still there." He stands first. Then offers you his hand. Not pulling. Just waiting.
"You wanna go see your husband?" Your lips part. For the first time in five years… Hope doesn't feel like a knife. It feels terrifying. Fragile. Beautiful. With trembling fingers… You place your hand in his.
"…Yeah." Your voice cracks around the word. "So bad." Bucky helps you to your feet. The way to the compound feels surreal. Almost like a sick version of deja vu.
Five years since you stepped foot in this building.
Five years since everything fell apart.
You half expect Tony to greet you, arms wide open. But he doesn't.
The halls are brighter than you remember.
Cleaner.
Someone rebuilt this place while you were busy trying to survive. You don't recognize half the faces that pass you. Some of them smile. Some of them stop dead when they see you. They've heard stories.
The Ghost. The woman who refused to stop fighting after half the world disappeared. None of them say a word. Bucky stays beside you. Never touching. Just close enough that if your knees give out again…
He'll catch you.
"You alright?" he asks quietly. You almost laugh.
"No." He nods.
"I figured." The elevator doors slide open. The medical wing.
Clint is already waiting.
He looks older. More gray at his temples. More tired around the eyes. But he smiles the second he sees Bucky. Then he sees you. The smile disappears.
"…Oh." His eyes travel over the old scars. The fresh ones. The bruises blooming across your knuckles. The exhaustion carved permanently into your face. He doesn't ask. He doesn't have to.
"You found her." Bucky nods. "Almost too late."
Clint closes his eyes for one long second. Then—
"He's in here. Peter and the others already went home." Your heart stops. Clint reaches for the door handle.
"You don't have to—"
"I'm ready." You're lying. He knows it. Still… He opens the door. Frank is sitting on an examination table. Bruce has electrodes stuck to his chest. A blood pressure cuff squeezes one arm. Someone has clipped a pulse oximeter to his finger. He's arguing.
"I told ya, I'm fine."
"You were dead for five years."
"I was dead for five seconds."
"You don't actually know that."
"I feel fine." Bruce sighs.
"Frank—" Then… Frank looks toward the door. His entire world stops.
"…Baby?" You freeze. He's… Exactly the same..
Same hair.
Same eyes.
The same tiny scar above his eyebrow from years ago. He looks like he walked out of your apartment yesterday. He looks… Home.
Frank doesn't even think. He rips the pulse oximeter off his finger. The heart monitor leads come away with it. Bruce opens his mouth.
"Fra—" Too late. Frank is already moving. He crosses the room in three long strides. Then he's there. His hands cup your face.
Warm. Solid. Real.
"Oh, thank God." He laughs. Actually laughs.
"I thought—" His voice breaks. "I thought maybe he got you." His forehead presses against yours. "I've been askin' everybody where my wife is." He smiles through wet eyes. "There you are." He pulls you into him. Hard. Like he always does. Like he's terrified you'll disappear too. His arms wrap around your back. He buries his face against your neck. "I gotcha."
Silence.
He waits for you to hug him back. You don't. Not because you don't want to. Because… You can't. Your arms hang uselessly at your sides. Your body refuses to believe he's real. Frank notices almost immediately. He leans back just enough to see your face. The smile slips.
"…Baby?" You stare at him. Studying every line. Every freckle. The way his beard hasn't grown in. The warmth coming off his skin. Your fingers rise slowly. Almost fearfully. You touch his cheek. Your hand trembles violently.
"…You're warm." He gives a confused little laugh.
"Yeah…"
"You…" Your thumb traces the scar over his eyebrow. "…You're really here."
"I'm here." Your breathing begins to shake.
"No…" His smile falters.
"What?"
"You can't…" You shake your head. "This isn't…" Your chest caves inward. "I buried you." Frank's brow furrows.
"What?"
"I buried you." His confusion deepens.
"What're you talkin' about?"
"You were gone." His eyes flick toward Bucky. Then Bruce. Neither of them says anything. Understanding begins to dawn. Slowly. Painfully. He looks back at you.
"…How long?" You can't answer. Bucky does.
"Five years." Frank goes completely still.
"…What?"
"To them…" Bucky says quietly. "It was five years." Frank looks back at you. Really looks. Notices the scars. The weight you've lost. The dark circles beneath your eyes. The way your hands won't stop shaking.
"…Baby." His voice is barely there. "What happened?" That question— That stupid, innocent question— Breaks the last thing holding you together. You throw yourself against him. This time your arms wrap around him so tightly he actually stumbles backward a step. A sob tears out of you.
Violent. Animal.
"I tried." Your fists bunch in the back of his shirt. "I tried so hard." Frank's arms lock around you immediately.
"Hey." He stares at you. Not speaking. Just … Looking. Looking at the woman who used to steal fries off his plate. Who laughed too loudly. Who danced barefoot in the kitchen while making coffee. Who kissed him every morning before work.
She's still here.
But she's buried under five years of grief.
Five years… That, to him… Never happened.
"Hey, mama, c'mere." he whispers, pulling you in, lips pressed to your temple as you sob. You hear the door close softly behind you, telling you Bruce and Bucky have left the room- and your whole body just gives up.
You go crashing to the floor, sobbing hard as Frank follows, tucking you against his chest.
"I'm sorry." You cry. "I'm so sorry." Frank shushes you, rocking you back and forth.
"Shh..Shh.. what are you sorry for , pretty girl ?"
"I-I was gonna-" You hiccup."I was gonna try to join you."
Frank stills. Not physically. Physically, he keeps rocking you, one broad hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. But inside…
Everything stops.
"…What?" Your face disappears deeper into his chest.
"I couldn't…" You can't catch your breath. Every word is ripped apart by sobs. "I couldn't do it anymore." His arms tighten instinctively.
"Hey…"
"I tried so hard. I fought." Your fingers clutch at the front of his shirt like you're afraid he'll disappear again. "God, Frankie, I fought so hard." His chin rests on top of your head.
"I have no doubt you did."
"No…" You shake your head violently. "You don't." Because he can't. How could he? To him, he'd kissed you goodbye. Then Thanos snapped. Now you're here. Three heartbeats later. He never lived the years in between.
"I waited," you whisper. His brow furrows.
"What?"
"I waited for months." Your voice has gone distant now. Like you're watching someone else's memories. "I kept your coffee mug by the sink." Frank's throat tightens. "I washed your clothes because…" A broken laugh escapes you. "…because they smelled like you." His eyes close. "I couldn't let the smell go." Your shoulders shake harder. "I slept on your side of the bed."
"You…"
"I thought…" Another hiccupping breath. "Maybe if I slept where you slept…" You squeeze your eyes shut. "…I'd dream about you." Frank's vision blurs.
"…Baby."
"I talked to you." Every word lands like another knife. "Every morning." His hand cups the back of your head. "I'd make coffee." Another sob. "And I'd tell you about my day." He can't speak. "I'd leave your boots by the door." Your voice cracks completely. "…In case you came home." Frank lets out the smallest, most broken sound. "I never stopped waiting." Silence. Then— "It got harder." You stare somewhere past him. Past the room. Past today. " God, Frank, it got so hard. I stopped hearing your voice." His heart splinters. "I couldn't remember your laugh exactly."
"Baby…"
"So I started listening to old recordings." Your breathing catches. "Over." A swallow. "And over." Another. "And over. I was scared…" Your lips tremble. "…that I'd forget you." Frank buries his face in your hair.
"You never would've."
"I almost did."
"No."
"I remembered pieces." You smile through tears. "The way you'd steal my fries." A watery laugh. "The way you snored."
"I do not snore."
"You absolutely snore."
"I breathe aggressively." Despite everything… You laugh. It's tiny. Broken. But it's there. Frank almost cries harder hearing it. Then your smile disappears.
"And then…" Your voice empties. "People stopped saying your name." His chest aches. "They stopped asking how I was. They thought…They thought I was better." He shakes his head. "They were wrong."
"Sweetheart-"
"I smiled." You shrug helplessly. "I went grocery shopping. I paid bills. I washed dishes. I even laughed sometimes." Your eyes meet his. "But every single day…" A tear slips free. "…I wanted to come home to you." Frank's face crumples. Your hand reaches up, cupping his cheek. "So I started fighting." He notices your knuckles again. The scars. The old fractures that healed crooked.
"You see these?" He nods slowly. "I stopped caring if I got hurt." His stomach twists. "I hoped somebody would eventually be faster."
"No…"
"I hoped I'd lose."
"No."
"I wanted somebody to kill me." His entire body jerks.
"No."
"So I wouldn't have to do it myself." The room goes deathly quiet. Frank just… Looks at you. At the woman he loves more than breathing. Who'd spent five years slowly disappearing. Because he'd disappeared first. His eyes overflow.
"Oh, my love…" His voice is shattered.
"Tonight.. I found the tallest building. I was going to-"
"I'm so sorry." You blink.
"What?"
"I'm sorry."
"You didn't—"
"I left you."
"You couldn't help it."
"I know." His thumb wipes away another tear. "But I still left you."
"You didn't choose—"
"I know." His forehead presses against yours. "I know." He takes a shaky breath.
"But while I was gone…" His voice breaks completely. "…you carried all of me by yourself."
You start crying again.
"I was so tired. I didn't want to be brave anymore."
"I know."
"I didn't want to wake up anymore. I missed you."
"I know." The words come out almost like prayers now. Small. Fragile. You curl closer, until you're practically folded into him.
"I kept thinking…" You sniff hard. "…if I could just hold you one more time…" Frank wraps both arms around you so tightly that you can barely breathe.
"I'm here."
"I know."
"I'm not going anywhere." Another nod.
"I know."
"I mean it." His hand slides into your hair. "You hear me?" You close your eyes.
"I hear you."
"I ain't leavin' again." His voice shakes. "I don't care if I gotta haunt God himself." A tiny, watery laugh escapes you. "I'll find my way back." Another laugh. Smaller. Realer.
"I believe you." He kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then the corner of your eye where tears keep collecting.
"So listen to me now." He waits until you look at him. Really look. "If you ever get that tired again…" His thumb strokes your cheek. "If you ever think about doing that again…" His own tears spill freely now. "You tell me." You swallow.
"I couldn't."
"You do."
"I don't wanna burden you." His expression twists.
"You are never a burden."
"I—"
"Never." He says it with such certainty that it steals the next apology from your mouth. "I carried guns." He brushes your hair behind your ear. "You carried grief. I think yours was heavier." You shake your head.
"No." He smiles sadly.
"We're done carrying things alone." Your lips tremble.
"…Promise?" He doesn't hesitate.
"Promise." He hooks his little finger around yours, the way he'd done years ago over stupid things like remembering milk from the grocery store. It almost makes you laugh.
"You still do that?"
"Always worked before." You curl your pinky around his. The gesture feels impossibly small. Impossibly normal. After five years of surviving. It feels like the first piece of home you've touched. Frank presses one last kiss to your knuckles. Then gathers you back into his arms. This time, neither of you says anything. You simply sit together on the medical room floor, holding each other while the impossible truth slowly settles between you.
